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Group Huddle

AO3 is a great source of comfort for many of us readers. And an amazing platform to publish our writings. DDOS attacks are generally used to prevent a platform to make money while it's down. AO3 is a free-add, non profit, open source platform so it won't affect them in that way. BUT: one of the best revenge is to fund those incredible AO3 volunteers that are keeping this website alive !! Imagine coordinating a DDOS attack, only to have AO3 users massively supporting the website ?? That would be fucking amazing if you ask me.

I've seen tons of posts including some variation of: "donate when AO3 can receive them again!" Friendly reminder that the Organization for Transformative Works is the nonprofit that runs AO3, and they're very much still available to donate to right now! So, you don't need to wait to donate.

Why the frown, Steven?

Months ago, when I said that I loved how Steven could look so attractive, without meaning to, I was thinking exactly about this.

Maybe he's undressing, but he doesn't mean to put a show out of it, and still...

Part 3:

Thinking about his concentrated face, cos the things he had to 'suffer' at work and now he's finally home...

Prev

Marc

Jake (tomorrow)

Jake meets Khonshu for the first time

A reel from instagram in the meantime I work on drawing an actual artwork

ARE YOU KIDDING, IT'S MY PLEASURE !!!!! couldn't help to think about our shared stories 🥰🥰 I'm super happy that you liked it ! oh yesss, yellow poles are actually life-saving devices, just not the way Public Transport intended 👀 🤣

The London Daily Ride [3]

Not in Service

# Pairing: Jake Lockley x female reader (light Steven Grant x female reader) # Synopsis: Sweet and kind Steven is part of your daily rides on the morning bus. However, today, Steven isn’t stepping in. Instead, someone else shows up.  # Warning/Content: Angst, Character Study, Unhealthy/Toxic relationship, Sexual Tension, Enemies to Lovers (kind of). # Word Count: 3.2k [Part 1] · [Part 2] — [read me on AO3]

Today is different. Today is not the same. He’s not. That, you can immediately tell. He enters the bus, and from the first step on the linoleum, a deep glaciation makes its way into your ribs and freezes solid the core of your chest. The reflex of hailing him a “Good Morning!” buries itself in your throat, and you swear suffocation is only a breath away. Strange, isn’t it? To know someone so well and not recognize them? For a second there, you wonder if a case of face-blindness can happen overnight. You hope so. The alternative is far more devastating. 

He takes three decided steps. He sits where he usually does, perhaps the reminiscence of a habit. Inspects its surroundings; his mouth shut in a tight line, as if he was finding it almost distasteful. You think for a few seconds that even the clothes are different, but they aren’t. The clothes are Steven’s. You can recognize one of his favourite shirts; geometric patterns of white and malachite that echo The Great Green; Osiris. His clay-grey jacket. And yet, it’s like witnessing a different actor embedding the role of your favourite character. He makes a sudden move to adjust the clothes more tightly wrapped around his shoulders. Cracks his neck. Runs a firm hand through his hair to keep them back. His face free from the curls that normally frame his forehead, his features are stern. Implacably indifferent. Then he leans back with ease, crossing one of his legs nonchalantly, an arm laying on the other passenger's empty seat. As soon as he makes himself comfortable, his eyes meet yours. Shit.

Caught red-handed. You couldn’t have been more obvious, but you just didn’t think he was really paying attention. Steven is often daydreaming or laser-focusing on your conversations or the book on his lap. Steven is a lot of things. However, he doesn’t pretend. He does. The thin and almost invisible hairs on the back of your neck bristle. You look aside. Then, through the window and you wish the blush of shame away, and of course it does nothing. Ever tried to order veins not to dilate? Of course not, you fucking idiot, you think, trying desperately to gather yourself. Your peripheral vision warns you that his silhouette is not moving. A controlled halt, your instinct feeds you. Similar mannerism, you would assume, of a military sniper seeing the head of his shot. You’re the one being studied now, and the burn creeps even more at the surface of your skin. Treacherous carmine is rising to the surface of your cheeks and making its way towards your aching chest. You can’t even think straight. This is a nightmare, and it’s not stopping. The sense of familiarity like smoke slipping away between your grasping fingers. Steven is there, but he’s not. An outsider made its way onto his insides. Something is terribly wrong. Like an Ushabti being inhabited by another essence. You do not dare to cross his eyes. The birth of your neck and now forearms, warning with goosebumps. And for good reason: is there anything more horrific than seeing someone you care for vanish in front of your eyes? Whether it be illness— physical or mental? Horror is no jumpscare and neither is a good story shared at night around a bonfire. True horror is a familiar scene being torn apart by a single, disquieting detail. A detail that you know to be of importance yet always seemed ordinary before. His eyes. His eyes are not the same. A void is replacing your guts. Nothing feels tangible. You’re hollow. Uninhabited. Unlike the man you think you knew. Breathe, you try to remind your sympathetic system. And think. And your brain does. He’s kick-starting the gears, running with the urge to feel safety through comprehension. Regaining control through knowledge, that’s what you’re good at. Coping. Organising thoughts. Then arguments. Sometimes, the scalpel is useful. Your mind begins to pinpoint why it has triggered such a nuclear reaction in your core. 

Through the weeks, nearly a month and a half, Steven had become a familiar figure in the urban jungle. A bubble-sharer. A comforter. Losing that was breaking the new builds of a welcomed refuge. No refuge, no familiarity. No familiarity; thus, anxiety. Even more so: the primal fear of losing someone to an unknown alterity. Hell is other people, would say Sartre. For you, hell was just people you didn’t know.  It has only been a minute. Sixty long seconds, since he has pinned you down with the two black holes that are in place of his eyes. Seven forced, slowed cycles of breath. It’s only then that you are able to conjure your sight to cross his. You feel the rush of adrenaline roaming your back as you discover the expressionless face of Not-Steven. The unfamiliarity of his familiar traits pierces your sternum. A stillness you’re unused to, you realise, as Steven was always fidgeting in some way, unless consumed by his favourite subject or by you. Shame is making its way back onto your cheeks, but you hold on. That’s when there’s finally a reaction. Desperately slow, you see one of his brows lifting lightly. His pupils are graphite. But you hold on. By the same reflex and the same logic when facing a wild beast. Only a fool would turn around and run, offering their spine as a perfect prey. And as of now, you can’t be spineless. 

Though beneath the fear, beneath the urge to stay put like a deer in the headlights, you can feel a deep contraction grasping your lower insides. At first, you mistakenly recognise it as a light menstrual cramp, and yet, it’s not quite the same. Flirting with pain, the ache is putting its claws deep between your legs, as the reptilian part of your brain registers the blown wide irises in front of you as a sign of arousal. It’s clear now that the panic you’re experiencing has just become adrenaline; confused about its own role. Conjure a fight or flight response? Or conjure an unforgiving blaze? Flames licking at your lower lips, your jaw contracts. And as you’re thinking to drop your sight just below to greet his mouth, he grins. 

Fuck. 

There are teeth behind a smile. 

The expression doesn’t reach the corner of his unlit iris; two endless pits that summon to fall down. The only adjective that comes to mind is perverse. Still, you’re not quite sure if it should define his or your reaction. From there, you can only hold on to your seat. Quite literally. A wildfire amidst your entrails. It reaches your breasts with an undignified ripple of pleasure. You can feel your eyes drawn to his pursing lips, unable to detach themselves. He lifts his head lightly and, with an unsettling tranquillity, begins to whistle. At that distance, you can’t make out the tune. Only snippets are meeting your eardrums; the rest is engulfed by the sound of the hydraulics of the bus; hissing when stopping, the engine rumbling steadily, people talking. Even if there was nothing else but a vacant room, your brain wouldn’t be able to compute anyway; far too discombobulated by the flux of steroid hormones and thus by the roaring in your ears and far lower organs. How many minutes does it last? Off and on, he’s letting you go from his sight. Still sneering and whistling, looking serenely around. Then he’s getting back to you. His head is nodding gently from side to side. Stopping the pursing of his lips for a few, long, seconds, before resuming his tune again. Little mouse that you are, he’s letting you go from time to time before clawing his way back to you.  The encounter is violent. No words are exchanged, but there’s knowledge lingering in the air. You know. And he knows you know. He makes a blatant show of it. A power-play already won. The twin hypothesis that goes on in every telenovela just won’t hold when it comes to him. To Steven. Or whoever else might be in there.  The bus hisses to a halt, and with an excruciating noise that seems to break your stupor, the doors open to deliver more passengers. Amongst them, a fairly older woman with long grey hair obediently gathered in a low ponytail. Reflexes built over years spent in the capital make you stand on your own two feet. You don’t even feel them. To tell the truth, it comes as a surprise that you’re able to be in a vertical state at all. Your bus stop is nearly a few stations away. Your mind hyperfocuses on the new stimulus. A recomforting tunnel of attention that allows that wild sympathetic system of yours to ignore all other factors and regulate itself. Don’t look. Don’t feel. You’ll deal with all that later. For now, focus. As the older woman is waiting to pass in front of you to the newly spare seat, the spark of her golden pendant catches your eye. You recognize a highly stylised ostrich feather. Steven has been thorough when putting his passion into words. You can easily convey his voice: warm and pedagogical, patiently explaining. And it’s suddenly as he’s close to you, almost whispering into your ears:  The feather of Maat is at the heart of Egyptian civilisation, as he could have gently reminded you. It’s lovely, innit…? How can such a light little thing have such weight in an entire civilisation? The Weighing of the heart, you mean? You question the phantasmagorical version of Steven. You can almost hear him chuckle. It’s the point of convergence of your attention. Yeah, yeah. Deciding if you’re worthy of the Field of Reeds and all tha'. But that’s for when you’re dead. For the likes of us, you see, the feather is a reminder: to live in peace is not easy. Your brain raises an eyebrow, requiring more historical facts that you had somehow memorised. To be honest, focusing on what was coming from Steven’s mouth was hardly a problem. There were times; you wished to absorb all of him, as if you were one. To abide by the feather… is to tell the truth. As I said: Not easy, you know? The Egyptians were quite right about this one. It’s really the only way to prevent chaos. He seems to be looking through your eyes, as Egyptian gods would do with their statues. And for now … it’s not looking so good for me, is it? What ?

“Tranquila, señora, tranquila.” You stumble. You're unsure if it’s due to the moving bus or to him. With your eyes on the attribute, you didn’t see him coming. He’s near her, near you. Replacing Steven. Offering the traveller his seat, as you entirely forgot to move enough to allow the lady with the Feather pass through. You had just stood there. Body frozen; mind racing. Oh God, oh god, oh god- You’ve been dissociating again. How long was it?

“Tak’ a seat,” you overhear him say. It’s not Cockney, yet some of the sounds are the same. The accent isn’t truly Spanish either, despite the use of it. East Coast American is your best guess. Is he faking that? It sounds like blasphemy compared to the beloved accent you’ve come to know. The gears in your brain want to pinpoint the details, determine exactly where you’ve heard that before. Where exactly? No. Stay focused; stay in the present. Stay present. Don’t escape elsewhere and hide. What’s happening now? Well … To begin with, he isn’t talking to you. Good. Second, you sincerely hope he won't offer you anything. Not a seat. Not a sentence. Not even a word. Steady now, you scold yourself. Still standing vertically, you pivot your feet to make your way well in front of the automatic doors. Grabbing one of the yellow poles of the bus; holding it dear like a lighthouse in a storm. Looking straight ahead. The Exit. Third and finally, just like a two-year-old toddler learning about object permanence, you hope that if you don’t see him, he doesn’t exist. He doesn’t see you.  “Why don’t you take a taxi next time, querida?” Realising he’s at your side electrifies your whole body. You can’t move. Heart drumming like the fluttering of a hummingbird. And yet, deep below, arises a fire that you snuff out violently. Silencing the truth. Your mouth is dry when you respond: “No.” One strangled syllable. It’s barely an answer. Not even a sentence. In any other context, it would have been incredibly rude, however, you both know it’s a blatant excuse for an interaction. And you can’t decide if it’s a positive or negative one. All you can feel is your weakening knees. And the brushing of his sleeve against yours, paced on the swaying of the bus. “Está bien, está bien…” he tempers with a faint smile in his voice. Is he enjoying this? He pauses, and from the very corner of your eyes, you make out his shape; scrutinising. “Even if I’m the driver? Aguas, querida… I could take it personally.” Is he a cab driver? What’s a cab driver doing on a bus, then? You don’t understand. You can't think properly. You focus, so your voice doesn't waver. Focus on what? You grip the yellow pole a little tighter. 

“Not interested.” Let me out. Let me out. Let me-

"Mh," he hums and your skin prickles, "pero que pena, no? Together, I’m sure we’d break the devil’s dishes." You don’t recognize the expression. It sounds misplaced. How is Steven doing that? Is he doing that? No, no. He’s not. He can’t be. This isn’t a fucked-up role-play. That, at least, is clear. So, who is to blame for Steven’s disappearance?  You ultimately lay your gaze on him, utterly confused, trying to keep it all in. The sting. The shock. The blaze. The echo of security you’re used to experiencing with Steven is still there. And presently, so does the dread. He doesn’t say anything. Most people fill in the blanks; are uneased by silence. Not him. He is simply keeping his eyes on you. Not willing to let go. Relishing. Like the red halo of a hunting rifle. Trying not to alarm the prey while still keeping its aim on it. A hot swelling in your chest torches its way into your abdomen. “We don’t need to break anything.” You don’t know how you had the guts to say that. Maybe it’s just your subconscious acting as a relay. Or maybe you’re just trying to convince yourself.  He responds again with silence, keeping his mouth shut in a thigh line. This time, he shoots. His huge hand swiftly snatches yours. Holding it down. You gasp for air, but nothing comes.

Before, your respective sleeves were only grazing. Now, his fist is crushing yours. It’s painful. It’s warm. And because it’s forced, it’s guilt-free. Your eyes plunge, and they can see a hidden rictus that wants to lash out. Pulling you closer to him with a lingering strength; as if he didn’t need any in the first place. As he perfectly knew that your resistance was merely superficial. With a mix of aversion and elation, you feel the heat of his other hand penetrating your coat, as he enters one of your pockets. Even through layers and layers, your skin detects his flat palm against your side with an accuracy that scares you. Your flesh and very bones feel the low humming of his muscles, ready to take more drastic measures. You think you might faint. This is too much; and at the same time, it leaves you wanting. The sheer potency of his grip; his control over what comes next oddly puts your mind at rest. He’s the one with his hands on the wheel. His fingers following the curve of your belly resume their descent, and as you think he might capture you into oblivion or perhaps fondle you, the warmth disappears altogether. He is holding your phone. Thumb on the home button. It unlocks.  “Thought I didn’t keep an eye on you, mh?” His fist still crushing yours and the yellow lighthouse are your sole anchors left to reality. In overlong, agonising touches of his large digit on your screen, you observe him enter a phone number. How? How had he gained access? Steven hadn’t. And a moment of shared intimacy was yet to come; to be able to steal your phone in the middle of the night, protected by a moment of shuteye.

Your whole body hums back and trembles. He must have noticed the treacherous tremolo in the heart of his hand, but once more, he uses silence as a weapon. The dull glow of the screen is the only change you can see on his stern face. Then, he locks it anew. The screen goes black, like an echo of your brain. In less than a breath, the weight of your phone is back in your pocket, and the growing pressure that was crushing your fingers withdraws. It all ends the same way it began: abruptly, rough. Raw. He adjusts the side of your jacket; admonishing, commanding: “Don’t lie to yourself.”  If you think that you couldn't redden harder, you’re deadly wrong. Before that mouth of yours can barely utter a word or your eyes can even glance at him with indignation, the bus is coming to a full stop. You feel yourself losing balance, however, to be fair, it was already lost on you a few minutes ago. The halting vehicle makes you miserably collide, and it’s like you’re a wave crashing on concrete. He doesn’t budge. The arch of one of your brows bumps against his collar bone. The rest of you collide with him, and warmth envelops you like a cape. Your synapses register your body pressed against his, your breast crushed against his torso. And it’s another surge, far more devastating, that arises within you. You hold on to the grey jacket of Steven. Steven. When you ruthlessly pull away, as the gates are opening, the grin is back on his lips. Little mouse that you are. “Todo bien, cariño?” You don’t even respond. The exit begs you to step out. And you do. "If you need a ride into the city," he informs, nodding at your pocket, "the name is Jake Lockley." You don’t look at him, fearing that the two black holes would engulf you without the mercy to ever spit you out again. You refuse to break anything owned by the devil, but you sure as hell head out of the bus as if he were himself chasing you.  Your feet are finally on the concrete. Solid. Yet, your mind doubts the earth could still support you. The doors hiss shut behind your back. Your breath is erratic. Your body reduces to trembling limbs. The grumble of the motor fades away, but the guilt stays. Your phone could burn a hole in that fucking pocket.

Your brain could recognize the charismatic pull of an avoidant relationship in any circumstance. That was it. Logic is screaming at the top of its lungs about how you recognize those patterns now. Through hard-earned experience. Never again, you have sworn to yourself. And to your therapist.

The signs are there. The adrenaline. The magnetic pull. The consuming thoughts. The unbearable focus that eclipses anything or anyone else. You can feel the hyperfixation building itself up as you’re thinking. Replaying again and again small details that ignite your reward system in a fucked-up way. A broken player that you thought you had fixed after several years of therapy.

No, no, no- This can’t happen. You swore.    That part of you is healed.

Don’t lie to yourself.

It turns out that the brain can rationalise all it wants; what’s between your thighs doesn’t give a shit about toxic patterns.

tranquila : easy; don’t worryestá bien : fair enough; all right querida : dear; paramore break the devil’s dishes :  [brooklyn slang] have a wild time aguas : [guatemalan slang] carefull

# Dedication : To @grumpyahjumma, who is such a sweet human being <3 Thank you for existing ! # Taglist : @pri00r  , @medivalpersephone , @hereforsmutbcicantgetenough  , @thebadasssass  , @griffinkid2187  , @fandomtrash465  , @randomchick546 , @romanarose   , @galactic-galabee  , @actuallyanita  . # A/n on DID : Hello there <3 I want to stress that Jake Lockley isn’t the “evil side” or “bad side” of the System. Jake is probably more of a Protector. Everything here is through the subjective point of view from the Reader; her own experience, projecting her past traumas. The goal will be to overcome those conceptions; hence the perception of Jake. Generally speaking, please know that people experiencing DID do not have what fiction would call “a beast” or an “evil Alter" (as in the movie Split, for example). When an Alter has persecution tendencies, it’s mostly towards the System itself. Thank you!

That's so sweet of you, thank you ! 💕

The London Daily Ride [3]

Not in Service

# Pairing: Jake Lockley x female reader (light Steven Grant x female reader) # Synopsis: Sweet and kind Steven is part of your daily rides on the morning bus. However, today, Steven isn’t stepping in. Instead, someone else shows up.  # Warning/Content: Angst, Character Study, Unhealthy/Toxic relationship, Sexual Tension, Enemies to Lovers (kind of). # Word Count: 3.2k [Part 1] · [Part 2] — [read me on AO3]

Today is different. Today is not the same. He’s not. That, you can immediately tell. He enters the bus, and from the first step on the linoleum, a deep glaciation makes its way into your ribs and freezes solid the core of your chest. The reflex of hailing him a “Good Morning!” buries itself in your throat, and you swear suffocation is only a breath away. Strange, isn’t it? To know someone so well and not recognize them? For a second there, you wonder if a case of face-blindness can happen overnight. You hope so. The alternative is far more devastating. 

He takes three decided steps. He sits where he usually does, perhaps the reminiscence of a habit. Inspects its surroundings; his mouth shut in a tight line, as if he was finding it almost distasteful. You think for a few seconds that even the clothes are different, but they aren’t. The clothes are Steven’s. You can recognize one of his favourite shirts; geometric patterns of white and malachite that echo The Great Green; Osiris. His clay-grey jacket. And yet, it’s like witnessing a different actor embedding the role of your favourite character. He makes a sudden move to adjust the clothes more tightly wrapped around his shoulders. Cracks his neck. Runs a firm hand through his hair to keep them back. His face free from the curls that normally frame his forehead, his features are stern. Implacably indifferent. Then he leans back with ease, crossing one of his legs nonchalantly, an arm laying on the other passenger's empty seat. As soon as he makes himself comfortable, his eyes meet yours. Shit.

Caught red-handed. You couldn’t have been more obvious, but you just didn’t think he was really paying attention. Steven is often daydreaming or laser-focusing on your conversations or the book on his lap. Steven is a lot of things. However, he doesn’t pretend. He does. The thin and almost invisible hairs on the back of your neck bristle. You look aside. Then, through the window and you wish the blush of shame away, and of course it does nothing. Ever tried to order veins not to dilate? Of course not, you fucking idiot, you think, trying desperately to gather yourself. Your peripheral vision warns you that his silhouette is not moving. A controlled halt, your instinct feeds you. Similar mannerism, you would assume, of a military sniper seeing the head of his shot. You’re the one being studied now, and the burn creeps even more at the surface of your skin. Treacherous carmine is rising to the surface of your cheeks and making its way towards your aching chest. You can’t even think straight. This is a nightmare, and it’s not stopping. The sense of familiarity like smoke slipping away between your grasping fingers. Steven is there, but he’s not. An outsider made its way onto his insides. Something is terribly wrong. Like an Ushabti being inhabited by another essence. You do not dare to cross his eyes. The birth of your neck and now forearms, warning with goosebumps. And for good reason: is there anything more horrific than seeing someone you care for vanish in front of your eyes? Whether it be illness— physical or mental? Horror is no jumpscare and neither is a good story shared at night around a bonfire. True horror is a familiar scene being torn apart by a single, disquieting detail. A detail that you know to be of importance yet always seemed ordinary before. His eyes. His eyes are not the same. A void is replacing your guts. Nothing feels tangible. You’re hollow. Uninhabited. Unlike the man you think you knew. Breathe, you try to remind your sympathetic system. And think. And your brain does. He’s kick-starting the gears, running with the urge to feel safety through comprehension. Regaining control through knowledge, that’s what you’re good at. Coping. Organising thoughts. Then arguments. Sometimes, the scalpel is useful. Your mind begins to pinpoint why it has triggered such a nuclear reaction in your core. 

Through the weeks, nearly a month and a half, Steven had become a familiar figure in the urban jungle. A bubble-sharer. A comforter. Losing that was breaking the new builds of a welcomed refuge. No refuge, no familiarity. No familiarity; thus, anxiety. Even more so: the primal fear of losing someone to an unknown alterity. Hell is other people, would say Sartre. For you, hell was just people you didn’t know.  It has only been a minute. Sixty long seconds, since he has pinned you down with the two black holes that are in place of his eyes. Seven forced, slowed cycles of breath. It’s only then that you are able to conjure your sight to cross his. You feel the rush of adrenaline roaming your back as you discover the expressionless face of Not-Steven. The unfamiliarity of his familiar traits pierces your sternum. A stillness you’re unused to, you realise, as Steven was always fidgeting in some way, unless consumed by his favourite subject or by you. Shame is making its way back onto your cheeks, but you hold on. That’s when there’s finally a reaction. Desperately slow, you see one of his brows lifting lightly. His pupils are graphite. But you hold on. By the same reflex and the same logic when facing a wild beast. Only a fool would turn around and run, offering their spine as a perfect prey. And as of now, you can’t be spineless. 

Though beneath the fear, beneath the urge to stay put like a deer in the headlights, you can feel a deep contraction grasping your lower insides. At first, you mistakenly recognise it as a light menstrual cramp, and yet, it’s not quite the same. Flirting with pain, the ache is putting its claws deep between your legs, as the reptilian part of your brain registers the blown wide irises in front of you as a sign of arousal. It’s clear now that the panic you’re experiencing has just become adrenaline; confused about its own role. Conjure a fight or flight response? Or conjure an unforgiving blaze? Flames licking at your lower lips, your jaw contracts. And as you’re thinking to drop your sight just below to greet his mouth, he grins. 

Fuck. 

There are teeth behind a smile. 

The expression doesn’t reach the corner of his unlit iris; two endless pits that summon to fall down. The only adjective that comes to mind is perverse. Still, you’re not quite sure if it should define his or your reaction. From there, you can only hold on to your seat. Quite literally. A wildfire amidst your entrails. It reaches your breasts with an undignified ripple of pleasure. You can feel your eyes drawn to his pursing lips, unable to detach themselves. He lifts his head lightly and, with an unsettling tranquillity, begins to whistle. At that distance, you can’t make out the tune. Only snippets are meeting your eardrums; the rest is engulfed by the sound of the hydraulics of the bus; hissing when stopping, the engine rumbling steadily, people talking. Even if there was nothing else but a vacant room, your brain wouldn’t be able to compute anyway; far too discombobulated by the flux of steroid hormones and thus by the roaring in your ears and far lower organs. How many minutes does it last? Off and on, he’s letting you go from his sight. Still sneering and whistling, looking serenely around. Then he’s getting back to you. His head is nodding gently from side to side. Stopping the pursing of his lips for a few, long, seconds, before resuming his tune again. Little mouse that you are, he’s letting you go from time to time before clawing his way back to you.  The encounter is violent. No words are exchanged, but there’s knowledge lingering in the air. You know. And he knows you know. He makes a blatant show of it. A power-play already won. The twin hypothesis that goes on in every telenovela just won’t hold when it comes to him. To Steven. Or whoever else might be in there.  The bus hisses to a halt, and with an excruciating noise that seems to break your stupor, the doors open to deliver more passengers. Amongst them, a fairly older woman with long grey hair obediently gathered in a low ponytail. Reflexes built over years spent in the capital make you stand on your own two feet. You don’t even feel them. To tell the truth, it comes as a surprise that you’re able to be in a vertical state at all. Your bus stop is nearly a few stations away. Your mind hyperfocuses on the new stimulus. A recomforting tunnel of attention that allows that wild sympathetic system of yours to ignore all other factors and regulate itself. Don’t look. Don’t feel. You’ll deal with all that later. For now, focus. As the older woman is waiting to pass in front of you to the newly spare seat, the spark of her golden pendant catches your eye. You recognize a highly stylised ostrich feather. Steven has been thorough when putting his passion into words. You can easily convey his voice: warm and pedagogical, patiently explaining. And it’s suddenly as he’s close to you, almost whispering into your ears:  The feather of Maat is at the heart of Egyptian civilisation, as he could have gently reminded you. It’s lovely, innit…? How can such a light little thing have such weight in an entire civilisation? The Weighing of the heart, you mean? You question the phantasmagorical version of Steven. You can almost hear him chuckle. It’s the point of convergence of your attention. Yeah, yeah. Deciding if you’re worthy of the Field of Reeds and all tha'. But that’s for when you’re dead. For the likes of us, you see, the feather is a reminder: to live in peace is not easy. Your brain raises an eyebrow, requiring more historical facts that you had somehow memorised. To be honest, focusing on what was coming from Steven’s mouth was hardly a problem. There were times; you wished to absorb all of him, as if you were one. To abide by the feather… is to tell the truth. As I said: Not easy, you know? The Egyptians were quite right about this one. It’s really the only way to prevent chaos. He seems to be looking through your eyes, as Egyptian gods would do with their statues. And for now … it’s not looking so good for me, is it? What ?

“Tranquila, señora, tranquila.” You stumble. You're unsure if it’s due to the moving bus or to him. With your eyes on the attribute, you didn’t see him coming. He’s near her, near you. Replacing Steven. Offering the traveller his seat, as you entirely forgot to move enough to allow the lady with the Feather pass through. You had just stood there. Body frozen; mind racing. Oh God, oh god, oh god- You’ve been dissociating again. How long was it?

“Tak’ a seat,” you overhear him say. It’s not Cockney, yet some of the sounds are the same. The accent isn’t truly Spanish either, despite the use of it. East Coast American is your best guess. Is he faking that? It sounds like blasphemy compared to the beloved accent you’ve come to know. The gears in your brain want to pinpoint the details, determine exactly where you’ve heard that before. Where exactly? No. Stay focused; stay in the present. Stay present. Don’t escape elsewhere and hide. What’s happening now? Well … To begin with, he isn’t talking to you. Good. Second, you sincerely hope he won't offer you anything. Not a seat. Not a sentence. Not even a word. Steady now, you scold yourself. Still standing vertically, you pivot your feet to make your way well in front of the automatic doors. Grabbing one of the yellow poles of the bus; holding it dear like a lighthouse in a storm. Looking straight ahead. The Exit. Third and finally, just like a two-year-old toddler learning about object permanence, you hope that if you don’t see him, he doesn’t exist. He doesn’t see you.  “Why don’t you take a taxi next time, querida?” Realising he’s at your side electrifies your whole body. You can’t move. Heart drumming like the fluttering of a hummingbird. And yet, deep below, arises a fire that you snuff out violently. Silencing the truth. Your mouth is dry when you respond: “No.” One strangled syllable. It’s barely an answer. Not even a sentence. In any other context, it would have been incredibly rude, however, you both know it’s a blatant excuse for an interaction. And you can’t decide if it’s a positive or negative one. All you can feel is your weakening knees. And the brushing of his sleeve against yours, paced on the swaying of the bus. “Está bien, está bien…” he tempers with a faint smile in his voice. Is he enjoying this? He pauses, and from the very corner of your eyes, you make out his shape; scrutinising. “Even if I’m the driver? Aguas, querida… I could take it personally.” Is he a cab driver? What’s a cab driver doing on a bus, then? You don’t understand. You can't think properly. You focus, so your voice doesn't waver. Focus on what? You grip the yellow pole a little tighter. 

“Not interested.” Let me out. Let me out. Let me-

"Mh," he hums and your skin prickles, "pero que pena, no? Together, I’m sure we’d break the devil’s dishes." You don’t recognize the expression. It sounds misplaced. How is Steven doing that? Is he doing that? No, no. He’s not. He can’t be. This isn’t a fucked-up role-play. That, at least, is clear. So, who is to blame for Steven’s disappearance?  You ultimately lay your gaze on him, utterly confused, trying to keep it all in. The sting. The shock. The blaze. The echo of security you’re used to experiencing with Steven is still there. And presently, so does the dread. He doesn’t say anything. Most people fill in the blanks; are uneased by silence. Not him. He is simply keeping his eyes on you. Not willing to let go. Relishing. Like the red halo of a hunting rifle. Trying not to alarm the prey while still keeping its aim on it. A hot swelling in your chest torches its way into your abdomen. “We don’t need to break anything.” You don’t know how you had the guts to say that. Maybe it’s just your subconscious acting as a relay. Or maybe you’re just trying to convince yourself.  He responds again with silence, keeping his mouth shut in a thigh line. This time, he shoots. His huge hand swiftly snatches yours. Holding it down. You gasp for air, but nothing comes.

Before, your respective sleeves were only grazing. Now, his fist is crushing yours. It’s painful. It’s warm. And because it’s forced, it’s guilt-free. Your eyes plunge, and they can see a hidden rictus that wants to lash out. Pulling you closer to him with a lingering strength; as if he didn’t need any in the first place. As he perfectly knew that your resistance was merely superficial. With a mix of aversion and elation, you feel the heat of his other hand penetrating your coat, as he enters one of your pockets. Even through layers and layers, your skin detects his flat palm against your side with an accuracy that scares you. Your flesh and very bones feel the low humming of his muscles, ready to take more drastic measures. You think you might faint. This is too much; and at the same time, it leaves you wanting. The sheer potency of his grip; his control over what comes next oddly puts your mind at rest. He’s the one with his hands on the wheel. His fingers following the curve of your belly resume their descent, and as you think he might capture you into oblivion or perhaps fondle you, the warmth disappears altogether. He is holding your phone. Thumb on the home button. It unlocks.  “Thought I didn’t keep an eye on you, mh?” His fist still crushing yours and the yellow lighthouse are your sole anchors left to reality. In overlong, agonising touches of his large digit on your screen, you observe him enter a phone number. How? How had he gained access? Steven hadn’t. And a moment of shared intimacy was yet to come; to be able to steal your phone in the middle of the night, protected by a moment of shuteye.

Your whole body hums back and trembles. He must have noticed the treacherous tremolo in the heart of his hand, but once more, he uses silence as a weapon. The dull glow of the screen is the only change you can see on his stern face. Then, he locks it anew. The screen goes black, like an echo of your brain. In less than a breath, the weight of your phone is back in your pocket, and the growing pressure that was crushing your fingers withdraws. It all ends the same way it began: abruptly, rough. Raw. He adjusts the side of your jacket; admonishing, commanding: “Don’t lie to yourself.”  If you think that you couldn't redden harder, you’re deadly wrong. Before that mouth of yours can barely utter a word or your eyes can even glance at him with indignation, the bus is coming to a full stop. You feel yourself losing balance, however, to be fair, it was already lost on you a few minutes ago. The halting vehicle makes you miserably collide, and it’s like you’re a wave crashing on concrete. He doesn’t budge. The arch of one of your brows bumps against his collar bone. The rest of you collide with him, and warmth envelops you like a cape. Your synapses register your body pressed against his, your breast crushed against his torso. And it’s another surge, far more devastating, that arises within you. You hold on to the grey jacket of Steven. Steven. When you ruthlessly pull away, as the gates are opening, the grin is back on his lips. Little mouse that you are. “Todo bien, cariño?” You don’t even respond. The exit begs you to step out. And you do. "If you need a ride into the city," he informs, nodding at your pocket, "the name is Jake Lockley." You don’t look at him, fearing that the two black holes would engulf you without the mercy to ever spit you out again. You refuse to break anything owned by the devil, but you sure as hell head out of the bus as if he were himself chasing you.  Your feet are finally on the concrete. Solid. Yet, your mind doubts the earth could still support you. The doors hiss shut behind your back. Your breath is erratic. Your body reduces to trembling limbs. The grumble of the motor fades away, but the guilt stays. Your phone could burn a hole in that fucking pocket.

Your brain could recognize the charismatic pull of an avoidant relationship in any circumstance. That was it. Logic is screaming at the top of its lungs about how you recognize those patterns now. Through hard-earned experience. Never again, you have sworn to yourself. And to your therapist.

The signs are there. The adrenaline. The magnetic pull. The consuming thoughts. The unbearable focus that eclipses anything or anyone else. You can feel the hyperfixation building itself up as you’re thinking. Replaying again and again small details that ignite your reward system in a fucked-up way. A broken player that you thought you had fixed after several years of therapy.

No, no, no- This can’t happen. You swore.    That part of you is healed.

Don’t lie to yourself.

It turns out that the brain can rationalise all it wants; what’s between your thighs doesn’t give a shit about toxic patterns.

tranquila : easy; don’t worryestá bien : fair enough; all right querida : dear; paramore break the devil’s dishes :  [brooklyn slang] have a wild time aguas : [guatemalan slang] carefull

# Dedication : To @grumpyahjumma, who is such a sweet human being <3 Thank you for existing ! # Taglist : @pri00r  , @medivalpersephone , @hereforsmutbcicantgetenough  , @thebadasssass  , @griffinkid2187  , @fandomtrash465  , @randomchick546 , @romanarose   , @galactic-galabee  , @actuallyanita  . # A/n on DID : Hello there <3 I want to stress that Jake Lockley isn’t the “evil side” or “bad side” of the System. Jake is probably more of a Protector. Everything here is through the subjective point of view from the Reader; her own experience, projecting her past traumas. The goal will be to overcome those conceptions; hence the perception of Jake. Generally speaking, please know that people experiencing DID do not have what fiction would call “a beast” or an “evil Alter" (as in the movie Split, for example). When an Alter has persecution tendencies, it’s mostly towards the System itself. Thank you!