#also my chromebook sound is not working fuck

[xfohvconfessions]

Lowkey them

[kittiwittebane]

YALL I SWEAR- Rollerskates and Council members Part 2.

Ok, it is still tomorrow for me, idk about you time-zone different people. But yeah.

If I was too later for your time zone I apologise 😭

Anyways:

PROLOGUE

WARNING: ANGST AND ABUSE

An old man walked into the room of a young boy.

“WHAT IS THIS?” The old man screeched. The boy cowered in fear.

“My report card..” the boy said. The man growled.

“A B plus? What is this, a joke?!” The man yelled. The boy shook his head hesitantly.

“Uncle I can explain..” the boy replied. The man waited for his response.

“There’s this.. uh.. girl-“

“A GIRL? YOU HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO THINK ABOUT THAN A GIRL!!” The man lashed out at the boy, dragging a sharp object up his arm. The boy cried in pain.

“Uncle, I'm sorry it won't happen again!” The boy sobbed. The man scowled at the boy.

“Oh stop crying, crying is for the weak.” He growled, before leaving the boy with a gash in his arm and a first-aid kit that the boy himself had bought and hidden.

_________________

Hunter was home, full of the chicken-bread Willow had given him.

Fuck, shes pretty. Hunter couldn't help but think. He knew he'd fallen, he’d fallen really quickly. It only took him one day to realise that he’d fallen for her.

(Help i am listening to teeth and it's stopping my brain from thinking because it's so good to vibe to.)

(Also I’m doing this in the middle of a class of some description that I should be paying attention to because people play games on the computers. We got them chromebooks and they’re probably not doing the work. But anyways- 💀)

Hunter sat on his bed quietly. All he could think about was Willow. He sighed, checking his watch. Nearly time for his bread and water meal. At least he could savour this round of stale bread because he was already full. He knew he’d better stop gushing over her school photo that he somehow acquired.

The door opened quietly and a plastic water bottle and three stale bits of bread were thrown at him. He stuffed the break in a box under his bed, and flopped down, bringing out her photo again. He sighed. She sounded so concerned after learning that he didn’t eat much on the weekend, and he wondered what she’d act like if he told her about his home life. He brought the bed sheet over himself and drifted softly to sleep.

______________

Willow got home very quickly, but spent her afternoon wondering about Hunter. He’d been so quick to defend his earlier statement of the fact he didn’t eat at home. Was it a lie?

Despite her concern, her dads cotived when she came out for dinner, her red face and floppy ears.

(In this story, floppy ears are gush/embarrassment.)

Gilbert had an idea of what was going on, but Harvey was clueless.

“Hey flower, what’s on your mind?” Gilbert asked. Willow snarled back to reality, facing her dad.

“Uh-“ Willow thought for a minute. Tell the truth or lie? Truth. “A boy.” She smiled, giggling in embarrassment. Gilbert snorted with laughter.

“A boy?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“What’s his name?” Gilbert asked. Willow knew he was just trying to pull information fro her, but she decided she was going to answer this time.

“Hunter.”

“What does he look like?”

Gilbert recalled the name. It was the name of the boy who wrote her up everyday for wearing things against the dress code, which he thought was unreasonable.

“He’s blonde.. with magenta eyes. He has a… sizeable nose.” She giggled. Gilbert loves listening to his daughter.

“Special to you, is he?” Gilbert asked. Willow faced dropped.

“Actually, I’m concerned for him. When we were talking, he slipped in speech and said he didn’t eat at home, but quickly corrected himself to not eating much at home.” She explained.

This sparked a thought of concern in Willow’s father. All he could produce is an ‘oh’, before leaving the conversation.

______________

“Willow, please this school needs to look good for the school that is playing here today.” Hunter whined as Willow absentmindedly tracked mud into the school.

“Oh- sorry Hunter.” Willow blushed and took her roller skates off. Hunter nearly gasped in surprise. She didn’t usually do this. Then surprising him even further, she had a cloth in her bag, and she wiped up the mud she had brought in.

“Oh… well that was different from you.” Hunter commented sweetly. Willow smiled.

“Anything, anytime.” She smiled. “You can talk to me about anything, you know.” She added. Hunter tipped his head to one side. That was a strange statement. Maybe he was overthinking it.

“Uh, thanks?” He replied to her. Something wasn’t right. This didn’t seem like her. Where was ‘rebellious roller skater that can do anything and you can’t stop me.’? He shook his thoughts away. Something wasn’t right but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Obviously, apart from the fact she wasn’t rebelling.

Well, he can’t focus on that right now can he? He had a school to keep clean.

PART 3 OR NO?

The next part will be MUCH more Huntlow focused than thought focused, promise.

[the-hybrid-lua]

A lot of education "changes" that have come out since 2001 are pretty much just recorded no child left behind, and a lot of makers of supplementary materials have moved to subscription based models that the school districts have to renew every year or two. The biggest program used in my state, i-Ready, is just an unengaging for these students.

The school that I work at has intervention classes for students who read below a certain level. It doesn't foster any love for reading. The program tells them some information and then gives two paragraph passages from fiction or nonfiction, then asks analytical or vocabulary question without actually taking the students through a narrative. Why should they be invested? Everything about the quiz at the end of the i-Ready lesson, and none of it gives them any kind of storytelling payoff.

One of the best ways to practice reading skills, including decoding new vocabulary based on text, is to actually read. But the students have no reason to outside of testing, and they don't care to practice outside of school because of it. And even tangential skills are suffering. My school district has a 1 to 1 ratio of chromebooks in the district. Every single student, kindergarten to 12th grade, has a chromebook assigned to them, and nobody is focusing on handwriting or spelling because of it. They don't need to learn to spell because spell check will fix it for them (similar to some math arguments and don't even get me started there, I'm a math teacher first), and they don't need to practice handwriting because they can just use technology. But the lack of spelling knowledge creates a disconnect between words they know and words they can spell, the lack of handwriting practice makes recognizing letters and words more difficult, and combining the two makes recognizing and understanding new words even more difficult.

What makes it worse? All of this is completely disconnected from the absolutely fucked way of teaching students how to even read, and the primary method used right now doesn't build the reading skills that students are being tested on. This topic was the first one that the college class I'm in for teaching reading went over. The method focused on students looking at visual cues and sentence structure to work out (often times guess) the meaning of a new words, and then either sound out the word or use a similar one and move on. If none of that helps then maybe sound it out, but thats difficult with the way that the sentence and visual cues should also be used to predict which word comes next, not just try reading it straight first. To the point where the person who came up with the idea said it wasn't important for students to recognize that "horse" and "pony" were different words, only that they got the idea that someone was riding a four legged animal. It completely bypasses parts pf phonetics and phonetic learning, and focuses on predicting what comes next as a way of understanding instead of reading and then interpreting. My class had a brilliant article on it that I will add if I can find it. Some districts are moving away from this method, but its been used since the early 2000s so entire generations have been taught using these "skills" and the change is not happening fast enough.

EVERYTHING is set up for students to hate reading, and then school districts wonder why literacy is going down.

Why Kids Aren't Falling in Love With Reading - It's Not Just Screens

A shrinking number of kids are reading widely and voraciously for fun.

The ubiquity and allure of screens surely play a large part in this—most American children have smartphones by the age of 11—as does learning loss during the pandemic. But this isn’t the whole story. A survey just before the pandemic by the National Assessment of Educational Progress showed that the percentages of 9- and 13-year-olds who said they read daily for fun had dropped by double digits since 1984. I recently spoke with educators and librarians about this trend, and they gave many explanations, but one of the most compelling—and depressing—is rooted in how our education system teaches kids to relate to books.

What I remember most about reading in childhood was falling in love with characters and stories; I adored Judy Blume’s Margaret and Beverly Cleary’s Ralph S. Mouse. In New York, where I was in public elementary school in the early ’80s, we did have state assessments that tested reading level and comprehension, but the focus was on reading as many books as possible and engaging emotionally with them as a way to develop the requisite skills. Now the focus on reading analytically seems to be squashing that organic enjoyment. Critical reading is an important skill, especially for a generation bombarded with information, much of it unreliable or deceptive. But this hyperfocus on analysis comes at a steep price: The love of books and storytelling is being lost.

This disregard for story starts as early as elementary school. Take this requirement from the third-grade English-language-arts Common Core standard, used widely across the U.S.: “Determine the meaning of words and phrases as they are used in a text, distinguishing literal from nonliteral language.” There is a fun, easy way to introduce this concept: reading Peggy Parish’s classic, Amelia Bedelia, in which the eponymous maid follows commands such as “Draw the drapes when the sun comes in” by drawing a picture of the curtains. But here’s how one educator experienced in writing Common Core–aligned curricula proposes this be taught: First, teachers introduce the concepts of nonliteral and figurative language. Then, kids read a single paragraph from Amelia Bedelia and answer written questions.

For anyone who knows children, this is the opposite of engaging: The best way to present an abstract idea to kids is by hooking them on a story. “Nonliteral language” becomes a whole lot more interesting and comprehensible, especially to an 8-year-old, when they’ve gotten to laugh at Amelia’s antics first. The process of meeting a character and following them through a series of conflicts is the fun part of reading. Jumping into a paragraph in the middle of a book is about as appealing for most kids as cleaning their room.

But as several educators explained to me, the advent of accountability laws and policies, starting with No Child Left Behind in 2001, and accompanying high-stakes assessments based on standards, be they Common Core or similar state alternatives, has put enormous pressure on instructors to teach to these tests at the expense of best practices. Jennifer LaGarde, who has more than 20 years of experience as a public-school teacher and librarian, described how one such practice—the class read-aloud—invariably resulted in kids asking her for comparable titles. But read-alouds are now imperiled by the need to make sure that kids have mastered all the standards that await them in evaluation, an even more daunting task since the start of the pandemic. “There’s a whole generation of kids who associate reading with assessment now,” LaGarde said.

By middle school, not only is there even less time for activities such as class read-alouds, but instruction also continues to center heavily on passage analysis, said LaGarde, who taught that age group. A friend recently told me that her child’s middle-school teacher had introduced To Kill a Mockingbird to the class, explaining that they would read it over a number of months—and might not have time to finish it. “How can they not get to the end of To Kill a Mockingbird?” she wondered. I’m right there with her. You can’t teach kids to love reading if you don’t even prioritize making it to a book’s end. The reward comes from the emotional payoff of the story’s climax; kids miss out on this essential feeling if they don’t reach Atticus Finch’s powerful defense of Tom Robinson in the courtroom or never get to solve the mystery of Boo Radley.

... Young people should experience the intrinsic pleasure of taking a narrative journey, making an emotional connection with a character (including ones different from themselves), and wondering what will happen next—then finding out. This is the spell that reading casts. And, like with any magician’s trick, picking a story apart and learning how it’s done before you have experienced its wonder risks destroying the magic.

-- article by katherine marsh, the atlantic (12 foot link, no paywall)

[sweetsweetazzy]

I have a chromebook bc I'm silly like that and one of the speakers doesn't work unless I push the corner together, and then it'll stop working a minute later. my point (because yes, I have a point) is that although it's really fucking annoying, it makes listening to Enthralling Theatre so frickin GOOD. the speaker that's broken is the one that amplifies mika's vocals so shu's are louder through just the one speaker and GOD the POWER behind his voice. it sounds almost strange because every single note and syllable is so sharp and concise, it makes it very clear that mika's vocals compliment his really well, but also I get to hear just shu's vocals more prominently and THEYRE AMAZING EQDJNSMAHFDJEGREC

[whirlybirbs]

          (   this chapter’s gif by @august-walker​ from this beautiful set !   )

✪   —   VACANT MIRRORS  ;  B.B.  |  4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy! 

  (   PREVIOUSLY   |    AO3    |    MASTERLIST  |   NEXT  )

MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

                                        ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh. 

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

                                       ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

[call-me-aesthetic]

If Twisted Wonderland was an American Public School

WARNING: There are some slight sensitive topics that are featured in here! Reader discretion is advised!

Part 2 can be found here

Heartslabyul

Riddle Rosehearts:

- That one preppy girl who takes all honors and AP classes 😑

- Wants everyone to know that he’s becoming a doctor one day for his strict parents or he’ll dishonor the family

- Reminds the teacher about homework, knowing well that he’ll get slander for it

- Complains about how he got a 90 on his test or a B on his report card, a try hard much?

- Wears a cardigan with thicc but cute glasses since he’s one of those people with can’t see shit on the board so he has to move to the front of the class

Ace Trappola:

- The SoundCloud rapper, that’s it

- “Wanna listen to my mixtape? It’s pretty fire, my guy.” 😩🔥

- You will not miss him BLASTING out some song on his Bluetooth speaker, that shit be echoing through the hallways

- Tells you to stop what you’re doing only for him to either sing horribly or do a backflip, thinking that he’s so cool

- Wears a Supreme jacket with AirPods and waves on his head

Deuce Spade:

- Assuming that he’s still a delinquent, he’s that kid with the most fucked up school record

- Not much of a bully but will still talk shit to your face without caring, might even throw stuff at you during a lesson and you would be the one getting in trouble instead of him 🗿

- If he ever gets mad, it would be overdramatic like kicking the desks, punching the lockers, or walking out of the classroom unannounced and everyone would look at each other wondering wtf happened

- Covers the entire desks with drawings of skulls and those “s” if you know what I mean

- Wears Champion hoodies, wants you to know that he’s broke and rich at the same time

Trey Clover:

- The guy that’s not really popular but everyone knows him since he’s in all their classes

- Most people might have a crush on him because he’s REALLY nice 😳👉👈

- Gives off “older brother” vibes based on the way he looks and acts, like offering you a ride home if you beg ask nicely

- Secretly bakes creme brulee but doesn’t want to mess with the flow so he sticks to the status quo

- Wears the school’s hoodie just because he thinks it looks good on him, and the fact that he doesn’t know what else to wear

Cater Diamond:

- Hot Cheetos girl 🥵

- Has a whole buffet of food in his backpack and will not hesitate to eat them during a lesson, no sharing either sorry

- Excuses himself to the bathroom or full on skips class just to film a Tiktok

- Has about 100 followers on Instagram Magicam and brags about how he’s famous

- Wears a Thrasher hoodie with large hoop earrings and his hair in a bun

Savanaclaw

Leona Kingscholar:

- The kid who flunked their freshman year that also sort of vibes with new classmates

- Always gets mistaken as a teacher by people since he looks and sounds old

- Knows the lessons but still fails them anyways, didn’t really give a damn either 🙄

- Captain of every sports club you can think of, never actually plays but has a lot of knowledge on them

- Wears the school’s letterman from years ago since it used to be his brother’s and that he’s too lazy to buy a new one

Ruggie Bucchi:

- That one kid who NEVER has money for the book fair or any other school event

- Always has to ask his classmates for some cash

- If he somehow does, then he’s one of those kids who buys Diary of the Wimpy Kid or the World Record books

- If he’s feeling cheap, he’ll buy the “cool stuff” like the chocolate scented calculator or fruit snacks 😭

- Wears oversized hoodies and basketball shorts that are clearly hand-me-downs

Jack Howl:

- That one athletic kid who’s both scary good and competitive when it comes to school games like football or soccer

- Literally the best player on his team and without him, they’re trash as hell 💀

- Tries his absolute best to support his teammates without yelling at them for how dumb they are

- “KICK THE FUCKING BALL! DO YOUR LEGS EVEN WORK?!”

- Wears the school’s jersey just to show off his “school spirit”

Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto:

- The kid who sell snacks for “charity” but everyone knows he’s keeping the money to himself

- If you don’t have cash or try to negotiate with him, the only thing he’ll do is raise the price up

- “What do you mean you don’t have ten bucks? I can see it in your pocket.”

- Just bring nothing with you, he’ll doing anything to steal your stuff 🤭

- Wears a collar shirt with a tie and khakis that have pockets to keep his glasses and money in

Jade Leech:

- The kid who puts on a goody two shoes facade but is actually a stoner

- Only does “safe” drugs like vape but occasionally smokes weed, mostly in the bathroom or behind the school 🌬

- Can play it off and hide the scent when he’s high, teachers never suspect anything from him

- No one really cares to stop him unless he gets caught or something idk

- Wears clothing that either makes him look like a businessman or a junky, there’s nothing in between

Floyd Leech:

- The kid that’s plays basketball or volleyball just because he’s hella tall, and is actually good at the sports but doesn’t put much effort into them

- Always stays behind after gym, even though the teacher tries to make him leave for his next class 😬

- “I swear after this one shot, I’ll go to class.” *He never made that shot*

- Will jump you no matter who or where you are, and will get angry if you step on his new shoes

- Wears the jersey of any famous team with the latest pair of Jordan sneakers

Scarabia

Kalim Al Asim:

- VSCO girl at best, don’t lie to me now 🤡

- The only words he knows are “And I oop– sksksk.” and “Save the turtles.”

- Walks during a track meet while everyone else is running and sweating hard, the teacher doesn’t care either

- Doesn’t really do anything in gym but talks to his classmates and stands near the water fountain to refill his Hydro flask

- Wears tie dye shirts with cute scrunchies

Jamil Viper:

- That one quiet kid who everybody thinks is a serial killer but he’s actually not, I swear

- He just wants school to be over and spend the rest of his summer relaxing 😔

- Although he shouldn’t abuse his “power,” he‘ll move his hands in his pockets or backpack to make it look like he’s about to pull a weapon out.

- “Chill, I’m just grabbing a pencil.” *Everyone in the class started crying*

- Wears dark colored hoodies that intimidates people but are actually comfy

Pomefiore

Vil Schoenheit:

- The baddie popular girl 😌💅✨

- Arrives to school late with a Starbucks in hand from his local Target

- Fixes himself every 5 seconds like reapplying his lipgloss or spraying Bath and Body Works cherry blossom perfume

- Uses acrylic nails and long hair extensions as weapons during a cat fight

- Wears a crop top with ripped jeans and those clout sunglasses

Rook Hunt:

- That creepy guy in the hallways who tries to get your attention, even if you don’t know him

- Scares people when he says, “Ayo, where my hug at?” 🥶💯

- Uses at least 10 cans of Axe body spray a week after gym class, which stinks up the locker rooms

- Waves at you if he passes your class, even walking into the room just to say hi

- Wears literally anything but always include a hat

Epel Felmier:

- The artist girl who just wants to be alone 🧑‍🎨

- Purposely draws in front of you but pretends like you’re not looking

- If you complement him, he’ll just brush it off and proceeds to diss himself

- “Thanks but I’m not THAT good at drawing, teehee.” *Insert Radio Rebel face*

- Wears a hoodie or a cardigan with big pockets to put his art supplies in

Ignihyde

Idia Shroud:

- I don’t even need to tell you who he is, y’all already know ahaha 🥴

- Sneaks a whole PlayStation in his backpack so he can play with it during lunch

- Is on his phone 24/7 even in class to the point where teachers don’t care anymore

- Tries to get people into anime but only to little success

- Wears a shirt of any anime character or that damn ahegao hoodie, girl bye

Ortho Shroud:

- The nerdy kid who’s known for destroying others at many games

- Plays classics like D&D, Yugioh, Pokémon, the whole shabang

- Daily Beyblade battles during recess with everyone surrounding him, the menacing aura radiates off of him

- Will steal your things if you lose to him but gives it back a week later cuz he’s sweet 🥰

- Wears light up Sketchers shoes and those Minecraft shirts you find at Old Navy

Diasomnia

Malleus Draconia:

- The theatre kid who also goes to band practice, change my mind 👁👄👁

- Takes his role seriously when it comes to school plays and concerts, even if he gets casted as a damn tree or doesn’t go solo

- Remembers the songs and their lyrics to any musical you name, a really good singer at that too

- Plays almost every instrument, you definitely know this since you can hear him down the hallways during a test

- Wears a white button up shirt, black pants with fancy dress shoes, and top it all off with a fricking Rolex watch

Lilia Vanrouge:

- The weird guy who pranks people and vandalizes school property in every way possible

- If you ever get a textbook with a message that tells you to go to a certain page only for you to found a picture of a dick, yeah that was him 😒

- When using a Chromebook, he’ll leave a tab open on YouTube so when the next person uses it, pray that your ears will still work by tomorrow

- During lunch, he is a literal DEMON that mixes milk with chicken nuggets together and having the audacity to eat it too

- Wears an oversized raincoat or a windbreaker but idk wtf kind of things he has hiding underneath

Silver:

- That guy in class who consumes Monster energy drinks and falls asleep 99% of the time but somehow manages to pass the class 🤷

- Whenever he’s awake, he’ll talk to the teachers since he’s basically friends with them for some reason

- Writes his name out of boredom on any desk you sit on but in different places, sometimes around the corners or the sides

- Has a sixth sense because he’ll wake up if you try to draw on his face and if you did get something on him, it’s on sight

- Wears those colorful hoodies that zips all the way up to cover his face with a matching backpack, it’s pretty cool ngl

Sebek Zigvolt:

- That kid who literally knows everything about historical wars and will show it off during class

- Also has knowledge on weaponry, which has people questioning him but he’s just very dedicated on serving his country and people

- Knows how to fight and defend himself from a bitch since he spent his summer at a military boot camp, put respect on my man’s name 😤

- Honestly a great partner for a group project, actually does the given work but not the whole thing for you

- Wears anything that has camo pattern and chunky combat boots

I only made this because me and my friends were talking about our school memories so yeah. This is based from my experience so they might not be exactly accurate. Might even be a part two if you want.

[binniesthighs]

call me babydoll | reader x chan

a/n: ahhhhh holy holy heck this chapter is SO DAMN EXCITING hehehe I had sosososo much writing and doing all the research!! please let me know if there is anything factual/cultural that I need to fix! I tried the best I could although I most def am not an expert in Egyptian culture so I appreciate it a lot :) hehe i hope ya have fun reading this chapter teehee oh! also I love hearing what you thought of it too! :D 

Four 

Pairing: self insert, female reader x bang chan 

Genre: action, mystery and suspense, fluff, smut, angst 

Tags: (of this part) bodyguard au, secret agent au, royal au, moderndayprince!chan, secretagent!reader, secretagent!jeongin, secretagent!jisung, collegestudent!seungmin, royal!minho, skz side characters, adventure and mystery, action and peril, plot driven, running out of time, slow-ish burn, growing feelings, sexual tension, explicit language, several mentions of food and alcohol as well as getting tipsy/drunk that good, good making out, suggestive themes

CWs: mentions of guns, mentions of knives, themes of jealousy (expressed by the reader) 

Word count: 7.5k

Parts 

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE 

“Well, we’re in Cairo alright.” 

Two tugged the amazed young stow-away-student, Seungmin, by the hand of his backpack to keep him from running into one of the palm tree planters decorating the terminal. The young man had nearly slept the whole flight due to the length as well as the exasperation that he had just been through. While his eyes were still darkened from his nap, his glossy pupils still wondered all around him. 

“I take it back. I’m so glad that I almost died so I could end up here with you guys.” 

Jeongin slapped him from the backside of his head. “Never be thankful for almost dying. Life is a lot more fucking fragile than you think. This isn’t just some joyride--” 

“--Ease up F.” You interrupted your partner as you shouldered your bag. The kid had already been through enough already: he didn’t need accosting on top of it all. 

The dashing prince sighed out and stretched his arms. “Ahhhh Cairo. It’s been a while; too long actually.” 

The airport was humid: the kind of sticky warmth that dripped down your neck in a matter of seconds to then get caught above your lip. It wasn’t much help to the anxiety that already had seeped into your veins. The closer you got to a gun the more comfortable you would be. You and the other two guards created a formation around the prince with two in the front and the other in the flank. While each of you were dressed in regular street clothes, your responsibility of his detail still hung over your head with a severe air. 

Chan threw his arm over the young student with an obscene grin. His hair had become a little disheveled from the plane seat and his hoodie, but he didn’t appear to mind. Seeing him so normal was somewhat of an odd change to your previous unbreakable impression of him. 

“Seungmin my friend, you’ve never lived until you’ve been to Cairo. I’ve never seen another place so enriched in history in my whole life...it puts my kingdom to shame. It’s almost like...you can just feel the time here: hundreds of thousands of years...beauty, art, food, industry...I’ve got a thing or two to learn.” 

Seungmin nodded at the prince’s grandiose gestures in the terminal with an enamored smile. “I can’t wait to see it!” 

Your partner put a firm hand on the prince’s back to guide him to the baggage claim. “We won’t be here for long, so, don’t get too excited. We’ve come here for one reason and we shouldn’t dally otherwise.” 

The young boy appeared to frown, and Two bit his lip with a little chuckle. “Way to crush the kids dreams F.” 

“You know the mission, J.” Jeongin gritted his teeth with the words. “Everything is set, there will be a car waiting for us in the garage, and at the hotel we’ll have anything we need.” 

Prince Chan lulled his head back with heels clicking on the flooring. Rogue strands of his hair hung over his sunglasses where he threw a look back at you while pulling them down. 

“Don’t forget our little deal Bee? We’ll have time for a little pleasure.” 

The white haired agent rolled his eyes with gusto then adjusted the royal’s glasses over his face. “We’ve still got to be careful, you Highness. We never know where they could have eyes.” 

“I know where I’ve got mine...” He turned back once more to throw his cockiness in your general direction. 

“Listen to F, your Highness...if you want to live.” 

“Oooo. Feisty as ever, Bee. I love it when you bite back.” Chan turned to his new pet, Seungmin, “She’s really something isn’t she?”

The young man nodded, but not necessarily because he agreed, but it just seemed like it better to agree with a prince than to disagree with him. 

The air appeared to turn even thicker in the summery and arid city and your group approached the parking lot half shaded. Outside of the cement lot, iridescent waves of heat wiggled on the horizon, and further, the astonishing urban sprawl of Cairo, and just over it, the stretch of the Nile and Giza. Palms and other varieties of plants spotted the landscape and above it all, a perfectly crystal blue sky streaked with thin clouds. Had the circumstances been different, you really would have wished to have been there for pleasure. 

“This one. Right here.” Jeongin announced upon spotting the black armored sedan. It wasn’t the most inconspicuous vehicle, but you were prioritizing safety over aesthetics. Your partner touched his index fingerprint to the car door’s invisible panel, and it flashed blue just as the lock had at the safehouse with the ticking clock insignia. 

Two whipped his head around to make one last check of the surroundings before taking off his sunglasses and reddened eye. “Get in. Both of you.” He urged the prince and the student. He popped the drivers side open to find a different pair of glasses in the storage compartment: gold framed aviators. 

“Huh,” He said happily while putting them on. “This is more my style.” He rummaged around a bit more to find a new pair of black framed glasses there too. “Fox! Think fast!” He threw them over to your partner who sighed out with relief. 

“Thank god.” 

The trunk opened with a mechanical sounding creek, and you lifted up the trunk bed to find your whole arsenal: Heckler & Koch MP5′s submachines, Remington 870 shotguns, and Glocks complete with thigh holsters. Among the pile of metal, various knives and other weapons were held in foam holders. 

“They’ve got knives back there?” Two asked while pulling the rearview mirror to see. 

“Oh yeah. What? You more of a knife guy?” You teased while looping your thigh holster over your cargo pants. It fit just right. 

The illusive man popped his gum with a shiny smile. “‘Don’t ever have to reload them...that’s what I’m saying.” 

“Thank you Carroll.” Jeongin sighed upon seeing the thick laptop among the weapons. “Finally I can do some real work. That kid’s damn Chromebook was killing me. I nearly short circuited it trying to connect to our network.” 

“You what?!” Seungmin was suddenly much more interested. 

“Dont worry yourself too much, its still fine.” 

“Are there cameras in here?” You quickly asked your partner. 

“Agency should’ve fried them a long time ago. Why?” 

From the trunk bed you sized up the Glock to feel its weight and how cool it settled into your sweating hand. You unloaded the magazine to see that it had already been filled. 

“Carroll. She really is too kind to us.” You slid the magazine back in then, pulled back the slider to lock it once more, catching Chan’s adoring glance. 

“Something interesting pretty boy?” 

The prince appeared to shiver a little, but brushed it off sighing, “Oh, nothing.” 

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━

Either it was Carroll or the King, but someone had spared no expense on the young prince. The sun set upon the sparking Nile where you had arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel Cairo at Nile Plaza. 

Anything for His Royal Highness The Prince. 

The towering and gleaming building was a sight to behold in and of itself. It was nestled right into the riverside anchored with several leisurely sailboats bopping in the evening breeze. As day crept into night, the city grew with a swell of lights washing as far as you could see. Extensive bridges and roadways glowed with headlights and every building appeared to be illuminated along with more boats strolling down the river in a rainbow of colors and music. 

The prince craned his head as close to the window as he could and rubbed together his hands excitedly. He looked from you to your partners, finally making a disapproving scoff. 

“Come on. You’re not just a little excited to be here?” 

“We’re here on business, how many times do we have to explain?” Jeongin typed away at his computer from the front seat. 

“Bee?” He looked back to you with a hopeful little glint to his eye. 

“Like Fox said...tomorrow is our appointment with White Rabbit, then we’re on the first flight back home for you.” 

The young prince frowned, but this quickly faded once he had seen the golden brass doors to the magnificent hotel. Seeing the state that the four of you were in, it was a bit comical that you had rolled up to a place such as this. Immediately a valet and bellhop jogged up to the car wearing perfectly pressed uniforms and spotless shined shoes. Little did they know you had no belongings to your name...the rest was waiting in your suite: the royal kind. 

Seungmin cranked his neck to take in the scale of the building in all of it’s regal glory and let out an airy laugh his with his backpack straps snapped tight. 

“Holy shit.” He exclaimed with a giant smile 

Two rose a “no thank you” hand to the valet, and asked him where the garage was in perfect Arabic. The gesture surprised you...as many things did with that man. Jeongin gave a little nod in appreciation to the bellhop and expressed with his own broken version of Arabic that you group had no luggage. The young man was confused, but still gladly took the bills that Jeongin had slipped into his hand for the inconvenience. 

“We’re staying here?” Seungmin wondered while he followed you in. 

“When you travel with The Prince, it comes with some perks.” Chan tore off his glasses with a particularly prideful grin. 

“I feel like I need to pay for just...breathing in here.” 

Indeed, it was a luxurious and grand place. The atrium was patterned with various plush lounge chairs and benches and the path was made of emerald green marble tiles with swirling designs of beige loops. Thick, round columns also supported the ceilings in the lobby, and crystal glass chandeliers sparkled. On several tables, massive floral arrangements had been freshly placed, and you wondered how much the hotel must've paid for them to look that good just to have them replaced the next day. 

A couple formalities were exchanged with the worker at the front desk, and soon the keycards to the royal suite were placed into your hands. Seungmin held his piece of plastic as if it were a gold bar in his hands whereas Chan shoved it right into his front pocket. 

“Everything that we should need should be up in the room.” You told the group who were too distracted to hear what you had just said. 

Just before you had entered the elevator, a tug at your sleeve stopped you in your tracks. Jeongin pulled you back, nodding at Two to go with the others up first. 

“Remember what we talked about before?” He muttered in the hollow and stone corridor. “About the prince?” 

“I need to stay beside him?” 

Your partner nodded with a furrowing brow. “We’re out in the open here, it’s a big city...anyone could be watching us. No distractions, no messing around, no anything. We see White Rabbit and we leave. Hell, I’m even inclined to make sure he doesn’t leave the room...” 

“Jeongin...” You squeezed your partner’s shoulder which felt stringy and tense under your fingertips. “I got it. Trust me. He won’t leave my sight. I promise.” 

“..Okay.” He said with a nervous brush to his hair, then he pressed the elevator button with his knuckle. 

“You...okay?” 

The young man appeared to snap out of a trance. “What? ...Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m keeping it together fine. It’s just...there’s a lot riding on this mission. I don’t...” 

The gold and reflective elevator dinged to the ground floor. 

“We can’t disappoint Carroll with this one. There’s too much riding on it...I can’t disappoint Carroll.”      

You invited your partner into the marbled and mirrored interior of the small space. 

“Don’t worry, we won’t.”

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━ 

 Even without the help of his royal helpers, Chan managed to clean himself up nice...provided, only the finest clothes had been sent for him to wear. While they weren’t the usual designer labels that he was used to, it was clear that they had been picked out from the finest markets and boutiques in the area. Chan, as he always was, was a prince to the full extent of the word. After a shower and some perfume to his chest, he was the same man that you had been introduced to. 

A loose linen shirt swayed from his frame with little regard for the usage of buttons. He wore slacks that had been pressed made of a kind of fabric that you had never seen before, but looked airy and comfortable. As always, there was a small assortment of shoes for him to choose from as well. He picked brown leather loafers, then tucked up his sleeves to reveal his arms; scratched as they were, but still strong and spiderwebbed with thick veins. 

Arrangements had been made for you to share one of the bedrooms with him--as much as you had fought it at first. Chan was thrilled with the idea, and gladly let you settle into his room with your small assortment of sidepieces and modest set of clothes by regulation of The Agency. While it had mostly been denim button downs and several kinds of functional trousers, they had sent an evening gown. 

The silky white fabric was not unlike the dress that had worn for the gala, but it appeared to be even more sultry once you held it to your frame. The thin spaghetti straps barely held to your shoulders and the back dipped nearly halfway down your back. 

Knowing the man that you had an appointment with, you figured the dress would make it just a little bit easier to talk to him. Along with it, there was a matching set of diamond earrings and a necklace that glinted with the same sheen of the sea. 

“You’ll look gorgeous in that.” Chan said while slipping on a wristwatch. “I’m sure that it will suit you perfectly.” 

The wooden bedside nightstand creaked when you put your holster and Glock in with a matching matte black knife. You had to be careful with that one, as it had nearly cut your finger upon inspection earlier.         

“Hm. I think the both of us know that you’d prefer it on these lovely marble floors rather than on me. Correct?” 

The confident prince strode across the room in the dim lighting of a couple lamps with stained glass shades. Outside of the balcony attached to your room, the sheer curtains blew in the night air and distorted the city lights across the river. Further, Cairo Tower surged with a pink light wrapping around the length were the cylinder pierced the sky. 

“Maybe.” He tutted, then crinkled the king-sized bed where he sat. The prince’s disposition was alluring, there was no denying. He tiled his head to inspect you further, jaw clenching with a sharp angle and a testing glare to his brown pupils. The man smiled slightly while rubbing his index and ring finger down the sleeve of your considerably less scratchy blouse. 

“I hope that during our time here Bee, I’ll get to know you a little better. I’m...really looking forward to our drink later. I made reservations for us.” 

“Reservations? When did you do that?” 

“Oh. When you were showering.” He smirked at his sneaky plans unbeknownst to you. 

“If you think that I’m letting you go anywhere else besides this hotel--” 

“--Bee?” The young royal grew quieter, softer, careful even. His hand cascaded from your arm down to your waist where he tentatively went to grab at your hip and squeeze lightly there. 

While your first reaction was to swat him away, your second crept up on you unexpectedly, and swelled with a kind of confused euphoria feeling the pressure of him on your body. You let his hand linger there, thumb pressed into your hipbone. 

“You don’t need that dress to be beautiful.” 

His words snapped you back; sickly sweet, and sticky in your chest. You cast his hand off of you. 

“You’re crossing the line, your Highness. Don’t...don’t touch me again.” 

The royal sighed as he rose, then inspected his face in the sizeable mirror. Each of his cuts and scars had been skillfully covered with makeup the best he could manage.  

“Bee, I’d cross multiple lines for you. I thought you knew?”    

“THIS BED IS FUCKIN’ AMAZING!!” Seungmin called from the opposite of the suite. 

The prince smiled, then followed you to the door. 

“I’ve already got enough on my hands, your Highness. I ask that you not distract me.” 

“Distract you?” 

As soon as you had said it, regret bit at the tips of your ears. You couldn’t meet his teasing glances, but rather slid one of your more discrete sidepieces into your crossbody bag--as if guns as such could be such a thing. 

“I-I...I’ll sleep on the couch.” You then resolved out loud, however the prince chuckled at your sudden break. 

“As you wish Bee.” 

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━

“I think that this is the best meal that I’ve ever eaten in my entire life!!” 

Seungmin kicked his legs under the table to the embarrassed glances of both Jeongin and Chan. Before you, the prince had ordered a variety of both cold and hot mezzah dishes with a couple main entrees for you to share. While he was the only one to drink, he indulged in the most expensive wine that the hotel had to offer. Granted, everything would be paid for in cash from The Agency, however the Prince swore up and down that anyone could order anything that they wanted and that The Agency would be paid back in full. You and your partners ate modestly, however the young student didn’t hold back. As the boy shoved his face, it appeared to make the prince happy to see him eating so well. 

You were still an odd group, and garnered curious glances from other restaurant guests. While they were only glances in passing, they still didn’t make you feel any better. You had already drawn enough attention to yourself with you being an odd mix of foreigners who each held themselves differently. You could sense that you partner felt it too while he sipped at his seasonal soup with eyes up to scan the room as he did so. 

Chan threw his arm behind your chair to take in the rest of the room: perfectly decorated with jade green chandeliers and perfectly symmetrical wallpaper and furnishings. It was as if he felt somehow content with your strange little group; like he was the ringleader of it all or some king of the round table. For a moment, he paused to watch the way that the boats passed by on the river from the window nearest to him and sighed. Knowing him, he was probably enjoying running for his life in this way. 

Two cleared his throat and unbuttoned his fashionable suit jacket as the waiters came to clear the table for dessert. 

“So. What are the specs for tomorrow?” 

Jeongin fiddled with his glasses, then dabbed away at the corners of his mouth. “He’s invited us to come around 11pm. He wants us to dress up too--as I’m sure you’ve all seen the clothes that have been provided for us. He apparently loves his formalities, but, anything to make him feel more comfortable I suppose. His men will meet us in the front and take us to him, then we try our best not to fuck it up.”

“--Which we won’t.” You soothed your partner. 

Seungmin perked up, “I’m coming too?” 

“How else are we going to look after ya, kid?” Two ruffled up the young man’s hair. 

“W-wait. Didn’t you say that it’s a club? Will they even let me in? I’m not like, 21 yet? I mean, I will be in a couple months--” 

“--Ahhh you’re so cute.” Chan beamed. “If you’re rolling with us that doesn’t matter.” 

Seungmin blushed and played with the condensation of his water glass. “Oh.” 

Your partner shifted in his seat. “Speaking of. Considering that you’re “one of us” now. We need to discuss something important with you. Your identity.” He looked over to you to finish the rest of the speech that had been pushed off for just a bit too long. 

“Your name...is your most valuable asset. It’s the only thing about yourself that you can keep for yourself. No one else should know it besides you...and, well, us. If they know your name, they know your family, they know where you live, where you go to school, even that girl that you had a crush on in the fourth grade. Got it?” 

Seungmin gulped dry with blown out eyes. “I-I think that I understand.” 

“What do you want us to call you from now on?” 

He paused, considering towards the ceiling. ”Well...if you’re B, and he’s F...and he’s J...I could be S? Simple enough right?” 

“S it is then.” 

The waiters arrived with every dessert possible: chocolate cake, Crème Brule, fruit cheesecake garnished with mint, as well as traditional desserts like Om Ali and Mehalabiya--a type of milk pudding dressed with delicate, pink, edible flowers. 

Seungmin--now dubbed S--made happy little eating sounds while he tried a little bit of everything. 

“Thank you.” You finally spoke to the prince, who now smelled strongly of Lotus and Jasmine. 

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind treating my friends.” 

The word hung in the air, and you didn’t quite know what to do with it. 

Friends. 

“Where is this reservation that you mentioned?” 

He took a swing from his crystal glass with finesse. “Hm. That’s for me to know and you to find out.” 

“Jeongin told me that I need to keep an eye on you, you know that? It would be best if we didn’t leave the hotel at all--” 

“--But what would be the fun in that?” The prince nearly pouted. 

From the others side of the table, Two in his aviators brushed off his lap before standing. “I’m going to get some sleep, if that’s alright with you? I’m feeling pretty jetlagged and I want to be prepared for tomorrow. Excuse me.” 

The slender man bowed to you at the table, then even deeper to the prince. 

“What was that about?” Jeongin muttered while he poked at the thin caramel layer of his French dessert. 

“Actually, I think I want to head to bed too, I’m stuffed.” Seungmin rubbed his belly in his contentment. “Also...I think I might have homework due...heh. I don’t know...I’ve got to figure out all these all these time differences and stuff.” He pushed in his chair then gave the prince a deep bow. “Thank you, your Highness.” 

“My pleasure.” Chan said with a tiny bow back. “Rest up, kid.” 

With the empty holes at the table, the silence was deafening. 

“And then there were three.” Jeongin yawned. “Bee? Wanna do some laps in the morning? I saw that they had a pool? Wanna see if you can beat my record...again?” 

“Psh. I was coming off that biochemical cocktail the last time we tired. You had an advantage.” 

“Then you’ll beat me? Hm! I look forward to that.” Your adorable partner flashed the first smile that you’d seen in a couple days. You missed it, you realized. 

“Sleep tight Bee. Goodnight your Highness.” 

“Thank you Fox.” The prince mirrored his warm smile. 

Knives and forks clinked on china in the dining room, and music softly payed the soundtrack of the evening. A low hum filled the space where the tourists and patrons chatted among themselves. It was peaceful and normal amidst everything that had been pricking your skin and plaguing worry over your mind. The prince merely sighed, sparking eyes reflecting the candles dying out on the table. 

“And now it’s just the two of us.” 

“Seems like it.” 

“Can I whisk you away now?” 

“Whisk? Who said that I would allow any whisking?” 

“Come on...Bee. Just this one time? I promise to be on my best behavior.” 

You laughed out incredulously at the comment. “You out of all people can’t promise something like that.” 

“I guess you’re right about that. But...still, I won’t try to make a scene or anything.” 

The royal placed his napkin on the table with his knife and fork respectfully tilted off the edge of his plate. 

“Follow me?” 

Chan held out his hand. It was pink with heat and scraped a little from the glass that had pierced the fragile flesh. In some way, you had felt a twinge of guilt seeing the small injury knowing that you couldn’t have protected him well enough then. You allowed him to lace your fingers with yours, and felt the rough cuts of his scars in your palm. 

You had promised to yourself that he would never know such pain again. 

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━

“Annnd...this is it!” 

You had taken all of twenty paces outside of the hotel when Chan gestured with open arms to the riverfront. Just at the riverbank, a steamboat was anchored with open doors for hotel guests to enter. The massive, multideck, white steamboat shone like the moon peaking at the ocean’s horizon. Each of the semi-circle windows were lined with white lights and from the inside, the delightful sound of laugher and live music spilled out to the glossy water of the Nile. 

“W-what is this?” 

“Well…it’s a dinner cruise but I just signed us up for the bar part. Are you...surprised? I thought that it must be pretty safe considering that we’re on the water and no one can drive up and shoot at us.” 

“I mean...it’s a bit closed off, but nothing that I can’t handle.” 

The prince held out his arm for you to lead the way, then took your hand to help you watch your step down the stairs. Chan provided his name to the conductor in elegant sounding Arabic, leaving you shocked. 

“Y-you speak Arabic too?” 

Chan chuckled once more, taking your hand in his to bring you down the creaking wood deck with swinging with lanterns above your heads. 

“As a royal and diplomat, it’s best for me to know how to communicate if I might need to.” 

“I must say your Highness, I am definitely impressed.” 

“What? You thought I was just another pretty face?” The charming prince escorted you to a room within the steamboat that was lined with red velvet carpets and small bar tables with tea candles and water lilies floating in a shallow dish. He pulled out your chair before his own, then settled with hands folded in his lap. “I’m trained in hand-to-hand too, although I could use a refresher; that was so long ago, back when I went to school.” 

“Hand-to-hand? Well! You really are full of surprises.” 

The prince appeared smug and faintly amused by the compliment as he crossed his legs under the table and leaned in with his dizzying floral scent. 

The waitress appeared and Chan flexed his language skills once more while he ordered a Hemmingway Daiquiri for himself and a French 75 for you. Somewhere off in the distance or perhaps a different part of the boat, louder and more excitable music played along with the echoing claps of those who listened along. Here, it was much quieter, and the loud sound was replaced with a jazz song that you had heard before--likely from your more formative years. 

“It’s a beautiful night.” Chan began, “Thank you for agreeing to do this with me. I know that I’ve been a bit forward, but, I appreciate you entertaining me.” 

“If I had said no, what would’ve happened then?” 

“Well, maybe I would’ve dropped it, but...knowing you...I don’t think that I would’ve given up easily.” 

The waitress returned with the drinks on a silver platter: his grapefruit pink and yours the color of a lemon drop. 

The royal rose his glass for you to clink with yours, “To...adventures.” 

“To adventures.” 

With a resounding sound, the glasses met, and you watched the way that the shimmering liquid ripped across the prince’s nose. 

The two of you sat for several moments more, saying nothing, but sipping and soaking in the night breeze and the humidity that made your whole body feel blanketed with a sense of calm. You had felt this way before back at the safe house, and it snuck up on you once more. Simply exisiting with the prince provided you with a sense of solace that had long since faded from your life. The sense of responsibility that you felt for the man was noticeable, but you couldn’t help but notice how he provided for you the same sense of safety that you did for him. 

Perhaps it was the loneliness of the job and the solitude that came along with it. Was that you craved to be touched? Listened to? Admired? You had distanced yourself from irrational things such as love and other feelings of attachment. In your line of work, people died often, and you had to move on just as fast as their lives had been taken from them. You supposed that you had become unfeeling at this point...but this prince, so full of himself and focused on the material...there was something about him that reminded you how to feel. 

“Bee? What are you thinking about?” He asked carefully. 

“Oh...nothing.” 

“You looked kind of lost here.” 

“Was I?” 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah...yeah. I’m fine. Maybe the drink is just...getting to me.” 

“Just one drink?” Chan giggled a bit, “I didn’t take you for being a lightweight Bee. I thought that they gave you like, drinking lessons or something back at that agency of yours.” 

“I’m fine. I shouldn’t have more than one drink anyway.” 

The prince nodded, understanding. “So, what will you tell me about yourself? Is there anything that you’re allowed to tell me? Or...will you always be this mysterious, beautiful, enigma?” 

“Me? Enigmatic? Ha! Hardly.” 

“Well? What then?” The prince sucked at the lime garnishing his glass. “Since I don’t have the pleasure of knowing your real name, I’d love it if you could tell me something.” 

Over the stereo, the muted trumpet played along with the twang of thick upright bass strings,

“I suppose I could tell you how...” Chan leaned in, “I didn’t want to join The Agency. At first.” 

“Oh? Why’s that?” 

“It felt like a bit of a last resort and anything that is a last resort is something that can’t come easy.” 

Chan titled his head as if to say, I’m listening. 

“Life...fucking sucks sometimes. Sometimes...you’re left...living with your sleazy uncle with a letter addressed to you post mortem telling you to carry on the family name if you want to feel some connection to the parents that you never knew.” 

The royal cast his eyes down, “I-I’m so sorry.” 

“The Agency has been everything I’ve known since I was a teenager. This life...it’s everything. I think in a way I feel obligated to it...since it was what took my parents from me...I owe it to them to do a job that they spent so much energy on so that it wasn’t in vain.” 

You stopped, realizing the weight of your words in the air and how they cut like the blade of the knife that you kept tucked in your waistband sheathed in a leather cover. Once the sharp metal was taken from it’s confines, there was nothing to protect those from the damage it could do. 

“Bee...I don’t know what to say besides I’m sorry. That’s terrible. I can’t imagine what it must be like to loose your parents and have been thrown into this life...no one deserves that.” 

“Its okay.” You sighed. “I did it to myself. Now, it’s of no concern. I can take care of my own, and I have a new family. I try not to look back.” 

As he had done numerous times before that night, Chan’s hand reached out for yours under the table, brushing up against the white cloth. 

“I can’t say how much I appreciate you enough for what you do; risking your life for me...I owe you everything Bee.” The prince softened, rubbing his thumb against the back of your hand. 

The chug of the steamboat hissed softly behind you in that back bar room, and just through the windows, you could see the stars dotting the sky just as they did in any corner of the world. They were a reminder that while some things changed, others didn’t. 

The echo of footsteps on the deck clicked, causing you to turn a careful glance back to the direction of the sound. The man who entered was dressed in a casual cotton button up and navy slacks. On the white of his breast, he wore a pin holding the symbol of a crest.

“Lee Minho?” Chan gasped. 

“Your Highness!” The handsome man bowed immediately with a startled little smile. 

The friendly prince stood immediately upon seeing the other royal to shake his hand. “What a coincidence that we meet again!” 

Lee Minho shied with a polite smile while fiddling with his hair that looked to be masterfully styled. “Must be...fated. Or something like that.” 

“Are you alright? Last I saw you was at the shooting at the gala. I’m so glad to see that you’re safe. You didn’t get injured I hope?” 

This close, Lee Minho had oddly cat-like eyes that were as intense as they were alluring. He was just as you had remembered him to be--put together and polished like a true royal, dastardly handsome with all the right curves to his body, and just enough mystery to him to pique the interest of anyone who had sensed his air--just as the prince had. 

“What are you doing in Cairo?” Chan asked, gesturing for the stranger to pull up a chair. 

Lee Minho swatted away the question with an annoyed cringe. “Royal stuff, you know how it goes. Everyone is always trying to poke their noses in places where they shouldn’t be...unless they’re looking to get themselves killed. That's why they send me. I’m dispensable.” 

“Oh, I’d hardly say that.” 

In seconds the prince’s entire body had shifted towards the direction of the other man, and hung onto each of his words as if they were a siren song. 

“When you’re not as high up in the ranks as you are your Highness, royalty starts to feel more like servitude than a legitimate position.” 

“So, where are you poking your nose?” 

Lee Minho’s eyes nervously flicked to you, and Chan realized that he had skipped right over introductions. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce the two of you. Minho, this is Bee, my--” 

“--I’m a member of his detail.” You spoke for him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you formally Lee Minho. I recall seeing you at the gala.” 

Minho bowed slightly, “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.” 

It was obvious that you had made the man uncomfortable, just as you had liked it to be. While you could see what the prince had seen in him, you had the disposition to be much less trusting than his Highness. 

“Which royals are employing you? I’d love to know! It’s always exciting for me to learn about who is plotting what. The royal drama keeps me really entertained.” 

Minho sat up straighter, then waved a hand for the waitress to come scuttling over. 

“Some of my family members. You wouldn’t know them, we’re all dreadfully insignificant to be honest. They heard all this business about those men with the red crests and they’re starting to get scared. After they targeted...you, they’re wondering which royal family might be next...if any. I’m here to find out who they are, their whereabouts, anything else.” 

“Wow! That’s actually what we--”

“--And where are you planning on getting this information if I may ask?” You hushed the prince’s loose lips as quickly as you could. 

Minho leaned in over the flickering candle to lower his tone, “I heard that there’s an informant here in the city who might now something about this group. They’ve been popping up on national news too as of late. I’m looking to talk to him tomorrow evening. Luckily, I was able to make an appointment but it was no small feat. I had to bribe him to high hell to get him to speak with me.” 

“Hm. Sounds familiar.” You mumbled. 

Chan’s eyes widened, then he looked back to you to ask for permission. You gave him a nod.

“It seems like we’re here for a common purpose my friend.” The prince leaned in to bridge the gap between them, his hand notably reaching to rest on the other man’s thigh below the table’s surface. “We’re seeking similar information and I think we might be speaking of the same informant.” 

“But your Highness, isn’t it dangerous it you to do something like this?” 

“Not when I’ve got her around.” Chan threw a sly grin to you across the table. “I’m well protected. And you? Where’s your detail?” 

“I’m afraid that I’m out here alone. Like I said, when you’re as low in the ranks as I am...” 

“What? That’s terrible!! They aren’t even protecting their own? Bee!!” 

“Yes, your Highness?” You already knew where this was going. 

“Let’s bring Minho along with us tomorrow! We know that there’s safety in numbers--” 

“Your Highness, in case you haven’t noticed, our hands are already a bit full...”

“I can fend for myself.” Lee Minho suddenly piped. “Travelling alone, I’ve picked up a few things about protecting myself. You don’t have to protect me, but, I appreciate the offer.” 

“Nonsense! You should come with us! I would feel more comfortable if you did rather than went by yourself.” 

Lee Minho gave the royal a smile in his thanks, it was pure and a little adorable you had considered...but that was likely the champagne going to your head. 

“Really? I appreciate it, your Highness.” 

While you were distanced, you nearly could’ve sworn that the prince had squeezed the other’s leg reassuringly, and you were willing to bet he had rubbed it with his thumb too just as he had done to you. 

After long, the waitress returned with Lee Minho’s drink, and the two men chatted like old college buddies while you slipped away at your drink in an attempt to make it last as long as you could. While Chan did try to engage you in conversation, it would never last for long until he would become puppy-eyed over the stranger again. In the end, you wondered if the tipsy prince would’ve also confessed to this man if he had one too many drinks. 

The table bumped with their jovial and restless legs, and you could only imagine what wandering hands sought to discover. 

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━

The hotel was quiet save for the click of heels on the marble floors from ladies who had just gotten off the steamboat and clung to their husbands in their drunken stupor. They cackled in the empty and golden lobby, then pressed hasty kisses into the stuttering mouths of their husbands who’s mouths then smeared with hot pick lipstick. Chan giggled at the sight while he tripped over his own feet too. 

“Ahhhh. Being in love is so cute.” He adored them once you had entered the elevator. 

“You’re not going to throw up on me, are you?” 

The prince hiccupped, then shook his head. “Unlike you I know how to hold my liquor. I’m fine. Just a bit sleepy I think. Must be the jet lag.” 

The tones for each floor beeped in the compartment, and Chan lulled his head back and forth. 

“So. Lee Minho huh?” You said, not even able to help yourself. The alcohol had brought you a bit of an edge...so you thought. 

“Lee. Minho.” He sighed out dreamily. “What do you think of him?” 

“I think I can’t trust anyone as long as I haven’t ran at least three background checks on them.” 

“Awww, Bee, you’re so thoughtful of me.” 

In the empty hallway, the prince with squinting eyes leaned against the doorframe to the royal suite, reaching out to brush up against your blouse once more. You let him, excusing his drunken state. After he did so, his eyes hazed over with something much different, while he looked exhausted, it was laced with something else: something much more longing. 

“Bee...fuck, I really want to kiss you again.” 

“Hm. That’s ripe coming from you who was just viciously flirting with Lee Minho.” 

You could see his head spinning in his dilated pupils. “What?” 

The door clicked open and you less than gracefully lead the prince through the dark to your shared bedroom. 

“B-Bee, what are you talking about?” 

You scoffed, “I’m not blind, you know.” 

“A-are you...jealous?” 

“W-what? Fuck no. I’m just...you can’t just...toss people around thinking that they’ll all bend to you.” 

Chan sat at the edge of the bed and rubbed at his temples when you turned one of the lamps on. 

“I-I was doing that?” 

You tore a pillow from the bed as well as the throw blanket at the end. “I’m sleeping on the couch. Good evening, your Highness.” 

“Wait! Bee!” The young prince stumbled after you, stubbing his toe against the bedpost in the process. “Ah-FUCK!” He grunted. 

“What?” You growled back to him, half shrouded in the darkness of the suite living room. 

The royal stumbled out, eyes blank and backlit from the bedroom. While you couldn’t see him fully, you later could assume that there was something in him terribly torn and ripped in that moment that made little sense to him, as it did to you to. 

Arms reached out, bodies softly illuminated by the lights of the city, and the prince leaned himself fully into you, pressing bitter tasting lips to yours with a heat and desire that only seemed amplified the breather he had gotten. While he tasted of lime and grapefruits, with a twinge of alcohol. He was just as addictive as any vice. You wanted to feel him. As infuriating as he was, and oblivious, your abhorrence to him was just as strong as your attraction. 

“Mm, Bee--” He moaned directly into your mouth while shuffling both of you back to the bedroom. 

The prince’s trembling breath floated from his mouth to yours where he used both of his large hands to pull your face closer to his. You knew that in some way, there must have been something ingenuine about the whole scenario, but you didn’t care too much, not when kissing him felt like something. Maybe he had kissed you out of pity, or because he really had wanted to kiss you. You broke for seconds before both of your tangled limbs hit the bed. 

“Before...you said that you wouldn’t kiss me.” 

“I didn’t make any promises...but, how come...you said that you wouldn’t hesitate...? But you kissed ba--” 

You silenced the prince’s words with your own heated kisses that made little sense, only that kissing him as such felt good. You straddled the man while his hungry fingers traced all the way down your back. The prince’s hips sunk into the cushiony mattress, and you screwed him down even harder into it with your own heated hips grinding into him with as much pressure as you could muster. 

“This is what you want, right?” You pulled at his lip with your teeth to hear him groan from it. 

“Is it...what you want?” Chan got out between more kisses. 

You could blame it on loneliness or lack of touch all that you wanted, but it wasn’t even close. 

“Wait. Wait.” Chan suddenly interjected. 

“What? What is it?” 

The prince looked up at you, that haze in his eyes now fading to something much different that wasn’t covered in the lust that he held before. 

“Bee...I-I don’t know if I want it to happen this way. It feels...it’s not...” 

“Not what?” 

He brushed his hand upward now to caress your face, lingering on the side of the peach fuzz on your cheek. “You deserve better than whatever the hell this is.” 

“Oh, so when I finally want to fuck you, you’re saying it isn’t right?” 

“I’m saying, I’m drunk, it’s late, clearly there’s something that’s upsetting you, and I want to know what it is before we do anything else. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

It might’ve been Lee fucking Minho, or it might’ve been something else much stickier for you to admit, but seeing the prince like this, it was too much. He was gorgeous under you, practically angelic looking. 

“I-I’m...complicating things.” You whispered out, and the prince softened even further. 

“That’s what it is? Bee, I told that you don’t have to worry about--” 

“--Yes. Yes I do...your Highness. I-I can’t feel...” 

“Bee--let’s just talk about--” 

The prince might’ve said more, but his words faded into murmurs once you closed his door behind you, then crawled onto the couch in Jeongin and Seungmin’s room, locking their door too. 

~🌹~

Bunch of (Ro)ses!

@minaamhh @dazzlehoseok @synnocence @jjewibeans @hyunsluvv @unexceptional-h @bobawithchaitea @lechanters @sailorhyunjinz @silencefavarchive @eunaeiekim @lunarskzzz

[reblogging4thewin]

This is gonna sound so 'first world' / 'middle class' problems , but when you have the combo of OCD and ADHD, or even one of the two, these things totally fuck with your productivity.

So my laptop took a dive two weeks ago. Thankfully after my last gaming laptop eventually gave out at the ripe old age of 3 (as they tend to do), I'd made the move to gaming desktop for gaming and editing, and a basic laptop for writing, general internet use, and portability.

So basic laptop is out of the picture, but I still have my gaming desktop.

It has been hard for me to write on my desktop (because I like to write while sitting in bed) or try doing anything that my mind has classified as a 'laptop task' on my desktop.

Like, it shouldn't be an issue, especially since this computer is so much more powerful, but my mind is just like *this is uncomfy* or *does not compute* and I just stare at the screen or scroll.

I'm also trying to switch to docs so that my new cheap laptop can be even cheaper - a chromebook. My OCD is in the way of that because it doesn't have all of the features word has, and what about sync and offline.

I just have to get used to it; that's just hard for me to do sometimes.

Like, I want to write but it's like I functionally have writers block (from executive dysfunction) because I'm at a desk instead of in my bed.

That was the point of this post. To write something at my desktop to help me get past that. I think it's working. Fingers crossed.

[ferns]

literally just complaining below the cut. tl;dr: apple uses iOS to control what iphone & ipad users can do with their products & it’s literally an evil of capitalist “innovation” & also it is causing me specifically problems.

i’m living in hell & it’s literally my own fault for owning an ipad & using tumblr but i literally want either for apple software designers to kill themselves or for the tumblr mobile app to run in a way that doesn’t suck. my problem is this: my ipad is a tablet that i use for a lot of my everyday activities. it has a keyboard & shit. IN THEORY, it should be capable of replacing my computer. 

which it does, for some things, but there are a lot of things it can’t do because it runs on iOS (the apple mobile operating system) rather than the macOS, which is what apple computers run on. this means that while it is huge & beautiful & has great graphics or whatever, it’s got the technological capabilities of an iphone rather than a laptop. a few of the key differences: i cannot download applications unless they are offered by the apple store or unless i jailbreak my ipad. jailbreaking is the process of (paraphrased from wikihow to jailbreak an ipad) going against apple’s terms of service to access an ipad’s software & gain  superuser permissions & root access. the benefits of doing so are many & varied, many of which have to do with greater control over customization & the ability to run non-apple programs on the ipad. 

BUT. i have not jailbroken my ipad because there are significant downsides, including but not limited to: it absolutely voids the warranty. it prevents updates to the existing operating system FOREVER like so if i were to jailbreak my ipad right now & then they finally fucking did something to improve the battery life drain of the OS, i couldn’t get it. & also straight-up if one does not know what one is doing with a jailbreak it could literally just make it stop working (which would literally be a disaster, given the whole Voids the warranty thing mentioned above). but i’m not happy about it. in fact: i am MAD because.

the reason that apple makes it like that is because it’s more profitable for them for multiple reasons. first, any applications purchased must run though the app store & they are taking a cut of that shit. no-brainer. but on another level it is training people to be more dependent on apple software & to accept the level of control apple has over any user activity in iOS. it’s like a chromebook level of bullshit. you cannot use anything that isn’t proprietary! insane! that’s literally the opposite of what a computer should do! & yet jailbreaking it would not solve all my problems because it would just create other, different problems.

so here i am. ipad unjailbroken & running on iOS. the reason that i am super fucking mad today is not even a huge problem but it is an issue that literally just does not exist on my actual laptop. the thing is: the tumblr app sucks & we all know it, & also it is optimized (for a given value of that, given how shitty it is) for…mobile…for a mobile phone. if you don’t have an ipad but do use the tumblr app on your phone, let me tell you: the ipad tumblr app is literally. like it’s a step down somehow. bad even by tumblr standards. so! i do not fucking use it. & because i don’t use the tumblr app, i run tumblr in a browser: the firefox app for iOS. here is my problem: iOS routes the tumblr messenger sound effects from the firefox app through the priority system like any other sound from a browser window, which means that if a new source of audio engages while one is running in the background from another program it pauses the old one on the assumption that the new one is supposed to replace the old one, which means that means that if i am listening to spotify & i get a tumblr message it pauses my song & doesn’t turn it back on even after the notif noise ends.

WHICH IS SOOOOOOO STUPID!! THAT’S SO FUCKING STUPID…it doesn’t even run the tumblr noise over the music or anything it just stops it. & get this. GET THIS. because i am accessing tumblr through a browser app, tumblr doesn’t let me turn off notification noises! i can’t even mute individual tabs like i would on desktop firefox because it’s a mobile app! if either apple OR tumblr were an iota more competent this wouldn’t be happening but they both suck shit & should die!!!!!!!! 

if you read this far i love you & am kissing you on the lips. embarrassing that this is so long i had to put paragraph breaks but i DID; this post is dedicated to all nosy people who like to read their mutuals’ long ranting posts but also have ADHD. thankyou

[asteralpine]

Just some musing on my laptop. Not interesting, lmfao.

So a few months ago I got my dad to give me one of his old laptops so I could use it at school because Chromebooks fucking suuuuuuuck to do Google Meets on. It's janky (that's why it's one he doesn't use anymore) and doesn't actually charge the battery so when the cord comes out, it shuts off. BUT it was way faster than my good ol' reliable laptop (less bloatware I think) so after school let out I started using it to play around on and write fics and stuff.

But then the cord started getting looser and looser and twice I lost chunks of a story I wrote when I moved wrong and the cord shifted and the computer shut off SO I sucked it up and booted up my ol' reliable computer (which mostly works fine even though one of the hinges is wonky and I'm always slightly afraid that I'm going to fuck the screen up) and uninstalled a lot of stuff (if you're as sick of Microsoft Edge Updates as I am but your computer ALSO won't let you uninstall it, you can use CCleaner to uninstall it!!) and defragged and did a bunch of scans on it and fixed a bunch of stuff and now it's fiiine.

And now I'm back on ol' reliable and the keyboard makes such good sounds and I just love this one. I'm still eyeing new computers with better hinges because I don't close this one ever, just in case I fuck up the screen, but man, it's really silly how attached I can become to an inanimate object.

There's really no point to this post. Maybe I'm just using my Tumblr like my LJ for a minute. But that's all! Shout out to the laptops I've known and loved.

[theglowstickchronicles]

I wish I could bottle the feeling I have when thinking of my air conditioning unit.

To many -to most if not ALL- of you, that probably sounds like a really weird sentence. I don’t live in the desert where it’s 120 degrees in the summer, and I don’t live in the tropics where the humidity is consistently 90%. Where I do live is New England, where global warming has meant the “first heat wave of the summer” aka it’s been over 90 degrees and over 85% humidity for the last 4 days, the last 2 days of spring and the first 2 days of summer. And I’ve also lived in a house with central air for 3 years without almost ever using it.

Let me start off by saying we had a window air conditioner growing up, and we almost never installed an air conditioner in my bedroom, so a window fan had to suffice. Central air was what my rich friends had, and was a sign of being upper middle class. I’m unfortunately still in the very lower end of middle class but I have a fantastic credit score, thus a house with central air.

So to start us off, I have a false sense of being upper middle class which has its drawbacks but ultimately feels pretty good. In about a week and a half I’m going to need you guys to remind me to post a picture of my backyard pool I just bought so I can show you the level of my delusional ass.

Recently it has been hot and humid. I’m talking being sweaty 24/7. I was sweating in the shower. The air itself is wet. I’ve been straight up leaving the windows of my car open at night and at work because otherwise I literally can’t drive and have to wait outside while it cools down. I’ve been standing in front of a fan while watching television or typing. I considered sleeping in my basement for am embarrassing amount of time yesterday. And this is coming from someone who slept UNDER A COMFORTER with just a window fan until I turned 26 and bought my own house, because even when I rented a house with friends my room had only a box fan in the window due to the shape.

I knew something had to be wrong with my central air on account of the fact that I set it to 64 when I got home from work Saturday and when I woke up Sunday morning, feeling like I had just gotten out of a hot tub, it was 78 degrees in the stagnant air of my house. I’ve only used the central air 3 times in the last 3 years and that had never happened, so I did what any sane person does and googled the problem.

Turns out there are 9 billion reasons your central air won’t blow cold air, which narrowed it down exactly none. So I did more intense googling, turning on my nurse brain, and did what any good critical care nurse does: starts at the patient and works their way back. 

Now I need to remind you that I’ve never had central air, thus my father has never had central air. The man has taught me a lot of things about a lot of things; how to mow the lawn, how to build a garden, how to change a light bulb, what different lights on my car mean, how to build furniture (not from scratch), etc. The two things the man did not teach me was about central air, and how to call for a professional for help because in my house we did not do that, we just fixed things and crossed our fingers.

So I took my Dr. Google Handyman education and followed the air ducts to the main central unit and found where the air filter lives. It turns out you are supposed to change those over 3 months which, my bad, it’s been a few years. Needless to say it was disgusting. Luckily the previous owners had left 2 replacement filters in the basement, which I had been ignoring since 2017. I triumphantly turned the AC back on and waited for the cold air to blow out.

Nothing.

My Dr. Google Handyman education then informed me that due to not being able to blow air, it’s possible the condensor coil had frozen. I did more googling because what the fuck is a condensor coil. Well let me tell you boys and girls that shit had about 2 inches of ice on it, despite being 95 degrees outside.

Problem.

So I did what any sane person would do and I cleaned the outside unit, sprayed it with warm hose water, and turned just the fan on. Dethawed that bitch. 

And I will let you know this: it was a crisp 66 degrees in my house when I woke up this morning.

I feel like this must be what patients feel like when they WedMD their shit and decide they have cancer. 

I’m clearly an HVAC expert. ANDDDD I did it MYSELF. No Dad to help. Just me and my chromebook. And the sangria I drank when I got frustrated.

I had to take excedrin this morning even though we aren’t supposed to take tylenol before work so they can check for fever. Sorry, wine headaches take precedence. 

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[solar-bean]

This is the very extensive and detailed rant of a fed up black, female student of class 2020

-You are free to scroll past this if you want. I really just needed to get this off my chest. But if you have advice or are experiencing a similar situation, feel free to message me-

So first off, I haven't liked going to school since I was 9. And highschool has only deepened my loathing of it. But maybe I don't hate school in general. Maybe I just hate the schools I've gone to ( 4 in total ). This rant is about highschool specifically. Perhaps what I'm about to type is normal and I'm overreacting. But I'm tired of not talking about my problems because I'm worried that I'll sound like an ungrateful brat. Typing/ writing about my issues makes me feel better. And I really need to feel better.

So here are the main points in order of severity: Low income, Advisory, Graphic Arts and Discipline/Work Ethic

Low Income:

I've only ever gone to low income schools in my neighborhood. I hoped high school would be different but thanks to the crappy education of my old school and an even crappier selective enrollment test score, I couldn't get into the schools I wanted. Then again my single mother probably couldn't afford those other schools anyway.

My highschool shares a building with another highschool. And unfortunately they called dibs on the best features and have control of the heating and ac. We don't even have our own gym. We also have the least amount of space with the smallest class being mine of 144 seniors. So there's a lot of packed classrooms.

Speaking of having way too many students, recourses are slim as a result. Our best equipment, chromebooks, need to be reserved weeks in advance by the teacher and even then they still may not be able to get enough of them for their class. Said chromebooks can often be missing keys, not work at all or be stolen easily because of their small size.

A few other issues are terrible lunches ( I've been bringing lunch from home since sophmore year), very limited field trips, mice infestation, very few clubs ( if we have any idk ) and teachers have to pay for just about everything class related.

Advisory:

Advisories were created to prepare us for greek life in college. I honestly think it's to keep everyone in check but ok. Even so I have absolutely 0 interest in anything frat or sorority related ( no offense to those who do ) as well as many of my classmates but advisory is mandatory.

My first 2 years of advisory were hell. Most of my advisory sisters were either people I'd never talk to because we weren't in the same class, had nothing in common or they were straight up terrible people. I should mention that freshman year has the worst students because about 30% don't make to the next grade or just transfer. Most of my advisory sisters I had problems with were in that 30% ( a few had already repeated ).

Since I kept to myself there were very few incidents were I was put into a tense situation with them. The main conflicts involved our advisor, who I guarantee you was not the problem. She was essentially a poor, white, optimistic, young math teacher from out of town that was thrown to the slaughter. And my cowardly self watched not wanting to be next.

She ended up leaving by junior year so what was left of my advisory merged with another and got a new advisor. The only downside is that our new advisor is a firm believer in " sisterhood " and no cliques ( even if you converse easier with a certain group of people and advisory is already a forced clique in itself ). Maybe I'd be more up for advisory events , which we rarely have , if my advisory experience wasn't sullied so early on.

Graphic Arts:

The reason I chose my school was because it had an art class. In seventh grade I knew I wanted to have a career in art and that my talent was lacking but had potential. So you can imagine my horror when I learned that the art teacher had left once I'd gotten there.

I was sad but stayed positive and even highly recommended them to get another art teacher. Then by sophomore we got an art after school program ( 4:25 to 6 twice a week ). I managed to keep my grades the same and take the classes every week for the entire school year. I only missed about 4 days total. For once I actually enjoyed staying after school.

The class taught me so much and I didn't have to wait for the summer to take an art class downtown. Even better I got to interact with other young artists of my race ( there was usually only one other black kid at the summer classes ). Everything was finally looking up.

Then the art galleries happened. The school hosted one per semester. I brought my art to display but I couldn't stay cuz of a shitload of math homework. I got complimented the next day but still regretted not staying. So I vowed to attend the next one with even more pieces than before.

The night finally came and I was hyped. Me and two seniors were in charge of doing caricatures for free ( one senior gave me a dollar tho ). I had fun with that but noticed something weird...none of our art was displayed.

Apparently they cut it out for time along with the theatre clubs performance. And I would've been fine with that. If my family hadn't come.

The icing on the cake was when they turned off the lights in the hallway where we were drawing the caricatures so they could start the show for the performing art groups. I couldn't contact my family until the show was over and booooiii were they pissed. Especially my mom. I was more sad than anything. I had a feeling my school valued the performing art more and this just proved that. At least now we have an actual art class. And my art teacher is awesome and supportive as hell.

Discipline/ Work Ethic:

These are together cuz they've equally fucked me up. Don't get me wrong. I have a 4.2 gpa and 0 detentions.

The problem is my classmates.

I have been to soooo many class/school meetings about behavior and grade issues over the past 4 years. One of which a staff member said " now i know all of ain't bs-in' but why aren't those people helping the ones who are."

Like wow! Thanks. I hate it.

I'd be happy to help my fellow classmates. It's just that their version of help is cheating off my tests and copying my homework.

So yeah my bad. I've been sooo selfish.

I can count on my hand the amount of times I've been told that I'm doing a good job directly and not in front of a class as a way to embarrass them.

This year behavior was so bad that they made a competition to see which advisory would get the least demerits. Big mistake. My heart goes out to all the poor well behaved students who lost because of a few advisory mates. It only takes one. The record for most demerits in a day was 30 I think.

I forgot the competition was going on at some point cuz I've only gotten 2 demerits in 4 years. My advisory won second and we played the waiting game for our prize only to have a pizza party with 17 other advisories. The winning advisory was salty as hell. But hey we got free lunch at least.

I managed to get good grades simply by doing everything on time and having no social life. This was by choice really. I promised myself I'd do better in college but now I gotta study for ap.

It was actually ap literature that gave me a new perspective on my classmates work ethic. We were given a lengthy reading assignment but the due date was stretched by two class days and the weekend. Even though I'd been mentally drained lately ( by lately I mean since the 1st week of school ) and had other work to do, I completed it with slightly less annotations.

Upon the due date I discovered that I and one other classmate completed the reading. Even the valedictorian didn't do it!!! And this wasn't a one time thing either.

In fact my class is notorious for never doing work on time. I'm talking completing-a-project-in-the-class before-the-it's -due- for bad. And some people I understand. Some of them really need help and resources. But every one else. Excuses excuses. The extended due dates gave me extra free time but it made the work I completed on time feel pointless. Like I could've just not done it and not face any consequences.

I tried that and was stressed out all day to the point of doing the work anyway. School's got me whipped I guess.

So if I hate highschool so much why do I go on time everyday, miss at most 3 days a year, do my work, behave myself and study??? Simple. I'm trying to get out. Having a good gpa and test scores will get me more scholarships cuz God knows my mom can't afford art college ( I got into my first choice so yeah:). Really highschool has just been a means to an end.

I've had my good days and have made some friends but I really just wanna run to hills with my diploma in hand. And thats what's kept me going. But now we're quarantined.

And my school has decided to make work optional.....and I have all A's......

Needless to say I've barely done any work at all. If we never have to go back theres a good chance I won't. I'm so numb at this point that I don't care that we may not have a prom ( aka the only dance I was ever going to go to ).

I'm just done. Done and fed up.

But thank you to my mom, family, bestie, teachers and my classmates that actually want to have a future for keeping me going. If I don't completely give up it's thanks to you. Future me, I hope you get everything you want at art school:)

[jayne-hecate-writer]

Old and Useless

I am fucking angry, but my rage is impotent and useless because the people I am angry at, don’t care that I am angry. Actually, they do care a little bit and they are arguing that my anger is unjustified and unfair on them. I did not realise that I was a bully and was asking so much from them…

So you may be asking who I am so angry with and why am I being so unreasonable? The answer is complicated, but my dear reader, it is really not you, well unless you are one of those people mentioned above. You see, I am angry with the big names of the tech industry and the reasons as to why, are both complex and deep. To explain this anger, I need to tell you a story, a true story in fact, that started a little over twenty years ago. So settle down, put your feet up and let us go back through the swirly mists of time to the autumn of 1995, when I started my degree at a prestigious British university.

My University was neither prestigious or an actual university. It was a former teacher training college that had in the past trained nice young ladies to be nice young teachers of nice young children. The grounds that these nice courses were taught in, were beautiful, with ancient trees, two small lakes with a folly that looked just like Camelot from Monty Python. The college was however, not happy being just a run of the mill college, because a simple college did not make much money when compared to a prestigious University and so they set about changing from a college into a... University College, a subtle change, but a change for the better they assured us, the actual students of the place. But after all of the expensive name changes and font changes on the new name, the leaky roof still leaked in the student accommodation and the library still had not bought a new book for three years, but they were going to modernise the place with a whole new building.

When I started my degree, my essays were hand written on stuff called lined paper, or if we could afford to buy one, they were typed up on an electronic typewriter. The college had  put up a new and rather ugly building that was filled with these wondrous boxes of blinking lights, boxes of lights that were the early home computers and they came with a thing called Windows 95 that allowed you to look at pixilated images of boobies. They were amazing.

Were they really amazing? The correct answer is no, no they were not. The problem was that to someone who had never used a computer before, it was a box that made a lot of noise and a filthy heat, that took up a lot of space on my desk and did very little, even when asked. I poked the keyboard and moved the funny little box on a wire and the pointer on the screen moved too, I was entranced.

I did not play with those boxes of lights again until several years later when back in another university (again a former polytechnic that wanted to be posher and thus changed its name and status!) I was told that my essays needed to be submitted typed up or word processed. Excited, I dived into the world of home computing and spent hundreds of pounds on my own box of lights and switched it on to be greeted by the green fields of the Windows XP screen background and the appalling monster that was Clippy, the word assistant in the shape of a talking paper-clip. He would pop up when I was typing and ask me if I wanted help with my essay and would then offer me useless advice that had no relevance to what I was doing. Clippy was the first piece of technology that I regularly told to fuck off.

My first home network came in 2005, when the chance to buy a second computer presented itself and although it was broken, I could fix it. Putting the two of them together and seeing them communicate for the first time was amazing. I could drag files from one computer and put them on another. I could work on two projects at the same time and swap files between them on two different machines. Windows XP was so easy to use, wasn’t it?… No, it wasn’t. Windows XP was all that I had available at the time and I had to train my brain to think in the Windows XP way. It had plenty of quirks and numerous faults and to add further insults, with two machines, I had two versions of Clippy that I was forced to to tell to fuck off. Then my hard drive died.

I was lucky, I had back ups on CD of most of my files, but not of everything and that included the operating system. Thankfully I had the original install disk, a CD that contained Windows and another that contained Office and that cunt Clippy. Only, the disk was keyed to only one of my computers and when asked to submit a code, it was most unhappy and said no. That was the very first time that a computer said no to me. I consulted an expert and was informed that I needed to pay an awful lot of money to Microsoft in order to fix my computer and that was before I paid the already mentioned man, an awful lot to put on the computer what Microsoft gave him. So, after an awful lot of money exchanged hands, I had two computers once again, but not for long.

This time, the fault was more serious, the outer box stayed the same, but the bits inside changed. This was the first time I encountered something called a Mother Board and another thing called a graphics card. Then came the sound card and the memory and the hard disk and the optical drive and the LAN card and the USB expansion and the second hard disk and before I knew it, I was looking at a pile of parts that had cost hundreds of pounds and none of it fucking worked yet because of fucking Microsoft.

This pile of parts led me down the path of not wanting to keep giving Microsoft hundreds of pounds every time I rebuilt my computer. So I started playing with something called Linux. It was anarchic they said, it broke away from conventions they said. It does everything Windows does, but even better they said… They lied. Very quickly I had to learn about a thing called ‘The Terminal’ into which I typed out lines and lines of code. After which, I would hit return and then I would have to search through hundreds of lines of code to find the place where I had mistyped a character or two. Then I would repeat that process several more times, adding more code and finally, I had a working computer. Making it talk to the Windows XP machine was a trial because it seemed that they spoke different languages, but I did it and speak to each other they did.

My new Linux machine played my DVD movies, it played my music CDs and I was able to write on it without being interrupted by that shitcunt Clippy. But Linux back then was not all that stable and glitches would start to appear and before I knew it, I spent just as much time typing in code as I did listening to music. The two computers stopped talking to each other and I had to work really hard to make them friends again. My first machine now long dead seemed like a mere pocket calculator compared to what I had found myself with. The Micro ATX board the size of a drinks coaster had been replaced by something faster, bigger and more fun, but these money pits soon began to drain my purse of funds needed for other projects and as funds grew tight, the computers complained all the more, leaving me with just one computer again and a box of lights that had gone dark.

My first laptop had windows ME on it and it would seize up and need restarting after twenty minutes of work or half an hour of theme hospital. I really miss theme hospital, it was very silly and it was lots of fun, but it, like my laptop and Windows ME and Windows XP and Windows 7 and Windows 8 and Windows 8.1 are all long gone and here lies the nub of every issue I have with technology now. The constant need for the next new thing and frankly it boils my piss. I am fizzing in the gusset right now and not in a good way, this is anger, I am royally pissed.

In 2013 I bought a new laptop computer from PC world, a mistake I would repeat only once more. Thanks mainly to the advice from the sales adviser, who told me that the Google Chromebook was the next advance in home computing, I started looking at one. “Does it work away from home?” I asked in all innocence. I was assured that it did and with it freshly purchased, I promptly pissed off to a desert island in the Indian ocean looking forwards to writing up my adventures on my new laptop. It did not work. It would not even switch on without a connection to wifi. Finally and unbelievably on a remote desert island, we found a Pizza restaurant and I managed to switch on the Crapbook (a name I now give you for every Chromebook in existence) using their slow wifi. The Crapbook proved time and time again just how much of a worthless pile of shit it was. It promised so much and provided so little in return. In the end, I used it only to watch YouTube while in the bath because frankly every ‘Ap’ on the damn thing was fucking shit. As a writer, I wanted a laptop that could use office software to type up my stories. The Crapbook could do this, but it had no spell checker, it could not save to the laptop hard drive and when transferring files to another computer, the document would be turned into indecipherable gibberish. With imported documents, it would destroy formatting and leave behind a document that had so many page errors that not even a Windows machine could repair it.

Also, the Crapbook could not talk to the Windows Machine (now on Windows 10) on he home network, but then, neither could the iMac, the Sony Smart phone, my USB stick or my external hard drive. I was by now running four computer systems, the Crapbook, the iMac, the Windows 10 Laptop and the Linux desktop. None of them were capable of communicating with each other across the network, either wired or wireless. The Crapbook was a joke at the best of times, but when I discovered that this was the only machine that could read every USB stick I owned, but none of the others could, I almost threw it out of a window.

The problem was how the USB drives were coded. The Linux machine could see all of them, but could only write to the external hard drive. It could read from the blue USB stick, but not write to it. The red USB stick would register, but the Linux machine would say that the drive was faulty and I would have to restart the machine three times just to be able to remove it safely! The old MP3 player that worked as a USB memory stick could be written to by the Linux machine, but it could not delete files and would instead turn the drive from eight gigs of data, into three song and a large file called trash, that contained every file I wanted to delete, but it seemed permanently burned onto the drive, never to be removed. I gave up trying in the end.

The Windows machine can see the external hard drive, but depending on some unknown variable can or cannot write to the drive. Some days it can and all is well. These will be the days when the system volume also works and I can make my headphones louder by clicking the appropriate button. However, some days Windows decides that my pressing the volume button is a sign of my need for existential peace and it ignores my request for louder or quieter music. On these days, the external hard drive becomes a place of mystery too. The Blue USB stick does not exist and the red one is old and slow.

The iMac could see the external drive, but not the USB sticks. If it did see the USB sticks, it would delete them and I would have no idea if they were safe to remove from the computer. Writing to the External hard drive was also impossible. As was taking data from it, but it could see it.

As I write this, I am back on the Linux desktop because the Windows Laptop has been unusable for almost four days. Why is this you may ask? The answer is because when I bought it, I could not afford very much and so bought myself a budget laptop. It has a Core i3 processor and four gigs of ram. The board in the case is the size of my mobile phone and the processor and the cooling fan are on opposite sides of the case (this is relevant shortly) with just one air vent, towards the front of the computer. While trying to render a picture of a Lego model, the computer began to overheat. The fan speed increased to maximum and the keyboard developed a hot spot that made it uncomfortable to use and then the screen went dark as the machine simply shut down. A full thermal throttling shut down that required fully dismantling to blow the dust from the fan and clear the pathway between fan and CPU. Given the amount of space inside the laptop casing, I am forced to ask why there is a six inch gap between the fan and the CPU, plus a four inch gap between the fan and the vent? The heat coming through the bottom of the machine made it uncomfortable to actually have on my lap (never do this, it blocks the vents) and the computer shut down to protect itself. When I finally restarted the laptop, I discovered that it had developed yet another instability, possibly due to thermal damage of the CPU. Meanwhile in the background, Windows update (that you cannot turn off) was slowly sucking away processing time from other functions. I have set the times when Windows can do updates, which is every evening when I am not writing. However, this update has got bigger and bigger, drawing more and more CPU time (I know because I have been watching the progress with CPU ID and monitoring the core temps) and is as we speak, only 8% downloaded of whatever current update it is now on, having restarted three (edit- four!) times already this morning.

So why am I angry? I am angry because none of these fucking things work as promised. When I do finally get them to work as I want, updates come down that fuck with my settings. I cannot prevent updates, they come with inevitable gloom and yes, I am aware that I can delay them or stop the machine from downloading on a metered connection, but just like HG Wells’ Martians, still they come! For four days, my Windows 10 Laptop has been installing, downloading and installing updates. It has been hanging while installing updates that when looking on the Microsoft website, they say it is time to start coding in the terminal.

The Crapbook gave me a message recently that read in nicer language, “give us more money or we will reveal your banking details to scammers…” Thanks for that Google, you cunts.

The Linux machine wants to update to the next version of the OS, that I have tried and really don’t like because it tries to make my desktop work like a mobile phone.

The iMac keeps telling me that it is too old and is not safe to use on line any more.

The Smart phone will interrupt what I am doing with it, to show me adverts. It also on occasion refuses to allow me to answer actual phone calls, because to do so, I must first attempt to close down an advert for emojis that will randomly appear. An advert that I neither wanted or asked for.

What was once a tool and an essential learning aid has become nought but a shallow toy, filled with advertising junk, following my every key tap, not to help me, but to sell me shit I don’t want and steal my data for companies to buy and sell me more shit I really don’t want. The machines I knew and loved are gone. Media outlets such as Linus Tech tips tell us that using old machines on line is irresponsible because it endangers everyone else to attack from scammers. The message is plain. Old is bad. Repair is bad. Throw it away and buy a new one… BUY BUY BUY, never fix. Sell my soul for old shit I don’t want. Stop using these wondrous machines for actual creative processes and use them instead to buy emojis for chatting with my friends. I fucking hate it. I fucking hate that tech companies can make their expensive computers so disposable. As much as I loved the iMac, Apple can fuck themselves in their arses with burning hot iron spikes for making them almost impossible to repair and even my trusted ASUS have gone the same way by putting the fan and the CPU in different sides of the case. Apple, Microsoft and Google have taken apart the computer world and used it to extract money from us the consumer, as if they did not have enough already. Also and probably finally for this angry rant, I really liked Theme Hospital! Bloaty Head Disease made me laugh and I can’t fucking play it any more.

I fucking hate these technology companies. They claim that they are making everything better, but what they are doing is making old but good things useless just so that they can convince us to buy the newer models of the old ones each year. To hell with the environmental impact of all of the e-waste, consume, play, dispose… When did computers become digital nappies?

PS. The Laptop is now on 85% of its forth install and restart of the day…

[red-the-dragon-writes]

don't worry about reading this, its the full text of a wip i have on my shit tier chromebook that im having trouble getting into google docs. so this is y solution. i am very intelligent

So. They were in… "therapy".

The war had ended and the Decepticons had lost, which was old fragging news at this rate. Equally old news was the way the 'bots had split up every combiner team and held them separately from one another, which worked really well if by really well Wildrider meant that it had everyone climbing the goddamn walls after five minutes and the Autobots didn't even want to deal with it after five days. It wasn't even entirely his fault this time, though he'd done his part. Apparently Onslaught had been a fucking nightmare about it.

There was a compromise. The compromise was apparently "therapy".

So they were in "therapy" now.

Wildrider still hadn't seen any of the other Stunticons in like a month, and they were only allowed to interact under strict supervision, which was getting increasingly fragging annoying the longer it went on. Wildrider had been given "non-destructive creative outlets" for his "impulses", which he largely used for kindling when he had his hands free enough to do anything with them, and a demand to please try to talk to his fragging "therapist" about "it"… whatever "it" was supposed to mean.

And then there were the mandatory sessions. Which were like, if you took a turborat and put it in a box and shook the box up a whole bunch. That would adequately describe how Wildrider felt about the mandatory therapy sessions. He was one more frustrating session away from just calling it quits and trying to strangle the damned "therapist" until they died. He'd been promised with good behavior they'd take the cuffs off. He was biding his time. He wasn't good at it, but he could do that.

But for now he had to play along. And he was going to die. He was going to implode.

"So," said the therapist, leaning back in their chair, "how have you been feeling this last week?" They folded their hands in their lap comfortably. Wildrider's hands were still cuffed together in front of him.

"Bored," said Wildrider.

"How did you find the sketchbooks?"

"Boring."

"Did you use them?"

"Yup," Wildrider said.

"Fantastic!" said the therapist, sounding genuinely surprised. "Can I see what you've done?"

"Nope."

"Why not?" asked the therapist. "If you're shy about sharing, that's fine, of course."

"I'm not shy," Wildrider snapped, unable to stop the sudden offense. "I burned them."

The therapist sighed. "Right. Did you try the drawing exercises I gave you?"

"Yup," Wildrider said. "They were boring. Told you that already."

"Alright," the therapist said. "I think we'll try a new method of rerouting those impulses, how about you?"

"As long as it's not fragging boring," Wildrider said. "I don't like sitting in my cell with nothing fun to do."

"It's not a cell," the therapist said. "It's a room in a half--"

"A halfway house, yeah, yeah, whatever, there's a guard at the door and I can't leave and I can't see any of my friends. It's a cell. At least I got visitors in the Decepticon brig, you know that?"

"Your teammates, I imagine?" the therapist said.

"Yeah." It was an easy enough assumption to make, and also it was true. "Here it's just fraggers I never met. You know I haven't seen them in weeks?"

"Your teammates?" the therapist said again. "You're due for another visit in about six days, correct?"

Wildrider rattled all his vents, about as close to a dramatic sigh as he could get while chained to his chair. "Something like that. Who even knows. You're always getting mad at us for something and postponing it or holding one of us back or something. You know I haven't seen Breakdown since the fucking truce?" That was an exaggeration.

"I'm not," the therapist said, which was neither here nor there.

"And I still haven't seen them in forever because of your side and your rules. You get me?"

The therapist inclined their head. "I understand you're frustrated. Do you want to tell me about them?"

"No."

"Wildrider," said the therapist, "we've been making such good progress." Ah. A threat.

"Uh-huh."

"And I'm sure you want to keep your good record."

"I am keeping my good record. You asked if I wanted to talk about my teammates. I don't want to. If you want to hear about them you shouldn't ask me about my feelings. I gave a true answer. You should just ask better questions."

The therapist blinked their optics off and on again. "Good point. Wildrider, I would like to hear about your teammates."

"I figured that out."

"Uh," the therapist said, clearly at a loss for words. As though this were even hard.

"You want to hear about them? Dead End is better at this game than me by a factor of ten, and Motormaster is better than you, too. At least he's able to back his slag up with you know what I meant, because we all know I know what you meant."

"Right," the therapist said. "What else was Dead End good at?"

Wildrider shrugged as much as he could, a little shrug that rattled his chains like he was jangling a bunch of bells. "Stuff. Reading."

"Reading…?"

"Yeah."

"Reading what?"

"Books? What else is he supposed to be good at reading, tarot cards?"

"What?"

"Earth thing," Wildrider said. "He reads books. Read books. I don't know if they're giving him books he'd give a slag about, sounds like last time he was complaining that it was all, uh, i can't make air quotes but I need you to know this is a quote, painful saccharine slag, so, like, maybe he ain't so good at reading right now. I don't know, do you talk to him?"

"No," said the therapist.

"Fragging shame. If you could pass on a message you could tell him that I'm playing out the life of the main character in that one stupid book he liked about the guy in the cell. He'd know the one."

"Uh," said the therapist, "what was it about?"

"A guy in a cell. I just said that."

"Little more description than that, Wildrider," the therapist said.

"He's in a cell and there's a window and there's a plant in the window, and then he loses his mind and the plant dies and then there's some metaphor for him losing all hope before he kills himself or something. Also I think there's something important about a centipede. I don't know, I didn't read it, I'm just really fragging bored and he'd think it was primo wank bank material."

The therapist wrote something down. "Run that by me again?"

"He's in a cell and there's some kind of window and there's a plant in it because it's an organic book so it's an organic man in an organic cell. He's really bored and nothing happens and every day he watches the sun rise and fall or something because Dead End said something about the shadow on the wall every day was relevant, or something. And then he kills the plant or the plant dies and the loses all hope and there's a long drawn out scene where he kills himself that Dead End wouldn't stop talking about for, like, three weeks, because he thought the imagery was that good. And I'm pretty sure there's something important about a centipede but I didn't read it."

The therapist paused. "Uh, that's not what I was referring to. You are comparing yourself in real life to a character losing their mind and you think your teammate will be, uh, masturbating to it?"

"Yeah? I mean, I'd hope someone was getting something out of this?"

"Okay," said the therapist, writing something else down. "And do you feel like you're getting anything out of this?"

"Uh… maybe? I don't know." Wildrider couldn't wait until they let him do this with the cuffs off. He'd be getting something out of that, all right.

"You can be honest," the therapist said. "I know you're frustrated."

"I don't know," said Wildrider, "I think I will."

The therapist smiled, "That's wonderful! I'm really glad we're able to make progress here. From what I hear, your teammates aren't half so cooperative."

Yeah, because they weren't in cuffs ninety percent of the time. "I was always kind of a disappointment," Wildrider said vaguely, instead of that.

"Tell me about that," said the therapist.

"What's there to tell? We all were. Motormaster had standards and I didn't meet them."

The therapist looked up from their datapad. "I don't think we've ever spoken about your team before."

"We have," Wildrider said. He'd spent ages last session trying to talk the conversation into literally any other place. It'd worked, too. This therapist person wasn't nearly as persistent as Drag Strip and they didn't have half the sense for bullshit Dead End and Breakdown did.

"Not in any substance, though," said the therapist.

"Okay," Wildrider said. "But there's a lot of things we haven't spoken about in any substance. Last session you just kept going back to me lighting fires. You didn't even ask about me starting fights."

"That's true," the therapist said. "You start fights?"

Perfect. "All the time," Wildrider said. "It's more fun than arson, really, depending on wher you are. Me and Vortex- "

"I imagine that had to have some sort of effect on your relationship with your team, right?"

"Yeah. Motormaster didn't like it. But Vortex always thought it was funny, and we used to- "

"That's alright," said the therapist. "I don't want to hear about Vortex right now. I want to hear about your team."

"Why?"

The therapist glanced at their notes. "I imagine it'll be helpful to know where you're coming from. We're clearly not making a lot of progress on the destructive behaviors."

"I told you," Wildrider said, careful not to interrupt. "I'm just bored."

"I know that's what you believe," said the therapist. "I'm sure we'll be able to reroute that anger into something else soon."

"It's boredom," Wildrider repeated. "The solution is to give me more things to do. Motormaster figured this out in five minutes flat. I've been telling you once a week for three months."

"Obviously," the therapist said, "Motormaster didn't successfully dissuade you from following these destructive impulses. I only want to see you get some control over yourself."

Wildrider wasn't going to say that he didn't tear things up or light fires by accident because he knew the therapist would take offense, and he wanted the cuffs off, but he thought it. "Right."

"Now," said the therapist. "I really would like to discuss your team. Let's start with Motormaster."

"Uh-huh," Wildrider said. "Like I said, there's nothing there."

"Alright. I believe you believe that. But I want you to tell me about him anyway."

Fine. "His name is Motormaster. He turns into a truck. He fights with a sword. He's in charge of my team. Or at least he was. His paint is black and gray and purple. Uh… he had a crush on Onslaught." He absolutely did not have a crush on Onslaught. "You should put them together, they'll probably kiss and slag."

"…Are you certain?" the therapist said.

"Yeah, totally." Wildrider was not a good liar. He needed to get off this tangent. He just thought it would be kind of funny if Motormaster and Onslaught got so mad together that they blew a hole in the side of the Autobot prison block. "Uhhh, he used to like, sit up all night after we had a training session with the Combaticons practicing sword forms and shit."

"How did you feel about that?"

"How was it any of my business? It was funny, I guess."

The therapist inclined their head, looking down at their chart. "You and the Combaticons were like rivals, right?"

"Nah. Totally different combat capabilities."

"Last session, you said that--"

"We had a, like, competitive thing," Wildrider interrupted, "because no one likes them, that's not the same thing. Just cuz we wanted to kick their afts at everything doesn't mean we were rivals, us and them were the only ones who ever gave a rat's ass about it."

"…rat?"

Wildrider fought the urge to grumble. "Earth thing."

[canaryatlaw]

god it’s 1 am and I just started typing and man am I fucking tired. Today was pretty good as far as these things go. I woke up to my alarm at 8 and dragged myself out of bed, and got ready to get to interview number 1. Left in an uber at like 8:45 and got there about an hour later (it was a bit of a hike, but if I got hired I wouldn’t be working out of that location), spent a few minutes standing outside so I wouldn’t be *too* early before walking in. they have a super cool older building with a lot of like relics and shit that was pretty cool. I had to wait for a while because apparently the guy who was supposed to interview me that I had spoken to on the phone had gotten stuck in court, so they wanted to know if I had a copy of my resume to give to the person who was going to interview me now and I didn’t, at which point I started internally freaking out because the guy who had sounded super interested on the phone wasn’t here and they wouldn’t have my resume to base anything off. Thankfully they must’ve found the copy of my resume I had sent to the other guy, so that was taken care of. I met with the head trial attorney of the firm, which was of course very cool. I talked a lot about growing up very involved with my dad’s practice handling these types of cases and how familiar with them I was, and he seemed to be very impressed with that. The two inevitable questions did come up, number one from looking at my resume they’re always like “so, did you actually want to go into family law?” at which point I have to be like well yes but I can’t get a job there right now and if I started working here I would make a commitment to them, which at that point I started feeling a little doubtful that if I committed to a firm and then OPG started hiring shortly after I’d be fucked. but anyway. The second question, which was particularly relevant here since my dad does basically the same work they do, was of course why aren’t you working for your dad? to which I basically say I wanted to go out and do this on my own, I want my name to be known for me, not my dad or my brother, and they seemed to like that. Overall I thought it went pretty well, he said he would meet with the other guy who was supposed to do the interview and chat and then see if they had office space, because apparently they’ve been expanding very quickly so they had to make sure they had something available. So overall pretty good. I headed out and took an uber to the apple store to hopefully solve the laptop charging problem (spoiler: it didn’t work) and upon arriving I was soon directed to the cords I would need and found it rather quickly, so I bought that and headed out. Ubered the rest of the way home and plugged my computer in, only for nothing to happen. So I tried and tried and tried everything I could think of, but it wasn’t working. So I ended up calling apple support and told them the situation and they were basically like yeah that sounds like a hardware problem and you’d have to take it in for repair. the Chicago apple stores didn’t have an opening till like sometime on thursday and like fuck that shit so I ended up with an appointment for tomorrow night in one of the suburbs that’s not too far out, so hopefully that will work. I dug out the chromebook and have been working from that for the rest of the day. But yeah, I was between my two interviews so I watched some GoT before getting ready again and heading out. I wasn’t expecting much from this interview and tbh I really didn’t want to go but I know it’s good to keep my options open. It’s just like, real estate law which is already like yawn but it also involves like no court time so that’s not really what I want. But I went in and basically the only argument I can make is I really don’t know anything about this area of law but I’m always eager to learn and I can pick up on things very easily, which is of course not a terribly strong argument but it’s the only one I got. So the interview didn’t last very long which was fine with me because I really didn’t want to be there anyway. From there I got an uber and was dropped off around the corner from my apartment to where Jess and I meet up when we’re getting food, and she joined me shortly after. We decided to just go to the corner place which we’ve been to a couple times and has pretty good food. I ended up getting a basil pesto flatbread which was basically just a pizza, though it had some element I couldn’t place that was like, slightly spicy, so I really only ate like half of it before it became too much, but whatever, Jess took it home so at least it won’t go to waste. Afterwards we parted ways and when I got back to my place my amazon stuff had came, so I set off to finish the frosting for the macarons I started on Thursday and never finished. I didn’t have any milk and the frosting recipe calls for a few tablespoons to make the frosting kinda softer so I was trying to just not use it but the frosting was way too thick and wasn’t able to be piped, so I had to stick it back in the bowl and open the heavy cream I have in my fridge and add some of that which worked like a charm, then I got to assemble the macarons and stick them in the fridge to chill. This batch isn’t quite as good as the others, not sure why, but I can definitely taste the nuttiness in the cookies more which I’m not crazy about given my aversion to nuts. But once I finished that I watched more Game of Thrones and that was pretty much my night, did I mention I’m really fucking tired? definitely time for bed now. Goodnight lovelies. Sleep well (I certianly hope I will as well). 

[dsmroleplay]

#BirthOfChaos #DSM #Mayans #RP

 Written by: @BikersRose @HackerSister  @ReyesMayans  @EZReyesDSM @CrazyAssMayan  @PresidentePalo, @BishopLosa

Rosa: I pull my car through the rusty gates of the Romero Bros scrap yard. The sun had barely touched the sky. I liked getting here early. To clean up the place from the night before and make sure fresh coffee was ready when #Bishop and #Hank arrived. If I were more observant I’d have noticed their bikes still parked under the awning in the yard but it was still early and I didn’t see it. The inside of the clubhouse looked like it was hit by a small tornado. It wouldn’t be unusual if last night was a patch party but it was just a normal Wednesday night. Ordinary night, extraordinary mess. “What the fuck happened here?” I reach down to set right an overturned table. My heart pounded fast in my chest when I saw the broken stained glass door leading to Templo. The glass crunched beneath my feet as I slowly stepped over the threshold. I’ve only ever been in there to clean a couple of times. Normally #Hank had the prospect keep it clean. The head chair lay on its side, empty. And #Hank lay unconscious on the floor. I lean down and press my fingers to his neck, his pulse was there slow but there. “Hank?” He was out cold. It finally registered that there were two bikes still parked under the awning. #Hank’s and… #Bishop’s “Hank, where’s Bishop?” The large biker still didn’t respond. I pulled my phone from my back pocket, dialing everyone in the MC. No answer. I mean who really answers their phone before 7 am? I search through my contacts finding @InkedWithPetals number on my phone. I hoped she would answer.

  ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Rosa Diaz: "Oh shit," I was half expecting another call to go straight to voicemail. The panic had subsided a little but #Hank was still out. Not sure what the protocol was on unconscious bikers. Do I call 911 or do I just pray to Santa Maria to heal him?

"Sorry," I come to my senses and turn my attention back to the call, "I know it's early but someone broke into the clubhouse last night. I found, #Hank, here on the floor, he's still unconscious," I swallow hard, "#Bishop's bike is outside. And he's not here." I start to ramble on about calling the other club members and no one answering their phone. "Pinche pendejos," I grumble, "I didn't know who else to call."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Juana "Juice" Ortiz: Juice groaned at the sound of her phone buzzing at the table beside her head. It was too fucking early and didn't people know she had a fucking hangover.

The patch party for the new San Bernadino prospect lasted well into the next morning. And Juice was feeling the weight of it. In and on her head. Groaning she swipes the message open and reads the text. #Bishop? It took her a minute to register the Santo Padre Prez name. "Fuck," she muttered to herself. She popped the tab of her favorite Red Bull flavor, dragon fruit, and opened her laptop on the table. Santo Padre needed to update its firewall. It was way too easy to hack into their traffic cams.

She watched as a dark van pulled through a light near the corner a block from the clubhouse of the Santo Padre charter. It would be sus on any other day but the day a charter president goes missing multiplied that by a thousand.

After zooming in on the plates she runs a trace. It would take a couple of hours for the results. Just enough time for me to haul her ass down south. She turns on her mobile hotspot, to keep shit going while she drives. Then tuck everything safely in her saddlebags.

Hopefully, the early ass time of day would mean traffic would be at a minimum. :::::::::::::::::::::

 Rosa Diaz: It could have been minutes after I called

a friend for help or it could have been hours. But the time seemed to drag agonizingly long. Time was crucial. The chances of something happening to #Bishop multiplied with each ticket of the clock.

I kept my head about me, trying to keep from focusing on the worst-case scenario. It wouldn't help anyone to panic. I sat with #Hank on the floor. He'd be more comfortable on the couch but I hadn't had nearly enough Wheaties to hoist him up.

Fortunately, his breathing remained steady and his eyes finally fluttered open. I give him a soft smile, "Don't try to get up, Viejo. Help is coming."

I lift my eyes to the door hearing @ReyesAtHeartMC come through the clubhouse doors, "In here." I call out, "There's nothing yet." :::::::::::::::::::::::::

Juana "Juice" Ortiz: Juice was able to weave in and out of the limited traffic on the way down south. She clocked her speed at just over 95.

Oops.

She chuckled to herself as she pulls off the interstate, exit for Santo Padre. The scenery is much different than Charming. But not many places are like small town Charming. Where Juice was the most color that ever graced their streets.

She pulls into the first gas station, as the tank fills her nails type over the keys of her Chromebook. She blinks and blinks again, seeing the name that popped up on the van's registration.

Tomas Montez... the newly patched member that had been missing for the last couple of weeks. What the fuck did he have to do with this?

She types out the message to send to my friend.  . Letting her know the address on the vehicle's registration.

Juice chewed on the inside of her lip. Why would a Son kidnap the Prez of the Mayans? The beef had been squashed a long time ago.

The sound of a horn honking and a big man shouting, "¡Fuera del camino!" Pulled her from her thoughts. Juice caught the gist even though she spoke better Yiddish than Spanish and tucked her laptop back in the saddlebag and pulls out of the gas station lot. :::::::::::::::::::::

  Rosa Diaz: I look up at Nikki when she asks about #Hank and I return her slight smile, "He seems to be coming around." I hold the large biker down to keep him from moving too much. Not that I could really keep him down if he wanted to move.

"Concussed seems to be the worst of it. But I think he's gonna be ok," I guide #Hank up to a chair. "Take it easy. Do you remember what happened?" Still groggy he tells us it happened fast. But he recognized the face. He holds back. We weren't Mayans and this was Mayans business.

"Do you really think any of us is ignorant of what goes on?" I ask him. "We don't have time for misogynistic bullshit. When we find Bishop we can turn back into ignorant flowers." ::::::::::::::::::::::::

Juana "Juice" Ortiz: Juice finally pulls her Dyna through the rusted gates of the scrap yard. It was strange being here for her without the rest of the club. Especially knowing what she thought she knew.

A Son kidnapped a Mayan.

This information could ignite another war between the two clubs. One that Jax worked so hard to put to an end.

She swallows hard and dismounts her bike. Gathering her bag with her laptop and carries it inside. Juice didn't know how bad the clubhouse was hit until she walked in.

She was never very religious. Only calling out to God during /special/ occasions. But seeing the statue of the Virgin Mary laying on its side brought a tear to her eye. She couldn't help but reach down to right it. Her she kisses the tips of her fingers and the press them to the statue with a silent prayer.

"It's Juice," she calls out. "From SAMCRO." ::::::::::::::::::::

 Rosa Diaz: I inch my fingertips lightly over #Hank's head making sure I was right with my assessment. "I would feel better if we got you to a hospital for a head CT," I look directly into his eyes checking the dilation of his pupils. I was a nurse at a low-income clinic so I didn't see severe head injuries on a regular.

"Later," he groaned taking the glass of water that was offered. "I didn't see the mother fuckers," he said. "not until it was too fucking late. It was VM."

"Payback for Abuela's birthday party?" I quirk a brow, giving away how much of the club business I actually retained. I shouldn't know what happened there but I can't help but overhear the talk. And Mayans code wasn't all that covert.

#Hank nods.

I dig through my purse and pull out a sample pack of painkillers, fingers brushing over the linen-textured business card. I wondered if I should give the leader of the cartel a call. Would he be able to help find @BishopLosa or would it cause another problem the club had to deal with.

I tuck the card in my back pocket before handing #Hank the medicine. :::::::::::::::::::::::::

Juana "Juice" Ortiz: Juice rights a chair before sitting down at the table and opens her laptop. She was torn. Did she tell them that the van belonged to a Son who'd been missing? The weight of the kutte on her back told her where her loyalties should lie.

But she also owed it to Alvarez, to Jax's memory, to find the missing Mayans Prez.

She should have reached out to Chibs, but she took it upon herself. Juice wasn't going to let someone else get killed because of her. And Tommy Montez fucked himself by getting involved in this bullshit.

So she pulls up the footage of the traffic cams, showing the dark van that pulled out from the outside of Romero Bros Scrapyard. It was too dark to see faces but they can clearly see a body being loaded inside the sliding door of the van.

"He's alive so far as I can tell," Juice tells the others, "I ran the plates," she swallows hard loyalties still fighting inside her, "They belong to Tomas Montez, he's been missing from SAMCRO for the last couple of weeks." :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 Rosa Diaz: I never knew Jax Teller. I'd heard Alvarez tell stories when he came by the clubhouse. Those visits became shorter and less frequent once 'El Padrino' took off his kutte.

To be honest, other than Happy and Packer, I could give a fuck about the Sons of Anarchy. They weren't part of my world here. Not enough that it mattered what they did or didn't do. They were just some other club.

At least until now. Until it looked like one of them took @BishopLosa . I chewed the inside of my lip. We were all worried about him. But there was a knot in the pit of my stomach for words I hadn't said. For words, I hoped like hell that I had a chance to say.

I grab a broom from the closet and start sweeping, something to keep me focused.

"I didn't think anything of it when EZ wasn't in his trailer when I got here," I shift the broken glass in a pile, "I thought he was out helping your Pop." I stop looking up, "Taza was supposed to go out to Vicki's this morning with Creeper. Cell service sucks out that far in the desert," I chuckle softly, "her landline has been out of service for the last couple of days. And they were gonna meet the tech to get it fixed." ::::::::::::::::::::::::

Juana "Juice" Ortiz: "Hey, I don't know that Tommy did this," Juice rambled, "but if he did it wasn't on the club's orders. It wasn't on SAMCRO. We don't do shit like this."

With every fiber of her being Juice knew that #Chibs wouldn't sanction an attack on the Mayans. No matter what bullshit went down on the Southside. He wouldn't betray Alvarez or Jax's promise. But why the fuck would Tommy Montez get involved with this.

"But it was his van. And he's been missing for weeks," she stated, "I can't explain that away. I wish like hell I could."

This act could ignite another Mayan war. The clubs had worked too fucking hard to get things where they were now.

Juice pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her kutte. She didn't smoke much, just when shit was tense. Tucking the cigarette between her lips, she leans into the flame of her lighter. Things were fucking tense. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Rosa Diaz: I paused for a second. I should caution #Hank about drinking with the meds I gave him, but at the moment I knew the warning would fall on deaf ears.

The last of the glass had been swept up so I take a seat at the bar noting what still had to be repaired. The stained glass door needed to be replaced and some furniture. Nothing was stolen, so far as I could tell. The only thing missing was Bishop.

I reach down lifting his hammer from the floor. I finally felt the weight of the thing. I glanced around seeing the weight of everything in the eyes of the other women in the room.

Our place was often just to sit and wait for the guys to solve the problems. We just cleaned up the mess. Sure that was what MC women did. But now it was up to us to fix it. To find Bishop and bring him back.

I set the hammer back on the table with a thud. "There's not time to wait around for the guys to show up," I stated, "the longer someone's missing, the less likely to find them..."

I swallow hard the many episodes of Law and Order run through my mind. I'd have to stop watching that shit before bed after all of this was over.

"...Alive." ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 Juana "Juice" Ortiz: Juice had been tracking the traffic cams in Santo Padre looking for the black van. The one that likely had the Mayans Prez thrown in it. The one owned by a missing Reaper.

"If Tommy Montez doesn't have a good as fuck reason for being involved in this shit," she said, "it is definitely gonna hit the fan." She knew #Chibs like a father and he wouldn't put up with this shit from a new patch. She swallowed the rest of her words about it.

"The last place the van was seen was the traffic cam before here," she points out the checkpoint. "Can't see border patrol overlooking a hostage like that. So they've got to be somewhere near there."

Fingers click against the keys, pulling up an overhead map of the area. "Any guesses?" :::::::::::::::::::

Rosa Diaz: I lean over Juice's shoulder looking at the map. The area was familiar. I reach out and touch the screen, scrolling it up and out.

"I know this place," I tell them, "It's about a few miles from the Qhechan reservation. There's a bunch of old warehouses out there. That has to be where they took him." I look up at the other women and then to #Hank. "You shouldn't drive with your head injury." I raise my hand, "Don't fucking argue, viejo. Did Creeper take the van to Vicki's?"

The large biker shakes his head, "I'm going with. You girls shouldn't do this alone. This is our fight." I nodded in reluctant agreement. Taking the van keys he pulled from his pocket.

"Let's go, we can't wait around for the guys any longer," I say, "I'll have Chuckie keep calling the guys, tell them where we've gone."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

EZ Reyes: 

•The afternoon sun beat down on his face. Ez, never thought that his life would be this, the biker life, the MC life. But there was something that he learned. He /was/ cut out for this life. It was way for him to protect his family. And for the longest time, he couldn’t. Now though? He could. He was along his side his brother. It may have not been the most glamorous life, but it was one thing, his.

He rolled his shoulders, popping his neck. Flexing his fingers in and out of a fists. He sat on the steps of the clubhouse. His forearms resting on his knees. He was itching to get out on his bike. He needed to feel the wind on his face and have the ground speeding underneath him. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. Angel, him and few others had to do another run. Once again running drugs, making sure that the packages got there in one piece.

Pushing off the steps, he grabbed his shirt. Pulling it over his head, and down his upper body, then his cut was next. He wore that shit with pride.

Kicking up dust as he walked to his bike. checking to make sure that he had everything ready for the trip they were about to take. Tying off his red bundle on the handle bars of his bike. He even went as far to check his brothers bike. Hey, he had to look out for his brother.

Once everything was checked. He walked into the club house. Time was wasting. If his brother was dick deep in a girl, well it was good send off.

Stepping through the door letting the screen shut behind him. The club was getting ready for a patch party. He was glad to be getting in the road. Not that he minded parties. He just needed this time. He called out.* Angel, brother let’s go! We have to meet them in 20 minutes. If you’re balls deep, wrap it up! •he chuckled, waiting next to the bar.• ::::::::::::::::::::

Angel Reyes: -Angel had finished his conversation with Bishop and Taza not really wanting to do this run but hey you go where you're told. Angel just had a bad feeling something was about to go down but maybe it was that carne asada from the street tacos he tore up last night but seriously one thing after the other suggested a bad omen. He could tell Taza was shitting bricks over Palo and even though Angel never let on about how much he actually paid attention he was. Deep down there was a healthy fear of the Vatos Malditos.

They didn't play by the rules and pretty much nothing was off the table. How much so was still to be determined. Putting on the mask though of invincibility he rolled out of the office with a huge smile playing the fearless big brother routine for EZ. "Man you bitch more than a woman, always barking orders and pretending you're in charge. Why you always worried bout my love life anyway huh? Stop playing hard to get and go get laid yourself so we both can have a fuckin' break." Pointed look as he walked past EZ and punched his arm then stepped outside putting on his shades. This delivery was going across state lines up to Tucson so they'd be on the round for a good four hours or more.

Throwing a leg over the motorcycle he picked up his helmet and put it on. Luckily getting into Yuma wasn't a problem. It was if you were trying to get from Yuma to California that was the bitch. Luckily things would be fairly easy. Motorcycle roared to life and he rolled out the gate beside his brother taking off towards the freeway unaware that hell was about to be unleashed on the club.-

:::::::::::::::::::::

EZ Reyes: 

•He chuckled rubbing his arm.• “And yet you wouldn’t have it any other way. But I’m not going to start cooking for you and wearing an apron.” •Ez, wasn’t just one to hop from bed to bed. But, he would admit, it might take some of the stress off of him. He could tell his brother was worried about something. It wasn’t hard to tell. No matter how tried to hide it. There as always something that gave him away. But he wasn’t about to be a nosey bitch. Not here at the clubhouse anyways. He would have time when they were alone.

Following Angel out. He swung his leg over his motorcycle, strapped on his helmet and started his bike. The rumble felt good beneath him. It made him feel at least a little bit less stressed.

He followed along side Angel, hand laying against his thigh. Getting to the meet up point. It was then going to be the four hour ride. And he was happy about it. As happy as he could be anyways.

They met up, got into formation, cell phone turned on silent for the ride. As they road towards the setting sun.•

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 Juana "Juice" Ortiz: Juice nods in agreement. Time was definitely not on their side. The Mayan Prez had been missing for several hours. She didn't want to say out loud what could have already happened to the man. "The VM are fucking ruthless," she recalls the stories from that table meeting several weeks ago, "but working with them passed the table." Juice closes her laptop and snuffs out the cigarette she had been smoking. "I get what went down after that shit at the lodge," she states, "if it had been our club, retaliation would have been a given too. But looks like a war was started and this is just the beginning." Juice swallowed hard, "We have a location. We better hurry." 

::::::::::::::::::::::::

Rosa Diaz: "You know how to shoot a gun, cariño?" #Hank asked. I suppose if shit happened that was a light question. I didn't think about that until I stuffed the key in the ignition. "I live in a shit  neighborhood," I shuffle through my purse and pull out my .22, safety still on. "I've never /had/ to use it. But I know how to. I'm licensed and everything." "Shooting a target is different  than shooting a man," he said. "If it comes to it, do you think you can do it?" He looks from me to Nikki and back. I chew the inside of my lip, "To save Bishop," I told him, "I wouldn't  fucking hesitate." #Hank gives me a nod. I could see the hesitation on his face. But we were all that he had. The guys were unavailable.

 -The ride had taken them to the suburbs called Corona de Tucson. It was something out of a Better Homes and Garden spread, you could really expect Betty White to come out with milk and cookies wearing a damn apron. But this was apparently where the whetto's hung out that had some cash. A quiet transfer, not much conversation and we were back on the road. Hitting the freeway I cranked it open because the damn sun was burning my skin something fierce. You could see the heat rising up from the payment, hell we could have fried and egg on that shit with no problem. Coming through the mountain pass hitting the deserted straight away of road my phone starting to ping like a mutherfucker. After the umpteenth time I gave the signal and we pulled into a rest stop. I could use some water and take a piss anyway. Pushing my shades up after taking off the hot-ass helmet I rubbed my eyes pulling the cell out and looking at it. It was to hot and had shut off so not to fry itself. Fuckin' /perfect/. -Mumbling as I head for john.-

 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 Juice: After snapping her laptop closed, Juice follows the women outside. They had a destination now and that was something. What they'd do when they reached it that was another story.

With the club, there was always a chance we'd have to pull our guns. She checks the one she kept tucked in her saddlebag. Full clip and a spare.

Would it be enough?

She guessed it had to be.

Her leg swung over her bike and she settled in the seat. The bike roaring to life as she follows the van out of the rusted gate of Romero Bros Scrap Yard.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Bishop: -Coming too, quickly finding my wrists are cuffed behind me to the chair I'm in. I've had my ass kicked more than a few times so I wasn't surprised. Trying to move my legs, they were secured as well. Who had me? That was the million-dollar question, if death was the end game then I'd be dead already so either I had something they wanted or they weren't intending on killing me. I'm guessing soon as they get what they want then I'm gonna be dead. Had to figure out where I was but more importantly how to get loose. I didn't want to die today. I heard voices in the distance and a scuff of boots on the floor. It smelt like dust and salt, suddenly the hood was yanked off and there stood some leather-wearing chick with a knife. Blinking I took in the other person... Palo. Fuck me. So he put shit together quick, they'd teamed up but I wasn't anything special just a fucking club prez.... but maybe they wanted something else. Clearing my throat I sat up straighter, important to stand your ground even when you're fucked.- ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Rosa: I typed the address into the GPS and pull out onto the road. I could almost hear #Angel's teasing for using the thing. Why he wasn't answering the phone? Why none of the other guys answer their phones? Did the VM get them too?

I worried that something would happen that we wouldn't make it in time. That a cop other than Franky Rogan would be working the highway on the way and I'd have to drive the speed limit. My foot pressed harder on the gas as every bad thought raced through my head.

"It shouldn't be too long before we get there," I glanced in the rearview making sure I hadn't lost Juice. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Juice: Juice kept safely close to the van. Speeding up and weaving between cars that got in the way. Splitting between lanes to keep the van in my sites.

She couldn't fathom how Tommy Montez got himself tangled up in this but a reckoning would happen when #Chibs or #Jax found out what was going down. Her gut went back to the times she was tempted to do shit that would get her ostracized from her club. But she found her way back.

She only hoped that the trust she'd damaged with them was completely lost. Maybe saving this Mayan King would make everything right.

Or at least right-er. ::::::::::::::::::::

Rosa: "Angel and EZ left yesterday on an Arizona run," #Hank told me. I let out a sigh of relief. Most of the guys were accounted for. I didn't want to lose another family. Not like this, and not at the hands of a fucking lunatic.

The club didn't fill me in on everything but I knew from the way #Taza spoke about this El Palo person he wasn't someone you'd want to meet in a dark alley alone.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins as we got closer to the Reservation. Fear and nerves all rolled into one. I knew that I'd have to get my hands dirty. And for the Mayans, the men who'd become my family, I'd gladly drag myself through the mud for. ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 EZ: •The sun and heat were brutal. Sweat ran down his back, shirt sticking to his body. It wasn’t going to get any better. Hand resting on his thigh, between his legs. It still felt good to be out on the road.

Movement caught his eye, following Angel to the rest stop. He kicked the stand down. Turning off his bike and shutting it off. Taking off his helmet, he swung his leg and got off his bike. Taking out a bandanna and wiping the sweat from his face.

Watching Angel, his brother was pissed off, if the words that flew out of his mouth, were anything to go by. He grabbed two bottles of water. And walked to follow Angel, as his phone went off. He dug it out, but couldn’t see a damn thing. Stowing it back in his pocket. He started walking again. Catching up the Angel, handing him a bottle of water.• What’s got you pissed off? •Ez, twisted the top of his bottle and drained half of the water. The cool water rushing down his throat.•

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Angel Reyes: Fuckin' phone shut off it's hot. I had texts and missed calls blowin' it up till it shut off from the heat. -Washing his hands he took the phone out and laid it on the back of the sink hoping the shit would cool off and turn back on.- You got service yet? I got a bad fuckin' feelin' can't shake it. Lately, the only luck we have is /bad/ and that delivery just went too damn smoothly.

 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Palo: •Palo, stood as he stared and Bishop. It had taken awhile but now he would pay for what he done, or rather had done. It took great effort not to slit his throat. After shooting up Grandma's party. He might not even remember it. Though today he would remember. Through his screams and blood he would. If it was the last thing he did. And then he would kill him and toss his body. With a nod of his head, the cover was ripped from his head. He relished in the shocked look on his face. He almost cracked a smile on his stone face. He gave a nod and the woman stepped back. Palo was all that Bishop could see. He wanted him to only see him. He knew who he was, he knew just how fucked up he was as well. He stood and studied him a few moments. Letting Bishop’s mind wonder and go crazy as to why he was here. After he felt enough time had passed. He spoke.• “Tell me Bishop, why do you think you’re here?”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Bishop: -Sinking feeling, "El Palo" had a reputation for being absolutely ruthless. From previous experience knew he could not be trusted and he'd kill pretty much anyone without a second thought. Bishop took a deep breath, this crazy mother fucker was gonna kill him and they both knew it.- I'm here because of your lack of honor. Your club started this shit, then you made a deal with the Sons... Your guys are /dead/ because of /you/. You wanna try to spin this shit and make yourself feel better go right ahead but we both know the truth. You didn't even have the balls to fuckin' call me out. You took the pussy way out and pulled this shit. So go ahead and get it over with but I can promise my /guys/ with hunt /you/ down and once they do well it will make whatever you do to me look like a toddler party. 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

EZ: •He dug out his phone, showing him a black screen.• I got shit. •taking another drink of his water. He had learned to trust Angel when it came to this. If he had a bad feeling, then there was bound to be something up. Nods• I say we need to get back to the club as as we can. •he walked over and took Angel’s phone. Grabbing some paper towels he wet them until they were damp. Ringing out the water, he let the cool paper towels help to cool his phone.• But we’re still a good ways away. This might help and get your phone back on.

 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Angel: -Leave it to EZ to think up shit, Angel watched and nodded. Carrying the paper towel-wrapped phone outside he got on his bike and started it up. About to roll back the phone started dinging like a son of a bitch again, he covered the screen with his hand to be able to read shit.- Son of a bitch... -Raising his voice of the rumble of the engines.- Bishop's been grabbed, Juice has a lead on his location! Haul ass! -Angel texts @HackerSister. "We're on our way, bout an hour out."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Angel: -Adrenaline pumping the roar of the motorcycles killing any real thoughts for now. Everything had been leading up to this point. With each notch in the chain, he knew that they'd end up in serious shit. Too much had happened not to. Side glance to EZ before opening up the throttle, they'd be there very soon and some assholes were going to pay in blood for missing with Bish.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 EZ: •Ez, ran to his bike. Shit had just hit the fan. Bishop, had been taken. With the bike roaring to life, he peeled out behind his brother. With a twist of his hand, he pushed his bike, it teased with the line of pushing too hard. Angel had been right, things had been going too damn easy. The other shoe had dropped. And fuck they weren’t there to even stop it from falling. Pure rage boiled the blood the coiled through his veins. They had messed with the wrong fucking MC. Meeting his brother's gaze, he nodded. Bodies were going to be hitting the floor. We would paint the streets with their blood

 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: 

El Palo: •He let him talk. No emotion showed on his face, even though anger and rage boiled his blood. He should just slit his throat and get it over with. He was tired of hearing the asshole talk. In his eyes, Bishop was nothing, nothing but a bug to be smashed under his. He had killed his own blood. Make no mistake Bishop would fear him. He could sit there, trying to look proud. He might even give him credit for doing it. A humorless chuckle fell from his lips.• You think I care about your /men/. •hard eyes meeting his.• Let them come, let come and face El Palo. I’ll be their worse nightmare. Just as I will be yours. They will be buried right beside you. You can have that one comfort. •without a second thought. His fist came out and landed hard onto his face. Rearing back again he landed even harder. The crack of bone under his fist, the warmth of his blood coating his fingers and splattering his face. Vision turning red, letting his anger loose. Every hit that landed made him crave more, and more he gave and gave.•

 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Bishop: -Nose broke for sure, blood running from his mouth and nostrils he couldn't register exactly the hurt because the crazy fucker was still beating on him. Head snapped one way and the other. His chest hurt from the blows and every time he went to get another breath he was hit again somewhere in there, his noggin was hit one too many times and he blacked out. Slumped in the chair, blood dripping down and soaking into his shirt he was out cold.-

 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Rosa: I was a nervous wreck, pacing back and forth beside the side of the van. I probably checked my phone a dozen or more times seeing who was coming and how far they were away "Calm down, cariña," Hank says, "They're coming." "I know," I tell him, "I can't help but worry. It's my thing. Especially when I don't know what the fuck is going on," I couldn't let my mind wander to the what ifs. Cause I had ideas how bad they could get. And the longer we waited the more things started to pop in my head. "I'm gonna need you all to distract me cause if you don't I'm imagining all kinds of horrors happening to him. And it does not do anyone any good if I'm all panicky."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Juice: Juice watches as Rosa paces. She never had anyone she was committed to like that. She had the club. She had the patch. But she didn't have someone special that she'd do anything for. Never thought about it really. But she could see what caring about someone did to a person. How it made them feel when you didn't come home. So Juice wasn't sure if it were better that she didn't have someone or not.

"Shouldn't be too much longer."

 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: 

Angel:  -Angel took the turnoff and geared down as he got closer. Rolling up to a stop his first thought “How bad is it?” his second thought was “What the fuck is Rosa doing here?” Killing the engine he got off his bike. Helmet came off and he looks at Hank.- What the fuck happened?

 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

EZ: •Ez, followed his brother. Even at this speed, it wasn’t hard. His mind racing as they pulled in and parked. Slipping off his helmet. He looked at all who were here.Fuck, Hank was going to get his balls cut off, for Rosa being here. Swinging his leg, he got off his bike.  walking beside Angel. This was a mess. Why in the fuck would Hank even let Rosa out here. Shaking his head, as he pushed his hands into his pockets. Focusing on Hank, the question fell from his mouth.• Why do you have Rosa out here? Bishop will have your balls.  

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: 

El Palo: *The fucker was out cold. With only pissed him off. His knuckles bloody and bruised, but he felt no pain. He looked around to the few men that stood around watching on. His face showing no emotion, he spoke evenly and calmly.* Wake his ass up. *he didn't care how it was done, he just wanted that shit done. His right hand stepped forward, with a blow torch, El Palo smirked. The only sign that he was enjoying this. The man stepped forward, as the bright blue and red flame burst from the nozzle. Bending down he ran the tip of the flame along the tip of his fingers. El Palo crossed his arms and watched on. Waiting for the asshole to wake up.* 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Bishop: -The temporary reprieve was over quickly, heat sparked up his nerves and caused him to jerk away blinking and confused. His face beat to hell, he was trying to figure out what was going on when his eyes blurry as they were registered El Palo standing behind his torturer. He leaned forward mumbling and as the guy with the blow torch leaned in he head-butted the bastard hard as he could. Rocking forward he got to his feet and lunged at El Palo still tied to the chair. They crashed to the concrete floor and Bishop tugged at his restraints trying it get free. The chair had broken and at least one hand was free. Grabbing him by the throat he squeezed trying to kill the insane bastard.-

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: 

Rosa: I felt my heart relax a little with the sound of approaching motorcycles. They meant we could finally get a move on and get to Bishop. I knew from the look on all their faces they didn't think I belonged here. And in the pit of my stomach, I knew that too. I should be back at the clubhouse wiping of the bar waiting around for them to come back. Instead of putting myself in the line of fire. 

I hated feeling like I had to explain my presence so I didn't. "Let's go," I swung the door of the van open and climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine. 

 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Juice: Juice hangs back a little watching the Mayans pull up. She still had no idea why Tommy would be involved in this. Or what the fuck all of this was about. It wouldn't take much to launch things back into a war with the Mayans again. One that they'd fought so hard to get out of.

She didn't want to be caught in the crossfire if a war broke out. But she knew sure as fuck that Chibs didn't sanction this shit. Not kidnapping a club President.  

Juice wasn't about to step in the middle of Mayan business as she watched Rosa climb into the van. There wasn't time for that now. 

 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Angel: -No one was talking much he shook his head and grabbed an AK from the van and loaded it. Grabbing a couple extra clips he put it in a duffle and picked up a handgun.- I dunno about you fuckers but I'm going about Bish, anything gets past me kill it. -Heading towards the back of the building looking for a way in that wouldn't give them away or get them killed. Crates were stacked up and a fire escape ladder led to the roof. He doubted these fuckers were thinking about full building security so he went for the high ground and started climbing.-

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

EZ:  *The thought of Bishop, hurt, taken or worse killed. Didn't sit well with Ez, as didn't no one saying a damn thing. First his brother Angel, had brought him in, then it was Bishop that took it up. He wouldn't let anyone hurt his prez or anyone he cared about. The women shouldn't be here. It was dangerous for them. Flickering his gaze to Angel, he wasn't going to ordered around by anyone other then his prez. But hell if he was going to let his brother, go in there alone. He would always have his back. Follow suit, he grabbed his hand gun, checking it to make sure that he had enough bullets, slipping it into the waist band of his jeans. He nodded to his brother.* "Right behind you." *He held his own AK with the butt nustled against his shoulder. He watched his brother climb. Eyes turned and scanned the area around them. Ready to kill any that would take out his brother. Nothing would get past him.*