#for the record i tried again and only sam responded

[changeishard]

had to drink mayo in front of the Mayonnaise Haters™ and

lol

seb didnt have a reaction though so i tried getting closer to him to see if it would do anything and

yeah. oops lmao

[leah-lover]

Closed for maintenance . Leah Williamson × reader

Reader embarks on a new journey with a new club. Part 1.

My day started out like any other in the past 4 weeks. The beeping sound of my alarm wakes me up, I dread the thought of getting up even though I still do, I get my shit together, I leave for training, come back a few hours later and go to bed early.

My days have been blending in ever since that heart shattering break up. However, today had a little twist to it. As I was leaving the gym to go to the physioroom I got called into the Manager's office. Upon getting in, the coach said “hey, so I called you here to let you know that we are going to transfer you. You have been an absolute killer for our team. You will always have a place between us. The thing is your dynamic with the team has been off which has been causing some tension. And the best thing I thought to do was to transfer you this January.” Shock couldn't describe the state I was in. Running on autopilot, I got out of the coach's office, got my things and departed home without talking to anybody, which has been my pattern this past month.

My head was in the clouds for the entire drive, and when I got home I threw myself on the coach and started sobbing. About 20 minutes later I called my best friend the only person I trusted more than anything.

“Hey are you okay? The girls are worried about you, tell me what is going on please”said kristie with a worried tone

“Well tell Sam and the team not to worry anymore. Emma has decided to ruin my life and get rid of me. I won't be at Chelsea anymore. I am basically fired.” I replied, now more angry than sad.

“What the hell are you talking about? Are you transferred where? when? How ? Are you okay? Did you tell her?.” She asked.

“I think it will be announced tomorrow at the meeting. I don't know anything kristie Chelsea is home. Niamh is home. I can't live without them.” I replied, memories of Niamh and I fludding my brain.

“Sure you will. I love you bubs no matter where you go.” She said, “Me too buddy, me too.” I added, sadness creeping into my heart again.

—-------—---—------------------------------------

It has been an eventful week. It was announced that I would leave Chelsea for Arsenal. The topic has been the talk of the town. From newspapers, Instagram pages, fans on Twitter, Arsenal fans were excited to have me. However, Chelsea fans were bitter I was let go. Most of the mean comments were directed at Emma and Chelsea which I thought was fair. I was the leading goal scorer in the WSL and we were on a great track record to win the league again.

I got a new apartment, and a new car. I tried to begin again. A clear slate and a focus on winning with my new team, the gunners.

Today was the first day of practice. The girls are really nice. This team, this family, seem really gelled together and they seem to start getting me out of my dark hole.

“Hello you.” Said Beth, “I hope you are well and I well we want to let you know you are very welcome and we hope you have a great time with us here.” she added. “Me too “ I responded.

__________________________________

It has been over 2 months since that last interaction with Beth, who I can call my best friend now. Her, Steph ,Katie and I have been inseparable. Arsenal have been on a winning streak since I got here. I seem to enjoy the way they play and interact with each other.

The player I enjoy hanging out with the most is my second Captain, which I can never fully admit.

Leah has been fun, heart warming, safe and a friend and a good one. I can't let whatever is happening affect my career again. I dated a teammate before it ruined my career, or so I thought.

“Ladies, how are we feeling about a party? We won again thanks to wonderful strickers. Let's have a party, we deserve it.” Said Katie on the bus. Shortly after a plan was made.

We went to a bar, we drank, sang, danced, and it was that time of the night where I got hungry for warmth. Human connection however unmeaningful. So I kissed the first girl I fancied.

That's when I felt a hand separate me from the girl and drag me outside.

“You are drunk, let's go home before you do anything you will regret.” Said Leah with an angry tone. “ Let go of me, I am lonely. I need this, please let go.” I pleaded with the alcohol affecting my judgment.

“ You are a fool if you think I would let you put yourself in danger. You are important to me, you should know that. Now let's go.” She ordered.

“ I am not going anywhere with you, you are not my girlfriend.” I protested.

That's when she pulled me in for a small kiss. That felt reassuring but not abusive of my drunk state.

“ You are not kissing anyone or going anywhere tonight. Home it is. Now stop complaining and get in please.” She said with a pour on her face. I did as she said, my mind still on the feeling of her lips.

This is going to be a lot to unpack in the morning.

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

Not a thot but a question, do you have any headcanons for Frank/Matt/Bucky?

Ohhh yeah I have a few. Thanks for your patience, I wanted to respond to this when I could sit and think and type everything out on my computer, not on my phone. Normal HCs at the top, spicy stuff below the cut.

Matt

Okay so I had this friend in highschool who was beyond disgusted by peanut butter, no allergy just totally hated the stuff. Like wouldn't kiss his girlfriend if she'd eaten it recently. I feel like Matt has an extreme food ick like this. Def not peanut butter but something like olive oil maybe? With his sensitive senses he gags when he even gets a whiff of whatever it is.

Speaking of peanut butter, I think it's a food staple of Matt's. The man can't take care of himself, so cooking full meals is just not a thing for him. So 2AM, back from patrol and he needs something to eat. Matt just eats PB straight out of the jar with a spoon like I did for meals in college.

Frank

Loves karaoke. Well, used to when he lived a more normal life. I don't think he sings amazingly well, but he doesn't care. He plays guitar obviously and Col. Shoonover mentioned his impressions skills, so that all concludes me to the fact the Frank likes to sing. He sings to himself/along with the radio when he's driving by himself between jobs. A lot of John Denver and Elton John.

For a holiday/birthday/anniversary gift one year he absolutely recorded Maria a CD of him playing and singing a few of her favorite songs. He'd probably do the same for you too if you were dating.

Bucky

Has a bit of a video game addiction. He was so fascinated by Stark tech at the fair, that I imagine he loves learning about everything that has come along since, but really got hooked on video games. I'm thinking your standard XBOX, Nintendo or Playstation games like the MLB/Baseball game and the Mario collection. Not big on first person shooter games like Call of Duty cause he's lived it obviously. But he can literally spend hours playing like FIFA or something. Absolutely gets on live to play with Sam, AJ, and Cass all the time.

Spicy Thots under the cut, 18+ please, I tried to keep it gender neutral in terms of x reader

Matt

Is really touchy during sex and also not during sex. Since the visual stimulation of sex obviously isn't there for him, he makes up for it by always having to be pressed against you fully or by having hands roaming and groping everywhere.

But also not during sex he's always grounding himself to you by being pressed as close to you as possible. Only time he isn't is when he's in a Matty Mood™ and feels like he doesn't deserve you or you deserve better or whatever Catholic guilt BS he tells himself. He gets over it eventually.

I feel like he likes really intimate sex but also is really playful during it as well. We saw a glimpse of this in She Hulk but I also think his just generally flirty demeanor hints at this. I'm talking like does things to make you giggle in the middle of sex.

Man also has a bit of a breeding kink. He's absolutely not ready to be a parent because his life is in shambles and as much as he loved his dad, he did not have good parental examples in his life, but regardless of his partner's gender or bodily anatomy, he likes the idea of filling you up, knocking you up and having that claim on you. I'm again blaming the Catholicism somehow.

Frank

The eye contact during sex!!!! Dude lost his whole family so anything good in his life he is afraid is going to slip away so he treasures it and takes it all in. We saw this during S2 with Beth but yeah, big guy just loves to watch every facial expression you make during sex.

He's also just really tender in bed. He's not big on kink stuff but will try it if you want but just wants to feel really connected during sex. He's mostly serious in bed but in a really beautiful and intimate way.

Mostly groans and grunts but loves to thrown in a "c'mon baby girl/boy" and begs for "just one more for me"

Bucky

I wrote a whole spiel about my Bucky bedroom hcs, but here's some more.

Of the three, I feel like Bucky is most playful and open to new things in bed. I don't think any of them are open to a full on Daddy kink, dom-sub kind of play but Bucky is the most likely to lean into elements and try things. After his time being under someone else's control I think he likes to feel a little in control, especially of his own body and sex life. But again, not fully into that type of dynamic. Like he might like to boss you around a little or call you dirty names in bed. Afterall, 1940s Bucky was a total flirt and very smooth with the ladies, so it stands to reason in bed he'd still bring some of that out.

[nhlclover]

concussion protocol | matthew knies

summary: you are entrusted to take care of your boyfriend after he suffers a concussion during a game.

request: yes / no

warnings: none

a/n: hate that he got injured and i hate it even more that there was no punishment for sam bennett

word count: 0.7k

The first night with Matthew in concussion protocol was alright. He was pretty worn out from the game and slept almost immediately after you got home.

It was the morning that was proving to be difficult. A creature of habit, Matthew immediately went on his phone after waking up, only to have it ripped from his hands when you spotted him.

“No phones.” You reminded him, setting his phone down on your nightstand.

Matthew groaned in response, putting his pillow over his head. “What am I supposed to do to entertain myself?” He asked, his voice muffled underneath the pillow.

“There are so many things you can do that don’t involve screens or anything strenuous on your eyes.” You told him. “You should be taking this time to relax.”

“I don’t want to relax!” He groaned. “It’s the middle of the playoffs, and I have a fucking concussion.”

You sighed. You felt for your boyfriend who was taken down in the second game by an opposing player, ultimately winding up with the diagnosis of a concussion. Although it sucked that the concussion was ultimately going to take him out of the playoffs for a few games, you were glad the diagnosis was being taken seriously, meaning he could recover completely.

You reached over, lightly running your hand over Matthews right bicep. “I’m sorry baby.” You say.

Matthew sighs, removing the pillow from his head and looking at you. He grabs your hand, raising it to his lips and pressing a lazy kiss to your knuckles.

“How about I make us breakfast, hm? You can stay here and relax.” You suggest.

“You’re amazing.” Is what Matthew responds.

You take that as a yes, sliding out of bed and heading to the kitchen. You settle on making breakfast burritos, preparing them for the two of you. As you head back to the bedroom, deciding to serve it in bed, you hear the familiar sounds of hockey.

You open the bedroom door, seeing Matt with his laptop on his lap and highlights from last night game playing on the screen.

“Matt!” You scold.

“What?” He asks.

You set the plates down on your side of the bed, taking the laptop from your boyfriend. “I literally just told you no screens.”

“No, you said no phones.” He says.

You give him a pointed look, putting his laptop on the dresser. “Eat your breakfast.” You say, a hint of anger in your voice.

Matthew looks at his plate momentarily then back at you. “Sorry.” He mumbles.

You chuckle lightly. “I just want you to get better as soon as possible, Matty.” You say, sitting down. “Concussions are serious and I know you want to get back on the ice as soon as possible. I’m just trying to help you with that.”

Matthew leans over, peppering your face with kisses. “Alright, alright. Eat before it gets cold.” You say.

You and Matthew eat breakfast, then decide to head for a walk around outside in order to rid him of some of his boredom. Toronto was now nearing the end of spring and the temperature was heating up, meaning the sun was strong. In order to not strain his eyes, Matthew donned a pair of sunglasses and a ball cap.

That occupied a few hours as you stopped at Starbucks and a record shop.

However, when you returned home, Matthew's boredom returned and his symptoms began to worsen. As he laid in bed once again, you got him some pain meds and an ice pack for his head. You laid beside him, music playing softly from your phone.

A sigh escaped from his lips. “Can I get you anything, baby?” You ask him.

“A new brain?” He asks.

You laugh at his request. “Not sure I can do that.” You chuckle.

“Worth a shot.” He says.

Matthew lifts the ice pack off his eyes and looks over at you. “You know, there is one treatment we haven’t tried yet.” He says.

“Hm? What’s that?” You ask.

“I read somewhere that a way to treat a concussion is for their super sweet, awesome, pretty girlfriend to give them a back rub.” He says, hesitantly.

"Oh yeah? Where'd you hear that?" You ask him.

"...WebMD?" He answers, hesitantly.

"Right super credible source." You laugh.

"So how about that back rub?" Matthew asks.

You sit up, scanning his face. He wore a cautious look as he awaited your response. You chuckle at him, a smile spreading on his lips.

“Take off your shirt babe.” You say. He does so gladly as you grab your moisturizer from the bathroom.

[monstermoviedean]

yes you're getting the full scene dialogue. because here's the thing. you can talk all you want about how dean treats jack in 13x01-13x04, fine, whatever. dean didn't cope well during one of the worst periods of his life. but this? this is a genuine moment of care. i'd argue it's the first genuine moment where someone (besides the sheriff in 13x01) takes care of jack when it has absolutely nothing to do with his powers.

dean was just talking to sam about retirement, about getting out and not having to be responsible for the world anymore. and yet when he walks past jack's room and hears him shouting, he runs in to try to help. he tells jack he doesn't have to apologize (good) and then expresses genuine empathy by talking about his own nightmares. when jack says he wasn't strong enough, dean tries to steer him away from that because it's a dangerous line of thinking he knows well. he tells him it's not about being strong. then he acknowledges that he doesn't know what jack went through, and validates that it was extremely difficult and scary (to put it mildly). he uplifts jack's strength while also emphasizing that individual strength isn't everything. that it's how you act and react and how you respond to mistakes. and then he wraps it all up by reminding jack of those that can support him, their combined strength.

they don't get to have real closure on this conversation because sam walks in with news, but it seemed to help jack somewhat. and again, this has absolutely nothing to do with jack's powers. it's not about getting his nightmares "under control" so he can do more magic. it's about helping jack understand what he's going through and helping him get through it. is dean saying the things he would have wanted someone to say to him? sure. but that doesn't make the support any less valid. dean is still trying to take care of jack for no other reason than jack deserves to be cared for. and no one has really done this for jack so far.

who are the other candidates for taking care of jack? well, kelly wanted to for sure. it is difficult though because she obviously can't be there for jack in real life. i don't want to discount her importance but pre-recorded vlogs are not the same as actually taking care of someone.

for the beginning of s13 sam is interested in what jack can do for them. he is interested in jack's morality to the extent that he wants to make sure jack doesn't turn evil, but mostly he's interested in jack's powers. he tries to help jack learn how to use his powers because he specifically wants to use jack's powers to open a rift and get mary back. when dean says sam wants to use jack as an interdimensional can opener, he's not wrong. sam tries to train jack with no regard to how it makes jack feel. jack feels like a failure when he can't move the pencil, and sam doesn't do much to comfort him about that. he says they can pause their training until sam comes up with a better idea, but all that means is that it's still on the horizon. jack is still going to be waiting for the day it starts up again. the nicest things sam says about jack are that he's not evil and that sam believes in him. when jack confronts him about the can opener line, sam doesn't deny it and doesn't apologize for thinking it. he only apologizes for not telling jack that's what he wanted. none of this is actually caring for jack.

cas wants to take care of jack! for sure! they only get like 1.5 emotional scenes though, both in tombstone. one in which cas says he's sorry for not being there, he believes in jack, and kelly would be proud of him. and one in which cas urges jack to keep fighting, to try to be better and do better. he suggests jack's killing of the security guard was a mistake from which he can recover. he's trying, but it doesn't actually make jack feel better. and all of this is underwritten by the fact that jack showed cas paradise, and that's what gets cas on board the jack train.

once jack is in apocalypse world, mary is all he really has. and mary's not exactly the touchy-feely type. she definitely does care about jack, but pretty much all their conversation are about his powers and war strategy. she isn't really tending to his emotions, though she does want to keep him out of harm's way.

lucifer pretends to take care of jack for his own ends. i'm confident about crossing him off the list.

tl;dr. it's a good speech. good job dabb. dean cares about jack and he shows it by tending to jack's needs as a person. it's one of the only conversations anyone has with jack that isn't 1) about his powers or 2) about the context of the world. it's a fantastic moment of genuine empathy. dean is good at this.

[incesthemes]

heyy! thank you for the tag--i did this one last week but i am SO excited to see some of your wips!! 🧸 and 🤨 for the ask game, please! <3 -lizzy

(honestly they all sound so good i will take any/all you're willing to share!!)

omg two of them!! thank you so much, i appreciate you 🥰🥰🥰

brother, father, son:

“I’m okay with this, you know.” And this, too, is a repetition, a broken record stuck on loop until it’s just white noise in the background of Sam’s nonstop panic. He tries to remember how many times Dean has tried to reassure him, in some sort of twisted self-flagellation, but he loses count sometime after fourteen because then he looks over at Dean again and it’s all so uncomfortable. He’s at least a head shorter than Sam—sitting down, at least—and a hell of a lot thinner. “We can’t hunt like this,” he says, and when Dean rolls his eyes it’s a clench in Sam’s gut instead of a familiar, brotherly ribbing. “We’re not on a hunt,” Dean says with well-worn patience. “We’re going home. And when we’re there, we’ll figure it the hell out. Okay?” Sam blows out a thick, heavy breath and doesn’t respond, and after about fifteen minutes of insufferable silence, Dean drops the needle on his record player and starts all over again.

sam is weird about his brother:

Dean’s aim has always been better than his. It’s no secret, and it’s no wonder, either—Dad keeps him locked up in motel rooms flipping through thousand-page tomes while he and Dean actually gets to go out and kill the thing they’re hunting. Sam might even envy Dean, if that weren’t drowned out by his fatigue and frustration. As it is, it’s just a detached observation that only really serves to explain why Sam is bleeding right now and Dean isn’t. Sam missed his shot, and Dean had to save his ass again: a typical Saturday night for the Winchester freaks. “I gotcha,” Dean says, throwing himself onto the floor where Sam is clutching his arm and groaning miserably—loud enough for the ghost to hear his complaints, wherever the hell it ended up—and pulling him into his arms. “How bad is it?” Sam stifles a groan and slows his exhale in an attempt to control the pain. “We’re talking Black Knight, at least.” “Well, at least you’re a trooper.” Dean rolls his eyes and pushes Sam off of him again. “‘Tis but a scratch, dude. Get up already.” It hurts considerably more than he’s letting on, but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna let Dean coddle him when he was the one who practically begged to come on this hunt.

✨️ send me an emoji and i will write 5 sentences of that fic ✨️

[lovemewednesdays]

jamie tartt needs a hug (a missing scene).

Jamie was exhausted as he opened the door of the clubhouse. Training was brutal today, and he was being totally honest, Little Jamie still hadn't fully recovered from the fucking red string incident.

"Roy fuckin' Kent, man," he muttered to himself. "Fucking sadistic bastard."

He was looking forward to getting to his flat, opening a nice bottle of red, soaking in the bath, and maybe ringing his mum before going to bed. He used to go out after trainings. Not anymore. The four a.m. wake-up calls were hell without a good eight hours. Fucking sadistic bastard.

He looked up from his phone when he heard a throat clear.

It was Sam's dad. He was exactly like Jamie always pictured him, warm and inviting. Always ready for a laugh or to give some hard truths when you need it most. Now he knew where Sam got it from.

"Mr. Obisanya," Jamie said, doing his best to make a good impression. He didn't have the best track record with father figures.

Mr. Obisanya smiled and waved the phone in his hand a bit. "I just got off the phone with my wife. She wanted to make sure I arrived in one piece."

"That's nice. Me mum always worries about me traveling, too. It's...nice." Jamie bit his lip. He felt like a knob.

The older man just smiled again – it was funny, seeing Sam's smile on someone else – and held out his hand. Jamie took it. "You must be Jamie."

"I am, yeah."

"Samuel has told me a lot about you."

He tried his best to hide his wince. "I'm sorry."

"What for? My son says you are a very talented player. And a valued teammate and friend." Mr. Obisanya arched his eyebrows. "People are allowed to grow, you know. And it seems like you have."

A feeling like pride grew in Jamie's chest, and he immediately tried to tamp it down.

"Am I wrong?"

"No – no, sir. If you don't mind me sayin'. I don't think you're wrong."

Mr. Obisanya's smile doubled. "Good. I don't like being wrong. The only time I'm wrong is when my wife is right." A booming laugh followed, and Jamie couldn't help joining in.

"Well, I won't take up any more of your time. I watched all of you young men on the pitch today," he shook his head. "I do not envy you. It was nice to finally meet you."

"You as well, Mr. Obisanya. And please let Sam know that I'm here if he needs anything."

Mr. Obisanya tilted his head a bit. "You are a good man, Jamie Tartt. I am glad my son has someone like you in his life."

Completely unsure of how to respond to that, Jamie just nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing, and turned away.

As he walked to his car, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had forgotten something. That something was missing.

He chalked it up to exhaustion and drove home.

The feeling stayed all through the match with Arsenal – thank God he was able to say something; he was going to fucking lose it otherwise – and even as he in the rest of the team made their way to Ola's.

It was only when Mr. Obisanya – Ola, he told everyone to call him Ola – saw Jamie sweeping up glass and took him into a big bear hug that reminded Jamie of warmth and comfort and family and love, and then asked after his mum, that the feeling went away.

[maple-the-awesome]

We'll Meet Again...I Know When || Chapter 31

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x GN Reader

Words: 2,745

Overview: Given your old-fashioned personality and obsession with all things 1940s to 1980s, it’s no wonder that most people refer to you as an ‘old soul’ who would’ve rather lived back then than in the modern era. Little do they know, you already did, but with your previous life as Hollie Stark cut short, you’ve been left with some…unfinished business, to say the least. Top of your list? Finally getting to marry your thought-to-be-lost fiancé.

Series Masterlist 🤎 Marvel Masterlist 🤎 Fandom Masterlist

CHAPTER THIRITY-ONE: READ THE ROOM

If you had known it would have resulted in you having to work with Bucky and Zemo, you would've never opened your door for Sam. Despite how civil you're trying your best to be, a part of you wants to slap them both for different reasons, although if thinking more rationally, Bucky's only crime against you is breaking your heart by turning his back and walking away without so much as a goodbye. Zemo, on the other hand, tried to frame Bucky for the UN Bombing, traumatized your nephew by showing him a recording of his own parents' brutal deaths, and ultimately tore the Avengers inside-out. Needless to say, you're having a really difficult time so much as glancing at Zemo's smug face without wanting to fulfill your previous promise to break his nose, and it's not like he's doing much to save himself from receiving that fate either.

"So, what's with the frosty air between you two, hmm?" He gestures between Bucky and you with the champagne glass his butler hands him, his eyes flashing with mischief as he takes a drink, "Now that I think about it, I don't believe I've seen you say a word to each other this entire time. It would be a shame if you've broken up. You were quite the 'couple' last we crossed paths."

You do your best not to give him the satisfaction of your attention, continuing to watch out the jet window instead while spinning your ring which is the only distraction you unfortunately have during this long flight. While you may hide it well, it does hurt to know Zemo's words hold truth. Bucky has barely said a damn word to you since the apartment, purposefully going out of his way to avoid even addressing your presence despite being on this whole mission together. Hell, so far he's been more willing to respond to the criminal who terrorized him than the person who used to be his fiancée...Did you really hurt him that bad to somehow be worse than Zemo?

"Where are you taking us?" Thank God for Sam who has proven himself to be the only person on this trip you can stand to be around. Reading the jet's rigid energy, he's quick to try changing the topic, yet Zemo refuses to address his question right away, taking his time setting down his drink in exchange for picking up the book that has been balancing on his lap.

"...Sorry -" He 'innocently' pretends to have only just heard Sam, "- I was just fascinated by this. A lot of it's scribbled out, although it seems to be an important letter; a heartfelt one, from what I can make out. 'Holiday Edwardine -"

By the time you zoned in to your name being mentioned, it was instantly cut off by two steps - two heavy footsteps before Zemo was suddenly pinned back against his chair, his neck trapped in Bucky's gloved hand which doesn't show much restraint with its iron grip.

"Touch that again and I kill you," Bucky's voice is a whispered threat, yet still heard throughout the dead silent jet as no one does or says anything about his unexpectedly aggressive behavior. Even Zemo only responds with a short nod and a quiet gasp for air once Bucky finally removes his hand, allowing him to breathe easy once again.

Ripping the small notebook from his hands, Bucky shares a quick glance at the shocked expressions Sam and you wear before returning to his seat wordlessly. You follow his movements, watching as he awkwardly pushes the notebook back into his coat pocket while shifting his head towards the window as if he can feel your burning stare.

Zemo clears his throat, giving off a tone that some might believe to be genuine, although it loses its effect on all of you, "I'm sorry. I understand that was the name of your late wife. As for the list of names on the other pages - people who you've wronged as the Winter Soldier."

"Don't push your luck," Bucky grumbles, again shifting in his seat as if doing so will somehow get him further away from this situation.

You want to ask - to reach your hand out for his and gently question what's wrong. You knew Bucky must still struggle with parts of his part, so you're not surprised that the Winter Soldier's victims would remain on his mind, but Hollie as well? He should realize by now that you don't blame him; you've insisted it enough times. He knows you're alive and well in this life, so he doesn't have to let any guilt about what happened weigh him down...but you keep your hands to yourself instead of saying a word of it aloud, looking down at your lap as you decide it isn't your place to press anymore, after all Bucky made himself quite clear earlier that he doesn't want you worrying about him.

"...I'veseen that book before. It was Steve's. When I told him about Trouble Man, he wrote it in that book. Have you listened to it? You like it?" Sam breaks the silence, once again trying to turn the conversation towards one he hopes won't start a fight. Little did he know that he'd be the one to partake in the next bickering session because of it, not convinced by Bucky's claims that he 'liked' the soundtrack. Even Zemo would agree with Sam that it's a masterpiece, yet that would be the extent of their common ground.

"You must have really looked up to Steve," Zemo takes the conversation away from movies and music, deciding to tip-toe over the line of what's acceptable to say and what will get him punched, "I realized something when I met him for myself - that the danger with people like him is the very way we put them on pedestals, idolizing them as storybook heroes and symbols of hope until we become blind to their flaws. From there, wars begin, cities fall, innocent people lose their lives...You remember that, right? As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad 'icon'? Now, do we really want to live in a world full of people like Red Skull?"

"Steve was a pretty far cry from Red Skull, though," You point out, speaking for the first time since boarding this jet which brings Zemo's attention from Bucky to you, "Let's not forget that super soldiers aren't inherently corrupt. You can see it anywhere with shitty people being given power useful for their own benefit. It doesn't necessarily take super powers, just an escape from accountability that goes to your head. That's why Steve was so carefully chosen - Why Dr. Erskine didn't simply hand off the serum to the first fit soldier to cross his path. He picked the little guy from Brooklynn because he knew that's who would fight for what's right, not for his own interests."

"And I couldn't agree more. Steve Rogers was a unique exception, but how many people are you willingly to bet will follow in his footsteps? Certainly not those 'Flag-Smashers', I would think," He has a point you can't argue against. Steve and Bucky are good people who didn't let their superhuman abilities change that, and while you're sure there are more people like that out there, it isn't safe to just cross your fingers hoping they'll be the ones who come across any super soldier serum circling the globe unmanaged, "That's why we're going to Madripoor."

"Yeah, I have some questions about that. What's exactly the deal with Madripoor? You keep talking about it like it's Skull Island or something," Sam asks.

"It's an island in the Indonesian archipelago. In the 1800s, it was known as a pirate sanctuary," Bucky explains distantly.

"But it's kept its lawless ways since, which means we can't simply walk in as ourselves. Three people associated with the Avengers would only cause unwanted attention, perhaps a few bullets sent our way," Zemo swirls his champagne glass in hand as he eyes Sam and you, "You both will be easy enough to conceal, although I'm afraid James will have to become someone he claims to be gone."

You glance at Bucky who stiffens, only sparing a quick glare at Zemo then back out the window. You can't say the idea sits well with you either...

When Zemo said Madripoor is 'lawless', you expected something like Hell’s Kitchen or Detroit, but this is far, far worse. The streets are literally packed with crime, every corner having someone who casually stands around with a large gun in hand while every shop specializes in illegal goods. A few steps out of the car and you felt as if you had just walked straight into a GTA game on steroids except unlike a video game, none of you have extra lives to spare - Well, you might, but you're not quite willing to part with this one just yet.

To avoid looking suspicious and getting shot for doing so, you have to put full faith in Zemo's plan, something you never thought you'd have to do ever. Admittedly he seems to know what he’s doing, although you would complain that he's being a little too cheerful while doing it. Not once did he flinch when all eyes focused upon your group as you entered the Brass Monkey Saloon nor did he hesitate to introduce Sam to the bartender under his temporary identity as 'Smiling Tiger'.

You feel for Sam, especially when forced to choke down a drink made of the fresh insides of a snake, however your pity must wait until later because you have your own role to strictly stick to here. A humble and forgettable assistant, you're to remain silent yet observant while accomplishing whatever small tasks are ordered of you (not that you plan on doing any more for Zemo than required for this act). It’s annoying, but easier than drinking snake guts, so you're not about to complain.

You had noticed when entering the saloon that several patrons have taken special interest in Bucky, their whispers once again meeting your ear as you wait for Sam to gain the courage to finish his drink, however you try not to concern yourself with. In any other environment, you'd be ready to pick a fight with anyone bold enough to start gossiping about the 'infamous Winter Soldier's' presence, but here and for this mission, Bucky's past is exactly what you need people to pay attention to.

You can hear Sam gag quietly after the bartender finally walks away, hopefully to set up a meeting with this 'Selby' person Zemo says can provide you guys with information. In the meantime, you look up and manage to catch Bucky's eyes only briefly before they dart back to watch the other patrons. You roll your own eyes and find somewhere else to look since even undercover in a crowded bar, it seems he can still find time to be mad at you.

Suddenly, Bucky stands straighter and grabs your wrist, giving it a slight tug that moves you subtly in his direction. You would've wondered why if not for immediately feeling the presence of someone else walking up behind you. Turning around, you find a man has squeezed his way out of the crowd to where he now stands practically toe-to-toe with Zemo.

"Got word from higher up. You ain't welcome here," The man threatens, although despite his attempt at intimation, Zemo hardly does more than blink.

"I didn't come here for business with the Power Broker, but if he insists, he can either come to talk to me..." With a smug undertone to his voice, Zemo trails off while gesturing to Bucky who has already let go of your wrist, but only in exchange for having a hidden hand hovered over your hip to keep you close in front of him, "...Or bring Selby by for a chat."

The man seems to size Bucky up, and since you’re standing between them, it feels as if he’s also looking you over, however if he wonders who you might be or notices that the ‘Winter Soldier’ seems awfully protective over you, it goes unsaid. Sparing one last hostile look at Zemo, the man disappears back into the crowd, allowing you to let go of that breath you’ve been holding and for Bucky to remove his hand, "'Power Broker'? Really?"

"Every kingdom needs its king."

Surveyingthe crowd, you notice several men beginning to slowly surround your group. You keep your eyes trained on them, your hand cautiously lowering to your belt where you keep the taser you had stubbornly refused to part with earlier. Whether he saw the concern on your face or sensed the approaching goons for himself, Zemo pushes off the counter and locks eyes with Bucky, "Zimniy Soldat…Ataka."

Just as one of the men places a heavy hand upon Zemo’s shoulder, Bucky swiftly pushes you behind him before grabbing the man’s hand, twisting it until it snaps, but he doesn’t let go, instead forcing him to walk backwards until at the center of the room. There, Bucky goes head-to-head with him and all his little buddies who decide they might actually stand a chance against a super soldier.

If anyone hadn’t been paying attention to your group before, they’re definitely not missing the show now. The crowd watches in awe as Bucky easily beats every fool who swings a punch his way, doing so with little emotion written over his face; the complete opposite of how Sam and you observe the chaotic scene in front of you.

"Didn't take much for him to fall back into form, did it?" Zemo leans over to whisper to you, his comment being one that will boil your blood if you think back to it later, but for now, you’re too focused on Bucky.

You can hardly stand seeing him fight as the Winter Soldier like this, even if it’s just pretend. He can handle himself, you know that. He’s within control and doing this of his own volition, but that doesn't mean he should have to. You know this is hurting him inside, only serving as a cruel reminder for what he once was. It’s torture to see and recognize that hidden pain in his eyes as he slams one of the men onto the bar counter, keeping him trapped there all by the strength of a single hand crushing his throat. You might not be a mind reader, but you can guess what’s going through Bucky’s right now: how many people has he done this to without control or mercy? How many people has he actually killed using the same method?

Sam also shows his concern over how far this has suddenly gone, especially when the echo of guns’ cocking becomes impossible to dismiss. He places a hand on Bucky’s arm, however he’s called off by Zemo who’s quick to remind you both through whispered breath about the risks of losing character now.

“Molodets, soldat.”

Selby will finally see you. Your efforts of concealing your identities and that little ‘show’ Bucky put on has won you another step towards finding the super soldier serum. That should be a good thing that takes some stress off your shoulders, but it doesn’t.

Bucky’s expression is frozen in a blank stare, his movements almost automatic as he simply lets go of the man and lets him slide off the counter. Somehow his breath is louder in your ears than the mumbling of the captivated crowd - a crowd you almost completely forget about.

“...Hey, you okay -?” You whisper, reaching to touch his arm as has always been habit for you, however you instantly retract your hand when Bucky jerks away, his eyes once again only briefly meeting yours - this time with an emotion you can’t quite put a name to - before he roughly pushes by to follow Zemo.

Your hand feels stuck in the air until you awkwardly lower it and bite your frowned lip. There’s a burning in your eyes and an aching to your soul, one you fear might become too obvious if you let yourself dwell on it for too long, so you suck it up and trail after the others all while bitterly electing to ignore the way Sam watches you sympathetically in your peripheral vision. You're thankful he can’t ask with everyone else around. It’ll hurt less if you just don’t think about it.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

<- PREVIOUS CHAPTER

[coro-chan6]

Somehow Supernatural

Chapter 4: Something New in the New

Summary: Casey gets threatened with death, but gets to leave with Crowley, so it's fine.

Tags: teen!oc, gn!oc, superpowered!oc, Winchesters being assholes, Castiel being the voice of reason, Dean pissing himself, demon dogs, crying

Sam told me to sit down on the couch and not move. Of course, I didn’t move. He was shoving a fucking angel blade in my face. He looked so angry, and his anger didn’t simmer when he saw my scared shitless face. It didn’t even simmer when Dean and Castiel came into the room.

“They're a monster, Dean,” Sam told his brother right as he entered the room. Dean didn’t look angry. He just looked disappointed.

The older brother sighed, “Guess I really do have to kill them.”

“No!” Castiel and Crowley yelled out.

I would have protested too, but I was so fucking scared. It’s no fun being on the bad side of the Winchesters. For the first time since this whole thing started, I really just wanted to go home. The only thing that was scary back at home was grades. No one was trying to kill me there.

“What do you mean no?” Sam’s head snapped to Castiel, “This is what we agreed on.”

“You can’t kill them,” Castiel moved so his body was blocking mine, “I won’t let you.”

“Neither will I, by the way,” Crowley stepped up next to Cas, “They’re special. They're not just some low-level demon that I’ll allow you to kill off.”

“So, they’re a demon?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Crowly responded honestly.

Well, that was really reassuring. The fucking King of Hell couldn’t figure out what I was, the Winchester brothers wanted to kill me, and I was freaking out. It was too fucking early for the shit.

“They are not a demon,” Castiel finally decided to say something, “They are not a monster. They are, however, something very powerful-”

“More of a reason to kill them!”

“Do not interrupt me, Dean,” Dean looked taken aback, but stayed quiet, “They may be powerful, but they don’t know how to use this power. They are as harmful as a paper cut. They are also a child. You will not kill someone that is innocent just because they have powers that they weren’t aware of.”

“You’re telling me they didn’t know!” It was Sam this time that yelled.

Castiel stayed calm, “No, they didn’t know. Look how scared they are.”

The angel moved over slightly so the brothers could get a good look at me. I don’t remember when it happened, but tears were now on my face. I was trying to make myself as small as possible as if that would keep me safe, and, again, I had no idea what was going on. They could probably see it in my eyes.

Castiel was now fully back in front of me and I was grateful. Not to sound like a broken record, but I was so fucking scared. I looked over to Crowley and saw he was already looking at me. If I wasn’t hallucinating, it looked like the demon felt bad.

“...so we’re not going to kill them,” Castiel was still talking, “We can take them somewhere else, but we’re not killing them.”

I heard huffs of agreement before Castiel moved from in front of me. I saw Sam and it looked like he felt pretty guilty for almost shanking me. He couldn’t meet my eyes. Dean just stared at me like he was expecting me to do something bad any second.

Crowley didn’t move from his spot in front of me. I didn’t mind, but I think others had something to say about it.

“Why are you still standing there?” Dean asked. His eyes were accusatory.

“The dog is in front of me,” Crowley stated casually.

“What dog? There’s no dog, Crowley.”

“Oh, squirrel,” the demon smirked, “It’s a demon dog,” Dean took a huge step back and almost tripped on his own feet, “You of all people should know that they’re invisible.”

“Why…” Dean's face looked as white as a sheet, “Why is there a demon dog in the bunker?”

“Casey asked.”

Dean’s eyes snapped to me. Really? Did Crowley really have to throw me under the bus like that? Right after they agreed not to kill me? Dean looked too scared to be mad, but he still tried. 

“I was curious,” I mumbled.

“J-just get it out of here!” Dean squeaked.

I frowned. One of those big frowns that looks cartoonish.

“Crowley?” I started.

“Yes, child?”

“Could you please make Steven leave?”

“Steven?” Crowley lifted his eyebrow in amusement.

“Yes, Steven. Steven the demon dog. The right-hand man of the King of Hell himself,” I snorted and then started laughing hysterically. I started laughing so hard that more tears ran down my cheeks. Not because of fear this time, but because I named a fucking real-life demon dog Steven.

“Casey is in shock,” Castiel stated.

“Yeah…” Sam muttered guiltily. 

Crowley took out his whistle after staring at me like I was crazy and blew. I felt fur brush across my ankles before the demon said that the demon dog was gone. 

“Now,” Crowley said, “I think it would be best if I took them.”

Sam and Dean looked like they were about to protest, but Crowley gave them the ‘talk to the hand’.

“From what I saw, you can’t keep them safe. If anything, you two idiots would be the ones to kill them, and I will not let that happen. So,” Crowley wiped nonexistent lint from his suit jacket, “They should come with me.”

“Cas?” the old brother asked the angel.

“For now,” Castiel took a breath, “I agree with Crowley.”

“Great! Now go get your stuff, child.” Crowley waved his hand in the general direction of the bedrooms. The thing is, I’d never been to my room before. Remember? I slept on the fucking couch.

“I, um, don’t know where my room is,” I twiddled my thumbs.

“Right, these pigs made you sleep on the couch,” the King of Hell sneered.

“We didn’t-”

“I found them asleep on the couch. You made them sleep on the couch,” Crowley snapped.

“I will lead you to your room. You can get your clothes,” Castiel offered.

There was no chance in hell that I was gonna get more clothes like the ones I had on. I would rather sever my fingers with a plastic knife before wearing these rags. Seriously, who picked these abominations?

“If clothes are all I need to get from there… I think I’m good,” the angel tilted his head in confusion, “The clothes probably look like shit or they’re flannel. I’m not wearing either of those. I have pride.”

Sam and Dean looked offended, but I didn’t really care.

“Crowley can get me clothes that don’t make me wanna wash my eyes with bleach,” I turned to the demon in question, “Right?”

He sighed, “I can.”

“Great! Then, I’m ready to go!”

“Alright, child. Out the door then.”

“You drove?” I was surprised. I thought he was gonna teleport me out of here or I was gonna find out that he had wings. Plus, I had cars in my own world. Riding in one now is so fucking lame when there’s supernatural shit that can help you travel.

Crowley scoffed, “Of course not.”

Crowley and I were at the top of the stairs when I decided to acknowledge the men - and angel - I was leaving behind. I wasn’t very fond of Sam or Dean right now, but Castiel probably saved my ass today. He saw something in me that made him want to spare me. Something that he didn’t see in whoever occupied this body before.

I turned and smiled, “Thanks, Castiel. Hope to see you soon.”

The last thing I saw before the door closed was Dean and Sam looking like guilty little fuckers. They were enough dumb to think that after voting to kill me that they were gonna get a goodbye. 

AN: We're getting to the good part.

[longitudinalwaveme]

Voice Acting for Arkham Files: Flash Rogues

These vignettes, and, more specifically, the characterization of Dr. Hugo Strange, are based on the wonderful Arkham Files YouTube videos produced by Mr. Rogues.

Here's his channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCyxNOHiNclZlVpeRhYV2QRQ

Since I am a huge Flash nerd, I decided to use this idea as a jumping-off point to explore how the Rogues would respond to therapy sessions. Again, all credit to the basic format goes to Mr. Rogues.

I wrote this about a year ago, and now I am wondering if anyone would be interested in doing some voice recordings/voice acting of the sessions for the characters.

Here's the list of characters that I'm hoping to eventually cast:

Professor Hugo Strange: This is by far the biggest role, since he's in all the sessions as the psychologist. Strange has a German accent (it seems to fit the character), and he's generally calm and fairly soft-spoken. Strange is intelligent, and he's very good at his job, but there's an undercurrent of menace and obsession in his voice whenever he's discussing superheroes.

Captain Cold (Leonard Snart): Captain Cold grew up poor and relatively uneducated, and he doesn't try to hide it in his speech. He talks tough because he is tough, and those who don't know better might assume that he's a dumb thug. But nothing could be further from the truth. Captain Cold is very intelligent; he's very street smart and an excellent strategist. Bringing in some of the drawl that Wentworth Miller used when playing the character would be nice, but only if it doesn't conflict with the rest of your performance. Midwestern US accent. It's also worth noting that Cold has a tendency to drop the "g" sound from the end of words like "trying" or "calling".

Mirror Master I (Sam Scudder): Midwestern US accent. The first Mirror Master also grew up in poverty, but unlike Captain Cold, he's tried to drop some of the speech quirks that would identify his background, which he is somewhat embarrassed by. Sam is dramatic and prone to theatrics; he talks himself up and likes to present an air of being calm, cool, and collected. He's also a chain smoker (in fact, he's smoking through his whole interview), and, while he hasn't quite developed the horse rasp yet, that's something that should be reflected in his voice.

The Top (Roscoe Dillon): The Top is from the Midwestern US, like most of the Rogues, but he's desperate to sound intelligent and sophisticated, so he puts on a very posh accent that sounds somewhat like the "Transatlantic Accent" that's common in movies and radio broadcasts from the 1930s and 1940s. However, when he gets stressed, excited, or angry, his fake accent does slip a bit and he falls back into his more natural accent. He's also on the autism spectrum (like me), and due to this, he is excessive formal and grammatically correct in speech when talking to people he wants to impress (like Dr. Strange in this interview), since he hopes that this will help him avoid social blunders.

Captain Boomerang (George "Digger" Harkness): Like Captain Cold, Captain Boomerang grew up poor and undereducated, and he doesn't really try to hide it in his speech. Unlike Captain Cold, Captain Boomerang is from Australia, and his accent reflects that. More specifically, he has a "broad" Australian accent (the Australian accent that Americans usually think of when they hear "Australian accent"), and he uses a lot of Australian slang. That being said, don't play up the accent so much that it becomes a caricature. Throughout his interview, Digger is calm and relatively friendly towards Dr. Strange; he's not threatened by him since he's totally happy and content with who he is. Unfortunately, "who he is" is a thug and lowlife.

Weather Wizard (Marco "Mark" Mardon): Even though he was born in Guatemala, Mark came to the US when he was only a year old, so he probably has a Midwestern US accent for the most part. That being said, he does speak Spanish fluently, and since he grew up with parents who likely did have Guatemalan accents to at least some extent, there might be twinges of that in his regular speaking voice. Really, the most important requirement for playing Weather Wizard here is being able to speak Spanish fairly fluently. Other than that, Weather Wizard spends most of his interview in a heightened state of emotion (talking about his brother will do that to him); he's trying and failing to maintain his image as someone powerful and scary for much of the interview.

Heat Wave (Mick Rory): Midwestern US accent. Heat Wave has a very deep and raspy voice (in part because he's damaged his vocal cords due to a lot of smoke inhalation). He's friendly and affable, but he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and he knows it. He also has to start crying during his session, so being able to fake-cry with some degree of realism would be helpful too.

The Trickster (James Jesse): Since he grew up in the circus and moved around a lot, he doesn't have any particular accent, although he's an expert mimic of all sorts of accents. He's cheerful and mischievous, and he sees his interview as a game in which he can outsmart Dr. Strange. He's extremely clever and quick-witted, and he has a lot of energy.

Golden Glider (Lisa Snart): Midwestern US accent. Like her brother, Captain Cold, she grew up in poverty, but unlike him, she does make some effort to hide her background (though she might start sounding a bit more like him when she gets stressed). Her overall diction is probably a lot like the first Mirror Master's. Golden Glider has a very intense hatred of Barry Allen and an equally intense love for Roscoe Dillon. While she is very loyal to her friends, she is also terrifying when she's angry, and she is not nice. She also swings between being calm and being angry very quickly and with little warning.

The Pied Piper (Hartley Rathaway): Very upper-class, "posh" accent that he's trying to hide by adopting a more standard Midwestern US accent. His parents were millionaire publishing magnates, and this is reflected in the way he speaks. He's very passionate about helping the poor, but is otherwise rather quiet and soft-spoken (due in part to his extremely sensitive hearing). Pied Piper is also probably suffering from some level of depression in this particular interview, and that should probably be reflected in his voice.

Mirror Master II (Evan McCulloch): Working-class Scottish accent (more specifically, he has a Glaswegian accent). He's endlessly amused by the fact that Americans don't fully understand him and deliberately plays up his accent to confuse people. That being said, I don't want the accent to become a total caricature. McCulloch is a very strange man with a very strange sense of humor, and of all the Rogue, he seems to be the most out-of-touch with reality. He's generally cheerful, but is very dangerous when angered.

Dr. Alchemy/Mr. Element/Albert Desmond: Midwestern US accent. Albert Desmond suffers from a very fantastical, fictionalized version of Dissociative Identity Disorder. All three of his personalities have the same basic voice. Dr. Alchemy is quietly threatening; Albert is sad and horrified; Mr. Element is rougher around the edges. Dr. Alchemy is by far the least human-sounding of the three.

Zoom (Hunter Zolomon): Midwestern US accent. Zoom is prone to stretching out his vooooooowel sounds at random, apparently due to his ability to control his position relative to the timestream. He speaks very quietly and might have a slight rasp; his voice also echoes a bit. He's quietly but menacingly obsessed with his goal of making Wally West a "better" hero through suffering.

Professor Zoom the Reverse-Flash (Eobard Thawne): The Reverse-Flash is from the 25th century, so ideally he should sound somewhat different from the rest of the cast (since word pronunciations tend to change over time). He's pompous and dramatic ("HA-HAAA!!!"), but that doesn't take away from his menace.

The Flash (Wally West): Midwestern US accent. It's hard for me to not simply say "do Michael Rosenbaum's voice from the DCAU", but that's not fair to anyone, so instead I'll just say that Wally should be passionate, a bit hot-headed, and a bit sarcastic. He's a very good guy, but he's not at all happy with the fact that Dr. Strange is treating him like a criminal.

[thesinglesjukebox]

POST MALONE FT. MORGAN WALLEN - "I HAD SOME HELP"

You've heard of post-punk and post-hardcore; here's post-wallen...

[4.00]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: Chipper and catchy, the ideal PSA for male friendships based in toxic masculinity. Can't wait for "Teamwork makes the dreamwork/Hell, I had some help" to play at the cookout before the next insurrection while the bros believe in their hearts that they're the good guys!  [3]

Aaron Bergstrom: The "Blurred Lines" copyright lawsuit was a net negative for music as a whole. It was a cynical cash-grab, it was incorrectly decided, and it set a dangerous precedent for artistic freedom. On the other hand, it's not like people were lining up to defend that song, and there was a pleasant hit of schadenfreude in seeing a lowest-common-denominator vehicle for smug misogyny get its comeuppance, even if it was for the wrong reasons. So, all of that said, on the matter of "I Had Some Help": I'm not saying Tom Petty's estate should get involved here, but I'm not not saying that, either. [2]

Alfred Soto: I can't argue with the confidence of the verses -- that's how you drawl, kids -- and I admire the hint of ambiguity. Morgan Wallen's recorded enough songs in which he can't remember what he said and did before he passed out, what he's going to drink to help him recover from passing out, and the consequences of passing out too many nights a week; I can hear "I Had Some Help" directed at a buddy who let him down as much as at a woman, especially since in the male-male duet tradition he and Post Malone look like they wanna cootchie-cootchie-cool each other in the video. I don't need to hear it again, though it's not like Top 40 radio's helping. Sure hope Martha-Ann and Sam Alito spot the upside American flag in the video. [6]

Katherine St. Asaph: A breakup postmortem presented as an Am I The Asshole post that -- like many Am I The Asshole posts --  is noticeably vague about the specifics of the breakup, about what exactly "all the shit she did" was and how it supposedly counterbalances whatever shit he did. This isn't meant as moral indignation -- the song might well be better if it were more clearly an asshole's POV (and certainly more believable from Morgan Wallen). It's just hard to have an emotional response given nothing solid to respond to; the music certainly isn't contributing much there. [4]

Scott Mildenhall: How would America have felt if, on embracing DHT's "Listen to Your Heart", it had been rewarded with the lesser half of Clubland 4: The Night of Your Life? Delighted, if it had any sense -- wait til you meet Jurgen Vries! -- but you have to take things step by step. Hitting the rest of the world straight with this bottom-of-the-barrel bottom-of-a-bottle country is likewise something of a liberty. If it wasn't for the familiar throat frog of Malone, it would be the kind of wallpaper you can only buy at Home Depot. [4]

Jonathan Bradley: There are engaging stories to tell about two people who take one another to worse places than they could reach alone — John Darnielle has produced an entire song cycle demonstrating as much — but Morgs and Posty speak in such non-specific and evasive terms (count the clichés: throwing stones at glass houses, fucking “teamwork makes the dreamwork”) that I can’t trust them about the source of the toxicity in this relationship. That could well be the basis for a compelling dramatic irony, but it would also require a much nastier song than this breezy Tom Petty facsimile of an arrangement could tolerate. [4]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Real poptimism has never been tried; if it had, there'd be reams of essays about this track, a true mega-hit floating above all the various pop conversation objects of the late spring. Instead, nothing. No reflections on the grand symbolism of this link-up, no canny narrativization of the continued Post Malone country-turn, no long-form exegesis on Morgan Wallen's fraught relationship with rap music and his own proclivity for racial slurs, no pondering of the state of the charts. We've got a paragraph in the New York Times, a third of a Chris Molanphy article, a anti-Post jeremiad in Saving Country Music, and not much else. This ought to be the "WAP" of dryness, a discourse schelling point, but the commentariat has fallen silent. The obvious conclusion here is that there's nothing to say about "I Had Some Help" — that I've written 120 words of this review without talking about the song perhaps serves as useful corroboration. But that's not quite right; "I Had Some Help," like every one of the great blank chart-topping colossi that these two men have been responsible for, is full of interesting little details if you listen to it enough times— that little "Help!" yelped after the chorus, the surprisingly delicate mandolin and fiddle interplay on the bridge, the way that the two vocalists reach towards harmonies they can't quite nail by the last chorus. Do these details add together to anything of worth? God, no. Perhaps the most intriguing thing is comparing their two approaches as singers — Wallen continues his honking reign of terror, bulldozing those melodies and sounding less like the charming rascal the song wants him to be and more like your best friend's worst boyfriend, but Malone sounds more pitiful and beautiful, leaning on the fucked-up choir-boy warble that has always lent his music a certain pathos. I'd like this more if he didn't have the help. [3]

Ian Mathers: Two great tastes that taste great together! [0]

Taylor Alatorre: Rest easy, reader: our beloved Posty has not gone full Rock n Roll Jesus just yet. What he and Wallen have done is inadvertently craft an anthem that better taps into the mindset of post-Cold War conservatism than any tryhard harangue by the likes of Kid Rock or Jason Aldean. The duo breeze through the nominal relationship angst with such airy detachment that the song's pretext easily outstrips the text: this is little more than an excuse to bring together two imperial-era megastars and have them act out their dented masculine stoicism at the altar of Tom Petty. And wouldn't you know it, each of them happens to be repping a different red state milieu: Post from the affluent North Texas suburb that trended blue so much it had to be redistricted, and Wallen from the rural Tennessee outpost that was side-eying Democrats even before the Civil Rights Act. The result is less musical fusion and more Buckleyite fusionism, with each artist giving up a bit of their distinctiveness so the partnership can coalesce as smoothly and inevitably as possible. This might be a complaint if it didn't end up sounding exactly as seamless as intended, barring some tin-eared Wallenisms like "us a-crumblin'." Everything else is built along a frictionless straight-line path that offers little opportunity for resistance, which is fitting for a song that's essentially about passing one's agency into the hands of another. Post and Wallen want to take us along for a ride in which they too are being taken along by someone, or more specifically dragged under. "Help!" they numbingly shout at us from some unseen subterranean place, sounding at first like punctuation and only over time registering as desperation. There's a hard-to-explain thrill in watching these avatars of white America willingly make themselves into the subaltern for a few minutes, bemoaning their limited range of choices under the accumulated weight of history. Personal responsibility is an overrated concept, they imply -- finally, some bipartisanship! On the one hand, "I Had Some Help" is the cri de coeur of the anti-anti-Trump voter, the kind who has little use for the man except as a corrective lesson, a Mandate of Heaven against the haughty overreaches of the liberal elite. In Swiftie terms, it's "Look What You Made Me Do" for people who either write for National Review or drive lifted trucks. On the other hand, whataboutism is all-American fun; that's why Both Sides Do It™. "You blame me, and baby, I blame you" -- himbo insight, maybe, but ain't that really the truth, in a century where politics on all sides is less and less about improving material outcomes, and more and more about the proper rationing of sympathy and apportionment of blame?  A nation of stadium crowds, 30,000 apiece, all screaming along to a jaunty country rocker about the joys of denying one's own free will -- America, what a country!  [8]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: I cannot deny how propulsive the verses sound here and how much the song suffers when nobody is singing. And just as I’m about to give up on it, the two deliver a bridge that brings it all together. This would go so hard at a wedding — I hope I get to dance to this at one soon. [6]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[icarus-fli3s-high]

Gone (Maxwell Klinger x reader) [commission]

summary: you were once a great head surgeon, but when your camp is smoked out by chlorine gas your run for your life. The road leads you to yet another M*A*S*H and a man you will never forget.

warnings!!!: this is not fit for anyone under the age of 16 it has character death, depictions of nightmares and violence ad well as language, also kinda shit grammar ok very shit grammar.

word count: 7011

and now for your reading pleasure. Gone.

Heat beat down on me as I walked the long dirt road that would hopefully lead me somewhere. The summers in Korea were unforgiving, especially this year. I kept walking forward, never once lifting my head. What I wore blended me in better than any camouflage. I could walk for miles in a day, my record being around ten on foot. Sometimes I would take a horse or something else to get around, but today was not a day where I had that luxury. The more I try to put it all together the more confusing it all is to me, I don’t know how long I’ve been walking, just that I need to walk, keep pushing till you find a place of refuge. I had been stationed as the head surgeon of  M*A*S*H 3560, but that was gone now, flattened by the Koreans. I remember trying to tell my unit to leave because they had used a chemical weapon, but no one believed me, they all kept going about their days until we got grenades and bullets thrown at us. I remember the fight, shooting men whom I didn't know down at point blank. I took all of their dog tags, any water, food, med supplies, anything that would help me. Hell I’ve been walking this whole time with at least five pounds of ammo wrapped around me like a second skin.

After another moon I had made it to a road that looked well used. I followed it and what met me was a more than welcome sight. Another M*A*S*H sat before my eyes. Doctors and nurses bustling about with their lives, and I fell to my knees. “taing do na diathan”, I muttered again and again, “taing do na diathan”. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up into the face of a man with thick black hair and olive skin.

“Who are you?” he asked, helping me up.

“A forgotten soul”, was the only response my mind could come up with, “Alienated in this war”. 

“Well where’s your unit?” he tried again.

“Dead”, I said following him to a building, “My M*A*S*H was flattened”.

“God”, he said, clearly lost for words. An old man came out of the building and stopped dead upon seeing me.

“Klinger, who in the Sam Hill is this?” he asked, clearly american.

“I don’t know Connel she won’t tell me her name”, the man Klinger responded, “All she said was a lost soul”, with that statement a nurse and three doctors came towards us, bickering about gods know what. They stopped talking as they came closer, as they saw me.

“Oh lord, who is that?” I heard one tall man with salt and pepper hair ask.

“Y/N Ó Dálaigh”, I coughed grabbing onto Klinger’s shoulder as I doubled over.

“Jesus are you alright?” the blonde man asked, grabbing my other arm.

“I’ll be fine”, I smiled, slowly sitting down on a pile of crates with the two of them helping me, “just what happens when you have to run from mustard gas.” the group went silent as they looked down at me.

“Say Y/N what M*A*S*H are you from?” the CO asked me.

“M*A*S*H 3560”, I said, beginning to take my multitude of bullets and bags off. My hair stuck out more wild than it had ever been. “Can I make a call?” I asked Klinger, he nodded as the doctors began to speak amongst themselves. I walked into his office space, it was the first building I’d been in for a while. 

“Where do you need to call?” he asked, pulling the phone from its case.

“Soul”, I responded. He handed me the black receiver and waited until I picked up, “hello John?”

“Y/N?” came from the other end, “How are you calling from the 4077? I thought you were stationed somewhere else?”

“I was, but John it’s all gone. The Koreans flattened the place. The used mustard gas and then chlorine”, silence met me as I heard him take a long sigh, “I’m what’s left of the entire 3560”. 

“So now you’re at 4077. How did you get there, it's at least 50 miles?” I took a pause, i’d really travelled that far.

“I walked”, I whispered, “I’ve been walking the better part of three months I suppose”.

“Three months!” he sputtered at me, “You’ve been walking alone for THREE MONTHS?”

“Yeah and what of it?” I was too tired to fight with him, “I walked because that’s all I could do, there's no phones in the korean bush, it was me and the wild for three months this is the first time i’ve talked to people in those months”. I sighed, rubbing my forehead, “Do you want me to stay here or keep going?”

“Stay there”, he said, “Moving your station to the 4077 until you either get released or this damned thing ends”. I nodded.

“Alright”, I said, “Goodbye John, Stay alive”. WIth that I put the phone into the box and looked at the man sitting on the cot in the corner.

“Did they really use Chlorine?” he asked and I could only nod. We didn’t go back outside, instead the others came in. The woman, I would come to learn id Margret, was staring at me before she handed me a box.

“What’s this?” I asked opening it to see the necessities. Soap, army issue shirts, pants, a comb, things like that.

“We heard you would be staying for a while, there's an extra bed in my tent if you want”, Margret said looking at me.

“Thank you major”, I said, “but I’ll take one last night under the stars if that’s alright, besides the tents are  hot and sticky”. The blonde nodded and smiled at me. 

After rigging up what would most likely be my last hammock I decided to have a look around the camp. Hawkeye and BJ had taken my things to their tent for the night. 

“Less for you to worry about”, BJ explained. 

“Of course”, Hawkeye said, clapping me on the shoulder, “and the showers are just over there”. He turned my shoulders and I took my first shower in 3 months. The water felt better than anything I could’ve asked for, like angels kissing my skin and I cleaned the months of dirt away. I felt my hair slowly unknot and go back to its usual colour. I finally felt something that had left me once I realised I was alone- safety. For the first time in months I was safe and no one could get me.

After 20 or so minutes I finally emerged from the shower tent, clean and refreshed. It was dark out and the air had cooled off slightly making the night five times more liveable than in daylight. I laid down in my hanging bed and shut my eyes, ready for a good night’s sleep. 

I don't know what exactly woke me up. It could’ve been the click I heard or very distant shelling, but I woke up all the same. I felt like a child as I walked into the clerk’s office, ashamed of my cowardice. I’ve been through far worse and yet here I was silently crying at a desk and praying the owner didn’t wake up. I sat there with my head down for ten minutes, maybe twenty, it was hard to tell. But it was not long after I had seeked refuge that I felt a large hand on my back. I quickly wiped my eyes and looked up to see the clerk looking down at me with what, regret? Pity? Sadness? Sadness that he felt the same way, the same trapped perhaps? I will never know, however I do know that what he did next was the kindest thing anyone has ever done or will ever do for me. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” He asked, kneeling in front of me. I shook my head, “are you sure?” Then the strangest thing happened, I began to talk to him. 

“The shelling”, I began, interrupted by a hiccup, “I know they are far, but it’s like I can hear the boys’ bones breaking from here, that I won’t be able to fix them”. Max reached io and caught a stray tear with his thumb. 

“What do you want to do now?” he inquired, eating me with those chocolate eyes. 

“Can I stay here?” I asked and he nodded. 

“You can have the cot”, the man hummed and I shook my head, “no? Well why not?”

“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed Max, that’s just cruel”. And looked at me again, those kind eyes widening just a touch. 

“Then we share”, he smiled, seemingly pleased with his conclusion of the statement. His cot wasn’t as small as it looked. It might’ve been that I was malnourished enough, but we both fit like puzzle pieces. I laid stiff while he got comfortable, I felt like I was invading like he would be angry with me if I took up too much space. I felt an arm come over my side, “you Can take up space”. And that was all it took for me to release the breath I didn’t know I was holding and relax. I felt like a pool of water finally allowed to conform to my container. 

“Hey Max”, I said quietly, secretly hoping he was awake. 

“Hey yeah?” he said back. 

“Thanks”, I felt his hand squeeze just a little tighter and his face pressed into my neck. It wasn’t an alien feeling to me, I’d had boyfriends and girlfriends before, but this felt… well right. 

The next morning came with eggs and a side of wounded. I got up from the table and rushed to OR.

“Well miss Ó Dálaigh”, Potter said, “looks like we get to see your talent firsthand”. I smiled slightly at him and got scrubbed up and ready to go.  I got in OR and my first patient had practically a whole car in his belly. I flinched and began work. His dog tags gave me his blood type and I worked from there. Pulling shrapnel from the boy being careful not to miss anything. I was more careful than I’d ever been before. This man was walking on this ice. But he would pull through. 

After hours and hours of work it all came to a stop at eleven PM. I collapsed into the bench in OR feeling my body deflate. 

“Hey”, I heard someone next to me. 

“Hey Hawkeye”, I said. I let a heavy sigh escape and got up to go back to the swamp to grab my stuff. 

“I’ll join you”, hawk said following me. I smiled slightly and linked my arm with his, both of us had the front of our shirts covered in blood. 

“Gods this is going to be the best nap I’ve ever had”, I muttered, grabbing my things. 

“Just wait”, Hawk said, “more wounded will come before you know it”.

“I know it Hawkeye I know”, I answered, slinging my last bag over my shoulder. I made my way to margret’s tent and knocked on the door before entering. She wasn’t in the tent so I guessed she was in the officer’s club. There went my plans for the night. I decided that a walk would do me better than a drink so I exited the tent  and began to pace around the compound, eventually finding myself in storage. It was cooler in this building than any other, the ground was cold when I bent down to touch it. I smiled and made my way to the very back where there sat a couple extra cots, blankets and pillows. I pulled a small book from my pocket and began to write like i had every day for the past years, 

I didn’t ask for this, but here I am, stuck in an unfamiliar mash. I just want to go home. Out of everything I wonder what got me here. Why do I deserve this? To watch all of my friends die and my patients I worked so hard to save leave this world choking on their own blood. I never wanted to be here. I want to go home and forget this war.

I closed the book falling into a pile of blankets finally resigning to my body, I laid there for hours, but never slept. I watched the ceiling, my eyes slowly closing, behind them blasts of colour and shapes. I knew I was awake. It felt like my body was turning into the earth, like I was returning home, that after everything the earth would swallow me whole and hug me, hug me and tell me that it’s ok. That there was no war, that when I open my eyes I will be in my tent with Trist and John, that we will go back to making jokes about shrapnel and bullets. But there was a sinking feeling clawing at me like a cat at a door in the rain, all the memories i had were now stained red. I had been the first to evacuate. I had given the red flag and no one listened to me. The  sounds of their screaming filled my ears before it died and I opened my eyes, at least I think I opened them. But around me were all of them.

“You should’ve told us sooner”, trist said as his face began to slide off his skull.

“Y/N”, John cooed, “you should’ve done better”.

“We're all dead now because of you”, a patient sobbed.

“I’m sorry”, I cried, “I’m sorry”.

“Y/N you failed, you’re a failure Y/N”, Henry, my CO jeered.

“No”, I breathed as they all began to melt into a mass of a monster, flesh and blood began to form itself into a graveyard. An invisible force pushing me towards the mausoleum at the very end of the grass. “No no no stop im sorry im sorry STOP PLEASE”, i was begging for my life. There was someone shaking me and a very muffled voice calling me.

“Y/N, Y/N, Doctor?” it was quiet and then it became louder, “Y/N Y/N”, i felt my brain tear away and sat up and opened my eyes to a very blurry bright room, the lights were too loud. I covered my ears as I closed my eyes, trying to make the world quiet again. I felt someone begin to wrap around me, pulling me into a comforting warmth. Their hands pressed my head into their shoulder. I felt my heart begin to calm itself. The feeling of fabric against my skin grounded me. I opened my eyes and the room was still bright, but less so. The waves and crashes of people screaming and bombs going off had ceased. It had all been a dream, my brain making up stories to tell itself. I let a shaky sigh escape my body and looked ahead. The familiar face of Klinger looked down at me. He looked deep in thought as I slowly reached a hand up and pushed his hair to the side. He looked down at me and moved his hands to push me into him as he stood, outside the door I saw an unfamiliar face peering in at me. He had thick glasses and sandy blonde hair. Max picked me up and began walking to the door. The man on the other side watched in silent worry as we walked by. He made it back to his office, the blonde in tow, and set me on the cot.  No one had seen us in the dead hours of the morning. The man introduced himself as Father Mulcahy. He looked at me with kind eyes. I’d never met a priest before, so this felt strange to me.

“Father?” I said, “Father, what do you want from me?” and he looked at his eyes boring into the very nature of my soul.

“Are you christian Y/N?” he asked, “Or do you believe in god?”

“I am not”, i responded taking a short breath, “I am a nordic pagan”. He smiled slightly.

“Oh well, do you remember what happened tonight?” he asked as Klinger busied himself with papers. I did remember the nightmare, all of them screaming.

“I fell into a pile of blankets, apparently fell asleep and woke up feeling like I was dying”, I said and at this point someone else came into the room. Charles sat on an empty box.

“I'll sit in for Sidney till he gets here”, he muttered. They had called an army psychologist, probably a good idea. I nodded at him.

“What were you feeling?” the priest asked again, “When you woke up”.

“Well father, do you know what overdosing feels like?” I asked, “No, of course you don’t stupid question. No it felt like overdosing, but my body wasn’t on fire this time. The lights were still too loud and I felt my skin begin to crawl, but it wasn’t the same. It was like dying but in a way that makes you feel like you want to throw up and hide”. The priest began to look more and more concerned. “And yet there was an odd peace to it, if Max hadn’t come I don’t know what would’ve happened to me. I guess I could’ve died? Shut down indefinitely? I don’t really know myself”. There was a small silence and then Charles asked something I will never forget about so long as I live.

“So you’ve died before?” he asked and I smiled.

“Dying is the same as living to me”, I laughed.

“No, actual dying”, he said and I took a deep breath ready to explain everything he would need to know about my experience with life and death. 

The following weeks I was monitored by Korea’s favourite shrink, he followed me around all day until I ended up in the officer’s club. I sat at the corner table staring into the bottom of my drink wondering if I was going to drink it.

“You know the more I follow you the more interesting you become”, Sid said and I nodded.

“That’s what Hal said last time”, I laughed, “Called me a maniac for buying a cow too but here we are”. Sid let a small chuckle out. The sight of Hawkeye with one of the most atrocious hats on made my drink almost come out of my nose.

“Hawk, where did you get that monstrosity?” I asked giggles racking my body as Sid grabbed my stool to keep me from tipping over.

“BJ brought it back from Seoul for me”, he grinned as BJ clapped him on the back, I nodded stil trying to catch my breath.

“Well”, Sid said standing, “My jeep leaves tonight I think you are well on your way”. I smiled getting up to walk with him to the jeep.

“Your carriage sir”, Max said, opening the door.

“Max, are you driving him back?” I asked

“Nope I’m leaving it to this man he brought him here”, he grinned and followed me back to the club, stopping at the bar to get himself something. He came back to my table and nearly tripped over a stretched out Charles. I smiled as he took a seat next to me.

“Don’t mind charles, he had a long shift”, I smiled. Max sat down and like I had done, stared down into his drink. “Penny for your thoughts?” I asked as he looked up at me.

“Oh just thinking about when all of this is over”, he said smiling slightly, “Can’t wait to go home after all of this”.

“Yeah me too”, I smiled, “I just want to be back with the family again”, he raised an eyebrow, “I just miss my house and everyone”. He nodded.

“Are you married?” he asked and I was slightly taken aback.

“No”, I said, “haven’t found my one and only yet”. I poked him in the side, “What about you mr.company clerk what about your famed love life”. He chuckled slightly, rolling his eyes.

“I wouldn’t call it famed, unlucky maybe”, he gravelled. I nodded letting him go on, “Things fell through with the last girl and I've been in a rut”. I watched him as he kept talking, changing the subject to what he missed about home. I smiled as I heard how passionate about his hometown. It feels like forever since I thought about my life before the war, about the house with the perfect room for a piano, about the roommates that lived with me there in oregon. I missed the huge forest that surrounded the house. I felt my face begin to fall as he came to a stop.

“Hey what’s wrong?” he asked, clearly worried. I couldn’t have him worrying about me all the time.

“Nothing it’s not important”, I smiled, pushing the feeling of dread away from my body like the vile feeling it was.

“What was your life like before… all this?” he pushed and i swallowed the last of my whiskey.

“Quiet”, i whispered, “Well as quiet as it  can be with two roommates”. He laughed slightly. “We have this house in the middle of the woods a little ways out from Portland”, I sighed the memories flooding in, “My one friend, Ander, he’s a carpenter he practically built the place. I mean he even built an entire room for my piano”. Klinger smiled looking over to Father Mulcahy who was sitting at the piano. 

“How long have you been playing?” he asked.

“All my life”, I responded and followed his gaze. The piano in the bar was nothing compared to mine, “Given the chance I would show you what I've got back at home”. And he smiled. Klinger grabbed my hand and dragged me to the other side of the bar tapping the priest on the back. He smiled as Max told him about the piano thing.

“Well then show us”, the blonde said, getting up and relinquishing his seat to me. I sat down gingerly not knowing how well it would go. I felt eyes on me like I was trapped in a small box. 

“Come on”, Max said, putting his hand briefly on my shoulder. I inhaled a large breath and began to let my fingers dance across the keys. The melody gradually took shape as I began to add bass and tenor tones, the room around me fell silent as I let the chords dissipate and began the piece that had been itching at me. Clair de Lune. It filled the room in its soft glory, making some sway and others cry. It was times like these I had Ander. Aside from being a skilled carpenter he was also a brilliant violinist, a practical Paganini. The movement led me into starry night and then to finish it all, interstellar. The sound filled the room with the booming thunder of F G and A then the quiet lull of the arpeggios. As I finished I sat back looking expectantly at the room around me. It was quiet, then there was applause, applause like I’d never heard before in my entire life. I was loud and it was joyous. I felt numerous hands come and clap me on the back as I sat there smiling from ear to ear. 

“Well Padre, hard to beat that”, I heard Potter say from across the room.

“Indeed Colonel”, I heard the father say in return. I got up and went to the bar asking Igor for another drink.

“On the house”, he smiled and I went to hide in the back in my corner. I sat there for maybe an hour before Charles came to the back.

“Where did you learn to play like that?” he asked and I looked up, the alcohol making my mind partly cloudy.

“Well I was originally in college to get a degree in piano”, I murmured, “Otherwise I’ve been trained my whole life. All months of the year and sometimes in the dark quiet of winter the double bass”. Charles sat down as he began talking about his musical education. I nodded but wasn’t really listening. I was thinking about how the hell I became a doctor. After about an hour or two of listening to Charles and about 5 drinks Igor told me he was closing up. I got up and staggered out the door not knowing where I would end up and quite frankly ,I didn’t care. Maybe I would wake up and not even be in Korea. 

I woke up still in Korea, except I was in someone’s cot and it wasn’t mine. There was no one next to me and when I looked up I saw Klinger asleep in his chair. He was mumbling slightly and then there were little droplets of sweat rolling down his face as he twitched.

“Max?” I whispered, “Max?” I said it a bit louder. He jolted awake looking around frantically. “Max it’s me”, I said but it was like he couldn’t hear me.

“Not again”, he groaned. I slowly reached out his chair was just far enough. Carefully, I got up from the cot and grabbed the arms of the chair to keep it from rolling away. He was throwing his head from side to side and I had to find some way to make him stop before he hurt himself. I reached out and gently held his head in place. His eyes snapped open at the contact and he looked at me like he was a child caught stealing. Glassy dinner plate eyes looked up at me as he let out a shaky breath. His hands slowly reached up and held mine. “I’m sorry”, he muttered, “I woke you”. I let my hands fall to grab his sleeve and make him follow me to the cot. He fell into the mattress that sat there and I made him lay down.

“You didn’t wake me”, I said, running my  fingers through his hair as he laid his head down in my lap. I began to trace his features, I knew we would all be going home soon- we had been here long enough and casualties were going down, both sides were getting tired.

“What are you doing?” he asked as I ran my fingers down the bridge of his nose.

“Memorising you”, I returned and he smiled.

“Why? It’s not like I’m going anywhere”, he chuckled.

“That you know of”, I said, my hands returning to his hair. He let out a deep sigh, “Max the wounded and casualty numbers are getting lower and lower, soon they will stop and we will have to leave or they will get worse and we will be sent home in retreat”. I said, “In fact the later is the most likely”. He yawned as I was explaining.

“Once we get out of here I’m following you”, he said, “You still owe me a trip to see that house you always talk about”, his eyes were  beginning to close, “And the dogs, and the piano”. He was rambling now, his words failing him. “Stay”, he murmured finally. I smiled, but this time it wasn’t joy or love or anything like that. It was a broken hearted smile.

I stayed of course, I stayed and his arm was wrapped around my side like a safety rope. I wanted to enjoy this to just revel in the idea that I was here in utter adoration of the man next to me and that he felt the same way, after all he had just told me. But after this war? He had a family to return to and he had a life in Ohio. He had told me about it, I didn't want to rip him away from the place he loved so much. I took a deep breath relying that maybe we could stay like this forever, squished into his side on an army issue cot. He seemed happy with this, his nightmare kept at bay and I was ok with it. But we would have to leave soon. I didn’t want to think about life without BJ, Hawkeye, Charles, Margret, or even Father Mulcahey and the Colonel. I swallowed and dug my face into Max’s neck trying my hardest not to let the knot in my throat win. I felt a hand come up to my hair, I had woken him up. It was my turn to say sorry to him and try to just let him sleep. But the words never left me as the clerk lifted my head to look at him.

“Tell me what’s wrong?” he asked and I shook my head.

“It’s not important”, I murmured, “Go back to sleep”. He kept my face in full view of his.

“I know that look”, he said, his lip brushing the tip of my nose leaving butterfly kisses there.

“I was just thinking about when all of this ends”, i said quietly trying to hide any emotion in my voice. 

“Oh honey”, he murmured and kissed my hair, “If you’re worried about all these people and falling out of contact, we’ve been through too much to not stay in contact”. I nodded as he cupped my face. In the 7 months I had been there we had gone through the dregs of war and even then the first 4 or so years had been hell for my first unit. For four years and ten months I had been in Korea, for three months I walked alone for fifty miles, for seven months I lived with the kindest people I’d ever met. I had only gone back to my old unit once. Max, the priest, Hawkeye and I had all piled in, we saw what was left. It was nothing more than the bones of the OR and some supplies scattered. I could remember the feeling of seeing it as I laid there in that tiny cot. I felt like there was no hope for me, like it was seeing the remnants of it all over again. I want to go home but I don’t want to leave these people behind. All of my other friends are dead, and my brother god knows where he is. But I will pull through as I always do.

The day I found out where my brother was was single handedly the worst day of my entire life. I watched as the chopper landed, there had been another spike in attacks and he was one of the wounded. 

“I call him”, i said as I saw pierce rushing to him the same time I was, “Hawk please he’s my brother”. And he nodded, going to help another patient. I felt a pulse and felt nothing. “Come on Adam please”, I said then there was a faint thump. He was still alive there was barely any air coming from his lungs, he had a few broken ribs and a gash down the length of his leg, I wasn’t letting him die on me. I got into OR as fast as I could scrubbing and tearing on my gear.

I stood over him for hours, fixing everything I could, he had a punctured lung and a tear in the wall of his stomach. I was almost done when I checked his signs to see them deteriorating. “No”, I said, rushing to do anything I could, trying to blink fast enough to keep the tears away, “I'm not letting you die”. I checked again, his heart was getting slower and slower, the beats fading away like he was. I sewed up his chest and worked fast and faster on his leg, closing the wound faster than I had ever done before. It was closed and I went to check one more than the nurse grabbed my arm. There was no pulse. I waited but it never came. His heart stayed silent and I stopped breathing. He was gone. I watched with dead eyes as they took him away. The next boy was placed on the table in front of me. I kept him alive, and the man after him, and the next. Until boy number five when I was told that was the last of them. I sat there on the bench mask still on and scrubs still clinging to my body. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. Tearing the gloves off I raised my hands to take the mask from my face. I looked down at it, I couldn’t tell his blood from the others, I should be able to tell. He was my own flesh and blood damn it I should be able to tell it’s his. I felt two bodies fall on either side of me, one being Hawkeye and the other BJ, Hawk reached out and pulled me into a hug interrupting my thoughts. BJ let one hand rest on my shoulder as they both tried to tell me it wasn’t my fault. I just shook my head, refusing to cry, refusing to let it get to me. Eventually we all made our way to the mess tent, there seemed to be few people there so i was ok with going, BJ set a mug of coffee in front of me and I thanked him with a nod of my head. Max came in a little later and then Father. All of them were sitting with me silently. This was my silent vigil to him. Magret came in not long after we had begun to talk again. She wrapped me in a hug and just listened. The air became lighter and easier. We talked about family and things like that.

“You know I think that little bastard is how I ended up a doctor”, I giggled, “he was always falling out of trees”. Klinger raised his mug.

“That used to be me”, Hawk said, “Except I would also get stuck with fishing lures and things.

“Lord”, margret laughed, “You know I once fell down a hill when I was about ten trying to see if I could go down it”.

“Wouldn’t put it past you”, BJ said and I choked slightly. The conversation moved easily and eventually it moved us all to bed. I followed Max to the office and he picked me up, dropping me on the cot.

“I got a surprise”, he said going to a corner of his desk, “Look what just came in”. It was chocolate, dark chocolate. I felt my pupils dilate as I took the smallest bite.

“Where did you even get this?” I asked and he smiled, shaking his head.

“A magician never reveals his secrets”, he said and I was ok with that. “Now move over”. I went to my side of the cot after putting the chocolate into the top drawer of his desk. He pressed his face into my hair as he tried to get comfortable. I eventually pulled so his head lay on my chest, I felt his breathing slow and let myself go as well, into the dark place of my dreams.

I was right. All US bases, M*A*S*Hs and anyone else was shipped out. Packing was a mess, it was frantic, fast. We were all going to go south, not fly out of Seoul. I knew it would be better to fly out of Osaka or Fukuoka. We all were herded into jeeps and trucks after we had all finished tearing down camp. Hawkeye, BJ, Charles, Klinger, Margret, and myself were all crowded into the same truck. I looked at all of their excited faces and my own fell.

“Charles going to the UNited States?” Hawk was surprised he was in out transport. 

“Yes I might as well”, Charles smiled, “besides I’ve seen england”. I looked at Margaret who was talking to Father Mulcahy about something in depth. I could tell because her eyebrows were knitted close together and she was biting her lip. I looked to my side to see Max half asleep half listening to the conversations flowing around us.

“Come here”, I said and let him flop onto my shoulder. 

“Say Lietis, where is your neck of the woods?” Charles asked, looking at me and Max.

“Oregon”, I said, “the deep woods of Oregon”. He nodded.

“Are you excited to go back?” he asked and I pursed my lips slightly.

“I suppose, but it will be hard to get used to the routine again”, I smiled, “No curfew, just freedom up there”.

“Tell you what, you come visit Maine and I’ll come visit you”, Hawk said, handing me a slip of paper. 

“Deal”, I smiled, “BJ what about you?”

“Mill Valley California '', he smiled, “Right below you”. I grinned.

“I’m proud to say I’ve never set foot in Cali”, I grinned and he reached over Hawkeye to bump my arm.

“Well you should”, he said, “It’s very beautiful”.

“Y’all are too close to San Francisco for my taste”, I stuck out my tongue and he smiled. The rest of the ride was spent dozing or talking, Max slept through most of it, sometimes he would wake up to quip with Margret or someone and then fall back asleep.

“Klinger I bet you’re excited to go to Toledo huh?” Potter asked him from across the transit.

“I’m going to Oregon”, he said in a sleepy voice, “Toledo, sure I’ll visit but I need to get out more”. I snorted slightly as he situated himself.

“I heard it does wonders for your health”, Hawk jeered, laughing slightly.

“Charles you should visit”, I said, “We have a wonderful Phil”. His eyes lit up.

“Of course”, he smiled, “We should all set meeting points over the next few years you know, meet somewhere different every year or something”. I nodded.

“I agree”, Hawk said, “But before anything we need to visit Radar”. I was confused at who Radar was, sure I had heard about him a bit before but not much.

“Old company clerk”, Max mumbled, “Stand up kid”. I nodded and he once again was asleep. I smiled and soon fell asleep myself.

I woke up to Hawk threatening to leave me in the truck if I didn't hurry. We had made it. Soon we would be on a boat, then a plane, and then finally home.

The boat ride and the plane were a lot like  the car, all of us talking about what we were looking forward to once we got home. The ride overseas was around 17 hours and I felt myself nodding off around the tenth hour, I was forcing myself to stay awake, to keep talking to them.

“You know you can sleep right?” BJ asked and I smiled.

“Yeah but you guys”, I gave him a sleepy smile.

“Klinger come get your girl”, BJ called over and I tried to protest only to feel Max drag me into his chair. 

“Hush go to sleep”, he said when mumbles were leaving my mouth, most of them revolving around not being tired. But within minutes my world became black.

Once we landed in New York we all parted ways. BJ, Klinger and I all got on the same plane going west, Pierce Sn was waiting for his son and where the others went I would never know. Over the next few months Max settled in with Ander, Kris and myself. He was in utter awe of the mountains and the forest. Eventually the roommates moved out leaving me the house and what they left behind. It became the perfect place really. The stained glass windows and all of the secret rooms along with the library, we had done well for ourselves.

Just as Charles had accepted we had all been to see each other's houses over the years. I finally met BJ’s little girl and wife. We were the last to host. Our house was filled with laughter and banter, but one person was missing. In the corner stood a painting of Colonel Potter. I paused for a minute to look at it, his coat was draped over the wood frame and a bride hung off of the right top corner. I felt a lump form in my throat as a hand snaked its way around my waist.

“I miss him too”, it was Max. I nodded and pressed my face into his soft cotton shirt. Haw came and stood with us and then BJ followed by Charles and Margaret. Next was Father Mulcahy and Sid. We had gotten his address and asked him to come to the farewell party of a friend. The party had come to a halt all of us staring intently at the paint like if we looked hard enough he would back, but he never would. Father was saying some prayers and I said some of my own. To the Gods and to his God. I was happier than I had ever been at this moment, but it felt so incomplete. Even with the man to end all men by my side and friends I was ready to give my life for. We all stood in silent veneration as the front door opened and I felt everything become whole again. You see, it was the first time I met Radar. And he had more personal effects and stories about and from our fierce leader. I stood next to my husband and listened for hours. I was home and I was happy.

Not me ugly sobbing as I’m finishing this. It was a journey of my endangered soul.  Thank you all who read it truly means the world to me to see my work out there. Feel free to leave a comment or repost. Thank you and stay safe out there chitin. 

Always Yours

Icculus

[commanderquinn]

Good Space Chapter 2: Man On The Moon

! i dont! keep these posts! updated! like i do! ao3!

that means you're going to find typos and shit (and possibly minor detail changes) that don't match the ao3 version! that's because im not going to bother fixing the tumblr posts until i finish good space as a whole. im only uploading them here as a backup tbh

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master list / ao3 chapter link

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warnings: lotta swearing and usual heavy pstd bucky stuff. also!! im giving sam's story a little bit of author bias/culture venting. this wont read like canon FATWS sam, though i am trying to honor their show where i dont hate it. i love sam's journey to cap, even if ken doll was nauseating (whats funny is i didnt know his actor's name is wyatt until halfway through THIS chapter when i googled something. oh well lmao im sure he's a perfectly nice dude. the wyatt in this fic is My Baby) plus the trump era commentary was completely toothless imo. and the fact that james buchanan barnes acknowledged in episODE T H R E E of the series that he'd take the shield before letting it fall???? even through all his self-hatred?????? get the fuck out of here that desTROYED ME i hate this fictional man with a passion

song: this one's by kid cudi!! 🥰

its time for the l o n g i n g to start ❤️ grab tissues!! first biggie angst so i had to put it behind our resident teddy bear's pov 🥺 you KNOOOOW i had to finish up this update in time for stevie’s birthday 🥰

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October 3rd, 2015

Samuel Wilson was not disillusioned when he walked into his first recruitment office. There were no patriotic stars in his eyes, no lotto number clutched painfully between nervous fingers to drive his feet up to that kiosk. He wasn’t foaming at the mouth to earn career-establishing stripes in a timely fashion. All he had to his name was a high school diploma and twenty-three bucks in his pocket. He didn’t have any big dreams for the desert rocks to tear a hole through. 

Sam was a kid back then. One who wanted to build a life, and the GI Bill offered to make that happen. A solid, steady income with the vision of a college education somewhere on the horizon. Not a lot of other options for someone like him, no matter which familiar corner of the country he looked at.

It took a long time and the right partner for the Air Force to talk him out of his combat objections once the ANG got wind of him. He turned the experimental program down flat twice; Pararescue was his focus for a reason. They had to bribe him with cutting-edge tech and the authority to refuse an assignment just to get him to agree to a first flight. The words never found their way onto an official record, at least none he knows of, but Sam had relentlessly insisted that he wouldn’t be volunteering as the next Indianapolis. Getting pushback on that assertion was when the anger first set in. The first crack in the armor of his career.

There were a lot of better angels within the service; it took most of them to get him home, tape-free, after Riley’s death. By the end of it all, it felt like every last one of them was outnumbered fifty to one. Nothing felt right anymore, including the idea of leaving the family he found in the sand to fend for themselves. The only thing that felt survivable after the world finally stopped tilting was dedicating himself to the VA.

Living for the memory of the ones he lost helped him find other reasons to want to be a person again. From there, it was mostly helping other people find reasons of their own that drove him forward.

It’s why he’s willing to delve into some shithole facility in the middle of nowhere Russia for a guy like Steve Rogers. And, on some levels, he supposes, if he absolutely has to, for a guy like Bucky Barnes. Even if he is the grouchiest motherfucker on the face of the Earth.

The lumbering moron hasn’t said a word all morning, no matter what small talk Steve tries to open with. And he’s tried everything, ever since they landed. Sam’s responded to a few of the openings himself just to try to fill the silence. He hopes it’s helping. It’s been hard to get a detailed read on the other push-pop’s triggers so far. Steve hasn’t signaled for him to stop, so.

“Cryo is through here,” Bucky rumbles under his breath. They’re the first words he’s spoken since the Quinjet.

“How many should we be expecting?” Steve asks almost as quietly.

“How many people am I asking you to put a bullet through, you mean.”

Steve stops halfway through the door Bucky’s directed them to. “We haven’t decided if that’s what we’re going to—”

“Maybe you haven’t decided. I’ll do it if you won’t.” The former sergeant doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking, getting closer to the stocky metal pods.

Sam already hates this. He already hates this a whole fucking lot. Captain America coming to him with a request to take the headcase to Russia was always going to get weird; he knew that. But he’s been very clear on what he’s down for, and now they’re in murder and war crime weird. He’d like to start slowing down the crazy train—

Steve holds up his hand. “Bucky, listen, it doesn’t have to—”

“Fuck off. You have no idea what it’s like to sit in this hell. You two can wait outside if you’re so uncomfortable. I’ve got it from here.”

Mmm. That’s the voice of a guilt-ridden survivor. Sam recognizes it well. At least it’s giving him a bead on where today’s drive is coming from. “You mean the hell we pulled you from?”

Steve’s head whips around, with righteous, territorial anger in his eyes. “You’re right, Buck; we don’t. But—”

“But you don’t know what they want,” Sam forcefully finishes, staring back at Steve. He banks on the fact that, technically, they’re not really disagreeing. Steve’s trying to back him down, too, in his own way. “Taking away their chance at the same new life you’re getting isn’t—”

Bucky’s cybernetic fist comes crashing down on one of the corroded desks, making the rusted metal whine in protest, deforming to the shape of his fingers. “You two don’t fucking get it.” He turns, angrily tugging his hand back to his side. The assassin doesn’t advance, but his posture is more than ready for it as he glares at them with pure contempt. “You think you’re going to find people in those tanks—humans, with hearts and minds and hopes and dreams. There might as well be skeletons getting freezer-burned in those goddamn caskets because that’s the only salvageable thing you’ll find. You fucking—”

He laughs, the sound empty, and turns back around to send his fist into the side of the table, knocking it across the room. He doesn’t face them again. “You fuckers! You take a fucking look at me. Take a good, long look. I am half alive. I had a radiation-free knockoff keeping me upright through their bullshit. You wanna know what they had? Something that might as well have been piss mixed in some fucking snow. Worthless trash those Nazi bastards bottled up and stuck in a needle.”

“Bucky—” Steve tries to calm his best friend as the man’s voice breaks. Sam could tell him from first-hand experience how well that’s going to go over.

There was a lot of screaming in that desert. A lot of grief disguised as anger. A lot of old ideals leaving newly-shattered men one seething tear at a time.

“They were zombies by the time HYDRA was done injecting them. Do you get that? Are you two grasping the concept? They were rabid dogs I trained to respond to whistles. Rotting corpses that I taught how to aim. And that was before their brains shorted out on them. I looked into every single one of their eyes. I saw what looked back. Fuck species—what was in there was not fucking alive. Fuck you—fuck you so fucking much for even fucking suggesting I should leave them like that—like animated fucking cadavers—hooked up to some fucking machine just to breathe—”

“James.”

Bucky’s flood of words finally cuts off, and Sam isn’t sure if it’s because of the use of his first name or the way he swallows as if he’s choking. His flesh hand comes down on the back of the chair that started out tucked under the table. It keeps the guy upright while he pulls in a few breaths that look painful, even through the curtain of dark brown hair.

“Let’s see what’s what first,” Sam suggests as diplomatically as he can manage. He doesn’t take a step forward, mostly because he doesn’t see Steve take one. “Then we go from there.”

“You’re going to hate what you see.” Bucky scoffs bitterly. “You think you know, but you don’t. You’re going to hate me for bringing you here. For the rest of your lives.”

Steve moves forward, finally, but he stays a few feet to Bucky’s seven o’clock. “I’m not dumb enough to make you any promises about not hating what I see here. I haven’t even looked in one, and I already know you’re right on the money when it comes to that. But I can promise that you’ll always be wrong about me hating you for any of this.”

“So can I,” Sam assures. There’s not a doubt in his mind now that he understands where they’re at.

—

Bucky’s up at 0500. 

He hasn’t slept a minute later than that since the first night his body adjusted to New York’s timezone, no matter what hour he falls asleep. He doesn’t attempt more than upright power naps on away missions. They’re the only thing that gets him any rest outside of his room in the tower. 

It’s the same every morning. First, he works on his back, popping away the stiffness one awkward bend of his limbs at a time. From there, the extra thick comforter gets picked up off the floor, then the blanket and the lopsided pillow. They always get tossed on top of the bed he’s never used. Except on Saturdays, when he does his laundry. That’s when they get put in a basket to be taken to Natasha’s room. She won’t let him have his own washing machine until he starts using the bed.

So, every Saturday, he shows up with his little pile at 0800 because Natasha won’t unlock the door until then. A pillowcase. A blanket and matching comforter. Two shirts, usually henleys, five black tanks, and two different tactical pants. One pair of gloves. His singular monkey suit gets taken to the cleaners whenever he’s forced to wear it, which thankfully isn’t often.

His dress uniform hasn’t come out of the box Steve dropped it off in after getting it pulled from the goddamn Smithsonian. Bucky hasn’t laid eyes on it since 1943.

While he’s working his hair up into a serviceable bun, he thinks about Natasha’s recommendation to start braiding it before he sleeps. He doesn’t like the idea of something that tight sitting against his head, especially at night. Maybe if he lets his hair grow out a little more. He wants to keep the shoulder length it’s at now, though. It looks good on him. He wants to know what asking someone to pull on it feels like. Eventually. 

Online dating has been… overwhelming, to say the least.

He’s reaching for the medkit in the drawer under his bathroom sink when the mental image of Ava creeps in. He isn’t trying to blow off the hippie’s orders. Honestly, the thought of their deal hadn’t crossed his mind until he got to this part of his day. Resisting the urge yesterday had been difficult. He knew ahead of time that today was going to be much worse. It means pushing through a repeated break in his pattern.

That voice, the one that insists he should tell Steve to fuck off much more, rears its head. His flesh hand twitches with the reflex to finish his usual routine. To show up late to her office with some blase excuse about doing it out of habit. He could sell the lie without even trying. Entire countries have fallen thanks to his expertise with it. She wouldn’t have a shot in hell at knowing the difference.

He could work his way out of this with ease. Steve already feels guilty about making him pull a hard stop during his first visit, even if he won’t say the words. It’s the perfect opening to establish a line and push it away to give himself some room, one step at a time.

With a decisive flick of his wrist, Bucky shuts the drawer holding his medkit. For the second time since he was allowed to travel without a handler, he walks away from his morning routine without treating the cybernetics on the back of his neck.

It makes his skin feel wrong—off, unsettled—as he gets his standard gear on. He’s still grounded, thanks to Steve, so it’s the version he’s got closest to fatigues. He hopes the doctor doesn’t mind rolling down a polyester turtleneck to get at his brain port. He almost skips going to the gym for his workout, but that would worsen the off feeling. And he’d have to sit around with nothing to do for hours waiting for their first scheduled maintenance. 

He slides his phone into his back pocket, intent on heading to his standard morning haunt. A few hours of going through his paces in the gym will help his nerves. When his mind offers up the suggestion that a workout before seeing the cute doctor could be—advantageous, he tries not to linger in it. 

The idea certainly doesn’t make him feel bad. It’s even sort of... motivating in its own way. It... contributes to his reasons for doing a few extra sets on the bench. And adding a quick rock wall climb. There are others, of course. Being chained to the tower like a toddler in timeout because his best friend is an asshole is certainly one of them. He tacks on more time at the reinforced, Super-Soldier-proof punching bag to ease that particular frustration.

Even with the additions to his cardio, he’s still got an hour to kill before their appointment. He fills it by heading for the roof of the tower. It’s not even 0900, so no one but a few graveyard stragglers are out in the open space. SHIELD agents like him that are married to the job, catching a glimpse of the sun and a few puffs of nicotine before going to crash. Bucky stops to help one of them struggling with her lighter, offering up his spare Bic. The other agent smiles at him in tired appreciation before hovering the end of her cigarette over the flame. He counts it as contributing to his social life. He’ll figure out how to phrase it to get his therapist off his ass later. 

The brain trust’s space is, unsurprisingly, effortless to find. Ava wasn’t kidding; it’s actually tucked away in one corner of the roof, hidden along the wall that extends up to the tower’s executive launch bay. Bucky had expected them to claim a spot overlooking the Avenger’s balcony. Then again, he’s heard she’s pretty close friends with Tony, so maybe he shouldn’t have. She probably knows better by now. 

There’s another collection of gargantuan chairs, this time made out of wicker and upholstery that feels soft when he runs his fingers over it. A tapestry rivaling the paint swatches at Steve’s supply store is mounted to the wall behind them. Two poles hold it at the opposite corners, keeping it blowing slightly in the wind as it hangs over the collected seating. The coffee table in the middle has a lockbox sitting on it, with SHEILDs insignia embossed on the lid. 

He’s got level seven clearance these days. He could still easily get through that lock, even if he didn’t. It’s going to drive him batshit, not knowing what’s in it before she takes him up here herself. 

Bucky turns around and gets halfway back to the door to the stairwell before the buzzing in his neck builds too much for comfort. He grinds his teeth through the sensation. He even manages to force himself another few steps forward. But, ultimately, the buzzing wins out, and he spins again with a vicious curse. 

The confirmation chime of his clearance override feels too loud, even out here in the open. The top of the lockbox rolls back, revealing a set of playing cards, a jumbled collection of stress toys, a SHEILD standard medkit, and some candles. He almost leaves without checking the medkit. He’s so close to being able to stomach the idea. 

Almost. 

There’s nothing sinister to be found in it once it’s open. It’s stock issue. Not one of the item counts is off, but the lot numbers don’t match, meaning she maintains it regularly. Knowing that information feels invasive, despite being convinced she wouldn’t mind how he got it.

This. Isn’t. Siberia. Ava Ryder is not going to put a gun in his hand. She is not a risk to him. 

Bucky leaves the roof, headed for her lab. He’s going to tell her he went snooping. He can do that, at least—a bare minimum level of respect to offer her. 

She’s not in her office when he gets through the painted door at 0857. Only one of the doctors is behind the glass today. It’s the other woman—the American-born German. Hannah. Her head is down, focused on a tablet under her hands, with wireless earbuds peaking out from her dirty blonde hair. A hologram of a brain Bucky doesn’t recognize is running next to her. It’s not his; there’s no spider webbing. One of their other patients then. 

He takes a seat in the same chair he used during his last visit. “JARVIS?”

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” the AI responds with nothing but tranquility. “Something you need?”

“Can you tell the doc I’m ready when she is?”

“Of course. Dr. Ryder has not yet entered the building. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.”

Bucky frowns. “Ah—cancel that. Is she—“ Don’t ask him to track her, you dumbfuck. That’s weird. “Never mind. I’ll wait.”

This is New York. He’s not even sure what part of the city she lives in. For all he knows, she could be stuck in a cab uptown. He can pull the stick out of his ass long enough to give her room to be human. 

He sits there in silence, sunken into pillows with his leg bouncing rapidly, and talks himself up in his head. He’s not uncomfortable. He’s not going to bullshit his way out of this. This is good; it’s going to help him. Bucky is happy about that. It’s a relief to be facing this after a lifetime of running. 

By 0901, he wants to leave. The urge is nearly overwhelming. He makes it to 0904 before he stands up. It takes until 0906 to convince himself to sit back down. 

“I have an incoming message from Dr. Ryder if you wish to hear it, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS tells him eleven minutes after the appointment was supposed to start. 

Thank god. “Play it.”

“Morning, JAR!” Her voice is muffled in the recording. She’s got something in her mouth. She’s also in the most broken-down piece of shit in the city by the sounds of it, so not a cab. The subway, maybe? It should be a lot louder than that. “Tell Bucky I’m about fifteen minutes behind and that I’m very sorry. Oh—and tell him to pick the candle!”

His eyebrows lift in confused surprise. “I’m picking a candle?”

“Choosing a candle to burn is part of the daily routine of lab 5923. Dr. Ryder and I usually decide on one, but the option is left open for patients. You will find a box behind her desk; there is a wide array to select from.”

“You pick it together?” Bucky prods, the corner of his lips twitching as he gets back up to check for said box. 

“She enjoys having someone to banter with about them. Dr. Schuster doesn’t usually have anything to contribute to the topic. Dr. Combs only has so many opinions on the matter. He is not overly particular about the olfactory state of the lab.”

“Is Ava?” It’s getting easier to refer to her by her first name alone. It helps that it’s made her smile the handful of times he’s done it. 

“Not especially. I would call her enthusiastic. She finds the options comforting, and there are very few that she doesn’t enjoy.”

“No kidding,” Bucky mutters as he pulls open the top of a very large box. He smelled the thing long before he picked it up, and looking at what’s inside confirms everything the AI’s telling him. There are dozens of them in here, and most of them are unburned. Various shapes and gimmicky scent names stare back at him. Not a lot of Bath & Bodyworks, he’s noticing. 

The hippie is a small business aficionado. How utterly shocking. 

He pushes around the amassed jars for a few minutes. His mind files away a few options he wants to try for later if they don’t get used up on the days he won’t be here. Definitely before he finishes talking her out of demanding these appointments. He picks up one that claims to smell like cranberries and peppermint for a test sniff. 

Thanks to the combination, the barest hint of the ghost of a memory comes over him. One that whispers the name of his mother. This happens sometimes. A fragment that’s still hanging on by a thread will float by. They never have much context, not anything he can typically extrapolate on, infuriatingly enough. Just his mind taunting him that something should be there, but it isn’t. 

He picks that candle, and it doesn’t make him sad as he lights it. None of his pieced-together memories of the life he never got to finish do anymore. He takes them in stride and tries to enjoy what he can. 

That’s what Ma would have wanted.

—

Ava hip-checks the door to her office somewhere around 9:30. 

This is already shaping up to be a terrible second impression. All that grief she gave Bucky about leaving things in her capable hands, and now here she is, showing up late and half-showered to the appointment that’s supposed to finish acclimating him. 

“I am so sorry,” she rushes out, dumping her bag on the closest available surface. It ends up being one of the novelty end tables tucked between the consultation chairs. At least she finally took the one shaped like a leg home. “I completely overslept, and then I wanted to grab you something from my favorite bagel place—do you want one, by the way?” She waves a finger at her bag, then at Bucky, who watches her as she walks and talks her way to her desk. “They’re in that side pouch, the ones that have cream cheese are wrapped up separately. I didn’t know if you were a plain butter kind of New Yorker. Anyways, there was this mouth-breathing dickhead who—” 

She stops and takes a deep breath in when her over-taxed mind finally registers the smell around her. 

“Good morning,” he says from the chairs, amusement coloring his tone. 

She spins on her heel, her glasses jostling with the motion, chuckling softly. “Good morning, Sergeant. Sorry. This is what happens when you talk to me before the coffee finishes evening out in my bloodstream. Fantastic choice, by the way. What is that? It’s peppermint—something.”

“Peppermint and cranberries.” His lips pull up into a half-smile that absolutely sells her on the idea of him being a serial heartstopper in the 30s. “Advertised in what looked like a mushroom cloud.”

Ava’s chuckling turns into an outright bark of laughter as she pulls her work tablet from behind her keyboard. “Yeah. That sounds about right. One of the candle makers I buy from is an anarchist working out of a garage. Great stuff, even if you do have to listen to the most ass backwards view of free trade to get the guy to send you his stock. Good morning to you, too, JARVIS, now that I’m not babbling around a mouthful of food.”

“No need to worry; I’ve become very fluent in your language of scarfing,” JARVIS assures. 

“My mother would keel over if she heard you say that.” Ava waddles over to her latest patient, tablet in one hand and medkit in the other. She puts the kit down on the arm of his chair, in the same spot she put the scanner case last time. He looks much less nervous now, and she gives him a warm smile to encourage that. “I know you don’t want me talking your ear off, and the breakfast offer can wait until we’re done, so let’s get down to this.”

Bucky’s mouth opens. There’s a moment of hesitation before he says anything. She doesn’t try to rush him through it. “What’s the plan, doc?”

“Paige won’t be back from the field until later today at the earliest, so I don’t have anything new for you to test. I passed along your request for the field kit dimensions. She says making something that portable shouldn’t be a problem.” Ava taps on the black sleeve of his shirt. “How comfortable are you with the idea of using nanotech?”

“As in the tiny robots Tony’s always testing?”

“Mhmm.”

“For what? My neck?” He raises his hand to the general area of the port, and she hears him scratching at the fabric over it. “I don’t think it’s—I thought this kind of opening couldn’t be—”

“I don’t mean for closing it off,” she corrects quickly, wanting to avoid a misunderstanding that might get his hopes up. “I want to program a batch specifically for daily care of your implants. The port and your shoulder. Something you can keep in safe housing for use in the field. Now—I want to make sure you understand something upfront. This won’t change my professional opinion; you need to have a specialist looking at this on an extremely frequent basis. However, I would prefer it if you had the nanotech as a safety net. The more of this that we can automate for you, the better.”

“I can agree to that. I’m guessing the bug bots don’t come with a manual.”

Ava moves behind him, mostly to hide how the grumpy old man routine is making her grin from ear to ear. “They usually don’t need one. I’ll be making you a checklist to go over if that makes you feel better.”

“You don’t—that’s—” He hesitates again, making her stop before she can make contact with his neck. “You don’t have to keep... doing stuff. Like that. I’m alright with trusting the bug bots.”

Another piece of Ava Ryder’s heart breaks for Bucky Barnes. “That's great to hear. But, just so you know, I’m going to hand you a checklist anyways.”

“Alright.” His head barely nods; she’s guessing because he can feel her fingers hovering. The evaluations of his senses were so off the charts it set a new testing standard for SHIELD. “That’s—appreciated.”

“You don’t have to worry so much about the manners.” Pressing down with a disinfectant, she circles her thumb around the port, wanting to get it done before moving to his shoulder. That’s going to need a shirt removal. She leans down and shifts to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m not reporting them back to Steve.”

“Don’t worry; my work wife will come to weasel it out of you or JARVIS all on his own.”

Ava giggles quietly, her eyes honed in on clearing the excess buildup. “You’re not having fun being married to Captain America?”

“Oodles,” he deadpans, making her giggles worsen.

She gives him a break from the small talk while she finishes working on his neck. At some point, she’ll need to put together a specialized blend for loosening up the scar tissue; the skin around it is dried to hell and back from years of sterile wipes. She doubts comfort has been much of a concern, and she’s not about to recommend putting generic lotion over it, but this is ridiculous. There’s no reason for him to live with pain like that.

“I don’t suppose a man from the 30s is going to appreciate being given a moisturizing routine.”

“Nat’s going to be thrilled.”

“She’s your work husband, I’m guessing?”

“She likes to act like it.” Bucky turns his head to glance back for a split second just as she leans forward to swap out for an ointment. The way his head jerks back into place lets her know he got an eyeful of cleavage on the journey. It perfectly mirrors how his eyes snapped up from her chest when he first walked in. She’s not exactly embarrassed about it, but she does feel bad watching him shift around nervously. “But I’m not dumb enough to argue. About that. With her.”

The awkward charm is starting to make her cheeks hurt. “Sounds like a reasonable choice. I hear arguing with Russian women isn’t a smart idea in general.”

“Not if you want to keep your limbs attached.”

“Is it too early for me to start asking for state secrets? Like, say, if the Winter Soldier happened to get his ass handed to him by a former commie?”

“I’m pretty sure she was still a commie the first time.”

“The first time?” Ava asks with excited delight, her hand pausing on his shoulder.

“There were a few run-ins. She’ll remember more of them.” Bucky grimaces with annoyance. “Worse, she’ll be willing to tell them to you.”

“Would you be willing to let me hear them?” she goads.

His shoulders lift with a strained sigh. “Sure, let’s call it willing.”

“You’ll have to remind me if I’m lucky enough to meet her.” She drums her finger on his mechanical shoulder. “Gonna need you to take this shirt off, superstar.”

“Off? Wait, what did you just—” Bucky shakes his head with a quiet huff of laughter. “I’ve got the arm covered.”

“I know, that’s the problem.”

“Alright, smartass. You know damn well what I meant. I took care of it before I came here; it wasn’t part of our deal.”

“Does gross puss leak out of it?”

She can see his eyes roll, even with his head only partially turned. “You know it does.”

“And is it attached to your brain?”

“Ava—really, I’ve got this.” His head turns all the way, and the smile comes back, in full force this time, and oh. Oh, she can absolutely believe that he broke half the hearts in Brooklyn during his reign of terror.

She leans down into his space, letting her arms rest on the back of his chair. “You know what I’ve got?”

His lips purse in resigned amusement. “Multiple medical degrees?”

“You betcha. They were stupid hard to earn, too, so I’d appreciate it if you could start taking that into account.”

“I’m not trying to dismiss them—”

“Just the expertise that they gave me.” When his smile turns guilty, she shifts her weight as naturally as she can to push her chest against her arms in compensation. She doesn’t miss the way he blinks a split second later. Such a gentleman. It almost makes her feel bad. “I don’t mind you arguing the point of your independence. I’m glad for it, Bucky. It tells me that you really want this to work. I hope you can start trusting that when I suggest against it, I’m doing it with your health in mind. Nothing more. You can tell me what you’re comfortable with from there.”

He stares at her like he’s in pain. For an almost uncomfortably long time. “I broke into your lockbox.”

Ava blinks at the sudden shift. “Okay. Wait—my what? Are you talking about the candle box? That doesn’t even have a lock—”

“Your stuff on the roof. You keep a SHEILD issue safe up there. On the table. I used my override.”

It takes a moment to piece together what he’s getting at. She’s been running late since she woke up on Paige’s couch at 7:50 something. The only thing in her bloodstream right now is caffeine; there was no time for a wake-and-bake. “Oh. Oh, oh, that’s just... it’s not locked locked; we don’t really care if anyone uses the stuff in it. We just needed something to put it in that the weather can’t get to.” She smiles at him as his shoulders relax. “You went to see our little corner?”

Bucky shrugs. “I was around.”

“Mhmm, I’m sure. And bouncing off the walls with Steve’s lockdown, no doubt. The faster you get that shirt off, the faster you and I can iron out a plan to get you back in the field. Work with me here, Barnes.”

Bucky stands up with a sigh, and his hands move to his shirt. He pauses while they cling to the bottom of it, his arms crossed. Once again, she doesn’t push him through his hesitation. “I don’t mind if you talk about things. Steve only said that shit about being direct to keep me from stalling my way out of this.”

Ava’s eyebrows pull in while she thinks over the words. “Is that the only thing he’s lied about? I don’t care if you two keep secrets, but you can’t bullshit about your mental health with me. I need to know what makes you uncomfortable; otherwise, I can’t do my job.”

“That’s all I can think of,” he assures her, and she believes him despite the wording. 

“In that case, you’re kind of stupid, full offense.”

It’s Bucky’s turn with the blinking. “Excuse me?”

“You signed yourself up for morning appointments, and you just gave me permission to talk your ear off. You’re an absolute moron; now take off that shirt so I can make sure your brain doesn’t melt.”

—

She has a pet cat named Oreo, of all fucking things. 

It’s hairless. And dumb as a box of rocks, according to her. The name comes from the huge black spots in its—pattern. He can’t exactly use the word fur. She was highly offended when he called the cat a ballsack while she was showing him her lock screen. He got smacked on the arm for the comment.

It’s not her first pet. She got it partly to mourn the snake she adopted in college, a rosy boa called Sayer that finally died at 32. She used the reptile as companionship and motivation to push through her first PhD. The one letting her work on his brain now. It was named after the lead character from her favorite medical movie, Awakenings. When Bucky mentioned that he’s never seen it, she made him swear up and down that he’ll text her his honest reactions if he ever dares to rip his own heart out with questionable ethics.

So now he’s got her number saved in his phone. It’s the 11th one he’s added. Two of them are therapists. None of the others are people outside of SHIELD. He’s pretty sure one of the therapists is a plant from Natasha, so maybe he should start counting them toward the SHIELD column.

There were only nine others over the course of his online dating attempts. None of them stayed on his phone for more than a month before getting deleted. He wasn’t about to let his therapist catch their names on his contact list.

Bucky switches the grape-flavored lollipop in his mouth over to his right cheek. Ava gave it to him. Bopped him right on the nose with one and then let him pick from an array of five like the blatant bribery it is. The good doctor smiled at him while she did it, too.

May it bring you back in good spirits and better health.

It’s the nicest way he’s ever been told to fuck off for being a grouch. It made him smile. Him. James Buchanan Barnes, in the year of 2018.

She’s.… Christ, calling the woman a handful in this day and age feels insulting. He’s not put off by it. Overwhelmed a little, maybe, but he gets the feeling she’s alright with him taking time to warm up to it. Hell, he gets the feeling that not much bothers her at all. It makes him envious. 

He likes the way she speaks. Not just the crazy and the swearing, though that’s its own comfort. There’s a—it sounds so stupid, but there’s a kind of music to it. She always talks in the same calm rhythm, despite the chaos usually found in her words. He didn’t notice the way it makes his foot stop bouncing until halfway through the appointment.

Bucky scowls. “Davis. Why am I looking at a lost signal?”

The level four analyst Steve’s been telling him to ease up on lately freezes in his swivel chair. His head turns, nervously searching the wall of security feeds. Bucky doesn’t offer up any help. “Sorry, sir, I can’t seem to spot which—”

“Third row from the top, eighth from the left. The one I’m supposed to be monitoring for an illegal exchange of nuclear materials, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Yes, sorry, restoring connection now. Apologies, Sergeant, I’ll—keep a closer eye on it.” The agent starts mumbling the rest of his intended sentence, mostly about how many he’s keeping track of, when he cuts himself off. His shoulders pull in a bit, almost chastised. It always takes people a minute to remember the super hearing.

He could let it hang. The feed is fixed; he can go back to staring at an empty lot without interruption.

“You’re doing fine.” Bucky feels bad because he’s having an unordinarily good day. That’s all it is. Nothing more. “Restructure your feed priorities. You can hand most of these off to JARVIS; that’s what he’s patched in for. Focus on the ones your gut doesn’t like.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll start on that now.” The words don’t even sound spiteful.

Bucky sits back against the executive bench of the Datacrux. The stiff leather creaks with the motion, the rigid frame under it keeping him grounded. He tilts his head from side to side, letting it crack and readjust incrementally. His neck doesn’t feel as tight as it should. When he touched it in Ava’s lab, the skin felt even softer than it did after her first round on him. He’s trying not to touch it now. He doesn’t want to irritate it. This is the best it’s felt in—

He doesn’t have a year, he realizes. He can’t remember the one he woke up to cybernetics in. He has no idea when his first taste of cyborg life was. There’s a vague lead, a number written out on paper to fill in the blanks of what’s been destroyed. An estimation anchored around the last day of his former life. But he doesn’t know.

At least you’re still breathing, the better angel in his mind coaxes.

Switching which leg is balanced on which knee, Bucky settles back into his work. It’s been six months since the last lead on his responsibility. There’s been no chatter from the known HYDRA cells, no underground protection contracts with suspiciously good track records hitting Natasha’s web, no suspicious Black Market transfers that scream safe house establishment, nothing. Wherever the Soldats are, they’re being kept under wraps. 

His hounds wouldn’t be able to be contained for anywhere near this long. They’re dead or sedated, no matter where they were smuggled. Otherwise, they’d have surfaced already.

Bucky tries not to think about what a life of not knowing will feel like. He doesn’t know if that’s worse than the idea of burying them. They’re certainly not staring down the barrel of a happy ending at this point. How do you mourn—a situation like that? He can’t even figure out how the hell he’s supposed to be fixing it.

Somewhere out there are the last ravaged pieces of a serum that never should have been made. It’s floating, cobbled together and left to rot, in the veins of men and women who didn’t know what they were signing up for. He remembers having to hold their shoulders down whenever the survival instinct kicked in during the first few injections. He remembers watching their faces as they screamed for a mercy no one in that facility was ever going to grant them. He remembers carrying the bodies of the ones that died in the night, over and over for months, all the way to the incinerator.

Bucky tosses the tablet in his lap off to a spot next to his leg out of disgust. His eyes shut, and his hands come up to rub them hard enough to hurt. He needs sleep. Good, honest to god, medication-induced sleep. He hates relying on those damn pills—it’s not as if they help the other half of his problem, anyhow. Falling asleep is only the start of it. The real kicker is staying unconscious, and nothing he can find, even behind the counter, is going to work on his system for that long.

He needs it, though. It’s been weeks since he got more than a handful of hours at a time. Months since he slept for longer than eight. Steve always talks about crashing for ten at a time after an extended mission, and it makes him want to punch his best friend’s lights out. He’ll never say that out loud, of course, but god. If fucking only.

None of his anger toward Steve ever feels fair. The guy had the world’s worst life before the serum, and he’ll bare his teeth at anyone who tries guilting the captain out of the notion. None of them understand what kind of fresh hell it was being Steve Rogers, and all his undying spirit, while trapped in a body with ten billion health issues. If ever there was someone who earned the responsibility of that serum, it’s him, and Bucky’s damn proud of him for it. He spends his days trying to live up to it himself.

He looks over at the back of the analyst with a guilty expression. People used to dismiss Steve the same way he dismisses people now, whenever the anger simmers. 

“Davis, pull up your priority flags.”

The level four glances back nervously, then clears his throat and refocuses on his terminal. “It’s alright, sir, I’m working on sorting them now—”

“I know. That’s what we’ll be going over.”

“I—” Davis hesitates for a long moment. Bucky stares at the back of his head. “Sergeant Barnes, I’m very sorry about the—”

“This isn’t a reprimand.” Bucky clears his own throat, trying to knock the aggression out of his tone. It’s. A lot more difficult than he was expecting. “You’re new here, so I’m gonna give you the crash course. I’m in here a lot, at all hours. You won’t get a heads-up about it; I’m just going to show up. When I do, there are certain hotspots I’m going to need you to keep focused on. They’re not going to be tied to any active case. You’re not going to be able to tell which ones I need. I’m going to tell you what’s already on my radar, and you can establish your own categories from there. I’ll tell you what else I need you to add as it comes up.”

“Oh.” A little hope is entering the analyst’s tone. “Yeah, that—you know, that sounds like what I do for Romanoff already.”

Bucky frowns. The hell it does. She has exactly three people on the face of this Earth that she trusts to handle something like this for her. He’s willing to do it for convenience, and because he doesn’t give a shit what SHEILD sees him prioritize. He worked very hard to not give a shit about it, too. But Natasha doesn’t work like that; she’s very particular about her web of information—

His face goes completely slack as the connection finally happens in his mind. He’s going to kill her. No—actually. He’s never going to bring it up, ever, and they’re both going to die before a word ever gets said about it.

That’s just how their brand of family works.

“Yeah. Exactly like how Romanoff has you do it. Pull up her file structure; let’s go over what I’ll need you to change for my end.”

—

“Bitch! It feels like I haven’t hugged you in a year!”

It’s the only warning Ava gets before she’s tackled from behind. She braces her hands on the engineering bench in front of her, barely catching herself from crashing into it. “Two weeks and three days, but who’s counting? How was the flight home, whore?”

Paige leaves a loud, sloppy smooch on her left temple before backing away to let her up from the attack. “That part was fine—it was the team I got paired with, ugh. You’d have hated the guy runnin’ it.”

“How bad are we talking?”

“Eh, your typical good’ ol boy. Mister my way or the highway, with an ego the size’a the fuckin’ Potomac to match. You know the type. Spent the whole mission criticizin’ my tech.”

She looks over at her in surprised confusion. Paige taking shit from other agents is nothing new; that comes with the territory of her personality and most people’s assumptions. Her work is usually the one thing they leave alone. “How critical are we talking?”

“That was the thing—it was the dumb kind. The kind that could’a been avoided if he’d maybe RTFM.”

“And he made it your problem?”

“Over and over. Every ten minutes, it was—” Paige shimmies her upper body dramatically, her voice going low and gravelly. “Why can’t my AIO do this? How do I make it do that? Rogers’ team gets the reliable gear; why are we always stuck with the second rate?”

“He said that to your face?” Ava’s about ready to march through the tower to find the prick herself.

“Not that last one. That was to his buddy when the dipstick thought his comm was off. I got a half-baked publicist apology over it, and I’m pretty sure he only did it to save face in front of the team for leavin’ the mic open.”

“Report his ass.”

Paige waves a hand dismissively, then dumps her go-bag unceremoniously on the workbench. “I ain’t gon’ waste my time. I’ll let him hang his own noose; I’m sure he’ll get around to it with that attitude. Oh! I’ve got a mock-up for your pretty boy.”

Ava smiles, tossing one of her best friend’s rolls of duct tape between her hands. “I didn’t say he was pretty.”

“Puh-lease. You texted about his hair.”

“With the amount of shit man-buns have taken, it was surprising to see on a guy from a less than accepting decade.”

“You only notice stuff like that when you’re lookin’.” Paige tips her head forward, letting her heart-shaped sunglasses fall to the end of her nose. Her eyebrows waggle enthusiastically. “Is he as big as Rogers? I can never tell in the press photos with him always loomin’ like a gargoyle.”

The smile turns deviously smug. “He’s a little smaller than your not-so-secret admirer. You gotta figure that’s expected without the Vita Radiation.”

Paige reaches out to shove at her shoulder. “I don’t think Rogers has really nailed down what modern flirtin’ is yet. Ain’t fair to pin that on the guy. He’s so sweet! And I give him art projects! And anyhow, he rushes outta here like his ass is on fire most of the time—”

“It’s so weird how that happens whenever your dad shows up to hang out.”

She gets a very unimpressed look in response. “You’re readin’ int’a things.”

Leaning in close, Ava squints and whispers, “You’re being oblivious.” She backs up, her smugness returning. “So, I take it our friendship never comes up while you’re giving the captain art projects.”

“I... hmm. Not that I can remember. Why?” Paige looks over suddenly, then back at the bag she’s unloading with more than her usual level of interest. “Did he bring me up durin’ the visit?”

The glitter-sniffing demon not being allowed to communicate with her has been utter hell for two weeks and three days. But it comes with the upside of getting to drop this bomb on her all at once. “No, but I brought you up during Bucky’s first visit. That’s when Rogers realized he’d read your best friend the riot act the week before.”

Paige’s eyes go saucer wide. “You’re kiddin’. You got chewed out by America’s Sweetheart?”

“Funny enough, I called him the same thing while he was huffing and puffing in my office.”

“What the hell happened while I was gone? Did—” Her head swivels around, checking who’s around them. “Did? Y’know?”

Ava shakes her head, then hikes herself up to sit on the workbench next to the bag. “Nothing like that. Turns out he was going for a trial run, trying to see how well I hold up against a bad episode. Stormed into my office, playing up the asshole captain routine just to see what I’d do. Apparently, Tony set him up for it by not telling him about my VA work. He let out the hot air the second I called him on it. He’s pretty cute when he’s blushing, by the way.”

“Oh, tell me about it,” Paige mumbles happily, proving the accusation of obliviousness entirely right.

“The blush or the huffing?”

“I already know about the blushin’, even if I am ready to hear it again. But over dinner tonight. What’re we thinkin’?”

“You’re the one who’s been living off MREs for two weeks. What are you in the mood for?”

“Fuck, that’s a great question. Indian, definitely. No—wait! Sc-ratch that! I want Vietnamese. Actually, I want both.”

“Take-out picnic, got it.”

“And Italian donuts.”

“Okay, but I’m bringing half the order to work tomorrow. They’ll get stale if you pull an all-nighter to catch up.”

“Fiiine. Take my victory donuts to the masses, y’dirty Marxist. Lemme show ya what I worked on for Barnes before I forget.”

The field case she’s designed is cylindrical and shorter than the phones SHEILD issues most of their agents. Definitely something he’s going to be able to carry around with ease. The applicators that hook to the interior are simplistic and utilitarian. They’re entirely mechanical, with no chance of an EMP being able to disable them—a request from the Sergeant himself. 

“Tony says I can requisition some nannies whenever—I just gotta get your signature on the form since they’re medical grade.”

Ava tosses an olive from the jar she keeps stashed in Paige’s mini-fridge into the air. She catches it in her mouth on the first try for once. “You have one filled out already? I can sign it now; I know you like putzing around with them for a few days ahead of time.”

“Eh, it’s a standard cleaner tag; I’m not gon’ sweat it. I know you’re all worried about his brainstem and whatnot—”

“That’s usually part of my job description, yeah.”

“—but I feel like sterile’s sterile. Ain’t no way I can make the man cleaner than clean, y’know? Now, if you wanna talk settin’ ’em up for emergency maintenance, that’s a different story—”

“Your not-crush just walked into engineering,” Ava interrupts lowly, wanting to avoid the enhanced hearing even from way the hell over here.

In the most conspicuous way imaginable, Paige whips her head around to stare directly at the bay’s front entrance. In a rival amount of obviousness, Captain Rogers slowly works his way through the amassed benches, his gaze landing everywhere but Paige’s station. 

Ava’s eyes roll so hard it’s physically painful. It’s been one thing hearing Paige talk about getting drop-in visits from the super soldier who just so happens to enjoy the blueprints framed over her workbench. It’s another to see it play out in person. 

“He’s prob’ly here to check on the kit for Barnes,” Paige whispers back, tugging off her novelty shades.

“Yeah, that’s definitely why he won’t look at you right now—”

“He’s takin’ in the work goin’ on. He’s a curious guy, you know that—”

“And why he’s walking slow enough to trip over his own feet.”

“He’s admirin’ the—”

“He’s working up the nerve—”

“If you don’t fuck off with that, you lunatic—”

“Alright, now you’re being hopeless on purpose—”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Findley. I hope the trip was—oh.” Steve stops dead in his tracks, three feet from Paige’s farthest desk, his eyes finally landing on Ava. He smiles sheepishly. “Hi there, Dr. Ryder.”

Her grin feels positively carnivorous. “Hello, Steve. Come to welcome home our resident space cadet?”

“Hiya, Rogers,” Paige responds, turning with a smile almost as bashful as the captains. She spins back around, busying herself with the mess of wiring she’s pulled from her bag. “Don’t pay her any mind; she’s in a mood.”

“Something happen with the appointment today?” The concern that immediately surfaces knocks some of the teasing out of Ava. 

Some.

“No, Bucky played nice, I promise. I even brought him bagels to make up for being a half-hour late. Come to think of it, that’s probably what made me a half-hour late.”

Steve’s eyes go a bit wider, his smile softening. “You two had breakfast together?”

“I ate mine in the car. He took his with him. But I like to think we did so in spirit.” Her head tilts to the side innocently, refusing to let him off the hook. “So. What brings you to engineering?”

His hand comes up to the back of his neck, his expression getting… close to nonchalant. “I had some time on my hands—don’t wanna run off on a mission with Buck being a grump about medical orders; he might sneak out. Take your time with that, by the way. It’s impossible to convince the guy to take a day off. You’d be doing him a favor if you dragged your feet a little more.”

Using a best friend for deflection is a social skill Ava mastered years ago. He’s going to have to try a lot harder. “Who wouldn’t want to kill time in engineering? The wrench monkeys get to have all the fun. Maybe you should bring Bucky next time—”

“Oh, that’s—you know, I don’t think that’d be a real—he’s very particular about where he—I think maybe—”

“I think the sergeant would love to meet you,” Ava tells Paige, who’s biting back a grin with her head pointed firmly down at her workbench. “I was telling him some stories about you this morning. I think he might share a few of his own with some time.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Paige offers, still not looking up.

Steve lets out a nervous chuckle. “That’s—yeah, it’d—it could help out with his attempts to be social, and—you know. Hey, how was the mission, by the way? I forgot to finish asking.”

“It went just fine.” Paige shrugs, and that’s when it clicks for Ava why she was willing to jump topics so fast. Agent Dickhead really did hurt her feelings.

“Towanda,” Ava says plainly, calmly.

Her best friend’s eyes lift to hers. They stare at each other for a long moment. Paige goes through a silent argument that it’s not worth it; Ava silently insists that it very much is. It all happens through shifting eyebrows.

After a moment, Paige’s shoulders deflate, and she looks back at her work with a sigh. “You do it.”

Looking back up at a confused Steve, Ava crosses her arms over her chest. “You’ve got a real cunt running one of your away teams.”

“Oh, sweet lord,” Paige groans, her head falling into her hands with her elbows braced on the workbench. 

The captain’s eyebrows go for his hairline. “I’m sorry—I have a—I’m going to need a few more details.” He shifts his attention to Paige’s back, and his expression gets worried. “Did something happen? Who was your lead? JARVIS, can you grab me the associated reports on Ms. Findley’s latest away mission—”

“You don’t have’ta do that—“she tries to assure, her head coming up with blazing red cheeks. She hates confrontation. Absolutely despises it. 

Ava used to avoid it. She doesn’t bother much these days. “Actually, your name got thrown into the mix, Captain.” 

“Heeere we go.” Paige takes a deep breath in.

“Thrown into the mix of what?” Steve’s tone is shifting into the sub-zero range. 

“I’m not sure what Agent Fuckwad’s name is, but apparently, the guy thinks it’s not his job to understand his equipment. He also thinks it’s super cool to talk shit about the engineer that designed what he can’t wrap his head around. On an open comm. With her on the other end.”

“I have the mission data ready for transfer to your private feed, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS reports in. Ava doesn’t miss the smugness sitting in his tone, making her smile. She’s betting the AI has been fuming over this in his own way. He’s been protective of Paige ever since her first all-nighters in engineering.

There’s a boiling rage sitting in Steve’s eyes, one that’s rising by the second. When he steps up to tap the side of Paige’s arm with the back of his hand, it’s entirely held back from his voice. “Are you alright with me handling this?”

It’s Ava’s turn to raise her eyebrows in surprise. Extremely pleasant surprise.

“I—oh, fuck me runnin’.” Paige lifts her hand to scrub at her face. “Look, Rogers, I’m not tryin’ to get anyone in trouble here—”

“There are ways to go about this without leaving you holding the bag from a reputation standpoint. If the guy’s a—a... I tried, I’m sorry, I can’t get the word out—the point is, I can handle this in a way that doesn’t blow back on you.”

“Let him do it for the other people the dickwad is going to end up being a cunt to,” Ava suggests helpfully. 

“Exactly,” Steve agrees easily. 

Paige groans, shifting her weight back and forth. Finally, she nods with an uneasy sigh. “Alright. But—maybe just have it be somethin’ found from the logs? I really don’t wanna write up a—”

“Your name won’t come up. I’ll take care of it.”

Ava smiles, tossing another olive to catch in her mouth.

—

September 20th, 2015

Sam balances the plate of sliced sough dough and fresh fruit on top of a can of grape Fanta. He keeps his eyes locked on the way it wobbles back and forth as he makes his way down the hallway of the rented house. Propping the bundle of still-warm linens on his hip, he shimmies his hand off them enough to grab at the handle to Sergeant Miserable’s room.

The sack of personified despair is exactly where they last left him, hunched in on himself in the corner of the room. The pile of blankets under him used to be on the perfectly nice bed sitting in front of the window. The one with an unbelievable view of Finland’s countryside hidden behind tightly drawn curtains.

Their resident vampire, un-fucking-surprisingly, fled from it as fast as he could. Steve’s been grumbling about stealing the curtains while he’s asleep just to force the guy to look out the window on the way to the john.

Sam’s decided to start handling the food deliveries alone. It’s time to start pushing, even if Steve’s not entirely ready for it.

Bucky watches him move through the room, never saying a word. Not even when the plate of food gets put on the nightstand next to the bed, where they always leave it. He leaves them empty outside the door at night, so they know he’s actually eating. Poor bastard never looks angry, more just anguished. 

Sam sits on the side of the bed slowly, as gently as he can. He keeps his posture relaxed, his expression passive, and looks up at the newly freed prisoner of war. “You and I gotta come to an understanding on somethin’.”

Bucky’s eyes start out mostly hidden, thanks to the angle of his head. The shadows consume them entirely as his eyebrows come down. “What.”

One-word answer. That’s good. It’s a verbal day. “We gotta figure out where we’re at. Steve is too close. You’re gonna need someone pushing you on things he can’t. Things you need help with.” 

It’s not a subject he’s brought up with Steve. Being blunt feels like the better option here. He’s guessing the captain’s appeasement is starting to grate on nerves going through this much culture shock. Plus, there’s no pep-talk like a military pep-talk. 

“Do I strike you as an invalid?”

“You might not wanna—we’ll work on that. Point is, you need to start gettin’ comfortable with the new reality. Suck it up, Buttercup, the sky didn’t actually fall. The world’s still spinnin’. None of the big baddies who still know about you have the juice to catch you—”

“No, they don’t,” he confirms aggressively.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, you’re huge and scary. You’re also an idiot sitting around wasting a full pardon. No one’s expecting you to start doing a press circuit. If you wanna walk off into the sunset and go find a picket fence to park your Transylvania routine behind, we’ll help you pack and send you postcards. If you wanna do what Steve did and pick up a life in SHEILD, let’s get you fitted in some Kevlar and find you a therapist. But let’s get you outta this fuckin’ room.”

Bucky’s eyebrows stay firmly set, keeping his eyes shrouded. “Why.”

“Oh my god, could you be more dramatic? Like, shit, if you really tried?” He stands up from the bed, headed for the door, his eyes rolling again. “You wanna know why? Because that’s what people do, Bucky. They hit the ground, they figure out if they’re still breathing, and then they get back up to fix what broke. You keep going for the ones who didn’t survive the landing; because they’d hate your guts if you laid down and died over them. Your friend Steve can tell you all about that if you ever feel like giving the man the time of day. No one’s asking you to do this alone.” 

Sam stops at the door, raising one finger and pointing it back accusingly. “You know what— I’m asking you to go outside long enough for a beer in three days. Besides that, it’s up to you how slow you wanna take this.”

“What’s in three days?” The comment is thrown out on a grumble, right when Sam’s nearly got the door closed.

“My birthday, asshole. I’d like to spend it somewhere outside of this house. And, believe it or not, I’d like you to be there.”

—author end notes—

idk abt other ppls trauma foods, but man when im Goin Through Shit all i can ever stomach is bread and bubbles so, for sure inflicted that on bucko. plums i feel like are His to pick up, y'know?

im putting the idiots in my own couples counseling since im robbing bucky of his best FATWS moment so far (yes it is the wrong about me line ty for asking). i also want it on record that grammarly tried to get me to change "the 30s" to "his 30s" and i had to be like no actually i just jacked our leading man from the restricted section of the smithsonian, thanks tho babe

and now you've met paige!! the storm in a bottle herself!! she gonna smooch the shit outta stevie. gonna try to do our babe peggy proud and have her knock that dweeb off his toes at every turn (not hard). still no clue if ill do a spin-off series for them since they're just background here, but i do know im doing some kinktober stuff for them. they get 10 of the days so far (yeah. yeah, its gonna be 4some territory in the last few days, but have no fear, the main fic((s? series maybe? look man im makin a plan as we go. all i know right now is good space and kinktober)) will stay monogamy focused). so, fans of super mega dirty steve, might wanna Check Back Later for those posts 🥰

[kmhtgawmfinalproject]

Episode Hello Raskolnikov begins with Annalise again looking at her mirror, in distress, after finding out dead Sam in their house. As she decides to protect her students who committed the homicide, she has to put on her social mask of strength and fake her interrogation at the police station. The multiple flashbacks intertwined with Annalise's testimony record show the spouses' fight and the moment of Annalise's emotional devastation over Sam's dead body. Then, there is Wes, unaware of Annalise's presence at the house, who comes back to collect the murder weapon, and says, "I'm sorry," standing above the deceased Keating, to whom Annalise responds, "Don't be," and allows Wes to explain himself. Afterward, she instructs Wes step by step on how to get rid of the dead body, saying, "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself," and provides herself an alibi by visiting Nate and calling Bonnie in despair. The figure of Keating reflects Beauboeuf-Lafontant's claim about the stereotypical construction of Black woman's strength. [9] Annalise prioritizes the safety of her students above her well-being, to the point that she insistently tries to suppress her emotions after losing the person she spent most of her life with. Her attempt to reassure Wes that she can take care of herself reflects what Stewart describes as a myth of independence and conviction about an unlimited supply of emotional strength. [10]

On the one hand, it might seem like Annalise is protecting herself by covering up the murder, primarily because a recent autopsy revealed the pregnancy of Lila Stangard, Sam's mistress, which would immediately make her a suspect. However, as she stated during the first season – the location of students' phones would lead the police to her house, and the truth would eventually come out. While advising Wes on how to get rid of the remains, the woman mentions that all of their DNA is under Sam's fingernails, so the only way to cover it up is to burn the dead body. She voluntarily puts herself at risk to protect students who committed the crime and still feels responsible for taking care of them instead of protecting herself first – thus fitting into the stereotype of a strong Black woman.

–

[9] Tamara Beauboeuf-Lafontant, "Introduction: A Half-Told Tale of Black Womanhood," in Behind the Mask of the Strong Black Woman: Voice and the Embodiment of a Costly Performance (Temple University Press, 2009), p. 6.

[10] Cailyn Petrona Stewart, "The Mule of the World: The Strong Black Woman and the Woes of Being ‘Independent'," Knots: An Undergraduate Journal of Disability Studies, no. 3 (January 15, 2018): p. 31.

[captainsspnanon]

C2E64 - A Dangerous Chase - rewatch reaction

I think I’m ready for some journey to Bazzoxan tonight!  Definitely won’t get it finished, but ready to jump in.

(also I just bought a crap ton of dice.  I already have 10 sets.  I only play dnd once a month.  I am a full goblin at this point.  This was honestly one of the reasons that I was scared of getting into dnd, because I KNEW I would go goblin.  I tried not to for like, a year, and now I’ve given in.)

….So.  I also watch an Australian pokemon go youtuber, ProPlanty. …..I just want to know how he would react to this ad bit from Sam.

THAT’S a shirt that’s never been restocked!  Wonder what it looks like up close.

*removes a whole bunch of math in regards to locate object with the realization that the problem is not distance in dnd being bs, the problem is me and my failure to conceptualize any level of ‘higher’ math now that I’ve been out of school for ages.  I used to take calculus!  Now I use a calculator for everything.*  Well, one legit piece of info I did get is that when they sensed Obann at the edge of the 1000 ft spell, it would have taken one of them only just over 1.5 minutes to dash to get there.   ….wait.  *does more research*   World record for a 300 meter dash (which is 984 feet) is 30.81 seconds (Wayde van Niekerk from South Africa on June 28, 2017).   ….I am reminded of many posts online talking about how you really shouldn’t try to relate dnd to real life.  I am learning that lesson for myself.  (Beau with her movement of 45, using dash and step of the wind, would run 1000 feet in 44 seconds, so that’s at least

No I’m not going to continue that thought.  I am backing out of that tangent that ended up being useless and getting back into the episode.  I’m still only in the Last Time On!

For what it’s worth, I fully recognize that Laura and Taliesin both being in the black and yellow outfits means that I’ve seen clips or gifs from this episode for SOMETHING, but I can’t think of what it could be!

Ah, the discussion about “Orphanmaker”.  I still have quibbles with the reasons for the name, because it just plain confuses me.  I suppose it’s indicative of the attitudes of the tribe, that they give each other tough sounding names despite not living up to it, but it always ends up muddling how I feel about the name.  I also suppose that this is the point of the name though, that it ISN’T some narratively clear cut “Yasha earned the name through her actions with Obann but since she can’t remember it she doesn’t know how she got the name and thus how she would relate to being called it”. Instead it’s “Yasha was given the name by her tribe, basically just considered it a nickname/title, then actually ended up earning it under Obann which she doesn’t remember, which now adds a layer on to how she may feel or relate to the name once she knows about her past again”, which isn’t bad don’t get me wrong!  But it doesn’t slot easily into a story beat, which I guess is why I struggle with it at times (which says more about me than anything). To be fair, a reason for it may have been Ashley choosing the name to 1) sound badass and 2) give Matt something to play with during her amnesia times.  Does Ashley ever actually clarify out of campaign? (I also wish we knew what Zuala’s tribe name was.  As it is, I think we only ever know Orphanmaker and Skyspear?)

I love how Matt will present Option Safe and Option Cool and the group ALWAYS goes for Option Cool.  Travis’s delight at going through the Barbed Fields, the “ground zero of the calamity” is so palpable.  It also makes me even more happy that Travis was in the Calamity one-shot, he deserves it!  LOOK HOW EXCITED HE IS.

(I also love how Matt will sometimes take a joke and play it super straight – Sam asking Maruo if she’s seen Stranger Things and Maruo responding that she’s only seen half of the first season [hey me too], such a well balanced joke that throws everyone off)

Pike spoke Undercommon?  I did not know that!  Then again, I thought Yasha DID speak Undercommon.  No, critrolestats has her with just Common and Celestial.

Aw man, they never do get to Charis.  To be fair, I’m not surprised that Caleb doesn’t know what it is on a 26, I’m assuming it’s just a regular place in Xhorhas.  *looks at the wiki* Okay, a sweet little place, but not devastating that they didn’t get there.  Not worth a one-shot either.

I do love when this group is just all on different pages but all focused towards the same objective.  I think this is the most obvious moment of it playing out, with Maruo even referencing the mixed messages several times.  I don’t think any other group was this Messy, but it works when it’s the Nein.

I love the moorbounders so much!!  I think they’re about to lose them though, yeah?  Don’t they leave them in Bazzoxan and never get them back?  SAD TIMES.

I’m really glad that Ashley rolled high for Yasha to be able to share information about the Barbed Fields.  Because of where she’s from, she’s not really a PC created for infodumping, especially because the areas of Xhorhas that they have gone to are outside of her travels.  But being able to give a good chunk of info about the Barbed Fields has to feel good.

Ah, maybe this is the moment why I recognize the outfits?  Beau needing a short rest but refusing to ask for one, so Caleb immediately telling the group how weak he is and how much he needs a rest.  These two are SUCH a great pairing.

I don’t know if I remembered the joke before it happened, or if I just got it before they did it, but after Jester and Caduceus indicating to use spells at the end of the day, I did the little les mis singalong too XD

Ah no.  This is the Canon episode.  So far we’ve got “don’t shoot the messenger”, “don’t beat a dead horse”, and golf. Edit from later – and ravioli!

Slight spoilers for campaign 3, but I miss the sense of travel and exploration we have from C2, which doesn’t make SENSE because there IS travel and exploration in C3!  But for whatever reason, it doesn’t resonate as much with me like journeying through the Barbed Fields and stuff, and I have no clue why.

WAIT THIS IS WHERE YASHA GETS THE SKINGORGER???  I 100% forgot and thought Obann gave it to her!!  Maybe he only gives her the breastplate.

Fun fact!  I have no clue if this is just me or not, but I haven’t felt like any of Yasha’s swords actually FIT her, you know?  The Magician’s Judge, Skingorger, the Holy Avenger, Scaldsaber, they all SOUND cool AF, and apparently cleaver-style swords are her thing, but I dunno.  Maybe it’s because the fact that she did use so many swords that it ended up feeling like there wasn’t one that fit her well.  Unlike Fjord, where he has the falchion which just absorbs different characteristics, and then gains …. gains…. Hold on…. wiki help me….the Star Razor.  And both of those swords feel so strongly like they FIT, and the changeover has strong significance and character impact.  Whereas Yasha is just a little more like a videogame, swapping out one weapon for another when it’s better suited for it.  I suppose not everyone needs an Iconic Weapon though. How many weapons did Grog end up using?  Wiki shows EIGHT different weapons!  Plus just whatever normal axe he used at the beginning of the campaign which doesn’t even look like it’s on his wiki page so NINE?

For what it’s worth, cool combat!  Just not much to say.

Have I mentioned that I’m super mixed on the nickname Jessie for Jester?  Like, it’s a completely legit nickname that fully makes sense in context, and it’s cute that they all start having a nickname for her, so I do love that.  On the other hand, it’s just kind of a regular name?  Fjord, Yasha, Caduceus, Nott – all insanely unique names.  Beau/Beauregard?  Uncommon and rarely a female name.  Caleb is a normal enough name, but I feel like that 1) works with this concept, and 2) I mean, Bren Aldric Ermendrud is so not a normal typical name, and I feel like adding Widogast helps make it more unique.  And then “Jessie”.  *shrugs*  It’s a pretty stupid whine on my part, but it’s the bit of mixed feelings for the nickname.

Fjord giving Jester a kiss on the cheek, causing her ALL sorts of confusion!!  Honestly?  I’d love to know the out of game conversations that Laura and Travis had in regards to in game romance.  We know the bits said on Talks, but I’m assuming that those are exaggerated for humorous effect.  If I had to come up with and submit a question for the tower on 4SD, it would probably be ‘what is an example of some out of game conversations you have had with the other players or DM that you would feel comfortable sharing?’

Caleb uses Magic Missile more than I remember him doing so.  Then again, I think I underestimate this spell.  I remember being, not annoyed, but feeling like Matt wasn’t have Essek be super efficient during the Lucien fight when Essek just kept using Magic Missile. Probably just my own biases against the spell.  It IS automatic damage, no roll to hit or saving throw, so that is beneficial. Critrolestats says cast a total of 20 times, so it’s not like it was one of Caleb’s high use spells.  I think I think of it like Chromatic Orb – good for very early campaign and that’s all.  Can you tell I don’t play too much dnd yet?  (to be fair, also just played a druid, messing around a bit with a rogue now)

(looking at critrolestats, I’m sad that they didn’t track the spells that Essek did, but it makes sense because they don’t track NPC spells.  Essek is a PC in my heart, okay???)

I don’t know if this is the first time that Nott gets a nat 20 immediately followed by a nat 1 on the auto-firing, but I know it’s not the last!  I feel like this happens at LEAST three times.

Ooo, nice!  Obann name drop AND the Angel of Irons in the same questioning of the head!  Smart plays, good deception checks, and well picked questions.

I do wonder if this plot thread of the cult was always meant to be a sort of open closed plot revolving around Yasha, or if Matt has/had further ideas for Tharizdun.  It honestly could go either way.

I forgot that we got a canon reference to Marion’s agoraphobia before it actually came up for the party.  I like that!  I’d misremembered and thought that the party was the first time. Probably just the first time we clearly see it from her.

It’s very interesting seeing Caleb pushing so hard to stop Luc from being brought to the Chateau, because he’s so sure that Marion is now under suspicion.  Liam pushes it in many episodes, and while it’s discussed, it’s also discarded and Luc is still brought there.  In reality, it’s only in episode 128 that Marion is ever in danger, and it’s because of the break in at the sanatorium that the party do, nothing to do with the letter.

I love the games where they don’t want to stop playing and beg for more time.  This time it was an option!  But Laura needed to stop for health/baby reasons, and that takes priority.

[deviantartdramahub]

https://deviantartdramanow.tumblr.com/post/708923136419201024/this-is-just-da90saregone-here-i-had-found-out

eviantartdramanow.tumblr.com/post/708812077721124864/lupiss-actually-legit-thinks-im-mod-s-xd <- Aight, Gelly here again, and uh, I'd like to get things clear bc I'm confused. Here we supposedly have two different people who are neither the runner of the blog posting on it. I'm VERY new to Tumblr and don't know how a lot of things work, but if they AREN'T Mod S, how are they doing that exactly? Doesn't make sense to me, perhaps this is blatant proof they're both Mod S. But again I dunno how stuff works so idk. Also, on the second link, Evie straight up says the R-slur while doing her childish rant. Although I don't agree with Sam saying the slur, these people have absolutely no right to get angry at him and Tri for saying and posting it. Evie says the slur on the blog and Mod-S mindlessly posts it. What happened to asking others not to say it, hon? Oh goody, another case of hypocrisy from DADramaNow to add to the list!

-Gelly

Alright, so here is how Tumblr physics works.

Suppose you make a blog/group (the two site functions overlap). When you make a blog or group, on the blog or on the group, there are two options visitors can do (though one may be turned off or both might be, depending on what the owner wants). One is the "ask" option, it allows you to post, and Tumblr (the website as a whole) designs the feature so the post becomes visible to the public once a mod adds a note/reply to it. The other is the "submit" feature, it does the same thing but doesn't require a mod to respond to it, but at the same time it doesn't have all the perks.

Blogs/groups work similarly enough to regular profiles that it means that, at the moment (unless the website changes how it works again, it does that sometimes), currently each blog/group has only one mod, its creator. This would explain why the only mod spoken of in DeviantArtDramaNow is Mod S (who for the record I have cracked a while ago).

It would be like how in a DeviantArt group, staff members can post things like journal entries without it being from the owner. The only difference is, on Tumblr, you replace "staff members" with "everyone can do this, but the mod has to give it the greenlight".

As for the slur, to everyone reading this, I would recommend you to not to use slurs or quips like concerning baby dropping, as it makes nobody look good, not the people there, not the slur users here, not anyone. I myself have never used the slurs, I only respond to them.