#they handed me two tools id never used and went ‘remember

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this essay from David Sassoon, founder, editor and publisher of Inside Climate News:

Two visits to this wildlife sanctuary.  One week apart. I came to report the arrival of spring, an under-covered story. In the hope, too, that the new season might extinguish the fire in my brain, ablaze in the Anthropocene: The accelerating heat with its cascading catastrophes; the barbaric wars with their crimes against humanity; scorching hatreds shared instantly everywhere. Our raging modern inferno. 

And yet, we are in the midpoint of a great annual renewal, marked by the seasonal migration of creatures beyond number flying their way north. Might the incessant flapping of billions of pairs of wings cool down the hemisphere? Surely birdsong is balm for our blisters and burns? I went looking for remedy with little idea of what I was soon to witness.

It turned out not to be the birds. You can hear them, but they’re hard to see. Sure, I had an adequate pair of binoculars with me, and a bird ID app on my phone. Hopeless tools for an earthbound biped like me. My naked ears were far more useful. They could hear a woodpecker knocking into a distant tree. Mourning doves cooing in a branch above. An unseen swallow buzzing past my scalp. Blackbirds shrieking among the tall phragmites. Though it was daytime, an owl hooted, and a bullfrog seemed to answer. A paddling mallard provoked the obnoxious honking of a pair of rowdy geese. Only two of them, so damn loud. My notes also say: Fiddleheads. Bees. Chipmunks. Flash of orange. (In retrospect, likely an oriole.) 

I was grasping one thing at a time, cataloging the natural order—an outsider to it. What if I tried to listen to everything at once? It took repeated effort to gain fleeting entry into a parallel  world that wasn’t mine. A fluid orchestra of countless musicians perfectly riffing. The forest multi-tonal. Deciduous jazz. Not a single bad seat in the house. The debut of an up-tempo composition I’ll call How many dialects of warbler can the robin understand? Never to be played again.

What became apparent is that I don’t speak nature. The other sapiens I encountered didn’t seem to, either. A wholesome church group of well-dressed young adults. A guy in a baseball cap effusive about sighting a beaver. A teenager in pants striped red and white sporting a nose ring. All of us of such varied plumage yet belonging to a single species. 

To us it was Saturday morning. How laughable. I had arrived at nine—much too late to get the worm—and now, after a few hours as I began walking out, I turned my gaze upwards. I saw the architecture of tree branches; bud break of leaves; the sky. Oh! The bird realm! The aerial kingdom! I would need to return to see it in a new light.

My neighbor remembers when she was a young girl, the birds were so loud in the early morning that to sleep she’d have to plug her ears. We didn’t realize how much things were changing around us over the last half century. The human population was doubling from four to eight billion. On the other hand, the population of breeding birds was declining by three billion, a 30 percent drop—in North America alone. 

The last time birds had it so bad might have been when an asteroid six or nine miles wide slammed into the Earth, eons before hominids first walked upright. With two hundred million years of evolutionary history in their bones, birds are confronting a relatively instantaneous collective demise at our hands. 

We’ve been hearing these dire warnings for many years, yet the environmental carnage continues unabated. It’s part of what science calls biodiversity loss, the path we’ve trod in the Anthropocene, with its thousandfold increase in extinctions. We have no shame. 

[fluffypeonies]

post dated rant from d1 uop

Ok i was debating if i should even write this bc it Shouldn’t be a big deal but i should also learn to confront and deal w/ my emotions and not ignore/let them fester for my entire life. Keep in mind that i’ve had a long week since last wed and i just finished all 3 of my exams and was awaiting the results of my practical from this morning, so anything honestly could have set me off. 

We were in simlab again practicing new hand skills and it was clear that all of us were dead tired but still attempting to do stuff. All of a sudden i hear this loud cheering and whooping and i assume someone has a bday or something or some good news. A few minutes later, i see one of my classmates run up and hug this guy who i recognized as one of the alternate students. The good news reached my area of the simlab that he was accepted into our class and was officially class of 2021 like the rest of us. Everyone was running up to him and congratulating him. I was also elated myself and wanted to go up to him to say congrats but i thought that would be weird since we never spoke since the first day w/ the alternates meeting. Then i find out that the other alternate, a girl (there are 2 every year) was also accepted. I was shocked since what was the chance of 2 people dropping from the course? Still very happy for them both. Then i realize that no one had dropped from the course. They just decided to take on 2 extra people to have a class of 146 in our year. I start to get this sinking feeling in my stomach along w/ my anxiety from not knowing how i did on the practical + on top of the stress from everything else. I suddenly felt like the school had not treated me with the same respect as they had treated the two alternates this year. 

Last year i remember always being left out and questioning if things applied to me. I remember always going up to instructors and asking what i should do and explaining what an alternate even was, because they did not know that this position even existed. I was not in the system. I did not have access to canvas. I had to take the initiative to get access to canvas during my fourth week of attending classes with two follow ups because i was always forgotten. I told myself that it was fine and that this was to be expected since i was not officially part of the class. Chase, the other alternate, was more vocal about his discontent. I would agree with him but i was also hesitant to complain since this was such a good opportunity. I remember the first day when it was time to take id pictures for badges to get access thru security. We went and took our pictures, but we never received any badges. We got accosted by security many times because they thought we were trespassing, and i had to enter with other people and get a visitor’s badge every day. The new alternates didn’t have to do that. During sim lab i would watch people practice their hand skills but i was not allowed to even touch an instrument due to liability issues. This year they have their own desk and are allowed to practice with everyone with their own tools. I am glad they get this experience, but i can’t help but feel jealous and wish that i had the same kind of access too. I am not sure if my experience last year was the reason behind all of these new changes. I honestly felt hurt that if they could take on 2 extra students this year, why couldn’t they accept 1 more student last year, since chase decided to wait another year? Was i not good enough? Did i not make a good enough impression? I don’t know.

Another thing that made me sad was that so many people were so happy and proud to have these two in our class, but i know that if i had gotten in last year, i would have gotten a lackluster response. I remember everyone already had their own groups or just stuck with their roomies all of the time. I would consistently hide out in the bathroom during lunch because i wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. My attempts to make conversation with other people were ignored because they knew i was an alternate and therefore was not going to stick around, so why even bother? I was definitely spiraling down at this point and was trying really hard to keep it together during simlab since i was still in class. 

I also felt like, as petty as it was, it was unfair. I felt like i always fought tooth and nail for everything whereas other people did not. They were normal and i was abnormal. I applied to university in high school. I got accepted. I end up going to community college at the very last minute. I work hard in cc. I end up just applying for a guaranteed acceptance to davis. It felt like my work was not actually paying off. The satisfaction was not there. I was just sliding into everything. At uop i was an alternate. I worked hard that month to see if i would be accepted. I wasn’t and had to wait a year. I felt like i was always last minute sliding into things and barely hanging on. But other people simply apply, get accepted, and go. I know that how i got to places doesn’t matter because i am here now but it really contributes a lot to my imposter syndrome. That i don’t actually belong anywhere. That i just force my way in and people just are unaware that i barely got through the door. 

I know that people actually do care about me and that i made an impression last year but these were just thoughts that constantly circulate my mind, whether or not if i am aware of them. I think my table partner, brandon, noticed and asked if i was ok. I said no and he asked me physically or mentally and i replied mentally. He seemed to understand that i wasn’t just having it today and reassured me that “those days” just really suck and that i should take the rest of the day off when i get home. At this point i really wanted to cry tbh since i always am prone to crying when someone tries to comfort me when i am down. I was also certain that i had failed my practical because according to my self eval i had done something that was considered “clinically unacceptable”. Our row was called to get our grades and i refuse to look at it until i got back to my desk. Luckily i barely passed and brandon gave me a hug and i just felt a lot better about everything.

Honestly i think this is just a lot of stress building up and i am truly happy for the alternates for officially getting into our class. I just wish things had gone differently for me but at the same time i met a lot of nice people in my current year so i should just accept that the past is the past and i’m glad they are improving things for new alternates.

[inhumanfuckingdogman]

People at work will talk to me like i wont throw up and cry and explode and die right there in front of the patient and everything

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

One Night🌙10

Warnings: noncon sexual acts, angry Andy, hormones

This is dark!Andy Barber and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: One night changes your entire life.

for @kittykatlow​‘s 200 Follower Celebration

Note: Another update? Who is this bitch actually trying?

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The bus chugged down the city streets as you sat closer to the back. You stared out the window and watched the grey sky of Nelson hanging overhead, a cloudy backdrop to the smoking city. 

You sighed every now and then, trying to forget the beeping and when it stopped. You still felt Andy’s hand on your back and the suffocating silence of the drive home. The burden of the dead woman on your shoulders.

It was as if it had been years since you saw the slightly crooked pole that held the bright sign. The bus stop was as desolate as ever, the dirty bench marked with spray paint and the shelter glass cracked. You set off around the corner past the house. Each was familiar but not comforting.

Your hips hurt from the stiff ride and you rubbed your stomach. You wore one of Andy’s hoodies under your open jacket, the zipper of the latter no longer meeting. You stopped in front of your parents’ house. You hadn’t asked permission; not from your mother, your father, or Andy. There was no courtesy phone call so you hesitated, afraid you might be sent away.

It was noon. Your father would be in the garage. He always had some project going. That was his work. He was cheaper than any other mechanic in the city, he just did it all from home. He could recycle parts from the junkyard and charge half price. They usually did better than the newer parts sent away for down at the Jiffy.

You walked up the driveway, the garage door was only halfway open, the bite of the late autumn, rather the early winter, mingled with the warmth flowing under the metal. You tapped on it with your knuckles, “dad?” you called.

You stepped back as his oily hands gripped the bottom and he hauled it up entirely. He tilted his head at you but couldn’t hide his smile. He looked at your stomach and you dropped your hand. He drew you to him before you could react. He hugged you tight and rocked you.

“Your mother’s gonna be mad you didn’t call before you came,” he let go of you and looked you over again.

“Mad that I’m even here,” you remarked.

“No, she might act like it but…” he waved you into the garage and rolled over the little stool he sat on when he was working. He helped you sit and put his wrench on the plywood table against the wall, “she missed you. We both did.” he wiped his hands on his jeans, “you could have called us. You know how she is. She feels before she thinks.”

“She kicked me out,” you felt precarious on the little rolling stool, “you let her.”

“So why’d you come back?” he asked.

You hung your head and hugged your stomach, “well, I’m having your granddaughter. I didn’t want you to find out from anyone but me.”

“It’s a girl?” he grinned.

“Sorry, wish I could give you a boy to get all filthy in this place,” you shrugged.

“You never minded getting your hands dirty,” he neared and grasped your shoulder.

“Yeah, guess it doesn’t matter too much, she’ll be as curious as any kid,” you said.

You were quiet as you looked around. Your dad’s rolling chest of tools was dented and rusted, the same one he’d had your whole life. The place hadn’t changed, only the car sitting in it.

“That’s not the only reason you’re here,” he said. Your father was a simple man but he wasn’t dumb.

You frowned and felt a prick in your eyes. The hormones, you told yourself, they were getting to you.

“I need you guys,” you said quietly, “is that so bad?”

“I missed you, you’re mom did too, she’s just stubborn. Think that’s where you get it,” he turned his hand over and held it out to you, “but she won’t turn you away.”

“You sure?”

“I won’t let her. Not this time,” he bent and took your hand, “now come on.”

You let him help you to your feet and he led you through the side door into the house. You heard your mother’s old Patsy Cline CD droning from the box speakers on the shelf as she muttered to herself. 

Your dad kicked the dirty off his boots and you slipped your own off. You followed him and peeked over his shoulder as he went to the living room. Your mother was wiping down the framed picture from your high school graduation.

“I got a surprise for you,” he announced as he stepped aside and beckoned you in alongside him, “and she’s got a surprise for you.”

Your mother turned and froze. Her lips formed a straight line and her eyes pierced you. She didn’t say anything as he stared at you then tossed the dusting cloth onto the table beside the lamp. She looked down at your feet.

“You remembered to take your shoes off,” she said.

Your lips parted and your chest gripped. She was still mad.

“You remembered us,” she swept over to you so quickly, you flinched. She hugged you and her middle met yours. She let go and looked down at your stomach. Her eyes were sad but not angry, “I’m…” she lifted her head and met your gaze, “I’m not good at saying it but I’m sorry.”

You watched her for a minute. She was still her mother as nasty as she’d been. You could see her regret and it coupled with your own. It didn’t fix everything but for her, it was a lot.

“I’m sorry too,” you breathed, “it was… me being stupid started all of this. I just didn’t know what to do.”

“You gotta tell her,” your dad intoned.

You glanced at him then back to your mom. You gulped, “we found out yesterday, it’s a girl.”

“We? And where is… he?” your mother bristled.

“Working,” you said.

“We went to the diner, they said you quit. The café too,” your mom batted away lashes, “please, sit.” She touched your stomach, “you’re so big.”

“Five months, I think,” you said as you let her take you to the old floral sofa, “and the doctor recommended I take it easy so I had to… leave.”

“Oh? Is something wrong with the baby?” she picked up her cloth again and resumed her dusting. Your father quietly excused himself.

“No, just me,” you leaned against the arm, “but they said my blood pressure is getting better, just have to check it now and again.”

“And that man? The least I can say is at least he’s taking responsibility, even if he is married,” your mom hung the picture back on the nail.

“It was a mistake,” you said, “but you know, I think it’s taught me a lot. Not that it was worth it.”

“I don’t mean to rag on you, but… it’s just not how it should be,” she went to the television stand and focused on the edges.

“You think I don’t know that. Mom, I didn’t come here to argue my morality. I came here…” you paused as you felt your phone buzz. You slid it from your jacket pocket and checked the ID; Andy. You ignored it and dropped it back inside, “I just wanted to see if you had any interest in your granddaughter.”

She spun back and her face wrinkled with sadness. She twisted the cloth and retreated to the rocking chair and sat. She chewed her lip and looked at the floor. When she looked at you again, her brows crinkled.

“I’m trying,” she said, “but what you did, I don’t know if I can’t get over that. That man, everyone knows him, and when it comes out, with his wife still in a coma, you don’t think about what that does to us.”

“Well,” your throat constricted and you held back the hot tears bubbling behind your eyes, “she’s not anymore.”

“What?”

“She… she passed last night,” you sniffed, “and I’ll admit that I came here as much for me as you. I just needed… needed to get away. Just for a little.”

Your phone went off again and you grunted as you pulled it out and swiped away the second call from Andy. You kept the phone in your hand and rested it against your thigh.

“I just need time,” your mom leaned back heavily.

“Well, it’s quickly running out,” you replied, “she’s gonna be here soon enough.”

“I know,” she said grimly, “I know.”

There was another silence and your phone twitched. You turned it over and checked the message on the screen; ‘why don’t you invite your parents for dinner if you’re not gonna answer me?’ You let the phone slip between your legs and slowly raised your eyes. How did he know?

“I can go, if it’s too much,” you said, “I didn’t expect to get past the front door, honestly.”

“It’s not-- you’re still my daughter,” she uttered, “and even if it’s not the best situation, you got my granddaughter too.”

Your phone began to shake between your legs and you huffed, “sorry,” you stood with effort as you snatched the phone up, “just a second.”

You went into the dining room and answered. You hissed into the phone, “what do you want, Andy?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going there?” he asked sharply.

“How do you even know? You following me?” you kept your voice low.

“I know, that’s all,” he retorted, “it is… surprising.”

“They’re my parents,” you scowled at the tabletop as you leaned on a chair.

“Mine, too, right? Considering--”

“Andy,” you warned, “come on. Let’s cut this out--”

“Invite them for dinner. You’re right. Our kid will need her grandparents,” he interrupted, “I’ll get off early and help.”

“I don’t think--”

“Invite them,” he demanded, “and don’t take the bus back. I’ll send you the money for a cab.”

“Jesus, I can take care of myself--”

“No, you can’t, which is why you’re sleeping under my roof. And this isn’t about you, it’s about the baby,” he exhaled and you heard a squeak of metal, likely a chair, “Now I want you home by two. I’ll be there shortly after.”

He hung up before you could argue. You closed your eyes and forced down the angry bile in your chest. You shuttered and tucked the phone back in your jacket. How did he know you were there?

🌙

Your parents agreed to dinner. Your mother wasn’t subtle that she was curious to see Andy’s house. Her judgement was always her driving motivation and you were certain she could find something to hate, even in the suburban utopia. 

You took the bus out of defiance and brewed with anger as you got off just outside the cul-de-sac. You walked the single block to Andy’s and paced like an angry lioness inside.

He arrived at three, just after. Your anxiety boiled with anger and you stopped to face him as he entered. You watched him put down his briefcase and hang his long black coat. Your nostrils flared as you braced yourself for the onslaught ready to spill forth.

“So, you weren’t following me?” you challenged.

“I was working,” he said quietly, “to pay for all of this…” he pointed to the ceiling, “and that,” he pointed to your bump.

“No, Andy, you don’t get to do that every time,” you snarled, “how did you know?”

He didn’t answer and brushed by you. You followed him into the kitchen as he went to the coffee machine and pressed the buttons bluntly. You watched him from a foot away, your hand on the cold marble.

“You can’t just ignore me. How did you know I was there?”

“Because…” he grabbed a mug and filled it with water. He poured it into the machine and snapped the lid shut, “because you have my baby and I have a right to make sure you don’t take it from me.”

“That’s not an answer,” you sneered, “Andy, I have done everything you’ve wanted. I have stayed here, I have quit my jobs, I have kept this baby for you, and you… you’re what? Tracking me like a dog?” You reached into your back pocket and slammed your phone on the counter. You slid it over to him, “when did you do it?”

His jaw ticked as he put a pod into the machine and hit start. He tapped his fingers on the counter and let out a long breath through his nose. He turned to you and crossed his arms.

“After you stayed out that night. I couldn’t worry like that again. I had to know,” he said staunchly, “because I’ve had a wife go out and not come back. A child--”

“I’m not your wife and I won’t ever be. This child is all we have in common,” you rebuffed, “even after last night. What you did, that doesn’t change things.”

You nearly tripped as he marched towards you. He had you against the far wall, his hand planted on either side of your head as his anger rippled across his forehead and set his jaw square. You pressed yourself against the pure white wall and tried not to wither.

“I did that for you,” he breathed, “I’ve done everything for you. Don’t act like you’re the only one doing shit.”

“Andy, get away--”

“No,” he punched the wall and you gasped, “my wife is gone. Jacob is gone! This is all I have; you, my daughter…that’s everything and I will be damned if I’m going to let you take any of it away from me.”

“You’re scaring me,” you wisped, “Andy, please--”

“No, you shut up and you listen. This is the last time we have this conversation. Your parents are coming and you’re going to be good. You’re going to wear something nice, you’re going to cook something good, and you’re going to smile. You don’t let them see you crack, not once.”

“You can’t--”

“Enough!” he hit the wall again and you heard it crumple under the force, “if you don’t, they won’t be around. Ever. Do you understand me?” you gaped up at him and trembled, you shook your head in disbelief. He leaned in and spoke softly to you, “Understand that I will make sure you and no one else ever sees them again.”

“You… wouldn’t…”

“I could. I will. You’re fucking bitch of a mom deserves it,” he hissed, “so, honey,” he growled the second word, “what’s it gonna be?”

Your lip quivered and you searched his face. The rage had his blue eyes alight and his breath rasped out like animalistic snarls. You thought of Laurie, of how blank he’d been when they stopped the machines. And that smile, after. What was that?

“I’ll… be good,” you murmured, “I will.”

His lips twitched and he shoved himself away from you. He stomped over to the fridge and took out the light cream. He added it to his mug of fresh coffee and stirred. You stood straight shakily and looked up at the hole beside your head.

“Well,” he said, “better figure out what you’re making for dinner. Our guests won’t be long.”

[hermannsthumb]

Maria. *Grabs your face* MARIA. I would LOVE to see 15 bobbing for apples from the autumn fic meme written by you. Nothing would delight me more!

Anonymous asked: Halloween prompt #15 please!!... "Bobbing for apples but we meet accidentally underwater lady and the tramp style." OR "I thought we'd have fun bobbing for apples but you actually hate it and are really mad now"

15. Bobbing For Apples

from autumn fic prompts here

KATE ❤️__ ❤️for you id write anything... and anon the lady and the tramp scenario is so fucking funny/good

---------------------------

It’s a really good thing that Hermann has Newt, because if Newt’s being honest, he has no damn clue what the poor dude would do without him. Work himself to death, probably. Or spend every Saturday night alone in his bunk. So depressing. Newt considers it his big charitable act of—well, of all time—to force Hermann into social functions, whether it's fun nights out at the bar (with Newt!), or down the hall a few feet for awesome movie marathons in Newt’s quarters (with Newt!), or something like tonight, which is a super awesome and fun Halloween party that, like, everyone on the base was invited to (including Newt!).

Hermann was all set to spend another night alone (probably changing the batteries in all his calculators or rearranging the hangers in his closet) when Newt dragged him out, more or less by the collar of his argyle sweater, with multiple threats to make his life a living hell the following week in the lab if he didn't comply immediately. "Seriously, dude," Newt had said, ominously, while Hermann looked at him like a furious cat ready to take a swipe, "you're gonna put in those vampire fangs and get drunk with me, or you're gonna regret it. I mean it." Newt was not opposed to blasting the shittiest depths of his Spotify account over his bluetooth speakers or using Hermann's favorite coffee mug to hold his dissection tools. Luckily for both of them, Hermann decided the risk wasn't worth it.

Newt knows Hermann is bound to recognize how selfless Newt is being and thank him for it eventually. Probably. Maybe a few years from now. For now, Newt is enjoying the warm and fuzzy feeling of having done a good deed, and also of drinking a considerable amount of spiked punch.

Hermann is not enjoying either.

"I did, in fact, have plans for tonight," he tells Newt, sipping his ginger ale and observing Newt with a fierce scowl. He flat-out refused the booze Newt tried to push on him. It's fine, whatever—it's enough for Newt, right now anyway, that he actually came. They'll work up to bigger stuff like that later.

"Like what?" Newt says. "Doing a crossword puzzle and watching the second half of that boring-ass documentary you put on last weekend?"

Newt considers it an affront to the very concept of movie nights that Hermann used his pick on a documentary, and one about the jaeger program that didn't even bother interviewing him, no less. Newt loves a good documentary, don't get him wrong, but movie nights are for escapist shit. You don't see him switching on Godzilla. Plus, having to watch stock footage of Dr. Gottlieb Sr. blabbing his mouth about how smart he was while you were debating making a move on his son (who was currently in you bed, looking super cute in your sweatpants, because he'd forgotten to pack pj's) was kind of a mood-killer. "It wasn't boring," Hermann sniffs, which tells Newt that his guess was dead-on. "It was...interesting. And anyway, just because they aren't your idea of plans..."

"Okay, whatever," Newt says. "Let's just have fun. That's the point of a party."

He throws an arm around Hermann's shoulder and drags him closer, until their heads knock together painfully. He hears Hermann growl low in his throat. Newt doesn't say, soon, we won't have the time to do stupid shit like this anymore, so we should enjoy it while we can, even though he wants to. It's better to not make fun stuff depressing. Plus, Hermann might decide to take that as an invitation to bail and put on his documentary. Instead he reaches up across Hermann and flicks his chin. Hermann's whole body stiffens. "I can't believe I got you into this super awesome party and you're not even pretending to be thankful," Newt says.

With no great deal of difficulty, Hermann pushes Newt off of him. Newt lands heavily back in his chair, making the whole thing wobble, and he laughs as he just manages to catch himself from falling off the other side. "You got me in?" Hermann says. "Newton, I was invited three weeks ago."

Newt stops laughing. "You were?"

"Yes," Hermann says. The corner of his lip twitches up, with a smugness so powerful Newt can feel it radiating off of him in waves. Bastard. "I took it upon myself to ask if you might be permitted to come, too." He adds, sarcastically, "Out of the kindness of my heart. I know how terribly put out you get when you aren't included in these sorts of things."

Newt considers this new information, and then discards it, because it really doesn't fit the image of himself he's been cultivating as the cool, hip friend to Hermann's uncool, unhip nerd. Like, come on, between the two of them, Newt is obviously the one you'd want at your party. Hermann's gotta be kidding. Probably. Maybe. "It's a lame party anyway," Newt mumbles.

He tries to put his arm around Hermann's shoulder again, remembers that Hermann really didn't like that the first time, and then drops it back down at his side instead. "Totally lame," he continues. Newt recalls the Halloween parties of his youth with a warm, fond glow: elaborate costumes, tacky decorations, passing around bowls of peeled grapes in the dark, carving jack-o-lanterns while his dad hovered protectively over him to make sure he didn't take a finger off with the knife. This is none of that. Barely anyone even dressed up! The lack of Halloween spirit is tragic. "There aren't even any party games."

"Yes there are," Hermann says, mildly.

He points across the room at a large metal tub that Newt somehow missed before. It looks like it's filled with water, and...

"Dude," Newt says.

He doesn't wait to ask before he's hopping to his feet and dragging Hermann along after him by his blazer cuff. Hermann swats at his heels a few times with his cane, but eventually—like he does with most of Newt's ideas—gives in. "I'm a fuckin' champ at bobbing for apples," Newt boasts. "I used to—oops, excuse me," (he runs into two guys who are, like, twice his height, upsetting their drinks, and he hears Hermann groan as something purple spills on his sweater), "I used to always win it at the fall fest when my dad would take me." And then when he went back as an adult by himself, but it was less impressive a win when you were up against a bunch of ten-year-olds.

"You do have an exceptionally large mouth," Hermann says, rubbing at his stained shoulder. "I suppose that helps." As Newt bends to investigate the iron tub, he says, "Oh, Newton, don't, it's been out all night. Who knows what sorts of germs are in there?"

Newt gets to his knees and rolls up the sleeves of his PPDC-issued labcoat. He's a mad scientist to Hermann's vampire (vampire librarian?) tonight. Yeah, it's kind of a lazy costume, but it was free—he already had everything he needed in the lab. "I can get it in five seconds, max," he declares. His record is one second, but he's the first to admit he's a little rusty, and he'd rather impress Hermann by beating his estimate. "Will you hold my headlamp?"

Grumbling, Hermann takes it. Newt sets his glasses on the ground. "You're going to get yourself bloody soaking," Hermann says, and then he complains about something else, too, but Newt is screwing his eyes shut and ducking his head into the tub, which makes it difficult to hear him. One second—two seconds—two and a half—Newt emerges victorious from the tub, teeth clenched down firmly on an apple, and accidentally splatters a large amount of water on Hermann's shoes. He pulls the apple out of his mouth with a grin and waves it at Hermann. "See. I'm a fucking pro."

He tucks his glasses back on his face to discover that Hermann is staring at him with a very strange expression on his face. Newt can't decide if it's the blacklight bulbs overhead that are washing him out and making him look so flushed, or something else entirely. Then, in a second, he's grumpy and scowling and tsking over his wet shoes. "A pro," he echoes. "Hardly. It can't be that complicated."

Newt gestures grandly at the tub and takes a bite out of his apple. Hermann can always be relied upon to never turn down a challenge, especially when it means making Newt look—potentially—stupid. Newt uses it to his advantage often. Whatever it takes to help the guy have a good time. "It's all yours, dude."

Hermann grumbles something again about Newt being too arrogant for his own good, and something else about showing Newt how to do it without making a mess of everything, then gets down to his knees with a quiet hiss of discomfort. He shoves his cane, and Newt's headlamp, at Newt, though bewilderingly leaves his blazer on. "I'll be just a moment," he says, and dunks his head into the tub.

He splashes back up no more than five seconds later. Apple-less. "Bugger," he coughs, and then coughs some more. The entire front of his sweater is soaked. "I didn't—I didn't start out right. Let me—"

Newt watches Hermann try to drown himself a few more times in mild interest before he finally intercedes. "Need a hand?" he says, getting to his knees next to Hermann.

"No," Hermann splutters.

Newt takes his glasses off again. "Yeah, you do. Okay, now watch me—"

He emerges with another apple in seconds.

Hermann grits his teeth. "Newton—"

"One more?" Newt says, his grin widening.

Back under. Another apple. He winks at Hermann when he goes in for a fourth time, and this time, he feels the water of the tank being upset as Hermann (refusing to be outdone once again) splashes in alongside him. God, Newt loves riling Hermann up like this—he gets so funny, and kinda cute, when he's mad about something. Red in the face, and scowling, and sometimes (when he's real mad) speaking in a dangerously low and rough sort of voice with his r's rolling that makes Newt shiver, just a little. Like, Newton, you worthless, pathetic little man, cease this immediately, or else I'll... He actually said that to Newt once. It made Newt feel a little warm under his collar. Hermann's probably going to say something similar to him this time, and Newt can't wait.

Ten seconds in. Newt has been cutting Hermann a little slack at first, just to see if he can catch up, but finally decides to just go for the apple that's been bobbing steadily against his mouth this whole time. (He loves beating Hermann at stuff.)

And, well, apparently Hermann goes for it too.

They both miss the apple. Newt's mouth is up against Hermann's for another five seconds before he realizes what's happening (that that is definitely not an apple, that that is definitely a mouth, that that mouth is wide and weird another to belong to only one person Newt knows, that that mouth is parting in surprise, oh my God) and then he pulls away so quickly that he breathes in what feels like half the tub of water. He falls back on his ass, coughing furiously, and it's not until he shoves his glasses back on with a shaking hand that he realizes that Hermann has done the same. "I," Hermann says. His eyes are wide. "I'm sor—"

"It's fine," Newt squeaks.

"It was—"

"I know!"

Newt and Hermann's mouths were touching for five whole seconds. Underwater, while apples bobbed against their foreheads, but their mouths still touched. Oh my God. In elementary school, Newt thinks dizzily, that would be enough to catch cooties. This was so not how he wanted his awesome eventual seduction of Hermann to go down. For one thing, it wasn't even a seduction.

"I'm gonna get a towel," Newt says.

Hermann nods. He looks strangely adorable with water droplets on his nose and his hair plastered to his head like that. Newt has to get out of here before he does something stupid, like take Hermann's pointy cheeks between his hands and put their mouths together on purpose. He doesn't think Hermann would respond to that very well right now.

"I'll get you one too," Newt says, and it takes a lot of effort to force himself to his feet.

Hermann nods again.

"Okay," Newt says, and stumbles away. Out of the corner of his eye, he just catches Hermann raising a hand to his mouth.

[wingsofanillyrian]

Lights Over Monaco: Chapter 1

ITS HERE! I plan on updating this weekly/biweekly, based on how busy I am. Let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list! 

Special thank you to my new F1 friend for inspiring this fic as well as being my beta reader, @acourtofcouture​ ! F1 fans out there, her fics are AMAZING

Chapter Masterlist

F1 Glossary

----------------

Nesta Archeron discovered Formula 1 when she was 9 years old. She woke before the sun one Sunday morning, quietly excited to have the television all to herself and watch whatever cartoons she wanted. But she couldn’t remember what channel they were on, instead flipping through the programs. She had almost given up when she stumbled across a race.

The moment she had seen the brightly colored open-wheeled cars flash across the screen, she paused. For whatever reason, the high pitched wasp-like scream of the twelve cylinder engines and the astonishing speed that the drivers were travelling enthralled young Nesta. She didn’t look away once for the rest of the race, or even for the post-race interviews and wrap up that most adults skipped. Something about it had her adrenaline pumping.

Nesta traded her dolls for matchbox cars, and when she grew older, picked up racing magazines instead of teen ones. Ever since that day, Formula 1 consumed her. No matter how the other kids or her two younger sisters teased her for it, her love for the sport never tarnished. 

She spent years getting up at 2 am to watch live races that were being held halfway around the world. Instead of going to her senior prom, Nesta stayed home and layed out her predictions for the season’s drivers and constructors championships. She didn’t know how to do anything half-ass. She poured her whole heart into the sport and devoted her life to it.

**********

Nesta spent her 24th birthday working. It wasn’t like she could request the day off, not that it mattered. The racetrack at Monaco was exactly where she would have been anyway, working or not.

A press pass got her through the first security checkpoint. The team tents loomed ahead as she waited for personnel to cross the unstriped asphalt, inching her car carefully through the throngs of people. She rolled her window down, soaking in the sound of air tools and snippets of conversations. 

Street tracks like Monaco were her favorite. They required drivers to push themselves with plenty of technical corners and dramatic incidents. There was less room for error, as the tracks themselves were not as wide. Drivers had to know their limits and follow the racing line closely.

Race tracks were Nesta’s comfort zone. She knew each track on the calendar like the back of her hand. Every turn was permanently etched in her mind like words on a tombstone. Race weekends followed a set schedule, something that she could appreciate. Friday: practice laps. Saturday: more practice, followed by qualifying, where each driver got the chance to set the fastest lap and secure a spot in the starting line up for the main event on Sunday.

Before she had graduated college, Nesta had managed to fully entrench herself in the world of Formula 1. Securing an internship at ESPN her sophomore year, she had made herself indispensable to the crusty old man that had been the senior track side reporter for decades. She studied everything he did and the questions he asked each driver, noting what changes she would have made. Somehow, he came to admire her spirit and taught her the tricks of the trade.

When he retired the year after Nesta graduated, he went to the board of directors and personally recommended her to fill his spot. She waited two agonizing days for their decision. 

Using whatever means necessary, Nesta had clawed her way to the top and cemented her reputation as the most cutthroat reporter in the industry. Her goal had been for everyone in motorsport to know her name, and in only two years, she had done so. Better yet, she had caught the eye of one of the fastest drivers on the grid.

Her phone rang just as she pulled into the press parking area. She answered, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Hello?”

Tomas’ velvety voice thundered through the speakers of her Civic. “Hey baby. You here yet?”

“Just pulled in,” She replied, touching up her makeup in the rearview. 

“Right on time for a quickie. Meet me at my trailer in five.”

Tomas had already hung up before she had the chance to protest. Both their reputations hinged on their relationship staying secret. If the press caught wind that she was fucking a driver, her credibility would go out the window, and Tomas would be the laughing stock of the grid. So sneaking into his trailer wasn’t exactly the type of discreet she was aiming for.

Tomas Mandray had been racing for Red Bull for two years when she had scored her first exclusive interview with him. He had just been awarded pole position at the Spanish Grand Prix in Barcelona, and Nesta had sweet talked her way into the paddock. It had taken minutes for his charming blue eyes to enchant her. He had won that race, and taken her to bed straight after. 

The sex was great, but that’s all it ever was. Their relationship was purely based on the physical; nothing emotional on either end. They had agreed on that from the start. Just sex.

Unfortunately for Nesta, somewhere along the way it had become something more.

Sighing, she put on her oversized sunglasses and hid her tawny hair under a gauzy scarf. The fashion wouldn’t stand out at all amongst the celebrities that frequented the Monaco Grand Prix. Going over the top here was expected; Monaco was known for its money. Due to the lack of income tax, Monaco was a haven for white collar delinquents and royalty alike. Lamborghini’s and Ferrari’s were commonplace, and women wore rings that could set a jewel thief up for life. 

No one bothered her as she strode towards the pit checkpoint, flashing her press badge to get by. She fell into her usual cadence, exuding an air of importance and invincibility. Seemingly without realizing, people moved out of her way when they saw her coming. The navy, red, and yellow of the Redbull tent came into view, and Nesta inserted herself into the crowd of mechanics and VIPs to get past security. Press wasn’t allowed in the area until after the race.

Nesta broke away once inside, heading down a back corridor. She knew the layout by heart, having walked the path many times. The door at the end of the hall led outside to Tomas’ private trailer. She didn’t bother to knock before entering. Tomas would already be waiting for her.

He set down his phone as she entered. “Finally,” He said with a savage grin. “We only have a few minutes.”

****************

Tomas left as soon as he finished, donning his jumpsuit without so much as a kiss goodbye. Utterly used to the behavior, Nesta straightened her clothes and again touched up her makeup before heading back out.

She was scheduled to conduct a pre-race interview with Cassian Valle in the Mercedes tent in twenty minutes. Redbull and Mercedes were at opposite ends of the pit, giving her plenty of time to think.

Truthfully, Nesta was dreading the interaction. Cassian was an arrogant ass. She couldn’t stand interviewing him; all he did was skirt around questions and try to flirt, which made it incredibly difficult to get any headline-worthy tidbits from him.

Azriel Sainz, Cassian’s teammate at Mercedes, was much more amiable. He was mostly forgettable and quiet, but always gave her something to work with and was sometimes downright pleasant to talk to. She could understand why the public loved him, but not why they were so enamored with Cassian. Sure, he was a three time world champion, and that earned him plenty of fans, but he was just so… dreadful.

She made it to the Mercedes pit just minutes before the scheduled time, immediately spotting her tense cameraman, Jacob. Slim built, he was average looking, nothing special. He was sweet though, if not a bit of a pushover.

“Where the hell have you been?” He hissed, chocolate brown eyes wide. “Valle is waiting.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, handing Jacob her sunglasses and the scarf. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Not my fault if he was early.” Nesta accepted her microphone and rolled her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with then.”

“Happy birthday by the way,” Jacob added. Yes, there was the pushover side shining through. 

Nesta threw a grin at him over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

Cassian’s back was to her as she approached, his white Mercedes jumpsuit half on, the arms of it cinched around his waist. The crisp gray shirt he wore left little to the imagination, hugging his sculpted form. Good; at least that would capture the attention of any women that might be watching. As would the deep brown curl that fell in his face when he turned to her.

“If it isn’t my very favorite reporter,” He crooned, a grin plastered on his face. “Took you long enough to get here. I also hear it’s your birthday.” Nesta glared at Jacob. He shrank under her steely look, an apology stumbling from his lips.

“I would give you a birthday kiss, but I think you’d knock me out if I offered.”

Nesta pointedly ignored him, “Let’s just get on with it,” She said, motioning to Jacob to start recording. Once he signaled he was ready, Nesta breathed deep, the sweet scent of high octane fuel assaulting her senses. It steadied her, and she slipped into her professional mask before turning to the camera.

“As we all know, the Monaco Grand Prix offers drivers a unique set of challenges. The two-mile street course has 19 technical corners with little room for error. It is in Monaco that we get to see who has what it takes to be a Formula 1 champion.” She turned to Cassian, gave him a professional smile and continued.

“Last year, you had a puncture at turn seven when you ran over some debris. Coupled with the fumble the pit crew had with not having your tires ready when you came into the pit, you finished a disappointing 12th place, winning you no points in the driver’s championship. Do you expect that this year will be better, or will you stick to your usual aggressive driving style?”

Cassian laughed, running a hand through his unbound curls. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be changing anything. You can expect to see me on the podium, sweetheart. Most likely in first.”

Nesta grit her teeth. She couldn’t air that, and he knew it. “How about you answer the question without trying to piss me off?”

“It’s too easy,” Cassian said, that devilish grin returning. Nesta cut him a glare that simmered with violence. “Alright fine,” He relented, putting his hands up. “Go again.”

She repeated her question, and this time he answered, “I don’t really see any need to change my driving style, what happened last year was a fluke. I went wide on the turn and didn’t notice Vanserra's front wing until the last second and wasn’t able to change course.” Nesta nodded, encouraging him to go on. “I don't see myself making any mistakes like that this year. You can expect to see me on the podium, most likely in first.”

“Thank you for that Cassian. Good luck on the track today.”

“Thank you,” He said, waving at the camera. He paused before adding, “Though I won’t need luck.”

Nesta rolled her eyes and signaled for Jacob to cut the recording. At least that last bit could be edited out. “You are absolutely insufferable, you know that?”

Cassian shrugged, undoing the arms of his fire suit and slipping into them. “I do my best.” He winked at her before zipping up his suit, opening his mouth to say something else when the Mercedes team principal, Rhysand, barked at him to get his ass in gear. He gave Nesta a wordless salute before jogging off.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Jacob said, packing up his camera. “That guy has balls.”

“He’s a Formula 1 driver,” Nesta said simply, putting her sunglasses back on. “Of course he does.”

**********

Nesta watched the 78 lap race from the press box, silently cheering Tomas on. Each time the pack of cars passed, the windows rattled, doing little to muffle the engine noise. She chatted with the others as necessary, keeping one eye on the tarmac below. Tomas had started from pole position, and held onto first place until the final 10 laps. He had attempted to lap an AlphaTauri driver when the driver had failed to yield, violating FIA regulations. The two had bumped tires in what was ruled a racing incident, but Nesta knew better. Tomas had lost his cool and nudged the other driver on purpose, nearly sending him into the wall. 

It was a bad call on Tomas’ part, as the comfortable four second lead he had held over second place shattered. Nesta swore under her breath as Cassian overtook Tomas, her heart dropping when the other Mercedes driver, Azriel, did the same. Tomas would not be happy about that. 

When the checkered flag waved, Cassian was first, Azriel second, and Tomas third.  The winners parked before the podium, anger radiating from Tomas as he tore his helmet off. Tamlin, the Redbull team principal, said something to Tomas that had his cheeks burning red. 

Nesta grabbed Jacob and headed for the press room. They had a half hour tops before the post-race interviews started, and Nesta had to make sure she was front row. Though it didn’t matter where she sat; she always made sure her questions were answered.

It was more so for Tomas. She wanted him to see her, to see the understanding on her face and know she supported him even when he didn't win.

They were first to the press room, and Nesta had ample time to prepare questions. She couldn’t question Tomas, or she risked uncapping his rage. Instead, she jotted down a question she knew would shift the focus from Tomas to the Mercedes drivers.

Reporters began filing in, vying for the perfect spot and debating the race results with one another. Nesta remained in her seat, determined to maintain her composure as her stomach churned. Tomas finally entered, jaw set as he took his place on the stage. Nesta tried to subtly catch his eye, but he pointedly avoided looking at her. 

Cassian and Azriel entered, laughing and congratulating each other. Nesta noted the slight change in Tomas’ posture, the only hint of the blood boiling beneath his skin. Cameras flashed, reporters shouted, but still Nesta remained seated. Cassian, at least, sought her out in the crowd, and flashed her an ‘I-told-you-so’ grin when he found her. Once the clamor had died down, Nesta stood. The room quieted further, the others having learned not to talk over her if they valued their jobs. Nesta had a knack for digging up dirt on anyone she pleased.

Her eyes were still locked on Cassian as the moderator indicated she could ask her question. 

“Azriel,” She started, turning to the dark haired man, “You were lucky you were able to take second in this race, after the incident in turn twelve on lap 27 when you sustained heavy damage to your front wing, thanks to the actions of your teammate. Does it ever get under your skin that Valle’s overly-aggressive driving threatens your own position in the championship?”

The room was silent. Tomas hid his grin behind a well-manicured hand. Cassian’s eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. Good; she had hit a nerve. Azriel shrugged, crossing his arms. 

“It was a racing incident. Could have happened to anyone. I don’t think the blame lays entirely with Cassian; I could have given him more room on the corner.”

And that was that. Nesta didn’t ask any more questions, but she could feel Cassian glaring at her throughout. At the end of the interview, all three drivers thanked everyone before leaving.

As Nesta made her way back to her car, she texted Tomas.

You okay?

Her heart pounded as she waited for the reply. Her phone buzzed minutes later.

I’ll be home late. Party at the Redbull house.

Oh. Okay. See you later then.

“Happy birthday to me,” She muttered, stuffing the phone in her pocket.

Nesta wasn’t sure why his reply stung, but it cut deep. She had hoped that he would want to see her instead of going to another party and spend time with her on her birthday. Instead, he would probably stick his tongue down another woman’s throat like usual. She couldn’t really blame him. Their relationship had to remain secret and to do so, Tomas had to maintain his playboy aura. It wasn’t really cheating if she had agreed to it.

But if that were true, why did it hurt so fucking bad when he did?

Some of her tension eased when she finally spied her car in the lot. The Blue Bullet, she had nicknamed it, due to the strikingly bright paint. It was the first purchase she had made upon being promoted, and it had since become her pride and joy. She had chosen it because it set lap records left and right when it had hit the market a few years back, and she had craved speed her whole life. On city streets, this car was the closest she could get to experiencing Formula 1 without completely breaking the bank.

“How about you don’t ask stupid fucking questions next time your prettyboy loses?”

Nesta’s breath hitched. Your prettyboy. The accusation was clear. Her hand slipped from the door handle, turning towards the voice. If he knew… If he knew about her and Tomas, they were done for. She willed her voice into solid steel.

“Cassian. I would advise you to choose your next words wisely.”

He placed a hand on her Civic, getting in her face. “Racing means you have racing incidents. I don’t expect you to understand, seeing as you’ve never been behind the wheel of a real race car.” He sneered at her car, the insult striking home.

Fear faded, replaced by a rising wave of scarlett rage. Nesta’s gaze stuck to where his hand lay on the bright blue paint, utterly vexed by the infringement. She bared her teeth at him, rising to the challenge in Cassian’s flaming hazel eyes. 

“Get. Off.”

Cassian started at the command in her tone and obeyed. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Understanding the nuances of Formula 1 is my job description. I asked about that incident because I knew it would piss you off. Looks like I was right huh?” Her temper was getting the better of her. “And by the way, would it kill you to give me a decent quote once in a while, instead of always trying to get in my pants?”

“I do not-”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” Nesta scoffed, yanking the door open. 

The corners of his mouth twitched upward as she slammed the car door. “I was already planning on it.”

Those parting words haunted her drive home, even as she took the long way in hopes of blowing off steam. She shifted through the gears, throwing the Civic around corners much faster than was probably safe. Nesta didn’t care; her head was a mess. At least he hadn’t mentioned anything more about Tomas. Maybe Cassian had just thought she had a crush, based on the way she had been looking at him during the conference. Gods, she couldn’t get Cassian out of her head. 

His grin followed her up the stairs to her apartment, where she snapped the curtains shut. She couldn’t bear to look out over the track any longer today. 

Those words echoed in her head as she brushed her teeth and crawled into bed alone. Swam through her thoughts of Tomas, as she struggled to keep her eyes open when the clock showed 1 am. As she finally gave in, they were her last thought. 

I was already planning on it. 

@aphoeni @planet-faerie  @nina-zcnik @linsimin @that-little-red-head @teagoddess99 @enpointe10 @electronicstrawberrystrawberry @awesomelena555 @iptneus @weesablackbeak @wonderland--memories @nessian-trash-heap @magicalwaterfall @perfectlyimpxrfect @cassians-wings @valkyrie-archeron @acourtofcouture @nesemryn @chloepereyra @illyrianshadowhunter​ 

[collectionofsinglefathers]

I have a feeling she might be playing it up for effect, but the way Sharon talks about Bucky also plays into the whole thing of Captain America being used as a propaganda tool by the US government within the MCU. Bucky too would’ve been a part of that.

In the original Winter Soldier comic line, there’s a great moment where Steve talks about the darker side of Bucky in the reality of WWII and fighting HYDRA:

“Which is the real secret of what Bucky was. The official story said he was a symbol to counter the rise of Hitler youth... and there was some truth to that. But like all things in war, there was a darker truth underneath. Bucky did the things I couldn’t. I was the icon. I wore the flag... But while I gave speeches to troops in the trenches... he was doing what he’d been trained to do... and he was highly trained.”

For anyone who might not be as familiar with Bucky in the comics, and I’m not an expert or anything, like I’ve said I only really know the original Winter Soldier line when it comes to Bucky, Steve and Bucky weren’t childhood best friends like they are in the MCU. Bucky was a kid he got paired up with after getting the serum. I don’t remember exactly, it’s been a LONG time since I’ve read the original WS line. But I know he was a kid, and he was used as this icon to basically try and boost American patriotism in young kids during the time period, when in reality he was doing a lot of the more messed up stuff that Steve couldn’t do because of the nature of Captain America and the icon that he was. Bucky was “just a sidekick”, so it was easier to sweep the stuff he was trained to do under the rug. They used him as propaganda the same way Steve was used

And there’s evidence of it in the MCU as well. In the Winter Soldier, when Steve goes to the Captain America exhibit in the Smithsonian, there’s a big memorial display for Bucky, with everyone still believing him to be dead, and the whole thing is practically a constructed narrative made by the people who made the memorial, and not all from the real facts. Here’s a pretty clear picture of the memorial, and I’ll also write out what it says down below:

“Born in 1916, Barnes was born the oldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian Front. Captured by HYDRA troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, depravation, and torture. But his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America.

Reunited, Barnes and Rogers led Captain America’s newly formed unit, the Howling Commandos. Barnes’ marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed HYDRA bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater.”

First of all, there’s a giant contradiction within the text itself (although that’s probably just more of a continuity error or typo and not a propaganda thing). The main text says Bucky was born in 1916, but then down at the bottom, it says 1917 - 1944. (The MCU has also never been super clear on in he fell into the ravine in 44 or 45, but that’s not super relevant.)

It states that he enlisted, and it’s a big fan favorite headcanon that Bucky was drafted, and I actually believe this headcanon to be true. One, because in Sebastian’s performance in Cap 1, nothing about it says to me “Bucky totally wants to do this”. Two, it’s actually supported by historical fact. In WWII, there was a specific system to how soldiers’ ID numbers worked. A newer (and awesome) mutual of mine @maxwyl told me that Bucky’s full ID number is 32557038. According to this Wikipedia article, the first two numbers, 32, signify that he was drafted in the Delaware, New Jersey, and New York area, and seeing as he’s from Brooklyn, it lines up.

Third, the way it mentions how Steve liberated the HYDRA prison camp makes it sound like it was fate, like Steve was just on another mission and Bucky just happened to be there. It completely leaves out the fact that Steve hadn’t been on any sanctioned missions, and I’m fact went against orders and took action into his own hands because he heard that Bucky, his best friend, was being presumed dead along with the rest of the captured 107th.

And also, just the way it says that his “will was strong” through being tortured by HYDRA feels so much like a cliched “they couldn’t break him” type of thing, when in reality he was barely conscious when Steve found him and was probably only able to keep up with Steve during their escape due to adrenaline and just wanting to make sure his best friend survived.

I went off on a tangent there. But anyway, while what Sharon says to Bucky is a clear indicator of that kind of public image being put out of Bucky, I think it’s more her playing it up, mostly due to her proximity to Peggy and her seeming to be a hero to Sharon from the way she talked about her in Civil War.

[enochianribs]

Chapter 2 of the Cabin AU is up now!

Read on Ao3 here, or under the cut. 

(Reblogs appreciated!)

The roof had a leak. Dean woke up to a growing wet spot on the pillow next to his. He laid still, eyes crossing as he stared at the ceiling, watching the bead of water run across one of the unfinished boards, suspending itself for an entire minute until it plopped right next to his head. Slowly, his mind pulled itself out of his dream, though the haze lingered.  The roof had a leak. Dean woke up to a growing wet spot on the pillow next to his. He laid still, eyes crossing as he stared at the ceiling, watching the bead of water run across one of the unfinished boards, suspending itself for an entire minute until it plopped right next to his head. Slowly, his mind pulled itself out of his dream, though the haze lingered. 

 “Mmm...great.” Another item on his to-do list. 

 Dean was willing to bet there were more leaks in the living room. 

For a moment he debated allowing himself to be lulled back to sleep. It was all too easy to slip back to that dream again: blurry hands, soft mouths, quiet murmurs, everything he missed and everything he’d never had. Not really. 

 Rain gently pattered against the outside of the cabin, the storm grinding in from the East and then settling its haunches right over the hills to stay for the night. The sun was rising, and the pink sky cast shadows from the drops on the window pane, little spots phantom dripping down his sheets. 

 It was the first morning since he’d gotten to the cabin that he’d slept in past sunrise. Sluggishly, he sat up, diggin the heel of his hand into his eyes as a yawn fought its way out of his chest. He turned his head, and reached out with a hand to wake his companion, before reality caught up with him and his hand fell to the mattress, going through the ghost.

 That’s right , he thought. His mouth tasted like ash.

 If he laid there any longer his chest would become heavy, and his breaths ragged, so he tossed the covers off, and trudged over to the shower. The cold water bit through the fog better than anything else could, and he leaned his temple against the glass door waiting for it to heat up and fill the room with steam. 

 Normally, he’d air dry, but it was chilly and an urgency hung around him. He grabbed the bleach-spotted towel hanging sadly by the door towelled off quickly. 

He wandered idly, picking his daily morning tasks up and dropping them before he’d complete them. Something pulled him around the house. He was forgetting something.

Dean was midway through folding the quilt and draping it on the sofa arm when they caught his eye. 

Two large feathers sat in the middle of the massive dining table (he still wondered who had built and what they’d been thinking—  the thing could seat the knights of the round table if necessary). Tugging the fridge door with one hand he reached blindly for the pot of coffee he kept iced, and nudged it closed with his knee, never taking his eyes off them. 

They were captivating. He continued to stare as he poured himself a cup, spilling some of the coffee onto the counter. He’d forget to clean it up, and it would stain, but that was okay. If they asked, he was experimenting with wood staining.

Dean could examine them once he made himself some kind of breakfast. Those were the rules: remember to feed yourself, and then you can do whatever you want to with your day. Breakfast ended up being toast and jam, and he plopped it down at the end seat of the table, and reached for the feathers before he took a bite. 

The color on the first one was so dark it looked heavy, but it was as light in his hand as any feather should be. He held it up and squinted, twisting his wrist back and forth. It caught the light and reflected a shimmering oil slick back at him. The colors shifted, hues iridescent.

 At first glance it could be a raven’s, but it was at least four times bigger than that.

 The second one was more muted, the black towards the base of it dappled into a brown and white, and it was downy soft where the other was sharp and precise. Yesterday he’d thought it was grey but better light proved that it was a grey-brown.

He’d assumed that it was from the same bird—  creature , but now he wasn’t so sure. Dean didn’t know the first thing about birds. However, he knew several people who did. 

▵▿▵

“Hey, Bobby. Can I talk to Rufus?”

“He’s kinda in the middle of some’in’, Dean.” The roll of his eyes was audible, as someone yelped in the muffled background. “Can I call you back?”

“Please?” Dean asked, grinning cheekily even though he wasn’t there to warm Bobby over in person. 

Bobby made a disgruntled noise and paused, before sighing. “You’re doing the face aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Fine. You never want to talk to me .” 

“You know that’s not true.”

“Hm.” Bobby replied. Out of spite, he kept the phone next to his face as he shouted for his attention. “Rufus! It’s Dean.” 

Ouch , Dean mouthed wincing at the volume, as he listened to the sound of two old men grumbling at each other before fabric shifted, and Rufus picked up the phone. 

“He lives.”

A smile burst its way through Dean’s concentration. “Hey Ruf, gotta question for you.”

“Coulda called us sooner. We were beginning to wonder if you’d sold the cabin and moved somewhere warmer with pink flamingos.”

The image made Dean snort. Him at the beach? Unlikely.

“Nope.” Dean quipped. “Still here and freezing my ass off. You guys ever think about installing a damn heater?”

“And pay that bill? Hell no. We added a fireplace, what more do you want from us.”

Good ol’ crabby Rufus. “What do you know about birds?” 

“A lot.” As per usual, he was being obtuse.

“Know of any big enough to leave behind two foot feathers?”

Rufus whistled. “Not in North America, unless you’ve got ostriches running around.”

“That’d be a negatory. So there’s nothing you can think of?”

“Nope. Did you find something, kid?”

“Holding one right now.”

“No shit.” He could hear the bewildered tone of his voice over the shitty connection. “Well, I guess keep an eye out. It’d be real hard for something that big to hide, and even harder for it to sit comfortable in those pine trees with the branches so dense. I’d say you’re about to make the biggest zoological discovery in North America in the past century. Keep us posted?” 

“Will do.” Dean said, and he heard Rufus handing the phone back over to Bobby. 

“Hope everything’s okay up there, Dean.”

“Everything’s peachy, honestly. Anyways—” He checked the clock on the stove. 8:30. The hardware store would be open in a half hour. “I’ve got some errands to run, so I’ll leave you to whatever it is a couple of old farts do in retirement.”

“Hey—” 

Dean grinned to himself. “See ya, Bobby.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

The line went silent, and Dean shoved his phone back into his pocket, bobbing his head to the side in thought. Though he didn’t get a definitive answer, at least the call had eliminated the options of native fauna. 

▵▿▵

At nine in the morning, Dean was usually one of a small line of people waiting outside Lafitte’s Goods to needle Benny’s brain for fixes and tools of the trade. Pamela was waiting against the brick wall, hand shielding the summer morning sun from her eyes, reading a 99 cent paper back with interest. 

“Hey, Pamela.”

“Dean-o. Call me Pammy.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not. But Pam works. I’m not your mother.”

“You call your mom by her first name?”

“Fair point. What’re you here for?” She nodded her head and bounced off the wall, as Benny unlocked the doors. A couple of grizzled old men shuffled in ahead of them, beelining it for the plywood. 

Porch season. 

“Roof’s got a leak.”

“Leak season.”

“Apparently. This is the third one since I got here.”

She squinted at him, like he was omitting something important, and popped the bubble of gum in her mouth. Dean started to itch under her scrutiny. He hated being studied like a lab rat.

What was the woman? A witch? Why was she peeling back layers of his get-up without warning.

Dean coughed, and used Benny’s presence as an excuse to wiggle out from under her gaze. “Gotta—  yeah, see you.” Turning on his heel he fled towards the adhesives, face contorting with embarrassment. 

Holy fuck, somehow he’d gotten even more awkward. 

Dear god, help me. 

Benny never pried unless Dean seemed interested in offering up information, and for that Dean was actually incredibly grateful. Most days he didn’t want to talk about anything, certainly not his past, but Benny and his bushy beard and warm eyes had managed to wiggle through his walls, just a little. 

“Benny.”

Benny stared at him from behind the register, inquisitive expression considerably easier to cope with than Barnes' hungry expression. A friendly smile danced across his face as he assessed Dean’s no-doubt rosey cheeks. 

“She’s got her claws in you, huh.”

Dean ducked his head, glancing sideways at the brunette woman still looking at the different kinds of rope. A tramp stamp peeked out from under the bottom edge of her tank top. Dean tapped his fingers on the pock-marked wood counter and turned his attention back to his friend. “Is she always like that?”

“Sure is,” Benny drawled, ringing up everything Dean had haphazardly shoved onto the counter in his escape. “You just happen to be the newest, prettiest , plaything in Pringle.” The burly man winked.

 Pink crawled up Dean’s neck  from his collarbones and spread into his cheeks once again. Christ, there was no escape from these people. Still stammering, Dean practically ran back to the Impala. 

▵▿▵

 The phone vibrated in his back pocket. By the third ring, Dean had parked Baby in her usual spot, and he struggled to tug it out of his pocket, checking the Caller ID. 

California. 

He pumped the window down, the air getting warm inside the car, and he flipped the phone open, inhaling sharply. He should have called before now. Shouldn’t have let so much time pass. In the fall, he’d be too busy to take any of Dean’s calls anyways. 

“Hello?”

“Dean?”

“Sammy.”

Several seconds of too-long silence passed between them. 

“Where have you been?”

Dean swallowed, thick, guilt permeating the small space. 

“Sorry, I just—” He didn’t have an excuse. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You still could’ve picked up the phone. I tried to call you about six times. You don’t always need to have something to say, y’know…  It just would’ve been nice to know you’re still breathing.” His brother’s voice was basically a whisper at the end. 

“I know.” Dean closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing shakily. “I know.”

“I had to hear it from Bobby. Dean—” Sam’s voice pitched up to that octave it always did when he was upset. “Dad’s gone again.”

Fuck. 

“And that’s fine. It’s not like I’m ten and incapable of caring for myself but I thought—  I thought he’d be back by now. It’s been a couple of weeks.”

“Shit, Sammy.” 

“I think he’s fine. He sent a vague text a couple of days ago, it’s just with school starting in two months I get worried. Not even for him, just for us. I can’t pay for school myself, and I can’t afford to miss anything because of Dad. If my grades drop, I’m out.”

“I know.” God, Dean knew.

Sam was a late bloomer for college. The kid was brilliant, but he’d been dealt a bad hand, and it was a miracle Rufus and Bobby had invested in a saving fund for the two of them decades ago. At twenty-two, Dean knew that he’d already had trouble securing the scholarships. Stanford wanted the best and brightest, not the kid with seven schools on his high school transcript and an overabundance of unexcused absences. 

The guilt piled up and perched itself on his shoulders until he sagged into his seat under the heaviness. It was his job to keep John out of trouble, not Sammy’s. And instead he’d run away from that responsibility. 

The repair materials sat in the backseat, and his heart twisted in his chest. The meadow sat peacefully in the late afternoon sun, just across the short distance of woods, and it still kept its secret. He didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not until he’d had his fill of independence.

“Look,” He could kick himself for how his voice cracked. “If John doesn’t turn up by the end of the week, I’ll come back. I’ll help. Promise.”

For what it was worth, a facet of his brother’s relieved sigh sounded apologetic.“Thank you, Dean. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“Okay then.”

“Bye.”

“Talk to you soon, Sammy.” Dean’s jaw clenched involuntarily, as he flipped the phone closed and tossed it against the passenger door. His frustrated shout echoed between him and the trees, but he didn’t feel better.

Always this .

Historically, John would do something stupid and irresponsible and Dean would drop everythign to clean up the mess and no one would thank him. Not really. That was fine.

Family was supposed to break your heart. 

 ▵▿▵

 The leak proved to be an easy fix. 

Dean fought the attic door that led to the roof, following the small staircase up until he was on the balls of his feet, head sticking out as he pulled himself onto it. The shingles were rough, cracked and damaged from the winters, and he scrapped the length of his arm against it.

 The source of the leak took only a minute to find. Five or so shingles were missing, leaving nothing but the wood underneath, which did nothing but absorb any and all precipitation. The rubber sealant smelled terrible, and he gagged dramatically, almost dropping the metal can in the process. Done applying, he plopped his ass down, determined to see it dry properly before he went back inside.

Half assing things had always resulted in a stern talking to in the least, and it had been something he’d struggled with growing up, his mind yanking him a thousand directions until his head was spinning and John was disappointed. 

Dean grit his teeth, purposefully dragging the raw scrape against the rough roofing, the burn biting through the thought, bringing him back down from that far off place he so frequently wandered to. He didn’t even know how he got there, but he found himself lost, shrunk down, smaller than the hand-me-down leather jacket he tried to fill.

From the roof he could see almost everything. It turned out that Rufus and Bobby’s cabin foundation was built onto a gentle slope.

The rain clouds had dissipated, migrating to the flat plains further south, and it left a crisp atmosphere behind. The sun poked through the remaining gargantuan cumulonimbus clouds, sunbeams gently caressing the grass. Grey mist rose from where the creek beds greedily absorbed the heat. It reminded him of the paintings of cowboys, sitting on a stallion, bathed in golden light, their backs to the audience, all the edges illuminated and throwing everything else into stark purple shadows. 

 The burn of the scrape subsided as a sense of peace settled Dean, his body melting into the shingles. An hour passed before his stomach growled, and he climbed back down for lunch.

 ▵▿▵

 Tapping. 

Tapping at the window pane only inches from his face. 

Groggy and only slightly encrusted (gross) Dean opened his eyes and was met by dark blue ones, a tawny human hand pressed up against the glass. 

 Dean’s soul evaporated out of his body, back pressed to the headboard as he scrabbled for the small knife he kept under his pillow. Before he could look again, it was gone.He launched himself out of bed, so very entirely grateful that he’d had enough sense to go to sleep in his boxers and his worn-out threadbare Kansas shirt. 

Holy hell.  

Fingers trembling, he opened the window, leaning almost all the way out, hovering a few feet above the ground.A single feather slowly came to rest soundlessly on the pine-needle carpet. The view from the window remained unyieldingly motionless. 

Black-eyed susans had begun to sprout in the shade, despite themselves, and now they quivered where they grew between the pine-roots even though the morning wind had not pierced through the woods yet. 

Craning his neck, he glanced up, half expecting the last thing he’d ever see to be a terrifying bird man staring down at him like he was lunch. Nothing. 

Dean practically fell out of his room, chanting under his breath in a poor attempt to calm himself down as he stumbled down the short hall to the living room. 

It’s human.

“No,” Dean spoke to the picture frames on the walls. He had no idea what he was denying, but the situation begged to be denied. He paced back and forth in the living room, no doubt wearing the floor down despite the fact that he was wearing socks—  the ones with the holes in the heel. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Oh my God, it was so very not okay. 

Suddenly, the couch seemed like the perfect place to suffocate himself to unconsciousness. Someone else could deal with this. 

 No , he thought. You wanted this to happen, you dirty liar. Stop panicking and deal with it. 

Wings was human- or at least partially human. He looked like a man. Dean’s thin eyelids fluttered closed, and the image was painted on the backside of them with crystal clarity. Square jawline, arrow-straight nose, curiously arched eyebrows…  and the eyes . They were so blue. And they had been looking right at him. Watching him. 

It was entirely ridiculous that his eyes overshadowed the massive lurking darkness behind him, of what had to have been his wings. 

A human with wings. 

This was crazy. Everything was crazy.

The way he saw it, there were two directions this could go: he could pretend he hadn’t seen anything, and this would be tucked away into the delusion box that he kept under lock and key at the back of his mind and he could grow old being none the wiser of whatever breach of reality this was, or he could go find it. 

The first option was sounding real nice. Normal. Well adjusted. 

He was well adjusted. 

Besides, Dean wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t a dream.  this entire thing was a fever dream and he was in some hospital bed back in Lawrence, stuck in a coma. Dean pinched himself, viciously and stared at the white marks left on his forearm, helpless. 

Nope. 

“Okay.” He barked out a laugh. 

He should call Jo. 

After a few more minutes of pacing and hyperventilating, he decided against it. He would tell her—  of course he would! —but when it came up.

The Harvelle’s were good people and they’d shown him nothing but kindness. 

The situation had to be broached with care, or the small home he’d built in the life he wanted to live would topple in on itself, and the rubble and dust would drown him.

Trust issues were a problem of his, and he’d been aware of them since high school, when he’d had too many secrets to keep and any semblance of a support system was states away. 

God, he knew the way he clammed up was obvious, but sometimes he surprised even himself. If he was being honest, there was a lot more to it than a strong need for privacy. Didn’t matter though. In the end, after all the nit-picking and self beratement, it boiled down to fear. 

Jo could keep her mouth closed, but there was always a chance she’d accidentally tell someone, and there was a high chance it would be the wrong person. If he let it slip that this thing existed, who knew what would come packing. And he knew sooner or later, someone would bring the heat. Words got around easily in a small town like Pringle and he knew everyone would be at his door, wanting a chance to see the freak of the week. 

Which… was a thing that existed. A human with wings, that called the small clearing his home.

His heart skipped a beat at the thought. He felt protective over the man, almost ferociously so. 

The day’s hunting trip wasn’t happening— now Dean was paranoid.

What if he accidently shot him? Or scared him off permanently? 

His stomach churned, acid and bile climbing their way up his throat. The burn was familiar. Half his childhood had been spent subsiding panic attacks and anxiety, calming down Dad or Sam or both at the same time. 

▵▿▵

The tin echo of a gunshot managed to penetrate through the thick log walls of the cabin.In a heartbeat, he was scrambling for the ancient shotgun. The front door swung open, the little voice in his head told him to close it behind him, but his feet carried him quicker than his mind and so he left it swinging on its hinges at his back. 

An anguished scream gargled its way from somewhere deeper into the woods, due south of the cabin. Rocks dashed the soles of Dean’s feat and he swore out loud, having forgotten his boots at the door. 

Shit shit shit.  

Someone was nearby, and they were ballsy enough to fire a weapon despite the illegality of hunting on private property. His mind raced at the same speed he ran towards it, a limp skewing his gate every few steps. Stray branches caught the sleeves of his shirt, tearing through the fabric as he refused to slow down. 

It’s just a deer. 

He knew better. 

They’re just after a deer, or a bison that wandered away from the heard or an elk or something—  

Another blood curdling scream erupted from amongst the pine, this one loud enough to rattle the crows out of their nests. They cawed, the sound of dozens of pairs of wings taking flight muting the pained groans. 

He knew better. 

Please—  please. Not Wings.

He faltered over a boulder, panic overtaking muscle memory and skidded to a halt at the crest of a ledge. The scene below knocked the breath out of his chest, leaving a vacuum in its wake. 

Campbell, one of the more elderly hunters of the area was standing over another tawny body. Giant black wings sprawled out, twisting and twitching in the dirt and mud, feathers slightly splayed underneath his back. 

Campbell’s face distorted in pain, a tense moment passing before his wild eyes landed on Dean, the whites of his too visible, even from ten yards away. Blood pumped out from a wound on his neck, and he had a hand clamped down onto it, slick with red, he held a shotgun limply in his left hand, the butt of it dropped heavily to the ground. 

Semi-satisfied that Campbell didn’t seem interested in shooting again, Dean fixated every ounce of attention on Wings and his breath hitched. Smeared across his mouth and chin was a copious amount of blood. He’d bitten Campbell. Dean’s heart swelled with pride.

Good . 

His short encounter with Campbell prior had proved that the man was a bag of dicks, cocky and far too keen on the killing aspect of hunting. It skeeved Dean out then, and it certainly did now. Campbell was still looking at Wings like he was prey. Though no component of the scene begged to differ: the man was naked, teeth bared, but he was incapable of escaping, the gunshot wound in his abdomen bleeding him dry. 

Dean leveled the end of his shotgun at Campbell’s head. “Get the fuck away from him.”

Campbell backed away from Wings, the muscles in his right arm tensed, like he wanted to put it up defensively, but it was necessary he kept pressure on the wound. It looked like Wings had gone for the jugular. “It attacked me, Winchester.”

“And?” 

“You’re fucking crazy.”

Dean would put money on the fact that he looked the part, he could feel his chest heaving, something akin to dull rage pumping through his veins. He prayed the tremor in his hand didn’t betray his hesitation. “I said move .”

Obeying his orders, Campbell stepped back, never taking his eyes off of the strange man. Agony flashed across his face where he laid in the dirt.In his hands, he held a silver blade. Wings looked from Campbell to Dean, expression visibly softening.

“Give me your coat.” Dean didn’t have much time, glancing at Wings, he saw that a red gleam of blood was starting to trickle from the corner of his mouth and his eyes moved frantically. He slid down the slope and went to take off his jacket and remembered his was only in his boxers. “ NOW .” 

Campbell shirked it off and threw it at Dean, staying exactly where he was. Moving quickly, Dean pressed the thick fabric to the wound, moving his other hand to the back side to see where the bullet went. There was no opening there, and he was thankful that Wings was naked. He could skip the sometimes detrimental process of removing his clothes to assess the wound better.

 He tied the jacket around him and slid one arm under his legs and the other across his shoulder blades, lifting him up carefully. Dean had to get him back to his house immediately, before Wings lost too much blood.

One last time, he regarded Campbell. He felt the sneer tug his lip up, his voice like acid trying to eat through the other man’s bones until he was nothing. “Get the fuck off my property. And don’t tell anyone about this. He’ll be fine, not that you care. But you won’t be if I see you here again, or if I hear about this from anyone. Do I make myself clear?”  

Samuel’s eyes darkened clearly at war with Dean’s threat, but his skin was taking on a pallor akin to lethal blood loss. He nodded curtly, acknowledging the agreement, at least for the moment. 

Reasonably satisfied that Campbell wouldn’t shoot them in the back, Dean turned and left, the body draped over his shoulder too warm.Dean’s hand wrapped around, hand feathering over his taut side, avoiding the wound. He could feel his fingers wet with blood. 

Wings was whispering something feverishly, though Dean couldn’t catch a word of it, his eyes glazed over with pain, searching the sky for something with a fervor of a religious man with hell hounds on his heels. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Dean murmured, straining to carry the both of them the distance to the cabin. “I’ve got you.” 

Wing’s head lolled to the side, and his body went slack. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but Dean couldn’t afford to cry now. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to get them inside safely. He swallowed the terror. He ducked and wove through the undergrowth, fearing that the drooping wings would catch on a branch or boulder. 

The time it took until he could lay Wings down on his dining room table felt like hell had manifested on Earth, keenly able to feel life slipping away in his arms.

Once Dean managed to put Wings on the table without his head smacking the wood, he tore the kitchen apart for salt and a bowl of water and some clean washcloths, and sprinted to the bathroom, yanking the drawers out and emptying their contents onto the counter and sink until his eyes landed on the tweezers and isopropyl alcohol.

It wasn’t a perfect med kit, but there was no other choice. It had to do. 

Dean approached the table cautiously, worried that too much movement would set him off. The dark wingspan spread out almost three feet on either side of the table and Dean swallowed a stone.

He had no idea what to do next, not really. The closest experience he’d had to being a doctor had been treating John’s stab wound when he was thirteen and John had come home more beaten than usual.  

He stared helplessly down at Wings.  

“He...help.” Wings voice was like a ghost’s, he barely heard it, and he was standing right next to him. He looked up at the cobwebbed chandelier lighting like it was something holy and mesmerizing and Dean realized he was losing him. 

“Shhh… it’s okay.” His forehead was sticky with sweat and drying blood, and Dean pushed some of the unruly black wisps from his eyes, humming low. “I’m gonna help you.” 

Wings hand shook, following the edge of the table, feverishly searching for something to hold onto. Tentatively, Dean slid his fingers between his, feeling his calloused palm against his own. “Wings. Wings, you gotta listen to me. Wings, please . You have to lay still.”

He had no idea if the man understood a single word he was saying, but it seemed to do the trick. Over the span of a terrible minute, his breathing slowed down, and his grip on Dean’s hand went from frail to almost bone crushingly alive. 

Wings’ blue eyes were on him, flickering a little in the low light. Dean waited, untrained, unable and unwilling to play operation on him while he was still conscious, eyes desperate to look at anything but the daunting task before him. 

Eventually, he passed out, his painful grimace replaced by a soft one, and Dean began to remove the shrapnel bullet, praying to anyone who was listening that it had not shredded his insides beyond repair. 

 ▵▿▵

 At some point in the night, Dean had gotten up to draw the curtains and lock the door, willing to sacrifice only a moment to seal them away from the rest of the world. 

 Now, sunlight pierced through the cracks, illuminating them both in thin lines of white light. He watched Wings toss and turn, his face gnarling into pain each time he moved.

 What if Dean had fucked it up? What if the next breath he drew was his last? His mind raced, punishing him for every moment’s hesitation that could very well lead to his death. 

 Dean caught himself following Wings jawline, examining the stark contours of his face like he would never see them again. Please, just please make it out alive.

 “Don’t die on me, Wings.” The words slipped out subconsciously. “Please, God, don’t die on me.”

 Dean had the decency to cover him up with the quilt. The two’s hands were still tightly entwined long after the heartbeat in Wing’s wrist lulled Dean into sleep, tumbling heart over head. 

[annaphoenix1994]

Masterlist Here:

Thanksgiving - Part 3

Mia sat at the long table at her brother's new house, which was coincidentally Michael's childhood home, just remodeled. John and his partner, who went by the nickname Little John, did an immaculate job with the redesign of the house, bringing it back to life, so to speak.

"How've you been, Mia?" Little John asked her as he approached the table with the freshly carved turkey.

"The usual - been working, riding the horses, nothing new." She giggled.

"You found you a feller yet?" Her grandmother asked bluntly, the small-framed old woman constantly reminding her of Sophia from The Golden Girls.

Mia giggled, "No, grandma." She felt guilty for lying to her grandmother, but she knew that she would rather say no than to tell her "Yes, actually. He's an escaped mental patient twenty years older than me and he prefers to kill people in his path but spared me for some reason."

"You'll find him soon enough, I'm sure. You just gotta put yourself out there."

"I have, I just haven't met the right one yet I suppose." She really hated to keep the secret between her and Michael in, but she knew it wasn't near the right time. Eventually, she would pull Little John aside as he was the most reasonable to talk to compared to Big John, her brother, who also had a short fuse when it came to reactions.

Missing her parents, the small family enjoyed their time together, eating dinner and reminiscing on old memories. Mia's parents were unfortunately brutally murdered by an intruder in 2012, a case still unsolved as the intruder was never captured. She suspected it was a hate crime as her Big John had come out as gay and she remembered some of the hateful comments people would tell him and her parents. Big John and Little John didn't let the comments get in their way, though, and neither did Mia and John's parents. They accepted him for who he wanted to be as the only disappointment to them was for John to keep his feelings to himself and not entrust his parents enough to talk to them.

Mia, her grandmother, Dorothy, and Little John sat at the dining room table as Big John returned into the room, a platter of desserts in his hands. "Hey, Mia, a guy called your phone a few minutes ago."

"Who?"

Big John shrugged, "All the caller ID said was 'Michael.'"

"Finally! Now we can break out that bottle of champagne we've been saving!" Dorothy said, her sarcastic tone creating uncontrollable laughs from her grandchildren.

"Grandma!"

"What, Mia? We may not get another chance!"

"So, who is this Michael guy, huh? Might as well spill the tea, dear!" Little John smirked, sipping on his champagne as Mia went to retrieve her phone, shocked that Michael had called her, although she wouldn't hear anything but silence. She also saw a message from him, a simple, two-worded sentence: come home

'I'm planning to leave around 8. I'm bringing you home some food.'

She was astonished that he actually used the tools she gave him to communicate with her. She giggled at the thought of Michael actually texting her, using his index finger to poke on the letters.

'ok' Was his reply after a few minutes as Mia had returned to the dinner table for dessert, the clock reading seven-thirty. "So, you still haven't spilled the tea, Mia." Little John repeated, a smirk on his face.

"Tea about what?"

"This Michael guy."

She scoffed playfully, "He isn't what you think. I met him at work and he was probably calling me to see if I was bringing any leftovers to work with me."

"Yeah, I'd say that too if I was keeping a secret." Big John poked, sipping on his beer.

"Shut up," Mia scoffed. "I'm not a little girl anymore. You don't have to intervene on every guy I talk to."

"So he is someone you're talking to. Go ahead, keep digging the hole!" He continued.

She forced herself to hide her smile, "No, he's not."

"So if I were to go to your house right now, nobody will be there?"

"Nope. He lives on the other side of town." She lied.

"How you know where he lives? Been there before?"

"Oh, my God. John! Stop!" She laughed. "Can I just eat my cheesecake in peace and take some leftovers home?"

"I know damn well you're not gonna eat leftovers."

"I will too. I'll take some for lunch tomorrow at work."

"And the rest of it goes to your squeeze, huh?"

"....No." She playfully rolled her eyes.

Losing track of time, she realized that it was almost eight-thirty when she got done making a plate to-go, not seeing Michael's new message until she got into her truck. 'Get lost?'

'I'm on my way now - lost track of time. I'll see you soon.'

She knew he was anxiously waiting on her return, his possessive behavior showing through as he had developed a severe attachment to her, although she had hoped he wouldn't become controlling towards her because she knew that in the end, she couldn't overpower him.

Pulling into her driveway after a short drive, she sat in her truck for a few minutes as Karen Nelson had called, her dear coworker who had asked to switch shifts with Mia as she was taking care of her mother. "Sure, no problem. So seven a.m. on Monday, right?"

"Yes. Thank you so much. Mom has a doctor's appointment and I don't want her driving."

"I understand. I got you."

"Thank you. I'll talk to you later! I have a recipe I need to send you, by the way. Mom made it and it's so delicious!"

"I look forward to it! I might make it for Christmas dinner!"

Feeling like she jumped out of her skin, Michael opened the door to her truck as he had been watching her from the window, wondering why she had taken so long to come into the house after arriving home. He wasn't upset, however, he looked to be as his natural, relaxed expression looked to be holding anger. Instead, he reached his hand out to grab her purse and to-go plate she had made for him, the tin foil covering it hot to the touch. "Thank you, Michael." She smiled, turning her truck off before exiting the vehicle, watching him nod his head towards the house as he let her walk in front of him, always fearing that an intruder was behind, even though he had to remind himself that he was an intruder... Just not to her.

[todorokiaimee]

Dopamine Chapter 5

Previous Chapter

“Hey, Sero! Thanks for hosting tonight,” Kirishima said as he pulled an ice-cold beer out of the fridge. “It’s been a long time since we had a guys night.”

Sero nodded as he looked over the Uno cards in his hand. “No problem dude. I’m always happy to pull you away from your old ball and chain.”

“Well, Marina and I are still a while off from the wedding.” Kirishima chuckled as he rejoined the game, the guys all gathered around Sero’s kitchen table.

 “Fuck, don’t get him talking about Fish Sticks,” Bakugou grumbled.  “He’ll never shut up.” Kirishima’s fiancé Marina had always rubbed Bakugou the wrong way but even he couldn’t deny the fact that they were made for each other. That fact aside, he still refused to call her by name. 

 “Speaking of little ladies…” The redhead smirked, before playing his card down on the pile. “Bakugou! Would you be so kind as to give us an update on your mystery woman?”

It had been a few days since Bakugou and Jada’s date.  The blonde couldn’t deny the chemistry between them, but he was resigned to keep things casual for now. Love and hero work just didn’t mix. It’s only a distraction and gives your enemies something to use against you. Even so, he couldn’t get the dark-skinned beauty out of his mind ever since he first laid his eyes on her.

“Mystery woman?” Kaminari questioned as he played a draw 2 card. “The one he ditched us for on Mina’s birthday?”

“The one and the same,” Kirishima smirked, turning toward his friend. “Spill dude.” 

Bakugou scoffed, playing his turn. “I don’t kiss and tell boys.”

 “Boo you whore!” Kaminari laughed. 

“We need to know more about the chick that effectively pulled you out of the booty call business.” Sero pushed as he took a drink of his beer.

 I’m pretty sure I’m her booty call. But not for long. “I don’t owe you guys shit.”

“Can we get a name a least?”

“It’s Jada!” Kirishima confessed with a toothy grin.

 “Jada!” Kaminari cooed. “First name basis already?! Things are getting serious!”

Bakugou only shrugged, drinking his beer. “She’s American so... not really.”

 “Oh American!” Sero quirked a brow, laying down his card. “Taking a page out of Todoroki’s book, huh?” He smirked, sure he’d get a rise out his friend.

“I’m nothing like fucking Half n Half!” The ash-blonde barked.

“You don’t know what you’re missing with these American girls, Sero.” Kirishima smiled, laying down a wild card.  “They’re so bold. Jada certainly isn’t letting Bakugou off easy. Oh, and I pick Blue.” 

“Ooof I love it when they play hard to get,” The electric hero groaned, biting his lip. “Only makes me want them more.”

“We know.” The rest of the gang deadpanned. 

Sero shook his head as Kaminari played a reverse card. “You went after Jiro for a solid 3 years before you got wise.”

“Oh, Jiro…,” Denki sighed lovingly. “The one that got away. I really thought we had an unspoken thing.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes with a grunt. “She was fucking gay you twat!” 

“Well, I know that now! Also, can we talk about how hot she and YaoMomo are together? I mean damn.”

 “I thought we were grilling Bakugou?” Kirishima interjected, playing a draw 4 card.

“Yeah,” Sero agreed, picking up his cards before playing his turn. “You’re not off the hook yet. Tell us!” 

“Fuckin weirdos.” Bakugou hummed, leaning back in his chair. He never liked to talk about his exploits but he took pity on the guys. He was the only one of them actually dating besides Kirishima and his almost married stories were just a mushy love fest. “You know I only like the best so…” He smirked, looking around the room as his friends waited in anticipation. “She has this crazy body… like stacked. Legs for days. Piercings. Green eyes and smooth dark skin…” 

“American and Black?” Kaminiari interrupted. “I sense a pattern here.” Sero shushed him, urging Bakugou to continue.

“She’s smart too. She fixed my gauntlet with just tools in her purse,” He chuckled, remembering her tinkering on his gauntlet with ease. “She’s unpredictable. Whenever I think she’s gonna go right, she goes left. It drives me fucking crazy but there’s something about her.” He paused, stroking the stubble of his beard as he mumbled. “She’s just different.” 

The room fell silent as they looked at their explosive friend in awe until Kirishima finally said what they all were thinking. “Dude. You’re gushing. Like actually gushing about a girl.” He paused as a huge grin pulled at his lips. “You’re catching feelings!”

“The fuck I am!”

“Yes, you are! Ask me how I know.”

“I swear to God if you bring up Marina again I will--”

“You just called her Marina!” Kirishima laughed as his friend let loose a small explosion in his hardened face. 

“Don’t be shy, dude,” Sero teased.  “It’s about time actually. We were getting worried about you.”

“Shut up!” Bakugou grumbled. “Let’s get back to the game.”

“Okay, let’s hurry this up because I’m ready to move onto phase two of the night,” Kaminari said as he played another reverse card. 

“What’s phase two?” The redhead asked as he played a reverse card back to Kaminari.

“It’s a surprise!”

“I’m probably gonna hate it but fine.” Bakugou huffed.

“Uno!” The electric hero cheered as he played yet another reverse card.

“Fuck!” Bakugou yelled as he looked over to his guilty-looking redheaded friend. “Shitty hair if you play another reverse I’m going to reverse your existence.”

“I’m sorry! That’s all I can play!” He grimaced as he laid down the card.

“And a wild card for the win!” Kaminari boasted, laying down his last card. “Fork it over bitches!”

The men all groaned as they took out their wallets, each tossing 10k yen onto the table. “Why were we playing and betting on fucking Uno anyway?” Bakugou mumbled.

“Because Denki doesn’t know how to play poker.” Sero huffed.

Kirishima chuckled. “Well, it worked out fine for him I guess…”

“Okay, it’s time for phase two!” Kaminari said as he pocketed the money. “We’re going to the strip club! I’m gonna take your money and make it rain!“

__________________________________________________________________________

Filing out of the uberX, the boys made their way to a seemingly everyday luxury building, Denki talking over his shoulder, “Guys you are going to love this place. It’s called The Secret Garden. Super classy and discrete.”

Sero laughed as he pulled out his ID, walking up to the bouncer at the door. “Dude all I need to know is are the girls hot?”

“Well duh.” The electric hero chuckled. “My girl Tiffany can throw it back.”

 “I should probably call Marina and tell her the change of plans,” Kirishima mumbled apologetically as he took out his cell phone.

“Heh. Pussy.” Bakugou jeered as his friend stepped away to call his fiancé. 

It was then that Kaminari looked amongst his friends as they all took turns showing their IDs. “Everybody’s got cash money, right? The ladies do not take cards. I found that out the hard way.” With an affirmation from the rest of the crew, Kirishima returned to the group, pocketing his cell phone. 

“What did Fish Sticks say?” Bakugou asked the redhead with a smug smirk. “Do you have to go crawling back home with your dick between your legs?”

“She’s cool,” he shrugged. “She said I could browse the menu as long as I don’t order anything.” 

“No lap dances for you then.” Sero laughed.

 “That’s cool,” Denki said with a bright smile, leading everyone inside. “The main stage is where the best girls dance anyway.”

As the men made their way up to the mainstage of the club, Bakugou took a moment to gauge his surroundings. There was mellow house music pumping through the speakers has men and even a few women sat around in comfy chairs as gorgeous scantily clad women danced sensually on top of them or just talked with them seemingly enjoying their company. Strip clubs always made Bakugou vaguely uncomfortable but he couldn’t put his finger on just why. Maybe it was just the very public nature of traditionally intimate activities. It didn’t matter anyway, there was no way he was going to be seen as the prude of the group. 

The group of friends all sat down around the edge of the main stage, each pulling out a healthy wad of cash to prepare for their first dance. Denki however, took it a step further as per usual. The hero pulled out a money gun, eagerly loading it up with his Uno winnings from earlier that night. As the others rolled their eyes at their eccentric friend, a petite pink-haired woman dressed in a frilly lace baby doll set walked up to the man with a sweet smile. “Mr. Kaminari welcome back! It’s been so long since you last came to play with us.” Sakura cooed as she batted her lashes. 

“Princess! Good to see you! I’m sorry it’s been a while. Duty calls.” Denki smirked as he flexed his biceps, not so subtly. “Tiffany should be performing on the main stage tonight, right?”

“Umm, how many times have you been here?” Kirishima whispered to his electric friend.

“Sorry hun,” Sakura apologized. “She called in sick tonight. But my girl Nubia is about to go on. She always puts on an amazing show.” 

“Nubia, huh?” Denki hummed as he scratched his chin. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of watching her dance. This should be fun!”

Bakugou sighed as he stood up from his seat. “I’m gonna go get a beer.” The man made his way back to the bar, the bartender taking his order as the lights on the mainstage went out, a woman crossing the floor. He hummed as he paid for his drink taking a sip as the MC’s voice rang through the speakers.

“Welcome back to the main stage our exotic beauty and tonight your faithful assistant, Nubia!”

As the lights lifted, Bakugou watched from the bar as the dancer stood on stage, her back to the audience. Dressed in tight office attire, she tossed random papers into the air as James Brown’s “It’s a Man’s World” played throughout the club. (https://youtu.be/ilMV5tu9bcQ)

And then she turned around. 

No. Fucking. Way. The explosive hero nearly choked on his beer as he stared. He knew those dark locs and green eyes anywhere. The woman on stage was in fact, Jada Jackson. 

He continued to watch from afar as she twirled around the pole to the music, slowly peeling off articles of clothing until she was left in a silver bra and thong set. He clenched his fists as he seethed watching her long legs wave in the air, her curves on full display. This can’t be happening. Bakugou willed himself to stay calm as his friends cheered her on, cursing under his breath as she finally rid herself of her metallic bra, leaving her chest bare to the world. It was then that Jada crawled across the stage floor, right up to his friends staring in awe. 

Jada smirked as she went up to the blonde who had been very enthusiastic, shooting yen bills onto the stage with his money gun. Kaminari practically drooled as his eyes flicked from her full breasts to her green eyes and back again, “Good God, where have you been all my life?”

“Waiting for you, sweetheart,” Jada breathed as she moved her body seductively, her eyes flicking to the large wad of cash in his hand. “Is that for me?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Then slide it in, baby.” She smirked as she stretched out the band of her thong. Denki eagerly slipped the stack of bills into the band as she let out a lewd moan followed by a delighted giggle. “I love a nice thick one.” 

Denki gulped, exploring all the possibilities in his mind. “Let me take you away from all this…” 

Next, Jada turned her gaze to Sero, a nervous smile plastered across his face. “Look at that smile. Aren’t you a cutie.”

“T-thank you, ma’am.” He stuttered as he put his cash tip into her thong band as well.

“So polite. Thank you, sir.” Jada gave him a wink before crawling over to her next target, Kirishima. She giggled to herself as she knelt on her knees before him, his eyes refusing to look anywhere below her neck. “Someone looks a little shy.”

“Heh yeah… maybe a bit.” He chuckled as he rubbed the back of his neck timidly. 

“Relax, honey. I don’t bite.” She purred as Kirishima laughed, showing off his pointy pearly whites. “Oh. But maybe you do.” Jada breathed as she came up with an idea. “I think I’d like these chompers right… here.” Just then, the ravenette grabbed his head, pulling his face into her large breasts, giving them a shimmy for added effect. 

THE FUCK?! Bakugou couldn’t believe his eyes. He silently seethed as he chugged his beer. Here was his girl, the woman he had invested so much time and energy on, and his friends are ogling her freely. His palms popped and sparked as he crushed his beer can in his fist as Jada finished her dance, collecting her clothes and tips before disappearing into the back. The hero stomped back up to the stage with his eyes filled with rage, Denki taking notice of his friend.

“Dude! You missed the whole dance! I think I just met my future wife.”

“Shut the fuck up Kaminari.” Bakugou practically spat, as he walked up to another dancer. “Oi! The girl that was just on stage. When is she coming back out?”

The woman looked him up and down before giving the hero a playful smirk. “You want a dance, baby? I’d be happy to help you out.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He said dismissively. “When is Ja- Nubia coming back out?”

“I’ll go get her.”

The dancer turned on her heel with a sigh before walking backstage and into the dressing room. “Hey, Jada?” She looked around the small crowded area quickly finding the dark-skinned beauty amongst her fairer colleagues. 

“Yeah?” She asked as she fixed her makeup. 

“You got a request for a dance.”

“Really?” Jada mumbled, a smile pulling at her plump lips.  “Must be my lucky night. I got some great tippers stageside tonight. Was it the skinny blonde one with the black streak in his hair?”

“No it was a blonde but he had a spikey undercut… super buff too.” The dancer hummed as she played with her hair. “Nasty attitude though so I would be careful. Should I tell Tanaka to keep an eye on him?”

“NO!” Jada yelled before quickly recovering, “Um I mean, I got it. I’ll be right out, just let me change into a new set.”

After quickly changing into a new navy bra and pantie set, Jada nervously made her way back onto the club floor, praying to whoever would listen. Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him. She held her breath as she looked around the room, a pair of ruby red eyes locking with hers instantly. Fuck it is him. Her heart dropped into her stomach as the ash-blonde walked up to her, practically steaming. “Hi handsome, you want a dance?”

“You’re just gonna act like everything’s fine? Really?” Bakugou fumed. “Were you ever gonna tell me?!”

“Okay! Sounds like you want a private dance! Follow me to the champagne room, sir.”

With a flip of her long dark locs, Jada led Bakugou out across the floor, his friends quickly taking notice. He ignored their cheers for what they thought would be a seductive dance at his request. Instead, their hoots and hollers only fueled his rage even more. Once inside the ultra-private champagne room, Jada was the first one to speak. “I can explain.”

“This should be rich, Dimples.”

 “This is only temporary.”

 “Temporary?” He scoffed as he crossed his muscular arms.

“Yes!” Even she knew she didn’t sound very convincing. 

Bakugou laughed, rolling his eyes. “I swear to God if you tell me you’re only doing this to pay for law school or some bullshit like that--”

“I’m doing this to pay for a number of things that I’m not at liberty to discuss with you. And frankly, I don’t owe you shit!”

 “Well, you’re so full of shit that you must have plenty to go around!”

Jada bit her lip as she let out a deep sigh. She really didn’t think she was going to have this conversation with him this soon if ever. “Look, I have to make a living, same as everybody else. When YOU go to the strip club someone has to dance for you. So obviously you were okay with that arrangement as long as your girl wasn’t on stage.”

“I didn’t want to fucking come! The point is you fucking lied to me!”

“I never lied to you.”

 “You didn’t tell me the whole truth!”

“You didn’t ask the right questions.”

 Bakugou groaned as he raked his hand through his hair, exasperated. “Fuck! I can’t believe you actually had me bragging to my boys about you. Me! Bakugou fucking Katsuki gushing over a woman.” The hero was so furious he was shaking. In fact, he was more than furious, he was embarrassed. “I sang your praises to my friends only for you to turn around and take your clothes off for them!” He laughed as he shook his head in disgust. “Oh, and you let my best friend motorboat you too. Can’t forget that.”

 The ravenette paused, taking a step back, turning her eyes away from his burning gaze. “I’m not going to apologize for doing my job. You and friends came here to be entertained and I delivered.”

 “I’m a Pro Hero for fucks sake!” Bakugou yelled, throwing his hands into the air. “I can’t date a stripper. Not knowing any extra off the street with a yen can see your goods.”

Jada paused, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t surprised by his reaction, but she didn’t expect the bite of his words to cut her so deep. I knew this was a bad idea. I knew you were a bad idea. “Well, let me rid you of that problem. You won’t be seeing me anymore.” She said coldly before holding her hand out to him. “That’s 55,000 yen for the dance.”

“What?!” He barked in confusion.

“The champagne room is super private and luxurious. No cameras so as to not hurt your precious image.” She hissed as her nose began to tingle. “It costs more and my boss is expecting a cut.” Don’t you fucking do it, Jada. You will not cry in front of him. “I know you’re good for it so let’s not drag this out.”

The blonde scoffed, digging into this pants pocket to pull out his wallet. “I can’t believe I have to pay for a fucking fight,” he mumbled, taking out a wad of cash.  “You didn’t even dance…”

“Yeah but like you said…” Jada said as she snatched the money from his hand. “Your boys enjoyed the show, didn’t they?”

To stop himself from completely losing his cool, Bakugou pushed past the woman and stomped back out onto the club floor. He sulked up to his group of friends, now watching a new dancer on stage. Kirishima was the first one to spot him, immediately noticing his abnormally hostile energy and his overly red face. 

“Whoa! Where’s the fire, bro?”

“We’re leaving!” Bakugou bellowed, walking over to the door.

“Dude, what happened?” Sero asked as they all got up from their seats before following Bakugou out of the building. “Did you not like your dance? She was hot.”

“Did you like it a little too much?” Denki chuckled as he gave the ash-blonde a slap on the back. “Cuz I mean I wouldn’t blame ya. That’s a meal I’d eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“SHUT UP!” Bakugou yelled, punching his well-meaning friend in the face, his frustrations finally getting the better of him. Stumbling backward, Kaminari held his nose in his hands as he groaned in pain.

“Katsuki! What the fuck dude?!” Kirishima shouted as he steadied the electric hero. “What’s the matter with you?”

“That was her!” Bakugou boomed as he paced the sidewalk.

“Who?”

“Jada!”

The men all stared at Bakugou blankly, not understand who he meant. 

“The stripper…” he explained through gritted teeth. “Nubia. It’s fucking Jada!”

The group of friends all looked at each other in confusion until the reality of the situation finally clicked into place, all of them shouting at once, “FUCK!”

Meanwhile, inside the club, Jada left the champagne room with her head hung low as she silently counted the wad of cash from her almost beau. Eizan was right… I was stupid for even trying. With a sigh, she sauntered backstage to the dressing room, plopping down in her makeup chair. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t even notice her best friend pull up a seat next to her. 

“Wow, girl look at that fat wad! What did you have to do to get that?” Sakura asked cheerfully.

“Nothing…” Jada breathed, putting the cash away for safekeeping.

“Sweetheart, why do you look so upset? What happened? Did that guy do something to you?” The pink-haired woman quickly looked her friend over for any marks or bruises, her concern growing.

“No, I'm fine.” Jada insisted as she touched up her makeup, taking special care that her eyeliner and mascara were still intact. “I just got a reality check is all.” 

Chapter 6 | Masterlist

[artificiallyimplantedmemories]

[ ooc: finally got around to watching ep 2... fatws commentary under the cut ]

they open to john walker in a lover room and my mind immediately went to the idea of locker room talk and how toxic it is but also how much money football programs take from academic ones because the sport is lucrative never mind how many concussions these kids end up getting and damaging their chances as better brain development down the line...

dunno if there’s an equivalent for olivia walker in the comics?

lemar hoskins wasn’t that memorable in the comics but I vaguely remember him being very punchy, and he’s lecturing john on not being able to punch his way out? really?

ugh the whole band and fireworks to introduce cap would have been very much what steve would never have wanted ugh

....at least he admits he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed

bucky sitting there on the floor watching absolutely destroyed me frick. I understand his reason to be angry with sam. I understand why sam did what he did. there’s no easy solution here.

"if your friends jump out of a plane without a parachute, would you do it too?” bucky: yes

redwing is so cool but I miss it being an actual bird lol

did bucky really tear into the truck in front first instead of the one behind when the “hostage” was shown as being alone in there??? dumbass, attack from where they can’t see you and take the rear out first.

teamwork makes the dream work until it doesn’t

god sam is so cool

ow ow ow the handddd

at least off brand cap still uses his shield to save people I guess

gears turning. hard same. overthink, stare, try not to have a breakdown.

them stubbornly walking lol

yOU HACKED REDWING I HATE YOU

“if I had Cap’s wingmen on my side” fuck you government scum

the lead of the flag smashers shares a name with my ex, joy

Sharon was branded the enemy of the state for stealing the shield, and Sam and Steve were on the run for two years... really makes you think about the lengths that they’ve gone to for him, especially Sam as a black man who could be killed for far less in this country

Isaiah T_T god his entire story is so tragic and a direct analogy for the Tuskegee experiment

he has every reason to be angry and I hope that when he eventually finds a reason to help, it’ll be some sort of vindication for him

legit had my heart in my throat at the sound of police sirens. as a poc in the united states, you just know how that’s going to pan out and the vicarious panic is real. I hope this shows more people the reality of it, the fact that they needed to name drop in order to get Sam out of being in trouble, the fact that Bucky was unknowingly complicit, the fact that there was a hand on a gun for not wanting to turn over ID fuck

these therapy sessions are such bullshit but the staring contest was perf

if he was wrong about you he was wrong about me OOF

please break rule number two over douche mcpolicesirendouche’s face

“we’re free agents” yes good good now convince bucky that he’s free too

it doesn’t matter what cause they’re doing it for, the violent self-sacrifice thing always makes my heart clench. it really hits home how much they believe in their cause and how much they think they’re doing right, and frankly if it was just distribution of resources, it might well have been fine

zEMO the most convincing Marvel villain they’ve had, let’s get ready for some major head games next time!!

it’s interesting seeing the responses from other people, especially white people, for this week’s episode, because so much of what Sam experienced here that caught people off guard and made them uncomfortable and jarred them is just... normal for us. this is life as we know it. I hope people come to realize that and it opens their eyes to what’s going on in their own communities.

[writingwithadinosaur]

“Under the Knife” - Part 3

“Under the Knife” - Part 3

My Masterlist - Here

Story Masterlist - Here

My Tag List - Here

Hannibal Lecter x Reader, Will Graham x Sister!Reader

Word Count: 1,700-ish

Key: Chunks of text in italics are (Y/N)’s thoughts. Y/N = Your Name, H/C = Your Hair Color, E/C = Your Eye Color

Warnings: Talk of Murder, Talk of Crime Scenes, Talk of Murder Victims, Cursing

Summary: You are Will Graham’s sister who works with him at the FBI. When you get offered a job promotion, life starts to change. Some changes for the better; Some for the worst.

Tag List: @fruitloopzzz @theeactress @melconnor2007 @ashenfallsof @geeksareunique @all-by-myself98 @sj-thefan​ @fuck-your-bad-vibes-dude​ @ntlmundy

Author’s Note: This is my first Hannibal piece and I am proud of it. There aren’t too many stories for Hannibal, so I figured I would add to the collection. This does take place in some happy medium where they are all alive and work together. Sort of a happier season 1 era.

This is beta-read by @theeactress​, but please let me know if there is something that we missed or that we should look at again! 

If you would like to be tagged in any of my future pieces, check out my tag list above and let me know! And as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

<3

- DreaSaurusREX

----------------

“As most of you know, this is (Y/N) Graham, she will be our profiler for this case.”

“Oh good. Another Graham.” Beverly commented over her clipboard, writing down something involving the case probably. Jack gave her a chastising glance and she held her hands up in defense.

“(Y/N) this is Beverly Katz, Brian Zeller, and Jimmy Price.” Jack introduced you very quickly to the science-ier part of the team very quickly before jumping right into work. “So, tell us what you got so far, (Y/N).”

You opened your small notebook and began summarizing your notes from last night’s reading.

“Alright. So far I’ve been able to see three patterns: the ways they were killed, the time frame, and the fact that all of the victims that were dismembered were doctors. The strongest thing I can think of is that this killer was wronged by doctors in some way. I’m not sure if it's a doctor in the general term or if there is some specific way that ties these three doctors, and our killer, together. That was something I was going to work on today. 

The way that the bodies are taken apart is very particular. From what I could tell from the photos in the files, all of the cuts seemed to be straight lines all the way through. Which means that this guy’s gotta have access not only to the tools that can do this sort of stuff, but also whatever drug he got in their system to make them lay still while he... worked. So I’m assuming the murder weapon is nothing with a jagged blade or saw-like teeth until we get to the bone. Do we have any reports on striation patterns or anything that could help us with what was used?”

“It’s like you said, the cuts were almost completely straight lines, even through to the bone. The only things we could think of were surgical tools.” Zeller spoke up. “The skin and muscles were cut similarly to how a surgeon would with a scalpel. But the bone is where it gets tricky. You can’t cut like this through bone with just a scalpel.”

“Unless you have plenty of time and you're very persistent.” Beverly joked; you were the only one that slightly exhaled a laugh through your nose at her quip.

“Alright, so the killer has a medical background.” Jack tossed into the air. You nodded.

“Possibly. But why would a doctor be going after other doctors?”

“Maybe they’re taking all his patients?” Beverly shot out. You just nodded and looked back at your notes to see where you left off.

“The uh.. The most concerning thing is the time frame. They were all killed two weeks part from each other. Dr. Everet was almost 6 weeks ago, Dr. Chaseten almost 4, and Dr. Loriet about 2.” 

“Which means we could have another dead doctor within the week.” Jack solemnly spoke as he realized the gravity of the situation. “Alright, you three keep looking over everything to see if we missed something. (Y/N), start working on possible correlations between the victims and the killer. Let’s get this son of a bitch.”

And that’s how the next two days went. Researching, thinking, and trying to get into a mindset that you weren’t totally sure of yet. 

You had checked in with Will like you promised and said that you were fine but you were going to be very busy for at least the next few days. Hannibal had called you after your first day and could hear the slight exhaustion in your voice. He asked you to have lunch with him tomorrow and you very quickly agreed.

But the next day, you spent more time than you thought flipping through the databases to try to find any correlation between Everet, Chasten, and Loriet. The three of them never worked in the same hospital, clinic, or even the same city. Their wives didn’t know each other. Their neighbors didn’t know each other. They didn’t have any sort of communication with each other. They were all different types of doctors. Everet and Loriet went to the same med school, but they graduated 3 years apart.

So what the fuck am I missing?

You kept looking back over the crime scene photos. You couldn’t understand why the doctors were mutilated and positioned so intricately, but the others were cast aside. The focus has to be on the doctors. They must have done something to ‘wrong’ the killer. So what the hell did all three of you do to make someone want to murder? 

Your train of thought was interrupted by a knock at your office door. You let out a slightly aggravated sigh.

“Jack, I told you I will let you know when I-- Oh! Hannibal! Hi!” You looked up from your computer screen to find Hannibal standing in the doorway with a bag in his hand. 

“Should I come back later?” 

“No! No. Come on in. I probably should take a break. I feel like I’m going in circles anyways.” You looked at your watch and saw it was almost 3:30 PM. The last time you looked at the clock, it was 10:30 AM. “And I missed our lunch meeting.” You put your head in your hands and groaned in annoyance with yourself. “I am so sorry, Hannibal. I--”

“No need for apologies, my dear. I figured Jack had put a lot on your plate, so I thought I would bring lunch to you.” Hannibal made his way into your office and shut the door behind him. 

“You really didn’t have to.”

“When was the last time you ate, (Y/N)?” Hannibal questioned you, looking you dead in the eye after he sat down in one of your office chairs. 

You weren’t entirely sure. You started to speak but then stopped yourself, really trying to remember when you ate last. I know I had ½ of my breakfast at 7:30 this morning. Did I have my granola bar? Does coffee count as a meal?

“The fact that you have to think about when your last meal was, is a bit concerning. But nonetheless, I am more than happy to remedy that. ” He smiled one of his rare but small smiles and began unpacking whatever culinary art he brought. You tried to condense some of your piles of papers and folders so you had enough room to put food down. 

Hannibal had brought a home-cooked meal for the two of you to enjoy. A ginger salad with fresh pan-seared scallops and even some infused water that he had marinating in his fridge overnight. This was so much better than the PB&J you had packed. 

As you began to dig in, Hannibal couldn’t help but look at some of the crime scene photos and your notes. 

“So what are we calling this killer?” 

“‘The Virginia Scalpel.’” You said with slight annoyance. “He has a medical background and is within a reasonable distance from all of the vics. Yet, we have no idea who he is.”

“Does the killer have to be a medical professional? Maybe they just have very steady hands.” 

“True. But there is almost no way that a regular guy could cut through muscle and bone that cleanly without surgical tools or the knowledge of how to use them. Not to mention the fact that he would have some serious explaining to do on how he got the succinylcholine or whatever paralyzer he plans to use next.” You rub your eyes gently, feeling the strain from the computer screen hitting you. Hannibal could feel the stress radiating off of you. 

“Do you want to talk about this case?”

“Not really. But I’m not sure what else to talk about. This has been my life for the last 3 days, the killer could strike again any day now, and I still don’t know why these three doctors were targeted or who will be next!” 

You started to fidget with your ring unconsciously and a bit aggressively, a sign to Hannibal that your anxiety was starting to catch up. Despite the physical signs that you needed a break, you continued to glance over an open file near you while you took another bite of food. He leaned forward in his seat a bit as he closed the file that you had been rereading for what he assumed to be at least the tenth time.  

“(Y/N), you need to breathe.” You just nodded and closed your eyes to try to help your deep breaths relax you faster. “How about we go for a walk? Get the blood flowing.”

“I would love to. But I feel like I can’t afford that break right now.” You shook your head slightly as you reached down for a stack of papers you had bundled and put on the floor earlier. You didn’t see him get up, but Hannibal was standing, adjusting his jacket before holding a hand out to you.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” You looked from his hand to his face before standing up, shrugging. A small walk around the building wouldn’t hurt, right?

Before your hand could land in his, your phone rang and you felt your heart sink, dreading what could be waiting for you on the other end of the line. Both you and Hannibal looked down at your phone and saw the caller ID: “Jack Crawford.” You took a deep inhale and hit the answer button.

“I really hope you’re calling just to bug me to work faster, Jack…” You tried your best to control your voice. You looked up and Hannibal was watching, trying to listen in and gauge how you were going to react.

“Afraid not. There’s another Scalpel vic. I’m texting you the address. Drop whatever you're doing and get down here.” Jack hung up before you could say anything, leaving you in a bit of shock. 

Dammit! What the hell am I missing?! Someone else is dead--Another doctor is dead because I don’t have any answers yet. How can--

“(Y/N)?” Hannibal’s hand on your arm broke your stream of internal chastising before it could get too bad, but you did unintentionally jump at the contact. He instantly raised his hands up and let you process for a moment. “There’s another one, isn’t there?”

You just nod. A second later, your phone flashed a message from Jack with an address. 

“Guess my ‘walk’ is going to be to a crime scene.” You try to joke despite feeling a tinge of guilt spreading through you. Hannibal tried to walk you to your car but you kindly denied him. You wanted to be alone as you prepared yourself for your first real crime scene. 

[hopscotchandlemon]

A Knight in Sneakers (Collide)

The silence of the car ride back to the Navy Yard was interrupted by the ringing of Jethro’s phone. He answered without checking the caller ID, expecting it to be McGee telling him he they had another lead.

‘Gibbs,’ he spoke as he held the phone to his ear.

‘Hi, are you able to talk?’

‘Mary? Yeah sure just give me a minute,’

He pulled into a parking lot. Not wanting to intrude, Jack leapt out the car and went for a walk. Jethro held the phone to his ear again.

‘Hey, I’m here.’

‘I need you. I’m at the school. Jenson has been suspended for punching another kid. He’s currently crying hysterically in the principal’s office. Eilidh has locked herself in a cupboard and is refusing to come out. I’m not getting anything out of either of them and the school are not being very helpful and threatening all sorts unless something is sorted out soon.’

‘Jenson*punched* someone?’ Jethro said in disbelief, signalling to Jack to get back in the car.

‘Apparently so. I can’t get any sense out of him. Honestly, you’d think he was the one who was punched. Something isn’t adding up.’

Jack leapt back in the car, trying to read Gibbs’ furrowed brow.

‘Me and Jack are about twenty minutes away. We’ll be with you soon.’

With the call ended, Jethro pulled out the parking lot and towards the school. As he did, he regaled Jack with the situation.

‘Well both kids going off on the same day is a bit suspicious don’t you think? And Jenson punching someone? Really?’

‘Yeah I know. It’s all a bit…’

‘Hinky!’ Jack retorted.

Gibbs smiled. Abby’s favourite word had made it into everyone’s lexicons. He drove quickly towards the school, not liking the idea of not being there. Usually if one of the kids was upset, the other would help calm them down. Mary was more than capable of coping with them both so for her to call and directly ask for help meant the situation was serious.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Jack asked as the car stopped.

‘Yeah, might need you,’

Both agents got out the car and headed into reception. Even from the desk, they could hear Jenson wailing. After confirming who they were there for, Jethro found Mary who was trying to coax Eilidh out of the cupboard. The school were threatening to take the door off with an electric drill. Jack took the principal to one side and warned her of the repercussions of using something loud near a child who had watch her parents die by gunfire.

The situation was chaotic, it was hard to know which child to try and tackle first. Amongst the three of them, they decided that Jethro was probably going to have more success with Jenson and Jack and Mary were going to stay with Eilidh and hopefully convince her to leave the cupboard. Jethro went to the office where an exhausted Jenson was sobbing in the corner of the room. It was hard not to feel a bit broken at the sight of the boy sat  trembling on the floor with his face wet from the constant stream of tears. Crouching down next to him, Gibbs smiled at his adopted Grandson and the child threw himself into his arms. Standing up, Jethro carried the boy outside, cradling him close to him. Gradually the cries subsided which Jethro felt was more likely exhaustion. Walking round the playground, Jethro sat on a bench, placing Jenson on his lap and gently stroking his hair. He noted the red marks on the child’s left knuckles. He’d certainly hit something. Eventually, light snores could be heard indicating that Jenson had fallen asleep.

‘Is Jenson ok?’ a little voice asked.

Gibbs looked around so see a little girl who looked about the same age as his Grandson, stood beside him.

‘He will be, he just got himself a little upset.’

The girl nodded.

‘I wish I had a brother like Jenson. He was so brave looking after his sister,’

‘Yeah? What did he do?’

‘Cassandra, get here right now young lady!’ An annoyed teacher yelled from the otherside of the yard.

‘I gotta go,’ the girl whispered solemnly as she walked towards the teacher.

Something had definitely gone off here. Fumbling in his pocket, while trying to keep Jenson still, Gibbs pulled out his phone and called Abby.

‘Abby? I want you to check CCTV from Elmvale Elementary for Jenson and Eilidh in the last two hours.’

‘Sure thing Gibbs, are they ok?’

‘Well, Jenson’s cried himself to sleep on my shoulder and Eilidh has locked herself in a cupboard.’

‘Hmmm hinky. I’ll let you know what I find.’

Putting the phone back in his pocket, Gibbs rose from the bench and went back inside to see if Mary and Jack were having better luck extracting Eilidh from the cupboard. He found them both sat on the floor outside the door.

‘Eilidh, Grandpa is here and Jenson is fast asleep on his shoulder, like when we went to the zoo for your birthday, do you remember?’ Mary spoke quietly to the door.

‘Yeah,’ came a timid reply.

Both women’s eyes widened, it was the first response they’d had from the girl.

‘Aww I’ve not been to the zoo in ages!,’ Jack mused. ‘I love the meercats.’

‘They’re definitely Jenson’s favourite,’ Mary added.

‘What about you, Eilidh, what’s your favourite animal.

‘Giraffe,’ came the small reply.

Gibbs’ phone started to trill. He got it out of his pocket and held it to his ear.

‘Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs!’

‘Hey Abs. What ya got.’

‘Well I was right. Definite hinky stuff going on. Are you still holding Jenson?’

‘Yeah,’

‘Well, you need to hug him a bit tighter because he’s a little legend. I’m sending the video to Jack. And Gibbs?’

‘Yes Abby,’

‘He has a mean left hook.’

Jack’s phone pinged, both women stood up and they crowded around Jethro so they could see the clip from the CCTV. It showed Eilidh being picked on by a group of older boys. They grabbed her bag and threw it amongst themselves before emptying in on the ground. The ringleader walks up to the clearly terrified child and starts undoing her hair clips. Out of the corner of the screen, they saw Jenson come in to view. He tries to lead Eilidh away from the bullies, but these older boys have other ideas and try to goad Jenson into a fight. He continues to hold on to Eilidh, putting himself between her and them, an action that elicited a cooing sound from Jack. The ringleader stabbed his finger into the boy’s chest, getting in his face and attempting to get a reaction. Jenson did not budge so the older boy reframed his attention on to Eilidh and pulled at her hair. Jenson once again puts himself in between them. The bully leans in and tries to pull Eilidh away and in that moment, Jenson snaps, landing a punch squarely on the jaw of the older kid who falls backwards. Once he is on the floor, Jenson grabs Eilidh and the pair take off.

Without thinking about it, Jethro helds his young charge a little tighter. He looked to Mary, her face reflecting the pure anger she was feeling.

‘Can I borrow that please Jack?’ Mary held her hand out.

‘Sure,’ Jack handed the phone to Mary who immediately marched off towards the principal’s office.

Jack walked back up to the cupboard door, putting her mouth near to the wood

‘Eilidh, we know what happened. Jenson is not in any trouble and neither are you. Grandma has gone to sort it all out.’

Behind her, Jack was aware of movement. Looking around she see’s that Jenson was starting to stir. Gibbs gently stroked his hair, easing him back into consciousness.

Eilidh remained silent and Jack decided to leave her for a moment. She looked to Gibbs who is still holding on to the young boy.

‘I thought you were scary when you were angry. Remind me never to mess with Mary,’

With a wry smile on his lips, Gibbs looked at Jack.

‘Never cross her in Grandma-bear mode. She takes no prisoners.

‘Hey Grandpa,’ Jenson uttered, his voice full of sleep.

‘Hey Buddy, you ok?’

‘Yeah, I fell asleep. Where’s Eilidh?’

‘She’s in the cupboard. Do you want to talk to her?’

He nodded his head and his Grandpa let him down. He put his hands and the side of his face up against the door.

‘Are you Ok Eilidh? We’re ok now, Grandma and Grandad are here. We can go home.’

After a short pause, the door was unlocked, and out came a dishevelled looking Eilidh. Jenson took her hand and lead her out.

‘You two are just too cute you know?’ Jack sighed smiling at the sight of Jenson fussing over his friend.

They walked back towards reception where Mary was emerging from the principal’s office. The anger from before had dissipated (all over the Principal, Jethro reckoned) and she beamed a smile at seeing both children walking hand in hand.

‘Thanks for that,’ Mary handed the phone back to Jack.

‘Can we go home now Grandma?’ Jenson asked, his eyes still sleepy from the events of the day.

‘We can.’

‘Why don’t you go home too, Gibbs? Everything is ticking over at work. Think those kids deserve a treat after today.’ Jack suggested. To her surprise, he handed her the keys to the work car so she could get back home.

Both kids were relieved to get back home. Mary took one look at Eilidh’s knotted and dishevelled hair and suggested they get it washed and spend a bit of time making it look nice again. Jethro took Jenson to the basement, where they did some work on the jewellry boxes they were making for his Grandma and Eilidh.

‘So, I’m not in trouble for punching that boy?’ Jenson asked.

‘No. Not at all,’

‘He was being horrible to Eilidh and I didn’t like it.’

Jethro glanced at the boy who was sporting a serious look on his face. He clearly needed to talk about today’s events.

‘Has he been horrible to Eilidh before?’

Jenson nodded his head while slowly sanding the top of the box he was working on.

‘I didn’t know what to do. He’s horrible to me too but I just ignore him.’

Gibbs gently put his tools down and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

‘You did everything right Jenson. We saw the video from the CCTV. I think when I was your age, I’d have hit that boy long before you did. He kept trying to make you fight and you kept ignoring him. When you did hit him, you only did it to get Eilidh out of the way.’

‘He was making Eilidh sad. I don’t like it when Eilidh is sad,’ he replied quietly.

They spend an hour in the basement before returning to the ground floor. Mary was sat on the couch, plaiting Eilidh’s hair. As soon as she finished, Eilidh leapt up and ran off to play with Jenson. Jethro sat down next to Mary, putting his arm around her shoulder.

‘We need to find another school for the kids,’ she sighed, resting her head against his shoulder.

‘I guessed so. What did the Principal say?’

‘She tried to say I had the footage illegally which I told her was beside the point when it clearly showed she had wilfully punished the wrong child despite evidence that two children were being harassed. I asked if she thought the school board would agree with the decision she’d made after viewing the footage. She refused to answer.’

‘We’ll start looking next week. They deserve somewhere better. That Prinicpal should have been commending Jenson, not punishing him. I told him I’d have hit that boy long before he did when I was his age.’

‘All he wanted to do was protect Eilidh. His Mom would have been so proud of him. I’m proud of him too. Proud of them both.’

‘I guess they deserve to choose where we have dinner then?’ Jethro asked.

‘Sure, go ask them. But we both know it will be pizza.

Jethro got up and chuckled as we went to ask the kids. He knew it would be pizza again but after today, he didn’t give a damn.

[talesofealdancynedom]

Concept of the Dragon King, in human form.

Tale 21: What The Wagon Was For (chapter 7 - Perfect Pie 7/8 ) part 6. Stories of wizards

           To be enchanted. Containing magic, and thus it’s laws and limits; But also, its abilities. Blessing, veiling a curse. This is what it means to be an enfeyed Warg. making a pact with a fey, so its essence lives within a mage. Being a Warg was rare but not associated with magery. Everything was enchanted after all. As mages discovered how to integrate into wizard culture, they appear talented instead of dangerous. Like a fey passing as a human, a mage may pass as an ordinary wizard, forgetting what they truly are. Whether it be a rare naiad professor, or even a lady enfeyed with the lost Stag Queen, becoming a head paladin. Magic can be simply about perspective. In the Day Veil, the Shadow Veil, separated by the existence of the Beast Kings, touches everything. Enchantment, is invisible.

           The problem with infinity, is eventually. No matter the secret, things will come to light, or change. After a series of adventures far from home, Morgan and Emilia were found. The government of the Grand West took in Morgan, and realized immediately he was a mage. Worse yet, He may be traumatized to the point of walking a wire, between inflicting pain on others, or being used as a tool. Morgan was now a conspiracy, in need of sweeping under the rug. Thus, while he waited for a new home, Morgan ended up being passed from master to master like a game of magic hot potato. The counsel of wizards, desperately tried to mold Morgan into something that resembled a wizard. Unlike Morgan’s parents, they knew keeping magic from him was futile. It wasn’t just that he was attracted to it, but now it was attracted to him. The best they could do, was send Morgan to a reform magic academy, to save him before emotions corrupted him.

           To go along with a recovery plan, Emilia was removed from the situation. Morgan was placed in a dorm at the school, and then given a variety of powerful teachers to stop him from studying magery; And growing in power. Which implied Morgan had a goal of achieving power, and not just wanting to avoid his problems. Magic just happened to be his vice. Like Teflon, each master couldn’t stick around long. Lead Paladin Estella, calm, strong and respected, was first. She was to watch his every move, and guide him towards wizardry. Instead, Estella ended up watching him free the Dragon Queen from a wizard bank, and make fey friends. Emilia kept cropping up, to help out. The will to quest was so strong, not even Estella could stop him. So, Estella’s employers sent her to capture a missing suspect, Ceberus Monafyra, hoping Morgan would become a casualty in the crossfire. But they were soon disappointed.

As Estella tried to catch Cerberus and protect Morgan, he had his eyes on the prize; He was near the Dragon Gate, in Grand Snow. He remembered it was open from the year prior, when he had visited the Shadow Veil. Now, understanding that the kingdom stones made him King Mage, and thus a sibling and friend to all magic, Morgan wanted the last stone. He assumed some ritualistically slain goat, brought through the open gate, to the mouth of the largest dragon in existence, would make them friends. While Estella and Cerberus threw spells at each other, Morgan was once again blissfully lost in adventure. The world disappeared when his id called him to adventure. Estella was helpless to watch Morgan walk into the Shadow Veil, with Cerberus behind him. Cerberus, a mage unaccustomed to the veil, fled; But Morgan presented a dead goat to the Dragon King.

“Sorry I was gone so long, Dragon King.” Morgan said, holding the goat up to the massive muzzle of the Dragon King.

“You came to me with tales, then returned my wife, brother. I will accept your gift, but I promise it is unnecessary. It is but a small token, compared to your other deeds. Not to mention, you seem calmer; Found a true love perhaps? Stone Queen Io would be thrilled to hear such news.” The Dragon King teased, taking the goat. Morgan didn’t say anything.

“You called me brother; Does that mean I had the stone the entire time?”

“Yes. You told me a tale, of the life of men; Can you share another from today? I would love to hear as many tales of humanity as I can.” The Dragon King responded, taking human form.

“Well to start, I’m upset I killed that goat. Also, I have a heartman mage fighting my magic knight; He is charged with fratricide, and inciting a dragon in Fountain. mages keep being scape goats; I wish I could change that.”

“Fountain? Oh no; One of my daughters did that. Also, if you mean Cerberus, he opened the Dragon Gate, causing spring to return to Grand Snow. He trained the new Mage of The Dragon Gate! He fell in after you just now; We will keep him here ‘for safe keeping’. You need not be in danger, my friend. Now tell me more.” The Dragon King said, taking a seat atop his mountain.

At Pepperidge Academy, Morgan met his next master: Woodwick. Whom Morgan immediately recognized as a Fountain Nymph. The school didn’t believe him, at first. Emilia was sent back to try and reunite her with her own family, in the meantime. Thus, making Morgan feel empty again. After only a month, Morgan was once again opted to distracted himself from his loneliness, and wandered to Tiberius Gate; The black tower in the center of a large stone walled forest, containing a dormant magic landscape. Morgan liked the Idea of a magic forest. He found instructions to open the gate, causing him to go missing, and forcing Estella and Woodwick to come look for him. Estella never returned, as she was enfeyed with the lost Stag Queen. Then, Woodwick was fired; Ten years of employment, didn’t negate the fact he was a fairy.

So, now Morgan was the King Mage of Tiberius Gate, going to magic school, soon reunited with Emilia, but with no home or therapy. Magic had never felt so good, nor treated so well. His third Master was a prodigy seer named Hara Fyrstan. Lucky for Morgan, his new master was also a fey loving mage, and thus did not disappear, but actually helped Morgan become a top student. It was almost the happily ever after Morgan yearned for.

There comes a moment, when laying in bed, after being suddenly woken by terror, that materialized from nothing. Though sleep is deep, anxiety diminishes it’s benefits. The sudden burst of energy, in an otherwise quiet environment, allows existential reflection though a lens of catastrophe. Magic was no longer enough to comfort or enchant. Peace, the opposite of conflict, can create its foe; For something cannot exist, without an opposite. Years of trauma had started to sink in, and sharpen, in the middle of the night. Something about realizing the pain is still there. Wishing to speak up, but fearing the response of new friends. Consumed by the whiles and whims of magic, and subconsciously reliant on a single person for every emotional need, was enabling. In silence, and darkness, one awakes in absolute loneliness.

Feeling inescapably separate from the world, and the security of family, the sweet serenity, from a dreamlike ether, that bathes the world each day, is appealing. It cleared the fog, making a disturbing scene forefront in the mind. No chance left of sleep, wandering to a desk, in front of a perfect new journal, with pen in hand. The leather unworn, and parchment smelling warm and woody. Unsatisfied with the world, taking out ink, desiring to bleed the depths of the mind onto paper, but too mortified with such monsters, to write their names. Morgan was reduced to tears.

“Morgan? Are you ok? You seemed to be doing so much better,” Emilia said. “But suddenly you keep waking up; I’m worried.” She whispered. Morgan had woken her too. Emilia got out of the purple soft sheets; Still warm, upon the bed, in the center of the room, inside the tower. Just the two of them. Emilia softly walked forward, and went for a hug; For the first time, Morgan flinched at her touch. Emilia felt cold; like his emotions were radiating into her. She could never unknown his struggles, of which he entrusted with her alone.

“Emilia, I miss my mom and dad; And I hate it.” Morgan cried.

“I never asked, because I don’t miss my own family; But what was your family like?”

“I have an aunt, uncle, and cousin. No more grandparents, but my mom and dad really love me. They hurt me, but only because they care. I want to hate them, because I now know they abused me. But I just can’t.” He sobbed.

“If you have an aunt and uncle, why didn’t they just adopt you? Their next of kin, and can keep the family together.” Emilia said. That might have been a bit insensitive. Morgan stopped crying, and stared into the tear-soaked journal. He had need of Emilia’s hair dryer. Two teens in a tower, going to magic school. Where were the adults? Morgan needed an adult. Her question solidified his torment. Morgan wanted to be hugged. He had no answer to her question. He knew so many things now, but had no clue how to recover or where his uncle Cetus was.

NEXT--->

<---PREVIOUS

[sky-the-sword-fighter]

The leviathan’s last chance

A shipping Of Diawai and Sakura chapter 1

Diawai POV

My own skin was drying up again I don’t know why I keep haveing baths normally and yawing creams of any kind but the more I soke in this water the more creams I apply the shorter time my skin stays fresh is so itchy sometimes I can’t even think with the sounds of Luminous outside the bathroom asking me if I’m ok I could only keep lieing to him

“Oh yeah I’m ok just stressed,” I lied through my pain filled teeth

“Well ok could you please hurry up I’m sorry but Erri is wanting to use a bath please,” he asked kindly

I see Luminous as my little brother someone I can care for someone I can hold on hope for when I’m scared but now I can’t tell him it’s like my own words catch in my throat but I need to tell him I can’t keep taking baths in the middle of the night when the two of them are asleep

I hop out of the bath a wear some of my normal clothes hopeing to hide my nasty dry patches of blistered skin they don’t stand out much on my porcelain white skin tone but I can’t be to careful I’m worried that he will put his eyes on me more that Erii

Time skip to after the dinner

As the car crashed all three passengers fall in and out of unconscious Diawai could only make out small things here and there but she knew that they where in trouble that when she heard it

“Death,” Erii’s soft voice spoke

She looks at us with glowing eyes as fire rains from everywhere she blinks and her eyes went back to normal she walks over to Luminous and offers her hand out to him while Diawai just watched

*in a different location*

Sakura the ninja assassin was cleaning her blade when she felt something hit her but it didn’t at the same time her head was filled with pain as she sees a vision of what was to come she never have hand any of these visions at all but now she sees herself with the same blue haired girl form when they first ment to kill a rogue devil he own cheeks where dusted with a bright pink as she remembered it like it was only yesterday she didn’t want to tell the young chef but she held a crush for the Castle Collage student freshman Diawai made her feel like she was not only a tool but a person in her vision she was crying in a bathroom as she saw it more clearly the girl was in a bathtub her skin held light blue scales and dried skin the next scene was of her falling off of Tokyo tower then she hears Diawai yell no but as she hit the ground the vision ended she snapped out of the thoughts and dropped her blade Crow heard the commotion and walked i he asked her if she was ok Sakura nods Crow not convinced just walks out and back to his patrol

She needed to know more about Diawai but she can’t find anything on her no birth certificate no I’d number only her student ID number that told her that Diawai was a student as the college Sakura sighed and gave up hope on finding out who this enigma of a girl was

[godsofmonster]

Bangtan MC  ≽ I.

Reader x Bangtan- Motorcycle Club

Word Count- 7.9k

Warnings- sexual content, death, murder, guns, drugs, violence, betrayal,  mentions of suicide, mentions of rape, etc.

For as long as I can remember back, I always wanted to be in a motorcycle club. Since I was six years old, the only thing on my mind was getting my hands on a Harley and a cut. I was a wolf, a wild cur, cut from the pack with bloodstained on my fur. Every wrong has marked a debt because a beaten dog never forgets.

The outline of the green bus threatened to leave me behind. I increased my pace, my toes cursing every stride I took in these pinching heels. The engine of the bus began to roar, black smoke coming from its muffler, as the wheels began to turn. The leather briefcase in my grip struck against my knee as my motions became desperate. Even as I called out in a senseless attempt to catch the vehicle, I remained there along a busy street in Seattle, defeated. 

I let out a grunt from the cage of my clenched teeth. A twitch bugged my eyebrow in frustration as I pulled out my phone and worked to endure the idea of taking an Uber home. I could quite literally see the forming clouds above me, shunning any kind of sunlight that the midday had to offer. After spending the majority of the night before slumped over my desk and sitting the entire morning through a briefing, I was more than ready to kick someone’s head in.  

After fidgeting with a buffering app, finally typing in my address, the screen was ripped away by the caller ID of an unsaved number. 

The phone vibrated in my palm while I stared at the area code. An entirely different sentiment engulfed me completely. The 530 number from Northern California brought an uncomfortable weight in my chest and a hollow ring in my ears.

There was an extensive hesitation on my part, a ball of it, caught in the dryness of my throat. There was only one soul in California that bothered to call. He did once in a year or so, mostly around my birthday. However, this number was different. I watched it ring a few more times as I continued to ponder. Possibly a new number? 

I sighed and answered it all the same. 

"Dad?" 

I questioned. 

However, I was met with a far more tormenting voice. One that only cursed me in my worst dreams. It had been years since his voice had settled upon my ears and suddenly I was 18 years old again, shivering at his sound. 

I was left fruitless, shaken, and unable to move. My entire mind was wiped clean, left with a blank set of notes. No concept, no words, not a single pitch came from my lips. 

He simply spoke in my ear,

"Come home, (Y/n)." 

Then the line went dead.

 That's all it took, that's all I needed to hear, to know that something terrible had happened. As I began to run home, the skies over me began to weep.

-

It was painless, effortless, to just drop everything and leave. It was as simple as breathing. Brushing through the door of the apartment complex, passing through the rooms, with not a single personal attachment to hold me back. 

My bedroom was a color scheme of white and gray, only the most fundamental of furniture and details. This never became my home.

 As I changed into a clean set of clothes, dark jeans, a plain t-shirt, and dumped my heels for boots; there was nothing that I was leaving behind. I grabbed my double rider jacket off of the hook and fished the keys to my Harley and my 23 out of the drawer. I slammed the door shut and never looked back. 

Walking through the basement of the apartment building, I found myself raging through so many thoughts that my mind was practically meaningless. I was so aware that all of my worries were the wrong kind. I should have been outraged about my father, why it was that he didn't call me himself. 

He hadn't bothered speaking to me since my aunt, who I had been living with, passed away six months ago. She was the only thing I cared about in this city and without her, there was nothing left for me here. 

Instead of being furious with him, instead of calling him and demanding answers, I pounced the second I had the chance to come home. I didn't care about anything else. Though, that's how seven years in exile left me, pitiful, and crawling back. Rather than being angry at my father, agitated at the thought of seeing him after so long, my mind was only set on him. 

His voice replayed in my head like a record and the way he said my name was a lukewarm echo. And the worse part of it all? 

I unveiled the gray tarp off of my Softail Harley. The tooled leather was like velvet under the cooling lights of the garage. 

And the worse part of it all is that I would have an entire eight hours to myself. Just me, the road, and my bike with Kim Namjoon's call leading me home to Blackburn California.

- 

"Pass me the wrench, will ya?"

I eyed the floor that was covered in bike limbs and oil. I scavenged for the instrument he needed and found it under a lost tire. Whistling for his attention as he turned around just in time to catch the wrench in his hand. I smiled as my dad kneeled on the floor beside his old Fatboy. I walked up behind him and watched him work underneath me. My hand rested on the letters sewn into the back of his leather cut. 

The top rocker read 'Bangtan' across the back. The center patch showed the opening doors of Bangtan, along with the MC cube. And the bottom rocker, the territory that we claimed, 'California'. A cut signified much more than just a leather vest- it meant you were someone important. For my father, who was the founder and active president of the charter, it meant absolutely everything.

"What's the matter with it? The clutch?"I asked, squinting my eyes and looking over his work. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a square from my case of Marlboro.

"Yeah." He sighed and stood back to his feet. "The clutch plates are probably locked together." 

"Well, what do you expect?" I chuckled with the cigarette placed between my lips. "You've had this Fatboy sitting in the bar for two years like some statue. Poor thing is neglected." 

This was the first bike he ever bought with his own money. It was a 1990 Fatboy, cherry red- a true beauty. He turned around to eye me, except that his eyes fell down to the smoke in my mouth. I cupped my hands over the flame I used to light the end and raised a brow at his stare. He reached over to seize the cigarette from my mouth. 

"What the hell did I tell you about smoking?" He said, holding the square in front of me.

"That you didn't care?" I reminded him with a smile. He stared at me for another moment, attempting to do his best impression of a scolding parent but ultimately broke into a sneer.

"I didn't care as long as I didn't see it." He corrected me and placed the cigarette into his own lips. I humorously rolled my eyes as he turned back to his baby. "This is what we're going to do,"

He said while mounting the bike with his feet planted to the floor. "I'm going to put the bike in gear and pull in the clutch lever. Now if I roll the bike back and forth the plates should come unstuck."

"Do you want me to get some heat in that oil and see if it'll help loosen things back up?" I asked.

Although, before my dad could answer, the engine of another motorcycle roared into the garage behind the bar. The light of a Street500 Harley blinded me momentarily. My father moved off of his bike while I walked out of the incoming Harley's way. I had a pretty good idea of who it was anyhow. 

He thrust down his kickstand and removed his black helmet to reveal his bleached undercut. 

"I was hoping you were still here, old man." He laughed, stepping off his bike and making his way toward my dad. 

"Something wrong with it, Namjoon?" He suggested. With a rag, he wiped his hands clean from any grease as Namjoon put an arm around his shoulder. I cut my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest.

"It's not running well with the choke on." He explained. I watched as my father and he walked up to his bike to get a closer look. "It stalls when I turn the choke off and when I turn the throttle." 

"It's probably because you left it parked in the garage for two months without draining the gas," I said coldly.  

Namjoon turned to look at me as I walked but beside them, taking a look for myself. I could feel his cold stare on me as I inspected his bike. 

"I think she's right, Joon." My dad said, patting his shoulder. I smirked and shot Namjoon a glare. I placed my hands on my hips, waiting for my father to tell him to fix it himself. "(Y/n) will get started on it in the morning." 

"What!?" I hissed in disbelief. My eyes darted from my fathers to Namjoons, who wore a returning smirk on his face. I could feel my face heat with rage. "That will take hours! I have to drain the old gas, change the spark plugs, replace the air filter, and clean the clogged carburetors!"

"Well, now that you've graduated you'll have plenty of time on your hands' sweetheart," Namjoon said as my dad took a drag of my cigarette and agreed. 

I could kill him. 

I could not believe my father would have me working on Namjoon's bike. What kind of man can't even fix his own Harley? The thought made me sick. I knew how to change the oil on a Harley since I was six years old! Before I could even think to say another word against the idea, the door extending from the bar opened abruptly. 

"Hey! I've been calling you." I saw another cut walk in that belonged to Seokjin. He and the current prospect, Yoongi, gathered around my father. 

"What is it?" He asked. I could hear it in their voices, something must have happened for them to come looking for him at such a late hour.

"The mayor is here... he wants to speak with you," Yoongi said in a hushed tone. 

I automatically knew that Namjoon and I were going to be dismissed. Any club business could not be discussed in front of nonmembers. Immediately, I tried to create an excuse to dismiss ourselves from the situation.

"I'll follow you home Namjoon," I called out catching everyone's attention. "I'll get started on your bike in the morning." 

He simply nodded his head, knowing as well as I did, that this was not our place. Namjoon moved to get on his bike while I gathered my stuff from the counter behind me. 

"Actually," My father suddenly spoke up. Both of us paused to see who he was referring too. "You can stay, Namjoon. It's time you learn a thing or two."

My father barely spared me a glance as he continued, "Prospect, follow (Y/n) and make sure she gets home."

"No problem." He responded. I could feel the color rise to my face as tears threatened to brim my eyes. There was an ache in my chest that could only be explained as heartbreak.

-

It was memories like those that flooded my mind, swarming my thoughts like a plague, and they haunted me all the way home.

For as long as I can remember back, I always wanted to be in a motorcycle club. Since I was five years old, the only thing on my mind was getting my hands on a leather cut and a Harley. For me, being in a motorcycle club was better than being the Queen of England. From the first time that I wandered into the clubhouse behind my father's bar- I knew I had to be a part of them. I knew that I had found the place where I belonged. Bangtan was like nobody else, they did what they wanted- when they wanted. No one ever stopped them or told them otherwise. It was being a part of something much bigger than yourself. It meant being somebody in a town full of nobodies. With my father as president, I knew everyone, and everyone knew me. I thought myself the most fortunate of girls. 

But I was young, I was naive, I didn't know just how unfair the world could be. 

The night had fallen deep. The roads deserted from creation. The air flowed differently down here, with no restraints, liberating. It felt real in my lungs. Seven years of my life had slipped through my hands and as I passed the sign welcoming me home, I could not recognize the world around me.

Welcome to Blackburn

Where Blood is Thicker 

I rode through the empty town, the distant memories of my adolescence whispering within the wind. Recurring nightmares had brought me back through these routes time and time again. Straight from my bones, deep from inside, a fantasy of total catastrophe. They were nightmares I loved to hate because the hopeless endeavor was better than having nothing at all. 

The street lights followed me all the way home. Turning into Ivory Lane, at the very end of the street, is where my youth was left behind. Undeniably the finest, largest, house in the neighborhood. As I pulled up to the front, there was light pouring from each window, the long driveway held 15 Harleys and five cars. A full house and a party I would surely crash. 

Removing my helmet and parking my bike, I subconsciously began to pace toward the front door. It was like I was in another one of my dreams, not knowing what I was doing, nor what was waiting for me on the other side. By every step, I felt more lost and at home at the same time. Everything was the same and yet nothing felt familiar. Like a lost spirit, I simply opened the door and let myself in. 

The door opened into the large foyer, where stairs circled around the left and a hallway led me deeper into the house. I stepped noiselessly, past my father's study and the dining room, following the disembodied voices coming from beyond. The warm light of the house made me feel senseless, not understanding what exactly I was walking into. 

I found myself at an impasse, deep in the house, where the kitchen was in the room to my left and the living room to my right. It felt like I was in a stranger’s house with voices I did not recognize. It was all so unreal. Choosing to explore the living room I stepped to the right. 

I found people scattered around in multiple conversations, no one who stood out in particular. I looked for any sign of a familiar face. The room smelled of alcohol and tobacco. Not a soul had noticed me walk in, it looked like a small gathering, not any kind of celebration. There was rock music playing softly in the background of the people's voices. There were women and their children and older men who I did not know. It looked to be just a few hang-arounds, outsiders that were friendly with the club.

My eyes scattered around the room, not knowing what to think. If I should stay- if I should go? I didn't know what I was doing here anymore. That was until my eyes landed on a group at the far end of the room. 

Then, Namjoon was the only thing I could see.

I stared at him as he sat gathered between other guys. His black eyes switched from person to person as they spoke to him. He wore his cut and fiddled with his knuckles. His hair, that he used to bleach and cut himself, was now its natural black color and styled to the sides. He looked like a grown-up, far from the person that I remembered. 

It felt like I stared at him for hours but it wasn't long before he felt my stare and found me for himself. His eyes dropped dramatically, changing. from a look of focus into one that was shaken. All of his attention was fixed on me and I could feel the weight of the room fall on my shoulders. 

I spent the last seven years thinking about what I would say to him. What he would have to say to me. Except I felt frozen in place as he rose to his feet.

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

A voice cursed behind me. Her tongue caught the attention of everyone in the room. Their eyes began to watch me intently while their whispers of curiosity filled the air.  

I shuffled to the side, turning to see both her and Namjoon. I became trapped between them on either side, with a crowd of strangers in front of me, like a jury. 

The girl that they knew would have never had the courage to stand here in front of everyone. The girl that they knew would have never come back but I wasn't that girl anymore. I wasn't 18 years old and everything I wanted to say then- I would say it to them now. 

"This is my house." I reminded her.

Jaeeun scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. Her hair was a thick, black bob, with a single streak of white, that framed the side of her face. She always wore dark clothing, black and berry colors mostly. And around her neck was a black diamond necklace she was never seen without. The years had been kind to her, she looked like she always did. The wicked stepmother who stayed young forever.

"This hasn't been your home for a long time, sweetheart." She shook her head at me. Jaeeun's stare was as cold as ever, black eyes that looked like a cryptic abyss and fine aging lines cut into her pale skin. 

"Mom," Namjoon cut in, reinserting himself into this situation. He walked between us, facing his mother and attempting to keep her calm as he assured her that, "I called her."

Jaeeun's arms came uncrossed at his words. It felt strange as if Namjoon was somehow defending me. She looked at him in disbelief, the frustration becoming more pronounced on her face, as Namjoon spoke. "She has a right to know."

The seriousness of his voice was alarming, my eyes turned to look at him but I didn't find any answers from his avoiding gaze. Jaeeun's eyes were fixed on him. The conversation quickly became an argument between only them two.

"A right to know and a right to be here- are two entirely different things, Namjoon." Jaeeun raised her voice. Her entire demeanor seemed overwhelmed as she placed her hand over her forehead. Namjoon took notice as well as he stepped to lend her a hand but she exploded. "You could have told me!"

Her voice cracked and tears slipped from her eyes. Entirely caught off guard, I didn't know what to do, I had never seen Jaeeun break down. Namjoon sought to console her by laying a hand on her shoulder but she forced him away. "Like I don't have enough shit going on already!"

I could tell that she was embarrassed to be crying in front of people. It wasn't until a friend of hers came up behind her for comfort. I could only watch as she eased Jaeeun onto a nearby chair where she could relax.

The room fell silent as everyone remained still while Jaeeun regained her composure. I was caught up in my own agenda to care about anything else. Everything just tasted wrong.

"Namjoon," I called for him. He left his mother's side and joined me under the archway of the living room. I caught a glance at Jaeeun's glare as he left but I ignored it and spoke in a low voice. He leaned in to avoid our conversation falling to her ears. I sighed. "What am I doing here?"

"For fuck sake, Namjoon." Jaeeun breathed. She held a cigarette between her lips as her friend beside her brought a lighter. Namjoon cursed under his breath. "You haven't even told her yet?" 

"Told me what?" I didn't intend to raise my voice. The anticipation was causing terrible ideas to flow through my head. 

Suddenly Namjoon took a hold of my hand, the touch alarming me further, as he stared at me sympathetically. I shook my head and yanked my hand from his touch. My heart began to beat in my ears as I stepped back from him. 

"No..." 

I said trying to remove the terrible thought from my head.

"I'm so sorry, (Y/n)."

He said, stepping closer. 

"No!" 

I yelled.

A weight came tumbling down on me, like the burden of the world, I felt as if my night terrors had crawled into my reality. My head was consumed by the pressure of news. My skin frosted with chills as I stumbled out of the room. 

Bumping into strangers, I abruptly felt cornered as they stared at me with pity. I couldn't seem to retain any form of air in my lungs, every breath came out of my mouth like a cry for help. My house became a real horror scene, and my only impulse was to leave. 

"Let her go! That's all she's good at..."

I pushed through the people behind me, stepping as quickly as my feet would allow. I ran through the way I came in, all the way to the front door with tears trailing behind me. My vision was clouded with the pain that emptied my chest. 

The night breeze crystalized the stain my tears left. My body trembled in a mixture of numbness and despair. The door opened behind me and footsteps simulated my own. 

"(Y/n), wait."

He followed me down the brick driveway, only intercepting me when I stopped to mount my bike. I ignored his call and avoided his stare. I was fiddling with the strap of my helmet when I saw his foot land on my footrest.

"You took the eight-hour ride here? You've got to be exhausted." He stated. 

I felt a rush of rage boil my blood, a result of years of repressed anger. I looked at him from underneath my hair and said in an imminent tone.

"Get your foot off my bike."

Namjoon stood his ground and only released his hold on my bike as a sign of good faith. Except, he continued to hold me in his stare, his eyes a mirror reflection of his mother's. I sighed and looked away in defeat. 

"How did it happen?" I asked. 

That was the question I feared the most. No matter what the answer was- I wasn't here. I couldn't even recollect the last words we had spoken to each other. 

"He was riding on the US-50..." It was hard for him to look into my watering orbs. Namjoon shifted his eyes to the floor, his black hair brushing against his forehead. "He collided with a semi-truck."

My arms rested on the fuel tank of my bike, burying my face from his sight, as I continued to break down. I pressed the tears from my eyes, the droplets tapping against the cold metal, as soft cries left my mouth. 

I couldn't get the image out of my head, it replayed, once after another. My imagination created the sound of the impact. The black crows of the desert that flocked away as a result. The bloody aftermath plastered on the bumper of the semi-truck.

"I loved him too... He was my father too, (Y/n)." Namjoon spoke with pure sincerity. But all I could do was shake my head and dismiss his truth. 

"But he wasn't," I threw my helmet on the floor and stood off my bike. With the little force I could work up, my hands pressed against the leather cut and shoved his chest, causing him to trip over his feet. "He was mine!"

"He practically raised me- taught me what it meant to be a man." He explained, visibly hurt by my comment. It sickened me to hear him give my old man such credit. 

"He was barely a father." I spat. 

"Yes! He was complicated." He admitted, taking a step back and lifting his hands in defeat. He used his dominant hand to push his hair out of his frame, licking his lips in apprehension. "But he was smart and he always did what he thought was right." 

I crossed my arms over my chest and refused to praise him for another minute. Namjoon sighed from his nose, taking a slow pace toward me as I continued to look away. The space between us became less and less until I could feel his body heat radiating on me. I resisted his tempting stare but he managed to make me melt at his touch. He took my chin in his fingers and guided me to his eyes. "Those complications killed him, (Y/n). That's why he let the road take him."

"What are you saying?" I snapped a look at him, removing Namjoon's hand from my face. "You think my father killed himself?" 

"It's the only explanation." He simply declared. As if the answer was so simple. "The driver of the truck said that he just came out of nowhere."

"Bangtans don't kill themselves-" I was ridiculed by his words, finding it hard to accept that he would believe them himself. 

"Don't worry." He hushed me. "No one else knows... I wouldn't let him get stripped of his patch."

He obviously did, nevertheless. Namjoon was ready to pull me in and wrap his arms over my shoulders. He embraced me with pity as if I was in denial about the situation. There wasn't much that I was sure about in my life, not a lot was stable. However, my fathers' courage, his willingness to keep moving ahead was unparalleled. It was the soldier in him.

“You’re not listening to me!" Once again, I pushed him away from me. "He would never do that. For someone who claims to have loved him so much you know very little.”

"(Y/n)," Namjoon said softly, he looked entirely exhausted. It was the first time I was actually analyzing his exterior. He displayed bags under his eyes and his skin was drained of color. “You don’t know what it's been like these past few years.”

His words left a larger impression on me than I would have expected. He was right. I didn't know anything about him, my father, or the club in the past seven years.

I was an idiot to have spent so many years dreaming of coming home. I thought I was lost before, that this was the place where everything would make sense. Now I feel more lost than ever. Nothing felt familiar here in Blackburn, everyone was a stranger.

"Come on," Namjoon called my way. His mouth dusted the most gentle of smiles as he waved me over with his hand. "Let's go back inside." 

"Are you sure?" Using the back of my hands, I cleaned my face, from the horror I could only imagine. "I think Jaeeun still wants me dead."

He smiled, revealing a pair of dimples that cursed him as a child forever. He knew, as well as I did, that I was only half-serious. 

"I'll handle my mother." He assured me. 

I followed behind him, catching up to his side as we walked together up the driveway. I took a moment to examine his clothes. He wore black jeans and a cloudy blue button-up under his leather cut. He also had a bowie knife tucked into a sheath that was clipped to his pocket. And even though I couldn't see it, I would bet my life on him also carrying a handgun hidden under his shirt. 

"Oh," He stopped us right before the front door. His facial expression winced as he remembered something. "No one… knows why you actually left. People think you just ran away."

He explained, presuming that the news would bother me. However, I didn't expect any less from Jaeeun.

"Of course they do," 

-

Namjoon led me to the leather couch in the middle of the living room. The set was surrounded by strangers and a glass coffee table. I sat to the very edge of the couch, crossing my leg over the other, in an effort to take up as little space as possible. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to relax.

"Namjoon." A voice called for him across the room. I didn't need to turn around to know it was club business and Namjoon looked at me apologetically. I assured him that I would be fine. 

He caressed my shoulder before vanishing behind the couch. My hands ran up my lap, feeling the texture of the denim under my hands, as I questioned what to do with myself. I peered down my body and adjusted the sleeves on my jacket. 

"You want some coffee, doll?" I was slightly surprised by the silky voice. Standing over me was a young woman, younger than me, with a fresh coffee pot in her hand. 

"Oh! Uh..." I quickly looked down at the glass coffee table before me. There were some clean mugs resting upside down, beside jars of cream and sugar. "Yeah, sure." 

Instantly, I bent over to reach for the nearest mug at the same moment she did. 

"I got it." She promised. However, in a second of panic, my hand already bumped against hers and tipped the mug over. 

The glass hitting against glass made me uneasy and embarrassed as a few heads turned in our direction. I cursed under my sigh and removed my hands from creating any more chaos. I could only push my hair out of my face and behind my ears as I apologized.  

Without glancing my way, she reassured me that it was fine. I watched as she poured the steaming brown liquid into the mug. She set the pot to the side and reached for the jar of cream. 

"Black is fine." 

She nodded and handed me the mug with a brief smile. I held it between both of my palms, the heat almost being painful, and I thanked her as she stepped away. 

I brought the steam close to my nose, shutting my eyes and breathing in deeply, awaiting the aroma to keep me conscious.

"You have to let them do that for you." Jaeeun's voice spoke from behind. My eyes fluttered open to see her stepping around me. I followed her figure carefully as she took the seat next to me. "It's how they show you respect."

I scoffed to myself. Jaeeun looked better composed than before. That's how she operated, though. There was no time for crying, feeling sorry for yourself, none of that mattered when people depended on you. I figured that was admirable. 

"Why does it matter? That respect is only because of my father, not me." Jaeeun smirked and agreed. "Everyone thinks I ran away nevertheless. Not much respect in that."

She could hear the bitterness that lingered in my mouth. My poor attitude annoyed her. 

"Oh, cry me a river, sweetheart." She cursed under her breath. 

"How do you do it, Jae?" I cut her off sharply. Turning my body to face hers without intimidation. "How-How do you keep all the lies intact? All the secrets buried?"

She lifts her eyebrow, almost amused by my anger. I asked, "Aren't you tired?"

Jaeeun cut eye contact with me and took in a long breath as she worked to remain unbothered. I watched her fix her hair as a distraction, loathing to realize that my judgment struck a nerve. Yet, she swiftly regained her confidence and even dared to lean in close to me.

"For my family?" She prompted. Her black eyes staring almost past me as her mouth dropped into a dead frown. "Never."

Without another word, she rose from her place and left me alone once again.  I stared down into the black coffee, just barely making out my reflection before bringing the rim up to my lips. Being a forgotten memory in this town hurt me more than I wanted to admit.

"(Y/n)." My head turned, my eyes pursuing across the room, where I spotted Namjoon by the entrance. His hand singled me over through the blurred crowd of people. 

I abandoned the coffee on the table and made my way into the lake of bodies. As I walked down my path, the faces turned to see me coming and one by one, they parted the road. Not even a graze came in contact with my shoulder while I approached his awaiting figure. I pressed near him as the masses allowed me too. 

"Are you okay?" 

Jaeeun must have left a sour expression on my face, he seemed concerned as he read my eyes. He even dared to reach his hand out to cup my face in some sort of aid, but I was ready to stir it away, a little vigorously. 

"I'm fine," I said rigidly. Namjoon took notice of my discomfort, my cold behavior, and so he stepped back to proffer me space. 

"Uh," He cleared his throat. I scanned him up and down, as the awkwardness spread in his demeanor. "He wanted to say hello." 

My brows furrowed, confused as to what he was saying. Yet, I followed in his eyes as they led me out into the hall. I sensed his presence as he lingered behind me, his footsteps slower than my own. The lonely hallway almost suggested a trap, as I turned the corner around the staircase, I found no such thing. Assembled in the foyer were a group of leather cuts. With their backs turned to me, I could not make out any of their faces. The heavy noise of my footsteps rang over their conversation and they turned in my direction.

"(Y/n)!"

 I gasped. Shocked, completely caught off guard, to see a familiar face. With nothing but a smile, his arms came wrapping around me.

"Jimin." I laughed, shocked at the years gone by without having spoken his name.

 It was the first time that someone's face brought me memories that were worth reliving. My high school years were only significant because of him. I didn't know it at the time but he was my best friend. The reminiscences of a simpler time threatened my eyes with tears.

When he pulled away, I almost could not classify the man before me. But there was no one else that could mimic that smile, his eyes disappeared and his teeth took the spotlight. 

"I-I can't believe it's you." I smiled. His hands rested on my shoulders as he inspected me from head to toe. "When did you patch in?" 

"I requested a prospect about two years after you left." He explained. Jimin took a step back and pushed his hair out of his face. I used to poke fun at the fat on his cheeks but I couldn't now. He looked great, from his tight jeans to sharp jawline, I was genuinely appalled. "We both did, actually."

Jimin moved aside to reveal the standing figure behind him. "You remember Taehyung, don't you?" 

He stepped out of the shadow, the light overhead casting contours on his face, another image far from what I remembered. But his strong brows and long-lasting eyes haven't changed. He licked his lips at me and shot a polite smile. 

"Y-Yeah, of course." Shuttering lightly, I figured that we didn't know each other well enough to hug. He wore a bandana tied around his forehead that heaved his brown locks. "I see you finally stopped dying your hair red." 

"It was the only way they would let me prospect." He chuckled. 

I didn't know him as well as I knew Jimin, even though they were always together, the conversations between us just never went anywhere. It didn't surprise me in the slightest to see him in a cut. Bangtan was seemingly the only topic we could discuss that endured more than just a few words.

"Yeah, there is no way the vote would have been unanimous if you would have kept that hair." A loud voice laughed behind the two. 

The owner appeared over Taehyung's shoulder, continuing to laugh in his ear. I could distinguish him by his very voice, Hoseok, who began prospecting at the same time Namjoon did. 

"Yeah? I still might do it one day, just to piss you off." Taehyung said, shoving Hoseok's shoulder playfully. 

"You'll be the only one looking like a fucking strawberry, dude." Another face came wandering in, this time behind Jimin. It was only next to Jimin that I was able to recognize who he was.

"Jungkook?" He revealed a pair of bunny teeth and his 16-year-old image flashed in my head. "Last time I saw you, you were following Jimin around like a puppy. Good to see things haven’t changed" 

They all began to tease and ponder the poor boy, Jimin especially, reached his hand up and lightly slapped his face. Jungkook could only laugh off the taunting as he looked back at me.

"Things have changed, (Y/n)." He purposely deepened his voice and with a smug look, pushed Jimin out of the way. With his hand hooked around his belt, he danced a slow walk toward me. "Now I'm 23 and… 5′10." 

He let his eye drop into a wink and I shivered with a deep cringe. I couldn't help but burst out laughing, trying to withhold the obnoxious cries with my hand. The rest of the boy's laugh echoed my own. Everyone except Namjoons, it was only seconds later that he came up from behind me, elbowing the young member away.

"Cute, Jungkook." He stated, certainly not finding humor in Jungkook's flirtatious act.

"Honestly Jungkook, you're sick, her father just died," I noticed Seokjin as he spoke from behind the group, Yoongi just beside him.

"It was a joke." Jungkook protested as he stumbled back beside Jimin.

"It won't be a joke when Namjoon murders you for messing with his sister," Yoongi scolded.

"Stepsister." 

Namjoon and I bluntly corrected, at the same time. 

Our severe voices caused everyone to stop laughing, questionably staring in our direction. My head went blank as soon as I realized what had happened. The silence expanded to us and I hastily looked away from the situation. 

"Where's the prospect?" Namjoon asked taking the pressure off the prior incident. 

"He went to go find me some smokes," Taehyung replied and with perfect timing, the front door behind them opened abruptly.

"I got them!" 

A voice called making his way around the group of boys with a pack of red Marlboro. Taehyung moved quickly to seize the cigarettes from his hand without a single thank you. 

"Say hello, prospect." He said pushing the young boy on his back causing him to stumble forward into my line of sight. 

Caught by utter surprise, he stared at me bashfully. I tilted my head as I examined his features carefully. Something about him looked familiar however he was so young, I could almost deny that I knew him at all. I just couldn't figure it out. He looked at me with pleading eyes, almost as if he was praying that I would recognize him. He had to be at least 19 years old now, which would put him at the age of 12 when I left. 

Then it clicked.

"Yeonjun?" 

When he smiled, in a matter of seconds, my heart completely melted. My face broke into a grin that ached my cheeks, my eyes glossed with more tears as I walked up to him. He lived just down the road, I used to babysit him when his mother took night shifts at the hospital. I placed my hand on his shoulder and got a better look at his face. I couldn't help but complain. "You lost your baby fat." 

The boys teasingly ‘aww’ed at him, Jimin dramatically clenching his heart with his hand. Taehyung wrapped his arm over Yeonjun’s shoulder and began poking at his cheeks. He could only stand there and take the banters of his elders as it was a form of hazing for prospects. However, Yeonjuns head remained held high as he proudly said,

"I told you she would remember me." Taehyung, who he was specifically speaking to, could merely roll his eyes and let the prospect enjoy his victory.

As happy as I was at that moment, I couldn't help but fall mute, the truth of everything just sort of unraveling in my mind. Seeing Yoenjun was a testimony of how much I left behind, the little things I didn't know I cared about so much. The people I used to know had moved on without me. Everyone was so different and changed into better versions of themselves. I began to question if I had really done the same. I felt robbed of the person I could have been, the person I thought I was meant to be. Blackburn was a family community, everyone knew each other- now, I was just an outsider. 

I heard the boy's laughter cut short, my train of thought lost by the screeching sound of tires coming from outside. All of our heads turned to follow the noise. Down the hall where the front door stood lonely, we moved as a group, our feet trying to get a clear image of the outside. There was just enough darkness to see through the glass shapes cut into the frame of the door. The street of Ivory Lane was cleared except for a gray van parked parallel in front of the house.

Before I could think to question anything, the side door slid open and three masked figures appeared, in their hands were fully automated KG-9s. 

"Get down!" 

Namjoon's voice was all that I heard before my body was hitting the floor. Someone's weight was on top of me, acting as a shield, as the following movements were full of total chaos. 

Thousands of rounds firing off, causing the windows to shatter into pieces. My arms covered over my head, shards of glass scratching against the leather of my sleeves. My cheek pressed against the wood as I heard the screams of the souls in the house, women, and children. 

I raised my head to see Yeonjuns face over my shoulder. His forearms rested on either side of my head, I saw the fear in his face, the way his eyes were shut tightly. I took a look at the rest of my surroundings, Taehyung and Namjoon were leaning against the wall, their hands working fast to load their handguns. 

"Cover me!" Namjoon yelled over the firearms. 

My heart was pumping adrenaline throughout my body. But the thought of my family home being shot up while grieving my father's death fueled me with red rage. It was blinding. 

I forced Yeonjun off of me, my knee pinning him down on the floor where he would remain clear of any bullets. 

"What are you doing!?"

I  stayed crouched as my arms reached behind me. My hands felt for the Glock 23 that I had tucked into the belt of my pants. The heavy metal was cold in my hand, I clicked the safety off and rose on my feet.

"(Y/n)!"

I moved quickly, my gun pointed out toward the door as I reached quickly yanking it open. I found the three men retreating back into the van. My brain didn't hesitate to take the aim to the one in the middle, pulling the trigger over and over again, my arms resisting the gun’s kickback. The bullets went cutting through the air, piercing holes of the van until one finally broke through the skin of his shoulder. He struggled to reload his gun as his two partners jumped into the van. 

"(Y/n)! Get back!"

Bullets behind me came firing at the van, shattering the window of the driver. I kept firing at the already injured figure, his friends running to get him in the van as they were trying to flee. They pulled at his arms, dragging him into the van as he finished reloading. With a click of his ammo, he aimed his gun at me but I fired first. My bullet went right through his kneecap causing him to fall off the moving van. His partners had no option but to leave him behind.

"(Y/n)!" Namjoon yelled as my feet moved, sprinting, toward the man bleeding out on the street. 

He laid on his back, holding his disjointed knee in one hand. He wore a ski mask and black clothing. I kicked away his KG-9 with my foot and aimed my gun at him.

"Put your hands up! Put Your hands up!" I commanded. He followed them without hesitation. Namjoon and Taehyung came running up behind me. 

"Put the gun down, (Y/n)," Taehyung said calmly but I didn't budge. I could only stare angrily at the blue eyes I could make out through the holes of the mask. My hand began to tremble from rage. I wanted to shoot him, I wanted to shoot him so very bad. "People are watching, (Y/n)."

I glanced back at the house where people were gathering behind the broken windows. I took a deep breath, shaking to remain calm, and lowering my gun. 

Namjoon and Taehyung moved in, holding him down as they removed his mask. I didn't recognize him in the slightest, he was white, with thin white hair and ice-blue eyes, at least 40 years old. 

"I’ve got PB ink here," Taehyung said to Namjoon as he raised his arms to reveal tattoos. 

"Help! Please help!" A scream filled the night, coming out the front door was a woman. Her face contoured in pain as wails left her mouth. She held a young boy, pressed against her chest, drenched in blood. "My son, please!"

She begged as Jimin helped her hold the boy up. His hand was stained with blood over the wounds on his chest and abdomen. But the boy's body was unresponsive, lifeless, he was already gone. 

That's when everything went silent for me. My ears hollowed with a ring of white noise. I felt my hand loosen as the gun fell from my grip. As the metal hit against the street, I stepped back toward the gunman, trance-like. His eyes barely caught mine before I stomped my foot on his face.

"(Y/n)!"

I growled through my teeth as I felt the cartilage of his nose crack under my boot with the first stomp. The ones after that beat his teeth into his mouth. Gashes of blood leaked into the curves of his face. He begged and cried for me to stop but I couldn’t.  

Taehyung wrapped his arms around my waist, I fought back, but he lifted me and tore me apart from him. 

Masterlist ≽