#Subsequent 37

[jami-c]

oops I made it a private post. here! look at (and listen) to my mistake!!!

the dog is a speaker that dances. I hooked it up to my moog sub 37 and it's the funniest thing.

the beats are from my Kaossilator pro plus.

it's the dumbest fucking thing I've ever made.

[saywhat-politics]

President Yoon’s brief martial law declaration and subsequent impeachment trial have deeply divided South Korea, a key U.S. ally.

April 3, 2025, 7:31 PM MST / Updated April 3, 2025, 8:37 PM MST

By Janis Mackey Frayer, Stella Kim and Jennifer Jett

SEOUL, South Korea — A South Korean court upheld the impeachment of President Yoon Suk Yeol on Friday, officially throwing him out of office over his botched imposition of martial law and setting the stage for a new presidential election.

Yoon’s brief martial law declaration and subsequent impeachment trial have deeply divided South Korea, a key U.S. ally and one of the most vibrant democracies in Asia. Rallies for and against the conservative leader’s removal from office have been held regularly, and officials had barricaded the courthouse ahead of the ruling in anticipation of possible violence.

The political turmoil has also sidelined South Korea as it grapples with steep U.S. tariffs imposed by President Donald Trump, as well as growing military cooperation between rival North Korea and Russia.

The eight judges on the Constitutional Court ruled unanimously against Yoon, 64, finding him guilty on all counts. The decision, which was broadcast live to cheering and despairing crowds and cannot be appealed, means an election for Yoon’s successor must be held within 60 days.

[ddejavvu]

Love to Lie - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader (Part 1) / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 (Final Part)

Summary: Your worst fear is recognized when Bradley’s jet goes down with him in it. You’re not sure why you’re still his emergency contact, you’d broken up two weeks ago, but when you rush into the hospital room, you discover that you have a chance to fix the mistake you’d been cursing yourself for. The only problem is, you have to lie to Bradley, and you discover that you love doing it if it means you get to be with him again.

Contents/Warnings: fem!reader, Mitchell!reader, angst, angst with a fluffy/happy ending, amnesia trope, hospitals and their subsequent medical details, memory loss, goose and carole are still alive because i say so

WC: 11.3K / navigation / inbox

A/N: thank you to everyone who has encouraged me in my development of this series! it's three parts long, and each part will be posted one week after the one before it. that means you get chapter 2 next week, and chapter 3 two weeks from now. and after chapter 3 is released, i will post the full fic in one single post, so that it's easier to read. this series means a lot to me, it's the longest fic I've ever finished for this account, and I would really love to hear what you think of it. Thank you to the love of my life miss jade (@luveline), for being the first person to read this (!!), and for all of your wonderful feedback that cheered me on as I crossed the finish line for this series. I don't think I would have finished it if it wouldn't have been for your support, so thank you sweetpea <3

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

It’s 11:14 AM when you get the call. Your phone buzzes ballistically beneath your pillow, where you’d stuffed it haphazardly last night somewhere close to 4 AM. For the record, you’d only slept because your eyes hurt from being open for so long. You’re certain that, after what you’d done, you deserved to ache for eternity, but you’d succumbed to sleep when it pulled hard enough at you.

Raising the phone to your ear is a chore, especially because the number on the screen is unrecognizable, but you stretch your tired, bed-ridden limbs and hold the cool glass screen to your face. It’s jarring, and you long for the stuffy warmth of the pillow again.

“Hello?”

“Miss Y/N Mitchell?” It’s a man’s voice, deep and strong through the receiver. It’s no-nonsense, and you almost worry that you’ve misfiled your taxes, that someone from the IRS is tracking you down.

“That’s me,” You rub sleep out of your left eye, harder than necessary so that your vision is blurry when you open your eye again. You’re not very gentle with yourself these days.

“You’re listed as an emergency contact for Mr. Bradley Bradshaw. He’s currently a patient at the Naval Medical Center in San Diego. He was brought in at 9:37 AM this morning when his jet malfunctioned mid-exercise, and he crashed into a canyon below.”

Your heart stops. 

Your cheeks get hot, your hands start to tingle, and your stomach feels like it’s going to start turning cartwheels, sloshing your insides around until you vomit what little you’ve eaten.

Bradley’s dead, you think, Bradley’s dead, Bradley’s dead, Bradley’s dead.

“We were able to airlift him out, and he’s stabilized now-” Bradley’s not dead,  “-but he’s still unconscious. His parents are here, as well as your father, if you’d like to join them.”

It takes a long time for you to speak. It’s almost a full minute, and the man on the other end has to call your name to get you to respond.

“Miss Mitchell?”

“I’ll be there,” You blurt, heaving a shaky breath as you seal a hand over your mouth. You part your fingers only to make sure he hears you clearly as you confirm, “He’s alive?”

“Yes, he’s alive and stable.” The man informs you, “He’ll recover, Miss Mitchell.”

Bradley’s not dead. Bradley’s not dead. Bradley’s not dead.

“I’ll be there,” You repeat, and for the first time in almost 36 hours, you kick the crappy motel blankets off of your legs and stand, “Thank you, sir.”

--

Wearing a bra again after two weeks of lazing around in bed is awful. But you’ll do it for Bradley, if only to make up for the last thing you’d said to him.

“I can’t love you anymore!” Rings in your ears, and a vision of Bradley’s hands reaching desperately for you flashes through your mind, covering up the green light ahead of you.

Someone honks behind you, a BMW. You jolt to attention, stepping on the gas and jerking into the intersection.

Easy, you chide yourself, You’re going to the hospital to visit a patient, not to be one.

You’re able to pull into the hospital’s parking lot without nearly causing any more car crashes, and you briefly wonder if you should take the coward’s way out again as you trek over the asphalt towards the hospital. You’d run two weeks ago, why not now? Why not now, when what you’d been worried about that night has actually happened?

Urged by the regret flooding your veins since fleeing, you walk on, stepping through the automatic doors of the hospital and sidling up to the reception desk.

“I’m here to see Bradley Bradshaw,” You inform the nurse there, “Uh- Lieutenant. If that… helps.”

She sends you a kind smile, filled with sympathy that you’re thankful for as you stammer and stumble your way through speaking. You’re sure you’re not the most distraught person here, and you’re guiltily thankful for that. 

“Room 624,” The nurse tells you, and oh, what a sick coincidence, “Down the hall and to the left, take the elevator up and follow the arrows on the floor.”

6/24 is not only Bradley’s birthday, but your anniversary; the day you’d kissed him on the swings in his backyard with hot fudge sticking to your lips. He’d been glum about his dad missing his birthday on deployment, and, of course, your dad couldn’t be there either. Carole had done her best to brighten up her boy, but some things couldn’t be mended with gift wrap, and you all knew that.

You’d snuck out to join him that night with a sundae, offering him the serving spoon thickly coated in the chocolate. He’d accepted it with a huffy eye roll, upset that you’d managed to cheer him up even a little bit with just one spoon of ice cream.

--

“It sucks,” Bradley mutters around the chocolate in his mouth, the syrup sticking his words together, “I know he can’t do anything about it. But I still want him here.”

“I know,” You hum, taking a bite of ice cream for yourself, “I’m sorry, Brad. If it makes you feel any better, he’ll probably get you something, like, really good when he gets back. He’ll feel all guilty, that’s what my dad did and I got a puppy out of it.”

“We’ve already got a puppy,” Bradley gestures to the Bradshaw’s family dog, well on in years by the gray around his muzzle and his tendency to nap instead of move.

“Maybe you’ll get one that you can actually play with,” You offer Bradley another bite of the ice cream, and you only feel a little bad for making fun of Lewis. But the dog doesn’t understand your teasing, softly snoring on the porch.

“Maybe he’ll get me a car,” Bradley gushes, “A bitchin’ one, like a Bronco or something. Then we can put our surfboards in the back and go to the beach.”

“You don’t even have a license!” You elbow Bradley, laughing at his lofty dreams, “But a Bronco would be cool. You should send your dad a magazine clipping of one with your next letter and talk about how cool it is.”

“You’re smarter than you look,” Bradley muses, a smear of chocolate over his lower lip that he doesn’t lick away.

You scoff, stomping on his foot where it’s planted in the grass beside your own. He jolts away with a yelp, and in doing so, jerks the swing he’s sitting on, He catches his balance and you notice the syrup on his lip, reaching out to clean it with your thumb.

“You’ve got hot fudge on your face, doofus,” You sneer, happy to return his teasing, “You eat like a toddler.”

“I’m not the one who put three cups of it on the sundae!” Bradley insists, and his lower lip catches your thumb as he speaks. Teenagers in love, you’re hyperaware of touches like that, and your breath hitches in your throat at the contact. He notices it too, staring down wide-eyed at where your thumb hovers over his lips.

“Sorry,” He blurts, and in doing so, his warm breath fans over your hand. You jerk it away, eyes on the ground as you mumble away his concerns.

“It’s fine,” You mutter in a terrible attempt to remain nonchalant, “We’re not four, it’s not like I think you’ve got cooties or something.’

Bradley takes to the teasing, glad it’s not tense anymore, “That’s not what you say when I leave my underwear on the floor.”

“‘Cause that’s gross!” You launch into a rant, “That’s, like, personal! And they’re used too,” You shudder, handing him the sundae intent on scrubbing a hand over your face, “Nasty, bro.”

Despite your casual nickname for the boy beside you, you feel like anything but bros when his hand brushes yours. He takes the ice cream from you, and his hand half-closes around your own, sending a spark shooting up your spine.

Your breath catches in your throat again and this time Bradley hears it, looking at you through his lashes with those wide brown eyes.

Neither of you move away this time, frozen just like the treat in your joint grip.

You feel extra affection for the boy next to you today, the shared grief of losing your fathers every few months bringing you closer together. It’s what compels you to lean in, tilting your swing sideways to brush your lips over his own in a painfully awkward teenage-style kiss. Before you have the time to panic about whether you did the right thing, Bradley reciprocates, pursing his lips slightly to fit them around your top one. You follow his lead and it goes much better, a chaste kiss that’s sweeter than the chocolate staining your lips.

--

You’re glad you’d kissed him that day, you’re glad you had the balls to take the leap that resulted in a nearly twenty year long relationship. It would have been twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-five, fifty if you hadn’t chickened out two weeks ago, but you try not to think about that in the elevator lest you make yourself sick.

You find room 624 easily, the painted arrows on the floor leading you down the hallway that the room stands in. You wonder if you should knock first, you’re not too knowledgeable on hospital etiquette, but you decide that manners can be damned, your boyfriend- ex-boyfriend is in there.

You turn the handle and step inside, and Carole looks up from Bradley’s bedside immediately. You think she’s expecting a doctor, and her desperation for finding one breaks your heart. Her teary face splits into a sad smile, and she rushes to your side to envelop you in a hug. You let her have it because she’s grieving over her son, but you’re surprised she’s not immediately angry with you for breaking up with Bradley.

“Honey,” She gushes into your shoulder, “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re here! Brad’s gonna be okay, they said he’s just gonna need some help breathing until he gets stable. Then they can get him healthy and ready to go again!”

“That’s great,” You hold her close, relishing the last Bradshaw hug you’ll probably ever get, “Where’s Nick and dad?”

“Oh, they went to get food,” Carole releases you, swatting her hand in the air in an affectionately teasing manner, “You know those boys, always hungry for something.”

You laugh awkwardly, watching as she settles down by Bradley’s bedside again. She looks back up at you where you’re swaying on your feet, gesturing to the chair beside her, “Well come on, girl! Get in here!” She seems much more lively now that she has company, and you hate to think of her grieving her injured son alone.

“Oh- I, uh,” You stammer, darting for the seat beside her, “I wasn’t sure if-”

“Don’t worry,” She seems to misplace your concern, “He’s okay, sweetie-pie, you won’t hurt him just by breathin’ on him.”

“Right,” You smile, though its disingenuous with tension, “Um, so it was a mid-exercise crash?”

“Mhm,” Her face dims slightly, “Apparently there was some freak accident with one of the engines, 'set off the whole thing. And that’s two crashes in one week! First it was that Javy boy, I tell you, I think they should vet those engineers better. I mean, aren’t they supposed to catch that stuff beforehand?”

“Yeah,” You feel partially numb, but you’re not sure whether it’s emotional or physical. You’ve been trying to avoid looking at Bradley so far, using his bubbly, bouncing mom as a distraction, but now that the blonde has settled beside you your eyes drift. 

He could be perceived as sleeping, if the color wasn’t drained from his face. His skin is still tan but it’s duller now, golden brown fading to a sickly, colder shade of it, like there’s no life beneath it. His eyes are shut and there’s a breathing tube up his nose; you wonder how pissed he’ll be when he wakes up to find out they’ve had to trim his mustache around the thing.

“Must be a Bradshaw family tradition,” Carole breaks your concentration, laughing weakly, her voice lined with a hint of tears, “Crashing, scarin’ their girls half to death.”

You remember the day of Goose’s crash like it was yesterday. You’d only been three at the time, freshly so. But grief like that, the panic you’d observed, doesn’t go away. It can’t be forgotten, it can’t drift out of your brain like so many memories do with age. You and Bradley had sat together in the hospital with Carole and your dad, and Nick still had the crummy plane drawings you’d done for him while waiting for him to wake up.

Carole’s usage of the phrase ‘their girls’ unnerves you. She’s been exceptionally nice to you so far, especially considering that she’s fiercely protective of Bradley, and should have kicked you halfway to Mars for ditching him like you’d done. But she’s leaning towards you in her chair, and you come to the dreadful realization that she doesn’t know you’ve broken up with Bradley.

“Now, I know you wanted to keep things hush-hush,” She gushes, happy to look at your animated face instead of Bradley’s still one for a moment. She reaches over to brace her hands on your knees, leaning eagerly into your space, “But I have to know, babycakes, how did it go?”

“Hm?” You look dazedly at her, still partially staring at Bradley.

“The proposal!” She squeezes your hands, sniffling weakly with the remnants of tears past, “I know that boy was finally manning up enough to ask you, 'should'a put a ring on you years ago."

Any other time, you'd groan at Carole's opinion on your relationship. She's been urging the two of you to tie the knot for decades, but you'd felt no burning desire to go to the courthouse. You were comfortable in your life, why spend an obscene amount of money to get a piece of paper that tells you you're in love? You knew that for free, in the way that Bradley looked at you, in the way that he memorized all of your fast food orders, in the way that his hand so often found yours beneath the sheets in his sleep. Now her teasing is a sore spot, one that gapes the wound already bleeding in your chest.

"-But when I asked him how it went he said he’d ‘share the details later’. I’m sure you wanted to make some big announcement or something, but I need this right now, honey, tell me what happened.”

She’s staring at you like she always has, like you’re the sweet little girl she helped raise when your mama had chickened out. Cowardice must run in the family.

There’s such pretty hope shining in her eyes that you can’t bear to crush it, ready to spew lies about how glorious Bradley’s proposal had gone, how you’d fallen to your knees to kiss him, how you’d shouted ‘yes!’ from the rooftops. Fortunately, you don’t have to lie to her, because the door opens and your dad and Nick step through.

“Hey,” Your dad cheers, tossing you a plastic-wrapped sandwich, “There you are, honey. I was worried you weren’t gonna show up, ‘thought you’d be mad at him or something.”

“You know she was mad at me when we went down?” Goose gestures to Carole incredulously, and you can’t see behind his sunglasses but you know he’s addressing you, “I wasn’t even flying the damn thing and I got lectured!”

He lets up, goes easy on Carole, you’re sure because he’d had to comfort her earlier. You see a slightly dark, damp patch on the left side of his Hawaiian shirt as he leans in to hug you, probably her tears.

“Good to see ‘ya, kid,” Nick rubs your back, “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” You nod, voice slightly shaky as you smooth your previously-folded hands down your thighs. The movement catches Carole’s attention, and you look away before you can see her reaction to your bare ring finger.

“He’ll be fine,” Goose leans over to slap Bradley’s calf, and Carole looks like she wants to scold him for it, as if he'll die right then and there, “He’s tough just like’is daddy.”

“His daddy should go get me some tea,” Carole huffs, placing her hand over Bradley’s as if it would make up for Nick’s slap, “And take Maverick with you, I don’t want you getting lost.”

“Oh, again-?” Goose grumbles, setting his lunch on one of the plastic chairs around Bradley’s bed, “You could’a told me that before we left, honey.”

“Didn’t want it until now,” Carole insists, “Now shoo, get some for Y/N, too.”

The second the door shuts behind the two men, a stiff silence falls over the room.

Carole’s sweet voice breaks it, but it’s the last thing you want to hear, “Where’s the ring?”

You stare at the sandwich in your lap, like it’ll open face and read like a book, giving you instructions on how to lie your way through this.

“I know he asked you,” She presses on, voice pitched up with tension, “I- I gave him the ring Nick used to propose to me. That was almost a month ago. We swapped it out for a wedding band, and- and I thought Bradley could use the engagement ring for you, too. I know he asked you.”

“Carole,” You can’t bear to look her in the eyes, not the woman who’d fed you macaroni and cheese when your dad was halfway around the world in a fighter jet and tucked you in extra tight during a rainstorm so that the lightning couldn't sneak through the gaps in the blankets to get you.

“No, tell me, where is the ring?” She raises her voice, the way she used to when Bradley would leave his scooter out in the rain to rust, “Just tell me-” Her voice peters out into a weak whimper, “-tell me you didn’t say no.”

“I’m a coward,” You finally mutter as her answer, hateful and wicked, “I got scared. I wish I’d said yes, really, I- I wish I could take it back, but-”

“What did you do?” Her face crumples at your admission and she nearly shrieks, squeezing her hand tighter over Bradley’s, “Y/N, what did you do?”

“I said no!” You sob, chest heaving as you wipe away a tear from your eye heavy-handed, “I was scared, Carole. After Coyote went down,” You blearily recall the last plane crash you’d heard about, a member of Bradley’s own squadron caught in a bird strike. He’d been fine, but waiting for the news took you right back to your youth, and you’d been hit with the striking realization that it could happen to Bradley, too. It could be you in that chair, it could be your love on the line. You’d been so sick with dread that you’d backed away altogether, running away to preserve your emotions.

“I just- I didn’t want it to happen to Bradley,” You confess, “I didn’t want it to happen to me. So when he asked, I was-” You sniffle, hard, “I was so scared. I didn’t want to marry him and then lose him. For some reason this-” You suppress a sob, throat aching and chest heaving, “-dating a pilot is different than marrying one. Dating is- it’s temporary, even if you plan on it lasting forever. It’s less serious, it’s not set in stone. But marriage-” You hiccup, “-marriage is the real deal. It's like- It's like I was dating Bradley, y'know, the teenage boy who took me to homecoming because I was sad no one asked me. But- but then all of a sudden I was marrying an aviator. And that’s- that was scary! That was real. I- we’d been together for twenty years!” You gush, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, “I should have known marriage wouldn’t be any different. It’s not like we ever thought we’d break up,” You sniffle weakly, “Marriage was always sort of silly to me, 'cause we just thought we'd be together forever regardless. But I never realized how real it would feel. So I- I freaked out. When he asked me, I made up some stupid excuse, and I chickened out! But-” Your chest heaves with a sob as you finally lift your eyes to Bradley, “He crashed anyway. He went down even though I said no, and it still hurts.” You cry, face scrunched in despair, “It hurts so bad, Carole, I didn’t think it would still hurt.”

“You fool,” She huffs exasperatedly, but she reaches out to clutch your hand like a lifeline. She’s holding Bradley’s with her other, and you wish for a moment that you could cut out the middleman and hold his hand on your own. You don't feel worthy to touch him anymore. “You don’t stop loving someone by leaving them, you stop loving them by moving on. Of course it still hurts, you didn't move on; you still love him. And- and leaving him didn’t stop him from getting hurt, it just meant he probably went down wishing he got to tell you he loved you this morning, so you'd know.”

The thought breaks you, Bradley ejecting with you on his mind. Evidently he hadn’t fully accepted your breakup, not if he hadn’t even told his mom about it. You wonder if he was planning on trying to get you back, if after work today he would have come over with flowers and a thousand pleas on his lips that you didn’t deserve.

“He loves you,” She continues, tears wetting her own cheeks, “And even if you did say somethin’ stupid, I don’t think there’s anything you could tell that boy that’d make him stop loving you. Apologize when he wakes up, baby, he’ll understand. He'll be hurt, no doubt. But he’s been scared before, too, believe me.”

“I will,” You gush, nodding as she squeezes your hand and Bradley’s in sync, “I will, I promise! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Just make it right,” She pleads, “Can’t have you two splittin’ up now, not after all this time.”

“I wish I hadn’t done it,” You weep, holding your hands to your eyes as if you can plug up the tears, “I- I just panicked! And I’ve been a wreck ever since, I- I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t-”

“Tea’s here!” The door opens, and Nick is suddenly a lot quieter as he sees you bent in half and crying, “Oh, honey.”

“C’mere,” Your dad edges around Goose, squatting by the side of your chair while Carole rubs your back. He’s always been fantastic at comforting you, which you marvel at because he was so active in his career. He wasn’t always around when you were little, but that didn’t stop him from knowing how you liked your back rubbed, your hair done, and your cookies warmed.

“He’s gonna wake up,” Your dad soothes you, wiping a tear away from your face, with the hand that isn’t rubbing your back, “Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” Carole promises, and you know she’s talking about something else entirely, “It’s alright honey, it’ll all work out.”

Nick feels a bit useless now, standing there with two cups of tea in his hands while everyone else comforts you, but he’s quick to notice a frown work its way onto Bradley’s sleeping face.

“Brad- hey! Look,” He gestures with one cup of tea, only spilling a tiny drop, “I think he’s wakin’ up.”

All of a sudden you want to go home. You’re not sure you can do this, you don’t belong here with his grieving family. You belong in your bed, kicking yourself for your cowardice and wishing you’d done better by him.

But there’s no time to flee now, not again. This time you have to brave it, you have to watch as his big brown eyes slowly blink open, a haze of sleep and medication clouding them over.

“Agh,” He groans, hand twitching by his side, “What-?”

“Hey, Bradley.” Nick leans over the bed, tea now set aside on a tiny table, “How y’feelin’ bud? You had quite the plane crash.”

Bradley takes a moment to observe his surroundings, blinking blearily at your dad, then you, then his mom. His eyes drift back over to you and they feel like they’re lasers, boring searing holes through your chest where your heart used to be two weeks ago.

The slow and steady beeping that had been long since tuned out slowly started to increase while Bradley regained consciousness. Your dad looked warily at the machine, watching Bradley’s heart rate rise.

“I’ll get a doctor.” He ducks out, and Carole stands.

“We should go,” She grabs Nick’s hand, looking pointedly at you, “We’ll give you a minute alone with him, honey.”

Nick starts to protest about being led away, something about how ‘-he came outta my balls! I can’t see him when he wakes up in the hospital?’ but Carole’s already corralling him to the nurse’s station in search of your father. If you weren’t so fond of the woman you’d be cursing her for sticking you alone with Bradley, but you know you can’t let yourself succumb to fear again; this time you have to be a big girl.

“Baby,” Bradley rasps, turning your attention back on him. You watch him weakly, eyes apprehensive as he reaches for your hand, “C’mere.” 

You hesitate, and he lets out a weak chuckle, “Come on, now. You’re not gonna kill me by holding my hand.”

“Bradley,” You sniffle, reaching out for his limp fingers on the bed, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” He smiles lazily, eyes drooping, “I’m okay. Comes in the job description, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” You repeat, grief-stricken as you clutch at his hand desperately, “I shouldn’t have left, I- I wish I had stayed.”

“Baby,” His brows furrow and he laughs sympathetically, “They wouldn’t have let you stay, you know that. I work on a naval base, not at a chipotle. You can’t sit with me all day. Plus, there was no way you would’ve known I was gonna go down. I’m glad you weren’t there, sweetheart. I wouldn’t have wanted you to see that.”

All at once, your chest burns hot, blazing with panic. Is he not going to talk to you about it? Is he going to pretend nothing happened? Is he going to refuse to acknowledge what you’d said? You stammer, “What-?”

“Mr. Bradshaw!” The doctor comes in, cheery now that his patient is awake. You turn your head, still dazed and fear-stricken at Bradley’s demeanor. “Let’s see how you’re doing here. Any chest pain?”

“A little,” Bradley shifts in his bed, wincing infinitesimally.

“Probably just some discomfort due to the broken ribs. Headache?”

“Yeah,” Bradley admits with a groan, “That I’ve got.”

The doctor scribbles something down on his chart, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Bradley strains to think, “I… don’t know. I don’t even-" He grimaces, "I don't even remember the crash, ‘just know it happened ‘cause he told me.”

Bradley raises a shaky finger to point at Nick, who’s happy to see his son gain some mobility back, even if he is worried for the boy. The three adults had filed back into the room after the doctor, and you pointedly avoid Carole’s imploring stare.

“Think hard,” The doctor commands, and you squeeze his hand like it’s a play-dough machine, like memories will ooze themselves into his brain in star shapes and heart cut-outs.

“I remember…” Bradley rasps, turning his hand beneath yours to grasp it, “Jake’s birthday party. That was-” He glances over at you, “-last night?”

“That was three weeks ago,” This time your heart rate is the one to rise, echoing dully in your ears like the soundtrack of a horror film, “Is that-” You sniffle, “Is that the last thing you can remember, B?”

His eyebrows raise and he tries taking in the information, “Yeah- uh, shit. Three weeks ago. What does that mean, doctor?”

“It sounds like you’ve developed post-traumatic amnesia.” The doctor scribbles once more on his paperwork, “The good news is, we think you have only a mild concussion. And amnesia induced by mild concussions typically lasts only up to a week or two at most. But there’s a very real chance you could remember everything in just a few minutes.”

Amnesia.

He doesn’t remember.

“What I want you to do now is to rest, and we’ll have a nurse send up something to eat. Please,” The doctor eyes Nick knowingly, “Do not feed him the funyuns you’re holding behind your back.”

“Foiled again,” Goose laughs, tossing the packet of chips onto a chair beside his own lunch, “You got it, doc.”

“Alright, glad you’re awake,” The doctor bids you goodbye, “And- a nurse will be in to run a few simple tests later. For now, just sleep and eat.”

“Will do,” Bradley tries tightening his hand around yours but you worm away from him, and it’s heartbreakingly easy to do with his limited mobility. You stand abruptly, legs shaky and heart pounding in your chest as you stumble away from his bed.

Amnesia. Amnesia. Amnesia.

He doesn't remember.

“Honey?” Bradley calls warily, face scrunching into a tired frown.

His eyes follow you as you back right into your chair, the plastic scraping against the floor with an ungodly screech. Now the attention is all on you, and you give into that dreaded fight or flight response you seem to always fall victim to.

“I need to use the bathroom,” You ramble, rushing for the door, “I’ll be back!”

“Y/N-” Bradley tries calling, but his voice is weak enough where you can pretend you haven’t heard it as you try to refrain from running down the hall. You don’t make it ten steps before Bradley’s door closes with a sharp click, and the voice of one Carole Bradshaw cuts through the silence of the hallway.

“Y/N Mitchell!”

She’s using the same tone she used to use when you’d get in trouble for pulling a girl’s hair at school, or throwing mud at a boy who was mean to Bradley. You react just like you had then, spine stiffening and limbs locking. 

“Don’t you dare walk away from me,” She warns, stomping towards you in her half-raised heels, “Turn around, young lady.”

You follow her orders even if the nickname is outdated. She’s got her pretty eyes narrowed, and as much as it pains you to be on the receiving end of one of her seldom-used withering stares, it’s better than being in there and watching Bradley’s eyes shift when he suddenly remembers you’d been the biggest douche on planet Earth.

“Did you apologize?” She inquires, and you nod obediently.

“But- but Carole, he doesn’t remember-!” 

“He will,” She promises, “And when he does, you’d better apologize again. He needs you right now, y’know? He thinks it’s three weeks ago, before you ran off and left'im. As far as he knows, you’re still his adoring girlfriend who he’s probably yearning to see right about now. So go in there,” She reaches for your hand, “Kiss that boy on the mouth,” She demands, “And stop running away!”

“What? I can’t-” You gush, trying to pull away. But she’s stronger than Bradley is at the moment, and her hand tightens around yours, “I can’t lie to him! Not about this, I- how long am I supposed to pretend?”

“As long as you can,” She insists, already pulling you back towards his room, a woman on a mission, “You march right on in there, and tell him how worried you were, and let his memories come back to him on his own time. He’s traumatized right now, he just doesn’t know it yet, and he needs you there. If you break the news to him now, it’ll only stress him out more. Go play nice, and when he comes around in a few minutes, you can have a real talk.”

“I don’t want to lie to him,” You lament, and she stops pulling you down the hall to narrow her eyes at you.

“Babydoll?” She asks sweetly, and fooled by her kindness, you hum in question, “I don’t give a shit.”

She’s never foul-mouthed, so it catches your attention. She holds your incredulous gaze, “You want him back?”

“Yes.”

“You wish you’d never left?”

“Yes.”

“Well as far as he knows, you haven’t.” She huffs, the fabric of her skirt flowing near her calves, “So get in there and be there for your boyfriend of twenty years, and when he suddenly remembers you aren’t his girlfriend anymore, Grovel. Sound like a plan?” She raises an eyebrow, and you tamp down the nerves rising in your chest. You nod cautiously, resolutely, and she loosens her grip on your hand. She still holds it to lead you back to the room, but she stops outside the door to speak one last time.

“I know you love him,” Her voice is softer now, genuinely sweet and caring, “And I also know you like to run when things get scary. And that’s understandable, but it’s not okay, not right now. You can’t stop loving someone just ‘cause you don’t wanna lose ‘em. It’ll hurt worse if you walk away.”

“I know,” You breathe shakily, squeezing her hand, “Thanks, Carole.”

“Anytime, sweetpea,” She smiles, tears still gathered in her eyes, “Now get in there and kiss my son.”

“There they are,” Your dad stands as you reenter the room, “You ladies have a nice bathroom break?”

“‘Had the time of our lives,” Carole nods, letting you take the seat closest to Bradley’s head. Your feet feel burdened with lead weights as you step towards his bedside, and he watches you with worried eyes. You’re sure he knows you weren’t really going to the bathroom, not with the way you’d fled, but you’re glad he’s choosing to pretend for your sake. He seems worried, though, and you curse yourself for making this about you.

“Y/N,” He reaches out for you as soon as you’re in reach, his voice still hoarse. His hand squeezes yours instantly, and you feel for the panic he's probably experiencing. He deserves a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold, and it should be someone better than you.

“Bradley,” You murmur back, trying to stop your lips from trembling, “I- can I kiss you?”

Carole’s voice rings in your ears, and you don’t have to turn around to know she’s smiling at the two of you. Bradley pauses, then his worried eyes soften and he nods weakly against the pillow.

“Oh,” Nick teases as you brace your hand on Bradley’s bed, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to his lips, “Lovebirds!”

The kiss is nothing but awkward. It’s hesitant on your end, because you can’t believe you get to do it again. You’d really believed the goodbye kiss you’d shared with Bradley before he picked up dinner for the two of you would be your last one, so fitting your lips over his in the hospital seems like something otherworldly. You’re careful, too, because you don’t want to hurt him, not that you think you could ever smooch him to death. He doesn’t reciprocate much, he can’t, but the familiar prickle of his mustache against your lip is a welcome feeling that makes your heart feel light again, if only for a few seconds.

When you pull away, it’s gone. Because you have to look him in the eyes, the same ones you’d forced tears out of two weeks ago, and pretend like none of it happened at all.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” You gush, voice cracking, and it feels right starting off with the truth. You can get to the lies later, the ugly little abominations you’re cooking up so that he preserves as much mental energy as possible while on bedrest. You know Carole’s right, you know he needs to heal as much as he can before you make it worse with the news, but lying feels so wrong. He’ll find out sooner or later, and what if he really was done with you? What if he hadn’t told his mom so that no family drama erupted, what if it wasn’t because he was going to try to get you back? What if he hated you, and what if he hates you even more when he knows you’re lying through your teeth to him?

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He promises, his fingers curling slowly and carefully around your own, "Are you? You ran off, I was worried."

"I'm fine," You insist, waving away his concern with a shake of your head.

He doesn't seem satisfied with your answer; he can read you like a book. But he accepts your answer, and you admire him for not wanting to pry in front of everyone. He changes the subject, glancing briefly around the hospital room, “Baby my- my phone, can I have my phone?”

“It’s here,” Your dad hands it to him, and Carole watches your eyes widen infinitesimally. What if Bradley sees his text conversations? What if he sees that you haven’t talked in half a month? What if he finds messages from someone on a dating app he’d used, a rebound-in-the-making?

What if he’s changed his background? What if he wants an answer as to why it’s probably some picturesque sunset, a jet plane cutting through the clouds above. Or maybe it’s of Lewis, he’d recently had photos restored of the dog.

What if he notices your contact name is changed to something like ‘Do not answer’? What if he realizes he’s blocked you? What if all of your pictures together are deleted off of his phone, and he wonders why?

There’s a thousand things that could go wrong.

“Coyote called,” Bradley rasps, upon first sight of his screen. Then, “Hangman. Twice. Phoenix, Bob, Fanboy, Payback, I- I should send out a message.”

“I will!” You lunge for your own phone, digging in your back pocket with suspicious urgency, “Uh, I’ll let everyone know, you just- just rest.”

“Okay,” Bradley hesitates for only a second, letting his grip go loose around his phone so that it falls back to the bed.

He seems content to let you do it, if only a little deterred by your insistence. But you’ll play the part of the fussy girlfriend, not wanting her injured love to work harder than he has to.

Nick and Pete take the time that you’re creating a group thread to question Bradley more on his memories, and every answer he gives sets your heart on edge. Your fingers feel numb as you type out ‘Rooster’s stable now, he has a mild concussion and a few broken ribs, but the doctors say he’ll recover fully. His memories are a little hazy from the past few weeks but apparently those will be back soon. I’ll send you any updates we get.’

Before anyone even has a chance to reply, you set the thread on silent. You can’t bear even getting a notification that the message can’t be sent, because you’re sure Bradley’s team aren’t too fond of you right now, and you wouldn’t be surprised if they’d blocked you in solidarity for their friend. But Bradley hadn’t even told his mom, would he have told his team? Would he even need to? Or would they notice the circles beneath his eyes worsening, the stubble adorning his cheeks from a lack of motivation to do anything productive? Or, maybe even worse, would they have seen him with another girl hanging off of his arm at a bar? Would they have caught him out to lunch with a woman and figured it out themselves?

“Hey,” Bradley rasps, effectively breaking your zoned-out worry spiral. Your eyes don’t lose their intensity but they focus on his pale face, and he offers you a weak smile, “Anyone respond?”

“Always the attention seeker,” Nick laughs, creating a distraction so perfect that you don’t bother checking the text to answer Bradley. “Should we tell ‘em to bring flowers too, Brad?”

“Shut up,” Bradley’s voice is far too quiet to be menacing, but it’s the type of teasing he always engages in with his old man, “When you were in the hospital you said I had to draw you one picture a day or you’d think I didn’t love you.”

“And I only got fifteen out of eighteen,” If Goose is capable of a withering stare, it’s what’s directed at Bradley now, “I can’t believe I bought a Bronco for a kid who doesn’t love me.”

“Alright, you two,” Carole swats at her husband’s arm, “Cut it out, don’t overwhelm him.”

“His heart’s beatin’ real fast,” Nick snickers, “But that’s probably ‘cause Miss Mitchell is doting all over him.”

The attention’s back on you, and it means Bradley’s waiting to hear your response. You dry swallow after sending Nick a good-natured eye-roll, trying to act like your heart isn’t beating ten times faster than Bradley’s.

Miraculously, nothing awful awaits you in the group chat. There’s no error messages, no scolding, no pledges of hatred for you, and it makes you think that you really might be able to get away with this for a while. Carole won’t tell, and that doctor said Bradley might not retain his memories for weeks. It’s like everyone has hit undo on what might be your biggest mistake in life, and you don’t know how to take the opportunity.

“Bob says he hopes you recover soon,” You push the panicked fog out of your head, reading in a low voice, “Hangman says he’s gonna give you flying lessons when you get back so that you,” You snort softly, “Get the hang of it, and to that, he is receiving a barrage of middle finger emojis.”

Rooster lets out a laugh, one that’s genuine and thick from his chest. It’s unlike his voice has been so far, it’s not fractured or achy, and the sound warms your heart. Some of the sickly despair that’s been coating your heart like globs of poison dries up, and you almost feel normal again when you slide your hand into his. He holds your back, and it’s like nothing’s ever happened.

You have your Bradley back; the only question is for how long.

Lunch is a sorry state of affairs for Bradley. His tray consists of chicken and gravy that runs into his mashed potatoes, and the jello they give him has a layer of cherry red liquid pooling overtop. You and Carole take turns spoon-feeding the man, giving each other a chance to mow through your sandwiches between bites.

Your dad watches out for the doctors while you sneak Bradley some of your sandwich. It’s cafeteria turkey, and honestly you’d rather go for the chicken on his plate, but he hums gratefully at the spread of mayonnaise and mustard on the bread.

“Thanks, babydoll.” He croons, a smear of mashed potatoes in his mustache that you wipe away with watery eyes at the nickname. He puckers his lips to kiss at your thumb and it’s like you’re at home on his birthday, feeding him in bed and stealing kisses between bites.

Bradley’s eyes start to droop halfway through his watery jello, and your dad stands, brushing sandwich crumbs off of his jeans.

“Alright, buddy,” He squeezes Bradley’s foot reassuringly, “I’ll head out. Probably best to let you sleep. Get some rest, and make her give us updates,” He narrows his eyes at you, accusatory, “I know you’ll be too wrapped up in him to remember we exist, but take some time away from his lips to tell me if he’s still breathing out of ‘em, m’kay?”

“Don’t be makin’ out too much, “Nick goads, standing when Carole grabs his hand and does herself, “His heart rate’ll skyrocket and the nurse is gonna think he’s havin’ a heart attack!”

‘Yes, yes, they love each other very much,” Carole hums, leaning down to kiss Bradley’s forehead. He leans into it but his hand stays in yours, and you gladly accept the same gesture from the woman on your cheek, “Let’s leave him be, okay? Brad, I’m coming back tomorrow morning,” She promises, “Your dad and Pete have some work to do in the backyard, but they’ll join us after lunch.”

The men don’t seem to have known about this yard work until now, and they share equally exasperated groans. 

“And I’ll be here,” You throw in, meeting Carole’s appreciative gaze, “I’ll stay until they throw me out.”

“You could always handcuff yourself to the bed,” Your dad hums, and you pointedly ignore Goose’s comment about the pair of handcuffs you ‘probably keep in your nightstand.’ It gets him a sharp smack upside the head from your dad, and you’re sure Nick will choose a better audience next time.

“We love you,” Carole promises, squeezing Bradley’s arm as he bids her goodbye, “We’ll see you tomorrow, baby!”

“Love you,” Bradley hums, voice less gruff than before now that he’s used it again, “See you tomorrow.”

The entire time he’s been awake, he hasn’t let go of your hand. He turns to you with those sleepy eyes of his, big and brown and begging for a kiss. You lean in before you can stop yourself, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

His heart rate picks up.

You laugh against his mouth at the increased beeping, and he’s barely sheepish as he nudges his nose against your own. You feel like you’re loving on borrowed time, like any second now he’ll be slammed with the memory of you breaking his heart, stomping all over it like it hadn’t been yours for the past 20 years - maybe all of your life.

“I love you,” He murmurs, squeezing your hand, “Y/N, I- I love you so much. I don’t remember anything,” He’s slurring his words slightly with fatigue, and you kiss the corner of his mouth as he speaks, “But I know you could have lost me forever, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy to handle.”

He has no idea how true his words are. Of course, you’d nearly lost his life to the crash. But two weeks earlier, you’d lost his touch, his voice, his gaze, his love, and you’re grateful the tears that line your eyes look natural.

“Mhm,” You nod, sniffling, “It was- it was hard, Brad.” You admit, thinking back to the night you’d left. You’d checked into a shitty motel for the night, and you’d cried yourself sick in the shower. Even after your stomach was emptied you couldn’t bring yourself to eat for two days afterwards, and you’d only given into the mini fridge after nearly passing out. Your days were long and spent regretting your decision, wondering if you’d ever be happy without him by your side, and worrying that he might be able to.

“I just keep wanting to do it over,” You gush, feeling his hand tighten around your own as you sob, “I- I wanted to take it back, to-” You swallow a sob, remembering your lines, “-to stop you from going to work. If I’d just made you stay…” Your face crumples with a gush of tears you aren’t able to hold back, and you give up on speaking for now.

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Bradley hums, kissing the space between your nose and your cheek. It’s all he can reach from the way you’re sobbing into his pillow, and you’re thankful for the comfort you might not be able to get soon.

“You couldn’t have changed anything,” He promises, and you nestle your head into his own to absorb his soothing voice, “My plane was still the one with the defect, baby. I would have gone down tomorrow if not today. ‘S only a matter of time.”

A wave of sickness washes over you at his choice of words, and you nod, trying to regain a grip. You lift yourself up from the pillow, neck aching as you crane it to kiss his chin. He smiles at you, his eyes so genuine and sweet that it makes you want to lose your lunch; it’s an expression you don’t deserve anymore, even if you long for it. It’s only a matter of time before he remembers everything, and you don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t want you anymore.

“You’re tired,” You hum, and he nods against the pillow, “Sleep, baby. You need rest.” You sniffle, wiping away a tear from your eye more forcefully than you need to. You try to lean back in your chair but Bradley stiffens, and feel him tighten his grip on your hand.

“Please don’t leave me,” He begs, and more of that nausea comes rolling in. They’re the exact words he’d whimpered just next to your ear two weeks ago, keeping the door closed with one hand while the other wound around your waist. Then, you’d wormed your way out of his grip, ripping the door open despite his efforts to stop you and running off to your car. Now though, you meet his eyes, scared and desperate and lost, and you nod, scooting forwards to lay your head on his chest.

“I’ll stay,” You promise, and he raises a hand to brace it against your cheek. You turn your head to kiss his palm, and he strokes a thumb over your face, “I’ll stay, Bradley, I promise.”

The nap that you take on Bradley’s chest is the best sleep you’ve had since you left. Being in his embrace once more practically erases your undereye circles, and it takes you a few seconds after you wake up to remember that anything is out of the ordinary in the first place. Then it all comes flooding back, and you cycle through each stage of grief respectively while still slumped onto the bed. Then you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder, and you realize that Bradley’s nurse has shaken you awake.

“Hi,” The man smiles down at you, “Sorry to interrupt. I’m sure you didn’t want to wake up.”

“Oh,” You laugh hesitantly, slipping out from beneath Bradley’s hand and wiping away a slight glob of drool that had accumulated around the corner of your mouth, “No, no, it’s okay. What time is it?”

“Dinnertime,” Another nurse chimes from by the door, carrying another tray of meat and potatoes for Bradley, “Around six-thirty, Miss Mitchell.”

“You’re welcome to eat here with him,” The first nurse informs you, “But you’ll have to get something from the cafeteria, or order in. And visiting hours end at eight,” He levels you with a sympathetic smile, “But if you’ve got one bite left I won’t kick you out.”

“Thank you,” You chuckle wearily, your voice barely thickened with tears, “I appreciate that. Bradley,” You hum, squeezing his hand and stroking your free one through his hair, “Wake up, baby. They brought you some dinner.”

He comes to groggy, and you don’t blame him. He blinks a few times, then recognition washes over his face as he remembers why he’s there, and hopefully nothing else.

The nurses get busy with moving his bed, pressing buttons on the little remote strapped to the side until he’s inclined enough to eat his meal. The tray hooks into the sides of the bed so that he doesn’t have to hold anything, but you take his fork for him anyways, leaving his hands completely free.

“Thank you,” You nod gratefully at the nurses when they retreat for the door, a smear of mashed potatoes already gathered on the utensil in your hand. Bradley’s happy to let you feed him, humming at the taste of the beef they’ve given him. 

“Better than the chicken,” He hums, his voice gaining back a bit of its grating quality from earlier. He’s usually rough-voiced after a nap, so you don’t worry too much about it. Typically you indulge in his raspy morning voice, but now it seems insensitive. 

“Good,” You croon, scooping mashed potatoes and gravy onto a bite of the beef, “And it doesn’t bother your stomach?”

“What’s there to upset it, salt?” He grumbles around a mouthful, “Barely tastes like anything.”

“Sorry, Brad,” You hum, stroking a stray strand of caramel colored hair back into place, “I’m not supposed to feed you anything else, though.”

“I know,” He relents, lips puckering to kiss your wrist instead of wrapping around the spoon in your hand, “Not your fault, baby. But,” He rears back to takes the bite, chewing thoughtfully while you wait for his next sentence, “Can you bring me cookies tomorrow?”

You laugh, trying to keep it quiet in the slowly darkening hospital room. There’s no one around, and the door is closed, but his voice isn’t loud and you don’t want to overpower him. 

“I just said I wasn’t allowed to feed you anything else,” You roll your eyes affectionately, a teasing gesture you thought you’d never be able to do with the man anymore, “What makes you think I’d bring you cookies?”

“Um, ‘cause you love me?” Bradley drawls, voice finally rising to a healthy volume. Maybe it’s the food in his stomach, or maybe it’s a switch that was suddenly flipped in his chest, but he sounds like himself again.

His words sober your fantasy intoxication, and you smile sadly at him where he lays in his bed. You set the fork down to lay your hand over his cheek, your palm soaking in the warmth of his skin that’s newly returned.

“I do love you,” You promise, leaning in to kiss him. You have to lean over his plate to do so, and you’ll worry later about any potential gravy stains on your shirt. You go slow and gentle, worried that he’ll push you away for reasons he doesn’t remember yet. But he doesn’t. In fact, when you pull away to give him some air, he catches your wrist in a surprising display of agility for his weakened muscles, and you freeze in place.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, mustache shifting slightly with his apology, “I can’t stop thinking about you getting that call. I never-” His voice cracks, “I never wanted you to go through that.”

“Me neither,” You feel tears pricking at your eyes again, the same that are shining in Bradley’s, “But you don’t have to be sorry. None of this was your fault, and what matters is that you’re okay now. I have you back, Bradley, I- I didn’t lose you.”

“You’ll never lose me,” He vows, and your lips sting with the force of your bite to repress a sob. 

He lifts his head from his pillow, the first time he’s done it since waking up. He kisses your temple as you try not to cry, lips dotting staccato kisses against your skin as you tremble slightly.

“I promise, baby,” He hums softly into your skin as his hand comes up to hug you, “You won’t lose me.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” You cry, your fist gripping his hospital gown desperately. You want to believe him but it’s not even really Bradley talking, it’s three-weeks-ago Bradley that doesn’t remember you walking out of his life for self-preservation. It’s Bradley that doesn’t know the worst of you yet, but who could remember at any moment and cast you away.

“You won’t, I promise.” He coos, stroking up and down your back. You feel silly, accepting comfort from a hospital patient who went down in a fighter jet less than 24 hours ago, but you feel even sillier that it's the same man you’d torn to shreds days prior. But he’s comforting you, he’s rubbing your back, he’s kissing your face, and he’s promising you that you’ll never lose him, so you let him, because you love hearing him lie, even if he doesn't know he's doing it. 

“You promise?” You look up at him with watery eyes that blur out his face, but you see him nod. It’s unfair to ask, not when he doesn’t have the knowledge to truly promise. He cranes his neck forwards to bump noses with you, letting you cry against his skin.

“I do, honey.” He nods, holding you close like you’d never left at all,  “I promise.”

Going from crying into each other’s embraces back to eating bland mashed potatoes is hard, but you ease Bradley into it with a bite of granola bar you’d found in your purse. He’s grateful for something with flavor, and you’re glad to finally be rid of the half-eaten snack. 

“Oatmeal raisin cookies, please,” Bradley begs as he chews the snack, going as far as to bat his pretty lashes at you, brown eyes shiny with hope. 

You scoff, wiping a tear away from your face with a fond, albeit trembling smile, “Okay, Brad. Oatmeal raisin.”

“You’re the best,’ He hums, grinning with a mouthful of oats and chocolate. You check your phone to find that you’ve only got twenty minutes left until visiting hours are over, and your eyes dim as you glance back up at him.

“I have to go soon,” You lament, “Visiting hours are over in twenty.”

His face fades from its pretty smile, some of the newfound color draining from his skin once more. You’re sure he’ll have a nightmare tonight, something about jet crashes and dying alone, and you hate leaving him here so vulnerable.

“I’m sorry, baby,” You sniffle, squeezing his hand, “They open back up at 8 tomorrow, so as soon as I make those cookies I’ll be back, I promise.”

“I know,” He nods, raising your intertwined hands to kiss at your wrist, “It’s okay. Not your fault.”

“I’d stay overnight if I could.”

“I’d sneak you into my bed,” Bradley grins sadly, “S’alright, baby, just get a good night’s sleep. You deserve it after today.”

“You too,” You squeeze his hand, smiling sweetly at him, “And if you have a nightmare, text me, and I’ll crawl through the window, ‘promise.”

He laughs again, and now that he’s got most of his strength back it’s a normal sound. It’s not weak, it’s not subdued, it’s perfect. It’s Bradley.

“I’d like to see you try,” He teases, and you wipe a smear of chocolate off of his lower lip, remembering the first time you’d ever done that with a fond smile.

“I’m on the sixth floor.” He reminds you, and you shrug, sucking the chocolate off of your finger.

“Meh,” You crumble up the granola bar wrapper in your fist, “I could scale that easy.”

“Oh, really? Yeah, I bet you could,” Bradley chuckles, “You’re Spider-Man, suddenly? Sticking to walls? I must have forgotten your transformation.”

“Yeah, you did,” You grin with a laugh, “Actually, while I rushed over here to see you, a truck full of radioactive spiders crashed, and I got bitten by one. You’ve missed a lot, Brad.”

“Right,” Bradley’s brows raise, eyes alight with amusement, “Those radioactive spider trucks are a real nuisance, I hear.”

Giggling sweetly with him feels normal. The kind of normal you crave, the kind that isn’t settled for, but yearned for. And you’re clinging to it, pushing the truth out of your mind and playing the part perfectly.

A knock on the door interrupts your gigglefest and you turn in time to see the nurse from before entering, a bittersweet smile on his face. 

“I’m supposed to kick you out,” He jokes, holding Bradley’s chart, “And you’re free to sleep whenever, Mr. Bradshaw, we don’t need to conduct any more tests tonight. You’re just here to be monitored."

“Alright,” Bradley nods and you stand, still clasping his hand in yours. The doctor busies himself with straightening up the chairs around the bed, and you take the privacy he so kindly grants you.

“Sleep good,” You recite your pre-bedtime deployment sendoff to Bradley, the phrase having gathered dust in the back of your head since his last overseas assignment, “Sweet dreams, and call me when you can.”

“I will,” Bradley leans up to kiss you, going for your lips, then your cheek, then your chin, “You too, baby. Get some rest. I’m okay, I promise.”

“Yeah,” You beam down at him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, “You’re okay, Brad.”

"See you tomorrow!" He calls as you leave, and you turn to nod.

"See you tomorrow, baby." You promise once more, hand on the door handle, "Goodnight."

“Sleep well, Mr. Bradshaw,” The nurse bids Bradley goodbye with a smile and a nod as you trail out behind him, and at the click of the door behind the two of you, it’s like you’re the recovering amnesia patient. Now that Bradley’s not there anymore, not smiling at you, not telling you he loves you, it’s like you can’t be sure of anything, like you’re still that imposter you’d been when you’d first stepped in. You come to the sickening realization, only after the fact, that you'd loved lying to Bradley, and it makes you feel worse. Your reverie is shattered, and the nurse beside you notices your shaky breathing as you trail down the hallway.

“Miss, are you okay?” His brows furrow in concern, and you nod.

“Yeah, just-” You smooth your hands down your pants, your palms sweaty, “It’s a lot. Being in there, seeing him like- like that. I guess I wasn’t prepared.”

“No one is,” The nurse smiles sympathetically at you, leading you to an elevator, “But he’s right, Miss Mitchell. He’ll be alright. And hopefully, his memories will restore themselves overnight. There’s a good chance he’ll wake up remembering it all.”

You’re sure that was meant to soothe you, but it’s only sent more nausea rolling through your body. You nod, forcing a smile as the doors shut between you, “Thank you, Nurse.”

Once the doors shut, you want to burst into tears. You don’t want the reception desk to see that, though, so you rush through the motions of leaving, practically running to your car. Once you’re safely inside the floodgates open, and you’re surprised you don’t trigger the horn from how hard you’re sobbing against the steering wheel.

You try to channel Bradley’s voice, ‘I promise baby, you won't lose me.’ but it makes things worse, it piles guilt on top of your sickness and makes you want to run away again. Because he’d promised you that he’d never leave you, not that he’d ever let you come back if you’d left him. And that’s what you’re worried about now.

Running away hadn’t stopped anything bad from happening, it just made you feel worse when bad things did happen. Thankful for your second chance, you swear to yourself in the stuffy silence of your car that you’ll do anything to fix this, and that you’re not going to fuck this up again because you’re scared. Love is scary, giving yourself completely to another person is scary, but Bradley’s always been good at soothing your fears, and there’s no one you’d rather give yourself to.

You steel yourself as you prepare to drive back to your motel, but second-guess it when you remember that Bradley has his phone with him. You have each other shared on Find My Friends, and he doesn’t normally check it unless he’s worried about your safety, but you’re paranoid that he’ll find your pin at a crappy motel and know something is wrong. So you punch in Bradley’s address instead, the one you used to share with him, still labeled as ‘home’, and set off.

The drive looks familiar in no time, and it reminds you of how much you’d missed it. The big oak tree on your neighbor’s lawn, the flag perpetually at half-mast because the man across the street fell while adjusting it and never fixed it, the tricycle on the sidewalk beside your front door that the toddler next door always seemed to leave on your walkway. You check the mail and feel something stabbing at your chest when your name is on one of the letters, and your house key is cold with disuse as you slide it into the slot.

You hesitate when the doorknob turns beneath your fingers. Walking into Bradley’s space will tell you exactly how he feels about what happened between you. There’s either going to be empty bottles strewn everywhere with pictures laying around covered in tear stains, or there’s going to be a hot pink bra in his bed, and a new woman’s makeup kit in his bathroom. Hell, maybe she’ll even still be there, maybe you’re about to walk in on your replacement.

But the promise you’d made to yourself in the car wasn’t for show, and you turn the knob after taking a deep breath, stepping into the darkened home.

You call out an uncertain ‘hello?’ into the place, waiting with bated breath for a woman’s voice to respond. But it never does, and you flick the light on beside the door.

You’d been right with one of your guesses.

It’s messy. Not exactly the outwardly disastrous type of messy you’d imagined earlier, but knowing all of the little things about Bradley means that you know he’s let himself go over the past two weeks. His running shoes are gathering dust by the door, which seems to suggest that he’s been lazing in bed just like you have. The living room is pristine, the pillows all arranged the way you set it up that Bradley doesn’t care to replicate, and you wonder if he’s sat on the couch at all the entire time since you’ve been gone. There’s no grocery list on the fridge and upon further inspection, the appliance is close to empty, one lonely beer left alongside ketchup, mustard, and a rotting head of lettuce. Unless he was eating the worst burgers known to man, you don’t think he’s been eating anything from the kitchen. Your heart aches for Bradley; you hope he’s been ordering food in.

Walking through the space is like revisiting a crime scene as the killer. Everything here is because of you, the pictures stripped from the walls are gone because of you, the lonely toothbrush in the dual holder is because of you, the neatly made side of the bed with its messy counterpart is because of you. 

You realize that it’s your side that’s slept on, Bradley’s still tucked neatly in place, unused. You spot a red covering over your pillow, reaching for it and finding it to be an old t-shirt of yours that Bradley had raided your dresser drawers for. It’s one he’d bought you at a tourist trap on your vacation a few years ago, and it was your favorite to lounge in. You notice a dark spot on the fabric and only then realize that you’re crying, that it’s a tear that had fallen from your eye. Then it’s like everything hits you all at once, and you sink onto the mattress clutching the pillow. It smells like Bradley, and you know he’s been clinging to it every night, a thought that solidifies your sneaking suspicion that you might be the worst person on the planet.

You curl up and cry there, you don’t know for how long. All you can do is sob, soak your pillow with tears that you thought you were out of, clutch the bedsheets like they’ll reveal Bradley, hidden underneath and eager for a cuddle. This bed feels as empty as the motel’s had, maybe even emptier, because you’ve never slept in it away from Bradley. When he’s on deployment you always have a sweatshirt of his and a picture of him tucked under the pillow, but you know it won’t be there now. Now you’re alone, really alone. 

Your eyes droop and you know you need sleep, especially if you’re going to wake up early to make Bradley cookies in time for visiting hours to start. But you can’t bring yourself to sleep without the picture of him under his pillow, so you stumble out of bed to fetch it from your box of memories.

Your fingers close around the slightly wrinkled photo, a shot of you in a gown and Bradley in a suit. It’s one you’d taken yourself at your graduation, high school turned college sweethearts. He had wanted admission into the Naval Academy, but in order to spend more time with you, you’d enrolled together at a university. It’s your favorite photo to have with you, and you reach out to Bradley’s pillow to slide it underneath. Upon lifting the pillow, you find a stack of pictures already there. Each one of you, most with Bradley pictured in them too. They only make you cry harder, and you recognize some as the inserts of the picture frames that had been taken down from the hallway.

It looks like Bradley hoarded photos of you, and some are stiff and stained with tears. The sight is something out of a movie, a dramatic indication of the inner turmoil of its main character. You see a shot of your silhouettes together, faces darkened by the sun streaming in behind you. You’re kissing on the beach, and without paying much mind to the structural integrity of the photo, you clutch it to your chest.

You’re a wreck. You just want your Bradley back, but your Bradley isn’t yours anymore. You want three-weeks-ago Bradley back, the one who you didn’t run away from. But he’ll probably have his memories back by tomorrow, and there’s no telling if he’d even want you to visit again. Looking at the sorry state of his apartment, you know he misses you, but whether he wants you back is another question altogether. All you can do is wait and worry, and worry you do. As you sob and heave in the bed, your brain shuts down, and eventually you drift into a dreamless, unpleasant sleep, nose still buried in your shirt that smells like Bradley.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

[vizreef]

Love Hultén // Subsequent 37, Fusion Box, Plasma distortion & BurnSlap combo (Sweden, 2023)

[s4toryuu]

12:37 am — gojo satoru; sashisu

gojo satoru refuses to drink his medicine…

reblog to help gojo get better

out of everything you could call satoru, you think dramatic takes the top spot. so when you wake up in the middle of the night, you listen out for what could possibly have waken you up.

“koff! koff! UGH!” you recognized gojo’s voice from the dorm building behind yours.

oh my fucking god. you sighed. that morning, that idiot had to get sent to his dorm because he kept coughing every time yaga spoke. he sneezed and sniffled, so you assumed that he was actually ill and didn’t just decide to up his antics for no reason. besides, he was a little quieter than usual today.

you got up to put on a jacket and practically stomped to gojo’s dorm, where you were met with his open door and geto standing against the door frame.

“satoru, I told you the medicine wouldn’t be as effective later on.” geto sighed. you noticed his socks. they were pastel with characters on them. you ignored it to yell at who probably gave it to him.

“gojo! if you’re gonna cough just cough! you don’t have to yell after!” you said before sliding one of gojo’s slippers. there that idiot was, laying down faced up with arms stiff on his side and his comforter raised up to his chin. “are you playing dead?”

gojo groaned. “guys.” he sniffled. “I think this is it for me. suguru, I always loved you. y/n, I did steal your marshmallows last movie night. shoko—where’s shoko?” he looked up, illness suddenly voided for a second until shoko appears behind you. her dorm is a couple doors from yours after all. the snow-haired drama queen’s head fell back on his pillow and his sickness returned.

“eh, what?” she muttered to him before stepping inside. gojo started coughing again.

“are you contagious?” you asked before shifting away from gojo’s bed. geto took the medicine he got from gojo’s counter and placed it on the latter’s nightstand.

shoko walked over and sat on his bed. she placed her hand on gojo’s forehead before snickering. “you’re burning up. you really are gonna die.” she laughed.

you all chuckled, except gojo who whined again. “can’t you use reverse cursed technique on me shoookooo…”

“nope. I’ve only done it on physical injuries. why won’t you just drink the medicine?” she took the plastic little spoon and wiggled it to gojo’s face for emphasis.

gojo screwed his eyes shut and shook his head like a child. “don’t wanna.” if it wasn’t 12:37am on a school night you might’ve found it adorable.

“you might really die, satoru.” geto shot from the foot of gojo’s bed. he definitely woke up from his coughing and subsequent yelling, seeing as geto’s room is right next to gojo’s.

the next morning after your first class, the three of you gathered in the cafeteria and geto stirred up a plan.

“he’s probably not drinking it because he thinks it’s bitter.” you conclude.

suguru sipped on his tea. “ah, I know. that’s why I got the honey flavor version.”

“how are we gonna force him to drink it? it’s not like we can force feed it to him.” shoko shook her lollipop. you were just glad it wasn’t a cigarette.

“he’ll just turn on his infinity. I think we have to ambush him.” you laughed at the image.

“geto, summon a cursed spirit to hold him down.” shoko joked.

the cold breeze practically slapped you while walking to the dorms. geto was sure your victim was still asleep. he had the spare key when you thought to take off your shoes for maximum stealth. the two followed.

geto stood in front of the door to block the light while you and shoko slithered in. it was dark except for the nightlight by satoru’s night stand. you could make out the important things. the untouched medicine, and gojo sprawled over his bed under his sheets. he faced the left side cuddling a pillow. tissues filled the trash can dragged by his bed and some on the floor. poor kid.

geto tiptoed to the other side of the bed where satoru was faced while shoko prepared the poison. you got in position across geto and stifled a laugh at shoko trying to break the seal as quiet as possible. she tiptoed next to you and nodded to geto.

“satoru” geto called out. “satoru, wake up.”

“sugu…” gojo whined. he didn’t open his eyes. geto gestured for the syrup-filled spoon. shoko handed it to him promptly and again, you stifled a laugh at your plan.

“satoru-kun. aaah,” geto opened his mouth. geto using “-kun” was too funny.

surprisingly, satoru opened his mouth slightly too. what the hell? this wasn’t even part of the plan. suguru took the spoon to satoru’s mouth.

shit, it would probably just spill out with the way he was faced, you realized. you lunged to push satoru’s shoulder to the right so that he would face up. you decided him choking on it was better than it spilling. because that way it would at least get in his mouth.

gojo woke up. he made eye contact with you and immediately tried to get up. he moved his hand to push yours off but you held his shoulders down with your weight and geto got all the syrup in.

“MMGHFHG!” gojo yelled with his mouth closed. he struggled against you, and you gave it 5 seconds before his strength took over and even less before he activated infinity.

“geto!” you called and he took over your hold on sicko’s shoulders.

gojo started kicking, and you straddled his shins.

“swallow!” geto exclaimed as gojo tried to push his hands off. shit, this wouldn’t work.

“geto! get on!” you yelled and geto straddled gojo’s stomach.

“swallow it!” suguru grabbed gojo’s arms and held them against the bed by his head.

“HHNGNGGHH!” satoru shook his head.

“satoru! it’s honey flavored!” geto argued.

shoko laughed and you heard her camera shutter. she stood far enough to snap a picture and you realized what it looked like. you were straddling gojo’s calves while suguru was straddling gojo’s, uh… lower stomach with his hands pinned by his head.

then, as if on queue, the door opened. your heads snapped to the door and you saw your sweet (to you, at least) junior nanami for about .7 seconds before the door closed again.

you flew off of gojo’s calves. “nanami! wait!”

this ended with a lot more stsg than I thought lol

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | February 10th-16th 2025

Hope you all had a good Valentine's/Pal-entine's Day! Here we got something like 70cm of snow in four days, which is as much snow as we usually get in the whole month of February 😂

Trying a new formatting, let me know what you think!

Complete

Kiss Me Once Cause You Know I Had A Long Nightby I_still_dont_understand_13 / @dangerpronebuddie (Prompt collection | 36/? | 23K | Teen): 100 kiss prompts.

37. A kiss on the cheek turns into a kiss on the lips

Will You Be My Valentine? by dylaesthetics (Valentine's Day | 1,7K | Mature):

Buck sends all of his contacts an innocent message asking them to be his (platonic) Valentine.

a glint of you in everything by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S8B, Magical Realism, Getting Together | 3K | Teen):

A year into living in El Paso, Eddie begins to see glimpses of Buck's life when he looks in the mirror.

Buck Naked and Afraid by paleredheadinascifi (Canon Divergent, Sleepwalking | 6K | Teen):

Buck sleeps naked. Buck also sleep-walks. Buck sleep-walks naked out of his apartment and locks himself out. Fate cackles. Enter Eddie Diaz.

best laid plans by coldbam/ @coldbam (Established Buddie, Marriage Proposal | 7K | Mature):

Buck drops the binder onto the kitchen table with an impressive thud. The front is labeled TAX STUFF, 2011-2018 in simple block letters. “You came over to do…secret taxes? In the middle of October?” “Oh, no, that’s—that’s a misdirect. I keep it hidden but just in case anyone’s snooping. Eddie hates doing taxes, and Christopher would think it’s boring adult stuff.” He opens the binder and flips past the first 3 pages which are actual old tax slips to keep up the hoax. He turns it around to show Maddie the page he was looking for: Proposal Ideas * Buck proposes. For real this time. (Part 2 of proposal series)

u/fuckley's Reddit post history. by dylaesthetics (Social Media fic, Getting Together, S2-S8 | 8K | Mature):

r/Relationships u/fuckley • 4 yr. ago 🔞 NSFW HOW DO I STOP HAVING MORNING WOOD WHILE SHARING A BED WITH MY BEST FRIEND??? [URGENT] I don’t know which sub to use for this, but I need immediate help. OR the emotional rollercoaster of Buck’s Reddit posts throughout the history of knowing Eddie.

🔥faded from the winter by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergence, Amputee Buck, Post-Shooting | 10K | Teen):

Eddie struggles to bounce back after the shooting. Buck starts leaving him with his service dog, Cranberry. (Part 4 of 🔥Buck & Cranberry)

Red Sky at Night by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Established Buddie, Future fic | 10K | Teen):

Buck and Eddie's stress levels are put to the test when a series of inconveniences precede Christopher's prom night, and their subsequent wedding.

you cut out a piece of me, now I bleed internally (left here without you) by smilingbuckley/ @smilingbuckley (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Depressed Buck | 11K | Mature):

And Buck is left standing there. In the rain. He stares at where Eddie’s truck used to be, now gone and out of sight. And he stays there for God knows how long, waiting, because maybe Eddie turns back. Maybe Eddie changes his mind and turns around. And he’ll jump out of his truck and laugh at Buck about how he could never leave his home here. How he could never leave Buck. And maybe he’ll pull Buck in one of those dramatic, movie-worthy kisses in the rain. And Christopher decides to come back and they live happily ever after. But this isn’t a fairytale or romcom. This is real life. And Eddie is gone. And he’s not coming back. And Buck… Buck is alone once again. (Or: After Eddie moves to El Paso, Buck copes. Except he doesn't.)

🔥 slaughterhouse by kithmet/ @kithmet (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Kleptomania, Freak4Freak | 21K | Explicit):

Buck keeps him everywhere. He’s smuggling him into every inch left vacant, because like this, he doesn’t lose him, won’t lose him. Like this, he gets to keep Eddie forever, even if it’s just the pieces and the memories attached. The reminder of him will haunt him and this apartment like a ghost. Because Buck can’t trap him in his apartment and force him to stay, he’d never ask that, couldn’t ask that, but he’s going to damn well do his best to salvage it in some form. He’s kidnapping Eddie’s shadow, no matter how much it hurts, and there’s no choice about it. Or: Buck has resolved to be the greatest friend ever. He’s handling this move so well. And not at all being abnormal about Eddie’s house. Or Eddie’s belongings. Or, well. Eddie.

WIP

🔥 Gentle On My Mind by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, Shannon Lives, Buck/Eddie/Shannon | 15/? | 91K | Explicit):

In which Shannon lives, tells a lie, and sends hers, Eddie's, and Buck's lives down a very different path.

[ameliagiovanna0]

I ✨️fixated✨️trying to figure out the chaos that is The Rookie's timline and Tim and Lucy's subsequent ages

Going off season 5 calculations for Lucy

• 2022 - 29 = 1993. Lucy was born in 1993

• In season 5, Lucy said she was 29, which aired 2022-2023

• If she was 29 in season 5, she would have been 24 in season 1

• 2025 - 1993 = 32. Lucy should be 32 now

• With the same month and day from the season 7 hospital band, she would have just turned 32 when last night's episode was set

Going off her season 7 hospital band that says 3/24/88

• Episode set circa September 2024

• 2024 - 1988 = 36. Lucy was 36 in Spet 2024

• She just turned 37 in March 2025

• She would have been 29 in season 1

Going off season 1 time for Tim

• Aired 2018-2019

• It was guesstimated that Tim was 38 or 39 in season 1

• 2018 - 38= 1980. Tim was born in 1980

Going off Tim's season 7 hospital band which said 9/25/78

• 2025 - 1980 = 45. Tim would be 45 now

• Using the same month and day but 1980 as the birth year, Tim would be 44 in April/May 2025

• Episode set roughly in September 2024

• 2024 - 1978 = 46

• Tim would have just turned 46 at the time of the wildfire, circa September 2024

• Last night was set after somewhere seemingly pretty shortly after April fools 2025. Tim would still be 46

• He'd be turning 47 in September 2025

Going off Tim's comment last night

• He said he was 45

• 2025 - 45 = 1980. Tim was born in 1980

• He would have been 38 in season 1

• Using the same month and day but 1980 as the birth year, Tim would be 44 in April/May 2025

• He would turn 45 in Spet 2025

• Close enough to have said 45, IMO

Scenario A: circa season 1, Tim is 38 and Lucy is 24. They have a 14 year age gap

Scenario B: circa wildfire, Tim is 46-47 and Lucy is 36-37. They have a 10-11 year age gap

Scenario C: circa last night's episode and Lucy's hospital bracelet, Tim is 44-45 and Lucy is 37. They have an 8-9 year age gap

Scenario D: circa last night's episode and Lucy's season 5 calculated birthday, Lucy is 32 and Tim is 44-45. They have a 12-13 year age gap

Based on everything I've collected here, I think Scenario D makes the most sense. But I like the idea of an 8-10 year age gap better for some reason

[cosmonautroger]

Moog Subsequent 37

[damnfandomproblems]

Fandom Problem #7006:

newer tumblr users tagging like you would on tiktok!

if im scrolling through a character tag it’s to see posts about that character specifically, not random character #37 from the same fandom. if you tag like that, people *might* block you for clogging tags, less people see your art/writing/whatever, even when its about a character they want to see. everyone looses! and people may have a certain character muted for any reason (they dont like the character, theyre tired of seeing the character on their dash, etc.). So if theyre scrolling through a tag and see a post with a muted tag, theyll probably scroll past it bc they assume the character is in the post. Again, everyone looses.

but if you just tag the characters that are in the post then its a lot better for everyone. Not as many people block you for clogging tags, more people see your art, and subsequently more people can enjoy it!! And it’s easier to sort through your blog, because people can look at all of your art/posts of a certain character, instead of having character tags essentially work like fandom tags.

[oacest]

Noel interview in Time Out, July 2000

Below the cut is the Noel-half of an incredibly candid interview the brothers gave in July 2000, in the midst of their mid-tour split. This was originally transcribed by a fellow named Harry Hotspur, one of the hard-working denizens of the Oasis usenet forum (such were the lengths fans went to before they could screenshot and share images easily).

I am posting the text here, as I have not found the same article readily available elsewhere online, and it's an incredible read. The interviewer essentially acts as a therapist, gently countering the more immediate, caustic replies to get at the emotional heart of matters. Noel in particular is more raw than usual.

Liam's half here.

July 1

Oasis pull a show at Roskilde Festival in Denmark, hours after nine fans are killed. Oasis's manager, Marcus Russell, meets police who reveal that they don't yet know why people died and haven't made any subsequent security changes. The organisers claim Oasis and Pet Shop Boys (who also cancel) are disrespecting the dead. 'Basically, they were asking for the band to go onstage and have Oasis fans dancing on people's graves,' Noel tells me later.

July 2

The Irish Sunday Mirror carries a story quoting Noel saying of Cork band The Frank And Walters, 'Without them I'd be on a building site in Manchester today.' Two days on, Noel shakes his head. 'I couldn't name a song by them,' he says.

July 4

Noel Gallagher (33) has been a very lazy Manc lately. After walking out in May, he holidayed at his Ibiza getaway before returning to his Buckinghamshire pad to watch, and enjoy, Euro 2000. We meet in his farmhouse recording studio, surrounded by 37 guitars. Noel is relaxed, bright, friendly, slightly shy, and is pleased to learn from our photographer that Marylin Manson likes 'Be Here Now'. Then, for over an hour, he sits and chats about football, Inspiral Carpets and, of course, Liam.

NOEL

Have you spoken to the band?

[Brightly] I haven't, no. I spoke to Marcus [Oasis's manager]. Everybody's on good form, apparently.

Have you read the gig reviews?

[Laughs] I have, yeah. It's ironic. We never got a good review for the first six months of the tour, and as soon as I leave it's like the greatest rock 'n' roll band ever!

Why do you reckon that is?

I have to assume people just don't like me! I mean, the five guys in the group are all brilliant musicians and they're playing brilliant songs, so why wouldn't it be good?

When I was reviewing the new album I did feel the easiest way to write it would be to slag it off...

[Nods] Mmm.

These days if you say it's actually quite good, you're laying yourself open. But I reckon 'Gas Panic' is one of the best songs you've written.

Well, yeah. I think people expect a bit much. I don't think people think it's a bad album, it's just not this earth-shattering experience. But is any band that important after five albums? What I find... not upsetting, but annoying is, like, we've got a single out yesterday. Now, on Monday morning people'll start writing about how it failed to get to Number One, or the top five. But nobody writes how Travis have failed to get to Number One. ['Sunday Morning Call' enters the charts at number four.]

I suppose people expect Oasis to be a big-selling band.

I know, but there has to be a dramatic fucking 'Bumph! It's gonna change now!' There can't be just a gradual change over six months. Someone's gotta stand up and say 'Fuck, I'm not doin' it any more.'

But when Blur came out with the 'Blur' album after 'The Great Escape', there was a bit of 'Ooh, it's not doing well'. Then everyone was like 'Who cares?'

I fuckin' envy them in a way, because we couldn't go off and make a lo-fi, indie-jungle record. Blur can do that. And Primal Scream can constantly reinvent themselves and The Beta Band can, because they're not considered seminal fuckin' artists. Y'know, we've gotta be constantly in the top five and records have gotta sell millions and tours have gotta be bigger than the last... And I don't wanna make fuckin' avant-garde records. I like playing the guitar. I like being a rock 'n' roll band. But people accuse you of not progressing. Then if you did change they'd say 'What are you doing making Krautrock records?'

Does it freak you out reading these good gig reviews?

[Genuinely] No, fuck, no.

How are you in your head?

[Hesitant] I'm really... I'm never happy touring at the best of times. Y'know, with me being the spokesman, I get up at ten and before the soundcheck at 5pm I'll have done seven interviews, generally with an interpreter, answering the same questions. The hour and a half on stage is brilliant, but it's just all the bullshit that surrounds it.

Can't you tour on your own terms?

Yeah, but you've gotta have the other five people in the band on the same wavelength. I can't be bothered with the fuckin' rock 'n' rollness of it all. That's not me any more. Whereas everyone else is having the time of their lives.

Liam thinks you expected them to follow you home.

[Surprised] No, not at all. Did I fuck.

Because it was all right in Japan and America...

It was brilliant, but y'know, he's made a big deal about this hypothetical fuckin' solo career that I'm supposed to be starting. Which is all bollocks. [I only meant] one album of maybe like acousticy, folky stuff in between Oasis records, as a side-project. Now I'm not even sure I can be arsed. It's like, if it's gonna cause that much fuckin' trouble, then I can't be bothered.

If you were a punter, how would you feel seeing Oasis without you?

Well in my defence if anybody wanted their money back they could've seen the promoter. As far as I'm aware, everybody turned up. I mean, Oasis was always about Liam Gallagher singing my songs. I think everybody else is totally interchangeable, but out of respect for the British fans I've decided I'm gonna do these gigs and then I'm gonna very, very long holiday. And then I'm gonna decide what I wanna do.

Have you had it up to here with Liam?

Oh, I've been up to there with Liam since...

I met him for the first time last week. He was pretty much what I expected. Intense, well-meaning, but...

[Vehemently] The bottom line is, if Liam's fuckin' sober he's great. But once he's pissed he likes nothing better than to sit in a room and argue. Y'know: 'I can drink more than you can drink.', 'My Dad's bigger than your Dad.' I mean there's something about me that makes him unhappy, and if I make him that unhappy then I'll y'know...

But he looks up to you, he adores you.

[Passionate] Yeah, I adore him as well. But not to the point where I'll sit and be insulted all night, in front of a load of people. I'm not having that off anyone.

Leaving him to it could be the best thing for Oasis. Problem is, he needs to understand your reasons.

Well, I'm quite proud of the fact that he's carried on. Y'see, Liam desperately wants to be in charge, and as far as I'm concerned now he is in charge. He needs to prove summat to himself, that he can be the man. But I'm sick of being the endless guest on 'The Jerry Springer Show', y'know, 'And our next two guests are two brothers from Manchester...' It's like, 'Aww fuck off, man, I can't be arsed.' But you know, Liam's still in his twenties and he's still living the life of a rock star.

But you've got five years on him.

Yeah. But I still don't understand him or the reasons why he's always going off at me. Two or three years ago I'd sit down and try and get inside his head. Now I can't be fuckin' bothered. Until I can see a change in him, what's the fuckin' point? Because ultimately the music suffers. You wanna try being in a recording studio with him...

He doesn't really understand where you're coming from. He said he tried to apologise.

Yeah, but he's been apologising for six years. And it's not just things about me, he's said some things that are out of order. Things that you shouldn't even think, let alone say in front of people who are basically total strangers. It's easy to say you're sorry and it's a different thing meaning it. So he's apologised, big fuckin' deal. Until the next time. But this time there isn't gonna be a next time, because I've just about had enough of him. And y'know, you're in a hotel room in Paris and you think: Well, I've got six weeks left in Europe with this twat, or I've got a house in Ibiza with its own beach. Hmm. This is not a difficult decision to make.

Is there a chance there might not be a next album?

Well, I've written two songs - that doesn't even constitute a single. And they were songs I'd written maybe 18 months ago. So I've gone 18 months without writing anything. And every time I pick up me guitar or try and write some words, it's just not doing it for me. As I get older I feel like I need a lot more time. Now you try and speak to Liam, it's always, 'Right, when are we going in the studio?' And I'm like, 'Well, I haven't written any songs.' 'Well, when are you gonna write some songs? I'm not fuckin' having another year off.' And I'm like, 'You can't force these things. If it takes me five years to write an album, then you're gonna have to sit on your arse for five years. Unless *you* go and write a bunch of fuckin' songs.'

I reckon he feels awkward around you.

Yeah, well, we'd be sat on a tour bus and we'd put on a tape and summat'll come on and he'll go 'Who's this?' and you go 'Oh, it's Superstar'. And he'll go [aggressively] 'Fuck, it's shit'. [Calmly] 'Fair enough.' [Aggressively] 'Who the fuck are they? So you're into these, are ya?' It's like 'Well, hang on a minute, it's only a fuckin' song. I *like* the song. Leave it, man.' Before you know it there's a full-scale argument...

But he values your opinion.

Yeah, but why does he have to do that? I don't know. [Sighs] I was speaking to me Mam about it... It's like he can't accept the fact that maybe the band is not the most important thing in my life any more. When I had two years off, I came back and it was like, 'I'm married, I've got a kid now.' And watching my little girl grow up and go to school is more important than watching the band develop. He's gotta get his head round that before we can go any further.

Plus it sounds like he's got shit going on with Patsy.

Well that again, y'know. Everybody in the band has personal problems, but you should never bring them into the studio or on tour.

C'mon, though: if your marriage was breaking up, it'd be hard for it not to affect you.

I'm sure. [Pauses] I'm sure. But it's nobody else's fault. I mean, I haven't got the answers to his problems. Not at all. But Liam seems to think that because we're not as big as we were five or six years ago, somebody has to have the answers. Y'know: 'What are the reasons we don't sell ten million albums any more?' I really don't know. If I knew I'd put it right.

Liam thinks you carry the burden of the band and he's saying he could take more off you.

[Deep breath] Er, it's not that it's a burden, it's just that it's always been like this for me. Liam started doing 50 per cent more interviews on this tour, but it still hasn't taken any workload off me. When we started this tour it was like, we haven't put a record out or played for three years, half the band had gone, there was new members, we were fuckin' on the way to Japan and someone's decided C4 are gonna do an on-the-road documentary, we've got all the journalists in the same hotel. And this is the first *day*. You couldn't go to the bar without [mimes putting a dictaphone out] 'Can I have a word about this?' And then of course bright spark has to go and say he's gonna break Robbie Williams's nose before we even get on the plane.

That Robbie - Liam thing was a bit silly.

It was just pathetic. I was sat watching CNN in a hotel in Japan and they had a report from the BRITS and none of it was about who'd won. And then you see fucking Robbie Williams challenging Liam to a fight. And I'm sat there eating my breakfast going 'This is not real, this is not happening'. But then you pass Liam in the foyer and he's going 'Yeah, I'm gonna break his fuckin' legs when I see him'. It's like 'Will you shut the fuck up, man?'

Beckham and Posh have kind of taken over from you and Liam as the tabloids' most wanted. Do you have any sympathy for them?

Er, I've got sympathy for him, 'cause he just seems to be going along with it. I mean, if she wasn't married to him, who's she? Just one of the Spice Girls who can't sing. Whereas he's the best fucking footballer we've got in the country. I mean, you know that documentary they did and she was interviewing him? How can you interview you husband on TV? It's sick. I feel sorry for him, but... [laughs] Fuck him, he's a dirty red anyway!

How do you think things will be with Liam in Dublin?

The manager phoned me last week and said him and Alan [White, drummer] was saying 'Look, we want a meeting before you do these gigs' and I was going 'Well fine, all right'. And of course, who didn't turn up? So that shows how much it means to him. They think it's gonna be weird, but it's not gonna be weird for me, I don't hate anyone, I haven't fallen out with anyone. It's just I didn't wanna be on the fucking road with him.

Why don't you just play big gigs in capitals where you don't necessarily have to stay in the same hotel, don't have to do any press... ? It's almost like you take on too much.

Well, that's what I'm saying. We have to sit down at the end of this tour and I've gotta have a big fuckin' think about where we're going and how we're gonna get there. I couldn't just sit down now and go 'If we do this, if we do that'. But I know what I'm not gonna do is just fuckin' give up making music, just fuckin' sit at home and become a dad. I want my kids to grow up and see me in action, not watch me on some archive footage from fuckin' Knebworth.

Do you think there's a possibility that you're just not gonna bother with Oasis?

Of course, yeah. But we'll see what happens.

You're more pissed off with it than I thought.

I'm not thinking too much about anything at the moment, just about getting these gigs done and hopefully them being received really well. Then after that... See, I've always felt your management or your label never give you enough time. When I was younger I could sit in a room and knock off three songs a day, like 'Some Might Say' and 'Whatever' and a bunch of B-sides. But y'know, I'm not 26 any more. People think: Aw, give him two weeks and he'll write another album. It's not like that.

Is it pressure?

No, it's just that when I was 26 the most important thing in my entire life was the group and writing songs. But now it's not. I've devoted enough of my time to Oasis. I've given enough, so now I wanna take a bit back. But I never said I was gonna do a solo album and leave the fuckin' band. I just wanna do little things that make it interesting for me. But I've no intention of leaving the band.

Is Liam's drinking the big...

[Quickly] For me it is, yeah.

He said: 'I just drink till I fall asleep.'

Well that's fine, but it's the bit before he falls asleep which is a fuckin'... Everybody else finds it really funny, but when you're sat on the end of it. He gets *that far away* from your face, y'know, just going like [incoherently] 'Well fuckin', where the fuckin' cunt this'. It makes me tired. It gets me down, But he knows that, and the more it gets me down, the more he does it.

It'd be good if you two could sort it out.

Listen. Every time we fall out it's always this big fuckin' dramatic thing. To me it's just another argument, man. It'll sort itself out. It's not as if we're never gonna see each other again. Let's put it this way: if I wasn't related to him, I'd have sacked him fuckin' four years ago. But it's not.. [Quietly] It's deeper than all that.

Perhaps Wembley will be the turning point. That little bit of friction could be the thing that makes it...

Y'know, the last gig I did with the band was in Madrid and it was one of the best gigs I've done for years. What I'm really looking forward to is getting onstage at Reading. Because we've gotta follow Primal Scream. And if you can't summon up enough enthusiasm to say, 'Right, well, we've gotta be better than them.' Y'know, I'm looking forward to going on after them. Then we'll see how good we are.

July 5

Despite Noel's revelation otherwise, NME claim they've heard three new tracks.

July 6

Liam insists a new Oasis album is written, to be released in January.

July 7

With Liam in Dublin, Patsy Kensit leaves her and Liam's Primrose Hill house. In broad daylight. In front of reporters. Wearing a lovely dress. 'I'm actually quite relieved,' she tells 'London Tonight'.

July 8

'Patsy Legsit' screams the Daily Star, with the Mirror's cover carrying news of Patsy's new fella. Meanwhile, I'm off to Dublin to see Noel and Liam's reunion gig. The route to the 40,000 sell-out Lansdowne Road show is littered with leery, beery men singing and pissing. Naturally, when Liam, the Patron Saint of Laddism, skulks onstage, the crowd go barmy. And although, annoyingly, most of the sound blows into the gusty Dublin night, it's clear Oasis still rock - even if the old stuff does rock most. Liam's voice is as snarlingly majestic as ever, his swagger as cocky. And Noel seems genuinely touched by the spine-tingling crowd reaction to 'Don't Look Back In Anger'. 'We ain't splitting up,' growls Liam before the brotherly 'Aquiesce', with its chorus of 'Because we need each other', after which the brothers shake hands. Later, as they say goodnight to the Dublin masses, Noel tells them, 'We'll see you next time.' A truce, it seems, has been called.

July 9

The Irish Sunday People's front page reveals 'Liam's Dublin booze binge'. Apparently, he knocked back 15 pints of Guinness in his hotel. Meanwhile, Noel, we're told, arrived on a different flight and stayed in a different hotel. A truce then, but not a full-on peace accord.

July 10

'Rock chick to wreck chick' says the Sun, splashing pictures of Pasty and her new man over two pages. Thankfully, Liam is keeping 'a dignified silence'.

And there you have it. Twelve days in the weird, wonderful, ever-changing, tabloid scrutinised lives of Noel and Liam Gallagher. If Liam can keep his gob shut, they're well poised to reclaim some of their former glories. And if he doesn't, Noel seems likely to walk away. But whatever happens, you can be sure the world will be watching. No wonder they called their label Big Brother.

[Note by us: the infamous Wembley gig was less than two weeks later.]

[jami-c]

Bloopy!! :9

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 36

The Eighth Doctor has referred to Time Lord society as "bitchy" before. (Audio: Seasons of Fear)

Maximelos and the Three Ogrons was a children's fairy tale on Gallifrey that the First Doctor heard as a child before being initiated into the Academy. (Short Story: Nothing O'Clock)

Peri once turned the song "Wild Boys" up in order to drown out the Sixth Doctor's opera singing. (Short Story: A Star is Reborn)

Susan failed her maths exam because she had forgotten that Britain hadn't moved to the metric system yet (despite the fact that the First Doctor had tried to get her to remember at least that). (Short story: Extracts from the Doctor’s 500 Year Diary)

The Doctor had a bear when he was young but had to release it when it started eating all the furniture. (Audio: Cuddlesome)

Jo and Cliff Jones frequently work with David Attenborough (Short Story: Greyhound)

The Tenth Doctor and Rose Tyler got caught in 1914 Belgium in a battle between Germans and an alien Warfreekz. Rose stopped the war by singing "Angels" by Robbie Williams, which made all sides think she was the Angel of Death come to take their dead to Heaven. (Comic: Warfreekz!)

When the Fifth Doctor broke his spine and was subsequently paralyzed, he thought he would regenerate. (Audio: Devil in the Mist)

The Toymaker once turned the Eighth Doctor into a doll. (Audio: Solitaire)

Chancellor Delox was a lecturer at the Academy who expelled the Doctor from her class after discovering he had not returned to his House for Otherstide. (Novel: Divided Loyalties)

The Second Doctor remembered being something of an acrobat in his First body before age had taken its toll. (Novel: Heart of TARDIS)

The Doctor's TARDIS has an entire snowy mountain range inside of it. (Audio: The Settling)

The console room of the Monk’s TARDIS has a comfy chair covered in comic books in it. (Audio: The Black Hole)

The Tenth Doctor recovered from his regeneration in part because of tea but also in part because he took energy from his Third incarnation, who was nearby. (Short story: The Christmas Inversion)

The Sixth Doctor continued to try to fix the TARDIS chameleon circuit after Attack of the Cybermen. This caused the outer shell to shift to all sorts of odd forms, such as Nelson's column, a giant strawberry, a train engine, a clock, a Christmas tree, a giant Radio Times, and more. (Comic: Quick Change)

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[queeriouslyollie]

wonderlust favorite moments/interactions/scenes/etc + notes from multiple rewatches

this is a collection of all my favorite moments, scenes, interactions, and so on (as well as interesting observations that ive noticed through my multiple rewatches) from wonderlust. this is mostly for myself lmao

NOTE: so far, i only got thru ep 1 because. im tired and its almost 4 am lmao. i do wanna get thru all the eps for this tho so :3

style conventions(so i rember qwq): things are listed chronologically, by episode, with timestamps (h:mm:ss). i also (vaguely) color coded dialogue, just the PCs w/ their colors (troy in red, runt in purple, blink in green). if there is dialogue between the lines im highlighting, there will be "/.../" followed by the next line im including. finally, additional notes/thoughts/etc from me will be in small text, italicized parenthases (like this)

this will be updated as i rewatch episodes or watch new episodes :]

WARNING: beyond this point, there WILL be spoilers. proceed at your own risk!

ps: if there is anything that isnt here that you think is worthy, feel free to add on! also, there are very likely typos and/or formatting errors so. oopsie :3 (did try my best to make sure there werent)

pps: many of these will likely involve troy because im so brainrot for this guy but i do really love them all and their dynamics :3

episode 1: one man's trash

0:06:14 troy: "well then- the the fuckin uh, i gue- i guess they'll- i guess they'll fuckin- i guess when they- i guess-"

0:07:42 baby's first troy math

0:11:50 the incident

0:17:30 troy: "my names troy and i'm never gonna die!" (this note was taken when ep 23 was the latest--so far its true, but i suppose we'll see if it continues to do so)

0:37:30 this whole interaction with runt and her cousins is just adorable and i lobv it

0:45:43 ♪♫ you gotta be careful, little runt ♫♪

0:46:40 runt: "you're goddamn right uncle threestrings, why don't they give you a record deal?" uncle threestrings: "....... hohh.." (also charlie's face during this reacting to the song lmfao)

0:47:22 uncle threestrings: "if you don't come back-" runt: "ah-" uncle threestrings: "-if you don't-" runt: "i will come back." uncle threestrings: "i just need to know somethin... how many cups do ya think they got up there?"

0:58:06 pinch: "doppler we need to break this thing or somethin-" runt: "no, don't- don't break it :[" /.../ runt: "i wanna keep it!"

1:14:24 runt: "they got this big fuckin circle in the sky too, what the fuck is that?" uncle threestrings: ".. circle? who made that?" runt: "i don't know!" uncle threestrings: "how'd they put it there?"

1:28:08 cut: "she want another one?" blink: "gran- yeah, granny granite wants a slice of cake, she took my package. you know how it is, this happens every time!" cut: "i'm gonna run out, i'm gonna run out, she's just gonna eat it all-" blink: "how! how are you gonna run out?! what do you mean-" cut: "she's just gonna eat it all!" blink: "but she's so old and slow!" (i love blink's outbursts lmfao)

1:33:05 immediate simping for aeon as her design is revealed ("id let her beat me up" lmfao)

1:37:07 (realizing i didn't put together before how he somehow got his steamsled back, obv upon rewatch i know it's because of his capture but just interesting to think about how that slipped by me the first time and catching it in subsequent watches)

1:37:51 baby's first "YOU DUDE" blink: (starts running) troy: "don't play hard to get with me dude, i'll fucking catch you, i'll fucking catch you no matter how fuckin long you run i will keep running, i'm an endurance animal of a human being" (sprinting) "you can flee now- i can track you, dude"

1:39:45 (cont. from scene above, somewhat) troy: "dude, there's no need to be such a fucking freak-" blink: "what the fuck-" troy: "-i'm just trying to talk to you-" blink: "-what the fuck are you-" troy: "-i just wanted to say... i just wanted to tell you that i'm fuckin cool, and you have gotta run with me, dude, if you wanna make it down here."

1:40:31 troy believes he's at furcon, blink calls him fantasy slurs (also he "loves birds" wauw)

1:42:17 here troy says that blink's his only ticket out, and when blink asks why him troy says he's not supposed to tell him :0

1:43:06 troy: "oh, yeah, i do have a combrussion"

1:47:00 bizly: (rolls a two against troy & blink's stealth) "dude, a two, a TWO, you're fine! you're fine." charlie (in troys voice): "yah, dude i fuckin know,"

1:49:06 the making of yort (& knilb)

1:50:12 blink: "let's-let's tackle this one thing at a time, okay?" troy yort: "alright, dude, i'm fuckin, i'm yort"

1:51:45 troy yort: "have you ever heard the saying, one guy's trash is another dude's.. fuckin,,.. coo- like- fuckin shit."

1:52:22 blink: "i don't wanna- i'm gonna be frank, the more you talk, the more i don't want to help you." troy yort: "dude, who the FUCK is frank, dude? why do you wanna be him? we already got you a cool name??"

1:54:09 troy yort: "cogs? we literally, like, live, breathe, and eat cogs up there, man. i mean, we also use it as money, but you know what i mean. we DONT eat, breathe, or live it, we just use it as money."

1:54:40 cloudspire hoohah rise up

1:54:46 blink: "what are you saying??" troy yort: "dude, you are just ridiculous, man, i-i don't even know where to start. i mean like, so basically, i'm like the shit."

1:55:12 just a straight roll like man and woman missionary fuckin dude fucking a woman straight roll troy yort: "honestly sometimes i think about guys"

1:57:20 (i just love how, even tho troy JUST met blink, he's already so willing to back him up. he doesn't quite understand when he DOES need to stand down but i think it does show he's never been a fully awful person.)

1:57:57 blink: "well we got some, uh, some tetanus shots in here. a few of them have been poked by granny- granny granite, so be careful about that, she's very pokey." arch: "wouldn't want anyone to catch whatever she's got, hahaha!" troy yort: "i'm not sayin anything" baby's first i'm not sayin anything (this whole interaction is so fuckin funny to me)

2:00:42 troy yort: "i don't understand why this is happening?!" blink: "i already told you!!" troy yort: "i didn't say anything!" blink: "you kept saying you weren't saying anything!!!" troy yort: "i thought that's what you wanted!! you need to be CLEAR!!"

2:02:36 bizly: "a blunt arrow comes whizzing by your head." charlie (as troy yort): "fuckin what i just smoke it" once again charlie is possessed by troy

2:06:28 the bit with the old woman and her dead husband's pan and her second husband

2:09:18 graphite's rock and the painting (troy yort keeping the rock after too is so real, i love rocks :3)

2:11:36 troy: "hey graphite, dude, can i level with you?" graphite: ".... suuuuure?" troy: "alright, sick, cuz i think i get some hp from that. maybe some other little goodies." graphite: "you just say things, don't you?" troy: "troy"

[resfrio]

TABULA RASA

Worm / Disco Elysium Crossover

CHAPTER 2

“YOU START A MAYBE CULT”

You walked out of the convenience store with a bag full of canned food, salty crackers and a water bottle, which you quickly stuffed into your backpack. 

Your wallet was considerably lighter.

DR. HEARTACHE — Not very conducive to a healthy diet, but you are effectively homeless, food that won't go bad and is easy to eat on the go is for the best.

DRAGON OF KYŪSHU — Doesn't matter what gruel it is, as long as it fuels the body. Find somewhere safe to eat, girl.

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM [Challenging: Failure] — The Glass Window said the hospital was on the edge between ‘The Docks’ and ‘Downtown’. Extrapolating from that and judging by our steps and the time that has already passed by, we're likely around… uh… Maybe New York? 

For real?

EFFICIENCY PROTOCOL — [Appearing from out of nowhere] Foolish. Let's look up the map of this town on the phone. 

Suddenly, you remember you did steal a phone a while ago…

EFFICIENCY PROTOCOL [Easy: Success] — [Impatiently snatch phone away again] Type in the search bar… Zoom out… Ha. Easy. Alright, here we are: 

Jan 4, 2011 

21:48 pm

 Battery: 37% 

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM — Well, I could've just told you that, you know. 

GHOST IN THE MACHINE [Medium: Success] — [Ranting] The Boardwalk is a district in Brockton Bay, running north-to-south along the beach, east of the Docks. The Boardwalk is one of the main tourist destinations in the city, it's considered the heart of it and, due to that, considered quite safe. Unlike near the hospital, the police or, rather, enforcers there are quite quick to handle shoplifters. 

The Docks, on the other hand, are mostly in a state of neglect perpetuated by Brockton Bay's downtrodden economy. Numerous buildings in the Docks lack electrical power, though this being said, it has a reputation for its high homeless reputation due to its many abandoned warehouses and apartments serving as shelters. 

Well. 

It didn't sound like a very hard choice for you. 

JACOB — Indeed, you heard the gal. Easy choice. Avoid the Boardwalk because we're broke bitches, and slowly make our way further into the Docks district till we find a nice warehouse to set up shop at. 

THE WINGED ONE — This also has the upside of The Boardwalk having more police presence, which translates to more opportunities for us to get caught for either escaping the hospital, assaulting a security guard, or robbing a thrift store. 

DR. HEARTACHE — You know, when put it like that, you're a bit uncomfortable at the quantity of crimes you've committed within a few hours of being conscious. 

Indeed. 

Somehow, you felt like you'd gone from a respectable amnesiac orphan girl to an amnesiac underage hobo thug within a single day…

Using the phone map, you slowly but steadily made your way deeper into the Docks.

CONNAISSEUR OF THE FIRMAMENT [Trivial: Success] — Despite trying our best to keep our head down and ignore anything else happening around us… It's impossible to ignore that we have passed by no less than 60 spray painted signs of something called « ABB » and at least 5 saying « NAZIS OUT!!! »  

GHOST IN THE MACHINE [Challenging: Failure] — [Start rant] Nazism is a form of fascism, with disdain for liberal democracy and the parliamentary system. Its beliefs include support for dictatorship, fervent antisemitism, anti-communism, anti-Slavism, anti-Romani sentiment, scientific racism, white supremacy, Nordicism, social Darwinism, homophobia, ableism, and the use of eugenics.

ABB, meanwhile, is the acronym for the Allman Brothers Band, it was an American rock band formed in Jacksonville, Florida, in 1969. Its founding members were brothers Duane Allman (slide guitar, lead guitar) and Gregg Allman (vocals, keyboards), as well as Dickey Betts (lead guitar, vocals), Berry Oakley (bass), Butch Trucks (drums), and Jai Johanny "Jaimoe" Johanson (drums). Subsequently based in Macon, Georgia, they incorporated elements of blues, jazz and country music and their live shows featured jam band-style improvisation and instrumentals.

EVERYONE — [ … ]

So… What did that have to do with the Nazis, again? 

How was it connected?

Why did a rock band have so much beef with Nazis? 

THE WINGED ONE [Medium: Success] — [Smug] It's clear they were communists.

How? In what way? 

You stop under a street-light out of sheer bewilderment, looking up at the sky as though it might deliver the answers.

THE WINGED ONE — [Preening] The messaging is layered. Symbolic. Dialectical.

JACOB — [Wide-eyed] You’re full of shit and that's coming from me. 

SELF-DECEIVING TRAITOR — I’ve seen fanfic essays on Dumblr with better citations.

You wondered what Dumblr even was.

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM — [Punching the table] Excuse you, dialectical materialism has nothing to do with—

THE WINGED ONE — [Serene, in that terrifyingly confident way] It’s obvious if you simply apply inductive reasoning. First, there’s the juxtaposition of ABB and anti-Nazi graffiti. Opposition is proximity. Correlation. Tension. That which is contested must have weight. Second, the Allman Brothers Band promoted improvisational sound structures. Non-conformist. Anti-structure. You know what else opposes rigid hierarchy? Communism. It's all about communism, Taylor.

GHOST IN THE MACHINE — That’s not— No. No, that’s not how any of this works.

THE WINGED ONE [Trivial: Success] — [Gleefully pedantic] It is simple. Consider the semiotic layering — “Nazis out” implies a reactionary presence. The ABB is juxtaposed with this graffiti, therefore they are likely the ideological opposite. Reaction begets opposition. Thus, communists. Q.E.D.

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM [Trivial: Failure] — Okay… what?

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — I dunno, sounds kind of metal. Graffiti communists jamming out with southern rock while fighting literal Nazis? I'd watch that movie.

You are very confused now.

At first, you had thought they were gangsters. From what you vaguely remembered, gangs did that too, no? 

Sell drugs and fight each other at night… Didn't they?

FUTURE ROADKILL — Pfft. They sell drugs. Drugs are freedom. Ergo… libertarians. Wait, fuck, no—anarchists? Damn, Capitalists? What were we fucking talking about again? 

GHOST IN THE MACHINE [Medium: Success] — [Nearly sobbing in tears] Actually, new data suggests the ABB stands for ‘Azn Bad Boys’, a local gang with links to—

You hear them before you see them—low laughter, shuffling boots, the click-clack of a butterfly knife being flipped for fun.

CONNAISSEUR OF THE FIRMAMENT [Challenging success] —  Ambush imminent. Three signatures. Two in front. One flanking left. Improvised melee weapons, unknown armaments.

You pivot.

Three guys. Early twenties. Red, white and green bandanas, gang ink barely concealed beneath hoodies and sleeveless jackets. One swings a pipe idly like it’s an extension of his arm. Another, lean and twitchy, flips his knife with practiced indifference. The last one just cracks his knuckles. You can already smell the sweat and stale cigarette stink wafting off them.

Those colors were the same ones used in the ABB graffiti stuff.

The pipe man moves his pipe around menacingly before addressing you: 

UNORIGINAL PIPE THUG — “Yo, lil’ girl. Hand over the bag and the phone. Maybe the jacket too. No need for anyone to get hurt tonight.”

DEADPAN WEAPONLESS THUG — “Nice backpack” 

SELF-DECEIVING TRAITOR — Such cliché robber lines. If you're going to become a thug, why not add some je ne sais quoi and spice it up? Failing grade at creativity. 

DR. HEARTACHE — [Concerned] Try talking. De-escalate. Show submission. There's no need to—

SPITEFUL COWARD — NO, LET'S FUCKING PUNCH THEM INSTEAD, YOU IDIOT!! 

THE WINGED ONE — [Aloof] No. No, wait. This is a moment of dialectical revelation. These are the proletariat. We must seize this opportunity to radicalize them.

You were a mere underage amnesiac girl, the fact that you could somehow escape out of the hospital and procure food and clothing within a few hours without being arrested is enough to be commended.

Now that you're being robbed and being advised all sorts of ways, you panic, and so, you go with the last advice you heard: 

YOU —  “Hold on,” you say, raising both hands, bag still slung over your shoulder. “You guys… ABB, right? Azn Bad Boys?”

SKELETON KING [Medium: Success] — Our heart-rate is normalized. Relaxed shoulders, posture that belies you're open to discussion and not violence. You're in control, little lady. 

You make sure to say the right name instead of the name of the southern maybe communist rock band you spent a solid five minutes hearing an argument about.

SNEERING KNIFE THUG — “Yeah, and?” 

THE WINGED ONE [Medium: Success] — [Triumphant] Perfect. Begin the thesis: their gang is a nascent revolutionary cell. You must appeal to their collective class consciousness.

YOU — “Cool. That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you. I think we might be on the same page.”

They blink at you with a distinctly owlish expression.

YOU — “You see,” you say, very seriously, “the capitalist system has failed you. It’s failed all of us. ABB, at its core, isn’t just about turf or drugs. It’s about… opposition to fascism. I saw the graffiti.”

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — [Sputtering laughter] Oh my god. You're doing it. You're actually doing it.

JACOB [Challenging: Success] — [Silken, snake-slick] Yes, lean in. Twist the tone, slippery like an eel in oil. Sell them the story they didn’t know they needed.

YOU — “I think you guys are actually fighting for the people. You know? You’re organizing. Building a power base. Challenging institutional authority. That's pretty much… textbook revolutionary theory.”

UNORIGINAL PIPE GUY — The pipe guy stares. “Wait, are you saying we’re, like… revolutionaries?”

THE WINGED ONE [Easy: Success] — Push the contradiction. Glorify the cause.

YOU — “Yes,” you say with complete conviction. “Absolutely. You’re redistributing wealth. You’re seizing control of the means of production. I mean, what are drugs if not a decentralized economic system?”

FUTURE ROADKILL — HAHAHA WHAT THE FUCK YEAH FREE MARKET BABY I KNEW WE WERE GENIUSES

They’re thrown off. Confused. You can see the doubt forming.

NO LONGER SNEERING KNIFE GUY — “...Yo, is she for real?” he asks, glancing at the others. “Like, we’re communists now?”

Too late to consider the consequences of turning thugs into communist revolutionaries.

YOU — “Consider,” you say, “that what you’re doing—robbing me for canned beans and bottled water—isn’t survival. It’s a symptom. A product. You’re not predators. You’re casualties.”

NO LONGER DEADPAN WEAPONLESS THUG — “Is she high?” 

You continue undeterred. 

YOU — “You think the ABB is a gang? No. It’s proto-revolutionary. An unfocused expression of proletarian rage. But you’ve been misled. You’ve become instruments of false consciousness.”

You take another step forward. No fear. Only fervor. This isn’t a fight—it’s a movement.

YOU — “You aren’t criminals,” you say. “You’re revolutionaries who’ve forgotten your cause. You don’t need to rob me—you need to seize the means of production.”

JACOB [Medium: Success] — [Rubbing hands like a fly] Now, girl. Hit them where it hurts. Their pride.

YOU — “ABB,” you say, pointing to the nearest graffiti tag on the wall behind them. “Do you even know what that could mean?”

They stare.

YOU — “Anti-Bourgeois Battalion.” You say triumphantly. 

THE WINGED ONE [Godlike: Success] — [Triumphant chorus] We baptize them in dialectic fire. Watch as they are born anew, crimson-eyed and red-starred.

You can feel it working. Confusion turning to hesitation. Hesitation to doubt. Doubt into curiosity. A delicate chain reaction of dumb teenage disillusion.

UNORIGINAL PIPE THUG — “Shit, that’s kinda tight.”

NO LONGER DEADPAN WEAPONLESS THUG — “So, like, we should unionize?”

NO LONGER SNEERING KNIFE THUG — “Wait, we got means of production?”

YOU — “Not yet,” you say. “But you could. Start small. Neighborhood gardens. Mutual aid. Solidarity networks. Scare off Empire Eighty-Eight. Burn the middleman. Own your own supply chain.”

You didn't even know what the Empire Eighty-Eight was, but it felt right to mention it.

DRAGON OF KYŪSHU — [Disgust] What is happening.

SELF-DECEIVING TRAITOR — She’s charisma-bombing gang members with revolutionary fanfic! You wouldn't know anything about it, you brute.

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — Yeah baby, we just converted a mugging into a Marxist study circle.

You lower your voice, solemn now, sacred.

YOU — “Violence against the people? That’s a tool of the oppressors. Violence for the people? That’s history.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—

UNORIGINAL PIPE THUG — “...Yo, what’s your name?”

You don't know whether it's actually a good idea to give your actual name to your newly converted cell. 

YOU — “Taylor,” you say. “Taylor… uh, Du Bois”

Where did that fake last name even come from? 

 REVOLUTIONARY KNIFE THUG — “Hell yeah. We’re gonna tell the others. This is some real shit.”

REVOLUTIONARY WEAPONLESS THUG — “Thanks for opening my eyes, now I truly know why I hate the Empire, fucking fascists” 

REVOLUTIONARY PIPE THUG — “See you soon, comrade. Take care” 

They retreat. One raises a fist. You raise yours back.

They vanish into the night, discussing whether it’s praxis to still sell weed or if that counts as reinforcing capitalist models of scarcity.

You’re alone again.

DR. HEARTACHE — …That could have gone much, much worse… Though I don't know… if what just happened is any better in the long run…

THE WINGED ONE — Today, we sowed seeds. Tomorrow, we reap the revolt.

DRAGON OF KYŪSHU — We should have just beat them up, for fuck's sake. 

You walk for what feels like an hour after the encounter—still faintly vibrating with adrenaline, or maybe ideological fervor. Maybe both. You can’t tell if you’ve just recruited a gang or founded a cult.

THE WINGED ONE — [Content] They called us comrade. That’s praxis.

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — I give it three days before they form a worker's council and get shot by the cops. Still, solid effort. Ten out of ten.

You snort at that, but otherwise keep waking, not keen on potentially having to start another debate with more thugs.

You find it halfway through a back alley. A warehouse, two stories tall, windows boarded up or shattered, roof mostly intact save for one collapsed section far on the east end. The front loading bay’s doors are partially ajar, rusted and groaning with every shift of the wind. The sign on the chain-link fence once read “Coastal Textile Logistics,” but now just says “Stie Lg s.”

You slip through.

Inside, the air is still. Musty. Cold.

You sweep the room with your eyes.

CONNAISSEUR OF THE FIRMAMENT [Medium: Success] — Three exits. One above, through the ceiling. One behind a collapsed filing cabinet. One is the way we came. No other signs of occupancy. One raccoon in the rafters.

DR. HEARTACHE — The air is cold. Bitterly so. Cement and mold and salt hang thick in the air. But… it’s dry. And out of sight. That’s something.

YOU — “Okay,” you murmur, “better than nothing.”

You claim a corner beneath the half-collapsed metal staircase leading up to the long-abandoned offices. Less wind here. Broken crates and burlap rolls. There’s even a filthy couch cushion that looks only moderately cursed.

SELF-DECEIVING TRAITOR — Don't even think about it. 

CONNAISSEUR OF THE FIRMAMENT [Trivial: Success] — The ceiling above this corner appears stable. Minimal snow ingress probability. Hm. Awful thermal mass potential.

You sit. Hug your knees. The concrete leeches warmth from your bones like a vampire.

THE WINGED ONE — Shelter is step one. Now, aesthetic revolution.

JACOB — [Laugh] You want her to feng shui a bombed-out husk?

THE WINGED ONE — Why not? Reclaim the space. Domesticate entropy—

AN ENGLISH PROFESSOR — You all have had way too much fun tonight. What you need is to domesticate the burlap sacks and put it underneath, then put the hospital blanket over that, it should help with staving off a bit of the cold from the floor. 

Yawning, you take heed of the advice, carefully positioning your backpack so that you can hug the side stuffed full of clothes instead of metal cans once you are ready to sleep.

You sit. You unpack.

One can of beans. One can of tuna. Crackers. Water.

A spork you don't even remember taking.

Truly, a dinner of champions.

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — Congratulations, Queen of the Bums! Long may she starve!

You glare at the ceiling at that remark and roll your eyes in only half-serious annoyment. 

LITTLE OWL — We used to have dinner at a table. Remember? Mommy made chicken soup. You tried to hold the hot bowl and spilled it on your arm. You cried harder about wasting the soup than the scalding hot drops.

You don’t remember, maybe only the briefest flash of a memory's whisper. But your arm aches anyway.

DR. HEARTACHE — It’s okay. Focus on now. One step at a time.

Somewhere far off, a siren wails.

But not here.

Here, there's only the sound of the wind in the rafters, the rustle of your breath, and the subtle murmurs of a crowd that lives only in your head.

You lean back against the wall, the corrugated metal cool against your spine, and close your eyes.

The quiet doesn’t last.

EARTH BET [Medium: Success] — Listen.

There's that voice again.

A voice that sounds like it comes from both anywhere and nowhere, clinging to you like tar and feeling like a centipede gnawing at your cochlea. 

YOU — “Who even are you… ”

EARTH BET — This is a sick city. The alleys run red with broken teeth and blood thick with amphetamines. Twenty-seven muggings tonight. Five stabbings. One death. She bled out behind a shuttered convenience store while the clerk inside turned up the volume on his TV. Didn’t want to get involved.

You open your eyes. The shadows don’t shift, but something else does. Not quite fearful. Not quite cold. Something primal. Something's watching.

EARTH BET —  Tonight, four people bled into the gutter by Lord Street. A deal gone wrong. Wrong name, wrong time. The cops won’t show. But the rats did.

DR. HEARTACHE — …This isn’t just decay. It’s despair.

EARTH BET — Barbed wire curls like smiles around the bones of factories. In the sewers, bodies float. You won’t read about them. No one files reports for the vanished. Especially not the ones no one wanted to begin with.

You can suddenly see flashes of what the voice is describing, making you clutch your head and wonder what's happening to you.

YOU — “Is this… supposed to happen?” 

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM — You’re being psychically menaced by the anthropomorphic embodiment of urban malaise. Totally normal. Definitely not a symptom of anything.

EARTH BET — [Whispering like a lover behind your ear] The Empire slaughters in basements. ABB sells hectasy in baggies. Coil plots. Heroes turn blind eyes, caught in PR meetings and funding deadlines. The PRT built their headquarters high to avoid the rot. But they breathe it in still. Everyone does.

You didn't know any of those organizations. Couldn't have.

You wrap your arms around your knees. Not because you're scared.

Because the voice makes you feel small.

Like the floor is the back of something ancient and half-asleep, and you're just a fleck on its spine.

EARTH BET — You’re not the first who tried to change it. You won’t be the last. But you are here. Now. And that matters.

You whisper into your arms.

YOU — “What do I do?”

No reply. Only the shifting groan of steel and stone settling into night.

EARTH BET  [Trivial: Success] — You listen. You learn. And when the time comes…

A pause. A breath.

EARTH BET — You strike.

Then—

Silence.

Only wind.

Only dust.

You blink.

Still alone. Still cold.

But now, your heart beats in time with the concrete.

And somewhere, the city watches you back.

After a while, you start getting sleepy, and so, you do, with the same thought reverberating inside your skull: 

“The world is alive. And it wants revolution.”

Author Note:

Deranged amnesiac girl escapes the psych ward, assaults an innocent security guard, raids a thrift store and starts a revolutionary cult of personality. She then illegally squats and eats her stolen-money bought dinner. More at 10. 

Taylor: *loses memories and proceeds to restart her life from scratch because of her ingrained-to-the-bones fear of trusting other people* 

Lacey, next day in the hospital: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN SHE BROKE OUT OF YOUR PSYCH WARD!? 

Also, I wonder if it's clearer now which voice is the main driver behind Earth-Bet's dialogue. It shouldn't be pointed out, but The Winged One and Jacob are such shit-stirrers that if they claimed second place, nobody would dare claim first, don't take the mugging scene too seriously (but maybe remember it for future purposes)

I had this chapter done already but there was a celebration in my country after I was done with exams (first half ;-;), so I was busy going to the grocery store and cooking. Sorry!

[mpreg-consandvans]

Three Dads Pregnant in 2024 to Watch Out For in 2025

(Excerpted from Time Magazine's 2024 Person of the Year issue celebrating "All pregnant men" as the people of the year)

1. JØRN VESTERGAARD

Modeling talent agent Jørn Vestergaard (40, center) takes the first spot on the year's list. His Copenhagen-based agency, Vestergaard Models Ltd., boasts the highest number of career male models in the northern European modeling industry, with over 250 clients reporting greater yearly earnings than the Danish national average income.

Jørn is pictured above with Rauno Møller (24, left) and Julian Lund (22, right). Discovered during several talent searches conducted by Jørn in 2022, the pair are Jørn's top clients, having booked over 100 jobs each, this year alone, between high end print campaigns, runway gigs, private shows and commercial work. They attribute their success to Jørn's careful management of their schedules and belief in their ability to do great work.

Both also self-identify as a father of the baby Jørn is currently gestating; the three men are in an open throuple relationship and Jørn's pregnancy was planned, as he'd long wanted to be a father, but until the discovery and subsequent success of Rauno and Julian, had not been in a financial position in which to do so.

Jørn says he currently has no plan in place to slow down either his company or his family after having his first child (due in February 2025), claiming that he intends 2025 to be Vestergaard Models Limited's biggest year ever and that if all goes well, he will be carrying a second child by the end of next year.

2. MARSHALL MOH

Marshall Moh (37) dazzled at 2024's 96th Academy Awards, where he accepted the Best Supporting Actor statuette for his role as Lee Sujin in Why Does the Rain So Sing? while seven months pregnant with his second child from producer husband Clarence Waller (44). Moh chose to wear green on the night as a nod to his Korean heritage, in that green as a color is historically representative of harmony, honesty, growth and stability in South Korea.

Why Does the Rain So Sing?'s portrayal of a Korean immigrant family in the United States torn apart over the fact that their first American-born generation is comprised of two gay sons and a lesbian daughter, received massive critical acclaim and despite a near clean sweep in the acting categories - only Best Actor nominee Freddie Park failed to take home an award for his performance as Lee Seosin, while Olivia Song and Kim Yeji claimed Best Supporting Actress and Best Actress respectively for their portrayals of firebrand lesbian daughter Lee Cho-Hee and imperious family matriarch Lee Jiwoo - the film failed to clinch Best Picture, in what many commentators viewed as a major upset.

His acceptance speech, widely touted in the media as the best of the night, included a beseeching for immigrant parents to accept their queer children for who they are, even if they don't understand them. The speech, however, crescendoed rather surprisingly when the very pregnant actor overbalanced midway through a sentence, falling down into a sitting position on-stage, after which he found himself unable to immediately stand again, due to his pregnancy. Instead, he posed with his Oscar statuette in the image above, which reached extreme levels of virality, with millions of edits, viral photoshops and short form videos shared in the weeks after the ceremony.

Moh's daughter Juliet was born just five weeks after the ceremony, on April 19th, 2024. Though now a father of two, the busy actor will appear in spy action thriller One Burned, currently set for release in July 2025.

3. DR. MARK PILLORY

Pre-eminent Stanford botanical biochemistry researcher and professor, Dr. Mark Pillory (51) made great strides in his goal of discovering new cancer-fighting substances present in plants within the Amazon basin in Brazil, finding two new plant extracts which may assist in the treatment of cancers of the bladder and stomach. Pillory, however, also spent half the year with a growth in his stomach that wasn't cancer-related: his son, Lyle, who he gave birth to in July, several days after the above photo was taken.

Lyle was born in the rainforest under the watchful ministrations of Amazon river adventure guide Claudio Teixeira (48), who also happens to be Pillory's local guide partner of fifteen years and Lyle's second father. Lyle joins older siblings Drake (12), Osvaldo (10), Maurício (9), Fernanda (5) and Fausto (2). Incidentally, naming rights to the baby are ceded to the bearing father in Pillory and Teixeira's relationship, and Lyle is only the second of their six children carried by Pillory, after eldest son Drake.

Dr. Pillory's research continues in 2025, with a planned four month expedition into the deeper portions of the jungle in search of a theoretical compound believed to be present in a mutated strain of fern that grows within an extremely limited area of the Amazon basin, but which, if proven real, may have a significant impact on the growth of lung cancer tumors.

Pillory also excitedly notes that if the schedule works out, he will be joined by eldest son Drake for two months of the expedition, during Drake's summer school break. This would be Drake's first time returning to the jungle since Dr. Pillory gave birth to him on an expedition in 2012. Though Pillory and the children reside primarily in Foster City, California for the majority of the year, the extended Teixeira family in Brazil have historically taken care of the children while both fathers explore the jungle for around a quarter of the year.

[city-flag-tournament]

✯ Round 2 ✯ Match 37 ✯

The current flag of Salem, Oregon, United States

Propaganda:

Pretty cherry blossom with trans colors

vs.

The current flag of Truskavets, Lviv Oblast, Ukraine

Propaganda:

None

Tournament Policies: ✯ Choose the flag that's more meaningful to you! ✯ Be respectful of place names and cultural symbols in your commentary! ✯ If you want to submit propaganda, you may do so at the submission form linked in the pinned post. It will only be included if it is submitted before the next post with that flag is drafted and will be included in all subsequent posts the flag is featured in.