#Roots & Shoots Program

[icadnationalhonors]

"When nature suffers, we suffer; when nature flourishes, we flourish."

Held at Expo City, Dr. Jane Goodall’s Roots & Shoots Conference was an inspiring conversation with youth and educators about her experiences with primates, climate activism, and education to encourage everyone present to take a more active part in the world’s conservation. Her research heavily influenced primatology, the study of primates, especially non-humans, and changed the way humans and animals interacted. Dr. Goodall emphasizes that chimpanzees were able to display the human traits of love, compassion, and altruism, which is why she is working hard to aid in the conservation of chimpanzees. In addition, Dr. Goodall’s many conservation efforts aimed not only to protect chimpanzees, but also all biodiversity on the Earth. 

Dr. Goodall’s transition into activism provided numerous people with inspiration and hope. She found that the community played a major role in conservation efforts— it requires collaboration from everyone to actively and effectively protect the Earth’s dwindling ecosystem. In fact, the founding of the Goodall’s Roots & Shoots program began with the youth’s collective activism and environmentalism. Her optimistic attitude has rubbed off on many people and furthered her conservation efforts. 

The world is plagued with many problems, not just environmental ones, but Goodall maintains the idea that there is indeed light, or a star, at the end of the proverbial tunnel. In her eyes, everyone is capable of making a meaningful difference; we just need to collaborate and work together. We need to take action now while there’s still time left, letting both our heads and our hearts guide us to a better, more sustainable future.

[fawnsuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀𓎢𓎟𓎡⠀ ݁🕯️⠀⠀eric david harris⠀⠀၇ৎܵ⠀𓎢𓎟𓎡

Eric David Harris Date of Birth: April 9, 1981 Height: 5 feet 6.5 inches Weight: 135-140 pounds

Eric David Harris was the 18-year-old son of Wayne Nelson Harris and Katherine (Kathy) Ann [Pool] Harris. He had one sibling, a brother named Kevin Harris, who was 21 at the time of Eric's passing.

Born in Wichita, Kansas, Eric grew up in a family with Colorado roots. His father, Wayne Harris, served in the Air Force as a transport pilot, holding various positions at multiple bases across Ohio, Michigan, and New York. Katherine Harris was a stay-at-home mother. The family resided in Plattsburgh, New York, until Wayne was forced to retire from the military in 1993 due to budget cuts. At his 20th high school reunion, Wayne expressed that his primary goal in life was to raise two good sons.

Eric was described as a "normal" teenager during his time in Plattsburgh. Former classmate Kyle Ross remarked, "My mouth just dropped. He was a typical kid. He didn't seem anything like what is portrayed on TV."

In July 1993, the Harris family relocated to Colorado, where Wayne secured a position with Flight Safety Services Corporation in Englewood, and Kathy found work as a caterer. Eric attended Ken Caryl Middle School, where he met Dylan Klebold in the seventh or eighth grade. They became close friends and spent considerable time together.

Initially, the Harrises rented their home for three years after moving to Colorado. Eric began attending Columbine High School in 1995. In 1996, the family purchased a $180,000 home just south of Columbine High School on Pierce Street. Eric met Brooks Brown on the school bus, with their residences in close proximity. Although Dylan had been friends with Brooks since first grade, they had lost touch when they attended different schools. Eric also met Nate Dykeman in Spanish class during the eighth grade, introducing him to Dylan, and forming a close-knit group of friends.

During his freshman year, Eric met Tiffany Typher in German class and took her to homecoming, which was their only date. When she declined to go out with him again, Eric staged a fake suicide, lying on the ground with fake blood. He later wrote in her yearbook (and Nate Dykeman's): "Ich bin Gott" - "I am God." In January 1997, during their sophomore year at Columbine, Eric and Dylan were arrested for breaking into a van but were released early due to positive participation in a juvenile diversion program.

That same year, Eric and Dylan were employed at Blackjack Pizza, where they later purchased one of the firearms used in the Columbine shootings from Mark Manes, a connection facilitated by their co-worker, Philip Duran. Robyn Anderson, a close friend of Dylan's, purchased two shotguns and a rifle, which she then provided to the teenagers who would later carry out the Columbine High School shooting. Eric and Dylan recorded a video of themselves using the firearms at Rampart Range with Manes and his friend Jessica Miklich, practicing with sawed-off shotguns and using bowling pins and pine trees as targets.

Eric and Dylan engaged in various mischiefs at Blackjack Pizza, including setting off fireworks in the back alley and booby-trapping the fence. They even set a fire in the kitchen sink on one occasion. Chris Morris, one of Eric's best friends, also worked at Blackjack Pizza and was arrested on April 20 due to suspicions of involvement in the shootings, though he was later cleared.

In 1997, Wayne Harris began keeping a diary documenting Eric's behavioral issues, which escalated after a falling out with Brooks Brown. According to Brooks' book, No Easy Answers: The Truth Behind Death at Columbine High School, the conflict began when Brooks was consistently late in giving Eric rides to school. After Eric confronted him multiple times, Brooks, who was not receiving gas money, suggested Eric find another ride. In retaliation, Eric broke Brooks' windshield with a rock and terrorized the Brown household with pranks, including placing firecrackers on their windowsill. Eric documented these actions in his personal journals and on websites.

The harassment prompted the Browns to contact law enforcement and Eric's parents. Although Eric apologized, tensions persisted, particularly after he posted Brooks' phone number in an online rant. This incident marked the beginning of Wayne Harris's documentation of his son's troubling behavior.

In January 1998, Eric and Dylan broke into a van and stole electronic equipment, leading to their arrest and sentencing to community service through the Juvenile Diversion Program. Eric expressed intense anger over this incident in his diary, yet presented a remorseful demeanor to his parents and the judge, resulting in early release from his sentence. Concurrently, Kathy began taking Eric to a therapist to address his anger management issues.

Eric aspired to join the Marines and took steps to apply; however, his application was rejected shortly before the shootings. At the time, he was taking Luvox® (Fluvoxamine maleate), an SSRI antidepressant prescribed for his anger management therapy, and had undergone surgery to correct a sunken sternum.

There are theories suggesting that side effects of Luvox® may have contributed to the tragic events, as many antidepressants now carry warnings about potential increases in violent or suicidal thoughts. Friends reported that Eric may have stopped taking the medication shortly before the rampage, which could have triggered a more violent reaction. Sudden cessation of antidepressants can exacerbate negative side effects and, in some cases, lead to severe outcomes. The autopsy report indicated low therapeutic levels of Luvox® in Eric's system at the time of his death. Luvox® typically has a washout period of about 14 days for a 60 mg/day prescription, with starting dosages generally at 50 mg/day and potentially increasing to 300 mg/day as needed. The drug is highly reactive to other substances, including alcohol and marijuana. Evidence suggests that Eric consumed alcohol and smoked tobacco, and friends indicated he may have used marijuana as well.

Eric was unaware of the rejection of his application. The recruiting officer could not reach him to inform him before the shootings. However, Eric's mother mentioned the drug during his meeting with the recruiter, which may have led him to believe his chances were lost, as he had not disclosed his use of an antidepressant during the application process. Friends indicated that Eric believed he would not be entering the military.

In the years leading up to the shootings, Eric was highly active on the internet, exploring its emerging landscape. Judy Brown, Brooks' mother, noted that she frequently saw Eric sitting in front of his computer, raising concerns about the amount of time he spent online. Eric and Dylan had their computers networked to play Doom together, with Eric maintaining a more substantial online presence. His webpages (under the aliases REB, Rebel, Rebdoomer, Rebdomine) garnered significant attention following the shootings, particularly due to the rants released to the public years after the investigation concluded.

The media's initial focus centered around two specific sites: the Doom II site Eric created around 1996 on WBS, and the WBS site prominently featured by news outlets, which contained only the lyrics to KMFDM's "Son of a Gun." The band distanced itself from the Trenchcoat Mafia and the shooters, as did various individuals listed on Eric's site. Marilyn Manson was also implicated by the media, despite no evidence suggesting he or Dylan were fans of his music. Manson publicly condemned the actions taken at Columbine.

A guest from the goth scene noted during a 20/20 broadcast discussing the shootings, "Yeah, blame the music, the clothes..." This reflects a common narrative where societal issues are attributed to external influences rather than examining the underlying problems within families and educational systems.

Eric participated in discussions on WBS (Web Broadcasting System), a platform that has since merged with the GO network. Copies of Eric's user profile remain accessible from before the merger. He was also an active AOL user, with screenshots of his profiles and notes available.

Other websites created by Eric included "Jo Mamma," a page featuring 'yo mama' jokes, along with another WBS page of KMFDM lyrics and a more explicit, threatening site on AOL that included rants about Brooks Brown and violent intentions toward Littleton. Brooks' parents, informed by Dylan Klebold of the website, filed a police report.

Following the Browns' report of internet threats, Eric began documenting his plans to attack Columbine. Speculation suggests they initially intended to carry out the attack on April 19 to coincide with the anniversaries of the Oklahoma City bombing and the Waco siege but later chose April 20 to align with the release of KMFDM's album Adios or potentially due to it being Hitler's birthday. The exact reasoning behind their chosen date remains unclear.

The so-called "graphic content" referenced by the media primarily consisted of images from Doom II. The "demonic pictures" in Eric's notebook were also mainly from the game. Eric maintained a collection of Doom and Quake graphics on his AOL website, but the more alarming content was the rants he published about his disdain for the world, targeting everyone, not just specific groups.

In the months leading up to the shootings, Eric and Dylan recorded their intentions to attack the school and its inhabitants on videotapes (the Basement Tapes), in school assignments, and in journals. Eric created detailed floor plans of Columbine and noted peak times in the lunchroom. In videos filmed in Eric's basement bedroom, where they showcased their weapons fitting under their trench coats, they expressed contempt for their peers, referencing individuals by name.

Eric died in the library from a self-inflicted shotgun wound, placing the barrel in his mouth before pulling the trigger. Conspiracy theories surrounding the circumstances of his and Dylan's deaths have circulated, fueled by the release of forensic photographs. However, these images were taken after thorough searches by the bomb squad, and neither body appeared in the positions initially found.

The Harris family relocated from Littleton shortly after the shootings, seeking to rebuild their lives. While they appreciate the support of well-wishers, they do not wish to be contacted regarding Columbine.

April 9, 1981 - April 20, 1999 Eric was an intelligent individual with a high GPA and a keen interest in not only playing video games but also in designing his own levels. He developed several levels for Doom and Quake, sharing them with friends from Columbine and online acquaintances. His friends characterized him as humorous and bright, though he could become intensely angry.

Eric and Dylan were classmates in a video production course, collaborating on home videos with friends.

Eric had a fondness for animals, particularly his Yorkshire Terrier, Sparky, who suffered from seizures. He also had a strong affinity for cats. His friend Alyssa Sechler noted that her cat adored Eric, and they shared a special bond. Alyssa described Eric as someone who greeted her with warm hugs, though he struggled with self-confidence and often felt inferior to his peers.

Like Dylan, Eric faced challenges with depression and feelings of worthlessness, particularly in the school environment, where he was subjected to ridicule by jocks.

He did not have a funeral, and if a private memorial service was held, details have never been disclosed. According to Jeffrey Toobin's book Homegrown, Eric was cremated, and his ashes were stored in an evidence locker under the supervision of private investigator Ellis Armistead, hired by the Harris family.

On June 11, 2001, Armistead placed the remains of Timothy McVeigh into a locker next to Eric Harris's cremains. Although there are rumors that Eric's ashes remain in this locker, the source does not confirm their current status.

On April 21, 1999, Eric Harris's body was taken directly to the Jefferson County Coroner's Office in Golden, CO, located at 800 Jefferson County Parkway #1000, Golden, CO 80401.

[pjackk]

It took me along time to realize my ex bf would hypnotise me contantly to make me his wet mouthed drooling diesel farm hed make me astraly programed to open my holes up and start to drip feed the giant tubes he invented just to take my deisel away and hed do it by making me eat a root that smelled like a whole dam neighborhood smell make me dizzy then hrd stuff me in a giga size sleeping bag with lots of damp slithers inside my bets on salomanders then hed get his buddies to come over and slap me around with plumbing pipe til i was knocked out now i always thought hw was just trying to get me out cold so he could make me his sweet slumbering oral piggie like we agreed on but he wouldnt touch me or nothin turns out hed just stand there and shoot da shit with his friends drinking my old crows after they hooked the tubes up then itd just drip drip drip all my diesel on da way out they get a bucket or 2 most days so no wonder im always fcking tired day after so id always fill up at the station next to the likker store so "Don't mind if i doo!" grab mysef another bottle little did i kno i would barely get any mself i found out cuz my #CreepCam was running & his time he did it in the bath room the lat time before i give him a real good talkingto and he was digusted by my #CreepCam & left on the spot i beg him to stay but he just shot at me with his .44 put 3 new holes in my chest but it didnt matter since i guess i never had a heart to crush in the first place but this is last time i ever bother to fw a guru for real this time

[charseraph]

Question about the term 'noosciocircus'. How did that word come about for you? I noticed it's somewhat similar to 'nociception', as in the nervous system's method of receiving painful stimuli. Is it connected at all or am I making connections that aren't there lol (also absolutely love what you're doing with digital circus/gangle, it's very inspiring to me :-))

Nociception has its root word in Latin’s nocēre, “to harm.”

Noosciocircus sounding similar is actually a fitting coincidence; it’s a combination of two Bad Ending prefixes and circus, which is a technical term in this setting.

noo- : relating to nootics (from Greek nous, “mind, perception”), a concrete and highly practical form of biopsychology that deals in mapping and manipulating mental architecture.

scio- : relating to scionry (borrowed from the horticultural term of a scion, a detached shoot from a plant), the practice of designing information exchange interfaces for seedlets, conscious artificial intelligences. This mainly revolves around machinery, computers, and programs for seedlet use. Scionry belongs to the greater science of neobotany, the study of seedlets.

Nooscionics refers specifically to the intersection of these two sciences concerning amity (intranootic information exchange capacity) between a seedlet and another mind.

circus : the term for an immersive noospace that supports simultaneity, concurrent presence of multiple intelligences, but blocks access to bodily senses and control. Note: simultaneity is not necessarily canon to Bad Ending, just the Noosciocircus setting.

The prefixes in noosciocircus indicate that its circus is located inside the mind of a seedlet. Specifically, Caine.

Coincidentally to your point, since the noosciocircus is being used to test semiohazards on the agents via the unwitting Caine, their bodies are being harmed (and pain is plentiful in the circus), but they don’t know the extent from the inside.

[raccoonfallsharder]

more questionable headcanons.

navigation | headcanons & imagines | rocket doms & subs for you

i’ve always enjoyed writing about the different rockets and i think about them way too much. one of my previous posts ended up turning into a threaded convo with @hibatasblog and @mrwolfhare about the rockets and their recreational drug-use, and i promised to put my headcanons into writing, so here they are lol.

considering the topic and some of the implications i'm going to go ahead and label this one NSFW (mdni) with gn reader as well. read the warnings and, as with all things, consume responsibly. ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

ROCKET DRINKS/SMOKES.

WARNINGS: alcohol & other drug use (varied). recreational (fun) substance-use, self-medicating substance-use, self-injurious (un-fun) substance-use. angst; violence, high-key suggestiveness/spiciness with reader but nothing explicitly smutty. mentions of aphrodisiacs, orgasms, occasional pet-names like sweetheart, and a plethora of intoxicants. universe-killer rocket is his own warning.

mcu rocket.

DRINKS: booze is actually this rocket’s drug-of-choice. almost every planet has some kind of fermented liquid intoxicant and since he’s willing to drink absolute swill, he can usually get it for cheap — not that he’s not perfectly willing to steal his alcohol. sometimes he wants something fancy that’s out of his price-range, and other times the barkeep’s being an asshole. either one is a perfectly reasonable excuse for some sleight-of-hand (or interfacing the cashiering program and looting the whole pub). if you were to ask rocket the purpose behind his drinking, he’d sneer at you and say it was a weird frickin’ question and that he drinks for fun. this is a lie. once he gets to know you a little more — trusts you with his old bruises and scars a little more — he might admit that he drinks to forget. this is also a lie. though to be fair, he probably doesn’t know it. like almost everything else he does, this rocket drinks to punish himself. he knows he ain’t lucky enough to forget jackshit, and frankly, he doesn’t deserve to. he knows he just sinks deeper into his memories the more intoxicated he gets. he knows he’s more likely to get mean and reckless and shoot somebody or blow up a bar — or worse, blow up a friendship. if rocket eventually starts drinking less around you, it might be because he doesn’t feel the quite the same need to be cruel to himself. look, we’re not at forgiveness yet, but this is a step in the right direction.

DRUGS: relatedly, this rocket doesn’t often use drugs to take the edge off his chronic pain. some part of him wants to feel it. it reminds him of how he failed his family, of how fucked-up the galaxy is, of how fucked-up he is. but he will occasionally use for other reasons, and not all of them are joyless. he’s not opposed to a buzz that sharpens his focus or helps him sleep or decreases his anxiety or makes certain things feel extra-good during 18+ activities, if you know what i’m saying (dude’s tried the synthetic version of the virgin’s calabash more than once, and honestly, it’s a good fuckin time). but if we’re talking about regular use…. well. sometimes he sits in the cockpit with his feet propped up on the flight controls with a wreath of smoke around his head. they say world tree root's good for seeing the dead,*1 and when he sips that cinnamon-peppermint haze, it burns and freezes all his thermoreceptors. two lungfuls is all it takes, and the constellations suddenly all look like lylla and teefs and floor and groot. and others, too ~ people who weren't even his fault, but seemed like they were probably decent enough before the universe snuffed 'em out. tibius lark, for instance. and garthan saal — even though rocket doesn't generally hold with cops. and yondu, who'd understood him better than anyone else before him. and that pink chick, too — the krylorian who'd worked for the collector. they all swim in the stars, happy and free and completely unaware of him, watching them like the galaxy's most miserable voyeur. he doesn't sleep those nights, no matter how heavy his eyes get — just stares at them and breathes in the ashes of yggdrasill, until his eyes blur and sting and all he can see are prisms and rainbows and splintered, watery light.

I IMAGINE as the two of you grow closer, he might share his smokes with you: seemingly reluctant, but so relieved to no longer have to go through this little ritual alone. it'll be rough the first few times. you don't always see what he sees — not till he shows you, like he's pointing out shapes in the clouds — and when you do, it'll make your vagus nerve clench and ache for him and the wistful twitch of his whiskers and ears, like he wishes he could join them. but over time — with your quiet presence — the vibe changes. the cockpit becomes a chrysalis and eventually, smoking no longer seems like a sentence that rocket carries out with a hollow gutted heart, but something the two of you share: quietly, in peace, in honor of and in communion with those who've returned to the stardust.

eidos rocket.

DRINKS: if this rocket is in the position to drink something straight from the bottle, he's definitely going for angargal's. it's classy scut, you know? but he's not above drinking whatever's local — not as long as it can peel the ceramic plating off a ship and give him a buzz without costing more than he wants to spend in the moment (the fact that he’s so good at stealing shit helps). he’ll toss back a fancier drink when he can — mostly ‘cause it's a way to spit in the eye of the rich chogs who look down on people like him — but asgardian mead and sovereign rum just don’t pack the kind of punch he needs to take the edge off.

DRUGS: speaking of taking the edge off — this rocket loves a j every now and then. he doesn’t smoke every day, but catch him perusing fresh blends whenever you stop for a lazy rotation on some new satellite or space-station. he's tried dried leafy concoctions made from everbloom varietals and world tree root, leaves from kymellian antigen-trees and embers of genesis — and countless cotati cultivars and asgardian herbs (including that one that made you all subby and sweet that first time he'd smoked with you). what can he say? he's always been partial to things that ignite. unfortunately, some drugs just don't come in the form of fire, and it’s worth noting that while asgardian booze may be weaker than the paint-thinner this rocket tends to prefer, asgardian elixirs are another story entirely. a drop on the tongue can have you seeing the secrets in-between the stars, or communing with the atoms in every texture your fingertips touch. rocket doesn’t like to admit it, but that last one works particularly well on a guy with such sensitive hands. he usually takes a drop or two right before he intends to pick up some sweet thing to bring home to his bunk on the milano — but he’ll just as often end up with his date waiting at mantlo’s, completely forgotten, while you find him crooning over the flight controls instead, or dismantling and reassembling all his favorite bombs and blasters, or purring and petting whatever tech he can reach when he’s shoulder-deep in the engine. either way, he figures, it’s a win. of course, he also keeps a vial more discretely tucked away in a little pocket on the underside of his hammock: an antidote for sleep-shifts when he dreams he’s stuck in the sensory deprivation chambers. those nights, when he wakes up certain that he’s not real, having an extra-enhanced sense of touch helps ground him. if he trusts you enough to let you into his bunk, you might notice that little pocket — and if you get close enough, you’ll find two other vials there as well: elixirs for recovery and renewal. those are for when the pain gets bad — or when he wakes up, sweating, certain he’s still in a spinal control unit: every nerve screeching and stuttering with the memory of bone-rattling, brain-melting electric shock.

I IMAGINE there are two other asgardian treats this rocket likes to keep on hand — specifically for bedroom shenanigans. as untrusting as this rocket tends to be in relationships, he does enjoy a good one-night stand — even the occasional “longterm arrangement” with interested parties. i don’t think he hesitates to bring in anything that he thinks will enhance pleasure, for either himself or his partner(s). so be prepared for him to offer you a lofn-kiss, purchased from one of his most-trusted dealers on knowhere. it’s a little hard-candy that tastes like sugared roses with a honey-flavored elixir inside, and oh, it’ll make you come harder and longer and more often and more frantically than you ever have in your life — for as long as it’s in your system. the other little thing he keeps in his cooler is a couple tiny bottles of his favored vintage of asgardian firefly-wine. it’s got a negligible amount of booze in it (enough to get you buzzed, though it doesn’t do anything for him). the real selling point for rocket is that it makes you glow all cutely when you’re about to come — and frankly, he just finds it gratifying to be able to see what a good flarkin’ job he’s doing. *2

cartoon rocket.

DRINKS: cartoon rocket consumes energy drinks by the gallon. he’ll drink coffee too — black and plain, or sludgy with sugar — but no cream. he wants nothing between him and that sweet sweet caffeine (plus whatever other panic-inducing poison the galaxy adds to its stimulants). he doesn’t drink alcohol all that much — though the energy drinks he prefers are banned in most systems and are often served under-the-table at intergalactic dive-bars as uppers — but when he does, it’s usually some kind of boilermaker: preferably with a dark beer, and a good half-shot or more of cream-liquor, just to make it extra-exciting.

DRUGS: this rocket thrives off caffeine pills and various space-amphetamines. he’s been known to occasionally break open the little capsules and add them to his coffee (which has usually already been… uh, enhanced by two bottles of whatever five-hour-energy equivalent he’s managed to pick up at the last space station). he hoards those little bottles like duct tape, friends.

I IMAGINE look, there are plenty of other stimulants, and this rocket likes ‘em all. i don’t take this incarnation for much of a chemical engineer himself, but i’m sure he’s got the hook-up to a self-proclaimed "pharmacist" who keeps him stocked in everything he needs to treat that undiagnosed ADHD (kids, don’t try this at home). the hyper-focus also distracts him from his depression and makes him feel so productive that he can convince himself he ain’t a worthless weirdo-runt, the only flarkin' one of his kind. unfortunately, this particular cocktail isn’t doing shit for his anxiety, and our little guy’s lucky that the unique process halfworld used to create him also strengthened his heart, ‘cause it would’ve certainly given up by now. every time you hug this rocket, you feel that vital blood-pumping muscle rattle in his chest like a goddamn drumroll on a snare. of course, that can only partly be blamed on the drugs and the coffee —at least when you’ve got him snuggled so damn tightly in your arms.

universe-killer rocket.

DRINKS: he'll drink whatever the fuck he wants — but to be honest, he's not that interested in alcohol. typical fermented beverages don't do anything for him anymore — not even the highest proofs in the multiverse. it's probably one of the reasons he's so damn cranky, actually. the poor guy hasn't had a satisfying buzz in more circs than he can remember. truthfully, he probably only drinks anything rarely. not all that gear he’s carrying around is made up of prosthetics and firepower, after all. i bet he's got a saline drip going, somewhere in there.

DRUGS: along with the saline, universe-killer rocket is on a steady dose of painkillers, chemically-engineered by himself and injected right into his bloodstream, thank you very fuckin' much. little crystal-armor vials — hidden in a cooled compartment somewhere in all that metal — slick his veins with juuust enough to take the scalpel-sharp edge off his constant twinges and aches without numbing him completely. this rocket runs a little hot, too — which he doesn't care about on his own; it's a negligible discomfort compared to everything else his poor body’s gone through. but once or twice, a bunch of vital life-support systems nearly overheated, and he couldn't let that happen again — not when he's still got so much to do. so there are some coolants, too — drugs of necessity rather than drugs of joy (or whatever passes for joy in this rocket's world). in terms of "recreational" use — if you want to call blowing up people and planets "recreational" — he's also got a little button somewhere in there that he can press for a particular stimulant. PRN, of course. gets all hyper-focused and his already-heightened senses heighten even further. bump that intuition up from .024 points of optimum grasp to .00035. when he's on this drug — his own brand of wundagorish everbloom, stolen from the high evolutionary's labs and synthesized to suit his needs, for once — it's like he can see the paths of all the planets and star systems and galaxies, glistening across the void of space like spidersilk in the moonlight: not where they've been but where they're going; not only their revolutions but right into the redshift. he can see the fuckin' future and he knows every move you're gonna make before you make it. *3 what more could a universe-killing cyborg want?

I IMAGINE the come-down is rough, man. losing access to all that practically-prescient perception leaves this rocket feeling vulnerable, and if you think other rockets hate feeling that way — well. buckle up, buttercup. if he's out in space or wreaking havoc on people he doesn't care much about, then their day is about to get infinitely worse, even if he does suddenly seem way more... well, sloppy. but if he's alone with his crew — and he does have a crew, though you wouldn't recognize most of them — he'll try to hide away and minimize fall-out. snarling and pacing in his quarters, his hair-trigger temper is already half-pulled. if you're lucky, maybe he's made you his coerced terran-consultant; if you're unlucky, you might be his collared humie pet — either way, it's not a good idea for you to stumble across him when he's like this. hopefully, he catches himself before he blows your brains out. if he does, keep your eyes down and back away slowly. don't make eye contact. hell, you might even want to bare your vulnerable belly or show him your pretty throat, just to be on the safe(r) side. that said, whatever you do: DON'T. RUN.

marvel rivals rocket.

DRINKS: there’s a dangerous drinking game at some of the underground clubs and raves this rocket likes to attend. order up “a full set of infinity stones” to get seated at a rotating tabletop — set with six brilliantly-colored shots per person, each one more reality-warping than the last. the goal isn’t just to slam your own six, though — nah, that’d be too easy. if you wanna play to win, you gotta shoot and steal as many drinks from everyone else in the game as you can, too. shooting and stealing ~ is it any wonder that this is one of rocket's favorite pasttimes? the winner is whoever finishes the round with the most infinity stones in their belly and hasn’t been laid out by them. it's a bit of a challenge, since most players will be swearing they can see time before they even get to the third glass. (spoiler: they can't see time. maybe if they could, they'd know rocket was gonna kick their ass ~ and then steal all their shit.) usually, wagers are made before the table is spun, and rocket makes sure to needle and bully his competitors into raising the stakes — again and again and again. then, thanks to his speed, sleight of hand, bonkers constitution, and willingness to cheat, he always wins. the only thing more interesting than his unbroken record is the fact that the intergalactic rumor mill claims he’s the one who invented the damn game. you’d think these morons would stop trying to win against him, but everyone wants a chance to beat the reigning champion. that's fine with rocket. it gives him a chance to do his other favorite flarkin' thing: gloat.

DRUGS: like i said in the previous post, i’m still figuring this rocket out. i suspect he’s the type to claim he’ll try anything once, though it’s only sort of true. he’s got a limited circle of people he trusts — mainly those who’ve been on his side in a fight — and he’s not about to take the newest synth drug on the market unless he knows he’s got a clearheaded ally watching his six — preferably one who can do some major damage. uh, the ally should probably also be able to hold rocket himself back, too. just in case. not that anyone can really hold rocket back. that said, i suspect rocket sees himself as that clearheaded ally for you. if you wanna try something new, he’ll grin and wink and flop his fur out of his eyes, and probably goad you into it if you're on the fence. i'll take care of you, sweetheart. don't you trust me? don't you remember how i had your back on klyntar? the minute he thinks anyone is even looking at you sideways, he’s already got the photon reaction chaingun out and is mowing them down. look at that cutie. he's so adorably vengeful when it comes to his friends. and you ~ well, you can decide for yourself whether or not that’s the kind of back-up you want when you’re high.

I IMAGINE unlike other rockets, who have probably all been banned in a laundry-list of dive bars across the galaxy (excluding universe-killer rocket, who goes wherever he wants and razes everything down), i suspect this rocket manages to charm his way into complimentary bottle service everywhere he goes. a flash of fang and earring, a smirky thanks sweetheart; you’re a doll to the server; a toss of the mane or a tip of the hat and a wink — well, anticipate getting the most attentive service you've ever seen plus free drinks every time he lures you into some shady club on digriz or conjunction. he’s always had these skills, of course — but recently, he’s decided to use them to impress you. so come on, sweetheart — join him on the mezzanine? watch the king kick these sorry losers’ asses at a round or twelve of infinity stones, while you sip that cute little low-proof drink you like so much. by the end of the night, he’ll probably win enough units to buy you a new ship of your very own — not that you’d wanna go off alone when you could stay with him though, right? that's what it means to be a team.

ewing/rosenberg/et al rocket.

DRINKS: a gargleblaster with angargal’s, neat. or maybe five. *4 like mcu rocket, this guy prefers to drink his intoxicants; unlike mcu rocket, he prefers to indulge himself when he does. it’s important to note that the gargleblaster is an established style of cocktail à la the hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy, wherein drinking one is described as “having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick.” yeah, that sounds right up this smooth fucker’s alley: bludgeoning himself to death in the most luxe way he can think of. what can he say? the guy just likes nice things, which explains the angargal’s too. that glarnack is smooth. not that this rocket won’t drink moonshine made in an unoxxian’s containment sock if it's the only thing on tap — he just prefers not to, unlike some of his counterparts. look, he might be a real dirtbag, but he enjoys the nicer, sweeter little luxuries in life when he’s got the chance, you know? rich coffee, good booze, well-tailored suits — and you. unfortunately, alcohol is a real depressant, which means that at the end of a booze-soaked night, this rocket’s always going to remember that he’s not particularly nice or sweet. which may be why he dislikes himself so damn much.

DRUGS: this rocket dips into recreational and practical usage now and then. certain sensory-enhancers, when his partner(s) are into it. a social cigar when he’s working a mark and the situation calls for it. maybe some low-grade stimulants when he’s the only one on the ship and trying to make it to the next rendezvous in good time. most often, though? this rocket indulges in the occasional cigarette when he’s sitting out on the flightdeck, all alone late in the sleep-shift. the brand he favors is a pretty clean-burning kind of indigarran tobacco — far less likely to put malignant growths in his lungs — and mentholated, too. of course, inhaling smoke is never without its risks, but the way the synthotine sands down all the sharp edges of his mood is worth it sometimes.

I IMAGINE it’s your first clue that he likes you, actually ~ though of course, you're a clueless little thing. air filtration systems on all rocket's ships are flarkin’ impeccable, and he doesn’t have to worry about lingering secondhand smoke for more than two minutes at any given time — but he also doesn’t rush to stamp out his cigarette if quill or gamora or drax happen to wander into the cockpit late in the rotation. it’s generally understood that after a certain hour, the flightdeck is his domain, and his alone — and anyone else intruding can deal with the d’ast consequences. but that first night you come wandering up to the copilot’s chair because you can’t sleep — adorably rumpled in your sleeping clothes, wearing cute little slippers, for flark’s sake — rocket’s choking on smoke like it’s his first time, lunging forward in his cocked-back seat to try and stub out his cancer-stick, flailing dark claws at the poisoned air to clear a fresh space for you to breathe. it takes you more than a few times to understand his reaction — at first you just assume he’s embarrassed, to be caught smoking late at night. never mind that you’d seen him at it once — off the ship on an abandoned planet, from a little ways away — and admired the way his dark hands had tenderly sheltered the cherry while he’d lit it. the embered tip had glowed as prettily as his eyes when he’d inhaled, head bowed and fingers cradled. it isn’t till much later in your, ah, friendship — palming his neck and muttering, using irritation as a screen to hide any softness — that he explains why he always rushes to put it out when you come on deck. it doesn’t matter how mild and barely-toxic these cigarettes are, he tells you vehemently. earthers got weak lungs. rocket’s sure he heard that somewhere. and why would he want you coughing up a storm when you could be snoozing so sweetly in the seat next to him all night? or worse, what if the smoke sickened your helplessly-unaugmented respiratory system? so take that in, and shower him with soft little thankyous and a light touch to his shoulder or the crown of his head. and for god’s sake — don’t remind him that he’s never seemed to care much about pete’s lungs.

skottie young rocket

DRINKS: acanti blubber ale, baby!*5 mostly because it's banned in an ever-increasing number of systems. if he's honest, it smells and tastes like shit (burnt rubber that slides down his throat the way hot grease slides down a kitchen sink) and when he thinks about the fact that it's made from the fat-reserves of a sentient, peaceful spacefaring whale — each one as naive and curious as a dumb little kid — he does feel vaguely guilty (he's even been known to get mopey if he thinks about it while he's drunk on it). but hey, he doesn't drink it very often! and he steals it anyway, so it's not like he's supporting the market with his hard-earned units! and besides, he makes it a point to blow the junk off every acanti poacher he comes across! which is — a surprisingly large number, now that he thinks about it. he always seems to attract the poachers.

DRUGS: if you ask this rocket, he'll tell you the best drug in the whole flarkin' universe is m'kraan. it's not really shaved off the shi'ar's mystical m'kraan crystal, but it might as well be, as far as he's concerned. fine and glittery as fairydust and sold (or stolen) in skinny paper tubes like the universe's most expensive set of pixy-stix, it comes colored and flavored and sugary-sweet — inducing even sweeter visions. everything has a halo when you're on m'kraan. you can feel the seams of the universe under your fingers. silk is more silky, sugar is more sugary. the stars are starrier and even pain feels like a lovesong. so yeah, this rocket will sing the praises of m'kraan, then probably wiggle his eyebrows and try to get you to take some too — just to see what happens.

I IMAGINE look, he's not a liar. at least not about this. he really does think that m'kraan is his favorite drug of choice (other than you, of course). there's just one thing this rocket has forgotten to factor in, and it's that he's huffing fucking engine fumes all goddamn day. this dude is gone on benzenes all the goddamn time. and when he isn't ears-deep in an engine — tail puffed up to thrice its natural size with pure euphoria — he's constantly canoodling with various explosives, and detonating bullets as big as your head: sucking in lungfuls of amyl acetate so strong that it leaves the sweet scent of bananas in his fur. it's just as well. this way you can cuddle him up for your own little candied contact-high.

SILLY NOTES 'cause i like to (loosely) base my silly shit on canonical silly shit

*1 the roots of yggsdrasill connect the realms of the living and dead.

*2 asgardian elixirs of recovery and renewal are mentioned in the comics, as is the elixir of lofn, which is a sort of asgardian love potion, if memory serves. and asgardian firefly-wine typically only makes moon elves glow i think, but we’ll call this is a special vintage.

*3 wundagore everbloom is technically native to earth, i think ~ but since the high evolutionary built wundagore ii in the stars, i feel confident that he experimented with lab-grown space-varietals. the flower allows people to see the future, but only after it has been "consumed twice", or, as i would phrase it, filtered through an intermediary. in this case, we'll imagine that the high evolutionary himself was likely force-fed the blossoms en masse, and after he was killed, rocket distilled and manufactured his synthetic everbloom “booster” from the contents of wyndham's stomach. ew. universe-killer rocket doesn't. fucking. play.

*4 gargleblasters with angargal's (neat) ~ Rocket: The Blue River Score (2017). Ewing, Gotham, et al.

*5 acanti blubber ale ~ Guardians Team-Up Vol 1, Issue 5 (2015). Lanning, Schmidt, & Duarte. acanti are sentient singing space-whales ~ one of the oldest and most-peaceful races in the universe.

animated star banner by @/enchanthings | excessive rocket banner by me lol

[ducksido]

This is my first time making a request, and I've seen a few of your culture!yuu posts. I enjoyed reading them a lot. I was wondering if you could make a post about a polish!yuu, if you have and find the time to do it. Please don't feel pressured to do it!

Polish!Yuu

Crowley

“Did you just bless my office with holy water?”

Simultaneously impressed and terrified by their fearless attitude.

Gets guilt-tripped into letting them cook in the dorm kitchens.

Grim

Lives for their food. "Those pierogi things? Give me twenty."

He learned the word “kurwa” and now says it constantly. They have regrets.

Trein

Very intrigued by their knowledge of Polish history and literature. Gets emotional when they talk about Chopin.

Lowkey touched when Yuu politely greets him like he's an elder relative.

Vargas

Blown away by their stamina and ability to wrestle wild magical beasts like it’s no big deal.

“You wrestled a chimera and said ‘it reminded you of Polish winters’? What??”

Crewel

Obsessed with their bold patterns and Catholic grandmother-inspired fashion.

Secretly takes notes when Yuu shows up in a perfectly layered winter outfit.

Sam

Fascinated by their superstitions and home remedies.

Starts selling jars of pickled mushrooms after Yuu convinces everyone they "heal everything."

Heartslabyul

Riddle

Deeply unsettled by Dyngus Day. “You...dump water on people...for fun?”

Admires their structured holiday traditions. Thinks Wigilia is very charming.

Ace

Teases them by mispronouncing Polish words. Nearly gets body slammed.

Finds them funny as hell when they start cursing in Polish mid-chaos.

Deuce

Thinks their family-centered values are beautiful. Tries to memorize Polish phrases to impress them.

Genuinely loves their food, especially gołąbki.

Trey

Wants all their family recipes. Learns how to make sernik (Polish cheesecake) from them and never goes back.

Cater

Uses “Polish-core aesthetic” for a photo shoot after seeing Yuu in a traditional folk outfit.

Is scared of their blunt comebacks. “Okay wow, that’s a roast and a blessing??”

Savanaclaw

Leona

Totally respects their stubbornness and refusal to bow to anyone. Calls them “Little Lion.”

“You once fought off what in a forest?” “Wild boars.” “Damn.”

Ruggie

Gets along swimmingly. They bond over poverty meals and survival instincts.

Trades fried pierogi for donuts. It's a win-win.

Jack

Likes their no-nonsense, proud-of-their-roots vibe.

Hikes with them and gets annihilated when they start climbing like a goat in the Tatra Mountains.

Octavinelle

Azul

Initially tries to manipulate them. Regrets it immediately.

“In Poland we have a saying: ‘Don’t try to con a Polish grandma, she’ll hex you.’”

Their kompot becomes a Lounge drink special.

Jade

Very interested in their mushroom foraging knowledge. They swap tips like they're trading secrets in a spy movie.

Floyd

Thinks Dyngus Day is the best thing ever. Goes feral with a hose.

Calls Yuu “Little Firecracker” after they sock a guy for insulting their dumplings.

Scarabia

Kalim

LOVES their festive spirit. “You guys make a second Christmas dinner??”

Absolutely throws a Polish-themed party. It’s chaos.

Jamil

Relates to the “eldest daughter syndrome” vibes Polish!Yuu radiates.

Can’t believe how spicy their horseradish is. Sheds a tear.

Pomefiore

Vil

Sceptical of their “rustic look” at first, but after seeing them in traditional Polish dress? Impressed.

“You braid your hair for Christmas? That’s…kinda iconic.”

Rook

OBSESSED. “Ah, mon petit miracle polonais!” Immediately fascinated by their folklore.

Stalks them during Andrzejki fortune telling night.

Epel

Thinks they’re so cool. They wrestled pigs as a kid too?? Besties.

They start cursing together in Polish and Yuu teaches him how to make kielbasa.

Ignihyde

Idia

Is shocked when they’re a walking survival manual and a gamer.

“Wait, you guys made The Witcher? You’re instantly 900% cooler.”

Ortho

Reads up on Polish inventions and gets very excited. “Did you know about the Polish space program??”

Asks Yuu to teach him Polish tongue twisters for fun.

Diasomnia

Malleus

Deeply respects their reverence for family and tradition. Totally gets the old soul energy.

Loves that Poland’s national symbol is a white eagle. Approves.

Lilia

Knows a suspiciously large amount about Polish wars and uprisings.

Duels Yuu in a pierogi cook-off. It’s intense. (Who am I kidding? Its a guaranteed lose for Lilia)

Silver

Thinks Wigilia is beautiful. Falls asleep listening to their childhood Christmas stories.

Sebek

Tries to insult them. They hit back with a Polish proverb so powerful he malfunctions.

“In Poland, we say: ‘Not my circus, not my monkeys.’ Keep your drama, Sebek.”

RSA & Noble Bell College

Chenya

Thinks Polish legends are sick. “The Wawel Dragon? That’s metal as hell.”

Neige

Loves their traditional dance and music. Tries to copy a mazurka. Trips.

Rollo

Mildly frightened by how Catholic they are.

“You sprinkle holy water on people... casually?”

Extras

Teaches everyone the Polish art of passive-aggressive kindness.

Makes the entire school say “Na zdrowie!” after sneezing.

Has threatened multiple people with a rolling pin and no one questions it anymore.

Introduces everyone to Polish ghost stories. NRC sleeps with lights on for a week.

Welcoming Polish!Yuu

First Impressions from the Others

French!Yuu – “Your poetry is gorgeous. So tragic. So romantic. So… death.” Romanian!Yuu – “Tell me your ghost stories. I’ll tell you mine.” Greek!Yuu – “You have gods and monsters too? Slavic folklore goes hard.” Czech!Yuu – “We’re cousins in chaos and trauma. Let’s bond over haunted forests and sarcastic jokes.” Hungarian!Yuu – “Our histories align in pain and power. Let’s not talk about it—just drink and cook.” Italian!Yuu – “You’re quiet… until someone insults your cooking. Then you go full war mode.” Mexican!Yuu – “You honor your dead like we do. It’s beautiful. And kinda spooky.” Brazilian!Yuu – “You guys throw Christmas parties in the snow? I’m not built for that, bro.” Aboriginal!Yuu – “You carry your people’s resilience in your silence. I see that.” South Georgia!Yuu – “Sugar, you look like you’ve seen generations of ghosts. You okay?” Egyptian!Yuu – “I respect ancient strength. Yours comes in the form of grandmothers and folklore.” Pakistani!Yuu – “You’re lowkey terrifying and I love that about you.” Aussie!Yuu – “You say this is fine while surrounded by chaos. Iconic.” Florida Man!Yuu – “You’re quiet but I just know you’ve got the wildest family stories. Spill.” Filipino!Yuu – “You also believe in curses and old spirits? I feel so seen.” Indonesian!Yuu – “Your respect for tradition is so cool. Also, I heard your pickles slap.” Malay!Yuu – “You’re the kind of person who’d laugh during a horror movie. We should hang out.” Thai!Yuu – “Wait, your grandmas throw shoes? Same here.” Vietnamese!Yuu – “You eat soup in cold weather. I eat soup in hot weather. We’re both valid.” Chinese!Yuu – “You have dumplings and tea. I like you already.” Indian!Yuu – “Your spice tolerance is surprising. I approve.” Japanese!Yuu – “You value respect, heritage, and silence. I think we’d understand each other.” Jamaican!Yuu – “You say less but your eyes say everything. I vibe with that.” Sicilian!Yuu – “You have a look that says you know where the bodies are buried. I like that.” Irish!Yuu – “You drink like a legend and curse like a saint. Soulmate.” Scottish!Yuu – “You and I could overthrow a government with two glares and a rolling pin.” Quebecois!Yuu – “You’ve got rebellion in your blood, don’t you?” Welsh!Yuu – “Your folklore is wild. Let’s compare dragons and death spirits.” Austrian!Yuu – “You're the only one I trust to sit in silence with. No awkwardness. Just vibes.” Louisiana!Yuu – “You believe in curses, spirits, and putting butter in everything. Instant besties.” Swedish!Yuu – “We both have terrifying winters and old legends. Let’s bond over coffee and ghosts.”

How Polish!Yuu Fits In

A quiet force of nature. Polish!Yuu doesn’t speak unless they mean it. But when they do? The room listens.

Folklore heavy. They’ve got everything from forest witches to haunted salt mines. They share legends with Romanian!Yuu, Thai!Yuu, and Filipino!Yuu like trading cards.

Food-based love. Dumplings, soups, stews, cabbage rolls—they show love through meals and side-eyes if you don’t eat seconds.

Unshakeable patience. They’ve endured long winters, tougher family holidays, and neighbors who won't return casserole dishes. They do not crack easily.

Soft inside, spiky outside. They'll knit you a scarf and threaten anyone who hurts you. Probably with a ladle.

Who They Vibe With

Romanian!Yuu, Czech!Yuu, Hungarian!Yuu – Slavic solidarity, spooky storytelling, and passive-aggressive baking. Filipino!Yuu, Indonesian!Yuu, Malay!Yuu – Mutual understanding of spirits, superstition, and loud aunties. Irish!Yuu & Scottish!Yuu – Dry humor, darker jokes, and the ability to drink while plotting rebellions. Egyptian!Yuu & Greek!Yuu – Deep roots, reverence for ancestors, and shared chaos in ancient culture. Swedish!Yuu & Austrian!Yuu – Quiet, practical, and able to speak without words.

Final Thoughts

Polish!Yuu may come in like a whisper, but they leave an impression like a storm. They're a solid friend, a brilliant cook, and a source of folk wisdom that ranges from oddly comforting to spine-chilling. Whether they’re telling you a story, feeding you dumplings, or standing beside you in silence when things get rough—Polish!Yuu is the heart you never expected but always needed in the Culture!Yuu family.

[365emotionlessfaces]

nobody:

Dj Khaled: Anotha one!

i have all of the parts written, so i’ll probably just be uploading them all today as i finish the minimal editing that i do 🤷‍♀️

The Aspiring Teachers Program

Part 3 WC:~1.4k

Parent Trap was up before her the next morning. When Melissa’s eyes fluttered open, she turned her head to face the young girl’s bunk across the room, and upon seeing it was empty, Melissa made the decision to get up, too. After she got dressed, denim shorts and a simple green t shirt, she made her way to the mess hall. Looking down at her watch, Melissa realized they had opened twenty minutes ago, and hoped she would be able to find a seat.

Melissa was able to grab a bowl of breakfast and ‘Thank God, coffee!’, and as she scanned the hall for a seat, she didn’t see many seats open for her. Just as she was about to head to the door and find a picnic table outside, she saw her Aspiring One pop up out of her seat and wave to Melissa with the biggest smile Melissa had ever seen, signaling that the girl had saved her a seat. Melissa weaved through the crowd and took her place beside the girl.

“Today‘s the fishing tournament, I think,” Parent Trap didn’t take her eyes off Melissa as she waited for a response. Melissa, who hadn’t even had a chance to sip her coffee, just hummed in response, taking the chance to take her first drink. “We’ll have this one in the bag! I grew up on a bunch of different lakes.”

“Where ya from, anyways?”

“Michigan.”

“Oh, God. You’re a Lions fan, ain’t ya?” The girl laughed nervously before she told Melissa which team she actually rooted for. “A cheesehead?!” Melissa had responded incredulously. “That’s worse!” Melissa smirked when the girl turned red.

“I dunno. My parents and grandparents were all Packers fans, I think it’s genetic,” the girl grinned proudly when Melissa laughed at her joke.

They finished the rest of their meals in a comfortable silence, one Melissa was quite grateful for. When they met at the main beach area to begin fishing, Melissa realized that she had never been fishing. Before she and Joe got married, the dates were all fancy restaurants, and dinners. After they got married, Joe insisted that his fishing weekends were ‘Just for the guys, babe,’ and Melissa had never argued. She tried not letting Parent Trap realize she might be out of her depths with this one. Bullhorn Lady explained that everything at the camp was at everyone’s disposal. The only rule was that you had to get the biggest fish.

It started out slow. Everyone standing on the beach, some even wading out into the water to try to reach the bigger fish. Whether Parent Trap had sensed her hesitation or she was just genuinely trying be helpful, but Melissa noticed that every time she needed one, the young girl was right there to put a worm on her hook.

After a few hours of coming up empty handed, Parent Trap started scanning the camp, as if she were looking for something. Melissa had asked her what she was doing, and the girl’s response was to tell her to ‘hang on’ and ‘she’ll be right back,’ before shooting off into the camp. When she returned ten minutes later, the girl was dragging a pedal boat behind her.

Melissa noticed the looks of the other groups as she and Parent Trap pedaled their little boat out onto the lake. They all looked pretty upset they didn’t think about it first, especially the middle-aged men who had waded waist-deep into the lake.

Melissa couldn’t hide the smirk she had. When she looked back from the men making their ways out of the water to find their own boats, she was met with those damn shiny eyes staring at her intently.

“You’re really beautiful, Em,” Melissa noticed that Parent Trap was blushing again, and she made a mental note that this was the first time the girl had called her by her name. “I hope your husband knows how lucky he is.”

Melissa was jarred by this statement. She looked down at her left hand, and realized she still had that stupid wedding ring on, and her thoughts started to revolve around that stupid man that’s in her house, probably with another woman already. She felt her anger bubbling, and to avoid showing the young girl, she stared intently at the water beside her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything-”

“S’fine.” Melissa muttered. The girl didn’t take her eyes off Melissa, until the redhead continued, “I’m divorcing him. Found him with a dumb broad in our bed.” Melissa huffed angrily. She sat still for a moment before pulling the ring off her finger.

The girl sat beside her and watched as the redhead launched the ring into the lake, hearing the tiny plop that it made about ten feet away before it sank to the bottom, never to be seen again. “He’s stupid for that,” the girl looked at her shoes. “Fumbling you, I mean, he got a Flint Fifteen, and wherever you’re from, I bet you’re the most beautiful woman around, like a one hundred,” the girl said.

Melissa looked back at the girl, and just took in the girl’s presence. She was blushing again, and Melissa couldn’t help but think about being able to make the girl blush all the time. It was a cute look for her, all flustered-like.

“Maybe not. I’m not the easiest person to be around,” Melissa sighed thinking of all the fights she and Joe had, all the times he told her she wasn’t good enough for anything, and all the times she believed him.

“I wouldn’t want to be around anyone else,” Melissa felt her heart tug at the girl’s words. No one had ever told Melissa that she was important enough to be their top priority, and here was this kid practically throwing herself at Melissa. Melissa didn’t realize how close their faces were until-

“Oh!” The young girl exclaimed, pulling away from Melissa. She reached for her fishing pole as the line jiggled, and began reeling as fast as she could. Melissa, stunned that she had been close enough to kiss the girl, sat back in her seat and tried to push away the feeling in her stomach. The feeling that told her she should’ve done something.

As the girl was excitedly reeling in her fish, Melissa’s mind wandered. Did she wanna kiss the girl? Hell yeah, she did. But she’s a kid! She’s nineteen! But the girl’s making it pretty clear- No! She’s nineteen.

“Em! Look at this thing! It’s huge!!” Melissa was snapped out of thoughts and presented with a giant, wiggling fish. She immediately curled her lips in disgust. This thing was gross, and Parent Trap was way too excited for Melissa’s liking. “We’re definitely winning this one, too.” The girl stood proudly on her seat, showing off her prize to the older woman.

Melissa couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s enthusiasm. “That’s great, hon. Now put it in the cooler, so we can head back to actual land.” The girl laughed softly, and did as she was told. Melissa couldn’t find the pause or stop button for the audio track in her brain, so the entire way back to the beach, Parent Trap’s laugh replayed in her mind, over and over again, soft and sweet, and something Melissa decided she wouldn’t mind hearing all the time.

When the judgement was over, and Melissa and her Aspiring One were handed the second place ribbon, Melissa saw the look of disappointment on the girl’s face and decided she had to fix it. So, when their hard-earned free time arrived, Melissa made the decision to share her secluded beach spot.

When the girl walked out of the bathroom in a bikini that even Melissa would have hesitated to wear, the redhead’s jaw almost hit the ground. And when they headed for the beach, Melissa definitely didn’t let the girl walk ahead of her so that she could stare at her ass the whole way. That was just a bonus.

Melissa couldn’t remember a time when she had laughed this hard, or when she had enjoyed being in someone’s company this much, and when time for dinner came, she found that she didn’t want it to end. Unfortunately for her, Parent Trap was insisting she was starving.

Part Four

[witchofthesouls]

About the Other/Cybertronian!TFP crew in Jack, Raf and Miko…

What would their alt modes be like, do you think? Would they be more Autobot, Decepticon, or Predacon in nature? Also, what kind of shenanigans would each of them get into?

Personally, I do enjoy the thought that cyberized!humans would have a slant towards 'military' upgrades and beastial traits. Like a tribute to humanity's ties to the animal kingdom and their capacity for arms (tool usage lol). Think of it how a lot of civilian equipment, vehicles, fashion, and architecture, as well as groundbreaking discoveries, had a lot of roots from warfare or military applications.

Shoot, I'm thinking that Aligned verse cyber!humans could be considered throwbacks since the initial generations of early Cybertronians didn't have T-cogs!

I think it would be really fascinating to build on the Cybertronians' form of ableism (as seen with Bumblebee and Starscream with their stolen T-cogs) compared to a cyber!Agent Fowler -who was an Army Ranger-or a cyber!random human that lacks a weapon system and/or conventional armature. Plus, the massive culture clash between American views on social mobility versus Golden Age Functionist-held caste system.

(So much shenanigans there.)

Generally, my thoughts for their Cybertronian forms are consistent across the various Other aus with some tweaking on the plot and the world-building:

Jack has deep ties to blackbirds and corvids, so he's capable of flight. May have multi-forms as an ode to a fae heritage or something strange as a direct descendant to a Prime of Chaos upon a planet caging the Unmaker. Dark frame with a pale face. His (and his mother's) optics would be a grey-blue hue.

Miko is a War-Forged Seeker femme. A lot of is due my headcanons on Seekers (and their kin) and her yōkai roots. War-Forged is what I'm specifically calling Elita One's frame-kith. Cybertronians used to bleed pink, so the bright pink armor is callback their Primal Age and their ancient roots. War-Forged are mecha with extreme combat-related programs that modern science as yet to come close to surpassing them.

As for Raf, he's a dragon. Not quite a Predacon, but it's definitely aligned. Or, weirdly enough, a satellite. I think it would be funny if he's similar to Soundwave in some ways there. The Autobots would need to deal with his data-cables. A dragon shape as it's a call his family's roots to being adventurers to Elsewhere, his dad being a dragon himself, and the old warning: "Here be dragons."

[lamardeuse]

well. shit. the Kenny interview just made me realize this may be really happening, huh? if it's real, here's the thing:

Tim Minear is not special. There have been so many TV powers that be, whether creators or showrunners or networks, who have been fundamentally incapable of guessing the ingredients in the secret sauce, the magic stored in this creative endeavour they've been entrusted with - even if they played a hefty part in making it. I'm sure all of us could name a dozen shows like this: shows we loved where that magic gets lost when TPTB think the format needs a "shakeup" or the program needs a "broader appeal". Sometimes it's a reaction to something happening behind the scenes, such as an actor asking for what they consider to be too much money or a Black woman knowing her worth and having the audacity to ask for better treatment (yeah, I'm talking about more than one show). They decide that they know better than the audience what the audience wants, enjoys or expects from the show. And nine times out of ten, it backfires.

911's special sauce is, first and foremost, that its core cast is incredibly fucking talented and - more than that - beyond happy to work together, in a way I haven't seen on many TV shows. There seem to be no prima donnas on that cast, and the #1 and #2 on the call sheet lead by example when they have every right by Hollywood custom to put up their feet and demand star treatment. I defy you to find an actress of Angela Bassett's calibre, experience, and status who would go through that whole cruise ship filming ordeal, but she did it. Krause puts himself through the same longass overnight shoots the rest of the cast does. The show itself is not great art, it's basically a high concept soap opera that only works because the writers have created loveable characters and the actors make you root for them no matter how silly the plots get. And because everybody lives and nobody dies.

If we wanted to watch a show where people die on the regular, we have a hundred other options. But this is one of the reasons we tune in to this show. We LIKE the stakes being low, we like our escapist nonsense, we're good with it.

One of the pitfalls of being in charge of a TV show, it seems, is you get to the point where you think you're making Great Art, and worst of all that you're smarter than the audience. Tim decided the audience (and who knows, maybe the actors) needed a lesson, needed to know after seven and a half seasons of keeping everyone intact that people could actually die. But here's the thing: we're not fucking stupid. We know all of this shit everyone survives could have killed them several times over in the real world, or on a TV show that was based in reality. But 911 has never been based in the real world, and we don't care.

Tim could have been happy that he and the other writers and cast and crew had created a show where the audience was able to suspend its disbelief to a frankly ridiculous extent because they loved the characters and actors that much, but instead he decided he was making a different show after seven and a half years. And if this is real and Bobby is really dead - and right now it seems like the only way it might not be real is if Tim hasn't told the actors what he's planning for the finale - I can't help but wonder if the secret sauce is gone forever.

Fuck.

[captainsophiestark]

Not A Relationship Guy

Tristan Flynn x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Requeted by Anon! This is the Tristan Flynn part of "Az or Flynn" lol. Thanks again for enabling me to write about my faves! Hope you like it! Also, Happy Valentine's Day everybody!

Fandom: Crescent City

Summary: Bryce's good friend from Nidaros has moved to Crescent City with her, and quickly made an impression on a certain fae lord. But she's not interested in a one-night stand, and Flynn has made it clear before that he's not really a relationship guy.

Word Count: 5,252

Category: Angst, Fluff, Humor

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

When I'd first come to Crescent City, I hadn't known anyone other than Bryce. We'd grown up together in Nidaros, and now as adults, we'd maintained our close friendship even after she moved away. About a month ago, I'd joined her, following her move to the big city. I'd been terrified and out of my depth, with Bryce as my only connection in the massive metropolis. Now, I stood shoulder to shoulder with the top ranking members of the Fae Aux, screaming as we spectated the end of a beer pong game in the middle of a massive house party.

Things had certainly changed.

Declan and his boyfriend Marc stood on one side of the table, competing against a few people I didn't know. I was still relatively new, although my circle had expanded thanks to Bryce. Dec and Marc only had one cup left on their opponent's side, and then the game would be theirs.

The whole room screamed, a mix of heckling and encouragement, as Dec lined up his shot. Bryce hung off my neck, stone cold sober but shouting like the drunkest one in the crowd, which made me smile. Finally, after an extra moment's pause, Dec let the ball fly.

A moment later, it splashed into the cup, making Marc and Dec the winners.

The room erupted into cheers, no matter if people were rooting for or against Dec. A shot like that had to be appreciated.

The other team got a chance at redemption, but couldn't manage to get all of Marc and Dec's cups without missing. The game officially ended, with Marc and Dec's ten game win streak remaining unbroken.

"Boo!" came a loud voice, stepping through the crowd to the side of the table the losers had just vacated. Tristan Flynn stood tall, heckling his best friend across the table. "Somebody needs to take you two down!"

"Somebody just tried, Flynn!" Dec called back. "And you tried a few rounds ago, too. We're untouchable."

He and Marc did a little celebration, and Flynn rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, that was with Ruhn as my partner. I just need a better partner, and then you two are done." His eyes turned to scan the crowd, landing immediately on Brcye.

"Quinlan-"

"Nope. No interest in being your teammate, Flynn."

He put a hand to his chest, mock hurt. "You wound me, Quinlan."

Bryce rolled her eyes. "You'll live. Besides, you're in luck. I happen to have the perfect partner for you."

Flynn raised an eyebrow in question at the same time Bryce gave me a hard shove forward. I turned to glare at her, but she just grinned back and gave me a little 'shoo' gesture. I narrowed my eyes at her even further, but turned back to Flynn anyway.

He watched me with a skeptical gaze. We'd gotten to know each other a little since I'd come to Lunathion, and we generally got along. That didn't make him trust me as a beer pong partner, though.

"Are you any good at pong, sweetheart?" he asked. I shrugged.

"I guess you're gonna find out."

With that, I turned from Flynn to quickly rerack the cups before picking up one of the balls on the table. I turned to Dec and Marc, waiting for one of them to do the same so we could shoot for who went first. They shared a look, then Dec stepped up, grinning at me as he prepared. I could feel Flynn hovering over my shoulder, but I ignored him as Dec and I locked eyes.

"Eye... to... eye," we said in sync, not looking away from each others' eyes as we let our first shots fly. I sank mine, but unfortunately, so did Dec.

I turned to Flynn. He didn't look impressed, exactly, but the wary skepticism had been replaced by a small, crooked smile.

"You're up," I said simply. Flynn didn't hesitate before stepping up to the table and going through the same procedure Dec and I had just done, but with Marc shooting opposite him. Like me, Flynn splashed his into a cup, but Marc's shot narrowly missed and bounced off into the crowd.

I let up a whooping cheer and high-fived Flynn, who was full-on grinning now. Marc and Dec just shook their heads.

"That means nothing," Dec called across the table. "You're both still toast."

"Yeah yeah, talk is cheap," I shot back. "Toss the other ball over here and let's get this upset on the road."

The game was truly a battle for the ages. The majority of the crowd had quickly rallied behind Flynn and I, since Dec and Marc had been dominating for far too long. They continued to sink shot after shot, but so did we. We held our own, using trash talk and head games and anything else we could think of to our advantage as the game went on.

I wasn't normally a super quiet person or anything, but since I'd been new to town and not in any party scenarios with Bryce's friends before this, I hadn't been ridiculously loud either. Now, however, I screamed, cheered, and jeered at the top of my lungs. With every celebration of success and mocking of the other team's misfortune, I caught Flynn staring at me more and more, an appraising look in his eye. I mostly ignored him, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a warm feeling in my chest when he grinned at me.

We both stayed focused and at the top of our games until, finally, each team only had one cup left. Marc and Dec had briefly pulled ahead, but Flynn had knocked out one of their cups to tie it. Now, the game rested on me.

"C'mon, you can do this!" shouted Flynn, putting his hands on my shoulders and jumping around a little to hype me up. I nodded, then turned to line up my shot as Flynn stepped back.

Marc and Dec were screaming, waving their hands everywhere to try and throw me off. The crowd screamed and the music blared, but I blocked it all out. I took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, my eyes laser-focused on the cup ahead.

Without giving myself time to second guess, I brought my arm forward and let the ball fly. A second later, it landed with a splash in the final cup of Marc and Dec.

"YES!" roared Flynn, and a moment later my feet had left the ground. He'd wrapped his arms around my waist and picked me up in celebration. I laughed, absolutely beaming as Flynn set me down again.

"Alright, alright, it's not over yet!" Marc reminded us, bringing us out of the moment. "We get redemption shots."

"Even if you drag us into overtime, we're untouchable now," Flynn called. Our opponents ignored him, even as I joined Flynn's heckling and the two of us did everything we could think of to distract or psych out our opponents.

Marc shot first, and he missed. Me, Flynn, and apparently everyone else in the room held our breaths as Dec shook out his arm, then lined up his shot. Flynn and I waved our hands around, jumped up and down, and shouted things we thought might distract Dec, moving perfectly in sync like we'd been a team our whole life. Finally, Dec let the ball fly.

Flynn and I ripped our hands back to avoid any accidental interference that would cost us the game, and a split second later, Dec's ball bounced off the rim of our last cup. I reacted like lightning. According to the rules, once it hit the cup, it was fair game. I smacked it out of the way, off the table and into the crowd, before it could fall one way or the other.

"NO!" wailed Dec, sinking to his knees dramatically across the table.

"YES!" Flynn and I screamed in sync, and he picked me up again and spun me around. He put me down a moment later, still beaming, hands still around my waist. Our eyes locked, both caught up in the moment of euphoria, and he leaned towards me just a bit. I smiled, squeezing his arm but turning away to where Marc and Dec were still going through the stages of grief across the table.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to kiss Flynn. But I also knew he wasn't a relationship kind of guy. The three different females I'd seen him make out with throughout the party tonight were testament to that. I didn't want to just kiss him and then try to pretend to go back to normal as friends the next day, so instead, I focused on the euphoria of our win.

Flynn let the moment pass, too, as we gloated over Marc and Dec's defeat. Finally, after significant whining and complaining, they wandered off and another pair stepped up to challenge me and Flynn. We ran the table for the better part of an hour before stepping away to do other things, our win streak still intact.

I stayed at the party with Bryce for a little while longer, dancing and laughing the night away. Flynn joined us for basically all of it, making a point of paying attention to me, talking and laughing with me. He toed the line of flirting more often than not, and never wandered to other parts of the party even though Bryce spent significant time roasting him every chance she got. When she and I finally left the party just after two in the morning, we only got a few steps from the frat house before she turned to me.

"Alright, spill. What's going on with you and Flynn?"

I laughed, gently bumping my shoulder into hers as we walked. "Nothing's going on, Bryce. He's a friend, that's it."

"I've seen how he acts around his friends, and that's not it. I know you're new, but you must've noticed the difference too."

I sighed. "Yeah, I have. And I won't lie, Bryce, he's great. He's funny, I like talking to him and spending time with him. Obviously he's gorgeous. But based on everything I've seen from him, he's not interested in an actual relationship with somebody. Likewise, I'm not interested in making out with somebody at a party and having that be the end of it. So I think it's best if we just stay friends."

Bryce nodded thoughtfully, letting a comfortable silence rest over us for a few blocks as we walked side by side. I thought that was the end of it, but then she chimed in again.

"I've never seen him keep flirting with somebody as long as he did with you tonight. Normally if he hasn't gotten what he wanted in about twenty minutes, he moves on."

I didn't respond. I mean, what was I supposed to say? I wasn't sure Bryce really knew what she was trying to say either, and a second later, she moved on with a curse. I looked at her in question, and she sighed.

"I just got a text from Jesiba. I have to go into work in the morning."

I winced in sympathy, then let Bryce complain to me the rest of the way home. I fell into bed after promising her some kind of baked good when she got home tomorrow to help her get through the work day, and figured that would be the last of the discussion on things with Flynn.

I was very, very wrong.

For the next few weeks, whenever I did any activity that included Flynn, he took every opportunity he got to flirt with me. I never reciprocated, but I didn't totally shut him down either. More than a few of my friends other than Bryce had mentioned it, but I usually brushed their questions off. Flynn and I got on like a wild fire, there was no denying it. But just staying friends, hopefully good friends, still seemed like the best choice to me.

Around a month after Flynn had first started flirting, our whole extended group had decided to go out to the White Raven together to dance the night away and do whatever the hell we wanted to do. Bryce shot me a look on our way out the door, and I raised an eyebrow after locking the door behind us.

"You look good. Are you going to keep ignoring Flynn, or are you finally planning to do something about him tonight?"

I waved her off. "I already told you, Bryce, I'm not-"

"Interested in a one-time thing, yeah, I know. And that's fine. But he's been chasing you for a month. I think you should talk to him, let him know you're not interested."

"I'm sure he'll lose interest soon enough, B. Probably tonight, when he finally gets a break from work to the point that he notices some pretty thing dancing next to him and forgets he ever had a thing for me."

She gave me a skeptical look, but I ignored it. Flynn had become my best friend other than Bryce over the last month, but I wasn't about to start kidding myself that I might be the exception to his lack of interest in relationships.

Bryce and I were the last to arrive, and we found the rest of the group already posted up at a table, the first round of drinks ready to go. Flynn was already out on the dancefloor, and after saying a quick hello to the rest of our friends, I decided to go join him.

"Bryce? You in?"

She grinned and shook her head at me. "Nope. Have fun."

I narrowed my eyes at her, making sure she knew she wasn't being slick and that her implication wasn't appreciated. She blew me a kiss, and I rolled my eyes before turning from the table to go find Flynn on the dancefloor.

"Hey!" he cried, lighting up as soon as he saw me. "Finally!"

He grabbed my hands without hesitation, twirling me around him in the middle of the dancefloor. I smiled and laughed, then fell forward as he pulled me to his chest. I rested my hands on his shoulders, swaying to the beat with him, his beautiful eyes and devilish smile making my heart race. His hands drifted down my waist to rest low on my hips, and it was enough to shake me out of the moment.

I smiled, but put a little more space between us, and Flynn took the hint. He twirled me out and away from him again, and when he pulled me back this time, he dropped my hands. The two of us danced our hearts out, leaving a bit of space between us, letting the music completely take us over. Flynn's eyes still raked over me, but I just grinned back at him as I moved to the beat.

We spent a long, long time out there, dancing our hearts out without caring if we were good, making absolute fools of ourselves. Flynn's eyes stayed locked on me the whole time, that stupid grin never leaving his face. I tried my best to ignore it and just enjoy the moment with the frat boy I'd somehow become best friends with.

Finally, after the song switched again and Flynn showed no signs of slowing down, I had to take a break. I stopped dancing and stepped forward into his space, and Flynn mirrored the move, even leaning down a little so it'd be easier for me to shout into his ear.

"I'm gonna run to the restroom!" I called, still barely able to be heard over the noise. I leaned back and Flynn nodded at me, shooting me one more grin before I turned and headed off through the crowd.

I ducked past all the drunk patrons, and luckily for me, found no line at the bathroom. I paused at the sinks before heading back into the fray to splash some cold water under my eyes, waking me up a little and removing any misbehaving mascara. Then I sighed, gave myself a giant smile in the mirror, and headed for the door back to the rest of the club.

When I stepped into the hallway, to my surprise, I found Flynn standing a few feet from me. He smiled when he caught sight of me, and I came to a stop just in front of him, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning against the wall.

"What are you doing?" I called over the pounding music still coming from the dancefloor. Flynn's grin just widened and he pushed off the wall, moving to stand in front of me. He braced one arm on the wall over my head and leaned in, crowding me and bringing his face down to within inches of mine.

"What I've been wanting to do since we kicked Dec's ass at pool," he responded, his voice low and throaty, just loud enough to be heard over the music. His eyes darted to my lips, and then he was leaning in, intention clear.

My mind went blank as I stared back at him. He was one of the most handsome males I'd ever met, and I really did love talking to him and spending time with him. My heart raced at his proximity, and I'd never admit it to Bryce, but I wanted to kiss him, bad-

But then I thought better of it, as a group of female shifters passed us, staring and giggling into their hands. How many others had Flynn cornered in the hallway like this, for a physical release before he never called them again? How many females in this club had stood in the same place I did now, with the same male?

I pulled away at the last second, ducking under Flynn's arm to get some space from him. He whirled around to look at me with a frown, arms held out at his sides, clearly wondering what the hell I was doing. He took a step towards me and I took one back, which made him freeze on the spot.

"Sweetheart... what's wrong?" he asked, voice laced with confusion and concern. I wrapped my arms around myself and shook my head.

"I don't... I don't want this, Flynn. I don't want to make out with you in a dark club or hookup at the frat house. I don't care that you like to do that, it's your choice and you clearly enjoy it, but I don't. I don't want to be another fling or hookup or whatever before you move onto the next pretty thing that moves."

Flynn scowled. "What? That's not-"

"You've said yourself that you're not a relationship guy, Flynn. I've heard it a dozen times hanging out at the frat house. And that's okay. But I am a relationship person, and I care about you, a lot. Staying friends with you is more important to me than making out with you one time in a club hallway, only for you to turn around and grind with one of the shifters staring you down half an hour later."

Flynn's whole posture deflated, his expression dropping as he looked at me. I pursed my lips together and tried to give him a sympathetic look.

"Sorry, Flynn. I just... I really think this is for the best."

I didn't wait for a response before turning on my heel and heading back out to the dancefloor. I hadn't expected to care so much, but I could feel my heart threatening to shatter in my chest, and I wanted to get out of here before its resolve totally crumpled.

I reached our table to find my friends laughing and talking, Bryce mercifully on one end of the booth. I leaned in when I reached her, and her demeanor immediately became serious when she heard the tone of my voice.

"Hey, I think I'm gonna head home."

She pulled back and whirled around to look at me.

"What? Why?" Her eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I just... I'm ready to go. You don't have to come, I just thought I should let you know."

She scoffed at me, turning away just long enough to scoop up her purse before standing with me.

"Let's go."

I shot her a grateful look, and she linked arms with me without a second look over her shoulder to the males at our table as we headed for the door. I didn't follow her lead, and when I looked back, I saw Flynn up against the wall again, some gorgeous female in front of him and leaning in with obvious intent in her eyes. That little piece of my heart I'd been trying to hold together finally splintered and broke away.

I hadn't wanted to talk about it, but Bryce managed to get the full story out of me before I went to bed. She looked thoughtful, and clearly had some opinions she wanted to share, but I was exhausted and hurting and didn't want to talk about it. Thankfully, that must've shown clearly enough on my face that she let it go.

At least, until I wandered into the kitchen the next morning.

"You look like shit," Bryce said in lieu of good morning, sliding a cup of coffee across the counter towards me. I narrowed my eyes at her, but took the coffee anyway.

"Thanks. That's about how I feel."

"So... do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay, then I will. Why are you pretending you don't have a thing for him?"

"Who said I was, Bryce? He's absolutely gorgeous and I love spending time with him. He's funny, and chaotic in a good way, and I love talking to him. He's become my best friend here, other than you. But I want to date him, not hookup with him. So there's no point talking about it."

"Are you sure he doesn't want to date you, though?"

I fixed her with a look that communicated clearly how stupid I thought that question was. She shot right back with a fierce look of her own.

"I'm just saying, I haven't seen him with anyone else since you two started hanging out. And he hasn't talked about the single lifestyle since then, either, or even joke-flirted with me."

I sighed and shook my head. "I saw him with somebody as we were leaving the club last night, after I officially shut him down."

Bryce just hummed, eyes narrowed in thought as she sipped her own mug of coffee. I didn't like one thing about that look, so I quickly picked up my mug and headed back to my bedroom.

"I'm getting dressed, and then I'm probably gonna head to the gym. I'll see you tonight!"

I shut the bedroom door behind me before Bryce had a chance to say anything, heaving a sigh of relief the minute it was closed.

I changed quickly, but waited to leave my room until I heard Bryce go into her own. I didn't want to be ambushed and forced into another talk, hence why I was going to the gym in the first place. It would be a good way to lose myself in my music, and to be distracted from feelings by the pain in the rest of my body.

I stayed at the gym for an hour, then took my time showering and getting dressed in the locker room. I stayed under the hot water for a lot longer than usual, trying to wash away the hurt feeling still curled in the center of my chest. It was my own fault, catching feelings for somebody who I knew didn't want a relationship. But that didn't make it any less terrible to try and recover.

When I finally left the gym, the sun was high in the sky, which gave me hope that Bryce might be at work when I got home. I knew I'd have to face her and that thoughtful look she'd had sooner or later, but my preference was later, and I wanted to do everything I could to push that conversation off.

Luckily, our apartment was empty when I pushed back through the door. I sighed, throwing on the first thing that looked good on the tv and heading to the kitchen to make myself some lunch. I'd just settled into the couch and taken the first bite of my sandwich when a knock on the door disturbed me.

Not many people could make it up to our apartment from the lobby, so I knew I couldn't ignore the knock. I set my sandwich down with a huff and crossed the room, not bothering to check the peephole before flinging the door open.

I immediately regretted my decision when I found Tristan Flynn standing before me, a bouquet of flowers in his hands. I frowned, glancing over his shoulder for any sign of the rest of the frat pack, but he was the only one in the hallway.

"Flynn, what- ACHOO!"

My head flung forward violently at the smell of the flowers in Flynn's hands, and I groaned as I straightened up on the other side of the sneezing fit. I looked up at him again, this time through slightly bleary eyes. He looked a little panicked.

"Fuck. Are you allergic to flowers? I told Ruhn it was a stupid idea-"

"Wait, did you bring those for me? Did Ruhn tell you to bring those for me?"

Flynn grimaced. "Yeah. It's a long- hold on."

He cut himself off when he noticed me scrunching my nose, trying to fend off another sneezing fit. He took a few steps back to a pot down the hallway, then with a wave of his hand and a little of his magic, he buried the bouquet in the dirt of the fern.

"Fertilizer," he said, rubbing the back of his neck as he returned to stand before me. "Sorry about that."

"That's okay..." I still sounded a little stuffy, but hopefully that would stop soon now that the flowers were out of nose-range. "What... what are you doing here?"

He sighed, staring at the ground for a few beats before abruptly looking up at me. His warm eyes met my own, and that little shard that had broken off last night dug itself in a little harder, almost making me wince in pain.

"I needed to talk to you. I... came to ask you out."

I laughed. When Flynn's face stayed just as grave and serious as it had been, more serious than I'd ever seen him look, I stopped laughing.

"Wait... are you serious?"

"Yeah, I am. Thanks for laughing, by the way."

"I'm sorry, I just, I don't know. Bringing flowers to my door to ask me on a date doesn't really seem like your thing."

"No shit. I almost killed you with those stupid flowers a minute ago." I cracked a smile again, and finally, a smile made its way onto Flynn's face too. He blew out a long breath, then shook his head. "Look, I know I'm not good at this. I've had a lot of practice and time to get good at other things, but... not this. But I don't want you to be a hookup. I've never had more fun in my life than whenever I spend time with you. You're funny and smart and gorgeous, and I haven't given a shit about other females since you sank that first shot in eye-to-eye. So I'm here to ask you on a real date. For... a real relationship."

His face scrunched up a little at the word, and my eyebrows shot into my hairline.

"You know people are usually excited when they talk about a relationship, right?"

"I am," he said, pinning me with the intense stare he normally reserved for Aux business. "This is just... new to me. I'm figuring it out. But I know that I want you, and no one else. I made fun of Quinlan and Athalar for being so sappy about all that 'dating your best friend' shit, but... having met you, it actually sounds kind of nice."

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, especially as Flynn fidgeted in front of me. I'd never seen him nervous like this, probably because he didn't usually fear rejection for meaningless make outs. But that thought brought another image to my mind.

"What about the female in the club last night?" I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral. I failed, emotion breaking through, but at least I'd tried.

Flynn raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"The one you were getting hot and heavy with when Bryce and I left," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. Flynn just scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Please. She was drunk as hell and throwing herself at the first male she found attractive. Not that I would've minded before, but..." He rested one arm on the doorway above me, leaning into my space with a confident smirk that made my heart race. "Last night I had other things on my mind."

I fought and failed to keep a smile off my face, my gaze dropping from Flynn's. My heart raced at his words and his proximity, and I knew he could hear it. I expected him to rub it in, but instead, he let out a long breath.

"Look, you shot me down last night, and I don't want to put pressure on you and ruin our friendship or whatever. So it's not an issue if you say no, alright? But if you give me a chance..." I looked up, just in time to see that insufferable smirk on his face. "I plan to make the most of it."

This time, I didn't bother fighting the smile as it spread across my face. I rested a hand on Flynn's shoulder and leaned in closer, until I could place a soft kiss on his cheek. His hand immediately dropped from the doorframe to my waist, pulling me tight against him, but I just smirked and leaned back.

"I'm up for a date, Flynn. What did you have in mind?"

He practically growled as his eyes roved my face, down the rest of me, and back up to meet my eyes. More than a small part of my brain wanted to take advantage of the empty apartment behind me, but the rest of me won out. I wasn't about to make it that easy on him.

"I was thinking dinner. Drinks. And then... whatever else we feel like doing, after that."

Everything about Flynn's tone and body language made it clear exactly what he had in mind for "after that". I smiled, leaning into him a little further, bringing one hand up to run it through his hair. Flynn's eyelids fluttered.

"That sounds like a great plan, Flynn. What time do you want to pick me up?"

"Seven?"

"Perfect. I'll see you then."

With that, I slipped out of Flynn's grip, shooting him a wicked smirk and wave before shutting the door on him.

"What the fuck?" I heard him yell from outside. I just laughed.

"I've got things to do before our date tonight, Flynn!" I called back, knowing he could hear me just fine through the door with his fae hearing. "If you seriously waited a month, I think you can handle a couple more hours."

I could hear him grumbling on the other side of the door, but I just returned to the couch and my waiting sandwich. After a moment, he called out again, loud enough to still be heard.

"Fine! I'll see you tonight then, sweetheart. Get ready for the night of your life."

I didn't respond, not least of all because I didn't trust myself to. If Flynn was all in, then so was I. And I absolutely couldn't wait for our date tonight, from the dinner to the drinks to whatever might come after.

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

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989

[ericdeggans]

'Sinners' is the argument for why Hollywood needs DEI

(Be warned: This essay discusses plot points from the new movie Sinners)

Sitting in a movie theater on a Sunday, watching the grand spectacle that is Ryan Coogler’s horror movie/tone poem Sinners, I couldn’t stop chuckling.

Not just because the movie has its funny spots, including a great moment where one of Michael B. Jordan’s characters shoots a guy in the behind who is trying to rip him off. And not just because he’s crafted a story about vampires in the Mississippi Delta that feels both vibrantly fresh and achingly familiar.

I was laughing because Coogler, in crafting a successful film that is not just rooted in Black and non-white culture, but is a carefully-crafted, earnestly made love letter to it, he has provided the strongest argument yet against the toxic fiction that more diversity, equity and inclusion in a democracy is somehow bad.

Even as weak-kneed film studios and profit-focused media companies roll back DEI programs and offer mealy mouthed equivocations in the face of Donald Trump’s war on diversity, Coogler has stepped forward with a boldly creative film which simply proves, through its excellence, the value that comes from unleashing the creative spirit fortifying people of color.

Sinners is a movie which wears its themes on its sleeves. The vampire who threatens the rural honky tonk owned by Jordan’s characters in the 1932-era Jim Crow South is white. And he’s drawn to the place by the bold, pulsating creativity of Miles Caton’s Sammy “Preacher Boy” Moore -- a spellbinding blues singer whose talents are connected to a continuum of Black musical creativity which cuts across time and geography. The way Coogler illustrates this, with a magical musical sequence set in the honky tonk which includes a Black funk rock guitarist and African drummers, is one of the film’s most impressive sequences.

“In a lot of ways, Africa explained Mississippi to me,” Coogler told journalist Jelani Cobb for a feature story in The New Yorker, describing the impact of his first trips to Africa. “I realized, ‘All right, African Americans are extremely African.’ We may be more African than we know. With this film it was, like, ‘Oh, we affected this place [Mississippi].’ We brought Africa here.”

Jordan plays twins, named Smoke and Stack, who return to the Delta after years in Chicago, fortified with money earned from up North, hoping to build a life for themselves in their old hometown. But the evil and soul-killing exploitation of the white man’s world, embodied in the mysterious vampire drawn by Preacher Boy’s gifts, comes calling to threaten their dream.

It is a tale as obvious and clearly drawn as the wide vistas Coogler captures with his IMAX and Ultra Panavision 70 cameras – a pioneering combination which makes the film such a visual treat. Here’s a video where Coogler explains some of his production choices.

But because the writer/director is such a talented craftsman, we drink in every permutation of the story, even though we mostly know exactly where it is going. And because Coogler has built his brand around elevating Black centered stories which make room for other cultures, moving through Sinners also feels like a family dinner which makes room for everyone, from Native American vampire hunters to Chinese shopkeepers.

So why did Hollywood not see this success coming?

I have a few thoughts:

Hollywood still struggles with stereotypes dressed up like industry facts. Years ago, Hollywood executives would explain their reluctance to fund big movies centered on Black people and culture by saying the movies “didn’t travel,” or didn’t perform well overseas. But plenty of movies have busted that paradigm, from Coogler’s own Black Panther films, to Hidden Figures, Moonlight -- even Will Smith’s 2013 science fiction boondoggle After Earth made three times as much money overseas than in America, earning nearly $250 million worldwide. Too often, I think Black-centered projects have suffered from assumptions that audiences somehow cannot make the leap that Black audiences often do – seeing themselves in stories told about people who don’t look like them.

(Even Ben Stiller noticed Hollywood’s myopia when it came to Sinners.)

Hollywood has a tough time giving Black filmmakers the same respect as great white auteurs like Quentin Tarantino and Christopher Nolan. I remain mystified by the buzz over Coogler’s deal with Warner Bros. which allows rights for the film to revert to him after 25 years. At a time when there is more content in front of consumers than ever – and debt-laden Warner Bros. Discovery needs a movie hit badly – why wouldn’t the guy who directed the most profitable movie in 2018 cut a deal to participate in the profits of his current film and own his intellectual property after it has been fully exploited by the film studio? Especially since other filmmakers, like Tarantino and George Lucas have managed to craft similar deals? Near as I can tell, Lucas’ ownership of Star Wars didn’t kill movie studios. So why would Coogler’s eventual ownership of Sinners?

Too much of the press which reports on Hollywood proceeds from the perspective of the people who run and own everything. One of the underappreciated consequences of the hollowing out of modern news outlets is that reporting on Hollywood has become much more specialized. So trade publications and hyper-focused news outlets like The Wrap, Deadline, The Hollywood Reporter, Variety and Puck are leading coverage of Hollywood issues. And too many of these outlets, chasing a wealthy and monetizable audience of Hollywood players, create coverage which reflects their assumptions and biases back to them. I remember seeing this many years ago, when Deadline ran an ill-considered piece asking if the push for ethnic diversity in casting TV shows was “About Time or Too Much of Good Thing?”

This is, of course, something we’re struggling with in the wider world now, thanks to the anti-DEI fairytales spun by the Trump administration and propaganda-filled outlets like Fox News Channel. It is tough to convince Hollywood that, by making more inclusive and diverse TV shows and films, you’re actually making them less predictable, more appealing to a wide range of consumers and more likely to involve super talented people who might not be white.

In other words, you make them better.

Fortunately, Coogler has given us Sinners, a film which makes all those arguments and more in an engrossing, entertaining movie that will likely become one of the most profitable projects of the year.

What more proof does Hollywood need that DEI is G-R-E-A-T?

[kit00ily]

* Chapter 430 spoilers *

Okay so rereading the ending now that it’s officially translated, it’s kinda grown on me. Yes it is bittersweet, yes it is kinda rushed, but it’s realistic.

When you get older, it becomes very hard to hang out with your friends all the time, you have different dreams and day to day lives. Class 1A aren’t kids anymore, they don’t go to school together everyday, they are all trying to race after their own ambitions. But that doesn’t take away from how much they care about each other.

I love how Ochaca made the “quirk expansion project”, it just shows how much the people you meet can impact you. She made the program for toga and all of those that they couldn’t reach their hand out in time to help. The program is highly successful and has helped bring the villain rate down by getting to the root of the problem before it starts. Eri is becoming a musician because of how much class 1A influenced her by their concert. She didn’t become a hero just because she’s powerful, she just followed her dream. Shoto finally was recognized as his own hero, not just endeavors son. He’s making a name for himself and is shooting to the top of the pro hero board. Then in an ironic twist, bakagou is the only person that can stop bakagou. He gets a video leaked of him yelling at a civilian which makes him go farther down on the hero board. But he doesn’t care. Then we find out what he’s been doing the past 8 years.

Class 1A had been saving up (with bakagou at the heart of it) for a hero suit for Izuku. They had all been putting time and money into helping him finally have his dream back. They have always cared about him and I think that’s the most beautiful way to show it.

Bakagou reaches out his hand and calls him Deku. Not defenseless Izuku but Izuku the hero. The story starts with them and ends with them. The development with their relationship is everything to me. Izuku taught bakagou what it means to truly be a hero and bakagou was right there waiting for him when they were finally ready to be heros together.

The ending wasn’t what I expected but the more I read, the more I start to love it. Horikoshi is trying to tell us that even if we can’t fulfill our dreams, the people around us will be there for you when you’re ready to try again. We are so heavily influenced by the people in our lives. Even if they are only here for a short time, they can still impact us. And it’s our job to help the people around us by just reaching out a hand.

[storiesbyjes2g]

3.224 Electro Man

I don’t know what I was thinking. I saw the lightning and heard the thunder but felt no danger, so I did what I always did when I get up: harvest and tend the money tree. The rain watered its dry roots, so with nothing to do except run outside, pluck, and run back, why would I ever think I’d get struck by lightning? And why would I think it could happen twice?! It was the weirdest experience of my life. Jolts of electricity coursed through my body felt less like pain and more like the strongest vibration one could imagine. It singed my clothes, but I didn’t burst into flames or even feel dazed the first time, so I tried to go back inside. But then it got me again on the porch just as I entered the house! The vibration overtook me again, and I thought for sure that would be my last day on earth. Twice in a row? I should have been a goner! But instead of dying, I felt a surge of energy! It built up inside of me so quickly, I felt like I might explode, and it scared me. I could feel the electricity running up and down my body and see sparks popping off my skin. I didn’t want to touch anything for fear of igniting everything. Good thing Sophia had already left, because that would have freaked her out. With any luck, the kid won’t notice anything off about me. What am I supposed to do with all this energy? Run around inside like Rosie? I can't risk going back outside.

"Daddy? I don't feel good."

This is a first. I put aside my own problems for a moment to focus on my ailing child.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

"My tummy!"

"Does it hurt? You feel sick?"

"Sick."

"Okay. Sit tight for a minute. I got something that will fix you right up."

I found a bottle of medicine and gave it to her. No one, and I mean literally no one, knew the contents of that mysterious brown bottle. All anyone knew was that it cured most ailments, and she downed it like a champ.

"How do you feel? Do you need to lie down?"

"No. I feel great!"

"Good. I'm glad."

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Desi?"

"Why do your eyes glow?"

"My eyes? What are you talking about?"

"You look like a superhero! Come look!"

She grabbed my hand and dragged me to the big mirror in the living room. A very less than manly scream ejected from my mouth, but at least the girl thought it was funny.

"Let's watch a movie," she shouted, pulling me down to the couch.

"I, uhh...I don't know if I should do that!"

There was literal electricity flowing through my body! And it was shooting out of my eyes!! Is watching TV safe? Is Desi safe?? I felt like I should just go upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom or something until this passes. Oh Watcher, what if it doesn't pass?? Am I going to be a freak forever??

"Come on, Daddy!"

With outside activities canceled for the foreseeable future, and it wasn't even noon yet, we had a whole lot of time to kill before Sophia got home with very little to do. So, I sat down and hoped I didn't zap the TV. I tried not to look at first, but nothing happened, so I kept watching whatever movie she turned on. I thought I should send Sophia a warning, since I didn't know how long I'd be like this. My text said I might look a little different when she got home, but she assumed Desi found her toddler makeup kit and used it on me, so at least I hadn't freaked her out.

Desiree was really into this movie, laughing her little head off, so I decided to pay attention and see what it was all about. I never really enjoyed kids' programming. Not even when I was a child myself. Alessia ate that stuff up though. But to my surprise, the movie was actually quite interesting, and I got really invested. Desi got to hear me squeal for a second time when the giant robot thing came and began destroying the town. But when the kid heroes showed up, we were both cheering. I guess kids' movies have gotten better over the years.

Kooper needed a bath, so I took him upstairs. Alessia called and invited Desi over, so by the time Sophia got home, not only were we home alone, but also my situation had cleared up. She was very confused and wanted to know why I texted her earlier, so I explained. I swear she went through all the emotions as my story progressed. She started out panicked when I told her I got struck by lightning not once, but twice. I didn't think we'd be able to move past that point when the tears started, but somehow we made it. By the end of the story, she was laughing. Laughing! She called me Electro Man and asked if I took a selfie so she could see my eyes. I swear. That woman can find humor in anything! I love that about her.

[theweirdestroller]

Rescue Bots in Jasper: Part 1

The first in a three part prequel to my one-shot, Storytime with Blades! @mfganonymous hates me for this one, so it's now specifically dedicated to them.

"Ugh. My parents are talking about more school when I get back to Japan. I don't think I'll want to go back," Miko banged her head against Bulkhead's pede. "What about you guys?"

"I'm actually really excited to go to university after I graduate! I've been looking into one outside of Nevada so I can see more of the states!" Raf chriped, barely looking up from his computer.

"My mom keeps dropping hints that I should look into community college," Jack sighed.

"Do bots have school?" Miko asked, staring up at the Cybertronians.

"Umm. I don't think there's an equivalent for us," Bulkhead scooped up his human.

"Says you." Ratchet involves himself in the conversation for once. "Cybertron had training, which in certain castes was much like human universities."

"So you went, Docbot?" Ratchet tsked.

"Of course I did. The medical caste-"

"What was it like?"

--

"C'mon Ratchet! We're gonna be late!" Blades was dragging the taller medic by his arm.

"I think you mean you're going to be late. I didn't get nomiated for the Rescue Program," Ratchet laughed.

"Same difference! I get to meet my team today!"

Blades and Ratchet joined the crowd gathered in the middle of Iacon. Many bots from all different castes were gathered, all waiting to be assigned to a Rescue team. A highly coveted and skilled achievement. Only the best of the best even qualified, and even then, it wasn't a grantee.

After much waiting, the anouncer called out for the last rescue team this vorn.

"The final rescue team of this season is Sigma 17. There will be four bots assigned. Specializes in space missions."

Blades let out a little whine. "I don't think I got in..." Ratchet set a hand on his roommate's shoulder.

"There's still four spots left. I'm rooting for you,"

"The fire response of Sigma 17 is- HEATWAVE!" A pale red bot stepped out of the crowd onto the stage.

Blades was shivering with nerves.

"The law enforcement of Sigma 17 is- CHASE!" A silver mech shakily stepped up, giving Heatwave a servoshake before going almost unnaturally still.

"The engineer of Sigma 17 is- BOULDER!" A green bot scampered onto the stage, greeting his new teammates.

"I didn't make it..." Blades sighed, leaning into Ratchet. Ratchet tugged his small friend closer.

"The medic of Sigma 17 is- BLADES!"

"W-what?!" Blades straightened and shook Ratchet's shoulder. "I made it." He grinned wide. "I made it!"

"Didn't doubt it for a second." Ratchet offered a soft smile and nudged his friend up. "Now go," Blades squeezed Ratchet's arm one last time and went to the stage.

Ratchet watched on as his roommate cheerily introduced himself to the rest of Sigma 17.

--

Ratchet didn't know that he'd end up as a field medic. He wasn't complaining. He'd done a lot of good for the Autobots and neutrals.But he was useless in this one instance. Completely and utterly useless.

Cybertron was dying, anyone could see that. With the death of the planet, any offworld Cybertronians returned to try and assist the planet. Rescue Bots. Bots like Blades and his team.

And the Decepticons were shooting them down like scraplets. It was a genocide.

An entire division of Cybertronians were gone in one fell swoop.

Ratchet was never going to see his bubbly orange friend again. The zippy, chatty little bot who liked to pop his wheels out of his pedes so he could wheel around everywhere. Blades was gone.

--

"As I said, it was much like your school. Homework, grades, stress, roommates, parties. Not unlike what Earth schools have."

"Cool! Wish I could see a 'bot school!" Miko cheered. "What parties did you even go to? Bet your roommate made ya go!" Ratchet huffed.

"It doesn't matter."

[rottenpumpkin13]

Sephiroth grows his wing, but it's a slow and painful process.

Angst opportunity let's go

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

He first sensed something amiss at age twelve, when his right shoulder blade started itching one morning. At first, it was just a minor annoyance, a mild itch he could easily ignore. By that afternoon he found himself constantly contorting his arm, scratching his shoulder blade through his uniform. The sensation grew more insistent each passing day. He had to hide his discomfort from Hojo, knowing the man might resort to drastic measures with unnecessary surgical procedures to uncover the source of the problem.

In hindsight, digging into his skin to find the root cause might have been a mercy. By the time he turned thirteen, the itch had evolved into a persistent, dull ache, still tinged with that maddening itchiness. He started taking longer showers, hoping the cold water cascading over his shoulder blade would offer some relief from the strange sensation. Perhaps it was because of his age and changing body that Hojo didn’t question his prolonged showers. The cold water offered a relief from the relentless discomfort that had sunk itself into his daily reality, permeating every moment as he became more and more aware of the problem.

By age fourteen, the pain had intensified into a constant, throbbing agony. Mornings were the worst—he woke up aching, unable to share his distress with Hojo, fearing the man’s brutal methods. Asking for medicine was out of the question unless he wanted an invasive examination to be conducted, so he turned to books and medical texts, desperately searching for answers that seemingly did not exist.

The pain escalated as he turned fifteen, and a new, unsettling development emerged. Fortunately, he now had friends to confide in.

"It definitely looks like a bone," Genesis observed skeptically, brushing his finger over the small nub on Sephiroth's shoulder blade, which seemed on the verge of breaking through the skin.

Sephiroth sat shirtless on a cot in the command tent, Genesis behind him, with Angeal peering over his shoulder, both of them assessing the wound—if he could even call it that.

"Does it hurt when I press it?" Genesis asked before applying said pressure with his thumb.

"Ow!" Sephiroth hissed with a sharp intake of breath, his left hand shooting across his chest and instinctively grabbing at the nub. "Yes."

"Gen!" Angeal reprimanded, swiftly moving to gently remove the redhead's hands from Sephiroth's back.

"What?" Genesis protested splaying his hands defensively. "I'm just ensuring it's not serious. Pain often signals underlying issues, you know."

Angeal's response was an exasperated sigh as he shooed Genesis from the cot. "Okay, Dr. Rhapsodos, put a sock in it." He sat down in his place. "Let me have a look."

Though Sephiroth couldn't see Angeal's expression, he could sense his apprehension. Angeal, a stickler for rules, was clearly concerned about the implications of probing into Sephiroth's potential injury, especially given how "precious" he was to the program.

"What if it's fractured?" Angeal suggested, his gentle fingers dragging around the nub. "I've seen fractures before, and they can cause protrusions like this. It needs proper treatment."

Sephiroth reiterated that it wasn't bone protruding, explaining it was a chronic issue he'd managed for three years now. Their lack of a solution left Sephiroth with no choice but to endure it. He swallowed the pain medication they offered him and returned to the battlefield. In war, weaknesses were a luxury they couldn't afford.

At age sixteen, it had broken through his skin—a black nub, adding to the enigma as neither he nor his friends could offer any explanation. Sephiroth took to avoiding public showers and keeping his shirt on whenever possible. He anticipated the inevitable when Hojo summoned him for a full-body examination, dreading the moment when it would be revealed.

Though this time, perhaps a surgical intervention to remove it was the solution he had been seeking.

Instead, he found himself perched on one of those uncomfortable metal slab tables in Hojo's private laboratory, shirtless while the scientist scrutinized the protrusion, meticulously reviewing numerous X-rays Sephiroth had been forced into.

Each time he inquired about the anomaly, the professor responded with an unsettling silence, only expressing disappointment that Sephiroth hadn't brought it up sooner. It struck Sephiroth as eerie how casually Hojo treated the situation, as if having a foreign object piercing through his skin was common.

To his utter bewilderment, after hours of exhaustive examination, Hojo released him with a simple remark: "Everything seems to be in order.”

Sephiroth's mind went blank, his gaze fixed on the man before him, half-expecting the revelation that it was a joke—as if. Hojo was hardly one for humor. Instead, Hojo merely instructed him to leave. So Sephiroth obeyed, swallowing back the tears he was definitely too old for now.

It wasn't until he turned seventeen that he began to understand what was happening to his body. A solitary black feather sprouted from the nub.

"It's a wing," Genesis stated matter-of-factly. They were examining him, as they had done countless times before. This time, they stood in the communal showers, Angeal and Genesis observing the peculiar feather from behind him. "You're sprouting a wing," Genesis remarked, seemingly unfazed by the absurdity of the situation. "That's what's been happening."

Angeal remained silent, something he did when he wanted to agree without the need to verbalize it.

Sephiroth kept his hair draped over one shoulder. He had recently started growing it out, and found that its length proved useful in concealing the black nub when he found himself shirtless among others.

"How is this even possible?" Sephiroth mused aloud, though primarily to himself, yet Genesis seized the opportunity to respond nonetheless.

"I suppose Hojo would give you the same spiel he did about your peculiar eyes—that you're some kind of superior being, beyond the scope of mere humans..." Genesis huffed a breath of amusement. "And now, a blend of cat and bird."

Angeal's swift, wet slap against Genesis's skin prompted the redhead to retract his hands with a squeak.

"Not funny," Angeal reprimanded him before gently turning Sephiroth around. This time, he looked purposefully optimistic, his expression a mix of reassurance and determination to make everything alright. "You'll be alright," he stated simply. “If anything, think of it like an angel wing.”

For a fleeting moment, Sephiroth almost believed him, wing and all, if not for the nagging question lingering at the back of his mind: "Angel wings were white, indicating their purity. If his was black, what did that mean for him?

[moodycowplant]

102. Conrad - The Weight of the Past.

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TW: emotional childhood trauma; this might be heavy for some to process. You know what to do—close if you're not ready.

Conrad’s newly acquired relationship with Lana was teaching him to be open with his emotions, to express his feelings rather than bury them deep inside.

However, there was still one thing he refused to fully reveal or change—his family, his past.

He had locked those memories away in a deep, hidden box behind his carefully crafted charm, keeping them out of reach, even from himself.

Lana saw through him.

But whenever she tried to pull the thread that led to that locked-away part of him, his defenses would shoot up. He would instinctively shut the conversation down, retreating behind his protective shield.

Lana never pushed too hard. But she hoped that one day, he would be ready to let her in.

----------------------------------˚ʚ♡ɞ˚--------------------------------------

And eventually, with patience, love, and support, Conrad finally turned the key in the lock.

The box wasn’t open yet, but for the first time, he was willing to try.

“Tell me about your family,” she said in quiet voice, hesitant—like she wasn’t sure if this was the right time.

For a moment, he had considered brushing it off again. Making a joke, shifting the topic.

But the way she looked at him—with patience, with understanding, with no expectations—made something inside him crack.

So he spoke.

And once he started, he couldn’t stop.

He told her everything.

----------------------------------˚ʚ♡ɞ˚--------------------------------------

His childhood was far from warm or nurturing.

He had never been physically harmed, but the scars he carried were deep.

Loneliness, insecurities, emotional neglect—they had shaped him more than he ever cared to admit.

His mother was the root of it all. And his father... never cared enough to notice.

He had been born and raised in Chestnut Ridge, the same place his father Philip Rice had come from. The family had deep roots there, one of the town’s founders.

Philip had eventually become a politician and the mayor, while his mother Scarlet Rice, came from highly respected Windenburg family.

She was formal, strict, cold and cared about reputation more than anything else—including her own son.

His father, however, had been different.

He often said he loved both his wife and his son. But his love meant little when he was never home.

Scarlet cared only about Conrad's education, his achievements.

On top of his regular school program, he had private lessons in everything—piano, horseback riding, logic training, business studies. You name it, he’d done it.

She wasn’t raising a son; she was molding a future leader, a “perfect” heir.

When he needed comfort, she was nothing more than a distant figure, leaving him in the hands of nannies.

Despite his extensive education, he had never attended school, not even for a single day.

His mother believed traditional schooling couldn’t provide him with what he truly needed.

----------------------------------˚ʚ♡ɞ˚--------------------------------------

He had no friends.

His world was cold, structured, and painfully lonely.

The only true companionship he ever found was in the horses his family owned.

One day, when he was twelve, he witnessed the birth of a foal—one deemed imperfect.

The foal had a star-shaped mark on its forehead, but due to its weak condition, no one wanted to invest in its care. It was set to be sold off or worse—put down.

Conrad refused to let that happen.

His father had been present that day, and when he dismissed the foal as useless, Conrad ran to it, wrapping his arms around the fragile creature, shielding it as best he could. He begged his father to let him keep it.

Perhaps out of love for his son, or simply as a rare indulgence, his father agreed.

From that moment on, the foal—whom Conrad named Black Star ⭐ —became his best friend.

Black Star was seen as broken on the outside, just as Conrad felt broken on the inside.

But he, being still a child himself, nursed him back to health, spending entire days, and sometimes even nights, sneaking out to the stables just to be with him. No one else wanted to touch the horse, but Conrad believed in him.

And with time, Black Star grew strong. He would never be fit for professional sports, but he was valuable in a way no one else could see. Just like Conrad.

----------------------------------˚ʚ♡ɞ˚--------------------------------------

As a child, Conrad found his own way to bring light into his life.

He started watching comedies, fascinated by how effortlessly talented people could make others laugh. Even when his world felt gray and lifeless, those moments of laughter gave him hope.

He began writing his own comedy in secret, performing them for Black Star.

Deep down, he believed that the love and joy he shared with the horse played a part in his recovery.

But as he grew older, he learned to hide his emotions.

In high society, showing feelings was a weakness—or so his mother constantly reminded him.

With time, he also lost faith in his father, who had become more distant than ever.

The final straw came when Conrad announced he wouldn’t be attending the prestigious university his parents had chosen for him.

Instead of studying politics and business, he was going to Britechester to pursue drama, with hopes of becoming a comedian.

His mother was furious. His father didn’t defend him. He only stood there, silently watching as his wife tore apart everything his son loved.

But Conrad wasn’t a child anymore. He had made his choice.

As he left, his mother spat words he would never forget—words that had burned into his heart ever since.

“If you leave, you’re dead to me.”

She stripped him of financial support, declared that he was no longer welcome.

His father, in time, softened to the idea and even tried to help financially, but Conrad refused. He wanted to stand on his own. The only thing he asked was simple:

“Please take care of Black Star while I’m away. I promise I’ll find a way to take him off your hands.”

----------------------------------˚ʚ♡ɞ˚--------------------------------------

"That had been over three and a half years ago," he thought looking into the bus window, while his mind drifted back to his conversation with Lana.

Now, after finally sharing all of this with her, he was going back home.

He had promised her he would try to be open with them. Even if resentment still lingered, they were his parents. And in order to free himself from the weight of his past, he had to find the strength to face them—to forgive, or to finally let go.

Lana wanted to go with him, to support him, but he refused.

This was his battle. His demons to tame.

----------------------------------˚ʚ♡ɞ˚--------------------------------------

When he arrived, everything felt different.

His father had aged, no longer as powerful or influential as before. Work struggles had taken a toll on him, leaving him looking weary and exhausted.

His mother, though still cold in many ways, greeted him with a smile.

The reunion wasn’t easy.

It was filled with difficult conversations and unpleasant memories. But Conrad was determined to find peace.

Black Star recognized him instantly. It was the happiest Conrad had felt in this place.

His father, though changed, seemed more present than before.

And his mother…

She had lost much of her former glory over the years. With that loss, perhaps, had come a slow realization of what she had done. She was still proud, still full of herself, but as his visit came to an end, she did something Conrad never expected.

She asked for forgiveness.

For years, he had sworn he would never grant it. But in that moment, he remembered Lana’s words.

“The only way you can be free of this is by letting go.”

“I forgive you, Mother,” he said at last.

When he left back, he carried far less weight than when he arrived.

That hidden box of raw emotions, fears, and insecurities had finally surfaced. And now, it was almost empty.

He felt lighter. Happier.

Because he was heading back to where he truly belonged.

To Lana—his safe harbor.

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