#i usually have much more organized thoughts but this episode Threw Me

[clawfootcoffin]

the drowned woman's poem seemed like a recounting of her time spent in a vast & buried collab oceanic hellscape ??!?!?!?!?!??!?! the drowned woman & alice's encounter being recorded via a fucking tape recorder?!?!?!?!

and, lady m? excuse me? another giant beautiful woman in MY magnus protocol? they really made this show for the Women Lovers

and, finally, lady m finding celia different. hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. if she isnt careful, someone is going to Figure her Out and she'll have plenty of explaining to do

[astranite]

Regrets

Scott, Virgil and John, Earth Sky and Stars, if you will, set after 'Tunnels of Time' S1 E10, the episode wherein Scott nearly punches the archeologist treasure hunting asshole dude. (I have rewatched The Scene so many times) (somewhere there is also a wonderful gifset of it)

Hurt/comfort, and a very fluffy ending ahead. Also featuring Scott's self esteem issues, but he does get hugs, multiple hugs. Also exploring the aftermath of Scott losing his temper on a mission and Virgil's worry and 'We'll deal with this later' and now it is Later, with John too because I love those three together. And some soft furnishings!Scott too of course.

----

Scott whipped around at Virgil’s hand on his shoulder for the second time that day.

“What?” he snapped.

“You wanna tell me what happened back there, Scotty?” Virgil quested. 

There was no judgement, never was with Virgil, only deep brown eyes crinkled at the corners with concern. Worry, about him, not so much that he was going to lash out at any minute, but checking in to see if he was okay.

Scott huffed and turned away. He didn't deserve Virgil.

The phantom sensation of Virgil’s hands around his chest, on his side, holding him back, ghosted over him. If Virgil hadn't been there, Scott would’ve— 

The man would’ve been lucky if all he’d gotten away with was a bloody nose.

Scott swallowed and hugged his arms around his chest. 

The way he’d shaken Virgil off, if he hadn't stepped back from Scott, Scott would’ve elbowed his brother in the stomach too.

John chimed in on the comm room holo, and Scott was avoiding both his brothers’ eyes. 

“I saw it all on the video feed,” John stated, “I’d have wanted to do the same too.”

“But you wouldn’t’ve.” John was better than that, better than Scott.

John’s admission, even if Scott was adamant his brother would not act in the same way, made everything worse. He rubbed at his knuckles. 

So much for setting a good example for his younger brothers. Scott was exactly who they shouldn’t be. Mum’d be so disappointed. 

“But you didn't,” John countered.

Scott viciously shook his head. That didn't matter.

Virgil’s hand was back on his shoulder. A comforting squeeze, a tug to try to get him to turn around. Scott stuck fast.

In that moment, with his fist clenched, raised and ready to lunge, Scott had been all boiling rage and seething worry and he hadn't thought. He just reacted.

He regretted it. Not because he wasn't still angry at that man, but because he didn't want to be like this. If he was going to get violent, he would rather it be because it was the last possible option to prevent more people from getting hurt. Not because he threw punches at the slightest provocation.

When Virgil pulled him back, he’d left his hand on Scott’s side a second longer, not restraining him, just a reminder. Or maybe an attempt at reassurance. 

Scott had still thrown it back in his face. 

“What happened?” John asked, knowingly or unknowingly repeating Virgil’s earlier words. 

Still with no judgement. Guilt filled the pit of Scott’s stomach.

He’d been on a rescue. He shouldn’t have risen to the bait. Virgil had been angry, John too, but they’d focussed in on the mission. Where Scott, Scott had just lashed out. 

John continued, “You usually don’t—”

“I know. I know!” Scott burst out, “It’s just— he was going to leave them in there! He wanted to leave Gordon to die down there. Gordon could’ve—” Scott’s voice broke. 

Virgil pulled him into a hug. Scott flailed then froze, because he didn't want to hurt Virgil. He tried to push Virgil away carefully, not because he didn't— he always wanted his brother’s hugs, but Virgil should’ve been comforting Gordon instead. Not Scott with his temper causing problems once again. Which were all his own fault. Scott’s mind leapt back to the fact that he should’ve gone instead.

Virgil held him. An arm tucked firmly around his waist. A hand resting at the nape of his neck. 

Scott’s raised voice was muffled slightly by warm flannel, “For a second I thought—” That Gordon was… Scott couldn’t even say the words. “And he didn't even care! He didn't care about Gordon or Penelope or Parker or anyone’s lives!” 

Anger spilled out of him. Mixed with fear. 

Scott’s eyes stung, his chest was heaving. Eventually he slumped against Virgil. 

John was murmuring reassurances, cutting through the torrent of failure, failure, he could have, should’ve done better, why were his brothers even still here—

Scott had his father’s temper, but he wasn't so sure he admired that about dad anymore. Quick to anger turned too fast into hurting people. It didn't matter whether or not they deserved it, that wasn't who he wanted to be. And ultimately, no one deserved it. It wasn't about deserve.

International Rescue wasn't based around picking and choosing who got to be saved. And beating up that treasure hunting bastard wouldn't have helped him get to Gordon any faster. There were other ways to fight. They were about saving people. 

But he’d still—

John’s voice was cool and steady, washing over his own heated flare of anger turned towards himself. “You did what you could, Scott. Yes, being that close to punching that guy’s lights out was less than ideal, but you focussed back in on the rescue, in spite of that poor excuse of a human trying to give archaologists a bad name.” 

“But what if Virgil hadn’t been there to hold me back,” Scott said sadly. He had to make sure his brothers knew what they were dealing with, for their own sakes at least.

Virgil’s arms gently tightened around him, holding him up. John made a quiet noise in the back of his throat. 

Then an edge rose in John’s voice, always defending Scott, even from himself. “Where it counted, you did everything you could for the mission. Because of you and Virgil, Gordon, Penny and Parker all made it home safe. You are more than your mistakes, Scott, you deserve credit for the rest too.”

Scott just wanted to curl up in a ball because somehow his brothers weren’t mad at him, even though they should be. They weren’t and they understood him and supported him. Still.

Suddenly all the exhaustion from the rollercoaster of emotions and the rescue caught up to him. 

When he stumbled, Virgil guided him to the ground so he could sit cross legged on the floor, leaning heavily on Virgil. The comforting presence of John’s hologram continued to hover in front of them.

John and Virgil shared a look over his head but Scott was too tired to care what it meant. 

He was still in his sweaty flight suit because he’d skipped the showers to avoid running into Virgil or Gordon in the locker room. He’d justified to to himself as getting a head start on the monster of a report he needed to write.

“How’s Gordon doing?” he murmured. 

He hadn’t seen Gordon since the rescue. Managed to avoid the little brother who’d nearly been buried under thousand year old rubble, apart from the brief, crushing hug they’d shared before departing from the scene in their Thunderbirds.

“Gordon’s all good,” John answered, “He’s lucky, nothing but a few scrapes and bruises and he’s already back into a videogame tournament with Allie. Hear they’ve roped Kayo in too.”

“That’ll end well,” he muttered. The three of them were a match against any competition, and a danger to the walls against each other.

“I’ve got to go now,” John added, “See you soon.”

Scott nodded mutely, only processing about half of it as the hologram blinked out. He could really do with one of John’s hugs as well, right about now.

Virgil gripped both Scott’s shoulders. “Gordon’s okay Scott. He’s okay.”

Scott gulped, and repeated, “Gordy’s okay.”

Virgil gave him a gentle shake. “Now you’re off to shower, John’s coming down and I’m getting snacks to we can all hole up in the den.”

“John doesn't have to,” Scott protested.

“He wants to. You know him. You worried us both today, and he’s already on his way.”

Scott squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds and nodded.

Getting up from the floor took a hand from Virgil and a few seconds resting against the wall. He winced at the sound his joints made.

Shower. Okay, he could do this.

Scott walked to his room, head down, staring at the wooden boards beneath his boots. Where he was tracking dust through the house, making more work for them.

Everything ended up in a pile on his bathroom floor, baldric, boots, suit. He’d tidy it up later. At least the tiles were warm under foot.

The hot water and steam washed away the rest of the dust from the day. 

No one was around to see when he slid down to sit on the floor of his shower, head in his hands, just letting the water rain down upon him.

Or if he buried his face in his fluffy, blue towel for an extra few minutes.

When he finally got out of the bathroom, he tugged on a t-shirt and sweat pants, then a flannel over the top that was obviously Virgil’s and too large around his shoulders but had somehow ended up on top of Scott’s laundry pile anyway. 

None of his siblings commented on it. Not even when he poked his head around Alan’s door to check on them. Because he needed to lay eyes on Gordon and ruffle the squid’s hair to hear him laugh and protest the action.

Gordon was okay. So Scott was okay.

He found John in the hallway outside the den, trailing his hand along the wall to stay upright against gravity as he made his way in. 

Scott picked up his pace towards John, really-here-in-the-flesh-and-blood John. He waited for a second until John held his arms out wide before wrapping his brother up in a long overdue hug. 

Scott’s breathing came shaky for a second as John returned it just as fiercely. 

They entered the den in a ridiculous three legged race, neither letting go of the other and settled on the sofa together, wordlessly sticking as close to each others sides as they could.

Virgil came in a few minutes later, carrying three dishes. Scott sat up a little straighter as he smelt the distinct aroma emanating from them. Apple pie. 

Scott bit his lip. Virgil hadn't needed to go to all the effort for him, even if it was only chucking a frozen pie in the oven.

“Before you say anything, Scott, it’s been a hard day,” Virgil stated firmly, “You get pie.” 

John and Scott shuffled over to make room for Virgil to join their tangled up cuddle pile, and hand out the dishes.

Scott saluted Virgil with his spoon, then dug in.

A large slice of sweet, crumbly pastry, and hot, delicious filling, with a scoop of icecream for cooling his mouth when Scott burnt his tongue on the first eager gulp. Perfect.

For a few minutes, all that could be heard from any of them were happy munching noises. Scott smiled between bites, tucking into his favourite comfort food was possibly just what he needed.

He even got the leftovers of John’s because John hated the texture of soggy pastry but preferred to eat his icecream melty and one usually led to the other. Scott had no such qualms, and hey, bonus pie.

Virgil flicked on the holo tv, and began to scroll through shows, inquiring as to which Scott wanted. 

Maybe it was silly, but piled on the couch between John and Virgil, Scott didn't care what movie they watched. As long as he had them both there, his brothers could sort it out amongst themselves.

He got to experience a front row seat to the playful squabble that ensued between his usually quietest brothers. Plus when they tried to tackle each other over art documentary versus space, Scott got to be happily squished in the middle. Even if he had to fend off a few elbows. 

Something was compromised on, running as soothing background noise. Scott threw his legs across Virgil’s lap before Virgil could get there first, his head resting on John’s shoulder, his brothers with their arms around each other behind him. 

Even after the day they’d had. All warm and alive and safe, the others just a few rooms over, John and Virgil both snuggled up together here with him.

Perfect.

[katareyoudrilling]

Construction Corner (Joel Miller AU) Episode 5: The Peña Family

Fandom: The Last of Us/Pedro Pascal

Pairing: TV Host Joel Miller x divorced Female Reader

Summary: Filming out of town has Joel thinking about the past and the future

Word count: 2.1k

Rating: Mature (18+ only. NO MINORS)

Content Warnings: Joel’s POV, Alternate Universe, cameos galore, inaccuracies about tv show production, filming, and construction, allusions to sexy times, dry humping (?)

A/N: This episode took so much longer to finish than I had hoped.  Thank you for hanging in there with me while life got busy and then threw me a curveball.  We only have the Epilogue left after this!  Huge thank you to @wheresarizona for the beta and for letting her Learning to Live Javier and Cielito come play in Construction Corner!

Comments and reblogs very much appreciated!

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Want to get dinner?

Joel presses send and sets his phone down on the nightstand.  He has to admit, texting does have its uses.  He’s getting faster at it too, which definitely helps.  He continues putting his clothes for the week into the hotel drawers while he awaits your reply.

Filming weeks spent in hotels were not his favorite, but this project had captured his imagination, and he was eager to get started.  He enjoyed all types of projects – the ones when he was teaching a useful skill, like fixing plumbing, and the kinds that allowed him to design something interesting.

This one had to be his favorite, though.  He spent hours drafting plans, taking into account the homeowner’s ideas but also adding some of his own.  Just thinking about it gave him a bounce in his step as he organized his jeans and t-shirts in the drawer.

Of course, being in a hotel also had advantages as far as you were concerned.

He had kept you in his home and in his bed for as long as he possibly could over the weekend, reluctantly letting you leave yesterday afternoon so you could pack for the week.  In fairness, you seemed reluctant to go.

It just all felt so good.  Eating breakfast with you at the kitchen table.  Watching a movie, snuggled under a blanket on the couch.  The quiet domesticity of the weekend just felt… right.

Then there was the sex – nothing quiet or domestic about that.  Joel adjusts his jeans as memories of the noises you made – how you called his name and begged for more – wash over him, causing his cock to swell against his zipper.

You were so enthusiastic and free.  In those moments with you, looking deep into your eyes while he buried himself in your warm heat… he could see the future.

His phone chimes on the nightstand, pulling him from his reverie.

Sure.  Maybe breakfast too ;-)  Lobby in 5?

He snorts out a laugh but then stares down at his phone screen, puzzled.  He replies in the affirmative and scratches at his scruff absentmindedly as he stuffs his wallet in his jeans pocket and switches off the lights.

You are already in the lobby when the elevator doors open, sitting in an armchair and flipping through a Laredo travel guide.  Warmth rushes over his body at just the sight of you.  Your easy smile when you spot him is like a warm hug.  He can’t help the dopey grin that spreads across his face.

“Ready to go? I heard of a good place downtown.  We can take my car,” you say, gathering your belongings.

“Sounds good, sunshine, but first… what does this mean?” he holds up his phone, pointing to the collection of symbols you had texted him.

“It’s called an emoji, Joel.  It’s a winking face, see?” you turn his phone sideways and wink at him.  “Sarah hasn’t taught you those yet?”

He squints and looks at it again.  Just when he thought he was getting it…  He shakes his head and follows you out the door with a chuckle.

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

It happens sometimes that a homeowner is reluctant to accept help on their project.  Usually, their spouse had been the one to apply to the show.  The ones who were actively hostile to the idea were quickly weeded out, while some who just needed some convincing made it through.

Today is one that needs some convincing.

Joel had been looking forward to this project since he saw the initial photos.  Now, standing in the Peña’s backyard, looking up at their massive oak tree, he can barely contain his excitement.

The homeowner next to him, Javier, is another story.

“I really do know how to do this.  I built the whole sunroom by myself,” Javier grumbles next to him.  His wife ducks under his arm to wrap her arms around his waist.

Joel had met a lot of couples over the course of filming this show, but these two are special.  The way they look at each other… it’s like the other hung the moon.  He glances up and spots you across the lawn.  Might you look at him like that someday?  Could he be so lucky?

“I know you do, but it has been a year, Javi.  The children are getting restless,” Cielito teases her husband gently.  Javier’s face softens at the mention of his children, and he looks up at the unfinished treehouse—a generous description for the collection of boards nailed to the tree—and sighs.

“Look,” Joel turns towards the couple, “I’m just here to help.  I can tell you know your stuff.  Big projects – heck, even small ones – are difficult when you have little ones runnin’ around.”

“That’s the truth,” Javier chuckles, dragging a hand down his face and smoothing his mustache.  The three Peña children had been packed off with their grandfather that morning for the duration of the project but would be back for the reveal in a few days.

“Let’s build a treehouse that will be the envy of the neighborhood this week so you can focus on spendin’ time with your kids and each other.  Deal?” he extends his hand toward Javier.

Javier grabs his hand for a firm handshake, “Deal.”

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

Joel could watch you all day – he kind of has.  It’s a good thing Javier Peña is so handy.  The project may have suffered otherwise.

The two of you barely made it through the hotel room door before he pulled you on top of him, fully clothed, on the bed – like a couple of teenagers.  You’re an angel above him – breathless and moaning.  You feel so good against him.  Your softness against his hardness.  His fingers dig into your hips, urging you to continue rocking against his cock.

It started as making out, you teasing him by grinding into him while he hiked your skirt up your legs, but he watched as you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, and your eyes went hazy.  Your teasing became focused as you chased your pleasure on his clothed cock.

He’s just along for the show now, and that is just fine.  Your whimpers as you angle your hips just right and speed up your rocking are driving him wild.  If he was younger, he’d probably have come in his pants by now.  Points to middle-age.

“Does that feel good, sunshine,” he rasps as he digs his fingers into your hips, and you moan in response.  His cock jumps, and a satisfied little smile flits across your face.  You know what you do to him.

Your brow furrows in concentration, a little line forming on your forehead, so you must be getting close.  He loves that he has started to notice these little signs.  He’s not an expert on your body yet, but he wants to be.

Your breath catches as your legs clamp around his hips, and you shudder through your orgasm.  He strokes down your back as you relax onto his chest, then slide off to snuggle into his side.

Right or wrong, Joel had neglected his personal life while Sarah grew up.  He went on a date here or there or met someone in a bar, but he hadn’t even been interested in anything serious.  Lately, though, with Sarah thriving off at college, he’s been thinking more about himself.

And he’s been thinking about you.

Beautiful, smart, kind, capable, remarkable you.

It has only been a few weeks since he found out you were single, and the world tilted on its axis.  It feels like so much longer, though, with all that has happened between you.

“Do you think anyone has noticed that I haven’t been sleeping in my room?” you muse lazily, dragging your fingers down his chest.

“I have a feelin’ they have.  I’ve been gettin’ some looks.”  

“Does it bother you?  The crew knowing?”

“Not one fuckin’ bit, sunshine.  You?” he shifts on his side so he can see your reaction more clearly.

You shake your head and kiss him gently.  Your soft lips molding perfectly with his own.  You snuggle into his side, letting out a satisfied, sleepy sigh.  “I love you, Joel.”

Your eyes pop open, and you clasp a hand over your mouth.  His heartbeat pounds in his ears.

You look at him, panicked, “I didn’t mean t-to say that – it’s too soon… you’re freaked out.  I mean—I mean it, I just…”

“Calm down, sunshine,” he pulls your frantically fluttering hand into his own and presses it to his chest over the rapid thumping of his heart.  He gazes deep into your eyes until you are fully focused on him and have started breathing again.  “I love you, too.”

“You do?” you exhale in relief.

“Absolutely.”  He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss into your knuckles.  “I’m kinda glad you said it first, though.  Lord knows I was gonna say it soon,” he chuckles.  “In the back of my mind, I worry that I’m rushin’ you – goin’ too fast – because I just know.  Now I know you know too.”

“I do know,” you whisper, tears sparkling in the corners of your eyes, and his heart feels too big in his chest.  How did he get so lucky?

He bends down to capture your mouth with his own, imbuing the kiss with all the feelings he can’t put into words.  You meet him eagerly.  A little later, when that line forms on your forehead again, he kisses it gently as you both tip over the edge together.

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

“Ok, kids, your dad worked really hard this week.  Are you ready to see what he built for you?”  The three Peña children stand lined up in the backyard, dutifully covering their eyes.  Joel crouches beside them.

“Yes!” they scream in unison.  Javier and Cielito stand on either side of them, beaming.

“Then… open your eyes!”

Three sets of brown eyes are uncovered, followed by three little voices squealing with excitement.

He has to admit, it turned out well.  He wanted to build a place that could grow with the Peña children, from being the crow’s nest of a pirate ship, to the top of a castle tower, to a hangout to read in.

He had the same philosophy when he built Sarah’s playhouse.  She taught her stuffed animals the alphabet there, served him soft drinks through a drive-up window, and even cashed checks with Monopoly money.  

Javier clears his throat, interrupting Joel’s trip down memory lane. “Thanks, Joel.  I don’t know how much longer it would have taken me to do this on my own.”

“It’s been my pleasure helpin’ you out.  I hope y’all enjoy it together.  They grow up so fast,” Joel’s voice catches in his throat as he watches the kids scramble up the ladder and pop their heads out the windows, waving to their parents below.

For just a moment, it’s Sarah’s curly head popping out of the window.

Her playhouse stayed in the backyard long after she was done playing with it, but he couldn’t bear to tear it down.  It made him sad – the idea of her growing up – but as he watched her come into her own as a bright, considerate young adult, he realized he was missing out on the present by holding on so tightly to the past.

Sarah has so many wonderful adventures in front of her, and Joel can’t wait to see what she does with her life.  He still looks at the photo albums of her as a little kid, but not with sadness that those days are gone, but with gladness for the times they spent together.

Joel clears his throat and turns to Javier, “Get up there and make some memories.”  Javier nods and follows his kids up the ladder.

Joel looks across the yard to where you’ve been watching and catches your eye.  Sarah isn’t the only one with adventures ahead of her.  There’s so much time ahead for him too.  Time for making more memories with her and time for new memories with you.  He can’t wait.

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

A/N: This episode’s cameo comes from Narcos via Learning to Live by @wheresarizona

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[corishadowfang]

Dandelion Seeds Fic Notes

So Dandelion Seeds!  It’s definitely been a journey.  Dandelion Seeds is an incredibly long fic, but one that also ended up being very fun to write and very close to my heart.  It ended up catapulting me back into fic writing after like...four years, haha, and was an amazing experience overall.

But now that the fic’s over, I have kind of some behind-the-scenes notes/thoughts, in case any of you are interested in that.  Threw everything under the cut to save people’s dashes.

First up—the playlist!  It’s, uh…a bit more haphazard than what I had for On the Edge of Daybreak, haha.  A lot of it was just random stuff I listened to that reminded me of the story (which was then thrown very haphazardly into an actual playlist for this…).  It’s kind of a mix of character songs and things that felt like they fit the overall themes; I tried to organize it into some sort of order, but uh…it’s still pretty loose. (The acoustic version of Wolves by Aviators is an honorable mention, and wasn’t added because it more fits my thoughts about Missing-Link Brain and/or Luxu than anything in Dandelion Seeds.)

The original idea for Dandelion Seeds came about in like…2019, I think? I say ‘idea’ like it was an actual original thing, haha, but it was more of, “Man, I wish we got to see more of the Union Leaders being friends and stuff.”  Days was pretty heavily on my mind, too, because it’s one of my favorite Kingdom Hearts games, so I ended up taking a lot of inspiration from that.

I mentioned this in the author’s notes of the first chapter, but Dandelion Seeds was basically meant to be something that was very easy and fun for me to write, compared to the relatively boring stuff I write for work and the much heavier stuff I write for my original stories.  That’s kind of why I went with a very episodic structure with no ‘official’ update schedule; that way, even though there was technically an overarching plot, I could keep it pretty loose and write whatever I felt like at the time, and I didn’t technically have to update at any point. It’s also why chapters had very little editing; if I was going to edit something, it was usually the bigger chapters (backstory and finale chapters) or because I just really didn’t like a certain character interaction or plot point, and even then, I mostly just focused on fixing character/story issues rather than prose problems.

I still ended up having a ‘pseudo update schedule’ because that’s apparently been ingrained into me.

Originally, Dandelion Seeds was going to be written in non-chronological order. I’d wanted to do it this way largely because then I could write whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted—and it was literally planned this way right up until I wrote the first chapter and decided, “No, I think it’d be easier for everyone to follow if I just did it chronologically.”  In some ways, the non-chronological version would’ve made things easier—since, again, I could just do stuff whenever—but I think doing things in chronological order was probably better in the end, since otherwise I would’ve had to keep a lot more careful track of character development and plot changes over a non-linear narrative. This…required less outlining and editing.

The first thing I ever wrote for Dandelion Seeds was the beginning portion of chapter 13!  It was written…a little over a year before I actually committed to writing Dandelion Seeds, I think?  Anyway, even though I played around with ideas for the story for a while, it took until the UX finale to give me that final push to actually write a full chapter, haha.

Speaking of ideas for the story—some character arcs and backstories changed a lot between my initial ideas and first contact with the story! Like—I’ve mentioned before that falling in love with Skuld and Brain’s friendship was unexpected, which is still true, but it’s not the only thing that surprised me.  For example: Skuld’s entire character arc changed upon writing the first chapter. Originally, she was outwardly not super affected by the Keyblade War, and internally she was kind of bothered by the fact that she wasn’t more distressed.  And then I wrote her line about the Foretellers in chapter one and went, “Oh, no—she’s angry.” And her character kind of developed from there.  Brain had a bit of a different backstory, too; originally, while he still had a strained relationship with his mom, it was less because she was a bad parent and more because the two of them had trouble connecting with each other as he got older.  He also had a stepmother and step siblings that he had similar trouble connecting with—though in this case, it was because he was already in Daybreak Town when his mom remarried—and ended up viewing Ava as somewhat of a surrogate sibling.

Because a lot of Dandelion Seeds was only very loosely planned, there were a lot of ideas that ended up on the cutting room floor.  For example: there was originally going to be a chapter where Skuld and Lauriam’s very different styles of interacting with siblings clashed with each other in regards to Ven.

For the finale chapters, I originally started writing out transcripts of some of the canon scenes (using Everglow’s videos as reference) to try and make adapting them easier.  I got through the stuff in Ven’s chapter, did a little for Lauriam’s chapter, and then just…kind of stopped and ended up rewatching the cutscenes a lot to grab the info I needed, haha.  The few transcripts I wrote are here in case anyone ever wants to use them.  I don’t actually know how useful they are—and it’s entirely possible actually transcripts exist somewhere and I just…made a lot of extra work for myself—but you know.  They’re here.

The title Dandelion Seeds is…well, probably pretty self-explanatory, but it kind of came about because I wanted something that both referenced the Union Leaders/Dandelions/UX in general and referenced the fact that it was basically a collection of inter-connected one-shots. And since one-shots are technically supposed to be small…like seeds…I don’t know, I also just thought it was a cute title.

This is officially the longest story I’ve ever written.  It also has the longest chapter I’ve ever written.  While I’m proud of just how much I managed to write—and had a lot of fun writing it!—I also hope I never write something this long ever again.

(Please refer back to this in x amount of years when I inevitably write something else stupidly long.)

Some people have said that Dandelion Seeds has made them love the UX cast more (which makes me so stupidly happy), but the secret is, it kind of did the same for me.  I was already attached to the UX cast, but something about living with these kids in my head for over a year made it like...ten times worse, haha.  

Writing the story also gave me a whole new appreciation for the story of UX in general—especially the finale chapters.  (Though if I ever have to write the confrontation with Darkness again, I will probably cry.)

Thank you to everyone who followed along with the story!  It’s been an amazing journey, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

[its-captain-sir]

BATTALION BREAKDOWN

Alright y'all, here it is, my breakdown of what I think a GAR battalion SHOULD look like. Full disclaimer before we get into it: I tried to research this stuff on wookiepedia as best I could but 1. there wasn't a ton of information out there on some of the things I had questions about and 2. some of it just makes No Sense when you put it together, so a lot of these numbers were made up by me and what I thought made sense based on what we see in the show and just simple logic. Feel free to accept/ignore parts as you please! Also, I'm gonna try to explain the rationale behind certain things as I go along but if you have any questions about this, you can send an ask/reply/reblog this post with your question and I'll do my best to answer it :)

Now that all that's out of the way, here's all the actual info beneath the cut.

Basic Organization

Essentially, the GAR breaks down into four tiers at this level: battalions, companies, platoons, and squads.

Battalions are the largest groups with 576* members and are all numbered, such as the 501st, 212th, 104th, etc. The only exceptions to the numbering convention are the Rancor Battalion that guards Kamino and the Coruscant Guard. Personally I believe that both of these should be double, if not triple, the size of a regular battalion, which could potentially explain the difference in names. Battalions are led by a clone commander and Jedi general + a padawan commander if the Jedi has one. 4 companies make a battalion.

Companies consist of 144 members and are all named. Using the 501st for example, this would be Torrent, Tide, Wave, and Typhoon. Note: Torrent, Tide, and Wave are canon/widely accepted fanon, but Typhoon is something me and my friends came up with. You're welcome to use the name as the fourth 501st company in your wips if you want! The names don't have to be related, but my guess would be that they often are. Companies are led by a captain.** 4 platoons make a company.

Platoons consist of 36 members and are simply referred to as the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, or 4th platoon under their company. Platoons are led by a Lieutenant. 4 squads make a platoon.

Squads consist of 9 members and are named. I don't have names for any 501st squads unfortunately, which is why those spaces are left blank in the picture. As a content creator, you'd have a LOT of freedom when it comes to these because there's so many within a battalion and it seems like they can be named just about anything. Squads are led by a sergeant.

*Numbers for this and subsequent numbers in this section were taken directly from wookiepedia

**One problem people tend to have with this is that Rex is a captain, and yet he seems to be in command of all of the 501st. I think most people have figured this out already but the clone wars writers really just threw names around willy-nilly when it came to all the military stuff. Rex should by all intents and purposes be a commander, and my personal in-universe explanation for this is that while he was skilled enough to go through ARC/command track training, he wasn't originally meant to be a commander and his CT number is what barred him from the title initially. Keeli would be another example of this.

A few comparisons just to illustrate it a bit better:

1 battalion = 4 companies = 16 platoons = 64 squads = 576 members

1 company = 4 platoons = 16 squads = 144 members

1 platoon = 4 squads = 36 members

1 squad = 9 members

Please note that these numbers do not include the officers. There would be 64 sergeants, 16 lieutenants, 4 captains, and a commander added to this number to make a total of 661 clones in any given battalion.

Now I could have just stopped here but I have a tendency to want to get way too specific in my wips so I went a little further:

Internal Battalion Assignments

To make the numbers a bit easier, this just looks at what would be found in one company, you can do the extra math if you want to know the full battalion numbers.

I tried my best to remember what kind of specialized troops showed up in the show since wookiepedia wasn't much help, and I ended up breaking these assignments down into medics, heavy gunners, ARF and tank operators, scouts, tech specialists, and standard infantry.

Medics total 16* within a company, one for each squad. Within the medical corps, they're further broken down into junior medical officers (JMO), medical officers (MO), senior medical officers (SMO), and the chief medical officer of the battalion (CMO). Any internal promotions would probably come from the CMO, maybe a SMO on occasion. When pertaining to medical issues, they do often outrank any other officer, but in combat, JMOs and MOs only hold the rank of private (underneath sergeant) and SMOs and the CMO hold the rank of major (between sergeant and lieutenant).

Heavy gunners total 16 within a company, again one for each squad. These are the clones who have been trained to use the Z-6 rotary blaster, like Hardcase and Hevy.

ARFs and other tank operators total one platoons-worth spread throughout a company, or 36 members. ARF troopers are the ones who drive the AT-RTs (the really bouncy walkers you can see used on Ryloth and Umbara) and other tank operators encompass, well, the operators of all the other ground vehicles we see used. The ratio of each of these seems like it could be fluid based on the needs of the battalion and their mission, so I didn't go too much further into this.

Scouts total two squads-worth spread throughout a company, or 16 members. To me it makes sense that one of the lieutenants within their company would specifically deal with their recon reports, simply because it's more organized and practical.

Tech specialists total one squads-worth spread throughout a company, or 9 members. Honestly this is where I grouped anything else left over, like the bomb squad members we see in the blue shadow virus episode, any slicers, etc.

Standard infantry totals the remaining 49 members in a battalion. They're strictly the fighting force on the ground. This doesn't mean that they're the only ones who do the actual fighting, just that they aren't specifically trained for any other specialization.

*These numbers and the subsequent numbers in this section were not taken from any canon source. They were calculated simply by what I thought would make sense to have.

LAAT/is and Starfighters

Again, I tend to be way too specific in my wips so not only did I go through all of the ground fighting force, but I started figuring out the some of the space forces attached to a battalion as well. This doesn't go into a ton about the Republic Navy because frankly, as soon as I read "7400 crew members on a star destroyer" I exited out of that tab cause that's a little Too Much to try to figure out, but I will cover how I think the gunships and fighter squadrons should work.

LAAT/is (gunships) total 48 per battalion, or 12 per company. However, two per company are usually held in reserve to make sure there's always something available for easy transport to/from the ground. This brings down the number to 40 per battalion, or 10 per company. Gunships take two people to man, so the total number of those pilots for a battalion is 96, or 24 for a company. There's also room for two gunners, which would bring the battalion total to 192, but from what I remember in the show the side guns rarely have someone in them, so I don't think the full 96 LAAT/i gunner positions would be filled. I also think the LAAT/i gunners could be temporarily reassigned from the main star destroyer crew (because 7400 is a LOT, they can spare 96). Wookiepedia said that the gunships could hold 30 troops for transport, but that seems like it'd be really cramped quarters. My guess is that each one would hold somewhere between 14-17 comfortably depending on how many people need transport and how many gunships are in use, which is what I kept in mind to come up with the original number of 48 for a battalion.

The Starfighter Corps consist of 5 separate squadrons, the standard* being two squadrons of Y-wings, one squadron of V-19 Torrents, one squadron of Z-95 Headhunters, and one squadron of ARC-170s. There are 12 in a squadron, plus a squad leader and two usually in reserve, so that's 15 total ships in a squadron and 75 total ships overall. Y-wings require a pilot and a gunner, so the total number of members in a battalion's starfighter corps equals 105. However, I believe some battalions could have up to double** these numbers if they're frequently in space battles, like Anakin and the 501st, or if they have a name that suggests it, like the 327th Star Corps. Squadrons seem to often be named after colors, but that isn't always the case, ie. Shadow Squadron.

*This standard isn't canon, it's just what I believe makes sense based on the number of ships types available and how frequently they are seen used in the show. The Y-wing bombers seem to be used a bit more than the rest, which is why I think there would be two squadrons of them.

**While double the number of ships is certainly possible, I figure it's more common to have three more squadrons instead of the full five so there would be two squadrons of each type of ship.

~~~

That's all I got! Like I said earlier, use whatever you like, ignore the parts you don't, it doesn't really matter to me. This system is definitely what I'm going to follow in my wips if anyone is ever curious about what's going on with those.

Hopefully this is helpful to someone out there! And if you made it this far, thanks for reading! :)

[page-doctor-bekker]

Cat out of The Bag (transfemme!sarah)

(A/N) this takes place before Human Error, and THIS CONTAINS FLASHBACKS, PANIC ATTACKS, DISSOCIATION, GUN VIOLENCE, AND IMPLICATIONS OF A HATE CRIME

no ava in this one :( but caring dr charles and some lovely backstory

-

-

ED service was never, ever a boring day. Gaffney Chicago Medical Center could see a dozen traumas by noon, coming off the streets of the city Sarah called home.

Less often than traumas, they saw more serious emergencies; Code pinks when a newly-walking child wanders off, code greys when someone attacks someone without a weapon, a code red when someone decides it’s a great idea to smoke in the bathrooms, or…

“This is Maggie Lockwood in the ED, we have a code silver in the ED,” Maggie was quiet, glancing rapidly between the phone, and a treatment room where Dr. Charles was locked in with another man, maybe in his mid-40s.

Code silver. For guns.

Sarah’s heart practically stopped. She made panicked eye contact with Maggie, who shook her head and motioned for her to be quiet.

He covered her mouth, dragging her into the alleyway.

“Treatment two?” Sarah mouthed, and Maggie nodded.

Maggie hung the phone back up, and Sarah saw two security guards move into position outside the glass door to treatment two. Sarah felt short of breath, and like she wasn’t in her own body. She felt a sharp pain in her lower right abdomen, and she touched her thumb to the area, feeling the crater of a scar she had. She felt herself losing grip on her calmness, and really all she wanted to do was hide. Her head felt full - Not physically, but full of thoughts.

The phantom pain from her side got more intense, and Sarah squeezed the edge of the desk. Her knuckles were white, her breathing was shaky, and physically she could see but she was so in-her-head she couldn’t see what she was looking at.

She was under the table before she realized shots had fired, and she covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, focusing solely on her panic attack.

They’re going to get me.

She choked out a quiet sob, realizing she was the only one left inside, other than the doctors treating… Someone.

“No exit wound. Bullet may be lodged in his spine, push him on his side. He’ll choke on the blood if we don’t.”

“ED’s clear, PD’s on their way.”

“Are you sure there’s nobody else in the ED? Are the exits locked down?”

“Yes, positive. Checked every room. All critical patients are being transferred upstairs or to East Mercy, and all non-critical patients are being encouraged to relocate to other hospitals. We’re going on bypass,”

She threaded her hands through her hair and tugged, soliciting an ache at her scalp. It hurt, but it was almost grounding. Her heart felt like it was beating out of her chest, she couldn’t catch her breath as if she had run two miles in the peak of summer.

The sound of the gunshot rang through her head, echoing through her skull, bouncing around and rebounding. She felt hands on her skin, and opened her eyes. She frantically checked her entire body, searching for the hands. They weren’t there, but they sure felt real. She twisted and flapped her hands rapidly, her fingers outstretched and extended as far as they could go. The stimulation usually calmed her, but nothing seemed to calm her right now. She couldn’t seem to get herself back to reality, although reality wasn’t much safer than the flashbacks she was stuck in.

She couldn’t breathe. She felt like she had been kicked in the stomach, and she wished she had never felt what that feels like in the first place. She heard another gunshot, whether real or fake, and felt searing pain at the site of her scar. White, hot pain, that burned and she clenched her teeth and held her hand to her side.

She felt warmth on her right flank, and her fingers were wet and red. She was oozing blood through her new shirt, a white transgender pride shirt that she had picked up from the festival, and changed into inside the teal port-a-potty. The festival organizers had hung flags and streamers on it, and a sign that said “ANY GENDER”.

“No pulse, bag him!”

She felt warmth on her side, but her fingers were dry and cold when she touched her scar. She untucked her shirt, and lifted it up. All she could see was the scar. She let out a sigh of relief. Just as soon as she let out that sigh, she was back.

She could see stars, and the Chicago streetlights, and feel the concrete on the back of her head. She tried to lift her head and look around, but her vision was blurry. Her hearing was echoey, and she writhed in pain against the rough concrete. Her hair felt warm, and wet, and she knew it was blood. She heard the men running, and a police officer’s siren.

Sitting up made her feel dizzy, and she felt a sense of vertigo from the discrepancy between her position in the flashbacks and her position in real life. Her vision doubled, and the hyperventilating wasn’t helping her mental state. She imagined she was satting maybe in the low 90s, high 80s. She felt lightheaded, like she may pass out.

She’s laying in the backseat of a police car; A huge step up from the concrete. She heard the sirens even worse now, piercing her eardrums and making her head pound. She felt helpless.

“Dr. Reese?”

She could vaguely see Dr. Charles through her tears.

There was a doctor standing over her.

“Can we use a treatment room? I think she’s having a panic attack. She needs somewhere dark, and quiet if possible.”

“Treatment four, close the curtains and the doors.”

She heard the beeping of monitors, and all alarms went off just before she passed out. She felt ribs crack as the doctor gave her chest compressions.

“She’s going out, too much hyperventilating.”

She woke up in the dark. She blinked, groggy, and her eyes set on Dr. Charles.

“Sarah?” Dr. Charles looked concerned, “You had a panic attack. You were so upset you made yourself pass out.. Do you know what triggered it?”

“Were the shots real or… Or…” Sarah rubbed her eyes, hard enough that she saw colors that she wasn’t even sure existed.

“There was a shot, yes,” He nodded, “But… We thought we evacuated everyone. What were you doing under the table? You seemed like… Like you were having some sort of dissociative episode, flashbacks…?”

“Uh…” Sarah shook her head, with a short sigh, “I don’t… I don’t need you to shrink me. I have generalized anxiety, it’s in my chart.”

“You passed out,” He shrugged, “Standard protocol, you can’t return to work until I sign you off. And I want you to finish your saline, we want to make sure you aren’t dehydrated, that there’s nothing else contributing to passing out. And…” He gave her a tight-lipped smile, with concerned eyes, “It just seemed like a bit more than a normal panic attack.”

Sarah stared at him, quietly, “It was just a panic attack, Dr. Charles. Nothing more.”

“If it was something else, I will leave it off your chart and not tell anyone, I just don’t want you to internalize it.”

Sarah was quiet, and heard another gunshot ring through her head. She shuddered.

“Sarah.”

“Okay, okay,” She threw her hands up, “I…”

She sighed. Dr. Charles raised an eyebrow, and Sarah pulled up her shirt. She pointed to the scar, “I was shot in college, okay? I just… I’m just afraid of guns. That’s all.”

“You were shot?!” Dr. Charles exclaimed, quietly, “When? Why?”

“Look, Dr. Charles, it’s not a big deal,” Sarah murmured, putting her shirt down, “I’m over it.”

“You’re not over it, Sarah.”

“I am,” She argued.

“Sarah, it’s okay, don’t work yourself up, but in order to help you I-”

“I don’t need your help!”

Dr. Charles was quiet.

They both sat silently for a minute. The only sounds were the saline drip, heart monitor, and the oxygen machine that led to the cannula in her nose.

“I was walking home alone at night,” She trembled, “From Chicago pride.”

Stop. You’re doing to lose everything.

“Oh Sarah, I am so sorry,” Dr. Charles gave her a look of pity, which filled Sarah with anger, in addition to the remaining anxiety.

“Wearing a transgender pride shirt.”

Dr. Charles was quiet, “Sometimes allies are mistaken fo-”

“I’m not an ally, Dr. Charles.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They were quiet for a minute, and Sarah started braiding a few strands of hair together.

“I won’t write this down in your chart,” He affirmed, standing up, “Finish your saline, then have someone take your IV out. I’ll… I’ll sign you off to come back to work tomorrow.”

He started to leave, then stopped. He had his hand on the door, but he looked back.

“I care about you, Sarah.”

She nodded, swallowing nervously.

“This doesn’t change that, okay?”

-

-

(A/N) thank you for reading! lmk what you thought~

[chiseler]

Hero of Our Nation

I first encountered Roger Ramjet on a Chicago public access station in 1983. It was part of an early morning show apparently aimed at stoner insomniacs. The show came on at five and also included episodes of Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp, that awful Beatles cartoon, and a weather report clarified by some appropriate pop song (“Here Comes the Sun” or “Here Comes the Rain Again”). I was usually up and around that early for some godforsaken reason, and originally started watching on account of Lancelot Link. Always did love that Lancelot Link. But Roger Ramjet was, well, let’s just say it was a revelation.

Roger Ramjet, “ that All-American good guy and devil may care flying fool” (as he compulsively introduces himself) was a none too bright and none too coordinated drug-dependent space age superhero in an ongoing battle against the assorted forces of evil (or more specifically, N.A.S.T.Y.) to preserve the American Way of Life. He was square-jawed, straight-laced, straight-faced, and True Blue if little else, so hyper-patriotic that nearly every time his name is spoken aloud an American flag, a bald eagle, or a rotating ring of stars appears on the screen. After catching one or two episodes, I forgot all about Lancelot Link.

The show was easy to overlook, especially when squeezed between the Beatles and some secret agent chimps with a psychedelic band. The episodes were only five minutes long (maybe seven with the abrasive theme song filling out the opening and closing credits), and were so crudely drawn and animated it might at a glance seem like something a couple of junior high school kids threw together in their basement one weekend. The shows were so primitive they hardly bothered with niceties like “backgrounds” satisfied instead to settle for rudimentary suggestions of a setting. But the writing was so sharp and the voice talent so good what it really felt like, if you paid attention, was a spoof of a ‘40s radio serial like Sky King or Gangbusters, complete with a soap opera organ and illustrated by a handful of jerky drawings scratched out by someone’s kid. People who thought Jay Ward’s Bullwinkle and Dudley Do-Right were crude when compared with the output from Disney or Warner Brothers had no idea what “crude” meant. 

Looking at it today what it reminds me of more than anything are the paper cutout animations of the earliest episodes of South Park, before they upgraded to Flash. Along with the lo-fi stylistics, the humor was clearly aimed at an adult audience while pretending otherwise.  You may not find any child molestation jokes or crass religious cracks in Roger Ramjet, but for 1965 the lightning-fast humor was pretty hepcat and sophisticated, with undisguised satirical references to the Cold War, Central American turmoil, and the  Vietnam War (“Hey kids, this is Roger Ramjet,” demanding that you stay tuned to this station to see my next adventure,” Roger announces in his commanding superhero baritone. “Or I’ll see to it that all you little rascals are drafted.”) . Mixed in with the topical jokes we also get some highly unlikely name drops, from Noel Coward and Henry Cabot Lodge to James Joyce and bawdy nightclub performer Rusty Warren, as well as film parodies and  literary nods to the likes of Catch-22 and Catcher in the Rye.  It’s also a little less than what you might call racially sensitive by modern standards (consider Mexican revolutionaries The Enchilada Brothers, Beef and Chicken).

While a lot of the more timely jokes might be lost in the murk of the over 50 years since it first aired, there’s plenty of rapid-fire absurdity that’s timeless, from the misspelled title cards punctuating the narration to the self-consciously dumb coked-up adventures.

Bullwinkle aired from ‘61 to ‘64. Roger Ramjet came along a year later and Jay Ward’s influence is undeniable. The difference was Roger Ramjet crammed the equivalent number of bad jokes, references, and plot twists of a typical 8-part Bullwinkle serial into each five-minute episode, both mirroring the rapid-fire screwball dialogue of the ‘30s and the frenetic quick-cut comedy to come along a year or two later in shows like The Monkees and Laugh-In.

The episodes were produced with essentially no budget and were cranked out very quickly by a small team of writers, voiceover artists and animators with solid day jobs in radio and TV. They were all seasoned pros, some dating back to the days of classic radio, who worked on the show after hours as a way of letting off a little steam and tossing around a few cynical, subversive  cultural jabs their day jobs wouldn’t allow. The show was created originally by animator Fred Crippen  (who went on to work on some pretty dreadful crap like the Extreme Ghostbusters  and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) and Ken Snyder, an ad exec who moved over into producing cartoons. They brought in a remarkable team of voice talent and comedy writers, including Gene Moss (the voice of Smokey the Bear) Jim Thurmam (who did a lot of kids shows including Sesame Street), Dick Beals (the original voice of Gumby), and the great Gary Owens, a drive-time deejay in LA who would get national recognition soon enough as the on-screen announcer for Laugh-In. Although they would all get specific credits in the end (Crippen as director, Moss as a writer) it was a communal effort, in which everyone contributed to the writing, and everyone, even the executive producer, did a few of the voices. Apart from the regular crew, careful listeners might also catch a few uncredited guest appearances by some surprisingly big names (I’m told Sinatra and Dean Martin appear in an episode, but I’m still looking for that one). Owens was the star, though, as his ability to read the most ridiculous lines in a dramatic deadpan made him the perfect Roger Ramjet. Together they made 156 episodes (about 150 still exist), which were sold directly into syndication in ‘65 as half hour shows, each containing three unconnected adventures. I can’t say as I’m exactly sure who they thought their target audience was at the time, except maybe each other.

Much like William Conrad in Bullwinkle, each show opened with our narrator, Steve Allen alum Dave Ketchum, setting the mood and the scene (“In today’s depressing episode,” he’d begin with dramatic enthusiasm, or maybe it was an “existentialist episode,” “phlegmatic episode,” “rickety episode,”  “hairy episode,” or “ethnic episode”). Then we’re out of the gate at a breakneck pace, with a flurry of gags coming from every direction. “Ramjet rode into Boot Hill,” we’re told,  “where the men were men and the women were men, which can get pretty old after awhile.”

While none of the shows are connected, there are a few recurring characters and locations worth remembering: Roger hails from Lompoc, an actual California town (“where nothing ever happens, and seldom does”) and  takes his orders from General G.I. Brassbottom, a no nonsense military man who “hadn’t had an original idea since he was a civilian.” He’s also assisted by Yank, Doodle, Dan, and Dee, the unusually chubby  kids who make up the American Eagle squadron. Like Roger, all the members of the squadron wear their white jumpsuits and flight helmets at all times (Roger even wears his helmet on dates), and in true superhero sidekick fashion, their primary job is to get Roger out of scrapes and make sure his drugs are handy. 

That’s one little detail more than a few casual viewers have taken umbrage with. Roger, see, is a pretty hapless character most of the time, but he repeatedly saves the world thanks to a little help from his Proton Energy Pills (PEP), which take five seconds to kick in, then give him the strength of 20 A-Bombs for 20 seconds. Modern viewers seem a little uncomfortable with the idea of a superhero gulping amphetamines in order to function, but all I can say is, well, it was a different time, and hey, it worked for Roger and Elvis both.

The proton energy pills come in handy when dealing with his arch-nemesis Noodles Romanoff, the short, trench coat and fedora wearing head of N.A.S.T.Y. (the National Association of Spies, Traitors, and Yahoos). Romanoff may not have a Natasha, but he does have a gang of cronies and thugs who all mumble in unison (save for one, who can’t seem to get the rhythm). 

Along with Romanoff and his gang, Roger also has to contend with some lanky alien robots, the Solenoids (voiced by executive priducer Ken Snyder), and their repeated efforts to invade the planet in assorted ridiculous ways (in one episode, they begin kidnapping all the Miss America contestants, who “were disappearing faster than co-eds at a Dartmouth weekend.”)

When not saving the world, Roger found himself competing with the smarmy hotshot test pilot Lance Crossfire (who sounds an awful lot like burt Lancaster) for the affections of Lotta Love, the fickle Southern belle with a taste for the finer things in life.

Then there are the adventures themselves. Some seem standard superhero fare, but only to a point. Earth is besieged by flying saucer attacks (sort of). Roger’s hometown is terrorized by a werewolf (sort of). Roger plays tennis with a kangaroo, or becomes the first man to surf in space,  or, in a personal favorite, attempts to stop the flow of bootleg comic books into America’s drug stores.

Actually, there’s an interesting moment in that one that revealed just how subtle you could be even with animation this unsophisticated. Okay, so Noodles Romanoff, see, is replacing real comics in drug store racks with bootlegs in which popular superheroes are humiliated, all in an effort to destroy the morale of America’s children. After Brassbottom shows Roger a few examples (the issues include “Superman Gets Beat Up by a Chicken!” and “Ratman Stubs His Toe!”) he explains that if this sort of thing continues, “America’s kids won’t have anyone to look up to except YOU, Ramjet.” Then, for just an instant in that crude and jerky style, Roger cuts his eyes toward the camera, revealing in that moment everything we needed to know, namely that it’s what he’s always wanted.

Thirty years on and that still sticks with me.

In the end, though, the characters and storylines are secondary at best In Roger Ramjet. At heart it’s  a matter of trying to keep up with all the lightning-quick  jokes and wordplay, the non-sequiturs and references. In the five minute span of one cowboy-themed episode I counted nods to at least seven classic Western films, from High Noon to She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, and I suspect I missed a few. It really is such a dizzying blur of dialogue and bad puns and cultural references, sometimes, christ, even just references to old jokes that take the form of bad puns (“Waiter, there’s a spy in my soup” or “how many angels can swim in the head of a beer?”), that absurd as it all is, repeated viewings are a necessity to catch everything. It’s a bit like having the complete contents of an issue of MAD magazine jammed onto a single page. It can make your head hurt after a while, but it’s worth it. Whether the density and the pace make it better or worse for stoner viewing is something, I guess, each stoner will need to answer for him or herself. Lots of bright colors, though.

In 1965 there was nothing new about making cartoons with adult sensibilities in mind. Betty Boop and Bugs Bunny were made to be shown as short subjects to largely adult audiences. Jay Ward’s cartoons a few decades down the line were near-revolutionary for smuggling hip, subversive political humor into what had become an exclusively child-friendly format. What made Roger Ramjet so radical was it’s blend of ‘30s radio style with mid-’60s cynicism, as well as its foreshadowing of our shrinking attention spans, a hyper-condensed proton pill of comedy and commentary disguised as just another dumb, low-rent superhero cartoon. Although it’s barely remembered today, its influence is still evident in most any subversive animated show you can name, even if they’ve slowed things down a bit.

by Jim Knipfel

[inked-out-trees]

⭐ for The Keep Going Song? Thanks! :)

(anh i would die for you)

Thank you for asking! I am going to be talking about the whole thing because it's fun, and because there's not really many ~secrets~ within the text to ramble about, just little fun snippets!

I'll do it under a cut because I will definitely ramble. Woohoo!

I came across The Keep Going Song (the song) after my Lookout 3 Companion Playlist (& my spotify discovery) introduced me to the Bengsons. The effect was almost instantaneous - it's the kind of warmth I try to encompass in everything I do, and for the next few days I had it on repeat as I worked. This was around the time I was finishing my Lookout script, and I had been toying with the idea of writing a Cornleyverse fic after absolutely devouring all 10 fics in the tag. What I knew was that I wanted it to be sweet, I wanted it to pull them all together, and I wanted it to be a progression. Despite only having seen the Goes Wrong Show, jumping into the fandom made me want to dimensionalize these characters and give them a story beyond everything that had already occured.

I also watched Christmas Carol before / during the writing process, but to date I have not watched Peter Pan or the full-length TPTGW. My prior knowledge comes from Wikipedia, the delightul amateur TPTGW production on YouTube, a friend's excellent transcription of the Haversham Manor script, and tumblr meta analysis. I think I did a reasonable enough job pretending I knew what I was doing.

Let's get going!

I knew off the top that it was going to be vignettes - they would give me room to spread the story over the long period of time it takes for a group of people to grow into something resembling a family. Like I said in the original author's note, there was supposed to be more of the early, snippy days - but I got so focused on making them kinder that I found I couldn't properly write a fight. In hindsight, it probably would have been easier if I tried writing that first, but, well. Once I realized that it was too late. The alphabet idea came later, once I had them all finished: I wanted to organize them somehow, but numbers felt too open, too infinite - closing the story on an organizational endpoint was just really satisfying.

a - Every good story needs a good beginning.

c - Starting with the end of Peter Pan is my sneaky way of slipping past the fact that I haven't seen the earlier shows! The Max and Sandra storyline is just so sweet, and I wanted to let it exist a little bit in between our jump from Peter Pan to Christmas Carol. This vignette came so easily when I wrote it and I love love love the feelings and the tentativity about the whole thing.

f - This was actually the last vignette I wrote. I realized I needed some front-end padding because otherwise my angst plot came rather abruptly, and what better way? At this point, too, I was trying to bring in POVs from each one of our characters, and when deciding on Trevor's POV I thought the exasperation-excitement combination would be an excellent choice. It turns out Trevor is my favourite to write, mostly because I can find his voice a lot easier than some of the others - and probably also because I hold a lot of fondness and nostalgia for stage crew work. Also, I wrote most of this one on a long evening walk in the notes app on my phone. Fun fact.

h - I did my original idea slam in a draft tumblr post, and this one just says "birthday party but one without all the drama of christmas carol". And what do you know, that's exactly what it is! I definitely took the birthday party (in CCGW as well as in this fic) as a kind of proof that they really do like each other, if they're doing things like this and if they want to do things like this - and that theme of okay, they want to be here formed the basis for this part. I think it's exceptionally sweet that Dennis came looking for friends and ended up finding, well, something. And I popped in a little MMNI reference with "one of the Janines" - Backwards Janine? Frontwards Janine? Original Janine? Who knows! It's one of them!

l - The thing about this plot is that it's actually one of the first ideas I had when dreaming up this fic, and I couldn't quite let it go. The point was, what if I somehow split them up? How can they get on when half the society is out of commission? And the most reasonable way I could find to actually get half of them out of commission was the car accident. To be honest, this one is mostly filler - it's also the second vignette I wrote, and it found its birth in the email drafts of my work laptop.

m - Trying to map out this little plotline without overdoing it might have been the most difficult part of this fic, and I'm still not 100% sure I succeeded. This is our explanation for the unease from the vignette above, and it took me 3 rewrites before I finally found something that settled in my brain. "Dennis gets chased by a goose" might be one of my favourite lines in the fic though.

Also, putting these letters right next to each other made me feel really clever for no reason.

n - My Jonathan perspective also took a few stutter-steps in its beginning, but this one ultimately came from the promo video's reveal that Robert and Dennis live together, and me playing with the continual idea of the remaining cast members being rather unmoored in their injured castmates' absence. Robert in particular because I love his character and I love making him Feel Things(TM) (fun hint: this will also be a small theme in the new cpds fic I have in the works!) and I want to see so much from this odd relationship between him and Dennis. Obviously they have to tolerate each other if they are willingly roommates - how far can I go with that? I love how this one turned out.

o - All I have to say about this one is that I still really love the sweetness between these two, and they deserve the world. Also, at some point during writing this I was really caught up with how striking Dave's face silhouette is (don't ask) so that ended up making it in somehow.

q - Girls' Night is SO important to me. After all the work they've done to make these gals friends I needed to capture it, and a pleasant night in just made a lot of sense. This one is the home of a few of my headcanons - Annie has a chef roommate and Max does a lot of the cooking, thus the "neither of us are the usual household cooks" comments, and I also think they're at the point where they can joke about their previous failures (especially with these three together) so the nod to A Trial To Watch (my favourite gws episode) was so fun. Also, Waking Ned really is a silly pick-me-up of a movie - would recommend. Special thanks to CBC for giving us Canadians quality British TV alongside our occasionally questionable homegrown programming.

r - It wouldn't be a fic about progress and growth with this crew without a disheartening moment turned into gold. I wrote this one while barbecuing, another fun fact, and no joke the hardest part was figuring out what to name the play they were doing. I kept pace with the whole "Jonathan can't get onscreen" gag, which was personally hilarious and made me cackle as I wrote it, and the rest of it just felt good. I will always have a soft spot for comfort and reassurance in a story and getting to write it has just been an absolute delight.

t - This was one of my other unplanned vignettes. It was originally to fill out Robert's POV, but also to express a bit of how things have changed in Chris's attitude towards his cast - if there's one thing I would change from Mischief's characerisation thus far, it's this brand of almost-kindness that I consistently need to write him with. It takes the aftermath of the car accident and uses it to kind of make him understand - this is a valuable group of people and I don't want to lose it. But of course he's not the type of person to actually express that in any way, so I thought the frenetic hovering was a good way to get the point across. As well, the kind-of-bonding between Chris and Robert - the two of them are such powerhouses of insistent personality that conflict so easily but they've also got a more secret kind of friendship that deserves to be explored a little more. I really like this vignette and how it ended up portraying how they are around each other, how they really do know each other, especially when they're not fighting. Makes me soft.

w - This is the first vignette I wrote! I honestly didn't realize until writing this just how much I identify with Annie - best of both worlds re. crew and cast, a bit of tenacity regarding getting through things, overall personality - I just love her so so much. She also seems like the most sensible of the cast, so the collective "why are we really here?" moment with Trevor really spoke to me. I love their friendship, I love the kind of quiet vibe this vignette gives off - this is one of the ones I can feel most strongly, the one I can step into and exist inside. I also spent most of my old drama rehearsals and classes without shoes, so that had to make it in just by virtue of the sock brigade (me).

z - One thing I knew for sure since the inception of the fic was that it needed to end on a victory. I took the images I had of this victorious adrenaline, everyone together having a good time, kind of getting smashed, and karaoke (I really wanted the karaoke, for some reason) and went the obvious route: the wedding. Ending on Chris POV also felt so right - possibly because he's the one with the most growth in this fic - and getting to finally feel this triumph with him after all these other trials and tribulations was an absolute joy. The wedding hall, in my head, looks like the one my cousin used (it was at a zoo... my sister and I went on a night walk and heard a lot of screaming peacocks) and I definitely threw all my wistfulness, all my love for the characters I'd developed, and all my love for this fantastic fandom into this part. The incorrect lyrics that Annie sings are exactly what I think every time I hear that song, because I've never looked up the lyrics before and my brain likes to play Mad Libs with my super-questionable auditory processing. And the image of the ballroom staff getting really exasperated with them and shutting all the lights off came to me at night and is hastily scribbled on a sticky note (it's a wonder it's legible) but I still strongly believe that it's the perfect, perfect way to end. I still get the warm feelings when I reread this part, even now, after so many reads.

And, finally - our end quote is exactly what started this whole thing. What is this drama society if not a rough beginning? But the concept that we'll make it through, that we can just take a step and then another and it'll be okay because we're together... it's hard to describe just how much it means to me, to my place in the world, to the world itself. I think one of my rather consistent aims in writing, no matter what it is, is to be able to have this collective - characters that become family, people that are important to each other, this constellation to lean on - because it's all I can say for the human experience. It's probably quite a bit of wishful thinking (as I said to another friend, "I am apparently letting loose on all my repressed social feelings of the past year and shoving them into fics") and a sort of subconscious confirmation that if I write it, I can be it. So this force of understanding and kindness and ultimately good people helping each other through the world is something I can't help but include, something that means the absolute world to me.

I'm so glad to have been able to share this fic with everyone, and extra glad that it's been able to touch some people along the way. I've found such an incredible community in Mischief and coincidentally I think The Keep Going Song represents that warmth, too - the community I've been so lucky to exist inside, how we're helping each other along, step by step. What a beautiful thing to be a part of! Thank you for reading and allowing me to give you a bit of my heart. 💖💖

[monofpoke4life]

Datr Week 2020 Day One: Missing You

(Totally forgot yo upload this last year. I think I was unhappy with it, but I can’t remember why. Anyway, please enjoy)!

"So how'd you know to do that thing to Chunk earlier?" His young voice squeaked, echoing into the dark, shapeless abyss.

"Any enemy can be felled with the right jab. It's just a matter of knowing where to hit. Most are susceptible to major and vulnerable organs like the kidneys or liver. I am particularly fond of throat punches. They're ideal for stunning an opponent while leaving them alive for questioning." Replied a feminine and distinctly accented voice.

A frown tugged at the corner of his lips, yet all it did was morph a frown briefly into a pout and back.

He felt his brow furrow, as the world suddenly came into view. It was like turning on your phone in the middle of the night. Blinding and full of color at its sudden appearance, but it didn't strain his eyes as they continued on their walk. A set path expanding in front of them far beyond their view, but materializing in front of them with each new step. One he walked what felt like a million times before. No different than all of the other times he walked it. Just the same old sidewalk with the same old cracks that were on his way from the school to his house.

Certainly nothing looked out of the ordinary, and yet, this walk was entirely different. It would be one thing if it were just the electrified thrum in his veins or the ecstatic beat of his heart from the idea of catching Zim in one of his alien schemes or running home to watch a new episode of Mysterious Mysteries. However, it was neither of those things, and had everything to do with the young lady walking beside him.

There was a tingle in his leg, but he paid it no mind as he chuckled, "I'll keep that in mind the next time those bullies try to stuff me in the trash again." He shook his head at the memory from earlier that day, before he pointed out, "But you still never answered my question." Her steely gaze of rare, purple eyes flicked over to meet his own bespectacled gaze as he elaborated, "I know you're British, but come on, "keep them alive for questioning?" You sound like you're from MI6 or something. I mean, where do you learn techniques like that?"

"Girly Rangers," came her little too clipped reply as she turned her head, giving him her full, narrow eyed attention.

At that, his heart suddenly jumped into throat. He could easily get lost in her eyes. His breath quickened just a tad as a wave of nerves crashed into him. Both the expected good kind, and unexpectedly bad kind, settling sourly in his stomach.

They stared a moment later before he called her bluff, and she quipped, "If I didn't find the idea ludicrous myself I'd have swatted at you." She shook her head as a genuine smile graced her lips, before she looked up to the bare branches of the trees that lined their walk, as she continued, "My mother was in the military. You pick up a thing or two with those you live with."

He felt the pin prickling feeling of a chill run down his spine, starting at his neck, yet his body lacked the telltale twitch as he excitedly murmured, "That's so cool!" At that remark, the corner of her lips twitched into a proud smirk at his unsubtle praise. Realizing she heard him, his face grew hot. He wanted to turn away, crawl into a hole, but the sight of her amused, gentle smile kept his eyes riveted to hers. 

"S-so what else did she teach you? Anything useful I could use on my paranormal investigations?"

The anxiety in his gut increased, and a familiar dread set in, waiting patiently for his world to shatter. The kind of dread that makes somebody want to hide under a blanket from the world. Yet he heeded it no mind as his lips parted into a shy yet ecstatic smile.

"Sure, one more tip couldn't hurt," she said, murmuring the last part more to herself. "Well, body language is always telling. When someone is lying their eyes will look up and to the right because they’re tapping into the imaginative part of the brain.”

“Wow, so you’re like a walking, talking lie detector?”

“You can if you train yourself enough,” she said nonchalantly.

“Could you teach me?” He inquired as a fluttery feeling in his gut returned. His arm nervously rubbed the back of his neck as he continued, a little too quickly, “Maybe you come over my house some time and-”

“I beg your pardon?” She inquired quizzically, yet something in her voice had an edge to it. Ice filled his veins at that, and he stammered and scrambled to recover, “I mean or your place is fine. Of course, only if you wanted to, but nobody ever usually wants to. Actually, no place is fine then. Look let’s just pretend this never happened and-”

His heart dropped from his chest only to roar within his ears as he felt a delicate finger lightly touch his lips. He froze. He didn’t dare to breathe let alone talk; meanwhile his eyes fixated upon the dainty appendage touching him. If he didn’t know better, a spark spread from her to him, electrifying him from the inside out. His whole body grew hot, and he felt like his brain would melt from the radiant blush that was surely upon his cheeks.

“Hm, so that’s where you’re off button is,” she mused aloud as she pulled her hand away. Her eyes shined with silent mirth. He gulped and could practically hear himself audibly swallow. Gawd she had to have known what that clever smile did to him! Forget his brain melting, he was going to melt into a puddle at her feet.

Dazed, he saw her lips move, yet didn’t hear a word she said.

“Sorry, I spaced out. What was that?”

“You shouldn’t apologize. It’s a sign of weakness,” she chided. He felt confused and opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, she continued, “I said that’s very kind of you, but unfortunately my parents and I are still adjusting from the move; however, once we’re settled, I’d love to come over.”

He blinked owlishly behind his round glasses. His flushed face cooling down within the time it took to sink in. However, when it did finally sink in, he grinned so hard his face felt like it could split in half.

“That’s great! I can’t wait until then! How long do you think that will take? Maybe a week? Oh I need time to prepare and clean my room-er-not that it’s not clean, I-” He abruptly cut off his ramble as he saw her finger raise once more. He skittered backwards with his trench coat flapping with his rapid movements. The usually heavy yet oddly light feeling backpack nearly threw him off balance, but he managed not to fall.

She snickered. His heart skipped a beat, and a warmth coalesced in his chest, emboldening him.

“How does this Saturday sound,” He asked with all of the courage and grace a socially outcast boy, like himself, could with his first real friend. The first person who made him feel secure and supported since...gawd, he couldn’t remember! He couldn’t think!

By that point they started walking again, and that dread came back tenfold. His untrained eyes followed her right hand as she tucked a dark blue strand of hair behind her ear. A gust of forceless wind slammed into them, and it appeared as though she turned her head to shield it from the winter wind. She was always honest with him up until that point, so he had no reason to doubt her. No reason to notice how the motion drew his attention away from her eyes.

But he knew to look for it now, and all of the other times his mind replayed it over and over again within his head. On this night, as it had so many times before, that dread feeling his gut finally crashed to the forefront as everything went dark, and squealing, victorious laughter surrounded him like a stereo system. 

He went to scream, to shout, warn her, anything! Yet nothing came out. In fact, she was gone. He whipped around in an attempt to find her. As he looked behind himself, he went to turn back around, and there she was in all of her green, alien, Irken glory as she rushed at him with pak leg raised. When she was so close he could see the darker, barely discernible, purple of her pupils did he finally gasp and rocket himself into an upright position. Eyes shooting open as he nearly fell out of bed.

His stomach roiled as a brief wave of vertigo hit him from moving too quickly, especially without his glasses. With the grace of a lean yet gangly teen, he leaned on his side towards the edge of the bed. His arm flopped onto the end table beside his bed, and he hung his head between the space that separated the two as he let the wave pass. He also took the time to catch his breath.

Once recovered, he raised his head to blearily look for his glasses in the dark. After a few near misses of lightly brushing against them, Dib finally managed to snag them. As he placed them upon his face, he frowned at the sight of the slight tremble of his hand.

At the reminder of his memory, that nightmare, Dib growled at himself as he flopped onto his back. He yelped and flinched as a sharp pain shot up his leg, having hit his ankle off of a bedpost. 

The pain quickly went away as swiftly as it came, and Dib huffed and sighed. His forearm falling back to rest upon his forehead. Barely awake and he was already exhausted. Of course, the fact that he had that blasted dream again didn't help at all.

At the thought of the dream again, Dib growled and rolled over onto his side, facing the wall and his open window. He knocked his glasses up towards his forehead as he rubbed his clenched shut eyes with the heel of his palms. If only he could forget and move on. That would make his life so much easier.

And yet...the thought of forgetting Tak or how she made him feel...he could never do it. Just the idea made his heart race into a panic and sent his mind into a whirlwind. His childhood crush aside, Tak was his first friend. A real friend, or so he thought.

Pfft, just his luck that his first friend turned out to be an alien who only talked to him for his information on Zim. The thought triggered a dull, painful ache to grow within Dib's chest. One more powerful than the pain of her trying to destroy the earth. With him on it.

Dib shifted his right arm under his pillow to further support his head while he opened his eyes to pensively glare at his drumming fingers.

"Four freaking years and I still can't get you out of my head," he grumbled to one person in particular. Not that she'd ever hear him, being flung into space in her ship's escape pod and all.

The pod. Possibly drifting aimlessly in the vacuum of space. Cold and lifeless as the metal shell encasing Ta- 

He shook his head to dispel the direction of his thoughts. However, he didn't do it fast enough as he felt the slight burning tingle of his eyes welling up with tears only for one to slide down his cheek.

He grumbled some more as he wiped it away and gazed up at the midnight blue sky. The busy tizzy of his mind slowed down to a crawl as he closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. In and out. Find his happy place and think happy thoughts, or at least ones different from those that woke him up.

It almost worked too, as the angry tension in his muscles slowly evaporated from his body. His limbs became noodle-like and his facial muscles relaxed. The drumming stopped, and his mind drifted into a hazy fog of nothingness. He liked the nature of the nothingness. By definition, there was nothing there. Nothing that could potentially hurt him physically or mentally.

In and out. He pondered the nothingness, and how something so endless in area and possibilities could give him a sense of security, like being wrapped within a warm blanket.

Then, Dib's mind drifted to the thought of security, as it always did. The lack of it, how he could hold onto it, how he could find it within himself or others, and then finally when was the last time he felt it.

"Ya know they're wrong, right?" Tak's voice echoed from a memory that felt like decades ago. 

His younger self jumped at that, looking over at her from where she sat beside him in the library. She'd broken him out of a very important task...which was to stare morosely at his unopened book.

"Hm, what was that," He inquired, trying to sound tired to hide the sadness in his tone.

Her purple eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. As per usual her penetrating gaze felt like she could see right inside him, reading him like an open book. However, she chose to ignore it in favor of the topic at hand. 

"I said, ya know they're wrong, right? About you?"

His eyes widened in surprise at that.

"O-oh?" He paused a moment, before his brow furrowed and he inquired further, "About what exactly?" It wasn't like he didn't believe Tak. Dib had no reason to doubt her, but years had cautioned him to not get his hopes up. 

He watched her frown a moment as she paused. The question caught her off guard as she clearly thought it would be a one and done statement. However, ever the perfectionist, she persisted to speak her opinion of him.

Glaring at the pencil she twisted between her fingers, she elaborated, "Well, a lot of things. The most prominent, though, is that you're not crazy for being different, for believing in the paranormal."

He sat up straighter at that as he continued to stare in astonishment, watching her wearily for any sign of a lie. He found none, but still felt the need to ask, "Really, you mean that?"

"Of course! There's nothing wrong with being different. It-" She trailed off at that. He ignored the part of his brain that thought her brow furrowed pensively was cute. This was a serious, heartfelt situation, and it wasn't the time to make googly eyes at someone who probably didn't like him that way.

He opened his mouth to offer a word, in order to help her along, but she continued before he could.

"It doesn't make you wrong. You- you're not- you're not defective." At the word "defective," it came out of Tak's mouth with as much disdain as one would use when talking about the city's cesspool, and her gaze immediately snapped up to look him in the eye.

A part of Dib felt like she wasn't just talking to him at that moment, especially as shortly after she said it, she unconsciously snapped the pencil in half. It made him wonder who hurt her or called her that in the past, what was their address, and could he beat them up. Well, maybe die trying, but preferably not.

The other part of Dib felt like she meant every single word. Even after everything that would happen later, he still felt she meant it. The way her determined stare carved into his very soul, refusing to look away until he agreed with her. How those amethyst orbs tenaciously glared and willed him to take to heart her words of wisdom, but most importantly; the earnest, raw edge of emotion that slipped into her voice. 

No matter how brilliant of an actor she was, she couldn't fake that.

The full meaning of her words combined with her body language finally sank in and a blissful warmth settled in his chest. It quickly spread to every neuron and nerve until it felt like pure happiness, contentment, and safety was going to erupt from his mouth in the form of the widest grin he'd ever make.

However, he had enough sense to not grin at her like a fool or madman. His entire body thrummed with energy and oddly a sense of calm. 

For once in his life he felt relaxed, safe, peaceful even. Relaxed to just let things play out, and to have faith in her as his friend, as he did for her. He could say or do anything, and she'd have his back, always giving her 110 percent. It felt...blissful.

However, that bliss couldn't last, just like the nothingness as the memory faded in exchange with his conscious state. Before it fully faded, he remembered he got her to laugh

 Not a laugh at someone's misfortune, like Zim, or being victorious against those bullies, like Chunk, but a genuine, gentle laugh with a small smile to match.

The memory faded, and he opened his tear filled eyes once more. As they dripped onto his pillow, he curled in on himself. His heart was as erratic as his breathing. Trying not to sob aloud kind of does that to you.

Gawd how he missed that feeling of security, of being supported, of someone having his back, and boy did he miss the one who made him feel that way.

Ironic how an alien could act more and treat him like a human than the real humans. And there's a high chance that all of that was fake. If it wasn't, well, it was four years too late to think about that.

A choked sob escaped his lips as he angrily sighed out the window, "I hate that I miss you."

[petite-ely]

Together

Pairing: JJ Maybanks x female reader

Warnings: mentions of social anxiety and other mental health issues, slight swearing and slight mention of underage drinking.

A/N: this story is mainly based upon my own experiences and struggles with anxiety and social anxiety. I am in no way romanticizing or glamorizing mental illnesses. If you need help you can always talk to me or contact crisis hotlines. It gets better, I know it. (Also this is the first time I post on tumblr and I am a very anxious bby please send feedback, it would make me very happy, okay thank you.)

Summary: Reader has been suffering from social anxiety for a long time. One night, everything falls apart and she hopes nobody notices.

Word count: 1,700 ish

This represents y/n’s thought and this jj’s.

Picture found on Pinterest, all credits to rightful owner.

It was a typical Friday night in the outer banks, the pogues had organized yet another kegger and the party was roaring. Y/n was sitting on a hard lump of wood, enjoying the music and the dancing flames of the bonfire. You could even see a soft smile drawn onto her lips. She felt good.

That changed quickly. One minute she was fine and the next she couldn’t feel anything anymore. Emptiness. It was all she could feel. Like she was nothing but a large void. It felt as if all of the air had been sucked out of her lungs, leaving her breathless and frightened.

It happened more and more lately. Small moments of disorientation where she couldn’t feel anything at all. These episodes usually happened when she was alone and didn’t last very long, but this time it was different. It felt much worse.

You’re so disgusting, and pathetic.

Not wanting anyone to see her in this state, she left silently, ashamed of herself. It’s not as though anyone would miss her anyway. She wasn’t very popular. She had friends, of course, but not that many.

There was John B, a friendly guy who everybody knew because, well he was John B.

There was also Pope, who was kind and smart, but that everyone knew because of his father Heyward’s business.

Then there was Kie, a cute hippie girl with a passion for environmental issues. Born a kook, but a pogue at heart.

And finally there was JJ, one of the best surfer in the Outer Banks. He was well known for his charm, being a pothead and his tendencies of getting into fights with kooks.

The five of them hung out almost every day and yet if you showed a photo of the group to an islander, they probably wouldn’t be able to identify y/n.

She was invisible, unseen. She was that one girl who was always with the four pogues. The one who nobody chose for projects. The one teachers never picked on. The one who no one noticed. She was nothing.

As she was sitting on the damp sand, small waves crashing onto her bare feet, tears began to roll down her cheeks. She wanted to scream, tell the whole world how she felt, but no sound came out. She couldn’t speak. Only her breathing was heard. She couldn’t move either, and yet she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.

-

“You better reuse that plastic cup Maybank, or I’ll make you eat it,” threatened Kie, after JJ placed his empty cup on the ground.

The boy rolled his eyes and threw the red cup at his friend. “Keep it safe for me, I’m going to find y/n.”

“She was sitting by the bonfire, like five minutes ago,” said John B.

“Well not anymore,” muttered the blond when his eyes landed on the empty seat.

JJ wandered around the boneyard, looking for his friend. A bad feeling started to grow in the pit of his stomach. So after looking around the boneyard for more than half an hour, the boy became more and more worried.

Biting off the nails of his hand, he scanned the crowd once more. Y/n and him had been friends since they were little and they knew each other better than anyone else. He knew that she would never leave a party without saying goodbye.

Where could she be, he wondered, taking his hat off to run his hand through it.

A sigh of relief left his lips as he saw the small silhouette of his friend, sitting on the beach, away from the party. As he got closer, he noticed the shiny streams on her cheeks he remembered how distant she had been recently.

How she smiled less frequently and how she didn’t talk as much. How she didn’t eat as much and how her leg was always bouncing under the table. How her fists we’re always closed tightly and how tired she looked. The dark circles under her eyes and the nothingness in her gaze. It was like she wasn’t there anymore.

JJ’s face twisted into a sad expression. He felt bad for not noticing it earlier, like it was his fault. It pained him to see her this way, in such a distressed state.

He sat next to her, making her flinch in surprise. “Hey,” he spoke softly, “are you okay?” She wiped her tears away and nodded her head.

“Y/n, please don’t lie.” His voice was small and full of empathy, like he felt the same way she did.

So pathetic, even when doing nothing you’re hurting your friends. How could anyone love you, she said to herself.

“I- uh I-“ she tried to speak but failed, choking on her words.

Panic filled the girl’s mind as she was suddenly aware of what was happening. Her heart tightened in her chest and pain shot up in her rib cage. Her hands were shaking even more and her legs felt numb.

JJ noticed how her eyes were filled with fear and how loud and uneven her breathing had become. She was having a panic attack. It had happened a few times before so he knew how to help her.

“Hey, hey hey,” he placed his arms around her and held her tightly. “You’re okay. I’m here with you, okay? Everything is going to be okay. Now I want you to listen to my voice and do exactly what I say, can you do that?” She nodded, JJ gave her a reassuring smile.

“Okay, good. Now every time you feel a wave crashing on your feet, I want you to take a deep breath and when you feel another one coming, you let it all out, “ she nodded once more.

They both looked down at the ocean and waited for a wave to come. “In,” the wave left the shore slowly and came back a few seconds later. “and out.”

“good, you’re doing good. In and out. That’s it.” JJ’s hand was now tracing small patterns on the back of the girl’s back, so softly she could barely feel it. “Now I want you to talk to me, can you do that for me?”

Her breathing had now slowed down to a regular rhythm and so had her tremors, but she had terror spread across her face.

“I want you-,” he paused wiping away with his free hand the tears off of her warm cheeks, “-to tell me three things that you can see right now.”

“I-“ she shook her head in denial, “no.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay you can do it y/nn.” His voice was warm and so reassuring. Just hearing it helped her calm down.

“I- uh I can, I can se see the ocean,” her voice was shaky and weak.

“Huh uh, keep breathing.”

“and um the uh the-the stars,” she stopped for a second to take a deep breath, her hand reaching out to his. The blond boy flinched at the contact, her skin was freezing cold.

“I-I can also see your eyes,” she finished, her voice sounding smoother and more confident.

JJ offered a warm smile, “good, now tell me two things you can hear.”

Y/n broke the eye contact and started a tte ocean, concentrating on what she could hear. “I hear music playing from the party and uh the waves crashing.”

She was no longer crying or shaking but JJ kept going. “ Name one thing you can feel.”

“Only one?” He shook his head in agreement.

“Your heart,” she stared into his eyes, “I can feel beating in my hand.”

“Good.”

JJ looked away silently. He wanted to ask her what had happened, but he didn’t. Instead he remained quiet and admired the star shining above his head.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked out. “It’s just that lately, it’s like I can’t feel anything at all-“ she wrapped her arms around her knees, “-it’s like the only thing I care about is what others will think about me.”

“Don’t wear that skirt, people will think you’re a slut. Don’t say anything or they’ll think you’re annoying. Did you see them, they’re laughing at you, shouldn’t have said anything. Did you really say that? Ugh you should have let somebody else talk, what a waste of time. He didn’t answer you? Well that’s because he hates you. There’s a party? Don’t go. Nobody likes you anyway, they’re just gonna judge you, they hate you.”

“Y/n, you know none of that is true, we do love you.”

“I know, but I can’t help it! I can’t stop it. And I’m so tired of feeling that way. I just want it to stop.” A single tear rolled down on the side of her face.

“Oh god, y/n.”

“I’m so dumb. I’m here talking to you about my little problems, but you’ve got problems much worse than mine. Jesus I’m so stupid.”

JJ looked at the girl next to him. She looked so small and vulnerable. He could see the pain in her expression and it hurt him so much. He wanted to hold and kiss her, but he was afraid of breaking her. She looked so fragile.

If only she knew how loved she is.

“No y/n, you’re not stupid or dumb. It’s not because I have a shitty life and a jack ass for a dad that your problems are not valid. You’re living something really intense and scary right now but I can assure you that I understand. We’ll get trough this together okay?”

They were both crying messes at this point, but neither of them cared anymore. The small girl opened her arms to boy beside her. Through her gesture a message was hidden, and JJ understood it perfectly. He held her tightly against his chest. Her tears were wetting his shoulder and his were falling onto the messe that was her hair. Her hands were grasping firmly that soft cotton of his sweatshirt, afraid he would let go.

“Don’t let go of me, please,” she implored. “I don’t want you to leave me, ever. I can’t do this without you J.”

“I won’t y/n, I won’t leave you, I promise.”

“We’ll get through it, we’ll get you help and we’ll survive this together, okay?” A sob left the blond’s mouth. “I promise, okay, I promise.”

[emachinescat]

So I've been wanting to write this since 5x10, but just now got the chance. This is a look at the ending scene from Murdoc's creepy, possessive obsession with Mac, and it plays with the idea of what might have happened if Bozer hadn't done the trick with the static (sorry Boze for taking away your moment of glory, but creepy Murdoc trumps hero time). Anyway, I hope you enjoy my twist on this episode. It was fun to write. Murdoc is fun to write. What does that say about me? ;)

Title: Murdoc + MacGyver - Everyone Else | Fandom: MacGyver 2016

Summary: AU ending to 5x10. Murdoc never planned on killing MacGyver in that skyscraper. Certainly not for the likes of Andrews. Or, in which Bozer doesn't do his trick with the comms and Murdoc sends a very clear message to all of Codex that MacGyver is HIS.

Characters | Pairings: Murdoc, Mac, Andrews, Riley, Desi

Words: 2,594

TW: Murdoc being creepier than usual, I guess

AO3 Tags: Murdoc Is Obsessed with MacGyver, Obsessive Murdoc, Possessive Murdoc, Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Whump. Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Season/Series 05, 5x10, 5x10 au, Implied MacRiley, Manhandling, Creepy Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016), Obsessive Behavior, TW Creepy Obsession, Diamond + Quake + Carbon + Comms + Tower, Murdoc POV

Full story here or on AO3!

It was adorable, really, Murdoc thought as he lowered the improvised cutting torch slowly, steadily, agonizingly closer to MacGyver’s bruised and bloody face, that Eric Andrews thought that Murdoc was going to go through with this.  The general was a ridiculous man, the kind that Murdoc most enjoyed killing.  Arrogant and pretentious,yet stupid enough to believe he could manipulate, even control, Murdoc, he was a man who would look lovely with Murdoc’s gun pressed squarely between his eyes.

Yet despite his faults, he had been useful.  He’d helped Murdoc escape from the blacksite, and in return, Murdoc had vowed to help him set a trap for MacGyver.  Andrews wanted to broadcast Angus’s death to the heads of a terror cell.  It was his way of “interviewing” to become the head of the organization.  And what would Murdoc get out of this arrangement?  Other than his freedom, he would be given the opportunity to play with MacGyver before Andrews dealt the final blow.

So Murdoc used Andrews to escape the blacksite, and together they set this ingenious little trap for the genius himself.  He’d used Andrews and his resources as a means of playing his newest game.  He smiled and nodded when Andrews spouted his rhetoric, adjusted his plans as Andrews directed, and valiantly kept from gutting the egocentric wackadoodle – somehow – during the course of their time together.  He’d almost snapped and killed the guy, once.

He hated the way that Andrews spoke about his Angus MacGyver, gloated about how cathartic it would be to see the light go out of those blue eyes.  How he relished the notion of feeling MacGyver’s life sleep away, how he fantasized about wrapping his chains around that smooth, pale neck and squeezing , slowly and intimately, with all of Codex watching – after Murdoc had had his fun with him, of course.

Murdoc’s profession had always allowed him to maintain a rather fluid lifestyle, and until MacGyver had come onto the scene, the killer had moved from one job to the next without distraction.  He had never been one to get caught up or fixated on any one thing – as a killer, he understood the impermanence of life in a way few others could.

That is, until Angus “Boy Wonder” MacGyer.  Suddenly, Murdoc had a muse, a partner in his games, a worthy opponent, his very own Sherlock to his Moriarty.  And the thought of anyone – especially Andrews, that self-important crackpot who was so empty all he could do was spout the words of people who’d come before him – looking at Angus MacGyver with that kind of fire in their eyes, that kind of hatred, that dark intent, stirred something primal and angry deep within the hollow, twisted remnants of Murdoc’s soul.  Even worse was hearing that obnoxious, pedantic voice boasting about all the ways he planned to hurt MacGyver, all the ways he planned to kill him in front of a live studio audience.  A foregin, almost protective rush had overcome Murdoc.  The things that Andrews described, the torture, the killing itself – those were things that no one except for Murdoc himself could do to Angus MacGyver.

Murdoc could have snapped and killed him, then.  He almost had.  The trap had been set, MacGyver would soon be on his way.  Murdoc could take out Andrews in one surprise hit and wait for his BFF to arrive.  They might even get some time alone together before the rest of the love triangle showed up.  But he had stayed his hand.  He needed Andrews to contact Codex.  He had a message he needed to send.

And so he’d resisted the drumbeats of death so loud they blocked out his thoughts, and hadn’t put a bullet between Andrews’s eyes.

And now, here he was, in the moment of truth.  It had been a bold move, out of character, if you will, for Murdoc to take on MacGyver in hand-to-hand combat.  Normally, Murdoc avoided using brute force, not because it wasn’t fun – because, boy howdy, was it fun – but because his tools were much more precise than fists, and could cause more pain with less chance of unintended damage.

But this was a special occasion, and he allowed himself to indulge.  And it was a truly delicious situation, made all the more exhilarating with the knowledge that so many people were watching him work.  Not Codex – he hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Codex in that moment – but Phoenix, whom Murdoc had just manipulated and played with like a puppet master with his creepy little mannequins.  He kept an eye on the girls, and chills ran down his body as he saw the fear and desperation in their eyes, the way they strained helplessly against their bonds to get to their friend who was himself completely at Murdoc’s mercy.  He couldn’t see Matilda or Bozer or Taylor, but he could hear the fear in their voices when they spoke, and his mind’s eye conjured a splendid picture of their terrified eyes fixated on the screen, forced to watch as their golden boy was beaten and eventually murdered in front of them.  It was glorious .  Murdoc wished that moment could go on forever.

He truly had relished every hit he’d landed on MacGyver.  Bless him, he tried to fight back, but he was just a spy trained in field comat.  Murdoc was a killer.  Just because he didn’t use his fists that much anymore, it didn’t mean he didn’t know how to.  He was quick, and stronger than his lithe frame would suggest.  Beneath the long-sleeved shirts and black leather jackets, lean, deadly muscles lurked like a snake in the grass, always ready to strike – and strike fast.  Every kick, every hit, every punch to the face sent bolts of electricity up Murdoc’s arms.  He saw the moment when MacGyver’s cheek split open, watched the blood slowly trickle down as he wound up for another hit.  After about three hits directly to the face, MacGyver couldn’t hold himself up anymore and he made weak, desperate grabs for Murdoc’s jacket.  Murdoc felt the tug on the fabric, relished the feeling of MacGyver needing him in that moment.  When he threw MacGyver against the heavy metal support, he felt like a god.

Now here we was, with his greatest foe having literally just been under his boot.  His left hand was wrapped around MacGyver’s right wrist, pinning it down, his knee pressed against the half-conscious agent’s chest to keep him in place.  In his hands he held a tool that, as he had said moments ago, would be the most poetic end to MacGyver he could have concocted – finally silenced by one of his own fancy little inventions.  For a moment, Murdoc was tempted to plow ahead, not to kill, but to play, to hurt , to watch the dazed fear in his muse’s eyes turn to pain and sheer terror… but he had more important things to do.  Maybe he would take this toy with him when he left, and save it to use on MacGyver another day.

He leaned in close, his knee pressing harder into MacGyver’s sternum, and the boy wonder grunted in pain, gasped for breath.  Murdoc leaned closer, his face inches from his prey’s, and watched MacGyver’s concussed eyes go wide at the close proximity.  Murdoc noted with satisfaction that he’d really done a number on his blue-eyed buddy this time – the pupils were unequal, one dilated and the other not.  Murdoc whispered in Mac’s ear, “Don’t worry, friend, I would never let a pig like Andrews kill you.  I’ve got your back.”  He pulled back and winked conspiratorially.  Then, in one fluid motion, he dropped the torch, drew his gun, and shot Eric Andrews one, two, three times, right in his smug, ugly face.  The general didn’t even have time to be surprised by the betrayal.  He was already dead.

From across the room, Murdoc could hear one of the girls – probably the loud, bossy girlfriend – yelling something, but he didn’t pay attention.  Instead, he gripped MacGyver by the front of his jacket, hauled him to his feet (sort of; MacGyver slumped in Murdoc’s arms, unable to stand on his own, but Murdoc had no problem with that at all), and stood there facing the drone.  He could feel MacGyver trembling in pain, and it nearly sickened him that he was going to cut this meeting short.  Still, once he took care of this pesky Codex visit, he could look forward to plenty more games with his adversarial soulmate in the future.

Glaring up at the camera, Murdoc gave Mac’s weak, beaten form a little shake.  “See this guy?” he demanded, not waiting for an answer.  In the second of dead space between his question and answer, he did notice that Desiree had stopped yelling.  No one at the Phoenix was speaking.  Everyone was waiting, he knew, with bated breath, to see how this would turn out.  “Angus MacGyver, here, is mine. ”  He felt MacGyver stir weakly in his arms, protesting Murdoc’s claim even when concussed and barely cognizant.  “Hush, now, Angus,” Murdoc hissed.  “I’m trying to save your life.”

To Codex, he continued, “I love a good murder as much as the next guy.  Hell, more than the next guy.  Way more than him, actually.  So much more that I’ll kill the next guy just to scratch that itch.”  He grinned his most feral grin.  “But MacGyver is not on the market, you hear me?  The only one who is allowed to murder him is me .  Your Andrews was pathetic, a great brute who pretended at being a scholar because it made him feel important.  I meant what I said earlier, fellas – and ladies – this guy is so smart.  Way too smart for the likes of you.  Too smart for Andrews.”

He bared his teeth, shaking MacGyver once more to emphasize his point.  “Angus is my muse.  He’s my dance partner in this crazy murder-tango we’ve been doing for the past few years.  You thought I was being dramatic when I started reminiscing about the good old days earlier?”  He paused, thought, then amended, “Okay, so I was being dramatic, but I meant. Every. Word.  And it all boils down to this: The only one who’s going to end his life is me .”

A voice from the speakers, a female’s, cold and dead, offered, “Then kill him now.  Perhaps we can find a place in Codex for one as ruthless as you.”

Murdoc laughed out loud, throwing his head back.  His body trembled with giggles, and he heard MacGyver emit a grunt of pain at the motion.  “Whoops, sorry, buddy,” he apologized giddily, then shook him a bit more, this time for fun.  MacGyver stayed steadfastly quiet this time – bor -ing!

Murdoc sobered in an instant, letting every ounce of hatred, death, and chaos flood his gaze as his lips set into a thin line and he tightened his grip on MacGyver, who pushed feebly against his arms.  “You really think I want to be a part of your girl scout troop?  Please.  Codex before Angus MacGyver happened to it, maybe.  But now?  You all are ridiculous, dethroned kings who scrabble hungrily for any crumb left to you in your moldering ruins.  You aren’t powerful.  You aren’t smart.  That Leland was the only good thing you had going for you, and now he’s gone.”  He all but purred his next words: “And with what, a shot to the chest?  Precisely aimed, almost like a hit man had taken him out?  Hmmm….”

“ You are claiming responsibility for Leland’s death?”

Murdoc shrugged.  He finally, reluctantly released his grip on MacGyver, and the blonde tumbled to the floor.  Murdoc watched from the corner of his eye as he immediately began to drag himself slowly, agonizingly, away from Murdoc and toward his gal pals.  Murdoc rolled his eyes and clamped his boot down on MacGyver’s bruised back once more, effectively pinning him in place.  Too easy.  He peered into the camera again, rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and hissed, “Believe what you want about Leland’s death.  But do you really want to mess with the bastard who killed this great paragon of new wave terrorism?  Not saying it was me, but damn.  Whoever this guy is must be one tough cookie.  And I would advise you, friends ,” – never had that word held so much derision – “to not play with his toys.”  He ground his heel into MacGyver’s back a little deeper.  “The TL;DR?  MacGyver is off-limits.  If you kill him, I kill you, ten times more slowly and painfully than I plan to kill him.  Got it?”

Without giving the council a chance to respond, he raised his gun and shot the drone out of the air.  He tossed the gun aside, sighed, and stepped off of a weakly moving MacGyver.  He grabbed the genius under the armpits and dragged him to the opposite side of the room from the girls.  Producing another zip tie, Murdoc secured MacGyver to the nearest piece of equipment and stood back to observe his handiwork.  Paying no mind to the sorry state he was in, Angus was already stubbornly pulling himself up to a sitting position, bloody face set in pain and determination.  “You,” he panted, lifting his eyes up to meet Murdoc’s, “are insane.”

Murdoc laughed.  “I thought we’d already established that long ago, dear.”

“Don’t call me,” MacGyver wheezed, “dear.  Despite your… delusions, I do not … belong to you.  Or to anybody.”

“Expect maybe Miss Davis?” Murdoc mocked.  “And please , Angus.  Can’t you see that I was just putting on a show for the ‘evil Zoom meeting’?”  He hadn’t been, and he could tell that MacGyver was seeing straight through his lie.  “Look,” Murdoc said, “I hate it when we fight.  How about we both take some time and pick this back up when we’ve had a little time to heal and reflect?”

Through gritted teeth, MacGyver growled, “How about you go away and never come back?”

“Tsk, tsk, Angus .  That isn’t any way to treat your rescuer.  But you are concussed, so I’ll let it slide.  Actually, I need to motor.  Now that the situation’s neutralized, the authorities will be all over this place.  I really don’t fancy going back to that blacksite, so I’ll leave you here to wait for your buddies.”  He bent down, patted MacGyver on the face, grinned when his adversary jerked his head away from the touch.  “‘Til next time, Mac .”  He made a face.  “Actually, scratch that.  My calling you Mac is almost as unsettling as Taylor calling Miss Davis Riles .”  He heard an indigent noise from over the comm – he’d almost forgotten Phoenix was listening in, they’d been so quiet.  He chuckled, relishing how fun Russ Taylor was to annoy.  “Anway, I’ll see you soon, Angus.”

Murdoc removed the comm and crushed it under his boot, then backed away and sauntered from the room, whistling his slow, eerie funeral dirge, “Home on the Range.”

He knew that even while injured and concussed, MacGyver would be out of the zipties and releasing his friends before the polícia arrived.  He’d then be whisked away to a hospital, and all of Phoenix would have to deal with the fallout of the secrets that had been revealed.  He wondered if MacGyver would choose Desiree or Riley.  In the end, though, he knew that it wouldn’t matter who MacGyver chose.  He could deny it all he wanted, but in the end, there would be Murdoc.

There would always be Murdoc.

[omniswords]

Chronicles of a Parisian Dumbass 14

Happy Chronicles Update! I promise I'm still trucking along on this baby. I think?? We've also officially reached the halfway mark on this installment, which is kind of. Wow. That's WILD.

anyway, I hope you enjoy!

welcome to today’s episode of Luka’s Word to the Wise: whatever it is, it doesn’t have to be perfect. it just has to be good.

thanks, I.

Ivan is right. And technically, so is his Ma, who’s been telling him and Juleka this for as long as he can remember. But Luka will give them the gratification of saying I told you so when this is all over. Even though he could take a stab in the dark and guess that only one of them would take him up on that offer. And it wouldn’t be Ivan. And it wouldn’t be his Ma.

In between messaging back and forth with Bubbles over the next couple of days, Luka puts together a flyer. It’s not exactly the best—just something he threw together on one of those free graphic design websites, definitely nothing like a Gabriel billboard. But it’s punchy, and it fits the vibe, and it gets the overall message across. And more importantly, Juleka doesn’t give him The Look for it. In fact, she smiles over his shoulder when it’s done, and she rubs her fist in his hair, and she affectionately says, “Now can you chill?”

Luka only grins and throws her into a fireman’s carry for another round of ping-pong. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t know how to be totally chill any more.

They pool pocket money, leftovers from past paychecks, to put in an order for copies at the local print shop. Only Rose has ever been; she tells them she’s tagged along with a couple of old friends from an art club to print issues of the comic they’ve been working on together. It’s nice to see her take the lead, point out the best paper stocks and finishes and spot colors, whatever those are, based on what she’s overheard. It certainly beats the alternative: four barely-adults standing awkwardly at the counter, pretending they know what they’re doing.

Even if, according to Luka’s Ma, that’s most of what adulthood is, anyway.

They decide on something glossy because it makes the colors pop, and admittedly Luka has to thank his lucky, anxious stars for saving the file in every format imaginable because he wasn’t sure which one they’d need. Before he leaves them and heads to work on his bike, Juleka gives him another smile, and Ivan manages a single, subtle nod, and Rose’s eyes sparkle. And it’s starting to feel a little less like a thing he needs to do. It’s a thing he wants to do. With them.

And, well. Any bonuses are just that. Bonuses.

These days, Luka’s made it a point to bike past the bakery on his way to work, because if he’s as much of a regular as the Dupain-Cheng family claims, then he might as well act like it. To be fair, he doesn’t always stop in to talk or buy something; in fact, most times he doesn’t. maybe it’s some silly sense of hope that he’ll be seen. That Marinette really did talk to her parents about picking up an extra shift or two behind the counter. That there’s still room on the bulletin board for him—them. And most times, it is just Mrs. Cheng at the storefront, organizing displays or chatting with a friendly customer.

But sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it is Marinette, idly staring at the window with what he can only assume is her sketchbook at her side and her apron tied around her waist. And sometimes, she looks up at him. And sometimes, she waves and smiles with all the warmth and none of the sweat of July.

That’s why he does it. For the sometimes.

The flyers, once they’re printed, are nothing short of gorgeous, but Luka can’t bring himself to take any of the credit for it. More than anything, he’s just happy to see his bandmates all in on this, even if he did jump in with both feet. Even if they do still rib him during practice about how he’s way too invested in this. (At least Mylène has only nice things to say. He’ll have to remember to order a few extra pastries just for her.)

They split the flyers into four stacks, because of course Mylène insists on helping and of course Rose and Juleka insist on going together. They run or pedal off in different directions once they’ve put a game plan together, and at least Luka can credit them for not teasing when he offers to take the third and fourth arrondissement. They all know it’s where the bakery is, in spite of how he talks up the Place des Vosges. They know, and they don’t have to say anything.

He’s still trying to figure out whether it’s a blessing or a curse to have your real-life friends on your social media accounts.

Even as he’s hanging the flyers in downtown coffee shops, in libraries, on signposts and public bulletin boards, Luka can’t stop staring. With every flyer he pins or tapes up, he finds something new to love about it. A splash of neon color in the top left corner. The jagged, cutting edges of the lettering. The blurred glow of a spotlight. Every time he looks, he gets the feeling that he’s already there. Music pounding in his ears, stage lights burning so bright and hot they make him sweat, fresh calluses on his fingertips that he’ll regret and adore later. He doesn’t think of stardom often, but he imagines this is something close to it.

At the very least, it’s what he would want to make of it.

It’s close to closing by the time Luka arrives at the bakery-patisserie; the usual lingering smells of fresh bread and sugary frosting and the easygoing music are both conspicuously absent when he walks in. But Mr. Dupain and Ms. Cheng are both missing from the storefront, and he has to double check the time on his phone to make sure he didn’t accidentally arrive too late, or that he’s not interrupting some closing routine. It shouldn’t take long; he spent almost the whole bike ride over rehearsing what he needed to say. He looks around cautiously, even clears his throat in case it gets someone’s attention.

It does. Marinette pops up from behind the counter with a squeak, and it startles him so much he nearly drops the stack of remaining flyers in his arms. And that would’ve been a pain in the ass as much as it would’ve been straight out of one of Rose’s cute romcoms for Marinette to round the counter and help him pick them up until their hands brushed over the same one.

Jesus. He really needs to get out of the house on his sister’s date nights.

He really needs to have a date night.

He also really needs to stop thinking about date nights when the person he’d actually consider a date night with is right in front of—

“Luka?”

He blinks to attention, standing awkwardly in the quiet. God, he really hopes he wasn’t staring at her when he zoned out like that. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Marinette shrugs it off with an apologetic smile. “We’re fresh out of napoleons, you know,” she says casually, slipping past him to flip the sign on the door. “Guess you’ll just have to come first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, I guess I will—wait—” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not why I’m here.”

Marinette pauses at that. Even seems to stand a little taller, intrigued. Hopeful? “Oh…? Then why…  are you here?”

Meekly, Luka holds up one of the Kitty Section flyers and nods toward the bulletin board. Here’s hoping he—it— isn’t too much of a disappointment.

Marinette squints at the flyer for a second, and then her eyes widen and spark in delight. She looks… impressed, at least. which isn’t to say she’s never seemed impressed by him before. It just makes all the things he’s been working for a little more worth it. “Wow,” she says. “You really weren’t kidding about being in a band, huh.”

“You know it,” he says with what he prays is a casual shrug; this… wasn’t part of the script. “I don’t wear this thing on my back just to look pretty.”

She stifles a laugh, then claps a hand to her mouth immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t—I wasn’t implying that you’re not handsome—pretty— “

Oh God. She’s stammering. And it’s adorable.

Marinette composes herself with a deep breath and her arms folded over her chest. “There are pushpins in the corner,” she says. “Hang it up wherever you want.”

Except Luka can’t help feeling like she’s got her eyes on him the whole time. Either she’s coming to terms with the fact that he was telling the truth all along, or she’s… judging him. Or the flyer. And honestly, he can’t tell which is worse. “What’s wrong?” he asks once he notices she’s still staring. “Did I put it up at a funny angle or something?”

“No, just… thinking…” Her voice sounds distant, perhaps somewhere he might never find her. But then she snaps her fingers, and she says, “That’s it!”

“Uh.” Luka’s brow furrows. “What’s it?”

“Oh, just… sorry, my thoughts just ran away with me, I guess.” Marinette steps toward the flyer, brushing her fingers over it and wincing. maybe it’s just from the finish; his nails have scraped over then more than once, and it felt just as bad as a chalkboard. “I was just thinking, well…  you’ve been good to my parents and all. Why don’t we help you with promotion? You know, put postcards in the boxes or bags. It couldn’t hurt, could it?”

Luka nearly spotters, but the only thing he can manage to say is, “Where am I gonna get postcards?”

“I can make ‘em.” She says it like the simplest, most obvious thing in the world, and looks him up and down when he falters. “If… you and your band are okay with that, I mean. Cause I, y’know… dabble, in graphic design. But I don’t want to impose, if you’re okay with this. It’s your band and all.”

“I can,” he starts to say; then he stops himself, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “I can ask them?” Idiot, he thinks. That wasn’t supposed to be a question. “I’ll let you know what they say. Have to come in bright and early tomorrow anyway, right?”

Marinette only smiles. It’s faint, almost absentminded, but that sweet little tug at the corner of her mouth is hardly lost on him. “You don’t have to.”

“Ask them?”’

“Come by.” Her bag is hanging on a peg by the register, and she’s off rummaging through it before Luka can ask what she means. He gravitates toward her more than he actually walks to her, and by the time he reaches the counter she’s fishing a card out of her wallet. It’s pink and black, decorated with the same spray of flowers and monogram as her apron. when he turns it over, there’s her name at the top, and below that, two email addresses. And two phone numbers.

He looks up, wide-eyed.

“So,” Marinette says. “Unless you’re coming all this way for a napoleon, a pear tart, and my pretty face, I think you’re good.”

“I—” Luka turns the business card over and over as though it will teach him now to speak again. “I guess so.” Does she know he thinks her face is pretty? Wait—of course she does, he gave her that note. Oh, Jesus, does she still have that thing? It’s been weeks. “Well,” he says, scuffing his heel against the tile. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll come anyway.”

Okay, that was definitely not part of the script.

But then, neither is the way her eyes are sparkling. “Well,” she murmurs. “Maybe you will.”

“I should, uh—” He jerks a thumb toward the door. “Go, um. Happy closing?”

She laughs behind a hand, glancing between him and the tacked-up flyer before she grabs a broom and sends him off with a delicate wave. And to be honest, Luka’s never been angry with nature before, but he curses the wind for being so loud that he can’t hear that giggle in his head, over and over. Almost as much as he thanks it for drowning out all the stupid things he said, and the lingering questions of why she offered at all.

Luka’s Word to the Wise, Part 2:

Progress isn’t linear but it sure as hell doesn’t mean you can’t stutter your way through getting a girl’s number and succeed.

[petitelepus]

His Beloved And More, Part 5

Thanks to Brainstorm’s brilliant plan you’re tucked away in his habsuite. Nothing can go wrong... Or can they?

WARNING! There is major character death in this chapter and blood and gore. I do not recommend this chapter for those with sensitive mind.

Mechs were sad by your disappearance and many came to give Brainstorm their consoles. The scientist acted through them, thanking everyone but never letting them lose hope of seeing you again. They would all get to see you again and he would be a hero. Some mechs got uneasy by his positivity, but many of his friends dared to keep the hope up, even if it was just a facade for Brainstorm’s sake.

Their travels continued on and Brainstorm kept doing his usual job in the lab with Perceptor, but in his free time he would lock himself into his habsuite behind heavy steel doors and take you out on display as he would work on the cure for your humanity and sometimes shower your tank with his love.

Then the fated day came that the alarms went off in the laboratory. Perceptor and Brainstorm were right there reading damage reports when the grim news came, but there was not one bad new but two. The scientists quickly commed Ultra Magnus.

’Perceptor, what happened? The ship stopped moving forward and is twisting on its side.’ Ultra Magnus asked the former Wrecker scientist.

’I’m well aware of this Ultra Magnus. It appears that engine 2 has been sabotaged. I’m going there with Nightbeat and Nautica right now to see what is going on.’

’Good, let us know immediately what you find there.’

’There are more news.’ Perceptor added, sounding almost regretful for informing that.

’And they’re?’

’Grave. We lost contact with liaison’s capsule.’

’…I’m afraid I don’t understand. What do you mean Perceptor?’

’I regret telling you this, but I’m afraid that capsule has wandered far off its direction, but most likely, it has been eliminated by an outside force.’

’I see…’ Ultra Magnus grew quiet. ’Does Brainstorm know about this?’

’Yes. He’s rather upset now so I would recommend letting him think this through.’

’I understand. Find out what’s wrong with the engine and I’ll inform Rodimus and Megatron about her fate. We need to have a conversation about how to approach this to crew…’

’I understand.’

As Perceptor and his little team ventured to the engine room, Ultra Magnus approached his captains, and Brainstorm made his way to his habsuite. He seemed almost too happy, no one could tell what news he had just received.

Even if the news were fake, only he knew it and only he knew you were alive and well in his habsuite. He gained weird looks since he couldn’t contain some of his giggles of excitement. He couldn’t wait to see you and tell you how well his plan has worked!

Brainstorm entered his room and locked the door behind himself before approaching your safe. He hit the code in and your lovely calm face greeted as your tank emerged from the wall. Brainstorm smiled behind his mask at the sight of you and rested his forehead against the tank's cool glass as he looked at you.

”The plan worked my love…! Everything is going just as I planned! We’re so close to our goal…!” Brainstorm kept looking at you until this uneasy feeling settled to his tanks. Something was wrong. He took a look at your monitors that showed him your heart rate, brain waves, and everything else that was essential to keeping you alive. That’s when his spark froze.

Every monitor showed a straight line. Your heart monitor, brain line, lines everywhere!

”No, no, NO!”

How was it possible!? Was there something wrong with machinery that was supposed to keep you alive?! Brainstorm quickly yanked your tank aside to get a look at the machines he had planted inside the wall to support your body. What he saw made him see red.

A creature as big as the largest dog on Earth, with a disgusting tangled fur, along three-way split tail and horrible teeth was chewing on all the cables and tubes of his machinery, digging through metal and grounding it in its teeth before swallowing.

The little alien must have been the source of the failed engine and it had somehow ventured to Brainstorm’s habsuite and inside his wall where you rested. The biggest tube that had been completely destroyed just happened to be one pumping oxygen to your body.

"Get away from her!"

Without a second of doubt, Brainstorm snatched the alien to his hand in crushing grip and threw it across his habsuite, away from his machinery. There was a sickening squishy sound and crush, but the flier didn’t pay any attention to them. He quickly opened your tank and pulled you out, laying your limp body on the floor as he tried to resurrect you.

He tried everything he knew, pumping your chest carefully with the tips of his servos, patting your back, blowing air to your mouth, and giving you a little electricity to start your heart again…! But after struggling with your cold body for fifteen minutes everything turned grey in his optics. The only color he could see was your blue lips and he was taken over by an urgent need to kiss you. You two never really kissed, but you wouldn’t mind one kiss, would you?

With his mask off, Brainstorm gently kissed you, your cool unmoving lips pressing against his warm soft metal lips. He kept kissing you in sad hopes that you would magically wake up as all the princesses did in your favorite movies at Earth Movie Nights, but no matter how much he showered you in his love you wouldn’t wake up.

Brainstorm stopped kissing you and just stared at your body. There was a bing in his commlink, telling him someone was trying to contact him, but he ignored it. His plans and your shared future together…! All ruined by an uncounted accident.

No, Brainstorm wouldn’t let you disappear, he wouldn’t lose you. But… He just lost you…

'Brainstorm…? Why are you sad?'

Was that...? Your voice!

Brainstorm looked at you with his optics widening in joy, already expecting your eyes to slowly blink open and look at him with life in your eyes… but there you laid, unmoving and cold. But it was your voice that he heard, laced with worry over your loved one aka him. Brainstorm held his helm and curled over himself.

”I- it happened again…! First Quark and now you! Why I lose everyone I care about!?” He cried out loud. ”I really tried this time, I really did! I tried my hardest and it wasn't enough!”

'But Brainstorm, you haven’t lost me. I’ll always be with you because I love you.'

Your voice was gentle and it sounded like you were smiling at him like during those times when you just held him in your lap and stroked his helm so peacefully and lovingly.

”It’s not enough! I want to see you smile, I want to kiss you and hold you! I can’t love you this way like I want to!” He cried in despair, but you didn't disappear.

'Then do what you must to bring me back. You’re a brilliant scientist, aren’t you? I know if there is anyone who can do it it’s you.'

Yes, you were right…! There was still hope…! You weren’t gone yet! Your heart may not have been pumping, but you could still be saved! Brainstorm didn’t know much about humans, but his latest experiments could be essentials to return you to your glory!

First, he had to save you! The thing that made you. Your brains!

Brainstorm giggled, quickly jumping to his pedes and running to his little instrument cabinet! He picked up a thing or two, humming a happy tune as he made his way back to you. The scientist put all the little saws, drills, and containers around you and picked up a specially big and sharp scalpel, sharp enough to cut through your flesh and bones with ease.

'Will it hurt Brainstorm…?'

You sounded frightened but more worried than anything else.

”It will hurt a little bit, but bear with me my beloved…! It’s all for our future together…!” Brainstorm assured you with a wicked grin as he made the first bloody cut across your forehead.

For the next hour or so, the flier ignored all the attempts of others to contact him for one reason or another, was it the loss of your signal or mysterious alien sabotaging ship. He was too busy saving your relationship and one of the healthy relationship bases was quality time together.

With the last piece of you saved, Brainstorm smiled and looked down at his handwork. There was blood, dark, cold, and sticky, everywhere and all over mech’s hands, but the messy job was worth it because you were now categorized so neatly!

Every single piece of you, organs, limbs, extra blood, all categorized into their very own tanks, bottles, and vials!

'Wow, I had so little blood in me…!'

”I think you’re thinking about that Dexter series’ first season you made us watch. There were far more humans killed in that blood-filled room episode.”

'I always thought 5 liters would look bigger.'

Brainstorm chuckled. You were sometimes so silly. Brainstorm carefully picked your brains he had put to the side and carried them to his secret little lab inside the wall. He would need to collect every single bit of data and memory before your brain cells would lose all the information they hold in them.

He placed your brains on the stand and turned away to activate his machines and take out a handful of long sharp needles that he should definitely not have in his possession.

'What are those for Brainstorm?'

”Brilliant question my sweet spark! These needles are usually used when performing mnemosurgery on mechs for they have a unique feature in them that allows them to work through electricity with Cybertronian brain modules. Seeing that your humans' brains also work with electricity, I’m going to electrocute your brains to keep your brain cells active so they won’t die out too much before I get every essence of you saved to this little chip here on the computer.” Brainstorm explained, briefly motioning to the minimalistic supercomputer on the side while he attached wires to needles.

'Is it going to hurt also…? I don’t like needles…'

”I know you don’t, my darling oilcake, but bear with me…” The scientist grinned, pushing the first needle into your brains. ”There are only 13 needles left…!”

[cecilspeaks]

173 - The Hundred Year Play

Quoth the raven: [bird noises] Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, some exciting news from the world of theatre! The 100 year play is about to reach its final scene. Yes, this is the play that has been running continuously since 1920. Written by a brilliant playwright Hannah Hershman, designed to take exactly 100 years to perform. And the tireless volunteer of the Night Vale Players Playhouse have been going through those scenes, one after another, for decade upon decade. There’s little time to rehearse, for each hour brings new scenes and each scene will only be performed once the play moves on, in order to keep up with the tight schedule needed to execute the entire script before a century elapses.

It is a monumental work of theatre, but like all work, it must some day cease. Today, specifically. I will be in attendance at that historic moment, when the final scene is performed and the curtain closes on the 100 year play.   More soon, but first the news.

We bring you the latest on the lawsuit “The estate of Franklin Chen vs. the city of Night Vale”. As you know, this case has grown so large and complicated that I’ve not had the time to discuss it in my usual community radio broadcasts. But instead, have started a true crime podcast called “Bloody Laws, Bloody Claws: The Murder of Frank Chen”, in which I strive to get to the truth of just what happened on that fateful night when five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels met Frank Chen, and then later Frank Chen’s body was found covered in burns and claw marks. It’s a confounding mystery. The Sheriff’s Secret Police announce that it seems really complicated and they’re not even gonna try to solve that sucker. “Oh, what?” a Secret Police spokesman muttered at an earthworm he found in his garden. “You want us to fail? You wanna see us fail? That’s why you want us to investigate this case, to see us fail at it?” The family of Frank Chen say they merely want the appropriate parties, in this case the city of Night Vale, Hiram McDaniels and an omniscient conception of God, to take responsibility for their part in this tragedy. The trial is now in its 10th month, and has included spirited re-enactments of the supposed murder by helpful Players Playhouse performers in between their work on the 100 year play. 3 changes of judge and venue due to ���some dragon attacks and constant interruptions from a local audio journalist, who hosts a widely respected true crime podcast”. Still, with all this, we near a verdict. Judge Chaplin has indicated she will issue her ruling soon. “Like in the next year or so?” she said. “Certainly within 5 years. Listen, I don’t owe you a verdict, just because you’re paying me to do a job, you can’t rush me to do it. The verdict will be done when. It’s. Done.” Chaplin then huffed out of the courtroom followed by journalists shouting recommendations for episodes of their podcast to listen to.

I was present, you know, on opening night of the 100 year play. Ah, how the theatre buzzed! Of course this was partly the audience, thrilled to be at the start of such an unprecedented work, but mostly – it was the insects. The Night Vale Players Playhouse had quite a pest problem at the time, and still does. It’s difficult to do pest control when there is a 100 year long play being performed on stage at every hour of every day. The curtain opened those many years ago on a simple set of a studio apartment,  a kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come in, it’s open,” the man says. A woman enters, flustered. She is holding a newborn. “There’s been a murder!” she says. “The victim was alone in a room, and all the doors and windows were locked. “My god!” the man says and springs up. “Who could have done this, and how?!” the woman tells him: “It turns out to be the gardener, Mr. Spreckle. He served with the victim in the war and never could forgive him for what happened there. He threw a venomous snake through an air vent.” The man sits back down, nodding. “Aah! So the mystery is solved.” As a playwright, Hannah Hershman did not believe in stringing up mysteries a second longer than was necessary. The baby in the woman’s arm stirs. “Shush, shush little one!” the woman says. The man looks out the window where he cannot see the sky. “It might look like rain,” he says. “Who knows?” Thus began a journey of 100 years.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s episode is sponsored by the Night Vale Medical Board, which would like to remind you that it is important to drink enough water throughout the day. Drink more water! Your body cannot function without water. Without water, you are just dust made animate. Water forms the squelching mud of sentience. Try to have at least ten big glasses of water. Not over the entire day, right now. See if you can get all ten of them down. Explore the capacity of your stomach. See if you can make it burst. You will either feel so much better, or an organ will explode and you will day painfully. And either one is more interesting than the mundane now. You should drink even more water than that. Wander out of your door, search the Earth for liquids. Find a lake and drain the entire thing, until the bottom feeders flop helplessly on the flatlands. Laugh slushingly as you look upon the destruction you have wrought. The power that you possess now that you are well hydrated. Move on from the lake and come to the shore of an ocean. All oceans are one ocean that we have arbitrarily categorized by language. The sea knows no separation, and neither will you when you lay belly down on the sand, put your lips against the waves and guzzle the ocean. The ocean is salty. It will not be very hydrating, so you’ll need to drink a lot of it. Keep going until the tower tops of Atlantis see sky again for the first time in centuries, until the strange glowing creatures of the deep-deep are exposed, splayed out from their bodies now that they no longer have the immense pressure of the ocean depths to keep their structure intact. And once you have drunk the oceans, turn your eyes to the stars. For there is water out there too, and you must suck dry the universe. This has been a message from the Night Vale Medical Board.

20 years passed without me thinking about the 100 year play. You know how it is. One day you’re an intern at the local radio station doing all the normal errands like getting coffee and painting pentacles upon Station Management doors as part of the ritual of the slumbering ancients. Then 20 years passes and everything is different for you. Your boss is gone and now you are a host of the community radio station, and there are so many new responsibilities and worries and lucid nightmares in which you explore a broken landscape of colossal ruins. So with all of that, I just kind of forgot the 100 year play was happening. But they were toiling away in there, doing scenes around the clock, building and tearing down sets at a frantic pace, trying to keep up with the script that relentlessly went on, page after page. And sometimes one of the people working on the play would wonder: how does this all end? But before they could flip ahead and look, there would be another scene that had to be performed and they wouldn’t have a chance. So no one knew how it ended. No one except Hannah Hershman, the mysterious author of this centennial play.

Soon after becoming radio host, during the reading of a Community Calendar, I was reminded that the play was still going on, and so decided to check in. I put on my best tux, you know it’s the one with the scales and the confetti canon. And then took myself to a night at the theatre. I can’t say what happened in the plot since that first scene, but certainly much had transpired. We were now in a space colony thousands of years from now, and the set was simple, just some sleek chairs and a black backdrop dotted with white stars of paint. A woman was giving a monologue about the distance she felt between the planet she was born on, which I believe was supposed to be Earth, and the planet she now stood on. I understood from what she was saying that the trip she had taken to this planet was one way, and that she would never return to the place she was born. “We… are… all of us… moved… by time,” she whispered in a cracked, hoarse voice. “Not… one of us dies… in the world… we were born into.” Sitting in my seat in that darkened theatre, I knew two facts with certainty. The first was that this woman had been giving a monologue for several days now. She wavered on her feet, speaking the entire four hours that I was there. And I don’t know how much longer she spoke after I left, but it could have been weeks. She was pale and her voice was barely audible, but there was something transfixing about it, and the audience sat in perfect silence, leaning forward to hear her words. The other fact I understood was that this woman was the newborn from the very first scene. Not just the same character, but the same actor. 20 years later, she was still on that stage, still portraying the life to the child we had been introduced to in the opening lines. She was an extraordinary performer, presumably, having had a literal lifetime of practice. And that was the last time I saw the play, until tonight, when I will go to watch the final scene.

But first, let’s have a look at that Community Calendar. Tonight the school board is meeting to discuss the issues of school lunches. It seems that some in power argue that it isn’t enough that for some reason we charge the kids actual money for these lunches. They argue that the students should also be required to give devotion and worship to a great glowing cloud, whose benevolent power will fill their lives with purpose. Due to new privacy rules, we cannot say which member of the school board made this suggestion. The board will be taking public comment in a small flimsy wooden booth out by the highway. Just enter the damp, dark interior and whisper your comment, and it will be heard. Perhaps not by the school board, but certainly by something.

Tuesday morning, Lee Marvin will be offering free acting classes at the rec center. The class is entitled “Acting is just lying. We’ll teach you how acting is just saying things that aren’t true, with emotions you don’t feel, so that you may fool those watching with these mistruths.” Fortunately, Marvin commented: “Most people don’t want to be told the truth and prefer the quiet comfort of a lie well told.” Classes are pay what you want, starting at 10,000 dollars.

Thursday Josh Crayton will be taking the form of a waterfall in Grove Park, so that neighborhood kids may swim in him. There is not a lot of swimming opportunities in a town as dry as Night Vale, and so this is a generous move on Josh’s part. He has promised that he has been working on the form and has added a water slide and a sunbathing deck. He asks that everyone swim safely and please not leave any trash on him.

Friday, the corn field will appear in the middle of town, right where it does each September, as the air turns cooler and the sky in the west takes on a certain shade of green. The corn field emanates a power electric and awful. Please, do not go into the corn field, as we don’t know what lives in there or what it wants. The City Council would like to remind you that the corn field is perfectly safe. It is perfect and it is safe. 

Finally, Saturday never happened. Not if you know what’s good for you. Got it? This has been the Community Calendar.

Oh! Look at the time. Here I am blathering on and the play is about to end. OK, let me grab my new mini recorder that Carlos got me for my birthday. It’s only 35 pounds and the antenna is a highly reasonable 7 feet. And I’ll see you all there.

Ah. What’s the weather like for my commute?

[Shallow Eyes” by Brad Bensko. https://www.bradbenskomusic.com/]

Carlos and I are at the theatre! The audience is a buzz, with excitement yes, but also many of them are the insects that infest this theatre. The bugs became entranced by the story over the years, passing down through brief generation after brief generation, the history of all that happened before. The story of the play became something of a religion to this creepy crawly civilization. And so now the bugs are jittering on the walls, thrilled to be the generation that gets to see the end of this great tale.

The curtain rises on a scene I recognize well. It is the simple set of a studio apartment. A kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come on, it’s open,” the man calls. A woman enters. She is very old, tottering unsteadily on legs that have carried for her many many years. “Please take my seat,” the man says with genuine concern. “Thank you,” she says, collapsing with relief onto the cushions and then looking out, as if for the first time, noticing the audience. I know this woman. I first saw her as a baby and later as a 20-year-old. It seems she has lived her whole life on this stage, taking part in this play. “My name,” the woman says, “is Hannah Hershman. I was born in this theatre, clutching a script in my arms that was bigger than I was. My twin, in a way. I started acting in that script of mine before I was even aware of the world. I grew up in that script, lived my entire life in the play I had written from infancy to now.” And she rises, and the man reaches out to help, but she waves him away. She speaks, her- her voice is strong, ringing out through the theatre. “The play ends with my death, because the play is my life. It is bounded by the same hours and minutes that I am.” the audience is rapt, many have tears in their eyes. Even the insects weep. “Thank you for these hundred years,” Hannah Hershman says. “This script is complete.” She walks to the window. “It might look like rain,” she says. “Who knows?” The lights dim.

Thunderous applause, cries of acclaim, and Hannah Hershman dies to the best possible sound a person can hear: concrete evidence of the good they have done in the lives of other humans.

Stay tuned next for the second ever Night Vale Players Playhouse production, now that they finally finished this one. They’re going to do “Godspell”. And from the script of a life I have not yet finished performing, Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Many are called, but few are chosen. And fewer still pick up. Because most calls are spam these days.

[puckluck28]

5, 18, 28 & 40, 41 🥰🥰🥰🥰

Thank you @thetwit for the prompts! 

This ones’s written with 5. Throwing their arms around the other person’s neck, hugging them close before kissing them passionately on the lips. & 28. One person tracing the other’s lips with a fingertip until they can’t resist any longer, tilting their chin towards them for a kiss.

I will work on 18, 40 & 41 in the upcoming weeks!

Hope y’all enjoy!

19 Days

It was almost 10pm when Hailey finally looked away from the latest report she was working on for a much needed break from her monitor and rubbed her eyes, hoping when she opened them, she’d find herself looking into her partner, and fiancé, green eyes. Unfortunately, however, her wishful thinking proved unavailing, and she sighed in disappointment when she opened her exhausted eyes to find the desk across from her empty; the stacks of paper unusually organized, a thin layer of dust covering the single pen resting on Jay’s keyboard, the one he hid from Hailey so he didn’t run out of pens when she ultimately stole all the pens in his pencil holder by the end of each. So with another heavy sigh, she pushed away from her desk and walked to the break room to grab another cup of coffee, she didn’t even know how many cups she’d already had.

On a regular week, it wasn't uncommon for Hailey to show up at the bullpen when no one was around to finish her paperwork. Whether it was a couple hours before or after shift, or a rare day off, she preferred staying on top of her paperwork with each case, unlike her colleagues who waited to be chased around by Platt to actually start on theirs. Adam thought she was crazy for willingly spending more time at the bullpen. Kim wished she had Hailey’s level of organization so she didn’t have to take most of her paperwork home with her. And while Kevin didn’t comment on her habits, he wasn’t a stranger to using his free time catching up with his paperwork, the only difference: he preferred the comfort of his home to the bullpen. Hailey, on the other hand, found a sense of serenity in the silence of her usually hectic workplace, especially the past couple weeks, nineteen days to be specific. 

It had been almost three weeks since Jay had been temporarily snatched by narcotics for an undercover operation when intelligence’s operation had accidentally crossed paths with their colleagues’. Overnight, without even being given an option, or time for goodbyes, he was further pushed into the operation and all his contact with intelligence was severed.  

Hailey understood that it was one of those things that just came with the job. Narcotics needed Jay, and there was nothing anyone could have done about it, but it didn’t mean Hailey had to like it any different. She hated not having her partner across from her, catching her eye every time she looked up from her paperwork. She hated not sitting in the comfort of his truck, whether they were driving to a suspect’s house or a bust or home after work. And most of it all, she hated how lonely their home seemed, how cold and empty their bed felt. Sure, it was a temporary situation, but with no end date, temporary felt a minute too long to be bearable, so instead of torturing herself with the silence of their home, she spent most of her free time in the silence of the bullpen. At least there, she had work to do instead of rewatching the same episode of the Office for a hundredth time, hoping Jay was by her side to make the same comment he made every time.

The rest of the unit had realized their blonde colleague’s change of habits, too. At first they’d given it to their increased workload since they were a man down, but when Hailey had declined invites to Molly’s to stay at work for one too many an evening, they’d all known there was more to it than the workload. The days that followed, Hailey realized her colleagues showing up to work a little earlier, leaving a little later, and making sure they had enough coffee and snacks at the break room at all times. She knew this was their way of being there for her, no member of the unit was one to talk about their feelings, and she was forever grateful to have found her place in Voight’s unit and not only gained amazing colleagues but a family.  

Pouring herself the last of the coffee left in the pot, Hailey decided it was time to call it a night when she was done with this one, knowing she wouldn’t go home at all if she put on a new pot. It wasn’t that she actually wanted to go home, but the break room couch was really not that comfortable and she desperately needed her warm shower if she was going to pretend to feel ready for the next day.  

Needing a minute longer away from her computer, Hailey rested her back against the kitchen sink and tried to enjoy the warm radiating from the mug in her hands as she traced the familiar letters on it. Ever since Jay’d been gone, she’d started using his coffee mug that read “The World’s Best Detective.” It had been a gag gift she’d gotten him a couple years ago for Christmas after they’d binged all of the Office together that fall when they’d taken turns nurturing each other back to health during that year’s flu season. Oh, how she missed having him by her side, even at the cost of the horrors that came with having the flu.

Hailey was so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized the footsteps approaching the break room. “You know…” Her head immediately turned at the source of the familiar voice, and she almost dropped the mug in her hands had her fingers not been hooked on its handle when her eyes landed on the source. “I was really hoping to come home to find my beautiful fiancé in bed after not seeing her for so long. So imagine my disappointment when I get home to find the place all cold and dark.”  

“Jay?” Her voice cracked as she whispered his name and turned around.

‘Hey, Hails. Miss me?” He asked with his trademark smirk, and tears filled her eyes as she stared at him from across the room, trying to process what was happening, trying to convince herself that he was really there and this wasn’t a caffeine induced hallucination. 

“What are-? How?” She struggled to find the right words to speak, so instead, she did the only thing she could think of: Tossing the mug to the side, she quickly closed the short space between them and threw herself into Jay’s arms. Her arms circled around his neck in an attempt to somehow ground herself as she hugged him close, needing to feel his body against her, the reassurance that he was really there, before rising on her tiptoes and crashing her lips against his. There was so much packed into their kiss: surprise, despair, longing, relief… As their hands wandered and their lips moved against one another’s in urgency, they felt as if they needed the kiss more than they needed air until reality caught up with them and they involuntarily pulled away from another, gasping for air. 

“You’re really here?” Hailey whispered, trying to catch her breath.

“Narcotics finally wrapped up their operation and I came back as soon as they cuffed the last of the guys.” Jay responded, holding her tight against his body, needing her touch as much as she needed his. “I couldn’t spend another minute away.”

“God, Jay…” She was at a loss for words, her eyes traveling all over his body to get a good look at how the past three weeks had treated him. He was still in his undercover outfit: ragged jeans, a black shirt and an all leather jacket that reeked of cigarette smoke.  

Slowly reaching up towards his face, her fingers gently trailed the few cuts and bruises along his neck and jaw until she reached the fresh cut on his lips. Jay’s eyes closed at her familiar touch, the one he’d longed for every night every time he closed his eyes for the past nineteen days. God, it felt so nice to be back, to hold her in his arms, to kiss her, to… Hailey’s fingers trailed down against his sharp jawline and guided his chin towards her face for another much needed kiss. This kiss was different from the first one. It was softer, gentler, more tender, and the desperate urgency was replaced by sweet savor. 

“I’m really here, Hails.” Jay whispered against her lips when they parted enough to rest their heads against one another’s, their lips only inches away. “I’m back, I’m okay and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” He knew she’d been worried and she needed to hear him say the words. 

“I missed you, so damn much.” Hailey confessed, tightening her grip on him even more, as if it was possible for them to hold each other tighter or closer.

“Me too, baby. So much that I don’t think words would do it justice.” He leaned in for another kiss, their kisses becoming increasingly more passionate. “Now why don’t we go home so I can show you just as much.” He spoke in between kisses with a mischievous smile, receiving an equally lustful look from Hailey. 

“Just take me home, Halstead.” Hailey whispered into his ear, and he didn’t have to be told twice before he grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the district and into his truck, the mug of coffee and everything else forgotten. They were finally together again, and they deserved this one night before they had to face reality again.

Hopefully more will come in the next weeks ☺️

[slapshot-to-the-heart]

Flatbush & Atlantic: part x

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi part vii part viii part ix

And we’ve finally come to the end of Cass and Mat’s story! I want to thank every person who’s read this over the past few months, especially those of you who have reblogged, commented, and shared this with your friends. Your feedback means the world to me, and please tell me what you think of this final part! I’ve also got some ideas floating around for an epilogue, so don’t be surprised if that pops up in the next few weeks.

part x

May 21 (fri)

For once, it wasn’t Cass’ alarm that woke her up. Her internal clock didn’t let her sleep in past 6, but as she lay in her bed, comforter pulled up to her chin and curls up in a haphazard messy bun, a realization struck her. She didn’t have anything to do, and that was just about as far from normal for her as possible. Normally, she’d be hopping in the shower at this time, getting out and shoveling some cereal down her throat before running to catch the train, or desperately trying to finish some last-minute reading before an early lecture. Her grandparents’ flight didn’t land at JFK until 1, and she wouldn’t need to leave until an hour before that to get Mat and drive to the airport. 

Padding out to the kitchen, she just caught Ryanne, who was about to leave for a clinical rotation. “What department are you in this month?” Cass asked.

“OB/GYN,” Ryanne responded. “I got to observe a birth the other day, and it was one of my favorite things I’ve gotten to do so far. Obviously I don’t know for sure yet, but I think I might want to match into it. You get to do a little bit of everything — there’s some surgery, some routine care, some deliveries. And with the Black maternal health crisis, I figure we need all the Black OBs we can get as a country.” 

Cass smiled. “That’s wonderful, I’m glad to hear.” She knew that Ryanne had been a little stressed out with the prospect of trying to pick a residency; she hadn’t felt drawn to any of the other rotations she’d gone through quite like this one. 

“What about you? What’s your schedule like today?” Ryanne asked as she poured coffee into her travel mug. 

Cass flopped down on the couch, looking over at her. “It’s just...I have nothing to do. Nothing needs to get done. No cases to read, no essays to finish, no paperwork to file or anything. Chris gave me this week off for finals anyways, so I couldn’t even go into the office if I wanted to because there’s just nothing for me to do. Do you know how rare that is for me?”

Ryanne laughed. “Cass, I’m in med school. The last time I had a true ‘off day’ was two weeks ago, and even then I spent most of it studying.” She slung her backpack over one shoulder. “See you tonight, have a good day, babe!”

After some toast and a smoothie, Cass was back on the couch, trying desperately to think of something to do. She thrived on being busy, thrived on feeling like she was needed and contributing to something worthwhile. Pushing herself up, she walked back to her room, deciding to change and go out for a run. Cass liked to keep in shape and exercise as often as she could, even though it had been a few years since she had been on an organized sports team. She was usually able to make yoga classes at the school gym twice a week, but typically didn’t have the spare time in the mornings for a run. And by the time she got back it was almost always dark, way too late to even think about going out alone. 

Lacing up her tennis shoes and grabbing her AirPods and keys, she set out, down the stairs and past the door. As she jogged down the streets, making familiar turn after familiar turn, Cass realized something remarkably profound. Every place she passed had played a part in the last three years. St. Lucy’s, where she had stumbled in with inconsolable tears after her abuelo’s stroke, lighting a candle and praying with some old Italian woman for his recovery. The bodega on the corner run by Carlos Gonzalez, one of the first people she met when she moved to the city and the only one who knew how to smoosh her sandwiches down how she likes. The Edible Arrangements where she, Stella, and Ryanne had bought Alicia a congratulatory fruit bouquet for finally asking out her coworker Juliette. They had been dating for six months. The high school she passed every morning on her way to the subway station. These were the people and places that had made her life what it was, and she owed them her thanks. 

An hour and five miles later, Cass decided to call it quits, walking the last few blocks back to the apartment as a sort of cool-down. She jumped in the shower, throwing her hair up in a towel once she got out and resigning herself to watching whatever was on TV. Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives it was, apparently. Four episodes and one snack break later, it was time to get in the car to head over and pick up Mat. Cass drove down Manhattan Island, tapping her fingers in boredom as she hit yet more traffic. It was noon, why was there even traffic in the first place? She pulled into the visitor’s spot in the underground lot of Mat’s apartment complex, taking out her phone. Just got here! Mat popped out of the elevator a few minutes later, holding a bouquet of tulips. “Sorry I’m late, I was going back and forth between tulips and sunflowers for awhile, but I figured the pink was maybe a better choice? What do you think?” Cass started to laugh, and Mat looked offended. “What?”

“Babe, it’s so sweet that you want to impress my grandma, but have you thought about how the poor flowers will fare?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Cass adjusted her seatbelt, leaning over. “We’re going to be out for awhile. We’re not going straight back to their hotel. So…” she prompted.

“They’ll wilt.” Mat finished, his face falling. 

She covered his hand with her own. “Don’t worry. It’s a sweet gesture and I’m sure she’ll appreciate them. We’re all going out for dinner after the ceremony tomorrow, why don’t you bring them then?” 

He perked up. “I’ll run up and put them back in a vase, be back in a few!” Mat gave Cass a quick peck on her cheek, leaving her with just one question. Mat owned vases? He slid back into the passenger’s seat shortly after, clicking his seatbelt in and connecting his phone to the speakers. 

Cass rolled her eyes. “I don’t know a single guy your age who’s not obsessed with John Mayer. It’s kind of weird, honestly.”

“You don’t like him?” Mat asked curiously. Cass was usually into more guitar-based, acoustic stuff, so he figured she’d be into at least some of his stuff. 

“Some of it,” Cass responded, pulling out of the lot and onto the street. “Go ahead and play it, I don’t mind at all. Not what I’d usually put on if I’m alone, that’s all.”

Mat nodded, looking absentmindedly out the window. “So, what should I know about your grandparents?”

Cass’ face immediately burst into a smile at their mention. It was always so clear how much she loved her family, and that was one of Mat’s favorite things about her. How hard she loved. “Alright, so it’s Dolores and Roberto Cabrera. They’re wonderful people, I genuinely think you’re going to like them a lot. They’re both super fluent in English, so don’t worry about communication. They originally immigrated to Texas when they were in their teens, abuela was a housekeeper at a few hotels in San Antonio and abuelo worked in the fields for awhile before getting a job at a little hardware store in town, where he worked until they retired. My mom’s the middle of four, two older sisters and a younger brother.”Mat listened intently. “My abuelo’s a little more rough around the edges, so don’t be surprised if he gives you  a little bit of a hard time, but it’s not out of malice or anything. He’s always been very protective over us, my mom and her siblings, and now us three. He might do the whole ‘nobody’s good enough for my Cassidy” thing, but he’ll get over it. He means well.” 

She glanced over at Mat, who was looking decidedly nervous. “Seriously, chou, it’s going to be fine. Abuela’s totally different, they’re like polar opposites. I can almost guarantee that she’ll say something to the effect of ‘if my granddaughter loves you, I love you.’ Very much go with the flow, she’ll probably want to come over to your apartment and cook for you.” Her expression softened. “As long as you’re kind and respectful, they won’t have an issue with you, Mat. They’ll see that you treat me how I deserve to be treated and love me like I deserve to be loved.”

Cass pulled into the garage by the international arrivals terminal, cutting the gas and checking the time. “The flight was supposed to land at one, so they should be getting out of passport control by the time we get inside.” It was a little after one thirty, but if there was anything Cass knew, it was just how long customs could take at an airport as big as JFK. Even in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, and even though her grandparents were travelling on their American passports and could use the citizen’s line, she had heard that it could take upwards of an hour or two to get through. 

The concourse was pretty bare apart from a few kiosks selling “I ❤️ NY” shirts and a surprisingly busy Noah’s Bagels, so Mat and Cass made themselves comfortable on one of the rows of plastic chairs lining the room. The arrivals screen had marked their flight from Mexico City as having landed nearly an hour prior, so it was little surprise when Cass popped up from the chair, straightening her shirt and walking over to a couple that he could only assume were her grandparents. Mat quickly followed, catching up to her just as she threw her arms around her grandma. “Abuela, te extrañé,” she said, the sound muffled by Dolores’ scarf. She pulled back, kissing her grandpa on the cheek before stepping over to Mat, one hand placed reassuringly on his back. “Abuela, abuelo, this is Mat, my boyfriend.”

Mat stuck his hand out, shaking theirs. “Mr. and Mrs. Cabrera, it’s so amazing to finally meet you. Cass speaks so highly of you, and she always talks about her summers in Hermosillo.” 

Dolores pulled Mat in, embracing him from the start just as Cass had expected. “Mat, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Cassidy has told us so much about you, it’s clear she loves you a great deal.”

Mat ducked his head and blushed. “I’m not sure if she can love me more than I love her, but I’m happy to be in such good company.” 

He took both of their suitcases as Cass gestured to the sliding doors. “I want to get back to the car before they charge me for another half hour,” she said. 

Mat slid the bags in the trunk of the car as Dolores got in the passenger’s seat. With a gulp, Mat realized that meant he had to sit next to Roberto. He had been perfectly nice on the walk over, but as Cass had warned him, it was clear that he was a little guarded. Whether that was just his personality or whether Mat had yet to earn his trust hadn’t been determined. 

Her grandparents had been to New York once or twice before, but it had almost always been just to fly in before driving up to visit Cass’ family in Connecticut; they had never really been able to see the city. Cass  felt strongly that that had to change, so she had arranged for a mini-tour of Manhattan before they got dropped off at their hotel for the night. “So, Mat,” Dolores said, turning around in her chair, “Cassidy tells us you’re a hockey player? That must be so exciting, how long have you been playing?”

Mat nodded. “Yes ma’am. I play for the Islanders, so we’re right here in Brooklyn, but I live over in Manhattan. I’ve been playing the sport since I was four or so? Really little. But I just finished my fourth season on the Islanders. And it is exciting, I love being with my team and being on the ice, it’s one of the best feelings in the world.” 

“That must keep you busy, though?” Roberto asked gruffly. 

Mat froze. He couldn’t lie and say that he was home all the time, able to be there for Cass as often as he’d like to, because he wasn’t. But if he let on just how often he was gone, would that make him even more wary? “Oftentimes, yes,” Mat began slowly. “The team’s usually on two or so road trips a month, they’re usually about a week long. But they’re balanced out with plenty of home games, and there’s lots of guys who balance the job with a family and other responsibilities. I’m always excited to be able to be back in New York, I love it here. And to be with Cass.” Roberto nodded, not seemingly totally satisfied but content enough to not push the issue further. 

“He’s really good about spending time with me, abuelo, even though we’ve both got busy schedules,” Cass added, catching Roberto’s eye in the rearview mirror. “We meet in the morning before a class to get coffee, or lunch in between studying if I’ve got time. I go to every game I’m able to when he’s playing here in the city, or over in Jersey. We spend plenty of time together, he doesn’t blow me off. You don’t have to worry.” He seemed much more at ease with his granddaughter’s response. 

It was a whirlwind three hours around New York, Cass playing chauffeur as they went to the top of the Empire State Building — her pick — in St. Patrick’s Cathedral  — her grandpa’s pick — and around Central Park, stopping at one of the many pretzel carts for a snack. They dropped them off at the hotel, Cass’ eyes getting misty as her grandma pulled out the serape stole from her purse. Her fingers danced over the colors, the stripes of red and blue and pink and green, and knowing that it was made by the hands of someone so important to her made it all the more beautiful. The rest of her family was driving in later that night, after Nick got out of school, so everyone wouldn’t be together until the graduation ceremony the next day. 

The couple decided to get takeout on the way back to Mat’s apartment, Mat jumping out of the car to run in and pick up the order while Cass circled the block until he was out. As they sat on the couch, cuddled into each other as they broke into the boxes of Chinese food, Cass thought absentmindedly that Mat handled his chopsticks way better than she ever would have given him credit for. Her grandparents had been on her mind. More specifically, her grandparents and Mat had been on her mind. It wasn’t that she thought he had messed up in any way — she was positive he’d absolutely won over her grandma and her grandpa was slowly but surely coming around — but some lingering concerns about what they might think about their relationship. “I’m not sure that they’d actually care, but when you talk to them tomorrow maybe don’t mention how often I sleep over here? They’re wonderful people, but they’re a little old school about this stuff.” 

“This stuff?” Mat asked curiously. 

“Living together, sex before marriage, that kind of stuff.” 

“And how do you feel about it?” 

Cass raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you think you could ever get me to do something I didn’t want to do? I’m way too stubborn for that.” Mat threw his head back, laughing. “But seriously. I don’t make the decision lightly, because commitment and intimacy in that way is something really big and important to me. You already knew that I don’t do hookups, it’s just not my thing. But I can see this, us, going places. I want us to go places. And I’ve never been very good at listening to people when I don’t want to. So I’ve made my peace that my choices might not be ones everyone would be thrilled with, but it doesn’t really matter to me as long as I have you.” 

Mat nodded, putting down his food to card one hand through her curls. “I get that, I do. Obviously that’s not so much the attitude with a lot of the boys, but your principles are part of what makes you who you are, and I love who you are. Every part of you.” Cass smiled against his neck, leaning down and kissing him on the shoulder. “I want us to go places too, I hope you know that.”

“Glad to hear.”

They ate without speaking for a few more minutes until Mat broke the silence. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” 

“With you,” Cass answered honestly. “Here, or we could get a nice brownstone over in Brooklyn.” 

“Somewhere with a yard,” Mat mused. 

“Yeah, a yard would be nice,” Cass agreed. “I’d like to get a dog, I’ve always grown up with dogs and it would be nice to have someone to keep me company when you’re gone.” Her family’s two dogs, Patches and Scout, were back at the house in Connecticut, and on more than one occasion, Cass had made the two-hour drive up just to see them. She paused, glancing down at her hands. “In five years? You’d better have put a ring on my finger by then, Mat. I’ll be almost thirty. Approaching old maid status” 

Mat laughed, an easy, breathy sort of laugh that somehow erased all of the tension in the room. “I think you should double-hyphen.” 

Cass looked at him doubtfully. “Cabrera-Shaw-Barzal? Yeah, I’m going to have to pass on that one.” 

He shrugged, the corner of his lip pulled up in a half-smile. “Just saying. It’s got a ring to it.”

“Have you given much thought to what you’d want to do with your name when you get married?” Mat asked curiously. It really didn’t matter much to him, since it would ultimately be Cass’ decision, but he didn’t want to assume anything regardless. And it didn’t escape Cass that he said when, as if it was certain, as if it was a given. The surety made her heart flutter. 

Cass shook her head. “Not particularly. On one hand, I do like the idea of the whole family having the same name. It seems nice. Unified. But I don’t want to feel like I’m erasing my culture and who I am just because I’m getting married. And all due respect, chou,” Cass poked Mat’s cheek, “but Cabrera Shaw’s the name on my degrees. Cassidy Barzal didn’t go to law school.”

“Very fair,” Mat said with a chuckle. 

Cass took a deep breath. If it seemed like they were having the “future talk,” she figured it was best to go all in. “Do you want kids?” she asked, tentatively, hesitantly. It was obvious that Mat was good with kids, she’d seen as much, but being good with kids and wanting children of your own were two very different things. Cass had wanted to be a mom since she knew what a mom was, and even though they probably should have brought up the topic earlier, she wasn’t sure what she’d do if he said no. Thank God, she never had to find out. 

“Definitely,” Mat said, nodding. “Not now, obviously, we’re young and haven’t really settled down yet. If you got pregnant we’d make it work, but I don’t think either of us is looking to be parents right away. But in a couple years, once we’re married and have a proper house with space...Yeah, I’d like to have kids.” He looked over at Cass. “What about you?”

“Always wanted kids,” Cass responded fondly. “I loved growing up with siblings, and I know my parents were the same way. Two or three, I think. I’ve thought about adoption too, but obviously that’s way in the future.”

Mat kissed the top of her head. “We’ve got time.”

 May 22 (sat)

 The graduation ceremony itself wasn’t until noon, so Cass had more than enough time to get ready after waking up at 7. Alicia barrelled into her room at exactly 7:22, throwing a shirt at her and telling her to get dressed. Cass stumbled out of the room ten minutes later, pulling on socks and grabbing her phone from the charger by her door. “What are you guys trying to pull?” she asked, yawning and trying to wipe the sleep out of her eyes. 

“Uh, we’re going to the diner, duh,” Stella said with a smile, tossing Cass her purse. “Come on! You know it fills up early on weekends.” Glen’s Diner had become an apartment staple over the past few years, the restaurant having been the first place the four of them had eaten in the city when they moved, not having bought groceries yet and not wanting to pay the premium for delivery. It was cheap, open 24/7, and Cass would swear up and down that their blueberry pancakes were the best she’d ever had. 

They were seated just after 8, happily slurping coffee and stealing bites of each other’s breakfast twenty minutes later. It was a nice day and hadn’t gotten too hot yet, so they decided to walk back after finishing the meal. In reality, “going back” meant Alicia stopping to buy a new necklace, listening to a busker for a few minutes, and petting no fewer than five dogs on the one-mile walk. There was still plenty of time before they had to leave for the ceremony, but after Cass did her makeup and tamed her curls, there was just enough time to watch an episode of Parks & Rec before having to actually get her stuff together. Not as flexible as she once had been, Ryanne helped zip up the back of her dress, a white lace bodycon from her sorority days that she had definitely worn to at least two semiformals. Hey, Cass thought as she straightened her hemline, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. 

She had ironed her robe and put it into a dress bag the night before, and gently folded her school stole and the serape from her abuela into her purse. Mat’s necklace hadn’t left its place since Valentine’s. Her dad’s parents had given her a beautiful pair of pearl studs for her undergraduate graduation, and it felt only right to wear them for her next step. She fastened the ankle straps on her heels, and popped her head out to the living room. “Everyone ready?” She was met with a chorus of “yeses,” and grabbed her keys from their dish by the front door. 

“Let’s go get our girl graduated!” Alicia hollered into the street. 

The girls had originally objected to Cass driving herself to her own graduation, but relented as soon as Cass reminded them that she was the only one who knew where to find the free parking, and the rest of them only drove sedans. “Cheryl has way more room. Y’all want to be cramped on purpose?” 

“Fair point,” Stella had said begrudgingly. 

Exactly twenty-six minutes later, Cass pulled into a spot about two blocks away from the arena where she would be graduating in an hour’s time, hugging each of her friends as Ryanne handed her the dress bag. “You’re going to kill it in there,” she said, rubbing her back. 

Cass laughed. “Ry, all I’ve got to do is walk across a stage without tripping.”

She shrugged. “It’s a fine art that few have mastered.” 

Cass entered through the side, flashing her ID to the security guard standing by the door. Half an hour later, everyone had been ushered into their seats, carefully arranged in alphabetical order. For the most part, Cass was friendly with everyone in her class; if they weren’t outwardly hostile to her, she saw no reason why they deserved anything other than kindness, but was relieved to see Robin sitting next to her. “You excited?” Robin asked, brushing a piece of her auburn hair behind her ear. The lobby doors must have opened, because as she asked, crowds started to mill into the seats, waving at anyone who would catch their eye. 

Cass bounced her head. “I am, but it’s kind of surreal, you know? I knew we’d get to this point, obviously. It’s what we’ve been working towards for seven years, really. But the idea that it all essentially comes down to this…”

“An hour, a few handshakes, and a piece of paper,” Robin helpfully supplied. 

She nodded. “Yeah. It’s almost anticlimactic in a way? Like sure, we’ve got our JDs after this, but knowing we’ve still got to pass the bar. We’re not over the finish line yet.”

“Columbia has a 97% pass rate, and you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, Cass. And I’ve spent three years surrounded by the smartest people I’ve ever met.”

“Fair,” Cass said, “it’s just kind of a weird feeling, you know?” Robin nodded. “And plus, for most of us, we’ve pretty much spent our whole lives in school. Aside from positions as summer associates, or part-time jobs and internships, we don’t really know how to do anything other than school. It’s just a little bit of a daunting thought to suddenly feel like we’re being thrown out to the wolves without really knowing what to expect.” Cass’ phone, which she wasn’t technically supposed to have but had snuck in anyways, chose that moment to buzz with a text notification. It was from Mat.

Met up with the crew! Can’t wait to see you walk across that stage, Cass. I love you and we’re all so proud of you. Mat had attached a photo of everyone she had brought with her — both sets of grandparents, her parents and siblings, and roommates. 

“Your boyfriend is nauseatingly cute,” Robin observed, looking over her shoulder at the message. 

Cass laughed. “That’s true, but I knew what I was getting myself into.” The music started ten minutes later, and the ceremony began. If Cass was being honest, she didn’t really remember much of anything from the first half of the ceremony, before the conferral of diplomas. She was so excited and nervous and unbelievably ready all at the same time that all she recalled from the dean’s speech and the student speeches were vague comments about their “awesome responsibility” and “duty to pursue truth and justice” and “commitment to fight for what is right over what is easy.” 

As soon as she realized it, her row was being ushered into line to receive their diplomas. “Cassidy María Cabrera Shaw.” She heard her name, but really had no clue who had spoken it. The dean? One of her professors? As Cass walked up the steps and across the stage, the only thing she could think was don’t trip don’t trip don’t trip. Then she was handed a diploma, flashed a brilliant smile for the photographer, and shook hand after hand after hand before walking off the other side of the stage. She was pretty sure she could hear Mat and Noah yelling their congratulations from her seat on the floor. 

Having a name towards the front of the alphabet meant that Cass was almost always called on quickly in class, or on roll call, or at graduation, as the case was. But that meant that she had to sit, quietly and politely, for the other four hundred names to be called. And it took awhile. After Robin Cahill came Wesley Coleman, then Samuel Cogswell, then Fiona Chan. Cass didn’t mind having to sit through the whole thing, especially when Fiona, Les, Samaira, and her other friends crossed the stage — she cheered as much as anybody — but it was a long time to be sitting in a folding chair and the thousands of people packed into a small space didn’t help her temperature regulation. 

There was the benediction and congratulations, and then the recessional of the graduates. Graduates, Cass thought. She was a graduate. She had finished, she was done, she had accomplished the one thing she wanted most to do since she was a little girl watching Legally Blonde for the first time, looking at Elle Woods and thinking I can do that. And she had. Her feet carried her to the back room of their own accord, where she picked up her bag and was engulfed in a flurry of hugs, congratulations, and kisses on the cheek from her friends, the people who she had spent countless late nights in the library with, bar hopping to celebrate the end of finals, and afternoons on each other’s apartment couches, yelling fact patterns at each other and trying to come up with an analysis before the timer went off.  

Following the stream of sky blue graduation gowns, Cass walked outside, waving at her family when she spotted Eliana hanging off of a lamppost in the courtyard to get a better view. Her sister nearly tackled her as she made her way to the group. “Cass. I already knew you were brilliant, and I still think  you’re the smartest out of any of us,” she gestured between the two of them and Noah, “but now you’ve got the degree to prove it. I’m so proud of you.” 

Noah was next. “You worked hard, and I know how badly you wanted this. You’re a really good sister.” He wasn’t usually a big talker, and Cass’ eyes definitely got a little misty as he spoke. He had verbally committed to Minnesota State the week before, and Mat might have been more excited than even Cass when he heard the news. It was an incredible program that had a serious track record of sending players to the NHL, and she was so proud to see her little brother doing what he loved. Her mom and both grandmas were crying, as expected, and Grandpa Joe wrapped her up in a hug as soon as he got the chance. 

Mat had been hanging towards the back of the crowd, not wanting to feel like he was intruding on family time, until her dad nudged him forward. “Go say hi to your girl, Mat,” Patrick said.

“Will do,” Mat said, squeezing Cass’ hand and pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. “Sometimes it blows my mind how incredible you are,” he said. “Everyone’s already said how smart you are, and every bit of that is true. But you’re so much more than that, you know?” His thumb rubbed over her hand. “You’re beautiful, and curious, and you always keep me on my toes. You’re so passionate about your work, and you’ve got the biggest heart out of anyone I know. You’ve never met a person you didn’t want to help. And I promise I’m not biased just because I’m in love with you.” 

Cass gave a watery laugh, blinking and thanking God she had the foresight to wear waterproof mascara. “God, I love you, Mat.”

Her dad had always been the picture type, insisting on documenting every waking moment. He was the living embodiment of “pics or it didn’t happen,” for better or worse. He took a few of her with her law school friends, then Alicia snapped one with just her immediate family, then there was one with everyone. Cass also got a picture with Mat, where he was bending down to kiss her, the tassel on her mortarboard just barely brushing his nose. Then she was in one with all of the seniors on the law review, and a friend pulled her away for a few with the Latinx Student Association. By the time they finally managed to tear Patrick away from his camera, it was time to head back to the hotel and get ready for dinner. 

Mat got Patrick to send him the photo of him and Cass, and was about to post it on Instagram when he hesitated. “Hey, is it cool if I post this?” Mat said, showing Cass his phone. Most people knew who she was, and he had posted pictures of her before, but they had never been this obvious, this clear, this real. 

“Go for it.”

Mat pressed post. So, so proud of my incredible girlfriend @casscshaw for graduating law school. You’re one of the smartest, most empathetic people I know, and you’re going to make an amazing lawyer. 

Cass grinned, a big, genuine smile as she was surrounded by her family, the people who meant the most to her — whether they were related or not. She looked up at Mat, who was smiling softly down at her as he reached one hand up to fix her tassel. “What’s next?”