#Martin is doing a fright right now

[clumsydragon28]

"sharing a kiss while dancing >>>" WE NEED 😍😍😍

Ahh what a perfect request 🥰

For those of you who have read Plié-sed to Have Met You, this little teaser takes place within that same universe. It's a scene that I plan to include in my soon(ish) to come Shikajin part 2 of this dance AU. It is not necessary however to read Plié to understand the below. And so, without further ado...

Sway

“When we dance you have a way with me Stay with me, sway with me”

Dean Martin

Full story below the cut ✨

“Hey, Inojin?”

He looked up from removing his shoes, expecting to meet Shikadai’s gaze and instead was met with the back of his boyfriend’s head. Inojin made a small noise to indicate he was listening, waiting for Shikadai to continue as he kepy fiddling with his laces.

“Would you be interested in teaching me some dance steps? I mean, nothing too crazy. You know, just the basics or—”

Inojin nearly catapulted himself up off the ground and grabbed Shikadai by the arms. Those were words he never expected to come out of his boyfriend’s mouth.

“You want to dance?”

Even though they happened to be standing under one of the ceiling lamps in the studio where the bulbs had blown out, Inojin could still make out the blush on Shikadai’s cheeks as he gave a shy nod in response.

“Oh my god, really?! Really? I can’t believe it, oh my god, of course, sweetie! That makes me so happy.”

He watched as the initial shock on Shikadai’s face from the excited outburst morphed into a smile. But not just any smile. This was a special smile. A smile that made Inojin’s heart flutter more than even the worst bout of stage fright.

It was that smile where his eyes became alight with love. That smile that revealed Shikadai was exactly where he wanted to be and there was nothing else he’d rather be doing. That smile only few people ever got the pleasure of being on the receiving end of.

Inojin still couldn’t believe that he was so lucky to see that smile every day.

He kicked his shoes off fully as he grabbed Shikadai’s hand and dragged him over to a part of the room where the overhead lights did work and they could see each other clearly. 

Inojin decided to start their lesson with the class step ball change. He chose it not only because it is one of the most basic moves in all styles of dance, but he assumed Shikadai would have an easy time with it. It’s one of those steps where the name of the move tells you how to perform it: you step with one leg, then switch your weight to the ball of your opposite foot, and then back. Inojin thought it would appeal to his boyfriend’s overly logical brain and come naturally to him. All he had to do was follow along with the words.

Apparently though, Inojin thought wrong.

For ten minutes now, he watched as Shikadai continuously tripped over his own feet. He just couldn’t seem to comprehend he had to change the balls of his feet and not keep one plastered to the ground. Inojin offered several times to teach him a different step, but Shikadai refused. He was trying so hard to get it right, Inojin could see beads of sweat drip down his forehead and land on the lens of his glasses.

Shikadai seemed determined to get this step down no matter what, and Inojin was wracking his brain to come up with a way to help him. He started to think back to moments with his parents. Back to a time when he was small and he was first learning these steps himself. The memories prompted him to try a different tactic than having Shikadai just watch and attempt to copy his feet.

Inojin walked over to where Shikadai was fumbling around and wrapped his arm around his boyfriend’s waist. He pulled him in tight so that Shikadai’s backside was flush with his whole body. He could feel Shikadai stiffen at the sudden contact, so Inojin placed a reassuring kiss onto the back of his neck.

“Don’t fight against me, okay? Just relax and let my body guide yours.”

Inojin started to move, lifting his right foot fully off the ground. The top of his thigh pressed into the back of Shikadai’s, effectively raising the other man’s leg with it. Inojin then placed both of their feet back onto the floor and repeated the movement on their left but at a much quicker pace. Then again with the right as that same faster speed.

He continued the slow-quick-quick pattern over and over. With each step Inojin took, Shikadai’s legs did the same, being led by the gentle nudging. Inojin could feel the rhythm start to flow through Shikadai as he became more accustomed to the movements through this hands-on approach.

Just like a child learns to ride a bike without training wheels for the first time, Inojin slowly loosened his grip from Shikadai’s waist and let the other man try on his own. He couldn’t help but grin with pride as Shikadai continued to step ball change all by himself. 

It was a different kind of pride than what he’d experienced with the students he taught in class. Inojin imagined it was similar to how his parents had felt every time they watched him first master a new step.

This wasn’t a sense of pride fueled by pure accomplishment, no. This was a pride synonymous with love.

“Well, now that you’ve mastered that, let’s try something else.”

Inojin chuckled when Shikadai jumped at the sound of his voice. He gave Inojin a puzzled look as if asking how they were now on opposite sides of the room. Shikadai had seemingly gotten so caught up in the dance, he hadn’t noticed he was no longer being held.

Inojin walked back over to his partner, making sure to flash one of his signature cheeky winks. He then grabbed Shikadai’s arms, placed them around his neck, and put his own hands on Shikadai’s waist. He once again felt his boyfriend’s body tense up with shyness, so Inojin pulled him in closer and rested his chin upon Shikadai’s shoulder.

“Don’t be nervous. I got you. We’ll take it nice and slow.”

Inojin started to move again. This time, his feet barely lifted off the ground as he gently rocked the pair right and left. He then rubbed encouraging circles into Shikadai’s sides, silently asking him to follow along. Inojin could feel the other man’s body melt into his own, allowing Inojin to lead them in the slow dance. 

Inojin had danced with many partners over the years. Girls he’d had to lift over his head and hold their waist as they spun around. Guys he’d had to dive over and swoop under as they moved across the floor.

But this. This wasn’t anything like that. 

There was no choreography to ensure they didn’t step on each other’s toes. There had been no practicing for hours on end to make sure the timing was right for a big lift. There was no set rhythm of 1-2-3 over and over again to the tune of music.

No this. This required no plans. No counts. No steps. No marks to hit. This was the most basic of dances and the most natural. The most comforting. The most freeing. The most pure. 

This was simply two people. Sharing their space, breathing as one, swaying side to side, and just existing. 

Inojin nuzzled further into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck, enjoying the ever-present scent of sand and heat. Even though it had been a few months since Shikadai had gone home for winter break, the smell of the desert never left his skin. It was so foreign to Inojin who had grown up in the concrete laden labyrinth that is New York City. He could live without the stench of sweaty subways and steamy sewer grates. But the aroma that was pure Shikadai? He couldn’t get enough of it.

Now that he had calmed down from the earlier excitement at Shikadai’s request, Inojin decided it was time to ask the question that had been on his mind since then.

“So, why the interest in dancing all of a sudden?”

He felt the blush from Shikadai’s cheek warm his skin. 

“Well, it’s such a big part of who you are. A part that I don’t know yet.”

Inojin rearranged them slightly so he could look at Shikadai’s face. He could feel that same excitement from before eager to resurface. It was taking all of Inojin’s patience to let Shikadai finish without interrupting him again.

“I want to know as much as I can about every part of you. Even the parts that I don’t really understand.”

The flush on his face was still present as Shikadai turned his gaze to the ground. Inojin’s eyes watched as the movement caused his glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose. Shikadai unconsciously wrinkled his nostrils as if trying to inch the frames back up to the top. 

God, his boyfriend was so cute. Inojin couldn’t stand it.

“I just. I really appreciate the part you play in my own life. And I wanted to thank you for that. So, I don’t know, I just thought—”

That’s it. He couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His patience had run out.

Inojin snatched Shikadai’s hand and raised it above both their heads. He spun the other man around, twirling him like the ballerina inside his music box, before grabbing Shikadai around the waist and dipping him back across his arm. He then bent down to place the biggest, sloppiest kiss on his boyfriend’s lips.

Inojin put every single part of himself into the kiss so that Shikadai would know all of it. That he too appreciated the role the other man played in his life. That he was beyond grateful for the journey they had taken together to get to here.

He imagined right now they looked very similar to that famous photograph of the sailor kissing a complete stranger in the middle of Times Square. Inojin had seen so many tourists reenact that pose over the years. And though Times Square was a part of Manhattan that every native New Yorker tried to avoid at all costs, Inojin couldn’t deny that he had secretly wanted to join in the fun too and copy it with a partner.

But right now, taking a photo was the farthest thing from his mind. In this moment, Inojin felt so special, so cared for, so loved by the man in his arms. It was a feeling that spoke more words than any picture ever could.

And so, even though it went without saying, Inojin just couldn’t help himself.

“I love you too, Shikadai. So very, very much.”

Inojin in return received the biggest grin he had ever seen. Shikadai’s smile was so wide that his cheeks pressed into the bottom rim of his glasses. He then proceeded to right himself up and engulf Inojin in a hug so tight only an Akimichi could rival it. 

He had expected Shikadai to let go after a while, so Inojin was surprised when instead the other man brought them even closer together and began to rock them side to side. He had apparently decided to take the lead, and now Shikadai was the one to guide them in the slow dance.

Inojin tried to think of a time in all his years of competing and performing where he had loved dancing more than this moment right here. But none even came close. 

This was special because it wasn’t about how high he could jump or how many turns he could do in a row. There was no music, no counting. It was just about them and the air that swayed with them as they floated through it. 

They danced without outside pressure. They danced without clear cut rules. They danced without thinking about.

They were just dancing.

And they were free.

[thegeminisage]

IT IS. star trek update time. last night we did ds9's "the muse" and voy's "the thaw."

the muse (ds9):

the a-plot of this was so fucking stupid. WHY is it always jake and older women...can we please cut him a fucking break...

also, the mysticism around writing. "i can show you exercises and techniques" "you have so many ideas it all seems too big to you right now" come on. the only exercise and technique she needed to show him was how to fucking outline. it's not MAGIC you don't get divinely graced with the ability to write a book you just sit down and do one little bit at a time. i cannot believe writers wrote this. insufferable. they sound like george rr martin i hope he is having a bad day wherever he is

jake and sisko at the end were so cute though...sisko my beloved...

the b plot.............................................

here's the thing. while i have reversed my stance on lwaxana troi, who got much better in her final few episodes (was this the last one or do we have one more...?), i don't want odo/lwaxana to be better than odo/kira and the odo/lwaxana was REALLY GOOD. and ik some people really didn't like the way odo/kira wound up happening in canon so even though idk what happens yet NOBODY TELL ME i am bracing for it to be bad and to love it unconditionally anyway. so that was a huge struggle for me

odo in his little shapeshifter playground feeding off of lwaxana's giddiness...i wish deanna had been able to do the reverse-empath thing on tng, it would have been so much fun

ALSO i cant believe he finally got his first little smooch!!!! GOOD FOR HIM

the thaw (voy)

sigh. so apparently a lot of people really like this episode but i...hated it. one of the worst voy episodes to date actually

whatever this episode THINKS it's saying about fear is lost under the set dressing. and the set dressing IS really cool - i like the wacky practical effects and bright colors. it reminds me a lot of tos. in fact, this whole episode could have been a tos episode, but it would have been one of those tos episodes that makes the top 10 worst ranking or whatever

the problem is the Randumb XD Humor...it's like q, like the squire of gothos. it just doesn't hit for me and never will. like, the actors were good at what they did, the costumes looked great, the set was funky, even the background music really fucked, but things being Randumb XD is just too dated for me. i don't mind star trek being dated most of the time but this is where i draw the line. maybe i'd like it better if i gave it another shot, but i probably will not be doing that

i think janeway called it in, with her acting. like everyone's like damn she ACTED no girl she did a lot of dramatic whispering. and who can blame her. the script was all over the place

i just think if you're trying to terrify people you could do better than the circus theme. yeah, clowns bad, but even tng had that spooky morgue thing happening

also, lost opportunity: if this clown guy can kill people by scaring them to death ie making them live the experience of getting their heads chopped off virtually which gives them a heart attack in real life then why not write tuvok, local expert at conquering fear, into this episode? you could have cut off tuvok's head and he wouldn't have died of fright. it would have been perfect for the metaphor

the ending to this episode would have fucked a lot more if the rest of it hadn't sucked so bad. janeway's murder walk was REALLY good. it's also something kirk would have done, if they'd had the holodeck in tos, and thank GOD they didn't

but yeah, the solution of fear needing conquering and wanting to be conquered just doesn't hit when most of the script...didn't really talk about fear, it was just wilding out

TONIGHT: ds9's "for the cause" and voy's "tuvix"...okay, wait, i'm just now looking at these episode titles. everyone on reddit is always so mad about janeway killing a guy named tuvix but i thought i got it mixed up with tuvOK. like i literally thought she killed tuvok and everybody was like dw about it she doesn't kill tuvok so who tf is tuvix...is this a clone thing or something? like black shirt green shirt tuvok?? please let it be a clone thing

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 189 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: mowing the lawn.

MARTIN: "It’s the final battle, right? We climb the tower, take out the bad guy, figure out how to change the world back, and back in time for tea." No Martin, after this episode there are still 11 left! (Martin seems so stressed.)

MARTIN: "Yeah. They did roll out the red carpet, didn’t they? Must be nice getting the star treatment." JON: "I’d hardly call flooding Oxford Street with blood, the 'star treatment'." Sooo, the "red" carpet was literally blood? (Also, reminds me of The Shining). Martin is so snippy in this one. Been a while since he last did that, like to this extent.

MARTIN: [Amused] "Seriously? Stage fright? The great Archivist, master of all he surveys can’t handle a bit of public attention?" And boyfriend of said master of all he surveys also seems pretty scared and on edge. It fits his character that he gets nervous and is irritated easily because of that. Still, shitty way to treat Jon.

JON: "You don’t need to be sarcastic, okay?" MARTIN: "You’re right, I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I’m scared too." I'm happy it got to that though. Jon calling him out and Martin realizing, it's wrong and apologizing.

JON: "Yes. Except one of the contestants is also planning to try and murder the judge." MARTIN: "… Um. [Searchingly] Maybe it hasn’t realised?" It has not, Eye's too dumb for it, you're good to go!

Oh no, Martin's getting worked up again... That was an ugly, ugly fight. If it can even be called a fight, it was mostly just Martin being all angry and yelling around. And I'm kind of disappointed that Martin still reacts so annoyed whenever Jon has to make a statement. It's a physical need of Jon and reacting to physical needs like that is horrible. At least the two of them get some space now and Martin can go cool off somewhere.

"The light takes on a crimson tinge as he passes an office dried with gore, and turns away from a back room where three men in fine suits laugh among themselves as they weave their pile of nooses." That's Tim, right? The laughter we can hear in the background, that's his uncredited cameo and neither Alex nor Jon knew about it at the time.

"He takes his place, marvelling again at how comfortable the seat is, how well it seems to fit," Forget the Lonely, join the Eye! We have comfortable chairs!

I don't quite get this statement, what is it a metaphor for? What is that pit? What it it about that minister, who seems to care about people in a way (or at least recognizes their suffering), but is ashamed of being wealthy while others starve?

MARTIN: [Brightly] "All good?" JON: "Yes. Just, uh… Left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth." MARTIN: "Oh great! Fantastic!" Martin is so bad at this xD Why? He could keep it together during MAG 118 when confronting Elias while Melanie searched the office for evidence. He kept Peter on the hook for several months! And now he's, what, too giddy to try to act normal?

Hmm, when Georgie and Melanie pulled Jon into the tunnels there was the same sound effect we hear when Jon smites someone, even if only for a brief moment.

JON: "Likewise, I… oh… Ooo…" MELANIE: "Oh, I know that sound. He’s going pale, right? Five quid says he’s about to collapse again." JON: [Archly] "I am not going to collapse. What do you mean again?" MELANIE: "Oh come on. You do it all the time." Yeah, Jon's "hobbies", getting kidnapped and collapsing. Sounds fun!

JON: [Brokenly] "I do not – I’m just feeling a little bit woozy alright? I ca-can’t quite think straight. Like at, um… um, Martin, you remember?" GEORGIE: "Is this what you were talking about?" MARTIN: "Yeah, if something messes with his connection, he can get a little… vague." JON: "I don’t like being discussed like I’m not here." I mean... Jon tried to tell what happened to him at Salesa’s and couldn't, then asked Martin what it was like. Georgie asks Martin, if this is what he was talking about (It makes sense to ask Martin, cause it was him they have spoken to earlier. How would Jon know what Georgie means, he certainly can't Know it here.) and Martin explains what Jon just couldn't put into words. I wouldn't have seen this as "discussing me like I'm not here". But I understand, there are people out there, who are really bothered by this. Friends of mine are like that. He tries to tell something, doesn't quite know how to proceed, she chimes in and says just straight out what he wanted to say and he get's all angry for being interrupted and having the story told for him. I don't know, I wouldn't mind that, I'd see it as a "Oh good, I don't have to explain everything, others already get it."

MELANIE: "It’s fine, Georgie. You can use the “c” word." MARTIN: "E-Excuse me?" GEORGIE: "Fine. We’ve got, sort of a… cult." Yeah, same Martin. This being a British show I thought it would be the word with an N instead of the L xD

GEORGIE: "When the world started to change, it just didn’t hit me and Melanie. Not, not really." ... Not really!!!^^

MELANIE: "There was nowhere to go back to, so I told her about the tunnels. Turns out, not only were they still here, they actually do a decent job of hiding things. When you aren’t painting a huge target on our backs." Mrrrrrhhh, until know this could have been excused as the Slaughter's influence, but Melanie still want to pin everything on Jon!

GEORGIE: "How could we not? The entire city knows you were there." MELANIE: [Sarcastically] "Everyone is so excited to see the Ceaseless Watcher’s special little boy." [GIGGLES] Okay, the entire city knows, but how did they learn about it? Do... the things here in London speak with actual words and they overheard them talking? Bit unspectacular... I'd like to think that every single screen in London now live-broadcasts Jon, as long as he is in London on the surface.

Heh, Jon laughing at Martin getting owned by Melanie XD Serves him a bit right after this episode ^^''

@a-mag-a-day

[sabyfangirl]

Remember When...

On a beautiful cloudy day, a day like any other, where one wouldn't suspect any unusual incidents, the Kratt brothers were out exploring the rainforest of Borneo, wandering through the trees while listening to every whistle, every rustle, and every sound.

"Hush… Did you hear that?" Chris stopped all of a sudden, not moving a muscle.

"…I don't hear anything," Martin said in a hushed tone, coming to a halt right behind his brother.

"There it is again!"

This time, Martin heard it. "Oh yeah… Sounds like a monkey," he supposed. They both looked around for the source of the sound, until-

"Martin, heads up!" Chris alerted as a fruit came falling right on Martin's head. "Ow!" he yelped as the fruit bounced off his head and on the ground. Curious, he picked up and analyzed the mysterious fruit, which looked like a sea urchin.

"A rambutan?" He raised an eyebrow. Chris tilted his head, a grin on his face. "Do you know which creature eats rambutans?" He asked rhetorically.

"If I'm not mistaking, it can be none other than-" he looked up with confidence at the tree the fruit had fallen from.

"A rhinoceros hornbill!" He pointed at a funny looking bird with black feathers on its body and white feathers on its legs, along with a white tail with a black band, both the beak and casque orange and red in color.

"Wow!" Let out the brothers in awe, admiring the creature as it made that same sound from earlier, almost similar to dog barks echoing through the trees.

"So that's what a rhinoceros hornbill chirp sounds like," Martin said. "And he already comes with a name: Rhino!" He happily declared.

"Rhino?" Chris chuckled.

"Yeah, Rhino!" Martin looked back up at the bird…only to find that it was gone.

"Rhino?" He called out. "Where'd he go?" He squinted his eyes through the tree branches above them, yet nothing.

"Dunno, but let's find out." Martin heard his brother say, as he turned around, finding he had already started climbing the tree. "Uhh, Chris… What are you doing?" He crossed his arms.

"Getting a bird's eye-view," Chris was putting all his focus into climbing. Martin observed him, amused, a genuine chuckle escaping him. "Any reason to climb, huh?" He teased, a smug look on his face.

Chris rolled his eyes, secretely smiling himself, finally reaching the branch they last saw the bird perch on. He carefully sat on the branch and squinted his eyes, looking around for any sign of Rhino.

A sudden harsh breeze, followed by a strike of lightning!

"Woah!" Martin yelped, almost jumping from fright. "Uhh, Chris… I think we should go-"

CRACK.

The Kratt in blue looked up to find the branch his brother was sitting on starting to crack, his eyes widened.

"CHRIS GET DOWN FROM THERE!" He yelled out, but before Chris could react, it was too late.

At that moment, the branch completely broke, sending him falling hard on the ground. "AAAAH!"

THUD.

"CHRIS NO!" Martin immediately came running to his brother, who was laying on the ground near a rock. He knelt on his knees and, with shaky hands, reached out to hold him in his arms, but gasped when he felt his hand getting covered by…blood!

He looked down with wide eyes to find a serious injury on the right side of his head; blood was covering his cheek, leaking down from a wound on his forehead, which he had gotten from hitting it hard on that same rock.

"Oh, no…" Martin held his unconscious brother closer to his chest, tears of inquietude forming in his eyes. Then, he regained himself, knowing what he had to do.

He took off his sweatshirt and rolled it before placing it beneath Chris' head, then he reached for the first aid-kit in his bag. He took out some bandages and a bottle of wound cleaning solution and, with a white cloth, he cautiously started wiping off the blood that was still running down his brother's face.

As soon as he pressed the cloth on the wound, Chris winced in pain, his eyes still closed shot, letting out silent cries. Martin sighed as he continued the process, putting aside a now half blood covered piece of cloth and grabbing a second one, when-

"M-Martin…" He looked down to find Chris looking up at him with half-opened eyes. "W-What happened?" his voice was weak, almost indistinct.

"Shh… Don't move, bro. You hit your head pretty hard," Martin whispered, wiping off the last bit of blood from his forehead.

"Don't worry, I'll get you back to the Tortuga." He gave him a sad smile, the green Kratt only closing his eyes with a quivering sigh, slipping back into unconsciousness.

As soon as Martin finished wrapping his brother's head using the bandage, he placed everything back in his bag, grabbed his sweatshirt and gently picked up Chris bridal-style, before heading back to the HQ…

A few hours had passed, and Martin was now sitting on a chair beside his brother's bed where he was lying, still unconscious, holding his hand and not leaving his sight one second. He sighed anxiously, remembering the moment Chis fell from that tree, and all that blood… He shook his head trying to forget the unpleasant scene.

He suddenly heard a few faint moans. "Chris?" Martin tightened the grip on his hand, when finally, he started coming back to the world of living.

Chris groaned as he looked up at his brother with half opened eyes. "Martin, wh-" he gritted his teeth at the intense sharp pain in his head.

"Easy there, bro." Martin leaned the back of his hand on Chris' bandaged head, but backed up when he flinched at the contact. "Sorry," he sighed.

A moment of silence…

"How are you feeling?" Martin asked with hesitance.

"M'head hurts," Chris muttered, slowly sitting up in bed, the heavy headedness not helping much.

"Thought so, Aviva suspects a concussion… Hey, look at me for a sec?" Martin squinted his eyes, observing Chris' pupils, that's when a sudden look of worry painted his face.

"Martin?" Chris gave him a confused look.

"Chris, your pupils are wider than usual, that means you might have a pressure in your head," Martin sighed, giving him a sad look.

Though, just as he sensed panic rise up in his brother, he put a comforting hand on his shoulder, smiling reassuringly.

"But don't worry, Aviva says if this happens you gotta stay awake until the pressure passes, since you might feel a little sleepy."

And as if Fate wanted to prove what he was saying, Chris suddenly yawned, almost abnormally, before looking at his brother with sleepy eyes. "Speaking of sleeping…" Chris mumbled while rubbing his eye, strange exhaustion taking over.

Martin's eyes widened, knowing he couldn't let his brother fall asleep, not on his watch, not under any circumstances. He then tried thinking of something, as in improvising, before having a lightbulb moment.

"Say, bro…" He positioned his seat closer to the bed, leaning his arms on the matress. "Remember the time we went out in the creek on our own?" He grinned.

Chris gave him a surprised yet amused look. "How could I forget?" He chuckled, the memory flashing before his eyes…

Flashback

It was an early Saturday morning, and two young brothers were sneaking out of their house, one green and one blue, swiftly making their way to the creek not far from their backyard.

"Hurry up, Chris," whispered the nine year old. "M'coming," let out the five year old.

They skidded to a stop at a narrow, sheltered waterway - the water glimmering from the sunlight reflecting off its surface - wanting to get accross it and to the other side, where they hoped to find cool creatures to hang out with.

Martin looked around before spotting something. "Look, Chris! We can get accross by jumping on those rocks," he said, pointing to a trail of rocks connecting the opposite side to theirs.

"Okay!" Chris nodded happily. And after being signaled to stay put, he watched his brother swiftly jump on each rock and get clean accross the waterway, not breaking a sweat. Then he turned around and called for him. "You can come over, now!"

Cautiously, Chris followed the same trail as Martin, taking a little longer as he was much younger than him, his little five year old feet losing more and more precision with each jump, until he ended up slipping on the last rock and falling on his back, landing in the mucky water and getting a bruised knee in the process.

The little boy instantly cried out in pain as Martin rushed down in the water and knelt by his side, he sniffled and held onto his hurt knee, heavy tears quickly escaping his eyes.

"I-It hurts! sniff," he managed with shaky lips.

"Here, let me have a look," Martin offered, tenderly tending to his wound. Chris flinched at the contact, but it was enough for him to catch a glance of a reddish mark on his knee.

"It's not so bad, we just need to get it cleaned and patched up. Let's head back home before mom and dad realize we're gone," he said reassuringly, forcing a chuckle which helped Chris tremendously. He wiped away his tears before looking at his bro with needy eyes, extending his arms.

Martin knew what he wanted. He reached out to grab him in his arms, lifting him off the ground and on his back, piggy back style.

"Hang on!" He let out as he prepared to run back home, Chris holding on as tight as he could. And just like that, they found themselves heading back home, Martin running with the speed of light.

End of flashback

The Kratt brothers cackled at the memory, Chris seeming to be less tired than before, which brought a sense of satisfaction to Martin.

"Oh, I still remember mom's face when she found out we went out without permission," Martin chuckled.

"Told you we should've stayed in the backyard," Chris laughed in turn, not noticing Martin stealing a small glance of his eyes, a perturbed look on his face… The backyard!

By instinct, another memory flashed by.

"Remember when we found that hurt bird in our backyard?"

Chris looked at him, as if taken by surprise, but then a wide smile spread accross his face.

Flashback

Two young boys' laughs filled the Kratt family's house backyard. There they were, young Chris and Martin, playing around like the ten and six year olds that they were.

"You can't catch me!" Chris laughed, dodging Martin's arms, who intended to capture him in a hug.

"Oh yeah?" Martin leaped for it, emprisonning his brother in a tight bear hug.

"Let go!" Chris demanded, trying to escape, while Martin chuckled.

"Martin, stop teasing your brother!" They suddenly heard their mother's voice call out from inside the house and Martin reluctantly let go of his brother, dropping him on the ground.

"Hmph," Chris groaned, getting back on his feet before shooting Martin a death glare, but he just grinned in response.

At that moment, they heard a weird chirping noise coming from behind some buiches. They looked at each other, then followed the source of the sound, until they eventually stumbled upon-

"A bird!" Chris gasped, pointing at a tiny blue bird laying on the grass near their backyard tree, not looking in shape. Martin knelt beside the vulnerable creature, examining it.

"Hmm, looks like his wing's hurt," he said.

"Aw, is he gonna be okay?" Chris asked, a sad look on his face. Martin looked up with a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, go get me an ice cream stick from the fridge and a bandage." Chris nodded, dashing off inside the house.

Moments later, he returned with the needed material, and…with a mouthful? Martin rose an eye brow.

"What? I can't let a good ice cream go to waste," he muffled, before gulping down the icy goodness, earning a slight chuckle from his brother.

Martin then turned to the injured bird, slowly reaching out with one hand while holding the stick with the other, gently lifting its fragile wing and parallelically pressing the stick on it. Next, he grabbed the bandage and cautiously wrapped it around the wing, making sure to tie it properly at the end.

"Done," he wiped the sweat off his forehead, filled with satisfaction.

"Alright! Way to go bro," Chris cheered, but then he looked down at the bird… "Now what?"

"Now, we need to get him back to his nest," Martin pointed at a small nest hanging from a tree branch. Then, at his bother, he smiled confidently. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, bro?"

Chris beamed, almost bouncing from excitement. "I think I'm thinking what you're thinking!"

And before they knew it, Chris was standing on Martin's shoulders, holding up a small basket, that they attached to a long stick, with the bird in it. Determined, Chris stretched out his little body and, with the help of his brother who was practically standing on his toes, got the basket close enough to the branch for the bird to finally hop off and safely land in his nest.

"Woohoo!" Chris cheered, making his brother lose balance and sending the both of them crashing on the ground in a pile. They broke into laughter as the bird started chirping again, this time sounding a lot happier. The brothers got on their feet and contemplated the petit creature. "Nice work, bro." Martin complimented, ruffling his brother's hair.

"Thanks," Chris smiled, hugging him. Martin gladly returned the hug.

Then, a thought dawned on the youngest. "Hey, we didn't even name him!"

Martin looked at him, then went into thinking mode. "Hmm…"

"How about Icey?" He heard Chris suggest. "What do you think?"

He looked down at him with a smile. "I think it's a perfect name…and that you ate too much ice cream," he teased, a smug look on his face.

"Hey!" Chris let out, slightly offended. But quickly laughed it off with his brother as they watched their new friend, back living free and in the wild…

End of flashback

"It was a successful creature rescue, I'd say," Chris chuckled.

"And you got to name an animal for a change," Martin teased. "I'm still better at naming, though."

"Hey, come one, it was a good name!" Chris let out in defense, yet couldn't help but laugh at the thought.

"If you say so," Martin smiled warmly, satistied that his attempts of keeping his brother awake were successful.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar picture on the desk; he and Chris, both teenagers, side hugging in front of their highschool, the older boy wearing a graduation uniform: it was Martin's graduation picture.

He smiled, one final souvenir rushing through his mind.

"Remember when you wouldn't let me leave for college?" He gave him a smug look, Chris' attention turning to that same picture.

"I was- not so happy about you leaving home," he laughed nervously, almost embarrassed from his past self.

"I could tell," Martin chuckled.

They remembered it like it was yesterday…

Flashback

It was the last day of Summer, and that could only mean one thing-

"Martin's leaving for college, tomorrow!" A fourteen year old Chris complained while staring at his calendar, he groaned in frustration as he threw himself on his bed, not wanting to accept the fact that his older brother, his best friend, was going to spend the entire year away from him and his family, and the year after, and after… The thought made him want to scream!

He couldn't believe Summer had gone by so fast, but now he had to face the reality. He slowly got up on his feet and started heading downstairs, where he found Martin packing the rest of his stuff, seeming overly excited and enthusiastic.

"Boy, I can't wait to go to college and get my own dorm and learn all sorts of cool things about animals and-" he stopped when he realized Chris was standing near the living room entrance, looking at him longingly.

However, Martin wore a casual smile. "Hey, bro. Need anything?"

Dead silence. Martin straightened up and looked at his brother up close; he could've sworn his eyes were getting watery… Was he about to cry?!

"Umm, Chris. Are you-" Before he could finish his sentence, he found himself trapped in his brother's embrace, his arms wrapped around him tight, as if he was never letting go.

Out of shock and confusion, he looked down at him to find his face buried in his chest. "Chris?" He cautiously placed a hand on his head, but then he could hear quiet sobs escaping him.

Genuinely concerned for his brother's well-being, Martin gently grabbed Chris' face and looked him deep in the eyes. "Brother, what's the matter?" His voice was soft and caring.

Through heavy tears that made his vision blurry, Chris faced his brother with pure sincerity. "I don't want you to leave!"

"What?" Martin raised an eyebrow.

"I don't want you to spend the whole year away from us!" That phrase clarified everything for him.

Gently, Martin grabbed Chris by the shoulders and gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, bro. I won't be gone forever you know, there will always be holidays and-"

"But you won't be my best friend anymore, and you might even forget about me!" Chris' voice cracked.

"Forget about you? No way that's gonna happen," Martin let out, almost amused by how silly it sounded to his ears, but the way his brother felt was one thing he took very seriously. "Chris…"

Chris sniffled and looked up with glassy eyes. "Huh?"

"No matter what happens, no matter how far apart we are, you will always be my best friend, 'cause we're a team, and we'll always be."

Sensing the sincerity in his words, Chris couldn't help but hug his brother even tighter. "Thanks, bro." He let out, weak.

Martin hugged back, letting the warmth of the embrace sink in.

He would always be there for his brother, always…

End of flashback

"You really did give me a hard time getting in my car," Martin teased.

Chris simply rolled his eyes, but deep down he was just as amused.

A moment of silence, during which Martin got another look at Chris' eyes, this time, to his relief, he found that his brother's pupils were back to normal.

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Looks like the pressure passed," he informed Chris, who was just as relieved.

"Finally! I'm really tired," he yawned while rubbing his eye.

"You get some rest, you've had a rough day." Martin said, squeezing his shoulder before getting up to leave the room.

"Hey, Martin…" He immediately turned around. "Thanks," Chris gave him a smile of gratitude.

"…No problem, bro." Martin whispered, wearing a comforting smile, before exiting the room, leaving his brother to get the rest he needed, but he was already feeling better, all thanks to the caring brother he had.

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

“The Moon people and our children” – a plea from the heart (1974)

▲ Rabbi Maurice Davis was a Civil Rights activist and walked alongside Martin Luther King on the third Selma Civil Rights March in 1965.

This sermon was given by Rabbi Davis on May 24, 1974

My dear friends, what I have to say to you tonight is long, and painful, and difficult, and frightful, and frightening, but it has to be said. And it has to be said here. And it has to be said now.

A few months ago I became suddenly, personally, and deeply involved with a group of people whose existence until that moment had totally escaped my attention. After months of research, correspondence, and personal involvement, I feel the need to bring it all to your attention, and that is what I plan to do tonight.

The group is known generally as the Unification Church. Its official name, however, is The Holy Spirit Association for the Unification of World Christianity. [Now often known as the Family Federation for World Peace and Unification.]

Under that umbrella there are several front groups operating. Perhaps you have heard some of their names. These are: Project Unity, One World Crusade, International Federation for Victory over Communism, Freedom Leadership Foundation, American Youth for a Just Peace, The Little Angels of Korea, [The Professors World Peace Academy, PWPA, Universal Peace Federation, UPF, Creative Community Project], and the Committee for Responsible Dialogue, etc.

What they all have in common, aside from the fact that they are totally interlocking, is that they all belong to a man called Reverend Sun Myung Moon, a Korean who has captured the minds and the bodies of an increasing number of people, and who has become —along the way— an extremely wealthy man.

Let me leave aside for the moment the question of his wealth, and the ways in which he has acquired it. I’ll get back to that. I promise you!

First of all, who is this man? Reverend Moon was born in 1920 in the Pyungan Buk-Do province of what is presently North Korea. At the age of sixteen he recounts that Jesus appeared to him and told him “to carry out my unfinished task.” Then a voice from heaven said. “You will be the completer of man’s salvation by being the second coming of Christ.”

And this really is the gist of the message: That Adam failed as the perfect man when Eve was literally seduced by Satan. That Jesus failed as the perfect man because he died before he could marry the perfect mate. That the Messiah will come as the third Adam, out of Korea — the New Garden of Eden — in the year 1980. Reverend Moon, having divorced his first three wives, and having then married an eighteen year old girl, apparently is the third Adam, the second Messiah, and the first leader of a movement designed to capture as many children as he can.

What happened to him in Korea is pretty vague. He says he was tortured by North Korea because he was an anti-communist. According, to the Church of the Nazarene in Seoul, Moon was accused in 1955 of conducting group sex orgies for which he served a three month jail sentence. LINK

These sex orgies had to do with his doctrine of “Blood Cleansing” by which the race is purified from the polluted blood of Eve, tainted by her intercourse with the serpent. His method of “Blood Cleansing” was apparently the cause of his being arrested.

Moon was also excommunicated by the Presbyterian Church of Korea [in 1948], and his Unification Church has been condemned by most of Korean Christianity.

He is, however, openly favored by the present government of South Korea. When that government gave itself sweeping totalitarian powers in 1972, many of the church leaders opposed it. In January of 1974 President Park Chung Hee decreed that anyone criticizing the Government would be sent to jail. Five Presbyterian Ministers and one Methodist Minister received prison sentences of fifteen years.

But Sun Myung Moon was permitted to operate a school [in Guri] near Seoul to which the government then sent thousands of civilian officials and military personnel to learn his methods of fighting communists, and his apparent success in brainwashing them. The South Korean government openly supports Reverend Moon, and he in turn gives that government the aura of respectability.

Then he came to America. I am not certain when the movement began in America, but about eighteen months ago it surfaced when his disciples were able to purchase the twenty-two acre Belvedere Estate in Tarrytown for $850,000, a far cry from his former international headquarters which had consisted of three rented rooms in a poor section of Seoul. Reverend Moon acquired permanent residency visas for himself and his family, and then purchased an estate for himself in Irvington for $620,000 to which he added another $50,000 for improvements.

The movement then purchased a Seminary in Barrytown from the Christian Brothers for one and one-half million dollars. When you add to these purchases the fact that the movement now has campus houses throughout the land, and headquarter houses in fifty stales, and hundreds of cities, including such handsome townhouses as the one on East 71st Street in New York City, you begin to see the scope of his empire.

The movement brings to America hundreds of young Germans, Australians [Austrians], Japanese and Koreans at its own expense. One hundred and fifty [120] came from Great Britain in response to ads posted on college bulletin hoards in England stating. “New York and back for $25.00.” This included a free summer of leadership training in Tarrytown, New York.

The cost of its activities is conservatively estimated at five million dollars a year. It pays for full page ads in big newspapers. It publishes a tabloid newspaper, books, leaflets. In every major city it holds banquets to which the country’s leaders are invited, and to which many of them come.

When it gets to the money nobody really knows. I questioned at some length a young lady, a graduate of Columbia University School of Business Administration, who said she was the bookkeeper for Reverend Moon. The conversation went something like this:

Q. Where did Reverend Moon get the money to purchase the Belvedere Estate?

A. Oh, we raised the money by selling flowers, candles, and tea, because the Tarrytown Estate really belongs to the Church.

Q. But his own private estate in Irvington which cost $620,000, is that also part of the Church?

A. No, Reverend Moon purchased that by himself.

Q. Did the Church give him the money?

A. No, he got it from his Ginseng Tea Company.

Q. Oh, does Reverend own the Tea Company?

A, Oh no, he is only a minority stockholder.

Q. What percentage of stock does he own?

A. No more than 25 to 30 percent.

Q. Would not 30% be a controlling interest?

A. Oh no, the 70% is owned by the Church. The money, apparently, comes from a great many sources. It comes from kids selling flowers and candles and plain begging on the streets.

Example. Two well dressed teenagers with a bucket painted “Drug Abuse,” asking for donation to fight drugs. If you ask what their drug program is, they smile and say, “We work against drugs from the heart. It’s a heart thing.”

Or they pretend to raise money for children, or for reuniting families. It all goes into the coffers of the Unification Church.

Then there are the member businesses; a printing press in San Francisco, a dry cleaning establishment in Denver, a new tea house in Washington. All of these manned by the kids without salary.

Then there is the business empire of Reverend Moon who is reportedly worth over fifteen million dollars. He is the head of a conglomerate in Korea that produces marble vases, machine parts, Ginseng tea, pharmaceuticals, titanium, air rifles, and concrete.

He claims to have a world-wide following of a half million, ten thousand in the United States of whom some two to three thousand are hard core members. Among his affiliated organizations are those set aside for political action. Under the banner of the Freedom Leadership Foundation, they spend – according to their own statements – $50,000 to $60,000 a year trying to influence senators and congressmen on national security issues. Last year alone they spent $73,000 on newspaper ads defending the President and his Watergate participants.

The President, of course, is not unappreciative. A few months ago Reverend Moon was ushered into the White House where he and the President embraced and then Moon prayed for the President for fifteen minutes in Korean (he speaks no English).

The President gave him a letter of appreciation and approval which he prominently displays in his pamphlet. In return Reverend Moon has announced that in three visions from God he has been told that President Nixon must not be impeached. His reasoning is that the Office of the Presidency is divinely ordained. Let me quote directly from Reverend Moon’s statement, ANSWER TO WATERGATE.

“I have been praying specifically for President Richard Nixon. I asked God, “What shall we do with the person of Richard Nixon?” The answer … was “Love. It is your duty to love him.” … Do you criticize him?... Of course not. You comfort him. You love him unconditionally ... This nation is God’s nation. The Office of the President of the United States is ... sacred. God inspires a man and then confirms him as President… God has chosen Richard Nixon to be President . . . our duty, and this alone is that we… support the office itself.”

The divine right of Presidents is a doctrine not quite in keeping with our concept of democracy, but then democracy is not quite in keeping with the doctrines of Reverend Moon.

I came in contact with this movement when, in a matter of twenty-four hours, two families in our Congregation called to tell me that one son and one daughter had become involved.

Both college students, the girl had been invited to a workshop in Tarrytown for a weekend, at the end of which she left school, and left home, and became part of the Unification Church. I joined the family at church headquarters in Forest Hills where we tried all day and part of the night to gain her release.

Her comrades said that she was free to leave, but their eyes told a different story. I had never seen anyone so frightened, so removed from reality, so totally under the sway of forces I could not identify.

Whenever we made a telling point she excused herself, and went into another room to pray. Each time she came back, the answer was the same. God told her not to leave. Part of their thesis is that every question put to God is always and immediately answered. No exceptions.

During one of her absences, and after five hours of standing on my feet, I turned to the people in the room, and I said, “I find you grotesque. I came here to listen and to learn. But when I see you so unmoved by the agony of a family, when you can sit here and see parents beg a daughter to come home for three days, and remain untouched, then I have learned all I want to learn about this movement. I find it totally obscene.”

A boy in the room answered me by quoting from St. Luke. “And if any man come to me, and hate not his father and his mother ... he cannot be my disciple.” That is when I thought of their posters promising to heal America of such wounds as broken homes!

I have spoken to the boy and the girl of our Congregation and I am amazed at the tenacity with which they cling to the Unification Church, and the hodgepodge of irrationality.

I wrote a series of articles for the National Jewish Post and Opinion in which l described what had happened, and in which I declared myself to be their enemy.

The response from around the country was devastating. A woman from a Midwestern city (she begged me not to mention its name) called to say her son, with one year to go in college, went to one weekend in Tarrytown, dropped out of school, spent his summer in Philadelphia selling peanuts, and turned his entire bank account, including his tuition money, over to the Church.

The parents kept writing to Moon without answer. Finally five days before the full semester, Kim, (Moon’s assistant) called and said, “The Master has ordered your son back to school, but the money belongs to us!”

A girl in Providence, Rhode Island, one who had been in the Church one and one-half years, and finally escaped, wrote. “I wish the general public could know them for what they are.” She talked about mobile fund raising teams. The daily goal of each is one thousand dollars a day, seven days a week, every week. $365,000 a team.

She said that after she left the Church she received a letter from the girl who had converted her saying, “I know you are not humble enough to admit you are wrong and beg forgiveness and return, so eventually you will sign your own death warrant.”

A girl in Chappaqua wrote, “It has been six weeks since I left the Church, and they still call me up, leave letters in my mail box, or come to my home ... Rabbi Davis, can anything be done to fight this Church? They are sending their members to all the colleges in the area. They have a Divine Principle Club in Queens College.” The Divine Principles is the new Bible of Reverend Moon which distorts the Jewish Bible, distorts the Christian Bible, and results in an amazing amount of nonsense.

A letter from San Diego, “When we first moved here ... we met a very nice couple. They had a daughter who joined this group. She left school, went to New York where she made and sold candles door to door, worked part time as a switchboard operator, and gave her salary to them.

“Now three years later, the Church policy is to claim these kids totally, alienate them from their parents. These kids apparently turn their lives over, lock, stock, and barrel, work for nothing, and think they are going to save the world, but first they break the hearts of those closest to them.”

From Des Moines came the story of a boy and a girl and their encounter with the group. The boy was a freshman at Iowa State, and the girl a recent high school graduate. On March 13 they were riding their bicycles when they met two of the Moon people —one from England and one from Japan. The youngsters were invited to lectures and banquets, and —having nothing better to do— went to the banquet where they enjoyed the food, but not much else.

They skipped the lectures and were called early the next day by the Moon people who literally begged them to return. The boy did and the girl did not. Following the lecture the boy went to the girl’s house in a terribly agitated state and insisted that she attend Sunday’s workshop in a nearby city. She agreed. Her account follows:

“From 9:00 a.m. until midnight, lectures and intimate discussions were held. I listened as two of Moon’s followers talked to me. They spoke with broken accents, so I had to watch their faces very closely to notice expressions that would help me understand. It was almost like I was drawn to their faces. They were teaching with implication rather than direct assertion that Moon is the second Messiah.

They used diagrams and charts – some looked like physics or geometry problems. It was all very logical, or at least it seemed that way then. The charts showed that the Second Coming was now. Then with all their data they tell you that the Second Messiah will be a man born between 1917 and 1930 in Korea. They let you figure out by yourself it’s Moon. When you have been through so much it seems so easy to see it their way. When that hit me I was about overcome. I was shaking all over and my head was pounding. I said, ‘What can I say?’ ‘Say you will join.’ I told them, ‘I guess you got a new sister.’ I was caught up in it like nothing I have ever been attached to before. They told me that I would have to make a supreme sacrifice of giving up my parents and family. They said the more you give up the more God loves you. They said I would have to give up all worldly possessions ... everything.

“They said I would have to be prepared to tell my parents ... but that I should not tell them everything because it would be too great a shock for them. They said my parents would be negative, but the negativism would be Satan working through them.”

When the girl called home to say that she was going to spend the night with the Moon people her parents replied by saying that they were going to send the police. The Moon people then drove the girl home. Her story continues, “They agreed to take me home right away, but all the way to my house this Japanese man sat next to me and told me how I must love him more than my parents, how my parents would work against me, how I must realize they were evil.”

After what her father described as a discussion until all hours of the night the girl broke down and cried, “I realized what had happened to me and it was wrong. I had too much love at home to believe my parents were evil.”

As for the rest of the story, the girl was badly shaken, and the boy was committed to a psychiatric ward and his prognosis is in doubt.

From Louisville I received a letter from a Christian Minister who told me of cases in which youngsters dropped out of school after one weekend of lectures, left their families and friends.

This Minister, and a few others took out after Reverend Moon, and stood outside a hotel in Indianapolis where Moon was appearing. The Minister’s wife and a young nurse were handing out material in opposition to Revered Moon. The Minister writes, “Three German aliens attacked the women, seized the material, destroyed it, and attempted to push them out into the street. When I came over they said, ‘Now we will take that out of your hands. Watch us.’ These were the leaders of the seventy Germans and they informed us that they had the right to destroy anything that was against Moon.”

In that regard —and only in passing— I received a phone call from a member of our Congregation relating to me what might —or might not have— been a threat against my speaking on this subject tonight.

Following that, however, I received a letter which was a dimly veiled threat, and then two phone calls, rather specific that I had better be very careful what I say tonight.

Well, I am very careful of what I say. And very carefully I say it. I hold this movement to be evil and dangerous. I hold Reverend Sun Myung Moon to be a charlatan and a manipulator of people. I hold his inner henchmen to be devious, unscrupulous, and false. And I hold the kids that are caught up in this to be the innocent victims of their own weaknesses, the innocent victims of their own dreams, the innocent victims of their own needs. But, most of all, the innocent victims of Reverend Moon.

Now, I cannot say it any more carefully than that.

And they abstain from liquor, tobacco, drugs, and sex except, of course, for marriages arranged –and some times rearranged– by Reverend Moon.

I have no quarrel with the kids, however confused and mistaken they may be. My quarrel is with the movement.

This movement preys upon the young, the young of all religions. The Moon people are out to get them all, to convert the world by 1980 for Sun Myung Moon and his Messiahship. This movement preys upon the young, upon the disturbed, upon the frightened, upon the idealists, upon those who hunger for acceptance, or certainty or simplistic answers in a world that is too complex. It preys upon those who sincerely dream of a better world, and who reach out for short cuts. It preys upon those who are unhappy at home, unhappy with themselves, unhappy with their parents, unhappy with the doubts and the struggles of life itself.

To all of these it offers acceptance of love, and authority, and protection, and a sense of sublime commitment. And all it demands in return is total submission, submission of body and soul, an end of thinking for themselves, a blind acceptance of the word of the Master, and the abandonment of family and faith and values and reason.

They speak of love and introduce satanism. The kids at Tarrytown are bussed into New York to see “The Exorcist” to show them what will happen to them if the devil gets inside.

Is it any wonder then that I was delighted to join the neighborhood group which successfully removed the Moon people from the rented house on the corner of Earlwoode and Soundview when they violated the zoning law? And I will speak out against them whenever and wherever I can.

Please understand how I feel.

They have every right to exist, so long as they obey the laws of this land. And I would not even attempt to deny them their civil rights. But we, too, have rights. We have the right to know them for what they are, to condemn them for what they do, to expose them before they get to our kids.

We have the right to prepare a brief, as some are now doing, for presentation to the Attorney General to see if, in fact, they have violated the laws of this land, and perhaps to unravel the mystery of Reverend Moon’s finances.

This we can do – and should. The question that keeps me awake at night, however, is why our kids –even a few of them– are so vulnerable. How is it possible that one weekend at Tarrytown can destroy a lifetime of family and values? For, believe me, it happens and who is there among us so secure that he would let his children go to Tarrytown, and be confident that nothing would happen?

What is the need that we do not fulfill? Our kids have all things material –and that simply is not enough. One boy said to me, “But now at least I believe in something. My parents believe in nothing.”

Well, we are those parents, you and I. Most of us are fairly decent people. We work hard. We do the right thing. We have a set of values, and we try to live by them. What’s missing? Is it that we do not speak enough about those values? Is it that we do not show enough of our love? Is it that we do not share with our children our deeper dreams, our deeper goals?

Our children want to believe in something. And if we do not help them, the Moon people will. Only we have that “something.” We have a heritage so great, so brave, so ennobling, so exciting, so enriching, so demanding. But if we simply take our heritage for granted, they may not see it, and they may not love it, and they may fall victim to those who would take advantage of them.

Then let us begin again with our children a dialogue of greatness and a dialogue of love. Let us begin again to listen with our ears and with our hearts. And let us bare our souls to our children. That they may know us for our dreams. Let us share our lives more openly without pretense, without defense, with a love that must not be denied.

I can give you a thousand reasons why we must do this and more. But who needs a thousand reasons. We are fighting for our children and their lives, and that – I suggest is reason enough.

Rabbi Maurice Davis White Plains, N.Y.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Maurice Davis (December 15, 1921 – December 14, 1993) was a rabbi and activist. He served on the President's Commission on Equal Opportunity, in the Lyndon B. Johnson Administration and was a director of the American Family Foundation, now known as the International Cultic Studies Association. Davis was the rabbi of the Jewish Community Center of White Plains, New York and a regular contributor to The Jewish Post and Opinion.

In 1952, Davis founded the Kentucky Committee on Desegregation. In 1965, he walked with Martin Luther King Jr. in Alabama, on the third of the Selma to Montgomery marches, and was appointed to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission by President Johnson.

Read more about Rabbi Davis on wikipedia

Sun Myung Moon found guilty in 1955; started two year jail sentence

300 Parents of Sun Myung Moon’s Followers Call for Federal Investigation of His ‘Fanatical’ Church

Sun Myung Moon makes me feel ashamed to be Korean 1. Moon’s first son wrote a letter saying his father was a fraud. 2. Ashamed to be Korean

Resources for Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships

Sun Myung Moon and his anti-Semitism

Sun Myung Moon’s Theology of the Fall, Tamar, Jesus and Mary

[wearelxgion]

@diviinitatis​

Why was he still there? Foolish hope probably. The man on the hospital bed as not in pain, so there was a foolish hope in Martin that maybe, just maybe, he would be able to save the mans life.

Even though he knew it would be a losing battle, he had tried everything he knew. Now it was just a comforting thing, knowledge for a dying person that he was not alone. Someone was there.

Ironic in who it was really.

Though he guessed he was not alone in it. It was almost a rare thing now that Martin felt something else there as well. Maybe he was just so used to being the only presence of death in some way there. It was so rare that it made his whole body tense up, glancing over to where he felt it coming from.

“....Foolish h-hope indeed..”

A mutter, more so to himself then anyone else. Foolish hope that someone could be saved even when he knew they could not.

The stutter was strong in this moment, nerves taking over the reaper. This was a strange meeting.

“I-Interesting seeing y-you here..”

[red-archivist]

Okay before tma2 blows everyone's ideas to kingdom come, here are some Thoughts about Somewhere Else and how I reckon it would actually work based off what we know...

So the Fears make it through to other realities, that’s for sure, there’s no escape from the horror and tragedy they bring

However, they do not make it through unscathed. So, in the show’s setting this categorisation of 14/15 fears is a human framework, its an imagined structure designed to help the characters understand what they’re facing- but the Fears themselves don’t fall neatly into that structure- they mix and match, they cross boundaries, they can blur together

But the way the Fears emerged in the multiverse was through that finely woven web of tapes- a system deliberately designed to organise and delineate them. As a result, the Fears are now bound by this system, it is innate to them where it wasn’t before. Therefore, any fear/fright/dread that falls outside of those neat little boxes, or tiptoes along the borders no longer feeds them

Somewhere Else, the Fears are much, much weaker than they ever were before; they have no footholds in any of these realities and their means of feeding are severely restricted (sucks to be them ig)

as for jon and martin  specifically:

Jon died when martin stabbed him- but in that transition to the new world(s) when the eye realised (in so much as it can realise anything) that its power was being stripped from it and its one and only remaining avatar was dying, it pulled him away from the end just like after the unknowing

unlike the unknowing, jon is never comatose- the eye is too desperate and he only vaguely conscious so he again chooses to live (its not really a choice just like it wasn’t before but yk) and he wakes up covered in his own blood with a new scar on his chest

jon is still technically the Pupil of the Eye, but in a world where the beholding has no power that title means nothing (years down the line, he will joke that he feels like ‘one of those pricks that buys a lordship’)

any abilities/powers he still has are at the level of power he had in s1, almost non-existent and mostly unconscious

he could theoretically get more powerful/back to s4 levels if he fed the eye but he is so guilt-addled and so so careful to never let that happen

as a result he is physically weak/unwell for pretty much the rest of his life- in his weakest moments, he misses being the archivist, if only because he was able to live without pain. 

Still, an upside is having a human appetite again (someday he will stop feeling bad for sating his normal hunger)

Martin actually spent more time in the hospital than jon after their initial arrival- he tried to shield him from the worst of the debris and broke his shoulder blade-needed some skin grafts too

the pull of the Lonely doesn’t reach him- not in any supernatural sense but his personal melancholy lingers and the white streaks never fade from his hair- the arm never heals quite right and he has chronic pain in that area for the rest of his life

they argue a lot, at the beginning- how could they not? both so convinced of their own rightness, of the other’s betrayal- stubborn down to their bones and so so hurt

they never come to an agreement, no concessions are made and barely any apologies- but as time and distance come between them and that instant, they make a decision to put those feelings down and carry on without them, as much as they can

a new life is hard, they know fear is around every corner, and building an existence where you never had one before is nigh-impossible, but they make it work

they choose love, and each other, over and over, just as they did at the top of that tower

[ladyvesuvia]

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@justadreamyhufflepuff: GSJSVSKSBSJD BABY CONGRATS- CAN I PLEASE GET A 🎠 -> Harry potter + soft love + fluff + prompts 9, 10, 32, 42 from prompt list 1. || for my 300 followers celebration

Prompts:

9. “You took all the pillows so I’m using you as one.”

10. “Stop moving and let me braid your hair.”

32. “Make a wish!”

42. “Darling I love you and all, but please step out of the kitchen.”

Pairing: Harry Potter x Fem!Reader

Summary: Moving into your new house with Harry.

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: fluff but with slight and subtle mentions of sexual activities + let me know if i missed anything!

A/N: omg yay harry fluff :DDD ok sorry go ahead btw this hasn’t been proofread yet mbad

After years of setting things up, they could finally move into their house. Of course, there were some parts of it that still needed fixing but they’ll eventually work it out. Right now, they wanted to bask in the comfort and triumph of their own house.

“Got your key?” said [Y/N], holding out her own key. She had already attached a duck keychain to it.

“Got it,” replied Harry, showing her his own. They both sniggered at his ridiculous bathtub keychain, which looked undeniably out of place but she was glad for it nonetheless. See, she had bought it years ago when they first talked about getting a house. “Will you do the honors?”

“You know, we could easily Alohomora the heck out of this bas —”

“Do the honors,” he teasingly urged, poking her on the waist where her tickle spot was and she recoiled. “Do it, [Y/L/N].”

“Ha! I’m Potter now, too. Ergo you’re not so special anymore,” she said as she marched up the raised porch. It was a lovely sight indeed — she could already imagine inviting the others to come over: roasting marshmallows either here or at the backyard and such. She giddily walked towards the door. This is it, she thought. “Wait, this is unfair. You carry me as you open it so I’ll be like a pretty wife.”

“That you are,” said Harry as he scooped her up into his arms. She let out a whoop of approval, patting his cheek as he put the key in and swung the door open.

All their boxes were on the floor already, with a lot more scattered all over the house. “Ooh, this is a lot of work. Wanna sleep it off?” she yawned, kicking some boxes aside on her way to the stairs. “What, you gonna protest, Mr. Potter?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Potter,” said Harry, and they both stopped and looked at each other, eyes narrowed while scrutinizing the name. “Mrs. Potter.”

“Does it sound a bit weird to you? I mean, no offense. I mean, I’ve waited for this half of my life but — you know?

“Yeah, like, [Y/N] Potter,” he said again, making arm gestures as if parting a curtain. She started to laugh. “I see what you mean.”

“You look like a . . . getching shooba driver but on land,” she said with a yawn.

“A what?” This time, Harry was the one stifling his laughter.

“Glitching scuba diver on land,” spat [Y/N], taking off her jacket. When she saw he’d been eyeing her with a dazed expression on his face, she made a show of getting off her right jacket sleeve with a suggestive smile on her face. “Wait, uh, can’t get it off. Sweat, I think. Help?”

“Will do, will do,” said Harry, approaching her and reaching out to pull it off her with a tight smile in an awful attempt to keep his laughter.

“Whatever. Can we sleep now, please? Where’s our bed again?”

“There,” he pointed somewhere in the kitchen room.

“I thought our room was upstairs?”

“Our room is upstairs, the bed is here.”

“Why would that be the ca—oh, no. D’we really have to assemble it?” she whined. They had to travel by Muggle transportation due to issues with the Floo network and they wanted to minimize suspicion, and the it was finally taking its toll on their entire energy: [Y/N]’s back was cramping from the long ride, Harry’s head was already hurting like hell. To make matters worse, neighbors were peeking through their windows so they had to go inside immediately.

“No, we can just bring the mattress up and assemble it all tomorrow, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said with a moan, tossing the jacket on the kitchen counter. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Oh, are we — ?” He shrugged hesitantly.

“No! I mean, do you want to? Now?”

“Do you?” The two chuckled nervously. They were standing there for probably around half a minute or one when the doorbell dinged and the two of them jumped. [Y/N] volunteered to get it.

A woman younger than her for about a year stood in front of her doorstep when she swung the door open, carrying a tiny baby probably about a few months old in her arms. [Y/N] managed a friendly smile as she wiped away a drop of sweat from her forehead.

“Hi, welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Karolina Martin. I live right across and I brought you something!”

“The . . . baby?” [Y/N]’s shoulders tensed as she thought about this over an over until she realized that was highly unlikely.

“No! You’re hilarious, though. I like you. I actually came here to give you” — the woman put down a bag she hung over her shoulder down on the floor — “this.”

Inside was a basket with a bottle of what [Y/N] could only assume was fine wine or champagne or whatever it was couples with a number of chocolates and cookies inside. She realized with a start there was also a pot inside.

[Y/N] laughed, holding up the pot. “Funny, because we’re Potters?” she asked, setting it back down again.

“You are?” Karolina said, impressed. “So which do you suggest I should start with first? Stoneware or earthenware? Ooh, what about fire clay?”

It took a few seconds before [Y/N] realized the direction of the conversation. “Oh! Well, heh, not that kind of potter.”

Karolina flinched, eyeing [Y/N] with suspicion. “You smoke — ?”

“No! Not that kind of potter. We don’t smoke po—Sorry, that’s on me, I should have clarified. I’m [Y/N],” she said. Karolina still looked confused. Composing herself, she managed a tight smile. “[Y/N] Potter.”

“Oh! Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry!” Karolina chuckled. “I was a bit confused, I’m really sorry. I haven’t met someone around here about my age.”

“Don’t worry about it. Thanks for the welcoming gift, by the way. I just moved in with my . . . husband.” It still sounded surreal to call Harry that way, but she liked it all the same. Her eyes fell on the chubby little kid.

“Right! This is baby Sydney, she’s turning six months old next week. Would be really nice if you and your husband could come — and kid or kids, if you have some?” Maybe it was the coos the baby made or her adorable eyes and hints of two teeth growing, but [Y/N] felt intimidated by the little kid. She was bigger than she thought babies would be. Is this what she’d push through her bottom? She shuddered. “Do you . . . want to hold her?” asked Karolina, oblivious to the thoughts going on in [Y/N]’s heads.

“Listen, I’m really grateful you stopped by but we’re kinda tired. I’m so, so, sorry! Thank you a lot for these stuff. We’ll definitely come by next week — me and Harry, just Harry and me.” [Y/N] chuckled nervously again, smiling at the baby.

“I totally understand. Me and Joey were also very tired when we first moved in, hence Sydney.” Karolina laughed. [Y/N] simply chimed in the laughter as well, not wanting to jeopardize a newfound friendship over a joke. “Have a lovely evening, [Y/N]. I’ll see you around!”

When she shut the door with the bag over her shoulder, she jumped in fright at the sight of Harry just behind the door with an amused grin on his face. “What?” said [Y/N] as she rubbed her eyes.

“Husband?” he mused. When she shot him a glare saying not to push it further, he resorted to giggling. “Sorry, my wife.”

“Shut up, Harry,” she said. “Now, where’s that damned mattress?”

“Worry not, I got it upstairs already, all we gotta do now is take a quick shower and go to bed.”

After they finished dressing into more comfortable clothes, they made it a point to plop down as hard as they could on the mattress. To her relief, Harry had settled a plain white bedsheet on top of it earlier while she was talking to Karolina. She was the first to jump in, stretching her legs all over. “Finally!” she exclaimed.

“Your turn,” she said, pointing at a spot right next to her. Harry took off his glasses and was about to jump in next when she asked where the pillows were.

“Er — Accio pillow!” She could hear the sound of boxes moving downstairs bumping each other when a pillow came hurtling in and landed on Harry’s chest, forcing him to plop down on the mattress.

A shrill squeak sounded, and the two of them froze. [Y/N] narrowed her eyes, pointing her finger at him in accusation. “Did you fart?”

“No, we just still haven’t removed the plastic from the mattress.”

“You want to remove it?” she suggested, ready to get up and get her own wand when Harry gently nudged her back down.

“Okay, where’s my wand?“

[Y/N] looked left and right until she found it tying on an old bedside table he managed to set down earlier that day and said, “There! Bedside table.”

“Eh.”

“Agreed, let’s just say you did fart.”

“Agreed,” said Harry, who unconsciously wrapped his legs and arms around the pillow on top of him and closed his eyes to sleep. [Y/N] was quick to act. Not to take his pillow, but to turn him into one — metaphorically, of course. She laughed at the thought of using Transfiguration to turn Harry into a literal pillow.

Just as he wrapped his limbs around the only pillow, [Y/N] did the same to him. He woke up with a jolt, but did not take her off him. “I’m the little spoon?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes, and I happen to like little spoons a lot,” she said casually. Harry turned his head in her direction, with a wide grin on his pretty face. “Okay, that sounded wrong. It’s just that you hogged the only pillow so now I’m using you as one.”

“Well, do you want it?” he offered obliviously.

“Nope, I like this set-up. Go back to sleep.”

And he did — they both did. At some point during the night, they turned each other into a pillow. Harry, however, awoke to the sound of her snoring. It wasn’t like his Uncle Vernon’s, though. Looking at her face seemed to dull it all out. It wasn’t exactly an endearing sound, but the sight of her was more than so — tousled hair, mouth slightly open. . . . With one last smile on his face as he watched her sleep, he felt himself drifting off into a deep slumber.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

A loud clanging from downstairs awoke Harry. Had he overslept? He found that his back ached whenever he did so much as move, but knew better than to bide his time if there was danger nearby. He reached out to the bedside table to grab his wand, but realized he had to put his glasses on first.

Harry ran downstairs, clutching his wand tightly with his outstretched hand as he listened for anything there was to hear. He paused. A stranger walked out of the kitchen, and he pointed his wand at them.

The stranger held their hands up with a bewildered look on their face until [Y/N] came out of the kitchen all sweaty with a frilly apron. “Harry!” she cried in bewilderment at the sight of him pointing his wand at their new neighbor. “Alright, uh, Karolina, this is my husband, Harry; Harry — stop pointing your . . . stick at her — this is our neighbor who lives across from us, Karolina.”

“Er — hello, Karolina. Sorry about the wa—” [Y/N] shot him a dirty look. “—ander. Wander. Sorry about the bad . . . wandering. You know what? I just woke up on the wrong side of bed and I got paranoid with the . . . new house and all.”

“He tends to get jumpy,” said [Y/N] in hopes of wrapping this up immediately. “Anyway, five minutes left till it’s done. Thank you so, so much for the help, Karol! One last thing, for the whipped cream, do I. . .”

He then noticed that some of the furniture were already arranged such as the sofa and the dining table. Some cabinets were decorated with non-magical framed pictures of them. Harry begged to disagree, though. Each picture there was more than just ma— Is that a baby? Sleeping in a car seat on their couch?

Harry blinked. It stirred, eyes fluttering open. Harry was now holding his breath in anticipation. It was watching him curiously. When he did not move, the little thing started to giggle. Smiling sheepishly back, he made a show of raking his hand through his hair and walking into the kitchen.

It was still messy, but the fridge was on now, and some condiments were put where they belonged.

Karolina was washing a bowl on the sink when the baby outside started crying. She washed her hands quick and ran out, excusing herself while smiling apologetically at the two of them.

[Y/N] opened the oven, pulling out something that smelled of a scent that made Harry’s mouth water.

“Is that Treacle Tart?” he blurted out.

[Y/N] almost dropped the pan of delight she held in her mittened hands. She cleared her throat in an attempt to maintain her composure as she set it down on the counter and pulled off her mittens. Still panting, she looked at him and said, “Harry, darling, I love you and all but please step out of the kitchen.”

“Sorry,” he muttered as he pressed a kiss against her head.

“Don’t do that, my hair stinks. I haven’t showered yet,” said [Y/N].

“What do you mean? It smells just fine.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s greasy. Is it greasy?”

“Yeah, you kinda look like Snape from where I’m standing. Ow! Sorry, bad joke. Okay, keep doing what you’re doing while I. . .” he trailed off as he grabbed her wrist gingerly and pulled off the scrunchie off it and started braiding her hair whilst she shook the whipped cream. “Could you just stop moving and let me braid your hair?”

“Oh, shut up! This tart’s for you, anyway.”

“So it is a Treacle Tart?”

“Uh, Doy,” she said mockingly. “It’s for your birthday, genius.”

“But it isn’t till next month,” said Harry.

“Eh, well, thought we could spend some time together in our new house without a crowd for a while. Why’re you even braiding my hair?”

“That baby got me thinking about it,” said Harry, as the child’s sobs started to cease. “You know, like . . . do you think we’re ready?”

“Well, what will be, will be.” She squeezed whipped cream on each side, scanning the final product with narrowed eyes. Harry tied the poorly-done braid with the scrunchie, letting her hair fall down to her back. [Y/N] turned to him. “Honestly, I’m kind of scared about the whole thing, you know? Like, aside from the . . . bloody pushing, it’ll be a huge responsibility. And I want to know if you’re up for it.”

“Okay,” he found himself saying so casually.

“Okay?” [Y/N] repeated to him, with an expression the combination of excitement and disbelief. “Okay as in, ‘okay let’s start trying?’”

“Okay, yes! Let’s start trying now!”

“Okay, but not right now, though,” said [Y/N] under her breath.

“Why not?” he said. Merlin, I have to stop.

“For one, Karolina’s right there at the doorway with Sydney.”

Harry shifted his gaze from [Y/N] to Karolina, who was now trying hard to stifle her laugh with a sleeping Sydney in her arms. “Okay, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t just hear that,” she said with a suggestive smile. “I’ll get going now, [Y/N], Harry.”

“Oh, you won’t try the Treacle Tart out?” called out [Y/N].

“Nah, we’ve eaten a lot of that already. We’re having cheesecake for tonight. Anyway, see you two.” With a friendly wave, she went off her way, leaving the two of them alone in their house.

Harry expected her to berate him, but she was already facing him with a slice of a tart resting neatly on a plate with a lousy candle set in the middle of it. “Make a wish,” she told him.

“Uh. . . I’m bad at wishes, you know that.”

“Then wish to be better at making wishes then make a better wish next month,” she said.

“Okay, I wish to be better at making wishes,” said Harry before blowing the candle out. [Y/N] pulled off the candle and lead him to the living room, where she put down the pan and separated the entire thing to put it on an adorable floral plate she loved.

“Happy super advanced birthday, Just Harry,” said [Y/N], kissing his head this time. “Have some Treacle Tart. I tried, okay?” Laughing, she put a fork on his plate and went to slice one for herself.

“Thank you, soft love,” said Harry as he helped himself to his slice. “Merlin, this is per—”

[Y/N] bursted into laughter, a couple crumbs spitting on the table. She had to get a tissue and wipe the table as she bellowed. “What’d you say?”

“Soft . . . love. Does that mean something bad?”

“No, no, no. It’s just funny to hear it from you. Say it again,” she said, resting her elbow on the top rail of a chair, eager to hear him.

“Soft love?” said Harry hesitantly.

“Oh my— Who told you to say that? Where’d you learn that?” choked [Y/N], wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Okay, sorry.”

“Er — you see, before we left to go here, Ron told me to experiment with . . . pet names.”

“So you delivered?”

“Do you not like it?” said Harry, his fork frozen in mid-air.

“Oh, I do. I so do,” she replied, chuckling. “I’ve had enough of tough love, I could use some soft love. But d’you know what it means?”

When Harry shook his head, she took one step forward to run her hand through his hair, grinning. “Means you accept all flaws instead of trying to build up a wall just to better and correct those flaws.”

“Then what’s so funny?” he asked with genuine curiosity rather than annoyance.

“Oh, Harry. Nothing! I just find you trying new stuff very, very amusing. Moving in here was a good choice, you know. Now I get to find out new things about you,” said [Y/N].

Harry smiled back, his cheeks a tad warmer than usual. “So which do you prefer? Tough love or soft love?”

“Eh, a relationship can’t work with just one of the two. Both works. Now eat your slice before we get working on this house,” said [Y/N] as she snapped her fingers, picking up her own plate and savoring her own work. “Chop chop.”

“You mean home?”

“Yep, I mean home,” answered [Y/N] without any hesitation. Oh, and, just one small update: they didn’t remove the plastic wrap of the mattress until next week.

Taglist: @gingerale2017 @maybanksslut @hey-there-angels @mrzweasley @gwlvr @booksarealwaysbettersworlds-blog @greenlyblue @henqtic @meiitanoia @badass-yn @catching-the-train-to-hogwarts

[crescentblossom66]

Dead Bird Metro: The Tale of two Girls Chapter 4

“Why can't I drive?” Bow crossed her arms and pouted.

“We really don't need anymore attention on us, sorry can't let you take the wheel.” Bow rolled her eyes at the comment from Martin, and resigned herself to looking out the window. They were on the way to the shopping district, which had quite a few patrol cars.

“So, are you sure that you can leave Dave and the others with the difficult task of distracting the cops?” She looked over at her mentor, who was tapping his foot to the rhythm of the music that was playing oddly quietly today.

“I know where you're coming from, darling, but trust me, if there is one thing they're good at it's driving around without any plan whatsoever.” He knew what Bow meant, sometimes his penguins were a bit...scatterbrained to say the least, it was hard work to keep them all organized and focused.

“Boss, so how are we going to do this?” The tall penguin took a deep sigh and pushed up his shades to rub his eyes. He had gone in depth about the plan at their base. How could he have forgotten it all already? Bow just looked at him with a strange mix of pity and smugness as she giggled into her fist.

“Lemme try. Okay, listen, we're gonna split into two groups, dude. The first one is Jackson and our main man Sizzleface-” (They called him that because he once tripped with a cup of coffee, which burnt his face a bit.) “- They are gonna give the kitties in the front of building a nice whack on the head. You with me so far, my dude?”

“So far I'm picking up what you're putting down, sis.” The DJ was a bit bewildered as he silently followed the strange interaction between the girl and Martin.

“Right on, dude! After that the boss, you and I will chill our way over to the bling bling and gather it all up, while they stand watch and give us a call if things go south in the hood. Quick in and out, real smooth, catch my drift?”

“Aight, I get it now.” Martin slowly nodded and a moment later they could see the bright lights of the shopping district through the windshield.

“I only understood half of what you told him, darling, but I'm glad that that's sorted out.” The DJ looked a bit stressed, Bow wondered if he was just anxious that the plan would work, or if something else was bothering him.

“Are you alright? You're not shinning bright, It's giving me a fright, this ain't right.” Bow's attempt to cheer the gang leader up weren't in vain as the music-loving bird let out a chuckle and started to smile again.

“Who taught you how to do that, darling, that was lovely.”

“I taught myself!” Bow winked with a smile before concentrating on the plan again. As soon as they were in there, she knew they had to act fast, if the police caught wind of their plan, this would all end in catastrophe.

They parked the car in the alley, far enough away to not be spotted easily and close enough to reach it for a quick getaway.

They went to the backdoor and encountered their first obstacle in form of a steel door connected to a panel that required a four-digit code. Bow's eyes immediately went to the window, maybe they could just break it and enter that way, she shot that idea down fast, that would make waaaay too much noise.

“Done!” Bow watched in awe as the door simply opened, and the DJ entered. “Did you think that all I do is dance, darling?” Bow clapped quietly before following him slowly. The tall penguin stopped her right before she took a step onto the floor.

“Martin, you brought the little bag that I had given you before we left, right, darling?” The smaller penguin reached into the inside pocket of his black jacket and revealed.....a bag of flour? Bow looked at the black and white bird in confusion.

“I thought we were here to steal jewels or something, not bake a cake.” Bow whispered with a hint of sarcasm, that the tall penguin simply ignored, instead he opened the bag and let the small particles fall to the floor there they revealed a bunch of laser beams.

“You understand now, do you?” The girl nodded and looked around the room some more, she spotted the little machine that was casting those lasers on the opposite side of the room, and decided that it was her time to shine.

“Leave this to me!” Bow went back a few steps and then took a running jump over to a small, empty jewelry case, from there, she needed to climb up a large display case, which took some effort as she had to pull herself up to get on top of it. She was about halfway across the room now and the only things left to jump to without touching the ground were some crates, which were quite far away, and she didn't have the space for a running start this time. The DJ got a bit worried as she hesitated.

“Is everything okay, darling?” Bow turned around and gave him a thumbs up.

“Yeah, it just a really tense game of the floor is lava, I'm almost there.” So she took a leap of faith, hoping that she could jump far enough to reach the wooden crates. Her heart almost stopped as she barely landed on the boxes and lost her balance, she instinctively reached for an object to help her, and thankfully managed to grab a roll of wallpaper. The gang leader released a deep breath he didn't even know he had been holding and walked over to Bow after she switched the device off and the floor became passable.

“Alright, so far so good, now for the real challenge.” Once again the tall penguin easily cracked the code for the last door and they could enter the main room still mostly unobstructed. This time Bow waited in the doorway to make sure not to trigger any traps. Martin trailed behind them, making sure not to touch anything as he went, even though some of the jewels in the display cases were very tempting.

“Even more lasers, I kind of expected more...variety.” The problem the DJ found was that this time the lasers weren't just on the ground they were strung throughout the whole room, floor to ceiling. Bow looked at the lasers for a moment and figured that she had to make her way as she went, she grabbed the flour from Martin and jumped over the first laser, simultaneously ducking to not trigger the laser just above her head.

“Come on, sis, you got it!” Bow smiled at the encouragement and proceeded to throw more of the flour in front of her to check for more beams. She had to dive through a tiny gap and then crawl flat on the ground to not trigger the security system, all the while the two penguins watched in awe and held their breaths after every successful maneuver of the young girl.

When she reached the other side she deactivated the alarm system and struck a pose, “Tada!”. She returned the bag of flour back to the Martin and proceeded to break the cases one by one.

“Good work, darling. We couldn't have made it without you.”, DJ Grooves smiled at her warmly as she placed numerous jewels into the bag he was holding.

What none of them realized was that one of the cases had a motion detector, which was not disabled by the panel Bow had deactivated.

One of the penguins burst through the, now safe to trespass, front door and yelled: “We gotta move, man, they're onto us.” Bow sped up what she was doing and was about ready to leave then a police car showed up and two crows jumped out and made their way to the entrance. Martin opened the bag with flour and slammed it on the ground like a makeshift smoke bomb.

“Boss, Bow, run we'll stop them!” Bow was about to protest, but the star shades-wearing penguin just grabbed her arm. They bolted through the backdoor and out onto the streets.

“We can't just leave them behind, we have to do something!”

“There's noting we can do now, Bow. We owe the success of this mission to them.” His face was scrunched up, it looked like it was just as painful for him as it was for Bow.

As they made their way back to the car they could hear the blaring of more police sirens, Bow hoped that the other penguins were alright at least. Both sneaked back, hiding in the shadows of the back alleys.

“There they are! Thought you could just escape like that, eh?” Bow got the small curved dagger out of her jacket, looking around to see just how many adversaries she had to deal with. It appeared to be a group of three cats, each armed with a sharp object ranging from sharp claws to a pocket knife. Great, now they had to deal with those idiots AND evade the police at the same time!

The penguin quickly shoved the key for the car and the bag into Bow's hand and leaned down, whispering into her ear, “Run ahead and get the car, darling, I handle this.” Bow nodded and started to sprint off toward the car. The penguin reached into the pocket of his dark jacket, the neon blue sleeve cuffs and the star pattern on it shinning brightly as he drew his knife. The cats, now seeing that he was armed, decided to try and surround their target.

Bow ran as fast as her legs could carry her, she looked over her shoulder and saw the cats attacking her mentor right before she routed the corner and to her horror spotted more cats down the alley, she had just turned away from. She contemplated fighting them off, but if that took too long the police would find and arrest both her and the DJ. She had to get to the car before the cats could get to him, she knew that he could hold himself quite well in a fight, however around 10 cats were too many, even for him.

He quickly turned to face who he considered the most dangerous of the three felines that were targeting him, being that he was the only one that had a dagger. He kept the other two cat's position in mind though, as they were circling him, waiting for an opportune moment to attack. He clashed weapons with the dagger wielding cat and gracefully dodged the attack from the smaller cat, who tried to stab him with his pocket knife. He realized that the unarmed cat was now behind him and so he spun around and cut the cat across the chest.

The one with the dagger used this small window of time to attack, but found his attack intercepted yet again, however his brethren succeeded where he had failed an dug the pocket knife into the side of their enemy making him grunt in pain. More cats made came from the rooftops and down the street. Where was the little darling? This was turning from a barely manageable situation into a downright abysmal one.

“How much do you think we get for killing the leader of the Penguiads?” The smaller cat asked the one with the dagger.

“I dunno, but a promotion is definitely in it.” Now he was completely surrounded by at least 15 cats. No way would he be able to take on this many, however he would take out as many of them as he could. He glared at the black cats in front of him defiantly, not showing even a hint of fear.

“All you'll be getting is an undignified end, darling.” The cats around him started to snicker and cackle, until a sharp screeching noise turned their attention down the dark road.

Never was he happier to hear the tormented screaming of the tires that resounded whenever Bow decided to put the pedal to the metal, and a moment later he could see the bright headlights of their vehicle.

“Out of the way, I have to to pick up a VIP!” Bow hollered at the cats, who had to jump out the way of the speeding car, which stopped harshly right next to the penguin. “Took a bit longer, I couldn't get the car to start.” The penguin quickly jumped in, waving at the bewildered cats who just stared at them, wondering what the heck just happened. Before they got their bearings, Bow stomped on the gas, leaving them behind in a cloud of smoke.

Bow made sure to take a long way back to HQ, just to make sure that they wouldn't be followed. Both were finally able to take a breather when they returned, but weren't prepared for the news, after Dave arrived with the rest of the distraction crew that had made it out.

“I-I just lost contact with the other three cars, and then I was on the way back Marcus and the peeps that were with him were the only ones that made it out.” Dave told them, as they came into the backroom to report back.

“Where is Marcus now, Dave?” The questioned penguin cast his eyes to the floor, the anguish was visible in his eyes as his shades slipped forward a little.

“I...I'm gonna go and get him, boss, but he's...not in the best condition right now.” Bow wondered what he meant with that and was shocked and sad when she laid eyes on the trembling and traumatized bird that entered the room with slow, uneasy steps a few minutes later.

“Oh dear.-” Dave really wasn't joking, the bird looked horrible, the tall penguin observed. “-Come, sit down for a bit, darling” Bow decided to offer the shaking penguin the tea she had brewed a few minutes earlier after he sat down.

“W-What happened?” Her curiosity got the better of her, something terrible must have happened to leave him in such a state. Marcus hesitated for a moment watching the surface of the water in his tea cup.

“They killed them, all of them.-” He whimpered in a broken voice, “I just managed to escape with the others, it was a wild chase, and somehow we ended up in the heart of the shopping district controlled by the cats. Then, out of nowhere, missiles were launched at us, I-I still have no idea how I managed to evade all of them.-” The penguin pulled down his shades, wiping the tears out of his eyes. Meanwhile Bow and DJ Grooves were silent and just listened to the horror story. “-I could see two of our cars explode in the rear view mirror. One of ours was driving next to me, and...and it exploded right then and there...-” His voice turned into sobbing as he continued, “-they died right next to me...There was nothing I could do.” Bow's eyes turned blurry, she didn't even realize that she had started to cry.

The tall penguin drew a deep breath, and put a flipper on the shoulder of his subordinate, “Go get some rest, darling. We're all there for you and the others. I'll find a way to get rid of our enemies, I promise.” It was all he could say to the disturbed penguin.

“Yeah, we will win in the end, neither the Leowles nor the Nyakuza can stop us!” Bow cheered and actually managed to be convincing enough to make Marcus smile. Their boss, however, had a grim expression on his face, he looked troubled, just like he had been at the beginning of the mission.

“Are you okay, grandpa?” Bow asked with worry, he snapped back to reality after realizing that she was speaking to him.

“Didn't I tell you not to call me that.-” He sighed before walking out of the room himself, “-I'm fine, Bowie, just tired.”

[howdoyoufeelaboutmakingthesong]

How Lauren Martin Sees Music

Visual Thinking with Lauren Martin

From painting to singing to illustration to textiles to keyboards, and on!

Today we will take a closer look at a *key* member of Frankie Cosmos, Lauren Martin. That's right, she started out designing our t-shirts, and ended up as a bandmate playing keyboards, singing harmonies, and even some 2nd guitar!

Lauren and I originally met in MIDDLE SCHOOL when Lauren formed a band with my brother! I inserted myself into their friendship as annoying little sisters tend to do, and eventually she and I started playing music together too. We had a band which performed one "show" in Eliza's backyard for 3 of our friends, but we were both very shy performers.

Lauren ended up pursuing textile design, and was the obvious choice when it came to designing and printing the first ever Frankie Cosmos merch. She screen printed everything by hand in my parents kitchen, and we laid all the shirts out to dry on the ground (as pictured above). She filled in for some shows sporadically while in college, and when she finished school in 2016, she officially joined the touring band as our keyboard player.

[Close It Quietly Album Art Time Lapse]

Lauren continues to design merch for FC, and has found her own audience for her illustrations and design work. She sells her own prints, apparel, and more on her website, and posts lots of fun drawings on her instagram.

Q & A with Lauren Martin

How did you first find yourself playing music and performing?

I never intended to perform but always found myself performing anyway - usually because I’d be playing music with other people and they would encourage me (/drag me along) for the live element. I have really bad stage fright, performance goes against my nature. But because I keep ending up doing it, it’s clearly something that’s important to me in some way…even though it feels in conflict with who I am.

My first instrument was flute in elementary school. But my first ever musical performance was a cello recital in middle school (to an audience of parents). After that I was in my high school’s all girl rock band. I played rhythm guitar. I remember we played One Way Or Another by Blondie. I was also in the school chorus, we would perform for elderly people at retirement homes. I performed a surprising amount considering how shy I was.

During the pandemic, your illustration work really took off. With visual art being full time for you now, and touring still on hold, does playing music feel different for you?

I think having one part of myself that was really important (being a visual artist) — having that dream fulfilled in a way, makes playing music feel better. It feels like I’m not missing out on one half of myself energetically. Finding an outlet that allows me to be more wholly myself, it makes me feel more creative as a musician than I did before.  After years of having a very regimented relationship with visual art during and after art school, during the pandemic I’ve unlocked a new side of myself creatively, and established my own style as a visual artist, and a musician. Recently I’ve felt a lot more confident in sharing my musical ideas.

You're a huge part of the aesthetic of Frankie Cosmos as a grown-up band, and took FC from my janky AppleWorks 6 creations to the legitimate poster designs, cute merch, and album art we have now. Has music always encompassed a visual element for you?

I have always been inspired by album art, and intrigued by the branding that goes along with a band. Not to say that it informs anything about the music - but I do think there’s a visual element of a band that has always been intriguing to me on the same level as sneaker logos or car logos. I like simplicity and impactfulness in graphic design. And I think music and design overlap a lot. I would never claim to have synesthesia, but I do think if you asked me to paint a song I could do that. Not being a trained musician and not having the standard language to describe what I mean when it comes to music, allowed me to create my own visual language about music.

I’m realizing now, the bands that were really influential to me as a kid, like the first albums I bought, were Gorillaz, who were cartoon characters to me, and The White Stripes, who were also cartoon characters to me.

Before you got into textile design and graphics, you were mostly painting in a renaissance style, and at one point considered studying painting restoration. How did you find your various styles over the years and how have your artistic inclinations changed?

In a weird way, I would say my artistic inclinations haven’t changed that much, it’s more just the subject matter and the medium have changed a lot. I’ve always loved depicting reality as I see it. My portraits were never “accurate” to life, they were accurate to my imagination. And now, I’ll draw a still life of something I made up. I like creating my own reality. Growing up, I was really inspired by old paintings because I would go to The Met every weekend, and I loved seeing the Hans Holbein paintings and Giotto, because I just loved that it looked like a fucked up version of reality. It’s not photorealism, it looks like what you would close your eyes and picture a person to look like. I love the way art can look like a painting of the inside of an artist’s brain.

[Banana Split Poster]

Can you compare your experiences in analog and digital art?

I love both, but I tend to gravitate toward digital mediums. As a perfectionist, I love the idea of being able to do things over and over in order to get it exactly how I want. I used to work in oil paints but I would get really frustrated with myself when it wasn’t going right, because I felt I couldn’t start over. It would probably be good for me to try it again, because I don’t necessarily want to lean into my perfectionism forever. But it was really freeing for me to start working digitally, because I can do it an infinite number of times, I can get it exactly the way I see it in my head. Also, in terms of material used…when I was making physical art, I was surrounded by so many canvases and pieces of paper…I really like sparseness and neatness in my space, so having everything I’ve ever made in a pile doesn’t work for me.

What about your sewing and physical textile work? How does that compare to your other art forms?

Music and drawing feel in a way like luxuries, whereas sewing my clothes (and cooking) feel like practical ways to use my creativity.  Those are more purely joyous outlets for me. My art is work, music is work, but sewing and knitting is truly just for myself. I don’t do it as much as I used to, but I always like to have a chunk of my wardrobe be handmade. I get to turn my brain off and just follow a pattern, do this repetitive motion.

What inspires you recently?

I’m inspired right now by exercising. My latest hobby is playing tennis. Growing up, sports were extremely important to me, I wanted to be a professional soccer player. At a certain point I felt like I had to choose between being creative or athletic. I’m recently getting excited about being physically strong again.

[Love Love Tennis Club T-Shirt]

[Stay Sunny Tie-Dye T-Shirt]

Click Here for Lauren’s Website

[benito-cereno]

Hello would you recommend me some vampire movies?

Yeah, sure. I'm wearing a Dracula shirt at this very moment, so it seems timely.

You didn't ask for deep cuts, so there will be a lot of obvious ones in here.

Nosferatu (both the 1922 and 1979 versions are worth watching, but be aware that the 1922 version is silent and black and white)

Dracula (if you watch the 1931 version, watch with the Philip Glass score if possible. The 1992 version is also worth watching, and the 1979 version is very underrated. If you want to watch more Universal Dracula, follow up Drac 31 with Dracula's Daughter, but then skip Son of Dracula and watch Return of the Vampire instead. It's a serial-numbers-filed-off sequel to Dracula, but at least it has Lugosi. Then Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein)

Horror of Dracula (1958, imo the best Dracula movie. All of the sequels are worth at least a look, imo, but the first two sequels--Brides of Dracula and Prince of Darkness--are the essential ones. Note that Brides of Dracula doesn't actually have Dracula in it.)

There are plenty of Hammer vampire movies without Dracula in them that are worth a look, most notably the Karnstein trilogy--The Vampire Lovers, Lust for a Vampire, and Twins of Evil--which are at least nominally based on Le Fanu's Carmilla, the first of which has Ingrid Pitt and Peter Cushing. Otherwise, check out Countess Dracula (which has Ingrid Pitt as Elizabeth Bathory), Captain Kronos, and Vampire Circus, the premise of which I probably don't have to tell you. Kiss of the Vampire is also pretty good.

Vampyr (1932, black and white, mostly silent, probably not what you're thinking of in a vampire movie, but also very cool)

Mark of the Vampire (1935, Tod Browning with Bela Lugosi, in a remake of Browning's own lost London After Midnight, which had Lon Chaney Sr)

Isle of the Dead (1945, a Val Lewton picture with Boris Karloff, though not a traditional vampire tale)

Black Sunday (1960, maybe vampire-adjacent, black and white)

Santo vs the Vampire Women (1962)

Black Sabbath (1963, this is an anthology and only one segment is vampires, but it's got Boris Karloff, so)

The Last Man on Earth (1964)

Count Yorga, Vampire (1970)

Let's Scare Jessica to Death (1971)

Blacula (1972)

Ganja and Hess (1973)

Martin (1977, George Romero)

Fright Night (1985, but the remake is also good)

Mr Vampire (1985)

Near Dark (1987, streaming on Shudder now after being impossible to find for years)

The Lost Boys (1987)

Cronos (1994, Guillermo del Toro)

From Dusk Till Dawn (1996)

Blade (1998)

Shadow of the Vampire (2000, fictional account of the making of Nosferatu with Willem Dafoe as Max Schreck)

Blade 2 (2002)

Night Watch (2004)

Let the Right One In (2008)

Thirst (2009, Park Chan Wook)

Byzantium (2012)

Rigor Mortis (2013)

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014)

Only Lovers Left Alive (2014, Jim Jarmusch with Tilda Swinton and Tom Hiddleston)

What We Do in the Shadows (2015)

Bloodsucking Bastards (2015)

If Dracula's Daughter and the Karnstein trilogy got you interested in the surprisingly robust subgenre of lesbian vampires, try:

Blood and Roses (1960, another Carmilla adaptation)

The R**** of the Vampire (1968)

Requiem for a Vampire (1971)

Daughters of Darkness (1971)

Vampyros Lesbos (1971)

The Blood Spattered Bride (1972)

Vampyres (1974)

Fascination (1979)

Hopefully that's enough to get you started, sorry if I didn't say your favorite. I haven't seen every movie ever made

[blessednereid]

LFLLLL Prologue: Mutual Pining

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

WC: 3.5k

Taglist: @rogershoe

~

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        Lydia's House

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"Lydiaaaaaa!" You had barged into Lydia's house unannounced that afternoon. You had work that afternoon, but you called in sick, not physically, but emotionally. And only Lydia could help you. 

"LYDIA LORRAINE MARTIN!"

"Y/n, what's wrong?" Lydia's mom, Natalie, had come out of her office because of your shouts.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Martin, I didn't realize you were home. Your car wasn't in the driveway," you apologized.

"It's fine, dear. Lydia's upstairs taking a nap. You know how much of a heavy sleeper she is."

"Thank you, Mrs. Martin."

"Please, I've told you many times. Call me Natalie."

You nodded before heading upstairs, where Lydia's room was. 

You opened her door, and as you thought, she was lying on the bed, snoring and drooling. A sight you had gotten very used to since you first met her in third grade. 

"Lydia Lorraine Martin. We have a code-red!"

Immediately, Lydia jolted up from her bed and began flailing her arms in the air. She lost balance before falling off the side. 

"Oh, MY- Ugh." You went to help her sit back upright on the bed, sat next to her, and laid your head in her lap. 

"Y/n, what's wrong? Why did you wake me up?"

"We have a code red!!"

'Code reds' were what you and Lydia had when you caught real feelings for a guy. 

When you were younger and in middle school, Lydia had gotten a crush on the cutest guy in your math class. 

On Valentines Day, she wrote him a card and put it in his locker. The card said, "I think you're cute♡︎ What do you think about me?" Later that same day, she found out that almost all of the kids in your two's class had read the card. And on top of that, the guy was a huge jerk about it. 

Since then, you and Lydia vowed to never catch feelings for anyone until you were at least twenty-five. 

"Who is it, babe? What happened?" Lydia asked with a concerned tone. 

"It's Isaac."

"Your partner for the World History project?" 

"Yeah, him," you sighed. "We started getting closer, and he started talking to me, and we bonded over our moms' death, and there were carnival rides and vampires and freezy pops!"

"Woah, Woah, Woah! Slow down!"

"So basically, I did what you told me and took him to the county carnival, right? Then, he told me about his mom dying, and we talked about that, and then we went on rides and fought about their pace, and he was fine after like a two-hundred-foot drop. So then, we went on a rollercoaster, and after that, I was cold because I was wearing a light jacket."

"Okay, keep going…"

"So then he warmed me up by giving me a hug and then led me in the building, and we just hung out there until like five? Then when we were doing the slideshow, he started asking me about my room and shit, and when we were done, we watched that show I told you about, with the high school vampires."

"Oh, the babysitter one?"

"Yeah, that. So, he was actually interested. And then we just kept watching it together throughout the week since we finished the project. And then when we were presenting today, you know I have that stage fright. He just held my hand and calmed me down, and he listened to me after we were done, and he actually cared about it instead of dismissing it.

"Not that you dismiss it, Lydia." She nodded. 

"Anyways, after that, GB had to talk to us, and she ratted me out about writing his name down, and then he got slightly mad at me but not really, and then I explained. And he just told me he would see me tomorrow for our movie night…" you trailed off, debating whether you should tell her the last part.

"So that's when you realized?"

"After that, I turned away, and then he kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, 'see you tomorrow or something like that!"

Lydia chuckled. "So you have a code red?"

"Lydia, I have a hang-out with him tomorrow. I'm not gonna be able to fucking think straight!" 

"Babe, just go and see how it goes. Maybe it's a 24-hours thing, you know? Just adrenaline. It affected you like this because you don't go out."

"Lyds, it's not like that. It's different."

"Y/n, that's what I tell myself before every hookup," she deadpanned.

"Okay, yeah. You're right. It's just a 24-hour thing."

"It's just adrenaline, babes. Nothing more, nothing less."

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  Movie Night

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'Nothing more, nothing less…"

Those were the words that kept repeating in your head as you twisted Isaac's hair around your fingers around Isaac's hair as his head rested in your lap.

"Y/n, are you okay?"

You blinked rapidly.

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine!" 

"It's just, you're not watching the show?" 

"Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about something."

"Whatever you say, princess…" 

Princess. The pet name made your heart flutter, and you thought you would explode. 

"Give me a minute, please!" was all you said before picking up your phone and dashing out the room.

You headed to the bathroom and dialed Lydia's number right after texting her "Code Red Emergency."

"It's not a 24-hours thing, is it?" she said when she picked up.

"No…"

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do…"

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

 Previous Day

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

╭╼|══════════|╾╮

       Isaac

╰╼|══════════|╾╯

He watched you as you turned around. His nerves crawled through his spine, and he curled and unfurled his fingers before finding the confidence–, no, before finding the ability to move.

When his lips touched the side of your face, his heart was set aflame. 

'How did I just do that?' he thought. But entirely different words came out of his mouth. 

"See you," he said, and he internally pumped the air when he saw your lips curl upwards into a smile.

When he reached class, his actions had finally sunk into his mind. 

He went to his seat where his friend, Dillon Karis, sat beside him. Dillon was the only friend of Isaac, and they had known each other since middle school. 

"Dude!"

Dillon turned his head to his friend, whose urgent tone caught his attention.

"You know that girl I was telling you about?" Isaac said enthusiastically.

Dillon scoffed. "You mean the one who's been taking up all your Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights?

"Yeah, I remember her."

Isaac rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Dude, I think I may actually like her…"

"Holy—" Isaac cut him off.

"Shut up!"

Dillon took two breaths to calm down before speaking.

"Explain. Now!"

Isaac threw his head back.

"I don't know. It's just the way she makes me feel." He smiled. "It's like… the way my mom used to tell me about how she felt about my dad? It's weird."

"Bro, you barely know her. Are you sure?" 

"No, I'm not sure, but I think."

"Well, let me know. This is interesting. Shoulda brought some popcorn today, as I had planned," Dillon burst out laughing, and Isaac followed.

"Dude, I have to go to her house tomorrow."

"Why? I thought you already turned in the project." 

"We have our movie night," Isaac said before realizing what that might sound like to his friend. 

"Oh shit! So y'all already been going on dates?"

"No! No…" Isaac pointed his finger at his friend, signaling him to stop.

"Dude, so what are you gonna do?" 

"I don't know…"

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Movie Night

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Isaac was now highly flustered as he laid his head in your lap. You didn't bring up the kiss, so he assumed he either made you uncomfortable or you didn't like him enough to care. 

He looked at your face to see if there were any signals or indications, but he saw that you were completely zoned out. 

"Y/n, are you okay?"

You blinked before saying, "Oh yeah, I'm fine." 

Isaac raised his eyebrows before turning his attention back to the television. 

When you dashed out the room with little explanation, Isaac took his emotional matters into his own hands. He had decided to get rid of his feelings, sure that they were unrequited.

He headed out of your room and knocked on Stiles' door. 

"Come in!" he heard faintly, and he opened the door.

"Isaac, what's up?" Stiles had barely looked up from his work.

"I know we don't know each other that well, but I need some advice, and I figured that you probably know a lot about girls…"

"Not really, but I'm flattered you would think that. Please come in!"

Isaac stepped into the room and sat on Stiles' bed.

"Is this fine?" to which Stiles nodded.

"So, Isaac. Tell me what's going on," Stiles said before clasping his hands together. 

Isaac took multiple deep breaths. He was about to ask your brother how to get rid of his feelings for you. Who does that?

"I have a crush… on this girl. And I know that she doesn't like—" 

"You know, or you think?" 

"I think, but she's given no sign of liking me…"

"Okay, continue."

"She doesn't like me. And I was wondering if you knew if there was anything I could do to… get rid of the feelings I have…"

"Oh boy. Isaac, I wish I knew. I'm in that same position. However! I wouldn't tell you if I did know. Because you never know, right? Unless they've told you that they don't like you, you don't know for sure. And even then, it could happen in the future."

That was not the advice Isaac was hoping for, preferring to put himself out of his misery before he could get in it. 

"Alright, thanks, Stiles."

"No problem, bud!" 

Isaac walked back to your room, where you were laid down on your back. 

"Hey, where did you go?" 

"Nowhere, I just needed to… uh.. get some air." 

You squint your eyes, and even Isaac wasn't convinced by his lie, but he didn't say anything else before he laid beside you. 

"Lydia is having a party next Saturday. You should come."

"Oh, I don't think—"

"Please, Isaac? It'll be good for you to get out of your house like Mrs. GB said."

He couldn't resist the tug on his heart when you flashed your pouting eyes, and he had to give in.

"Fine, I'll see what I can do. That's not a promise." 

"Yay!" You exclaimed before pressing a kiss to his forehead. The action made Isaac's heart race, and all he wanted to do at that moment was kiss you. 

In fact, it was all he thought of for the next few minutes. 

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Isaac's Daydream

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

"Love?" 

"Yes, babe?" you responded to him. 

"This is the spot. Stop going ahead of me." 

You mouthed an "Oh" before laying down on the blanket he set by the flowerbed. 

"So, whose house are we breaking into right now, Mr. Lahey?" you teased. You and Isaac were sitting in the backyard of a foreign house you had never seen, but you followed Isaac anyways.

"Yours."

You scoffed a 'what' as you had never seen the house in your life.

"Mines. Ours." He smirked.

Your face of pleasant surprise made his racing heart slow, as he thought you wouldn't like it. 

"This is our house?" 

"Well, it was my grandparent's house. They left it to me when they died. They said I can only get it when I turn 18, and now since we're together, It's our house."

You leaped onto his lap and kissed him feverishly. 

"This is the best surprise ever!"

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Reality

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

"Isaac!" You yelled, and Isaac didn't know what you had said before. 

"Sorry! I just zoned out."

"It's not a problem."

╭╼|══════════|╾╮

You

╰╼|══════════|╾╯

"So, do you want to watch a scary movie?" 

You actually weren't planning on doing any of what Lydia had suggested you do, which was to just come outright and tell him you like him. 

Instead, you chose to suffer in silence, thinking there was no way possible that Isaac liked you back. And even if he had, you two would be better off as friends… Right?

At least that is what you chose to tell yourself.

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Isaac Leaves

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When the movie was over, Isaac went home, and you prepared for bed. 

That night you dreamt of things you wanted in your life that you couldn't have. 

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Your Dream

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

"Hey, Isaac?"

You two were curled up together on a couch watching a movie, much like your reality. However, a few things were different.

"What are we having for dinner?"

"Babe, we're in a hotel, and the only restaurants have a pre-set menu. If you want food, you either get what they have, or we Postmates." 

"But neither sounds good. I want Pasta!" 

He sighed. "Then lets Postmates pasta, babe."

"But I want you to make it," you pouted. 

"Okay, how about this." You turned to face him to hear his proposition. 

"I get you dessert with the food they have here, and I make you pasta tomorrow?" 

You smiled and wrapped an arm around his neck.

You hummed before saying, "That sounds perfect," and he kissed you with a burning passion.

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

       Morning

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

"Y/N! WAKE UP!" Stiles woke you up from your dream. 

"WHERE'S THE FIRE?" You flailed around before falling off the bed. 

Stiles chuckled loudly. 

"MIECZYSŁAW STILINSKI!

"IT'S A FUCKING SUNDAY!" 

You groaned loudly before grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him, effectively knocking him down but not ceasing his laughter.

"Relax, Relax! Dad's taking us out for breakfast."

You rolled your eyes heavily. "Ugh, I hate you. GO! Let me change!"

"Wait! Wait! I have a question…"

"What?" 

"What's going on between you and Lahey?"

You looked down and away from him. "Nothing," you murmured. 

When you looked back at him, his eyes were narrowed, and his forehead was crinkled. 

"I don't believe you one bit."

Your face heated. 

"There's nothing going on, Stiles."

He scoffed. "We may be fraternal, but we're still twins, Y/n. Whatever, I don't like him anyway."

"Why not, Sti?"

He moved his face closer to yours, and you craned your head back for air. 

"Because I'm your brother, I'm never gonna like any guy you date. None of them are worthy of my sister."

"Well, you don't have to hate him because nothing is going on."

"Hmmm... Sure," he stated simply before walking out. 

You got ready, wearing an off-shoulder baby blue top that was slightly… starchy in texture, as well as a pink plaid miniskirt and black slip-on sneakers. 

When you got downstairs, your dad and Stiles sighed a heavy "finally," and you mocked offense. 

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Waffle House

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

You got in the car and began driving. You looked out the window enjoying all the sights while Stiles tried to coax your dad into talking about cases. 

Your dad turned and pulled into the parking lot of the Waffle House.

You sat at the counter and talked until someone came to get your drinks order. 

"So, Stiles, when are you going to bring a date home?" your dad asked with a squint. 

"Not anytime soon, He's still stuck on Lydia."

Stiles blushed. "Well, I mean, It's working. She knows who I am. "

"No, she doesn't. But… I do know this girl—" Stiles cut you off. 

"If it's not Lydia, then no, thank you. I'm stuck on her like white on rice."

Your dad interjected your argument. "Stiles, you sound like a stalker. Normally, we arrest people like you."

"Okay, Let's change the subject. Y/n, wanna tell dad about Isaac or should I?" 

You rolled your eyes. "Why should I? There's nothing going on?"

"Wait, who's Isaac?" your dad said while whirling his hand beside his head. 

"He was my partner for a project I had for World History."

Stiles laughed. "We presented on Friday. What have you guys been doing in your room?"

Your dad's eyes widened. "Why is he in your room?" 

"We just watch movies, Dad! We do nothing else!" 

"I highly doubt that. In fact, why don't I ask Isaac right now?" 

You blanched. "What do you mean?"

"He's coming up behind us," he said, looking past your head. 

You began choking when you saw him in your peripheral version. 

"Can I get you something t- Stiles!" Isaac popped up from behind you and began to ask for your drink orders. 

"Hey, Isaac," you said as you turned around. 

"Hey, Y/n!" His intonation was normal, his facial expression was off. 

╭╼|══════════|╾╮

Isaac

╰╼|══════════|╾╯

"What do you want to drink?" he asked, though his focus was on your dad's squinted gaze pointed directly at him. 

"Can I get a coffee?" Noah spoke up first. Isaac jotted down his order.

Stiles followed. 

"I'll get an Arnold Palmer!" he said while raising his hand. 

"Is that on the menu?" Isaac asked confusedly.

"No, but it's half of a lemonade, half of an iced tea in one glass."

"Okay… Arnold Palmer." 

"Y/n," the lovestruck boy said with a smile. "What about you?" 

The corners of your mouth turned up. "It's not on the menu, but is there an option for an iced coffee?" 

"Uh, I'm sure there is." He knew there wasn't, but he also knew you didn't like hot coffee much. 

"Are you sure? I don't want to--"

"It's fine, Y/n," he reassured.  

He walked away and headed to the kitchen to tell the cooks the drink order. 

"I need an iced coffee, a regular coffee, and A half-and-half lemonade-iced tea. Please," he added. 

Isaac glanced outside the kitchen window and gazed at you softly. He admired the way your eyes glimmered in the sun and how your hair bounced with every gesture you made. From this, he began to appreciate how amazing your hair looked and how the light refracted off of it. 

He smiled a lopsided grin as he watched the way your lips move. He imagined how they would feel on his. Soft. Smooth. He had the notion that you were probably experienced in that field, more so than he was. 

No. He couldn't imagine that. When he thought about the things he just thought, it sounded creepy and perverted. Besides, there was no way that you liked him back, so even thinking about it would just lead to further heartbreak. 

He grabbed your table's drinks and walked back, trying to ignore your smile because he couldn't stop the race that his heart ran whenever he saw it.

"Alright, here are your drinks."

"Isaac, can I talk to you outside?" asked Stiles.

"I'm actually working, so I can't do that. But, I can take your orders."

He jotted down each of your orders and went back to the kitchens.

╭╼|══════════|╾╮

            You

╰╼|══════════|╾╯

"Stiles, I swear to God, I'm gonna hurt you."

"Not my fault you're over here pining after Lahey but won't do anything about it."

"Up your ass and off your high horse, Stiles!" You did your best to be quiet with your statement, but your dad still heard. 

"Hey, hey!"

"Sorry, Dad," you and Stiles said simultaneously. 

You watched the cooks prepare the food in front of you, but you hoped to see Isaac somehow, even though he was in the back.

You thought about his messy hair and how it felt in-between your fingers... How his eyes dilated with each smile, and the tiny specks of green in those ocean blue eyes were always able to calm you down.

You noticed how his lips were never chapped and how his cheeks looked like apples when he smiled, and the one dimple that was prominent in those moments as well. 

You wondered if this was how Lydia felt for the boy that caused their entire concept of code reds or if you began to feel something much more for the boy with the shy demeanor and quiet voice. 

When Isaac came back, you thought about how you could try to confess your feelings. But, you knew that if Isaac was barely willing to talk to you for a long time, it would be a snowball's chance in hell that he liked you the same way. 

"Alright, here's your waffles and your hash-browns, Y/n. Your sandwich, Sheriff, and your All-Star breakfast, Stiles."

"Thank you, Isaac," you said with a smile.

He turned to leave before you called out. 

"Um, Isaac!" He spun around on his heel at your calling with a questioning look on his face. 

He walked back towards you, prepared to write something else down on his order pad. 

"Movie night, tomorrow?"

He smiled. "Yeah, sure." 

"Dorota, you cannot tell me you do not like him."

"Mieczysław, I do not." 

Your dad cut in. "Sweetheart, and if you do?"

"I don't. Can we just leave it at that?" 

~

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

what are your aus?

There is a list with tag links on my blog, but I haven't updated it in a long time (nor have I finished tagging old posts).

But off the top of my head there's...

More Than What You Know: A Lucian/Peter au that also has a (currently on hiatus) fanfic on ao3

Ghost (vampire) Hunter: Peter was killed by Aro and now haunts him and they stupidly fall in love because neither are good at doing the right thing

Vampire Prince: Lucian/Peter au where Peter is a vampire prince who married Lucian in an attempt to create a union between the species and it sort of works, blends both Under and Fright Night canons together

Do Androids Dream of Cyborg Angels: my android ineffables au where Crowley is an android named AJ0440 who is saved by Aziraphale

Celestial Harmonies National Park: Crowley is a human working at an American national park that is protected by an eldritch angel Aziraphale. There is a reverse version of this as well, and possible a wives version if anyone is interested in that little spin-off

Moving Forward: Illogical Husbands au where Bill exiles himself to Broadchurch for a while and gets together with Hardy, eventually the two of them get married and adopt a cat together

Vardy: Vampire Hardy au with Lucian/Hardy as the ship

Loving Past Destructive Future: House (Michael's DW character)/Tenth Doctor au

The Prophet and the Oncoming Storm: Prophet Malcolm/Tenth Doctor au, a very depressing au but I have a lot of fun writing these two together

Raspberry Rum: Tenth Doctor/Arthur au

Pen Pals: Joe/Campbell, very sweet, fluffy, has some angst

Those are the ones I remember the names of, but there are also an au with Hardy and Martin Whitly, another that is Peter and Thorne, the White Bread Husbands (Wesley and Chris), and lord knows I've got others

[bluejayblueskies]

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Two: running water Words: 4.3k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Nonsexual Intimacy

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

"How are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five| Chapter Six| Chapter Seven

Or read below:

(cw for nonsexual nudity, mild blood, mentions of death)

Jon knows three things, in that moment.

One: that Martin’s jumper is sure to be stained with tea for the foreseeable future, given that their laundry situation is abysmal and that he can feel the liquid seeping into the cuff and creeping up the sleeve towards his elbow.

Two: that either he is experiencing an incredibly vivid hallucination (unlikely) or still asleep (even more unlikely), or a woman he saw die what feels like a lifetime ago is standing in front of him, looking as if she’s been dragged through mud and brambles and dressed in a shirt and trousers that look about two sizes too big.

Three: there is no longer the gentle rumble of water coming from the bathroom.

“Jon,” Daisy says again, voice rough as if from disuse and eyes still blown wide—human eyes, Jon notes, not the slitted yellow things that he’d seen as sharp teeth had dug their way into the meat of his calf. A particularly hard gust of wind sends the hem of her shirt fluttering, and Daisy pulls it tightly around her, stepping fully inside the cottage and shutting the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”

What are you doing here? Jon wants to say. His stomach is still twisted into knots, and he’s processing, processing, processing. There are yellow daisies on the kitchen table, and there are white daisies out amongst the grass and the weeds, and there’s Daisy, standing in front of him, but he had mourned her, he’d thought she was—

“Hey. Jon,” Daisy says, and then she’s standing in front of him, hand reached out halfway towards him like she can’t quite decide whether she’s allowed to touch. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

She’s so close he could touch her, and before he really thinks about it, he’s reaching out and taking the hand that’s hanging in the air between them in his. He finds himself surprised when it doesn’t dissolve underneath his fingers, like he’d still been expecting all of this to be a dream, a falsehood, a sign that his mind is beginning a slow path towards disintegration without the Eye to hold it in place. He makes a choked-off sound, the kind that comes from the breath being punched out of one’s lungs by force rather than by any vibration of one’s vocal cords, as he adjusts his hand so he can thread their fingers together. It’s a familiar motion, bringing back memories of being buried underneath the weight of the earth and sat side-by-side in his office and curled up in the dustiness of document storage. He looks up at Daisy, eyes tracing the confused furrow of her brow and the strong slant of her nose and the thin scar that traces from the edge of her jaw to just below her ear, and squeezes her hand tightly, trying to convey every ounce of emotion he’s feeling in the weight of his eyes on hers.

“Jesus,” Daisy says after a moment, in that familiar way that’s both fond and exasperated, and Jon could cry. “Don’t look at me like that.” Then, after a moment: “I missed you too.”

That same choked sound comes out of Jon’s throat again, mangled by a laugh, and that’s all the encouragement he needs apparently before he’s standing and wrapping his arms around Daisy’s shoulders, giving her just enough time before he makes contact to step away if she wants to. She doesn’t, and when he presses his forehead against her shoulder and closes his eyes, she rests her hands gently against the small of his back, palms flat and grip loose enough that he could wriggle away if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know if he wants to stop hugging her for the foreseeable future.

The foreseeable future turns out to be exactly 38 seconds, at which point the bathroom door creaks open and Martin’s voice floats into the kitchen. “Ugh, it’s cold in here. Jon, did you open the…”

Martin’s head appears from around the corner, wet curls sticking to his forehead. He’s wearing a cheery yellow jumper that matches the daisies on the table. Somewhere around the did you, Daisy had pulled back, and now she stands a few paces away from Jon, her face still carefully neutral but with a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there moments before. Jon holds one of his wrists with the opposite hand and watches Martin’s face crumple from an easy smile into shock, lips parted slightly and eyes wide as they fixate on Daisy.

“...door,” Martin finishes, his voice very small. “Um. D- daisy?”

Daisy raises a hand in a half-wave. “Hey.”

“What—?” Martin cuts off, opens and closes his mouth a few times. Finally, he says faintly, “What is happening right now.”

“I’m standing in your kitchen,” Daisy says simply. Then, with a frown: “My kitchen, actually.”

“Right, I guess it is…” Martin shakes his head, letting the sentence trail off into nothing. “Okay, then: how are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

“What? Why?”

Daisy shrugs. “I remember things. Bits and pieces, not a lot other than the blood, but I remember that the sky was… different. A lot more eyes. And the fear was… more. I remember the hunt, and I remember you.” She looks uncomfortable, and her eyes find Jon before glancing off. “Familiar blood. Basira. Pain. And then I woke up.”

Martin blinks. “You… woke up?”

Daisy nods. “Didn’t know where I was, just that it was cold and that the sky was normal again. I think I was in a field somewhere, just… covered in dirt and blood.” Her lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile. “Gave the farmer who found me quite a fright, I think. But the look on his face when he saw me… I knew it had all been real.” She exhales, a breathy laugh that’s not really a laugh at all. “The word really ended, huh.”

“Yeah,” Martin says quietly. Next to Daisy, Jon shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet, so many words building at the back of his throat that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He looks over at Daisy—at the dirt smudged along the side of her face, the bits of moss and leaves tangled in her hair, blood dried and rusty-red on her hands and wrists and crusted underneath her nails—and decides that if he can’t talk, at least that, he can help with.

He reaches over and takes Daisy’s hand in his, tugging it gently yet meaningfully in the direction of the bathroom. She looks over at him, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. “What?”

Jon blows out a frustrated huff of air through his nose and sets his jaw, gripping Daisy’s hand tighter and beginning to cross the room to where Martin is standing, to the hallway that leads to the bathroom and the shower. There’s a moment of resistance, where Daisy digs her heels in and doesn’t move, but after a moment the resistance vanishes and she lets him guide her across the room and into the bathroom. As they pass Martin, he reaches for Jon’s free hand and holds it in his, just for a moment, squeezing lightly. “We’ll talk when you get done, okay?” he says, quietly yet firmly, which means saying no probably isn’t in the cards. That’s fine, Jon thinks; it’s not that he doesn’t want to talk. (Except maybe that he doesn’t, not about any of this, but he elects to ignore that.) He just needs a bit of time between then and now, to fully adjust to the fact that Daisy’s hand is in his and she’s standing next to him and somehow, she’s alive.

So Jon nods once, tries (a bit unsuccessfully) to give Martin a reassuring smile, and finishes guiding Daisy to the bathroom.

Once the door is shut behind them, Jon lets go of Daisy’s hand and turns to face her, suddenly unsure. He’s been assuming that everything’s as it was before—that they’re still friends, that she still trusts him with her vulnerabilities, that she would still be willing to accept help from him—but what if it’s not? What if, despite what she said and despite the way she looked at him and despite the way her hands felt when they rested lightly upon his back as he’d hugged her, she doesn’t remember him like that? The Hunt is gone—they’re all gone, Jon thinks, though he can’t Know for certain and that scares him more than he’d care to admit—but he knows that the Eye has left its own scars on him, changed him in so many ways, so what if… what if she’s gone?

Maybe the Daisy Jon knew is still dead after all.

“Hey,” Daisy says, and then her hand is sitting heavy on his shoulder and she’s looking at him intensely. “Stop that. I can tell you’re overthinking things, so just… don’t. I’m here, I’m still me, and I could really use a shower, which I assume is why we’re in here.” She pauses, and then amends, “Well. It’s why I’m in here.”

Jon flushes, feeling a bit embarrassed, and steps away from her touch. He’s halfway through turning to go back out into the hallway when Daisy reaches out again, captures his wrist with the tips of her fingers, and says, “I didn’t say you had to leave.”

Jon pauses with his hand outstretched towards the door handle. I didn’t know if you’d want to be alone, he wants to say. He knows it had been hard, back in the Archives, for Daisy to be alone at all at first. Even though the air was clean and the walls weren’t close together, she’d said that sometimes, it still felt like she was choking down dirt, buried beneath the earth where nobody would ever find her again. She’d hated the sensation of running water too, and it had taken a few weeks for her to finally tell him why. That when it rained, the water would run in rivulets down her hands and the back of her neck, dripping sediment into her eyes and making her clothes stick to her in a way that became repulsive.

The Institute had one shower, situated between the Archives and Artefact Storage, meant for decontamination according to the signage on the wall. At some point during Jon’s coma, someone had stuck a shower basket to the tile wall, filling it with shampoo and conditioner and body wash, and had erected a haphazard system of rings, curtain, and rod around the showerhead to allow for a modicum of privacy. After they’d crawled out of the coffin, covered head-to-toe in dirt that seemed to permeate every inch of them, they’d walked together wordlessly to the room that contained the shower. Jon had offered to let Daisy use it first and had made to leave, but he’d been stopped by the tightening of Daisy’s hand in his, an unspoken desire to not be alone, not again.

So Jon had stood beside her and tangled his fingers loosely with hers through a gap in the curtain and had kept her company as she’d slowly, painstakingly washed six months of grime out of her hair and off her skin and out from underneath her nails, shuddering as the dirt turned to mud and slid in clumps off her skin. And when Jon had taken his own turn, scrubbing at his skin with a harsh, crisp efficiency, he’d pulled back the curtain with a towel wrapped around him to see Daisy leaning against the wall across from him, eyes fixed on the floor just in front of the shower as if she’d been reminding herself of Jon’s presence by the way his shadow fell across the floor beneath them.

It had become easy after that, to fall into a routine. Jon thinks he should have felt more vulnerable, more exposed. But he hadn’t. He’d just felt safe.

Now, he hesitates only a moment more before nodding and turning back from the door, and Daisy lets her hand drop from his wrist. She exhales heavily before stepping out of her clothing, letting it fall to the floor in a pile by her feet. Jon looks away, but not before he sees the blood on her skin—dried and cracked brown, mixed with smudges of dirt. He takes a breath, then looks back, taking a step forward and lifting a hand towards her stomach, hesitating halfway there and giving her a questioning look.

“It’s not mine,” Daisy says, reaching for Jon’s hand and settling it flat against her stomach. The skin there is smooth, unbroken, and when Jon drops his hand after a moment, it comes away clean. Her voice is strangely even, like she’s trying not to let any emotion slip through, when she says, “I think some of it might be yours, actually.”

That… makes sense, Jon thinks, even as the thought makes his stomach twist. He wants to ask what happened—why she’s still covered in blood and dirt, why she came in wearing clothing that wasn’t hers but otherwise unchanged, how she made it here, why she even decided to come here in the first place—but he can’t think of a way to do so without his notebook, which is still sitting on the kitchen table where he’d left it. So instead, he sighs, steps around her, and turns on the shower, letting the water painstakingly warm up to a bearable temperature and periodically sticking his hand in the spray to check. As he does so, he can feel Daisy’s eyes on him, level and without much weight, yet curious and analytical in their own way. Finally, as the water reaches lukewarm and begins to climb to hot, she says, “Did something happen to you?”

Jon looks over at her, at the discerning slant to her mouth, and wants to laugh. Did something happen. It feels like the understatement of the century. He rolls his eyes and nods, hoping that it’ll give off the proper amount of yes, but you’ll have to be more specific, and sticks his hand back in the spray, satisfied to find it finally at the proper temperature.

“You know what I mean,” Daisy says, her tone no-nonsense but soft around the edges, like she’s taking care with how she proceeds. “I can see it on your face, Jon—you’re dying to ask questions, but for some reason, you’re not. From you, that means that you’re physically unable to ask them. So something must have happened.” She taps her fingers on her arms where they’re crossed over her chest and gives him a searching look. “Suppose it’s got something to do with the fact that the Eye’s gone, along with the rest of them?”

Jon’s not surprised that she knows. He’d felt the severance of the Eye from him almost as acutely as the knife slicing through the skin and muscle of his chest, like the snap of a thousand threads in his mind, and it had been agony. Even if she hadn’t felt it herself, being… dead, or something, the Eye’s absence for him is like a constant ache, and he keeps reaching for it instinctively only to find that part of him missing, like the ghost of an amputated limb. He doesn’t have to Know to know that she can feel the absence of the Hunt, gone in a way that’s equally as relieving as it is painful. But he still hesitates because it’s not… it’s not as simple as the Eye just being gone.

He doesn’t know why his voice is gone. Not for certain. But he can’t help but remember Annabelle’s words, see her running her fingers along the tape-strung webs that had taken his voice, and wonder that if when the Fears and the tapes that bound them were whisked away into other worlds, they weren’t so keen to return what had been given to them.

He nods, then hesitates and, after a moment, shrugs. He pulls his hand out of the water and gestures towards it, a clear go on, but Daisy doesn’t move—just keeps staring at him. “Hm,” she says after a moment, then shrugs and uncrosses her arms. “Would’ve thought it would have been the eyes, but the voicebox makes sense too, I guess.”

She steps past him and into the shower, making a face as the water hits her back and begins to run down it, bringing with it trails of brown and red that drip dark onto the tile floor. She doesn’t see him raise his hand and ghost his fingers lightly against his throat, just beneath his chin, feeling the thin scar that sits there raised and smooth beneath his fingers. He’d been surprised too, he supposes, once the shock of everything else had worn off, that he’d been left mute and not blind. But the more he’d poked and prodded at the aching bruise the Eye had left behind, the more he’d decided that it wasn’t quite the same kind of severance. Melanie’s had been a clean break, like snipping a thread—intentional and without much resistance. Jon’s had been… messier. And neither side had wanted to let go.

“I don’t remember the water pressure being so awful,” Daisy says a bit sullenly, and Jon drops his hand like he’s been burned. She’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye, and he knows she’d seen it, but she doesn’t mention it. He gives her a small smile and shrugs again, then frowns and, without really thinking about it, steps closer so he can tug out a small leaf that had been stuck in a tangle of Daisy’s hair. It hangs between his fingers for a moment before he drops it, letting it flutter to the tile and get swept away towards the drain.

Daisy looks at him, something unreadable in her eyes, and for a moment, he thinks he’s done something wrong—that it’s not like that between the two of them any longer. Then, Daisy turns and grabs the shampoo bottle off the shelf beside her, extending it towards him with one eyebrow raised. “If you’re going to stand there, you may as well make yourself useful,” she says, and Jon almost melts with relief, because the slight edge of softness in her voice—the way her words sound like a command but are instead an offer—is just as familiar to him as it had been so many months ago.

He takes the bottle, squeezes a small puddle of pale white that smells of vanilla into the center of his hand, and steps close enough that he can reach her hair. She tilts her head back slightly, accommodating for the few inches of height difference between them, and allows him to work the shampoo into her hair, scratching his nails against her scalp and working out bits of dirt and small twigs and sand that gets underneath his nails. He has so many things he wants to say to her since they’ve last been able to see each other like this, the first of which had come to him the moment he’d turned his back on her and Basira and fled into the damp, musty darkness of the tunnels. I need you to be safe, he’d thought, and he’d almost turned back so he could say it, sure that it could help somehow. Instead, he’d grit his teeth and kept running, because he’d known what she would say in return after she’d finished yelling at him for coming back just to say that. (If she was still able to yell, his mind had supplied unhelpfully. If she still had a jaw and tongue with which to form words.)

You don’t need me for anything, she would have said, and she would have been right. But that didn’t stop the want that crept into his bones as he ran through twisting corridors and dense fog, into his skin as he stepped into a dimly-lit cottage in the Scottish Highlands, into his stuttering heart as he stared up at a sky that stared back, unblinking and loving, and Knew that she was gone, running through this new and changed world with nothing but the smell of blood and the taste of fear driving her forward. He wanted her to be safe.

He’d wanted a great many things, back when the world was twisted and wrong.

He’d wanted her beside him, someone who would understand what it was like to be utterly consumed by that which you served and who knew what it was like to feel like a monster. He’d wanted to help her breathe around the sharp teeth in her mouth and to unclench her fingers where her claws dug into her palms and to talk her down from rumbling growls to heavy, labored breaths. He’d wanted to Look and see her happy, but to see her, rather than something that had once been Daisy but that now barely resembled the woman he had pulled out of the coffin. More than anything, he’d just wanted to see her. To talk to her. To be with his friend.

I’ve missed you, he thinks as he runs his fingers through Daisy’s hair, coarser than he remembers but still the same pale copper color, and watches the suds rinse slowly off as she shifts so she’s standing directly under the showerhead. His sleeves are growing a bit damp, even pushed up to the elbows as they are, and he pulls his hands back, letting them hang uncertainly in the air for a moment before he rubs them dry against one of the towels. And I wish I could tell you.

Once the water has run clear, Daisy shuts the shower off with a sigh and gathers a towel in her arms, rubbing it over her head and back with brisk efficiency. Her hair lies damp and heavy down her back as she wraps the towel around her. Jon’s fingers itch to separate her hair into thirds and pleat it into a loose braid like she’d always allowed him to do when he’d been feeling the loss of his own hair—shaved to the scalp during the coma, just barely grown to the tips of his ears—particularly deeply, but he keeps his hands by his side. Daisy looks at him, and after a moment, she says, “It’s weird not hearing your voice.” Then, softer: “I’m sorry it’s gone.”

Jon might cry. He nods instead, just once, and reaches for the door handle, pausing to give Daisy the chance to stop him before turning it and opening the door.

Martin isn’t there anymore. Jon can hear movement in the kitchen, glass clanking together, the sizzle of something in a pan. It smells of cumin and coriander. He nods at Daisy and leads her to the bedroom, kneeling and digging through the suitcase they’d never quite gotten around to unpacking before he unearths a pair of trousers he’s nearly certain will fit and a dark blue hoodie that only makes him flush a little bit at as he thrusts it towards Daisy.

She takes them without comment, and by the time he’s rearranged the remaining items inside the suitcase and stood, she’s swapped out the towel for the clothing. The trousers are a bit short, but they’ll do, Jon thinks, until they can run into town and get something else.

Then, Daisy plucks the hem of the hoodie between two fingers and says, amused, “Is this mine?”

Jon’s flush grows in intensity, and he covers it with a frown and a little huff of air through his nose. This only seems to amuse Daisy more; she lets out a small breathy laugh to match, drops the hem of the hoodie, and says, “Don’t look so grumpy. It’s sweet.” As Jon sputters soundlessly, she continues, “Have you had this the whole time? I was wondering where it went. Did you wear any of your own clothes in the Archives?”

Jon’s frown deepens into a scowl without any heat, and he looks away.

“Going to take that as a no.” Then, at Jon’s glower: “Relax, Jon. I’m just teasing.” Long fingers reach out and tug at the hem of his own jumper, and Daisy says with an audible smile, “Nice to see you’re still wearing Martin’s jumpers.” Then, a touch softer: “And that he’s here to give them to you.”

Jon flushes again for an entirely different reason, less of a shock of heat and more like a warmth that spreads over him like a blanket. He looks over at Daisy to see her watching him with a faint smile on her lips, and beneath it, a touch of satisfaction. It’s warranted, he supposes, given how much time he’d spent bemoaning Martin’s absence and sending wistful looks towards the ceiling and, enough times to be embarrassing, burying his face in the sleeves of Martin’s jumpers after a few too many drinks and trying to pick out the lingering smell of Martin amongst the must of the Archives that had begun to permeate them.

He looks down at where Daisy’s fingers are still gripping the hem of the jumper, a smile that’s happier than anything he’s worn in what feels like years rising to his lips. He’s wearing Martin’s jumper, in a safehouse in the Scottish Highlands, and Daisy is standing in front of him, and there is sunlight filtering in through the curtains, and there are no eyes heavy on the back of his neck or rust-red blood sitting in the back of Daisy’s nostrils, and they’re safe. Daisy’s here, with him, and Martin is in the other room cooking, and this is real. And he knows things will grow complicated again, likely as soon as they exit the bedroom and have to face the reality of how she’s here, but for now, there’s only this. And Jon intends to enjoy every moment of it that he can get.

[beatlesdumpsterfire]

prompt -> everyone cowers in front of ringo's supreme power

There’s a reason why Ringo never played drum solos. If you thought it was because he simply didn’t like them, then I’m sorry, but you got fooled by a famous Beatles lie. No, Ringo didn’t play drum solos because he had stage fright, or he thought that they were too ostentatious - he refused to play them because he knew it would give him too much power. So much power, in fact, that he could cause the end of the world.

Sounds dramatic, I know, but don’t believe me? Back in the Hamburg days, after being heckled by a rambunctious crowd for over 2 hours straight to play something that could put Buddy Rich to shame, Ringo finally cracked. He ran 64th notes down his drum kit in such a rapid succession that he started to glow bright orange, as if he were on fire. Rory and the rest of the band didn’t know what to do with their glowing orb of a drummer, but they didn’t have much time to fret on it anyways because the walls of the Kaiserkeller started to rattle and crack, which made the German audience, still recovering from WW2, duck for cover with a collective yelp.

“Ringo!” Rory tried to yell over the ear-splitting noise that was coming from Ringo as his orange glow got progressively brighter. Ringo couldn’t hear him because he was in the zone. The Auto Zone. “Quit it!!”

Ringo moved from his 64th notes to smacking away at his cymbals like he was releasing the rage of a thousand years. The middle of the dance floor started to cave in, swallowing those who couldn’t move away fast enough. If you listened closely, you could hear a deep, Liverpudlian laugh coming from the pit. The only reason Ringo didn’t cause the end of the world on this occasion was because, as he was about to start balancing his twirling drumsticks on his nose, his allergies (the thing that humbles us all) got the better of him, causing him to let out a loud sneeze that rocketed him away from his set. With his senses knocked back into him, Ringo gaped at the chaos in front of him and turned to Rory, who was gaping back at him with a look on his face that could only mean Ringo was out of the band.

This is the history of The Beatles that you don’t know about. Ringo was a freelancer for a brief moment in Hamburg before John, Paul, and George found him. There had been a rumor circulating that there was something wrong with Ringo, but when the three lads saw him standing outside of a club one cold evening, lighting a cigarette in his own solitude, they just assumed that everyone else was being mean and hinting at how big his nose was.

And just like that, Pete was out and Ringo was in, because John, Paul, and George had heard that Ringo could really bring the house down. Ringo had tried to warn his new band members on multiple occasions that he suspected there was something wrong with him, but all of them insisted that he was fine and that his nose really wasn’t that big, so he had nothing to worry about. Ringo wasn’t so sure about that but, following the Incident, he had braved the drums once again and managed to keep a steady beat without causing Armageddon. Needless to say, that didn’t mean he was any less nervous about playing. Luckily, he insisted enough times that he would never do a drum solo, and John, Paul, and George listened, though they did think he was a little bit looney.

And things were alright like this for a while, through the ups and downs of their career, playing across the globe to thousands of screaming fans. Ringo never once let his guard down: there were no solos coming from him, no matter how many people wanted it.

That fateful night in Hamburg felt like another life, so much so that Ringo nearly forgot about the unusual power he contained. It wasn’t until he was pushed to the edge that he remembered he held the fate of the world in the palm of his hand, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

The year was 1969, the holiest year of them all, and Ringo was about ready to thrust his head through some drywall, he was so fed up with his bandmates. The incessant bickering over which songs made the cut on the album and which didn’t were really starting to drive him up the wall. Maxwell’s Silver Hammer was just the icing on the cake.

“We need another take on that one,” Paul announced to the band with an air of authority that Ringo wished he could strangle. They had just finished playing through their forty-seventh take and, although Paul was acting like it wasn’t his fault, it was absolutely his fault that they had to play the damn song again. For someone who acted like he was the leader of the band, Paul sure was having trouble remembering his baloney lyrics.

Without a word, John let his guitar slip out of his hands so it clunked to the ground in an amplified drop, its buzzing filling the room. John left them like that, stomping to the door and letting himself out, back to sanity. George gazed longingly at the door like he wanted to follow behind John, but he knew too well that Paul wasn’t going to let that happen. Completely unbothered by John, Paul turned to face the engineers in the sound booth and motioned in a grand gesture for them to start a new tape.

George looked across at Ringo and Ringo stared blankly back at him. He was really trying to repress everything he was feeling.

“Take 48,” George Martin nervously announced into their headphones, like he knew he was stoking a fire.

“Ringo, I’m gonna need some more umph on that drum part,” Paul turned back to Ringo with a smug look stretched across his face. “If you can handle it.”

That was it. That was freaking it. That was the line. The line’s way back there. Paul crossed that line. He crossed that line so hard it’s not even funny.

Ringo stood from his kit but, unlike John, he didn’t book it for the door. Instead, he rushed around the room, gathering every single percussion instrument he could find.

“I’ll give you umph,” he growled at Paul. In return, Paul smiled back at him because that was exactly what he wanted. In between them, George grabbed at his head. His two mates were really making him question why they were his mates in the first place.

“Take 48!” Paul called up to George Martin, spinning his finger around to motion that they start the tape. Then, he turned back to Ringo, who was staring at him with so much intensity it was a miracle Paul wasn’t sent flying backwards.

“One, two, one two three...”

Paul started to play the opening chords on his dinky little piano but Ringo wasn’t having any of that, oh no. He pounded into his snare drum so hard one of the drumsticks broke through the skin. Instead of pulling it out, Ringo left it there and grabbed a tambourine, which he proceeded to bang against his hi-hat. Paul wasn’t sure what Ringo was doing, but they had experimented enough in the past that he let it slide. George, on the other hand, was silently whispering prayers to himself as he stared at Ringo's glowing figure in horror. Ringo knew exactly what he was doing; if he did a drum solo, he could wreck their studio enough that he wouldn’t have to listen to Maxwell’s frickin Silver Hammer again. The trouble was, Ringo didn’t know when the right time was to stop.

By the time he started using two maracas as drumsticks on a timpani, Ringo began to slowly levitate. George’s whispered prayers were becoming louder from his panic. Up in the booth, it looked like the two remaining Beatles were performing an exorcism on Ringo.

“What the-” George Martin muttered. The boys must have stumbled across some new kind of street drug that really messed you up.

“Maxwell Anderson, majoring in medicine,” Paul cheerfully sang from his piano, his back turned to Ringo. Ringo started to shake in place, now suspended 5 feet above the ground, clicking castanets angrily while glaring down at Paul. George gaped as Ringo's color switched to a fiery, Kool Aid Man-red. It was bad. Paul continued to unknowingly play, but his left hand took a break to wipe some sweat from his brow. Someone must have turned up the heat, he mused to himself.

But no, it was Ringo, on the brink of causing a thermonuclear explosion. George was initially concerned for Ringo’s safety but, after seeing actual waves of heat emitted from his beige suit, George decided that his pal wasn’t worth it. He’d had some great memories with Ringo, but he could remember those later in therapy. For the meantime, he was getting the hell out of dodge, to wherever John had escaped to.

The problem was, Ringo’s power was sucking George so dry that he hardly had any energy left in him to move. It was like the goddamn relativity cadenza all over again. The more Ringo banged out the drum solo of the millenium, the more powerful he became. No one could stop him, he was a god. Ringo, god of the bongos. The most feared of them all.

Something caused Paul to finally turn around (probably Mal missing his cue to play the anvil because he was too distracted by whatever the hell Ringo was up to) and, when he did, his jaw dropped.

“Wot the fuck Ringo?” he shouted. They hadn’t agreed that Ringo could become a celestial being during their recording session. At that moment, John barged back in through the door, ready to give his half-hearted apology to Paul. That was quickly thrown in the trash when John looked up at their drummer, who now resembled a ball of fire, like the sun or something. (Even though it seems appropriate, no, unfortunately George didn’t write Here Comes the Sun about this event - that song had already been recorded at this point). John, as terrified as he was, couldn’t help but let out a loud cackle at the spectacle that was playing out in front of him. He knew that their session for Maxwell’s Silver Hammer had been bad, but he didn’t realize it was this bad, so much so that their drummer was spontaneously combusting.

“Silence, mortal!” Ringo boomed down at John, not even missing a beat on his woodblock solo.

That got John to shut up pretty fast.

“No one dares laugh at the almighty and powerful Ringo!” Ringo continued, his words practically searing through everyone’s skulls. “I can end you with the crash of a cymbal, I can tear this planet apart, piece by piece with only the sheer power of my mind!”

“Good for you, Ringo,” Paul stammered out as he tried to hide behind his piano. Paul was smart to pick up on the fact that, out of all of them, Ringo probably had the biggest score to settle with him. He really sincerely hoped that his charm would be enough to keep Ringo from smiting him but, just to be extra safe, he threw one of his famous winks Ringo’s way. Ringo, in turn, glared at Paul and pulled out a triangle.

“With a single ding on this triangle,” Ringo bellowed out, so loudly that everyone in England could hear him, “our planet will cease to exist.” He floated closer to Paul and Paul in return tried to back up, though he quickly found himself pushed against the wall. “Is that enough umph for you, Paul?” Ringo sneered back at him. Paul tried to respond that Ringo really didn’t have to do that and, actually take 14 had come out pretty good, but he found all of his words trapped in his throat. Ringo’s power was too overwhelming. Ringo seemed satisfied that he had terrified Paul so much that he finally shut his yap and, to really gloat in his glory, his hand slowly crept towards the triangle.

The closer Ringo got to hitting that triangle, the bigger he got. The image was straight out of Alice in Wonderland - in a matter of seconds, Ringo had grown too big to fit in their studio. That didn’t matter much, as the heat coming off of him helped sear away the wooden ceiling so it came crashing around him.

He’s really getting a big head, John mused to himself, though he didn’t dare make his observation out loud, which was a good decision because he would have been a goner otherwise. At this point, Ringo’s feet stretched the entire length of the studio (or, what remained of it) and his head was well above the skyline of London, where everyone could see him and scream with horror before going, “Wait, is that Ringo Starr from the Beatles?”

Ringo was only inches away from the triangle now and London had never been hotter. The ocean was starting to dry up on the coast, fields were bursting in flames at random, and children started asking their parents why they didn’t have more fans in their houses. Alongside the heat, the ground started to quiver before shaking, rattling, and rolling. Cars rocked in the street, smashing into each other, and trees and buildings started to tilt sideways, like wannabe Leaning Towers of Pisa. People were starting to panic, because nothing this exciting had ever happened in England before.

“Ringo!” George tried to call up to his mate, though he knew it was no use, considering how high up Ringo was. “Please, stop it!” John and Paul heard George’s desperate pleas over the commotion and joined in, falling to their knees and clasping their hands together, begging with all the energy they had left.

“We’ll let you have more songs on our album!” John tried.

“I’ll bring you more flowers,” George tried.

“We’ll stop recording Maxwell’s Silver Hammer for once and for all!” Paul tried without really thinking.

Ringo was a millimeter away from making contact with the triangle. But then, he stopped. And, faster than you could say “Maxwell Anderson,” the shaking and heat stopped. Ringo had almost instantly shrunk himself back down to his normal size and was no longer glowing a searing red. He calmly set the triangle down on the stool next to his kit and turned around to look at Paul, John, and George.

“Good,” was all he had to say. And, with that, he turned on his heel and strutted out of the practically demolished studio, whistling a happy tune to himself. Left behind, Paul, John, and George all tried to compose themselves.

“A new rule for the band,” Paul started slowly, “let’s not mess with Ringo.”

“Agreed,” John was quick to respond.

“Agreed,” George repeated.

[gtschnickschnack]

This writing’s been around for a bit. I liked the idea of writing a fic in transcript format

Plot: While sorting things Tim brings back something neat he found to show the others (it’s borrower Jon)

length: its pretty short, like 1k maybe?

cw: gt typical manhandling, borrower called by it/its for one half

The role of archivist goes to Sasha and ofc Jon is the borrower :) I feel like this is fine to read if you don’t know the podcast since it takes place in s1, but at some points a bit confusing maybe. I dont think its a nice format to read in general but it was a fun exercise I wanted to share

————

[CLICK]

[DOOR OPENING]

TIM: Guys, I found something.

MARTIN: Hm?

ARCHIVIST: What is wh- (surprised) woah, what is that!

[TWO PAIRS OF FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING TIM]

MARTIN: Wh- Is, is that alive?

TIM: Very sure, it’s moving a lot.

MARTIN: Bloody hell, where did you even find that?

TIM: Under a shelf. It was carrying a paperclip.

MARTIN: Why?

TIM: Don’t ask me! I mean.. What are we gonna do with this thing?

ARCHIVIST: I'm still stuck on what that even is.

MARTIN: It's so small…It looks pretty scared though, should we set it down?

TIM: I don't know, it’s squirming a lot. I’m scared it will just hurt itself.

MARTIN: You think it has wings? Like would it get out of a box?

ARCHIVIST: No, I don't think so.

MARTIN: I'll get a box. [FADING FOOTSTEPS AND SHUFFLING SOUNDS]

TIM: It looks just like a person, but… really little.

ARCHIVIST: It does…. Very expressive face. (to Tim) You got a clue on what that is?

TIM: Not one.

MARTIN: Here, I emptied one out. Careful.

[SOMETHING IS DROPPED INTO THE BOX, MORE SHUFFLING CAN BE HEARD]

TIM: There.

[BOX IS PLACED DOWN]

TIM: What should we do to calm it down?

MARTIN: Are you asking me?

TIM: I don’t know, you’re the bug expert here.

MARTIN: I know about spiders, Tim. Spiders. Whatever this is, it’s not a spider.

TIM: Okay okay, but maybe there’s something-

ARCHIVIST: Hey guys. Is it…

TIM: Oh..

MARTIN: It… It’s crying.

[SHORT SILENCE]

TIM: Should I pick it up again?

[QUIET GASP IN THE BACKGROUND]

Martin: No, don’t. I think that’s just gonna make it worse.

ARCHIVIST: Do you think it can understand us? MARTIN: I don’t know.

ARCHIVIST: Hey, little one… it’s okay. We don’t want to hurt you.

TIM: Sorry if I scared you.

ARCHIVIST: Can you understand us?

TIM: I don’t think so, it’s just curled into a ball now.

MARTIN: What do we do with this? I mean.. should we tell Elias?

ARCHIVIST: No… Let’s keep this to ourselves for now.

[AGREEING SOUNDS]

ARCHIVIST: Oh, shoot the time! I wanted to record another one of our glitchy statements!

TIM: What? You can’t do it later?

ARCHIVIST: I mean I, I wanted to get that done before today's shift ends. Elias wasn't pleased the last time i postponed making a tape recording.

TIM: Weird.

ARCHIVIST: Yep. But… don't want to loose the new job just yet. (sigh) I'll just try and be quick about it and later we can talk this through together. In the meantime… I don't know, try and figure out what that is? I won't be long.

MARTIN: Alright.

[FADING FOOTSTEPS AND CLOSING DOOR]

TIM: Well?

MARTIN: I don’t know, it’s still crying, though. Maybe we should give it a tissue?

TIM: Hm.

[RUSTLING SOUNDS]

TIM: Don’t drop it on top of it! Now you just startled it.

MARTIN: Well I’m sorry I can’t warn it, I don’t think it can understand us.

TIM: I don’t know…it's staring between us.

[AGREEING MARTIN SOUNDS]

TIM: (slowly) Do you understand us?

[TIM AND MARTIN GASPING]

Martin: It nodded. It- You didn’t just- that was a nod, right?

TIM: Woah. Can you talk?

MARTIN: Oh my god.

TIM: Okay, that was a nod, but can you like actually talk?

MARTIN: Maybe it- uhm, they, have like stage fright? Oh hey no, it’s okay, you don’t have to talk. Please don’t cry again.

TIM: Yea, it’s alright. We’re not going to make you do anything. (to Martin) Maybe we should put them in a corner or something? Let them calm down?

MARTIN: Probably a good idea.

[FOOTSTEPS AS THE BOX IS MOVED]

TIM: On the shelf should be good.

[MORE SHUFFLING, FOOTSTEPS BACK TO MARTIN]

MARTIN: (whispering) Christ, Tim, thats like a person, a proper person.

TIM: (whispering back) I know.

MARTIN: What do we do?

TIM: I don’t know. (sign) Maybe we have statements on similar things? We could check those, or check the library.

MARTIN: I don’t remember seeing any book on tiny people working there, but I guess I could check anyway?

TIM: I check statements, you check the library?

MARTIN: What, like now?

TIM: I mean our boss gave us the task to figure this out, best to follow her orders.

MARTIN: Guess so. (sigh) Yeah, okay. I’ll see what I can find.

TIM: Alright, I’ll do the same. And keep an eye on our guest.

[FOOTSTEPS, DOOR CLOSING]

TIM: Who turned this on?

[CLICK]

—————

[CLICK]

[SOUNDS OF RUSTLING PAPER, A LONG SIGH FROM TIM AND FOOTSTEPS]

TIM: Hey uh.. don’t get startled, I’m just picking the box up again, okay?

[SHUFFLING, BOX IS PICKED UP THEN SET DOWN ELSEWHERE]

TIM: So uh.. You seem calmer? A bit maybe. Sorry for spooking you like that, little uh.. guy? one? I’ll just go with one, don’t wanna assume anything, you know.

BORROWER: Wh-what are you going to do to me?

TIM: … What? Nothing, we- just talk, we just want to talk.

BORROWER: Are you going to let me go then?

TIM: I mean of course, we’re not going to to just keep you captive. But I think we have some questions first.

BORROWER: …okay. Can you… let me out of the box at least?

TIM: Sure, I can put you on the desk I guess..

BORROWER: (alarmed) No! D-don’t touch me!

TIM: Okay, woah it’s okay! Hands are up here, see? Not gonna touch you. How am I going to get you out then..

BORROWER: I uh.. don’t suppose you could tilt the box?

TIM: Oh, that’s smart. [SHUFFLING] Just be careful sliding out.

[SOMETHING LANDS ON THE DESK]

TIM: There we go.

[DOOR OPENING]

ARCHIVIST: All done n- what are you doing, Tim?

TIM: I’m just helping our little guest out, per their request.

ARCHIVIST: Request?

[BOX BEING SET DOWN]

TIM: Oh yeah, they can talk.

ARCHIVIST: Wait what! You can talk?

BORROWER: Y-yes.

[FOOTSTEPS]

ARCHIVIST: Oh wow… I, I’m Sasha. Do you have a name?

TIM: Oh, I’m Tim by the way.

BORROWER: … Jon.

ARCHIVIST: Well... nice to meet you, Jon. Can you tell us what you are? Unless you already told Tim...

TIM: No, I haven’t asked.

BORROWER: I… H-how many questions do I need to answer before you let me go?

ARCHIVIST: Wait what? Tim, what did you tell them?

TIM: What? I di-

[DOOR OPENING AND FOOTSTEPS]

MARTIN: Sorry it took me so long I got held up by Rosie and- why are they on the desk now?

TIM: They asked for it.

Martin: Oh?

BORROWER: Y-you said you would let me go a-after some questions.

ARCHIVIST: Tim?! TIM: Not like that! I said we have some questions and that we would let them go, of course.

ARCHIVIST: Tim you-

MARTIN: Wait guys, let’s back off before they back off the desk.

TIM: Right.

ARCHIVIST: Yeah.

[FOOTSTEPS AND CHAIR SLIDING]