#penn writes

[penn-dragon]

I posted another part of this wip on my other blog but I’m working on a zosan fic where Zoro gets turned into a woman, and a really fun part of writing this for me is Zoro being extremely irritated by the inanity of gender roles lmao

[spicy-dragon]

I love all your headcanons and opinions and art about Zoro and Sanji's sex life!! Do you have any smut you've written?

Thank you!!!!

I don’t have anything that’s finished, but as per usual I have about a million wips

So here’s a part of a wip I’ve been writing where Zoro gets turned into a woman and zosan end up in a fucked up situationship 👇

“You need to get laid.”

Sanji hurled the wooden spoon at his head. Zoro reached up and caught it from the air before it made contact, bringing it to his mouth to drag his tongue through the sauce coating the end. It was perfect, of course. That didn’t stop him from eyeing the cook as he licked his lips and offering,

“Tastes a little sweet.” —just to watch the way the other man bristled at the jab.

“Maybe to someone with the taste buds of a mutated sea cucumber!” He snarled, slamming the lid back into the pot with a loud clang and turning down the flame. “And what I do in private is none of your business, so back off unless you want me to knock you through that wall.”

The threat was as empty as they came. Sanji had already made it abundantly clear where Zoro currently fell on his inane fighting spectrum. Despite the strong words, he’d no more raise a polished shoe to Zoro right now than he would roundhouse kick Nami for asking the time of day—a thought that pricked up Zoro’s spine in an uncomfortable way. It had only been a few days, but he was already itching for the normality of their fights. A day spent without Sanji trying to cave his skull in was a day he spent bored. He needed the thrum of a good fight, the exertion that came only from being pitted against someone who matched your strength. That brief moment in time where Sanji’s head was filled with nothing but him. If the cook wouldn’t fight him, he’d have to get his fill another way. Zoro’s determination returned two-fold, and the words were leaving his mouth before he could reconsider what a bad idea this was.

“I’ll fuck you,” Zoro said, downing the last mouthful of sake from the bottle. “Probably be the first time you’ve ever actually touched a woman.”

Sanji whipped around, cigarette crunched between his teeth as he bristled.

“Listen you stupid Neanderthal, I—” The rest of the insult was choked off as Sanji’s mouth clamped shut, eyes going comically wide as he registered Zoro’s proposition for what it was. “What?”

“I said I’ll fuck you.” The empty sake bottle clinked as Zoro set it down, pushing his seat back to stand from the table. “Or more accurately, I’ll let you fuck me.”

“WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I WANT TO FUCK YOU?” The screech of Sanji’s voice shot so loud Zoro was almost worried the others would hear it from wherever they were on the island. It was laughable, the way Sanji shook with barely contained rage, as though Zoro hadn’t felt the burning gaze on him any time his back was turned. As though Sanji hadn’t made it painfully obvious he no longer knew where to look when Zoro was in the room.

“Everything about how you’ve been acting the past days makes me think that.”

Sanji dropped his gaze to the floor under the pretense of glaring at the wood, but Zoro could see the embarrassment flickering through his expression. He wrapped his hand around Kitetsu, sliding the sword free from its holster, still sheathed in its saya, and angled the blade beneath the cook’s chin. Sanji jolted at the touch, gaze darting back up to Zoro as he continued,

“You can’t look at me because you’re attracted to me.”

Sanji opened his mouth as if to deny it, but no words escaped. He clamped his jaw back down around silence that was as good as a confession. The furrow between his eyebrows deepened, but his eyes flickered down Zoro once, and he took the expression for what it was. Interest. Zoro smirked.

“Here’s the thing, Cook.” He pressed forward with Kitetsu, tilting Sanji’s head further up so he was looking down his nose to keep his gaze. The easy compliance was new, and it gave Zoro a little thrill to have Sanji at the end of his sword, obeying the minute pressure without so much as a protest. “I’m not gonna be a woman forever.” He tilted his head to the side, giving the cook’s chin a gentle tap with the tip of his blade. “You still gonna be able to look me in the eye after you’ve been inside me?”

Sanji blushed. It was immensely gratifying to watch the bright red color flood his cheeks to the tips of his ears, even as his face pulled into an irritated scowl. However he didn’t respond, and as the silence lapsed the answer became clear, even if it wasn’t the one Zoro wanted to hear.

He began drawing Kitetsu back. Not worth it if Sanji was going to freak out the moment he was back to normal. Not worth it if it would only make things weird for the crew. Not worth it no matter how much disappointment curled like a dying plant in Zoro’s chest. Before he could withdraw the sword entirely, Sanji’s hand shot up to wrap around it, gritting his teeth as he met Zoro’s gaze with a stubborn glare.

“I can look you in the eye. Now, and later,” he hissed.

Fire ignited in Zoro’s chest like someone had struck a match and dropped it in there. He grinned, wide and feral as he yanked Kitetsu back, dragging the cook with it into his space. He slid the blade back into place alongside the other two and curled his free hand into Sanji’s tie to pull him in even closer.

“Big talk, Curly. You want to put your money where your mouth is?”

Sanji glared at him for just a moment longer, face still flushed red, before he flicked his cigarette to the side and crushed their mouths together.

Zoro grabbed a fistful of his suit jacket, pulling him even closer as Sanji’s hands slid up his neck and into his hair. His mouth tasted like ash and the bordelaise sauce he’d been making for dinner, the scent of cigarette smoke and cologne invaded Zoro’s senses as Sanji kissed him again and again. It was everything Zoro had never let himself imagine.

Sanji pushed him until his back hit the edge of the table and Zoro allowed himself to be lifted onto it, spreading his legs so Sanji could slip in between them. He fisted a hand through blonde hair as the cook broke away from his mouth to press a hot kiss against his jaw, then his ear, working down to his neck. Pleasure struck electric all the way down to his toes as Sanji opened his mouth to suck hard on his skin.

“You gonna fuck me right here in your precious kitchen?” He goaded.

“Of course not.” Sanji hissed, pulling back away from his skin. “First of all, we eat here, that's disgusting. Second of all, I’m a gentleman. I would never bed a woman somewhere so uncomfortable.”

Zoro clenched his grip in Sanji’s hair, tugging sharply at the roots to earn a wince.

“I’m not a woman, Curly.”

Sanji hissed, wrapping his hand around Zoro’s to relieve the pressure on his scalp.

“You are in all but name right now,” he spat. “Isn’t that the point of this?”

Zoro ignored the prick of pain in his chest, pushed it back and away behind the part of him that was aching for more of Sanji’s touch. To have this man willing and wanting beneath his fingers.

“Fair enough,” he hooked one leg around Sanji’s waist pulling their bodies flush together so he could watch the way the cook’s expression crumbled at the unexpected friction. “Romance me then, Gentleman.”

“You’re such a fucking brute.” Sanji seethed, but he surged forward for another kiss, licking into Zoro’s mouth as he cupped his face to tip it back.

Zoro’s whole body was on fire, the arousal pooling low in his stomach felt different than he was used to. Not entirely alien, but unfamiliar enough that it made him dizzy. He hooked his other leg around the cook’s waist, rolling his hips to explore the sensation. Sanji broke the kiss with a gasp, grinding back against him, and the burst of pleasure had Zoro pitching forward to press his forehead to the cook’s shoulder.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Sanji groaned. “Come on.”

The second he shifted like he was going to pull away Zoro clamped down his grip, stubbornly dragging him back in. The thought of separating from Sanji long enough to leave the galley, cross the deck, and reach the men’s cabin wasn’t appealing in the slightest. He tipped his head up, leaning in so he could press his lips against Sanji’s ear and speak low into it.

“Let’s just do it here.”

Pressed together as they were, it was impossible for Sanji to hide the shiver that ran up his spine and when he spoke again it was through clenched teeth.

“God, you’re so lazy.” His weight shifted forward against Zoro, and for a second he thought the cook was giving up. Instead, he slid his hands under Zoro’s thighs to hoist him up. Zoro startled, barely biting back a very unmanly yelp. He braced his hands on Sanji’s shoulders to keep his balance as he leaned back. At this angle, he was looking down on Sanji, disheveled hair falling across his face as he smirked in a way that felt downright sinful. “I’ll just do all the work, shall I?”

There was a sarcastic lilt to his voice, but he moved towards the door of the galley. Maybe under different circumstances Zoro would have objected to the manhandling, but it kept the cook close and freed him up to taste the milky white skin he’d dreamt about one too many times.

“If you’re offering.”

He leaned in to kiss the soft skin just below Sanji’s ear, opening his mouth to suck and nibble along his neck. He was only vaguely aware of the change in scenery as the cook kicked the door open and they made it outside, the cool sea air caressing his overheated skin.

“No marks,” Sanji growled, and Zoro released the patch of skin from between his teeth.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want anyone asking questions or making assumptions.”

Zoro hummed, sliding his fingers into the knot of Sanji’s tie to work it loose, a sly smile making its way onto his face.

“So it’s okay if it’s somewhere no one will see?” He asked, popping open the first few buttons of Sanji’s dress shirt and slipping his hand beneath the fabric to expose the beginning of his collar bone. He was pleased to see the red of his flush making its way all the way down his chest.

“I didn’t say that,” he hissed, but carrying Zoro as he was, he was in no position to stop it as Zoro leaned in to nip at his clavicle, running his tongue along the skin there before latching onto a spot at the base of his neck with a hard suck.

“Zoro,” the cook warned, but the hitch in his breath and the way his steps faltered only urged him on. He grazed his teeth against the spot, testing his limits before continuing to suck on his skin.

“Zoro,” he tried again, growling it through clenched teeth. Zoro released the spot, only to pull his shirt further askew and mouth his way down to a new patch of skin.

Sanji slammed him against the door to the men’s cabin, fisting a hand in his hair to tear his head back and kiss him fiercly.

“You are absolutely infuriating,” he hissed in between kisses.

Zoro grinned into the kiss, catching the cook’s bottom lip between his teeth to give it a sharp nip. He reached back, groping for the handle, the door swung open and they stumbled inside.

Sanji only stopped kissing him long enough to set him back on his feet before raising both hands to catch his face and pull him back in.

Zoro popped open the buttons of his suit jacket, sliding his hands up to push the heavy material off his shoulders. Sanji’s hands left his face to tear it the rest of the way off without breaking the kiss, before gripping the bottom of his shirt. His hands twitched, making an aborted move upward only to release his shirt and settle back on his hips to tug him closer. Zoro felt a bubble of amusement rise in his chest as he recognized the hesitation for what it was. The love-cook, afraid to go to second base. Zoro broke the kiss with a low chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Sanji murmured.

“Aren’t you being too much of a gentleman right now?” Zoro asked.

“Huh?” He asked dumbly, and Zoro tapped a finger against the hand pressed unmoving against his waist.

“Your hands haven’t left the safe zones.”

Sanji froze, a startlingly flustered look crossing his face that made Zoro want to laugh out loud just to piss him off. Instead, he placed a hand on Sanji’s chest, pushing him back enough that they were no longer touching. He grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it up and over his head in one fluid movement. Sanji gaped at him as he tossed the shirt carelessly to the side, planting his hands on his hips.

“We’re gonna have sex, Cook. You’re allowed to touch me.”

Sanji sighed, covering his beet red face with his hands.

“This isn’t fucking fair.”

Zoro chuckled, stepping towards him and Sanji startled, snapping his head up as his eyes flicked comically from Zoro’s face down to his bare chest and back again. When he was close enough, he reached out a hand to press it flat against Sanji’s chest, leaning in just enough to watch how his eyes flickered with anticipation. Then Zoro hooked his foot around the back of the cook’s ankle to pull his leg out from under him and shoved him back. Sanji flailed, tripping on the edge of the depression in the floor and falling hard onto the couch behind him.

“Fucking hell!” He shouted, scrambling up onto his elbows to spit at him like an angry cat. “What was that for?!”

Zoro stepped forward, pressing his boot against the front of Sanji’s pants. The cook jolted, tipping his head forward to try and hide the full body shiver that ran through him.

“You’re so easy to manipulate like this,” Zoro taunted, shifting forward to put more pressure against Sanji’s groin. “It’s amazing no one’s taken advantage of you yet.”

“Fuck you,” Sanji hissed, the venom of it lessened by the audible tremor in his voice.

“I already said you could,” he teased, drawing his foot away from Sanji’s crotch.

He sat down on the edge of the couch area, lifting one leg so he could work his boot off, then the other, dropping them both to the floor with a heavy thunk. Sanji watched him with dark eyes as he slid to the couch, reaching out to grab the loose knot of his tie and pulled it the rest of the way off. He fumbled with the tiny buttons of Sanji’s dress shirt, revealing more skin at an absolutely infuriating pace. He was tempted to just rip the thing open, if only to see how much the cook would let him get away with. However, woman or not that move was likely to piss him off and Zoro wasn’t risking this. Not when he was burning beneath his skin and Sanji’s fingers deftly joined his own to hastily finish opening his shirt so Zoro could drag it off him.

[purplepenntapus]

HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO GO THROUGH THIS GOOGLE? HE ONLY HAS ONE EYE

[purplepenntapus]

Oh you’re in luck I actually posted this fic just recently after years of hoarding it to myself! It doesn’t include all these scenes because these came from a couple different pieces of writing but I think you’ll still enjoy what’s here

Goblin Harry feeling like Peter extending gentleness towards him is equivalent to being treated as lesser when it's really a manifestation of the kind and compassionate love he's craved his entire life but now refuses to accept because of the ideas ingrained in him by the parent who failed to provide him with such love in the first place

[chrliekclly]

yea is that stupid enough for ya?

[urloveada]

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 || 𝐣𝐨𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐠💌™

𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰: joe goldberg x f!reader

𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 1.9k+

𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰: smut, p in v, edging, swearing, vibrator, ‘you belong to me’ vibes, dom/sub undertones; dom!joe, sub!reader. MDNI

𝓷/𝓪: not beta read, i apologize for any errors!! || my new bsf (🤫) has been dying for this fic; i really hope you enjoy!!

╰ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ masterlist || navigation

You and Joe finally decided to go out on a date. You’ve both been so busy with work lately you haven’t gotten to spend much time together. Joe’s working full time; you're working part time, but unfortunately your schedules barely line up.

 

It was Joe’s idea to come to this restaurant; this was where you met. So, it’s quite sentimental to the both of you. which is a big reason why your boyfriend is eyeing you angrily as you flirt with the young waiter.

 

Now in your defence, you didn’t mean for the flirting to start; it just happened. He came to take your order but could not keep his eyes off you. Of course Joe noticed; he notices everything, especially when it comes to you. And out of the corner of your eye, you saw Joe clench his jaw in frustration, maybe even jealousy. So that’s when you decided to play along, for as long as Joe would let you, that is.

 

“Okay, your food will be ready in a few minutes. It might take a bit longer since we’re currently low staff.” The young waiter, whose name you learned is Elliot, tells you apologetically.

 

“It’s okay, baby; we aren’t in a rush,” you tell him kindly before he walks away, making sure you emphasize the word 'baby.'

 

Joe stares at you silently, trying to collect his thoughts before he speaks. “What are you doing?” The warning was clear: don’t do it again or you won’t like the consequences.

 

You stay silent, looking innocently at him, until he raises his eyebrows, indicating he’s expecting an answer.

 

“I’m just being polite; is that a problem?” You sass, crossing your arms over your chest.

 

“Oh, you do NOT get to flirt with the waiter than sass me. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Joe asks sternly, keeping eye contact with you as you try looking away.

 

“Oh my, God, Joe. It’s not that big of a deal. Why are you being such a—“

 

“Okay, we have one order of the grilled chicken, with salad on the side,” Elliot cuts you off, bringing your food over, “and one order of steak and baked potatoes.” He slides Joe his dinner.

 

“Can I get you anything else? a refill on your drinks maybe?” Elliot offers the both of you. Joe notices Elliot’s hand slightly brushing against your shoulder but doesn’t comment on it.

 

Joe shakes his head no.

 

“No thanks, darling,” you say, smiling at Elliott as he walks away to take other orders.

 

Joe is now looking at you furiously. “This is your last warning. Do it again, and we’re leaving; do you understand me?” Joe demands, grabbing your chin so you’re making eye contact.

 

You nod your head, but roll your eyes while trying to wriggle out of his grip.

 

“uh, uh. eyes up here. I said, Do you understand me?”

 

“Yeah, okay,” you nod your head. “I understand.”

 

Joe releases his grip and nods his head. “Now eat, please.”

 

_________

 

You and Joe eat your dinner peacefully, finally having the evening together Joe wanted. You are so close to finishing your meal without anymore distractions until Elliott comes over one last time to check on you.

 

“Is everything alright?” Elliot asks, sounding like he genuinely cares how your meal is.

 

“It was delicious, thank you,” you reply, setting the fork down and looking up at Elliot. “Wasn’t it good, Joe?" You turn to look at your boyfriend.

 

“Yes, it was. Thank you,” he says politely, despite how annoyed he is with Elliot.

 

“I’m glad to hear that!” Elliot replies happily, “Would you like me to get the bill now?” He asks, collecting your empty plates and utensils.

 

“Yes, love, that sounds wonderful,” you respond with the same level of enthusiasm.

 

Elliot leaves to get the bill, and you look over at Joe, not expecting to see him so angry.

 

“I have told you several times to knock it off. I am sick of you disrespecting me,” Joe says sternly.

 

He leans forward to whisper this last part so only you can hear.

 

“When we get home, you are being punished. I do not care how much you don’t want it; you will be punished for your actions, and that is final. Do you understand?”

 

You look at Joe bewildered. Sure, you wanted to push his buttons; angry sex is the best, is it not? but a punishment? That was something you didn’t expect.

 

"Yes, sir,” you respond sheepishly, “understood.”

 

_________

 

The drive home is silent, not even the sound of the radio going. You knew you were going to be in trouble, but not this much trouble.

 

I mean, really? a punishment?  

That’s not necessary. Of course you’d never say this to Joe; he would not approve of this mindset.

 

when you finally arrive home and Joe parks the car in the driveway. There’s a moment or two of silence while he tries collecting his thoughts.

 

He turns to you and grabs your chin with two fingers, forcing you to look him in the eyes when he talks to you.

“When you go inside, I want you to strip completely and wait for me on the bed. I will be inside in a few minutes. Go.”

 

Joe releases his grip, and you scramble out of the car and inside the house, shutting the door behind you. You run up the stairs and go to your shared bedroom.

 

You strip off your clothes, put them in the laundry basket, and wait on the bed as Joe instructed.

 

You heard Joe walking up the stairs a few minutes after you sat down. He wasn’t stomping, which was a good sign.

 

Joe opened the door and looked to the bed, making sure you listened. “Finally learned how to listen, hm?” He teased, walking over to the bed to stand above you.

 

“Go get the vibrator,” Joe says sternly, pointing to the nightstand on the opposite side of you.

 

“Joe, please no,” you plead, making zero effort to do as you’re told.

 

“Now.”

 

You sigh and climb across the bed. opening the drawer aggressively and grabbing the vibrator. Sliding across the bed you had it to Joe, and once again start pleading.

 

“please, please! dont. I’ll be good, Joe.” You give him your best puppy eyes. “So good, I promise.”

 

His eyes soften slightly, and he rubs his thumb across your lips before leaning in and softly kissing them.

 

He pulls back and admires you for a moment before saying, “Lay down, on your back, spread your legs.”

 

You whine but obey him wordlessly, trying your best to prepare yourself for what’s about to happen.

 

“Good girl,” Joe turns on the vibrato to its slowest level and holds it between your legs.

 

You gasp and twitch at the sudden sensation between your legs but say nothing; instead, you grip the soft cotton sheets in order to hold still.

 

“Oh baby,” Joe coos, placing down the vibrator so it won’t move when he lets go. and sits down on a chair beside the bed. “This is only the beginning, and your already gasping and moaning?”

 

You glare at your boyfriend and begin to say something when your cut off by the vibration being turned up a level, using a remote Joe keeps with him.

 

“Joe,” you groan, struggling to keep still. You look over at your boyfriend to see him smiling at you, enjoying watching you struggle to keep your composure.

 

“hmm?” He hums, “What is it, baby?” Turning it up to the max speed, he asks, “Is something wrong?”

 

“Mmm, fuck,” you moan breathlessly, gripping at the sheets even harder.

 

“Use your words,” he tuts.

 

“Please, off,” you beg helplessly, “I'm going to come, please.”

 

“Uh, uh. No, your not.” Joe sits up and pushes the vibrator deeper, rubbing it up and down. “Only good girls get to come. Were you a good girl?”

 

You quickly shake your head no, hopeful that if you obey, you will get the reward of coming.

 

“No? No what, baby, use your words.” He says sternly but not coldly.

 

“No,” you groan in a mix of pain and pleasure. “No, I wasn’t a good girl.”

 

“No, you weren’t,” he agrees, stopping the movement of the vibrator and leaving it still once more. “What were you then? hmm?" joe prompts.

 

“Bad girl,” you answer, arching your back, trying to nonchalantly wiggle away from the vibrations.

 

“Yeah, you were a bad girl.” He notices your wiggles and once again moves the vibrator closer to your clit. “And do bad girls get to come?”

 

“No, they don't.” You give him your best ‘I’ll be a good girl’ eyes, but to no avail.

 

“No, they don’t. Does that mean you get to come?” he asks, finding pleasure in your constant gasps and moans.

 

“No.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

You gasp loudly, “Joe, I’m going to come. I can't fight it anymore.” You carefully grind on the vibrator, trying to bring yourself to the orgasm you so badly need.

 

Joe quickly puts an end to that nonsense by taking the vibrator away. “Oh, baby, wrong decision.”

 

Joe waits a few minutes to let you come down from your almost orgasm, then puts the vibrator right back between your thighs.

 

“Oh,” you gasp, gripping at Joe's wrists, your nails digging into his skin. “Please stop. I’ll be good, I promise,” you beg. At this point, you’re willing pretty much anything to get him to stop.

 

“yeah? you have?" He gently removes your nails from digging into him.

 

“Yes! Oh, God, yes.” you all but yell. “I’ll never, ever flirt with someone else again.”

 

“Yeah, I know you won’t,” he agrees, unbuckling his pants and pulling them off.

 

You watch Joe strip, just now noticing how hard he is. Joe pulls down his boxers, and his dick springs out.

 

Joe climbs on the bed with you and removes the vibrator. “Show me how much of a good girl you can be.”

 

You eagerly climb on Joe's lap and position yourself on his cock. Joe slides inside you easily.

 

“Hmm, so wet for me, yeah?” Joe teases, kissing your neck.

 

“Yes,” you reply, turning your neck to the side so he has better access, as you begin to rock back and forth on Joe.

 

He flips you over your laying underneath him while he starts pounding into your dripping wet pussy.

 

You whimper and dig your nails into Joe's back. “Joe,” you pant, “don’t stop, I’m close.”

 

He continues pounding you. “No one will ever make you feel this good,” he whispers in your ear. “Look at you, so needy for me.” He kisses your lips rather aggressively, his tongue slipping into your mouth.

 

You moan in pleasure and run hand through Joe's hair, tugging on it, so his face is closer to yours.

 

You pull back from the kiss to moan out, “Joe, I’m going to come.” He continues, not slowing down his pace.

 

“Come for me, baby, that’s it. good girl,” he praises as you finish.

 

Joe comes shortly after and pulls out. You both flop on your backs, trying to catch your breath. After a minute or so, Joe turns to you. “I meant what I said. No one will make you feel as good as I do.”

 

You nod in agreement, pulling him into a sloppy kiss. “I know,”

 

Joe pulls you close; you rest your head on his chest and close your eyes.

 

“You’re mine; you got that?”

 

“Mhmm,” you hum. “Believe me, I won’t forget.”

𝓷/𝓪: requests are open!! feel free to use whenever you want.

[iffondrels-library]

A thought: Wind being a good delivery boy while Time and Sky can and will flush your love letter down the drain.

[warlenys]

house md most show ever because it’s the only one where a main character’s death is the direct fault of real life obama

[summerongrand]

7x01: The Shot

For those who don't know, I generally share my musings through a sociocritical lens because of The Rookie's unique position as a police procedural where all the female cops are women of color. I am protective of Lucy not just as a character but as a character who occupies a new space for Asian-Americans on network TV. At the same time, I love both parts of Chenford equally.

If you're not American, you're welcome to still read these posts but keep in mind that I'm an American writing about American media. These musings speak to the environment in the States.

Chenford: I have no reservations about them in battle. They still clearly trust each other with their lives and work well as a unit. He trained her with what he knows and she uses his techniques in a way that's Lucy Chen. There are obvious differences, of course, but Tim and Lucy are also two parts of the same person when they're out on the field. Their flirtation and banter in this episode aren’t my favorite. I don't think Lucy should've have accepted Tim’s bet so easily. There’s a harmful stereotype about Asian women being submissive to white men and we see it again through Lucy. I want to be clear that there are different types of submission, including emotional, social, psychological, and sexual. Lucy's submission to Tim here is emotional. We see Tim trying to occupy her “friend space” without actually earning her friendship, both when the bet is placed and in the parking lot scene, and Lucy letting him. I need Tim to at least give Lucy the adult conversation she asked for before she banters and flirts with him. If we compare the parking lot scene in 7x01 to the ones in 6x01 and 6x06, when he leaves her stunned, heartbroken, and standing by herself, it’s an improvement. However, had they had a polite exchange in 7x01 without her flirting back, it would show that he's working to earn her kindness back in small doses and Lucy would've come across as possessing more self-worth even as she looks at him in her rearview mirror. I like Tim watching her drive off and Lucy's rearview mirror double lookback on their own, without the flirting. It shows promise without Lucy giving Tim too much too soon, which the flirting and banter did.

Greycy: Wade Grey, the fearless and compassionate fatherly leader that you are! Wade leading from a helo is badass.

Lucy flubbing Grey’s title and referring to him Sergeant was Alexi's way of telling us that Wade got his promotion while not actually producing a scene about his promotion. I very much like Lucy being given this line.

It’s clear Wade has her back too and this feels like a continuation of his support for her in 6x07 after Tim broke up with her. He could’ve easily asked Angela or Nyla to fill in as temporary TO, but he chose Lucy and gave her an interim promotion to P3. He did this in such a fatherly way too, by saying it's a favor for him and that he owes her for it. Then he sweetens the request by letting her know that it will help boost her credentials for when a detective slot opens up.

"Officer Chen is stepping up." Here he's making it about Lucy and her willingness to take on a leadership role even though it's him wanting to give her a leadership role.

I think Grey's promotion will be used to advance Chenford, Wesley, Nyla, and others' storylines later on this season. He can do more as a lieutenant and this will enable opportunities to open up for the rest of his team.

Wopez: Dealing with the London fallout is such a clever way to move Wesley to Mid Wilshire. Detective Graham is a douche and in a perfect world, his words about Angela (which are far worse than Miles making a pass at Lucy) would be made known to everyone. I love jealous Wesley.

Nyla/Angela: Melissa said that everyone shines in this episode but I didn't see that with Nyla or Angela. Neither of them had much screentime. The little that Angela had was passive and Nyla was barely there.

Aaron: You're telling me this is the same guy who was locked up in a foreign prison for a crime he didn't commit, was seemingly fine joining Mid Wilshire where people know his past business, then isn't able to stay at Mid Wilshire because of secrets that he and many other officers at the station (officers who stayed) shared with a crooked therapist? No, bro.

Me to Alexi: Don't do this. Why are you doing this?!

Celina: Besides the awkward and funny pause after Nolan's "What are you wearing underneath your uniform?" I didn't find her memorable.

Seth/Miles: Miles has layers and depth. I could see Seth more on Blue Bloods with the Reagan crew than at Mid Wilshire.

I don't like Miles asking for a TO swap. Sure, he’s supposed to be cocky, but there are better ways to convey that. I originally took Tim's reaction to it as jealousy, but after a rewatch of the scene, I'm now interpreting it as Tim being pissed at Miles for disrespecting rank and objectifying a fellow officer. It reminds me of the Tim in 1x06 that smacked the grimey guy for checking Lucy out with his one eye. I can't wait until Miles finds out about Chenford's relationship.

There seems to be a lot to unpack with Miles in a S1 Tim type of way. I'm looking forward to seeing more of his dynamic with Tim.

Nolan: Nolan doubts himself! Nolan redeems himself! Gooooooooo Nolan!

Cholan's history (romantic, as part of the same academy class, being rookies together) makes it even funnier that Chenford ignored him twice. Bailey: They really leaned into the Mary Sue trope to explain away Jenna's absence and shipped her off to the National Guard. It reminds me of 5x18 when Bailey had an endless amount of credits to her name. They know that we know.

Los Angeles: The latter portion of this episode was a love letter to Downtown LA. Multiple shots of the skyline. 6th Street Bridge. The chase happening in the heart of downtown.

A chunk of this episode was filmed right in front of the Walt Disney Concert Hall which is across the street from the LADWP building which doubles as the exterior to Mid Wilshire Station. This was so meta! They were chasing suspects right in front of their own station while pretending they were somewhere else.

The day this episode aired, Southern California was under a severe weather warning and bracing for the worst in over a decade. The timing of the season premiere feels surreal ... an apocalyptic nuke storyline playing out onscreen in Los Angeles while the real Los Angeles looks, feels and smells apocalyptic.

Final thoughts: In a parallel universe, Jackson, Lucy and Nolan are sitting at the TO table as Sergeant, Detective, and P3.

[myfriendtheurbanlegend]

26-year old article about Jim Caviezel from the Seattle Times. I remember reading it and liking it very much but it has been deleted from their site so I'm copying it here in its entirety.

The Unexpected Star -- Jim Caviezel's Stubborn Sincerity Cuts A Swath Through Hollywood

By Richard Seven

AT FIRST GLANCE, Jim Caviezel's big, ocean-blue eyes seem little more than the requisite work tools of a movie star.

They were as polished as new-car paint in "The Thin Red Line," the impressionistic World War II movie that catapulted him toward celebrity. In his role as Private Witt, Kentucky-bred GI existentialist, he spent much of his time standing by like a battlefield aura, staring and soaking in the chaos. In one powerful scene, he communicated shock, fear, helplessness and then joyful peace in a 15-second span using nothing but his gaze.

His look has always grabbed attention, at least as far back as 1987, his senior year at Kennedy High School in Burien, when he was voted "boy with the prettiest eyes."

They are more than props of a pretty boy, though. Look closer and you'll see an earnestness staring back that announces what or how he's feeling and reveals he is far more Skagit Valley, where he grew up, than Tinseltown.

In fact, at 30, Caviezel finds himself a Hollywood commodity in part because he's not Hollywood at all.

He has a child's curiosity that lets him introduce himself to Al Pacino, Magic Johnson or any stranger who grabs his attention. He looks flush at you when he talks about his Catholic faith, or his determination not to let learning difficulties slow him or fame change him. He is direct and intense, once frightening a casting director while portraying a menacing jerk. "I didn't get the part," he recalls.

He can seem quaintly courteous, yet possesses a righteous temper. While walking through the Los Angeles airport once with his wife, Kerri, he sighted a known scam artist posing as a priest and soliciting "donations." Caviezel pointed, shouted "You're a fraud!" and hunted for security guards.

There are times he burrows into a hyperfocus so strong it seems a trance. Other times, his thoughts drift like smoke while someone is talking to him.

He struck casting directors as over-eager or spacey when he was struggling. Now that he has momentum, they consider him fresh. Idiosyncratic director Terrence Malick saw something new when he chose Caviezel (ka-VEEZ-uhl) to be Witt, the spiritual core of the Oscar-nominated film, instead of Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt or Matthew McConaughey.

Caviezel has finished supporting roles in two high-profile movies opening this fall and is starring in one set for spring. He receives several scripts a week, studio brass are dangling projects, and fashion designers, in their way of rewarding people more the less they need it, send him free clothes.

His run could stop at anytime and for any reason, but the debate in Hollywood isn't about whether he's got what it takes. What they wonder is how a wide-open Northwest man with a strict moral code, an aggressive sincerity and windows for eyes can survive in an industry that runs on illusion.

Back in December, as photographers crowded Caviezel at the premiere party for "The Thin Red Line," friend and co-star Sean Penn walked up, put his arm around his shoulders and whispered, "I don't know how you're going to last in this business. You don't fit in."

It was both compliment and caution.

AT 5:15 A.M. CAVIEZEL has the dark lanes of Beverly Glen Boulevard to himself as he drives his 1993 Honda Accord, with a University of Washington "W" decal on the back window, from his Sherman Oaks apartment toward UCLA. He is headed for a two-hour workout before a day of research and practice for a potential role as an autistic man.

Two nights before, his face and wistful look, magnified on a movie screen, had dominated the best-picture clip for "The Thin Red Line" during the Academy Awards.

He is 6-feet-2, a slender 185 pounds, with short, coal-black hair and an angular face with high cheekbones. In the dim dashboard glow, he looks far younger than in the movie, perhaps 22, the age at which he moved to L.A. to become an actor in early 1991.

He never considered the impossible odds then. He was so confident that he struck people as naive or cocky, like when he was dumped into a garbage bin at Mount Vernon High School as a freshman for saying he planned to make the varsity basketball team.

He was a gifted mimic, even as a kid, doing imitations of Mr. T, the gruff goon on TV's "The A Team," and others. He made people laugh and felt warm in the spotlight. He modeled clothing and appeared in a few Seattle-area plays. He got his Screen Actors Guild card after scoring a 10-second part in the Northwest-filmed "My Own Private Idaho." Playing an airline ticket-taker, he said, "Do you have any bags to check?" and "Have a nice flight."

A local talent agent said he had what it took, and that was all the nudging he needed.

"I came down here with the same sort of expectations I had as a freshman at Mount Vernon, and I got pummeled again," he says, his soft monotone harmonizing with the hum of tires on road. "I didn't know what acting was, and no one down here cares if you make it or not. I was pressing, and it showed."

He still hasn't veered much from the over-achieving straight arrow who studied hard and dreamed big while growing up in a close-knit family unified by Catholicism and basketball. His father, James Sr., a longtime Mount Vernon chiropractor, was a high-school All-American and played at UCLA for Coach John Wooden. All five children - Ann, Jim Jr., Amy, Tim and Erin - played college ball.

Jimmy, as they call him, had the least relative ability but worked the hardest. While his younger brother, Tim, a highly recruited high-school player in 1990, hoisted half-court shots on the family's court, Jimmy did ball-handling drills. He transferred as a junior to O'Dea High School in Seattle because it was a Catholic school and seemed to offer a better chance to play basketball. He moved to Kennedy as a senior and started at point guard. He lived with friends, commuting home to Conway, a Skagit Valley town just south of Mount Vernon, on weekends.

He played two years at Bellevue Community College. Coach Ernie Woods says Caviezel was the hardest worker he had in 30 years and also made his mark by charming a Bay Area restaurant owner into giving the team a free dinner during a road trip.

The blend of intensity, personality and faith helped separate him from the hordes of young, good-looking wannabes who swarm L.A.

He was there about a month when he met Father Lawrence Jenco, the Catholic priest who had been held hostage in Lebanon for 19 months in the mid-1980s. Jenco introduced him to Chuck Weber, a USC professor with a big house near Hollywood.

"The idea was for Jimmy to stay a month so he could get his feet on the ground," said Weber. "He stayed more than five years. But that was fine. We'll be lifelong friends."

Cheap rent let Caviezel spend more time practicing and auditioning and less time waiting tables. The early years were dry, but he trudged ahead.

Once, as President George Bush left a fund-raising party at a producer's Malibu home, he pushed between Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell to shake Caviezel's hand. "Nice job" he told Caviezel, who was there not as a guest, but as a server. Bush saw a vote, but Caviezel had made sure he was nearby.

In 1993, he turned down a scholarship to Juilliard, the prestigious New York performing-arts school, to take a bit part in "Wyatt Earp." His role involved a few days of filming, but director Lawrence Kasdan liked him so much he paid him to stay for the entire four-month shoot. When the star, Kevin Costner, needed to go to Seattle, he gave Caviezel a lift in his private plane.

He always did better with people he got to know on the job than with casting directors. His agent, Pamela Cole, says his sincerity can win people over - or throw them off. "Jimmy's not like most actors," she says. "He cares about other people."

AT MID-MORNING, his workout finished, Caviezel heads down Pacific Coast Highway South while Frank Sinatra croons "Strangers in the Night" from the car's tape deck. He points out a beachside restaurant called Gladstone's.

"That's the place to eat breakfast," he says. "I should know. I used to work there." He points to the other side of the highway into the Malibu hillsides. "This is Sean Penn country, too."

The autistic role Caviezel is considering was Penn's before Penn had a falling out with the studio. The men maintain an odd-couple bond developed while filming "The Thin Red Line." Like their characters, Caviezel is the stubborn optimist while Penn is guarded. There was a scene in which Penn's character, Sergeant Welsh, asks Witt, "You still seeing that beautiful light? How do you do that? You're a magician to me." Witt responds, "I still see a spark in you."

The scene was ad-libbed, the two speaking based on their friendship. As in the movie, Penn is both taken and baffled by Caviezel. (Though known for his distrust of reporters, Penn agreed to say something: "Jim's got an almost archaic sincerity, which is very pure - a rare and valuable thing for an actor.")

Long before they met, Caviezel had a dream in which he was acting with Penn. About a year later, in 1996, they were auditioning for lead roles in "The Hi-Lo Country," about two cowboys.

Caviezel was sure it was his break, but he came home one day and found a note from the director saying the studio wanted someone else. He was crushed and decided to give Hollywood six more months and then look for a stable life.

"I gained a little freedom from that," he said. "I decided to quit being so worried about getting the next part and just do the best I could. Instead of doing 10 auditions, I'd only go for the parts I wanted. I'd go down fighting and let people laugh, because I was designing my own life.

"I put my faith in God. It was about Him and my family. It had to be more than about me."

IT SEEMED EVERY ACTOR wanted a role in Malick's first movie in 20 years. He had done only two films, but both were unique and lasting. He made stars out of Martin Sheen in "Badlands" and Richard Gere in "Days of Heaven." Caviezel had never heard of him.

Penn, the first to sign on, suggested Caviezel. Malick planned a feature-length poem and became intrigued by Caviezel's soulful presence. The two dined a few times so he could size up the unknown.

Malick wasn't interested in Caviezel's resume, which was peppered with tiny roles such as a fighter pilot in "The Rock," and a dim-bulb Navy SEAL recruit in "G.I. Jane." In "Ed," perhaps the worst baseball movie ever, his character was cut from the team and movie midway through after Ed the monkey outplayed him at third base. Caviezel's greatest exposure might have been a 1997 job modeling jeans for The Gap on buildings, kiosks and buses across the country.

Malick warned Caviezel not to turn down other offers, but he did, ignoring chances to make television pilots at $100,000 apiece. He was visiting his parents in Conway months later when Malick finally called and said, "You're Witt."

Malick shot enough film for several movies and seemed to be winging it. Big names were axed; featured parts became glorified cameos. Caviezel wound up front and center. The beautiful, meandering movie confounded some customers and critics, but Caviezel was widely praised for how he translated Malick's spiritual vision.

What he does next is critical if he is to keep momentum. His eyes will stare out with menace from the bearded face of a Civil War bushwhacker in "Ride With the Devil," due in October. He's a bad guy, but a complicated one. He plays Al Pacino's estranged son in "Any Given Sunday," an Oliver Stone movie coming in the fall.

He is wrapping "Frequency," a time-tripping thriller in which he stars as a New York homicide cop who learns he can communicate with his dead father, played by Dennis Quaid.

He is weighing other projects, but really wants one still deep in development. It's the story of Jimmy Braddock, an underdog who became boxing's heavyweight world champion in 1935. He is drawn to it because Braddock was a devout Catholic family man.

Directors and producers call Caviezel's charisma "old-fashioned" and liken him to Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart.

"The only thing that scares me is Jim's such a kind soul," said Beverly Dean, his longtime manager, who recalls the lean early years. "The studios all want to be his friend now, but he has to learn to say no."

AFTER CRUISING past Malibu and stopping for juice at a Starbucks (where a pretty woman recognizes him and exclaims, "You look so young!"), Caviezel pulls his Honda to the curb in front of Agoura Hills High School.

Wearing blue jeans, a sweatshirt and glowing-white Reeboks, he walks into a special-education classroom where he has spent days observing and talking with autistic teenagers to prepare for the audition.

The teacher suggests Caviezel sit in a student's desk to see how important routine, such as always using the same desk, can be to an autistic person. The developmental disorder severely limits the ability to make social connections; the teacher warns Caviezel that the student likely would express his displeasure without looking him in the eyes.

"Actually," she adds after regarding Caviezel, "he might look in your eyes."

When the boy walks in, he not only looks Caviezel in the eyes but seems happy to see him.

A few days before, Caviezel had stood in front of the class and told the students about his own learning problems. In 1994, at age 25, he was diagnosed with Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder. He also struggles with dyslexia. He told the students he felt stupid in school because he had to study so much harder than everyone else. He had bouts of frustration that led to fights and was turned down for dates by girls who thought he was weird.

But he learned to use what makes him different and find his talent, he said, and they could, too.

"I'm like you," he said.

While a stretch, it made an impression. One boy walked up and, while looking over Caviezel's right shoulder, said, "Thank you for what you said."

Caviezel won't take Ritalin, the drug often prescribed for ADHD. He uses diet, his early-morning fitness regimen and a Marine's discipline. He has worked on a machine designed to retrain brain waves and enhance focus and found he is exceptionally good at it. There are times his mind feels groggy, as if he just got out of bed, but he also has long periods of crystal clarity most actors can't touch, he said.

It has led to an holistic approach to work. He reads a script dozens of times but doesn't stop at memorization. He tries to understand a character so he can assume the personality.

Jim Schamus, producer and writer of "Ride With The Devil," said Caviezel was by far the most prepared actor on the set. He carefully read the book the movie is based on and pointed out key lines Schamus had missed in his adaptation. Caviezel grilled Schamus about the purpose of the film's violence, became close to its guerrilla-warfare expert and brought a band to the set that played Civil War-era music.

FROM THE HIGH SCHOOL, Caviezel drives to Hollywood and the office of John Kirby, his acting coach. Kirby sits in a corner, surrounded by framed pictures of actors and a poster that begins, "How To Be Creative . . ." Caviezel sits so close their knees almost touch.

The role he is practicing is that of an autistic father fighting to keep custody of his 5-year-old daughter. Caviezel isn't sure he wants it; parts of the script feel manipulative to him.

They run through a scene in which Kirby plays the daughter, asking questions like, "Where does the sky go?" and "Where's Mommy?" Caviezel gropes through his lines, searching for tone, cadence, posture.

Soon, he is pacing across the room and grumbling about getting involved. How can he learn autism in a few days? he asks. He can't afford to bomb the audition, and he is growing agitated. He puts his face inches from Kirby's to make a point.

Kirby calmly offers specific tips and reminds him to lighten up. Caviezel begins using mannerisms he picked up in the classroom, scrubbing the side of his head with his knuckles, pinching his fingertips, rocking and humming. The fidgeting right leg is his own.

The reading flows from there. In a scene where the character defends his parenting ability in court, Caviezel's voice explodes in anger while his eyes bore into Kirby. A look of shock sweeps over the coach's face - until he realizes this is in the script.

Hollywood used to laugh at Caviezel's jock exuberance, Kirby says later, but that's who he is.

"He has such a soul, such a spiritual center, that it is easier for him to show everything," Kirby said. "He's not a cliche. It's real."

BY THE TIME HE leaves Kirby's office, Caviezel feels better about the part. (He eventually auditioned and said it went well, but the movie project has been put on indefinite hold.) He also looks frayed, though. He hasn't eaten all day, and his eyes have reddened.

The question of fame comes up. Hollywood wants to know if he is the re-incarnation of Montgomery Clift, whom he resembles, or a one-hit wonder. How will he handle it once TV tabloids learn how to pronounce Caviezel? Will it all blur his clear-eyed vision?

He becomes solemn. He's aware celebrity comes cheap. He likes to cite what Nick Nolte told him: that fame is a big red balloon, flashy but filled with nothing but air. It grows and grows until there's no room for anything else, and then pop, it's gone.

Besides, he says, he wants to be only famous enough to get good roles and successful enough to someday run his acting career from a place like Spokane. That leads him to talk about his wife, who is not impressed with Hollywood.

They met on a blind date while he was struggling in L.A. and she was a basketball star, Kerri Browitt, at Western Washington University in Bellingham. They rendezvoused at Alderwood Mall and have been married three years. An English-literature teacher, she is, like him, a devout Catholic, serious and small-town, with family roots in Roslyn, Kittitas County, that go back 100 years.

Now that Caviezel seems on the verge of finding the dream he came to Hollywood for, his perspective of the dream has changed.

"I know this can all go away tomorrow." he says. "I've done nothing to brag about, but I thank God I was able to hang on long enough to find that one thing I can do well."

Before merging into the swelling freeway traffic to drive home, Caviezel stops at a gas station on Melrose Avenue. He recalls how, early in his career, he auditioned for "Melrose Place," a soap opera about beautiful but miserable people. He hadn't really wanted the part, but felt he needed to get noticed. The casting director didn't think he fit in. In fact, she thought he was strange and told his agent never to send him again.

Leaning on the roof of his car in the late-afternoon L.A. sun, a few days before flying to the East Coast to film with Quaid, the Melrose memory returns a spark to his eyes, as if he were, again, thanking God.

Richard Seven is a Pacific Northwest magazine staff writer. Harley Soltes is staff photographer for the magazine.

[peppermint-whiskers]

Anyone want some angst?

Well here ya go!

Heed the tags and proceed with caution, there be mental instability here!

[penn-dragon]

As a rampant fic reader on AO3 (since it launched and even reading fic from before then), if a fic isn't finished, then usually it's tagged as a Work In Progress or incomplete or you can see the chapter count or even the author's note can mention the state of the fic. Then it's up to the reader to decide if they want to read something that's unfinished or not, they can make an informed decision for themselves. I've read a ton of fics and enjoyed them even though they're not finished or will never be finished, or were actually finished years and years down the line. Sometimes people come back to things, sometimes they move on. Personally though, I think why not share what you've worked on? Maybe someone leaves a comment that feeds into the work. Maybe it'll help with momentum. Or maybe the work never does get finished, but the parts that you published still helped, amused, inspired, or brightened the day of someone that read it. I'm autistic, I get that there's a palpable pressure no matter what course of action, especially since sharing writing can be like an emotionally charged thing. But whatever the case may be, the important thing is to keep the joy of writing, regardless of whatever the myriad types of readers out there.

I genuinely appreciate so much that you took the time to write this out and send it! I think I’ve always had this idea that even if a fic I post is a work in progress, there’s an unspoken expectation that I have to finish it or I’m failing whoever enjoys my work. But you’re completely right that when someone reads a work in progress fic it’s an informed decision with the possibility that the story might not be finished. I appreciate your thoughts a lot, thank you!

[not-so-superheroine]

Black History Month Approaches, Saints

And I have a project in mind. I will write a post for each week of Black History Month, featuring a Black Latter Day Saint from History. I may do more but trying to keep it attainable. I will also share the article I wrote for the Herald, a CofChrist magazine, on RLDS Black History in America.

I'd love it if anyone would like to join me with their own post honoring Black saints that have an impact of you today.

[tosteur-gluteal]

I'm still trying to figure out a design for him

It doesn't feel Slavic enough

And alsoooo it feels like something is missing - feel free to give suggestions!!

[smokietaylor]

In The Box (Joe Goldberg x Reader)

Chapter 4 update

Description: You are rushing about your morning, and things just seem to not be going your way. Things get worse when you run into a man at the coffee shop, spilling your freshly brewed coffee all over him. He tells you not to worry about it when you offer to pay for his dry cleaning. It isn't until later that you realise you will be paying for that spill in more ways than one.

NSFW Content 18+ only Minors DNI

READ MORE HERE!!!

[the-zapped-part-timer]

▲— A Muddled Situatiøn —▼

Chapter Øne: Zapped

▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼

The Odyssey was dead silent before a certain lanky, spaghetti-haired kid pushed his way through the swing doors of the movie theater. The only sound to be heard in the large, empty room was the stomping of his feet. Normally, he wasn't allowed to be here after hours, but he managed to win Phyllis with his "sad puppy dog eyes" act. Now, it was just him in the dead of night.

Phyllis gave him a set of very detailed and strict instructions for what he wanted to do, no messing up anything this time around. He followed them carefully to a T and the MUT shuttered to life, projecting onto the enormous "screen" before him. Penn quickly hurried down from the balcony, down the stairs and hopped onto one of the front seats and made himself comfortable.

He stared wide-eyed back at the screen as it played his parents' previous missions. It looked like some sort of cyberpunk hockey game, and they were killing it. While they were all pretty good at sports, hockey was one of their favorites, all types as well. It helped that Penn was great at ice skating, so the combination of of his skating expertise and his skill of "hitting things super hard with all his might" was, well, he didn't want to brag, what made him a champ at it.

Watching the mission play out took him back to those memories. Those frigid winters, where he begged his dad to play one more game in their makeshift ice rink in the backyard before it got colder out. Swerving around the halls of their home with his mom, trying to reach the net before her. All those games shared together... it really got to Penn. He teared up a bit as he focused on their faces, he missed them, they missed him. He wished they were here, or at least someone that could hold him when the pain was too much. There was Boone and Sashi, but he didn't want to make it awkward. Being the only one out of the trio to have no parents around made him feel weird. He didn't wanna be the one who whined about it all the time. Even though he knows they'd understand, he still didn’t want to be a burden.

Hours passed as he watched too many missions to count by now. He was tired but didn't wanna stop just yet. Just one more, then he'll go home. Although he was getting sick of seeing Rippen's face so much, but he always came back around when one of his parents threw a punch into his ugly mug. He's laughed so many times at Rippen's failures. He wondered why he even kept trying, in no universe was this guy ever going to win.

Sleepiness started to creep up on him as he slowly drifted into slumber. He fought to keep his eyelids open but to no avail. He felt weightless as he began to dream. He only drifted off for a few minutes until a loud ZAP jolted him awake. He flings his head around, looking for the source. Strangely, he saw a few sparks zip away into the portal, which was now powered off. Maybe that was a sign he should head for the night. He pulled himself off the comfy chair and climbed up the stairs and onto the balcony to turn off the MUT. Yet, it was already off... must have some sort of timer or something.

With all that checked out, Penn walked out the front doors. He didn't forget to lock it, thankfully, and then started up the scooter he got there with. He reached his house, but luckily, all the lights were off, no one to see him sneaking back inside. He stuck his house key into the lock, yet he found it was already unlocked. He could've sworn he locked it before he left. Now he was really lucky no one was awake. He knows how Aunt Rose felt about keeping everything locked. He slipped through the door, locking it this time, and decided to collapse onto the couch for the night. Too tired to even make it up the stairs. His aunt and uncle won't question it... hopefully.

▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼ø▲ø▼

His mind wasn't too kind to him tonight, sadly. Nightmares flooded his mind, all the ways his parents' missions could've gone wrong. Utter terror filled all his senses as his mind flashed horrid images of Rippen's twisted smile and the echoes of his ghastly laughter, followed by his parents suffering by his hands. It was his fault they were trapped there for, possibly, forever—it was all Rippen's fault!

The night terrors startled him awake, minutes before the alarm on his phone could. He sat there, staring off into space, trying to catch his breath. The nightmare kept replaying in his mind, over and over. He could still hear those echoes, deep within the recesses of his mind, haunting him. He needed a distraction, and quick. Maybe a cruise on his scooter around a few blocks before heading to school? It sounded like a plan to him, and it didn't involve Uncle Chuck's breakfast. He practically flew off the couch as he clicked the door unlocked and swung it open, jumping onto his ride and sped through the streets.

That was the right idea as he swerved upon the asphalt, like he was dancing with his wheels. He had to keep in mind that he had forgotten his helmet. he didn't want another spill like back in February. His pesky brain kept trying to bubble up all those images and feelings as he rode on, making him tensely tighten his grip on the handles. His senses tried to trick him into a panicked state, but he tried to push those feelings down as he followed his usual path to school.

Although, he'd rather be anywhere else than school at the moment. Being stuck in the same room as his enemy for hours didn't really sound too appealing to him, understandably so. He could... skip. Should he? No, he won't. If his parents find out, they'd probably be disappointed. Besides, he could save that for a particularly desperate day. Hopefully, that won't happen for a long while. He can do this.

He kept telling himself that as he parked his scooter outside the school with the rest of the bikes. He kept reminding himself as he entered the building, sauntering down the halls like no problems ever pestered him. Little by little, the need to remind himself faded as he distracted his mind during his classes. His unease simply eased away. During Ms. Monkenfluffer's class, he noticed something and it wasn't his teacher's new color palette of clothes. Boone and Sashi weren't here. They all shared this class, so what's the deal? We're they both somehow sick? They seemed pretty healthy yesterday. Unease settled back into the pit of his stomach, where it stayed for the rest of music class.

After the bell rang, he hopped from his seat and hurried out of the room, where he began to scan the halls for his friends. While searching and making his way to his next class, someone spoke over the intercom, but it wasn't Principal Larry. Why would someone else do the morning announcements? Was he sick? Doesn't matter right now. He had to find his friends, if only there was some way to reach out to them and—oh there was. Penn flicked his forehead out of frustration. He pulled out his phone, cursing himself as he texted them both.

No answers. That's okay. It was only a few seconds after all. It takes time. For his sainty's sake, he put his phone back into his pocket and will just simply wait for them to answer. Hours passed, and there was still no response from either. That's not worrying at all. Once he left another class, he rapidly shot out some texts in a frantic manner. The fraught behavior didn't stop as he realized his body was autopiloting him to his next class. Art class. Rippen's class. Penn hoped his friends were waiting in there for him to hurry up, sitting in their usual spots.

Panic began to clasp around his chest, heart pounding in a rapid rhythm. He wanted to turn around, but no, he wanted to have that slim hope of seeing his friends. They can make it all better. He had nothing to fear, Rippen wasn't even scary. He was an incompetent, cowardly villain! Not some monster, no matter how hard he tried to be. Why should Penn Zero be afraid of him?

He straightened up his posture and kept his stride as he entered the dreaded classroom. His focus was only on getting to his spot with his friends, then the day would be saved. But, oh, so quickly was his focus drawn towards a certain figure, writing on the board. His mind was getting clouded again. Not this time. He did the one thing he knew would make him feel better.

Penn crossed his arms, hip swaying to the side and cocked an eyebrow. "So, are we gonna learn color theory or art as world domination? Either way, pretty sure you'll fail to teach us anything useful."

He smiled to himself as he waited for a response, probably a groan, followed by a scowl upon his grimaced face. But he heard a light chuckle come out of his art teacher and archenemy, he turned around to face the redhead. What Penn was greeted with was... unexpected, to say the least.

"That's pretty good one, although we've already done color theory." A big smile plastered on Rippen's face. His voice sounded lighter and a bit bouncy as well.

He looked completely different. From his slicked back, long hair, to his penciled mustache and down to his clothes. Dressed in a light lilac button-up with a blue tie, a little paint palette pin stuck in the middle of it. What was all of this? Penn took a step back from the sight.

"Ah—what's with the new look all the sudden? Did someone paint your clothes—is that what we're doing for class today?" Penn stumbled a bit over his words as he asked, still befuddled by the latest stylings of his nemesis.

"Hmm? I suppose I don't understand what you mean, exactly." He looked just as confused Penn while he looked him up and down. "I mean, you're look is—quite different, I- I don't mean that in a bad way or anything, just, refreshing? Is that the right word I'm looking for? Anyways, it's a good look on you! I mean, the curls really suit you!" He fumbled but seemed sincere? All the while, he kept smiling away.

What? What's wrong with him? What is he going on about? I've always had curls—I always dressed like this. What's going on? Was this some sort of "nice guy" act? If so, he's way too late to try to pull that card on me.

"'Kay... I'm gonna go sit down." Awkwardly, he already went about his way to his spot.

Rippen gave a nod. "Alright then."

Penn continued until his teacher piped up again. "I- I'm also so happy you could join us this time around. It really does mean a lot to me!"

The redhead whipped his head back towards the taller of the two, his eyes meeting with his. Something looked extremely different about them, but he couldn't put his finger on it. While Rippen smiled back, Penn met his look with more confusion. He turned his head back forward and got a glimpse of familiar figures. He rushed towards them but quickly stopped just before them, their backs turned as they both painted upon the canvases.

Boone turned around first, or what looked like Boone. No hat laid upon his head. His usually wild and fluffy hair was wrapped up into a tight ponytail. He donned what appeared to be a lab coat, already dirtied with some paint. From what Penn could see, he was wearing a turtleneck underneath. A pair of gloves enveloped his hands.

"Oh, look who decided to show up." Boone's voice exuded with superiority, along with his arched eyebrow. Maybe this was some sort of acting thing from drama class?

Sashi turned around next, and she had a much more dramatic switch up than Rippen and Boone. She was dressed in darker colors, wearing a very oversized, unzipped hoodie and shorts with ripped tights underneath them. Above her choker necklace, dark makeup coated her face, at least the parts of her face he could see, some hair covered half of it. Her specs also looked more goth, or emo. He didn't exactly know the term for her look at the moment. Hair clips were tacked onto her rich brunette hair, now styled as space buns. Instead of yellows and hints of purple, the tips were dyed with pale, washed-out purples, and pinks.

"H- Hi... Penn." Her voice was soft, almost quiet as a church mouse. She barely looked at him, eyes glued to the floor after sneaking a few glances at him.

Penn stood there, slightly slack-jawed by the sights. Just gawked at them for a good few moments until Boone shoved a paintbrush into his hand.

"Get painting on your canvas or else "Mr. Funshine" will creep over here. Don't want him breathing down our necks." He basically commanded him.

He listened to him and started grazing the canvas. He continued to stare off from shock. What was happening? Was this an intensely vivid dream? Opposite day that everyone took seriously? Penn abruptly started to laugh loudly from the sheer weirdness of the situation. A handful of kids turned away from their painting to stare at him, including his friends.

"I get it now! This is some sort of elaborate prank, right? Don't know how you wrangled Rippen into this but—"

"Stop being a lunatic for one day and do what you're told. Now." Boone snapped back at him. He glared with deep annoyance, and loathing, a grimace replaced his stoic face.

It felt like the air was knocked out of Penn's lungs. Boone never raised his voice at him, not like that, not ever. Sashi flinched at Boone's voice, slinking away from him as far as she could. It wasn't even that loud but her reaction speaks volumes. Penn was flabbergasted by the both of them. All he could do was listen.

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Time passed as everyone worked on their paintings, each varied and unique. Penn's was just a mixture of colors being splattered onto the canvas, ending up with a big, grossly colored circle, like some sort of blackhole. His wrist started to ache from doing the same painting motion over and over. Hopefully, he doesn't end up with carpal tunnel by the end of this. The sound of heels clicked around the room, passing each student until they ended up beside Penn. He recognized that specific sound, those clackings belonged to Rippen.

"And let's see what we have here—oh, that's, um, that's certainly something. Ah, care to share what it is?" Rippen hovered over Penn with a clipboard in hand, adorned with his usual painter's apron.

Penn didn't look away from his "work," as he answered. "It represents the burning questions that are deep within my brain at the moment."

Perhaps he didn't want to be faced with his enemy's new look again, unlike when he's been taking peeks at his friend's. Rippen nodded his head with some concern drawn on his face. He began to scribble something down on his clipboard.

"Let's give this, ah, let's say a B."

A what?

Penn stiffened, clenching his brush. He cautiously turned around to meet with his teacher, his face warped with a blend of bewilderment and perturbment. He watched as Rippen kept jotting down on what Penn assumed, his grades or something. When Rippen finally looked up, his face switched from quiet concentration to slight apprehension. He tensed up under Penn's gaze.

"Um, how about a B+ then, hmm?" Rippen grinned nervously. Did he just change it because Penn looked at him?

That's it. I'm leaving!

Like as if something in the great, wide universe heard his secret prayers, the bell rang. Finally, he can get out of this nutty situation. Penn darted out of the classroom of puzzlement but noticed his "friends" following behind him, catching up. He wanted to bolt out of the school, but he restrained himself out of curiosity. How much weirder get this get?

He noticed Boone was glued to his phone as he walked beside Penn, not acknowledging him at all. Sashi shuffled behind the two, eyes still looking down at the floor. Something was bugging Penn during their stroll down the halls. It wasn't the lack of playful banter between all of them. It was something else completely absent, making the hallway much quieter than normal. He looked down at Boone's feet... he was wearing shoes.

"Uh, Boone? Where's your flip-flops?" Penn tried not to show too much of his looming dread that was slowly creeping upon his face as he asked.

Boone didn't even look up from whatever he was typing in rapid succession. "What flip-flops? I'd never wear such things."

Nope. I've entertained this for far too long! I need to get to Phyllis, now! She'll know what's going on!

Penn bolted through the hall, leaving those people behind. He didn't stop. Even as Boone shouted at him, he couldn't stop. Fellow students in his path quickly made way for his anxiety-riddled dash. Some aired their annoyances with his odd behavior. As he raced closer towards the exit, he ran past a familiar face, Larry's. He saw his face long enough to be horrified. He expected a smile or at least a reasonable reaction to his mad dash, but no, Larry stared him down with the sternest frown imaginable. Penn shook his head from the sight, trying to convince himself he was seeing things.

It felt freeing when he thrusted the exit doors open, and the air rushed past his face. It gave him a moment to breathe as he bounded down the steps of the school. He glanced behind him to see if either Boone or Sashi chased after him, thankfully not. He had to do a double take when he caught a glimpse of the school's sign that was displayed above the doors.

Muddleburg Central High School

Penn was left speechless. He couldn't wrap his head around all of this. It didn't make any sense. He needed to get to the theater. Now. He yanked his scooter from its spot and sped away towards the Odyssey.

And in a flash, he was there, coming from the opposite direction he'd usually get here by, too close to Fish Stick on a Stick for comfort. He powered off his scooter and started to walk the rest of the way until he noticed Boone and Sashi near the front already. How? He placed his ride against the wall as he was about to ask that very how.

"How did—"

"No. Don't start with me. You wanna be here early? Fine. But you could have at least informed me beforehand." Boone scolded him, snatched Penn's arm, and squeezed it to a painful degree. He led him away from the Odyssey's doors and towards Fish Stick on a Stick, or what now stood in its place.

Slushee Inferno

What happened to that fish place!?

The trio entered the convenience store, Penn whipped his head around at all the unfamiliar sights, noticing a few items he could've sworn were discontinued years ago. A smaller, red version of an MUT was just out in the open for any random shopper to see. Luckily, it seemed pretty dead in here. Phil didn't look as if he was getting any customers. He distracted himself with a magazine. Sashi was the first to step onto one of three platforms and patiently waited for the duo. Penn wriggled out of Boone's grip and ran back outside to try to get to Phyllis but collided into somebody in his rush.

He was knocked to the ground. Whoever he ran into was built like a mountain. As he got done shaking his head, he saw a helping hand reaching out to him. He grabbed it before seeing who it belonged to.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Penn! I didn't mean to knock you down like that. Are you alright? Are you hurt?" It was Rippen who helped him up, his voice held worry within it, so did his eyes.

Penn wanted to throw up so badly. He felt sick to his stomach, and maybe he was sick in the head, he didn't know for sure. Soon, it was replaced with a similar question he had to Boone.

"Wait, why are you here? You're a teacher, you've got classes to teach, it's kinda your job!" Penn interrogated Rippen, possibly as a form of distraction from his racing mind.

Rippen explained. "Oh, Larry told me he saw you run out of the school and figured you were trying to get a head start, again. So he got us covered for the rest of the school day."

Penn looked at Larry while Rippen gave his long-winded explanation. His arms were crossed as he stared down Penn. He was dressed in a sharp suit, with jet black specs to match. No word was uttered from him, just his eyes burning holes into Penn's. Plenty of more questions popped into his head from the sight of Larry and of what Rippen said, but those needed to wait. He tried to walk past Rippen but was instantly blocked by Larry, not letting him budge one bit.

"Um, going somewhere, kiddo?" Rippen tentatively asked.

Penn barked back at him. "What did you just call me!?" He didn't mean for it to come out so harshly, but to be honest, he was on his last straw for the day.

Rippen was taken aback. He hunched his posture, like he was trying to make himself look smaller. He timidly pressed his fingertips together. "I- I'm sorry, I know you don't like it when I call you that, I can't help it sometimes. Still, that's not an excuse, I'm sorry, really." He was being so sincere, even when he was being just as meekly.

Penn couldn't take all this kindness from him any more, maybe he was going to throw up. But he swallowed that feeling and try to get inside the theater. "I'm going to talk to Phyllis. So, Larry, if you could—please move."

The only reaction he got from Larry was a slight arch of his eybrow.

Rippen made his way towards the doors. "Maybe I can convince her to talk to you after our mission for the day, okay?"

Penn shook his head. "Why would she talk to you?"

"I could ask you the very same thing." Rippen questioned, a smirk on his face from the comeback. It quickly changed back to a gentle smile as he opened one of the doors. "Who knows what the future holds for us today! Maybe you'll even get a small step closer to winning." He cheerfully expressed.

It all finally started to fall into place in his mind. Rippen's niceness, him about enter the Odyssey, which was Penn's place of work, never his, and how Boone's been acting. If Penn was putting all the pieces together correctly...

He was the villain.

The mere thought of that made Penn shut down. Rippen took notice and was about to approach him. Until Boone stomped out of the store and made his way towards the redhead, he seized his arm once again and yanked him back to the store. Penn begged for Boone to let go of him, crying out, and his face became flushed from all of his emotions. Rippen began to follow the two slowly at first, but as Penn cried louder, he picked up the pace. As Boone swung the door open, Rippen tried to get a word in until just as quickly, Boone slammed the door on his face.

This twisted version of Boone shoved Penn onto his respective platform, and Phil leisurely switched the machine on. Penn tried to run, but a red energy beam caught him before he could step off, it lifting the trio up into the air and towards the portal. Penn thrashed around, trying to escape, but there was no use. No amount of crying out will save him now. No one could save him from his fate into the unknown dimension he was being drawn towards.

He was a real villain, and he was going work like one.

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