Hey y'all you can call me Odd. (Or Gogo!) This is gonna be my general drakgo/Kim Possible fan blog! Check out gofordrakgo on Tumblr , AO3 or FFN for my fanfiction.
The first rule of fandom is have fun. The second rule of fandom is find an enabler and become an enabler. Yes you should write that fic. What if it was even hornier? What if it was angstier? What if you wrote it just for me?
Kids version of a take-over-the-world plan is to take over the national spelling bee (they were too young/old to qualify and now they're pissed about it)
They have been on my mind for god knows what reason, then insta kindly reminded me that it was exactly the same time a few years ago that I had them stuck in my mind. Time sure is cyclical.
Aaaaanyways, I love drawing them cos theyre so SHAPEY, esp. Drakken's face and Shego's hair. Mostly screencap redraws and since I saw an animatic of them to "Red Flags" I felt compelled to draw some shots of my own.
I'm also rewatching the show and god the animators have such a field day with these two.
What was supposed to be just a post, turned into fanfic-esque things. Which I am very pleased with! Thanks to @gogofordrakgo for the question that kicked this off - Halloween Drakgo stuff.
Two takes, or two versions, or two things happening at the same time, either and/or, for my Drakgo Teacher AU. First one is Dr. Lipsky and Ms. Go, the second is just Ms. Go!
I hope you guys enjoy!
Dr. Drew Theodore P. Lipsky hates Halloween.
He hates that kids, and teens who are way too old to be trick-or-treating, show up at his door and demand candy.
He doesn't decorate for Halloween. No, instead he lets the neighbourhood kids know exactly which house they should be passing by. He makes it clear.
"KEEP OUT!"
"DANGER!"
"NO TRESPASSING!"
And, in an attempt to tap into a common, but irrational, fear of the supernatural
"HAUNTED"
Hand-made signs. He even goes the extra mile to make them neat and legible from a distance.
Ms. Shea Go spots these signs when dropping him after work. She thinks he has decorated. All signs with demands. Yeah, she figures, of course this would be his favourite kind of Halloween décor.
"Hey Doc, didn't think you liked Halloween." she says.
"I don't!"
Every year, knocking on his door. Ignoring them doesn't always work - the brattier the kid, the more demanding they are. Don't even get him started on the teenagers.
Ms. Go should have known better, asking him his thoughts on anything insignificant and benign would open the floodgates.
Literacy rates are plummeting, he knows it - this is why Canada has them beat, he tells his co-worker. If they could read, they would leave him alone!
"Canada, what - ugh. Drew." she chastises, "Just leave a bowl of candy out and turn off the lights. Yeesh."
"First of all, Shea, I need the lights on to work. Secondly, it's my house. I live in it! And, because it's my house, my property, I don't want to hear them walking up my driveway."
Shea knows his house hasn't been TP'd, or egged, or vandalised in some other way in the past, because she would have heard it by now.
It made her want to be the first to do so.
Shea sighs and rolls her eyes.
"Ugh, come on, Drew," it was hard not get exasperated when he was like this, "It's just one night. What's the big deal?"
"Hey mister! Are you supposed to be a zombie?"
Drew's frown deepens. Resigned, vindicated, embarrassed. He turns his head away and fidgets with his tie. He was in no mood to respond.
The silence between them is awkward; awkweird.
"Didn't your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?" Shea asks. The little boy just shrugs in response.
He wants an answer. Shea folds her arms, watching him.
"Get lost, kid." it's the first time she's ever told a kid to 'get lost'. She's glad she's off the clock and gladder she doesn't teach elementary.
Clearly dissatisfied, but obedient, he walks away, glancing between Drew and the pavement in his exit.
Whatever was out there, it really had it out for Drew Lipsky.
"...I have to get started on those book reports."
Drew clears his throat.
"Right. Yes. Well, um, see you to-?"
The door of Shea's fancy sports car has opened and closed, and yet she was still here. Purse slung over one shoulder, overstuffed tote bag over the other.
"Aren't you going to go and unlock the door?"
"But don't you - weren't you -?"
"Look Doc, these book reports are heavy. Are you gonna open the door and let me in or what?"
"Yes. Yes, of course."
He leads, fishing his keys out of his pockets.
"You know, um..." he looks at her, smiles, then looks down at his feet, "I, uh, have some Halloween candy...if you like that sort of thing." he blurted the second half of his sentence in a rush.
Shea's eyebrow quirked up, her lip curling into a smirk.
"Smarty Mart brand or the real thing?"
"The real thing!" his apparent shyness evaporated at the offensive implication. "Be serious, Shea." he said, finally inserting the key into the lock and turning the handle.
"Smarty Mart Halloween candy tastes like chalk."
---
In her hero days, Ms. Shea Go, Shego, didn't do anything for Halloween. No time off, crime never sleeps.
In college, free from the duties of heroism, she would spend Halloween nights partying. Or, if it was particularly bad, finishing essays and cramming for exams.
Living in a fancy apartment, she doesn't decorate for Halloween. Why would she? She has no real reason to. No point.
She's caught completely by surprise when a kid dressed as none other than the Kim Possible is at her door, ready for candy.
Shea Go is certain this girl is the only child in the entire complex.
She could opt for a trick, but...
She goes into her kitchen. Nothing is appropriate, nothing but the protein bars she has for her breakfast before work. It'll do. Strawberry and white chocolate.
Kids like chocolate.
Back at the door, she second-guesses herself. A whole protein bar for this one kid. She's not responsible for this half-pint's health...
Half a bar for the half-pint.
She breaks the protein bar in two with her bare hands, plastic wrapper and all and dumps it into the fake-Kimmy's plastic jack-o'-lantern bucket.
The kid just smiles politely, and a little confusedly as to what exactly she has been given, before leaving with a small "Thanks, lady."
Hours later there's another knock on the door. Turns out the girl has returned with a group of friends, undeterred by the lack of decorations and half of a protein bar. Her friends are dressed as a regular gaggle of ghoulies. No teen heroes or their idiot sidekicks - who seemed allergic to handing in his work on time, thankfully.
Looks like Ms. Go is the last stop of the night.
And what had this kid thought, exactly? That she would go out and get candy to give to her friends?
She looks to fake-Kimmie, whose demeanour changes upon being scrutinised.
"Do you still have that protein bar?"
"Huh? O, yeah-"
Shea sees it and snatches it out of the bucket.
"Just-"
Fake-Kimmie and her friends look comically surprised.
"Give me a minute." Index finger pointed, just the one.
She goes inside and finds her longest, sharpest knife - to divide the protein bar evenly.
Growing up with four brothers, sometimes more if the twins felt like it, meant being keeper of the peace.
She'd never hear the end of it otherwise. Her brothers made sure of that.
Now divided, she dumps the unwrapped bits of protein bar into each candy-carrier of choice. None of the kids recognise it for what it is - a nutritious morsel amongst the cavity creators.
Satisfied, a chorus of "Thanks, lady!" and "Happy Halloween!" and one confused "Thanks Halloween - I mean - thanks!" follows the children as they follow their leader, the imposter Kim Possible, up another flight of stairs.
Well. At least they were exercising, she thought, and closed the door.
She wondered if that girl would be Kim Possible next year. She had a few socially acceptable years of trick-or-treating left in her before she ditched them for parties.
Maybe next year Shea would stick a paper jack-o'-lantern on her door.
I love Dr. Lipsky being so completely and utterly oblivious as to the fact that he is the one not picking up the clues, but of course being convinced everyone else is the problem. I think the man just loves to be miserable. He's good at it, you know? So many simple solutions, but he won't listen to a single one. It's great that Ms. Go considers egging his house lol, and that she knows it has never happened because he hasn't whined about it yet. VERY in character.
IS HE ASKING HER OUT?! Does he even know the answer to that?
I would love to see a full debate between Drakken and Ron about whether or not Smarty Mart candy is any good...
---
I love the image of Shea chopping a single half of a protein bar into pieces for these random kids, one of whom is dressed like her student... and someone who would have been her worst enemy in a different life...
And I love that for her the few trick-or-treaters she gets inspires her to maybe actually participate just a little the next year...
"Growing up with four brothers, sometimes more if the twins felt like it" — not gonna lie, this is my favorite line in the fic because I love Wego and love seeing those two be a little obnoxious like this.
Based on Dwelling by @gogofordrakgo and inspired by conversation with her. If you have read up until Chapter 17, that is all the context you will need to understand this one-shot. There are two endings in this. The second ending is a continuation of the first, and will be under a Keep Reading break. Constructive criticism is appreciated.
REM
Streetlights dotting along the sidewalk cut through the night-cloaked path to Drew's apartment, the not inexpensive prize of strawberries rolling around in their flimsy plastic carton. The time to justify such an absurd trip had evidently come and gone, as had the initial reason for buying them in the first place. He hopes he can remember it before they all go bad.
Shoe hitting the elevated edge of a concrete slab sees the strawberries fly out of his grip, hands now tasked with saving his face from scraping the pavement. Losing his glasses is par for the course.
Although the fall is not bad, his palms ache fiercely. Drew attributes it to the abrupt stop; but if that were the case, the pain should be in his wrists. Blurred vision is the single reminder of where he should be putting his focus.
Ache turns to sting as he glides his hand over the ground, not knowing why he isn't patting around for them to avoid agitating the likely injury. He's glad that he has no audience to watch the pathetic display. Tears threaten to form at the mere thought of stifled laughs and condescending sneers.
He finds them lens-side down, as expected. He can only pray (since when did he do that?) that there isn't a scratch, or worse, a chip, in the glass. World now in focus, the atmosphere changes. He isn't alone.
Leaping to his feet, the distinctive glint of a knife grazes his peripheral vision. He stumbles backward, but only about a foot. Not far enough, but he can move no further.
Shadowed, the assailant is at least a head taller than him, and definitely twice as wide in a way that makes Drew wonder why he even needs a knife in the first place. His mind races, trying to figure a way out, whilst he finds, and maintains, eye contact. All is still, and the danger seeps in.
Materialising between would-be victim and perpetrator, a girl dressed in a striking suit, skin faintly glowing in the inky black of the night.
Intrigued, entranced, frightened, Drew can only watch as she extends a hand outward, alighting it, with what, and how, he doesn't know. Whatever it is, what happens next is a violent whirlwind of attack, a dazzling display of gymnastic grace and green fire.
He is no match for her.
Battered and burned, the attacker falls to his hands and knees, whimpering incoherently for her mercy. This does not move her, and the sputtering pleas come to a halt.
A long silence ensues.
Drew waits with bated breath.
"You better get going, Sport. Before I change my mind."
The hulking mass recoils and makes his exit.
They are alone. He hasn't moved a single muscle, but he's panting as if he himself had fought. Turning her head in profile, she smirks, clearly satisfied at another job well-done. She starts forward, crouching down to surely spring off the very ground and fly into the starry sky.
"Wait!"
His hand passes through into the night, outside the perimeter of the streetlight beaming down on him. It's so intense he starts to sweat. She stops, straightens herself out, dark hair swaying, he can determine this much.
"Wh-who are you?" He asks, but a part of his brain that isn't submerged in unconsciousness alerts him to a vague familiarity.
In one smooth motion she turns around to face him, arms akimbo. Her hair seems to be the only thing animated about her, taking its time to still in comparison to the rest of her perfectly controlled movements.
The darkness reluctantly relinquishes her to the light as she takes a single step towards him. His breath catches.
Not a girl, a woman.
Her suit covers every inch of her, save for her face and a sliver of pale neck. Yet, it doesn't shy away from showing her off, letting him know who, what, she really is.
"Thank you. For saving me." He has no idea how he has managed to say this, somehow looking her in the eye and ogling her. Some mental trick.
Maybe it's this heat. Yes. That must be it.
She smiles at him. Amused.
A jolt of fear and shame rush through him. Had she caught him staring?
"Shego." She breathes her answer.
"Sh-Shego." Her name breaks on his nervous tongue. Her chest rises, an intake of breath, the very first he has seen and heard from her, he realises.
"I..." Then he catches it, some flicker of expectation in her eyes. It floods him with confidence. "I think it's...customary," a deliberate pause, not a fumble, "for a heroine to be rewarded." He moves closer to her, and she tilts her head slightly upward to look at him.
Coy smile on perfect lips ease into knowing, but her response to him retains an edge.
"Heroines don't accept money."
"No," He agrees, his hand cupping her soft cheek, "I didn't think so." He can't help but rub his calloused thumb over her skin, imparting affection, assuring her he means no harm.
Nothing more needs to be said, as desire finally takes a hold of him. He doesn't resist, but neither does she, meeting him in the middle.
His tongue slides over hers. She tastes of alcohol. Caramel-apple.
Unable to turn off his thinking brain even amidst a passionate kiss, he wonders if this is what fuels her fire.
She pulls away, still so close as to steal a breath from him when she gasps. He almost makes the mistake of leaning in once more, seeking to capture her again, when she slackens in his arms.
How long had he been holding her for?
The last of her strength leaves her, and he is now supporting her full weight as she leans to the side, head hanging.
"Shego, what's wrong?" Careful not to drop her, he shifts forward.
Sweat is practically pouring down his neck and forehead by the time she meets his gaze again, expression pained and vulnerable. He even catches the tell-tale glitter of emerging tears in her eyes before she indicates with the turn, and then fall, of her head to her opposite side. Drew follows.
A clean, but ugly, diagonal cut to her right side from the top of her hip, stopping just short of the underside of her breast. That wasn't there before, was it? No way, he would have noticed it, it's huge.
The wound does not bleed. He doesn't question why or why not. She's injured and needs help, all the same.
"Shego, come on," He manoeuvres himself over to her left side, placing her arm over his shoulder, "My apartment isn't too far from here, I-I can help." Nervousness dares to break through, but when she rests her head against his shoulder, he steels himself.
The trek could have taken minutes or hours. He could have hauled her up a single flight of stairs or fifty. The time that passes, or refuses to pass, an age or a moment, it doesn't deter him. On occasions where Shego leans heavily on him, shakes her head at the futility of it all, he encourages her to stay awake, to hold on, to pull-through.
Finally, the two make it to his door. It gives him no trouble, and mercifully opens on its own. He sets her on the couch and he can feel, can see, her body relax. Shego leans her head back.
His eye spots a bead of sweat rolling down her jaw, trickling along her neck until it disappears between the gap of her throat and collar, beneath the suit. Drew swallows. The unrelenting heat returns, even under the weak incandescent lightbulb of the meagre living room.
Instinctively, he knows the first aid kit is under the coffee table, although this is not its usual place. He is thankful for being able to turn his back to Shego to retrieve it.
From the carpeted floor to sitting across from her on the couch, he finds his hands holding an open bottle of isopropyl alcohol and gauze, the kit not between them like it should be, but beside him. The fumes make him light-headed, though there is no pungent smell to accompany it.
No. It tastes like caramel-apple.
"Drew." His head snaps to her. Did he ever tell her his name?
"I want you to take it off." Clear, and if he didn't know any better, confident. She might even have some knowing look in her eye. Half an amused smile.
The heat.
"Wh-what?" His hands tremble.
"You...have to take it off," Her voice is weak again, pained, breathy, "If you...want to help me."
Drew nods. He can't even swallow, his throat is so dry and his tongue thick, heavy. Whatever he'd been holding had slipped through clammy palms and disappeared into wherever it is that forgotten things slip and disappear into. They couldn't have been that important, anyway.
Thumb and forefinger find the zipper of Shego's suit easily. He didn't even need to actually see it to know where it was. The metal is so cool on the edge of his last knuckle, even feeling it through the thick callous of his thumb. The teeth along the tape grin at their unveiling, exposing full, green-tinted flesh.
'Oh my God. She's perfect, every inch of her.'
Simmering desire, lust, turns into a rolling boil as he travels down, until it hits the top of her belt. Her belt.
"Drew, what are you doing?"
Panic burrows under his skin, racing across every nerve. Shego - Shea? Shea is Shego. But how can she be? They don't even sound, don't even look - he dares to steal a stupid, moronic, lascivious glance at her. Full, beautiful curves, now skin and bone.
The look of terror and disgust on her face is justified.
Even still, he starts blathering on like the coward he is, desperate to save himself from a fate he knows he deserves. Old habits die hard.
Shea screams expletives at him, shielding her small, deceptively fragile-looking body, holding the suit closed with one hand whilst the other is engulfed in a blaze of green and black-flecked flame.
His blathering is reduced to babbling, mouth forming word-shaped sounds when she aims for him. Unable to turn from her, he backs out of his own door.
Shea is a good shot.
He can't even feel the heat of the flame - plasma? The only thing he's aware of is the fact that he's falling, falling over the threshold of the staircase.
Drew wakes up.
Relief, selfish relief at the inherent deception of the dream is short-lived, as the slight shift of his hips reveals an unwelcome (filthy, sticky) truth about the trappings of his own mind.
There's no winning.
Okay, the world knows I love it when Drew is pathetic, and the fact that his own dream starts with him tripping, falling, dropping the strawberries, and instantly worrying about being laughed at? I love it so much. It’s so perfect for Dwelling Drew, too. He’s so sensitive to mockery and expects it around every corner. It’s easy to imagine that, yes, of course, he would be feeling the same way, even when he is unconscious. And the glasses. Someone get this man some damn croakies! Dreaming of losing his glasses adds an extra layer of pathetic that is just so perfect for the sad little creature Dwelling Drew is.
And then the knife appears! He has to be a little bit traumatized by having his life threatened, even if he was so focused on Shea (and on not having a panic attack) that he didn’t actually hear the threat. The knife is enough, as it should be. I like that it appears in his dream like this, not someone he bumped into, or somehow did wrong by, but just… some random assailant, a person who happens to be sharing the street. Was the attack mostly random? Yes, of course! Was there any aspect that should make Drew consider his part in it? Sure, if he’d been watching where he was going, it might not have happened. I love that his sleeping brain cannot accept any fault, making the attack something random entirely, nothing to do with the choices he made. I feel like that’s a very Drakken aspect we can see in Drew, here. It’s good.
“twice as wide in a way that makes Drew wonder why he even needs a knife in the first place.” I can’t explain why I love this line so much, but oh how I do love it so.
I love how Shego/Shea materializes between them. That is, in its own way, sort of how she showed up in his life for real. One moment nothing, nobody, completely alone and then… There she is, following him home, something he can’t explain any more than he could explain legitimate spontaneous materialization.
There are two things I find really interesting in the fight sequence.
The first is that she uses her glow — this one is no surprise. Drew is nothing if not fascinated by her glow. It’s interesting, yes, cool, awesome, impressive, a superpower. It’s also, maybe, secretly, probably, a bit of an aphrodisiac for him. It’s no wonder seeing this glow would lead to… what it leads to.
The second is very, very interesting to me. In the real fight, Shea won decisively — the man groaning and scrambling away. But in his dream? The man whimpers incoherently for mercy. How much does it say about Drew that he wants this man to have to beg? It’s very, very Drakken. Drew is not one for forgiveness even now, not really. He was shocked after the fight, the ruthlessness a shock to his system. But oh, he liked it; he wants to see her be even more ruthless.
And then she’s going to fly away… I love that. Is it just “that’s what superheroes do”? Or… is what he’s worried Shea will do? Just like she materialized into his life, she will jump and fly away from it with the same amount of ease.
“Not a girl, a woman.” Man, he is down bad. Even in his dream, he has to correct the age gap. It really disturbs him to have a crush on someone he’s deemed “too young”. I love that this makes its way here.
I love that he’s ogling her. How pathetic. And I love that he doesn’t know how he’s managing to do so while somehow looking her in the eye. I love little impossible dream moments like these.
And there it is! It’s not Shea, it’s Shego.
You have to wonder, a little, if Shea would be just a bit crushed to learn about this dream, so desperate for him to be the one person who cares more about Shea than Shego. Would she understand it as some unconscious mental justification — he can make Shego an adult in his mind in a way, perhaps, he cannot make Shea… Or would she only see this intrigue as a betrayal, proof he only wants Shea to have Shego.
Okay, only in a dream could Dwelling Drewbie have anywhere near this amount of game. He forgets he’s a loser nerd who wouldn’t be able to talk a mirror into reflecting. “He can't help but rub his calloused thumb over her skin, imparting affection, assuring her he means no harm.” God knows he would have these exact words floating through his head as he tried this move. It’s such a… choice to do it this way, you know? He’s not just doing it because it felt right, or because he wanted to touch. No, no, he’s doing it deliberately to impact affection and assure he means no harm. If the man doesn’t come back, I’ll beat your ass myself, Lipsky. He’s such a loser. It works, but the fact I can imagine him trying this, trying so hard to be this suave… It would only work for him now, like this, in a dream.
THE CARAMEL APPLE. I LOVE THAT THIS MAKES IT INTO HIS DREAM. IT’S SO DISTINCTLY SHEA IN THIS MOMENT, NOT SHEGO. IT MAKES PERFECT SENSE THAT THIS IS THE MOMENT SHEGO COLLAPSES. Of course, she breaks right now; his fantasy is falling apart. I also love that he wonders if the alcohol is what fuels her fire, but, intriguingly enough, not whether or not she tastes like fire, which, of course, was the question that led to the real kiss. I don’t think he could allow himself to dream of that question, too much Shea, not enough… Shego… who certainly isn’t just a fantasy, older version of Shea in his mind. Not at all.
No blood from the wound is good. She needs to be injured. He needs an excuse to bring her home, to take care of her, for everything to fall apart… but even still, his sleeping mind knows that there can be no blood from the wound, or this dream ceases to be what it was intended to be, and becomes something else entirely. He cannot handle blood, not even in this.
God, no, seriously, I cannot express enough how much I love that Shego is injured in this fic. He needs excuses, justifications for all of it. Sure, he can justify the kiss with “she saved me,” but… to bring her home? To remove her suit? No. No, he can’t just do that. She has to need help. She has to tell him what to do. It’s perfect. He’s a coward even in his wildest dreams.
And then of course, as he finally gets to steal a glance at this beautiful woman, this perfect fantasy… he is all too swiftly made aware that there is no woman. There is only Shea, too young, too innocent, too… too Shea. But oh, he looks anyway. He can’t help it. And of course, he needs her to be upset; it’s the only reaction that makes sense. Does he, in some small secret way, want her to be terrified of him?
But no, he wants to justify it, to save himself. She’s not terrified of him; he’s terrified of her, but he deserves it. He deserves everything he gets for being the way he is. For wanting to see her stripped down, for knowing he would take the chance to steal a glance at her body… He deserves the expletives, the screaming, the flames.
So when does it happen? His body's betrayal. Is it the kiss? The stolen glance, not at Shego’s body but at Shea’s? Or is it her anger that his body likes so much, being shot with plasma right over the threshold of the staircase? Does he want her to hurt him? He deserves it, after all, and maybe that makes him enjoy it… Which makes him deserve it even more.
There really is no winning.
I love this so much.
(Sorry it took over a year to drop this review though lol)
HC: Age gap about 5-8 years between them, Drew is older. Here it's likely 5.
Little Motor Ed! He has an awful bowl cut. Not my idea, ripped it wholesale from @benjimatorarts. It feels like a good haircut for him to have as a little kid. Hair goes from 'lame' to 'cool'.
Didn't do anything crazy with the clothes, to keep them recogniseable. Drew 'grows' into his full get-up in college, attaining key pieces of attire as he ages.
Adjusted pre-teen Drakken from ASiT to make him Drew. The monobrow remains untouched.
BABY DREWBIES EYES I LOVE HIM HE IS IN SO MUCH PAIN IT’S FANTASTIC.
AND THE GRIP BABY EDDIE HAS ON HIS SLEEVE IS PERFECT. THAT CHILD IS NOT LETTING ANYONE PRY HIM FROM HIS VICTIM
I do very much like the notion that is just what Eddie does whenever he sees Drew and Drakken has scars on his arm or leg somewhere from a particularly bad bite. And also it’s part of why Drakken’s immediate reaction was to just kill him
Interesting opinions voiced at the PTA meeting...
For my Drakgo Teacher AU
Thoughts under the cut
I don't know anything about PTA meetings.
In my AU, Drakken, now Dr. Lipsky, is very involved in teaching at the school, and he's involved in events not related to sport. Workaholic. He has to be to be such a recurring villain in the show. 'Has to be'.
In canon, he is already a Project Manager. Mad scientist and project manager. Orchestrating large groups of people, networking, meeting deadlines for 'events'.
However, I wonder if this goes against something I established, i.e. he doesn't meaningfully interact with other members of staff and he doesn't like Mr. Barkin. He's got his little corner and that's that.
I guess it doesn't, you know. It's a job, and it's something he does to exercise some control in his life/do something. But then it's a matter of, would you willingly be around a co-worker you dislike. Even if it's just for 'something to do'/feed workaholic/control freak tendencies.
Ms. Go would not initially be interested in joining the PTA. I don't think so. She's closer to Shego than she is to her good, pre-villainy Miss Go identity. She's there to make sure the kids are literate and to live a normal civilian life, whilst doing what she wants in her free time.
A few months in, she finally decides to join Dr. Lipsky in a PTA meeting. Once a month he stays back for who knows how long and goes home by himself, catching the bus.
She kind of wants to know what goes on in these PTA meetings. Her co-worker seems to attend them just to come to work the next day grumpier than usual.
There is also the obvious; she misses his company when she goes home alone, even if it is only once a month.
Shego is also a Project Coordinator within the show. Mercenary, bodyguard, sidekick, freelance teacher (villainy), and project coordinator.
you need to understand that i have two sets of headcanons. there's the set of realistic headcanons based on my genuine reading of the show, and then there's me playing pretend with my dolls.
gamechangershow
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
vaporwave
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
