#shop for kids electronic cars

[seat-safety-switch]

When we were kids, we didn't have access to cool power tools. Every summer, when the soapbox derby race was coming, we'd break into my neighbour's garage while he was at work. Then, we'd use his drill press, lathe, table saw, all the fun tools. Over the course of a week, a race car was produced, which is more than the workshop ever made during the rest of the year.

Sure, we could have asked him if we could have borrowed his tools, but no doubt he would want to be there to supervise. And then he'd want to help. We'd never get done while we were busy indulging the suburb-tinged fantasies of someone who didn't take wood shop and chose instead to idly worship at the altar of Television Presents: The Fantasy of Bob Vila in adulthood.

One year, Old Man Garrett got a security system. Probably this was because Ted (fucking Ted) didn't clean up the sawdust that one time like we asked him to. The old man must have seen the footprint, and realized that he did not wear size-seven Nikes. Child thieves, casing his precious table saw! Now, our humble breaking-and-entering had become significantly more difficult than "reach a coat hanger under the door and pull the emergency release."

With the help of some of the high-school kids who were taking electronics class, we managed to defeat the security system. We did so using an ancient Japanese technique known as "distract Old Man Garrett while he's setting it, and then cut the wires to the panel." I think it loses something in translation, but you get the gist of it. That year's car was especially sweet.

In adulthood, I got drunk and bragged to some work buddies about our little scam. They responded in abject horror, because I was still occupying the weird hump in the middle of a normal distribution of "acceptable crimes." It was terrifying to them to see one of their own, one of the suburbanites, speak openly about largely-harmless property crimes. What if we had been hurt, they shrieked. Around the water cooler, I would become a pariah, unless I could make amends.

I did hunt down Old Man Garrett after that, still feeling the sting of rejection. He was still on the property, and he still had a beautiful collection of immaculate cabinet-making tools in the garage. I rang his doorbell and, when he answered, I told him the whole story. He laughed.

"I knew it was you dumb shits from the beginning," he bragged. "Fucking Ted -"

"Fucking Ted," I echoed, unconsciously.

"Fucking Ted left his library book on building race cars behind on the workbench that first year. You didn't let him drive, did you?"

I shook my head. "We ran the car into him if the hockey-stick brakes ever failed."

We had a good laugh about the whole thing that evening, and I returned to work with my soul cleansed. It's just a pity Ted didn't know how bad he actually was at crime, before he tried to knock over that liquor store and all.

[casandaxel]

Laertes hangs against the threshold of the door that leads from the living area to the shop, knocking twice against the door. “Hey, Axel!” She has patchwork cat ears and a tail now. That’s new.

“Oh hey, kid. You look different.” He hummed, glancing at the ears and tail. Axel didn’t want to sound anything but neutral about them, in case Laertes didn’t like them. He was just finishing up fixing a car’s mirror- it’d started to come off after an accident, but all the electronics inside were still intact, making it an easy job. “How have you been? Post-death up to your standards?”

[incorrectbatfam]

Okay, so I want a little angst fic where Robs twins and Milo get kidnapped, and the kidnapper is doing the whole cliche thing with ‘cHoOsE oNe, will your twins or Milo live??’ and, Rob thinks, it should be obvious, right? Pick ur twins! But, it’s a difficult decision, he can’t let any of them die, and he’s stressing Tf out. Like, Milo is fourteen! And the twins love him! (Kinds? He bullies them sometimes but it’s fineee)

At the end, the bats come and save them, but it’s still an eye opening experience.

The Gooners Christmas kidnapping fic that exactly one (1) person asked for

Word count: 3,375

———————

“What’s the password?”

Milo chuckled. “Jackie, you’re only supposed to do that when you get picked up from school.”

“Dad said to always ask before getting in the car with anyone,” the six-year-old replied. 

“But you know me.”

“What if you’re a shapeshifting alien trying to abduct us? Or an evil robot clone?” 

He sighed. “Unicorn ice cream. Now are we going Christmas shopping or not?”

“Sure,” she said, “when Gunner quits being a slowpoke.”

As if on cue, the other boy stumbled out of the three’s shared bedroom, tugging his blue snow boots on. Since he didn’t know how to tie the laces yet, Milo kneeled down and helped him.

“Now remember, the mall’s gonna be really busy, so what do we do if we get separated?”

“Meet at the food court,” they say in unison.

“And what do we not do?”

“Go to a security guard.”

“And why don’t we do that?”

“Because they don’t work for people like us.”

“Good job.” He patted the pom-poms topping their matching hats. 

Once Milo buckled the twins in and put his favorite rock album on, they set off. There was a light dusting of snow on top of the salt laid down earlier that morning, but the fifteen-year-old managed to weave through the holiday traffic and beat the lights in time to snag the last parking spot at Gotham City’s shopping hotspot. 

“Any idea what you’re gonna get your dad?” he asked as they walked into the bustling shopping mall. 

“How about a watch?” said Jackie. “I saw a really cool gold one last week.”

“Hm… maybe,” he said. “Gunner, what about you? Any thoughts?”

Gunner stifled a laugh. “Pants.”

Milo rolled his eyes playfully. The kid was in that phase where pants were the funniest thing in the world. But in the nine months since he started living with the Steelers, Milo hadn’t seen Rob get anything—buying or stealing—for himself. It was always for the kids or to sell on the internet. And, frankly, the man looked like he spent a year on a deserted island. 

“We’ll start with pants,” he said.

“What about you?” Jackie asked. “What are you gonna get him?”

“I’m not sure.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Probably something as a thanks for, you know, not leaving me to the wolves.”

“Like what?”

Gunner said, “How about a World’s Best Dad mug?”

“That might work for you, but he’s not my dad,” said Milo. He shrugged. “Eh, I’ll figure it out.” 

They perused a few clothing stores, the twins pointing out pieces of clothing their dad might like. Milo kept a mental inventory as he fiddled with the magnet in his coat pocket. He also made notes about where the cameras and security guards were placed. 

After about an hour, the kids were whining about being hungry (breakfast wasn’t exactly filling—they shared an egg and a slice of toast between them). Milo took them to the food court and used some cash he pickpocketed the other day to buy them both kids’ meals from the Batburger pop-up stall. 

Once they sat down, he said, “I’m gonna go get the gifts for your dad. Do you guys have your phone?”

Jackie and Gunner nodded and pulled out matching rose gold and black smartphones, respectively, that totally weren’t stolen and jailbroken. 

“Good. Stay here and don’t move. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes. Call me if you need anything.”

Milo still had a thing or two to learn before he could begin swiping electronics and jewelry, but shoplifting clothing was easy. He grabbed a shopping bag from behind an unoccupied register and wove through the aisles for the list of things from earlier. He took them to the dressing room and removed the security tags with his trusty magnet before putting the clothes in the bag. Then, for good measure, he stuck them back onto random clothes throughout the store before walking out while using his phone like any other teenager. 

When he didn’t see the twins at the food court, there was a small spark of panic. He called Jackie and it rang three times before she answered. 

“We’re in the bathroom,” she said. 

He should’ve noticed the quiver in her voice. When he stepped into the all-gender restroom, he was met by the kids pressed against the wall with a haggard middle-aged man towering over them. 

Gunner cried out, “Milo!”

As the door fell shut, the stranger whirled around, pointing a sawed-off shotgun at Milo. “You with them?”

Stunned, Milo nodded numbly. He wasn’t sure if that was the right move or not. 

The man’s hands trembled. “Do as I say or I shoot.”

Milo reached for his batarang—the one he found on the street—inside his jacket, but before he could grab it, the man walked around him and prodded Milo in the back with the barrel. 

“I know you heard me. Now all three of you move it.” 

The bathroom was five steps from the exit, so there wasn’t any chance to make a getaway without putting Jackie and Gunner at risk. They were ushered roughly into a white van with the peeling logo of an electric company. A second person was in the driver’s seat so the guy with the gun got into the seatless back with them. He slammed the door shut. Milo motioned for the twins to get behind him. 

The driver turned the radio up as they made their way onto the road. 

Smart. Milo thought. Mask any calls for help. This obviously wasn’t the kidnappers’ first rodeo. 

But neither was it Milo’s. Being a runaway street kid, he had his fair share of close calls with bastard adults who tried to manipulate him because of his age. While he couldn’t call himself an expert, he had a general gist of how these situations went. 

Traveling at sixty miles per hour in a windowless van with no clue where they were headed, Milo didn’t have an upper hand. He needed information. Something was better than nothing. 

He studied the man with them, who had tucked the gun away. Even in the dark, he could see the man wasn’t doing well for himself. The worn-out clothes plus the crudeness of his weapon ruled out the mafia. What would Falcone or Maroni want with some random kids from Burnside, anyway? Milo could also rule out some of the major Rogues—Riddler, Two-Face, and Mr. Freeze all had standards. 

The man’s graying blonde hair and beard were both overgrown. His face was hollow and his breath smelled like spoiled leftovers. Clearly, he hadn’t taken care of himself in a long time. Mental break? But unless it was a case of folie a deux, there’s no way he could’ve gotten a second person to be his getaway driver. More likely than not, he was on his last legs and holding people for ransom was his Hail Mary. 

Milo also tried to analyze the man’s body language, but the low light and the moving van made it difficult. Kellin would’ve probably deduced everything with their assassin training by now. 

He glanced over his shoulder at Jackie and Gunner. Gunner always had more braggadocio, but underneath he got more scared easily, and Milo saw it in the way the kid clung to his sister’s arm with tears running down his cherubic face. Jackie appeared calmer, but her big brown eyes looked up at Milo, silently begging him to do something.

Milo took a deep breath and turned to their kidnapper. “You mind telling me what you want with us?”

“We don’t want anything from you,” the man replied. 

“Then what? You gonna sell us? Because we’re pretty unmarketable.” 

“No,” he said. “This isn’t about you. It’s about your father.”

“Axel Carr? Good luck with that. I’m as dead to him as he is to me.”

The man pointed to the twins. “I meant theirs.”

“How do you know their dad?” Milo asked slowly, careful not to let a name slip in case the man was bluffing. 

“I worked with Rob Steeler under Scarecrow. When he left, instead of getting promoted, they let our entire crew go since we lost our key player.”

The man was clearly getting started and Milo hoped he’d keep going until the boy could formulate a plan. 

“My whole life torpedoed after that. No gigs meant no income. No income plus a disabled kid meant I had to give up custody.”

While unfortunate, Milo was more focused on the clock and speedometer up front. Eight minutes had passed since they started driving and the speed had stayed consistent. The hum underneath the wheels told him they were still on the highway. 

“Without that money, I can’t get my kid back. So here’s what’s gonna happen.”

They came to a stop and there was the sound of a garage door opening and closing. Gun back in hand, the man prodded them out. 

“I’m gonna make Steeler pay,” he said. “He gives me cash for his little tikes. Otherwise, if I can’t have my family, then neither can he.” He turned to Milo and cocked the gun. “As for you, I’m afraid I can’t have any witnesses.”

“Wait!” Milo exclaimed before the man put his finger on the trigger. “Don’t you think killing me right away will cause a huge scene? You’ll end up with cops at the doorstep before you can even ask for the money.”

The driver muttered something to the gunman.

“True,” the gunman said.

The driver whispered something else. The gunman’s face lit up and he nodded. 

“Better idea,” he said. “I was going for around thirty grand. That’s ten grand for each of you. For each one he can bring me, I’ll let you go home.”

Jackie piped up. “What if he can’t?”

The man smiled. “For your sake, little girl, you better hope he does.” 

The gunman forced the three to surrender their phones while the driver bound them with rope to a water pipe against the wall. The windowless garage offered no clues to the outside, but the fishy smell in the air meant they were close to the harbor. It hadn’t been used in a long time because every step someone took left a footprint in the dust. Off to one side, underneath a mountain of scrap wood and netting, was a speedboat with a gaping hole in the hull. On the other side was a small, messy work table where the driver and gunman were making the ransom call. 

“Milo, what do we do?” Gunner whispered. 

“Just stay here and don’t move unless I tell you to,” he replied. “I’m gonna get us out of this.”

“What if you get hurt?” Jackie asked. 

He smiled. “Remember when I did a cartwheel with a twisted ankle? A little hurt doesn’t bother me.”

His arms were pinned to his side, but he managed to maneuver them enough to grab his magnet and batarang. Normally he would have had a trunk full of inventory to work with but this was going to have to do. 

While the kidnappers were on the call, he sliced himself out of the ropes with the batarang. He also loosened Jackie and Gunner’s restraints to prepare for a quick escape. 

The only exit was the garage door, controlled by a red button on the wall. If he was one of the bat-people, he could easily throw the batarang and hit the tiny target far away, but as just Milo, the risks far outweighed his chance of success. Normally he would have tried anyway, but he had the kids with him. 

He gestured to Gunner’s boots. “I need to borrow something real quick.”

The boy nodded. Milo undid the laces, resulting in two long strings in his hands. He tied them together to create a single, even longer cord, which he then put the batarang on one end of. 

The kidnappers turned toward them and the gunman shouted, “Hey!”

Milo muttered a prayer to Wonder Woman on the off chance that’s her thing. 

He twirled the string and released it. It wrapped around the driver’s knee, causing the man to stumble and fall. His joint cracking echoed through the garage and a red stain grew on his cargo pants. 

He reeled it in before throwing it at the gunman’s face. The tip grazed the man’s cheek, drawing a thin trickle of blood, before spinning back around into Milo’s hand. Milo threw a punch, but the man caught it. The gunman twisted before shoving Milo to the ground and pointing the shotgun at him. 

“Had fun playing Robin?” the man asked, finger nearing the trigger. 

Stall. That was all there was left to do. 

“Heroes are overrated. They always have to follow some stupid code,” Milo said, doing all he could to keep his voice steady. “You and I have more in common than you think.”

“Whatever deal you’re trying to cut won’t work,” the gunman replied. “Steeler’s already on his way and he accepted all my terms.” 

“What if I tell everyone what you did? Then what?”

The gunman laughed. “Tell who? The same cops you’re always running from? Don’t think I didn’t do my homework on your little posse.”

The driver was pretty much down for the count because he was still on the floor with the pool of blood slowly growing. Plus, he didn’t seem like the fighting type to begin with. Unless there were more kidnappers lurking, Milo just had to make sure the gunman stayed focused on him. 

“Your kid. How old are they?” Milo asked. 

“He’s ten, and unlike you, he’s actually suffering. He didn’t bring it on himself after a fight with daddy.” 

That plucked a nerve. For a disheveled ex-henchman, the man knew a lot. 

Milo clenched his jaw. “And what would he say if he knew about this? Even if you get the money, what makes you think he’d want anything to do with you?”

Smack. 

Milo fell back as the gun met his temple. His head throbbed and black speckles swam in front of his eyes. His fingers traced over the spot and came back red. Through the dull ringing in his right ear, he heard the twins cry out his name. 

He turned back to the gunman, still kneeling. “If you’d do this to us, what’s stopping you from doing it to him?”

This time, a kick to the stomach forced the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping. He reached for the batarang but the gunman kicked it away. 

The man raised his gun for another strike but the garage door interrupted him. 

“Step away from the kids.”

The twins exclaimed, “Dad!”

Rob made brief but reassuring eye contact with them before turning to the kidnapper. 

“I got as much as I could, Frederickson. Now let go of my kids.” 

The kidnapper walked over and snatched the water-stained blue duffel bag out of Rob’s hand. He opened it and counted through the banded bills before turning back to Rob. 

“I said thirty grand. This is only twenty-five.”

“That's all I got, I’m telling you! Just take it and let my kids and I go home.” 

“We had a deal.”

While the two men went back and forth, Milo crawled over to the batarang. The open garage door meant the bright lights inside flooded the harbor with nothing blocking the way. The bright lightbulbs dangled from the ceiling. 

It was sheer luck the batarang flew over the adults’ heads and wrapped around the base of the brightest light bulb before dangling in front of it. It wasn’t very distinct, but his makeshift Bat-Signal would have to do. 

The man cocked the gun. “Now you gotta pick. It’s them…” He pointed it at the twins. “Or him.” He pointed at Milo.

What kind of choice is that? Milo thought. Of course pick them.

Rob stood there as if nailed to the spot, fists clenched. 

“Fredrickson, think about this,” he said, his normally firm voice edging on pleading. “Is five thousand dollars worth having this on your conscience?”

“You were always the soft one,” the man sneered. “You never let it on around the boss until our last sting.”

“There’s ransom and then there’s this,” Rob said. “Fredrickson. Darren. You’re not okay.” 

“Rob,” Milo said. 

The men’s heads both swiveled around. 

Milo swallowed. “Give him what he wants and he’ll be out of your hair. It’s obvious. Pick the twins.”

Rob sputtered, eyes wide. “I-I…” 

“You trust me on the field all the time,” he said. “So do it again.”

“I can’t.”

The gunman said, “So the little ones go.”

“No!” Rob yelled. “I just—I just need…”

“Take. Your. Pick.” 

His eyes darted between Milo and the twins. Milo knew his boss was an idiot at times and the proof was right here. The twins were younger. There were two of them as opposed to one of him. They were actually Rob’s. 

Before the gunman could repeat himself again, a brand new voice chimed in. 

“I’ve seen this trope before. Spoiler alert: the good guys win.”

With a swish of her purple cape, Spoiler released her grapple and knocked the shotgun away. She coiled the rope around the gunman before kneeing him in the ribs. Milo didn’t think much of heroes given how they beat up people like him and Rob, but he couldn’t help but marvel at each fluid strike. As easy as one, two, three, four, and five. 

The gunman hit the ground and she clasped a pair of handcuffs on him. Nearby, Orphan collected the driver. 

Spoiler crouched beside the twins and freed them. “Are you guys alright?”

They nodded. Gunner said, “Is the supervillain defeated?”

“I’d hardly call him super, but yes,” she said. “He’s not gonna bother you anymore.” 

As red and blue lights flooded the room, Milo’s head pulsed even harder like a kick drum at a rock show. Some of the blood from his temple dripped onto the floor. His stomach rolled. 

Rob answered some of Spoiler’s questions before she set them loose. Of course cops would be at the scene. Why didn’t Milo think of that?

The twins ran into their dad’s arms and he scooped them up. Milo had never seen his boss so relieved or so scared. He staggered to his feet, one hand in the brick wall for balance. His head spun and a sharp pain was finally sinking in. 

Rob put the kids down and turned toward Milo. 

“I’m sorry,” Milo said. “It’s my fault we got into this mess and—”

He was cut off by a pair of arms wrapping around him. 

“Rob, what—”

“Just shut up and take it.” 

The hug ended before Milo could fully register it. After one of the medics patched his wound, all they had left to do was go home and pretend this never happened. Business as usual. 

“The car’s still at the mall,” he said. 

“I borrowed one from Otto,” Rob replied. “I’ll get ours in the morning.”

Once they were back at the apartment, Rob tucked the twins into bed with an extra-long story. Meanwhile, Milo cleaned himself up in the cubicle-sized bathroom and changed into something more comfortable. 

He tried to sleep after that but wound up tossing and turning for hours, replaying the night’s events in his head. What if he hadn’t left the twins alone? What if he’d brought a better weapon? The Steelers were already hanging by a thread and he just cost them twenty-five grand. If one of the others was in his position, they could’ve figured a way out by themselves. Blaise would’ve siphoned the gas from the van and turned it into a flamethrower. Booker and Molly would’ve been better negotiators. Kellin would’ve fought their way through.

The door opened. The thin bar of light cut between his side of the room and the sleeping twins’ bunk bed. 

“It’s two o’clock,” Rob said. 

Milo propped himself up on his elbow. “And?”

“I could hear you down the hall. You’re gonna wake the twins up at this rate.”

“Not on the clock, not my boss.”

Rob quietly chuckled. “Get some sleep. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

[srorgana1]

Honoring the Past

Rock Star Kylo Ren/Reader

Warnings: physical and mental abuse of a child, alcoholism, mentions of homophobia, and lots of complex emotions

Huge thanks to my amazing friend and Beta @mrs-zimmerman ❤️

A cackle of laughter hits Kylo’s ears as he enters D’Kar Studios. He smirks, settling his helmet on his hip as he sees Taylor "Trax" Johnson, DeeDee and the front desk clerk Amelia laughing jovially at something on Trax’s phone. It still amazes him how different it is here compared to First Order Records. He remembers how stuffy and by the book it was. There was no joy, no smiles, just cut-throat business practices and the music that fueled in. He thanks the deities above for letting him finally see the light and detach himself from that toxic black hole of a company.

DeeDee turns to him, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Hey Kylo” she says through giggles “you all are set up in Room #3 today.” He nods at them, and heads down the hallway. He turns left at the intersection and takes in the various awards and accolades adorning the walls. He sees their platinum award proudly displayed under a shadow box along with a vinyl sized picture of the front of the Trials and Errors album. It broke records in sales and downloads and won them multiple awards. It showed the industry that success could be done differently.

He scans the walls at the other awards from other artists proudly displayed alongside. It didn’t matter here if you were fresh off YouTube or one of the biggest names in the scene, you were treated equally with respect and kindness. You were part of the D’Kar family. Kylo can attest it’s a great fucking place to be.

He sees the record light lit above Room #3. Looking through the window his brows crinkle slightly in confusion. He was used to seeing you at the soundboard with your custom sparkly blue Bose headphones on. But no, you are in the studio room alongside D’Kar’s videographer Vincent recording Vic on your phone. Why is the record light on then if you're both in there? His hand squeezes the doorknob and twists, entering silently.

A wave of nostalgia hits him as the haunting melody of Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) floats on the cool air-conditioned air. His head snaps to the large window as Vic hits the strings of his acoustic guitar, transitioning into the well-known chorus.

It’s something unpredictable

But in the end, it’s right

I hope you had the time of your life

Kylo sets down his motorcycle helmet on the soundboard and leans on his hands, losing himself in a memory…

He is twelve years old, walking down the sun baked sidewalk. His worn and dirty Converse slap the concrete below, a size too small for his rapidly growing feet. The strap from his heavy book bag digs into his shoulder. He looks at the watch on his wrist. The cracked electronic screen blinking up the time. He cannot go home yet. His dad is still there.

The healing burns on his shoulder flares upon thinking about it. He shifts his bookbag away from them, hiding a wince. He got off easy this time and he knows it. He was dumb and thought he wouldn’t notice. He was wrong.

The sad thing is that it’s something he learned a long time ago through multiple bouts of blood, tears and broken bones. You cannot rely on or put your trust in others. It’s the only way for you not to get hurt.

So he continues on with no real destination. He could’ve stayed at school but it would have just raised more questions. He hated when they tried to pry. Just as much as the looks he got from the other kids, whispering snide comments on his height or his hair or his ratty clothes. He knew they would never truly understand. So he held it all in and walked, hoping someone or something would give him a sign that things would get better.

He stops under a shop awning to get a reprieve from the hot Arizona sun. He leans on the bricks, wiping his sweaty black hair out of his eyes. He watches the busy street, the cars and people heading here and there. The various shops bouldering the open air flea market across the street are buzzing with people. Maybe he could sneak in and grab a sandwich again. The nice lady who runs the arepas stand may turn a blind eye like she has before. His mind made up, he takes a step towards the flea market to be stopped in his tracks by the unique sound of music hitting his ears.

For some unknown reason, he turns and heads towards the music. It invades his senses, calling his soul forward. His dad never played music at home, only hateful talk radio. Said it reminded him of his good for nothing bitch of a mother. To be honest, Kylo doesn’t really remember her. She left when he was little. He totally gets why she left though. He just wishes she brought him with her. Anywhere had to be better than here.

He comes to a dingy little shop squished between the payday loan place and the barber shop. How has he missed it before when he has walked most of the streets on this side of town? Regardless, the music rings out the open door like a siren call. Kylo’s feet lead him closer. A small sign hangs overhead matching the peeling paint on the bay window. Corellia Records. The song changes to a more soulful tune, but still with as much power as the one before.

He stands at the threshold looking in cautiously. The space is small and dimly lit. Rickety shelves line the walls full of albums and other what he assumes is musical equipment. The back wall behind the glass counter has multiple instruments hanging. A portly greasy looking man in a stained gray t-shirt and an ill fitting fedora is standing by one of the tables, shuffling through a box while grumbling to himself.

Kylo shuffles in slowly, taking in more of the shop. The song ends as the man looks up at him. “What you need kid?” he says gruffly. Kylo immediately freezes and looks at his shoes, already able to feel this man’s agitation. “Um” he starts, suddenly wishing he had not entered. “Hey kid, it’s okay. What do you need?” the voice comes again. He can smell the man’s musty body odor as he takes a step towards him. He reactively flinches, pulling his book bag closer to himself.

He continues to stare at his shoes as the man sighs and shifts away from him, groaning as he sits on the stool behind the counter. It squeaks loudly under his weight. “You like music kid?” he asks, switching out the record on the record player and pulling a bag of Cheetos Puffs from below. The man opens the bag and shakes it towards him. The classic smell hits Kylo’s nose, making his mouth water almost instantly. “I can tell your hungry kid. Come and have some” he gruffs.

He eyes the man as he slowly walks up, placing his book bag on the floor and hopping up on the adjunct stool. The music is louder over here and seems to flow through him. He shuts his eyes as his body reacts to the emotion of the music. “You like Soundgarden kid? I feel this album is one of their best” the man says, placing the ripped open bag on the counter. Kylo grabs a couple and stuffs them in his mouth, moaning at the delicious taste of orange artificial cheese.

He takes a couple more before answering. “No, I don’t know who that is. I just, i don’t know… i just like it” he says in a small voice. The man hums to himself, taking a Cheeto for himself. “I feel ya there. Music has always spoken to me as well. Led me to some awesome places. Made me believe in the better of people.” Kylo looks up at him, strangely feeling a connection to this man. “I can tell by your eyes kid, you’re the same. My name’s Raf, what’s yours?”

Kylo sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. He doesn’t notice you, Vic and Vincent watching him with concerned eyes. He’s too lost in his memories.

Raf became the pseudo-father figure Kylo needed. So much more than his drunk of a father could ever dream of being. He offered Kylo a job at the shop, saying he couldn’t pay him much but it was there if he wanted it. Kylo took him on his offer instantly. From only a couple of interactions, he found out that Raf had once been in a band, playing guitar and bass. Left the band years ago over creative differences and used the royalties to open the shop. He always said he felt he was meant to give back and help inspire the next generation.

He taught Kylo how to appreciate the classics. The Beatles, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Patsy Cline, Queen, Chuck Berry, The Stones, The Eagles, ACDC, Led Zeppelin, Kiss, Tom Petty, The Cure, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Leadbelly. Showed him how musical influences never really change, they just meld and flow into the next generation. Just like the notes on the wind.

They figured out a schedule, with Kylo working the four days his father worked the late shift. He would race there after school, working the counter and unpacking boxes as Raf quizzed him on music history. He then started teaching Kylo how to play keyboard and then eventually guitar, saying learning both would instill the notes in faster. He was gruff but fair in his style of teaching but never cruel, allowing Kylo to make the necessary mistakes without judgment.

As the years went on, his home life got worse. There were multiple times he would come in battered and bruised. Raf would fix him up and then would let him stay in the back, popping open a cold Jarritos for him. He would give him a pained look before leaving Kylo to the boxes.

At fourteen, Raf recommended Kylo to play at the local Cantina’s open mic night. Said it would be good for him to try it out and to test out his skills in front of others. Kylo will never forget that night for as long as he lived. He stood backstage at Los Nopales, his body wracked with nerves. He remembers shaking and his sweaty hand almost staining the wooden neck of his borrowed guitar.

His name was called followed by some random applause. He took a shuddering breath and walked out under the spotlight, sitting on the stool and attempting to fix the microphone to his height. It squeaked and slid all the way down, hitting the guitar with a thud. A couple people laughed and shook their heads. He fixed it quickly, his cheeks burning hot. He looked up and saw Raf by the bar, his rotund self settled on a bar stool. He nodded at him with kind eyes, silently saying you can do this.

He nodded back and focused on the feeling of the guitar in his hands. The sound of bottles clicking and the low murmur from the crowd. It’s oddly centering. He shuts his eyes and lets himself be enveloped by the energy. He strummed the opening chords, letting himself get lost in the notes. Letting the music carry him away. His rendition of Wanted Dead or Alive by Bon Jovi brought the crowd to their feet. He left the stage with a smile on his face and his heart full to see Raf’s face full of pride among the others.

He played there off and on, often on weekends. He would sneak out after his Dad passed out or left for the bar, hopping on the bicycle Raf gave him. Raf was almost always there when he performed, a glass of cold beer in front of him and a big grin on his face. It was something that struck Kylo to the core. How good it felt to have someone believe in him.

But life decided to remind Kylo of his reality. One weekend afternoon when Kylo thought his old man was out cold, he left and headed to the shop. The hot dry air hit his face as he petaled down the street, excited for his shift.

He recently had gotten into a couple newer bands: Foo Fighters, Green Day and Linkin Park. Raf had laughed and rolled his eyes when he caught Kylo rocking out in the back to them, saying how much he could hear Depeche Mode and Rage against the Machine in their sounds. Regardless, he let Kylo order some along with some other bands and they were due to be delivered today.

Kylo parked his bike and chained it up, concerned with the yelling from inside the shop. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end at the sound of a familiar voice. Please no, he prayed as he slowly walked out of the alley and to the front door. His heart sank in his chest to see his wreck of father cornering Raf by the counter, a threatening finger in his face. Raf stared down the irate man, his large face stoic. His eyes catch Kylo behind him, worry flashing in his dark brown irises.

“I knew you were coming here boy” his father snarled, turning from Raf to him. His feral anger emanated from him as he cracked his neck. “When I heard from Pedro that he saw you playing at the Cantina, I knew this is where you were sneaking off to you little shit” Kylo gulped and watched him in fear as he began to pace. It was a sign of bad things to come.

“C’mon man, he’s just a kid” Raf said, pushing himself off the counter. “DON’T TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY BOY!” his father roars, knocking a box of vinyls to the floor. Kylo winced at the sound of them smashing to pieces. “You come here now” he snarled. Kylo took a breath, knowing he cannot get out of this. If he fights it’ll be ten times worse. He walked up to his father slowly, yelping when his hair was grabbed roughly. “You will never come back here” he voice getting louder “you will never play at that Cantina again and you will never see this fat fucking faggot ever again. Do you understand me!?”

As much as Kylo was scared, he couldn’t take his eyes off Raf. The pain in his eyes mirrored his. He suddenly knew why Raf had been so nice to him at the beginning. He had experienced this. He had his own abuser and was reliving it with Kylo.

It gave Kylo the strength to do what he needed to do. He pulled away, hissing through the pain of his hair being ripped out at the root. He shut his eyes and swung, colliding with his father’s jaw. A shot of pain shoots through his hand and up his arm. He groaned through ragged breaths, holding his arm to his chest. “Ky” a gruff voice said. The voice of his anchor through all this fucking bullshit.

He opened his eyes to see Raf’s eyes wet with tears and his father out cold on the floor. His arm throbbed hotly. “I’m calling the cops Ky, this needs to end” Raf said as he rounded the counter, heading for the back. It was then that Kylo noticed a silvery scar under the tattoo on Raf’s neck, so similar in shape and size to ones he had on his shoulder. “How’d you get out Raf?” Kylo grits out through the stabbing pain. “Music my boy, and I suggest you do the same,'' he responded softly. Kylo nodded as he watched Raf’s wide body disappear behind the wall.

The cops came quickly, escorting both Kylo and his father to the hospital. They set Kylo’s broken hand and arm and questioned him about what happened. He told them everything. They wrote down everything, giving him that pitied look. He hated it. They escorted him home so he could get his meager belongings and was thankfully sent to stay with Raf until the trial.

During that time he recommended Kylo to file for emancipation. He was plenty old enough to and met the qualifications with a job to support himself and had a place to stay. Why not, Raf had said, you’re more of a man now then your father ever was. It was a better option than getting sent to some shitty foster care setup until he aged out.

The courts took their time, but ultimately granted Kylo his emancipation and his father a prison sentence. He continued to play at open mics and work odd jobs along with the shop. He was happy for once. He was doing what he loved and had someone who believed in him.

The day after his sixteenth birthday, Raf told him of an opportunity of a lifetime. It was a job at Raf’s cousin’s restaurant in Los Angeles which came with a small studio apartment and a promise he could perform at every open mic night there. Raf knew it was Kylo’s dream to have his name in lights, to play his guitar for the masses. LA is where music and dreams are made and Kylo deserved to get his shot. He graciously accepted, crying into Raf’s shoulder. He helped Kylo prepare, all the while giving random snippets of advice and pointers on the music industry there.

On a hot April morning, Raf drove Kylo to the bus depot. They sat side by side on the bench until his bus was called. He told Kylo to wait a moment as he huffed and puffed back to his car. Kylo stood there confused with his small tattered duffle bag and second-hand suitcase. As Raf turned back, he saw a familiar leather case. He knew inside was Raf’s vintage Fender, the same one he learned to play on.

Kylo tried to decline but Raf refused to take no for an answer, saying it was his now and to make him proud with it. He hugged him and thanked him, promising he would do his fucking best. He hopped on the bus with teary eyes, and watched his guardian angel fade as the bus pulled away.

He never saw Raf again. He passed away two years later from heart failure. By that time Kylo was in deep working for First Order, working himself to the bone to show he was worthy. He only found out when he and the guys went for drinks at the old cantina he used to work at to celebrate their work on the StarKiller album.

Sergio, Raf’s nephew who was now the manager, let Kylo drink on the house after telling him the news. As much as the other guys tried to lift his spirits, he wallowed miserably in tequila and whiskey. Truly in mourning of his first true friend and mentor. The only one who knew the whole story at the time was Vic so he lifted a glass, toasting the man. Speaking the words Kylo held in his heart but couldn't put into words.

The memories fade as the weight of arms wrapped around his shoulders along with a pair of soft lips kissed his cheek. "Ky, baby what's wrong?" your soft voice says, full of concern. He shakes his head, finally feeling the wetness on his cheeks. "Just memories baby girl, don't worry about it" he says, turning in your arms and tucking his head in your shoulder. He feels your nails scratch at his scalp in an attempt to calm him. He knows you know the story. He told you everything. He takes a shuddering breath, attempting to compose himself.

"Kylo, I am so sorry man. I know how much that song means to you. We thought we would’ve been done by the time you got here…" Vic says coming up to them, his blue eyes full of emotion. Kylo looks up at him, giving him a warm smile through teary eyes. He knows Vic is telling the truth. He should’ve been more prepared than he was. It was known he was playing that song today, with it being one of the most requested songs on their social media poll. But like always, it hit him right in the heart and sucked him in.

"I know Vic" he says releasing you, wiping one of his red rimmed eyes with his hand. "It's on me, not you. But I can definitely say your performance was moving." Vic gives him a sad smile, finally taking a seat on the couch as you stand by his side. "How about we break for lunch and then you can do yours Ky. I can have Rae move up our order" you say, clicking a couple keys on the sound board.

His mind still swims with visions of the past: of Raf's happy tear filled eyes when he performed for the first time, of his gruff laugh and affinity for odd but comforting snacks, the last hug they shared at the bus depot. He looks over at his guitar sitting in its case next to Vincent on the couch. Obviously more worn but still the same. His only memento of the man who changed his life for the better.

"No, no I have to do this" he says, kissing the top of your head and turning to grab the guitar case. He sees you nod as you take a seat at the soundboard, your hands fidgeting with your headphones. "You want me to record it for you?” Vic asks, shaking his phone in his hand. Kylo nods as he heads into the studio. He hears Vic and Vincent follow him in. He looks over to see you blow him a kiss through the glass. He catches it and puts it on his chest with a soft smile.

He scans the studio room, deciding to sit on a tall metal stool that was discarded in the corner. He grabs it and moves it to the front of Vincent, setting himself atop it. He feels he’s right back in that dim music shop, learning his chords alongside Raf. He tunes his guitar, almost able to feel his spirit with him.

His fingers stop, his mind offering a silent thank you. He looks up and nods to you. He sees Vic and Vincent start recording as the record light goes on. "Hey all this is Kylo from the Knights of Ren, thanks for joining us for our newest segment of Classic Covers. I would like to thank each and every single one of you for your continued support of the band and we hope you like and subscribe to the channels below." He has to tell himself not to roll his eyes when Vic cracks a wry smile at him for once following the approved script.

"This next one is really special to me for a lot of reasons and I would like to dedicate it to Rafael Hernandez Corellia and his family. He meant more to me than I could ever express in words. So in memory of him, this is Fell on Black Days by Soundgarden." His calloused fingers hit the strings, starting into a song that lives in a part of his heart. His version is gritty and passionate, so much like Raf. He feels tears prick his eyes as reaches the end, barely noticing the growing group of people in the ajoining room. All amazed at the outpouring of emotion from him.

He strums the final notes, giving the camera a tearful smile and wave. Vic stops recording and immediately rushs over to give him a hug. He grunts as Vic’s body hits him, pushing the guitar into his gut. He ignores the discomfort and wraps an arm around him, holding his friend close.

A series of applause and cheers come through the speakers when they release. He looks up to see over half the staff and a couple other artists all giving him a standing ovation. You are standing in the middle with tears streaming down your face.

His eyes hold yours and can feel your love emanating from them. He can barely hear you whisper I love you over the crowd but it’s there. He lets the tears finally flow. He has honored Raf in the best way he knew how. He has you and his band mates and his friends. He has D'Kar. He has honestly and truly made his dreams come true.

soooo...yeah that happened. How ya all doing?! Lemme know what you think here or on A03 ❤️

You can find the whole collection here including the original story:

[archivistofnerddom]

The Bad Batch and Costco headcanons:

Because I have it in my head that they would be the family that needs to buy things in bulk. Once it was there, the headcanons followed.

Hunter

He’s usually the one responsible for their food purchases. The grocery list he takes is long, extensive, and heavily annotated with everyone’s preferences.

The most tired dad in Costco award goes to him. Trying to corral the rest of the Batch is a losing game, so he’s figured out how to divide and conquer, sending everyone out to pick up certain things. (They don’t always follow through with what they were supposed to get though, hence why he wins the most tired dad award.)

He’s willing to stop and try samples though. Hunter needs snacks to get through this gauntlet with the full family. Plus, focusing on food keeps him sane and his senses in line.

Even still, he’s always down to get a hot meal from Costco’s kitchen after check-out. It’s the only time that day the whole family agrees on anything and is in the same place in the store.

He’s usually in possession of one of the family’s membership cards and definitely has one of their debit cards. There will be few surprise purchases on his watch. (There are always surprise purchases on his watch.)

Crosshair

Disappears almost as soon as they walk in the door. He appears out of nowhere to deposit what he wants in one of their carts (because they have many) and disappears again. (Coffee and dark chocolate are pretty much the only consistent items he adds.)

He can usually be found hanging near the check-out lanes with a mountain of coolers and boxes at the ready for when they’re checking out.

It’s an unspoken rule in their local Costco that no one tries to filch any of the cardboard boxes from his horde. Legend has it he will throw hands to defend his stash. Few dare to test that assumption.

The one responsible for ordering food so that it’s ready to eat once the rest of the family is through the check-out line. Don’t ask how he always times it perfectly. It’s a mystery not even Tech could solve.

Unsurprisingly, he usually garners a following of moody teenagers who just don’t want to be there. He gives off the same energy most of the time, even if he’s just trying to catch a nap. It’s a crapshot if Crosshair actually likes that the moody punk kids want to hang with him. They’re just afraid enough of him to ask.

Tech

Tech can be found in the auto section and the electronics section. He knows precisely what they meet and has already shopped the best deals.

He needs several texts and alarms so that he doesn’t get lost in conversation. (Hunter isn’t above sending Wrecker to go re-claim Tech, if he doesn’t show up after a timely fashion.)

Like Crosshair, he’ll just drop whatever non-electronic items he wants (such as snacks and what have you) into the cart after he’s finished his assigned tasks before he disappears. He usually winds up hanging with Crosshair to wait for the rest of the family.

Tech is only sometimes in charge of the family Costco membership card and debit car. He can’t be left fully unattended though, if only because he’ll go overboard with purchases.

Can be used to distract the moody punk kids who want to vibe with Crosshair, while also having Crosshair use his shoulder as a pillow.

Wrecker

He has to go with Hunter, if only because he’s usually on cart duty. (Wrecker also needs to be supervised, or else he’ll grab all the snacks.) Being on cart duty doesn’t stop him from having a great time. He’s that guy who can push the most improbably packed cart with true expertise.

Guess who will still sneak in special treats and surprises for Omega into the cart? This guy.

Wrecker gets geared up for the post-Costco run family meal. He’ll eat an entire pizza all by himself, if left unattended and unsupervised. (Crosshair buys extra for him because of that.)

He’s the most enthusiastic about trying samples and will always encourage Hunter to stop and try. Wrecker knows when his brother needs a break from the chaos.

Wrecker and the Costco employees who run the sample stations always get along. He’s so nice to them and complimentary to them. This is the guy who will always wind up getting extra samples handed to him.

Echo

He’s usually on Omega duty, if only to make sure she doesn’t sneak off on them.

Echo also is usually responsible for stocking up their pharmacy needs and buying some clothes in bulk for the family. With how hard their lives are, getting clothes in bulk is necessary.

He’s always in charge of one of their membership cards and a debit card. Echo is the most responsible one on that front.

That doesn’t stop him from conspiring with Omega to find some fun things for the cart. It’s always something random, but will brighten up their chaotic lives.

Echo is most likely to pass out once he eats though. He’s happy to get off his feet and to have a chance to relax. Walking around Costco takes effort sometimes, especially with his prosthetics.

Omega

Like Wrecker, she makes friends with everyone who gives out samples. She’s the reason why Echo stays fed before they check-out.

Omega would walk out with so many large squishy toys, if she could get away with it. That’s why she and Wrecker can’t be in Costco together and unsupervised. They’d have so many comfy squishy toys and hammocks if they were.

Somehow, she gets covered in stickers and starts sharing them with her brothers. It doesn’t matter where she got them. Omega has stickers books and she shares them. Little kids love her because she inevitably turns into the feral sticker fairy of Costco. (Who knows how the parents to said little kids feel about that.)

Omega is very serious about making sure her brothers all walk away from each Costco trip with a surprise in the cart. She gets sneaky about getting them past Echo and Hunter. (Wrecker provides distractions as appropriate.)

Remember those moody punk kids who were hanging around Crosshair (and inevitably Tech)? Well, Omega chats all of them up. She’s the best person to embarrass the crap out of her brothers with stories. Omega makes her brothers look either way cooler or significantly less cool when she shares stories with the punk kids.

[rust-bearer]

Another zombie au writing exercise, feat: a bookstore

First Aid imagined, before, that places after the end of the world would be much more… dilapidated. Weed-filled and destroyed by both weather and time. But, surprisingly, these places were often just… fine. Speaking from that perspective, at least. The area wasn’t prone to flooding, so there was no water damage, barring extreme circumstances. There were no tornadoes, no hurricanes. There were some earthquakes, occasionally, but nothing major. So maybe some downed power lines, maybe some toppled trees. Old car crashes, some that had crashed into storefronts, some into each other. Destroyed windows… and maybe, rarely, a few adventurous plants trying to creep inside.

But mostly? They were all fine. When he entered the bookstore, the only ravages of time that he beheld were dried blood, slumped corpses melting into the floors, and layers of dust over the store that no one had any reason to scavenge. Some of the bookshelves were toppled over; many of the books were on the floors. Expensive things, like television shows and electronic reading devices- they were mostly smashed up and stolen, by those early days of chaos and looting. Maybe, if First Aid had been trying to scavenge from the old coffee shop in the corner, he would have had more trouble- but he wasn’t here to try and take moldering bags of coffee.

Instead, he was here to take their board games.

There was a lot of board games left, actually. A lot of card games undamaged, tossed onto the floor- old style games, simplistic ones, mixed in with the kinds based off of television shows and movies. First Aid fingered the plastic covering on a board game version of Halloween, checking out the price tag on some idle instinct- 60$, it said, and he smiled sadly at the knee-jerk reaction to put it back because of the price. He set it down anyway, not really interested in it. Instead, he picked up some variant on monopoly, stuffing it into his bag. The store had fidget toys that the kids would enjoy, and he grabbed a few of those too, letting them mix with the classic card game packs he’d picked up off the floor. He was pleased to find a normal version of Uno, too.

How do you pass the time without normal activities? It was like this. First Aid imagined he wasn’t the only one thinking of scavenging these games, because many were missing from the shelves- but he knew that, most of those missing were before ‘now’. When people thought this would blow over soon, and they jumped to take things they’d wanted, things they suddenly craved to have. Still, after a beat, First Aid grabbed one of those television board games and put it into the bag. This one was… based on the Thing, yeah. He’d actually wanted to play it before all of this. Maybe it be good?…

As First Aid got up to leave, he cast a wistful, wary glance to the darker sections of the store, the parts where the sunlit, shattered windows didn’t reach; textbooks, informational guides. Not this time, no.

But he did, on his way out, manage to stuff a few stray candy bars into his bag. He hoped they wouldn’t melt like the last time.

@mr-miss-anonymous for youuu

[sav-not-tav]

Get To Know Me Tag

Whew this was a long one! Thanks for the tag lovely, @darkurgetrash <3 This was fun! I love these games and learning more about my moots and sharing about myself when I wouldn't otherwise!

No pressure tags for: @little-paperboat @seabirdsong @forget-me-maybe Do you make your bed? Nope! Once I manage to peel myself out of that thing, what's left behind isn't my business. (plus I have 2 dogs who would promptly tear it back up, so,)

Favorite Number: I've always liked the number 11. Can't really say why, though!

What's your job? I am in sales, which works shockingly well given that I am pretty introverted IRL

If you could go back to school, would you? No. I was always smart but struggled in school because I had undiagnosed ADHD and was only seen as a problem child and as the weird girl. The lack of support and social issues left a bad taste in my mouth for school. Then, post-high school, I experienced terrible burnout in my first few years at college.

Can you parallel park/drive a manual car? Yes and yes. Cars and motorsports are actually a big passion of mine :)

Do you think aliens are real? Hell yeah! We'd be insane to think we're the only ones here. I kinda subscribe to the Dark Forest theory, though

What's your guilty pleasure? Napping. On the rare weekends that I have free time, there is nothing to stop me from a 6-hour mid-day nap. That and sweets.

Tattoos? I have 4, with plans for a few more. I have more piercings than tattoos at the moment. I just need to find a new artist, eventually... if I ever remember.

Favorite type of music: I have 2, depending on the mood. Metal/Rock or Electronic/House music. Which, these days a lot of metal leans on electronic heavily so it balances 🥰

Do you like puzzles? Yes and no. I really enjoy escape rooms as my ADHD can just go crazy with finding something, getting distracted and finding something else, then putting it all together. The time constraints are the vibe killer there, tbh

Any phobias? Fear of falling, definitely. I don't mind heights themselves if I'm in a secure position, but things like skydiving/ziplining/certain roller coasters do me in.

Favorite childhood sport: I was never into sports as a kid. I've gotten really into motorsports as an adult, though, and feel like if I grew up somewhere that kids motor sporting/karting was more prevalent *cough cough Europe cough cough* I would have been super into that.

Do you talk to yourself? Not really. There's enough going on in my mind 24/7 that the external stimulation might push me over the edge lol

What movie(s) do you adore? When people ask about my 'favorite movie', there are only ever 2 answers. Animated: Pixar's Cars. Live Action: Interstellar. No I will not take questions.

Coffee or tea: Depends. Cold: Coffee, all day. Hot: Tea, green, please.

First thing you wanted to be growing up? An astronaut 🥰

Last song I listened to: tear gas - Architects

Favorite color: Black!

Current obsession: BG3, lol.

Last thing I Googled: The phone # for my local tire shop 😂 Fancy.

Favorite Season: Winter. I love a good cold day.

Skill I'd like to learn: Painting. I actually went to art school for 2 years before suffering from extreme burn out. I was always decent with digital art, but I would love to be able to really, actually, literally paint

Best advice: I genuinely can't share any. Big head no thoughts. Sorry

Currently watching: Catching up on the Fallout show! I'm always very behind on new TV but currently about halfway through it.

Currently reading: A stupidly long list of BG3 fanfics as my "to read" books sit gathering dust on my bookshelf.

Relationship status: Married! Together since 2016 <3

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Gosh it really depends on the mood, but if I had to choose only one for the rest of my life, SWEET! I have a weakness for baked goods.

[enigmawriteswhump]

The Last Librarian

Part 3

💠 Next

💠 Previous

Tw: swearing, blood, hypnosis, drugging

______________

Rain was a dichotomy for me. I loved using an umbrella, swirling it around in my hands as I walked. But I also disliked the soggy, grey clouds hanging above me. The warm-weather part of me wanting the sun to paint my skin with its tan.

Still, my day is like the rest, until my shift is cancelled at the library. I feel bereft.

It's my day. Lucas is going to miss me. I can't let him down. Not when I want to hear his thoughts of Dragon's Son. I just know he's loved it.

Sarah said that there was another venue who wanted to rent out the library today - and until next Wednesday too. But I am rather inclined to go anyway.

The library was a sore thumb of the shopping district. One of those creaky, stately houses, with an outside furnished like an old mansion. One of those buildings the government liked to take up and reuse as a public building.

Perhaps it was why I was so drawn to it as a child. That I would become a Lucy Pevensey and discover a magic in the building that would save me from the tragedy of normalcy. It was a multi-storey building, but the upper levels had been off limits to me when I signed up as a volunteer. I'd wanted to search curiously... But after looking at the amount of dust on the stairs, I was inclined to doubt the stability of them.

Still, looking at the building, there was a distinct lack of life there. The window's curtains were drawn, and the whole lane felt eerily secluded. But the weird thing was, the car park was almost full at the back. You had to walk past it to get to the library and it backed onto the park I played at as a kid. Well, until vandalism hit it like a battering ram.

But still, there were no lights on. I didn't like it. And while I could see a "Library closed sign", I felt indignant. Sarah could have told me last week, but no.

I'd promised Lucas.

He was going to be here any minute. I wasn't going to disappoint him. Not from some silly out-of-the-blue event that she couldn't care to tell me about sooner.

Darkness was coming rapidly, the days of summer far behind us. Suddenly, I see a light turn on dimly inside. On the second floor. And then a few more on the first. Perfect.

I purse my lips. If the company wasn't using the entire first floor, then I could go in and grab Lucas a new book. It wouldn't hurt if I asked, right?

It was probably one of those stuffy meetings, with men in suits. One man pointing at boards with pie charts and graphs on.

I sigh, and tug on the door practically twice my size, stepping into the foyer.

I blink. My breath freezes.

A hundred eyes turn to look at me.

______________

I don't think what aptly described my reaction could have been shock. It boarded on both hysteria, and ice-cold fear.

There was a lot of people here.

And they'd torn down my bookshelves. My displays are gone. The old ceiling fan is torn away, replaced by a stupidly guady chandelier. There's a few men in work shirts hanging up something glowy on the walls. Fairy lights? A few people arranging tables. The carpet has been newly replaced. The gold inlays look so posh I feel bad just standing on it.

And there, in the middle of this whirlwind chaos, is - is - a creature pressing something against someone's neck. But they're not lips, no, they look like fangs. That couldn't be possible, because this isn't a movie set.

Vampires don't exist.

But the blissful expression on the person having those wicked-looking teeth in their neck, was far more petrifying.

They weren't trying to leave. They weren't screaming. If anything, they were practically falling into the - the Vampire's grasp.

As if the casual way of supping someone's lifeblood was a normal occurrence. My mouth is gaping. The lanyard holding my electronic pass flutters to the floor. My heart is stuttering. Faltering. I feel sweat trickle past my fingers.

My eyes are frantic, darting to the poster against the wall of the entry way.

"Human, Fae and all other kin. Auction Wednesday 31st."

"Best prices, best quality, best ethics."

"Finest purebreds seen in over a century."

I'm backing away, the book and Lucas forgotten. The eyes that followed me are numb, unaware, apart from a few narrowed pairs. They stand still. I edge another step backwards.

"Sarah didn't say anything about one of hers coming in." a monotone voice made me gasp as they stepped forward, a clipboard in hand.

"You think she sent us a snack?" a grinning woman slithered beside the man, who also seemed far more awake than the others. They had resumed doing their tasks. As if the woman vampire who was leisurely wiping their mouth with blood - red dyed treacle, right? - was completely sane. As if we all hadn't just witnessed what was essentially cannibalism. Right?

"Doesn't seem to be on the list. But," the man sniffed the air, a small sigh breezing past his lips, "I'm surprised this one isn't, considering the quality."

Inanely, my body feels wrong, as if I'm waiting for someone to tell me the truth. That in the corners were cameras. That Sarah had just pranked me big time, and this was just one of those insipid reality TV shows she watched.

The woman sniffed too, in a way that reminded me of a big cat smelling a small, harmless cub.

"Oh, I see what you mean. She does smell good. Might be even a double AA, if we're lucky. What do you reckon? Sarah might be upset we've stolen her volunteer."

The man looks at me again, eyes drawing across my body in a particularly invasive way, his gaze which focuses on my neck in particular. I flinch backwards.

"Too valuable. Don't know how she's hidden from the scouters though."

"Does it matter?" the woman is slinking forward, and suddenly I realise that this is my time to run.

Run.

"Oh, darling, you don't need to run now. You're going to start feeling sleepy, and docile now. Will you tell me your name?" her voice was soft, syrupy, and there's a flutter. She really was very beautiful, and I could feel myself leaning towards that sotto voice.

Run. Lucas.

I blink, my sense of self returning, and I'm chucking my bag at the woman. There's a growl as she fumbles with it, but it leaves me enough time to skid through the door.

I'm unsure of the sight of the dozen cars on one side, and I freak out looking at the way to the park. No one is there. But here, to my left, there's dozen wheels, a dozen places to hide in the mechanical forest. If someone was there, inside their cars, I could reach them. They could protect me.

I sprint forward, panting by the time I roll past two rows of cars, hunching over to conceal myself.

Where was Theo's big, hulking Bentley when you needed it?

My breath jars as I duck between two cars, rolling under a rangerover. Gravel bites into my bare shoulders and I wince. I bite my cheek, withholding my girlish squeal. I hope that in the darkness, the woman can't find me.

But her calling sounds much similar to a lioness on the hunt.

"Come on out, dear, we won't hurt you. I promise." but there's a feral edge to her voice and I quiver, huddling into the ground.

"Damn it. I do not have the patience to chase after you." her voice is sharp as firecrackers, and I can't tell how far away she is from me. I can only hear silence. She's taken off her heels. My stomach drops.

"I don't have the patience or time of a normal Scout, you know, human. I don't do the whole hypnotism crap. I organise. I plan. I create visions for others. But I don't enthrall."

I would have peaked from under the car had I any strength of will, to gauge how many cars more I needed to roll over to. To peer into a window that wasn't empty of humanity.

But then I do hear steps, those almost quiet scuffles getting fainter and fainter. My body is in action, rolling away. Crawling in a mimicry of a child, using my hands and knees to the car in front. This time it's a big Toyota, and I pray that if I shuffle under, I could see something on the ground I could use as a weapon.

So far, my fingers only scrabbled on a tin can's tab and I wrap my fingers around it. The cool metal presses against my skin, and I squeeze it.

I screech as I'm yanked back by my hair, nerves on fire from such rough treatment as I'm pulled into the road. Racking waves of agony makes me moan as I see the fire-haired female grin wickedly.

"Gotcha. Don't try to run, kid. It's over."

A flurry of indignation makes me snarl, and the tab in my hand strikes against the woman's face, catching the edge of her chin. Blood drips down, as her lips peel back in a chilling sneer.

"Fuck you!" I growl, and twist out of her grip, even as I can feel my roots tearing in protest. My eyes sting as I stagger away, trying to pick up speed. Trying not to feel deadly glad I dared to mark her. That mark was for the human she was feeding on. And for the many more she'd take from.

I'm about to make it to the road leading into the shops before I feel a sting against the back of thigh. Dragging my eyes down, I see a sort of dart piercing through my trouser leg.

Shit.

With a second of hesitation, I yank away the dart, gasping as it slides from my throbbing flesh. I could feel a trickle of blood warming the side of my fingers. I feel dizzy just smelling my blood.

The needle was as big as half of my thumb, and I throw it away in disgust. Bastards.

I look up and that man was there, his fingers curled around a nasty barreled gun.

I freeze.

"Stay right there."

My heart stutters again, and my wheezes fill the air. Asthma had never troubled me much since I was a child, something I thought was almost dormant.

But I'm wheezing now, the chill of the air curling against my lungs.

"Now, now..." the man's words seemed kinder, that monotone voice disappearing, "You're safe now. We won't hurt you." he steps forward, and he drops his gun.

I stay still, searching for the woman. She was the one who'd just dragged me from under the car. But I can't see her. Where was she?

"I - I -" I'm not ready for the tears creeping into my words, "Please don't -"

"Shhh, just listen to my voice. Look here, Dahila. Focus. Look at my fingers. Look at them. You're feeling tired, sleepy. Look at me. Look, Dahlia. You want to listen to me, Dahlia." there's a finger stroking my wrist, light circles, and a dizzying sensation. I'm able to look up at him, meeting soothing green eyes. Eyes of a forest. He's suddenly far too near, a musky scent invading my senses.

"There we are. Yes, look at me. You're doing so well. Focused on me now," I keep my eyes locked away, trying to force myself to focus on the street lamp.

"Oh, you can look away. Look away if it's more comfortable." but a glint brings me to his fingers, weaving in the air like shadow puppets to a child.

I gasp uneasily. I had loved playing shadow puppets.

Those patterns begin again, in, out, in, out, duck, weave... And the voice warms my jack-knifing heart.

"Hmmm yes, here we are, look at my fingers there, look at the pretty shapes."

I feel myself almost swaying to his rhythm, almost instinctively to match him. Why were we swaying? What did I need to remember? But I couldn't. What was it. But those shadows dancing before my vision were waves of light and dark. Charcoal against summer. Waves lapping from sea foam. A feeling of that easy compliance, the one mum used to practice on me. His welcoming smell. Colonge.

"So you are a well behaved one, aren't you? You like being called sweet, docile, don't you Dahlia."

I almost sway at his warmth, curling into his dulcet strokes.

"Oh Dahlia, you are nothing but calm. Wanting to look at me. You're wanting to sleep. To listen. Watch me, listen to me. Calm now." I'm closer to him now, cotton brushing my chin, fingers briefly brushing my cheek.

"That's it, keep listening now. You're so very calm, aren't you?" his fingers are flickering across my vision, so quickly, so easily calming, leaving sensation. A pulsating need to follow, focusing. Focus. I wasn't missing something. I'm calm, a good girl.

But as I watch him, those pretty fingers, that soft lulling stroke, that same stroke down my hand. I fall into the sensation, his kind touch soothing in a peace I hadn't felt until I was so young. His voice creeping, seeking refuge in my body. But that wasn't right. I was needing to run... But what from? This man was so lovely. Smelled so nice. So calming. It was nice, this feeling of weight lifting. That weight that was always there shifting. Lifting.

" That's it, yes... Keep listening to me, that is it. Good girl, Dahlia. So calm, so quiet, such a good little one, yes. Yes, my little one. Calm now, my sweet." words are blurring, and I'm floundering under his calmness. He was so soothing. So kind.

No worries now, no times or worries or places to be. Nothing more. This moment now, where I existed. Boat upon the waves. His lulling voice. There's nothing else.

Such light movements on my wrist has wound to my face, and I feel a tender stroke against my cheek. A small hum. But that wasn't right. I couldn't be enjoying the way his fingers worked their way into my hair, that lazy hum he seemed to be emitting mimicking mine. But it felt so nice. Just to be touched so gently. To have fingers fondly trickle through my hair.

"Oh darling," he breathed, a catch in his voice, "There now... There now, such a good little one. Following my voice, eyes on me. So sleepy, so calm, needing to listen to me. Listen to me, yes, Dahlia. Close your eyes, give me everything, yes. Good now, rest. Rest now, little one. You are safe, so safe." I'm leaning into him, and I feel my world sway as I float. I'm floating, floating so serenely I can't remember the last time the lights had ever flown over my head. A still, moving chest against my cheek.

Lights look so pretty as they hang above me. Fireflies between closed eyes.

"That's a good little one, close your eyes now, rest. Focus just on me now." shifting closer, loosing my weight, leaning, "Oh, no no, you are calm, so calm. You want to sleep, you want to obey, my little one. It gives you pleasure when you obey, so close your eyes little Dahlia, close them. And sleep. Sleep. Shhh. Focus now, focus... "

______________

Welp, that took a bit longer to write! But I hope you enjoyed!

[Go to @oliversrarebooks for the source of this inspiration!]

Let me know if you want to be on a taglist for this! 😊

[set-phasers-to-whump]

caretaking

prompt: "i don't feel so good", cold compress

whumpee: eddie diaz

fandom: 911

hi here's another eddie whump fic :) this one is pre-buddie and that's about all there is to know. hope you enjoy it!

They’re out shopping for birthday presents for Chris - Buck can’t believe how old this kid is getting - and Eddie is strangely silent. And not in the content-to-listen-to-Buck-talk-on-and-on kind of way. 

Something is up. 

Buck doesn’t want to pry, not yet. He trusts Eddie to tell him if something is really wrong. He might just be tired. It’s been a long week, and Buck knows that Eddie never sleeps as much as he should, anyway. 

They’re in the electronics aisle, looking at some ridiculously expensive headphones, when Eddie taps Buck’s shoulder.

“Hey, Buck?”

Buck turns his attention away from the pair of bright blue headphones he’s been eyeing. 

“Yeah?”

Eddie is looking straight at him, but also sort of through him. His eyes are glassy and unfocused and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead that wasn’t there before. 

“I don’t feel so good.”

He sways forward a little, grabbing onto Buck’s arm to keep his balance. Buck can feel the feverish heat emanating from Eddie’s palms. 

“Okay, let’s, let’s find somewhere to sit down,” he suggests. The last thing they need is for Eddie to collapse in the middle of the store. 

But Eddie shakes his head. “I’m okay,” he mumbles, though Buck is sure Eddie knows he doesn’t believe him. “Can we…I want to go home.”

“Yeah,” Buck agrees. “I’ll get you home.”

They slowly walk out of the store, headphones forgotten. Buck lets Eddie choose how much contact they have. At first, they walk separately, though still close enough to touch. But then Eddie starts slowing down, and Buck knows what he’s asking for without him having to say it. 

He slips an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and takes on a bit of his weight. He’s really burning up. All Buck can think about is getting to his Jeep, getting Eddie off his feet and into the intense air-conditioning in the front seat. 

The walk through the parking lot is miserable. It’s the middle of summer and the air is still and hot. Eddie grabs onto Buck’s arm and leans more heavily onto him. His palms are clammy and Buck can hear him trying to breathe deeply and evenly. He’s sort of succeeding, but not really. 

In the car, Buck cranks the air-conditioning and points all the vents towards the passenger seat. Eddie leans his head back and closes his eyes, and Buck drives as fast as he dares to Eddie’s address. 

They’re only outside for a short time this go around, and being off his feet and in the cool air seems to have done Eddie a marginal amount of good. He walks inside without needing Buck’s support, though he does need Buck to unlock the door - his hands are shaking. 

Inside, Buck gets down to business immediately. 

“Go lie down,” he instructs. “Take off your clothes and don’t get under the blankets.”

He doesn’t think that last part is strictly necessary to even say aloud - no way Eddie is going to crawl beneath the covers when his hair is so damp with sweat he looks like he’s just come out of the shower - but it doesn’t hurt to be safe. 

While he waits for Eddie to get himself settled, Buck fills up a large glass of ice water, grabs a bottle of Tylenol and a thermometer, and dampens a washcloth with cool water. 

He finds Eddie in his boxers atop the covers, lying flat on his back with his eyes half-closed. 

“Sit up a little,” Buck says, and Eddie pushes himself into what could charitably be called a sitting position. 

Buck takes his temperature - 102 - and then hands him the water and the medicine. Eddie takes the pills with no resistance. He drinks the water until he nearly chokes on it. 

“How are you feeling?” Buck asks, as Eddie lies back down. 

Eddie shrugs against the pillow. “Hot,” he mumbles. 

“You’ve got a 102-degree fever,” Buck agrees. “Here.”

He carefully drapes the damp, cool washcloth onto Eddie’s forehead. For a second, Eddie stiffens up at the unexpected temperature change, but he quickly relaxes. 

“‘S nice,” he decides. 

“Do you need anything else?”

Eddie looks up at him, exhausted and miserable and open. 

“Will you stay?”

“Course I will. As long as you want.”

thanks for reading!!!

[preciouslandmermaid]

So I just replayed the Spider-Man ps4 and ps5 games and had an idea for a fic. Could you do one where the reader is from a universe where Spider-Man doesn’t exist but they read the comics and they get transported to the insomniac Spider-Man universe?And they meet Spider-Man and peter and stuff. If that makes sense. Thank you!!!

I hope I met your request and did this prompt justice :)

warnings: none - some explicit language

rating: T

🕷 "A glitch in the matrix" 📺

~~~~~~~

“This place is like totally retro,” your friend said as she pushed the door inward and a little bell jingled above. The tiny shop was stacked with radios, and large, clunky televisions, and remotes and dangling video game controllers. “I can’t believe my brother wants a PlayStation One for his birthday,” she continued while perusing the shelves of electronics. “Other kids want the newest console, but he’s really into the older stuff.”

“Right,” you replied noncommittally with a small smile. The store was retro. It prided itself on having older games, systems, and analog radios. But, they also had refurbished technology behind the counter, so it wasn’t all retro.

“He’s like you with your comic books,” she teased, “everyone else reads comics on their phones.”

You laughed. “Define ‘everyone else’.”

You trailed down a cramped aisle where several televisions were plugged in, playing either VHS or DVDs with the sound muted, and half-listened to your friend talking to the person behind the counter. One of the old television’s screens with the VHS built into the front flickered. The video scrambled into static in a flash of red and blue.

Out of instinct, and fear that the television might catch fire in the cluttered store, you reached out and pressed the small circular ‘OFF’ button. The static jumped from the television screen with a low, vibrating hum and wrapped around your wrist. Your scream caught inside your throat.

You slowly opened your clenched eyes to find yourself standing in a bodega. Your hand was still extended toward the refrigerator filled with bottled sodas and water. Okay, what the hell just happened, you thought with varying degrees of alarm and concern. Did you black out? Was this a dream? Were you electrocuted and now in a coma? You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and shuffled toward the checkout.

The man behind the counter barely looked up from his newspaper as you dropped your water bottle onto the counter and slid two crumpled dollar bills toward him. He snapped his newspaper and the front page caught your eye.

It read: ‘SPIDER-MAN SAVES THE DAY?’ A picture of Spider-Man was on the cover.

“Is that some sort of joke newspaper?” You asked, squeezing the cold water bottle between your hands and hoping the damp condensation on the plastic might ground you.

“Hah!” He stroked his dark goatee. “Don’t say that too loud.” His dark gaze returned to the paper and someone coughed behind you.

You walked out of the bodega as if in a dream. But, the further you went, the more real everything became. You heard the horns of taxis and cars as they clustered through the streets and smelled the fumes of the subway through the grates in the sidewalk. You passed a man selling sliced fruit on the sidewalk, and a small group selling watches and counterfeit designer purses, and you ignored their calls of ‘come and see!’ and ‘you need a new purse!?’. You sent a slightly frantic, confused text to your friend that read ‘where are you?!’. Did she get transported to Midtown as well?

A police siren screamed down the street. Not an uncommon sound for New York and normally you wouldn’t bother to look up from your phone, but something compelled you, and your heart plummeted into your shoes.

“No fucking way,” you breathed as Spider-Man swung past the speeding cop cars and toward 7th Ave. No way. That wasn’t possible. That had to be a really, really good costume. Or maybe they were shooting a movie? But, movies filmed in New York usually came with signs and blocked off streets, and you’d know if a new Spider-Man film was in the works. You blinked. And another Spider-Man, wearing a suit of black and red, swung past as the citizens of New York barely glanced up.

Okay, I’m either dead, or in a coma or something, because this is too real to be a dream, you thought while trying to keep your breathing steady. Your feet acted on their own accord as you sped-walk to 7th.

***

Maybe chasing after police was a bad idea. Maybe. But, hindsight worked best in past-tense and it was too late to turn back. Especially considering a Symbiote had pounced on top of you and flattened you into the sidewalk. You released the scream that had been building in your throat since you touched that static television.

The Symbiote was knocked off of your body as Spider-Man kicked it with both feet and then rolled, agile as ever, before shooting the creature with his webbing and immobilizing it.

Spider-Man asked, “Are you okay?” He offered his hand to help you get up.

“I don’t know,” you replied numbly as you were pulled to your feet, “I’m not from here.” How were you possibly going to explain this without sounding like a crazy person?

“Welcome to New York,” Spider-Man said, “I swear we have less goop monsters running around during this time of year.”

Your jaw dropped. You were talking to Spider-Man. “This can’t be real.” You covered your face with your hands, trembling, and your phone vibrated in your pocket. “This literally cannot be real.”

“Maybe you should wait for the EMTs…”

You dropped your hands. “Spider-Man isn’t real!”

“Hey.” His lenses widened. “I’m standing right here.”

“No, no, you don’t get it.” Your voice kicked up an octave as panic rushed through your veins. “In my world, where I’m from, like you don’t exist. You’re a comic book character. Technically, you’re a part of an entire universe of comic book characters.”

Spider-Man stared at you. “Yeah, you should definitely get checked by the EMTs.”

You threw your hands up in frustration and huffed as you yanked your backpack from your shoulder and forcefully unzipped it. “See for yourself!” You dumped the contents your backpack onto the sidewalk and the vibrant comic books split open as if wounded. Spider-Man didn’t say anything, but he did crouch down and tilt his head.

“These are pretty good,” he said, “did you make them?”

“No.” You crouched alongside him. “Look.” You pointed to the page where it listed the writers, artists, and publishers of the comic book issue. You waited in silence amidst police and ambulance sirens as Spider-Man scanned the page.

“Your name is Peter Parker,” you whispered. He sharply lifted his head up.

“You’re going to need to start at the beginning…” he said.

***

“So, you’re not from this world?” Miles stood with his hands clasped behind his head. “How does that even work?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you get back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wait, did you do this on purpose?”

“Obviously not!”

You smacked your hand against your forehead. Your friend had replied to your text, saying she was at home, and no, nothing weird happened to her today. However, the retro-store that existed in your universe didn’t exist in this world. You’d need to find another exit if you wanted to leave. Although, as you sat in Peter’s garage, you couldn’t really see a reason as to why you’d leave. From what you could tell – this world was identical to your own with the bonus of Spider-Man being real. You were talking to your lifelong heroes like it was an ordinary, everyday occurrence!

“Do you know everything about us?” Miles asked, then said, “wait, never mind, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“The more important question is how we get you back home,” Peter said while holding up your comic books.

You frowned. “What if I don’t want to go back?”

Miles and Peter shared a look.

“It feels like we’re messing with some kind of space-time continuum if you stay,” said Peter, “but I won’t force you to go.”

Your anxious mood brightened. “This won’t be so bad...living in a world where superheros exist,” you said.

“And supervillains,” Miles said, “don’t forget about the supervillains.”

“However, one condition...” Peter held up one finger. “From this day forward, if we start to notice that we’re stuck in a time-loop, or people start forgetting my name, or objects start falling through physical matter, or any other impossible break in physics, then we have to send you back home.”

You bit your lip and stopped your initial reaction to say ‘no.’

“Okay.”

Peter smiled. “Great, now I do have a question about this issue…” He held up an open page. “Why am I a T-Rex?”

[sio-writes]

Into the Woods - Chapter 3

Another request to continue a previous piece, requested by an anon, so I hope they see it!

Summary: After saving a wolf in the woods from a bear trap, our reader finds an injured boy in the woods and brings him to their cabin to heal his wounds. Little do they know, they're bringing in much more than they could imagine.

<< Chapter 2

After dinner, Cole slinks into the spare room the first chance he can. It's understandable, given all he's been through, so neither you nor your uncle mention it, only exchanging mirrored expressions of concern as the door shuts quietly in its frame.

You set to loading the dishwasher as your uncle gathers the last of the silverware and plates. The silence between you is heavy, setting you on edge. You have so many questions, so many thoughts. You're part of a pack now, both of you, whatever that means. Can a hunter of werewolves even become a part of a pack? Your uncle has a whole new shroud of mystery hanging off his shoulders, and you can't help but feel a little betrayed by it. Sure, he kept quiet about the scar on his leg, but that's a whole other deal compared to the mystery that today has brought.

"I can see smoke comin' from your ears, kid," he calls from the living room. "When you're done over there, come watch a movie with me."

When he asks for a movie, it usually means he wants to talk, and for the first time, the thought doesn't fill you with anxiety. You slide the dish rack into the dishwasher and click it to the quietest setting possible, hoping Cole doesn't hear it-- do werewolves have good hearing, or does it change when he's human? So many questions.

Your uncle sighs heavily as he falls backwards into the couch. His bushy red eyebrows are drawn in, so low they nearly cover his eyes entirely. "I'm sorry for lyin'," he says. "But I didn't think your folks would let you back if they thought I was crazy, or if you thought I was."

"You're definitely not crazy," you offer with a half-hearted laugh as you rest on the couch, trying to lighten the mood.

He holds up a hand. "No, I am. Now you just know why."

Arguments bubble up in your throat, but your uncle looks like he's not done talking.

"These woods are old," he says, fiddling with his hands. A movement you've never seen him do. "And some of the things living here are even older. You learned about manifest destiny, Oregon Trail, all that nonsense?" 

You nod, recalling the lessons from high school, and he continues, "The wolf clans have been here for ages, they came over with the first white settlers and set up shop in places no one else would go. They found oil and got rich real quick, and then they found copper a few decades back and got richer. Things were in balance, more or less, until Cole's bastard father took over. William Ackerman."

The name sounds familiar, and you realize it's the brand of your father's car. "Ackerman Auto?"

He nods. "That's the one."

Woah. Ackerman isn't an old brand, but it's everywhere. They sell a lot of cars, appliances, even electronics. Your dad's sedan, the fridge in your house, you think even the sink has the Ackerman logo on it.

Your uncle continues, "The wolves had a treaty with the loggers and woodsmen that lived in the area: everyone keeps to themselves, and no one gets hurt. But then William took over, and he started strip-mining, pushing into places he wasn't supposed to." He pauses, looking down the hallway towards Cole's room. "And I guess they started leavin'."

You follow your uncle's gaze down the hall and to the closed door, thinking about the injuries Cole had sustained, the scars on his face, what may be unseen beneath his clothing. Cole looked absolutely miserable when you found each other in the woods, and granted he'd been bleeding and starving to death, but there was a distinct resignation to his eyes that spoke of years of being pushed down.

This all feels too heavy for a summer in the woods, and part of you wishes everything could go back to before you released Cole from that trap. But Cole doesn't deserve to be left there to die, or worse. 

You chew on your lip. "So what about you?"

"William took over in the early 80's. When the clan decided they didn't wanna play by the rules, I got hired to handle the problem."

You blanch. "You killed people."

Your uncle's brow furrows. "Don't be fooled by the pup in the guest room. They're predators, kid. Whadda ya think they eat once the construction pushes all the wildlife out?"

You look back down the hallway again, heart stuttering. Cole wouldn’t…would he? You did just meet him a few hours ago, and he was grumpy the whole time, and even said that you smell. But he held still while your uncle sewed him shut, and hasn't complained about anything with the cabin or the food.

Maybe he just needs some time to adjust to living here, that's all. 

Tiredness hits you like a wall, and you stretch your arms, yawning. Your uncle nods sympathetically.

"I think it's time for bed."

***

Sleeping on the cabin's feather mattress is like sleeping on a cloud. You have to work up the energy to roll out of bed, and when you're standing you already miss the plush embrace. But your brain screams for coffee, so you slink into the kitchen and go through the motions of making it.

You're the first one up-- the living room is empty and you can hear your uncle snoring down the hall, but you're okay with flying solo for a bit. The energy of yesterday has worn off, but instead of being exhausted like last night, you're fizzling with unshed potential. You had thought of even more questions for Cole-- How does he change? Did he have to learn it? What's it like being a dog? And you had a few tests taking shape in the back of your mind, to see his abilities and compare them to an actual dog's.

And the thought of him hanging out for a while made you happy too. Cole seems like a cool guy-- if a little grumpy, but he's had a good night's rest, so maybe he'll be nicer this time around.

Cole emerges from the hallway room, hair partially pulled out of the elastic and sticking up in several spots. He looks a little more…alive compared to last night. Still limping, but he’s not as pale, and he’s lost those shifty eyes that darted towards loud noises.

You offer him a smile over the kitchen peninsula. “Sleep okay?”

The one thing he wears like a winter coat is that suspicious glare, like he’s assessing the easiest way to take you out, and when he’s all well-slept and fed, the glare has become even more intimidating. So much for that grumpy demeanor being slept off. He takes a seat at one of the barstools, and then he shrugs. “S’fine.’

He doesn’t offer anything else, and the two of you sit there for a painfully long time until the coffee machine beeps and pulls you away.

“Cream? Sugar?” You offer, and Cole nods for both.

“Huh,” you remark. “I figured you to be a black coffee kind of guy.”

“I’m not an animal,” he says over the rim of his cup. “Well, I am, but I’m not a caveman.”

The sarcasm in his voice makes you chuckle, and when Cole is finished mixing his coffee, you help yourself to a huge spoonful of sugar and a cup of mostly cream. It's the perfect combination to combat your uncle's bitter coffee, and with that first test sip, it's perfect.

Mornings have always been quiet at the cabin. It's so far removed from any major city, even the main road is a good three miles away, and the trees act as a natural barrier so all you hear in the morning is the wildlife. The crunch of branches underfoot as deer make their way through the backyard, the coo of Morning Doves, the rattle of a woodpecker, it's like the ambient sound app you listen to when you're trying to sleep. You drink it in along with your coffee, ignoring the pull to fill the silence with more talking.

Just as the quiet moment is stretching to a point where you're uncomfortable, your uncle opens the front door, ax in hand. He chopped plenty of firewood yesterday, so he shouldn't already need more. He does sometimes go outside to burn energy, maybe he needed the stress relief.

"Mornin' kids!" he says with a smile.

"Morning!" you reply, and out of the corner of your eye, you see Cole offer a short wave. Your uncle steps past you and into the kitchen to pour his own coffee before he steps back out and makes his way to the deck on the other side of the living room. He doesn't say anything as he does this, only hums to himself, and the kitchen is small enough that any conversation would be like nails on a chalkboard. It leaves you with the equally-horrible situation of staring directly at Cole with nothing between the two of you, like a conversation, to take up space. 

But eventually, your uncle steps outside, closing the sliding glass door behind him, and you and Cole are drenched in silence once more. It doesn't seem to bother Cole, though, as he just sip his coffee and looks around the kitchen. But you're anxious. Your fingers drum on the countertop, your eyes can't land on anything for longer than a second, and your leg bounces of its own accord.

And after another agonizing minute of this, you finally burst. “So is it one form over the other?”

Cole looks at you, surprised at the outburst, and confused at the question. “What?”

“Your dog form!”

His brows pull in, and he purses his lips. “It’s a wolf.”

You wave him off. “Same thing. Is it all wolf or nothing? Or can you make yourself have, say, ears and a tail?"

“...You’re making fun of me.”

“Am not! I’m just curious.”

He shifts on his seat. “It’s all wolf or nothing.”

“That's awesome!"

Cole sighs, running his thumbs along the edge of his coffee mug. “Dad said the wolf never really goes away. Stays dormant, waiting for its next meal.” Cole rolls his eyes, and he seems annoyed. 

Oh, you've upset him. You have to fix this, you have to make it better, but your curiosity gets the better of you. “Can you do it at will?”

He slams his cup down. “It’s not a party trick! It’s a curse from my father, I can't control it, and it fucking hurts! Imagine what it feels like to have your skin peeled off, your bones rearranged, and your face stretched out! And then--and then you barely have a chance to limp away from the pain when suddenly, you’re being hunted for fucking sport! Does it sound like something I’d want to do just anytime?”

Cole stands, and in three steps he’s in the hallway, and the door to the guest room slams shut.

Your uncle walks in. “What was that?”

“I think I ticked him off,” you mumble, trying to pull your shoulders up to your ears.

Your uncle rests a hand across your shoulder. “Don’t take it too personally, kid. He’s been through a lot.”

Guilt overcomes the other emotions in your body, heavy like a rock sinking low into your gut. Of course Cole wouldn’t want to joke about it, and he was right to get angry. "They hunted him for sport? His own son?"

Your uncle sighs. "I don't doubt it. William's always been…" He shudders, and doesn't finish the sentence. "I've only spoken with him once when he started strip mining, and it was like talking to the devil himself."

“Oh,” is all you can say.

“I can’t imagine livin’ with the bastard.”

It’s not meant to be a jab at you, but you feel it all the same, and you rub your arm self-consciously. "I should go apologize."

"I reckon he'd appreciate that. I'll give you some space." Your uncle unwinds his arm from around you, and you watch as he opens the sliding glass door, steps onto the deck, and leaves an inch of space in the door before plopping into a chair by the grill.

As you step out of the kitchen and towards the hall, you run through several sentences in your head, tasting possible sentences on your tongue searching for one that you like. You toss them aside one by one until you’re left with two options, the first being you kick in the door and force him to accept your apology, and the second, likely much better option.

You gently knock on the door. "Cole?"

No answer. You try again. "Cole, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. I just--" you turn so your back is against the door, your scripted practice statement dissolving in the waters of your mind. "I don't get out much, and it's hard for me to…" You make a vague hand gesture, realize he can't see it, and blow a raspberry and hope your frustration comes across. You walk your feet out, sliding down the door until you’re sitting on the floor. "It’s hard to connect to people. I can't read a room to save my life."

You pause, giving him space to respond, but you're met with silence. You walk through the chess game that is your problem-solving method, once again running through several scenarios and tossing them out, until a message from your teacher pops in your mind, about empathy and compassion. "You know, I can burp on cue. But it makes me throw up if I do it too much. My friends dared me to do it during class once, but I mismeasured the, uh, force of it? Yakked all over third period."

You laugh to yourself at the memory. At the time it was embarrassing as hell, but now that you're older, you can look back on it with the perspective of kids having a bit of fun. You did get out of third and fourth period for the day.

The doorknob clicks as Cole turns it, and you sit upright, twisting your head to see him in the cracked door. He’s standing, looking down at you, and from the sliver of his face you see his brow pulled down, mouth pursed. “You can burp on cue?” You nod, and he snorts. "I don't believe you."

Your face burns. You know what he's asking, and you haven't tried it in at least a year. Still, this may be your only chance to get him back on your side.

You sit up straight, focusing on a point by Cole's knee because looking at him directly would be too much, and suck in the air, closing it in your throat and expelling it again. You took in more than you're used to, and the belch you release is loud and unwieldy.

The silence that follows make your eyes flick up to Cole's face, and you take in his widened eyes and slightly ajar mouth, and the heat in your face intensifies. Then, Cole bursts into laughter. He's in fits, crouched on the floor so he's at your level, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

"It wasn't that funny," you mumble, mostly to yourself because Cole doesn't seem to be listening to you. A part of you can understand his frustration from earlier, now. Asking him to do something he doesn't enjoy is a bit rude after all, and maybe that's what he wanted you to know. 

You offer him a hand to shake. "Truce?"

He smiles, wider than that first, and takes your hand. His palm is warm and there's strength behind his grip. "Truce."

[rot10fruits]

autism is really funny when you're done having a meltdown like. just now i had a temper tantrum in my car because i wanted to get to walmart an hour before the sensory hours (dimmed lights/no music/no displays on the tvs in electronics) were over and i had no gas so i asked my boyfriend 3 times to send me some money for gas which he agreed to do. but he forgot to send it before going to work and right as i got in my car to leave i notice he didn't send it yet and he won't respond to calls or texts. so i get out of the car and walk around my front yard and kind of yell at my mom in panic who then offers me the option of her going with me in 30 minutes so she can pay for my gas and i won't have to go alone. this vexed me because if i had left 30 minutes from then i would have only had 30 minutes to shop and check out before walmart stopped their sensory hours. this would also interfere with me listening to music on the way there because my mom probably wouldn't want to listen to Alien Vampires for 20 minutes straight. another thing to add is that i woke up really early to shower and do laundry and do my makeup specifically for this excursion.

then my boyfriend calls me back and sends me the money. oh awesome now i can go! i get back in the car and.....just kidding now there's a team of men who are here to pull a stump from my backyard and their giant truck is blocking my driveway. they finish up and are about to leave. i stared at their truck and they didn't budge for 10 minutes. at that point i gave up, cried and punched my steering wheel, then went inside to lay down.

to make things even worse as i was typing this i was about to go have my comfort meal, campbells original condensed chicken with rice soup and cheez-its. come to find out i have neither of those things! thankfully i found some chef boyardee spaghetti that im heating up right now (my second comfort food)

anyway now i'm looking back at this and i kind of just looked deranged to my family and neighbors . like im all dressed up cute and look super put together but i cried out like a banshee in my car and paced around in the grass with my hair all puffed up like a pissed off cat

[dunne-ias]

Well, my beloved BaCC, Brightshroom Islands, got corrupted (just as I'd unlocked university too!), but I wasted no time and quickly restarted. This time, I started with six families, and the second generation has just started growing up and heading out on their own, so I made them some family photos, for fun.

Once again, I use a name generator to give me random names from all over.

On the left, the O'Hannigans.

Cash, the redhead is the Mayor, and together with his townie husband, journalist Keith, he has four children, one set of triplets, from the left, Veronica, Alfred and Lysette. Lysette also had a teen pregnancy but it's time for Lin's other mommy to have custody now, so you'll see her in a later photo. Cybelle is their fourth child. The triplets are almost adults and while I think Veronica is going to be the one to stick around, I haven't decided for sure yet.

On the right, what's left of the Buckolz family.

Well that sounded ominous, but I mean that there's only one kid from gen2 living here now. Shania, the blond, is the town's Architect and also runs the electronics store, while her wife, Carolina is the town medic. They had the first kids of the hood, but Ester and Ivan have moved out, and left is only Nessa, who will take over the store when she ages up to adult.

On the left, the Atterberry family

Jie, pale man, is still unemployed after he closed down his fledging home art business, and we're waiting for a lot point to open up so he can run a gallery for his pottery and art. His husband Robert is still unemployed, and also still in his clothes from when he moved in because he hasn't gone to the clothes shop when it's been open yet. So this family survives on Jie selling some of his pottery and Robert occasionally refurbishing a car.

They had one of those double pregnancies at the same time, and the boys, Valère (in purple) and Hamid (in red) were born as twins mere hours before Niamh was, so effectively they're triplets. If I remember correctly, Hamid is actually pregnant with Ismael Werther's baby, so that'll be fun in their tiny house with no income.

On the right, the Werthers.

Margareta, in yellow, has the second angriest face in this whole hood, and I love it. She's the town's first carpenter and runs a toy shop (crafted toys can be sold to buy and upgrade furniture according to my rules), and her townie wife Chloe is a chef. They have two kids, that again, are the result of a double pregnancy. Margareta had bad luck when she birthed Ismael though and died. Luckily, one of her neighbours missed her on the same day a Genie lamp arrived, so she was brought back to the joy of everyone, especially Chloe who hours later gave birth to Ernst. Ismael works for the clothes shop, so I think Ernst will be the one to take over the toy shop one day. Soon actually, I think. Ismael, as I've said, has a baby on the way with Hamid Atterberry, but they're only one-bolters, so I don't think there'll be any long-term relationships there.

On the left, the Kohouts.

Freya Kohout was so damned pretty as a teen that I packaged her, aged her up to adult and let her be one of the founders for Brightshroom Islands Mark 2. She runs the town's clothes shop with much flair. Gordon, her townie husband, is the town's only Criminal so far and brings in some much needed dough. They have three children. Georgiana, the eldest has a baby daughter with Jillian Leighton, Madge, who now lives with the Kohouts since it's Georgiana's turn to have custody of her. Little Abraham is almost a teen, and there's also little Erik, who is a baby. I don't like posing babies, so they're not in this picture.

On the right, the last bit of the Leightons

Indiana Leighton is an artist, but a struggling one. His townie wife Brenda, a teacher, has the most severe resting bitch face I have ever seen in my entire life and it's a huge struggle to make her look like she's not pissed off at her entire family in these photos.

Together, they had four daughters. Not pictured: Livia, the eldest who has moved out and Siobhan one of the twins, who moved out with Livia. The only redhead is Jillian, the other twin, who recently birthed Madge with Georgiana Kohout. She sadly died from the childbirth, but the die was on her side, and Georgiana had a genie lamp, so now Jillian is back alive. Her daughter Madge, as mentioned, is currently under her other mother's custody. Last in the family is Diana.

And lastly, the newly founded households of the second generations!

On the left, two Leighton sisters. I let Livia bring one of her sisters since Shiobhan isn't far from adulthood because of this town's housing crisis. Neither of them have any definite plans regarding dating or careers, because there are no jobs right now unless they can beg for a job from one of the local businesses, but Livia has plans to restore cars until she can open a car dealership.

On the right, the eldest second generation, Ester and Ivan Buckolz, brother and sister. Ester is the manager of Freya Kohouts clothes store, and Ivan recently started working for Margareta Werther in the toy shop. He'd like to open his own furniture store at some point in the future though. They also have Ester's teenaged mishap Lin living with them, as Lin has already spent a season with her other mother, Lysette O'Hannigan. I don't tihnk anything will keep happening between Ester and Lysette once they're both adults though, because they only have one bolt, but Ivan has a townie boyfriend from his teen years that I aged up and I'm just waiting for him to start having some wants in that direction soon.

And that's it. Lots of teen pregnancies, but well, there are rules regarding birth control and I very recently unlocked it for teens, so hopefully we can have less of them in the future.

[alynnl]

My Take on Gumshoe's Backstory

I played through the Ace Attorney trilogy as well as the Investigations duology, and noticed a blank spot in a lot of characters' back stories. Since he's important to Edgeworth and I love him plenty on his own, I'll be focusing on Detective Dick Gumshoe and what his past might have been like. Part of this (but probably not all of it) will end up in a fanfic I've been taking notes for here and there.

In the beginning, Gumshoe lived in his family home with his parents and two younger siblings (one brother, one sister.)

His mom and dad owned a convenience store. (In the present day, it's run by his younger sister and her husband.) Overall the family isn't the richest one on the block, but they're happy to share a home together.

Gumshoe was an energetic child who got along easy with others. He became close with an older family friend, Jay Walker - an auto mechanic who seemed like he could fix anything.

Gumshoe's love of gadgets comes from his Uncle Jay, who was always working on something in his garage at any given moment. It was not unusual for the two of them to spend their evenings tinkering with various tools and electronics.

Jay made the offhanded remark that Gumshoe knew his way around a toolbox, and he'd make a great apprentice. This was something the boy took to heart, making him want to sign up for shop classes once he got into middle school.

When he was twelve years old, Gumshoe became involved in a murder case that would later be known as the YB-5 Incident. It began when he was walking home after a night at the arcade with a couple of his classmates. He stepped onto his block just in time to witness a drive-by shooting. He hid as the car sped further down the street.

Gumshoe went to check on the victim, realizing to his horror that it was his Uncle Jay who had just been shot. By the time the paramedics arrived, it was too late. It was later said that Jay died instantly.

The following week, the police and the investigating prosecutor swept Gumshoe's neighborhood from top to bottom, questioning everyone as to what they saw and heard that Friday night.

The lead prosecutor on the case was Manfred von Karma. He informed Gumshoe's family that the boy would have to testify in court as a witness if they are to give their neighbor's murderer the guilty verdict he deserves.

During the investigation, it's revealed that Jay used to be "Detective Walker," and he was trying to live a peaceful life after retirement. But a criminal from one of his previous cases decided to take their revenge on the night of the YB-5 Incident, since the former detective broke up his gang of weapon smugglers.

The investigation wrapped up, and the trial began. Von Karma emphasized how important it is that Gumshoe give the perfect witness statement, and didn't care much about the boy's feelings or grief he might be experiencing for his family friend.

Gumshoe gives his statement. Even after that, the trial dragged on for months and he isn't given any sense of closure. A verdict is reached merely one day before Jay Walker's funeral was planned to take place.

Gumshoe is left with an emptiness inside even after the guilty verdict. He doesn't feel like this was a victory because the verdict doesn't bring back his friend and mentor.

Then patrolman Tyrell Badd gives the boy some encouragement, saying how he was brave to give his statement on the witness stand. "I've seen grown men break down and cry when they were giving their testimony, but you didn't shed a tear. You have courage, kid. I think old Jay would be proud."

Tyrell's words gave Gumshoe a different idea of who he wanted to be when he grew up. He wanted to protect people, and be there for the survivors left behind just like him. From then on, he had his sights set on joining the police academy, but never gave up the hobby of tinkering with machines in his spare time.

[trivialbob]

Today I didn’t work. After doing some household stuff and laundry I decided to check out a mall.

This is the first indoor mall in the United States. I grew up not far from it. Kids in my neighborhood would ride our bicycles or take the #6 bus to go hang out there.

My favorite store was Schaak Electronics. The Minnesota chain sold stereo components. I’d walk around the store, carefully designing my kick-ass system. Receiver, the backbone of the system. It would have many watts. More watts, cooler receiver. A tape deck (dual decks, so I could copy tapes). The phonograph. It would have to have the little red strobe like thingy that flashed on the checkered side of the table. That allowed you to fine tune the speed. Maybe some albums rocked harder at 34 RPM instead of the usual 33? An equalizer was necessary too. I had no idea what the many sliding switches actually did. But by God, no stereo system would be complete without an equalizer. Spend more money and the equalizer would have rows of lights that flashed with the music, indicating... well they indicated something, but who cared what it was. More lights meant you could rock out harder. Then the speakers. The best ones were the size and weight of a coffin (including a corpse). A fabric screen covered the woofer, mid-range and tweeter. You could remove it to watch that woofer, preferably the diameter of a car tire, vibrate. Someone said fiddling with the equalizer could make the woofer vibrate more vigorously. The employees at the store didn’t let us experiment with that.

Sony, JVC, Onkyo, Pioneer, Klipsch, Bose, Yamaha... those names would grace my bedroom shelf someday and later my dorm room, right? Nah, I saved my money. I did get a mid-size boom box. It could play one side of a cassette tape before the two-dozen or so C-batteries died (and they were not rechargeable either). Not willing to buy that many batteries, mine remained plugged into a wall outlet, preventing me from rollerskating with it on my shoulder.

The mall also had a Woolworth’s store were we’d buy candy. Spencer Gifts, for lava lamp, black light, incense, and wild posters needs. County Seat sold Levis. An arcade occupied the mall’s basement. Local moms told their children never to go down there. Rumor (I’m not kidding) had it that some kids were kidnapped from the mall’s lover level in the 60s. No one could actually name an actual missing child, but I mostly refrained from taking the escalator to the lower level. In hindsight, maybe the moms just didn’t want us pouring quarters into pinball machines all day.

Today the mall was sad. The Muzak seemed really loud, because there were so few people inside talking, eating, and shopping. A mall Santa aimlessly paced a walkway, no children in sight. Some stores don’t open until noon or later. A few aren’t even open seven days a week. I walked the hallways, trying to remember stores of old. My other favorite store was Radio Shack. I bought a police scanner there, as well as assorted electronic items when I felt like playing electrical engineer. Radio Shack was a cool store. It’s long gone :(  The only place that had more than two customers was the Apple store. I left the mall after twenty minutes. If the stereo store was still there I would have taken the time to figuratively put together a new kick-ass stereo system.