#TINY REALISTIC LOOKING TRUCKS?

[superconductivebean]

#226

COME OOOOOONNNNNNNN

it is already looking like a 3 dlc pack for the first one!!

[curiositydooropened]

Halloween • A Ranged Special

A woman dies of mysterious circumstances and you and your partner are called to a tiny Midwest town on Halloween.

Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader

Wordcount: 3759

Warnings: This is a special based on this fic.*This blurb contains canon typical violence, including violence toward both main characters, mentions of suicide, all characters in peril, jump scares, zombies, etc. Please read at your own discretion.

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Moodboard • Episode 00: Prologue

A paper Dracula hung in the doorway, spinning on fishing line that was paper clipped into ceiling tiles. Crepe streamers dangled from its cape. 

A friendly little bell chimed your entrance, and although you’d managed to duck beneath the streamers, Steve walked directly into it like a moonlit spider’s web, and with a grunt, he batted it from the ceiling and into the ficus pot nearby.

“Steve,” you scolded, trying to muffle your laughter between your molars at the look of disdain etched in his brow.

“I hate Halloween,” he punched the vampire’s face into the soil for good measure before following you through the vestibule and to the open lobby of the little 24-hour diner. 

Cakes and pies with glistening tops rotated in a spinner to the left of the till. Bats and ghosts were hung from a coat rack and more ceiling tiles.

You waited near a hostess stand for a young woman to arrive, watching with baited breath as she gave your partner the ole up-down and lash-bat before ushering you off to your table.

He ordered two coffees and handed you an oversized vinyl menu, flicking a bat-shaped sequin from the tabletop.

“You’re such a Scrooge.” You chided, peering over stock-images of pancake stacks and sausage links.

“That’s Christmas and bah-humbug,” he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

You glanced at him over your menu, hair perfectly coifed, bruise from last week’s scuffle yellowing at his jaw. “You not eating?”

He shrugged and glanced around the room.

You followed his gaze to a couple of truck drivers hunched over cups of coffee. Three old men shared a table in the back corner, laughing heartily with food in their beards. A mother was cutting up her pancakes for a little girl in face paint and cat ears. Your shoulders relaxed when Steve’s did. Safe.

The waitress returned with two steaming cups of coffee, staring directly into Steve’s eyes as she took your order, dark curls flowing from a hair tie at the back of her neck. “Are you really a secret agent, or is this a costume?”

Steve leaned forward in his chair, reaching into the inner pocket of his trench coat. “Wanna see my badge?” 

You slid the menu between their line of sight, and Steve cocked a brow your direction, the slightest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“The sheriff is supposed to be here any minute,” you informed him when she walked away, peeling the lid from a creamer container to stir into your cup. Anything to distract from the heat in your face and neck.

“Henderson says hi, by the way,” Steve said, coffee mug in both hands, pink lips bowing to blow the steam from the surface.

“Huh?” You began to shuffle off your trench coat.

“Dustin Henderson, the friend of mine you met a few months ago. I was with him when Owens called about this case. He wanted me to tell you hi.” Steve explained, taking soft sips of his coffee.

You smiled, remembering the young man with the curly hair and delightful penchant for spy-craft. “Tell him ‘hi’ back.”

“Boo!” A man appeared from around the corner, nearly startled the coffee from Steve’s mouth. You recognized the Sheriff’s uniform, but did find yourself a little unnerved by the hyper-realistic zombie makeup and gashes the man had tacky glued to his face. “Or should I say ‘braaaaains’?”

Steve’s hand went to the handle of his weapon under his jacket, and you pushed your chair back to stand and greet you brunch guest. 

“You must be Sheriff Bouchart,” you introduced yourself and Steve with an extended hand.

“Oh please, call me Tim,” he cackled and ushered you back to your seat while he pulled up a chair from a nearby table and sat in it the wrong-way-around. “I just love Halloween. Don’t you just love Halloween?”

You bit back a smile as you watched Steve squirm in his seat and hummed your agreement. You’d helped Sadie decorate their front porch the night before, fresh carved jack-o-lanterns and corn stalks. Jeff was going to dress as a scarecrow and sit limply on a bench with a bowl of candy in his lap, waiting to scare passersby. You ached a little at the thought.

“So, what can I do you for, Agents?”

You looked from the Sheriff to Steve and back. “We’re here about the… murder.”

“Murder?” The Sheriff frowned.

You nodded and pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket. “Cheryl Leahy?”

Tim shook his head, the bright smile falling from his bloodied face. “Oh that, tragic thing, really, but coroner agrees it was a suicide.”

“She made an emergency phone call about a monster with rows and rows of teeth,” Steve said, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

“She did,” Tim nodded.

“And you found her with several puncture wounds the size of small bite marks?” You tried to confirm.

Tim nodded. “So we thought, but upon further selection, we noticed it was glass. Poor woman threw herself out the front window of her home.”

Steve shot you a perturbed look, fingernails tapping the ceramic mug in front of him.

“Any sign of a break-in? Maybe she could have been pushed?” You asked.

“Nope. Doors were unlocked, but this is the Midwest, no one locks their doors. They weren’t any signs of a struggle either, other than the broken window,” Tim clarified, thanking the waitress with a hand on her arm as she dropped off another cup of coffee and your pancake stack. Then he reached across the table to pull out four sugar packets and unload them into his drink.

Steve looked like he might be sick.

“Listen, kids,” Tim picked up the spoon from your napkin and began to stir his drink. “Cheryl Leahy, God rest her soul, was a troubled woman. She’d gone a bit off the deep end in the last couple of months, and this wasn’t exactly a surprise.”

“What do you mean?” Steve pulled his coffee from the table, as though the sweetener might jump into his own cup. 

“I mean, she left her husband, quit her job, became a hermit.”

“Does anyone know why?” You asked, taking a bite of delicious, buttery pancake.

Tim shrugged, leaned in to offer the next bit of information just above a whisper. “Rumor has it she was seeing a woman.”

“Have you looked into this woman?” Steve asked.

Tim shook his head. “We couldn’t find any proof of an affair or even of another woman. You know how the rumor mills work in these small towns. I think the ladies at the credit union just needed something to talk about at the water cooler.” He turned to offer you a wink.

You faked a smile.

Steve’s fist clenched on the tabletop. “Well, we’re going to need access to the crime scene.”

Tim sipped his coffee and smacked his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “No can do, buddy. Crime scene’s cleared. New window’s being installed today. Like I said, it’s been ruled as a suicide. Nothing to see there.”

“We understand,” you said, mouthful of sticky sweet pancake to cut Steve off before he said anything rash. You swallowed. “Unfortunately, we have to report something to our boss. I’m sure you understand.”

“Sure, sure,” Tim nodded. “You’re more than welcome to canvas her neighbors. See if maybe they saw something? Other than the poor lady’s body in her driveway.”

—

Mist crawled from the lake’s surface and swirled at your feet. Lamplight cast you both in long silhouettes as you walked, heads disappearing into the fog. 

You stifled a yawn with your hand. 

“Knew I should’ve stopped you from eating those pancakes,” Steve tutted, kicking dead leaves from the toes of his shoes.

You’d spent the day canvasing. You left Steve at the stoop and walked door-to-door after the first homeowner nearly got decked in the face for wearing a Freddy Krueger mask and holding a candy bucket. Nobody knew anything about Cheryl Leahy, nor had they seen or heard anything unusual the night of her death.

“Why did Owens send us here?” You groaned, pawing at tired eyes. Your shoulders and feet felt heavy, each step a slog. 

A blood-curdling scream was better than a cup of coffee.

Steve took off first, the clack of his soles against pavement before he was up a lawn, reaching into his trench coat. You were hot on his tail, heart pumping.

Your partner stopped short, and you nearly barreled into his broad back until you peered around him to see a bunch of kids cackling, pretending to stab one another with a plastic knife. They were dressed as various cartoon characters and carried empty pillow cases and pumpkin-shaped-buckets.

With a snort, you grabbed Steve’s shoulder and led him back down the hill and to the paved path.

“I hate Halloween,” he repeated his sentiment from earlier through gritted teeth.

“Why?” You smiled, kicking at the fog as you stepped.

“Because,” Steve said, that frown burrowing itself between his brows, “there are real monsters in this world they should be afraid of.”

“Have you ever had fun?” You asked behind a yawn, laughing when his eyes snapped to yours. “Even once in your life?”

“I have fun,” he argued.

“Shooting monsters in the face doesn’t count,” you countered.

“Believe me, that is not fun,” he sighed.

You tried not to let the sadness sink in, choosing instead to barrel forward, back around the cul-de-sac where you’d parked your rental. “Alright then, what do you and Dustin do when you hang out?”

“That isn’t fun either,” he rolled his eyes.

“Okay, your… other friends then,” you ventured, hating the way your stomach sank at the thought of him having other company. You thought of Michelle from that party months ago, and wondered if he’d ever reached out.

Sadie hadn’t mentioned anything. She just kept pestering you about whether or not you’d tied him down: figuratively and literally.

Steve’s face fell in a way you hadn’t anticipated but recognized as a shut down of your line of questioning. He shook his head and looked far up the path into the mist. Robin.

You swallowed. You knew better than to push further, but you ached to slip your hand into his and tell him it was okay, that he was safe with you.

You felt his elbow bump into yours. “We should get you something to eat.”

You smiled up at him. “Don’t think I didn’t hear your stomach two houses ago, Harrington.”

You swatted at him to push him away, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you in tighter, his trench coat and chest all-encompassing as a stampede of children skipped past you both, chanting.

“Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!”

His chest radiated warmth, and when you looked up, his throat and cheeks were pinched pink. You watched his mouth as his chest rose and fall beneath your palm, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow.

You felt his stomach growl before you heard it, and you bit back a smile as you patted his middle. “Let’s get you something good to eat.”

—

The same Dracula was restrung in the doorway, and the hostess’s sign had been flipped to have you seat yourself at the same table as that morning. Vinyl menus now displayed mashed potatoes and chicken club sandwiches. A car drove by, casting Steve in the headlights for a moment across the table, engrossed in his dinner selections.

You tried not to think of Sadie’s pesterings, or wonder what Steve would look like all face-painted up like a scarecrow, hair stuffed into a straw hat. 

The same waitress from earlier approached with a tongue pressed to her top row of teeth. “You’re back.”

Steve flashed you a daring smile and leaned back in his seat. “You didn’t get Halloween off?”

“Jehovah’s Witness,” she explained, tapping her pen cap to the pad in her hand. “I’m off at midnight, though.”

“I’ll have a cheeseburger,” you cleared your throat, folding your menu over Steve’s. “Fries and a coke.”

“That sounds great. I’ll have the same,” Steve flashed her a thousand-watt smile, handing over the menus. 

You hated the green monster that clawed at your insides.

“So what brings you to town, G-man?” The woman asked, idling with a nylon-covered knee a little too close to Steve’s.

“Did you ever spend anytime with Cheryl Leahy? Serve her here, maybe?” You asked, leaning across the table to catch her gaze.

Recognition flashed across the woman’s face, and she pursed her lips. “You mean the crazy lesbian lady from the credit union? Thought she killed herself.”

“She did,” Steve shot you a look. “Her family just wanted us to tick all the boxes.”

“Right,” the girl nodded slowly, glancing between the two of you before the smile slid back onto her lips. She tapped her pen cap twice to Steve’s knee and promised to be right back.

“They wouldn’t send us on a false lead, would they?” You asked when the waitress’s hips swung out of earshot.

Steve’s eyes widened, and he glanced around the empty diner before leaning into you. “Say that again.”

You swallowed, the ominous feeling you felt around house six settling back between your shoulders. “Well, it did sound like our thing, but it’s looking like maybe it’s not our thing, and I’m just wondering if this is,” you lowered your voice, “some sort of distraction.”

“Distraction from what?”

You shrugged, played with the sticky wrapper holding your silverware inside your napkin. “Les Joplin, George Humbolt, the Garcias.”

When you looked up, Steve’s face was inches from yours, eyes carefully watching every change in your expression. You hoped you could convey your worry, that you’d been thinking about this for the last few months, through every small town and every patch of rotting Earth.

“Two cokes,” your waitress interrupted, placing sticky sweet soda between you. The bubbles fizzed against their straw.

You thanked her and ignored the ripple of butterflies at the smile Steve gave her.

“The last three people we saved are still alive,” he said through his teeth, glancing back up at the waitress as she sauntered away.

You swallowed and nodded, stirring your drink before taking a sip. The bubbles tickled at your nostrils and it went down ice-cold.

“Think they’re onto us being onto them?”

You shrugged. “Could be.”

“Do you think I put Henderson in danger?”

You watched the panic fill his eyes. “Steve.”

The bell chimed and a gust of wind rolled in, sweeping leaves into the lobby. Pies and cakes continued to spin in your periphery.

Your shoulders felt heavy with burden, with the weight of the world, and your eyelids too. You reached a hand across to Steve, and he spoke your name like sound waves through a soupy atmosphere. 

“Who sent you?” The waitress appeared, large bottle in her hand, although even she was sideways, off-kilter. “Was it Brenner?”

You fell from your seat, heavier than gravity would allow, and you watched as the bats and Draculas began to spin, crepe paper circles blurring your vision until everything went black.

—

Your brain felt fuzzy inside your skull, your mouth was bone dry, and the light was too bright behind your eyelids. You scrambled to remember your whereabouts, squinting against the harsh glow, and as you slipped back into consciousness, you became painfully aware of the rope around your wrists and ankles.

You strained against them and pulled yourself from laying to seated to find yourself in the auditorium of an old theater. Paint peeled from decorative lighting around the expanse and down from this balcony to the lower level.

On the stage, a huge white projector screen showed the mist of a classic monster movie.

You called out for Steve, but your mouth had been tied too, cloth between your teeth in a gag.

You tugged on your restraints for just a moment of more panic before remembering your training. Deep breaths in and out. 

You observed your surroundings, looked for exits, on either side of the floor level, and then one across the mezzanine from where you sat. You laid back down to peer under the seats for any sign of your partner. 

A few chairs creaked near the exit, almost imperceptible, and you froze, closing your eyes, stilling your breathing like you might pass for being asleep. Then footsteps, the clack of soles against the steps.

You risked a peak to find Steve, who crouched across the aisle from you, finger to his lips.

You nodded and waited with bated breath until a familiar voice startled you. “Oh good. You’re awake. You think now you’re willing to talk?”

You stared at Steve, and he maintained his posture, reassuring you he had it covered if you just played along.

You looked back up at the waitress and nodded fervently.

The waitress barked a cold laugh and approached from the row behind Steve, uniform discarded for something less conspicuous. Her long curls had been released and now fell at her shoulders. “Or maybe I ought to play with you a little bit more.”

She snapped her fingers and Steve stood from his crouch.

You cursed under your breath. Of course she was enhanced.

Feeling the ground around you for a loose screw, you used your thumbnail to loosen it from its hold to use to begin to cut the ropes at your wrist.

Steve wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in close, bending to press his lips against hers. She moaned, tangling her fingers in his thick hair.

You tried your damndest to focus on the screw until they began to move, slowly backing him to the balcony’s edge.

You cried out for him, but it was too late.

With one powerful shove, you watched your partner plummet to the auditorium floor. Scrambling to your knees to peer over the side, you saw his mangled remains, blood seeping down the incline toward the orchestra pit.

You screamed and ripped your wrists from their restraints.

Standing, you managed to swing your arms at her with the intention to push her over the side with him. Only, she wasn’t there, not really. You wafted through the air until you lost your balance, and you felt gravity cascading you up and over to meet your partner’s fate.

With a sharp tug, your arm was ripped from it’s socket.

“I’ve got you,” Steve said, gripping your wrist, teeth grit.

You glanced to the floor to find it empty, nothing but air beneath your dangling feet.

On the giant screen behind you, a monster’s silhouette was framed in shadow, tens of feet high.

“Give me your hand,” Steve yelled.

With a cry of agony, you swung your other hand to grasp his and allow him to hoist you upward.

Safely back on the mezzanine, Steve made to quickly untie your bonds, large hand replacing the gag on your cheek. “Are you alright?”

His voice was hoarse, blood caked the side of his temple.

You swallowed, nodded. “Are you?”

He shrugged and looked around for any sign of her. “I think she’s enhanced.”

“She can make you see things,” you confirmed.

“Great,” he sighed, hand brushing your hair from your cheek, warm and comforting. You knew she couldn’t manufacture this, not the care or the devotion. “Can you walk?”

“My legs are fine,” you stated, gritting your teeth through the sting in your shoulder.

Steve shook his head. “I’ll put it back in the car. Stay close to me.” He grabbed your hand to assist you in standing, and didn’t release it as you made your way up the balcony aisle and through the exit doors.

—

Flashes illuminating the mist and trees surrounding the little theater. Blood that spilled from her wounds. She coughed and sputtered, face covered in shards of glass.

Tim Bouchart handed you the handcuffs from his belt, and you clipped them around her wrists to restrain her to the gurney, flesh and blood and bone.

“You sure you’re okay there, Agent?” Tim asked, face quite mundane without the zombie makeup.

“I’m fine,” you breathed through the ache. The emergency response team insisted on a hospital visit, but you’d rather not spend your Halloween night watching droves of other people in skeleton costumes puke up their dinner.

Steve finished giving the ambulance drivers their specific directions and shook Tim’s hand. “Sheriff, thank you for all your help. We’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will,” Tim managed an exhausted smile before stumbling back into his cruiser. “Happy Halloween.”

You stifled a yawn behind your hand.

Steve scoffed beside you, cut on his head covered with a butterfly bandage.

You nodded. “I think I hate Halloween.”

—

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed,” Owens smiled, blue eyes sparkling. He clapped his hands together and held his office door open for you and Steve to exit.

In silence, you exited through his receptionist’s office and into the hallway, glancing both directions before making your way into the elevator. Steve whistled as he pressed the button for the lobby.

“Have any fun weekend plans?” He asked, ceasing his whistle.

You frowned back at him, small-talk so not his forte. “Going to Sadie’s to help with Thanksgiving plans,” you said. “You’re invited, by the way.”

He bristled at that, didn’t respond.

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal a large group of people waiting. The two of you shuffled around them and to the revolving glass door.

Crisp autumn air hit your face, and you sighed, watching leaves tumble down the sidewalk.

“So listen,” Steve stopped you with a hand to your forearm. “Henderson’s coming over tonight to watch movies. He wanted me to invite you.”

You pushed down anything that kicked in your stomach, tilted your face to catch the sunlight just over his head. “Do you want me there?”

He pursed his lips to avoid the smirk toying at the corner of them. “Not really. I know it’ll just be the two of you talking over the whole thing.”

You hummed. “Is that what you like to do for fun? Watch movies?”

He eyed you for a moment longer, weighing whether or not to tell you the truth, before he nodded. 

This time it was you disguising your smirk. “What movies are you watching tonight?”

“Halloween,” he said. This time, his lips split into a knee-weakening grin.

---

[A/N: In my mind, this entire chapter is in B&W. Like my two favorite episodes of Supernatural and X-Files. I missed you guys. Happy Halloween! xoxo]

[whirligig-girl]

Commission for @trydianth of Entrapta operating tiny trains (since she loves tiny food so much!)

Image ID: Entrapta from She-Ra is grinning and fiddling with some train cars on her model train set. Entrapta is a tan-skinned woman with pink hair in large prehensile tentacle-like pony tails. Her regular hands are on the train layout table but she’s messing with the train cars with her hair. She’s also using her hair to control the model railway’s power transformer, which is hooked up to a First One’s crystal. The train layout contains a yard with three sidings with five freight cars and a purple tank engine. It also contains a loop that goes back and forth between a simplistic diorama of dark purple Dryll castle on the left and of Brightmoon castle on the left, with a small diorama of the Whispering Woods’ dark blue trees in the foreground. There’s a spur track that runs off-screen with the ominous reddish glow of the Fright Zone. A pretty streamlined tan, white, and gold train is coming from that line. On the loop line near Entrapta is seven freight cars and a scary looking military-green diesel with a Horde insignia. End Image ID.

Under the cut are some detail close-ups and artist’s notes.

Flatbed of First Ones Tech, FZR Boxcar, two unnamed vans, a refrigerated Salineas Fisheries boxcar, an unnamed tank wagon, a gondola of snow from the Kingdom of Snows, a Fred Pelhay Coal Co. truck for some reason, a Plumeria Products boxcar, and a Freight Zone Rail Road boxcar with graffiti reading She-Ra was Here.

A Freight Zone Rail locomotive and an old industrial shunter tank engine from Dryll Quarry.

Bright Moon Railway’s cab-forward streamliner, coming from the Fright Zone. Does that make sense? Perhaps not, but I hasten to remind the viewer that this is just Entrapta’s toy model.

I definitely put more detail into this than I intended to! It was going to be a lot simpler, but by the time I got to drawing and then perspective-skewing an actual model railway layout with sidings and switches I realized this was going to take a while. I wasn’t quite sure what to do for the engine visual style. At first the locomotive positioned next to the Dryll tank engine was going to be a big Dryllian steam engine, but I decided it’d be better to show a big scary Horde diesel.

I used steam engines for the good guys and a diesel for the bad guys soley and completely because i am thomas the tank engine-brained because I just like the look of steam engines! There’s no realistic reason why there should be steam traction in Etheria, rather than something entirely magical--but then, steam engines just look better in fantasy settings in my opinion! I can justify it, after-the-fact though: magic is everywhere in Etheria, but it can’t be harnessed by everyone (during the events of the series). Sometimes transportion has to be done through mundane means. And it’s not like we see any big power plants on Etheria, so electricity is out. Entrapta’s one of the only people who uses first one’s tech to power her inventions--otherwise we see no powerplants in Dryll. So. Wood or coal or magic-crystal powered steam engines! Yipee!

Obviously they’re all electric powered in this model, though.

[practically-an-x-man]

Talk Shop Tuesday!!!

How do your characters feel about travelling abroad? Do any of them have places they want to see?

Also, how do you handle writing places you've never been? How much research do you do? How much do you focus on being realistic about a setting you don't know?

Thank you!

Talk Shop Tuesday

First things first, it really depends on the character. Rae and Kestrel love traveling and would visit just about any place they have the opportunity for. Quinn likes seeing new places, but her interest in traveling also depends on the itinerary and how her health is doing at the time. Other characters, like Jasper, Jimmy, and Ophelia, are very comfortable staying home.

Second, how much research I do definitely depends on what I'm using the location for. If it's written in passing, like a reference to Rae having living in France for a time, I don't really worry with too many deep details. I might look up a few anecdotes, just to make things seem a little more realistic and interesting, but by and large I don't do too much deep research.

However, if it's important to the story, I go pretty deep into the research! It works out that a surprising number of my fics end up taking place in New York (Katherine's, Ophelia's and Gia's, Jimmy's, even Spider's), just because it's a really popular setting for movies and such, but I've never actually been to New York myself! A lot of what I pull from is either cross-referenced from other movies set in New York, pulled from friends' stories from times they visited, or done by looking at a lot of articles and maps for information.

You already know I'm a pretty heavy researcher, and location is no exception! I actually had a street view of Google Maps for Amsterdam pulled up when I wrote the most recent Desert Song chapter - not only were all the facts about the canals accurate, all of the street names and buildings she encounters do (or at least did, when the pictures were taken) exist in real life! That's actually where that "a pickup truck? in Amsterdam?" line came from, there was a big-ass American pickup truck in one of the Google Maps pictures and I found it so ludicrously out-of-place on the street that I had to include it!

There are some liberties I take, particularly when it comes to day-to-day life - for example, Katherine's favorite Italian bakery in WWFA? isn't modeled after anything in particular, it's just one of those "NYC is a huge city and it's well within believability to have a bakery here" things. I'd say my main structure is that factual or historical things are researched, while circumstantial or variable things (like the restaurants they go to) tend to be things I've just place in the story myself for convenience. I want the fics to feel like they take place in that location, but I'm not strict on lining every single tiny detail up when it comes to moments that don't require those specifics.

I do find another thing interesting - I'm a pretty observant person, especially when it comes to taking in new places or experiences. I feel like my grasp on writing London is pretty decent even though I've only been there once for a week-long college band trip (yes, I do still supplement with research and I won't say it's a perfect depiction, but I feel like it's good). I went to NOLA once for a few days with the same band, and I feel like it's given me a good feel for writing my various fics that take place there (again, not flawless and I acknowledge that, but I feel like I've picked up enough of the layout, history, and general Vibe to write it convincingly).

Or even with more specific locations: on that trip to London, I made it a point to visit the British Museum and dragged my travel buddy through the whole place (I say dragged, but like... he enjoyed it too. We spent ten minutes finding the Ea-Nasir tablet together), mostly because I just love museums but also so that I could get a sense for the layout and any notable exhibits for the London section of WWFA?. I found that there were a few discrepancies, either that the exhibits have changed since 2014 or that they just made some things up for the third NATM movie, but even just having the general layout and certain sensory details like how big the rooms really are and how they feel when you're in them (especially the Ancient Egypt exhibit. we spent ages in the Ancient Egypt exhibit bc you better believe I read every single placard) helped me capture that vibe when I wrote the fic.

Anyway. I'm exhausted and stressed and I know I'm rambling but the short answer is: it depends. If it's important to the plot or helps to sell the atmosphere, I research. If it's a throwaway detail or something that could easily exist without needing to be researched, like a restaurant the characters go to, I just let it be my artistic liberty. And I think I'm pretty good about capturing the vibe of a place I've been to before, even if I've only been there once!

[mrsreginagold]

Fic: Let Me Steal This Moment From You Now

Fandom: Nikita 

Pairing: Ari Tasarov x Nikita Mears (Nikari)

Rating: PG13

Spoilers: For “The Life We’ve Chosen”. Serves as a missing scene in the episode. 

Summary: The conversation between Ari and Nikita on the night before pivotal events occur ends differently.

Author’s note: I promise that this is the only time I will ever treat this pair as the tragedy that they are. It legitimately hurts to not give them a happy ending, but I wanted to explore how a kiss would have happened if there had been a chance for one. To make things flow a little easier, I did have Nikita and Michael put the brakes on their engagement, just as a selfish little caveat since I was allowing the canonical ending to remain here.

On AO3

Let Me Steal This Moment From You Now

                  She wasn’t certain how he remained so calm. If it had been her in his place – she would be in a state of panic. 

                  Nikita Mears had to admire Ari Tasarov’s resolve, particularly given the circumstances. There was no guarantee that the mission would succeed, even with her promises – which were not hollow, but still tinged with pragmatism. 

                  Clearly, he had been in the business long enough to read the signs and draw his own conclusions. He had only been under Division’s protection (though really, hers) for the span of close to a month, and their history didn’t exactly paint a shining picture. 

                  Yet: in spite of everything she had put him through, he appeared to trust her. She wished she could understand why. Their past was rife with tension and multiple cases of backstabbing, mainly on her part. At the same time, the attraction that had sparked not long after they had met only continued to grow, which perhaps explained why she had been so tough on him in the first place. 

                  It was difficult, admitting when you liked someone.  It was downright impossible when said person worked for an agency that rivaled the one you wanted to destroy, at least at the time. 

                  Nikita sighed and pulled her overcoat tighter around her body to guard against the chill in the air, her gaze raking over her companion as they stood, silent, outside of the truck they were using as transport. 

                  Ari appeared less fazed than she did by the rapidly dropping temperature. It made sense; he hailed from a country known for frigid winters. 

                  He looked in her direction, those perceptive, beautiful blue eyes catching hers, his brow furrowing when he noticed her discomfort. “Perhaps we should wait inside?”

                  She shook her head, rubbing her palms together. “It’s fine. They shouldn’t be too much longer.”

                  “Nikita, surely you realize that I don’t like seeing you distressed?” His tone softened, as did the look on his face. 

                  The beautiful, dark-haired operative’s heart did a tiny cartwheel at his compassion, but her response was clipped. “Then maybe stop being so defeatist regarding your survival rate.” 

                  He blinked, astonished. “I’m not being defeatist. I’m merely being realistic.”

                  “Then stop it,” she griped, stomping away from him, though uncertain of where she could go since they still had to wait for the return of their companions. 

                  Snow crunched under her boots as she drew to a halt and took a deep, steadying breath. She hadn’t meant to start an argument – and really, it had not reached that point. Ari simply brought out that side of her.

                  She went still when she felt his hand on her shoulder. Of course he’d followed. 

                  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, not wanting to turn around just yet. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

                  “Clearly, something else is bothering you,” his touch drifted down, light and fleeting before he squeezed reassuringly at her arm. “What is it?”

                  She twisted to face him, tipping her head back due to their height difference. He really was quite handsome, with his striking, angular features and a stunning gaze that pierced right into her soul. 

                  “Why are you so resigned towards death, Ari? Would it be easier, after everything you’ve done?”

                  His lips pursed before he responded. “Do you think I want to die, Nikita?”

                  “Maybe,” she shrugged. 

                  He grasped at her shoulders abruptly. “Of course I don’t want to! I want…” he trailed off, letting go of her just as quickly as he’d latched on. 

                  She watched him begin to pace, muttering quietly in his native tongue.

                  She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “You can’t get out of this by trying to be incomprehensible.”

                  “That’s not –” he threw up his hands in frustration. “Nikita, you seem to be under the impression that there isn’t anything out there for me that’s worth surviving this for. You’re wrong. There is, but it’s not something I can possibly have.”

                  She took a step towards him tentatively. “What is it?”

                  “Hmm?”

                  “What is it that you think you can’t have?”

                  His eyes met hers then, the clear expression in them causing her heart to clench. 

                  Then he said the words that she had been secretly longing for. “Simply put, you.”

                  Her pulse jumped at the affirmation, her breath catching in her throat. 

                  “If there was time, we’d be someplace else – preferably warmer – where I could put this in more poetic terms and make love to you for hours on end.” He started towards her. “Where this ridiculous world we choose to be a part of doesn’t have to matter and I can finally have you all to myself. But I know it’s nothing but a fantasy. You have Michael and I –

                  She brought one hand up to his mouth to silence him momentarily. “Michael’s not part of this equation. We’re taking a break.”

                  “Surely not. What about the engagement?” He gaped at her in disbelief.

                  “I gave him back the ring, for now. The truth is: when you told me that there wasn’t a happily ever after in this business, your words resonated. I rushed into Michael’s arms not long after I rejected you the third time, and things escalated so quickly that I never really thought about what I truly wanted. I got caught up in the perfect ideal and then it all crumbled to dust when I had to cut off his hand to save him."

                  "That wasn’t your fault,” he whispered. “You did what you thought you needed to.”

                  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect the people I care about. That includes you, Ari. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t matter to me. But now time is running out,” tears began to form at the edges of her eyes, forcing her to wipe them away hastily. “Why didn’t you say anything about how you felt earlier?”

                  “You mean besides the fact that I thought I’d already lost you to another? Because I never believed that you would return my feelings.”

                  She glanced at her feet, shame taking over. “God, Ari, I’m so sorry. This really isn’t the way I wanted you to spend what might be your final night alive.”

                  “I’m spending it with you. That’s enough,” surprisingly warm, elegant fingers curled under her chin, tilting her head back so she could see the grateful expression on his attractive face. 

                  Before she could say another word, his lips brushed hers – feathery and tentative, as if asking permission. 

                  She pulled back long enough to catch his eyes and grant it, before gripping at his coat collar and yanking him to her for a proper kiss. 

                  They embraced tenderly, his hands moving around to cradle the back of her head so he could angle his mouth more passionately over hers. 

                  Nikita sighed, giving herself over to it – to him. Ari’s kiss was tinged with a melancholy that couldn’t be fully shaken, and she could feel a part of her heart shattering.

                  To keep herself from sobbing, she gripped on to him tighter. She needed him to know how deeply she had fallen in love with him. 

                  He seemed to get the message quickly, and she gasped when she was unexpectedly pressed up against the side of the truck. She hadn’t even realized that they were that close to it. 

                  The mood shifted, heat blossoming between them as what had started out as innocent evolved into a full-blown make out session. 

                  With surprising strength, he hoisted her up in his arms, never once breaking from their kiss. Instead, they met over and over, exchanging fervent bites and teasing at each other’s lips, while she circled her legs around his waist to anchor them together. 

                  Her hands traveled to undo a few buttons to his shirt. It was far too cold to let reason completely leave the premises, but she still needed to feel him in some way. She wanted to know what she would be missing as their future wasn’t set in stone. 

                  Her fingers came in contact with the firm tone of his chest, her nails scraping through the soft hair that dusted his skin which was flushed with heat. 

                  Ari groaned, his lips straying from hers to lay claim on her throat, one hand dragging the zipper to her jacket down further for better access. 

                  Nikita hissed when he bit down on her neck, arousal jolting straight to her core. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

                  “You’re right,” his words were muffled against her flesh, his teeth scraping provocatively. “Of course you’re right…you deserve a soft bed and a man who isn’t courting death.”

                  “And yet I want you.” 

                  This finally prompted him to pull away and look at her. For the first time since the entire ordeal began, there was hope in his eyes. 

                  Her heart skipped a beat. “I love you. We’ll figure a way out of this.”

                  “I love you,” the conviction was unmistakable, as was the strength of his arms as they wrapped around her, even when he set her carefully on her feet. 

                  They took another moment to bask in one another, foreheads touching and eyes closing as they breathed each other in. 

                  Eventually, they made their way back inside the truck, fingers laced together as they contemplated where to go from there. 

                  Little did they know – there wouldn’t be a later. 

The End

[mordenheim]

Lepus Liberation

This was a fun tale I wrote a while ago for my friend, https://www.furaffinity.net/user/redband.jackalope !  Just a bit of growth leading to a little bit of heroics on the part of her lovely jackalope!  Art also c/o Redband. Jillian grumbled under her breath as she sped down the open desert road.  Her blue Jeep Cherokee's engine roared in the relative desert silence as her sandal clad paw pressed down harder on the accelerator.  The heat coming off of the blinding sand all around caused the air to shimmer and created phantom puddles on the blacktop.  Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as her mind kept going back to what she had seen that morning. The fluffy, white-furred jackalope was practically trembling with anger as she remembered the message she had seen that morning.  A news report on a so-called feral bunny rescue where the owners had no idea what they were doing but somehow operated just within the rule of law.  Half of the poor things were unbrushed, their coats so matted that their fur was falling out in clumps.  Not to mention they hadn't been properly separated so nearly all of the females rabbits were currently pregnant!

She had instantly decided she was heading down there to give them a piece of her mind.  The staff needed to either learn how to watch over the rabbits the right way or take them across town to a real animal shelter where they would be properly cared for.  Exactly how she was going to make them do this was another problem entirely.

She drove along the desert road, her temper began to cool a bit as the warm, dry air from her open window rushed through her soft fur and long, brown hair.  She sighed softly and itched at the stump of her broken antler.  She realized there realistically wasn't anything she could do, and the thought of a face to face conflict with these random strangers was causing a knot to form in the pit of her stomach.  Checking in the rear-view mirror and seeing nobody coming up behind her, she decided to pull over to the side of the road and think a minute.

She was so lost in her own thoughts, she didn't even hear the loud, droning buzz of the over-sized silvery mosquito as it swept in through her open window.  She didn't even feel it land lightly on the collar of her black t-shirt.  Even the quiet hiss as its needle-like proboscis extended went completely unnoticed.  A glowing green liquid dripped from it as the tiny mechanical monstrosity leaned towards the vulnerable flesh of her neck.

“OUCH!  Damn it!!”  She jumped and slapped at the side of her neck, an expression of disgust on her face as she felt something fairly large crunch under her hand.  Looking down at her palm, she saw some kind of green glop staining her fur and what she thought had to be a crushed bluebottle fly.  What other biting insect looked so shiny and metallic after all, even if it did seem a bit big. She wrinkled her nose as she grabbed a leftover fast food napkin from a pocket on the drivers' side door, wiping the mess off of her fingers.  “Ugh, just one annoyance after another today.”  She tugged at her seat belt grumbling about how tight it had gotten and adjusted it a little as she got ready to turn her truck around and head back towards home.  

As she reached out to turn the key she overshot it by an inch or so.  She blinked, taking a look at her hand, turning it from side to side in front of her.  It looked swollen somehow, the knuckles a little stiff as she flexed her fingers.  “What the hell, am I having an allergic reaction to a bug bite now?”

She leaned over to pop open the glove compartment, her larger fingers fumbling with the latch.  Finally getting it open, she hunted for a mirror to get a better look at the bite mark.  The jackalope was sure she would find some hideous, swollen red welt on the side of her neck.  As she sat back up, she winced in pain as she felt her one unbroken antler rip across the ceiling, gouging a deep tear in the headliner before scraping the metal underneath.  Her eyes went wide as she ducked down a little, getting short of breath as she felt the seat belt constricting her waist a bit more. She threw the driver's side door open with enough force to rock the truck on its springs.  Almost in a panic, she couldn't unfasten the tightening seat belt from around her midsection.  She yanked hard on the fabric and there was a loud snap, sending the poor jackalope tumbling out of the vehicle and onto the hot, sandy pavement of the desert road. She pushed herself up off of the ground, dusting off the sand as she stood.  Reaching out with one hand she slammed the door of the car shut in frustration, nearly causing the vehicle to roll over.  A slight wave of vertigo swept over her as she looked more closely at the still gently rocking cobalt blue truck.  It had always been about nose height on her, her eyes looking right over the top of it.  Now, however it was just shoulder height, and chest height a few seconds after that. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, trying to calm herself and failing miserably.  “Okay.  I shouldn’t panic.  But...  I think I’m definitely panicking!  What?  Whatwhatwhatwhat?!” The slowly growing jackalope took a step back from the vehicle and immediately lost her balance.  The heel of her paw had extended back off of the rear of her sandal as she grew and offered no support as she toppled back and landed heavily on her rump! “OW! Mmmmf...”  She groaned, focused on the pain in her rear for a split second before realizing that the pain in her feet was increasing. She glared down at her paws, already a bit over-sized because of her species and now seemingly expanding by the second.  Her toes almost seemed to be inflating as they were constricted tighter and tighter by the sandal straps. It wasn't long before the tortured leather snapped and sent the soles flying from her big, fluffy paws to bounce off of the side of her truck. The cuffs of her blue denim jeans were rapidly retreating up her calves as the brass button on them snapped open.  She gasped, grabbing at her waist as the zipper tore itself apart.  Looking down, she could see  her t-shirt stretching itself rapidly into a halter top as her poor, straining bra was overflowed by her furry endowments.  There was an almost metallic snap as the tortured support device ended up lying useless atop the rapidly shredding denim stretched across her swelling thighs.

She blinked her big, pink eyes as her vision blurred.  The rising jackalope crossed her eyes to see a tiny pair of glasses lying flat atop her snout.  She leaned forwards a little and they slipped right off, landing with a soft clink atop her dwindling SUV.  Scrambling back away from the vehicle before she grew into it and caused serious damage, the newly minted macro realized that just one of her paws was now larger than the dependable vehicle that had carried her all the way out here just moments ago.  It was just a few seconds more before she realized that she was completely nude. In spite of her thick, fluffy fur keeping the giantess completely decent, she leaped to her feet with an earth-shaking boom, wrapping one arm over her chest and placing a hand over her crotch. Heat blossomed in her cheeks, the deep red blush forming beneath her white fur was easily visible.  

The giantess' shout echoed out across the empty vastness of the desert, “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!” Embarrassment was quickly being overpowered by anger. She had come all of the way out here to give those so called bunny rescuers a piece of her mind.  Now she was in the middle of the desert, naked, and gigantic.  Frowning, she moved off of the road, into the soft yellow sand.  It was actually somewhat soothing to her aching paws as she started stomping her way towards her original destination. It wasn't long before the giant had reached her goal.  The so-called bunny shelter was just up ahead.  Inside the building, a ferret, a deer and a mouse were racing around, trying to catch various items that were falling from various rickety shelves as they were hit by what they thought was a minor earthquake.  As the tremors grew stronger they gave up on trying to save the toppling merchandise and quickly moved outside.  They froze in place as they gazed up at the fluffy giantess standing before them, tapping one massive paw impatiently on the sand.  They were practically throwing one another to the ground as they tried to make a run for it.  

“Oh no you don't!” Jillian boomed, lifting one huge, soft paw and plopping it down on the fleeing wannabe rescuers.  

She pinned them down against the warm sand as she hissed through gritted teeth, “I've been walking through the desert, my feet hurt, and you're staying RIGHT THERE until I get these poor bunnies out of here and to a REAL rescue shelter.”  The gigantic jackalope slowly slid her paw through the sand.  Bunching it up beside her huge foot, she ended up burying the workers partially in a pile of it, leaving their heads and arms free to cough and struggle. She turned her attention to the rickety metal building and shrugged.  Gripping the front edge of the tin roof in her powerful hands she started rolling it back like it was the lid of a huge tin of sardines.  Squinting her eyes as she peered through the gloom, her heart nearly broke as she saw hutches filled with bunnies everywhere, many of them in truly horrible shape. Casting about for some way to carry the poor things, she spied the company van sitting off to the side of the employee parking lot.  Crouching down beside the pile of sand, she grumbled out, “I should squash the lot of you for the way you've treated these poor babies, but instead, you're going to help fix things.”  

She used a finger to carefully dig out the employees who were still struggling in the sand.  “You're going to unlock the back of that van and you're carefully going to secure every last bunny hutch there is into the back of it.  Right now.” It took a bit of time to get everything loaded and the doors shut.  One of the workers, a slinky looking ferret started to open the driver's side door, “So, where we goin'?” Jillian slammed the door shut with a single fluffy finger.  It impacted the van with enough force to cave in the tough metal, making her wince internally.  She would have to be careful moving it with the bunnies inside.  

“WE aren't going anywhere.  I'm taking these poor things to a real rescue and you're all going to learn to care for bunnies properly.”  She gently scoops the van up in one hand, cradling it against her belly as she glared down at them all.  

“Because if I ever hear about this sort of thing happening again?”  She cocked one leg back and kicked the side of their main building.  There was an earsplitting bang accompanied by the tortured shriek of tearing metal.  Without the roof to help hold it in place, the corrugated metal wall shredded apart like tissue paper as her paw blasted through and slammed down inside.  She crushed desks, chairs, and filing cabinets flat against the concrete floor.  Turning her white, fuzzy tail towards the shocked furres and her nose up into the air, she slowly walked off into the desert to the north, her booming footsteps echoing into the distance.

Her towering legs were beginning to ache as it took a good half hour of walking before she reached her destination.  Car alarms were blaring all around her as she carefully picked her way through the suburbs around town.  She laid back her ears, trying to block out the piercing noise as she tried not to cause too much damage.  Finally, she carefully crouched down, lowering the van gently into the parking lot outside the Happy Hutch Bunny Rescue.  As lightly as she could, she used a claw tip to tap on the side of the building.  It was a young dog, a retriever of some kind from the look of it, who stepped outside and very nearly turned and ran right back in before Jillian called out for him to wait. “Hold on, please.  There are some rabbits in the back of this van in pretty bad shape.  They really need your help.” Reaching out, she ripped the rear of the van open, no longer caring about any damage done to the vehicle.  Seeing the shape that the rabbits within were in, he quickly called the rest of the staff on his radio.  The motley assortment of workers formed a sort of fireman's bucket brigade to get the hutches full of injured rabbits inside the facility as quickly as possible. The giant jackalope smiled brightly and sighed, rubbing absently at the stump of her broken antler as she felt that this was a job well done.  She crouched down above the crew, telling them, “Thank you all so much for your help.” Rising back up to her full towering height, she looked down at the van for a moment.  “Oh yeah, you guys might want to call the number on the side of that thing so they can come get it back.”  Shrugging a shoulder, she then carefully picked her way back through the sprawling suburbs and back out into the desert.

It was nearly sunset when Jillian finally saw the deep blue blur of her truck in the distance. Everything as far as she could see was a brilliant orange hue that the sunset cast upon the sand.  She was completely exhausted, her feet hurt horribly, and more than anything she really wanted to just go home. “Wait.  What the hell am I going to do when I get home?  I can't even fit in my yard, much less my house at this size!”

Feeling utterly defeated, she slumped her way closer to the vehicle, then blinked as she realized that it didn't seem to be getting any closer as she approached.  Was it a mirage?  Was she actually lost somewhere in the middle of the desert? Her heart leaped in her chest as she realized the reason it didn't seem to be getting closer.  She was shrinking!  She was finally returning to normal!  Whatever it was that had caused her to grow into a macro must have finally worn off.  She breathed a huge sigh of relief as she picked up the pace, hurrying back to her truck. She reached it just as the sun dipped below the horizon and the first chill of the desert evening started to creep in. She stared at the road near her truck in awe.  The pavement was cracked and broken, crushed into the shape of a huge paw.  Her ruined sandals were flung to the side of the road underneath the truck and a few scattered rags were all that remained of her ruined clothing.  

She headed back over to her truck, for once in her life actually glad she had left the keys in the ignition. She was just about to wonder if she should risk driving without her glasses when a soft glint of reflected moonlight caught her eye.  She gave a little whoop of joy as she stood on tiptoe for a second, ignoring the pain in her calves as she grabbed her glasses from the roof of the truck where they had landed earlier and slipped them on. The bridge a little bent, but she could easily tighten them when she got home!  She sighed happily to herself as she perched her glasses atop her muzzle, smiling to herself.  A feeling of contentment and a job well done gave her peace of mind as Jillian slipped behind the wheel of the old blue Cherokee and started home.

The End?

[caramelfingerboards]

Exploring the Sweet World of Caramel Fingerboards: A Beginner's Guide

Introduction

Are you ready to embark on an exciting journey into the world of fingerboarding? If you're new to this thrilling hobby, you're in for a sweet treat! In this beginner's guide, we will delve into the delightful universe of caramel fingerboards and everything you need to know to get started. From choosing the perfect fingerboard to mastering your skills on ramps and obstacles, we've got you covered. So, let's roll our sleeves up and explore the fascinating world of caramel fingerboarding!

What Are Caramel Fingerboards?

Before we get into the intricate details, let's begin with the fundamentals. Caramel fingerboards are miniature skateboards designed for finger use. They replicate the look and feel of full-sized skateboards, allowing enthusiasts to perform tricks and maneuvers using their fingers.

These tiny boards are crafted with precision, featuring realistic graphics, and they're perfect for honing your skateboarding skills without needing a skatepark. Caramel fingerboards are an excellent way to have fun indoors, improve your finger dexterity, and unleash your creativity.

Choosing the Right Fingerboard

Selecting the right caramel fingerboard is crucial to ensure an enjoyable and rewarding experience. Consider these aspects when deciding:

Fingerboard Decks

The deck is the heart of any fingerboard, and it's where you'll place your fingers for tricks and stunts. When choosing a deck, pay attention to its size, shape, and concave. A concave deck allows for better control and maneuverability.

Fingerboard Wheels

Wheels play a significant role in how your fingerboard performs. Consider the size, material, and hardness of the wheels. Softer wheels offer improved traction, whereas firmer wheels are well-suited for even and smooth surfaces.

Fingerboard Trucks

Trucks are the metal components that hold the wheels in place. Opt for trucks that are durable and offer a good balance between stability and maneuverability.

Fingerboard Ramps and Obstacles

To take your fingerboarding skills to the next level, you'll want to invest in ramps and obstacles. These accessories provide endless opportunities for creativity and challenge. Whether you're grinding a rail, sliding down a mini staircase, or launching off a ramp, fingerboard ramps and obstacles add excitement to your sessions.

Getting Started with Caramel Fingerboarding

Now that you have your caramel fingerboard and essential components, it's time to start practicing. Here is a detailed, step-by-step guide to help you begin:

Familiarize Yourself with Your Fingerboard: Spend some time getting to know your fingerboard. Experiment with finger placement and discover how it responds to different tricks.

Learn Basic Tricks: Start with the fundamentals, such as ollies and kickflips. These tricks will form the foundation of your fingerboarding skills.

Practice Regularly: Like any skill, fingerboarding improves with practice. Dedicate time each day to hone your skills and try new tricks.

Watch Tutorials: There are numerous tutorials available online that can help you learn new tricks and techniques. Learning from experienced fingerboarders can be incredibly beneficial.

Join the Fingerboarding Community: Connect with other fingerboard enthusiasts through online forums or social media groups. Sharing your progress and experiences with others can be motivating and fun.

Maintaining Your Caramel Fingerboard

To ensure your caramel fingerboard stays in tip-top shape, follow these maintenance tips:

Keep It Clean: Regularly wipe down your fingerboard to remove dirt and debris that can affect its performance.

Tighten Screws: Check and tighten the screws and nuts on your fingerboard regularly to prevent any loose components.

Replace Parts When Needed: If any parts, such as wheels or trucks, become damaged or worn out, don't hesitate to replace them to maintain optimal performance.

Store Properly: When not in use, store your fingerboard in a cool, dry place to prevent warping or damage.

Conclusion

In conclusion, exploring the sweet world of caramel fingerboards is an exciting journey filled with endless possibilities. Whether you're a beginner or an experienced fingerboarder, there's always something new to learn and master. Remember to choose the right fingerboard, invest in quality components, and practice regularly to unlock your full fingerboarding potential. So, grab your caramel fingerboard, hit the ramps, and let the good times roll!

[luckyladylily]

Can I just mention that both of those ships are rather rubbish designs owing to how their designers were clearly too married to earthbound naval concept to the point they have motherfucking windshields? Why the fuck are their command rooms located in vulnerable, easy to detect spots on the outer hull. Give me a ship that looks like a straight dildo and the bridge is located in the center surrounded by layers of armor and shielding, and the hull is covered by guns, sensors, guns, and guns.

Ok but a few things.

First off, neither the Enterprise (D or C) nor the Falcon were purpose built warships.

The Falcon was a converted freighter, the closest real world equivalent would be either a semi truck or a tiny cargo boat. They are not designed to be highly efficient combat ships. The Falcon was modified to be combat capable. The watsonian reasoning for the cockpit being wear it is is so you can see where your ship is compared to the place you are docking so you don't run into things.

The Star Wars original trilogy aesthetic is world war 2 in space, and the designs reflect and support that theming. The scene in which the Falcon is attacked by Ties plays out basically as you would expect a small patrol boat being strafed by fighters would play out. The boat can do minimal dodging, its all on the gunners to take down the attacking fighters. That scene is practically lifted out of a world war 2 drama. Making the ships more "realistic" or otherwise sci fi fancy would be a huge detriment to the original trilogy.

Also, for whatever reason, while everything else has progressed a great deal Star Wars monitor technology is stuck in the stone age. It's bad, and would not be sufficient in any way to successfully drive a smaller, more maneuverable ship expected to fly through tight areas. Maybe as a supplement, not as a primary mode of navigation. This is to support the WWII comparison, of course, giving the fighters transparent cockpits, war maps, etc. But it is an in universe justification.

As for the Enterprise, again not a war ship. When the Federation does eventually make a war ship, designed by Benjamin Sisko of Deep Space 9, the bridge is, in fact, protected by being in the center of the ship, and the ship itself being a compacted, heavily armored design packed with guns and engines to spare and no obvious targets on the surface of the ship unless they absolutely have to be obvious (like it's huge engines and massive guns) and even then they are heavily armored.

But the Enterprise itself is not a war ship. It's got lots of windows, because the Enterprise primary purpose isn't fighting, it's lookin' at stuff.

[sebastianvarghese]

Major Study : Digital Art

Week 3: Making It Real – Detailing the Truck

After two weeks of intense work, my truck model is finally coming together. The meticulous attention to detail during Week 1, focused primarily on establishing the fundamental structure of the truck with precision and care, is now paying off as I see the project evolve into a tangible representation. Building the basic framework involved ensuring that the proportions were exact and the form was coherent, setting a strong foundation for what was to come. Moving into Week 2, the process transitioned from structural elements to incorporating textures that not only added depth but also introduced a harmonious blend of colours, bringing the truck to life before my eyes. It was in this phase that the model began to transform, acquiring a more tactile presence that resonated with the essence of a realistic truck.

Week 3 heralded a new level of creativity and immersion as I delved into the intricate world of detailing. It was during this period that every minute component was meticulously examined and refined, culminating in a transformation that elevated the truck model from a mere representation to a captivating story waiting to be explored. Detailing a 3D model is no mere task; it is an art form that breathes life into the object, bridging the gap between a plain, lifeless structure and a nuanced, lived-in creation that speaks volumes.

The crux of my goal in Week 3 was to inject layers of complexity that would not only visually communicate the essence of a truck but also evoke a sense of realism that transcends mere aesthetics. By carefully enhancing the existing textures through the addition of intricate decals, I sought to embed traces of history and character onto the truck's surface. These meticulous touches, whether in the form of rust spots strategically placed around key areas or weathering effects that simulate the passage of time, served the purpose of infusing the model with a raw authenticity reminiscent of a vehicle that has weathered through years of use.

Furthermore, as I dived into the realm of detailing, I made conscious efforts to incorporate smaller elements that often go unnoticed but play a pivotal role in grounding the truck in reality. The addition of tiny yet crucial components such as bolts, screws, and rivets meticulously placed on the chassis and body of the truck added a tactile quality that heightened the sense of structural integrity and functionality. Not to be overlooked were the imperfections deliberately introduced, ranging from subtle dents to minor bends in the metalwork, each imperfection telling a story of its own and contributing to the overall narrative of a well-worn vehicle. In essence, the art of detailing transcends mere visual appeal; it serves as the cornerstone of realism in the realm of 3D modelling. It is in these details, carefully woven into the fabric of the model, where emotions are stirred, memories are evoked, and narratives begin to unfurl. The impact of such detailing extends far beyond mere aesthetics, forming a bridge between art and reality that captivates viewers, drawing them into a world that not only looks real but feels real, resonating with echoes of experiences and stories from everyday life.

[mwseo2024]

The Intricate World of Model Making: Exploring Miniature Masterpieces

Introduction

Model making is a wonderful art form that turns ideas into tangible reality. Model Makers in Bangalore captivates people of all ages, with tiny representations of historical places and realistic miniature automobiles. This difficult craft necessitates precision, patience, and creativity, resulting in exquisite miniature reproductions of the world around us. In this blog, we'll look at the history, skills, and communities that make model-making such a popular hobby and vocation.

Techniques and Materials

Model-making necessitates a variety of processes and materials, each chosen according to the project's complexity and desired level of detail. Here are some important components of the craft:

Materials

Plastic, the most popular material for model kits, is versatile and simple to work with. Injection-molded plastic kits provide exact details and are readily available in hobby shops.

Wood is a traditional and sturdy material used for ship models, architectural models, and dollhouses. It requires the ability to shape and assemble, thus it is best suited for skilled model makers.

Metal adds strength and realism to structural components and details. Brass, Aluminum, and white metal are popular options.

Resin is a material that can capture fine details and is used to create unique parts and figurines.

Techniques

Assembly: The procedure starts with cutting, sanding, and putting pieces together. Precision is required to ensure that parts align properly. Tools such as hobby knives, files, and clamps are indispensable.

Painting: Painting brings the model to life. Airbrushing, dry brushing, and weathering techniques all contribute to the overall realism and depth. Acrylics, enamels, and oils are common materials used by model makers.

Decals are used to add intricate elements such as logos, numbers, and symbols. To avoid creases and bubbles while applying decals, you must be patient and steady-handed.

Detailing: To increase authenticity, add minute features like panel lines, rivets, and texturing. This is accomplished by the use of photo-etched parts, wiring, and customized components.

Finishing: The final steps are to seal the model with a clear coat, add any finishing touches, and display it

Types of Models

Model making spans various genres, each with its own set of enthusiasts and communities. Here are some popular types:

 Scale Models

Vehicles: Cars, trucks, motorcycles, and airplanes are popular topics. Scale models reproduce every aspect, from engine parts to cabin upholstery.

Ships: Naval enthusiasts create intricate reproductions of both historic and current ships. These models frequently have rigging, sails, and cannons, demonstrating the complexities of marine engineering.

Trains: Model railroading is a broad pastime that entails creating trains, tracks, and entire landscapes. It mixes model making, electrical engineering, and landscape design.

Architectural Models

Architects and designers use scale models to visually represent and present their designs. These models range from simple massing models to elaborate representations that include interiors and lighting.

Fantasy and Sci-Fi Models

Fans of science fiction and fantasy construct models inspired by movies, television shows, and literature. These include spacecraft, exotic creatures, and fantasy vehicles, which frequently necessitate unique parts and imaginative alterations.

The Community

Model making is more than just a solitary activity; it is a thriving community where people share their enthusiasm, knowledge, and creations. Here are a few ways model makers can connect:

Clubs and Associations

Local and national model making groups provide an opportunity for enthusiasts to connect, trade techniques, and promote their work. Clubs frequently host events, workshops, and competitions.

The Heart of the Model Making Community

Clubs and groups are the foundation of the model-making community, allowing enthusiasts to connect, share knowledge, and develop their talents. These clubs provide a sense of community and support, creating a collaborative atmosphere in which model makers can thrive.

Benefits of Joining Clubs and Associations

Skill Development: Members can learn new techniques, tips, and tricks from more experienced model makers. Clubs frequently organize courses, demonstrations, and guest speakers to assist members in honing their craft.

Networking: Clubs provide an opportunity to meet others who have a passion for model making. This networking can result in friendships, mentorships, and collaborative ventures.

Resource sharing provides access to a plethora of resources, such as reference materials, tools, and supplies. Clubs may also offer lending libraries and bulk purchasing programs to help members save money.

Exhibitions and Competitions: Many clubs host local exhibitions and competitions, allowing members to showcase their work and achieve recognition.

Members can acquire new techniques, tips, and transport and Motivation: Regular meetings and interactions with other enthusiasts can help members stay motivated and inspired, overcoming creative blockages and remaining devoted to their projects.

Online Forums and Social Media

The internet has transformed the way model makers communicate. Online forums, social media groups, and YouTube channels offer a multitude of materials, ranging from instructional to product reviews. These sites allow model makers to share their creations with a global audience.

Exhibitions and Competitions

Model making exhibitions and competitions celebrate the craft. Events like IPMS (International Plastic Modelers' Society) contests attract participants from around the world, showcasing the best in model making artistry.

Celebrating the Craft

Exhibitions and competitions play a vital role in the world of model making. These events provide a platform for model makers to showcase their work, exchange ideas, and gain inspiration from peers. Whether local, national, or international, these gatherings highlight the craftsmanship and creativity within the model making community.

The Joy of Model Making

Model making is more than just a hobby; it's a journey of creativity, patience, and skill. The satisfaction of completing a model, the joy of learning new techniques, and the thrill of sharing your work with others make it a deeply rewarding experience. Whether you're a seasoned model maker or a beginner, the world of miniature creation offers endless possibilities.

Conclusion

The art of model-making is a testament to human creativity and craftsmanship. From ancient times to the modern day, it has evolved into a beloved hobby and profession that brings joy to countless enthusiasts. As you embark on your model-making journey, remember that every model is a unique expression of your passion and skill.

[obsessedwithecho]

I had a dream once where my family were living with some other people in this underground complex, the main hall of which was called the under-hall, apparently in reference to Undertale somehow.

For some reason my sister and I were mentally and physically more like we were when we were younger, and were playing an imaginary game that was also somehow real, where we were both cats, but she kept killing me because I was evil (which was actually kind of true. I was very much the evil edgy older sibling archetype here, very much in line with how I actually was at that age). Then some other stuff happened involving that, but the important part is that we stopped playing that game, and I started playing a game on a 3DS that was some sort of official Disney game that was a massive crossover, but completely child friendly, like for ten year olds. Imagine kingdom hearts without the final fantasy elements, but dumbed down.

Anyways I triggered a story event intentionally by using some evil material called "black matter", and in this event it was causing the potential destruction of earth, through 3 evil meteors but there were also good and neutral meteors, and the game somehow knew I did this on purpose and let me do an evil route where I played as the villain. During this, we get to the highlight of this whole thing, in which I was confronted in a cutscene by Sophia the First, and some other random people (apparently her friends, but I've never watched the show so idk), and, after hiding his weak point from them when they realized what it was, the villain character I was playing as pulls out a realistic looking hand gun, says something along the lines of "I can't believe Disney is letting me do this given the rating, but here's something you couldn't have expected" and then I had the option of which of her eyes to shoot at.

And I was thinking A: this guy is a scarier Disney villain than Bill Cipher (not sure I actually agree with that, but my dream self apparently thought so) and B: surely its going to be blocked by some magical shield or something.

It wasn't.

There was no gore or anything, and that probably would've made the experience less authentic. Too over the top. But this felt like Disney had gone full Shadow the Hedgehog (2005) with this storyline, but way more so than Sega ever did. Also I was fast enough that it let me shoot the other eye, then shoot all of her friends.

After this I turned off the game, and I planned on telling my sister because she would find it just as nuts as I did, and eventually I did, and she apparently was also playing this game and was upset I triggered the event while she was asleep because apparently the game had proximity based event sync.

I had told her about this while a car the family were in was caught in the middle of a truck race being hosted on some area of road we were on, but the trucks and the road over time kept getting bigger relative to us until they had to be like 3 stories tall. I don't remember why we were driving, but I do remember getting caught in it, and the reason I brought up the game then, was because apparently using the black matter or other kinds of material in game could've somehow helped us in the real world, presumably because of the blending between games and reality I mentioned at the start. Also the main method of transport around the track once we got as small as we did was to break off tiny bits of things and place them back down like minecraft blocks.

Anyways I had this dream in the middle of the day after falling asleep and when I woke up I thought it was 3 in the morning for several minutes.

[delicrieux]

ᴀ ɢ ɴ ᴏ ꜱ ᴛ ɪ ᴄ

pairing—eddie munson x fem!reader genre—comedy, romance, coming of age drama, angst warnings—swearing, drinking, smoking cast—y/n, dustin, eddie, mike, max word count—3.3k

—you know of him, and he knows of you, but neither of you know anything about each other. you’re on the cheer squad, little miss perfect queen supreme right after chrissy ‘lovely’ cunnigham and he is someone you never thought about…that is, until detention one year before graduating.

author’s note: part twooooo! sorry for the delay ive been busy. we got angst at the front and fluff at the back, party people!!! lets gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo also this is written from eddie’s perspective bcs all of my fics must have a change in perspective or else i will die

masterlist. kofi. check out the summer features here! back to part one ♥ part 2.1

PART 2: TRUE BLUE HOW ARE YOU

If God is real then the only reason he put Eddie on Earth is to suffer. Ashes to ashes, he doesn’t even like David Bowie, but ashes to ashes, funk to funky, everyone knows Eddie Munson’s a junkie, strung out in heaven's high, hitting an all-time low.

He never believed in a higher power, and honestly, he thought that whole worship stuff is kinda cult-y – and not the cool cult-y, but like the weird, creepy cult-y – but this song plays on the radio as he sits in his truck and it’s gotta be a sign, it’s gotta. He’s willing to believe just about anything right now, especially after kissing you.

You, kissed you, you as in the cheerleader high school darling everyone adores, you as in pretty face and pretty smile that existed in his peripherals as nothing more than an impossible daydream. He never really thought about you, not in seriousness at least. Sure, there was the passing thought of what it would be like if he was nothing like himself or you were nothing like he thought you were. But it was an idea he seldom entertained, not wanting to deal with a consequence of an unrequired crush. He never had a chance with you to begin with. He’d rather save himself the hurt.

…What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

Maybe it was just a very realistic and intense hallucination. .

He’d believe that, no doubt. Only if he couldn’t still smell your lingering perfume when he closed his eyes.

This is a waking nightmare. He’s going insane. He knew one day it’ll happen, but now it’s happening for real.

As if school couldn’t get any worse, but seeing you pass by without even a glance in his direction feels like a stab in the chest. Either that or his stomach cramps up whenever you’re within his radius, or years of smoking are finally catching up to him. Whichever one it is, he has to fight the urge to throw himself in the opposite direction. He’s ashamed, and shame burns like acid and weighs him down like lead. Ashamed of what, exactly? That memory of you in the janitor’s closet, the small plight of hope he felt when you clung to him, how he ran away. He’s good at that, running away — has had plenty of practice. He wonders if that’s just how it’s gonna be his whole life, now: shamefully fleeing at the sight of danger.

And it is dangerous being involved with someone like you. You come with an added risk of a hard beating if he looks at you funny and slow acting poison that is the absolute psychological torture of you being so close yet so far. He hears your voice in the cafeteria; sees you rushing down corridors in your tiny cheerleader skirt; notices you smiling, a bit flustered, when you find flowers in your locker. He wasn’t the one to put them there. He wouldn’t dare. Fucking coward.

People started noticing. He’s distracted, distressed, more eccentric than usual. He’s trying so hard to appear normal (whatever it is that is normal to Eddie Munson), that he’s acting abnormal.

“Dude,” It’s Dustin, Eddie’s chickadee that he adopted into his little club of misfits. He breaks the brief silence hanging between them in the cafeteria, “are you okay?”

“What?” Eddie’s eyes promptly flee from your form at the other side of the room, “Yeah,” he blinks, rushed, “why?”

Dustin shrugs, “You just…been acting weird. Weirder than usual. And that says something, cuz you’re a fuckin’ nutcase, man.”

Eddie grins, and he wonders if they can tell that it’s shaky, that he’s nervous, that he thinks they’ll figure it out soon, and if they do, he’ll never be able to live it down, “Oh, I’ll show you weird, Henderson.” He’s about to do something stupid – jump on the table or scream or whatever his first instinct is, but you suddenly pass by hand in hand with Chrissy and take all of his resolve with you. His eyes pathetically follow after you, and so do the heads of the boys in Hell Fire.

A collective realisation washes over them like a cold wave.

Dustin gapes, “No fucking way.”

“Dude.” Mike utters, eyes wild, “Are you for real?”

“That’s fucked.” Dustin comments.

“What?” Eddie snaps, “What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“You,” Dustin points his fork at him, “and (Name).” The hand holding the utensil forms into a fist and he smacks it onto the table, “Fucked, I say.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Eddie whines, leaning into his seat and throwing his hand over the back of the chair, “She just…walked by and I looked. Sue me.”

“Oh yeah, that’s totally what happened. Sure as fuck you weren’t just checking her out when the basketball team is right there. You have a death wish or something?”

Maybe Dustin’s right. Maybe he does have a death wish. Only blissful oblivion would save him from this…this tightness in his chest, the shortness of breath, the sudden spike in anxiety whenever you’re around. The harsh slap of disappointment. He knows it can never be anything than what it is right now, he always knew, and still it’s a hard pill to swallow, still he chokes on it.

The questions continue and slowly transform into jeers. They think it’s funny, funny how you suddenly caught his eye, but they don’t know, they just don’t fucking know, man, that for a moment, a single instance, he had caught yours, too.

Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe you meant what you said that you make-out with anyone who’s just…there. Right time right place. If it was anyone else but him, would you still have done what you did? He’d like to think that no, you’re not like that. But as of now, as of this very moment, he doesn’t know what to think. He feels confused and maybe a bit used. Like a toy thrown out after it outlived its purpose. You had your weed and your kiss and an entertaining detention – isn’t that what he’s known for, entertaining? He got what he deserved, and you got what you wanted.

It’s an early fucking morning and he’s drunk and high and barely makes it back home into his trailer. The small steps upwards had never been so strangely placed, and if he was one shot deeper he could swear they were upside down. He’s back from whatever hole he crawled out of and in this state of numbing drunkenness and on the verge of passing out he thinks that, hey, life’s really not that bad, eh? Sure, he failed like the fucking loser he is and, and, get this – guess who wasn’t present during graduation? Bull’s-eye! This guy! Not like they had anything for him, anyway. Whatever. Who gives a shit? Third times the charm or whatever.

It’s always whatever, because if it’s even once not a whatever it’s suddenly holy shit I really am a fucking failure I really am just like my dad. Best not to think of that. He spits that thought out right into dirt beside his trailer. Who knows, maybe a flower will grow there.

Swings open the door, tumbles in, doesn’t bother locking it. He’s probably being loud but uncle sleeps like a log so it’s not like he’s gonna wake up and do anything – what would he even say if he did? Eddie’s not in a creative mood, so he refrains from commenting and instead stumbles to the sink. The tap is running and ringed fingers submerge under ice cold water. He splashes his face. Sighs. He feels hot and nauseous and vaguely curious what would happen if he let the sink fill and dipped his head in. Probably would wash out all of the shit from his system. His brain needs a good cleaning.

And so the baptism commences.

“Fuuuuuucckkkk this,” He hisses out, rivulet dripping from his hair, his chin; his eyes are fixated out the window and into the pale morning, “stop,” he mumbles, rubs his face, “fucking haunting me, for fuck’s sake.”

Not even in his drunken, delirious stupor can he escape you. The image of you will probably plague him long after you have moved away to California or wherever your heart desires; long after you’ve left Indiana and high school behind.

But here you are, and now that he gets a better look at you, you don’t really look how you usually do. No new fine clothes or fixed hairdo – just some t-shirt that’s way too big for you and shorts (jorts?) that should rest on the middle of your thighs but cover your knees.

But that’s not any of his clothes, so it can’t be a dream. He’s also pretty sure no one you hang around would give you a ‘Best dad!’ shirt to wear, unless, of course, you’re married. He doesn’t think that you are, pretty sure he would’ve heard that at school. God he hopes you’re not married. To some loser, especially.

Why is he thinking about this, again?

Right, you’re dressed incognito in Hawkins’ shittiest neighbourhood, just back from wherever the fuck with a pair of binoculars and a bag. Not suspicious at all.

He leans onto the sink, cusses under his breath when the water overflows and promptly turns it off. Closer and closer to the window and suddenly another player makes themselves known: a kid from a nearby trailer that moves here fairly recently. Ah, fuck, what was her name again? He can’t recall, but he sure as shit recognizes that sour facial expression and, yeah, that’s Billy’s sister.

He groans. Hits his head a few times on the glass. He’s too drunk and too tired to figure out what are you doing with Billy’s sister, but his mind hates him so he physically tries to get away from those thoughts. Staggers into his room and throws himself onto his bed. The mattress bounces a few times and the hinges squeak and he closes his eyes.

Billy was…terrible. To Eddie, especially. Liked to throw hands and nearly took Eddie’s eye out once. Maybe he just hated the fact that Munson had better hair.

But it makes sense, makes so much sense he’s honestly astounded that even half-lucid he’s still a genius. Billy was popular. You are popular. Billy probably tried making a move on you, and judging by the fact that you’re hanging out with his sister at five in the morning, it probably worked. He’d heard rumours, something about Hargrove having the hots for (Lastname), but he never really paid them any mind. God, Billy’s winning even beyond the grave. Fucking asshole.

No, wait, that was rude, Eddie takes that back, he doesn’t want to speak ill of the dead. Even if he doesn’t like Billy, he supposes he couldn’t have been that bad if you liked him. Then again, Eddie’s a loser and you made-out with him, so your judgement might be at least somewhat untrustworthy.

Who cares. Huzzah, an end to another bitter day.  He’ll just fall asleep now and forget all about you and Billy and that shirt really doesn’t suit you – not that it looks bad, you don’t look bad in anything, but Eddie thinks he could find you a better shirt, one of his, of course, maybe the Black Sabbath one? It’s clean, so that’s a plus, and it would look too big on you, which is also a plus, and—

He hits his head a few times. Turns out he wasn’t lying when he said you’d be the death of him.

Another cool summer morning. The fog lingers behind his windows and dew collects on the glass. His uncle had been out for the night and so good boy Munson stayed up playing his electric guitar. Enthusiastic cords gradually died down into sombre melodies as tiredness seeped in. Eventually, his most beloved guitar was replaced with an acoustic one.

Summer had, so far, been the same as it always was – shooting the shit and trying not to think he has to repeat a year again. At least uncle wasn’t as disappointed as Eddie was, but then again, uncle seems to believe in him for reasons unknown. Hi faith is misplaced. Nothing good will amount from the youngest Munson and maybe…that’s okay.

It was automatic. He just looked outside as he was putting away his guitar and saw you. You, again, different shirt, but still with your bag and binoculars. Each time he stayed up to see the sunrise he’d see you, too. It felt oddly comforting, knowing that you lurked around here, almost like wishing him goodnight. It’s getting hopeless, he’s getting hopeless. But since school is out, and he tries not to frequent where he’s unwanted, this, here, in the city of trailers surrounded by woods and grass that hasn’t been cut in long time, is the only place he ever sees you anymore.

“Night.” He whispers, noting how you turn back and wave Max over. Maxine, he finally figured out her name. Even Maxine doesn’t look as disgruntled as she usually does, just a bit pale. But you have that effect on people. You just make those around you happy (or miserable, but he thinks he’s the exception). It’s good that you keep her company. He doesn’t see her talking with anyone these days.

It’s the end of August and he’s smoking outside his trailer. He isn’t exactly waiting for you to emerge from the trees like some sort of wraith but he’s not exactly blind to the fact that you’re here, either. He taps his foot, jitters with his hands, fiddles with his rings, takes in a few shaky fumes. He’s exhausted. Dishevelled, also, to put it mildly. School’s gonna start soon and so will the campaigns to get him off of the grounds. He always makes himself a joke before anyone else can. It’s wearing down on him. God, what a mess.

But here you are, donned in your ‘Best dad!’ and jorts, truly, it’s a sight for sore eyes. It doesn’t take you long to notice him and the casual step you had been walking in halts for a moment before continuing. Maxine is absent, it seems, and your eyes and he thinks school would be a bit more bearable if you just looked at him. Scratch that, life would.

He manages to give you an awkward smile and an even more awkward wave. You’ll probably ignore him – he would if he was in your shoes, his excommunication was completely warranted by the shit he pulled, but can you blame a guy for being nervous? It was instinct, and shitty one at that, he didn’t even consider that his escape would hurt you, didn’t think you’d care enough.  Nah, who’s he kidding, he just thought about himself.

He nearly chokes when you approach him, and you’re wearing such a neutral expression that he can’t even begin to guess what you’re thinking, “Morning.” You say in a light, raspy voice, as if everything was completely, and always was, fine, “What are you doing up so early?” You inquire, and now he’s sure that he’s dreaming, because a hello and a what’s up is just too good to be true.

“I, uhhh,” He scratches his head, “just—just smoking. Couldn’t sleep.” He admits, flicks his cigarette. Ash lands in the dirt. Ashes to ashes, “What about you? Not your usual scene.”

You hum, “You’d be surprised.” You hold up your binoculars and smile a little, “Bird-watching.”

He whistles, “And here I thought you were out here up to something diabolical.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” You counter, though not unkindly. Friendly, maybe even playful, just like the first time you met. Best detention he’d ever had, hands down, “I just, you know…” You look around as if an explanation would become evident once you do, “It’s peaceful here. No one’s up walking their dog or on an early morning jog, or...I dunno. I come here often. Haven’t seen you once, though.”

“I’m a busy man.”

“I’m sure you are.”

A brief silence lingers and he racks his head for something to say, but nothing really comes to mind. He wants to talk to you a bit longer, admire you a bit more, but the fact that you probably hate him and are only doing this out of politeness unnerves him. He extinguishes his cigarette, stands up and—you are shorter than him, that’s cute. You’re cute. He’d like to tell you that, but he’d probably fumble and bite his tongue or you’d kill him with your binoculars. Max would help you bury him in the backyard. He can see it already.

“Well—“

“—So—“

You both speak at the same time, squeeze out the same painful smile. He motions to you to take the floor, and you nod, “Well, I best be going now. Gotta sneak back in, and all. My parents don’t exactly know that I come here, and,” You look into his eyes and his heart skips a beat, “I’d really appreciate if no one knew about that.”

He lands a hand on his heart, “Your secret’s safe with me, (Name).”

It feels good saying your name again, like it’s meant to roll off of his tongue. It’s tasty, like your kiss.

You smile, “Thanks, Eddie.” But it’s even better hearing you say his. You tilt your head softly to the side, “We’re good, right?”

He sputters. So, wait, you don’t hate his guts? Is this some sort of joke? Will Jason jump out the bushes with a baseball bat and whack him on the head if he replies?

“No, it’s not a joke, and no, Jason isn’t here.”

Dear God, he actually said that aloud. He wonders if cardiac arrest is possible from embarrassment, or at least an aneurysm, because he would take anything at this point, “That’s, uhhh,” His hands land on his hips, “that’s—that’s good to know. And yeah, sure, of course we’re good, you don’t even—didn’t even need to say it.” He catches your gaze, “You’re always good in my book.”

“I mean you did  kinda hurt my feelings but—“ You shrug, “uhmm—well, well it’s not really important now. Just, I just wanted to know if we’re good. ‘Cause I, like, met Robin the other day and all—we went shopping, Gosh, you should have seen the outfits she put me in—and, and I just, I guess I…Thought. About you. If you’re okay. And I wasn’t mad anymore, not really.” You laugh – it’s an airy, pleasant sound, “I mean, I wasn’t even mad at Andy for getting caught so it was stupid of me to be mad at you. So…” You hold out your hand, “Truce?”

It’s a silly question, “…Truce.” He shakes your hand. Small, warm. His shoulders relax. He doesn’t let go instantly but you aren’t quick to pull away either, “By the way, did Robin style you today as well?”

You shake your head with a laugh, “No, no, this I…I came up with myself. Best dad.”

“You’d make an awesome dad, (Name).”

“Thanks, I think so too.”

It passes by in a blur, you, here, talking, smiling, and then he’s one foot in his trailer and watching your retreating back. But you turn around and stop and his heart does, too, “And, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He calls.

“Don’t be sad. About exams, I mean. It’s gonna be your year, I can feel it.”

He smiles. It feels like the first genuine one he’d had in a while. If you believe in him, than he has no more doubts.

’86 is gonna be his year.

hope you liked it xx

[sheetsonfire]

We'll Always Need Each Other | Part 4 | Final Part

Fandom: Chicago PD / Chicago Med

Characters: Jay Halstead, Sister!Reader, Will Halstead, Intelligence

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Warnings: violence, swearing, abduction, ptsd, torture

Word Count: 3205

Requested By Anon: Hey ! From Resanoona I saw that you're making halstead sis imagines ! Can I request one were Jay and the sis have a big fight but then someone kidnaps her ? And Jay is all worried and when he found her she's like bleeding out (she's been shot) ? But she makes it and they both apology (fluff at the end) ? If you dont want to do it s'okay, just if you do it please can you put it with fem sis reader ? Not gn ? Thanks !

A/N: This is Part 4, here's Part 3, here's Part 2, and We'll Always Need Each Other Part 1

-

Jay can only follow in helpless pursuit of Will and the paramedics as they move you to the ambulance. He feels Kim tug at his arm as she gently pries him away from the ambulance, you wouldn’t all fit. He and Will share a look, one that Will uses to convey “I’ll save her, don’t worry. It’s going to be okay.” It takes a reassuring nod from him for Jay to let the ambulance doors close, moving hastily to climb into the passenger's side of his own truck, silently handing Kim the keys. Too lost in his head to even make a quip about her having the special honour of driving his beloved GMC Sierra.

The drive is not even 7 minutes from Med, yet it’s the most eternal drive Will has ever experienced in the back of an ambulance. With you as stable as you could be in transit, he lets the paramedic in charge do the work as he grasps your cold hand in his warm ones. Eyeing the monitor intermittently between studying your face, you were still so young, your life shouldn’t have ever been so close to ending. Your hand seems more fragile and tiny than it ever has in his, even more than when you were a literal toddler whom he used to carry on his shoulders.

Taking in the stillness of your body he’s reminded of the last time he had seen you similar to this. Oddly, it makes him smile. 

[Flashback] 

“Will, hurry up, we’re going to be late!” You hollered from the living room.

“Alright, give me a second, Jay got the wrong size for this thing!” Will huffs from the bathroom, brushing his hair to suit the costume he was now stuffed into. 

“This is ridiculous.” He mutters, shaking his head with a small chuckle, knowing how much you’d both hate and love his Halloween outfit. 

He picks up his car keys and the two pumpkin buckets he had bought for collecting your candy. You were 15 but you were only growing to love Halloween more and more. This year District 21 was holding a party, and Jay had selected you and Will as a unified plus one. “Okay, alright. Let’s do this thing.”

Coming out to the living room he doesn’t see you, frowning in confusion as he could have sworn that’s where your voice had originated from. He doubles back to check in your room, only to find it empty. 

“Y/N? Where are you, you goofball. Don’t you dare make me jump!” 

He moves further into the living room, scanning carefully every conceivable nook and cranny before he spots a long object in front of the couch. A coffin. 

He laughs now, heading towards the black vinyl box, giving it a courtesy knock before lifting the lid. 

There you were, in stunningly realistic makeup, hollow cheeks, pale skin, fangs protruding from your mouth, a velvet suit and cape squished into the plush lining of the prop coffin you’d managed to find. He hadn’t even seen that thing before now, when the heck had you got into the apartment?

“You, you’re a creepy kid. And I love you for it. Good freaking job, short stuff!” 

You crack an eye open, your luminous red lips turning up into a grin as you hold out a hand, waiting for Will to help you up and out of the coffin. 

Springing to your feet you take in the sight of your big brother, snorting and chuckling as you realise what Jay had picked for him. 

“Oh my god. Chucky? He got you a Chucky outfit? Dude, those dungarees are giving you a major wedgie. Nice job on the hair, you look SO weird, but awesome.”

“Don’t I know it, but it’ll do. And thanks, glad I could pass quality control.” He grins then falters into a grimace as he wiggles in his dungarees, a fake knife tucked into the front pocket. Bending to help you lift the coffin. 

“I assume this is coming with us?” 

“Duh!” You exclaim, swishing your cape as you grab one end to take down to Will’s car. 

[End of Flashback]

Will gets Connor’s attention the second they’re through the ED doors with you, reeling off the injuries he knew about, had seen, had felt beneath his hands, knowing he couldn’t do anything for you now except wait. You had suffered extensive trauma, and the blood loss was the biggest concern. He almost can’t will himself to let go of you as they start to take an assessment of all your injuries, the bruises, the burns, the gunshot that takes him right back to when he thought you were both going to lose Jay. His legs feel leaden with dread.

Maggie appears quietly next to him, rubbing his back reassuringly, brows still furrowed in worry for you as she gently pulls your brother back out into the main hubbub of the ED. Connor is by your gurney’s side as they roll you out, looking at Will with a set expression of confidence and reassurance, “Will, I’ve got her, man. I’m gonna do everything.” He nods as he squeezes his friend’s shoulder. Will nods back, giving a weak smile of gratitude. Feeling like an extra limb was being pulled away from him as you disappear towards the elevator for emergency scans and the OR.

-

“Will!” Jay hollers, striding purposefully into the ED with Kim in tow, watching from afar to give your brothers some privacy. Will turns to face Jay, it’s only now that the adrenaline wears off. Seeing Jay also covered in your blood somehow brought it all into stark clarity that you were fighting for your life right now. He loved you and Jay more than anything, and he couldn’t have one without the other. Knowing Jay would be equally as crushed if… if… well, he couldn’t and wouldn't finish the thought. 

Jay pulls Will out of his reverie with a gentle hand on his elbow, his voice is quiet. He needs to ask the question, but afraid of what Will's professional eyes might show.

“Is she, will she-” Will’s head drops, he didn’t know, these things could go one way or the other. They both knew that all too well.

Will clears his throat, looking down at his blood-stained hands and forearms. “She’s… she’s in good hands, Jay. Connor’s hands. If anyone can bring her through, it's him and his team.” The detective follows Will's gaze, his stomach churning as he realises he's matching too, with smears of now dried reddish-brown on his skin.

Maggie is one to help at all times, but there had always been something about you three Halsteads she took a shine to. She can't help but feel protective of your brothers at the moment, “Come on boys, let's get you cleaned up. Then you can wait upstairs…”

-

Your brothers scrub thoroughly at their skin, watching in silence as it swirls into the sinks. An unspoken fear and grief settled into their bones. It’s Jay that speaks first. 

“Will, I just want you to know that-”

“Jay, please… please don’t be sorry anymore, you didn’t do this to her, they were always going to take her because they’re animals. He was an animal. You found her, we got her, that’s what I care about. I care about her being here with us until we’re old and need her to wheel us around.”

“You found her,” Jay states, a proud glint in his eyes. 

“What?” Will knew on the surface he had got the ball rolling, but he knew very well he wouldn’t be able to take out hostile men with guns, even if he would try for you. 

“You found her with that poster. And I won’t let you forget it, man. I didn’t know how I was going to live with myself if we didn’t figure it out in time.” Jay looks down, it’s not a secret that Jay tended to harbour guilt about anything and everything, he was his own worst punisher. 

“But we did, okay?” Will reaches forward, bringing Jay into an embrace he has been long overdue. 

He wouldn’t mention it out loud, but Will could feel the gentle shake of Jay’s body, the adrenaline wearing off for him too now.  “Please, just let me help you. Let us be there for you, and we gotta be there for her, in every way now.” Jay nods into Will’s shoulder, holding him tighter for a moment. Will brings a hand to Jay’s hair, the back of his head, rubbing comfortingly like he used to when Jay had nightmares.

"I wanna get better, Will. I'm going to get better." Jay exhales, redness around his eyes from tears constantly threatening to fall, weakly laughing off his vulnerability.

Will gives him one last squeeze, "I know you'll do it, Jay. You always do." Will offers a smile, his own eyes watery too, still holding onto Jay’s arm in reassurance. 

“Come on, let’s change out. We can get you some scrubs.” On any other day Jay might complain about the selection of attire available to him, but today he was desperate to get upstairs and wait for Connor to come out of your surgery with the news. He nods, offering a quiet, “Thanks, man.” as Will leads him to the locker room.

-

Will had gotten up early for his shift at Med before all hell had broken loose, so now it was more than understandable that no amount of worry and watchfulness could stop him from dozing off in the waiting room chair, arms folded over his chest, leaning against Jay’s side in the mild bustle of patients and doctors. 

Jay sits staring at the wall opposite, eyes burning with the same exhaustion that Will had but unable to switch off. A habit from the Rangers that sometimes reared its ugly head, the training to stay awake even when you didn’t want to.

He thinks of the argument from a few nights ago, the callousness of his words. He knew they held no truth, yet he had delivered them as gospel. The hurt in your expression, the look of someone who had lost the battle to save someone they care about. He rubs a hand over his face, gathering his thoughts bit by bit. He had been losing himself, it was time to come back.

As he shifts in his chair, Will still remains a heavy lump against his side, he feels a sensation on his wrist. A featherlight tickling. Glancing down his heart skitters with nerves, he traces his fingers over the braided bracelet you had made for him after Erin’s departure. It was an "I'm sorry you got ghosted, don't forget your pain in the ass sister loves you" gift. Your words, not his.

The bracelet was comprised of his favourite colours and beads that had the letters “Y/F/I”, “W”, and “J” interspersed in the braiding. He hadn’t taken it off since the day it was handed to him. Now it had a few patches of your blood on it, something he'd have to figure out cleaning when you all got home. Salty tears stung his eyes, you were his sunshine, his reason to wake up on days that might have otherwise kept him bedridden and hopeless, you were his reason to fight every case with the same energy and tenacity, to be your someone to look up to was his point of pride. He could only offer a prayer to anyone listening that you still saw him that way when you woke up.

-

The sound of double doors opening snaps Jay awake, spine straightening abruptly as he catches his bearings, realising that he and Will had switched roles at some point. Jay blinks, about to ask how long he was out for as he swipes at an ever so slight amount of drool from his face. 

“Hey, Connor’s coming.” Will nods in his direction, both of your brothers getting to their feet in an instant, Will already trying to read the surgeon’s expression.

“Connor.”

“Hey guys… so, she had a tough time in there, the blood loss was significant. I don't want to sugarcoat anything... so, she did code, but we got her back and we repaired the damage without complications. She’s stable and I’m confident of a full recovery. Though the psychological aspects of this will be difficult, so I’ve already asked that Dr Charles assess her in a few days once she’s had some time.” 

Both your brothers’ stomachs drop at the words “she did code” but ultimately you were still here with them and you were going to be okay, in time they would see to it that you felt safe and like you could carry on with your life. 

Will claps his hand on Connor’s shoulder, “Thank you so much, Connor.”

Jay offers a hand to shake, “Connor, man, I owe you big.”

Connor shakes his head, waving them away, “Come on, you know I love that kid like she was my sister too. I’m just so glad she’s here. I know you’ll want to see her, so let me just check she’s settled in her room, and then I’ll take you.”

-

Approaching your room your brothers take in the sight of you, you were still pale, marks from where you had been beaten covered your skin, your leg was strapped up, various drips hanging by your bedside, the steady rhythm of your heart on the monitor. You were safe, you were healing, you were alive.

“Oh, Y/N…” Will murmurs, taking up a chair on one side of the bed, instantly reaching around the tubes to take your hand again, the pressure in his chest easing as he feels the increased warmth of your skin compared to the last time. 

Jay approaches slowly like you’d snap up in your bed and tell him to leave. But nothing happens, you remain peacefully asleep and he allows himself to sit in the other chair on the opposite side to Will. Lifting a soothing hand to your forehead, stroking the edges of your hair. 

“Sunshine.”  He speaks softly and brings your other hand up to kiss your palm. “I love you so much, and I’m going to spend every day looking for your forgiveness. You hear me? I am so sorry, Y/N. I just want you to be well again, I need you, I’ll always need you. I want you to know that.” He keeps your hand in his, eyeing Will who looks at him sympathetically. 

“That goes to you too, brother. I mean it.” 

“Man, I thought we already established that I forgive you. Stop beating yourself already, we’re a family again, that’s all I care about.”

“Mhm… I ag–ree…” Your brothers snap their heads in your direction, seeing bleary eyes looking back at them and a dopey medicated smile. 

“Y/N!” Will exclaims in a hushed, excited, tone.

“Will.” You wiggle your fingers in his hand ever so slightly, appreciating his kind face as though it could disappear and you’d be right back in that room again. After a beat, you find yourself satisfied that this was reality and that you had your big brothers to thank for that.

“That… sucked. Ngh…” Your eyes flutter against the sleepiness.

Will glances at the monitor, keeping an ever-watchful eye on your vitals, “How’s the pain, Y/N?” 

You giggle with a wince at your redheaded brother, “Oh, I’m on cloud nine, my dude. Don’t even worry about it.” You smirk, taking slow breaths, getting used to the post-surgery feeling. Blinking a few more times you graciously accept the slow sips of water that Will offers, licking your dry lips. A moment passes and it’s like somebody cleaned the fog over your eyes, things feel somewhat clearer.

“Mhm, that’s better. You’re the real you.” You remark towards Will.

He raises his eyebrows, “The real me?” 

You grimace, realising you hadn’t meant to give away that information. Stomach protesting nervously as you recall the terrible sensation of hallucinating. 

“You were a hallucination at one point today, not my most favourite thing when you wanna be rescued. I gotta say.” 

Will’s face drops a little, so utterly sad that you had to go through any of this. He squeezes your fingers a little more, reassuring you of his realness. “Well, this is very real now, kiddo. Don’t you worry, alright?” 

You hum, giving a slight nod, through your medicated fog you realise you haven’t yet addressed Jay. You turn your stiff neck, exhaling as you take in your other brother’s face too. 

“Hey, kid.” Jay greets, looking a little pensive as he waits for your reaction to him. 

You reach out with the arm that isn't strapped to your side, taking a second to trace your fingers over Jay's face. "You're real too. That's nice."

Jay doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, taking your hand and holding it in his. He barely even moves his mouth to speak before you give a negative sound, stopping him.

"Nuh-uh."

"What?" He plays along.

"We're not playing the 'Jay feels a crazy amount of guilt' game. You were an asshole to me, yeah. But if you think for one second that after all of that I'm not going to be relieved to see you? You might as well be the one fruit loopin' on morphine."

Jay drops his head, holding on to your hands like a lifeline.

"Jay, look at me." He lifts his head, giving you his full attention.

"You were hurting, I knew that. That's why I tried so hard in the first place... Will and I, we love you beyond belief. And we know you love us the same. So please, just promise you'll let us help you, that's all I want to hear about it."

He swallows, nodding, sparing Will a glance too. Seeing pride and affection there in his brother's eyes, Will was in awe of your selflessness.

"I promise, Y/N."

"Good." You exhale, starting to feel sleepy again.

"Now, before I take another drug nap. I know what I just said, and I stand by it...but Jay, you were a massive dick to me the other night, so like... I would like some sort of compensation... maybe you can take some furlough and we can play an unholy amount of video games and eat trash?"

Jay chuckles, shaking his head. "I'm sure that can be arranged, I was gonna take time off to look after you anyways. Will too."

You look to Will with glee, and then back to Jay.

"And maybe you can finally check the budget for splitting the cost on that new art tablet I wanted?" You give him your best puppy-dog pleading face, sure that you probably looked deranged with how fast sleep was approaching.

Jay raises his eyebrows, still smiling at your willingness to strike on the opportunity.

"I think we can consider that, yeah. I'm sure Will would be delighted to help, wouldn't you, bud?"

Will glares in Jay's direction, making you giggle as you feel the warm haze of slumber find you again, mumbling "Suckers." as your eyes finally close.

-

FIN.

A/N: And that concludes this story! I hope you all enjoyed reading!

Y/F/I - Your first initial

tags: elius-learns-to-write - iamasimpingh0e - resanoona - waywardfamily - trulylavandedarling - darlingyoureperfection - tri1924-blog - onekodareption04 - Illyrianprincess - vamp-army

[empty-masks]

Book Three, Chapter Ten

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

He wore a collared shirt, a polo. It was a fine sky blue, in contrast to the tan cargo shorts he wore and the white, knee-high socks and black sandals. In one hand he held a spatula, in the other, a mixed drink from more tropical climes blended with ice. The sky was deep orange with evening, and his backyard was bustling with activity.

    He was standing on the back patio of his two story house (three bed and two bath) contemplating the viability of building a new garage. The old one was a bit small for his latest purchase, a rather large and aggressively powerful pickup truck that threatened to shake the structure to its foundations every time he parked. He figured he needed a domestic vehicle, something obnoxious and loud so folks would stop ogling over his work car. But, as it stood, there was only room for one in the garage. As he considered this he flipped a steak over and ran his eyes over the woman lying on her belly beside the pool, admiring the way the sunset peeked just over the top of their picket fence to paint her tan skin a vivid orange, shining slick with chlorinated water.

    Interrupting his thought process, someone cleared their throat. Glancing to the side, his gaze locked with the golden eyes of a business associate, one of several mulling about with their partners and children.

    “Did you hear anything I said?” Asked Gilroy, rolling his shoulders and craning his head back to look up at the man.

    “Sorry, I got distracted—”

    “By staring at your wife’s ass, yeah,” he interrupted again. “Blondie, for these little shindigs of yours to work, we need to actually talk. I’m not going to be driven all the way up here to your wonderful patch of suburbia to watch you salivate over an ex-model while you burn the food.”

    As if to retort, Blondie flicked the spatula toward Gilroy, staining his vivid crimson dress shirt with small, black smatterings of what was often called ‘flavor.’ “Don’t be a bitch, Harry, it adds character to the meat. And, it’s a good ass to stare at, don’t pretend like you can’t appreciate.”

    “Janet made a career out of it, after all!” Came from Blondie’s left, opposite Gilroy. Hickory. “You’re a lucky man. Adventuring types get all of the good stuff, a pity.” She was a tall, grinning woman. Unlike Gilroy, a tiny, hairy boozer, she was something proper. Strong, sharp.

    “First come, first serve, Penny. Maybe if you did something more interesting than damage assessment you could get in the good graces of a model,” Blondie said with a laugh. “How’s that office treating you?”

    “Better than you’re treating the steaks.” Gilroy interjects, attempting to blot out the newly-forming grease marks with a wet napkin.

    “Can it, Harry. It all goes to the same place anyways.” He scraped the meat off of the grill, dropping it onto a nearby set of plates. As if on cue, the redhead yelped and swung around to be greeted with a knee-high bundle of energy, all fangs and light brown fur.

    Blondie laughed again, this time with the backing of Hickory and the child. Gilroy huffed, crossed his arms, and glared at the pup with a frown, saying, “what a vigorous little scamp you have.”

    “Hah! He takes after his old man! Tanner, go get your mom to whip up some more drinks, dinner’s almost ready.” When the order wasn’t immediately obeyed, Blondie cleared his throat and tapped the spatula against the grill twice, just loud enough to discomfort anybody nearby. Tanner was quick to move and jostle his mother instead after that.

    Janet stood and smiled over at the group, offering them a gentle wave before wandering past in her swimsuit to go pull out more of those blended drinks while her husband distributed steaks, along with good silverware.

    It was an award winning smile. More realistically, a poster smile for all manner of cosmetics. Her ever so slightly tanned face, faint blue eyes, and uncomfortably domestic charms were plastered all over advertisements, though her name wasn’t.

    Blondie was the last to sit down in a white plastic chair on the wood patio, his plate on one crossed leg as he cut into his steak. The tables were mostly used to keep drinks steady, rather than actually eat on.

    “Acquisitions, huh?” Asked Hickory. “Interesting title, but does it actually change what you do?”

    Blondie shook his head and took a thick sip from his glass. “Nope, not a single thing. Just means I’m not on as short a leash anymore. You’re not getting off that easy.”

    Janet returned, and everyone received a glass of a faint green, mostly slush drink, save for the children, such as Tanner or Blondie’s daughter, who finally exited the house only to receive her dinner, complain about her parents having a party with a bunch of cogs in the machine, and then hide in her room again. They got to see her for a grand total of thirty seconds, and only learned her name via Blondie, who bragged that his daughter Madrone was also just like her old man, with almost the exact, practiced intonation that he had said so about Tanner.

    Hickory finished her steak quickly, and Gilroy opted to try to cut around the burnt portions, so he finished fast also, though that was largely because there wasn’t a lot of the steak left over that wasn’t charred to a crisp. Blondie took his time, cutting in and taking it piece by piece between statements.

    “What the position of Chief Acquisitions Officer means, if I’m being more specific, is that I’m getting a raise, more work, and like I said, less restrictions on my methods. Otherwise, just about the same kind of work. Gonna be grabbing myself some better equipment too, since I can afford it now.” Blondie mumbled through a small mouthful of steak, before receiving a kiss on the cheek as Janet pulled up a seat between him and Hickory.

    “Is this what this whole party’s about?” His wife asked, tilting her head. “You’re announcing your promotion? For a second I thought you just wanted your friends over for some kind of team building exercise.”

    “I like to believe I’m rather fortunate that I don’t need to ever be on any team your husband’s on, Janet,” Gilroy said plainly, leaning back in his plastic chair. “He’s not much of a team player. Besides, his work is messy.”

    Hickory scoffed. “You’re not the one that’s had to clean up after him, so don’t complain.”

    “That’s fair, but I’ve seen it. In my professional opinion he’s a sloppy, sloppy operator.”

    “Hey, he cleans up nice,” Janet interjected. Blondie didn’t bother, just chuckling as he continued to chew through thick pieces of burnt meat.

    Penelope glanced from the woman—a basic human and a bit short—to the husband, who grinned with sharp teeth and eyes so blue they made Janet’s look grey. “Of course he does, he’s a professional.”

    Janet’s typical smile shifted to something of a wider, almost smug grin. “Yeah.”

    Harry, bored, glanced around the patio. The other couple tables are taken up by business associates in similar casual and business casual attire, their partners— some part of the business, some mere hangers-on— and their children, whom Tanner had taken to chasing around the yard once their dinner was finished, if not into the pool, to the ire of several guests whom he could see actively resisting the urge to walk up to a seven feet tall monster and demand he keep his child on some kind of leash. On one of the nearby tables, one of the newer models of radio was fizzingly belching some kind of easy listening acoustic song about alcohol, sandy beaches, and bikini babes.

    “So this is all this is about?” Gilroy asked. “You’re waving a higher paycheck in our faces, ogling your wife, and letting your kid run around like an animal. This is what this party is. It’s you rubbing our noses in your upward momentum, Blondie?”

    “Never minces words,” Hickory mumbled with a roll of her eyes.

    “Shove it, Penny. Blondie, speak up.”

    Blondie, still smiling, shrugged and set an empty glass on the table, along with an empty plate. “You know me best, Harry. Yeah, you’re right. I dragged you all the way out here to my humble slice of paradise just to make you feel like an inadequate little pussy. Bitch any harder and I might mistake you for being my wife.”

    As he laughed once more, Janet rolled her eyes and relaxed into her seat, her own glass having gone from very full to very empty over the course of the conversation. Nobody around bothered to argue the point further, though the man beside Blondie scowled the entire time.

    And Blondie laughed. He laughed and he drank and he talked. But mostly, he laughed.

==============================================================

    The blood in the ash is warm and fresh and smells like death and won’t get out of his head, it won’t, nothing can get it out. At first there was just the eternal, piercing fire in the back of his skull, but now the blood’s making it worse, like slowly pouring cooking grease into the flames.

    His tongue drags against the ground, steaming and crackling against the earth it passes over. But in comparison to the heat he’s putting off, it’s cold, so very cold. The temperature sensation stings sweetly, like sucking on a sour candy with a mouth sore. He’d enjoy it more if it weren’t for a metallic scent that refuses to exit his nose, no matter how much smoke he pushes out from his nostrils. It’s not a dead man he tastes and smells, but something close to it. Injured, necrotic, tasting of death in that spectacularly contradictory way vampires have. There are other smells, other flavours, though.

    Buckskin. Burnt meat. Fox fur. Leather boots. Hate.

    His jaw still aches from having to pry it open with his hands, having to force his clawed fingers through small gaps in melted flesh to cut at them, tear at them, open his mouth again. His head raises and he sniffs the sky.

    The southern wind’s blowing just the right direction. More of the vampire strikes him in his mind, more of the burned meat and old leather fuels the fire in his mind. His brain’s boiling, but the pain’s beginning to focus.

    His muscles shudder before he takes the first bound forward, running on all fours and scraping great slashes into the white ash to reveal the cracked dirt beneath. The process is familiar and comforting in its intensity as it carries him between the trees and after the trail, the scent, which soon adds car exhaust to its bouquet. This is a natural process.

    Ash, in time, gives way to dirt and gravel roads. They want to mislead him, to direct him away from the smell, but he’s not stupid. He’s not thinking, not beyond the pain and the hunger, but he isn’t stupid. Instinct isn’t and will never be unintelligent—  it’s simply fast, efficient. When a line must be drawn from Point A to Point B and the only thing that matters is self-preservation, instinct is more than reliable, it’s the safest bet.

    And it acts like a hook, dragging his body at top speed down one of the dirt roads and into some kind of lot, the exhaust having overwhelmed all other scents.

    A sign rises above it all in the midday sun. His eyes narrow, but the glare’s too much even then. Clawing awkwardly at his own face, something peels off and onto his fingers as his vision clears. It’s not skin, but it smells burnt. Soot, ash, possibly melted hair, probably coagulated with some of his own eye fluid. He can see, though. Oh, he can see.

    There’s a middle-aged elf with slicked back hair sitting on the hood of a trash heap Stallion Q Armor Mule, and today he’s wearing a purple suit. At a conference he’d gone to a month back, a peer of his told him about the power of a purple suit. At first one must assume there’s no power in the colors you wear but, oh, they knew different in the Used Civilian Vehicle Summit, Regional #32. Spiffs Sanders had told him about the power of this particular purple suit, which Spiffs sold to him at a steep discount as a friend.

    The power of purple. It’s flashy, but not bright, so it doesn’t hurt the eyes. It speaks to richness, and to a certain variety of incredibly expensive shellfish or mollusc from east of the Dividends having been used, which thus implies some level of affluence, and the small gold thread pinstripes made the mind think, even if it was just yellow thread— man, this guy’s got it made. Thus, he must be smart, and most people listen to smart folks when it comes to big purchases like motor vehicles. Not to mention its more mystical properties, namely being that if one simply believes it will attract customers, it will. This is of course because of a small and totally intentionally melted symbol of some esoteric small-town luck deity burned into the inside of the breast over the heart, which definitely wasn’t an incredibly large cigar burn from a bad night with a worse partner in Primary. Buy the suit, wear it, and believe.

    Jim Jamble is a believer in the power of positive thought, no matter how bad sales are. After all, he hadn’t gone under yet, so he’s got to be doing something right, and if he wasn’t doing anything wrong then the purchase of the suit had to be right too. Yet the only business he’d had in the past couple weeks were some obviously on the run pricks who hornswoggled him out of one of his best vehicles because he’d overplayed his hand, not to mention the two drifting mercenaries— one of which was injured, mind you— who bought some of the complimentary bio he normally only gave out to fresh purchases. It’s been a rough couple weeks for Jim.

    A long and uncomfortable sigh later and he’s looking over toward the main body of the town of Fusillade in all its homely glory, longing for a place with more than five-story buildings again. The sky, the trees, the ground, even around here it’s far too clear for his tastes. Why, it’s so bad around here, so backwoods, that when he turns his head to see some giant bundle of fur trying to claw into one of his trucks he even reacts like the locals, leaning back to reach his hand inside of the vehicle he’s sitting on and honking its horn. “Git! Git! There’s no food in there for you!”

    He’s shouting, he’s honking, but the thing’s not leaving. No, after a moment of continuing to fumble with the handle of the door, it simply stops trying and instead directs its attention toward the elf.   

 ==============================================================

    There are times to be formal and professional, to be poignant and simple of speech. When you’re discussing future trade deals with business partners, when you’re presenting new corporate ventures to your administration, when you’re addressing a large group of your peers at a conference about how security and damage assessment are intrinsically intertwined. When you’re speaking to your server at a fancy restaurant, and you don’t want to seem like you’re from out of town.

    These are the times to be these things— and as Hickory stands on the front porch of the suburban home, black suit-clad and holding a bouquet of apology roses, she considers that it might be a little inappropriate for her to act as though this is a professional visit. Though she’s on the clock for it, and though she had most definitely been chosen for this assignment thanks to her “closeness” with Blondie, it just doesn’t feel right to walk into Blondie’s home like he was any other employee. If not for him, for Janet.

    Hickory sighs, ringing the doorbell with her free hand. It’s going to be quite the talk. How the hell is she going to tell her that her husband blew up fighting a fucking Dragon? How do you tell anyone that? It’s easy to tell someone that their family or friend has died operating heavy machinery. That’s a workplace accident, those are a tragic reality of working on a mining operation. Hah. She shakes her head. In a sense, the world was his workplace. I guess this kind of thing could be considered a tragic reality, also. But by god if it doesn’t sour her mood to think of it like that (as if her mood couldn’t get any more sour under the current circumstances).

    After nobody answers the door, she rings the doorbell again. Swiftly, the door is opened, and Hickory starts the spiel she’d practiced on the road there. “Hi, Janet. I’ve got some bad news.”

    “Wow, you’re early,” Piper yawns.

    Something in Hickory’s head cracks like a dropped glass. Who the hell is this, standing before her in a red evening robe and palming a cup of still-steaming coffee? She can’t place her face at all, even though she seems to be getting recognized anyways.

    “Ms. Hickory, right?” Piper asks. “Gilroy said you were coming down.”

Oh, Hickory thinks. It’s one of Harry’s goons. “Yes. Did he send you here?”

    “Nope. Figured I could break the news as a family friend, instead of,” she motions with her mug toward the suit and flowers, “this. It’s a little too formal for something this delicate, y’know?”

    Hickory wants to say “goddamnit, that’s what I was thinking”, but refrains from doing so. Instead, she straightens her posture, and responds, “So, you’ve already broken the news to her?”

    “Sure have. Not sure what I was expecting, but she took it pretty well.” Janet walks past the front door, now fully open, holding an assorted, but modest, tray of breakfast accoutrement. In a matching embroidered bathrobe, of course. Piper whistles as she passes by. “Very well, now that I think about it.”

    The housewife doubles back around to the front door, poking her head out from the background to smile and call out, “Penny! Come in, we’ve got pastries this morning.”

    Piper steps out of the way, and Hickory steps inside. “Spare me the details,” the Officer mumbles. “So, you didn’t schedule this visit?”

    “No ma’am. I sure didn’t.”

    “And from what I can gather—”

    “The kids are home, just write it down,” Piper chuckles.

    “And your name is…”

    “Piper.”

    It all comes together now. Piper’s that foreman that Gilroy’s been sending off on various odd-jobs, trying to turn her into the next Damage Assessment Darling that the Administration so loves to flaunt. He hasn’t formally removed her from his docket either, which means he’s been collecting her foreman pay but probably not giving it to her. Probably pocketing it for himself, she thinks, frowning.

    It makes sense that she’d be here, now. An acolyte of the late Blondie, looking for ways to move up in the world. Even if it means inheriting your late master’s possessions, property, and wife. It’s a bit of a nasty thought, Hickory admits to herself. Janet’s always been a friend, and it’s always been bothersome how much Blondie treated her like a championship belt. Though, as she walks past again and gives Piper a quick peck on the cheek, it’s not as though she ever minded it.

    Either way, this is Blondie’s next in line. And that means that she’s got what it takes. So, let’s give her what she wants, since she’s so keen on going out and getting it, Hickory thinks to herself.

    “Great to finally meet you,” she says, holding out a hand for Piper to shake. “I’ve heard a lot. You’ve been working with Gilroy on some acquisitions jobs, right?”

    “I most certainly have. It’s a couple steps up from the work I was doing, that’s for sure.”

    “With Blondie out of the way, you must be looking to take his place,” Hickory prods. “There’s a particular vacancy I think you’d fit into just great.”

    It takes Piper a moment to respond to this. She doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, but at the same time, when a shark smells blood in the water, they don’t just wait to see if the dead sharks show up before her. “What do you have in mind?”

    Janet shoos the two of them toward the dining room, where they sit at a semi-intricately carved hardwood table. Hickory has a cup of coffee and a pastry placed in front of her, and she thanks the Housewife before continuing. “The miners. Their bounty is still active. You could be Shepherd’s Chief Acquisitions Officer on this assignment, if you so choose. You’re the only internal employee capable, at the moment.”

    Piper shoots a look over to Janet, who smiles and nods. “What were you paying him?”

    “His pay grade per day, alongside whatever the bounty’s worth once the job is finished,” Hickory responds, taking a bite of her pastry. “If you want the most you can get, you’d better get going soon.”

    “What, you kicking me out?” Piper laughs. “You might as well come with me. I’ve told her everything there is to know.” She motions to Janet with her free hand.

    Janet’s hand is laid on Piper’s shoulder. “The money would come in handy, don’t you think?”

    “And so would the benefits,” Hickory adds. She pulls a key out of her pocket, tossing it over to Piper. “I was going to give this to the family, since he didn’t have one at home.”

    Piper only raises her eyebrows in response. The Officer continues, “His gear is kept under lock and key. Both here, and at the Black Hill building. All that stuff you saw him in, he’s got racks of. Tucked away here and there. You take the job, you get the key, you get the gear.” And you get the girl, Hickory found herself wanting to add. Hopefully that should sweeten the deal enough for someone like her.

    “Oh,” is the only response Hickory gets.

    “Are you in?”

    “Are you kidding? Of course I’m in. Where’d he keep his stuff?” Piper stands up quickly, nearly knocking over her chair in the process as her tail twisted with excitement.

    Janet points up the stairs to the second floor. “In the bedroom, first cabinet. Put the key in the lock and give it a good twist.”

    She races away, leaving the Housewife and the Officer alone downstairs. Hickory’s the first to speak between them. “Her? Really?”

    “It’s nice to see you too, Penny.”

==============================================================

There’s a loud noise coming from a vague combination of metal shapes and some dandy looking middle-aged jerk whose words refuse to form real meanings in his head. His mind had been boiled in its own blood, though, so by all means he’s allowed to have a moment where he doesn’t understand what a man in a purple suit is saying. It’s almost as gaudy as those flamboyant red ones that bitch Gilroy would wear.

    A name. A name finally pops into his head in the midst of his pursuit and it’s attached to a face he wants to shove his hand through. Harry’ll get what’s coming to him, don’t worry about that. Worry about the thing in the suit now. That’s important to worry about. Worry about it and what it might have, what it might be trying to say.

    The anger on its face fades quickly into something far more palatable, fear, as he approaches. The tone shifts.

    “Well hello sir,” it chimes, nervously. “Well hello, hello, hello, pardon me, you’re in such a bad way that I’d assumed you might be one of the critters wandering in from the woods, not that you’re in too bad a state. I assure you that by no means do I mean it in a bad way, you’ve got the look of a survivor on you, yes indeed, yes indeed you do, now sir please stop coming closer to me, you’re— uh— remarkably warm and musty.”

    It shifts to lean away, distress etched into the lines on its brow.

His jaw rolls and his tongue lolls. Smells like oil. Smells like a bit of blood. Words want to form. Demands want to form, questions, and his hand moves toward a familiar spot on his hip in pursuit of something he can’t find. The reaction that ensues is about on par with seeing your hand’s gone, though he’s got every limb far as he knows. Something else is missing. Something dear. Box-shaped. His thunder maker. It’s not there. It’s not there, it’s not there, it’s not there. Why isn’t it there anymore? It’s always there.

The purple suited thing backtracks away from him as he begins to shake and shudder, hands patting awkwardly at his own body as though, in all the matted white fur, burnt flesh, and blackened, melted mishmash he might find this missing, nonexistent limb. It slips to the other side of the metal shape and then inside of another, nicer one.

It was bad enough when Jim thought that thing was a freaked out white bear. Now he realizes it’s either somebody with a very severe problem or some very incompetent monster, because it’s making gurgling sounds like a panicking toddler and patting itself down in front of him. So it’s about time he gets out of there and looks into taking his business elsewhere before something like this eats him.

Despite the severity of the situation, he does put on his belt and check his mirrors before starting the car. With the amount of trees nearby and all of these lovely freaks wandering out of the woods he’s liable to hit one and he has no intention of dying because of it. However, by the time he’s starting to pull out the thing’s following again, this time moving fast, fast enough to get a glowing hand under his bumper and keep the wheels burning out rather than actually moving.

It’s a tall thing, all white save for the blackened spots where it looked like it’d been put on a grill for a few hours too long and some fewer bits that look like they’re glowing. Slowly, as the car continues revving, he reaches a hand into his glove compartment. Inside is a pistol, a revolver meant to punch holes in any would-be assailant of his fine establishment, which he’d never used before. It had come recommended by the man that sold him this lot.

“Let’s not do anything we’ll both regret,” he says tremblingly, a shaky smile on his face. “Come on big guy, let go and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

It’s already loaded, he keeps it loaded, just in case. Plenty of people want cars. He’s just a single guy running an entire small used car enterprise, someone could kill him and take his tiny, tiny empire. Not before he gets them, though. So it’s always loaded, prepared for any situation, ready to kill. Jim is not so ready, but he’s trying real hard to be.

The thing holding his car lets out another gurgle that fades immediately into a growl at its tail end, and with that Jambles raises the revolver and fires straight through his windshield into its head. This tosses its skull, topped with pointy ears, back for a moment.

And then it looks down at him again, recollection in its red eyes.

He doesn’t understand. He took it to the face. If it was anything like his own, why was he still standing if it got him in the face? He can even feel the metal lingering just under his charred skin, beneath his fur, right between his eyebrows. With an awkward chuff from him, one of his claws presses into the wound and scrapes out the bullet alongside a bit of burnt viscera, some faintly glowing blood. It isn’t necessarily glowing so much as it looks like something inside of it might be, like embers trapped inside of a ketchup bottle.

“What kind of fucking monster are you?” The shape inside the shape asks. The gun’s still pointed at him. It’s smoking. What a smell. Gun smoke.

Something overtakes him. A deep inhale filters through his nostrils, filling his lungs with the scents of fire and blood— his own this time— before it circles through up to his throat, into his mouth, and out between his jaws in a straight line. A small bolt of flame, almost as white as his fur, disappears into the barrel of the gun.

There’s a moment of silence before the gun itself explodes in its hand, causing it to scream in pain and jerk as busted metal buries itself deep in its face, arm, hand, shoulder, and the delicately cared for leather upholstery of its car. It’s screaming. It’s not dead but it’s hurting, and that’s good. It’s wonderful.

He starts laughing, and bringing his arms up to begin clawing at his own chest allows the car, having been unable to run away, to skid out of the lot and down the road as he keeps making that horrid choking sound. It’s like a cough and a bark rolled into one and dipped in chewing tobacco. The noises won’t stop coming out of him.

Jim’s screaming down the road, both literally and figuratively. He’s more than certain the hand he’d been holding the gun in is permanently ruined along with at least a good chunk of his moneymaker, because from the way his jaw stings he’s pretty sure talking’s going to be a bitch for the next year at least with what they have to call medical treatment in this backwater hole. He’s alive, though, and that’s what matters to him in the end. He’s alive, worse for wear, but that hasn’t stopped him before. He’s outta this place.

It’s just a quick ride through Fusillade and on to Pickman’s Hope. Let someone else deal with the fire freak. He’s not a fighter, not in the slightest. No, he’s not going to even stop and warn them. He’s just going to drive until the tank’s empty. No stops. And then after that he can hitchhike if he needs to, he’s got more than enough fuel.

It’s only after the little remaining contents of his stomach vacate that the noises stop and he’s able to bring his hands away from his throat, instead looking at the molten, glowing pile of refuse he’d just vomited. What is he, now?

The sound of the car’s engine was starting to gain distance and lose volume. Something else takes him by surprise. No witnesses. No survivors.

His hand shoves through steel and scrapes up a hunk of an engine block like a child preparing a snowball as he walks onto the road, the long and straight road back to town. In the distance, he sees it, the shape is escaping. Growling to himself, he continues packing the metal with his hands until it’s a white hot, nearly perfect sphere. His eyes narrow.

He winds up. Everything is superheated, his body is elastic, all energy, coiling and bundling. Then comes the release, an overhand throw that could make even the fastest pitchers jealous.

Leaving his hand, a tongue of flame licks around the ball, engulfing it as it soars at more than twice the speed of the elf’s car. He watches as that beautiful ball of melted metal punches straight through the back windshield, but it’s far enough away that when the car jerks and crashes into the trees on the side of the road he doesn’t see his own handiwork. That is, until the entire area of impact explodes into a miniature mushroom cloud.

There’s little time to revel in it, though. He’s too focused on something beyond the treeline. Buildings, more than a few of them, all stone and brick. It’s a little familiar, like someplace you visited once on a road trip, but no more than that. His jaw tenses, shooting sparks as his fangs clash.

It’s starting to come back to him in pieces. He’s hunting, he knows that, and he knows he likes it, no, loves it. There’s something in that town he wants, and he’s realizing that it’s something that’d be left over if he burns it to the ground.

And he’s suddenly very aware he knows many more ways to burn it all down than he thought he did.

First thing’s first, though— he needs to find a proper, full-body mirror.

Chapter End.

============================================================== 

[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

[venivivividi]

headcAnon ✨ here! How great were the Rosa and Michael moments?! And Jones is Michael’s dad! He and Alex should start a support group. I wanted to ask if you have any headcanons about Michael and Alex and fatherhood. If you think they ever thought about it and what. What kind of parents they would be. If you think they will have kids in the future. Adoption or using a surrogate or some other alien option. Maybe dog or cat children also or instead.

I know, right?? They definitely speak the same language even when they disagree with each other. Also, I have a feeling that Michael has taken to send Rosa every picture of a dolphin he finds online with the same commentary: "look. it's you ahaha" I love them.

Oooh, fatherhood, you say? What a wonderful topic to tackle after the latest episodes...

I have to say, I tend to separate what I think realistically would happen, informed by canon, vs what I'd like for them to be in my headcanons, and to this day we canonically know:

Michael has thought about fatherhood: this is something he wants in his future and has dreamed about in the past; we learn this in two separate occasions, in 2x10 when he offers to father Isobel's child and in 2x11 when he tells Flint he wanted to start a dad band.

We have zero insight on Alex's thoughts on matter: we know his childhood was not a happy one, his relationship with his father is extremely negative and his entire family's dynamic is skewed, unhealty. That could reasonably push him towards two completely opposite directions: either he wants nothing to do with kids and a "traditional" family, deemes himself unsuited for fatherhood or he wants to somehow "avenge" his lost childhood and create the happiest family in the world, proving to himself that he can and will be a good father. Either could be and anything in between, honestly. (I'm not gonna delve into that but let's also remember that Alex grew up in a reality where gay marriage was not legal until he was like 23 and adoption was a pipe dream even after that, so that has clearly influenced his mindset even without considering the military of it all)

But for the sake of the HCs, I choose to believe that Alex is at least open to the idea of having children:

I dont think this is something they would go for very early in their relationship. They've had such a turmoiled past, they overcame every possible obstacle so that once everything settles down, they just enjoy each other's company for a while. They still can't believe they just get to be together without jumping through hoops.

As far as pets are concerned, you heard it from Mimi first: a beagle is written in Alex's future. But first, he tries to convince Michael to get a reptile. You remember Willow, his pet lizard? She was so cuute, Micheal, it's basically zero maintenance (completely false, but hes' trying) and it's so cool to have a lizard, c'mon.

Michael, as we know, is incapable of looking Alex in the eyes and deny him something. But it takes one google search for him to veto Project Lizard. There is no way he's allowing a lizard in his house after learning what they need to be fed. Also, lizards escape their enclosure. No thank you, the same night he learned too much about it he had a nightmare about waking up to a lizard stuck to his curls. Always protect the curls. No lizard.

Alex pouts. A lot.

Once the beagle settles in the truck ready to go to his forever home, Alex stops pouting. (and Michael starts because Alex is now cuddling the beagle at night. woe is Michael.)

As this thing usually go, Michael is instead adopted by a kitten, one of those impossibly small black balls of fur. Their first encounter at the junkyard went disturbingly High Noon, but after they claimed each other, the kitten is now stealing Michael's body heat and Michael is stealing all the cuddles Alex is so rudely denying him in favor of *scoffs* The Beagle.

Speaking of Sanders' Auto, once Rosa(...linda) starts picking up stray kids and unexplicably bringing them to Michael, it comes to be a place where kids who need to escape orbit around: with Sander's blessing, Michael always finds some easy work for them to do and earn some money, and when a couple of them seem truly interested, a question here and a question there quickly turns into a Michael Guerin lesson on mechanics. Those of them who are not interested, are free to just hang around as long as they dont wreak havoc or make a mess out of the place.

The thing is, Michael is completely unaware of the irony in all of that. Sanders is not, and he just hangs around smirking to himself about how much of a grumpy old man Michael is shaping up to be and laughing at history repeating itself and things like that.

It takes Isobel talking about them as Michael's junkyard children for Alex to bring the topic up. I mean, Michael is basically already doing it, and if they start fostering teens they could give some of them the happy childhood Michael never got. After that, not every kid who passes through the junkyard stays with them but some of them do, and some of them keep hanging around even after aging out of the system.

There is a panicked moment after their first foster kid gives him the silent treatment, where Alex runs to Greg for guidance; Greg has to politely remind him that he's an elementary school teacher, and his 16 years old kid might not react with the same energy to glitter glue and a happy song, so he has to figure out a different way.

Eventually they start to foster smaller kids too, and of course sometimes it's sad when they have to go and the house feels empty, but they always try and remember: it's not for them, it's for the kids. And during those nights The Beagle™ needs to find cuddles in the now domesticated ball of fur, because Michael is in very big need of a snuggle that Alex is more than happy to provide. It's how he recharges too, after all.

As far as their parenting style, Michael's a lost cause: he is incapable of not spoiling the kids because, why deny them the little joys if there's no harm in it, right? They deserve them. But he also realize the kids need structure, and he is pretty no-nonsense about it, also because, on the other hand, Alex is very much afraid of being the strict parent. It's a new chapter with every new kid, as every instance of parenting is, but the baseline of a good home is always there: love and safety.

I also can't seem to decide whether Michael would be the kind of hip parent who knows all about the youngsters culture, uses the correct terms and shares the right memes or the most embarassing dad who watches instagram reels about tiktoks and is always six months behind the last big thing. But I feel there's no in between.

Alex, sadly, despite being a cyber intelligence specialist, still mourns last.fm and that tells you everything you need to know.

Somewhere down the line, once they've collectively bought enough land to build a communeplace for all of them to live together while still maintaining a semblance of privacy (Isobel's broad interpretation of boundaries has not changed, sadly), the possibility of a full Oasian becomes a reality. The thing is, this is not just Isobel's baby, this is the podsquad baby, the triad's baby. Isobel and Michael might be the biological donors, but this is their baby.

As you can easily imagine, this is the most spoiled baby ever, because each one of them expect the others to be stern, when in reality, the baby has them all wrapped around their little fingers, and this is without powers, yet.

The first time Alex holds the baby he is completely overwhelmed: they seem so tiny, so fragile, but when he gently strokes his thumb on their forehead, they open their big, staring eyes, and everything else disappears.

Michael, you ask? Ooh, Michael is gloating. He never thought he could have half a thing in his life and now he has everything. He also self-appoints himself as the defender of the baby's curls: that entails slapping the hand of everyone that tries to play with a lock of hair to make it bounce. Do you know how annoying that can be? Leave the baby alone.

Of course, Michael is also a little shit and as soon as the baby starts talking and figuring out a way of calling them all, he tries to make them refer to Max as grandpa, to the utter hilarity of Liz and the total indignation of Max. He has yet to succeed, but the baby's still young, so Only time will tell.

[ktheist]

“Tell me, do you regret the day you left? Do you regret that we could have been something more? Because I do.” (x)

x

Returning home after 7 years in the big city opened the floodgate of memories. One, in particular, had you smiling to yourself as you sat on the bench at a park where you used to play with a certain, gentle and kind little boy.

Min Yoongi shared his candy when you cried your eyes out because you scrapped your knee while playing tag.

He also let you copy his homework and nagged you about staying up all night and reading one of those books of yours.

A dreamer you were, dreaming about being on the big screens.

And a realist he was, wanting to go to college to make something out of himself.

Maybe get a degree, get a stable job and get married.

Some time at 17, Yoongi proposed to you. A plastic ring he got at the dollar store was all he pulled out and placed in the palm of your hand.

You still have it in that little treasure box of yours where you keep your most prized possessions— memories that will live in forever in that tiny space.

”[Name]?” His husked voice rings in your ears and it takes you awhile to register that it’s real-time and not your memories playing tricks on you.

Some few feet away, a man stands —an older version of the boy whom you played with in this ver park. His eyebrows rise to the skimpy and his usually sleepy eyes look as if they’re wide awake.

Awake with shock.

”Yoongi,” you murmur, just as surprised.

It is only much later, do you notice the little girl tugging on his hand, looking up at him and pointing at the swings, “daddy, daddy! Can I go play with Minhee?”

So you find yourselves sitting side by side with a distance that screams the years you’ve been apart. You gained some people, you also lost some.

Like how you lost your husband to that skanky co-actress that’s just 2 years younger than you. The divorce is all over the news, which is why you’re back here, where nobody knows you and nobody will follow you.

”How’s the acting gig going?” Yoongi asks, staring at the sandbox where his daughter and her friend are trying to build a sand castle.

It’s their third try and that one‘s just crumbled into nothingness.

Just like you did.

A country bumpkin actress who changed her name and style. You never wanted to talk about your hometown in the interviews, never wanted to mention anything about the past you.

Guess living in the present means living with the fact that everywhere you go, you’ll be seeing that skank’s face in the promotional shoots of the movie your husband directed and chose her as the lead and not you.

”It’s doing great, I’m taking a break since it’s summer break and Taeyang‘s never knew his grandparents.” You simply say, your inflated, actress ego not letting you speak a word of your crumbling legacy even if it’s plastered all over the news, even if Min Yoongi has probably seen it and is just asking to make small talk.

Instead, he repeats the foreign name, as though tasting the fact that the woman he once dreamed a future with now has a kid who’s not his.

Well, to be fair, he’s a divorcee with a kid too.

”There, the little one in yellow—“ you tilt your head to the side, as if whispering a great, unknown secret to Yoongi.

The fact that you and Jeongguk had a child is mentioned too little of a time for it to stick to people’s minds. You both may have failed in the art of loving each other till death do you apart, but at the very least, you’re doing a good job with keeping your kid away from media exposure.

He’s just a kid. What can a kid do with that much exposure?

”—he’s an exact dupe of me.” You laugh, thinking about Taeyang’s puppy eyes and po lips that made you say yes to going back to this old, tired town, “Stubborn—”

“Just like you,” Yoongi finishes, a smile curved on his lips. A reminiscent of your younger days in his eyes.

“What about yours? Is she your eldest?” You ask, the black haired girl looks so much like Yoongi but acts the opposite of him.

The Min Yoongi you knew would follow you around like a lost puppy as you went on adventures to the sandy Egypt and sail ths seven seas.

His kid, however, seems like the kind that would brave through the sandstorms and lead the pirates to a cave full of treasures.

“Aera is my only,” he says simply, an enigma of his own. A book still being written and kept hidden from public eye.

”Taeyang’s my little buddy.“ You smile, “though he doesn’t like it when I say we’re best friends. Says his best friend is this Chungha girl from his school.”

Yoongi doesn’t offer anything after that —which is so very Yoongi of him.

Never saying something unless he truly feels passionate about a certain topic. Guess he’s not interested in knowing about his ex-fiancé’s kid. Why would he be? You up and left and never looked back.

But then, the answer as to why he fell silent for the longest moment comes not like a slap to the face, but like a gust of wind that blows past you and leaves you in that diner where you sit in the corner, in your favorite spot while the whole world moves on.

“Tell me, do you regret the day you left? Do you regret that we could have been something more? Because I do.”

And as much as you did not see it coming, you did not also need to ponder on it for longer than a second.

For you are a dreamer and when you close your eyes, you see yourself leaning up against Yoongi’s beaten up truck that his father gifted him for his 17th birthday, waiting for his classes to finish so you can ride home or get some food somewhere in the heart of the town.

And you smile, “that would mean I’d regret having my kid and I can’t do that. He’s all I have left.”

Taeyang comes running over, his little pudgy hands placed on your knee as he looks up at you with a childish gaze, “mommy! Grandpa’s here to pick us up!”

”Hm?“ You scan the part and easily spot the familiar old figure standing across it, smiling sheepishly at the look you‘re shooting him.

He’s holding a plastic bag which he’ll probably use as an excuse to show that he was buying somethings for your grandmother who’s adamant about cooking every dinner because Taeyang’s had plenty of your cooking but it’s his first visit here.

Your father and you had a fight last night. He wants you to stay, get a job as a clerk and you argued back, your ego not allowing your own father to knock you down to a mere clerk position.

He’s either feeling guilty or worried that you left town like you did 7 years ago under the pretense of taking Taeyang to the park.

That anger you felt has also melted into regret. You could’ve listened and explained than lash out like a wounded animal.

”Then, that’s our cue to go home,” you stand up and Taeyang runs over to his grandpa.

Yoongi’s in the middle of placing his hand back on his lap after waving a greeting to your father.

”Yeah, me and Minhee should head back too.” He nods, standing, “it was good seeing you, [Name].”

You mutter an affirmation, turning on your heels to walk towards your awaiting father before you pause, legs not moving until you truly say what you‘ve been holding back.

”There’s this movie I starred in —about an aunt turning back time to find her nephew’s killer, it’s called Timeturner... I wish I had her ability.”

At that, Yoongi blinks, lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something.

”See you around, Yoongi.” You finally say, putting an end to both you and his misery.

But before you can take one step in, he’s calling for you, ”the diner‘s owner passed the business to his son —Sungwoo, maybe... If you’re free—“

”Sure,” you say, “maybe we can bring our kids with us you know... introduce them to the world’s best dumpling.”

”Yeah,” Yoongi nods before he murmurs to himself, “yeah that’d be great.”

Taeyang calls for you, waving his arms impatiently. You mouth a “bye” to Yoongi and mini job over to your father and child how waiting by the lamppost to a street that leads up the hill where your house is.

And this town may be old, but this is where it all began and ended.

This is where it continues after the ending.