#most of this stuff has been in storage for years which is fine

[lucitech]

TODAY HAS BEEN A GREAT DAY

(Not pictured: OG Xbox and two Wiis)

(Also not pictured: a ton of controllers, cables, and games for most of the consoles!)

I am so excited holy shit. Also, that PS2 (given by my uncle) was my dad's when I was little! The memory card still has his old Final Fantasy X savefile on it. I can't really test or open up any of the consoles until I get back home though.

[pricegouge]

On Merit

exhusband!price x f!reader

cw: house fire and the aftermath of it. reader and john have kids. reader is implied to be an atheist. unedited because i don't want to look it over again. idk what this is and it's not going anywhere i just needed some comfort.

"i just thank god that the kids are okay."

an in-law of some fashion. a pesky one, perhaps an aunt. usually, you can remember her name by some clever rhyme you'd made up the day you'd gotten married, but today both the name and the rhyme escape you. 

"yeah, me too," you mutter. it's not that you don't mean it, but you've repeated the line so many times today it feels hollow and you can't muster the energy necessary to sell it, especially when the mention of your kids has your head on a swivel, making sure they're still corralled off by the picnic table. they are, of course - haven't moved since you'd last sought them out in a panic all of thirty seconds ago. your mother hovers over them, her hands stroking their hair, just as insistent and scared as your own which hang uselessly at your sides. you want to go to them, but the team of volunteer construction workers who have manifested from the aether need guidance on which parts of the house may contain salvageable heirlooms or sentimental storage. they've been dipping in and out of the wreckage all morning, confused worker bees pulling honey from the hive. a small collection of brightly colored totes decorates your lawn, fluorescent greens and reds standing out amongst the charred grass where more community and family members pick them apart, show you waterlogged decorations from a new years party four years ago and pester you to see if you want to bother keeping them. if you say no, they toss the waste into a large construction bag. mildly, it bothers you that they don't just throw them back in the house. clean up has to start somewhere, you suppose.

they found the majority of your pictures, waterlogged but whole. a gaggle of elderly women sit at picnic tables which weren't on your lawn this morning, pressing each photo between layers of shop rags. you want to bake them a cake, wonder if they'll accept a delivery pizza. wonder if you're lucky enough that your wallet is still in your car.

"only home twenty minutes… when i think what could have happened…" you close your eyes against the visions it invokes, tears collecting in your lashes. auntie balks when she notices, as if surprised her words could affect you. she pats your arm awkwardly. "well, everything happens for a reason. it's lucky you got home when you did."

it's the same line you've heard all morning, the same one you yourself had spouted to your mother much earlier when you'd admitted your kids had been home alone most the night. there was nothing wrong with that, your oldest - fifteen - plenty capable of making sure her younger sister ate and got to bed on time. which she'd done, both girls sleeping like logs when you'd gotten home. you don't want to think about what could have happened if you'd been any later, if one more patient had taken a turn, and all the words of comfort have been the same - thank god that wasn't the case. they mean well but the truth is you don't really believe in that kind of stuff so it's hard to get past the what ifs. you let it wash over you, like the runoff still flowing down the backslope of the lawn. ash and glass clouds the brook back there, a fine waiting to happen, probably. add it to the list of growing expenses your mind is too clouded to tally up right now.

smoke still wafts from the house - what remains of it. thin tendrils of ink leaking from the empty windows, their frames warped from the sagging weight of the structure and wreathed in melted plastic. john had insisted on the most expensive brand he could find, adamant that they were the most secure. but fire doesn't care much about double locks or casement, and it had rained little crystals of tempered glass down on you anyway. it crunches like gravel under aunties shoes as she drifts away from you now, neither of you able to offer the other the kind of comfort you each need. most of these people, they've shown up to make themselves feel better, to tell everyone how they'd helped the poor single mother in her time of need. but you don't act the part of the distraught, needy damsel and it's left a lot of them off-kilter, approaching you like a ticking bomb, a presumed-buried fuel source hidden under the rubble, waiting to catch heat. perhaps you are.

>>On my way.

you don't need to check your phone to verify the text because it's been burned into your retinas by now but you do anyway, just to be sure. just to do the mental math of how long ago it had been received. seven hours. wherever he'd been when he pinged your phone at two in the morning, when the firefighters had still been lingering, it must have been far. john and you may have had your differences over the years, but he had never and would never be the type to let you face a crisis alone. even now you can't help but reflect on the depth of his devotion, the implication that he'd been on a mission which he'd dropped to be with you even after learning his daughters were okay not lost on you. it's another mental image you have to fight off, the father of your children battle worn and weary when he checks his burner to find an update from kate. he hadn't bothered to relay his reply through her, had texted you directly because he still had your number memorized after all these years. it has you shaking your head, waspish when the volunteers bring you a bin of old gaming consoles, filled with water because the stupid plastic guitar controller was too tall to properly fashion the cover. you've no idea why it makes you angry, but you latch onto it with claws and teeth anyway because being mad at john is much safer than lingering on -. 

well, lingering on.

the construction crew tells you the kitchen won't collapse on you if you want to go in through the window there. you don't, but it gives you something to do, and you only realize once you're already in that it was perhaps the worst room to have chosen. 

debris carpets the floor at least two inches thick. you have a fleeting, wild notion to go swap your sneakers for boots before you remember, thoughts immediately flickering to wonder how long it will take for that instinct to die off. what strikes you first is how small the room seems with the roof sagging slightly and floor raised by detritus. soot stained and dark, it swallows the ample sunlight which streams through the empty window within inches, the further corners of the kitchen too dark to make out properly. it doesn't feel like your home, casts a certain sense of voyeurism over the growing feeling of loss. your kitchen, the life center of your home, nothing but charred ribs now.

the crew offers you a worn baseball cap and a pair of gloves when they see you flinch under the steady drip of water. you don't bat an eye as you pull them on, too focused on where you want to begin and if you'll get sepsis for your troubles.

you can't open the fridge because it's melted too much but the cabinets are all mostly functional, if unrecognizable. you don't dare open the higher ones because the way they hang off-kilter makes you nervous but the lower ones housed the bake ware anyway, the morbid curiosity to see if your pyrex finally shattered too hard to resist. 

turns out those things really can take the heat.

it's hard to stop once you've started, almost cathartic - a checklist of all the items you've forgotten you owned being crossed out as you confirm you no longer have them. it's an odd sort of soothing, a finger in a bullet hole to stem the blood loss. it will be nice not to have to wonder if anything could have been salvageable when you remember them later. 

"is my pie still in the oven?"

you don't bother turning, your eldest's blithe sense of humor about the whole affair recognizable even without looking. "you shouldn't be here," you remind her, opening up a deep drawer to find a collection of snack sized crisp bags floating in dirty water. if you weren't so agitated, it would make you laugh, the way they bob like apples, inviting you to try your luck.

"neither should you," she counters. "is my pie still in the oven? i worked so hard on it."

"what pie?" you ask, carefully closing the drawer, as if spilling more water on the floor could actually matter.

"i made a pie last night! it turned out pretty good, i think. was excited to have you try it."

you blink, finally turning to face her. "you made a pie?"

she nods, still oddly cheerful. she has been all day, a solid rock you're refusing to lean on because you want her to know she can cry, that she doesn't need to do this. "yeah, pumpkin. our fav," she reminds you.

you hide the sudden surge of tears by turning away from her and carefully opening the oven. the glass has been blown, shards thumping to the soggy floor as the door tilts. you can't help but laugh at what you find inside, the double tins still fully functional, a deep dish pie standing tall and proud in their confines. it resembles a charred souffle more than a pie when you pull it out, the top puffed up and blackened but refusing to sink into the soaked crust. a perfect slice has been cut from it already, the pie likely having been put back just to keep it warm a little longer. waiting on you. out of instinct, you check to make sure the oven had been switched off though the investigator already said everything was caused by the line outside. 

thankfully your daughter doesn't catch your doubt, too busy fawning over how perversely good her pie still looks. "i'm so proud of it," she declares, taking the dish from you.

you can't help but laugh. "you should offer it to the ladies sorting the pictures out there, in thanks."

"oh my god, you're right!" she cheers, and then nearly throws her precious pie down the bank when she turns away. "dad!" she shrieks, deciding to unload it on the window sill instead. like a dark reimagining of vintage americana.

john's by her side in a heartbeat, pulling her to him with a strong arm. in his other he still holds your youngest because that's what he's used to doing, nevermind the fact that she's twelve now. you don't think you've ever seen him so visibly shaken, mustache twitching as he holds your daughters close. he never bothered to change out of his field gear - vest stripped, but empty holsters still hanging from his stained cargos because those require a bit more care, fine motor control he probably couldn't manage. his hands are heavy on the crowns of your daughters heads, whatever words he whispers to them buried there too. you watch them with your heart in your throat, your agitation returning at the sight of him, the urge to chew your nails completely off only cowed by the appearance of soot on your gloves and the sweet smell of chemically loaded water and smoke which hangs around you like perfume. you'll have to take a bite out of him instead, an instinct that only grows when he spots you in the kitchen, anger clouding the fear in his gaze.

"sweetheart, get out of there."

you ignore him. "where were you?"

john doesn't even blink, evidently having been expecting this reaction. he should have, you remember. the same fight as always. "i was on miss -."

"i don't care." you turn back toward the room, as if to storm away, but a sink hole lays before you and despite everything, you still have enough sense about you to stay put.

it's the only opportunity he needs, john's heavy boots thudding behind you as he pulls himself up through the window. "honey, come here," he says, but he doesn't give you the chance, coming up behind you to pull you around.

you're folded in his arms before you can even pitch a fit about it, the low stream of anger you're spewing swallowed up somewhere in the stiff folds of his button up. you don't realize your breaths are coming in heaving gasps until his arms are shaking with it, his bicep swelling in your periphery just to drop suddenly out of your field of view every time you gasp for breath. john doesn't say much - or maybe he says too much, voice a steady low hum you feel in his chest more than you register in your ear. there's no helping the way you cling to him, anger dissipating as quickly as it built. john's solid and warm against you, just as soft for you as he's always been. he smells like sweat and gunpowder, the subtle scent of the expensive cigars he never finishes. it's a smell you miss always, but especially today, when the cloying scent of smoke and pfas water have felt near to suffocating you all morning.

john waits until your anger has been guttered before guiding you outside, his palm heavy on your back. he's subtle about the way he pulls another man's cap off your head, distracting you with questions about what happened, and, why is his aunt here. you pretend not to notice, stuck between an odd sense of endearment you really don't have time for and an urge to encourage him you decide to reanalyze when you're not homeless and desperate for comfort in whatever form it comes.

"the wind - last night. inspector says the tree out front must've dropped a limb on the line to the house."

"told you to let me cut it down," john mutters and you roll your eyes at him, too tired to fight now that he's calmed you down once already.

"shut up, you can blame me for this later -."

"honey, that's not -."

"look at this. you won't believe this. that line - when it split - it fucking wrapped itself around the wood stove exhaust. like, five times! look!" he's guided you back to the front of the house by now and you drag him to the freak display, the cable indeed having somehow managed to fasten itself to the exhaust while it was hissing and spitting, dangling from your home. john frowns at it, stroking his mustache in thought. "freak fucking accident," you continue, "like, what are the odds of that?"

john doesn't have an answer. "you were home?"

your breath catches when you reply, voice a low croak. john's hand is on your back in a second, soothing broad circles across your tense shoulders. "only just. the girls were asleep. i called up to them to get out of the house but i tried to put the fire out first. grabbed the hose. thank god i realized it was electrical before i ..." you babble on, for the first time able to lay your anxieties at someone else's feet. "when i went back inside, the girls were still upstairs i -." you cut yourself off, sobbing as you remember storming into your eldest's just in time to see the window shatter across her bed. you'd gotten everyone out in time but it was so close and you were so scared and it was just you and -.

"it's okay, sweetheart," john murmurs, pulling you close again. his next words are low, close to your ear. just for you "you did such a good job, mama. so proud of you."

time distorts a little after that. exhaustion creeps up on you, sinks its hooks in when you let it. john takes over, directing the crews with practiced ease and shaking hands in gratitude everywhere he goes. he even manages to keep his aunt away from you, though you spot her circling like a vulture now that she sees your walls have weakened.

you sit with the girls, looking over the salvaged goods with a sort of detached irreverence. it's strange, the anxiety of knowing you have nothing left to your name combined with the way you simply don't want to keep any of the items they bring for your inspection. the photos survived, the rest is replaceable. 

but then john himself is bringing a soggy box over, only one corner of the white cardboard singed. you leap when to your feet when you recognize the careful script of the logo on the top, a local formal shop. 

"no way," you breathe as you rip the display box from his hands, turning until you can see for yourself that the plastic casing hasn't melted, that your wedding dress is still mostly white and soot-free.

"didn't know you kept this," john mutters but you're barely listening, ripping the box open like a kid at christmas. your mom is there suddenly, helping you to keep the dress off the ground as you unfold it to check for charring, and then the gaggle of biddies are there too, laying out construction bags on the lawn for you to drape it across to keep it clean. the strangest bridal party ever assembled.

you have high hopes until you get it turned over, the train discolored and sodden from where all the water had pooled in the box. tears come unbidden to your eyes as you mourn the loss of your beautiful dress - the one memento you hadn't been able to bear parting with after the divorce. someone's hands are on you, perhaps your moms, gentle and hesitant. whoever it is they shush your tears as you sob about it not being fair, how you just want it all back.

you're not sure which you mean. 

but the hands are heavier on you now, more confident. it's not your mother's voice in your ear, quiet shushing turning to gravelly words. oh, honey, you never lost it. it's okay, we'll get it all back. 

i'll get you a new one.

divider by @/rookthornesartistry

[toomuchracket]

I think I read it somewhere... I can't remember where, maybe I didn't and I'm just imagining but...

What do you think about Matty (any au but most probably flatmate) like keeping some clothes from 2013/2014/2015, trying them on now a days and being emotional about how the pants don't fit anymore for example? or how some shirt still smells like certain moments

Just an idea ofc, you can ignore me it or change it you want

i think this happens when you're pregnant with phoebe, your little surprise baby - yeah, you have a room that you can do up as her bedroom, but it's currently used as an extra wardrobe/storage facility for everything you and matty brought with you from your parents' houses when you left the flat (which, coincidentally, is where a lot of the stuff in the spare room will be going). an entire weekend is cleared to get the room emptied and painted, and you and matty and your older daughters have a lot of fun going through the boxes and deciding what can be kept and what can go - matty's more of a hindrance than the literal three year old in the room, though, stopping every half a second to be like "oh, i like this! i forgot i had it! maybe i should keep it", and it exasperates you to no end lmfao. tbf, a lot of cool old clothes you're keeping for the girls when they get a bit older (elena wailed when you went to throw out the red dress you wore at your uni grad ball back in manc and made you keep it for her, despite the fact she is literally three, and matty wailed because "you looked so beautiful that night and i wish i could've gone with you but i was too stupid to tell you i loved you" lol), but there are some that have just GOT to go to the charity shop. matty's particularly distressed about parting with an old pair of black jeans he genuinely last wore in the year of our lord 2016; he attempts to try them on because "it's fine. they'll be fine. i'll wear them again", and then has the audacity to be bemused when they don't go past his thighs and upset when you say "well, yeah, baby, it's been a decade. both our bodies have changed lol", so you have to cuddle him and quietly reassure him like "and that's alright. you think i'm the hottest i've ever been, and i think that about you too. seriously. hot dad healy is my favourite. and let's be honest - the skinny jeans were a nightmare for us to take off, anyway". he agrees with that, and laughs, and nods like "you're right. and i also think that i'm the hottest i've ever been", cackling when you're like "well let's not take it to narcissist levels, babe"; still, he keeps his shirt off when he's painting the room the next day "just so you have a nice view, babe", which to be honest you're not annoyed about in the slightest lmao. he's very silly. but you love him <3

[oumaheroes]

Would you write an america and england fluffy drabble?

If domestic counts as fluffy, I sure can indeed

---------------------

Another Man's Trash

From his spot on the rafters, America watched England teeter up the ladder to the attic, a full mug in each hand, and took pleasure in offering him no assistance.

‘Took you long enough,’ he said when England was safely up and crouched under the oddly crooked roof supports. He took the mug England held out to him before it had the potential to become a weapon, ‘I thought you’d died down there.’

‘How kind of you to come and check on me.’

‘After what you’re making me do, you deserve it.’

‘’Making’ you do? I deserve death for asking for your help?’

‘Yes.’

‘Noted.’

England hunkered down a foot away and eyed the section of rafters, or lack of, which America was guarding. There wasn’t much natural light to see by. The attic spaces of England’s huge country manor were partitioned and sectioned off between the different wings, some used as servants’ rooms, others for proper storage. This particular section was one of the more abandoned, quickly and haphazardly boarded, and with were only two, small windows to fight against the dust flecked darkness. The hole which America was sat next to was lighthouse’d by a several flashlights, and he could see more by the light from the room below than he could from the small, round, single paned window above it.

England nodded at the room below, bones on the right side of his face sharp with yellow flashlight. ‘Shouldn’t be too long left.’

‘Are you fucking kidding me? There’s still a huge hole in the floor.’

‘Ceiling.’

‘Whatever.’

‘We’ve done most of it.’

‘Done? The whole thing needs replacing.’ America waved his arm wide, coffee still in hand, and England watched its trajectory with alarm. They’d cleared this area of the attic when they’d first started work, the ancient objects and historical junk which had previously occupied the space piled high or scattered about whatever space up here that remained, but hot coffee through the already abused boards probably wouldn’t end well. ‘This boarding is hundreds of years old, I’m surprised any of it is still weightbearing.’

‘It’s well made.’

‘It was well made, like a billion years ago.’

‘It’s not that old.’ England rolled his eyes at the look America gave him and took a sip of his tea, ‘The whole thing doesn’t need replacing, and the main beams are fine. That bit only rotted because of the leak in the roof.’

America opened his mouth and then closed it again, sensing that arguing this point wouldn’t actually get him out of the damn attic any faster and might, in fact, trap him into helping for a much longer project. It was bad enough that his quick summer stay to the UK had been consumed by this; if England accepted an additional idea that he proposed, there was no way to wiggle out of it peacefully. Instead, America glared up at the spot of roof they’d spent the better part of the last few days fixing and waterproofing.

‘You’re lucky I was visiting. If I hadn’t noticed the stain in the guest room ceiling you’d be fucked.’

‘Hardly.’

‘And you wouldn’t have been able to do this by yourself.’

England made a non-committal noise, ‘I would have been fine.’

‘Sure you would.’

‘I would have. It would have taken longer though, certainly. And I’d rather someone I trust than some random builder who has no idea how old this all is. Far too difficult to explain and it would have been an utter ball ache finding a specialist.’ England turned away, placing his mug down and busying himself with the stack of floorboards waiting patiently for them along one of the beams.

America smiled and shook his head. That was as close of an acknowledgement of thanks or gratitude as he was likely to get. Enough too that England considered him competent.

He tried his coffee, mournfully noting that England had reverted, likely out of habit, to making the instant stuff rather than the proper beans. Either that, or America had torn his way through the good coffee that England kept handy for what he called his ‘overly picky’ guests. ‘How old is this part anyway.’

‘This part of the house?’ England handed him a measuring tape and a board, the wood thick and heavy. They’d need to cut them to size, then add the insulation, then plaster the ceiling- actually no, fuck that. England could deal with the decoration himself, America had already splintered his hands tearing out all of the sodden stuff that was there before. ‘Not that old. I think I had this wing built not long after I found you. Maybe my first trip home afterwards.’

America let out a whistle, ‘Hate to break it to you, but that’s too old.’

‘It’s the youngest part of the house.’ England huffed, ‘I’ve been living here for about two thousand years in one way or another lad, a few hundred years is nothing in the grand scheme of things.’

‘I’m not gonna bother giving that a response.’

America peered down through the hole, cautiously perching on the edge of the rafters to see into the bedroom below. His room of all rooms; he’d had to relocate himself to Canada’s. He was sure his brother wouldn’t mind.

‘Mind yourself.’ England warning, hand twitching as if to grab him when America leant even further forwards, ‘We don’t need an A&E trip on top of everything else.’

‘I’m not gonna fall.’

England tutted and looked away, ‘And haven’t I heard that before.’

‘Stop moaning, you’ll go grey.’

‘You’ll make me go grey.’

‘You’d look more your age, at least.’

‘Piss off.’

‘That’s not a very nice thing to say to- oh.’

‘What?’

In the process of measuring the width of where the first board would go, America’s eye caught on something wedged in the insulation. It must have slipped between the older boards when they became warped by the water, or even lost between them years previously. It was deep in the insulation, not budging when America poked it experimentally with the tip of his finger. Shifting his weight, he reached out further across the hole to tug it free, ignoring England’s muttering to come around the other side and get it like a normal person and the hand he rested on America’s shoulder to steady him.

The object was small and wooden. It looked, of all things, like a thick stick, but as America worked it free it was revealed to be a very short, very crude spear. About half a foot long at most, it was roughly sharpened at both ends with a groove in the middle for a handle.

America turned it over, baffled, ‘What the hell is this?’

‘You tell me. You made it.’

America blinked, ‘Did I?’

‘Hmm.’ England wore a soft smile, ‘I left you alone with a penknife; either that or you took it without me noticing. You brought that to me and pronounced it as a “hunting weapon.”’

‘Huh.’ America rolled the stick in his palm and laughed, ‘You’re a sentimental bastard, you know that?’

‘Shut up.’ England coloured, ‘You would have been devastated if I threw it away.’

‘Uh huh. And that’s the only reason you kept it.’

‘Yes.’ England clicked his fingers and held out his hand, ‘Now give it here and let’s get on with it, it’ll be dinner soon and we need to order something early unless we want to eat at stupid o’clock tonight because by fuck am I cooking after all this.’

America grinned and settled himself more comfortable on his beam, long legs dangling down, ‘And what are you going to do with this very impressive hunting weapon?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Can I have it?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Alfred. Stop talking and give it here.’

America peered down once more, imagining the family room further along the warren of hallways of the manor, ‘Can I put it with Deidre downstairs?’

‘Christ- will you leave that bloody statue alone.’

‘I think Uncle Rhys did a very good job with her.’

‘I think Rhys needs therapy.’

‘Aw. Don’t be mean to her, she’s beautiful.’

‘It’s terrible.’

‘She’ll look good with something to hold. Will make that lump of hers on her chest look more like an arm than a third boob.’ America held the odd stick to his chest in imitation, ‘See?’

‘Fine.’ England threw his hands up and shifted backwards as if to prompt America to do the same. ‘Put it with the statue if you want but stop leaning so far over the edge.’

‘Stop being such a fanny fart, I’m holding the beam.’

‘Yes but that could crack.’

America held on with one hand and sat further forwards, grinning as England swatted at his knee, ‘I thought you said the main beams were fine and strong?’

‘With how your great lumpen weight is swinging from it anything coul-‘

England was interrupted by a sharp, distinct crack of old, dry wood. America froze. A fine sprinkling of dust showered down from the roof, settling onto his knees like snow. They watched each other wide eyed, waiting to see what would happen and America trying not to think about the very heavy slate of the roof not that far from his organs. When nothing immediately collapsed he sat up properly, letting go of the beam slowly as if afraid of spooking it. On the other side of the hole, England buried his head in his hands and groaned.

‘Why. Why.’

America laughed nervously and gently patted the beam. ‘I guess I’m buying dinner?’

England didn’t reply.

‘Cool... cool. Nice.’

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober Day 14 - Left for Dead

title: a boy falling out of the sky

fandom: limited life smp

this is a follow-up to my day 6 prompt fill, exit 73. you don't need to read it to understand this :)

cw: blood and injury, implied/referenced abuse

~

Jimmy doesn’t stop fighting.

He never does. Always been a fighter, his mother used to say.

Doesn’t know what’s good for him, his boss says now.

He isn’t well liked among TIES, he knows that. He’s been running with them for about four months, and they still won’t give him the chance to prove himself.

He usually spends his time manning the front with the same group of five, all of whom have been involved in TIES for years, all of whom see him as nothing more than a kid who needs to shut up and pay attention to them. They don’t like that he has ideas—probably because they’re better than whatever they could think of.

They report him to Impulse when he says that last bit. Impulse takes Jimmy aside and reminds him that the only reason he’s here is because he begged them, and that if he wants to prove his worth, he can do it by following orders.

It’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid, because he knows what he’s doing! He learned how to shoot when he was four years old—he doesn’t need someone telling him how to hold his gun! He knows how to sneak around—he used to do it every night to get to his sister’s room, trying not to anger their father. He knows how to steal, he’s been doing that since he was seven, slipping snacks into his shorts at the grocery store.

He knows how to do everything that the higher-ups ask of the others, but nobody wants him to do it. They keep him on menial work—delivering mail, manning the front, occasionally being sent to peacefully threaten someone. Nothing interesting. None of the really good-paying stuff.

He needs the money. He really, really needs the money.

But he can’t get the money when none of these morons trust him to do even the most basic of tasks!

Jimmy spends a lot of time frustrated. He spends a lot of time hanging out in the alley behind their front (a self-storage business), kicking at the gravel and smoking, letting the tobacco calm the anger.

That’s where one of the leaders finds him, one day.

“I bet your fifteen minute smoke break is up.”

Jimmy glances up—Tango. That’s Tango, one of the bosses of TIES—Jimmy’s so low on the food chain that he’s never actually met Tango before, just seen him in passing. Jimmy’s under Impulse’s command, technically (though he almost never sees him, either), and Impulse and Tango’s commands rarely interact.

Tango probably expects him to be starstruck at seeing one of the kingpins, or ashamed at being caught an extended break.

Jimmy just rolls his eyes, takes another puff. He doesn’t know what Tango’s doing here, and he doesn’t really care.

“Are you even old enough to smoke those things?”

“I’m not a baby,” Jimmy growls. “I’ve seen just as much as half the people here, and more than the other half. I know what I’m doing.”

“Whoa, that sounds like a disproportionate response to my joke,” Tango says. He doesn’t sound mad, which is good. Jimmy’s not all that skilled in the art of keeping his mouth shut. “Who said you didn’t?”

Jimmy gestures vaguely with his cigarette. “I don’t know. Everyone. Why else would I be stuck at the desk all day? I can shoot. I can sneak. I need a mission, not this.”

Tango’s quiet for a moment. Jimmy looks down at what’s left of his cigarette, takes one final drag, then drops it to the gravel, grounds it out with his heel.

“Do you need a mission?” asks Tango. “Or do you need money?”

“I—does it matter?”

Tango shrugs casually. “Not to some people. Most people are here for the money. That’s fine. It’s pretty easy to guess what for, too. Debts, treatments. . . .” he squints at Jimmy. “You look like your mom has cancer. Yeah?”

“Don’t talk about my mother,” Jimmy snarls, sudden rage flooding his chest. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Tango laughs. “Dude, I know more about you than you know about yourself. What, does your dad beat her—gak!”

Jimmy cuts him off by grabbing the front of Tango’s shirt, shoving him up against the wall. He can’t—nobody gets to talk about his mother like that, he isn’t going to stand her name being dragged through the mud—

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “I don’t wanna hear—”

“One of my men has a gun trained on you right now,” Tango says calmly.

The breath freezes in Jimmy’s lungs.

He lets go, steps away. “I—”

“Shut up, I don’t have time for apologies. You wanna prove yourself, kid? You wanna get the money to get your mommy safe? Fine. Tomorrow. Six in the morning, all right?”

Jimmy’s hands clench into fists, but he nods shortly. Tango, his cool demeanor soured by irritation, rolls his eyes.

“Chill out, dude. The world’s not gonna end tomorrow.”

“You don’t know that,” grumbles Jimmy. Tango shrugs.

“Sure. You should chill out, anyways.”

-

“Canary, take the right with Eagle. Vulture with me, to the basement. Hawk and Blue Jay, you’re on left.”

They’ve gone over the plan a hundred times, so Jimmy knows that he’s going right without the Cardinal telling him which way to go. He rolls his eyes, but turns down that way, pulling his mask up a bit higher on his nose.

He fiddles with the earpiece that they’d given him—it’s a bit clunkier than everyone else’s, but he’s trying his best not to argue today so  he doesn’t bring it up. If he wants Tango to consider sending him out again, he has to be perfect.

“Listen to me,” Eagle says harshly, the moment they’re out of sight of the others. “You’re going to do everything I say, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Jimmy mutters. Eagle backhands him across the cheek; Jimmy freezes, clenching his fists.

He’s not going to fight. Even though fighting is all he knows how to do, he’s going to lay low and wait for his time to come. He can prove himself. He will prove himself.

“Don’t talk back,” says Eagle. “I’m in charge. You’re a kid if I say you’re a kid. Now—you’d better do everything I say, you hear? No mouthing off, no assuming you know better—because you don’t. You don’t know anything. Got that?”

Jimmy nods angrily. Eagle raises an eyebrow at him (and Jimmy just knows he’s smirking under his mask, the little—), then continues down the hall.

They’re infiltrating the main headquarters of a rival, though nobody will tell Jimmy who or why. He’s just there to clear the building, as out of danger as he can be. It’s not the highest position on the team, but it is on the team, and Jimmy’s doing his best to feel grateful about that.

This is a dangerous mission—a very dangerous mission. Tango had offered to let him back out around five times, his eyes glinting with something like self-satisfaction, but Jimmy had stubbornly remained and now he’s going to prove that he’s earned his place on this team. Not just on this team, but in this family. He belongs in TIES, and he’s going to prove it.

Despite its danger, it still surprises Jimmy when they walk straight into a firefight.

“Eagle to Cardinal, we need back-up! Anyone—we’re on the second floor, it’s—there’s already a fight—”

Jimmy doesn’t know what’s happening or why guns were firing before they got there, but he throws himself back around the corner with Eagle and readies his own gun, aiming it in the direction of the massive garage that they both just fled from.

“The Bad Boys are here, too, looks like—they must’ve gotten the same intel,” Eagle hisses into his earpiece. A moment later, Jimmy’s own crackles with a painful spark.

“Cardinal to all. Evacuate and regroup, sunglasses are here.”

Eagle nods, motions for Jimmy to follow as they creep back into the hallway they’d come from, into view of the garage again.

Jimmy pauses to look—it’s a quiet moment in the fight within, everyone hiding on opposite sides of the room, occasionally darting out to fire at one another.

The garage is massive, its ceiling vaulted high above the hall, and Jimmy scans the room as quickly as he can—and he spots what he’s looking for.

“Who are the Bad Boys?” Jimmy whispers. Eagle grabs his wrist, tugs him along.

“Another gang.”

“Are we enemies? Because—look—”

He points up across the room, toward a window set into the wall near the ceiling. “There’s a room up there. We could go up and snipe both sides, easy.”

Eagle sighs. “Bad Boys aren’t our enemies, not right now. Etho apparently gets along pretty well with one of their higher-ups.”

“Then—why don’t we join them, help them out?”

“Just because we aren’t enemies doesn’t mean we’re friends. We don’t want them to get the package any more than we want these guys to have it.”

Jimmy doesn’t know what this so-called package is, but he nods. Sure. It’s not like this was his one chance to prove his worth to Tango. Now—

One of the Bad Boys—he’s got a leather vest on, a green streak through his hair, no mask (the mask might be a TIES signature, Jimmy thinks, but he isn’t sure)—rolls out from behind a car, aims his gun—

But he gets hit before he can pull the trigger. A pained grunt tears from the man’s lips as he falls, a bullet piercing his calf, blood splattering out onto the concrete below him.

Jimmy looks over, sees the man who shot the Bad Boy cocking his gun, aiming it at green-hair’s prone body, and acts before he can even think.

Well, not really. He does think, but all he thinks is, maybe if I save a Bad Boy, Etho will like me.

He knows how to shoot a gun. There’s only a couple of things Jimmy knows how to do really well, and one of them is standing between the injured and their abuser and the other is firing a gun. This is both of those, so he reckons he’s pretty much in his element.

Jimmy ducks into the garage proper and fires.

He lands a shot on the man who had risen up from behind a barrel, gun aimed at the Bad Boy. The man falls with a cry, and Jimmy only has a moment to acknowledge that he just pulled that reckless stunt before he turns and runs.

That was probably really stupid, now that he takes a moment to consider the consequences.

“You—idiot—” Eagle snarls, quickly overtaking him. Jimmy hears pounding footsteps behind him, and Eagle—

Pain tears through his chest—

Jimmy’s on the ground before he can so much as blink. There’s—there’s so much ice-hot fire burning through him from his chest, all of the sudden, and he pushes himself up onto his elbows before it overtakes him and tries to make sense of what’s going on around him. How did he end up on the ground? Why did Eagle stop running?

Eagle stands frozen in front of him, gun trained on something behind Jimmy. Jimmy hears a voice behind him—

“They’ve got back-up, get the package and get out—”

Then Eagle, into his own earpiece—

“They’re taking it and running, this is a bust—”

Then his heartbeat, loud and heavy in his ears.

More footsteps behind him, as the person there runs back the other way.

Jimmy’s lips move, but nothing comes out but a long, whistling wheeze.

He was shot.

He was shot in the back, and now his chest feels warm with blood as it runs down the inside of his shirt. He was shot. Is he dying?

It hurts to breathe. It hurts to move. He’d propped himself up on his elbows before it really came over him, but now he feels frozen there, limbs locked up, unable to even roll out of the middle of the hallway. He’s been hurt before, he’s been beaten almost to the point of death before but it wasn’t quite like this, because he can’t move or speak or anything. Is he in shock? That must be it. He’s in shock.

He blinks up at Eagle, not entirely sure what he’s trying to convey. A plea for help, probably. As much as it hurts his pride, he can’t do anything else.

Eagle stares down at him, face expressionless. Then, his hand touches his earpiece again.

“Canary’s dead. Let’s get out of here.”

“I—” Jimmy manages, because he isn’t dead, he’s still here and sure, it hurts to breathe and he isn’t sure how to move, but he’s still alive.

Eagle doesn’t say anything. He turns away, jogs down the hallway, and eventually out of sight.

Jimmy wishes he could feel the rage that he longs for, that’s always so close to the surface.

He hurts too much for that, though.

A tear slips down his cheek and he curses, the words pained and broken. He can’t die here. If he dies here, who will protect Lizzie?

He promised to get them their own place. He promised to get her away from him. If he dies here, she’ll be left to face him alone, stuck with him forever, no escape in sight.

He can’t let that happen. He won’t let that happen.

Agony lances through his chest as he forces his locked limbs to move, shifts until he’s on his side, head bumping lightly against the wall of the hallway. There’s still gunshots coming from behind him, but he ignores it. Embarrassingly high-pitched whimpers escape his firmly-pressed lips as every movement jars his chest, but he eventually finds himself kind of sitting up, slumped against the wall.

His shirt is soaked through with blood. The grey with which he’d been outfitted shows how the blooming bloodstain had spread, out from the right side of his chest, down his stomach and up his shoulder. There’s a long smear of blood on the floor from his maneuvering, shockingly bright against the dirty tiles.

Jimmy stares at the blood, his heart pounding in his ears.

How is he going to find the strength to get up? He was barely able to make it to this point.

Once he does get up, how is he going to get out?

Will he walk out of here on legs that won’t cooperate? Will he manage to call for a taxi to take him to a hospital? Will the hospital turn him away without insurance? Will they call the cops?

He licks his lips, cracked and dry.

Every breath feels like another bullet pushing through his chest.

He isn’t getting out of here.

He clutches feebly at his shirt with his left hand, as if he has the strength to strip it off, as if he could ever manage to bandage the wound.

His hand is stained with blood, snaking through every crack of his palm.

It feels wrong to die like this. Alone in a corridor, his lifeblood slipping between his fingers. 

Last time he thought he would die, he wasn't alone. Lizzie was holding him, frantically trying to dress his injuries, muttering nonsense about how everything would be all right and how she was going to call an ambulance and he would be fine.

Jimmy still remembers how the musty carpet smelled like smoke under him, how he couldn't make his eyes focus on Lizzie's face, how his entire body morphed into blurry pain.

It was different.

But one thing is the same—the anger that usually burns in the pit of his stomach has been replaced by cold, disgusting, creeping shame.

He failed her. He failed the only person who means anything to him, and she's not even here for him to apologize.

It hurts even more to breathe. It feels like there's a shard of glass pressing into his lungs, each breath digging it deeper.

Another tear falls, trails down through his lips. His tongue darts out to taste the saltiness, and it tastes like failure.

“We got it, that's all that matters.”

“No, what matters is that you get medical attention. You don't get shot and just walk it off, Joel—”

For a split second, Jimmy thinks wildly that perhaps Lizzie is here, is on her way down the hall to find him, but that isn't her voice. Lizzie isn't here and nobody is coming for him.

They abandoned him.

Two men enter the hallway—one is the man who got shot, his green streak of hair falling into his eyes as he limps out, supported by another man. This man is dressed in a red shirt with a leather jacket, sunglasses stuck into his messy hair.

They're bickering—

“Can't believe we have to take the back way out—”

“It's your fault, shouldn't have gotten injured—”

But they both freeze when they see Jimmy.

“Wait—Grian, it's that kid,” the green-haired one says. “He shot the guy that was going for me. Is he still alive?”

“Yeah, he is,” Grian says, his face twisting. He lowers green-hair to the ground carefully, propping him up against the wall a foot or two away, then kneels at Jimmy's side.

“Hey, kid,” says Grian, lifting Jimmy's chin to meet his eyes. “What happened?”

Jimmy resists the urge to cough, squeezes the wet fabric of his shirt. “Chest,” he manages. “Not—not a kid.”

“Talk to me,” Grian instructs, flipping open a pocket knife to cut through Jimmy's shirt. “Who are you with? Is someone coming for you?”

“He's with TIES, look at his mask,” green-hair interjects. “Classic Etho, looking out for me.”

“Let him answer, Joel.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy breathes, nodding in Joel's direction. “TIES. They—they left me.”

His eyes burn with tears at the admission. Grian frowns, hands dancing across Jimmy's chest. “Really? That's not like them. They usually take care of their own.”

But Jimmy isn't really one of them, is he? He made an enemy of everyone he talked to. He made it clear that he wasn't in it for friends, he'd fought tooth and nail over every little thing, so does it really surprise him that they left him to die here?

He’s dying.

“I failed her,” whispers Jimmy. He hisses in pain as Grian presses on his chest, right up against the burning bullet wound. He swallows back a cough, refusing the pain it would surely bring.

“Went clean through, looks like. I'm gonna move you, look at your back.”

Jimmy actually cries out when Grian shifts him forward, letting him slump against his chest.

“Keep talking.”

“I-I'm gonna die. I failed her. He's gonna kill her.”

“Who is she? Tell me about her.”

“M’ sister,” Jimmy mumbles, biting his lip as Grian prods at the wound. “She—he'll kill her, I'm gonna die and—and nobody—”

“What color is her hair?” Joel asks.

Jimmy blinks, more tears spilling down his face. “P-pink.”

“Pink? That's a weird color.”

Jimmy sniffs. “He—he hates it. I told her not to dye it—” he cuts off with a strangled gasp, one that makes his chest seize with pain, as Grian presses his hand down firmly on Jimmy's back.

“Throw me the spare ace bandage,” Grian orders, holding his hand out to Joel. Joel digs a roll of bandages out of his pocket and tosses it to him.

“How old are you?” Joel asks. “What's your name, how old are you?”

“Jimmy,” he barely manages, as Grian wraps the bandage around his chest. “I—I'm—seventeen.”

Grian curses in Jimmy's ear. Joel’s face darkens.

“Told Etho they need to be better about checking ages,” says Joel angrily. “A kid shouldn't be part of a dangerous op, for goodness sakes—”

“We don't have time for this,” Grian says firmly. He ties off the bandage and arranges himself to be side-by-side with Jimmy, loops an arm under his shoulders. “Joel, can you call in back-up? Kid, can you walk?”

“We don't need back-up, I can walk—”

“Absolutely not—”

“We'll help Jimmy between us, all right? Then he can lean on both of us and I can lean on him—”

Jimmy’s next few moments are a blur of pain and nausea, but he somehow finds himself standing, one arm slung over Joel's shoulders, one arm over Grian's.

“Just take a step,” Grian grunts, and Jimmy stumbles forward, just trying to breathe the best he can through the stabbing pain.

Do they think he’s going to survive? They wouldn’t be helping him if they didn’t, right?

“How far to the car?” Joel asks tightly.

“If we take a left, we should hit the stairwell soon after.”

“Right. Stairs. That’ll go great.”

They make their slow way down the hall, Jimmy’s exhaustion growing with each step. They stop frequently, adjusting their positions so that Jimmy can rest easier on the two of them. Then they keep going, one painful foot forward after the other. 

After what feels like ages of the hall tunneling in front of him, Grian shifts them both left, toward another hall, identical to the first (but a good bit shorter).

Joel is breathing heavily, occasionally making small, pained noises under his breath. If Jimmy had enough space in his chest for more emotions, he would feel guilty that he was making Joel go to all this trouble for him.

He doesn’t have room for that. Just the shame.

There’s a door at the end of the hall, and all three of them are gasping for breath by the time they make it. Joel leans against the wall and Jimmy leans against him. His feet are practically deadweight, his shoes feeling like cinder blocks.

“We go up one level of stairs,” Grian tells them, voice a bit raspy. “The door out should be there. The car’ll be . . . probably a short walk from there. Good?”

Joel flashes a thumbs-up. “Can we . . . all right if we take a minute, first?”

Grian checks his watch, worries his lip between his teeth. “I don’t think we have time. We should go.”

Joel huffs, but he pushes himself off the wall, readjusting Jimmy’s arm around him.

Jimmy just swallows, then finally gives in to the urge to cough.

Apparently, it’s the wrong decision to make. The cough instantly makes the pain skyrocket, so much worse than it’s been so far, and Jimmy can barely keep standing\. He tries to breathe through it—but barely any air seems to be entering his lungs, it’s like there’s hardly room for even half a breath.

He falls to his knees, another weak cough escaping him, one that only serves to drive out what little air he’s managed to collect. He can’t breathe. It hurts too much, and he can’t breathe.

“Jimmy? Jimmy, stay with us—”

“Stay here with him, I’ll go grab whoever’s in the car—”

Jimmy barely registers the sound of running footsteps as he falls further, leaning on his hands. He gasps fruitlessly, in and out and far too shallow. He can’t do it, he can’t manage it.

He’s dying. He was shot in the chest and he can’t breathe. He’s dying right here, after everything, abandoning Lizzie and everything he’s been fighting for his whole life.

He’s so scared.

He’s terrified, the fear even colder than the guilt, because he doesn’t want to die, but he can’t breathe long enough to even say it.

I don’t want to die, he thinks with all his might. I don’t want to.

He’s always been a fighter. That’s what his mother would tell him, as she spread numbing cream on his bruises and kissed his forehead good night. He never got to hear her last words, but every day before school she would ask him to watch out for his sister (even though she was three years his senior) and he thinks she would have said something like that if he was there when she died.

He’s failed her, too. He couldn’t save his mom, and he can’t save Lizzie, even though it was all she ever asked of him. He’s let them both down, and he can’t even get enough breath for an apology.

“Jimmy, listen to me,” Joel says, his voice sounding as if it’s underwater. The man sits on the floor in front of him, adds his hands to Jimmy’s shoulders to try and keep him somewhat up. “Listen. Can you see me?”

Through tear-blurred eyes, he can just manage to see Joel, discern the worry etched into his face. Jimmy nods, just barely.

“Good. Calm down, okay? Breathe slowly. Slow and deep, okay?”

Jimmy shakes his head. He can’t. He can’t breathe slowly, he can’t breathe deeply, he can barely breathe at all. His arms are trembling, and it’s only moments before they give out entirely. He slumps against Joel, noticing vaguely that his fingers are numb.

“Bullet probably hit your lung,” Joel mutters, adjusting Jimmy in his arms so that he’s sitting, Joel’s legs around him. “Do you smoke? Or, did you smoke, I guess. You won’t anymore.”

The room is going out of focus, and not just because of the tears. Jimmy tries desperately to hold on to consciousness, licking his lips and flexing his fingers compulsively.

Joel tilts his head back, peering into his eyes. Jimmy wonders if he can see the fear there, if he looks as scared as he feels, heaving for breath.

“It’s okay,” Joel says, voice considerably softer than it’s been this whole time. “Geez, you’re just a kid. Killer aim, though. Where’d you learn to shoot?”

My dad taught me, Jimmy wants to say. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have enough air.

He’s going to pass out. Jimmy’s been beaten to unconsciousness too many times to count on one hand, so he knows what it feels like when his head starts to fuzz over, goosebumps breaking out over his entire body.

He swallows, squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s going to die.

He failed.

-

He survives, somehow.

His lung had collapsed after being punctured by the bullet, which was life-threatening, but didn’t claim him this time. Jimmy woke up in an unfamiliar library-turned-medical wing, an oxygen mask taped to his face and an IV stuck in his arm.

He heals up nicely, according to the doctor, and once he’s cleared to walk (on oxygen, pulling a portable oxygen canister behind him), he starts exploring the manor he finds himself in.

It’s massive, dozens of rooms and chandeliers and fancy carpets, and plenty of people always coming and going. He spends a lot of time sitting in a cushy chair outside of the library, looking out at the main entrance, people-watching everyone who comes through. He gets strange looks, sometimes, but he’s ignored for the most part, and for the first time in a long time he feels almost relaxed.

Not quite. A nagging voice in the back of Jimmy’s head reminds him of Lizzie, of the hell he’s left her to face alone, and he knows he has to do something soon or the guilt and anger will overwhelm him again, but he tries not to think about it and just focused on recovering.

Grian and Joel show up on the fourth day, when he’s finally released from using an oxygen cannula during the day.

“How are you feeling?” Grian asks awkwardly when they approach his bedside, hands stuck in his jeans pockets.

Jimmy shrugs. “Good,” he says. “I mean, like I was shot in the chest. Good, given the circumstances.”

Joel snorts. “Well, yeah, duh.”

“Good enough to get going, soon?”

Jimmy blanches. He’d been dreading this conversation. “I . . . actually, I was wanting to ask. . . .”

They know what he wants before he even suggests it.

“Absolutely not,” Grian says. “We don’t take on kids. It’s not—”

“I turn eighteen in six months—”

“—super dangerous, and—”

“I think he should stay,” Joel says helpfully, settling into an armchair far too grandiose for what should be a hospital setting. Grian glares at him.

“You know we don’t bring kids into this.”

“We can’t send him back to TIES, can we?” Joel says. “We can’t turn him loose on the street, or else they’ll probably try to take him out, just in case. You don’t just quit TIES and walk away.”

“I don’t want to go back to TIES, if it helps,” Jimmy adds. “They left me to die back there.”

Joel waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Etho said you’re welcome back, if you want. But you don’t, so we don’t need to worry about that.”

“But he’s—”

“I’ll do anything to stay. I’ll—I’ll even just work the front, I just—I need it,” Jimmy says, glancing between the two of them.

They don’t know how desperately he needs it. They don’t know that the only reason he has for living is saving Lizzie.

He’d tried getting a normal job, but no place that paid enough was willing to hire someone underage full-time, much less someone without a high school diploma. TIES was the first place to offer him more than seven dollars an hour with the promise of one day making more.

He needs this kind of money to get an apartment. And he needs an apartment more than anything in this world.

Grian bites his lip, looks over at Joel.

“We can say he’s eighteen,” Joel suggests.

“I’ll get my birth certificate changed,” promises Jimmy. “I just—” this is it, he has to convince them— “I have to get my sister to safety. Please.”

“I—look, you can’t tell anyone, ever,” Grian stresses, running his hands through his hair. “You’re eighteen, all right? And don’t expect to get any ops—”

“Do expect to get ops, you’re a decent shot—”

“Joel and I are your only friends, don’t trust anyone else—”

“Do whatever you want, we aren’t your dads—”

Jimmy lies back on the bed, propping the pillows up under him. Relief tastes sweet on his tongue, after the building guilt he’s been feeling over the past few days. So . . . he’s a Bad Boy now? Would he get a leather jacket? Or sunglasses?

That doesn’t matter, really. What matters is that he’s already become friends with two people here after being a member for less than two minutes, and that’s way closer to getting Lizzie to safety than he ever was with TIES.

He can keep his promise.

And one day, when he’s got enough rapport in the Bad Boys, he’s going to call out a hit of his own. And he’ll fulfill it on his own—he’ll hold the gun that he was given on his sixth birthday, the last gift he ever received, the one with his father’s initials messily carved into the hilt—

He’ll take that gun and shoot his dad in the head, and they’ll finally be safe.

[cleromancy]

HI I WOULD LOVE TO SEE SNIPPETS OF THE EX CHILD STAR AU

thank you anon 🥰 sry it took me a few days to post this lol

cws: references to mental health problems and a previous suicide attempt, and lasting trauma from exploitation. uh, and past drug use.

*

If you had asked Dick twenty-four hours ago about his apartment, he would have said it was fine. Not too modest, not too ostentatious, not so public he has to worry about creeps but not as isolated as the villa. He's so glad they sold the villa. Nicest place he's ever lived, and if he'd stayed there one more day he'd have been peeling off the wallpaper muttering about ex-child stars trapped inside, creeping. Where he lives now is within walking distance from a friendly little corner store where he picks up cereal and almond milk and anything else he doesn't want to wait to get delivered, which is convenient, and a somewhat-longer-but-still-doable hike away from Dick's favorite store in L.A, a tiny little candy shop that only stays afloat out of sheer spite. The owner, a cantankerous old man that Dick loved immediately upon meeting, roasts Dick mercilessly every time Dick comes in, but he also keeps Dick's standing order of the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads in stock just for him, so Dick wouldn't buy them anywhere else even if he could.

And as long as you have that and a laundry room, you're golden. If Dick had to leave his apartment to wash his socks he'd just lie down and die, or else wear a lot of dirty clothes.

So normally if asked, Dick would conclude that the apartment is, actually, better than fine, maybe even pretty good, and then he would change the subject.

It's just hitting Dick now that he's lived here for seven years now and he doesn't think he's ever actually looked around. They hired somebody to move his stuff into storage while Dick was still in inpatient and somebody else to decorate the apartment so it would be livable right when he got out, before he got around to picking up his stuff (he keeps meaning to do that). Moving in, all Dick cared about was getting a burrito the size of his face and sleeping on sheets that didn't smell faintly of industrial bleach masked poorly by something artificial, vaguely floral, and marketed as *Mountain Breeze.* In the grey haze it hadn't occurred to him to wonder if maybe the decor was itself a little too grey.

"Or whatever color they call this," Dick says to himself, staring down an oversized decorative vase with a few sticks poking out that you'd think would be silk flowers or something, but instead have these fuzzy little puffballs attached for some reason. "Gray-beige? Taupe? Greige? Why do I even have you." He tilts it to one side. It's shockingly heavy. "Why do I have *six of you.*"

Looking down the hallway it's obvious that the interior design team had a vision, and that vision was "innoffensive, featureless neutrality." There are just enough wall hangings to qualify as "minimalist" over "austere," black and white photographs of bland still lifes in featureless frames. Some kind of hanging tapestry except it's solid white with hanging tassels. Grey-toned floor, lighter grey-toned floor runner. The end result sails right past "boring" into "escaped psych ward patient" territory. Which Dick resents. He did his time, thank you very much, and waited until his official discharge like a good boy. That's probably why he didn't notice until now, psych ward home away from psych ward home.

Yeah. Let's blame that. The fact that he spent his first year out of the hospital doing nothing but trying to beat his Tetris high score in his underwear and scouring the internet trying to find the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads had nothing to do with it.

"He's going to think I'm a serial killer," Dick realizes.

He's most of the way through Tetrising the unwieldy, surpringly heavy vases into the tiny cubicle the guest bathroom calls a shower—and he'd like to know whose idea *that* was when anyone with a lick of sense would have just made it a half-bath—when the buzzer for the lobby goes off.

"Crap," Dick mutters, taking half a step away from the tower, which wobbles ominously. He lunges to steady it. "Crap!"

He casts around for a surface and sets the last two vases on the toilet lid and the sink respectively, the stupid little Q-tip stick things rattling mockingly inside, then dashes out to tell the doorman that no, Roy's not a stalker, yes really, yes Dick wants you to let him up please, yes he is serious, yes he is sure. He has enough time to sprint back to the bathroom and make sure his hair is okay and confirm that at least he doesn't *look* as sweaty and disheveled as he *feels,* but thankfully not enough time to start worrying if he might be due early for another round of fillers or if his hairline might be receding or if the skin under his jaw might be sagging. He looks fine. Everything's fine.

When the doorbell rings, Dick has to pretend he doesn't know who's on the other side to get himself to finally open the door. His breath still catches when he sees him.

Roy, casual as ever, pushing a pair of Ray-Bans he told Dick he shoplifted as a teenager up his forehead. His crow's feet, because he stopped getting fillers at twenty-five, except *his* are laugh lines, not stress wrinkles, less those *Where Are They Now?* specials they used to do on VH1, more Paul Newman aging like fine wine. His crooked smile, and he doesn't whiten his teeth anymore either, teased Dick when he drove him for his root canal that he was destroying his enamel and then held his hand when they put him under. His scuffed bomber jacket, older than either of them, which sparked half a dozen anecdotes about an Uncle Hal when Dick brushed his fingers against a faded patch on the sleeve. His henley with three buttons undone, straining over the curve of his chest. His jeans tight around the thighs, a little threadbare in places after over a decade of wear. The whole of him, broad and easy in the doorway, unapologetically imperfect, smiling.

Dick just wants this to go well so *badly.* "Hi."

"Hi yourself," Roy says, shifting a little. "Can I come in?"

"Please."

Roy closes the door behind him, bending to unlace his boots. Dick's eyes catch for a second on the strain of his thighs against denim, and the nervous inane smalltalk on its way out of Dick's mouth dies on his lips.

Roy kicks the second boot off and straightens up, dusting his palms off on his thighs, which probably shouldn't make Dick's mouth fill with saliva the way it does. He's looking around the entryway, curious. "Nice place."

*Don't mention the vases.* "You think so? I keep meaning to update a little."

"Yeah, man, it's nice," Roy says easily, and he's lying but Dick can barely tell, which is kind of him. "You want to show me around?"

No, Dick does not want to show him around. No, he does not want to discover alongside Roy what other modern minimalist nightmares the interior design team saw fit to install in case Dick got too overstimulated by non-neutral colors and tried to kill himself again.

"I want to show you the media room," Dick says, which at least has the benefit of actually being true.

*

The "whoa" Roy lets out when they enter the media room is gratifying. It's most people's reaction when they see it. It's always gratifying.

"Is that a pinball machine?" Roy asks.

Dick grins. "You wanna play?"

"Hell yeah, just. Later. You have so much cool shit here, show me all of it—"

Maybe the other reason Dick barely knows what the rest of his apartment looks like is because this is where he spends most of his time. Freshly discharged from the hospital, Dick had scarfed down his face-sized burrito, faceplanted on the bed, slept like a log for about two days straight and woken up not entirely sure what year it was or why. He looked around the room, remembered it was his, flicked on the lamp on his bedside table and didn't like it any better in the light. It was the smooth plasticine decor that Dick's belatedly come to realize populated the entire apartment, featureless, meaningless, trying desperately to be mature by being entirely devoid of interest. *My bedroom pays taxes,* Dick remembers thinking. *My bedroom has a 401k.* He grabbed his meds from his bedside table and stuffed them in his sweatpants pocket before wrapping himself in the big gray down comforter and dragging it to what he supposed was the den, flopping on the couch and sleeping for another six hours, eventually waking with the cap of PRAZOSIN - 10MG - GRAYSON, RICHARD J digging into his hip.

Time was sort of soupy a lot of the time back before he got his ADHD diagnosis, because of the brain fog. For the longest time his psychiatrists kept adjusting his Wellbutrin dose pretending they thought that had a chance in hell of working while Dick sat listlessly in their offices, missing meth. It wasn't until later when Jason Todd of all people dragged him to a specialist (because "if I have it, you definitely have it" successfully nettled Dick into going just to prove him wrong, except of course it turned out the bastard was right) and Dick found a new psychiatrist who was halfway competent and put him on Adderall that he really felt at all present again. The psychiatrist he has now, who is from hell and who doesn't let him get away with lying and who is incredibly good at her job, was the one who told him how much meth and ADHD stimulants have in common chemically.

Dick sat very still. Then he pointed to the throw cushion on the couch. "Can I borrow that for just a sec?"

"Take as long as you need."

Dick grabbed the pillow, buried his face in it, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

But for a while, yeah. Time was soup Dick was mostly afloat in. He spent it floating here.

Now that Dick is looking for it, he notices the gray in the floor and the walls, the aggressive featurelessness of even the window frames, but he likes the rest of the room enough not to mind. At one point he'd been irrationally angry at the pile of mail he'd put off opening for over a month, and he'd been going through a minor fixation with auction websites at the time, and there was an old, probably busted Ms Pac Man arcade machine up for sale and for some reason Dick latched onto it. For some reason winning the auction of the stupid Ms Pac Man machine was very briefly the most important thing in the world. And he did win the auction, because nobody else wanted the janky old thing, and to Dick's shock and delight it actually *worked*, and suddenly he had a project.

At first he bought and fixed up old arcade fixtures, classic games and pinball machines mostly but he dabbled in anything; he'd even gotten his hands on an air hockey table once. Then he'd get bored or run out of space, sell a bunch of things or even give them away if he was too sick of looking at them, and before terribly long he drifted away from arcades specifically. That part he credits to a film projector he ran into at a flea market and fell in love with, which prompted him to spend possibly obscene amounts of money on the sound system and improving the acoustics. He fell in love with a lot of objects, those days, maybe because he wasn't talking to *people* much. Not people who knew him well, anyway. He was on first name terms with his favorite antique dealers, one of whom inexplicably set aside an old Gibson electric guitar he found, a gorgeous machine in a charmingly 60s shade of Robin's egg blue, because he said it reminded him of Dick. Either because he somehow knew Dick would love it, or else because he knew Dick was a sucker with way too much money.

It didn't matter. Dick *did* love it, and he *is* a sucker with way too much money, and he *did* go straight home to almost give himself tinnitus playing every three-chord classic he knew at a truly unwise volume.

(Dick even replaced the original couch in this room because he kept falling asleep on it and his physical therapist threatened to quit over the havoc he was wreaking on his back. He's still not thrilled that he doesn't really sleep in bed ever, but the new couch isn't threatening to do permanent damage to his spine. Win/win in Dick's book.)

So. Not a home arcade, not a home theater, not a home studio. Scavenged bits and salvaged pieces, nostalgia probably in excess, anchors in time. Whatever magic they put in the air at antique stores and estate sales and really good museum exhibits, Dick managed to bottle a breath of it and take it home with him. When he finally started letting people into his life again, the unabashed delight often on their faces, walking into this room full of outdated obsolete frivolous things, sharing it with them… it's good. It feels good.

"Does that ancient popcorn machine actually work?" Roy asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning.

Dick matches it. "Yeah, and it's gonna knock your socks off."

*

So Dick gets the popcorn going and shows Roy around and silently laments that there was no way he could get his hands on film reels of The Muppet Show. Roy was almost as much of a geek about some of these machines as Dick was, and Dick had made it his whole personality for a while.

"It's just that there are some antique collectors that really don't mess around," Dick explained to Donna the week before, twisting and untwisting his napkin in his hands. "And I'm a competitive guy but some of the markets are totally cutthroat, and film people and puppet people are both intense. So this was better."

"Yeah, *and* it'd be insane to drop that kind of money on a first date," said Jason through a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger, Mister *we're not brothers we just played them on TV.* Dick had invited Donna to lunch, Jason had loudly said he was too busy to come, Dick said he wasn't invited, and Jason's schedule suddenly cleared up, *viola,* miracles do happen.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dick told him.

"Die," Jason suggested pleasantly.

'Just played it on TV.' Sure.

"And it's not a date," Dick added belatedly, stomach swooping.

Jason had opened his mouth to probably say something horrible, as is his way, and instead let out a hilarious squeak, turning to Donna next to him in the booth with massive betrayed Bambi eyes.

She ignored him, continuing to pour Sweet-N-Low packets into her half-empty coffee as if she didn't just stomp on his foot under the table. She didn't really like coffee until it got to the consistency of artificially sweetened sludge. When they were young Donna was always on top of what was *in*, considering it part of her full-time job to appear effortlessly sophisticated; she skipped the teen-preteen fashion beat and shot straight to the big leagues by fifteen. They were putting the equivalent of a *sophomore in high school* on best dressed lists alongside grown-ass women. It should never have happened. No one should have *let* it happen. One time even before all that, Dick and Jason stole a box of Krispy Kreme donuts from catering and absconded to her trailer to share and she had a panic attack. Years later she described her youth as being in a room full of invisible mirrors at all times. Those days she wouldn't be caught dead with anything less chic than an espresso from whatever new *it* cafe just opened. And there she was, two decades later, blithely desecrating two-dollar-fifty diner coffee with enough aspartame to kill a cart horse in front of god and everyone. She was probably Dick's favorite person in the entire world, and he went into a little trance for a moment, watching her graceful hands with horrified fascination.

Finally satisfied, she took a sip of her monstrosity and hummed, satisfied with that which she hath wrought. "Wait and see," she suggested. "If it goes well, it can be a date."

"And everyone says *I'm* the crazy one," Jason griped, rubbing the prison stick-n-poke tattoo on one thumb with the other.

"Well, if everyone says it, it must be true," Donna said warmly, knocking her shoulder against Jason's.

[wusel1811]

Wusel builds a new town: Family Hillinghead / Ashe Part 1

(Originally published on November 7th 2023)

My husband and I have been watching a great show on Netflix called Bodies (go check it out if you haven’t already!) and once more I thought that I should create these characters as Sims and give them much happier lifes than they had on the show.

So here we are with our first two protagonists, Alfred Hillinghead and Henry Ashe. They gave up on life in the year 1890 and travelled to some more or less modern future. Probably around our time 🙂 

I guess it must be really hard to be thrown into a new life like that, so they have a big piece of land in Chestnut Ridge where they live off the grid and with simple living activated, but most of all happily together.

Alfred is a loyal, proper, romantic and domestic guy who wants his lineage to succeed in life.

His husband Henry (sorry, I’m terrible at creating Sims… let’s just imagine he totally looks like Henry) is a good, creative muser who has a photographic eye (cc trait) and wants to become a photo-artist, which is a cc aspiration 🙂

What they have is their love for each other and lots and lots of space… and that’s it for now. But we’ll get there, guys – don’t worry!

I’ve downloaded some mods from BrazenLotus

so they can gather wood and stuff like that. 

I’ll be more or less following these BaCC rules

although they haven’t been updated in a while, so I might make some changes to make up for that or just because.

A few moments later they are proud owners of their own well, a storage for their wood and two woodworking tables… it seems they need to forage wood to build all the new things I downloaded for them.

Henry gets some wood…

… and then makes logs …

… while Alfred is looking for berries. 

I think I like these BrazenLotus mods 🙂

“Henry!!! I saw a scary snake while foraging!”

“Oh no… maybe you should help me with the woodwork instead so we have some furniture for our new home soon!”

“Okay, you make barstools and I make an endtable… I hope we learn new recipes soon!”

Hm… I usually say yes to whatever my Sims want, but I don’t think that’s a good idea, Henry… it will get better, you’re just upset because you pinched your finger! It will be fine!

“Hey, you’ve both pinched your fingers and are uncomfortable… do you want to go fishing for a while so you have something for dinner tonight?”

“Flirt? Oh yes, we definitely want to flirt!” ❤️❤️

Well, okay then��

Chestnut Ridge is so beautiful ❤️

Our first fish – Henry is a natural!

*sigh*

The fish Henry caught disappear after roasting in the fire, so my two adventurers get marshmallows instead – those are not really filling, though!

The disappearing fish is neither mine nor their fault, so after Alfred and Henry have put up their tent and built a campfire I deactivate simple living for a moment so they can have some veggie dogs

So far they have

collected wood

built some furniture

caught fish

collected a mushroom and a berry that Alfred can’t identify yet

planted the mushroom in planter they built themselves

Is that a successful first day or what? 🙂

I think they agree with me and are celebrating 🙂

[thebluestbluewords]

Polyshipweek 2023 Day 1: Road Trip

Rotten ot4, ~1800 words of pure silliness. No warnings for this section.

+

"I've solved our summer problem," Evie announces breathlessly, hair bouncing over her shoulders in perfectly curled ringlets as she jogs up to their usual outdoor lunch table. She’s wearing a pastel blue tennis skirt, an unexpected blessing for Mal’s wicked eyes, borne from the spring heat wave the rest of them are suffering through in their usual leather. The news outlets are saying that it’s the hottest spring Auradon has had in years, but the actual heat only hit two days ago, and Evie’s been too busy with school and her secret project to make the rest of them anything lighter than their usual. Mal’s been sweating through her jeans, but she cut the sleeves off her jacket yesterday, so that’s been helping.  "I got us housing, and it's in our names, and we're going to have the best summer ever." 

Evie beams at them all, still pink-cheeked and breathless from running across the lawn. 

"Evie.” Mal says flatly. 

Evie beams at her directly, flipping her curls over her shoulder as she turns, a bit more dramatically than a turn of ten degrees warrants. "Yes, babe?” 

Mal wants to lick the glorious expanse of leg that Evie’s skirt shows off, but they’ve got more pressing concerns than that right now. "What did you do?" 

Evie’s practically bouncing in place. Oh gods. Whatever she’s done is either going to be the best thing in the world, and they’ll all have to tell her that she’s right and they were wrong to spend the whole week moping about the heat instead of helping and she truly is a genius, or else they’re about to have a really, really bad time. 

"I bought us a camper,” Evie exclaims, and oh, she’s still bursting with joy about the whole thing. “It's only twenty-five feet long, and it's got an absolutely terrible truck that came with it, but it’s big enough for four people to sit together in the front as long as one of them is small, and two of us have tiny little legs, so we don't have to split anyone out to drive if we don’t want to, and I got it on sale from a friend of a friend so it was super cheap, and it's going to be the greatest thing ever!” 

"Great. You bought us....a tiny house." 

"A tiny mobile house," Evie corrects, still beaming.  "And it's going to be either the best or the worst thing that's ever happened to us and I haven't decided which yet. But it's probably the best."

Mal gestures at the boys, who are just as sweaty and disgusting as she is right now. "You want all of us contained in a twenty foot box for the entire summer?" 

"Ye-es," Evie says slowly, with a somewhat pained expression, like she's only just thinking through the size constraints she's put on them. And how those constraints might play out with three people who are currently sweating through their clothes.  "But it'll be fine. It has storage space for at least six of those big plastic storage bins, and if we keep all of your clothes here at school, babe,  and each of the boys only wears two outfits, I can condense my stuff down to the other five." 

“Can I bring my laptop?” Carlos asks. His head is still on the table. Despite wearing exclusively shorts for the first fifteen years of his life, or possibly because of it, he’s been handling the heat the worst out of the four of them. “If I can fit my laptop and like, enough dog treats to bribe whatever animals we find on the way, I’m in.” 

Evie tilts her head to the side, which sends her hair tumbling off her neck again. Mal could bite the smooth, warm expanse of it. She could leave so many delicious red marks, so that everyone knows that Evie is hers, and she has the most brilliant girlfriend in the world, who does brilliant things like acquire them a place to stay for the summer that’s not on campus. 

The fact that Evie didn’t think about space is a minor concern. Mal’s small. She can compress her stuff to be small too. 

“You can bring all the computer pieces you want,” Evie declares, apparently deciding that this is not the battle she wants to fight right now. “So long as they can fit into a three-by-two storage bin, okay?” 

“Okay,” Carlos agrees, apparently too worn out to argue. “Sure. I’m in.” 

Jay raises a hand, which is hysterical and also makes something uncomfortable twist up in Mal’s chest. This time last year they were throwing bricks at the pirate kids, and now they’re the sort of people who apparently own a camper, and go to a prep school, and can afford to raise their hand instead of just screaming at each other to be heard.  “Who’s going to drive?” 

Evie leans forward over the table, which conveniently puts her chest at eye level for those sitting down. It’s definitely intentional, because this is what Evie and Jay do for fun when they’re together. Neither of them is strictly into each other, due to the whole being gay thing, but they’ve got an exception for each other. Or possibly they just like confusing the Auradon kids, but Mal can get behind it either way. 

“Weeee-ll,” Evie says slowly, drawing out the word like it’s a piece of gum she’s stretching out. She’s leaning all the way down now, and the tiny gold necklace she’s wearing is hanging loose over the table, swinging in a way that’s almost more mesmerizing than her tits. “I heard there’s this really cool guy who got an actual legal driver’s license recently, and I was hoping maybe if I asked really nicely, he’d be willing to drive for me.” 

Jay hooks a finger in the necklace. “Nicely, huh?” 

“Aren’t I being nice?” Evie asks sweetly, batting her eyes and doing something complicated and graceful with her legs that looks uncomfortable from Mal’s angle, but ends up with her sitting on the table, still leaned up close to Jay. “I could offer you something in exchange, maybe?” 

“What would that be, princess?” Jay asks, and oh, with the way he’s keeping his voice low and rough, there’s got to be some Auradon kids watching the show. 

“Maybe….a kiss?” Evie offers, still syrupy-sweet and over the top flirty. “Or I guess I could give you access to the credit card I got from this prince who wants us safely out of his way for the summer, but I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in something like that?” 

Jay pulls back. “Who gave you a credit card?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Evie says brightly. “Unfortunately that is a trade secret, and even more unfortunately, it’s connected to my bank account, so it’s not actually as useful as I implied. You can still drive the car though, and because my mother’s accounts didn’t actually go into kingdom funds when she got sent to the Isle, I do have a bit of inheritance that I’ve taken out of my investments for this.” 

Jay blinks. “You have investments?” 

“Yes,” Evie says, leaning back as well. It’s a tragic loss, because the new position puts her above the rest of them, and Mal can’t stare at her without being blinded by the sun. “I’ve had them since we set up the accounting for my business, which was well before winter formal season. So it’s been a white now and they’re doing quite well, thanks for asking.” 

“Doug drove you to the bank to get a card set up?” 

Evie pouts. “It’s not very fun when you put it that way, babe.” 

Jay grins up at her, eyes bright and mouth quirked into the uneven smile he does when he’s trying to look charming. “Oh, I’m sorry princess, let me just–” he pulls her in close again, hooking one hand around the back of her waist, and the other tangled in the chain of her necklace. “I would be honored,” he whispers into the skin of her neck. “To drive you wherever you need to go.” 

“Through treacherous terrain and up mountains fair?” Evie says softly. “From golden beach to shining sea?” 

“I’ve always wanted to see a mountain,” Jay agrees, resting his head on her shoulder for a moment before pulling back and adding, much more normally. “And beaches would be cool. I assume we’re taking the royal family of Arendelle up on their generous offer to let you magical types come up for their summer training camp?” 

“Indeed,” Evie nods, “It would be awfully rude to reject an offer from the royal family, after all, and when I asked around, everyone said that summer road trips are an Auradon tradition and it would only be right for us to go on one before we have to get serious about school next semester.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Mal groans. 

“SATs, college visits,” Carlos chants. “Finals, calculators, GPA.” 

Fucker. He’s not even graduating next year, a fun little quirk of the Auradon grade system  being tied to age instead of academic ability.

 “I can and will crush you into the dirt.” Mal says casually. She’s got to be casual about her threats now, because if she says anything that sounds truly threatening in front of Audrey and her squad of princesses who care more about their royal status than their actual friendships, she’ll be slapped with consequences for ‘breaking the school code of conduct’ and ‘threatening a fellow student’ faster than you can say bibity bobbity boo. “Try it again and I’ll punch you so hard you’ll wish you were more than just one grade behind me.”

Unfortunately, Carlos treats threats as a sort of love language. 

“Aww, is the wicked fairy scared of some little tests?” he croons, eyes sparking even though he’s still flopped out across the table. “Don’t wanna take one exam that’s gonna determine your entire future for the next five years?” 

Even Evie shudders at that one. 

“Don’t,” she says firmly. “I’m going to send you reminders of this every day next year, when it’s your turn. And you’re going to deserve it.” 

Carlos sits up at that. “You wouldn’t.” 

Evie spins around to face him. “I would, baby. You don’t get to say anything until you’re the one in that exam room, and I don’t care if you never get nervous about tests, because I have never been nervous for a test before this year, and I’ve been waking up with stress dreams for the past three weeks, and not just because I spend half of my life’s savings so far on a truly terrible camper for us to use on the most ill-advised road trip this school has ever seen.” 

“I think the road trip is great idea.” Mal interrupts. “The queen of Arendelle was super nice to offer us a place in her summer magic training camp, and like, what else are we doing for the rest of the summer?” 

“Picking a god and praying,” Evie says grimly. “That this camper won’t fall apart under us halfway to the mountains.”

[fbwzoo]

Okay so!! Ed first bc I have the biggest plans for him, since he's the newest and still needs more improvements. Unfortunately, his are also a bit longer term plans bc due to cost & logistics.

A brief pause to recommend Reptiles & Research's beardie care sheet as the most up to date info if you're looking!

The main thing is more space, for which I have a shorter term plan that I'm 90% sure we can do by end of year to give him at least little more room. Dubia website, which is where his viv is from, has released a 2x2x2 add-on enclosure that can be connected to a 4x2x2. It's around $200, which is fairly workable price-wise, and I'm pretty sure we should be able to make that work space-wise in the animal room!

But, a potential next step up would be the extension kit that links two 4x2x2 vivs together. We have the same viv for Clover hedgie, so in theory, could give both of those to Ed once we lose Clover. But that's hopefully gonna be a while yet, as she's around 4 years, but still healthy and grumpy and plotting Jack's torture for giving her baths & health checks every couple weeks.

However, I'm not sure we can make 8 feet long fit in the animal room, especially not without blocking off a door or some storage space. The back wall is all shelving, and the other 3 walls each have a door on them. I'm gonna measure in the room this week sometime to see what we have to work with. Frankly, I'm fine with blocking off the hallway door or removing the shelving on the wall in favor of animal enclosures, but I may be outvoted.

The longest term plan I have in mind for his space is getting a 6x2x4 viv from Animal Plastics! The snake, hamster, and tenrec vivs are all AP, and I love how sturdy they are. I've had them for at least 6 years & they've been moved once, and they're still great & easy to take apart & put back together. That would also give a lot more height for climbing room, which would be great. It's around $800 for the viv, plus shipping, so that'll take a while to get the money for though.

In the meantime, other smaller plans.... I want to get him switched to loose substrate, which is better for his joints and will let him dig. I'm looking at likely getting the Jurassic Australian sand substrate for that. I think I may start with a dig box in the next few weeks to see what he thinks! I'm out of money this month, so it has to wait on that anyway.

Once I have my tool & machine area cleaned back up, I'm also wanting to work on making some climber stuff for him, but I'm not in a huge rush on that bc he already has a good set up with his branches and such.

Oh, and I've also started looking at expanding his lighting, but major changes on that will likely wait for his forever viv tbh. I'm a bit intimidated by how complicated advanced lighting set ups are still, and I want to make sure I don't overheat his cage or the room. Though I do want to add another LED bar, at least, preferably a Jungle Dawn. Alas, money (they're over $100).

[thelampisaflashlight]

Some mild venting below the cut, nothing too serious, but this makes it easier to scroll past. It's a long one, so just know that if you decide to dive in. Messy family stuff.

So two of my siblings are not really talking right now, they're not fighting, but they aren't in active communication.

For the sake of this post, we're call them Alice and Sue.

Alice is the older of the two -and the eldest sibling of the four of us- and the one who, as I understand it, the main cause of this dead air so to speak.

Out of the lot of us, Alice is the most like our mother in terms of temperament.

This is both a good and a bad thing, and, while not wholly her fault, it does lead to situations such as the one we're currently dealing with; Alice has recently had to leave her house and move into an apartment, and to top it all off, her husband, my brother-in-law, is in the hospital again.

So my aunt, we'll call her Jen, found out about this and offered to help her retrieve her belongings from a storage unit, because my aunt knows better than to undertake this task alone, she asked me if I would be willing to help out.

I said yes, as I haven't seen or talked to my sister in five years -she doesn't have my number, I don't have hers, I have offered to have Jen give it to her, she never got back to me, it is what it is- and figured there are worse ways to waste a Sunday.

Anyway, Sunday came and we had to reschedule last minute because of timing, not a problem, we're doing it this weekend instead.

Well, Aunt Jen asks me to see if I can't find other people to help out, and I say, "Yeah, I'll ask our brother and see if he can swing it."

And then she asks me about Sue.

Now, I already know Alice has issues with Sue, the details of which are... unclear.

The best I can explain it, is that Alice maybe has some resentment towards Sue that doesn't extend to our brother and myself since we're A LOT younger -talking two decades, folks, not one, but two-, whereas Alice and Sue are more or less a year apart.

Pretty much from jump street these two haven't gotten along, and while it may now go both ways, I have been told that hasn't always been the case, but my source on that is biased.

Read: the source is my father, who is neither Alice nor Sue's biological father, this is important for later, and he greatly favors Sue, as Sue was often mistaken for his child, whereas Alice greatly resembles our mom.

Anyway, Aunt Jen suggests the idea of having Sue help move Alice into her new home, and I express to her, not in a roundabout way, that I did not think it would be a good idea.

Which, of course, lead to questions, ones that I couldn't possibly know the answer to, and ones I was uncertain of whether or not *I* should be the one to answer.

Well, Sue found out I was going to help Alice move and she was...

Fine with it?

We talked a bit about it and she asked how long it had been since I'd seen Alice, and we talked a bit about her feelings on things.

Sue was pretty forthcoming with her reasons for not helping Alice, initially joking that she was being petty, but the truth is her reasons are not, how to put it?

They were valid reasons.

From having helped Alice move two times prior, her lack of communication/not initiating conversations, and...

...Not helping with their dad's end of life care and/or involving herself in the discussions about what they would be doing with him, but then delaying the internment indefinitely due to the chosen date not working for her personally.

Basically; Sue is tired of being the one having to reach out, and Alice is not inclined to asking for help/does not offer help when it is requested.

You're allowed to say you don't want to/can't help, but when it's a continued cycle of, "Can you...?" "No." it does tend to cause a rift.

But my aunt Jen doesn't see it that way.

She thought that maybe if Sue helped out this time, that maybe SHE would come around to talking to Alice, and that that would repair things.

I put it kind of bluntly when she asked again today and just said, "I can't be playing the middle man between these two, and I don't think it would be appropriate to force them to interact under stressful circumstances such as this."

Because, really, they might be my sisters, but they're both grown adults with jobs and families of their own, and I'm a twenty-something single nerd whose main priorities right now are not getting sick and being able to afford cat food.

If they want to talk, they'll talk, and if not, it's not my job to nudge them together, nor should it be.

It also does not help that I, too, am somewhat biased towards which sister I "like the best", but that's because one has been more present in my life and helped raise me after our mother passed, so I cannot act as a neutral party either.

It's impossible for me to go, "Well, let's hear both sides-" because I have only known one side of it for most of my life now, and that side almost adopted me when my home life was unstable as a child.

You see what I'm saying?

So when my aunt asked me why they weren't talking, I kept it as neutral as I could manage, coming from the position I am.

I want to help Alice, because she's my sister and she's needs the help, but I'm not going to drag Sue into it, because it wouldn't be good for anyone involved.

I wish I could say I can wash my hands of this situation after Sunday, but I also don't know how Sunday is going to go.

But we'll see.

And that's all you can really do.

[rackartyg]

it continues to astound me how people my age … just kinda don’t know how to use computers. like, i was born in 2001, right? i’m an “older gen z”. what is it they say, “digital natives”? there is a significant portion of my age cohort that is proficient with computers, but the rest just aren’t. and the non-proficient share goes up and up and up the later the birth years get. it’s not that they don’t use information technology, they use it every day, but it’s phones and tablets and, at most, for school, chromebooks, which are computer-shaped but not much else. like, mostly i’m thinking about file systems. people don’t understand them.

i probably wouldn’t either if it weren’t for the fact that since i was a small kid i’ve been into (1) pc gaming and more importantly installing mods for pc games, and (2) writing, starting out with word 2004 as my primary word processor, because my dad had an old license lying around around the time i started writing longer stuff that wasn’t practical to keep in physical notebooks, and only moving on to google docs and cloud storage in my teens, when school forcibly assigned me a chromebook that i HATED because it is literally just a glorified internet terminal. that’s all it does.

like, it was modding minecraft back in 2012 when it was actually a bit difficult that taught me the basics of How Puter Work. so i was wrangling files and directories starting at, like, nine or ten years old. i used the family desktop and it sat at windows xp for so long we skipped vista entirely, because xp was fine and upgrading cost money, until i modded minecraft too hard and it caught fire and we had to replace it lmao

so i’ve always just assumed everyone else my age knew roughly as much as i did, that i wasn’t particularly adept, just kinda lower end of average. but nope! for my age cohort, i’m actually a genius! just the fact that i sometimes have intuitions about what might be wrong, and don’t need to consult the kinda arcane manuals every time, because i’ve troubleshot PCs enough times on my own, makes me a god among mortals. and i’m only slightly exaggerating.

this effect is even more pronounced for my little brother (2004). he knows more than me tbh, especially hardware-wise. and on the software end he has more practical knowledge than me, i’ve gotten kinda complacent. back in the day, i modded our minecraft clients and he set up servers for us on our raspberry pi. (we had to limit the world to a like 500x500 block square otherwise it would melt lol.)

meanwhile his friends can barely manoeuvre chromeOS because they’re used to the even more locked-down iOS. if a program isn’t on the app store, they have no idea how to install it. what’s the ‘downloads directory’. and my friends are like this too! even the very online ones! especially the very online ones! it’s so fucked!

[pearlescent-soda]

🐑//My Young Dragon Headcanons (Spyro Edition):

The man, the myth, the legend, it's Spyro, the most well-known dragon in the Dragon Kingdom, even above the current dragon leaders... even above Bubba. He's loud, cocky, and headstrong, but his enthusiasm can still sometimes bring a smile to the sourest of faces. On the flip side, he's constantly in trouble for something or the other, with 'I can't, I'm grounded' practically becoming his catchphrase. He pushes boundaries on a daily basis with his mischief and, combined with his irresponsibility, often sees him breaking stuff and being punished for it all the time. Man, it must be exhausting being one his guardians.

An Artisan who has yet to find his 'artistic voice', the Artisans are doing their best to ignite his 'artistic spirit', but Spyro is not feeling it. But whenever Marco the Balloonist is in town, he's the first to greet him, so, perhaps there's something for him there. Marco would love to teach Spyro how to operate a hot air balloon, all he needs is the 'go ahead' from Nestor, and he can start teaching.

He's been painfully lonely as long as he could remember, Sparx is his best friend, but he can't exactly play tag or hopscotch with him without his life being endangered. So, when he met dragons his age, he wouldn't leave them alone till he learned everything about them. Flame instantly became his second-best friend behind Sparx, Ember is warming up to him, Cynder couldn't care less, and Zinc absolutely hates his guts.

Definitely has ADD, which he has yet to properly manage. He's fidgety, interrupts others frequently, and is way too impulsive even for a kid. His Elders hope he grows out of it soon, but, uh, that's not how it works. The best anyone can do is be patient with him and give him a schedule or else he'll be all over the place. 'Hey, Gildas, you think I could climb on top of the roof of that castle over there?... You say no, I think yes. Give me, one... two... Five minutes'.

He knows every elder eragon; he can recognize their faces and call them by their names. Though, all of their feelings about him vary with one third spoiling him rotten, two thirds joining his shenanigans, and three thirds giving him actual discipline or doing the best to shoo the pint-sized nuisance away. 'Fine, I'll just go ask [insert lenient dragon elder's name] instead'. They're uncoordinated and they all have their own philosophies that they're trying to drill into him at the same time. The outcome is a spoiled, cocky brat with a heart of gold who has the ability to become friends with anyone, except Gnorcs, of course.

He has, like, five thousand baby pictures with more being discovered every day. There are at least two pictures of him in every Artisan home. Yeah, when he was born there was a 'Baby Boom', an explosion of inspiration that hit the Artisan worlds, dozens of paintings, sculptures and carvings depicting the newborn were everywhere. As he grew older, the pieces started to disappear, and he figured they were thrown out or locked up in storage. Nope, they were sent to other dragons outside of Artisans who couldn't meet him at the Year of the Dragon Festival.

He's not afraid of anything... Is what he'd like the others to believe, but he's still just a kid with an overactive imagination. He's scared of bodies of water and will actively avoid them unless he has to interact with them. That's why he's such a lousy swimmer and watching him try to swim is... Not going to lie, it's pretty funny but the more he meets with Beast Makers, the better he gets at it.

With how much he enjoys ramming things with his horns, it was only a matter of time before something gave. He charged a Gnorc Sentry right in the metal armor and, SNAP, two horns became none. No, dragon horns do not usually grow back, especially if they're completely removed at the base, but Spyro's had a clean break at the mid points. With the help of Beast Makers Bubba and Damon his former spiral horns became the slightly curved ones seen on him today.

[foccaccia]

Hello!! I want to say hi because I see you interact with Rads a lot, and he also told me you love Pokemon \ PMD :)

From your interactions that I noticed on Rads' page, you sound like a nice person to talk to in general, but also... as of late I've been slowly getting into Pokemon ^^"

I played Black last year (loved it, especially N lol), and now I'm finally getting into Mystery Dungeon too (I'm playing the DS version of EoS via homebrew). I wanted to try PMD for years, but it did not click for me until just a few days ago, so... When Rads told me you're talking to him a lot about it, I was like 'omg I could use some advice and just have fun hearing about the game!!'

so yeah, that's why I'm writing this. Have a nice day!!

hi, omg this is so sweet! i LOVE pmd2 eos and im always way too excited to talk about it. my sister and i played it together growing up - we'd do individual missions and grinding and stuff on our own but as soon as plot came we'd close the ds and wait till the other was around so we could both watch what happened. i've played it a billion times since then, i just think it's fun! it has a genuinely good story and smooth and fun, if routine, gameplay.

(i'm a fake pokemon fan though, i havent played a main pokemon game since x/y and i havent FINISHED a game since platinum. i obsess over the side games tho lol. the pmd games, the ranger games, and colosseum my beloveds)

advice-wise, i can give you a few tips without spoilers i think? if anyone wants to add more feel free though!

reviver seeds are your best friends. they are more important than any other item. hoard them. spend all your money on them. my sister always told me i was missing the 'spirit' of the game by going into dungeons with 12 reviver seeds, but when one of your missions is escorting a low-level pokemon through a dungeon and another is fighting a high-level bad guy, you will appreciate the reviver seeds then.

you will eventually encounter monster houses. always carry a petrify orb, foe-stun orb, or some other item that will affect an area of pokemon. you shouldn't get monster houses too early in the game but it doesn't hurt to be prepared.

pmd2 is a kids game, and as such you won't need to heavily grind. still, depending on your comfort level, it can be really nice to have a few extra levels. pmd2 also is a game where plot events are scheduled - meaning if you go on a certain number of missions/otherwise use up a certain amount of in-game days, plot points will automatically occur. if you want more time to complete missions and otherwise level up/goof off, you often don't actually have to go on the plot mission, even if an npc says you do. just do your own thing anyway, it's fine. they'll keep reminding you but whatever, lol

to that last point, sometimes you'll be on longer missions and will be offered two paths to take from area to area. it will be obvious which is the correct one, as the incorrect one will always be labelled as 'foggy path' 'dark path' 'rocky path', etc, ending in 'path'. that one will just send you in a loop. you can take it as many times as you want to level grind. or you can skip them entirely if you want to get on with the game!

save, idk, 3-5 blue gummis in storage if you plan on finishing the game and doing post-game stuff. it isn't game-changing, it really isn't important, but it'll save you some minor time and annoyance.

there's no shame in looking up a guide for the personality test at the very beginning that determines which pokemon you play as. if you enjoy the surprise and/or actually want to align your personality/pokemon type, hell yeah! but there's a fun list of possible pokemon and it can be fun to pick which pokemon/type you like playing best as. personally, i love being riolu, learning focus punch, beefing it up with ginsengs, and destroying all in my path. i'm also weak to eevee, skitty, and shinx, because these four were the two my sister and i played most.

don't be afraid to use your normal (non-pp) attack, but also don't be afraid to use pp attacks. max elixirs aren't hard to come by, but not endless. however, you Will Not make it if you never use pp attacks. you'll find a balance!

you can control the moves your partner uses by switching them on/off in their move menu. if they have no moves selected, theyll default to the normal attack. im pretty sure they dont use normal attack if any pp moves are selected, though? you can also edit their "battle tactics" - eg, whether they follow u, seek out battles, run away, etc. this can be really useful as the only character you yourself fully control is the main character. make sure ur partner saves their low-pp high-attack moves for important situations, etc.

this isn't a NECESSITY but it helps if you and your partner are well-balanced or at least not exactly the same type-wise. it'll be just you two a lot, and you'll save yourself a lot of trouble if you picked a partner pokemon whose type balances out yours so you're not struggling through certain dungeons.

if you're using an emulator, save states are lovely, especially since dunegons are all randomly generated, but i know some people consider it cheating and don't like it. up to you!

there will be randomly encountered shopkeeper kecleons in dungeons. unless you can get to the stairs IMMEDIATELY, do not steal from them. jesus christ do not. or at least prepare to reload the game or give up on the dungeon.

if you can, take a bunch of missions at once in the same dungeon and just blast through them all in one trip.

play with the music up if you can! it has a deceptively incredible soundtrack.

i think that's enough to be dangerous with! there's more i could add, but honestly this game is pretty straightforward. if you have any specific questions, feel free to ask! this game means a lot to me, nostalgia-wise, and i genuinely love the story and the characters. just let yourself feel out what your favorite play style is. some people like bigger exploration teams and some don't, some people use every amenity in treasure town and some don't, everyone prefers different items and moves. but in the end, it's a kids game, and i know you'll do just fine!

[imagionationstation]

How does Wattpad handle copy/pasting stuff from other docs? I haven't used it before. But to avoid the problem you described, I usually write my fic in either a google doc or OpenOffice, then transfer it over and adjust formatting where needed.

From what I've heard, the save changes function of Wattpad seems to be pretty lackluster and easily glitches, so maybe something to consider?

Sorry if this is unsolicited advice. I've been in similar situations before, though, and I know it sucks lol

Wattpad handles copy/pastes just fine as long as the wifi is good.

I write on a portable device, and using the online Docs makes writing way more of a struggle than need be. Most of my turtle fics are on Wattpad, because it’s convenient and easy to access on-the-go. Downloading Docs eats up more storage than I’m willing to give up.

Wattpad usually works really well for me. It’s my screen that has been really glitchy lately, which worries me…

I’m also a tad OCD-ish about my writing, and there’s something about writing on Wattpad and the way the fonts look that just work for me…? I can’t explain why, honestly.

I’ve been using Wattpad for years, and other than some accidental postings that I can quickly reverse, I’ve had little issue. I think the last time I accidentally deleted a chapter was around 2021? Maybe?

I hate losing work. It hurts :’)

Thank you for the advice and sympathy. It’s appreciated ❤️‍🩹

[havnblog]

Early Mac Mini Takes From Someone Who’ll Probably Get One

For a while now, I’ve thought that I’ll most likely get a Mac mini when it gets refreshed. My intended use case is pretty specific — and not as my main computer:

Connecting some external storage, and using it for

backups,

and as a media server. (Jellyfin, perhaps?)

**Maybe use it for some smart home stuff. **

And I’ll also connect it to my TV, via HDMI, for some light big-screen gaming. (Like UFO 50! But also things that I want to play with a controller that’ll run at least as well as on my M1 Pro 16 GB laptop.).

Thoughts regarding my use case

I got to say, the update is pretty perfect for me. The new form-factor is great for my TV furniture, and I can probably get by with the absolute cheapest one. The only upgrades I’m considering, is 24 GB RAM and 10 Gigabit Ethernet. Would love input on this!

General thoughts

In general, I think this is a great update at a good price. And at last we’re finally out of the 8 GB hole! 256 GB is pretty rough, though… But it’s OK for me! So, in principle, if Apple had non-criminal upgrade pricing, I wouldn’t mind it starting that low. But they don’t.

They made the right choices regarding the ports

The new Mini has the following ports on the back:

3x Thunderbolt 4/5

HDMI

Ethernet

Power

And the following in the front:

2x USB-C

Mini-jack

There are two questions we need to look at:

How many ports should the enclosure size account for?

And then, which ports should those be, and where?

Partially I think, in a world where the Mac Studio exists, they went for a sensible size and port number (9 — one more than the M2 Mini, and one less than the M2 Pro). It’s OK to disagree with that — but I think we have to keep that separate from the port types and placement.

I’ve seen some disappointment voiced about the jack being on the front. And while I have zero issues with someone preferring that for their specific setup, I still think it’s wrong to say that Apple made the wrong choice for the majority of people. For those with speakers connected permanently, there are _so _many options for connection. And which port on the back should’ve been moved to the front instead, then?

I also think it would’ve been a travesty if they sacrificed USB-C ports for USB-A ones. Just get over it…

The power button placement is fine

I mean, it uses very little power while in sleeping, so how often do you need to turn it off? And it’ll probably be OK to reach anyway. (Remember that the back of the Mac will be closer to you than with the last one, as the footprint is smaller.)

I’ll have to think about it some more, but I think this will be my next purchase. And I think this will be a great Mac for many people for many years.

[thisaintascenereviews]

Spencer Sutherland - The Drama

There’s been a lot of studies done on how once people reach a certain age, they stop listening to new music, mostly because they just get comfortable in what they like, and they don’t have any storage in their brains for anything new. I can understand that, because as much as it pains me to say, I’m getting that way. Now to be fair, I listen to a lot of new music still, and I enjoy quite a bit of it, but I only listen to a few genres these days. I know what genres I mainly like, but some genres I used to like I don’t really listen to anymore, whether it’s because I don’t like a lot of the new stuff I’ve heard, or because I’ve become pickier. I think it’s the latter, but pop music just doesn’t hit the same as it used to. I still try to listen to it, like how I listened to the new Lady Gaga album a couple of weeks ago, but it didn’t quite connect with me as much as I wanted to.

Just a couple of weeks later, the sophomore album from Spencer Sutherland came out, entitled The Drama, and I was looking forward to this for a couple of reasons — I really enjoyed his debut album from last year, and he doubled down on a sound from that album I really liked. That sound would be a 1970s glam-rock sound, akin to David Bowie and Elton John, and he spent the last few months teasing the record, along with dropping a few songs from it and they were relatively interesting. I haven’t listened to a lot of pop music this year, but this was something on my radar, so how is this album? I’ve spent the last five days with it, and this album is okay, honestly.

Remember what I said about Rain City Drive’s new album and how their vocalist carries that album but in a good way? This is more in line with how Mitchell Tenpenny carried his new album, but this isn’t a bad, boring, or forgettable album. It’s just kind of okay, but the one real good thing is Sutherland’s vocals. He’s got a killer voice and he uses it here, so it doesn’t go unwasted, but the songs themselves are fine yet bland at the same time. They all sound the same, too, like they’ve got the same kind of over the top and melodramatic glam-rock/pop sound, so the hooks don’t resonate. I’ve listened to this five times, and each time I expect the hooks to sink in, but they don’t at all.

The good thing is that this album is only 35 minutes, but at the same time, there are 14 songs here, and hardly any song (if any at all) reach 3 minutes. Most of these songs feel halfbaked, so they don’t get a chance to let their hooks sink in. If the album itself doesn’t care about its hooks, why should I? I’m not saying I don’t care, but still, the album doesn’t feel like it’s done in that respect. The songs are so short, that they come and go without warning, and just when they get started, they end. The lyrics also leave a lot to be desired, too, because they amount to nothing, and that’s such a bummer to say, but it happens.

If you want a good pop album, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, but if you want something great or amazing, you’ll be disappointed, I think. It’s got some great vocal performances, but that’s all it has. I just don’t remember anything about it, unfortunately, and it just hasn’t stuck, which I guess is a bummer to me, because I liked his last album a lot. I don’t know, folks, I don’t listen to a lot of pop music anymore, so I wasn’t expecting anything truly great here, although I still wanted to be surprised. Truthfully, this isn’t half bad at all, but it’s not an album that I’m going back to whatsoever. It’s not one of the worst of the year, or anything, but it’s far from the best, unfortunately.