#cracks my knuckles... bee skills come back to me

[gallawitchxx]

Hey Bee! I had a question arising from the last chapter of An Exception to the Rule, and I thought I would ask you here so you can take the tumblrinas to witchy school if you so desire.

[Spoilers? Ahead]

Liza, when she puts out the spread says 'have we ever done it in as few as four before?' and then later once Mickey says ok she says 'Alright, so we did it in 7. Not bad!'

and it has me wondering, is there some particular outcome you are trying to achieve when reading? What is the 'it' she is talking about? Is it Mickey's acceptance? Is it an understanding of what the cards are telling them?

It seemed like an interesting thing to me that she would be trying to do 'it' in as few cards as possible, and not something I have ever come across before.

Thaaaanks and I love your story and you and witchy mickey ok byeeee 🖤

HOWL! my love, my dear! 🖤 love love love this question!

for those who haven't checked out chapter 4 of an exception to the rule, it's ok, you're right on time, just click here 🔮

*cracks knuckles*

*fires up slideshow presentation*

*spouts off about witchy goodness under the cut*

liza & mickey

yes, they like to mess around & play off of each other, but both of them strike me as folks who deeply trust the space created in a reading because they've had personal experiences that've led them to connect with the cards & "believe" in it all. working together with the cards has saved both of their lives as its allowed them to process & heal & step back into their own personal power--i may be so inclined to write mickey's first reading with liza during his angry little kitten phase!!!

that all being said, the card count thing came through as a cheeky joke between the two of them because while they love what they do, neither of them are the type to beat around the bush. they both enjoy a more straightforward reading, so the idea that they'd only need the initial spread was kind of a fun like, wow that was so to the point--ian's the sun, it'll be good if you can let it be, there's some literal poetic justice here & also you may roll your eyes, but it's a wish granted. bada bing! bada boom! 💥

then, it felt right to have her mention the actual count at the end, but it was also a nod to 7--my personal lucky number that i've already weaved into the story. (77 was the page number of the bay leaf spell in the witchcraft book!)

IRL

in a real card reading there is no limit to or standard of how may cards get used & there's absolutely no prize for doing it in fewer cards. i actually think that counting cards in that way could become ethically unsound & more about the ego/perceived skills of the reader instead of servicing the client's needs.

the IT though that you reference is quite real & it varies from reading to reading. generally speaking, there's a moment (or you hope for one!) where all parties feel that the reading is complete.

sometimes yes, it comes when the client feels satisfied. mickey's final "okay" signaled to liza that he had gotten what he needed & she was in the clear to wrap things up. other times, i have felt the energy shift when whoever the client is communicating with reaches a point where they feel they've said everything.

most typically though, i steer us to that IT when i notice the clock is ticking & we're running out of time 😉

there's never a desired outcome because cards are like mini therapy sessions & it can be hard to always wrap them up in a tidy bow. but i do like for folks to walk away with some sense of validation/assuredness/support in what's known & unknown, as well as have many more questions to walk away with to sit & reflect on.

- - - - -

WOOF. i hope you enjoyed that witchy novel & i hope that spoke to what you were getting after!

thank you for reading & for loving witchy!mickey & liza. they're both quickly becoming so important to me 🥺🥺🥺

[itsanerdlife]

Come Back to Me 12/20

Pairing: Clint Barton x Coulson’s Daughter!Reader

Warning: Angst. Drama. Struggles. Violence? Lying. Anger. Soul shattering ache in your chest. Self hate. Doubts. Plot twist!

Playlist

Everything slips right through his hands in the blink of an eye. Clint Barton can fix anything. World Ending? Save it. Bad Guys? Take ‘em out. The love of his life, his soul mate, forgetting their whole relationship? Fight even harder. She might not remember what they have. She might be confused, lost, scared, but it’ll be a cold day in hell if she thinks he’ll give up that easy. He’ll do anything he has too. Help her remember, or make her fall in love with him, all over again. But what if it’s not him that she’s getting close to this time? What if it’s a losing fight? Is he supposed to watch the woman he loves, fall for someone else? Like hell, is he letting that happen.

Tag List Is Open!!

A Week Later

When he woke the next morning, she was already gone. He sat waiting for his coffee to brew when a text appears on his phone.

Y/N: Going to breakfast with Nat and Wanda. Didn’t want to wake you. Clint: Have fun. Y/N: Thanks.

“Four years and we’ve come down to barely sentences.” He sighs, nodding. He pours coffee into a travel mug, grabbing his headphones and gym bag he leaves as well.

He steps into the simulator room, letting the doors slide shut behind him. A room Stark built to push Steve, Nat and himself, with their target practice. The targets hologram and move on whim, the room shifts as well. Floor rises and the walls shift for covering, everything they would need for testing their strength.

Also, the perfect room to distract himself, and take out his strange aggression and fear. The tension between him and Y/N they were tip toeing around. He slips in his head phones, nudging up the volume. Slipping his arrow in place, he cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders. 

“Ready.” He calls to FRIDAY. 

Sweat clings his T-shirt to his body, there’s that thrilling adrenaline high, controlled breathes as he fires around the corner. Stepping out he checks, knowing there was another, somewhere, waiting. Arrow in hand, he grips it, the knowing in the back of his mind. He spins the arrow between his fingers and jams it backwards. The hologram splinters when he glances back.

“You have an onlooker Agent Barton.” FRIDAY announces. His brow pulls down. Looking up, Y/N sat in the little overview window. He hadn’t noticed she arrived. She gives a small wave, looking a little unsure. He smiles back.

“How long has she been there FRIDAY?” He wonders, collecting a new quiver.

“About two hours Sir.” She replies.

“How long have I been in here?” He looks around.

“Four hours. Nine quivers and four bows.”

“Huh. Another round than?” He chuckles.

“I’ll get you Sir. One of these times.” He laughs, settling up once more.

“Bring it.” 

------ 

You sat in the observation window, watching Clint train. It’s rather something wild to watch. You knew he wasn’t enhanced, but his skill level was marvelous and mind blowing. Your head comes up as someone steps up beside you.

“Thought I’d find you here.” Wanda smiles sitting with you.

“Really?” Your brow pulls in.

“This is something you used to do a lot.” She nods, looking out the window as Clint dives around the room.

“I have no idea how I ended up here.” You admit with a small sigh. “I just found myself coming here.” You shrug.

“Your body knows, your brain just hasn’t gotten the message.” She smiles at you.

“It’s hard for me. Being around him.” You sigh.

“Why?”

“Because he knows me. He loves me. I know I love him, but I don’t know him. I feel like I’m just hurting him over and over.” You chew your bottom lip.

“I know Clint, I’ve seen him love you, I’ve seen you love him. He’s had four strong years of loving you so deeply it was like breathing. He can take a little heartache while you heal.” She reaches over, squeezing your hand.

“It’s the feelings that confuse me.” You run a hand through your hair. “When I’m with him, when I see him.” You swallow. “Wow. I can’t even explain it. Everything lights up, I’ve never had that before. But it doesn’t connect to my brain. That scares me, confuses me.”

“Maybe get to know him again?” She shrugs.

“But how do I get to know someone, when I don’t know myself?” You wonder.

“Have you thought to talk to Peter? He lost someone, and he got off track as well. He might be able to help you.” She offers. “I’ve never lost a significant other. Only Pietro and my parents. It’s not the same, they’re all very different types of pain.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing, I just feel like I’m hurting people every time I turn around.” You spoke softly.

“We’re scared you’ll leave. That you’ll go away and you won’t want to remember us.” She admits softly.

“Go away?” Your brow pulls in.

“The Farm house or leave the Avengers for good. You’re apart of our family, and we don’t know what this means for you right now.”

“I feel like I’m supposed to be here.” You shrug.

“And that’s confusing to you.” She nods.

“Very.”

“Talk to Peter. He might help.” She pats your hand, before she gets up leaving you to watch Clint. 

---- 

He’s dragging a towel over his wet hair as he comes into the living room. He flashes you a smile before dropping into the arm chair. You tuck your feet under you, setting your phone down.

“You’re rather talented.” You smile.

“Just good with a bow and arrow.” He smirks, shrugging.

“So apparently I watch you practice often?” You lift a brow.

“When you’re not training yourself or busy terrorizing Tony.” He chuckles.

“That’s why FRIDAY alerted my presence when I walked down the hall.” You nod.

“You’re on Tony’s don’t trust list. You and Nat.” He nods, smiling.

“I’m a mean girl.” You nod, smirking to yourself.

“You are.” He grins.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why did my dad pick you, of all people to know about me?” He chews the inside of his cheek, thinking it over.

“Because he trusted me to take care of you, or find you. If anything happened to you or him.” He nods.

“I can understand that.” You nod slowly.

“You can?” His brow pulls in.

“You’ll either make me fall in love with you again, or you’ll get my memories back. It wasn’t a promise, it was a written in stone warning.” You nod, watching him.

“Unless, unless you want out.” He swallows, looking down at the towel in his lap.

“Out?” Your head tips.

“If you want, we can part ways. I can move out, I’ll leave you alone, let you rebuild yourself the way you want too. If you want.” He nods once.

“Oh.” Your face falls, dropping your gaze to your lap.

“I don’t want that. But if you do, I’ll give you whatever you want.” He adds.

“I don’t, I don’t know what I want. I just know what I feel.” You brush your knuckles at the tear falling.

“Can you tell me what you feel? I don’t know what you feel or what you’re thinking.” He spokes softly to you.

“I love you, I just don’t know you. It’s scary. I feel like I’m breaking you because I’m not where you are. I’m on date two and you’re four years ahead of me. I feel guilty cause it hurts you.” You brush at the tears. Clint is suddenly sitting next to you. He hesitates to touch you.

You can’t explain it. Why you do it, but you launch yourself into his arms. Knocking the both of you back onto the couch. He chuckles softly, wrapping you up in his arms.

“It’s okay. If you have to hurt me to find yourself again, I can take it.” He kisses the top of your head. 

Your head rests on his shoulder, curled up to the side of him. Neither of you move, you were pretty sure neither of you wanted to separate. You didn’t understand it, a miss connection in your brain, but being right there, with Clint. It felt like the world wasn’t sitting on your chest, like things just might be okay again.

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

Everything Peaches 9/3/19 @mo320​ @ml7010​ @courtmr​ @avxgers​ @eliza-kat​ @irepeldirt​ @jordan-ia​ @jcc04220​ @dumblani​ @allyp1023​ @joannie95​ @rogvewitch​ @rileyloves5​ @sarahp879​ @sexyvixen7​ @doctoranon​ @abschaffer2​ @tony-stank3​ @tomhardy41​ @bookluver01​ @drayshadow​ @teller258316​ @wandressfox​ @cutekittybast​ @xoxabs88xox​ @amandab-ftw​ @carostar2020​ @thelostallycat​ @henrietteoaks​ @nea90sweetie​ @circusofchaos​ @bettercallsabs​ @miraclesoflove​ @queenkrissy11​ @shield-agent78​ @elite4cekalyma​ @sadyoungadult​ @destiel-artemis​ @isabelcrichards​ @iwillbeinmynest​ @sweet-honey15​ @scooby-doodoo​ @chanelmadrid13​ @killerbumblebee​ @spookygrantaire​ @geeksareunique​ @supernatural508​ @itzmegaaaaaaan​ @optimistic-babes​ @elizabethaellison​ @rainbowkisses31​ @aspiringtranslator​ @mariekoukie6661​ @pure-princess-97​ @capsheadquaters​ @youclickedthislink​ @futuremrsb-r-main​ @lovemarvelousfics​ @notyourtypicalrose​ @petersunderoos96​ @loving-life-my-way​ @jesseswartzwelder​ @itsy-bitsy-spidergirl​ @buckystolemyheart​ @booktvmoviefangirl​ @thatpeachybandgirl​ @supernatural-girl97​ @abbypalmer14-blog​ @thefridgeismybestie​ @eggingamazinglove​ @deathofmissjackson​ @awkwardfangirl2014​ @muffininahandbasket​ @queenoftheunderdark​ @perpetually-tuned-out​ @laneygthememequeen​ @writingaworldofmyown​ @death-unbecomes-you​ @shann-the-artist-moon​ @supernaturallover2002​ @daughterofthenight117​ @mcuwillbethedeathofme​ @verymuchclosetedfangirl​ @for-the-love-of-the-fandom​ @ocaptain-mycaptainmorgan​ @crazy-little-thing-called-buck​ @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked​ @stupendoussciencenaturepanda​ @supernatural-strangerthings-1980​

Clint ‘Destory Me, I’ll Thank You’ Barton: @ml7010​ @sfreeborn​ @tanelle83​ @coley0823​ @xxloki81xx​ @boltsgirl919​ @carissime72​ @katpatrova17​ @honey-bee-holly​ @marvelfansworld​ @badassbeckettswan​ @fallinginlovewithqueue​ @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​

CBTM:

@lakamaa12​ @alina-barnes​ @one-of-castiels​ @notyourtypicalrose​ @thecaptainsgingersnap​ @astudyoftimeywimeystuff​ @thedoctorlivesthroughbooks​ @jamesbarnesappreciationclub​

[orangeoctopi7]

Family Fun Day

The latest chapter of the Spider Stan AU is here!

Stanford came down to breakfast well-rested and refreshed Saturday morning. Fiddleford was supposed to get back tomorrow night and while Ford was still hurt that his best friend would lie to him, he was eager to finally start making some headway on the portal project. Stan, on the other hand, came into the kitchen looking as disheveled as his brother had ever seen him. There were dark bags under his eyes, and he was still wearing the same clothes he’d had on last night, now wrinkled as an old man. Ford figured this was approximately what he himself had looked like during finals week in college.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” The researcher asked his brother.

Stan gave a negative grunt and made a bee-line for the coffee maker.

“What kept you up?” Ford asked curiously.

His brother shrugged. “Readin’.”

“That’s… not like you.”

“Uh… couldn’t sleep. Started reading through some of your nerd stuff, hoping it’d bore me to sleep. Didn’t work.” Stan crossed his arms and glared at an innocuous spot on the ceiling.

“Oh. Well, if you need help sleeping in the future, I’ve developed some meditation techniques that have helped me.”

Stan took several long slurps of coffee and a few mouthfuls of cold cereal before responding. “Nah. I’m just too stressed.”

“Yes, meditation is meant to help with that.”

“We both been workin’ too hard! We needa take a day off and have some fun!” Stan continued right over his brother’s comment on meditation. “McWhozit’s been havin’ fun in California this whole time, playin’ with his kid, makin’ love to his wife. We deserve a break too!”

“I thought we had fun the other day while we were weight-testing the web shooters.”

“Well, sure, but that was mixin’ work an’ pleasure. I mean actually taking a break . No tests, no studies, no scientific observation. When’s the last time you did that?”

“Well, there was the night I spent at the Corduroy's cabin… although, it turned out to be haunted. I learned a great deal about ghosts, though.”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, that. That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talkin’ about. Even when you’re supposed to be takin’ it easy, you end up doing research and/or almost dying. But not today! I officially declare this Family Fun Day! I’m gonna make sure you take a break. What do you do for fun in this hick town?”

Ford rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well… there’s an arcade downtown. I hear they just got a new, cutting-edge game!”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Ugh, nerd stuff.”

“Oh, come on, there’s plenty of games where you punch things! You’ll love it!”

“Alright, fine. If that’s what you really wanna do, I’ll give it a shot.”

* * *

The arcade was small, dark, and noisy. Stan was honestly surprised his brother liked it here. He remembered his brother liking quiet, brightly lit places, like the window seat at the library, or an empty beach. The arcade was… overstimulating.

First, Ford dragged him over to what was apparently the newest and most popular game in the whole place. The art on the side of the cabinet showed a gorilla carrying off a damsel in distress, chased by a guy with a red hat and big mustache. It reminded Stan of one of his favorite Harry Claymore movies. Unfortunately, it seemed like every kid and nerd in town wanted to play this game.

“They really should devise a system where they can call up your number when it’s your turn to play.” Ford grumbled as he looked at the long line crowded around the console. “Well, I’m fairly sure that’s just a single-player anyway. Let’s find something cooperative.”

“Um, ok.” Stan followed his brother to another cabinet with no line. It was painted black, with the words BIRD FIGHT written in fancy script at the top, and a knight riding a beautiful white bird flying across the side. Stan watched the pixels move across the screen. “So in this game, you play as a sword-wielding knight… riding a swan?”

Ford scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “I know it’s silly, but it’s a really fun cooperative game.”

“Are you kidding?” Stan laughed. “That’s the most intimidating thing I’ve ever seen! I tried to break into a mansion with swans on the grounds once. They gave me way more trouble than any guard dog ever did. I almost lost an eye!”

Stan struggled to learn the controls, despite Ford’s efforts to explain them to him. It had a control stick, but it only went left or right. To fly, you had to repeatedly tap the button to flap the swan’s wings. Stop flapping, and you would slowly descend.

“This is dumb.” Stan complained as he died a second time. “Why can’t I go up and down usin’ the stick thing? And how’d my guy get all the way on the other side of the screen all of a sudden!?”

“It’s a wrap around.” Ford replied, as though that meant something.

They made it through the first wave of enemies, mostly thanks to Ford, but it wasn’t long until Stan lost all four of his lives and he was stuck just watching his brother play, because he refused to waste more quarters on this thing. “This is too complicated.” He huffed.

“Well, let’s play something a little simpler.” Ford suggested. They wandered to the back of the arcade, Ford looking over all the different options, trying to decide which one Stan would enjoy. A light gray-and-black cabinet in a dark corner caught his eye. “Hmm, I haven’t seen this one before… Corner of Contradiction? Looks like a beat-em-up, I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”

The controls were certainly more straightforward than Bird Fight. There was a control stick to move your character around the screen, one button labeled “PUNCH”, the other labeled “JUMP”. Enemies always came in from the right side of the screen, so Stan didn’t have to split his attention as much either. He definitely took to this one much more quickly than the last game, but he was still clearly lagging behind Ford in skill. They made it through a whole level before Stan finally ran out of lives again, and Ford knelt down to add some more quarters to allow him to continue playing.

“Oh, what’s this?” The researcher paused when something caught his eye. When he stood back up, he was holding a small scrap of paper with some sort of symbols scribbled onto it. “Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A…” He read out loud. “I suppose B could be the jump button…” Ford input the code, and suddenly both of their life counters read 30. “Fantastic!”

Stan groaned. “We’re gonna spend all day playin’ this game!”

“Aren’t you having fun?” Ford shot him a concerned glance.

“Well sure, but I don’t wanna stay here playin’ this one game through 30 lives, even if I am losing three of them a minute!”

Ford smirked. “You’re just jealous that I’m actually better than you at fighting for once.”

“Please.” Stan scoffed. “Pushin’ a button isn’t fighting. If any of these games were anything like real fighting, I’d cream you.”

Ford’s face lit up. “I think I know just the game!” Once again, he led Stan through the arcade, this time coming to a stop at a very old game cabinet decorated like the American Flag. Instead of buttons or a control stick, it had two red boxing gloves attached to levers. PIXELWEIGHT CHAMP by SHMEGA the sign at the top read.

Stan grinned and cracked his knuckles. “Now this is more like it!”

The gloves were a little small, obviously meant for children, but Stan managed to squeeze his hands in. It wasn’t exactly like real boxing, but he still preferred it to the clunky control sticks and buttons of the other games. This game could tell if he was punching up, down, or even swinging a hook! Ford, for his part, seemed happy to just stand and watch his brother play for a while.

Stan made it through several bouts before finally reaching the final boss. It was the first opponent the game had thrown at him that really gave him any trouble. It kept on dodging every blow he aimed at the computerized contender. Finally, in a fit of frustration, he fell back on his signature move.

“Left Hook!” he shouted.

The left-hand controller ripped out of the cabinet with a metallic shriek and a sputter of sparks.

The twins gaped at the broken and now lightly smoking game before them.

“Time to go.” Stan said quickly, dropping the broken controller on the floor.

“Agreed.”

* * *

“Welp, that was a disaster.” Stan grunted as they sped away in his car. “Hopefully nobody calls the cops.”

“Perhaps, but at least I finally found a game you had fun with.” Ford smiled as he jotted down the cheat code he’d learned earlier in his Journal.

“Yeah, but now we got nothin’ to do for the rest of the day. Yeesh, this car is like an oven.” Stan griped, rolling down the windows. “There a pool in this town?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t recommend we go there.” Ford made a disgusted face. “It’s not exactly sanitary and I have reason to believe one of the life guards is a berserker.”

Stan grimaced. “Yeah, public pools are basically like underwater public busses. But it’s just so stinkin’ hot!”

Ford flipped absentmindedly through his Journal, suddenly stopping when a particular page caught his eye. “We should go to the beach!”

“I ain’t drivin three hours back to Portland just for the beach.”

“No, the beach at Lake Gravity Falls. It’s not exactly like the beach we grew up with but… it does remind me of home.”

“Alright, beach it is! Let’s swing back to your place and grab some swim stuff.”

* * *

The lakeside beach was very different from Glass Shard Beach. For one, it smelled a lot better. The shade of the surrounding cliffs and trees were much welcomed relief from the burning sun. Still, the gentle lapping waves of the lake were nothing compared to the majesty of the ocean. Ford didn’t have an extra pair of swim trunks, so Stan had to acquire some from the nearby bait and tackle shop while his brother wasn’t looking.

“Strange.” Ford mused as he observed the deserted lakeshore. “Given the extreme temperatures and the impending start of the school year, I expected this place to be packed.”

“It was, this mornin’.” The grizzled old lady who ran the bait and tackle shop wheezed ominously. “But somethin’ washed ashore that spooked ‘em all away!”

“What was it?” The researcher asked excitedly.

“Oh no you don’t!” Stan grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back. “Family Fun Day, remember?”

“A giant tooth!” The woman cackled.

“Stanley, come on!” Ford pleaded.

“You need a break, genius!”

“Wasn’t this morning at the arcade enough?”

“Nope. Not for how long you’ve been without one. Now put on some sunblock. This tooth thingy will still be there tomorrow.”

“I bet you twenty dollars it won’t.”

“You should really know better than to bet against me by now.”

* * *

Stan found them a spot on the beach with plenty of shade from a large tree, with plenty of branches hanging over the water, and a couple of large fallen logs that made a good place to sit and leave their stuff without getting sand in everything.

“Y’know, it’s a good thing nobody else is here. Cuz look what I brought!” Stan pulled out one of the web shooters. “The world’s greatest rope swing!”

When Ford didn’t answer, he looked up to see his brother standing on the taller of the two logs, a pair of binoculars in hand, staring at a spot about a mile up the beach where Stan could see the giant tooth the old lady had mentioned. It was easily the size of his car. Ford stuffed the binoculars in his pocket, started a quick sketch in his Journal, and picked them up again for another look. Stan rolled his eyes with a sigh, put on the web shooter, and thwiped a line onto the binoculars, yanking them away with a flick of his wrist.

“Hey!” Ford whined.

“Hey yourself. We’re here to have fun, remember?”

“This is fun to me!” the researcher steamed.

“I know, nerd, but if you keep on working every day without takin’ a break every once in a while, even if it is fun for you, you’re gonna run yourself ragged!”

Ford grumbled, but he couldn’t help but see the sense in his brother’s words. He really hadn’t stopped studying and exploring and theorizing in the past six and a half years, not even for a day. And yet before Bill had proposed the idea of discovering the dimension of weirdness, he’d felt stuck in a rut. He still did, in some respects. Could it be due to burnout?

Still, he wasn’t about to tell Stan he was right. He put his Journal down with a beleaguered sigh. “It’s probably just something to do with the height-altering crystals.” He then looked up with a grin. “So, are you proposing a jumping contest?”

“You know it!” Stan shot a line up to the highest sturdy branch he could find hanging over the lake. “So, has this gauntlet got like, I dunno, a quick release button or something?”

“Actually, it should be waterproof.”

“Should be?”

“Well, I never got around to testing it.”

“Why does that not surprise me? Alright, I’ll take first swing.”

“Why do you get the first swing?” Ford protested.

“Because I’m the one who’s used these things the most, and I’m the most likely to survive if something goes wrong.”

The researcher rolled his eyes, but let his brother proceed with the first swing. Stan ran down the beach, lept off one of the logs, and let the line swing him over the water, where he released the line and sailed forward into the lake with a resounding splash.

“How was that?” Stan asked as soon as he poked his head back out of the water.

“Amateurish!” Ford grinned smugly. “You weren’t even close to the maximum distance of your swing, and your release arc was shallow.”

“Alright, Dr. Physics, let’s see you do better!” Stan splashed him and then threw the web shooter to the shore.

Ford ran along the largest log, leaping off the end towards the water before firing the web shooter up at a high branch. The line held fast, and whipped him out over the water. Just at the farthest point of the pendulum swing, Ford swung his legs out for a little more momentum, then released the line, throwing himself in a long arc before finally crashing down into the lake. He’d almost doubled Stan’s distance.

“Hah!” Ford laughed triumphantly as he swam back to shore.

“Pch, I can do that.” Stan scoffed.

“Well then, why didn’t you?”

“Cuz I didn’t know how until you just showed me, genius.”

Stan’s second attempt followed Ford’s example. He ran along the log and jumped into the air, but he could jump much higher than his brother, and his enhanced senses allowed him to pinpoint exactly where the best place to anchor for his line would be in that split-second of air-time. As the line stretched over the water, Stan shifted his weight and his grip, basically throwing himself off the end of the swing. He practically flew over the water before splashing down, easily doubling his brother’s distance.

“The student has become the master.” Stan grinned when he saw Ford’s shocked expression. They continued to use the web shooters as a rope swing for another couple of hours, each of them improving their techniques to go higher and farther each time, although Ford could never beat Stan’s distance again. Eventually, the researcher gave up on improving his own distance, and set about figuring out how to help Stan break his own record.

“It’s all about momentum.” Ford explained. “You’ve already perfected throwing yourself off the line at the farthest point of the pendulum’s swing, in order to produce the farthest arc you can. In order for you to reach even further into the lake, you’ll need more momentum, and at this point, the best way to add more momentum is to chain together more swings.”

“So, like we were doin’ in the forest a few days ago?”

“Exactly.”

Stan felt his stomach churn at the memory of how the branch had snapped, how he’d unexpectedly started falling. He wasn’t exactly afraid of heights anymore… he was just afraid of being up high and something going wrong. Still, he’d really gotten the hang of swinging today, and chances were even if something did go wrong, he’d just splash down into the lake. That would be fine.

“Ok, I’ll give it a shot.”

Stan climbed up one of the big pine trees a few yards back from the beach, found a sturdy branch to stand on, picked out his first anchor, and leapt into the air. Time seemed to slow down as he reached the end of his first swing. He picked out another anchor over the lake, released his first line, and swung out above the water. He could feel his own weight pulling him forward even as he came to the end of his rope, the momentum Ford had been going on about. Stan just shifted to let the weight carry him on further, and let go of the line. The air rushed past him as he continued up another foot before gravity finally started to overcome his forward motion. When he finally splashed into the water, he was so far from the shore, his brother looked like a little doll.

“Hah, I’m gonna be half-way into the lake if I go any further!” Stan laughed when he finally made it back to shore.

“You probably could, if you got swinging fast enough. Or if we added more weight.”

“More weight, huh?” Stan mused.

“I suppose we could stick water bottles to you, like we did with the car, although I fear that may increase the risk of a bad belly-flop….” Ford trailed off as he saw his brother grinning mischievously at him. “What?”

“I know a way we can double our weight.”

“‘We’? Oh no, no, no, no. No!”

* * *

“The greatest mystery is how I let you talk me into these things.” Ford grumbled, clinging to his brother’s back like a baby monkey.

“Quit your whining, I’m the one who’s afraid of heights.”

“...I honestly thought you were over that. What with the climbing buildings and all.”

“Eh, it’s complicated. I’m still not great with heights, but if I have something sturdy to hold onto or a reliable way to catch myself, it doesn’t bother me as much.”

They reached the large branch that Stan had used for a jumping-off platform before. Stan lined up his first anchor while Ford tried his best not to throw his brother off-balance. “You ready?” The Spider Man asked.

Ford took a deep breath before nodding. “Ready.”

At first, it wasn’t too different from the rope swing, except now he was holding onto his brother’s shoulders for dear life. Then they reached the end of the first pendulum swing and Ford felt his stomach leap up as they briefly achieved weightlessness. Then the forward yank of the next line set his heart racing as they shot up, over the water. There was one final moment of weightlessness, and Ford let out a holler of delight before finally dunking into the water.

It was better than any roller-coaster.

They came up out of the water gasping and laughing, splashing and shouting with triumph. It wasn’t exactly half-way into the lake, but they’d certainly gone farther than ever before. Unfortunately, that also meant it was a much farther swim back to shore. By the time they got back, the sun was starting to set.

“Welp, better lay down and dry off in the sun while we still can.” Stan mused, pulling off the web shooter and trying to find a spot on the log that wasn’t covered in shade.

“Actually, I think I know a faster way to dry off.” Ford picked up the gauntlet and gave his brother a significant look.

“Really, you wanna go again?”

“Just the swinging bit. The air rushing past us will dry us off in no time.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Alright, if you’re sure.”

The second time wasn’t nearly as scary to Ford, although he got the feeling Stan was still a little apprehensive about swinging with a passenger. Still, they swung through the trees together with little problem. It was thrilling. And while it certainly dried them off, the rushing air coupled with the dropping air temperature presented a new problem.

“Cccold!” Stan stuttered as they came to a stop back at the beach where they had left their things. He quickly changed back into his jeans and a jacket.

“We’ll have to remember to do this to dry off while the sun is still high, in the future.”

“Oh, so you’re sayin’ you’d do Family Fun Day again?”

Ford rolled his eyes, but smiled. “I’m sure you’ll force me to take breaks more often than once every six years.”

DOG KLJQ TTIE Y KUZ LLW? BHMB L QSODM QCXT! U KLL’Y WMQE RT FUVLJQY EPZU DOGZ HMWLP PZU YO DMLJQY BICRD!

[sebthesnipe]

Starlight

February Prompts 2/27

Prompt List

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The February Collection on AO3

My Dearest Procyon

Other works by me

Prompt: Karma / Kneel

Ship:  Logicality

Note: I had planned on writing another chapter of My Dearest Procyon but a friend seemed to be having a rough day so I wrote here some fluffy Logicality instead. 

Logan sat at his desk, back straight with perfect posture as his pen glided across the paper before him. It was late. Far later than Logan typically allowed himself to stay up. He set a strict schedule for himself and he tended to ensure that he stuck to it. 

Still, as he glanced at the clock on the shelf above his desk, he frowned. 02:14 AM. His bed time had passed over four hours ago. He adjusted his glasses before focusing back on the written words that seemed to fail him. 

“Dear, 

Dearest,

My Dearest Patton,

I have recently discovered, I have come to realize, I have many things that I wish to discuss with you, but I do not know where to begin. I have never quite been very skilled at discussing things of an emotional nature. To my good fortune, you have always been there to guide me in the direction needed when the occasion arrived for such things. 

I unfortunately find myself to be inadequate in your presence. I can not begin to describe to find to express Despite my intellect and extensive vocabulary, words fail me. It appears that despite my many attempts to discuss the topic of my experience lack of emotional response physical and emotional reaction to your presence, I have failed. 

I fear I may have made things worse by attempting to gain some insight into expressing my troubles by speaking to Roman. He does seem to have an innate ability to woo our more somber friend.  He claimed that I was incapable of speaking to you about these responses due to his state being ‘shook’. Though, I am not quite certain what he means and why he claims ‘shaken’ is grammatically incorrect, but he made his point clear. 

It appears that while I am in your presence, I am unable to think properly due to a number of chemical reactions. I will admit, I had pursued research on the topic for fear that whatever the cause of my lack of judgement, this perpetual state of incoherence may prove to be permanent . Roman assured me that this is karma though it is still unclear as to what Hinduism has to do with any of this. 

It would appear that when I am in a close proximity to you, my brain releases dopamine, adrenaline, serotonin, estrogen, and testosterone creating an intoxicating mixture that, in Roman’s words, causes me to ‘ghost’ anyone and everyone near me. I am unsure about his choice of vernacular, but his point was clear. 

It is apparent that I care for you a great deal more than I have ever cared for another person. You are the figurative star at the center of my solar system. You shine more brightly than the sun itself. Every time I am gifted with the sound of your laughter, my heart breaks with the overflow of emotions the sound causes.

Furthermore, to compare you to a star is admittedly unfair. Though I have a passion for astronomy, the sorrowful beauty of a star could never measure against your own. Stars are dying structures billions of years away from Earth. Most of which have already died and remain ghosts in the sky. You are nothing so morbid. 

Your light and beauty are everbright, never to be extinguished even within the test of time. Your warmth and protection, the light and beauty you bring out from within all of us, these are qualities which will never die. Therefore, you can not compare to a star when a star will inevitably fail. 

I fear that even these words prove to be insufficient withmy intention. I am no poet and I do not pretend to be such. However, I am not ashamed to present another poet's words to assist me in my attempt at disclosure. 

The words of Geoffrey Chaucer come to mind when I think of the way you affect me. His poem, Rondel of Merciless Beauty, seems to express my feelings towards you adequately:

Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;

Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;

Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. Only your word will heal the injury

To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean—

Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;

Their beauty shakes me who was once serene. Upon my word, I tell you faithfully

Through life and after death you are my queen;

For with my death the whole truth shall be seen.

Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;

Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;

Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen…..”

Logan read the words once more, taking in the numerous lines of red ink, striking through unnecessary sentences. His frown deepened before he tore the page out with a frustrated huff. He crumpled the  page violently between his hands, tossing it into the already overflowing bin next to the door. 

This was utterly hopeless! He was not some romantic protagonist in one of Roman’s poorly written romance novels! There was no reason he couldn’t just walk up to the smaller man and confess his feelings like an adult!

A knock at his door made the lanky individual start, heart pounding against his chest in surprise. He glanced at his clock once more: 02:17 AM. No one should be up at this hour. Even Virgil tended to be in bed by now. 

He pushed to his feet, pulling the end of the tie that hung loosely over his shoulders from where he had unfastened it in his frustration after his seventh draft of the letter. He deposited the wrinkled silken fabric onto his desk before moving to curiously pull open the door. 

Patton stood just outside the fairly spacious bedroom dressed comfortably in his cat onsie, a steaming mug in his tired hands. He peered up at Logan and offered a small tired smile. Logan’s heart stopped.

“Well, hiya,” Patton greeted, his usually chipper voice a bit sluggish with sleep, “I saw your light on, on my way to get a glass of water. I figured you’d probably be up with one of your late night projects so I brought you a cup of joe, Lo,” he chuckled, shooting Logan a wink. 

“I-I…” The taller man stuttered, face flushing in panic, “I.. Yes.”

The answer to a question Patton most certainly didn’t ask, had his brows furrowing. It was obvious that Logan was once again short circuiting, but Patton graciously chose not to comment on it. Instead, he offered the warm mug out to the larger man, giving him another one of those million dollar smiles Logan had just been writing about. The taller man practically swooned.

“You’ve been staying up well past your bedtime lately, kiddo,” Patton commented, glancing down at the bin next to his roommate and the crumpled papers scattered around it. “What a mess! You really have been working hard, haven’t you? I worry about you sometimes,” he continued kneeling down to pick up one of the balls of yellow stationary. “You’re such a busy bee. You really should allow yourself more rest, bee-cause sleep is important,” he laughed as he started unraveling the page, “What are you working on anyways?” 

Logan willed himself to move to no avail. He needed to get the paper away from the smaller man! He needed to do it now! Despite his attempts, Logan’s arms remained stubbornly where they were, both gripping the ceramic mug in his hands so tightly that his knuckles were pale. 

His body heated with embarrassment as his gaze became glued to Patton’s gentle features, taking in the way his forehead dimpled as he concentrated on what he was reading. 

Logan could scream if his body wasn’t betraying him in such a horribly demented way! Why was he allowing this?! This could ruin their friendship! This could be the last time he would be allowed to see Patton because he allowed his emotions to get the best of him! He needed to shut them down and shut them down now!

“Oh,” Patton breathed softly, sending a spike of terror through Logan’s heart. “Oh my.” The spike dug deeper causing the gangly geek physical pain. 

“Patton, I can explain-” Logan rushed, finally finding his voice.

“I had no idea you felt this way,” the smaller man breathed, peering up at his roommate, gaze glistening with the threat of tears. 

Logan was no longer convinced that a ‘spike’ was a good analogy. No, he was fairly certain that his heart had just been hit with an explosive ice grenade. He had made Patton cry! He would never forgive himself for this! He deserved-

“This is beautiful, Logan,” Patton added softly, lifting a hand to wipe away the tears, stopping Logan’s panic in its tracks. “I wish I had known…”

“You… You think so?” Logan asked lamely, the cup shaking slightly in his hands.

“Of course!” Patton chuckled, pressing the wrinkled paper against his chest. “Are all of them like this?” He asked, glancing down at the piles in awe.

“Well… To some degree,” the taller roommate admitted, taking a step back to glance at them as well. “Some are admittedly more composed than others.” 

“Logan…” Patton’s voice cracked around the word, the tears beginning to flow more freely now. 

Logan set the mug aside quickly, unsure of how to respond. He was not very good at comfort, that was Patton’s department. He reached out for the smaller individual, knowing Patton prefered physical contact.

“I’m so sorry, Patton. It was not my intention to upset you!” he rushed.

“I’m not upset, Logan,” Patton chuckled wetly, covering his face. “I’m just so happy. I thought I… I didn’t know you… I didn’t know you could feel that way, much less about me!” 

Logan blinked at him in surprise. Patton wasn’t upset? No, he could see the small dimples on his cheeks that usually were an indication of his large grin, even though they were currently hidden behind his hands. Patton was smiling. Relief washed through the taller man.

“Patton, may I,” Logan paused, still unsure of himself but feeling his own happiness warm him. “May I embrace- oof!” 

He barely managed to get the word out before Patton was slamming into him, arms tightly wrapping around Logan’s waist. The little man was surprisingly solid against Logan’s chest as he returned the hold. 

Patton buried his face in his roommate’s dark polo, his tears leaving small damp stains as he breathed in the earthy scent of wood and lavender that always seemed to cling to the other man. It was a comforting sensation that Patton had often found himself thinking about late into the evening when he was unable to sleep.

They remained that way for some time, hovering in Logan’s doorway silently, clinging to one another as if they letting go would cause them to drown. 

“Does this mean, if I were to venture an inquiry, to say, dinner this Friday, you would be inclined to accept?” Logan asked finally, flushing.

“Yes! Of course!” Patton replied without hesitation, pulling away just far enough to peer up at him, face beaming with happiness that caused Logan’s breath to hitch. How could one man be so breathtakingly beautiful?

Without a thought, the taller man’s hand lifted to Patton’s check, bending low to brush his lips against the small peak of the other’s nose. 

La fin...

Taglist: 

@hiddendreamer67 @hiddendreamer67 @gilby-the-geek-girl

[shes-claws-deep]

Bumblebee - Christmas Reunion

Not a Bumblebee/Charlie fic. Don’t tag as such.

“Do you want to go visit her?”

Bumblebee jumps to his feet with a cry, his hands flying to his chest and his head snapping down to see you staring up at him with an amused little smile on your face.

“Visit…who?” The radio crackles as it switches channels.

You nod to the well-worn picture he has in his huge hand. “That girl there. That was from when you first fell, right?”

The scout looks down at the picture, his finger tracing across the girl’s face gently. “She…was…my first friend.” The yellow beetle in the corner looked worn and in disrepair, a sign of the state he was in when he first arrived. “She saved me.”

“I know,” you murmur, stepping close so you can tug his hand down, carefully examining the photo and the date stamped in the corner. “1987. That’s uh, that’s a while ago, hey?”

A sad trill. He sags a little and crouches down again, his antennae falling flat against his helm and his optics turning downcast. Like this, he looks like a kicked puppy, those baby blues casting a soft light upon the old picture. The radio crackles to life once more, the old thing spitting out a record so old that you haven’t heard it in ages.

O, my love, my darling I’ve hungered for your touch A long lonely time Times goes by so slowly And time can do so much

You smile, leaning against his leg and peering at the photo. “She has good taste.”

Bumblebee whirrs and nods, the radio spinning once more to play some of the classics she showed him. For a good hour, you sit with him, singing along and dancing when certain beats urge him to move his body to the tune. The clanging and stomping draw a certain pair of twins who eagerly join in, showing off their jet judo skills as they do. Bumblebee, refusing to be outclassed, keeps jamming, his doorwings fluttering with his every move.

It’s adorable to see him expressing joy over the memory of his old friend instead of sadness like before. The picture rests safely in your hands as the soldiers dance the night away, and it is then that an idea hits you.

“Where…are we…going?” The radio dial twists and turns of its own volition as you drive Bumblebee down winding mountain roads.

“Oh, just a little joyride,” you reply with a secretive smile. “Don’t worry, I asked the Commander for permission.”

The scout chirps curiously, prodding you for answers and guessing when you still refuse to tell. After a while he stops asking, but then starts to poke you. Just a little bit.

The seats move back and forth. The seatbelt tightens and loosens. The gearstick switches positions whenever you go to change gears. The air vents shifting and blowing hot and cold air in your face. It should be annoying rather than funny but you can’t help but snort and let him disturb you as much as he likes. Anything to distract him from where you’re bringing him.

Also, he’s your backup driver if his antics do distract you from the road.

It takes the better part of a day to get where you need to be and by the time you do get there, night has fallen. The stars twinkle merrily above you, cold beacons of light that frame the pretty town below the dark sky.

“It’s beautiful~” A woman croons out from the radio, Bumblebee’s wondrous whirr following behind it.

“It is, isn’t it?” You smile and head into town, pulling down into a suburb filled with little apartments and houses.

329.

331.

333.

335- Ah, here you are.

You stop at the curb, getting out. “Wait here for a minute, okay?”

“Roger that.” You can almost imagine Bumblebee’s signature salute – a fist pump high into the air. It makes you smile. Well, that and the thought of how he might react in a couple of minutes.

The little apartment block is clean and well maintained if perhaps a little old, but you’re not here for the building. You’re here for who’s in it. Up one flight of stairs. Another. Then you knock on a door.

“Just a moment!”

Shuffling. Thumps. Then a “Shhh honey, go into your room. Mommy will be back soon, okay?” A pause, then the door cracks open just a little. “Can I help you, miss?” A pair of sweet, dark eyes peep out from the crack of the door.

You smile reassuringly, easing out of your military posture to flash her a picture on your phone.

Utter silence. The woman’s jaw drops and her wide-eyed gaze flits up to yours. Then she sets her jaw and nods. “One moment.” The door is shut, chains undone, and she opens the door wide to let you in. “Come on in.”

“Thank you.” You nod at her, wiping your shoes and staying in the entryway as she checks the bedroom doors and calls her husband to her side. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, ma’am.”

“Oh no!” She shakes her head, dark curls falling around her pretty face as she comes back around the corner. “It’s fine. Just putting the kids away after dinner is all.”

It’s then that her husband pops his head out of the kitchen to join her, his poofy hair appearing before his kind face does. “A drink for you, miss?”

Shaking your head, you reiterate that you’ll only take a moment.

The woman and her husband exchange a knowing glance and he steps out of the kitchen, still wiping his hands with his apron. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, opening her mouth to start speaking when you cut her off with a gentle hand.

“I don’t think I know your name, miss, but I probably shouldn’t know either. I just wanted to know if you are indeed the young lady in this photo.” You wave the phone, the picture of a picture still displayed. “If so, I have someone you should meet.” That sounds bad. “Uh, I mean, not the military. I am from the military but the ‘someone’ isn’t the military.”

Both woman and man crack a smile. “You’re cute,” the woman comments, her eyes tearing up a little as she takes the phone gingerly from you. “Where did you find this photo?”

Doffing your knuckles on your chest, you quip, “Thank you. I think I’m cute too.” Then, falling back into seriousness, you lean forward and gesture for the phone back. “I got it off a little bee. They carry a lot more than just pollen, you know?”

Her hands immediately fly up to cup her mouth, her throat bobbing as though struggling to swallow, and her husband presses his solid form up against her – a solid pillar for her to lean on. “Is-please, if you’re lying-”

“I’m not.”

She chokes out a wet laugh, bending over ever so gradually, chanting ‘oh my god’ under her breath. As though gathering herself together, she pulls herself up and squares her shoulders. “Please, can you-” Then something hits her and she looks at the closed doors to her children’s’ rooms.

Her husband pipes up then, soft eyes also filling up with tears and his hair bobbing as he jerks his head in the direction of the rooms. “I’ll take care of them, babe. You go see him.”

“I won’t make you take long, ma’am,” you chime in.

“Thank you.” Her voice is wheezy and thin but her body stands firm as you usher her out.

Your voice is quiet as you descend down the flights of stairs. “We’ll have to drive out to a quieter area. He isn’t outlawed here but…just in case.”

She smiles wetly and nods in agreement, still too choked up to speak properly. However, when you lead her out to the pavement, she freezes and sways a little. You grasp her gently, guiding her into the passenger seat and getting into the driver’s side yourself.

Beneath you, you can feel Bumblebee still, his radio falling silent after playing some silly songs for himself. You can feel him relinquish all control to you as he keeps his attention on the woman in his passenger seat. He doesn’t even pay attention to where you’re going, only that you drive him into a secluded area of the nearby park, only that you get out and give him the all-clear signal after fiddling with your jammer pack. Only that the woman in his seat is crying softly as he transforms before her.

Bumblebee kneels, his polished armour gleaming in the light of the streetlamps, the scratches and scars coming into stark relief, his new form alien and familiar at the same time. The woman wipes away her tears roughly, laughing as she launches herself into his arms. “‘Bee!”

“Hello again…Charlie.”

You smile, tears also building in your eyes as you watch their heartfelt reunion after thirty years. Turning away, you ready yourself to do a patrol of the area just in case someone stumbles upon the lot of you. As you do, though, your radio crackles and a scratchy voice comes through and a big smile cracks across your face.

“Thank you, my love.”

Turning around, you wink at the bot who is gazing at you with wide, baby blue optics, and mouth, “Happy Christmas, Bumblebee.”

[bumblingbrujo]

The Burnt Lady and the Threepenny Prince sit together for a quiet discussion on devotion, duty, and desire. 

@thatwhichbindsus

There had been some difficulties enacting his plans, but it was no matter Miguel couldn't handle. It was only a matter of time. After dealing with the problem of nosy vermin he ended up in the courtyard again - wishing he could get on his boats and leave. Maybe, if he was fast enough, he could kill his father himself. And not rely on time and age to do his bidding for him. There wasn't much point in wishing, when the Inquisition was still going strong, and Miguel had already given all the assistance he could muster to the investigation. They knew what kind of snake the venom had come from, a dead end as far as Miguel was concerned. So instead of bothering about any of that, he whittled a long piece of driftwood into a spoon.

Ciara walked onto the courtyard with eyes as slits, but let her face clear when she didn't see Lord Cardero. There was a nervous tick to her hands as she wandered along the outer walkway, as there had been since the attempted coup by the Kesley's. Merely a distraction. She was more worried about this: someone might have found her out. As she walked, she spotted Lord Miguel, and with both company and questions in mind, wandered over. "Did the kitchens run out?"

Miguel glanced up at Lady Cirara and a smile lit up his face. "Yes, they sent all the Lords and Princes who know how to whittle out to make spoons." He let his dumb joke settle on her ears a moment before he chuckled and said: "That was a jest. There isn't much to do in a locked down keep. How are you keeping yourself busy? Maybe you could give me some hints."

"It did not escape me," Ciara replied with a smile, sitting beside him. "We are all too aware of that. Suspicion and confinement are not good bed fellows." She folded her hands over her knees and made them entirely still. "Needlework. It takes time, creates something new, and can be beautiful." It was also good for stabbing things a thousand times over. "Do your brothers also whittle in their spare time, or is it just you?"

Once upon a time, Miguel had found some solace in needlework as well - though that wasn't something he was going to share with Lady Ciara. "Yes, that's part of why I whittle. It's nice to look down and see the fruits of your otherwise idle hands." He blew the loose wood shavings off his spoon and held it up. "It's also a valuable skill when you spend so much time on a boat. Though I'm sure we could use someone to do needlework instead of the ugly mend-jobs my med do." He chuckled. And then she asked about his brothers, specifically his brothers and not just Iann. "Ah, well. Juan was the one who taught me to whittle, though I can't know if he still does it or if his time is all consumed by that damned crusade." He groaned and shook his head. "I shouldn't sound so blasphemous, I just... miss my brother." He held his spoon out to Ciara and pondered Iann for a moment. "I'm not sure if Iann whittles or not. I know he's fond of bees, honey, and mead. Not necessarily in that order."

"Indeed," Ciara agreed, looking at his spoon when he held it up to the morning light. "I have no doubt. You don't have the option of pulling into the next village." She smiled. "I do not know if mine could hold up against the ravaging storms you sometimes face. Function over form." But she was curious to learn his assessment, especially considering her current concerns. "I understand. My sister is so often occupied with the Snowdonia borders I rarely even get a raven from her." She cocked an eyebrow. "Bees honey and mead? Only the latter doesn't surprise me. But then he has much to preoccupy him too."

Miguel's eyes narrowed just slightly. Was she trying to get information about Iann and Juan, or was she just trying to soften the youngest prince of isles? "Both of my brothers are extremely busy. Juan with Summerset and crusades, and Iann as Commander of the fleet. Somehow, he still finds time for bees, honey, and mead. He's very involved, involved as he can be, with the honey farms and the breweries." Miguel tried to be involved too, but it was a tightrope walk, between endearing himself to the people by being with them, and endearing himself to the people by exploring, gaining allies, and bringing artifacts and riches back to the islands. "As the youngest, I just try my best to keep up." He let loose a carefully curated sheepish look, the look of a younger brother who didn't know how to step out of his elders' shadows.

“Impressive.” Ciara commented, looking back up to him with a piercing look. “I doubt it would be too much work for you. You impressed many with how you handled the assassination the other day, working with the inquisitor. Humility is no bad thing, young Lord, but nor is pride.”

Miguel froze a humble smile on his face. "Like I said, Lady Ciara, I have no small interest in alchemy and potions. After all, I need some way to be distinguished from my brothers. Though Lady Lacroy was the most help. I provided her with an ear willing to listen."

“Of course,” Ciara agreed, breaking her gaze with a smile, and looked back down at his hands, shaped for purpose. “Lady Lacroy is certainly very knowledgeable. Useful, when none of us now know what the future holds.”

"Everyone is in the same boat right now, on the same choppy sea." Miguel sighed and looked up at the sky, still blue - just like yesterday. "I will never make the mistake of underestimating someone, be that an ally or an enemy. Lady Lacroy meets my expectations." He glanced at Lady Ciara, and wondered what surprises lay up her sleeves.

“Which do you consider her?” Ciara asked, meeting his curious glance briefly before looking back out across the courtyard. “I try to live by the same rules. Especially here.”

Miguel looked away when she did, he didn't want to make the Lady uncomfortable. "Lady Lacroy? She has been a help to me for years now, beside this whole debacle, she helped me when a plague brushed through the Forty Isles. Have you any experience with the Gold Blood sickness?" He was open and honest then, it was the only way to gain trust. And offering information was the only way to get knowledge in return.

"Only a little. We have been blessed, it has not yet reached the Eades, but I understand it had been a cause of some distress in the isles." Ciara replied with a sympathetic look. She knew what a blight such suffering could be on their people. Not four winters past, food had run out when frost had come early. Many had not survived to spring, as there were no trading paths for which neighboring landowners to help, even if they had had the desire to. "Is it a problem still?"

"It is, less deadly than in the past, but I worry about it... and honestly, it would set me apart from Iann to eradicate the sickness," Miguel smiled a little sheepishly. Sure he wanted help for his own selfish goals, but that would directly help the people he served, the people who served him. "Still, I want my people healthy, and not beholden to a mysterious illness that comes and goes as it pleases."

“There is not much that can be done to prevent these things, except perhaps pray,” Ciara replied, but her mind was already ticking with thoughts and questions. Iann Cardero was a liability, there was no doubt about it, and with a girl missing, one that served her dearly, an ally in the isles would suit her well. “What do you hope to do about it?”

"The only thing I can do," Miguel replied. "Use the knowledge I get from physicians and alchemists to fight the illness like I would a battle. I'll find where the resistance lays dormant and snuff it out. Though, mind you, I would like to do that without killing my own people. There must be some tincture or method that would purge the sickness from their bodies.”

“I do not know of such a thing,” Ciara lied, twisting her head to look up at the sunset. It was an easy enough assist, and with such a dearth or allies it was all too urgent. “But I know who I could ask, if you wish.”

Miguel smiled cautiously. "You know someone who knows of a cure? Would they work with me, do you think?" He pursed his lips. "Of course, please contact them, if you would." He clasped his hands together and cracked his knuckles. A glance at Ciara told him there were natural wonders being missed. So, he turned and watched the sunset with her. "Lady Ciara... what do you want from life?"

“Perhaps not knows, but is aware of some possibilities no doubt.” She replied. In the golden pink sun, he seemed so innocent, so young. He was beautiful, she thought, but was not aware of any marriage in waiting for him. It was a strange thing, and an obstacle in his own desire to take what was Iann’s. “That is a dangerous question indeed, my Lord. I want what many of us want, I believe.”

Miguel chuckled. Was that her version of honesty? "Well Lady Ciara, what do many of us want? If you had asked me that question, I don't know what answer I could have given you. Some days I want to sail away never to return, sometimes I want to spend the rest of my life on the Forty-Isles keeping bees and making mead. Some days I want to see how far to the North I could possibly go before I freeze to death. And sometimes I want to switch places with Iann, to be a family man with five kids running around, devoted to my Islands and my kin." He added the last want, even if it couldn't happen, even if it was a deep desperate want. "My soul it not that of the youngest prince, though I doubt many people are suited to it. How many desires do you have to bite back because of your station, Lady?"

Ciara smiled for him, a deliciously private smile as she watched glints of gold settle on the city below, as the turrets here gleamed pink. The sunlit throne indeed, she thought. "I would never have guessed, my lord," she replied softly, smiling to him. A family to chase, it sounded appealing until she remembered just how close she had come to this fate. Rather childless and free than with many all ensnared to a tyrant. She thought of lord Avitej, lifting the crown onto his head. It was to be a somber affaire, he'd set, but not like this. "What I want I cannot have. It does not befit those of my station to dream, my lord. This is plenty enough for me."

The low light created long shadows on Ciara's face, both hiding and elongating her burns. Miguel had experienced pain, a stab here, a flu there, one time an infection that almost reached his blood - but luckily he had a good physician on his ship and he hadn't needed to lose his arm. All that said, he couldn't imagine what that burn could have felt like. The terror of her husband burning in her arms. It was a dramatic story, but Ciara had to live it. He chanced a gentle touch of his hand to her arm. "You have an admirable sense of duty, Lady. I apologize if I've overstepped."

Ciara did not hesitate to lean slightly into that touch. Just a little, a movement so small it could be denied. "Not at all, my lord. I have quite enjoyed your company."

Miguel moved closer to Ciara. A hand on an arm turned into sides pressed together. And his hand went up to lightly brush her hair, which was up and tight but a few strands had come undone. "If you ever want to pause your duty and see what life on the sea is like... know you could call on me." It was a small offer, but Miguel would enjoy that immensely. He tried to keep in mind that she was a third daughter of a small house and he was a prince. He didn't want to bully her into anything. That wasn't how Miguel liked to play the game.

Ciara knew this side of the game just as well as the kind with daggers and subterfuge, and looked down at her lap with a quiet smile. His rough, sailor hands were sooth against her hair. "Thank you, my lord. It sounds quite tempting, but I cannot abandon my family so easily."

Miguel nodded. He bit back a chuckle that wanted to bubble up from his throat. "Of course," he said as solemnly as he could. He brushed back a few more strands of hair before standing. "I'll take my leave of you, Lady. If I feel too much affection for you, I'll find it too hard to sail away." He left unspoken his own duty. But he had to sail away, as soon as the new High Raj was crowned, if not sooner.

"With words like that, my lord, you make it easy to change one's mind," She stood also, as the sun set over the city, and they were slowly cast in shades of purple. Ciara curtsied deeply and clasped her hands before her. "I will speak with you soon again, I imagine, once I've conferred with my contact." He was a sweet, kind man, this Miguel. But, as Ciara was learning, he was a clever, deceptive one too.

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

Jeje’s day started early.

He awoke with the sun, as the flowers did, stretching in the warmth of its first feeble rays. Shaking the final vestiges of sleep from his weary bones, he prepared a meager, healthy breakfast, and then tended to his garden while he waited for the clan to follow suit.

The merchants arrived in the square not long after daybreak; that was when Jeje dressed, and left the comfort of his home for the crowded streets of the capital. Though by no means new to the territories, he was as shy as he had been upon his arrival, and kept his head bowed, fearful of meeting even friendly gazes. He greeted those who approached him, but always scurried off before they could trap him in conversation.

His first task consisted of assisting fellow growers in their own gardens. He began with Hollyhock, who woke almost as early as he did. Hollyhock was a skilled grower without magic, but, in his own words, “A bit of a boost never hurt anyone!” Jeje enjoyed his time with Hollyhock, brief though it often was; it was an easy start to his daily routine.

Once Hollyhock’s greenhouses had been seen to, Jeje patrolled the city’s perimeter, spreading his magic to its furthest corners. It seeped into the stone and soil from the soles of his feet, and wherever he walked, new life sprung up through cracks and crannies. Dreamweaver had entrusted him with keeping the capital’s greenery healthy, and it was the duty he held highest in regard.

Finally, in the afternoon, he moved out of the city and into the farmlands, where he aided farmers whose crops were struggling. This was the work he enjoyed the most, even more so than tending to the capital’s landscaping. In the openness of the farmlands, he felt a sense of peace. There was none of the hustle and bustle of Feldspar Proper, just acres and acres of golden wheat and corn as far as the eye could see.

For a time, he would linger there, after his work was complete, and listen to the wind across the fields. Today, however, it brought a distant humming to his ears. He shook his head, rubbed his temples, but the noise persisted, until he found himself following it to its source.

Tucker was standing in front of his hives when Jeje arrived, hands on his hips, looking perplexed. His shock of rose-colored hair was disheveled, and Jeje noticed, as he drew nearer, the many sting marks littering his exposed arms and legs.

Tucker’s bees had never stung him before--or anyone without ill intent. They were a highly intelligent breed, his late father’s own hybrid of several native to the Sunbeam Ruins mixed sparingly with out-of-Flight lineages. They were so intelligent, in fact, that Tucker claimed they could understand and take orders in seven draconic languages, including Coatl.

So for them to have attacked their tender was simply unheard of.

“Tucker,” Jeje said meekly, “what’s happened?”

“The queens are agitated,” Tucker replied, and it was apparent by his tone of voice that he was as well. Sighing, he kicked at the dirt. “I don’t think it’s disease,” he went on, “and it’s not a predator or an insurgent colony. I’ve checked every inch of the yard; everything’s the same as it was yesterday.”

“They’re very loud,” Jeje said. “I heard them from a long way off.”

Tucker turned to face him, his eyes wide with surprise. “You did?” he asked. “They sound the same as always to me. How far from here were you? I can hear them from out near Tiffany’s tea shop if they’re really riled up, but that’s only because I’ve spent so much time with them.”

“I--I was much further south,” Jeje stammered, “near where the farm road meets the Sea Path.”

“That’s...” Tucker pressed a knuckle to his lips. “That’s impossible,” he said. “There’s no way you should have been able to hear them all the way down there.”

Before Jeje could respond, the dark mass of bees, which had been gathering not far from the pair as they conversed, descended upon them. The air was so thick with whirring wings that they were cast into an eerie shade, as if the sun had disappeared behind heavy cloud cover. Tucker took Jeje’s wrist, dragging him closer. He tried to shout above the racket, but the bees continued to circle.

“What do they want?!” Jeje cried.

“I don’t know!” Tucker replied. “I don’t speak bee, it’s the other way ‘round! I can usually read their body language and behavior, but they’ve never swarmed like this before!”

“What should we do?!”

“Try not to upset them!”

“They’re already upset!”

“Try not to upset them more!”

One by one, individual bees began to break away from the swarm, trailing lazily toward them. Tucker nudged them away gently with his hands, shooing them off of Jeje when they landed on his arms and shoulders, but eventually became overwhelmed. Soon, Jeje had been swallowed by them; all Tucker could hear under the incessant buzzing was the sound of his friend’s shallow, panicked breathing.

“Please!” he yelled. “Please stop! Leave Jeje alone, he didn’t do anything!”

“Tucker...” Jeje shuddered, and the colony rose into the air, only to alight upon him again once he had stilled. “It tickles,” he said. “They’re--they’re tickling me!”

“Tickling...?”

Suddenly, Tucker understood--the reason for the colony’s agitation, why only Jeje had heard their call, and why they had all begun to glow with a warm yellow light, whooping softly as they jostled one another in their desperation to be nearer to Jeje.

“They like you!” Tucker exclaimed. “Jeje, they like you, and I think they’re jealous!”

“Jealous?!” Jeje squealed. “Of what?!”

“Look,” Tucker said, “they’re absorbing your magic! They’re probably going to go and spread it--” Then, as one, the bees dispersed, and sped across the yard, glimmering like fireflies. “--to the plants in the yard,” Tucker concluded. “They called you here, because they were jealous of you using your magic on everyone else’s gardens but theirs!”

Jeje blinked incredulously, then fell to his knees, a patch of daisies cropping up to soften his landing. Tucker squatted beside him. “But,” he said in a daze, “you told me not to use my magic here.”

“I was worried about how your magic might interact with theirs,” Tucker said. “My pa’s bees aren’t your average bugs; they’re smart, sure, but they’re also highly magical creatures. That’s why I thought it would be best to keep ‘em way out here, away from the clan’s magic-workers.”

His expression softened, and he looked over his shoulder, to where the colony was busily pollinating their territory with Jeje’s magic. “I love them like my own children,” he murmured, “but I also love them because they were my pa’s. If anything happened to them, I don’t know what I’d do. I have to be careful with them.”

“I’m--I’m sorry,” Jeje said, “I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, no!” Tucker insisted, turning back to Jeje with a bright smile. “It’s good you did! They would’ve never settled down if you hadn’t! Wow...” He regarded Jeje intently, and the Wildclaw blushed under his scrutiny. “I can’t believe you heard them from so far away,” he said. “Jeje, you’re really cool!”

“C...” Jeje gulped. “Cool...?”

“Would you come and use your magic on the yard from now on?” Tucker asked. “The bees really like you, and they’ll probably throw another fit if you don’t!”

Jeje nodded emphatically, not trusting himself to speak. He watched in silence as the bees went about their business. Now and again, a straggler would return to him, and gather more magic before flitting off to a nearby flower bed. Now that they weren’t swarming, he thought that they were actually rather cute; small, fuzzy, with big eyes and fat bodies. He recalled the quiet whooping sounds they had made as they mobbed him with a tiny smile.

“Right?” Tucker said. “They’re the best, aren’t they?”

“I never realized bees were so friendly,” Jeje said. “Honestly, I’ve always been a little scared of them...”

“They’re a misunderstood species,” Tucker replied. “I can teach you loads more about ‘em, if you want!”

Jeje lifted his finger to examine one of the tiny worker bees perched on its tip. Her faceted eyes seemed to meet his gaze for a moment. “I’d like that,” he said. “I’d like that a lot.”

[creideamhgradochas]

Thanks to the lovely @marvelatmytrash for taking the time to answer these! Get to know more about lovely Bee, go give her a follow and then show her some love!

These questions are from this list. You should check it out, there’s 50 questions all together and they’d be great to ask your favorite fic writer!

1) How old were you when you first starting writing fan-fiction?

I think I had just turned 22, I was fresh out of undergrad and wanted a way to keep my writing and editing skills sharp while I job hunted.

2) Do you prefer writing OC’s or reader inserts? Explain your answer.

I think I’ve only written reader inserts. I usually leave their physical attributes nondescript but I definitely create intense personalities to all my reader inserts. I think I do this because I want my readers to imagine themselves as these strong, kickass females, who are also vulnerable, but have weak spots, the same way all of us do. I put a lot of effort into creating strong female characters that still have flaws, no Mary Sues for me!

3) What is your favorite genre to write for?

I love writing Marvel. I pretty much only write Marvel, predominantly Canon because I have so much comic book knowledge, plus I love writing fight scenes.

4) If you had to delete one of your stories and never speak of it again, which would it be and why?

Oh lord, probably Compensation and Consequences, its just a small little one shot that I did as a request but its a Game of Thrones AU. It definitely has some problematic choices in it, I totally shoe horned the sex and attraction into it. Overall it’s just trash.

5) When is your preferred time to write?

I always find myself writing at 1am or onwards. A lot of the time I’ll just knuckle down around 1am and do what I call a writing sprint, where I’ll write all the new parts for whatever stories I’m working on and get them all done in one night, then edit the next day and start queuing them up.

6) Where do you take your inspiration from?

This is so embarrassing but I get most inspired by listening to musical soundtracks. There are a couple of my stories that have direct song quotes from Waitress and Heathers. Musicals are so rich and overdramatic, they have always been a big part of my emotional development. So whenever inspiration strikes I have a whole playlist of angst songs or love songs from various musicals that I just play in the background on repeat and I will shamelessly pull lines directly from them.

7) In your Divided series, what’s your favorite scene that you wrote?

Ooo that’s such a tough one, honestly that whole series is just one of my absolute favorites. But if I had to choose, I think the chase scene in Bucharest. It’s so dynamic and there is so much happening and I honestly watched that scene frame by frame for a week and worked this original character into it step by step.

8) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?

I’ve never changed the story itself. A couple times I’ve changed the formatting at peoples suggestions. I didn’t chunk my paragraphs well when I first started, but someone suggested I break it up more so I did. It’s little changes like that, but I would never change what I write because someone dislikes it. My writing is for me, I’m just sharing it with others for fun.

9) Who is your favorite character to write for? Why?

Bucky. Absolutely Bucky. Though I am warming up to Steve. He has such dimension to him, he’s been a favorite of mine ever since I started reading comic books. His story is so sad and in-depth and there has always been room for new details and development in every reboot. He’s such a dynamic character and that makes him such a treat to write.

10) Who is your least favorite character to write for? Why?

Hahaha I guess Thor, but I actively avoid writing him cause his tone is so hard to get right without over doing it, so I’m not sure if he counts. Tony is tough too, cause you want to be quippy and clever without being over the top, and that’s a very fine line.

11) How did you come up with the title for the Divided series?

I am a big fan of one word titles, maybe I am just on the Disney train with Tangled, Brave, Frozen, etc. I love it when one word can encapsulate what the series is about and also when the word has more weight than just it’s basic meaning. Aftershocks, my first series, is a good example of this. The main character has suffered from shock torture and has a lot of scars and residual issues from it, but Aftershocks is also a psych term sometimes used to refer to the radiating effects of PTSD on the victim and those around them. Divided was the same way, it encapsulated both the theme of Civil War which is the changing and division of Tony and Steve’s relationship and also shows how Bucky and Steve, though still perceived as a unit are Divided now by not only their different experiences but their competition for the same woman.

12) How did you come up with the idea for Divided series?

I’m honestly not entirely sure. I had this basic idea of working a reader into Bucky’s story in Civil War, but the original plan didn’t have Steve involved at all and definitely wasn’t on the level that Divided eventually became. Once I decided that the reader would start with Steve, it immediately raised the stakes of the whole story and this character of The Scorpion began to take shape. After that, the whole thing got pretty easy, she was a fully formed character and a lot of what happened in Divided was just me asking myself what choices this character would make and how the surrounding characters would honestly respond. I try really hard to just develop my characters thoroughly and then let them make honest choices, I think that’s the best way to keep a story real and authentic.

13) Do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them?

Oh yes, my hidden shame, and it haunts me. It’s called Royal Flush, and it currently has 3 parts. It’s a T’Challa fic and a lot of people have found it and liked it and I feel so guilty that it hasn’t gone anywhere in a year. Honestly, this mess up is totally on me. I never draft out my stories, and I know I should, I usually just make it up as I got along and sometimes I just hit a blockade with where it’s going to go. I definitely want to finish that fic, but just have no idea how, so if anyone has any ideas or suggestions, throw them my way!

14) Are there any stories that you’ve written that you’d really love to do a sequel to?

I’m going to say Divided, just because it is one of my favorites and I so deeply love Scorpion as a character. Her struggle in Divided was so hard and I hate to leave her there just heartbroken. I have drafted a couple followups for that story, but after how Infinity War ended, I feel like it would just be cruel to put her through losing Bucky all over again.

15) Are there any stories that you wished you’d ended differently?

I am happy to say that there are none that I would do differently. I’m extremely content in how they all ended.

16) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?

I mean first and foremost, I have to talk about @imhereforbvcky, she was my first real friend on here. We started talking when I was writing Aftershocks and I eventually convinced her to take a crack at writing herself and she finally did and wrote this incredible fic, I’ll Be Good. It honestly is so amazing! Mee specializes in the fem fatale, she writes these incredible badasses that are all dark and twisty, I honestly don’t know how she makes violence so elegant, but she does.

@denialanderror is another one, her Melodies series is so perfect and lovely, she gets this beautiful vulnerability to Bucky that just attacks my heart. It’s such a wonderful change of pace from the way that I write and I always reread it whenever I need to be reminded of the soft parts in his personhood. I honestly love it so much and recommend it to everyone. Plus she is an amazing friend and such a fun person to send memes back and forth with.

Finally @bitsandbobsandstuff just full on destroyed me as a person with Safe With Me. That story honestly puts everything I’ve ever written to shame, her deep understanding of Bucky as a character is just like nothing else I’ve ever read. It’s such an in-depth story with an incredible slow burn, if you haven’t read it yet, you are missing out.

17) Do you have a story that you look back on and cringe when you reread it?

I cringe a little bit with Aftershocks, my first series, but I also see a lot of value in it. Whenever I get stuck or think my writing isn’t good enough, I reread it and remind myself how far I have come as a writer, and that always helps to get me back on track.

18) Do you prefer listening to music when you’re writing or do you need silence?

Both, sometimes I just have the same song playing on repeat in the background, other times I need complete silence cause the monologue in my head is flowing so quickly. I definitely edit in silence, I cannot hear my tone or catch my mistakes when rereading if I don’t have silence.

19) Have you ever cried whilst writing a story?

Hahaha I have, I cried while writing a couple parts of Divided, that story is very close to my heart cause the love triangle in it is unfortunately something that happened to me, and I accidentally hurt someone I cared for a lot.

20) Which part of your Divided series fic was the hardest to write?

Hahaha probably the one or two sex scenes I snuck into it hahaha. It was just not a story that really leant itself to smut. Like you’re not going to be running for your life, camping out with fellow teammates and just quietly have a fuck in the dirt. So squeezing those sex scenes in there always felt a bit funny to me, but I think in the long run they both fit and were put in at appropriate times.

21) Do you make a general outline for your stories or do you just go with the flow?

I probably should make an outline but I always just go with the flow, I honestly have no idea where my stories are going till they get there. But I do reread my story whenever I get stuck so that way I can tie things back in or close up lose ends.

22) What is something you wished you’d known before you started posting fan-fiction?

To breakup my paragraphs and use the keep reading button hahaha

23) Do you have a story that you feel doesn’t get as much love as you’d like?

I am currently feeling that way about a story I just started called Siren’s Soldier, so I paused it for a little bit to see if it was worth continuing but it recently got a bunch of love while I was in Italy so it might be time to come back to it.

24) In contrast to 23 is there a story which gets lots of love which you kinda eye roll at?

Nothing that I’ve written to be honest. There are a couple of exceptionally problematic stories that have an absurd amount of notes and that bums me out, just because I don’t like seeing those kind of relationships idolized or modeled. To clarify, the issue I have is that these kind of stories have a lot of gas lighting, self harm, non consensual sex, and sometimes even violent relationship dynamics. I work very hard to make sure that my characters model healthy relationship habits and positive communication because we need to stop romanticizing rape and abuse in relationships, so it bugs me when fics that do that are popular.

25) Are any of your characters based on real people?

I model my readers off of specific parts on my own personality. I essentially take one side of myself and just exacerbate it into a whole character. I am a very independent person and a feminist myself so a lot of my female characters have those similar qualities of independence and confidence. Especially when doing reader inserts, you want to make the character someone that you yourself want to be, your alter ego, someone to escape to. That’s why I’ll let my characters, be selfish or shitty communicators but I’ll never let them get down on themselves, we do enough of that in our real lives, lets not do it in our fantasy lives.

26) What’s the biggest compliment you’ve gotten?

Hmmm this is a hard one, @imhereforbvcky sent me a very disarming compliment the other day that totally moved me to tears. But most of the ones that really hit me are when people recognize the amount of effort that goes into everything, or when they message me to talk about my story and see all the little easter eggs I’ve tossed into the early chapters. I also live for every reblog you’ve ever done, they always make me feel so loved and valued, I’ve honestly have gone back and reread your reblogs when I’m feeling down on my writing and they always pick me back up. It takes a lot of time to create a world and characters and tie everything together in one neat story and having that recognized always makes my heart sing!

27) What’s the harshest criticism you’ve gotten?

I haven’t really gotten a lot of harsh criticism, I’ve gotten bullshit anonymous messages that are just mean, but no real criticism. I’ve gotten constructive criticism but a lot of that has been kind and helpful so I don’t take that personally at all.

28) Do you share your story ideas with anyone else or do you keep them close to your chest?

@imhereforbvcky and @denialanderror and I have a group chat on instagram so whenever I’m particularly jazzed about something I drop the premise into that chat and get their feedback but most of my big twists or turns I keep close to my chest so that way they can be a surprise to everyone.

29) Do people know you write fan-fiction? In my real life?

Some people. My best friend knows but she’s never read it. My boyfriend knows and sometimes reads the smut I write and will use it against me in bed. He frequently likes to quote some of my own lines to me, he thinks its funny, I don’t find it as amusing. But he is a lot of my inspiration for writing positive relationship dynamics, we work really hard at having a healthy, communicative relationship and that manifests in my writing frequently.

30) What’s you favorite minor character you’ve written?

I really like Om, this character I wrote for Siren’s Soldier, they are non binary and do not have a set gender identity so that was fun to play with and extrapolate on, especially because their non-binary personality had a lot to do with their power so that was really cool to explore to explore.

31) What spurs you on during the writing process?

I generally get really excited when things are free flowing so I guess I spur myself on. I take a lot of joy and pleasure in the things I write and feel my stomach twist when I’m writing suspenseful parts, so a lot of it is just my own enjoyment.

32) What’s your favorite trope to write?

I’m a sucker for the slow burn, so I love writing the enemies become lovers trope. Usually I don’t actually start them as real enemies, but they never start close or as friends. I’m not a big fan of the falling in love with my best friend trope, as I have a bunch of guy friends that I have never once had an urge to fall in love with haha.

33) Can you remember the first fic you read? What was it about?

Oh god, I honestly can’t. I wish I could. I didn’t start reading fanfic until after Civil War came out and I graduated from college. I remember being in a place where I was just disenchanted with porn but I was super into marvel so I went looking for marvel smut on the internet and found the Bucky smut rabbit hole. I remember reading a lot of different stories and never finding exactly what I wanted and also finding a lot of problematic sexual relationships. At that time I was working as a sex education teacher and I remember thinking that I could write better smut with healthier relationship dynamics, and I did. That’s how it all started.

34) If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?

Ooooh blimey, this is impossible because I write a combination of all three most times. I guess I would have to say angst, causing it doesn’t get boring so easily. There are so many angst tropes to explore and play with. So yes, definitely angst.

[ghost-chance]

A New Lease on Life - 5: You Can't Set a Broken Soul

Trigger Warnings: The usual, bad coping methods, minor bullying including self-bullying

Suggested Listening: Avril Lavigne "Nobody's Home"

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5: You Can't Set a Broken Soul

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February 8, 2016

"Why'd you have to leave, Amber?" Aaron muttered into a mostly empty glass of cheap beer. "Why'd you go out on your own like that? You were safe in the shelter…"

Amber stared in dismay from the dark corner of the skeazy bar. Aaron would never have been caught dead in a place like this, much less drunk on cheap alcohol. He HATED the stuff, hated the memories it always brought forth—memories of the friends and family he lost to the can and bottle. Though truth hurt, Amber knew without a doubt he was drinking over her—her senseless, needless death had driven her best friend to drinking.

"Aaron…" she whispered, inching toward the bar. "Aaron, I'm sorry…" As though she hadn't even spoken, the barkeeper laughed derisively behind his newspaper.

"Dis's ruh-DICK-yulus,"- the portly man drawled thickly. "Dis ahticle says ova half da people who died in da twista was ig-NOR-in da sirens—any dumb bee-itch who'd go out in weh-da like dat dee-zerves—"- Without warning, Aaron's heavy glass stein crashed onto the counter, shattering from the impact.

"SHUDDUP!"- he slurred angrily, clumsily launching himself over the counter at the barkeeper. "You di'n't- know'er—you got no right to judge'er!"-

As the two grappled and traded blows, the ceiling violently tore away. Amber turned fearfully to the gaping rafters, her heart racing. Clouds gathered in the barren skies forming menacing grey thunderheads. Blue and green lightning cracked from cloud to cloud racing the rolling thunder.

Her lungs tight from fear, her ears aching from the plummeting air pressure, Amber fell to the ground, scrambling into the nearest corner and staring up in horror. Though torrents of rain fell, though the power flickered and failed, though wind tore through the bar like a vengeful ghost, the patrons never budged, staring blankly through their drinks as though the world weren't coming to an end. She was alone—alone with the demon that killed her and haunted her dreams.

Sirens wailed in the distance; a familiar sputtering roar deafened her. Grey-green clouds split in a merciless, mocking grin. As the world fell away around her, Amber screamed unheard pleas to the merciless winds, certain she'd breathed her last.

Amber shot up in bed with a panicked shriek; as her racing heart calmed and the phantom ache in her skull faded, the blanks filled themselves in around her. Old, stained brick walls, vaulted concrete ceiling with exposed ducts, pipes, and wiring, the distant rumble of a passing subway train, slow whirring and beeping from the ridiculously advanced machinery around her…she was safe.

"Not again," she rasped, pulling the patched quilt around her as she waited for the shaking to stop. "Damn night terrors…gettin' fuckin' old."

She glanced wearily over at the clock. It was four am…she'd gotten five full hours of sleep. In her previous life, she was useless without nine to ten hours a night; now she was lucky to get three. The hourly trains triggered nightmares and kept her awake fighting a constant barrage of graphic memories and chills that had no basis in temperature. Five hours of uninterrupted sleep? 'It's like Christmas,' she thought sarcastically, picturing a decent night's sleep packaged up in a box with a big red bow.

Without further ado, she disentangled herself from the sheet and quilt, rummaged under the cot for her folded clothes and basket of toiletries, and padded out of the room barefoot. After a quick stop in the bathroom, she set up the coffee maker on autopilot, staring blankly through the scratched wooden table as the percolating machine hissed, dripped, and belched. After downing a cup of sweetened, creamed tar-juice, she set up a second cup with only sugar.

Stopping only to deliver it to the still slumbering genius, she hit the showers, choosing the farthest stall from the door as usual. That one had a working lock. The room's fixtures had obviously been salvaged from somewhere, but fixing the warped, vandalized locks apparently wasn't very high on Donatello's list of priorities. Maybe because the lair once had only male residents and most men weren't all that concerned about being seen in the buff by other men? She cringed, wrenching the elastics from her tangled hair; she still wasn't sure if Mikey had barged in on her on purpose, but she wasn't willing to risk a recurrence.

The moment the water started up, she started humming loudly to block out the sound. She'd once loved the sound of water—had once slept deepest when rain was falling—but that was before her fear of severe storms became a fear of even the lightest rainstorm, and long before she was killed and given another life. Now the sound of rain terrified her and the dripping showerhead sent chills down her spine. As she lathered up her hair, she thought back to better times, better days, and a soft voice that once lulled her to sleep with songs of their youth.

The roar of water rattling the overhead pipes ripped Donatello from his hard-earned sleep. As his eyes blearily cranked open, he again cursed his decision to leave the ceilings in the lair unfinished; even a suspended ceiling could muffle the noise a little. Scratching his neck, he hoisted himself up in his bed and fumbled for his glasses. As his eyes focused, the blurry splotch by his alarm clock solidified into a mug of steaming coffee. The coffee was prepared far too sweet, as usual, and he nearly sprayed it all over the clock's display once he realized what it read.

"Four-thirty in the morning?" he groaned, digging his knuckles into his aching eyes. "You've gotta be kidding me...this can't go on." As his bedroom was the closest to the lab, he was always woken several times nightly. Every time Amber cried out in her sleep, every time she thrashed around and fought the demons haunting her dreams, every time she woke up screaming herself hoarse, he was woken by the noise. Every time her nightmares deprived him of sleep, he spent the rest of the night struggling with his own thoughts and feelings. Sorrow at her condition—guilt about being unable to save Kimber's life—resentment over lost sleep and interrupted work—disgust at himself for resenting Amber when she clearly wasn't responsible…the list went on and on.

With every day that passed, he became ever more certain that Amber wasn't as well as she tried convincing herself. Every time the subway rumbled overhead she fell into another panic attack, and sometimes even a flashback. Several times daily she'd turn up missing without any word of where she was going, and more often than not he'd find her tucked beside the running washing machine or wedged into the foot-well of his desk, shaking violently and smothering tears in her knees. She was getting worse every day…and for the first time in his life, Donatello was faced with a problem he knew was beyond his skill.

Amber wasn't a broken machine—she was a broken woman. He couldn't fix her.

"It was down in La-wheezy-yan—AH!- Jus' about a mile from Texarkana," an off-key voice echoed from the bathroom. Donatello sank into his usual seat at the battered table, staring through his coffee cup. "OW! In them ol' cotton fields back home–DAMMIT!" The water had long since shut off; every now and then, the song was interrupted by a cry of pain or curse, signifying that Amber had moved on to impatiently wrenching the tangles from her hair. She still wasn't used to Kimber's body, especially the second set of posts in her ears and the ring on the left one, and routinely snagged them in the bristles. Between oaths and verses, Donnie dozed off at the table, nodding into his empty cup.

"Ah, shoot." The sudden phrase startled him awake, and in the blink of an eye, he was crouched before his chair brandishing his empty coffee cup as a weapon. Amber stood in the doorway to the kitchen cringing in embarrassment. "I woke ya up again, didn't I?" She brought the coffee carafe over to refill his cup as he slouched back into his seat.

"Yeah," he answered honestly, trying to stretch the crick out of his neck. "No big deal, though…not like you do it on purpose." She shook her head with a wry smile and made her way to the kitchen sink. As she passed by, he realized something was different…he stared in surprise. Instead of just keeping her hair in a high, messy bun, she'd separated it into twin tails at her nape and braided them tightly. She'd discovered the other day that even though her hair still smelled fruity, the red was starting to fade. Apparently she was so excited to be returning to her natural color that she changed things up a little. With her hair still so red, though…He winced. Breakfast was going to be a disaster.

"So," he attempted, striving for a casual tone and failing. "What's with the change?" She ducked around the open cabinet door to meet his eyes.

"You noticed?" she smiled brightly as she mixed up a huge bowl of pancake batter. "I got sick'a fighting my hair all day so I went back to basics—before I got here, I usually wore my hair like this. I'm lazy like that." She dug a package of wilting blueberries from the fridge, picking out the stems as she tossed the berries into the bowl. "After all the change an' drama, it's a real comfort havin' my braids back."

"It's…" He scrambled for words between the worries. "…cute. Maybe you should wait until the dye fades, though. I just know—"

"S'up, Angelcakes?" Mikey called out from the doorway. "What's for—Whoa!" Donatello cringed, retreating to the coffeemaker; he knew this was going to happen. "Blueberry pancakes?! Sweet!"

"Wait, what?" Donnie muttered dubiously.

"Yup!" Amber grinned, mixing in a little extra sugar as Mikey dug out a pair of battered skillets and spatulas. "They were about dead anyway, so I figured why not? It'll be a nice treat." As Michelangelo fried pancakes and Amber scrambled eggs, Donatello watched silently, hoping that his worries really were unfounded.

About halfway through the bowl of batter and eggs, Leonardo and Splinter sat at their places, conversing over morning tea. Right as the stove burners were switched off, Raphael lumbered through the door to the coffeemaker. Halfway there, he pulled a double-take, gaping at Amber's braids in disbelief and derision. He said nothing, retreating to his seat with a steaming mug of coffee. When Amber bustled to the table to dole out breakfast, he struck.

"So," he asked snidely. "Where's da meat, Wendy?"

"Hey, now," Leo began, but Mikey cut him off.

"Don't be such a jerk, Raphie," the youngest scolded, playing with the end of a punch red braid. Amber's comforted smile warped into a deadpan glower a moment later when she felt both braids lifted up at either side of her head. "Too many freckles! She looks more like Pippi Longstocking!"

"Hardy, har, har," she grumbled, setting the two platters down a little more roughly than necessary. While Raph and Mikey bantered over which was a more accurate resemblance, she retreated to the living room with yet another cup of coffee. Donatello was used to Raph and Mikey's antics—he'd been the butt of their jokes more times than he'd like to admit—but this time, he was pissed. He loaded her untouched plate and his own with pancakes and eggs and dug for flatware in the drawer.

"She's been nothing but helpful since she arrived," he reminded the two troublemakers coldly. "She cooks, she cleans, she picks up after your ungrateful asses, and right when she starts to relax, you tease her!" He shot them both a glare as he left. Sometimes they absolutely disgusted him, Raph especially. He found Amber on the cot in the lab, lying on her back with her head dangling over the side and brushing through her long loosened hair. Though he'd only seen them once, he already missed the braided tails; why eluded him at the moment. "Hey."

"Hey yerself," she shot back with a grin, wrestling her hair into a high ponytail. As she sat up and fastened the coiled mass into a sloppy bun, he pulled up his rolling stool and held out her plate.

"You forgot this—dig in." Moss green eyes scrutinized him seriously. He avoided her eyes, passing the plate and flatware. "Don't mind them. They're just—"

"It's okay, Donnie." Confused, he finally met her eyes; she didn't really seem upset anymore. "If unflatterin' comparisons and immature folks were all it took to ruin my day, I'd'a- died a hermit. This body? It ain't me—I was short, fat, clumsy, partly crippled, an' I started goin' grey before I hit drinkin' age. I've been called much worse'n- any'a that. It's no big deal." She halfheartedly scraped a chunk of egg around on her plate while Donatello let the description sink in. "B'sides, Aaron used to say much worse…an' he's—was my best friend. I'm used to gettin' shite from people, and I'm more than willin' to give it back." She shot an up-to-no-good grin up at him. "I'll get'em-…but not 'til they've let their guard down. Meantime, let'em squirm."

"If you're sure, Amber," he relented, then paused for a bite of his own pancakes. "Forgive me for asking, but…before twenty-one?" She chuckled.

"Yeah. Lots'a early grey in my family. My uncle Bart went shock white while he was in high school; findin' my first silver at nineteen was lucky, considerin'." She took another sip of coffee before adding, "It always hit the redheads worst. I wasn't a redhead, but there was enough red in my hair to turn me into a brown skunk." He couldn't help but grin at the mental image.

"It didn't embarrass you?"

"Course it did," she answered honestly. "For a while, I kept my hair cut above the neck an' never went anywhere without a hat or hair-scarf—couldn't afford dyein' it all the time. Course, then everyone jus' assumed I was goin' bald and started pullin' me aside to talk about the cancer I was supposedly dyin' of. I finally had it when my roommate Mercy dragged me to a cancer survivors group shpeal; flipped'er off, flashed my stripes, an' walked home. Apparently the granny-hair spoke for itself." She finally gave up on pushing her food around and passed the plate back to him. "Guess I'm not really hungry; help yourself. I better get to work, right?"

"Amber," he scolded, latching onto her arm and anchoring her in her seat. "You have to eat—you skipped breakfast and lunch yesterday, and the day before you only ate an apple! You're not getting adequate caloric intake like this—at this rate you'll—"

"I'm not starvin' myself," she argued. Against her will, a memory played through her mind's eye: City Hall's basement, Aaron crouched before her with a bowl of soup, coaxing her to eat even though her stomach felt full of concrete. She fought to keep control but that memory had a dozen more on its heels; together, they swarmed her. "I'm just not hungry! Trus' me, I spent my whole life hungry when I shouldn't be—"

"You should be hungry! If you keep this up you're going to—"

"I don't need a nanny, Donnie!" she burst out vehemently. "I'm a grown woman, not some anorexic tweenager.- If I ain't hungry, I ain't hungry, an' no amount'a shovin' food at me's gonna make me hungry!"- Without another word, she stormed out intent on silencing her memories with manual labor.

"I just don't know what to do, April," Donatello muttered into his palms as she watched him with worry. Beyond the lab's closed blast door, Amber was hard at work in the dojo, waxing the floorboards to mirror brightness on her hands and knees…for the fifth time in as many days. "She hardly eats anything and guzzles coffee like it's water," he ranted harshly. "She barely sleeps, wakes up screaming, then spends the whole day and most of the night cleaning everything in the lair in the least effective ways possible—she intentionally wears herself out every day, then crashes in the early hours, too sore to do anything! She's having panic attacks more and more often and she's been spacing out for hours at time—the other night we found her wandering the sewers barefoot talking to someone who doesn't even exist in this reality!"

He fell silent, choking up. She and Mikey had been washing dishes when someone dropped a glass, and the sound had somehow flipped some hidden switch in her brain. She walked barefoot right through the shards like a zombie and somehow found her way out the front door, muttering the whole way about hungover friends and neurotic dogs. When they finally found her—after following what felt like a mile of bloody footprints—the sight of her adamantly arguing about music with 'Aaron' silenced the long lecture he'd planned. "She's going to kill herself at this rate, April," he confessed weakly, dropping his hands to dangle helplessly between his knees. "…and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"Donnie," the older woman murmured leaning forward for a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder. "You're a brilliant guy and a talented engineer, but you can't just 'fix' people—if someone's broken, you can't reconnect some wires, tighten a lug nut or two, slap on some duct tape and expect them to work again…and if those injuries aren't physical…" She trailed off, avoiding his eyes. "…Broken bones heal quickly once you immobilize them, but there's no way to set a broken soul. It's not your fault."

"You're waxing poetic on me, April," he teased halfheartedly. "I'm not Mikey; you don't have to play down the gritty details." Finally, she met his eyes, her own serious.

"She needs to see a doctor, Donnie…a psychiatrist. I think Amber has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder…and it's only going to get worse."

Just outside the shuttered door, Amber silently slid down the wall and landed in a boneless heap. She wasn't supposed to have heard that conversation, she was sure of it, and she wouldn't have heard it if she'd not come to apologize for taking Donatello's head off earlier. Now her overreaction and subsequent attempt at apology had exposed her to a secret discussion and triggered a plethora of fears. Even as she fought to rationalize away the knowledge, stubbornly scolded herself that PTSD wasn't caused by something as minor as a natural disaster, she knew it would explain so many things.

She'd never been in a war zone, had never seen battle, and had never seen her comrades fall one by one—she was a janitor, not a soldier!—so how could she have developed something even seasoned warriors weren't guaranteed stricken with? She'd insisted her whole life that she wasn't weak, that she could handle ANYTHING given enough time to work through it…yet she was completely broken by something as stupid and meaningless as a storm.

'Am I…' she though disjointedly, tears pricking her eyes behind her glasses. 'No…I am…I really am weak after all.' Without a word she stood, dusted herself off, and wandered out the front door, stopping only to grab a battered flashlight from the kitchen counter. A walk wouldn't fix her intolerable weakness and it wouldn't fix her, but maybe it would at least give her time to think. A line of music echoed down a storm drain from a passing car, reminding her of a time when she didn't feel so lost. 'Where were they going without ever knowing the way?'

Tolkien was right: not all who wander are lost, but she knew she wasn't among them.

Words (Midwestern Twang unless otherwise noted)

- Adding 'er to the end of a word - Means 'her' - Adding 'e, 'is, or 'im to the end of a word - Means he, his, or him. - Adding 'em or 'eir to the end of a word - Means them or their - B'sides - Besides - Di'n't / Din't - Didn't - I'd'a - 'I would have' - Know'er / Judge'er - Know her / Judge her - La-wheezy-anna - This is an awkward pronunciation of "Louisiana" sometimes heard in the Midwest. In the South - or other areas NEAR Louisiana - people generally pronounce it "Loozianna" or "Loo-ee-zee-anna." IRL, I pronounce it "La-wheezy-anna" because it's how I was taught, and it always drives Cold up the wall because he grew up friends with a family FROM Louisianna. At first, it was just a habit; NOW I keep that habit just to annoy my hubby. ;P - Shuddup / Shaddap - Shut up, the first being a common mispronunciation and the second being more of a Southern/Midwestern slang pronunciation. - Tweenager - Slang term for someone just old enough to be a pain, but too young to be considered a teenager; generally such persons are older adolescents. - Worse'n - 'Worse than' - "Dis's ruh-DICK-yulus" - 'This is ridiculous.' A highly twisted version of the Southern Drawl, perhaps from Arkansas. An odd way of defining the difference between the Midwestern Twang and Southern Drawl would be this: 'In the Midwest, we say as much as possible with as few syllables as we can, while in the South, people say as little as possible with as many syllables as they can.' The South tends to stretch words out and add extra syllables to words, while the Midwest tends to crop off syllables and mash words together, and both tend to warp pronunciations of common words. - "Dis ahticle says ova half da people who died in da twista was ig-NOR-in da sirens—any dumb bee-itch who'd go out in weh-da like dat dee-zerves—" - 'This article says over half the people who died in the twister was ignoring the sirens - any dumb bitch who'd go out in weather like that deserves [to die].’ Twisted southern drawl. Unfortunately, there was a LOT of this after the tornado I went through - people would openly blame those who were killed for being careless or for not seeking the 'right' shelter, never considering that they didn't know all the facts OR that the dead person's loved ones might be hearing their ranting. - "If I ain't hungry, I ain't hungry, an' no amount'a shovin' food at me's gonna make me hungry!" - 'If I'm not hungry, I'm not hungry, and no amount of shoving food at me is going to make me hungry!"

A quick rant: Developing PTSD does NOT mean you're weak, broken, worthless, damaged, or any other horrible things we often convince ourselves it means. PTSD is just your brain's way of recovering and adapting, and it's actually a healthy response to trauma. It's not exclusively a 'warrior's illness'—anyone can develop it regardless of whether or not they've been deployed. While it can be hard to accept that you 'got it from' a car accident, witnessing extreme violence, or in Amber's case, weathering a hell of a storm, what caused it has little to do with personal strength or weakness. If you start showing signs of PTSD, TALK TO YOUR DOCTOR. Don't put it off, don't talk yourself out of it, and for Pete's sake, don't do what I did—don't spend months staring out the window, ruminating on why you lived when so many others died, and hoping to waste away into nothing—the longer you wait to seek help, the longer it takes for you to heal, and healing IS possible.

Putting away my soapbox now. Also, the song Amber sings is called "Cotton Fields"—it's a Southern folk song, and if sung in a slow, bluesy manner, it can put kids out like a light

Up Next: Cohabitation Chaos

[fireflysummers]

Mob Psycho 100 x Paranatural

Okay my dudes, I figure I may as well put these ideas down in one post since I don’t have time to draw them (or any more at least). They all stemmed from a convo a month or two ago between me and @happikattwuzheere concerning how Reigen is the Anti-Spender.

@7bluecats and @cocoa-bee I think you two were asking about this general stuff.

-cracks knuckles- 

Okay so. I have like. Several variations on the theme.

1. Total Crossover: The cast of paranatural meets the cast of MP100 (ignoring language barriers and geographical locations)

Or: The Fun AU where friendships and rivalries abound and there’s not much angst

Johnny immediately picks Mob out for a wimp and attempts to intimidate him...he is immediately stopped by (1) Ritsu, (2) Teru, (3) The Body Improvement Club

Dimple terrorizes PJ and attempts to arm wrestle Lefty

Suzy and Mezato meet. Even to those not physically present, there is an immediate chill as though some unholy partnership has been formed. (Alternatively they also compete for information because one girl is a master at bribery and blackmail, the other one literally started her own cult in her classmate’s image)

Reigen left hooks Spender for putting kids in the line of danger in order to satisfy his own ego (”You f*cked up some perfectly good children is what you did. Look at them. They’ve got anxiety!”)

Spender attempts to convince Mob (and the other Esper kids) to be his disciples. Shou laughs. Ritsu hates him more than he distrusts Reigen. Teru laughs and insults his choice of clothing. Mob is uncomfortable.

Salt Mid Student Council v Mayview Mid Student Council: an immovable object meets an unstoppable force

idk but Tome and Lisa look like they could be related all right?

The Esper kids in general get along with the Activity Club

Isaac and Ritsu have literally no patience for each other; Isaac and Teru have no patience for each other because Teru keeps insisting that he (and especially Mob) are probably stronger than Isaac

Isabel challenges them all to arm wrestles. To Shou’s horror, she wins them all.

Ed and Teru for some reason actually hit it off. Mostly because Teru is a movie buff like Ed and Ed is an invaluable source of creative ideas that Teru can actual implement in battle.

Shou (on Isaac): HAHA LOOK IT’S LIKE ME AND YOU FUSED TOGETHER TO MAKE ONE SUPER VOLATILE ANGST LORD

Max doesn’t really like Reigen, but he doesn’t immediately distrust him either because, despite being a con man, Reigen is by and large more honest than Spender

Max isn’t sure if he likes Mob, but he’s nice to him. He finds Teru obnoxious, but finds Ritsu tolerable in a way that Isaac isn’t. Mostly because Ritsu doesn’t demand things like loyalty and friendship right out. He gets along best with Shou, who is King at Wicked Stunts and Lighting Stuff on Fire.

Johnny is kind of terrified of Teru because Teru has expertise in dealing with delinquents and isn’t afraid to pull that card (even without the use of his psychic powers)

Hitball tourney between the two schools. Mob spends the entire time surrounded by the Body Improvement Club. People are reasonably intimidated. Despite that though the teams are pretty evenly matched.

BL makes the mistake of trying to connect into Mob’s mind. She disconnects that one REAL FAST.

Matsuo comes home with a new collection of mundane objects that are infused with spirits of all kinds

Mob accidentally pops the bubble surrounding Mayview and unleashes the apocalypse

2. Spender is Reigen

Spender is a legitimate psychic who runs the Spirits and Such Consultation.

He is a good bit less successful than Reigen because he is actually relatively bad with interpersonal relationships

Also his main goal is boosting his own ego, as opposed to Reigen who was kind of bored but mostly wanted to help people somehow

tbh I don’t think that Mob would have stuck around Spender like he did Reigen. Spender talks too much about himself, and as hard as he tries to be inspirational he lacks the sincerity and emotional depth that Reigen does to pull it off.

But assuming that Mob did stick around, I don’t think that Spender would be healthy to his maturity

Spender wouldn’t trust Mob to make decisions as a rational individual. He’d treat him like he was kind of dumb, just because Mob approaches thoughts very differently from most people. He’d maybe try to shelter him out of this weird protective instinct, but he wouldn’t really respect Mob as an intelligent individual (and he is, that smackdown with Touchirou shows that he not only thinksa bout stuff, he thinks deeply)

Spender would take Mob’s silence as approval. All the time. 

Spender would however be able to teach Mob how to channel his powers to an extent but his teaching would always be hampered by his own inferiority complex regarding Mob’s natural ability.

In the end, Mob would have more technical mastery of his psychic skills (despite that not being what he REALLY wants out of life anyways), and also likely be a lot more doubtful of his own decisions and less likely to take risks

This story would end with the Mogami arc, wherein Spender would think himself the True Hero as he does, and attempt to take on Mogami himself.  He dies.

3. Reigen is Spender

The least developed of the AUs, in which Reigen is an American middle school teacher

He still doesn’t have powers, beyond being able to see the spirits. He can’t use spectral energy or use weapons. 

Everybody thinks he can though

As in, BL thinks that he’s an incredibly powerful spectral because he keeps resisting her attempts to link with him mentally. In reality he doesn’t even know that that dream stuff exists, or is vaguely aware of it only.

He’s known for being a little bit scattered as a teacher, easily flustered and known to bullshit his way through stuff that he obviously doesn’t know

Despite that he’s well loved because at the end of the day, no matter how frustrated or tired he is, he legitimately gives the impression that he cares about his students.

He’s slightly better at handling Isaac than Spender is. For starters, he actually gives Isaac a degree of respect, answering him honestly where he can and giving him “I can’t tell you that right now, but I promise I’ll tell you when you’re no longer inhabited by a highly dangerous spirit monster okay?” where he can’t

Also he wouldn’t have fought Forge. I mean, he doesn’t have any powers anyways, and because holy shit that thing spits fire. If the kids were in danger he would have ditched so fast because the kids always come first.

Actually he probably would have called off the mission the minute that things started turning out more dangerous than projected

Zarei would probably still hate him though because he’s the type of guy who gets under her skin

Day is sneaky af and Reigen wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating her like literally everybody else in the series right now

He’s legitimately worried about Max, who has clearly not moved on from mourning his mother. He’s a lot more attentive to this as a motivator in Max’s actions, and although he won’t ask about it directly he’s definitely checking for warning signs

He’s nearly gotten fired three times for physically threatening students (they deserved it but whatever)

Has been called a coward many, many times by almost every character in the series. Literally does not care because the people he cares about are still, by and large, alive

4. Max’s Mogami World

I don’t really remember the context of this one but it definitely started with discussing how differently Mogami’s world would have presented itself

There are a number of context clues implying that Max feels guilt over his mother’s death, so his isolation in the mind world is built around that

In this world, he still has a dad and a sister, but they both blame him for what happened to his mom. Not verbally, usually, but definitely in the coldness towards him and the way that look at him when they think he’s not looking

The move to Mayview isolates him completely, and he’s not brought into a circle of friends at his new school

Physical bullying doesn’t bother him nearly as much, because he knows how to fight back, but he takes to ditching school in an attempt to avoid his tormentors. This, in turn, causes a lot of the teachers to label him as a delinquent and start treating him more poorly

Minori (or the character equivalent in this world) finds out about Max’s mom somehow (via Suzy or somebody else snooping around), and uses that knowledge to emotionally bully Max into a corner

Max is the only one in the Paranatural cast that would have survived longer than a week in a Mogami world. Everybody else would have been too easy to pull apart.

Except maybe Ed. Mogami wouldn’t know what the heck to do with Ed. (Nobody does.)

I may have to add stuff later because I can’t remember what other stuff we talked about, but Katt and I did develop a fun new painful theory or two from this mess of stuff.

[buzzybeesinlove]

“OH you’re jealous!” with a jealous blake ? :3c

jealous blake coming right up :) thanks for the prompt, i appreciate it! hope you enjoy it <3 takes place in volume 7 on their night off (still mad we never got to see dancing bees like... CRWBY YOU HAD SUCH A GOOD OPPORTUNITY)

prompt list here --> https://buzzybeesinlove.tumblr.com/post/618963214005420032/prompt-list

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Blake came back from the bathroom in the club, she didn’t expect her blood to start boiling.

But, here she was, blood simmering and ears pulled back at the sight before her. She honestly should have expected something like this to happen, considering Neon is the world’s biggest flirt and pot-stirrer. But Yang convinced her to come out to tonight, and asked her to give Neon and the rest of Team FNKI a chance. 

And, of course, she would never deny Yang anything.

But coming out of the bathroom to see the girl essentially crawling over Yang’s lap at the bar and giggling into her ear as if they had some sort of secret just between them really struck a nerve. She and Yang were... Something. She didn’t know what exactly, but there was something there and no way was Neon going to get in the way of that.

So, like the rational, graceful Huntress she was, and cracked her knuckles and sauntered up to the pair at the bar, Neon taking a shot just as she strolled up. Yang’s face was buried behind vibrant pink hair, so when Blake crossed her arms and flared her nostrils at the bundle of rainbows in her lap, she didn’t see her right away.

“Ohhhh, hey, Blakey!” Neon squealed, reaching her hands out towards Blake. Blake raised an eyebrow at the girl, staying just out of reach. Yang popped her head around Neon to level Blake with a look that screamed ‘please help me.’

Blake smirked and looked at Neon, the colourful girl taking another shot and slamming the glass down onto the bar.

“So glad you made it back! I was just warming up this seat, hehe.” Neon giggled so obnoxiously that Blake really wanted to throw her across the room. But, she remained composed.

“Is that so?” Blake replied. Neon just nodded enthusiastically, clearly not picking up on the vibes that Blake was trying to give off. Yang cleared her throat and glanced between the two for a moment, Blake’s amber eyes glowing. “Well, I’m sure that seat needs some time to breathe, don’t you think? Would you kindly get off?” Blake’s sickly sweet voice sent shivers down Yang’s spine, the light growl in her throat adding onto it. Neon tilted her head, the girl clearly so drunk she didn’t understand what was really happening. She puffed her cheeks out and then shrugged, hopping off Yang’s lap and wobbling a little on her skates.

“Yeah, sure thing, Blakey. Seat’s all yours! Don’t gotta be so rude about it.” Neon giggled and wiggled her fingers at both of them as she skated backwards into the dancing crowd. “See ya later, losers!”

Blake’s glare followed her all the way into the crowd until she couldn’t see her anymore. Once she was for sure gone, Blake let out a breath and let her shoulders relax, settling herself down on the stool beside Yang.

“Wow. That was... Better than I could have hoped. Thanks for the backup there, partner.” Yang smiled wide, colour on her cheeks as she motioned to the bartender for some more shots. Blake snorted and shook her head, leaning her chin on her hand and shrugging.

“You ask, I deliver.” Blake replied. Yang glanced at her, their eyes prolonging their contact, electricity sparking with just one look. Yang smirked then, and Blake furrowed her eyebrows.

“Never knew you could get so aggressive.” Yang teased, dodging the swipe that Blake sent at her. Blake grumbled and took one of the shots that the bartender had brought over, downing it in seconds. She licked her lips afterwards, shrugging and avoiding Yang’s gaze.

“I just thought I’d put my acting skills to good use. Had to make it believable that I wanted her out of here, right?” Blake said, tilting her head to look out in the crowd again, praying that Neon was occupied still. Yang hummed and took her own shot, Blake noticing her thumb swipe across her bottom lip in the corner of her eye. 

“Fair point.” Yang said. “But it seemed a little extra, don’t you think?”

Blake sighed and met Yang’s eyes. There was a lilt to her voice and a twinkle in her eye, her lips desperately trying to keep her laughter under control at the whole situation. Blake narrowed her eyes into slits at her partner, crossing her arms in defiance.

“Would you rather have her still in your lap?” Blake shot back, and Yang blinked several times at her. She also narrowed her eyes, both of them having a staring contest for a minute before Yang’s eyes widened. Blake’s breath hitched when Yang shot close to her, pointing her finger in her face.

“OH,” Yang exclaimed, and before Blake could say anything, she pounded the truth into her face. “You’re jealous.”

Blake’s face heated up immediately, eyes slowly blinking at the finger in her face. She quickly recovered, scoffing and shoving the finger out of her way. Yang stayed close to her, though.

“Am not. I was just trying to help you.” Blake replied, but she knew it was a lost cause. Yang was smiling widely now, eyes crinkling as she began to laugh cheerfully.

“By ripping Neon a new asshole? Sure, whatever you say!” Yang guffawed, and Blake groaned so loud she thought the whole club would be able to hear it. She huffed and shrunk in on herself, looking away from her buffoon of a partner that was having an amazing time teasing her.

“Come on, Blake. It’s fine to be jealous! I know it’s hard when everyone wants a piece of this.” Yang gestured to her whole body, and Blake was not ashamed to say that her eyes followed that hand all up and down said body, lingering and admiring many amazing assets on her partner.

Blake raised her eyes again, smirk forming on her lips. If Yang wanted to play this game, then she’d play too.

“Very good point. I honestly can’t blame Neon for trying.” Blake said, and Yang looked taken aback, cheeks turning red either from the drinks she just took, or because of Blake’s comment. Blake hoped it was the latter.

Blake watched with amusement as Yang tried to recover, smirk never leaving her lips. Yang faltered, but eventually let out a breath and cleared her throat, sending her a shy smile.

“I’m glad you were here, then. Maybe you can’t blame her for trying, but I certainly can. This seat is for one person and one person only.”

“Oh? Who’s that?” Blake snickered, and Yang grinned widely.

“Zwei, of course.” Yang replied.

Blake snorted into her hand, shaking her head. “Zwei isn’t even a person.”

Yang gasped loudly, eyes wide and hands cupping her own cheeks in false dismay. “How dare you.”

Blake sighed and rolled her eyes playfully, giggling at Yang’s antics. After another moment of silence, Yang grinned and shuffled her stool a bit closer, her right hand wrapping around Blake’s forearm, thumb caressing the barest hint of skin protruding from the undone zipper on her sleeve. Blake swallowed thickly, flicking her eyes all over Yang’s face.

“In all seriousness,” Yang said, and Blake bit her lip at her soft, comforting tone, insides melting at the shining smile on her face. “It’s okay, Blake. Something... Is happening here, and I like it. I like you, so... Don’t worry about Neon, or anyone else. We’re partners, yeah?” Yang said gently, squeezing her fingers around Blake’s wrist in a soft manner.

Blake breathed out a laugh, heart accelerating at what Yang just said, blush deepening on her face. Ultimately, she found herself just nodding, and Yang grinned at her again.

“Great. Now let’s get this green-eyed little lady onto the dance floor.” Yang cheered, pulling Blake off the stool and dragging her towards the crowd. Blake allowed it, of course.

“I really wasn’t jealous. I swear.”

“Yeah, yeah. And I’m not the best dancer in the world. I guess we’re both liars!” Yang said, laughing when Blake glared at her playfully. 

The glare was washed away soon after once they both began dancing together. Neon was nowhere in sight, and Yang’s eyes were trained solely on her, bodies moving as one under the strobe lights of the club.

Just like it should be. 

[bmblbot-blog]

oh. i die