#i have done some strange things in this life

[noseboopsanddandelionwishes]

I feel like some of the reason that generative AI and AI tools have become popular and that things like this seem to be helpful, is the focus on completing or finishing something.

We don't necessarily get credit just for showing up to class; we also have to pass the test. The goal is only met when the website page is written and published.

In some instances and scenarios, using completion as a metric is understandable, but to experiment with other metrics of value, I have been trying to allow for areas where that doesn't matter. And just allow to try and fail, or get better, or just do the process because then I'm doing it.

I play guitar though I have no plans to play anything at all - but I put my fingers on the fretboard and experimented with what made sound. I bake a cookie recipe and chase the flavor or texture as the whim takes me and sometimes change it 10 times before the end result.

When the goal becomes "finish the book", then having it summed up makes perfect sense. The goal being "hear the author and their turn of phrase even if it's strange" or "sympathise with the characters and feel their journey" it's different.

Have you ever read lyrics before hearing a song? I don't know if it's just me, but they make no bloody sense when I do. And sometimes it's a song I know, and I read the lyrics and they fall flat, have zero impact, and are completely indecipherable. But when spaced out, set to instrument, emphasized in certain ways, suddenly many meanings emerge as each phrase is sung.

Idk, I think it's kind of like that?

But when I'm just trying to quickly absorb the meaning of the song through the lyrics, I miss the meaning of the song - but I did take in all the lyrics.

Making completed works, and getting good grades, and making products - all emphasize that the only value is after something is finished. So, I kind of get the push for tools to help us finish things quicker, so we achieve the thing.

But sometimes I think we need the space to not do that, and have it be valued - the work in progress, or even just the partially executed ideas, starts of things, and random trails that lead nowhere in the end but were a part of the experience. Running through hypotheticals and discarding choices and only making it 70% of the way through a course. There is no closed loop, or job well done, or finale. But they still matter and added to and enriched my life and sometimes prepared me for some other thing.

what is HAPPENING

[nereidprinc3ss]

mojave ghost

in which spencer reid spends the night with fem!reader—a total stranger—because she just feels so familiar. based on the song "my life in art" by Mojave 3.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: based on a song about a stripper who runs away from her abusive boyfriend. tws for mentions of physical abuse. r has bruises from pole dancing. a little ooc bc Spencer hooks up with someone he just met but that's the point and if u know him like I do u know its not completely impossible. mentions of typical cm violence/murder. one brief mention of spencer's addiction. spencer's childhood trauma and abandonment. it's kind of just a heavy one, lmk if i'm missing anything a/n: I doooo suggest you listen to the song first just to feel the vibe of the piece and also how it is literally about Spencer Reid. and also bc its gorjus. anyways its been a while and this is not my most standard content but pls lmk what u think and if u liked it <3

He shouldn’t have done it. 

But when he saw you, sitting in a metal folding chair next to some peeling veneered-desk, his breath caught. Something primal deep in his stomach tugged the way it does when he finds little external fragments of himself, calling out to him—usually nonhuman objects. He’s seen himself in books, still warm from the hands that held them but ultimately forgotten on a bench or in the airport, needles in alleys or in between tiles on his bathroom counter, in shards of glass, in a hundred open wounds and dead animals, abstractly gutted on the side of the street. 

When he does see himself in a person, it’s in alarming glimpses. The man in the sleeping bag on the corner who talks to people that aren’t there. The lost child crying on the subway platform, rooted to the spot and still gripping the straps of their little backpack with responsible fists. It’s never anything he wants to know about himself, but this identification, this taxonomy and recognition of sameness—it’s so strong it stops him in his tracks, every time. He never really relates to the people he’s supposed to. Not Hotch. Not Gideon. Not even Maeve, in the way he’d so naively hoped for. Three people, all incredibly intelligent, at times standoffish. Used to being on the outside. All still possessing things and redemptive qualities he doesn’t. And what Spencer has secretly believed about himself for what has recently become a very long time, is that he is defined by his lack. The shape of him is made of negative space. He feels like whatever is in your lungs when you’ve pushed all the air out. 

And then, you. 

Physically, you look nothing alike. And he stops and lurches and does a double take like he’s seen his doppelgänger or been startled by his own reflection in a passing window anyway. Maybe it’s the way you hold yourself—hunched, foot tapping, head hung but still scanning the room, ever vigilant as you pick at your nails. You want to be small. You want to fold in yourself so many times you become a black hole. Spencer knows this. 

Something calls out from deep inside him, from all around him, that is not quite in his voice, but feels like grasping and reaching. 

I know you, I know you. 

He doesn’t catch himself in time before he’s walking toward you like he’s been waiting for you. 

Of course your head snaps up at the same time as he stops, and your eyes are shiny but not teary—frozen over with a layer of thick, dark ice like you’d carried the cold inside with you. You look caught. He searches for some sort of recognition in your eyes, anything to betray the fact that you have met before, because he never forgets a face but he knows what familiarity feels like and he can’t remember meeting you. 

His throat forms around something but the wrong word comes out. Halting, like he’s trying to lasso it and pull it back in. 

“Hi.” 

You pull your scarf down—a deep Roman purple—to reveal a pretty mouth, lips chapped by the unforgiving freeze outside. 

“Hello,” you say, politely, considering his probably strange behavior. He gives you a proprietary scan. Utility coat over a thick grey sweater. Jeans, cuffed at the bottom but still nearly too long, probably belted, although he can’t tell from the posture and the sweater. Brown boots. Your bag is a frayed tapestry of neutrals and patches. Fingerless knit gloves. You’ve given yourself false density, let the clothes swallow you up. Shapeless. Nearly faceless, magnet eyes framed between the scarf and the hat. But you’ve got a name. Everyone has a name. There’s yet to be anything humanity has discovered and not bothered to name. 

He forgets to ask. You clear your throat. 

“Um, I spoke to someone on the phone—Aaron, I think? We’re supposed to talk.”

Spencer tries to pick his jaw up off the floor. 

“Yeah, um, I can—I’ll… go get him.”

He turns away and breathes for the first time since he saw you, but he feels you behind him. He’s aware of exactly where you are in relation to the back of his head, he can feel you, like a hot spot, all the way to Hotch’s door. He lets himself in, slipping between as small a gap as he can manage and shutting the door gently behind him. Hotch looks up, not noticeably displeased at having been interrupted in his endless paperwork. 

What Spencer learns from his boss is this: you live in DC. You heard about a murder in Kansas—a girl, her hair still a fine, pale cornsilk. Barely not a child. You heard the details, and you called the cops, because you swear to god you know who did it, and they told you there was nothing they could do and gave you the number of someone who might be able to help, and so you followed a bureaucratic trail of phone numbers designed to discourage until you got to the BAU. Hotch says he’s going to interview you, but it’s probably nothing. 

“Actually, I’d like to do it if that’s okay.”

Hotch frowns deeper than usual.

“Why?”

Spencer swallows. Hesitates. 

“I finished my incident report early.”

Though he clearly has his reservations about Spencer’s sudden interest, Hotch is knee-deep in paperwork. So that’s how Spencer ends up in the round table room with you. 

You look too young, too raw to have been married, but you’re rubbing at your ring finger with the adjacent thumb like something is bothering you there. An absence that has become a presence. Negative space. You see things that aren’t there. Spencer knows that, too. Maybe you’re the kind of person who could look at him and see something.

That is his most intimate fantasy. He imagines it with you and feels the same kind of illicit shame and bloodied, starving hunger other people feel when they imagine sex or drugs or ravaging power; the way anyone imagines anything they want and can’t have.  

But he can’t put that kind of pressure on you. He can’t hold expectations like that. You’re a stranger. 

“Do you always do that?”

He points to your fiddling and gets that sour feeling in his throat he always does when he says something and wishes he hadn’t said it. That probably doesn’t show on his face. Most things don’t show on his face. Or maybe they do and nobody has bothered to tell him. 

You flex your pretty hand and then make a fist like you’ve been burned, probably to stop the compulsion. When you give a self-deprecating laugh, Spencer feels incredibly guilty for having pointed it out. But he doesn’t know how to talk to you. And at the same time, he almost expects it’ll be like talking to himself. Only nobody will give him odd looks. 

“Uh… old habit. I used to spin my wedding ring around when I was nervous.”

Used to. You’re especially too young to have been divorced. 

“You’re nervous?”

Your eyes flash as you look up to him. With what, he doesn’t know. Lightning, maybe. Electrical impulses that are a little less well insulated in you than in everyone else. 

But maybe he’s projecting. 

“Yeah. I feel crazy. But I was with a guy for a while who—and he was from Kansas—who would always, like, talk about… about hurting people. And I thought it was a joke at first, but… he laughed, at other people’s pain. He liked to hurt people. And animals. His dad had a farm, so I thought it was maybe he was just cavalier about life and death, but it was more than that. And he lived… he lived in that town. Where that girl died. He probably knew her. I… I probably knew her.”

Spencer’s heart sinks and he clears his throat like the force could bring it back up the right level again. 

You’re not his soulmate. You’re just paranoid. Looking for answers and resolution, like everybody else. 

The piece of himself he saw in you was just free radical damage. Instability. 

“Did he ever kill anyone before?”

“Wh—not that I know of. But I don’t really think he would’ve told me.”

But you would’ve known. You’re here because you’re lost. 

“Did he ever seriously injure anyone?”

You swallow and sit up a little straighter. Heat lightning in your eyes, again. It makes him feel something. He sits up too, despite your indignance, because it’s entrancing. 

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He… he…” you melt as quickly as you inflated and go back to spinning a ring that’s not there. It’s like watching technicolor go to black and white. “He’d beat people up. He cut them with broken beer bottles and… yeah. A lot of other shit. He was just… he was crazy. He wasn’t… okay.”

The way your gaze flickers back and forth like you’re reading pages of a book or perhaps in REM as you recount in vague detail what your ex had done clues Spencer into the fact that you’re extremely traumatized. The way you make sure to emphasize that your clearly abusive ex wasn’t okay clues him into the fact that you care too much. That you’re too quick to excuse people’s bad behavior, or dismiss it, because you know how it feels to be dismissed entirely and you don’t want to make anyone else feel the way you’ve felt. 

Or maybe he’s still projecting. Maybe he’s idealized you in these few short minutes since you met and he’s too far gone. Maybe he should’ve let Hotch do this interview after all. In fact, he absolutely should’ve. 

But the worst thing by far he did was ask to walk you to your car after all was said and done. 

The interview went on for over two hours, and he’d learned things about you he suspects you’ve never told anyone before, and thus has learned about himself, and the building is mostly empty when you finally leave. The work day is over. So he selfishly asks you to wait while he gathers his things—buttons his coat, wraps his scarf, packs his bag—and then he soaks in the silence on the elevator because it’s that terrible, beautiful space between where you first cross the line and when you do something unforgivable. Asking to walk you to your car was crossing the line. 

Sleeping with you was unforgivable. 

And he didn’t care. Maybe he knew he was going to do this from the moment he saw you. Spencer never does this. The knowing that it was going to happen is quite a distinct flavor of intuitive knowledge and it was always on the back of his tongue. 

You’re silver and purple, a streak, a blur, you move too fast to keep up with and even when you’re perfectly still the atoms around you scramble like they’re jonesing. You inspire movement. You are movement. But he gets to see you slow, and despite having known you only a few hours, he knows this is nothing short of a natural phenomenon. A once in a lifetime sort of shooting star. That’s where the silver comes in. 

The purple, though—it’s in strange places. Around your upper arm. Between your thighs. On your knees and shins and hips. The first time he noticed it he couldn’t ignore it, but he couldn’t very well ask what’s hurting you while he was touching you in a way that was decidedly not painful, if he wanted to keep it that way. And he did. He wanted to keep you looking at him through half-lidded eyes like he was something to see. 

Still, he can’t notice it and then fuck you without saying something—or maybe he could, and you desperately want him to and you ask for it and maybe most people would, but he won’t—so he brings it up. 

“I lead a very active life,” is your whispered excuse, shaped by a smile that is something like mischievous. And then you’re kissing his flushed neck and making your descent and so he can’t ask very many questions. 

It’s only in the precarious after that he can fit his questions in, which is dumb and he knows that, because you’re a dizzying contradiction of cagey and flighty and really the slightest thing will send you running. It’s funny how he knows that after a few hours and sex. Sex can tell you so much about a person. Spencer has compiled all the data from his experiences and decided sex is radically more effective a profiling tool than interview. 

You’re on his pillow, lying on your stomach, and his hand is in your hair. Falling in love is quite a distinctive taste as well. Or at least, the recognition that if you spend enough time around a person you will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, fall in love with them. It is almost the same thing. It aches because it’s there and the proper thing to do is pretend it’s not. 

And his hand is in your hair. And your eyes are closed, and you look like you might fall asleep, and he should be beyond grateful for all of these things. He is. 

But that pesky desire to ameliorate, to improve and make better, and fix and heal, is too strong. Probably it’s the only way he thinks anyone will love him, is if he makes himself useful. That’s no revelation to him. The thought is not shocking whatsoever. It’s just true. 

So he asks again. You blink your eyes a quarter of the way open. 

“Hazard of the job.”

“What job?”

You make a noncommittal noise of reluctance—a discontented puppy’s whine, half-asleep. 

“I’m a circus freak.”

He laughs and remembers to keep scratching your scalp. The way you smile, eyes closed, is infectious. 

“Yeah? What’s your act?”

“Guess,” you challenge through the remnants of a smile, oozing satisfaction and glowing like a star. 

When he pauses to regard you, to seriously consider, studying the curve of your cheek and the color of your lips, you open your eyes again. 

“Tightrope walker,” he finally says, earnestly, so soft it could tear down the middle like gauze. 

Your answer is a smile into the dark. “How’d you know?”

The corner of his mouth vies higher. 

“I sensed a kindred spirit.”

Silence floods the room again, slowly, thickly, like molasses. It’s pleasant. You’re still here, in his bed, and he’s still measuring time with the pendulum of his hand in your hair. 

“What do you really do?” 

He expects you to be asleep. 

“Dancer.” Your lips hardly move as you say it, inflectionless, immediate. If his hand falters, it’s only momentarily. That explains the bruising, and so is a relief, as far as he’s concerned. But perhaps his silence is misconstrued. “Do you want me to go?”

It certainly doesn’t seem like you want to go. Your eyes aren’t even open. 

He keeps his voice low and gentle like maybe you really are asleep. 

“Why would I want you to go?”

“Don’t… do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you’re not judging me.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m from Vegas. Your job is not a novelty to me.”

This time when your eyes slide open, there is a new, curious light behind them. 

“Really?”

He nods, distracted by a freckle just beneath your eye. 

“When I was ten I ran into my bus driver wearing two quarters as a shirt. And we weren’t even on the strip. We were in a Texas Roadhouse parking lot.”

You snort with laughter and it’s melodic, like twinkling crystals, like running water. Even as you hide your face behind your hand, he’s transfixed. God, he’s never cared about being funny before. Now he wants to make you laugh over and over again. He wants to keep you softer than you’ve ever been. The laughter fades slowly and he grieves it—but your hand sliding away from your face like the sun coming up from behind a mountain eases the ache. 

You reach out as if in a trance and run your thumb gently beneath his eye. He holds his breath as you make contact, butterfly light. Nobody has ever touched him like this before. 

“You’re gorgeous,” you murmur. A thoughtless observation. A truth cast to the breeze. Knuckles carefully follow the dip of his cheekbone—a cartographer, learning her way by touch. Marking her territory. He’d let you do it. His eye stings, ready to spring forth a river just so you can have the pleasure of discovering it. “Breathe,” you laugh, softly, and he does. 

“Sorry.”

You don’t say a thing. You let your fingers trace borders into his skin and follow them with soft eyes and he wonders what he’s ever done to deserve this kind of magic. He wonders if he’ll ever feel as good as he does right now, when it’s all over. Nobody has ever paid this much attention to him—but you’re intent, focused, like he’s art. 

“Tell me about Vegas.”

It takes him a moment to reply. 

“Hm?”

He feels bewitched. Warm. Foggy. A thumb brushes over his lips, but it’s only a pass, thank god, because he can hardly stand how you’re touching him already, at the high point of his cheek, beneath his brow. Finally getting enough sometimes feels awfully close to too much. He’s already almost cried once. 

“I wanna hear about Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go. Is it hot?”

Spencer will say whatever you want him to say, but he has to focus a little—like he’s speaking through honey. 

“In the summer, during the day. In the winter at night it drops to below freezing.”

“Desert-y,” you hum.

“Very.”

“Tell me more.”

There’s a rousing hunger in your voice and it reminds Spencer to want you again. He finds your waist and tugs you closer. Who is he with you?

Is he better? 

“There are 175 casinos in the city, but only thirty on the strip. There are 15,000 miles of neon tubing on the strip alone. It’s the brightest place on earth. You can see it from space.”

“Not that.”

Petulant. He loves it. 

His lips find the softness of your shoulder. “Then what?”

The only clue that you can feel what he’s doing to you is the twitch of your fingers on his cheek. 

“Tell me something… tell me exactly how it feels to stand in the middle of the desert. With nobody else around. Tell me things and details I couldn’t know about unless I’ve been there.”

At the junction of your neck, he pauses. This beautiful girl, and her beautiful brain—you are so disarming. So perfect. 

You shiver into him as his fingers brush up the back of your neck, gently pushing away hair so he can learn you everywhere. So he can remember your landscape, just like he’s doing as he closes his eyes and falls into memory. 

A gas station, off the side of the road—seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Desert all around. His dad’s ’79 Ford Fiesta—the one he didn’t take with him when he left. The driver’s door is open. Spencer’s dad has been inside for minutes. Spencer is watching from the middle of the road, because he looked out from the backseat of the Fiesta, and saw that dark, unassuming spot, and thought—how would it feel to be the darkness? What would I see if I were nothing at all?

When he gets there, and he stands on the sun bleached pavement, veined with spiderwebs of tar, and he sees this all from a distance—he realizes he feels exactly the same as he always does. So he pivots his head to the left. The road goes on until it disappears into the smudgy horizon. To the right, it does the same. The earth swells, far away, so many miles, so coal black, so impossible. Hardly even real. But there is something out there, he thinks. There is something, even if nobody else has ever been there, and I want to stand in the middle of it and I will learn how it feels to be nothing. I will not observe—I will become apart of the landscape, with the Joshua trees that have been there for a thousand years, and the rocks that haven’t moved in millennia. 

So he begins to walk. 

The rocks crunch under his feet, and that is the only noise. 

He walks for minutes. He walks until he knows the gas station will be small. He walks until he can feel the emptiness on the back of his neck, until it feels like an embrace. 

“It’s silent,” he hears himself say to you, in some other universe, decades in the future. “At night, it’s completely silent. You can hear yourself breathe. If you throw a pebble ten feet away, you’ll hear it hit the ground.”

Little Spencer takes a deep breath of inky air. 

“It smells like… geosmin.”

“What?”

Perfect. Your voice is perfect. 

“Dirt. But it’s not the same as dirt anywhere else. It’s… drier, like it’s smelled the same way for a really long time.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn. He’s doing a terrible job explaining.

But he feels your breath on his cheek—eager. Your hand at his shoulder as you lean closer, enraptured. Reverent, almost. 

“What else?”

What else?

Dry brush snags on the hem of the corduroys his mother had picked out for him. They’re a little too short. She’s going to try to take him shopping again tomorrow. It’ll work this time—they’ll get to the store. Mom’s just been having some trouble leaving the house lately. 

Rustling leaves skim the tips of his fingers as he reaches out for them, and keeps walking. When was the last time someone touched that shrub?

“There’s vegetation. Creosote, mostly, if you’re in the scrubland. Larrea tridentada. It’s dry—kind of twiggy, with green leaves and yellow flowers in the spring. The smell is bad, like asphalt, but you only notice if you get close.”

He hears his dad calling his name. It fades in and out. 

It’s dizzying, hearing his father’s voice. His father saying his name. 

It’s been a long time. 

“It’s so flat that things don’t echo. But because of the extreme variations in temperature the air pressure sometimes forces the sound waves to the ground and makes it impossible for them to propagate. They’re called the Santa Ana winds. Someone could be standing right next to you and if the wind blows at just the right angle, you won’t be able to hear them. But when it’s still, sound carries far.”

His father is angry. Or is he worried? 

Spencer can make out his dad, pacing frantically back and forth across the gas station pad, white button-up a glowing beacon even from this far away beneath the lone yellow street light. He looks so small. So very far away. Ant-like. 

Santa Ana comes slow—warmer than the night air around him, to ruffle his hair and rustle the dry leaves and blow soft clouds of fragrant sienna dirt around at his knees. It blows through him. For a moment, it wakes the desert up. 

Then it’s passed. It moves further down the desert and leaves Spencer behind. Things settle into silence again. He’s alone again. 

Spencer’s stomach flips as he realizes his father can’t see him this far away, this deep into the dark nothing. 

As he finally feels the enormity of the distance on all sides. 

Suddenly the void behind him is massive. Suddenly it is everything, and it is sucking him deeper. Nobody can see him. He could just disappear into 25,000 square miles of desert. He’s already, what—a thousand feet gone? More? The weight of all the infinite space behind him presses, and he thought it’d feel interesting but it feels like dying and there has never been so much regret or dread curdling in his stomach before. His face crumples, eyes stinging in the dry air, and he takes one step forward, and then another, and then he runs like he’s running for his life. But he doesn’t feel chased—no, that’s the worst part. He is running from an infinite, vacuous, nothing. Dad! He screams, but even this young he knows how sound waves work in the desert and he can tell his dad can’t hear him and he’s running and screaming until his lungs burn, and the scrub lashes at his ankles, and it has been the same for a thousand years and it will stay the same for a thousand more with or without him. Dad, I’m right here! He sobs, the words ripping up his throat with desperation as they go. 

Finally, finally, he’s heard, and he’s close enough to see his dad seeing him, he stops pacing and stares dumbfounded at the little boy appearing from the desert, sneakers slapping cracked asphalt. He gets closer and closer until he can see the lines on his father’s face and the color of his eyes and he sobs as he crashes into him. His dad’s hands are vice-tight around his arms, as Spencer cries and can’t breathe and thrashes like a fish out of water. 

What? Is all his father can manage, tight and baffled and afraid and the first word of a question he doesn’t even know how to ask. He says it again and again, like a skipping record; what—what? What?

On the drive home, Spencer sits in the backseat, a bottle of Bug Juice in his lap. His ankles sting, whipped and bloodied and punished for wearing too-short pants. 

The silence is cloistering and at the same time, completely par for the course. He does not expect his father to speak to him, but he sort of thinks maybe another father would. 

Outside, the black spine of distant mountains rolls on forever and stays impossibly far away. He peers out into the nothing, past what the moonlight can illuminate—and now, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows how it feels. Imagines another little boy made of shadows, as far away from the road as he’d been, and feels sick from all that fruit juice. He won’t ask his dad to pull over—all he wants is to get rid of that feeling on the back of his neck, like he’s dissolving into space. Like he’s the only thing for miles and miles. 

But the problem is—the feeling doesn’t go away. 

Not in the driveway. Not in the bath. Not in bed, later that night. 

Spencer did a bad thing and he wishes he could go back to normal. He wishes he didn’t get that desert feeling when he was surrounded by other people. But it comes back, again and again. At school. When he tentatively asks for new pants and his mom throws a vase at the wall and then sobs on the floor for forty minutes. When a few weeks later, his dad leaves, and doesn’t take the Ford with him—so it sits under the carport, greets him on his way to school every morning, and over the course of years the windshield turns opaque with dust. 

He hasn’t stopped feeling that way since. 

“You okay?”

A long, soft breath draws him back into his body. Into his bed. 

Not creosote. Not geosmin. Not the Santa Ana winds, coming from the deepest parts of the desert and carrying their desolation to him. Shampoo. Warmth. A girl who smells sort of like him, now—a girl whose perfume is all over his neck and chest and pillow. 

You’re there. You, a stranger. You, a girl he’s going to fall in love with. You—the only person he ever brought into the desert with him. The only person who ever brought him back. 

Point Nemo is not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Asphodel is not in the underworld. It’s a little less than half a mile out across from an old gas station on the I-15 in the middle of the Mojave desert. 

Spencer nods because he can’t bring himself to speak just yet. 

You smile and take the time to find his hand in the dark. 

“Felt like I was out there with you. Thanks.”

And he squeezes your hand—because for the first time, it feels like someone is going to come looking for him. 

lyrics from my life in art <3

[dcxdpdabbles]

#Holiday requests If you're not too busy I would love another part to cinnamon rolls son. Love your writing, it really is a great inspiration, you got me out of my own writing slump.

The Justice League was at their wits ends with Dan. Disaster struck no matter what they attempted to ensure he developed some softer traits.

First, Barry had the bright idea to show him the wonders of volunteer work to help the community. If he could value the life of humans, surely he wouldn't destroy it in the far future. As a teenager, Barry had punched hours of volunteering in the local hospital to play and read to the sick children in bed.

He had done it because he enjoyed making children smile and built up his resume for college. Barry was many things, but being wealthy enough to afford college wasn't one of them. He wanted to apply for as many scholarships as possible, so he started his community service campaign from an early age.

On the first day of their community service, Barry had taken him to clean up the local beach. An hour into the work, a shark had been spotted near the swimmers, and Dan had dived in to rescue a little girl from its jaws.

Dan had been hailed a hero until he picked up the girl's father and threw him into the water towards said shark. The father had ignored his seven-year-old daughter for his mistress. Apparently, once Dan overheard the man panicking more about his wife finding out the beach father-daughter beach day was just an excuse to cheat on her than his crying daughter in the ambulance, Dan had figured he needed to be taught a lesson.

Dan stood over him while the man screamed and splashed, pointing and laughing. Were it not for the Flash's sudden appearance, well....Dan may have actually fed that cheating cum bag to the sharks.

Bruce added it to the shared drive, asking Barry to include a complete detailed report, by the hour, of what happened. They figured they could analyze Dan and find what could make him snap.

Next, Clark took Dan to his family farm. He claimed nothing brought up good children like his mother and father's gentle but firm parenting,g plus the wonders of the hard farmer life. Clark was sure Dan would enjoy all the open space, the animals, and working in the fields.

Within the hour of the pair arriving at the farm, Dan happily weeded around the field. Clark was somewhat surprised by how quick he took to the job. He went inside to help Ma ready some pie and Clark's legendary lemonade as a reward.

It only took a few minutes since Ma had already put the pie to cook before they arrived. The two were gone long enough that Clark could make a nice pitcher and take a few seconds to smell the mouthwatering pie.

He went back into the field carrying a tray of a plated two-slice pie and a cold glass cup, only to stop dead in his tracks. Dan was kneeling, laughing manically towards the sky, within the circle of burning weeds.

The flames were a green and black color. Its dark smoke shifted into what appeared to be screaming humans. The worst part, however, was the lines of what appeared to be renamed scarecrows wearing shackles as they harvest Pa's cornfield.

Clark was horrified.

Batman had added to the drive, "Gave life to inanimate things just to enslave them."

Hal was the next one to try, but no one knew what happened on their Become A Better Person trip. Hal refused to place a report, only stating that he could never look at Hawaiian pizza again. He threw up when Barry brought one in for a long meeting.

At least Phantom seemed happy they were still attempting to save his son. His daughter was also more well-behaved, spending most of her days traveling. It was strange to associate her with Phantom because if there was one thing Dani liked to do, it was pick fights.

She had fought through Darkside's defenses to challenge him to a pie-eating contest. She freed half of his planet on her way out, but not before beating them up to get them to listen.

Her father would have spent time trying to do things peacefully. Not Dani. She did stuff through her fists.

Batman had added classifications to the three ghosts in the file. Phantom was Lawfully good, Dani Chaotic good, and Dan was marked as Chaotic neutral. The rest of the league suspects that his children added those, but no one was brave enough to point it out.

[milotraflgkl]

PT. 2 of Law being Delusional

note: I hope yall all enjoy this, there will be a part three but i might have to make yall wait for it so i can get through some older requests that im still behind on then once im done i’ll be able to write more random things i feel like writing. here is part one!

content: ooc?, law being soft, hinted confession/feelings, fluff

Law had been trying to deny his feelings but every time he’d close his eyes it was just.. you. He hated it and he knew at some point he was going to need to confront his feelings, to face you and look at you after almost two weeks of avoiding you. He never realized how important you were in his day-to-day life, the times you’d bring him coffee to wake him up as well as bring him small snacks throughout the day. He wasn’t sure why he felt so strongly about the situation, especially since he was the one who told you to shut up and pushed you away. He would grumble something as he brought his hands up to his head, leaning against his hands as his elbows rested on the table. He was trying to figure out how to talk to you, to bring it all up, and to take back what he said. To tell you that he wanted to talk, to bother him, to annoy him. All of the above.

Finally, he caved. Making his way around the submarine glancing into every room to try and find your face, to hear your voice, to see you again. He finally would make his way to the lounge area, finding you sitting there reading a book that he knew he had read before and you had caught home reading it. It made him grow nervous, the realization that you probably also continued to think about him and probably more than he thought about you made this all more nerve-wracking. It was stupid, he felt like a dumb teenage boy going to confess his feelings to his first-ever crush. But- He wasn’t going to confess his feelings! … Right? At this point, there was a blur between what he was going to do in the current moment and his body started to move on its own as he walked over to you looking down at you for a moment before he cleared his throat.

Flinching you snapped up to look up from your book, staring up at him as your eyes scanned his face and tried to figure out what even was happening in the current moment. With the way that he held his hat over his eyes and tilted his head to look away from you, his body language was strange and unusual. After a moment of staring at him in shock you clicked back to reality and shut the book moving to stand up, “I’m sorry, was I in the way?” You ask him as you slightly bow your head down to him and keep your eyes to the ground, worried you had done something else wrong and he was here to get onto you.

He hated the fact that his words had caused you to believe that just being even a bit in his area meant that you were in his way, he almost reached out but he quickly remembered that he didn’t want to open up the chance of physical contact. “No, I wanted to talk to you.” He said in a flat voice, his brows furrowed as he stared down at the wall next to him that was decorated with a bookshelf that was filled to the brim with different types of books. “I wanted to apologize for telling you to shut up and pushing you away like that…” He grumbled as he had a heavy frown on his face his eyes trying to distract himself by reading the different titles of the books.

You stared up at him in shock, was he… apologizing??? You weren’t sure how to react, especially since you weren’t sure you’d ever seen your captain apologize even if he was wrong - he was stubborn in that sense. You took a deep breath and then swallowed thickly, “It’s… okay.” You whispered out, you didn’t mean for your voice to sound so quiet, and silently swore under your breath for how weak your voice even sounded. You noticed how he didn’t even look toward you but you didn’t notice how his whole body tensed up, you slowly lowered your head to look at the ground in defeat. “I thought about how I had acted previously and it was too much, especially between a Captain and his Crew.” You spoke up, wanting to say what you needed before anything.

He snapped to turn to look at you, being greeted with the top of your head pointed in his direction. His eyes widened and he paused as he stared down at you before he took a sharp inhale, reaching over to grab your shoulder causing you to look up at him. “I didn’t mind it.” He admits, that his expression was stern yet his voice almost seemed to falter at the admission and he could feel his ears beginning to heat up when you made eye contact with him staring up at him with those… eyes. He quickly retracted his hand and subconsciously wiped his hand off against his shirt and then dropped it down to the side of his body, you didn’t take the act as offense as you knew your captain's feelings on physicality, and him even trying to touch you made you feel something.

“Thank you.” You whispered back out to him, your eyes scanning his face and glancing at the pink that had decorated his ear almost giggling before holding it back and swallowing it thickly. You watched as he turned to look away again, his eyes scanning the different books but wasn’t paying attention to what they said, and seemed like he was trying to figure out the words he wanted to say to you. “I wouldn’t mind if you went back to… acting how you did.” He said in almost a whisper, your eyes stared up at the side of his face admiring his jawline and then hair that decorated up to his hair and you felt your whole body heat up by just how attractive your captain truly was. “Yes, Captain.” You respond without a thought before tensing up and looking up to see if what you had said was.. bad timing. He didn’t seem bothered.

“Good.” That was all he said before he suddenly turned around and walked off, leaving you to sit there and process the whole interaction before you started to do a small dance and squeal a little bit. You finally got your spot back to annoying your Captain and he liked you being there, you were thrilled while Law sat in his office with his head in his hands and his face best red from embarrassment at his actions and words. It would take him a while but, he’d get used to you being around. Came to enjoy it and missed it whenever you were busy or gone, often trying to go out of his way to check up on you if you haven’t been around for a long time. The crew didn’t notice at first until maybe a week or two later, they were happy the uneasiness was gone now but there was another issue…. the way that their captain was acting with you was foreign.

tags: @paraniodidiot @elationa @valval08

[pastadoughie]

other posts abt this are getting deleted

my brother killed himself- the one i actually like somewhat (ryan) & not the nazi shithead who tried to choke me to death this time last year (julian). i am the youngest of 3.

hes kinda a complicated guy, similar to how they treat me i only ever get to hear about him through other family members making fun of him for his every issue - so much of what i know is negative.

most of my opinion of ryan for the past 4 years maybe has been sortof admiring- atleast in comparison to my other family members- hes the only one who actually shielded me from julians constant phisical abuse, & the only one with the sense to realize that my entire family is a bunch of miserable abusive leaching assholes who are best off associated with as little as possible. i may think hes a racist & a bit of an idiot but i still really respect him as the only person who doesnt treat me like eaither a rabid dog or a walking suicide note

its a bit offputting to me honestly- the last time i had a close relationship with him was when he was a terminally online barely legal teenager- boyblogging about my little pony & fat bitches on the internet & trying to escape a deeply abusive home life dispite having no money & no education. primary difference being with me being trans & disabled & my abuse more overt & overarching i dont really get the luxury of having any kind of positive feelings about anyone in my family. i wouldve been dead years ago if i hadnt learned how to deal w/ myself & my emotions entirely independantly. its a recursive cycle i suppose

he called a few family members shitfaced drunk the day of- was made fun of them by every one, a few hours later was supposed to go to work. drove onto an empty road in his lexis at night. driving straight before making an entirely unessasary turn to veer off the road- flipping his car multiple times over. dieing on impact- hes gotten in many accidents before- & had flipped that car & gotten hurt previously & likely rendered much of its safety features unusable.

in all likelyhood probably alot about money- a certain degree of reckless drinking & petty theft charges & unpayably expensive car repairs & your problems stop really being fixable- needing a level of both financial & mental health intervention that nobody is wiling/capable of providing to someone they veiw as a drunk.

i dont have many thoughts on this topic that i feel are meaningful- im someone primarily apathetic & only incedentally empathetic- i only show proper emotions in maybe small 20 minute intervals once in a blue moon

my primary source of emotion has just been how angry my entire family seems to be at me specifically- a unanimous & explicit & constant reminder that they would really really really rather i kill myself then them have to ever look at me or deal with my stupid inability to do seemingly easy tasks like work & schooling. i guess theyll never really get any self awareness. in many ways i dont respect any of them- even ignoring everything else theyve ever done thats just kindof a ghoulish & overly cruel thing to say- but you cant tharapyspeak your way out of being atleast a little emotional about your entire family wanting you dead

im just gonna keep silly posting as usual. abiet maybe somewhat lower energy. especially because people are seemingly incapable of treating me like a normal human being & not flattening me down to solely my life situation, out of some strange assumption that treating someone like a 1d characature of a mentally ill person from a tharapy training course is somehow less offensive then saying something mildly triggering by accident

[chaosduckies]

Could we get a part 2 of Birds of a Feather?

Oh yeah of course! Can never have too much parental g/t! Decided to have a sick tiny because why not? (Also fluff) so I hope you like it! And I’m so sorry that it took so long to answer- I re-wrote this too many times to count but figured this was the best one!

Word Count: 3.6k

Cw: None!

Birds of a Feather (2)

It had only been a week since Gabriel found out about Lizzie and I. I would say that it’s been interesting. Lizzie goes out more often, and it seems like the house isn’t as quiet anymore. It did kind of help with the anxiety a little bit. I never really liked the silence. Just meant that I couldn’t tell where humans would be.

Now? When Gabriel is home Lizzie always tries to bother him with questions and if she could be held or picked up. She was still just a kid but I didn��t trust Gabriel. That’s why anytime he gave us food I still checked it for poison even though some part of me doubted that he would poison us. What were the chances of that ever happening? I also will never let him hold me. Never. Not even touch me. I always just ran away, hid, or grabbed my needle as fast as I could. That didn’t mean he stopped trying or asking, though he did say he would respect my personal space. It’s just… how was I supposed to trust a human after hiding from them my entire life? It didn’t seem easy to just blindly trust one after all of this time. Sure, he gives us food and all of that, but that doesn’t mean I’d just put my life in his hands! Literally! 

Today was a snowy day. It was cold in the house, meaning that the walls were even colder. Normally I would have just borrowed some cloth, but since Gabriel knew about us I couldn’t do that. I was too afraid he’d just be mad. There was no telling what he would do to me! I shuddered just at the thought. As long as it’s not my sister…

Lizzie couldn’t wait for Gabriel to wake up so she could go with him. She always tried to convince me to get out. To really do anything now that we were free to walk around without the fear of being noticed, but again, she didn’t know how terrifying it was to now be out in the open. How could she know? She was too young to ever go out borrowing so she didn’t know how scary it was. Though I should probably teach her sometime soon. Not today though. I felt sick all over. My head felt hot, I was coughing, my body felt weak, I could barely keep my eyes open. I haven’t been this sick in a few years. 

I still forced myself to go out and borrow a few things. Like at least try to get a few more “blankets” for us. Lizzie said she would ask but I told her no. I can take care of us on my own. I don’t need help from a human. Even if it hurts just to move. 

Lizzie hadn’t caught on that I was sick, or at least I think she hasn’t, which was good because then she would’ve definitely told Gabriel. The last thing I needed was for him to find out. Who knows what he might do? He might take his chance to finally kill me, or even just get rid of the both of us now that I could barely move. Not like he could do that already though. 

I cautiously watched as Lizzie ran over to the living room, where Gabriel was. Lizzie never seemed to be scared for some reason. What goes through her mind when she’s “playing” with him? Gabriel too! I was surprised that he hasn’t hurt her. Not even once. The entire situation was strange to me, but as I watched from afar, I kind of found myself wanting the same attention that Lizzie had. Gabriel actually seemed happy that she came to keep him company instead of annoyed. Every story I heard with humans always ended up with us dying, but this? It was entirely new. Even if Gabriel seemed like a murderer and was so intimidating, he hadn’t done anything to hurt either of us. It was so much more different here, and I had no idea why Gabriel was different, not that I was complaining. It actually made my borrowing trips easier. He left cabinets slightly open for me, left food out in case whatever he gave us wasn’t enough, or if we didn’t like it. Everything was so much easier, but I didn’t want to entirely rely on him for help. I can take care of both of us. I have been for a while now so what’s a few more years? 

I gripped the hook in my hand, weakly limping over to the side of the counter. I was craving crackers for some odd reason, and there was no way in heck that I was going to ask Gabriel to get me it. No matter how sick and weak I felt. I threw my hook up onto the side of the counter, my muscles already feeling strained. I know you’re supposed to rest when you’re sick, but I couldn't. I have my sister to care for and right now my main focus is getting something to keep her warm and maybe those crackers that I was craving. She was already complaining last night that it was cold and I couldn’t do anything about it at the time. 

With a few tugs to make sure that it was secure, I started climbing, my muscles straining under the pressure and my head spinning a little bit. When I reached the top, I took a few seconds to catch my breath. I rested a hand over my burning forehead. Of course I had a fever. A bad one by the looks of it. My eyes didn’t even want to stay open anymore. I didn’t know how I would get back down, but I’ll figure it out when I get there. 

I sniffled, rubbing my eyes before walking around the counter in search of an unused piece of cloth or just something until I could find an actual blanket. I would kill for a nap right now, but maybe whenever I get back. That seemed like the safer decision. This sickness will pass eventually. I just felt absolutely horrible right now. 

There wasn’t much to be offered on the counter today. Except for the extremely tempting crackers that were sitting in a basket like usual. Since Gabriel was home, I had to be extra quiet, but I could already tell that the plastic would give me a hard time. Just another borrowing trip… it’s not like you haven’t borrowed from him before. Of course I did get caught and the events that happened afterwards left me in complete shock, but that wouldn’t happen again. Hopefully. Maybe. 

I trudged over to the basket, struggling to pull one that was hanging off the side. I looked over to see that Gabriel was still busy entertaining my sister. I should have plenty of time to get this, right? Obviously he would know that it was me who stole it but I just had to keep thinking that he wouldn’t do anything to me. I mean, he probably does care about Lizzie more than me. Since she actually spends time with him… But I just can’t see how. He’s not our parent, and I couldn’t just accept the fact that he’s actually helping us. There has to be some trick right? He’s just building up to gain our trust and make our lives more miserable. Well I wasn’t going to let that happen. 

As I started to take out some pieces, feeling selfish for not being able to find something for Lizzie but I was hungry. I didn’t bother to eat last night since I had already felt bad before this morning, but I wasn’t expecting to feel so weak and sick when I woke up. I just sighed, coughing a little bit before sitting down and still struggling to take out a piece of the peanut butter crackers I usually don’t like to eat. 

Suddenly I heard someone getting up, and out of my instincts, I hurried to take out a piece and hid behind the basket, clutching the cracker to my chest and having trouble breathing. My head already felt dizzy and my arms weak but I could get out of this just fine, right? I could barely keep myself on my feet for any longer but it was only a few more minutes until I could go home. I could just use my hook to.. My hook. Where was it? I glanced back at where I came from and there it was, still hanging on the side of the counter. Panic surged through me as I stepped to go and grab it, but it was already too late. 

A shadow loomed overhead, observing my hook and turning directly towards the crackers I was stealing. He was going to get so mad at me. I was going to die. Where was Lizzie then if he was coming over here? I hadn’t heard for a while. Did he already… No. He wouldn’t, right? There was no way. I winced at the thoughts, struggling to stay as quiet as possible. 

“...Andrew? Is that you little guy?” I didn’t even have enough energy to be angry at the new nickname. But I was more mortified by the fact that he already knew it was me. Of course he did. I was the only one who could’ve been climbing up here if he was with Lizzie, not that she even knew how to climb yet. 

I sucked in a shaky breath, almost tripping over my own two feet when I came out of my hiding spot. I had no idea what he would do if I didn’t listen. I was trembling and tried to hide it but of course I did a terrible job at that. I looked down at my hands, quickly hiding the piece of food that I stole behind my back. I closed my eyes shut and hung my head in hopes that he wouldn’t hurt me. That all he would do is take my food away. I’d just have to try and find something else to eat then, but the fear crept slowly throughout my body. 

“Are you okay? You look sick, kid.”  He asked concernedly to my surprise, not even acknowledging the fact that I was very obviously borrowing things from him. I didn’t feel okay actually. Everything in my body just felt off. I could think straight but not at the same time? I somehow felt cold and hot all over and had coughing fits every now and then. I don’t think that’s okay but there was no way I’d be admitting that. 

I nodded my head, getting a little light-headed from the simple movement. He quirked an eyebrow up like he didn’t believe me and sighed, leaning against the counter. I took a few shaky steps back, eyes wide and ready for whatever punishment I was about to receive, “So you’re up here taking my food again?” A slight smile on his face but I just jumped and held out the piece I was hiding, “I-I’ll put it b-back. I’m sorry.” I apologized. 

I had expected him to say yes to putting it back, but to my shock he just shook his head, “No, you can have the entire thing if you want.” He started, moving the package closer to me. I flinched a little, cursing myself for showing that I was scared. Of course he already knew that though with how I reacted to him noticing that I was taking some food. Nothing would happen though, right? He’d just leave me alone now and go back to my sister, right? Just grab whatever he needed from here, and leave me the heck alone. I was practically pleading for that outcome at this point. 

Gabriel studied me for a bit longer, a suspicious look on his face, “Are you lying about not being sick kid?” He asked again. Could I even lie to a person like him? If I said yes, who knows what would happen? It was hard to tell if it would be a good or bad outcome. I couldn’t tell. I sucked in a sharp breath, nearly coughing from the air hitting the back of my throat. If I said no he’d just keep asking, but all I’d have to do was escape by then, right? I would feel better in a few days anyways. Maybe. 

 I shook my head, trying to calm my racing heart as he lifted himself off of his arms. I nervously started messing with my hands, trying not to show him just how terrifying he was looming over me. Everything just seemed so much more terrifying when you’re sick for some reason. I felt smaller, more insecure, vulnerable under his gaze. 

“You’re a terrible liar.” He sighed, hand slowly reaching for me. I didn’t even register that he was going to grab me before his fingers were nearly halfway wrapped around my skinny frame. I scrambled backwards, tripping over my own two hands several times while trying to grab my needle, but of course I forgot to grab it before I went borrowing. Great going me! Before I could get up and run, I was picked up in a fist. I kicked and pushed at the fingers, struggling so much and already feeling tired after just a tiny bit. I hate being sick. I was too weak to get myself out of this situation, I forgot my only weapon, and the worst part about this is that I quite literally sank into the warmth his hand provided. I mean, this was just because I was sick, right? I wouldn’t have done this if I were in my right mind. No way. I would’ve fought back and climbed back down to the safety of my cold… lonely home. 

I pushed and kicked as much as I could, trying my hardest not to stay comfy even though my eyes felt so heavy and my body was warmed up within seconds, “Let me go!” Tears started forming in my eyes, trying not to think about what could happen to me. Before I could kick away his fingers one last time, his thumb gently, yet firmly, was placed over my face. That’s all it took. Just one simple movement. I could be dead right now. I started crying softly, barely hearing the words that came out of his mouth, “Calm down little guy. You’re gonna make yourself even more sick.” And I obeyed. He practically already threatened me, and it’s not like I could speak either. I hated the new nickname, I hated being this helpless, and I hated just how much I wanted him to keep me in his hands so I could be warm. No! That’s so stupid. Why would I want that? It’s just the sickness talking… 

Soon enough we were moving, his thumb moved away from my face as I stared up at him with wide eyes, red and puffy from the tears that were still falling. I tried to wipe them away as much as I could until I felt myself being moved. I was no longer in a fist and I wasn’t moving anymore. I staggered backwards as much as I could before hitting his fingers and flinching, covering my head with my arms, “I-I’m s-s-sorry.” My voice barely came out as a whisper, and I doubt Gabriel even heard it. 

“Kid, I'm just trying to help you feel better. Here.” He handed me one of the crackers I was going to eat. I looked up, feeling a little too weak after all of that adrenaline to even move. It felt like my head was throbbing and my muscles screamed to stop moving. And honestly, after all of this, I wasn’t even hungry anymore despite the fact that I haven’t eaten for some time. I shook my head, getting light headed once again. Everything in my body begged me to just lay down and close my eyes, but there was no way that I would be doing that. I’m not trusting him even for one bit. Lizzie might- Wait. Lizzie? 

My eyes searched frantically for her, the extra adrenaline making it possible to move my limbs again as I looked over his hand, spotting her lying underneath a piece of cloth and asleep. She… fell asleep? Around him? Did she really trust him that much? Well, I guess it made sense. She’s spent more time with him than I have, but I still think that all of this is just a trick… Oh who am I kidding? He’s genuinely a nice person. I’m so sick and tired of always being on edge and barely being able to stay alive. I’m tired of struggling just to get basic living needs. Gabriel was offering all of that and so much more and I can’t just accept the fact that he’s just trying to help, no matter how afraid I was, I think I would just have to trust him in this. That none of this was a trick and that he’s genuinely trying to help us stay alive. 

“You have to eat something. You’re not going to get better otherwise.” He gestured to the food again. I shook my head again, wincing and holding my head from the throbbing pain. I nearly fell over hadn’t his fingers been there to support me. His eyes softened, slowly bringing me closer to him, but at this point I could care less. I felt so much worse than before even climbing up onto the countertop. To know all of this would happen in just one week. Getting found, then getting sick and being forced to be taken care of by a human. I didn’t even have enough energy to care anymore. 

“Okay, I’ll be right back, stay there.” He ordered before tilting his hand slowly onto the couch. I let out a yelp of surprise before hitting the cushiony surface right next to Lizzie. Stay here? Where was he going? Was he going to leave me alone? Just abandon me? I couldn’t stop the tears that formed. What did I care if he left me? I would be just fine on my own… Right? I could barely even move my limbs anymore from thinking I could just go borrow with barely any problems. Turns out all I ended up facing were problems. I didn’t want to be left alone either.

I turned back to my sister, wiping away the loose tears as I heard Gabriel coming back. For some odd reason I was actually happy that he came back, though I couldn’t help but struggle to move myself backwards. He just stared at me a little shocked, “I had really expected you to try and escape.” He sighed, slowly sitting back down and moving something in his hands. It looked to be some sort of cloth, though what could he need it for? 

“Well here, if you’re not going to eat then you could get some rest. I’m sure you're exhausted if you can barely even hold yourself up.” He dumped the cloth in front of me. For… me? I cautiously reached out, pulling the soft piece towards me. So warm… I snuggled close, but didn’t lay down. I could stay up… I didn’t need sleep. I needed to go home and rest. Even if it would  be so much colder there than staying out here. 

Gabriel sighed, his hands covering his face like he was frustrated with me, “If you needed help why not come to me?” I scrambled backwards, pulling the cloth over my entire body. Was he mad at me for it? Was he going to hurt me because I didn’t ask for help? My chest tightened at the thoughts, closing my eyes shut as I waited to be lifted off from the ground in one sweep, but when it didn’t come I sheepishly peeked my head out. 

“I didn’t mean to sound so angry, I promise I’m not,” He started, sighing, “Listen, you’re what? Thirteen, fourteen? You’re just a kid. You should be having fun and playing with your little sister. Not struggling to survive and get food everyday.” His eyes softened, turning towards me. I bit the bottom of my lip. But how else was I supposed to live? My sister and I would’ve died countless times had I not been the one struggling. Heck, there were even times when I thought I wouldn’t make it. Getting caught in a spider web, nearly getting trapped in a rat trap, tangled on my rope. I had to grow up if I was going to live. It’s not like I wanted to. 

“I-I had to if I was going to live. I d-didn’t want to die.” I looked down, hoping that he would get it. I wonder what life would’ve been like if our parents hadn’t died. They would’ve taught me so many more things before I was so abruptly forced to go borrowing. I could’ve still been a kid, maybe just barely moving out, but at least I’d know what I was doing! I’m terrible at borrowing! 

Gabriel nodded his head, “That’s understandable,” He turned his head and smiled down at me, “Now just get some rest. I’ll take care of you and your sister, don’t worry about it.” I nodded my head, wrapping the blanket even more around me as I coughed, groaning from how scratchy my throat felt. I forced myself to lay down, wincing from the simple movements. 

I really didn’t have any other choice. I was too tired to stay awake, too weak to move, too sick to do anything but hope that I was trusting the right person. He would take care of us. I wouldn’t have to fight for survival anymore. I could actually be happy again. That was all I could really ask for.  ——————

I had a lot of fun writing this and I’m hoping to get back to writing my main stories soon! Since I will be having a break soon and can finally edit all the things I’ve written-

I have no idea if I’ll be doing a part 3, but if you want one please let me know! Thank you for the ask anon!

Taglist: @da3dm

If you would like to be added please let me know!

[hugemilkshake]

Golden Cheese Cookie × Reader oneshot please (Reader is Burning Spice's child (they're adult))

Enjoy the milkshake! I’m making it so that reader is like an apprentice of sorts to burning spice but the majority of spice swarm agrees that reader is basically his kid. Would Burning spice be a good father? Hmmmm….

Beastly advice

-Romantic leaning-

Your mentor or “father” always bugged you.

He never really cared for simple things, as in he’d destroy them all. It bugged you.

The day he was imprisoned was a nice day for you, even if it came with some slight immorality, your life improved for the better! You started a farm located on the outskirts of the land of spice.

It was simple.

Oh only if it could stay that way.

The ground shook and creatures started moving towards the abandoned temple that the beast of destruction resided in, which was strange to say the least, no one went there unless they had offerings or something.

But then… you heard the gongs ring out.

Your dough started to crawl. The Great Destroyer, your mentor, your adoptive FATHER was back. You had so many questions buzzing around your head.

How was he back? What happened to the seal? What was going to happen to you? And what is going to happen to the innocent creatures of this land?

Your head was spinning from the anxiety you felt about this. But if there’s one thing that you wanted to do before everything went down the drain, you wanted to make sure no innocent bystanders could get seriously harmed in the crossfire.

—————————————

The dust settled and the winds calmed, a winged cookie dressed in gold, followed by a cookie in a bird like hood, made their way towards the Lassi springs, Pepper Pangolin Cookie left not too long ago and Y/N Cookie was making sure everything from there that needed to leave was ready for transport. It was then that the two groups stumbled across each other.

Y/N Cookie was the first one to speak, their words were directed towards the golden cookie.

“So your the one the beast is looking for? I’m not surprised, you look like you can put up a good fight, I’m Y/N Cookie by the way”

The winged cookie was about to speak up when her companion spoke.

“Is that meant to be an insult towards her majesty? Because if it is, then that is quite the pathetic insult.” Y/N Cookie Chuckled

“Not at all, I honestly think that you could beat the beast, and honestly I can give you some advice, granted it’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”

“Information would be appreciated, it seems that this beast is quite formidable” the winged cookie paused before speaking again “My names Golden Cheese Cookie and this is my companion, Smoked Cheese Cookie.”

Y/N Cookie nodded “Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, let’s sit and have a chat, the springs are quite calming”

—————————————

The three cookies sat and had a conversation about the beast of destruction and how you knew this information, it was a bit akward at first but it soon developed into laughter and jokes, mainly between Y/N Cookie and Golden Cheese

Y/N Cookie gently and jokingly hit Golden Cheeses arm, laughter flowing through the air. The two of them had grown to be very aquatinted with each other.

With a sigh, Y/N Cookie stood up, saying that it’s best for them to head out, there was stuff that needed to get done. Golden Cheese had a sad look in her eyes, like she was disappointed that the conversation had to end.

With a final wave goodbye, Y/N Cookie gave the two good luck and went their separate ways…

But as the day went on.. worry started to grow. Sounds of battle rung throughout the air, there was no ideas about what might be happening to the other..

—————————————

Through the rubble, Y/N Cookie and some Kulfi dug through the rubble, the fight that occurred here was violent, but no one knew who came out victorious… was it Golden Cheese or that beast of a mentor…?

You dug through the rubble when a golden shine caught the corner of your eye. The Kulfi were already talking to the victor.

“Golden Cheese Cookie?!” You made your way through the rubble and into the clearing as you saw her, she looked even more radiant than before, her wings shone like burning embers and you could just get lost in her beauty.

“Y/N Cookie!” She flew to you and you both embraced each other, she spun you around and the two of you stayed together like that for a minute until Smoked Cheese cleared his throat

The two of you looked at each other and released each other, looking away with a flushed face. Chuckling to each other.

“I’m glad your okay…”

“I’m… glad your okay as well”

Things weren’t going to be simple as they used to be… but that’s okay, you had someone to look forward to seeing

[dont-offend-the-bees]

I would love for Ponyo AU to hear more about a) the seaside town where Edwin lives or b) how the Night Nurse and Kashi met (something which is never addressed in the Ponyo film actually, I think) - apologies if this constitutes a spoiler for future chapters!

Thank you, my friend! Apologies for the delay in answering, life sure keeps life-ing all over me 😑

I did think about choosing an actual British seaside town to set the story in -- we do have plenty of them to choose from -- but ultimately I decided that in the name of the sort of, dreamy imprecise magical whimsy of the piece, that having an exact town you can point to on a map wasn't really what was needed or wanted.

Edwin lives in a Pushing Daisies-esque small beach town named something whimsical like Bottleby-Upon-Tweed or West Wombling or some such achingly British nonsense, and it's all brightness and noise and candy striped colours in the summer and a desaturated frame of salt-roughened old celluloid in the winter. Those two mirroring states are sort of reflective of our POV characters. The POV of the overall fic is a little muddled, there may be parts where it leans more heavily into Edwin or Charles (the growing up sequence ended up almost entirely Edwin, which I regret a bit now!) but there will often be asides to both in the same section because in my mind they're sort of learning to see the world not just through their own eyes but through each other's; Edwin, who's tired of this grey old place and these grey, miserable people, and Charles, who sees the world on the shore as this big exciting adventure. It's an odd balance and one I defo didn't nail in chapter one because I was still sort of percolating ideas, but there's a tribute to both of their viewpoints in the way I'm trying to build this fictional town around them out of drab and dour things like cold cliffs and beach litter and panopticon-esque family homes that watch you with their beady window-eyes, and out of larger-than-life adventure set pieces like killer seagulls and travelling circuses (woops chapter 2 spoiler!) and the same house again but as a castle on the hill, a stronghold. Essentially, the town is a Frankensteined scrapbook of your quintessential English beachside town, cobbled together by two children with very different memories of how the summer holiday went!

And as for Night Nurse and Kashi, well, I won't go into what the later chapters hold for them, but I have no idea how much of their backstory will make it into the fic, so. In the interest of anyone who wants to keep that part of the fic a complete surprise I'll pop it under a cut!

N.N. and Kashi aren't the focus of the fic, so I wouldn't say I've thought through every aspect of their relationship/backstory, however as soon as their role in this fic revealed itself to me I did get way more invested in them than I planned! In this fic, N.N tends to be referred to as either the sea witch, or the witch of the waves (slight Howl's Moving Castle nod, there!), but she has another name, and a relatively well-known role in ancient Greek mythology. What her history is exactly has been somewhat lost to time, oral histories and retellings being what they are, but she was once a powerful sorceress with a gift for transforming people who crossed her into animals. She's had various romantic entanglements and a number of children, all lost to her now.

She'd always lived by the sea and done a number of dealings with some famous -- or infamous -- sea-dwellers, so it was a happy coincidence that one day she happened across a strange and friendly man on the docks. He was an odd man, seemingly totally unbothered by the pain and strife in the world; and she, being a woman who'd lived through a great deal of tiresome human loss and pettiness (of literally mythic proportions), found herself drawn to him. He turned out to be a minor god of the sea and a self-described inveterate wonderer, always swimming from ocean to ocean, never having had enough of all the world can show him, but his kindness and his refreshingly direct manner of speaking seduced her, and she gave up on the world of men for good to live on the bottom of the sea -- and grew to adore it so much that she's now quite sure that the world could do perfectly well without the land or the humans in the picture, actually. They love each other very dearly, in their strange way, they're honest with each other; and she's never begrudged him his lifestyle, or his adventures, or his infrequent and unpredictable visits.

...She does take SLIGHT issue when that ridiculous overgrown seahorse of a man blows back into her neck of the woods with a winsome smile and a fresh batch of magical immortal fish-children smuggled under his arm like souvenirs from abroad, but. Fortunately for him she's been a mother before and even finds herself missing it on occasion; although the sort of broods this man produces are FAR larger than any she's had to deal with in her human years. No wonder she's just a tad stressed.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Hi Alyssa!

I have a random question for you today…

What’s the strangest thing you have ever done for money?

Hi Kat!! Happy Monday!

Oh BOY that sure is a loaded question! hahahaha I have done quite a few strange things for money, honestly. Some of them might not be... how should I put this... sharable. But I have a couple that I certainly can tell you about.

1- Bartender at a Catholic High School fundraiser event. I think it was a fashion show? So I had already been a bartender for about three years when I started student teaching (there was a brief moment in time when I was going to be a HS English teacher) at my old high school (Yes, I attended catholic school for 12 years. Fun fact, that school has since shut down and was most recently used to film the new Mean Girls movie which I have not seen but the trailers trip me out because there's Tina Fey standing in my old history classroom lol) and was also coaching the girls' track team, so I was around the school often. Someone in the main office overheard me talking to one of the other teachers - who just so happened to be a friend that I bartended with in the summer - about being a bartender, so they asked me to "bartend" (it was just wine and beer) this event (that was held in the cafeteria). I guess it's not that strange, but it was a weird like... worlds colliding thing for me. Still, it was an easy $100.

2- I wrote social media posts for a cab company in London. For a while I was freelancing on Fiverr and was hired to write... so many strange articles, posts, press releases etc. (One time a really small scale rapper contacted me to write some reviews for his music and told me he was gonna take me to the top and I literally have not stopped laughing about that because no, sir, you are not taking me to the top you are paying me $5 to say your music is good which it wasn't horrible but it definitely wasn't going anywhere near the top. Another time I had to write 1500 words about different types of mattresses.) But my one repeat client was this cab company in London that had me rewrite all the copy for their website. And I have never been to London.

3- I sold donor recognition plaques. This one was strange in so many ways. I worked for a tiny company that specialized in making those like big wall installations and like trees that you see in hospitals and temples/churches and universities and other institutions where boosters/donors have their names on like plaques or leaves. It was strange working there for a lot of reasons. The company had been around for 100 years at the time I was working there, and if you looked around the office and workshop, you could tell. There was an entire room of paper records (non digitized, despite the fact that digitization exists and despite the fact that this company had already suffered a fire like 40 years ago and lost all their records) the workshop was like part functional creative space, part fucking museum because some of the tools were like The Original Tool. But the strangest part about working there was the fact that the three owners all seemed to be locked in a constant battle with each other which made it impossible to get anything done. But yeah. If you've ever been in a temple or hospital in NY, NJ or the surrounding area, chances are the tiny dysfunctional company I worked for made their plaques.

[primus-why]

I Feel TFOne Could've Handled This Better...

Hot take but I feel like folks have been really generous with the take that OP was unable to find ~the perfect words~ in the heat of the moment (and thus should be given some grace) when he told D to stand down and "not be like Sentinel"... namely cuz I don't feel that the narrative supports this?

Like-- after all is said and done, OP doesn't reflect on that part of their split. He doesn't have a moment where he seeks validation or voices his regrets over the choice of his words, it's actually cut-and-dry. The narrative (as it stands) supports that OP saw D-16 acting up, so he called him out and stood on business, down to the last scenes where he's basically like "yeah it's a shame but y'all knew I had to do it to 'em."

It didn't have to be much! I'm not saying to absolve Megs, just show OP looking at things from a different perspective/contemplating a bit on that tough choice and the morality of the moment. Some examples of what I wish we had:

B-127 straight up blurting the obvious by later chatting with Orion like, "Wait so you told your best friend that he was acting just as bad as the guy who enslaved us for our entire lives and was torturing him like an hour ago? Oof. Seems kinda harsh." Then have some of OP's regret show on his face.

OP asking Elita-1 after Megs is banished if he did the right thing. Have Elita back his choice up, saying, "You should have seen what he did after you were... gone. It was terrifying. I know it was tough, but you made the right call." OP is grateful for the support, but a conflicted look still flashes across his face before he steels himself to look out towards the horizon... and the future.

Have OP walk past other mechs/former miners who didn't go with the High Guard saying stuff like, "Wish I could've given Sentinel a piece of my mind!" "Yeah, but I'm glad he's gone for good." "Ugh I miss everything." "Oh, it was crazy! Megatron picked him up and then he rrrrriiipped-- oops, hey there, Mr. Optimus... Prime... sir?" And have OP wave hello, looking a bit sick when they leave.

Post-credits scene with Starscream going on and on, asking Megs when they'll be back to teach the upstart Prime a lesson. Megs grabs his face to shut him up. "Patience, Starscream. The Prime thinks I'm no better than Sentinel... but I'll show him. He wants Iacon? He can have it. In the meantime we'll take the rest of the planet! Then I'll come back, crush Prime under my heel, and we'll take Iacon too. Sentinel's reign will barely be a footnote, because I'm about to become Optimus Prime's worst nightmare." The vocal performance would really need to sell this-- like picture Megs saying something like that from a place of anger and hurt, not so much a place of genuine evil or malice.

Basically instead of Orion's assertion being backed up as black and white/good vs bad, I wish we had some different opinions/reactions from the characters sprinkled in there. Like you can't tell me out of allllll the miners who weren't strong enough/willing to go with the High Guard and ended up sticking around that NONE of them were like "eyyo honestly?? Kiiiiinda glad Sentinel is dead. Wish I could have helped, tbh." like come onnnnn...

And you can't even argue that he's not an active threat-- I don't think everyone would see things that way! It's not just about the threat he physically has, but the threat he represents and is very likely to act upon if given the opportunity! He has a proven track record of not only being sneaky and conniving, but also capable of dealing some serious damage/killing people bigger and stronger than him, plus he has the backing of the Quints. All he'd need to do is wriggle his way out of jail and run off to his sponsors, then he'd probably be back to hurt more people! (If the Quints didn't just kill him out of incompetence lmao). There's a lot of "ifs" here, but I think it's a valid argument that not everyone would agree on what is the right or wrong way to handle Sentinel once he was down long enough to, like, do something about him.

I feel the situation needed a bit of nuance. In some way I wish they had kicked the can and had D and Orion bicker while Sentinel escaped, then have D get frustrated enough by the loss of Sentinel to point fingers (and his fusion canon) at Orion, who then falls and becomes OP. (Megs could still show some of thar emotion/remorse right after he does it too.) Not only would this open the door for a sequel, but tbh the Quint might have just killed Sentinel anyways and sought to deal with the miners uprising themselves lol. (Maybe that could have been an after credits scenes too instead of the B-127 bit??)

Would love to see a moment in a sequel where they have a calmer moment after arguing for a bit. Have OP mention how Megs was out of line, that it hurt and even scared him to see him act that way, and Megs can quietly point out "you said I was as bad as Sentinel... is that really how you see me? After everything we went through?"

Then OP can fumble the bag again lmao like "D, I... I'm sorry, that didn't come out right... but you still took things way too far..."

"Why am I not surprised-- your opinion is what matters the most! Maybe that's why you became a Prime, since you're so good at acting like the world revolves around you--!"

*gets interrupted by someone else before another yelling match ensues*

[saltydoesstuff]

Every Universe

"I love you." She uttered, barely above a whisper. "I love you in every universe." "Do we end up together in every universe?" He asked. "No," She replied, and the painful memories of those life times flashed behind her beautiful eyes as she reflected to the 'back then's. Yet, she smiled, "But I love you anyway, how could I not? My soul yearns for you, even before it had come to know you. It remembers, I remember." "Does it hurt?" She was silent for a moment, "A lifetime without you hurts more then a lifetime when we are not together." "I love you." He blurts out unthinkingly, desperate. He reaches out for her hand, taking it and holds it in both hands in a grounding grip. She looked down at their hands and smiled, relishing in the bitter sweetness. "I know." She confesses quietly. She held his hand tightly, trying to ignore the buzzing within her body- threatening to tear her apart atom by atom. "But you aren't mine. Not this time."

[pkmoth]

having swap au thoughts. *slaps roof of claus* there's so much mental illness in this guy. im gonna blow up everyone in the room and then myself

[toytulini]

you know whats more annoying than dems calling vance and trump weird is all the condescending posts justifying it actually. like im a bit annoyed about "weird" being used this way but also like man if it fucking works i guess

but do i have to keep seeing daily posts exhaustively justifying how normie midwesterners use weird different or whatever the fuck man just shut up and call them weird then, stop justifying it to me

[icewindandboringhorror]

I still very loathe the Media Trope of ‘’cold genius man doesn’t feel emotions and never has relationships... UNTIL.. one random relatively bland Preddy Woman comes along and warps his entire personality and ability to think, his heart has grown and his seeming asexuality has evaporated, he is now Normal :)” or whatever like... AS a walking generic hermit archetype myself.. we would NOT act like that .... just let people be detached weirdos in peace, you cowards .. OR, don’t bother to write one in the first place if you find us too boring to exist realistically in our natural state lol.. pathetic 

[moonlightfilly]

the author of the book i’m reading has such major beef with Ireland, but instead of showing us its flaws in a natural way, he’s just repeatedly hitting us over the head with a hammer and making every single character literally express over and again that Ireland is a backwards, hateful place that never changes

[himalayaan-flowers]

i really relate to the character of Belle (minus the being beautiful part)