#the reason I think they might have gotten the news half way through the set is

[ijustdontlikepeople]

you can't just drop this information 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Freezing smiley touchy boys!!

[dduane]

Salutations and good wishes to you. I am an Indie Author seeking to go Pro. Some good advice and guidance might help minimise the mountain of my anxiety about doing this. I know you got your start with fanfiction, but did you find a publisher/agent through that door? [lots sneer at these days. Still] How many rejections did you suffer before you found your place in the literary world? Thanks for your time and sorry for bothering you <3

Hi there! And don't sweat it: this is no bother.

I have to apologize in advance, because my own career arc isn't likely to serve as much of a good example. In terms of how I got into this business, I'm a serious outlier.

Quickest and easiest to discuss: my agent and I got together after my first book was already bought and published. (Which back in the day was seen as a good enough way to go forward, and then still entirely possible.) He was recommended to me by one of my editors, as—like me—he was just getting started in the business: a likely-looking newcomer then scouting new talent. We met up and chatted, and it seemed to both of us that we'd be a good fit for each other. After forty-odd years of working together, we still are.

About the fanfic: (Adding a cut here so as not to carpet people's dashes with wall-to-wall text...)

What writing all that fic did for me—from about age sixteen onwards—was give me a whole lot of practice in getting the initial garbage associated with a story written and out of the way. Best to admit it here: we all have plenty of crap writing in us. And yeah, even long-term professional writers do. Whether you're at the beginning of your career or right in the middle of it, this is what "zero drafts" are for. You tell yourself the story, first time out... and routinely at this stage a lot of what proves to be unusable stuff emerges, and can be discarded in rewrite. (Of course crap writing can also emerge without warning in the later stages of a project, but there are many reasons for that, all beyond the scope of this discussion.) And you learn even more from reworking the material after you've gotten rid of the dross.

During the period when I was executing what might have been, oh, half a million words of fanfic—Trek originally, and then LoTR—and while reading a whole lot of everything, as I'd been doing since I was first allowed to go raid the town library by myself at age eight—I learned a fair amount about writing without realizing it. Some of it was simply about writing inside a set of rules. (Which I hadn't been doing previously: between eight and sixteen I was writing original fiction, mostly fairy tales.) Naturally in fanfic you have to obey the laws of whatever universe you're working in... or even if you wind up flouting them consciously, you do have to be conscious of them. But this work also led me to something that I hadn't really spent a lot of time thinking about: the concept that fiction writing as a whole had rules. I realized I'd better find out what those were.

The best stuff I found out during this period was what I picked up by direct example from other writers, whom I'd immediately start imitating and then sort of leave by the wayside when I found others I liked better; at which point I'd start imitating them. (This being a great way to learn and hone new skills, and to start getting a sense of what a writer's "voice" is and can come to mean. I think every writer does this, to some extent: because it's really, really tough to learn how to write without reading. And the more extensively the better.)

I have to emphasize here, BTW, that the fanfic that came out of me as I started slogging up this learning curve was all almost uniformly terrible. All of it, mercifully, along with my earliest original fiction, is gone now: long since burnt, shredded, composted under many layers of time. Trust me, it's just as well. Gah was it awful! Nobody else ever saw the stuff, for which I thank great Thoth every time I think about it. ...What's interesting, too, in its way, was that I didn't even know that what I was doing was fan fiction. I had as yet no contact with any kind of organized fandom, and it would be a long time yet before "online" was invented. I was working in utter isolation, unaware that anybody else might have been doing the same thing. (And it's difficult to describe the sense of astonishment and joy that hit me the first time I went to an SF convention, saw fanzines for the first time, and found out that I was not alone. All unsuspecting, I'd stumbled onto one of my tribes.)

But somewhere along the line, as the years went by—as I finished high school and went to college, and then from there to nursing school, and graduated and started working as a psychiatric nurse, and kept on writing—at some point, as I started writing original fiction again, as well as fanfic, the quality of the output began to improve. The combination of constant practice and voracious reading of better writers outside my chosen genre was slowly having an effect. Trusted friends who saw this later material started saying, "This isn't bad, you should try to get it published!" But since none of these folks were writers, I didn't pay too much attention to their opinions.

I did pay attention, though, when my good friend and mentor David Gerrold said something similar on reading my first novel in 1976. And when that was bought by the first publisher who read it, I had to admit he might have had something there.

This too, though, is unfortunately also a way I'm an outlier: I haven't had a lot of rejection. (Even in my TV work, where rejection is pretty much the rule rather than the exception.) Speaking very generally, just about anyone I've pitched something to in the prose market has bought it—or if they didn't like the idea I came in with, they've immediately said "But would you like to do this instead?" And often enough, what they've offered or suggested has been something that sounded like fun. That's how I wound up doing the Star Trek: Rihannsu books, for example: they were "instead of" a Romulan dictionary. Paramount essentially ringfenced an entire AU-area of Trek and gave it to me to play in, which struck me at the time as amazing. And continues to do so.

Now all this may make me sound almost unfairly lucky. But things do tend, slowly or quickly, to balance out. Over time the universe has made up for its relative kindness at the rejection end of things by making sure I knew plenty about the non-rejection forms of writer-career pain: projects from which I was not rejected but which went terribly wrong (wheels come off a huge deal just before signing, promised actors or directors fail to materialize...), projects where I did the work but didn’t get paid, or where I was brought on board and then got fired/ghosted unreasonably or for no reason at all, or sometimes (mortifyingly) for quite good reason. And let's not forget how, as what could seem a very pointed shot across my bow when my career-vessel was just pulling out of port, half the print run of that very-much-buzzed-about debut novel wound up being pulped in the warehouse because another, far better-established writer's new book needed the pallet space that mine had been taking up. (insert rueful smile here) Believe me, entropy is running, and will catch up with you one way or another. So make yourself as ready for it as you can.

I don't mean to increase your anxiety. Yet that said: you're preparing to enter a business in which, for a freelancer, at least some level of anxiety is more or less part of the basic ground of being. You are going to have to develop ways of dealing with the everyday forms of that to keep it from routinely derailing your work.

I find it helps a little if you can come to consider this as a modern form of Going On An Adventure. Good things will happen; bad things will happen; and all of these will be in service of building your career. Think of yourself as being on a quest.

Your job now becomes the business of suiting up with the best equipment and advice you can find (ideally not from outliers like me). The web is full of useful pages on subjects such as how to query and how to find an agent.

Here are links to some.

Compare these resources one against another to see how their different kinds of advice seem to stack up, and which ones are the most congenial for you.

Then use this data to start drawing your personal roadmap across the terrain. Get as clear as you can in your own mind about what you're trying to get out of being in this business: what kind of writing you want to do and what results you want to produce. Then set out, redrawing your road map as necessary as you keep moving forward through the new terrain.

And I wish you good fortune on the journey! (Because luck, as you can see from the above, can definitely be part of this... but fortune favors the prepared.)

Meanwhile, get out there and have a blast. :)

[princess-of-the-corner]

Amnesia!Dabi

Just some random thoughts, mostly, feel free to take or leave

So, like, when I first thought about this, it’s like … Dabi doesn’t necessarily have ongoing memory problems. You’d think he might, but no, his memory retention is okay. He doesn’t have any problems FORMING new memories, he just can’t remember much from before he wakes up in the clinic. Or the things he DOES remember, don’t have context. Like, he loves soba (I Headcannon the whole Todoroki clan does) but he doesn’t remember when he first had it. He has a lot of survival skills, but doesn’t know where he would have picked them up. Little bits and pieces of a puzzle, but no clue where they fit.

Now, certain things trigger feelings or sensations that can help spark memories, but it isn’t consistent. Like, you’d think fire itself would be a trigger, but no, that doesn’t do anything. Dying his hair red, however briefly, does make him mad, but he doesn’t know why. The first time he tries to make soba himself, he gets a very clear memory of a voice telling him not to over cook the noodles, but can’t recall the person the voice is attached to. The best way I can describe it is a dam, a massive block on his memory, and a strong enough trigger can briefly punch a hole through it, but the dam will kind patch itself, so unless Dabi really pokes at it, he isn’t getting anywhere fast.

Part of the reason Dabi would latch onto Toga would, in fact, be that she sets off a bunch of different feelings that kick that dam HARD. She’s vulnerable, like Shouto, she’s often ignored, like Natsuo, and (fudging this a bit) she has just enough physical similarities to Fuyumi that, altogether, it sparks something for Dabi. He doesn’t know WHAT, but she’s triggering all his Brother Instincts. Now, Himiko is her own person, so while those similarities START rattling the barrier, they can’t do more than that, no matter how much Dabi comes to care for her in her own right. But they do make it so, when Dabi gets a good look at Shouto during Katsuki’s escape (When Dabi decides, “actually, not cool with kidnapping, I’m taking the two traumatized blondes and LEAVING”) the dam in his head gets a cannon ball through it that doesn’t patch up.

The memories aren’t exactly coherent, or you know, linear, but Dabi gets at least one good, clear memory of Shouto as a young kid, a toddler, and that is probably the first clear memory he’s ever gotten. So, instead of just taking Himiko and fleeing the country altogether (which may or may not have been a half-baked plan he was maybe-sorta thinking about) Dabi decides to risk it and approach U.A.. To reiterate UA, not the Todoroki residence itself, for two reasons.

first, and probably obvious, Shouto is the only Todoroki he’s really seen in person at this point. He doesn’t know any of the others, Shouto is the one he’s reacting to, and he knows the kid goes to U.A.. Plus, he doesn’t imagine approaching the civilian residence of the number 2 hero would go over well with anyone. Dabi’s pretty sure that’s a good way to instantly end up in prison. The second reason is Himiko herself. I like to imagine that, while it’s probably better than being homeless, Himiko is still not doing to great. Yeah, the League was actually trying to help her (for their value of help) but Himiko was coming off several months of being homeless, predated by TWEVLE FUCKING YEARS OF STARVATION. She’s a hot mess of malnutrition, dietary deficiency, and Dabi knows she needs a hospital sooner rather than later. And, well, U.A. has several students that could be considered “villains”, they have a teacher with a Quirk that’s similar to Himiko’s, so Dabi’s hoping they’ll be a bit more sympathetic to Himiko’s situation, and actually help her out, not immediately lock her up. (He’s correct)

*On a slightly more comedic note*

to expand on Dabi waking up in the clinic, he wakes up to a nurse trying to check his vitals or something. Nurse is spooked, and asks “Dabi” how he is (seriously, calls him Dabi-san, cause that’s what’s on his chart). Dabi, confused, is like, “who are you? Who am I??” and the nurse figures he’s just coming off the anaesthesia, so puts a bit more in his IV to knock him out again. Goes to tell the main doc what happened, and the man figures this is a good sign, clearly Touya’s more robust than they thought! They’ll keep him sedated so he can rest a bit more, be in better shape, then call in AfO.

Only Dabi doesn’t give them the chance. His metabolism is apparently through the roof, so only a hour or two later, he wakes up. Now, this is Dabi’s experience. He briefly woke up in a place he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t where he is, who these people are, or even who he himself is. When he tried talking to the nurse, they knocked him out. Waking up AGAIN and getting a closer look, this place doesn’t look REMOTELY like a professional hospital. He’s pretty sure it,s a renovated concrete basement. Yeah, Dabi ain’t sticking around. He gets up, takes his IV out, strolls out in his stupid hospital clothes, fully expecting a fight … and NO ONE STOPS HIM. Middle of the fucking night, Dabi just casually walks out the front door. Was there an emergency? Is this place just poorly staffed? Dabi does not know or care, he is OUT, thank you. 

it takes almost a full fifteen hours before anyone realizes he’s gone.

-

Oh yeah absolutely!

The people and the actual experience is gone, but the memory of it is still somewhere in there and can be brought forth.

muscle memory is going to be the biggest trigger at first. This can apply to some reflexes. Even before he realizes that his Quirk hurts him, he’s naturally trying to keep the fire away from his body, only bringing it close when he thinks to. It’s the other things that were mentioned before, flinching when people get angry and expecting them to get physical, or feeling happy when eating what used to be a favorite meal that he’d eat as comfort. His body is used to these things even if his mind no longer is.

I think the Himiko-Fuyumi trigger should be less that she’s physically similar to Fuyumi(because honestly I can fudge it some but....). It should be because she’s a young /girl/ and a touch childish. Sure, it’s been years since he heard the phrase “hey big brother help braid my hair!” but some part of him remembers it and remembers brushing someone’s hair and he remembers exactly how to braid and for just a moment as he’s sitting with Himiko blonde hair flashes to white and red.

also that ‘escape’ is fucking hilarious

[britcision]

A second WIP Wednesday in this chapter, but gods willing and the creek don’t rise we will not see a third! I’m just trying to see if I can squish both Harley and Constantine in at the end… and the answer is probably not 😔

But, that’s what next chapter is for! And for now y’all can enjoy an excerpt from the tail end of this one! All good things must come to an end

————————

Yeah This Might As Well Happen

As Harley followed Bruce out of the room, Sam’s phone began buzzing dramatically in her pocket. Abandoning her quest for the thermos, she pulled it out and glanced down.

Grinned wickedly. She’d been expecting this for a while now actually.

“Aw, look, my parents saw our selfies on Twitter,” she cooed sarcastically, Manson Party Voice making a brief return.

Danny scooted just a little away from the still buzzing phone.

“So are you gonna get that?” He asked as Alfred brought him a perfectly reheated plate. “What? Oh, thanks.”

Sam shrugged, hit speakerphone, and set it on the table. They’d posted those pictures pretty much solely for the incoming reaction.

“Hey mom, what’s up?” She said sweetly, still in her public facing voice.

Her mother did not sound nearly as composed.

“SAMANTHA. Where ARE you?! What are you wearing?! Where are your clothes and WHY, in the name of all that’s good, are you anywhere near HARLEY QUINN?! Have you been kidnapped?!”

Sam rolled her eyes hard enough that Tucker faked a fatal injury across the table. She flipped him off as Tim and Duke stifled laughs.

“Yes, mother, I have been kidnapped and just answered my phone completely normally. I’m at the Waynes’,” she added quickly, before her mother could jump to conclusions.

And gave her some new conclusions to jump to instead, but who cared. Still, something seemed to be sticking in her mom’s mind.

“With Harley Quinn?” She asked suspiciously after a moment’s silence.

Which, to be fair, was kind of a good point.

“Apparently she’s a family friend? Like Grandma and Ivy,” Sam added delicately, a vicious satisfaction rising through her.

She’d gotten to say her piece at the gala yesterday and had thought she was done, but. Well. Years of restriction and so on.

She was definitely still having fun winding her parents up.

Her mom’s sharp intake of breath was clearly audible even over the phone, and then the shouting started again.

“Samantha MANSON do not even THINK about going anywhere with that woman! You have responsibilities! School! Your work! We’re coming to pick you up RIGHT NOW, and… where are your CLOTHES?!”

Alfred cleared his throat from behind them, where he’d stayed from delivering Danny’s dinner. Sam half turned and he raised a brow, inclining his head slightly.

She scooted her chair out of the way to let him get closer to the phone, waving a hand.

“If I may interject,” Alfred said calmly, not a trace that anything was even slightly amiss, “the young lady’s clothes are in the dryer at present. They will be finished shortly.”

Another long silence. Her mom probably realizing that Sam had her on speaker. And that she would still be on speaker the next time she spoke.

Finally she choked out a terse, “thank you. I do hope she has been behaving herself. We will be there to pick you up in half an hour, Sammy, and we will Have Words.”

Which Sam kinda doubted, given where the hotel was and how long it had taken Danny and Bruce to get back, but time would tell.

At least they weren’t hiring a helicopter.

It sucked to have to leave, but she’d have needed to head out soon anyway. Her flight back to university would be leaving this evening, and at least this way she could hang out with the others until her parents arrived.

No reason not to needle them more though.

“Aw but mom, I’m having such a good time hanging out with Cass,” she sighed, switching from Party to Heartfelt Woe expertly.

Down beyond Steph, Cass stifled a giggle. It clearly sent Sam’s mom into another spiral of conflicting emotions; delight, hope, ecstasy, and ongoing horror at the presence of Harley.

Who, technically, was no longer present in the room, but telling her mom that would only make her feel better, so Sam wasn’t gonna bother.

Honestly, if she wanted to run away and be an ecoterrorist with Pamela Isley, she could just ask Grandma to text her. She didn’t need kidnapping.

Still, apparently the risk of a close contact with Poison Ivy outweighed her mom’s desire to see her cozy up with the Waynes.

It’d have been real sweet if it had been a worry for Sam’s health instead of a worry about what Sam would do to other peoples’ health. The lack of trust stung, truly.

“We’ll be there in half an hour, Sammy. Get your clothes back on and say thank you for having you,” her mom warned, tone sharp and clipped.

And then hung up the phone before anyone could argue, because while she never used to listen to Sam before, she did somehow still know her. Ah well.

Sam sighed, stuffing the phone back into her borrowed pocket.

“Guess my parole has ended. I’ve gotta get back for my next semester anyway, but you have my number?” She asked Steph, looking from her back to Cass.

Both women nodded enthusiastically, Steph sighing and slumping forward into the table.

“Do you really have to go? Harley probably won’t be done with Brucie by then, you’ll miss the best part!”

But in all honesty, Sam wasn’t too upset about that. She’d made her feelings perfectly clear via thermos, and if Jason wasn’t satisfied with Bruce’s real apology she could always come back.

So she shrugged, grinning.

“Guess it’s my turn to get the video recap once it’s all over. You guys’ll film it for me, right?” She asked, looking from Danny to Tucker.

Both of whom gave her a thumbs up.

“We should make a new group chat,” Tucker mused eagerly, already pulling his phone up, “one for all of us.”

“Then we’d know which galas you were coming to!” Steph agreed at once, her own phone magically appearing in hand.

Dick snickered, leaning back in his seat.

“Said like Steph’s ever let Bruce drag her to one against her will,” he teased and Steph flipped him off.

“Hey, if you’d had the good sense not to let him adopt you you wouldn’t have to do them either,” Steph told him primly. Dick rolled his eyes.

“I’m his ward, not adopted,” he argued mostly futilely, and Sam snickered.

“And still have to go apparently. Doesn’t the ward thing end once you’re a legal adult?” She asked innocently.

Dick gave her a deadpan stare.

“Ma’am, if you want to try and wrest an orphan from the hands of Bruce Wayne you be my fucking guest, I gave up years ago.”

Which, fair. Their rifts had been legendary enough to make the circuit. She toasted him with her phone and settled back.

“Point taken. If being a cop didn’t make him give you up nothing will,” she added slyly, and Dick mimed grievous injury, slumping forward onto the table as the others laughed.

Grinning her triumph, Sam turned back to Alfred.

“So if you just show me where the laundry room is I can grab my clothes?” She offered, trying yet again to be helpful.

Being from a rich family didn’t mean having no damn manners, no matter how often it looked like it.

The old man gave her another of his extremely arch expressions, an eyebrow rising as if to question her impertinence. He had to be fucking with her.

“I shall bring your clothes to the downstairs bathroom on this hall when they are done so that you may change, Miss Manson,” he said coolly.

She’d never heard anything like it.

It didn’t sound like he was upset or offended the way people usually did when their voices iced over that sharply. Just… not an ounce of wiggle room.

Not a sliver of a hint that anything he was saying would not happen exactly as he’d decreed it. He sounded more imperious than a king, and she’d seen those.

Sam kinda imagined that’d be what Clockwork would sound like if she ever met the guy.

Duke misinterpreted her decidedly impressed stare with a wry chuckle, apparently misinterpreting her expression.

Fair, since he couldn’t know she was comparing him to the living manifestation of Time.

Well. Ghostly manifestation. Same difference.

“Miss Manson’s probably the best you’ll get out of him,” Duke said almost apologetically, grinning. “It’s gonna be that or Miss Samantha.”

Which admittedly was enough to make her turn to face him, curiosity peaked.

“What do you mean?” She asked, glancing back up at Alfred.

She couldn’t read anything but serenity in his face, but mild amusement practically radiated off him. She’d have to ask Danny what he saw in his aura.

Dick took this one too, sitting back in his seat and grinning at her.

“Alfie’s serious about the whole “proper titles and full names” thing. I’ve been trying for almost twenty years to make him call me “Dick”, and I think he’d be slower to give that up than Bruce’d be to unadopt me,” he explained cheerfully, arm tossed over the back of his chair.

Alfred treated him to a slowly raised eyebrow too.

“As you say, Master Richard,” he agreed placidly and Sam pressed her lips together on a smile.

She didn’t have to turn around to know exactly what face Danny would be making. The last thing he needed was another scary old man full naming him.

And right on cue…

“Uh… can I specifically request Mister Fenton then?” Danny asked and sure enough when she turned, yup, he even had his hand in the air like a child.

Alfred treated him to that calm stare as well.

“May I ask why, Mister Daniel?” He asked, clearly prodding despite every line of both face and posture oozing nothing but polite respect.

Danny fully flinched, which was interesting. He barely reacted whenever Vlad said his name.

Sam adjusted her opinion of Alfred along a couple “scarier than Vlad” levels.

“I have name-related trauma from another billionaire who refuses to call me anything but that,” Danny admitted sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s a really not-fun association.”

“Vlad again?” Tim asked from across the table, sounding sympathetic.

Danny pulled a face at him, sort of grimacing more than a smile.

“Oh yeah. And let’s just say he also does it in super bad situations, so I’d be happier to just never hear it again.”

Sam peaked back over her shoulder at Alfred, wondering what he’d do with this news.

If Danny was gonna be a fixture in Jason’s life (and let’s be honest, he’d be a fixture in Jason’s bedroom by the end of the month), and Jason was a fixture in Alfred’s… they’d see more of each other.

Everyone knew Bruce had been basically raised by Alfred. If he was half as emotionally constipated…

But there was an actual human expression on the old man’s face now, and it looked a damn sight like shame. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him.

“My apologies, Mister Fenton. Would you perhaps prefer Mister Danny?” He asked, which would have seemed completely innocuous on its own.

Dick slammed both fists into the table, making half the table burst into giggles.

“Fucking SERIOUSLY?! Is it just me! This is bullshit Alfie!” He declared dramatically.

Tim looked equally gobsmacked, jaw on the proverbial floor as he stared at Alfred, and even Steph looked put out and impressed.

Danny, deeply confused but relieved, stuck his tongue out at Dick.

“Hey, if you want another overly possessive and creepy billionaire determined to control your life you’re welcome to take him off my hands,” he declared smugly, and Sam snorted a laugh.

There was a decided devilry in young Damian’s face too, which vanished almost immediately after it appeared as the youngest spoke up.

“Honestly, Richard, you must admit that Danny’s situation is decidedly more grave than your own,” he said simply, a strong undercurrent of smugness under the words.

Tim threw both hands into the air so hard he almost tipped his chair over.

“Him too?! Come the fuck ON!” He proclaimed to the world at large as Duke snorted half a glass of water out of his nose in a choked laugh.

Tim gave him a hearty slap on the back that was probably supposed to help, the younger boy still wheezing and gasping for air, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge him.

There was clearly something of an inside joke going on, and it wasn’t exactly a complicated one.

Danny had already settled back in his seat, perfectly happy with the consternation he’d caused, and Sam joined him.

Watching the dramatics of the extended Wayne clan was even better at home than it had been at the gala. For a show this good, she’d have bought tickets.

———————

Damian will probably go straight back to last names, but even he has that secret Wayne ability to commit to the bit 😏

Tag list: @welcometosasakiworld @kyrianclawraith @someonebored0100 @stealingyourbones @starkcravingmad @frostedthroughghost @akikkobara @rainbowbunny0159 @littlefeather345 @violet-catsarelife @serasvictoria02 @wolfjackle @blacksea21090 @secretdestinywerewolf @anime-hipster-the-amazing @undead-essence @skitscratched @blackroserelina @snoodly-boop @trickerdi @mayoota-blog @xysidhe @idkmrpianoman @little-apricot-the-writer @chaoticmistake @the-legal-shipper @bun-fish @aroranorth-west @demon-cat-goes-woof @eonic @onyxlightdragon @larks-and-katydids @peachesandcreamfemboy @jesus-camp-the-sequel @may-rbi @mothman-the-mothman87 @viyatrix @stargirl1331 @idfk-man10 @thedepressedrobin @skulld3mort-1fan @rootsmudge @ravenshadow17 @cankoking @phantom-dc @mentalcarebear @magic-pincushion

Oh shit we lost someone today I swear @blacksea21090 used to be taggable :( that’s not a fun discovery

[likesdoodling]

It has been a while since I started digital art,

Quite a while.

So here is a 'progress over the last two years' since I gained access to a drawing tablet.

:D

This is my first ever digitally illustrated piece- compared to my latest one-

So, a little bit different.

I do think my art took quite a jump around June 2022, when I took a break from my Steve comic strip, (for obvious reasons- it was about Technoblade's polar bear so...) and decided to try practicing gesture drawing to see if it helped my general anatomy knowledge. This is before,

And this next one is after.

The most obvious change here is that I switched to using thinner lines. There is a gap of about two months between these.

This was when I realised that you could improve art by practicing it (mind-blowing I know), and then started to do just that. Some other notable jumps forward would be when I discovered the airbrush-

Well, discovered a new method of shading with it anyway.

Then after that I had a few pictures that I actually still like, despite them being pretty old at this point, the one below is actually from September of 2022-

I mean, the hands are a bit iffy, but the rest looks alright. This was when I was going through a bit of a melanie martinez phase-

This next one was from January of 2023, I'd only just gotten into bungou stray dogs via some random memes on pinterest about this weird brown haired guy who had lots of bandages and who had this running gag with wanting to die- I actually looked him up at one point, but that didn't really explain much. The main one that I remember was 'life is short, so make it shorter, shorter than chuuya~'

Which at the time was just kind of confusing,

Then I watched the show and it made perfect sense.

I'd discovered ascendance of a bookworm in like, 2021, but I hadn't really been doing fanart of it since I was mainly doing dsmp related stuff and I kind of assumed nobody would know what on earth I was referencing. Turns out tumblr has a lot more bookworm fans than I orignally anticipated. Instagram still has no clue. I think maybe one person out of my followers on instagram knows what I'm on about-

Then we've got these two which I am still proud of btw-

The first one is from a dystopian/time travel fanfic called viridian.

The second one was after I learned about rim lighting. It was inspired by a song actually, 'crash' by noevaii. (and yes I found that song from a sad-ist animatic, it was cool) The character isn't anyone in particular. They're both from February 2023.

Then there's probably my most liked picture on instagram, (not tumblr, since tumblr knows about bsd and bookworm, but y'know. This was even sadder than I originally intended since the last half of my comic strip was finished AFTER everything happened)

Then the final conclusion of my Steve comic strip in May of 2023.

I don't think my art really changed much in between those, but eh.

Then I switched to doing a bunch of ascendance of a bookworm stuff to see what would happen and turns out there are way more fellow fans out there than I anticipated-

Then I guess my next breakthrough in tumblr popularity, (even if it might not have been a breakthrough in art skills necessarily) was when things went DOWN in the bsd fandom with chapter 109 and I did probably one of my most liked tumblr posts I have ever done-

If you want to see the rest of that, feel free to scroll down on my tumblr page, the original's like eight pages long-

This was before anyone knew what was going to happen btw.

I still think it's hilarious that I put in chuuya having contacts. My reasoning being, they're on a film set,

It was a pretty interesting exercise in shading in monochrome.

Then I started a 30 day art challenge in October that I didn't get past day six of, but it was still pretty fun. This is the best one of those-

After that I spent most of my time studying for the jlpt n5, so I didn't really do that much art related stuff,

This is one of the two non-commission related pictures that I finished over the two months after I kind of gave up on the art challenge. This one's from November,

Then I finally finished an art commission I'd been working on for the three months prior, as well as studying. Here is an example of the type of pictures I was doing for that,

Then I was occupied with christmas and birthday presents for my siblings, both my little sisters are into ascendance of a bookworm- (completely my fault I am proud to say) so I was able to do stuff related to that, here's a couple of snippets, but you guys don't get the colour version hehe

And one of them has also read the entire fma manga just like I have so-

Anyway, it's been quite a progression since I resolved to master digital art in 2021.

I reckon I've come a fair way since then. I mean. My art skills in general are way better than they used to be. The last two or three years have been pretty interesting.

Also-

Just had to include this one, I'm gonna do a more detailed version but still-

I think it's funny so I'm posting it here. Even if it's not really related to art progression-

[darsynia]

Repeat After Me | Oneshot

(Tony Stark/Reader, Soulmate AU Canon Divergence 'Mob AU')

Summary: You're thriving in Loki's Empire as the most respected smuggler out there. You earned that reputation by remaining neutral, traveling between the city-states run by powerful Magnates like Loki's thrall Tony Stark in NYC or the relocated Wilson Fisk in Miami. It's lucrative business, but the real reason you have to stay moving is written on your arm.

Length | Rating: 3,635 | T (for language)

Notes: Set ten years after Loki successfully mind controlled Tony Stark and took over the world in 2012. My tongue-in-cheek take on a mobster-style AU, series potential if folks are interested.

THIS IS MY VOTE FOR 'SOULMATES' IN ROUND 1 OF TROPE MADNESS 2023 which is run by @thestanceyg! (note: also posted on AO3, same title tho!)

Also written for @caplanbuckybarnes's Three Words Challenge, using 'Don't look back.'

Tags: @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @starksbf @tiny-anne @starryeyes2000 @my-soulmate-is-mycroft

Repeat After Me

You might be the only person who has both soulmate Words written on your body.

Repeat after me: don’t look back.

At first, you’d found them comforting. After all, they’re predictable in a way almost no one else’s Words are: if you’re right about them, it means you can choose whether to speak those fateful Words aloud. Then Loki came with his Chitauri army, and everything changed.

It’s been ten years since Lord Loki became the ruler of the world; ten years of societal restructure and bleak acquiescence. It turns out that humans are well adapted to be ruled, just as he’d said-- but perhaps not quite in the way he’d intended. Everyone has figured out their own way to survive, whether it’s in one of the densely populated city-states, the agricultural backwaters, or the uneasy suburban sprawl that straddles both extremes.

You’re one of the few who can travel easily through all three, and you pride yourself on that. Pre-Empire, you’d been a top exec at a shipping company, and your talent for managing large egos, ability to memorize maps, and knowledge of machinery was easily translated to a life as a smuggler. Your top rule? You do not take sides. Ever. It’s what made you successful, what kept you alive.

And no one knows the real reason.

���Zephyr, how long before you head out?”

You’re half-in, half-out of your truck, the open door heavy on your ass thanks to all the armor plating. “Weather looks like it’s gonna hold for another hour and a half, I was thinking forty-five minutes?” you guess, squinting up through the tint on the upper part of the windshield.

“Got time to meet with a potential?” Karl laughs at your obvious groan, adding, “Fancy suit says D.C., maybe New York. Probably shouldn’t risk skipping.” You trust your second in command, even if you don’t want to take his advice. Karl Mordo is pragmatic, honest, and a baronic pain in your ass sometimes.

“Fuck. Okay. But I’m going right now, before I de-grease for the trip.” You hop down and hold up your dirty hands, wiggling your fingers.

“What if they’re from Stark?”

You clench your jaw. “His people should know better, even after two years. We just did Fisk a favor, maybe he’ll remind Loki’s strongman that there’s a reason he relocated to Miami.” 

Karl nods and heads back to the house, and as soon as he’s gone, you hold still and count to ten to calm your breathing. Tony Stark rules the northeast with a literal iron fist, and no one’s sure whether the mind control has turned him cruel or he’d been released years ago and just likes it. Only people Stark trusts have been close enough to know for sure. 

Despite your reputation for neutrality, a few years back he’d sent his clever and ruthless ex-turned-CFO Pepper Potts to ask you to spy on some of the biggest players on the Eastern Seaboard.

It had been the first time you’d gotten close enough to see the electric blue of Loki’s mind control first-hand. Her threats had been articulate and terrifying, but your response ended up having a lasting effect on the way Lord Loki does his business. Word is that the emperor includes additional spells and enchantments to prevent a simple blow to the head from releasing a thrall and undoing years of work. 

You still get messages from Potts, filtered heavily by word of mouth, through the Resistance.

When you get up onto the porch, you note with approval that someone’s already gotten the burly, suited visitor some sweet tea. He turns around, and your heart sinks as you recognize him from news articles. Tony Stark’s sweet-faced associate, Happy Hogan. 

“Zephyr, is it?” he says warmly, reaching out a hand to shake. You offer him your left hand, and he immediately grins. You wear a binding on your right forearm, and it’s basically an open secret that your Words are there. Words you’ve made very clear you intend to remain a secret, on pain of death. “We have a job for you.”

“That’s truly unfortunate,” you say with a smile. “Your boss burned that bridge years ago. All I have is my integrity, I’m sure you understand.” Leaning up against one of the porch pillars, you send all of your anxiety to your legs, to hold you up and maintain the illusion that you’re not distressed. “Since you’ve come all this way, I can offer to connect you to one of the reputable smaller orgs.”

“Interesting you mention integrity. Did you know your right hand man is a known member of the Resistance?” Hogan’s tone is light, almost teasing.

You do your very best not to react, but on its face, you doubt the accusation. Karl had come to you deeply disillusioned by the Resistance, after working with them openly for a year, spending double that in prison, and being released with an interdict that prevented any employment but fieldwork. By the time you brought him in, he was full of quiet fury and determination to survive. The money you spent to clear his interdict was some of the easiest you’ve ever spent.

“I assume you have newer information than 2013?”

Hogan pulls an envelope from his lapel pocket and hands it over. Inside is a set of pictures showing Mordo speaking with and shaking the hand of Steve Rogers, the most wanted man on the continent. Karl’s hair has only been in that particular style for a few months.

You hand them back, keeping your hand steady. “If you can point and shoot pictures, why not point and shoot that particular problem?” The question is important to your public front, but you also want to know what kind of answer you get, whether it’ll be something you want to pass along.

“One step at a time,” Hogan says, walking over to you. He stops only inches away, a physical power play that masks the psychological threat.

“Which step are you on?”

“The one where you come with me to speak to Stark in person, or we reveal how thin your claims of neutrality really are.”

You nod as though you’re considering it, then say, “What if I dismantled everything and moved to Arizona? Started over.” It’ll sound like a joke, but you’ve considered it. You want nothing to do with Stark.

“You’re welcome to make that decision after the meeting.” The guy��s so confident he slides his hands into his pockets, fully relaxed except for the way his pulse is jumping in his neck. There’s zero chance that Hogan’s anxious because of you, so that means it’s important to his future that you leave with him today. If you have to, you’ll use that.

“You act like meeting with Stark won’t destroy my reputation just as much as your false accusations would,” you point out. 

Happy Hogan shrugs. “Stark is prepared to offer you one alternative. Meet with him or give us a credible way to contact Pepper Potts.”

You want to swear under your breath, but instead, you channel all your frustration into a single act of defiance. Lifting your grease-stained right hand, you press it right in the center of his chest, fingers spread so you get his white button-down and both lapels.

Then you shove, letting your hand slip against the resistance he immediately puts up to avoid moving backwards and show weakness. You would have expected anger, maybe even to be thrown to the ground, but Hogan just chuckles. It’s dismissive, diminishing, and does nothing to lower your level of fury. Especially not since he’s got you over a barrel.

You push past him toward the house. “I’m sending Mordo with my load. Your guys fuck with him and I’ll tear down every fucking thing you’ve built or die trying.” Given the clout you’ve accumulated in the last decade, which one depends on whether the emperor is in town to shield his pet Avenger or not.

You hadn’t told Hogan you’re coming with. You both know you have to.

The flight to New York City is stressful, but most of that is because you know how much effort and care it takes to maintain a fleet of airplanes. Now that flights are nearly all restricted to just the Magnates, you doubt the due diligence of their maintenance teams. This is reinforced when you land and walk down a presidential-style rolling staircase instead of into the abandoned airport. It’s hard not to think of what air travel could do for your business. One flight would take so much food from one place to another-- but the safety margins are horrifying.

“What’s with the face?” Happy Hogan asks, after the two of you get into the waiting limo.

“Just imagining how much work it would be to get an orange to Maine nowadays.”

“You don’t have to live in Georgia, you know. The offer’s always open.”

“Fuck your offer, and fuck you,” you say coolly, crossing your arms and looking out the window. There’s a non-zero chance he’ll kill you, but you’ve got a trick up your sleeve that might just carry the kind of irony that would make even a man as powerful as Tony Stark cry. It’s the reason why Hogan wants Potts back, the reason she won’t go, not while he’s in Loki’s thrall.

Midgard hadn’t been interesting enough for the trickster god. No, he’d grown bored by the way most of his new subjects had responded to his rule. Too many of you had accepted that you weren’t strong enough to resist him, and so, with the power granted to him by the staff he always carried, Lord Loki had bestowed each soulmate pair on the planet a random power set.

Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan’s version had been the ability to detect lies.

Tony Stark’s inability to find his soulmate had been newsworthy before the attack on New York, but now that he’s the de facto ruler of the place, his search has become an obsession.

It’s the reason you live in Georgia, the reason you wear the distinctive binding around your right forearm, the reason you’d balanced yourself on the knife-edge of neutrality instead of choosing a side that’s not Stark’s and then leaving yourself vulnerable to being discovered.

Stark’s Words are well known: ‘Don’t look back.’

Ironically, you don’t think he has connected your well-known quirk about protecting your forearm with his soulmate search. He wants you because Lord Loki wants Pepper Potts’ lie detecting powers, and Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff’s soulmate bond is keeping her hidden. Karl Mordo has forsworn his connection to the Mystic Arts, but a man will do many things to prevent his own death, including oathbreaking, so instead of putting pressure on him, they’ll put pressure on you.

And somehow, you’re going to have to resist without speaking a word.

The car is underground when it stops. You nod at Hogan in thanks for his hand as you exit the vehicle, and he cocks his head to the side and looks at you.

“Passive resistance, eh? Good luck.” He leads you through a warren of hallways, stairwells, and locked doors. This display of strength is clearly designed to intimidate and/or give you time to think and fear what comes next, but you wonder whether it’s annoying to Hogan. Undoubtedly he’d be taking the short way if it weren’t for this task, and that kind of time-wasting adds up.

Sure enough, the last leg of the trip is an elevator ride. The doors open out into the wide expanse of the penthouse, a rich space with wall-to-wall windows looking out over the city. A man in a well-fitting white suit walks out from behind a bar area, and you recognize him to be Tony Stark himself. Instead of a tie, the signature blue of his arc reactor glows against the buttons of his shirt, and as he approaches you, you see that it’s matched by the blue tint of mind control in his eyes.

That knowledge is dangerous; already, this man’s leverage over you has doubled. You wonder what you’ll have to promise to get out of here alive. 

Tony Stark stops a foot away and looks you over. His brown-blue eyes linger on your right arm, and as you’d planned during your pseudo perp-walk, you shift into a challenging pose, popping your hip out and lifting your chin. Stark’s lips curve into an appreciative smile. It’s attractive, he’s attractive, and you’re annoyed that you’ve even noticed. Everything about him exudes the confidence of a man who is never challenged, and that’s always been your catnip, your kryptonite. You love to bust egos, it could even be said that you live for popping that bubble. This man might be the first one you’ve ever met whose arrogance is well-deserved, though, and that could be a problem.

He gestures, and behind you, Hogan answers.“No weapons that we found, multiple scans.”

Ah, so the many doorways and long hallways had more than one purpose, you think to yourself. Well played. You stay still and expressionless as Stark looks you up and down, eyes lingering on your chest and your arm. He lifts his glass in an appreciative salute before finishing off his drink. Something about the way his throat works makes you feel the burn of the alcohol in your own chest.

“What’s under the armguard?”

“A nasty burn. Sunlight makes it worse.” It’s the truth-- you’d tried to burn off the words as soon as you’d heard about Tony Stark’s search for his soulmate. The magic of the mark protects it, so all you’d managed to do was destroy the skin around it, causing a wound that never fully healed. The vambrace you wear is for concealment, yes, but it’s also there to keep the damaged skin protected and dry. You turn your head and direct a grumpy look at Hogan. “To be honest, this whole meeting could have been an email. What is it that you two want?”

Before you can stop him, Stark steps forward and slides his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing you to meet his eyes.  With a fierce, determined expression, he says, “Repeat after me: don’t look back.”

You can feel the strength in every single aspect of the man, voice, personality, grip, but that just fuels your need to fight back. With all your might, you manage to shake your head just enough to convey your refusal.

Tony Stark’s expression lights up. You realize your mistake immediately: if it didn’t mean something, if the words weren't important, you would have had no trouble repeating them. A million impossible escape routes spill out like marbles in your mind, scattering every other thought.

“Go on, Hap. Keep this to yourself for now,” Stark says. The triumph in his voice is as frightening as it is sexy. 

“You got it, boss.”

You fight back a strong feeling of desperate inevitability. Really, your only hope now is to wrench free and follow your contingency plan: to say the words and play them off, avoiding the physical contact that reinforces the bond. If you can convince this man that you planned to trick him into thinking you’re his soulmate, you might still get out of here with your free will intact.

That’ll be easier to do without Hogan there, so you force yourself to remain still. Stark sweeps a broad, warm caress along your neck with his thumb, and god, it’s been so, so long since anyone’s touched you like that. There’s something insidious about it, like some part of you is already lost to him if you enjoy it even a little bit. All you can do is close your eyes, clench your fists, and wait.

The elevator doors close, and Stark starts pulling his hand away, stroking your neck possessively on the way. You do your very best not to like it. In truth, Tony Stark the billionaire, Tony Stark the Avenger was absolutely your type. You imagine that after ten years of mind control and cruelty, there’s probably little of that man left. 

“You might as well say it,” he tells you with a smug little quirk in his voice. You open your eyes to see that Stark’s headed back to the bar. “Got a favorite drink?” You shake your head. “You strike me as a Tequila Sunrise type. Fun to look at, goes down easy.”

You cross your arms and glare at him, but it was a cute line for such a tense situation. Wrong, but cute.

Stark gestures to you with the Tequila bottle. “So, what, did you think you’d just stay quiet and run back home to Georgia? Happy says it didn’t take much persuading.”

You smile at him, but not warmly. One thing you hadn’t considered was that Stark might be pleased, might be looking forward to the other… perks of having a soulmate. That might make him more inclined to be kind to you, at least until you try to bluff him. You can use that.

“Don’t think I can’t see how furious you are, little one,” Stark purrs. “I’m still figuring you out, but I’ve had a file on you for years. You want to know what people say about you?” 

He rests a large hand on a folder you hadn’t noticed before, pushes it across the bar in invitation. You shrug and turn your head to look out the window, the picture of indifference. You hope it pisses him the fuck off.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s all trash now anyway, now that you’ve met with me.” Stark holds it up. “They’ll never trust you again.” He tosses it behind him. When it strikes the wall, the many single pages that made up the bulk of the file fly out around him like some kind of monstrous confetti, to the accompaniment of breaking glass. You wonder how many bottles he just wasted, whether they’re even replaceable in this brave new world you’re all trapped in.

You nod, feeling the weight of the coming moment. Mentally you gird yourself, but physically you try to adopt an attitude of casual discourtesy. You want Stark to hate his soulmark, to hate you, enough to send you away or destroy you.

Anything, anything but touch you again.

Letting out a sigh, you spread your hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture and say, “Don’t look back.”

The words strike him, so much so that he chuckles ruefully on an indrawn breath. A bitter disappointment sweeps across his face before it hardens into anger. You're grateful; you'd expected something-- a thunderclap, a rush of adrenaline, a gust of magical wind, but there’s nothing to indicate that you’ve both said the Words. Maybe, maybe, you can get out of this, if you’re careful. If you’re just the right level of heinous bitch.

“Did you practice that?” Stark finally says. He walks out from around the bar, and you take the opportunity to make your way over to the window, the picture of unconcerned, unattached, unbothered.

“What do you want, Mr. Stark?” Shit, your voice is shaking.

“I want a challenge,” he snaps, his voice closer than you expected. He’s just a foot away, and you can’t hide your shock fast enough. “You think that file was just for show? I read the whole thing.”

“Then you know I don’t want to be here. I have a business to run, a business you’ve fucked over with--” you back away in the guise of making a dismissive, furious gesture; “--whatever this is. What do you want, so I can get the fuck out of here?”

“What’s wrong, pet? Foot caught in a trap?” he asks, tone suddenly gentle, soothing. You scoff, turning on your heel to stalk away from him--but Stark reaches out swiftly and catches your hand in his.

A jolt of pleasure-fueled electricity floods you with an almost overwhelming need for closeness, companionship-- to be known. It's as if until this exact moment, you’d been empty, and you gasp, screaming against the sudden, insidious desires that have cropped up in your mind.

Oh god, no, this is too much, this is--

What you don’t expect is for Stark to answer.

Oh FUCK yes, telepathy. My second favorite superpower, right after flight.

You snatch your hand away and fall back onto the window, eyes wide. Stark shakes his head almost imperceptibly, then throws both hands in the air as if in disgust.

“You really had me, but there’s just… nothing. I should toss you off of the roof, you know that, right? Faking soulmark words? Ballsy.” He twitches his lips as though he can’t decide whether to be angry or not, and steps closer. “Hold out your hand?”

There’s vulnerability in his expression, something you hadn’t at all expected to see, but you are still reeling from what had passed between the two of you. Tony Stark is one of the smartest men on the planet, and certainly one of the most ruthless. He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants-- and it’s well known that every inch of his penthouse is under surveillance, not to mention whatever Lord Loki has monitoring his most powerful thrall.

Just like the words written on both of you, neither of you can look back.

Sullenly, you lift your hand, and immediately, Stark engulfs it in an angry grip.

Okay here’s how this is going to go: Do as I say, and we can keep this our little secret. Resist me and I’ll tell Loki I’ve finally found my soulmate. Believe me, you do not want anything to do with what he has in store for us.

Possibly TBC if there's interest...

[aerodaltonimperial]

Prompt: eye contact across a crowded room

(PHENOMENAL yes this is made for me lol; Hookhausen, JungleCorpse)

The hotel conference room flipped into a catering free for all around 10:30 this morning; the specifics don't really matter, but it's worth mentioning. Staff has set up long tables along the patterned carpet. It's one of the nicer rooms, and definitely the largest, and they needed it since the pre-Canada tour kick-off means everyone is present.

Staff has tried to keep things orderly, they really have, but chaos descended almost immediately when the food came out. Instead of two orderly lines at the ends, there are multiple half-formed lines every few feet. Wrestlers aren't very good at following rules, after all. They bump and shove to get to the ladles and plates and bowls, talking and laughing and celebrating. The Canada tour, at the end of the day, is a big deal.

It's easy to get caught up in the sway and the buzz, but we aren't here for the faces turned up towards the fluorescent lights in amusement. There are four figures who have barely moved, even with all the energy around them. These four, you see, are having trouble joining in the excitement that has swept away everyone else.

Two of them are standing next to each other, a valiant bid to keep the loneliness away. It's not a bad choice; most of the time, having someone to talk to makes the event go faster. But misery shared is never really halved, and hearts broken by others rarely line up correctly. Hook is staring at his phone. Jack is staring at the far wall.

You see, Hook expected a text message that never came, and he's struggling with the realization that he is the reason it failed to materialize. He thinks he should have gotten a warning, and he didn't. He is staring at his phone to avoid staring at the face across the room—the face he has, if we are being honest, and we are, been waiting to see again for many months.

Jack didn't expect a text, and he got one. The bare vulnerability of it has left him too jittery to hold onto a normal conversation, so it is fortuitous, then, that his companion is not fond of speaking. He does not look at his phone, because he thinks if he ignores it, then perhaps the overwhelm swelling in his chest will recede.

They receive a few curious glances, but their silence isn't out of the ordinary, and everyone else is too busy making plans and eating their banquet.

Hook opens his message thread again. He types out a few words, chews on his thumb, and then deletes them. His hand falls back down to his side.

Jack hasn't taken a bite of his meal yet. His stomach has turned upside down and no longer knows what to do with the offering.

They are, by themselves and together, a rather miserable pair.

Hook runs a hand through his hair; he will have to rally to save this evening. Jack lets out a deeply weary sigh—he will need to face the music.

It's worth mentioning here that, if they would only talk to each other, they would find they have much in common at the present moment, but conversing fits poorly on them both, and practice is too daunting a thought. Perhaps later, when the dust settles, they might find the possibility more enticing.

Finally, Hook’s shoulders straighten. Something seems to bloom inside, a second wind. He clicks his phone on and types with purpose. He waits for one long, agonizing moment. Then he sends his message to the other side of the room, to the phone number he has long memorized.

I think I love you.

On the far side of the conference hall, a phone buzzes. The owner's head snaps up. He's grateful he's got the full range of motion back to reach for it and tug it out of his pocket. He reads the new message with an eerie sort of calm, though it's mostly shock. Surprise gives way to a panicked euphoria, the kind most are intimately aware of, even if they claim not to be. He looks up, scanning the room.

Their eyes lock across the bodies. Hook doesn't move, and neither does Danhausen. They remain as they are, staring across the space that has now been bridged.

They'll find their way across it later, as one would hope; Hook has laid the first brick in rebuilding. Next to him, oblivious, and again, if only they would speak to one another, Jack sucks in a deep breath, the steadying kind that normally fails to produce the desired effect. He wrenches his gaze from the wall and searches expanse of space.

He finds his target, though he almost wishes he hadn't. The stare he receives is more of a glare, really, sharp-edged: shields, one might say, cast up to protect everything beneath. Jack's lungs expand like balloons and press against his ribs, waiting for Darby to look away, though he never does. Jack inhales, holds the air, and then exhales in a rush.

Between them, like a wrecking ball, hangs the message received twenty minutes before the event started that Jack will never, ever be able to forget.

I think I love you.

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 9: two of cups

Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x MJ!Original Character

Summary: After a brief run-in with Dr. Connors, Kat and Peter escape to the countryside, where Peter makes an unexpected discovery.

Warnings: NWH Spoilers, Cursing, Vomit (apologies in advance)

Word Count: 2.2k

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

As the pair pulled up the dusty, dirt path, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires could be heard from inside the car. Conversation had long since ceased, and the air had turned to one of apprehension, strangling the previous comfortable silence. Putting the car into park, Kat got out wordlessly to open the gate leading up to a rather quaint-looking farmhouse. 

“Are you finally gonna tell me where we are?” Peter asked slowly as she re-entered the car, pulling it up the driveway before stopping it once more and pulling the keys from the ignition. Kat leaned back in her seat, wincing slightly at Peter’s question.

“Remember when I told you about my dad living super far out?” She didn’t wait for an answer, and Peter didn’t provide one, sensing it was more of a statement than anything else. Exiting the car, the pair moved quickly towards the trunk, grabbing the necessary items before Kat led the way around the side of the home to what looked like a back entrance. Fishing a key from her pocket, she unlocked it before pushing her way inside and stopping in the middle of a rather rustic-looking kitchen. 

“Home sweet home,” mumbled the redhead as she began to move again, making her way down the hall to the left and up a set of stairs. Unaware of what else to do, Peter followed her into a room decorated for a little girl.

“Wow, I have to say I did not peg you for a horse girl,” Peter laughed, picking up one of the many figurines on the dresser. 

“Shut up,” Kat shot back, but her words held no venom.

The pair dropped their duffle bags and began to make their way downstairs. 

“So, where is your dad?” questioned Peter, looking around as though an older man with some strange resemblance to the girl before him might materialize out of thin air.

“With any luck, gone,” she muttered darkly in response as she reached the cabinet beside the fridge and began to root through it.

“You looking for something in particular?” 

“Nothing, I can’t find myself, Parker,” Kat sighed before pulling out a half-full bottle of vodka. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” 

The redhead made quick work of the cap and did not even move to find herself a glass, electing instead to bring the bottle straight to her lips. She then offered it to Peter.

“Oh no, I can’t,” Peter reasoned, shaking his head. Kat simply lifted a questioning brow. 

“I can’t. I have you to think about.”

“What?”

“I’m here to protect you, I’m not sure now’s the time for me to get intoxicated.” Kat laughed. It was a hearty laugh, but there was a bitter tinge to it.

“If anyone’s been protecting anybody lately, it’s been me looking after you.”

“That’s not-”

“I’m sorry, did I not just take out that lizard guy? Twice?” Peter simply balked at her.

“Besides, we are miles away from the city, in the middle of the New York countryside. I think the universe will be alright if Spider-man does a couple of shots with me.”

“It’s not just that,” Peter sighed.

“Okay, so what is it?” Kat demanded.

“I’ve never- I’ve never really gotten drunk with somebody before,” he managed, though his voice was soft with embarrassment. The girl before him let out a strangled laugh.

“Not even at a party?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I was not that cool in high school,” Peter smiled weakly, bringing a hand up to scratch nervously at the back of his neck.

“What about college?”

“I didn’t go,” he admitted, now fully unable to look her in the eyes. 

“Well, I suppose it's never too late to start a bad habit,” Kat shrugged, extending the bottle to Peter once more. And this time, he took it.

Two hours later, the pair sat together on the couch, an empty bottle of vodka between them. Peter felt distinctly that being drunk felt like watching a movie from the 70s; everything was warm and blurry. In the corner of his mind, he thought he could hear Kat snorting lightly at some joke he’d just made, but as he turned to face her, it was as though everything else had fallen away, and he was once again struck by just how beautiful she was. Her eyeliner, a relic of the morning, was smudged around her eyelids, and her hair bunched around her face in a messy halo. She was positively glowing, and Peter felt his skin begin to tint red as he lost himself in her smile.

Distantly, he registered that the radio show playing in the background had transitioned into a slower song, a thought Kat dragged to the forefront of his mind as she bounced to her feet.

“I love this song! Dance with me, Parker,” she smiled, extending her hand in his direction. Peter groaned loudly at the suggestion but placed his hand in hers regardless, allowing the smaller woman to pull him to his feet. Kat brought her arms up to his neck, lacing them around the back, but Peter only stood there stiffly. 

“You’re supposed to put your hands on my waist, not just stand there motionless, you freak,” she giggled, moving his hands to her hips before beginning to guide him around the living room with haphazard steps and a slight swaying motion. 

“You know you’re pretty cute when you’re not covered in spandex, saving the world,” she said, eyes unfocused as they shifted away from Peter’s gaze.

“Not a fan of the suit?” he asked, tone conveying his mock offense. 

“Oh, I used to think you were the cutest; I had your poster in my room and everything,” Kat let slip before her eyes grew wide, and her mouth formed a regretful ‘o’ at the information she had just let slip.

“And here I thought you were just a One Direction fangirl,” Peter teased, a grin making its way across his face.

“Shut up; I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” she groaned, allowing her head to fall forward and hit his chest. 

“No, really, I’m curious; what was it about me that stole your heart? My witty banter or my charming personality?”

“Honestly, it was your cute butt,” Kat admitted, though her words were muffled as she spoke them into his chest.

“Wow.” Peter laughed, and Kat stole a glance up at him. 

“You can never tell anyone I said that,” she whispered, an embarrassed flush spreading its way across her skin. 

“Who would I tell anyway?” Peter whispered back, lowering his head so they were face to face. He would feel her breath as it fanned across his cheeks, hot and reeking of alcohol.

“I hate you,” she squeaked, but there wasn’t an ounce of truth to the words. 

Peter leaned in closer. Their noses brushed against one another. He watched her eyes flutter closed.

“You wish,” the half-hearted whisper seemed to echo between them, bouncing straight off his lips onto hers. Just an inch closer, he thought. Suddenly, Kat wrenched herself from his grip, and his half-lidded eyes flew open just in time to catch her throwing up all over his feet. 

“I am so sorry.” Kat had been spewing apologies for the last half hour, and now, as the two sat in front of the washing machine, simultaneously praying it might wash the vomit out of Peter’s Chuck Taylors was no different.

“God, I am so embarrassed; I’m usually very good at holding my alcohol. I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, but I’m serious-” 

“Kat, it's fine, really,” he assured her once more, though he was certain this attempt to calm her down would be just as futile as all the rest.

“Urgh, it is so not fine; I just threw up all over you.” She buried her face in her knees. 

“How about we just go to bed? I’m sure all of this will be far less disgusting after a good night of sleep,” Peter offered. 

“You’re probably right.” 

“I’m definitely right,” Peter replied, playfully nudging her shoulder with his own. 

Slowly, Kat rose to her feet before padding towards the door. She paused after noticing Peter was not following.

“You coming?”

“Nah, I’ll take the couch for tonight.”

“Alright, loser, whatever makes you happy.”

As he settled slowly onto the couch, Peter couldn’t help but ache for the soft lighting of the bedroom he’d shared with Kat. For the quiet sound of her half-snores and the warmth that inexplicably bloomed in his chest every time she turned to face him. Taking a deep breath, he turned in the direction of the couch’s back cushions, allowing himself to be lulled into an uneasy sleep by the distant clicking of a grandfather clock. 

To say he was jerked awake would be an understatement. The harsh jab on his back was easy enough to ignore the first time and even the second, but as he felt the cool end of an unknown object butt against his back a third time, he couldn’t help but roll over, if only in an attempt to brush it away. Struggling to peel his eyes open, it took him fifteen seconds longer than average to notice the shotgun pointed callously at his face. 

“Holy fuck.” Scrambling as far back as the couch would allow, he got his first look at his assailant. The man, probably nearing his sixties, had a firm scowl painted across his face and was eyeing Peter with all the caution and rage one might fix a piece of prey with. And yet, Peter also couldn’t help but register the sense of familiarity that befell him as his eyes scanned the face of this man he had supposedly never met. He looked a lot like-

“Kat!” He called up the stairs, eager to be relieved of the gun in his face. Before him, the man’s brow creased, but his gaze quickly darted away from Peter at the sound of footsteps on the staircase.

“Dad?” 

Peter supposed there had been few occasions in his life as awkward as having breakfast with the father-daughter combo sat at the table beside him. 

“So, Mr. Jennings-”

“It's Mr. Peterson.”

“Jennings is- was my mom's last name.”

Both spoke at the same time, their matching cold tones equally alarming.

“Right, er- Mr. Peterson, my name is, well actually, this is pretty funny, my name is Peter. Get it? Peter, Peterson?” He quickly trailed off as he found himself on the receiving of two nearly identical glares. 

“Anyways,” Kat began, her tone all business, “We were just about to pack up and go, so we’ll be out of your hair soon.” She cleared her throat, picking up her half-empty plate, and moving towards the sink. Peter watched as the older man’s features softened, gaze fixed on his daughter.

“Murph-” Peter barely caught the name that slipped past his lips before Kat slammed the plate in her hands down into the sink.

“I told you not to call me that!” Immediately, any previous traces of sincerity or wistfulness vanished from Mr. Peterson’s face. 

“Feed the chickens before you go.” The command was gruff and curt, a demand rather than a question.

“Whatever,” Kat rolled her eyes, moving quickly through the kitchen and out the door, pausing only momentarily to grasp the handle of a rusty tin bucket by the door.

“Good talk,” Peter muttered below his breath but quickly broke down into an awkward half-smile at the sight of Mr. Peterson’s intense glare. “Would you look at that? I think she forgot her jacket; why don’t I just go take that to her.” 

Standing quickly from the table, Peter reached out to the hooks beside the back door, grabbing his and Kat’s winter coats in one swift movement. 

As he arrived at the barn out back, he easily caught sight of Kat, half clutching her arm in the bare New York cold as she scattered feed across the ground for the group of all too-excited chickens.

“You forgot your coat, Murph,” he joked lightly, extending the rather lumpy piece of clothing to her.

“Oh fuck off, Peter,” she rolled her eyes but accepted the coat without argument. 

“God, it’s so dumb; I changed it legally years ago; he’s the only one who won’t just call me Kat,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands.

“Your name is Murph?”

“Murphy. Fucking old man's name. It was my grandpa’s, I think my dad thought if he wished hard enough, I’d come out a boy.” She snorted at the sentiment before turning to Peter, but he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t thinking about anything except MJ. His MJ who didn’t exist in Aunt May’s stupid Yellow Pages from forever ago, but it didn’t matter because it led him to Kat. Kat, who was passionate and funny and beautiful, and looking at him right now like he was insane (justifiable, of course, given his gawking). Kat, whose last name was Jennings, and whose first name, against all odds, was Murphy. 

“You’re MJ?”

[mdhwrites]

Amphibia Meeting the Human Realm is My Favorite Half Season of the Show So Far

And it's because it managed to push into new territory that expanded its themes harder through contrast and parallels, never forgot its stakes while keeping its identity, and yet still managed to give us a new vibrant cast of supporting characters so as to bring together an exceedingly satisfying half season. Not a perfect one but one that never quite felt as awkward as the low points of other seasons and is DRIPPING with good characterization, morals, ideas, etc.

One of the big things I think a lot of fans of the series miss by calling it filler, the same fans who I assume likely skipped S1 because they saw it as filler, is actually the importance of swinging back around to S1's concepts but with the Plantars. We get to see the changes to how things go because of how much Anne has changed, how much Anne has affected the Plantars but also how little Anne has changed. It makes it so that while we do keep getting told Anne is more responsible, we can see it more clearly than during any other part of the series.

But we can also see the seeds being set for why the ending will be what it will be (because there's no way I don't know how the series ends). Both Sprig's Birthday and You Give a Frog a Cookie show that while Anne is doing it for better people... She's still a people pleaser to her friends. She still has growth she needs to do. Growth that might require some amount of time away from those she's closest to to achieve because she needs time to invest in herself.

Not to say the half season is perfect. I can see a lot of reasons why some dislike Spider-Sprig even if I like the segment, Thai Feud has good character reasoning behind it even if I think it goes beyond just childish selfishness which is the saving grace for Anne during a lot of S1 and Hollywood Hop Pop is a good use of the fact that Anne lives in Los Angeles but it still doesn't change that it's awkward and clunky in the same ways that some Hop Pop focused episodes tend to be when he needs to act like an idiot. All three of these though have reasonable justifications, good lessons, are trying to put closure to things or say something about the characters... There's a point to all of them existing, regardless of if they're executed on the best. And even at its worst execution, each one probably still has at least one heartwarming moment and/or one real good joke, like Sprig breaking down about getting yelled at.

And that's one thing I do ADORE: Amphibia is still Amphibia. Despite True Colors, it did not abandon its own identity. It's still funny and over the top and kind of crazy and it's willing to let the human realm be its own sort of crazy to reflect that. I don't think people are right in saying it just forgot about True Colors though. Even while keeping this identity, you have them worrying about getting caught, Anne working herself to death, the weight of lies, etc. like that. It backs off a bit in the second half of the mid-season but only once it has gotten Anne and others to a healthier mindset and even then, no one except whoever is fucking up in a given episode is entirely forgetting what the final goal is. Hell, anyone who claims the show just forgets about True Colors isn't recognizing that this thirteen year old, multiple times, overloads herself by trying to trivialize all that happened. Anne's whole scope of conflict she's EVER been a part of increased a hundred times fold over the course of a single day so her not directly addressing it besides the one part she actually can do something about is GREAT. All the rest of the whispers are part of what's torturing her until finally she knows progress is being made by people like Doctor Jan and she starts breathing again once she tells herself she can trust others with the problem.

It's just... REALLY FUCKING GOOD. And that's without getting into the fact that despite most of the side characters like the IT Girls and Doctor Jan only actually getting like two minutes of screen time each before the last two episodes, they are wonderful additions to the cast and work great. Oum and Bee, Anne's parents, are the only real protagonist additions and the closest they get to a dedicated episode is when Anne goes to the movies. Otherwise, they're always supporting characters to the character drama or themes going on with Anne and the Plantars. And anyone who claims the Plantars are not main characters WILL BE BONKED. Sprig is literally the secondary main character people.

For new antagonists, we have Cloakbot who is a great way to introduce a new threat that goes well with the early focus of trying to adapt and hide on Earth like the Plantars are before then swapping to Mr. X who is SO full of personality and does well to prod the cast forward as they think they're ready to settle in for however long this takes. Cloakbot actually takes up way more time than Mr. X though as Mr. X only shows up like three times before the final episode and while he is the primary threat in each, he's not nearly as involved as Cloakbot was during their appearance. It serves well to build up Mr. X though before finally we see the FBI triumphant... Briefly. But triumphant nonetheless.

The last thing I'll touch on is Sasha and Marcy. Marcy... Marcy is the one part of the half season where I suspect rewatching makes it worse. Knowing this is effectively the final outing for Marcy and even Olivia and Yunan are treating her as just a brain and less as a character (I'm sorry but Marcy really doesn't have a found family) is ROUGH. Marcy has always been only kind of half a character with how she's written though and if I have one big complaint of Amphibia as a whole/so far, it's that Marcy so obviously is tailored for plot purposes more than she is to actually be a part of the show. The episode itself is enjoyable, the two newts have a GREAT dynamic and it sets up the terrifying might of Andrias and what is to come well but... It still is a real shame for the character.

Sasha on the other hand is great, as she commonly is. She genuinely has to ask if she is a conqueror or a protector. She has always seen herself as on the side of right after all. That she controls others for the sake of protecting them. It's part of why Reunion is so effective. Getting to see her at her lowest cause her to decide that and how it inspires Grime is great. Also seeing another big city slicker underestimating the townies and their capabilities is great, not only just a nice hurrah for anyone who loves Wartwood but a nice reminder of why Anne has so much adjusting to do because she underestimated all of this so much. It sets her up VERY well for what will make up the bulk of S3B, at least from my understanding.

So yeah, Amphibia keeps being fucking amazing and yet I STILL have hot takes that go against the opinions of the fandom. Go figure. XD

======+++++======

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

And finally a Twitter you can follow too!

[wonderlandleighleigh]

Lenny holding onto a Wolford matchbook post Carnegie

There's so much to go through.

And she's happy to help. She promised Sally that when the time came, she'd make herself available to help out with whatever they needed.

And that just happens to be cleaning out the house.

And if going to Lenny's funeral and giving a eulogy had been desperately difficult, then this feels impossible, staring all of the things he'd accumulated in the face this way.

She finds herself in his office, covered as it is with crumpled up papers and old tchotchkes. The only photo on the shelves is an old framed shot of Kitty, smiling out from behind the glass frame.

Midge sighs heavily and gets started, trash bag in hand as she goes through papers and keepsakes.

She takes a breath about a half hour in, slumping down into Lenny's old chair, and lets herself daydream about what things might have been like under different circumstances. If they'd really tried to be more than friends. If he'd been able to kick the drugs.

She closes her eyes just for a moment, and when she opens them, her gaze lands on a little pack of matches on the desk. She lifts them and lets out a startled laugh.

Because they're a pack from the Wolford.

She shakes her head and grips them in her palm. "Fuck you, Lenny."

And when she wakes up, she yelps, looking around her quiet, dark bedroom in complete and utter panic.

"Miriam? Are you alright?" It's her father's voice from beyond the door, and when she slips out of bed and swings it open, he's looking very confused. "I heard a noise."

"What year is it?" she asks. "What day is it?"

"It's the day before Valentine's Day, and it's 1961, what-"

"Good," she snaps. "Good. That's-good. Just-good."

"You keep saying good, as if it will make you somehow calm down from the hysterics you seem to have reached," Abe points out. "Are you alright?"

"Nightmare," she explains. "A very sad nightmare." She takes a deep breath, slumping against the doorframe and closing her eyes briefly.

Abe nods, looking concerned still. "You've been having those more lately, you know."

"I know."

"Any particular reason?" he asks.

"I've always gotten nightmares when I feel stressed," she reminds him. "It's just- things have been..."

"You've been working very hard lately," Abe comments. "Landing that television show and still doing shows at clubs, taking care of the children." He pauses for a moment. "This all might be easier if you had a partner...a husband."

Midge stares at him sadly for a long time.

"Perhaps letting your mother set you up with someone new isn't a terrible idea," he continues. "It is Valentine's Day, after all."

She nods. "Yes, it is Valentine's Day. Goodnight, Papa."

He sighs heavily. "Stubborn."

"I come by it honestly," she points out, giving him a fond little smirk.

"Goodnight, Miriam."

"Goodnight, Papa."

*****

She wakes in the morning and gets ready. Her hair and makeup are perfect. He dress is a dusty rose color, and she braces herself to face another busy day, trying not to think about her nightmare.

But it's impossible. She can't stop thinking about that cluttered office or that matchbook. It stays with her throughout her day, even as she does a good job of paying attention to Susie and paying attention to Gordon and paying attention to Imogene and paying attention to her kids and to Joel.

She doesn't know why her brain is making a meal out of this. Lenny hasn't been in touch for three months, and she knows he's been out in California, gigging and probably spending time with his family.

The only promises that were made before he left were that she would work and he would try to kick the dope, and they'd parted on friendly terms, but...

But they'd parted.

If her brain is trying to remind her she misses him, it's doing a good job. Or a terrible job, depending on how you look at this.

Rare is the night where she doesn't have a gig, or kids to feed, but Joel on dad duty, and Susie has started building in two days a month where she's not working.

"Hello, Dear, you look exhausted," Rose comments, obviously getting ready to leave. "I have a dinner meeting with a client tonight, and your father is working late at the paper. Zelda made some lovely herb-crusted chicken for your father, and there's plenty left."

"Thanks, Mama," Midge grins, feeling about as tired as she looks. "I might eat some and then just- take a bath. Get some sleep."

"That's a good idea. You relax tonight, and we'll talk more in the morning," Rose promises. "Your father said he talked to you about maybe asking me to set you up."

"I'm considering it," Midge admits. "I just need a little more time to think."

Rose nods, patting her daughter's arm. "Have a good night, Miriam."

She watches her mother leave, and once the door closes, Midge takes a long look around her quiet apartment, and bursts into tears.

And it feels good to have a good, hard cry. It's hard to find time for it these days, she's almost always covered in people and always, always busy.

It takes her a little while to stop, and when she does, she decides on the bath instead of the food. She's just not hungry.

Hasn't been hungry.

She runs the water as hot as she can stand, and normally she'd pin her hair up and away from her face, but she's not in the mood tonight.

Tonight, she sits in the water, poking at soap bubbles, waiting until she's acclimated to the temperature.

Midge takes a deep breath, and sinks under.

And stays there for a long while, holding her breath, closing her eyes. Letting the world sink away, if only for a few moments.

When she comes back up, nothing is different. But she does feel a little better.

She stays in the bath for a while longer, until the water goes tepid, before getting out and draining the tub. She brushes and dries her hair. She puts her face cream on. She wraps herself in a warm robe.

Maybe she should just fucking call him. He left her his number "in case of emergencies," Lenny had stated. "In case something big comes up."

She can just imagine that conversation.

"Nothing is really wrong, but I dreamt that it was five years in the future and you died terribly, and I was helping your mother clean out your house and now I can't stop thinking about it so hi, how is California? Is your office as much of a disaster as it was in my dream? Did you hold onto a matchbook from the Wolford, by any chance?"

She dismisses the idea, makes herself a drink, thinks briefly about seeing if Joel will fuck her brains out just to feel something different, dismisses that idea too, and settles on getting drunk instead.

Three drinks in there's a knock on the door, and she wonders briefly is Joel is here to fuck her brains out so he can feel something different, but when she swings it open.

It's Lenny.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he says sheepishly, a small batch of roses in one hand.

"No vacancy," she tells him, before slamming the door in his face.

And she can hear him laughing on the other side of it, and knocking again. "Not looking for a room at the inn," he calls. "Just a quiet drink at the hotel bar."

When she opens the door again, he's grinning at her sadly.

"Roses are a very romantic flower you know," she tells him as she lets him in. "You could give a girl ideas with those. Assuming they're for me. They could be for someone else."

"They are not for someone else," he assures her, handing her the flowers. "They got a little frosty on the way over. Snowing again."

Midge nods and takes them to find a vase to put them in. "How is California?" she asks as she steps into the kitchen.

"Warm," he tells her. "Annoying. But worth it to see my kid...you look different."

"My hair is still a little damp. I washed it."

"Must be it," he concedes. "You're great on Gordon Ford, by the way. Really, Midge. I catch it every time I'm home for it. You're so fucking good."

"And I didn't even have to go on a date with you to get your opinion," she smirks as she settles the flowers into a vase and adjusts them before lifting them and moving to her bedroom. "You must be losing your touch."

Lenny follows her, concern coloring his voice. "Midge, what's wrong?"

She whirls around and looks at him in the eyes. "Why are you here? I haven't heard from you in three months, and you gave me a number that I'm only allowed to use in an emergency, meaning you didn't want me in your life, so what are you doing here now?"

"Mostly to apologize," he admits quietly, holding her gaze. "For being a fucking coward about this. About us."

"There isn't an us."

"There should have been." He takes a step towards her. "There still could be. I've been working hard to stay clean. I've been looking at apartments here in the city. I thought if you were feeling forgiving...maybe..."

Midge takes in a sharp breath and feels more tears threaten her.

And she has to wonder.

If she says no, does she start them both down the path of that awful nightmare? If she says yes, do they both avoid that fate? And is it deeply arrogant to think that her dreams have any baring on real life, or that if they do, she can enact change on them?

These are all deeply stupid questions.

She slumps down onto the edge of the bed. "I had a nightmare that you died of a drug overdose," she tells him.

Lenny freezes, tilting his head and looking confused.

"It was a terrible dream," She tells him. "And it's been following me around all day, and I think maybe I'm still mad at dream you for dying like that. Even though the real you is standing here, clearly alive."

Slowly, he regains movement and takes a seat next to her. "I'm very sorry that dream me fucked up so badly."

"I appreciate that," Midge grins a little. She sighs and reaches for his hand, threading her fingers with his. "And I am feeling forgiving."

"That's good, because I have a plan to make this up to you," Lenny tells her, snapping with his free hand. "A nice Valentine's Day dinner tomorrow night. Lindsay Trent is playing at a dance hall in Harlem after that, I thought we could go, hear some good music, catch up with the fellas, do some dancing, and then see where else the night takes us."

Midge nods. "That does sound really nice. You're lucky Susie scheduled me two nights off in a row this month. She didn't want to get me angry in case I wound up with a Valentine's Day date."

"Smart woman, that Susie," he says, stroking her fingers with his, looking down at their hands. "So? Tomorrow night?"

"You can pick me up at seven."

"I guess I should let you get some sleep then," he comments without moving.

She holds his hand harder, and he gazes at her.

"Stay with me?" Midge asks. "I know Riverside Drive isn't exactly your scene, but-"

Lenny leans in then, and presses a kiss to her temple. "I think I can manage one night without breaking out in hives."

She keeps her eyes closed, her muscles relaxing for the first time in...she doesn't even know.

[tortoisesshells]

Perspective Flip for the last fic you were really excited about and didn't get to talk about enough!

This is a little bit of a cheat - it's a Perspective Flip of something that hasn't happened yet in Customs (and, frankly, I'm not sure I'm ever getting there at the rate I've been writing) and it's ... not that upbeat, for a wedding. I suppose that has something to do with the whole "there's a war on" "there's that whole murder thing" and "no magic bullet for personal problems"?

Decades ago, when Boston was a different place, no man would sell or give a parcel so that the Church of England might set foot on good Puritan land – this, Nellie told herself, such flowers as could be found in October in hand, hesitating on Tremont Street the morning of her second marriage. This was why the King’s Chapel had had to be built on what public land could be peaceably given – and, however querulous the dead of this plot had been in life, they were in no position to contest old Governor Andros’s decree of a half-century past. If there was a world beyond this one, Nellie had sometimes thought old Winthrop must have been enraged to share his eternal rest with what he'd crossed an ocean to escape, but nothing had ever stayed the same in Boston –

An object lesson. Nellie Treat could not remain as she was, either.

She did not think about walking through the dead towards her new life – just as she could not think that she had walked past the new Granary and the burying ground and fixed her gaze on the dirty street rather than look for Samuel’s headstone – that she would have to halt and apologize for what she was about to do, that she had gone on as his widow as long as she could. She had gritted her teeth and walked along with her family attending, and tell herself that these were no particularly bad omens. Aunt and Uncle Bendish had been married here, at King's Chapel, and gone on to live happily and prosperously.

She breathed deeply, bracing herself. Aunt B put her hand under her elbow, and quietly called her name, and when Nellie swore it was only the expected kind of nerves, kissed her cheek and wished her happiness. Polly and Sam, ambivalent about the idea of a step-father at the best of times, followed behind the Bendishes like ducklings in a stream – it was not painless, but as she had reasoned over the past three weeks, all other options were worse.

Inside – but Nellie hesitated here a moment, too –

Inside, King’s Chapel was better attended than she would have expected – whether it was Commodore Norrington’s prominence, or the curiosity of her neighbors that had filled the pews, she couldn’t say. Certainly at least one gossip had accidentally let slip within her family’s hearing that some suspected Nellie had gotten herself in the family way – that stung, but as Newport has said much the same thing about her marriage to Samuel Treat, she at least had old habits of equanimity to fall back on. She tried to imagine that her doubts underfoot as she walked to her place before the altar, as easily crushed as maggots and other insects – smiled up at James, splendidly dressed and fitting in this place, as much as she feared she was not – and breathed a calm, deliberate sigh. He is my partner – she told herself – this is safety.

He took her hand. The rector read the ceremony. Her mind wandered. It was not as it had been, thirteen or fourteen years before. There was more pomp to the Church of England’s service, she noted idly – some shade of her life to come; she had little idea what James Norrington was thinking, as he had done what he always did when under scrutiny – gone still and impassive as a statue. Samuel, she remembered, had winked at her when the minister had not been looking at them – a badly need buoy to a girl of nineteen who had been shaking in her mended petticoats. Her new dress, the finest thing she had ever owned, felt more like armor than anything else – she wondered, vaguely, if James felt the same way about his ridiculously ornamented coat. She had been assuming so – but, Lord, wearing his pride as armor seemed a dangerous business.

When it was over, Nellie wrung the nerves from her hands before she trusted herself to sign the license – and then, legally and in the eyes of God, Elinor Coggeshall Treat ceased to exist.

[callgespenst]

I've mentioned it before but I've been playing a lot of Dance Dance Revolution lately. I started going to the local arcade to play once or twice a week in early May, and I've already noticed some pretty substantial improvement! I figure I'll start keeping track of notable progress here.

A brief recap of what I can recall of the last few months:

May: I had heard about the local DDR crew from one or two friends and finally gave in and checked it out. I did not do very well at all that first outing (my shoes weren't particularly good for it, I wasn't dressed for it either, and my accuracy was /wildly/ off on the arcade machines. I got a B full combo on one song with mostly Greats/Goods). But I met some of the lads and had fun and got myself an E-Amuse card, which I always thought would be harder to obtain.

After that, I immediately went to the store, bought myself some better dancing shoes and the largest water bottle I could find at Target. And at that point, I really had to keep going, sunk cost and everything.

Summer: It took a few sessions, but I adjusted myself to the arcade machine timing and started hitting a lot more accurately. Keeping to 8s and 9s. I'd alternate between going on half price Wednesdays, and Thursday evenings when my wife was at her Japanese classes.

Fall: Went to the big local tournament at a Round1 two hours away. Didn't compete, but I met some new people and still had a good time. I feel like the start of fall was when the group started going to Round1 more in general (there's one just about an hour west) because R1 locations got the A3 upgrade and D&Bs, did not, for reasons that would take too long to get into here.

Winter: Being a dedicated rhythm gamer, on one of the rhythm games designed to get you real sweaty, is truly awful when it's cold out. This is largely because arcades are not designed to be workout facilities. You gotta go in there in warm clothes, get changed in the arcade bathroom, go do your sets, and then leave a sweaty mess and drive all the way home to shower. The first instant when you walk outside into the cold air is a truly rejuvenating sensation, which is cancelled out by the next five minutes of perspiration frozen all over while you wait for the car to warm up. And it hasn't even been a particularly intense winter thus far.

Current Status: I've cleared five (5) songs at a 13 difficulty. No. 13 (Expert), Burnin' Heat 3-Option Mix (Expert), Xenon (Expert), Leading Cyber (Expert), and today I cleared Legend of MAXX (Difficult). None of these were particularly inspiring clears (that last one, I flubbed the whole last jump sequence, and just barely skirted through), but it's still leagues better than I was performing just a few months ago.

I also have five (5) charts I've cleared on AAA difficulty. Bloody Tears IIDX (Difficult, 6), Dazzlin' Darlin' Remix (Difficult, 8), Sparkle Dreams (Basic, 8, Sightread), Sterling Silver (Difficult, 10), and Zephyranthes (Basic, 7, Sightread). Those last two I just did for the first time today! And I got my best clear on Dazzlin' Darlin' yet (996k, only two greats).

Present Goals: The hope is to go to Japan at some point later this year. By that time, I want to get to a point where I can play at an arcade abroad and feel semi-competent about it. The plan is to get myself to a point where I can at least AA clear: Bitter Chocolate Striker (Expert, 14), Possession (Difficult, 14), and Eon Break (Difficult, 13, but at present, this song is only available on LIFE4, which adds a degree of challenge).

The Path Forward: My footwork has definitely improved substantially, when I started out I'd get awful pain in the arches of my feet, but I haven't really gotten that in a while. I don't think I want to go no-bar, but I might rely on the bar a little too much.

I think the most important improvement I can make at this stage is to work on my breathing. Once I really start going, I really run ragged. I used to be able to breathe properly while I exercised, I just have to relearn how to while I dance.

The other big one is definitely developing the ability to read faster stepcharts. Anything above 400, maybe 450 BPM is too much for me at present. Here I think the best way forward is to slowly amp up the modifier on songs I'm already familiar with. I'll need to be able to read at least 750 for the goals I have set.

That's the full recap so far! My next arcade trip is this coming Wednesday, but I probably won't post an update every time I go, just when I pull off something particularly noteworthy.

...also, writing this up was a great excuse to hang out on the couch for an hour and not move, because wow, I am so exhausted after that last session. My only regret is that I really want to get up and get a snack, but my legs are jelly and there's a cat snoozing next to me.

[starlightswitch]

Four Years in the Making

(for Writer's Month day 18 prompts free and restaurant. In memory of the cidery challenge I never got to complete. I will never stop being bitter, but at least when you're a writer you can somewhat rewrite these things.)

On June 22nd, Nino and Robin graduated from their residency program. The graduation banquet had been announced for about a month. When it was over, as they’d planned as soon as the graduation banquet had been announced, Nino and Robin and Nino’s wife Joy and Robin’s fiancé Charlie walked over to the brewpub they’d been to many times over the four years of Nino and Robin’s residency to get their last beers to become Keg Club members.

Well, everyone but Charlie’s last beers. Charlie had less than the others, because Charlie had been picked up along the way– he and Robin had only started dating a few months into her residency, and he hadn’t started joining them at the brewpub until a few months after that. Luckily, he and Robin were staying; Robin had gotten a job with the hospital they’d been working for as residents. But in the beginning she hadn’t known she’d want to stay, and Nino and Joy had always known they wanted to move closer to family.

They’d found out about the Keg Club a month or so into residency, when Nino and Robin went to an event here after work. They’d spotted the names on the wall, and Nino had looked it up and found that they had a special loyalty program: when the beers you’d had from them added up to 36 gallons– the volume of a historical beer barrel– you got your name on the wall and a fancy Keg Club membership card that made your second beer in a day free for life. Robin did the math quickly and found that 36 gallons was 144 pints, and divided by four years that was one pint about every week and a half, which was perfectly reasonable.

So it became a pretty regular thing, almost every weekend. Sometimes they hung out longer and got more than one beer, so they were ahead of the pace by early 2020.

And then the pandemic hit.

That would have thought that was it, but Joy went down to buy a crowler of a new beer the brewpub had announced online and the girl ringing her up said, “I think that puts you halfway to your keg! If I’m doing my math right,” which was how they discovered crowlers and growlers counted.

They weren’t even visiting each other at home then– if Nino and Robin had been different years, they’d sometimes have been on the same rotation and exposed to each other for eight hours a day at work, in which case they might as well, but they weren’t and they weren’t going to risk the extra exposure– but almost every weekend they’d pick up crowlers or growlers and send each other pictures of their glasses, sometimes with an updated count if they’d asked for one that day.

Toward fall the brewery opened their patio, and they decided they were all good with getting together outside, as long as no one was planning a visit to grandparents. The patio hangouts continued late into the fall thanks to the new heaters the brewpub the place had installed. In the winter there was a fire pit outside and events where purchase of a beer got you a hot dog or smores kit to roast. In the spring they got their vaccines, Nino and Robin through the hospital, then Joy, Charlie last because he wasn’t 30 yet. After that, they were good with eating inside again, with a pause the next winter until they got their boosters.

Robin and Charlie never did get COVID, as far as they knew. Nino and Joy got it in May, getting over it just weeks before graduation.

Nino’s first beer got him to 36 gallons. When the server pointed that out, he waved it off. “Get mine when you get theirs. Three of us hit it tonight.”

They ordered their second round, and when the server brought it out and set the glasses down, he pulled something out of his pocket: three shiny silver cards, neatly stacked. He handed them out one by one, with a “Welcome to the Keg Club” for each of them, then had them write down their names the way they wanted them to appear on the wall. “That second round’s free next time,” he said, tapping a hand on the table before he walked away.

The four at the table gave each other bittersweet smiles. The next time for Nino and Joy was undetermined. They were finishing their packing tomorrow and moving the next day.

They made their beers last a while and their conversation last longer, going from funny stories about attendings to when they’d first met at a welcome picnic– and when Nino and Joy had first met Charlie at an ice skating event– to what the attendings had said about them at the banquet, Nino’s attention to detail and Robin’s matter-of-factness and confidence. It was getting close to closing time when Nino said, “I guess we better go.”

“I guess we better,” Joy echoed, and Robin and Charlie nodded slowly.

Outside they all exchanged hugs and somehow ended up talking five or ten more minutes about Nino and Joy’s moving plans. When a lull fell, Nino and Robin looked at each other.

“Well,” said Robin, with a nod and a hint of humor in her eye, “it’s been an honor, Dr. DeFillipo.”

His voice a little thick, Nino responded, “Likewise, Dr. Cassidy.”

And that seemed like the perfect way to leave it.

-

2020 day 18: A Leap (myth)

2021 day 18: A Treat from Another World (key + role reversal)

2022 Day 18: Grew Up Together (bridge + secret garden)

[cpanther]

K&K exert

Konya hurried to the front peeking through the window then carefully opened the door on a well dressed dark elf of about fifty. Even though it was fairly warm for the season the dark elf wore a light weight, tan jacket of high quality. His shirt was freshly pressed, pale green and again high quality. His dress pants were again light weight and pricey, a nice crisp black. Even his shoes screamed money, though what he might do for a living was beyond Konya. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Ah well no. I didn’t know one was required.”

“Name?” Konya held his hand out in case he had a card to hand over.

The dark elf seemed surprised for a moment. “Oh of course. My card.” he dug into his shirt pocket pullign out a small card holder. Carefully he removed one studied it for a moment then handed it over. “All information is current.” He added as though it was needed.

Konya nodded took the card and ducked back inside closing the door. “A Mr. Mensore.” He said handing the card over. “Current info.”

Unlike Konya Kalor nodded. “Nice to know.” He took the card duckign back into his office where he did a quick search for the man. “Business owner.” He set the card down. “Let him in, let’s see what he wants.” Often small businesses would start with one social media, change to another, alter their email or get a new number, frequently business cards were out of date before they could go through them all. Many printing places offered massive discounts on bulk prints meaning owners were stuck with cards which were out of date because they couldn’t get rid of the cards fast enough. Kalor himself had suffered the same problem when he’d opened his own place. Unlike others he hadn’t been sucked into the great savings by having thousands of cards printed at once. He’d gotten the smallest amount he could. Yes he had to reorder several times already but he’d been able to test out different websites and social media between each print until he found one he liked and could stick with.

Konya headed back to the front. At the door he took a deep breath. The boys would be home soon. The fact that Kalor was willing to humor this man so close to their arrival meant one of two things. One he was bored and wanted a case, or two he’d seen something on the guys web page which interested him. If he was honest, he was curious too. “Mr Icedam will see you.” Konya took the offered jacket hung it on one of the hooks beside the door then led the way to the office. The jacket there would tell the boys there was a possible client in the office and not to enter.

Konya waved a hand at the chair then took a seat at his desk. Since he didn’t work as many cases he didn’t need a large desk. Kalor’s own wasn’t much bigger and thanks tot he size of the room a larger desk wouldn’t fit if they wanted to be able to move around the room. Watching Kalor he tried to guess what the snow elf was going to say or do first. Just before Kalor spoke he decided the first thing out of his mouth would be a greeting then ask what was the trouble.

Kalor leaned back. “Mr. Mensore, from Mensore labs by chance?”

“Why yes. Former.” he added. “I sold the company a number of years ago.”

Not what Konya expected at all. Quickly he covered his shock. At least his appearance and Kalor’s willingness to see him made sense now. “I didn’t know that’d been sold.”

Mensore sighed. “It wasn’t a public sale. The man I started the company with offered to purchase my half, the price was reasonable so I agreed. He will still ask for my opinion at times, and I see a nice bit from what little stock I still own.”

In other words he didnt’ have a control share of the stocks, and clearly didn’t feel the need to. “And now you…?”

“I’m currently working on a new endeavor, though that’s not why I’m here.”

The snow elf nodded. “I didn’t think it was. If I recall correctly you’re one hell of a businessman. You’ve had two failures out of the dozen projects you started. One was bad timing in the market, the other was poor choice in location.”

Mensore blinked. “Why yes. I tried one out in a different place and it did every well. Unfortunately I didn’t manage to pick the right time to restart that first failure.”

“Maybe not but when the opportunity came around to purchase it you did and then took what was flagging and turned it into another success story.”

There was no way Kalor could have learned all that between the time the card was dropped off and Mensore entered the office. Konya knew for a fact the PI wasn’t that fast of a reader. Later he’d have to ask how much he knew a head of time and how much he’d learned on the fly. The tiefling was half tempted to leave his desk to see if Kalor had a bio page on the possible client up on his screen. If he did though he was doing a hell of a job hiding the fact that he was reading anything off.

[dzpenumbra]

6/15/23

Two full nights rest in a row? o.O Unheard of!

I swear, the second I start getting consistent sleep I start seeing so clearly that it's the primary cause of most of my problems. I mean, don't get me wrong... I have other problems... but sleep is such a root cause of everything for me. And as much as it's really weird and disorienting to be going to bed at 7 AM... and to only have a few hours of daylight every day... just feeling more at ease and comfortable in my own skin is such a fair trade. I just feel much more emotionally level when I've gotten good sleep.

Yoga wasn't bad, I find myself sorta alternating between two routines I liked in the past - one for psoas and one for lower back/hips. I breezed through it without breaking a sweat. Though I'm not really as... excited about yoga as I used to be. Mostly because it's become more of a warmup than the main event. Because right after, before I get to eat? Exercise time.

I did that deliberately. I eat dinner around... well... starting between 9 and 11 pm usually, depending on when I get around to it. But I'm almost always done eating by midnight. Then I don't eat my next meal until... usually around... 5 or 6 PM the next day? So... that's a good 17 hour unintentional fast going on there. Lately, I've been putting a little "midnight" (2-3am) snack in there to stop myself from being woken up starving. My big intention is to sorta... capitalize on my body being in this state and exercise at that point. Then my body really doesn't have any fuel to burn except fat. I'm trying to keep myself aware of energy levels and shit, so I don't like... unintentionally pass out or anything, I don't think I'm even close to at risk for that, but yeah. I honestly think it's working. And it makes sense, like... if I haven't eaten anything in 12+ hours, what the fuck else is my body going to use for fuel? Of course it's going to tap into my fuel reserves. That's literally what it was storing the fat for!

So yeah, it can be a bit tough mentally to get myself to do half an hour of yoga and then an intense workout before eating... but that breakfast after is like none other.

Today's exercise was actually really easy. I guess it was a rest day or something. Today was Day 6, it's crazy how fast it's flying by.

I played Rimworld some more. Shit went down in my colony, lost a main character, gained like 4 more. I'm considering ending the colony and starting a new one to do a series with... but...

I put a lot of time and energy into stream stuff today. A lot. I rerouted the audio for my stream, so I can manually control which audio is going to recording/VoD and what audio is going live. It wasn't too complicated. That was the good news. The bad news? I tested the second mic that I have, that I was going to set up at my art desk. And... it doesn't work. And it's not the cable, it's definitely the mic itself. Now... I do have my normal broadcasting mic, this second mic is a clone of it that my little brother didn't want for some reason. But I can't really set it up where it can reach both my computer and my workstation. The mic stand arm is just too short. This has been a long-standing problem. So... what that means is... if I do art on stream, it's going to have to be digital. Or I'm going to have to move my mic arm... --- oh... hey, I could just... move the mic itself... that way I don't have to move the arm... I could just pop the mic out of the cradle and put it in the other one. Then I don't have to worry about blocking the mic stand or anything, I can just leave them clamped and swap the mic... that might actually work pretty easily. Hmm... Welp, I guess it's not all bad news after all, this might work out fine!

So... I got that sorted. I changed my little animated chat place where I have chat on screen for in-between scenes where it's just kinda sitting and chatting with Twitch. I changed the background picture from a river in winter to a river in spring/summer. It's nice. Pretty much everything is set up, I just need to remember to set up game audio captures for new games. Other than that, I should be good to go.

The rest of the night was put into working on the fractal piece some more. I feel so much better about it now, it's actually really coming to life. It's so weird how off it felt before, and how now it just feels perfectly natural. It really wasn't that different. I guess it's just a gut-feeling kinda thing. I usually get on my own ass a lot about going back and erasing shit when I'm doing improvised work, but this one... I don't know, I trusted my gut and it worked out, so I'm not questioning it.

That's about it. OH. I finished the simple necklace I made yesterday. It's.. very simple. It's not bad. I'll probably get used to it in time. But yeah, that's... pretty much all I have to say about that... Nothing huge or impressive, just a simple humble practical piece made for me so that when I feel really anxious before something, I can just use it to do a quick circuit of 13 breaths to chill the fuck out.

Tarot time.

Past - Two of Pentacles, inverted (Multitasking, being pulled multiple directions at once.  Focus and rhythm are necessary to keep them in balance.) Present - Four of Wands, inverted (Stability, a sense of completion.  A major milestone, taking a moment to reflect on accomplishment so far, before moving to a new future.) Future - Two of Wands, inverted (Planning, scrutiny, taking risks and moving a plan forward.  The active force needed to put a plan into motion.)

This one doesn't seem too difficult to read. Again... another all-inverted read. Those can often feel like a "fuck you", but really... it's not great to read it that way. All positive stuff can feel affirmative, but negative stuff can be very clear in what is causing dysfunction, which is a clear indication of what you can do. It can provide more direction. Affirmation when you're struggling is nice, but direction can be just as helpful, if not more... just in different ways.

The thread starts with inverted Two of Pentacles, a new one for me. The Two of Pentacles is about multitasking... which I am notorious for struggling with. It was actually a big part of my diagnosis with ADHD and my push to get help with that. I really struggle to balance all of the plates necessary to be an "adult". I always have. I'm too much of a daydreamer. And I wasn't really taught how to do half the shit I'm expected to do. I mean... I have a stinky bag of trash that needs to go out that I still haven't gotten yet, every time I walk by I remember how much I struggle with this. So, the Two is about needing focus and momentum to keep multiple tasks in order, and it's inverted... clearly showing the disarray.

This leads to... Four of Wands, inverted. Four of Wands is portrayed in this deck as a birthday party. Important milestones in life that are the result of your achievements, and celebration of those milestones. Inversion here I would read as me turning away from, or feeling unable to engage with this image.

This is connected to... inverted Two of Wands. Two of Wands is about planning, taking risks and moving forward with ideas. The image is a determined man peering forward, surveying the land and preparing for action.

So... because I struggle to juggle the many responsibilities of life... because my focus and momentum are either completely scattered or narrowly fixated on one or two tasks... I kinda miss out on celebrating accomplishments. Which doesn't seem to make complete sense at first glance... but when you think about it... I'm always playing catch-up. Even when I accomplish a huge task like my Desire Path project, I have 20 other things that were backlogged because I had put so much work into it. So, I end up just going and catching up on those instead of celebrating, instead of sitting and eating my birthday cake. And this leads to trouble moving forward. Trouble planning, trouble taking risks. Why? Because... that last project "flopped". Why do I feel like it flopped? Because... I didn't celebrate or appreciate it. Why? Because I was playing catch-up with all the other responsibilities I had put aside while I was working on it. And round and round we go.

So... since kicking my own ass about my struggle to multitask has been fruitless... Maybe I can try a more self-compassionate approach to this. Maybe I need to give myself more permission to celebrate my victories. How about I start now.

I have nearly effortlessly accomplished 6 days of working out in a row, and I'm very proud of myself for doing so. I finished the necklace today and I have a feeling I'm going to get attached to it in time. I am really stoked with how my work on the fractal piece is coming along, and I have a plan to be able to share my work with others, so others can hang with me live in the studio as I work on this unfathomably large piece. And we can listen to whatever fucking music I want while I work. And I can start tomorrow if I like. That's a lot of accomplishment, and I should be proud of myself for that. :)

[darsynia]

Sneak Peek: Repeat After Me

Tony Stark/Reader 'Mob AU' (set in Loki's 'Empire' after the Avengers lost in 2012)

Written for Round 1 of Trope Madness to vote for Soulmate AU, I was searching for a way to put a fresh spin on Soulmate Words, and came up with this. I decided to combine this with @caplanbuckybarnes's Three Words Challenge and use the words 'Don't look back.'

Tags: @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @starksbf @tiny-anne @starryeyes2000

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! It's... probably going turn into a series. I'm really enjoying the worldbuilding.

Repeat After Me

You might be the only person who has both soulmate words written on your body.

Repeat after me: don’t look back.

At first, you’d found them comforting. After all, they’re predictable in a way almost no one else’s words are: if you’re right about them, it means you can choose whether to speak those fateful words aloud. Then Loki came with his Chitauri army, and everything changed.

It’s been ten years since Lord Loki became the ruler of the world; ten years of societal restructure and bleak acquiescence. It turns out that humans are well adapted to be ruled, just as he’d said-- but perhaps not quite in the way he’d intended. Everyone has figured out their own way to survive, whether it’s in one of the densely populated city-states, the agricultural backwaters, or the uneasy suburban sprawl that straddles both extremes.

You’re one of the few who can travel easily through all three, and you pride yourself on that. Pre-Empire, you’d been a top exec at a shipping company, and your talent for managing large egos, ability to memorize maps, and knowledge of machinery was easily translated to a life as a smuggler. Your top rule? You do not take sides. Ever. It’s what made you successful, what kept you alive.

And no one knows the real reason.

“Zephyr, how long before you head out?”

You’re half-in, half-out of your truck, the open door heavy on your ass thanks to all the armor plating. “Weather looks like it’s gonna hold for another hour and a half, I was thinking forty-five minutes?” you guess, squinting up through the tint on the upper part of the windshield.

“Got time to meet with a potential?” Karl laughs at your obvious groan, adding, “Fancy suit says D.C., maybe New York. Probably shouldn’t risk skipping.” You trust your second in command, even if you don’t want to take his advice. Karl Mordo is pragmatic, honest, and a baronic pain in your ass sometimes.

“Fuck. Okay. But I’m going right now, before I de-grease for the trip.” You hop down and hold up your dirty hands, wiggling your fingers.

“What if they’re from Stark?”

You clench your jaw. “His people should know better, even after two years. We just did Fisk a favor, maybe he’ll remind Loki’s plaything that there’s a reason he relocated to Miami.” 

Karl nods and heads back to the house, and as soon as he’s gone, you hold still and count to ten to calm your breathing. Tony Stark rules the northeast with a literal iron fist, and no one’s sure whether the mind control has turned him cruel or he’d been released years ago and just likes it. Almost no one Stark doesn’t trust has been close enough to know for sure.

Despite your reputation for neutrality, a few years back he’d sent his clever and ruthless ex-turned-CFO Pepper Potts to ask you to spy on some of the biggest players on the Eastern Seaboard.

It had been the first time you’d gotten close enough to see the electric blue of Loki’s mind control first-hand. Her threats had been articulate and terrifying, but yours ended up having a lasting effect on the way Lord Loki does his business. Word is that the emperor includes additional spells and enchantments to prevent a simple blow to the head from releasing a thrall and undoing years of work. 

You still get messages from Potts, filtered heavily by word of mouth, through the Resistance.