#Was gonna write a full thing for this but I got major brain fog so ur just getting the premise of the idea for now

[thejacketscloset]

Ghost refuses to deal with dirty dishes that still have food on them (more specifically if they're someone else's). He gets visibly angry if dishes are left in the sink with food on them, and Soap has only ever seen him wash dishes by hand with gloves on.

#autistic simon ghost riley #tis a texture thing #im projecting #i touched wet old food this morning and cried #Was gonna write a full thing for this but I got major brain fog so ur just getting the premise of the idea for now #cod #ghost hc #ghost cod #ghostsoap #soapghost

[pikemoreno]

lucky

pairing: marcus moreno x gn!reader

request: from @chibi-liz05​ “Can I request a Marcus Moreno fic (or ficlet, or drabble) where either Marcus or reader gets hurt (not seriously hurt) and end up in a med bay, kinda woozy from pain meds and they have a funny and/or cute conversation when the other one goes to check on the one hurt? Please.”

warnings: mentions of blood, injuries, death. it starts out pretty darn angsty, but gets silly and fluffy i promise. these two are hella married.

word count: 2.7k

a/n: honestly this is nothing like you asked for until the end? but this lil drabble idea inspired this whole one shot so i hope you enjoy what you helped my brain create? i loved this, needless to say.

i love this himbo and i’m so happy to write for him.

And thank you for the medical advice to @disgruntledspacedad! Thanks for helping me choose the right drug! 😆

wanna join a taglist? | masterlist

This was Marcus’s least favorite part of his job. 

As the newly deemed Director of the Heroics, he was the one to decide who went out on what mission when and with who. Normally it wasn’t too tall of an order. After all, he was chosen as director for good reason. He was perfect for the job. He was smart, organized, resourceful, and tried in everything to understand people-- whether that be in their personal habits or in their superpowered strengths. He was often commended for his ability to form the perfect teams for whatever job arose; and it came pretty naturally, it really did. 

That is, until emotion got involved, until personal bias compromised his decision making.

He was determined to not let you go on the mission, absolutely not. The band of powered individuals the team was going after were incredibly dangerous and unpredictable.They’d been a problem for months and this mission was all or nothing. The high stakes and vulnerable position made him incredibly reluctant to make you a part of the team that was heading out under the cover of night to apprehend them. When he didn’t name you among them, he was immediately countered by the rest of the heroes in the room about the choice. 

By all the accounts they were right. Given the tactics of the mission at hand, your teleportation abilities were perfect for the job. And if he was being even a little more honest, he’d agree with Miracle Guy that not sending you with them was a “disservice to the team.” It was and he knew it. In a very un-Marcus Moreno move, he was making the completely wrong choice and he wasn’t going to let the sound judgement of anyone else change his mind.

“Psion is not going and that is final,” he boomed. The room became deathly silent. “Now, go get ready. You leave in 20.” But no one moved, no one could. They were glued to the floor, watching their unflappable leader become uncharacteristically flapped. 

Marcus was the one to stomp out of the room first and you followed him without hesitation.

“Marcus,” you called, nearly running to keep up with long strides. “Marcus!” 

He didn’t even deign to turn around.

In a blink you were now in front of Marcus, hands out to stop him from continuing on without talking to you.

“No teleporting outside of work, Psion” he snapped lowly, but he still obliged your silent request and remained in front of you. You blinked at the small outburst.

“Mind losing the ‘tude so we can talk like adults?” You countered. Marcus lowered his head and whispered an apology. At that you stepped closer to him, your hands coming to rest on his tense shoulders in a soothing manner. “What’s bothering you, love? You know you can talk to me. This isn’t like you at all.”

When his eyes met yours again they were pained.

“It’s too dangerous,” was all he could get out at the moment. His exhale was unsteady as he leaned in, his forehead meeting yours in a much more “Marcus” gesture that brought you both back down to earth.

You sighed, fingers carding through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Of course it is. It always is.”

“Not like this,” he countered, biting his lip. “These guys are no joke.”

“Neither am I,” you grinned, tapping his nose with your own before pulling back to look at his face in full. He laughed a little, but it wasn’t whole-hearted, you saw it in his eyes.

“And I trust you. I do. I know you’re capable. I just--”

“Worry?” 

“Yeah, that.” His eyebrows were furrowed. You softly ran a thumb across the harsh lines it made, smoothing them and making him smile.

“I’m not going to lie to you and say nothing is going to happen. Because it might.” He winced at the words, not wanting to think too hard on what “it” could be. “But I’m prepared and so is the rest of the team. We’re gonna watch each other’s backs like we always do and getting everyone out safely is going to be our priority over completing the mission. It’s going to be business as usual and it’s going to be OK. I’m going to be OK. You’ve gotta let me go. They need me out there tonight.”

“I know,” he sighed. “Just… Be careful. Be ready in 10.” You sighed in relief.

“Thank you, Marcus.” You kissed him. “It’s gonna be fine.” He kissed you. “We’ve got ‘em this time. I know it.” One last kiss, strong and lingering. You tilted your head, an invitation-- no, a plead-- for a deeper kiss, which he obliged before being the one to break it. 

“Go,” he murmured, “Or you won’t make it before they leave.” You nodded, taking a deep breath. “Be careful. I love you.”

“I love you too.” You smiled through the sudden onset of nerves before turning and walking down the hallway to join up with the rest of the team.

***

That had been hours ago. Now Marcus was in command with a skeleton crew, the late hours of the assignment sending most of the support and technical team home. He quickly decided that was probably for the best. The sweet little interns did not need to see their mentor so stressed and antsy. No, he had to be “on” for them, he had to be the Marcus Moreno. And he couldn’t be that right now. Right now he was an anxious husband and teammate. 

“Where are they now, Connie?” he asked the poor woman at the comms desk behind him for the upteenth time that hour.

“Trackers say they’re still in the hanger, sir. Last update was that they had the grunts and were waiting for the ring leader to respond to their distress call.”

He wasn’t responding. It’d been two hours. And that was a major cause for concern.

“Tell them to just bring who they have back here and we’ll keep searching for him. This is still a win as far as I’m concerned.”

The man who was on comms moved to press the talk button to speak to the team, but the comm crackled to life before he had the opportunity. 

“It’s an ambush!” Miracle Guy yelled from the other side, “We’re sitting ducks out here!”

Marcus’ heart dropped into his stomach. 

“Go! Go! Get back to the-” He heard your panicked voice call out, the sentence interrupted by a cry of pain. 

The room spun. Marcus knew he was yelling but he couldn’t hear a word of what he said. It all just sounded like white noise now, mixing with the jumbled thoughts in his head and the ringing in his ears. He must’ve said something right though, because everyone was working. One was arranging a rescue, one was calling out the vitals of the team via the trackers on their wrists-- everything seemed fine by the tone of voice, but Marcus couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t grasp a word that was said to him. He was totally on autopilot, only able to respond in vague nods of yes or no. 

“Hey,” one voice next to him cut through the fog and he looked up to Lucas, the man who ran comms, “They’re going to be ok.”

Marcus’s response was non-committal, not wanting to pull the young man down to share his current state of mind, but not allowing himself to share in his confident optimism either.

The next hour went by in a whirlwind and the next thing he knew, Marcus was downstairs in the medical wing waiting on you and your team to arrive. He’d been in this position before and the thought of it made his throat close up. The images flashed through his mind of a gurney and too much blood and a confused little girl and black clothing on a rainy day in April. 

He closed his eyes harder as if to block it all out. 

No, it couldn’t be like last time.

It was then that he heard the distinct sound of the sliding doors opening and the murmur of a small group of people. His eyes shot open and, though he stood to his feet, he felt that he could collapse in relief. There was no gurney. Minimal blood-- just a couple of cuts on your face. You were hobbling in, arm around Miracle Guy as he helped you keep pressure off of your left leg. Your face was pained, which probably should have concerned him more, but he was just too happy to see you upright… Breathing. As long as he had that, you could get through anything else together. 

He watched as the medical team surrounded all of you, asking questions, prodding delicately at injuries. Marcus could vaguely hear your voice cutting in and out through it all. 

“Super strength… Kicked… Broken.” 

They had asked you a couple more unheard questions that you responded to in a simple yes or no and then they were leading you to sit on one of the beds. He watched as you went, noticing the way you were looking around for… Something.

Oh.

He smiled.

You were looking for him.

In all his panic and then relief, it hadn’t occurred to him that you would want to see him just as badly in your current state. His heart warmed at the way your tired eyes lit up when they met his. He all but ran to you. 

“Hey baby,” he cooed, leaning in to capture your lips in a deep kiss. He’d never been more in awe of you, that you were real, that way you were his, that he could kiss you freely. When he pulled away he observed your injuries closer. Head wounds were always scary amounts of bloody, but he could see that all of the cuts were minor. He brushed a strand of hair away from where sweat and blood had plastered it to your forehead. “What happened? How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” you hissed as a stab of pain surged through your leg. He looked down to observe it. His immediate diagnosis wasn’t a good one. It was terribly hard to break a femur, but he was certain this was exactly what it would look and feel like. “Some super-strength asshole kicked me in the thigh to knock me down and--” You winced again. “They think she broke my femur, and I would have to agree.”

“I have to say I’m thinking that too,” he sighed. “I’m so sorry.” He kissed your forehead in between the cuts.

“What are you sorry for? You’re the one that tried to keep me from going. I forced you to let me go.”

“I should’ve stood my ground and had you and the team be mad at me,” he said completely seriously. 

“You’re ridiculous.” You side-eyed him, but smiled through the words. One of the medical staff returned at that moment, bringing over supplies to clean your cuts and asking if you’d like something for the pain while they got prepped for surgery. You nodded eagerly. 

“I’ll take this over,” Marcus said, hands open to take the first aid kit, “If you want to go get that?”

“Oh, sir I couldn’t ask you to--” The young woman gawked, slightly unbelieving that her boss’s boss’s boss would volunteer to do her job.

“You’re not asking me, I’m asking you.”

“A-- Yes, right away.” She handed him the kit and seemed to flee his presence to get an IV ready. You sat in silence a few moments as he prepared everything. He seemed lost, even in this small task. It took him longer than it should’ve to get his ducks in a row.

“Someone’s a little edgy,” you prodded, watching as too-intense eyes focused on cleaning dried blood from your forehead. He shook his head, eyes softening, but maintaining their focus. The whole endeavor was very clearly an attempt at keeping his hands as busy as his mind was. 

“I’d thought I‘d lost you. I thought...” His jaw tightened-- and it wasn’t due to the effort of wiping up blood. You stopped his hand from continuing its ministrations, lacing your fingers together.

“That it was all happening again?” you whispered. 

“It was like deja vu, baby. Everything was just like before.” The last word almost came out like a whimper. 

“But it’s not. I’m right here. I’m ok.” You brought your forehead to meet his comfortingly. The cuts stung just a little at the touch, but you remained there with him, feeling a deep, grounding breath fan lightly across your face.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

You kissed his nose and pulled away as you heard the medic return with the Versed for the pain. Marcus stayed right by your side as you were put on the IV, a hand staying firmly on yours. Which more for him than for you if he was honest. It brought him back to reality and out of his head. He no longer had to imagine the worst, because the best had happened. You were really there. It wasn’t a repeat of the aching horror of seven years before, the day that still had you shaking him awake from unspoken nightmares. You’d made it home to him and Missy-- but he was going to be hard-pressed to go against his better judgment again, no matter how much the team needed you.

“Alright, you’ll start to feel it in just a few seconds. We’ll be back soon to take you into surgery, ok?” the medic explained to you as the IV was in place. You nodded. 

“In the meantime, let me keep working on this,” Marcus gestured to the bandages in the kit. As he got to work, he watched the look in your eyes totally change, the Versed taking effect. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, covering the cut that just barely grazed your right eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you sighed dreamily in a total demeanor change. The whole room lit up in his eyes. Marcus grinned at the way your posture slumped just slightly in relaxation. “And how are you?” you winked. Oh, this was going to be fun. He really needed to keep you talking.

“I’m doing great. Happy to be here with you, sweetheart. Now, sit still while I take care of this last cut,” he cooed. 

“Ok,” you giggled. “What a charmer.” 

“I try my best, darling.” He played along, enjoying the way the Versed had turned you into a starstruck girl with a crush.

“Oh noooo,” you squeaked suddenly.Marcus panicked, checking you over quickly for further injury. 

“What is it? Are you ok?” 

But you only grabbed his left hand, holding it up.

“You’re married!” 

Marcus blinked. What was in that stuff they’d given you? You put your face in your hands and Marcus tried to contain his laughter at the way your voice was muffled by your fingers. “You’ve been so nice and caring! I wanted to ask you on a dateeee. I’m so sorry if I came on too strong.”

“Baby,” he called with a sweet lilt to his voice-- still trying to hold in a laugh. 

“You shouldn’t call me that,” you sighed sadly, pouting, “You’re married. We can’t be together.” 

“Of course I’m married,” he held your left hand up now, “I’m married to you, you goof.” You blinked at the silvery ring on your finger. 

“Oh!” you practically yelled, “That’s so cool!” Marcus’ heart warmed at the way your eyes lit up at the realization. Even drugged out of your mind you were excited to be with him. He couldn’t help but feel likewise.

“I agree,” he smiled, “It’s very cool.” He intertwined his fingers and yours. 

“I’m so lucky,” you grinned toothily in response. It was so unlike the smiles you usually gave him: too exaggerated and, in a word, dopey. But it held the same affection. 

“No, I’m definitely the lucky one,” he countered. Your grin faltered slightly as you grew sleepy-- another possible effect of the Versed, he guessed. “Now, go ahead and lay back for me ok? I’ll see you as soon as you’re out of surgery.” You nodded in agreement and then right off to sleep.

Oh, he could not wait for you to get out so he could tell you about just how “lucky” the two of you were.

#marcus moreno x reader #bri writes #marcus moreno

[oshaviolater]

okay but tpp [juno steel] has been really good about dropping little hints/tidbits consistently and coming back to them as major plot points or major events of juno’s past (see: his brother, his mother, andromeda/northstar/polaris park in general, the turbo toy, others but I’m forgetting them because I’m foggy from meds rn) which makes me start to eye certain details and things/people that have come up but never been addressed.

for instance, dark matters. in s1 it was just….there? and it seemed like it should be REALLY IMPORTANT cause that’s like….space spies??? space ninjas?? secret space police or whatever?? with really insane security and shit that I was like “uh…this seems….mildly important” from the very beginning but for all of s1 it was basically just a way to get nureyev into the story conveniently and a way to showcase some of juno’s past trauma (wee!!) and then it wasn’t even there in s2 outside of offhand mentions which seemed really odd to me, so when they finally started coming back in s3 (and yes it seems they’re the Big Bads of this season at least) it made sense. I don’t know how it fits exactly but I know, based on the writing so far, that it will and we’ve probably got pieces for how it will make sense, but again fogged up brain and this post isn’t here to theorize about dark matters, I just wanna use that as an example of things that seem off because they’re mentioned once and left again, but then come back.

so I dunno I’m really wondering if we’ll get some backstory on that detective falco, and why juno left the hcpd (we’ve definitely had hints about it and it makes me go hmmm) or about juno’s ex-fiance — now that I’ve gone back with full context, fun fact, I realized the reason juno was at the vixen valley so much and therefore ended up in debt and under contract for a decade was probably because of whatever happened between him and said ex-fiance.

there are just a lot of things that have been referenced more than once, or referenced once very clearly and then had subtler clues and hints and allusions and it makes my theorist brain, foggy or not, start itching. I’m so excited to see where it all goes, tbh.

#the penumbra podcast #tpp meta

[danideservedbetter]

Day 7, 8, 9, and 10 / Elaboration

Hey y’all! I said yesterday I would elaborate a little more on what my doctor’s visit yesterday told me, and here I am to do just that! I meant to yesterday, honestly, but by the time I got home my medicine had worn off and that wasn’t looking very likely 😅😅 But regardless!!! Here is what my results look like and honestly? These things probably have been affecting my sleeping disorder to a degree I’d previously disregarded without detailed info I’ve gotten from these tests.

Full write up under the cut!

—I got two major tests done, blood work and a genetics test. Back in my hometown the nurses couldn’t even figure out how to open the damn swab, but technology here managed to map out my entire DNA sequence which is utterly NUTS to me.

—My body is deficient in almost every important vitamin known to mankind, which makes sense because my diet is not… the best 😅 So, I started on several (SEVERAL) supplements to start out.

—I say start out because it’s very likely that I’ll be taking vitamin C and some liver enzyme through an IV once a month. A younger me might’ve thought something like this was scary, but at this point I’m so desperate to be healthy that getting nutrients drip fed into my system for them to work quicker sounds just fine to me.

—Other than that it’s normal lifestyle stuff. Eat more fruits and vegetables (I’ve been eating olives by the can for like days and I intend to buy fresh fruit packets for breakfast whenever I can afford them) as well as staying more active— which I DEFINITELY have been since I moved closer to New Orleans, in Louisiana proper where my dad lives.

But enough of the boring medicinal stuff. I’m sure you guys are much more interested in the whys— is there a reason my hypersomnia is so bad? Is there a deeper explanation than “lack of vitamins bad and you should feel bad”?

Well, yeah. YES. The genetics test revealed a metric fuckton to say the least 😂😂😂 but the most important was what kinds of diseases I’m predisposed to or how my body can process certain types of hormones/enzymes/proteins. Things like why caffeine won’t work for me (my body processes it very fast but not very thoroughly) or my metabolism being the strongest recorded genotype (which is why it’s been so hard to gain weight). Below, I’ll go into detail about stuff my new general doctor’s in-office geneticist (I still can’t believe that’s a thing I’m typing) has revealed about my disorder.

Naturally, this is specific to me because of my parents and our family lines. Maybe if you see info pertinent to yourself, looking into genetic mapping may be a good idea for you?

We are pretty confident that I have Idiopathic Hypersomnia. The reason for this is that a tiny link has been found between individuals who contracted mononucleosis in their childhood and adolescence and individuals who fell within the sleep cycles indicating IH. Now, IH will be genetic sometimes, but considering I’ve tracked my disorder to starting around 14, the same year I contracted Mono, the coincidence definitely doesn’t seem like… well, a coincidence. My blood test shows that I do in fact have the antibodies in my system, and they’re doing something… odd.

The geneticist found some “active” antibodies. Well, not some, really 😅 Basically, she’s surmised that these antibodies have a hair-trigger response and can react to any given environmental factor (stress, hunger, etc.) to the point where they activate as if they think they’re **fighting off a virus that’s been out of my system for ten years.** Of course this takes up an inordinate amount of energy, which is her hypothesis as to why my hypersomnia is so random and varies in intensity. The goal for this summer is flushing these antibodies out of my system.

My previous neurologist tried out a couple stimulants and then shit insurance prevented me from trying any others. So I’m stuck on something traditionally prescribed for adhd. A narcotic. *However* since my body is severely dysfunctional in general, the way I describe it is I basically have to induce a high to stay awake and function normally. We want to eventually get me off of these kinds of drugs, of course, since prolonged exposure weakens their effects and they’re highly addictive.

Another in credibly interesting thing we found is that I'm lacking in three major hormones. However, it's not because I don't produce them. I've never identified with symptoms of depression (anxiety, certainly, but not depression) yet for most of my life my childhood general practitioner insisted I had it. Well, the geneticist found that while I'm lacking in serotonin, dopamine, and melatonin, which yes are the two major mood enhancers and then the hormone that induces sleep, it's not because I can't produce them. It's because my neural transmitters are so damaged from a less-than-good diet and years of exhaustion that they simply can't process them. Just as the antibodies can have a hair-trigger response to environmental factors, so too can these processors. Simple things like a good meal, my high from my stimulants, or even micro dopamine shots from getting things done can activate the transmitters. Another thing on the docket for the summer is fixing these permanently with treatments of vitamins and supplements.

My stimulants have caused appetite issues, unfortunately, and that plus Covid at the beginning of this year caused me to get down to my lowest recorded weight ever, 94 pounds, which I haven't weighed since before I hit my final growth spurt way back in middle school. My dad does physical labor (he's a contractor who frames houses in the humid heat of the Deep South lol) so he's used to feeling tired. When he caught Covid, he said that he'd never felt as tired, drained, or out of it in his entire life. He never gets sick and hardly goes to the doctor and NEVER takes off work because of health, but in his last few weeks before full recovery he had to take off early multiple times. He was floored when he described the brain fog and exhaustion and I told him that I had no idea I even had Covid, because I just thought it was my disorder acting up. It was only when my grandmother started feeling tired that we got tested and we tested positive.

All that said, we think that there's hope for a future for me. She said that while there's no cure for IH, the cause that I have may can be mitigated by changes in exercise, diet, routine, and medication,to the point where I may mitigate symptoms of my disorder entirely. I'm still setting up appointments with a new neurologist here in the city, though, because technology is of course more advanced here.

And again, taking all of this into consideration, while it was looking likelier by the day, we've both agreed that I'll be here in the city 'til New Years. Which means no school this semester, but if I can go back in spring at more than 20% functionality and maybe succeed, I'm perfectly fine having to remain on break.

However, another good update: I weigh 103 pounds! I'm steadily gaining weight-- which means the other medication, the one for my appetite, is working as it should and as long as I stay on-track I should reach my goal of 120 by the end of the year as well.

So, yeah! That's what it's looking like. I have another appointment to go more in depth with the results tomorrow, but for now I'm planning out my week since I decided to let myself rest all last week. I'd love to finish helping out for our current podfic, ACTUALLY start the damn 100 Theme Challenge (LOL), finish betaing something that's been on hold for months, properly reconnect with our discord, catch up on all the media I fell behind on, clean my damn room, and establish a budget for this week on what I can buy. A more specific plan for today will follow, but til then, I hope this gives everyone some insight on what I'm looking at and how I'm gonna try to fix it.

Xoxo

Dani

#idiopathic hypersomnia #TW: weight #TW: anxiety/depression mention #health post #genetics

[bill-beauxquais]

Blogging my Bravely Default II Playthrough - Chapter 2

Here we are for a new chapter!

As usual, spoilers for up to chapter 3′s title card below the cut (so all of chapter 2, none of chapter 3), you have been warned.

Overall opinion: The game is still fun to play and while I sometimes laments being so slow, I like that I can play a lot without feeling like I’m goind too fast. On a story standpoint, I’m a bit bummed that this chapter didn’t really make any real progress in its main thematics, but on a gameplay level, it was fun.

Gameplay: I talked about there being more strategy in battle already, but I realise I didn’t mention why. Compared to previous games, it seems like enemies use brave and default a lot more, and they actually go into negative. It happened in previous game, but if my memory serve, it was only certain enemies who had this quirk baked into them. Also, nearly all of them have counters and immunity, preventing you from just braving 4 times and calling it a day (albeit it still works reasonably often).

However, I did notice a flaw as well in the balancing. Some sidequests (most notably, the mushrooms sidequest) only opened to me after I finished the chapter’s story, but they took place in a dungeon where every enemy was WAY underpowered. I’m still getting underdog bonuses in the story, so I’m not overleveled. I don’t know what exactly unlocked the sidequest, but I checked everytime I set food in Wisward. On the other hand, the sidequest boss actually took me some planning, while I basically Yolo’d all the asterisks of the chapter. Weird. In the end, the whole dungeon was simply a long corridor (every enemy fleeing from me), with one tough boss at the end. Jarring.

Speaking of dungeon, this chapter really made them a lot longer than anything the serie had until now. On one hand, they can get a little boring and frustrating after a while, but on the other, I do like that they allow you to really train your new asterisks by putting more time between each of them, so overall I’d say it’s a positive.

Speaking of which, I finally looked into what you get from the boat, and I need to mention the inclusion of JP orbs, to give you JP experience on the go. It makes it easier to level up jobs without having to grind with ill matched teams, which is a good idea, since ill matched teams are sometimes really unforgiving because of the immunities and counters mentioned earlier. You still end up having to train jobs the old fashioned way, but any shortcut is good.

Speaking of grinding, I was surprised that I didn’t need to grind even once, for now. I wouldn’t qualify the asterisk battles of underwhelming, they took me half an hour on average and demanded strategy and quick thinking or risk taking, but I went into most of them with in-training teams full of ill matched underleveled and redundant jobs and still won. For me, that’s just the right difficulty to be interesting without getting frustrating.

My favorite asterisk of this chapter probably was the Shieldbearer for more Gloria Tankness (I also noticed it pairs well with White mage for a tanky healer)  , but Ranger is good as well (but I’m biaised from the previous games. Always liked hunter). I appreciate that they changed red mage to be less of a watered down mix of Black and White, but I’m not sure I’m using it very efficiently. It just doesn’t seems to deal a lot of damage, and I prefered the old one’s design. This one looks a lot more boring. As for Artist, I’m not really using it very well for now either. I feel like there’s already tons of debuffing skills in other classes.

I didn’t really get the point of Wayward Wood, since you know where the correct exit is, there’s not much point in making a looping/”lost wood” kinda dungeon, because it’s not like you will get lost (unless you’re doing it willingly the first time just to see what happens). Maybe it’ll open other paths later, who knows.

Writing: Still good, albeit I think i prefered Savalon. I suppose I expected to see more of Elvis’s backstory and family, why did he come study magic, how did Lady Emma pass away... But nothing of the sort. I don’t think like it really helped see Elvis any more in depth, sure he is a good friend, but that’s something we already could infer. I would’ve liked to see his character broken down more.

I’m always happy to see dead kids stories (don’t get me wrong, I love kids, but I also roll my eyes quite a lot when writers chicken out on having anything bad happen to a kid in their stories) but I don’t know if this was strong enough to be the focus of the entire chapter. I don’t think it had any connection to Musa’s downfall or the crystals. But I could see Wiswald coming back later in the story to tie back into these themes, and maybe that was just the Wiswald introduction chapter.

With the dead kids, crazy people, greenery, hunter & red mage asterisks, and those darn Mushrooms and flower enemies, it’s also hard to shake the feeling of this being Florem.02, and Florem will always be extra special to me.

Writing - Theories: Definitely called it for Edna’s veiled ass, although introducing that silver haired lady just before almost threw me for a loop. I’m assuming she’s the traveler handing out asterisks like candies, and Adelle probably knows (or at least she knows her sister is related to asterisks in some way)

I don’t know if I mentioned it, but I had a theory back when playing Default for the first time, that asterisk made people crazy or at least, more extreme, and that’s why they all made the perfect little mascot for theirs each time. And also why Ringabel *and* Artemia in the anthology lost their memories when they lost their asterisk: it plays into their brain and personalities. So, nice to see theory confirmed by the sequel.

As expected of its unredeemable bosses, Folie kicked the bucket, which begs the question: I fully expect them to have another gauntlet like the previous games. So is a timeloop/universe hopping all but confirmed at this point, or will this be something else? Will the characters’ deaths be retconed or explained away? I feel like some of these characters could be redeemed in a timeloop, and stopped an saved before they do much damage. The asterisk are pretty much the ones to blame in nearly every case for the sudden change of heart of their holders.

I’ve got that flimsy theory that Shirley is Emma’s kid, based on a similar hairstyle, the fact the gambler asterisk pairs well with black mage, and that Shirley mentioned her mother leaving her father. Who knows. I liked Shirley.

Adelle is definitely crushing hard on Elvis, but I think he’s pretty much ace. Interesting to see how this develops.

Graphics: Gonna hand it to them, i was impressed that they actually made a unique model for Mona, all to use it for one cutscene. Long gone are the days in which they just reused Yew and Magnolia’s models for Altair and Vega, two majors characters. This is the kind of attention to detail we like to see here. No cutting corners. They even made a model for the paintings, too.

The fog effect was pretty rad as well, and definitely got me running a few laps like a giddy kid. You like to see it.

Elvis’ head looked pretty big compared to his friends, noticeably so. But I suppose Bravely Default 1 and second weren’t that much better, and even worse. The main 4 were DEFINITELY chibised compared to other characters (which made Alternis look like a baby in the Eternian team)

Performance: I noticed a bit less lag, but I also made the battle speed slower, this is probably related. Else, it’s the same things.

Music: Elvis’ theme is pretty good. I remember listening to the first drafts that were datamined from the first demo back in the day, and it was already my favorite.

However, I wasn’t a fan of Wiswald’s overworld theme, and the city’s was forgettable.

#Bravely Default II #Review #Video Game Blogging #Nintendo Switch #JRPG #bravely series

[ebonydusk]

Things that were, things that are, and things that may be...

I’ll warn you right now this post might get rather long, so I’ll be sure to put most of it under the line. And also warn that this post contains very personal talk about severe depression, anxiety, PTSD, abortion and suicide.

I’ve made various posts over time on this hellsite. I call it that cause...it really can be at times. But it’s also a place I can vent and put my thoughts out into the world, even if I know no one will notice or will really pay attention to it. This one though, this one is probably the most personal.

I’ll start off by explaining I’ve suffered from depression the majority of my life. I can’t possibly tell you how or when it truly started, but I can recognize now that it was there since I was young. It went hand in hand with my growing anxiety that was born of being isolated and over protected and sheltered in a small town with small minds. It’s possible it all came from the fact I was molested as a child. Up till I was at least ten. Which is the last time I let him come near me. My grandfather was a ‘war hero’. A ‘pillar of the small community’. A ‘good man and a good father’. A ‘wonderful husband’. But he also didn’t keep his hands to himself. And I never told anyone. Not my mom. Not my dad. Not my sweet grandmother. No one. They still don’t know. But my therapists and my husband and closests friends now do. I’m not as ashamed of it anymore. I realized only recently I shouldn’t be, it wasn’t my fault. And I’m not the one who should have ever felt such shame and guilt.

But keeping that secret since I was so little and never dealing with it left it’s mark on my small mind. A mark that festered and grew into fear and anxiety and self hatred.

Then I realized I was into girls. I felt...out of place. I wasn’t really shamed of that per se. But it WAS a small town. I got picked on by those that knew. Those that guessed. And those that just didn’t like how quiet I was. I was the “girl to talk to if if you wanted to ‘experiment’” to most of the girls in school. I mostly went along with it cause...how exactly did you say no to some of the most popular girls in school and not end up the target of some serious Mean Girl shit? Right? So I started my experimenting early. My girlfriend at the time got jealous easy and she wasn’t happy about none of it...but she was also closeted and afraid of people finding out. There was a point she became a source of bullying just to throw people off.  I grew cautious of telling people. I didn’t want to be targeted anymore. I didn’t want to be used. I didn’t want to be looked at as a freak. Another secret I had to keep. Another thing I had to hide. I’m more open about it now. I still haven’t pin pointed what I am myself. And that’s ok. It really is. FOr everyone who’s unsure it’s ok. No matter your age or how long you’ve had to figure it out.

I met my husband in high school. He was a bright point in those times for me. (And a dark one too, it was high school after all. Drama.) We were on and off more than once. Him being a hormonal guy and me being the idiot that kept forgiving him when he’d come crying back to me when his attempt to move on was rejected harshly. (he’s a wonderful man but he can still act like a teenager sometimes.)

And yes, we did get married. Which leads me to another stressful point in my life. I was left on my own shortly after our marriage. My husband practically volunteered to go be sent overseas. He had to ‘prove himself’. He had to ‘get away’. And so he left. We weren’t prepared. I certainly wasn’t. For nearly a whole year I was left on my own. In a tiny apartment. At first I was ok...until both cars broke down. I had no ride and I was too scared and anxious to ask for help. Cause the one time I did I got guilt tripped about being a burden to my husband by someone he worked with giving me a ride. and the manager of the apartment was a ‘military hater’. So she wasn’t happy about us. So I felt trapped. Alone. Scared. Isolated. And I gained 100+ pounds from ordering out cause I had no way to leave. It was  dark time and I was a mess and the apartment went to shit cause of it too. It was my first mental break. I didn’t recognize it then. I do now though. When my husband returned it was to a barely kept together apartment and a wife that was suddenly overweight and mentally unsound. It was a stressful time. I tried to get help...but they did nothing but throw medication at me that didn’t work.

One of the many reasons I don’t fully trust doctors.

Fast forwarding by a lot, skipping over quite a few little things that went on that probably had some affect on me. But we’re gonna go with big things for now. We’re in alabama now. I need a job. Jody helps me get one at a bowling alley on base. It’s my first job after FIVE YEARS of me trying and searching with little luck. The place was ok at first. But things went downhill fast. The promised hours were not what I got. The manager ran two buildings and the one I was at was the one she hated the most. (She admitted this often.) She micromanged everything. Talked down to everyone. Expected more than was could be given.

I was doing the job of 10 other people at that place. And for not enough hours and during the BUSIEST times of the week. The weekends. Most people will scoff at that. “Only the weekends? Pffft! You wimp! You child! That’s nothing!” Yeah. Maybe it is. But those three days of work? They were awful. They were draining and it got to the point I would actually cry before having to go back cause it was so bad. I hated it. But I kept trying cause I felt guilty. I felt weak. And I didn’t want to disappoint my husband who HELPED me get the job. During all this stress I found out I was pregnant. (this part is very upsetting for me and might be for others too. I apologize to anyone who is still reading this.) I didn’t know how to feel when I looked at that stupid pee stick. I was dumbfounded. I told my husband and...his reaction broke my heart. He panicked. Badly. He had to be sure. We went to a doctor. They confirmed. Their ‘Congratulations’ hurt me. It cut too deep. Cause I knew what my husband wanted to do. He wasn’t ready and he was panicking with every day.

He had me convinced we couldn’t do it. I knew it was bull. I knew it wasn’t true. The military would have paid him MORE to have the baby. I knew it. THey increase pay for such things. But I didn’t know how to fight him on it. I didn’t want him to hate me. I didn’t want him to regret or resent me. So...I went along. I agreed.

I know I told some people that it was done cause it was affecting my health. I lied. I felt too ashamed to tell the truth. I didn’t want to say “we got rid of it cause we weren’t ready”. Cause that wasn’t all true. HE wasn’t ready. I was more than so. I always wanted kids. At least one. But he...

He once told me “If it happens then it happens and we’ll deal”...that was clearly not the case. The abortion broke me. Both mentally and emotionally and physically. I hurt. So much. I still have nightmares at times. Not as often anymore thankfully. But back then it was almost every night afterwards. I...I went back to work. I had to. What else could I do? But not long after returning I just couldn’t anymore. I saw a therapist and he was kind. Understanding. I wasn’t used to that from doctors in the military. He helped some. But it was a temporary thing. Not a full time therapist. But even with his help I could stick it. I had to get away from that job and I needed time.

So I quit...And I felt ashamed and guilty cause I was handed that job on a silver platter and I couldn’t stick to it. I did for 4 years but I still felt horrible.

I stopped seeing that doctor. I stopped taking my meds. I just...tried to move on on my own. I tried to find other things to do. I had my friends online and they helped a lot. I disappeared into my writing. I distracted myself for a long, long time. Then things started going downhill ‘last year’, of 2019. Money getting tighter. Friends getting busy. Some of my favorite places to hang out online, RP forums mostly, were slowing or dying and shutting down. Some of the people I called friends weren’t talking to me anymore. I knew some were just busy and dealing with their own lives but it still felt painful and I felt alone again. Even with a house of three dogs, a roommate, a husband...I felt unwanted. Unloved. Useless. worthless. Pitiful. Shameful. Painful. I couldn’t sleep right. I was staying up for DAYS straight cause of my nightmares and insomnia and my brain just not turning off. I barely ate. My husband had started doing new better work but also college classes and had NO TIME. No time to talk. No time to sit with me anymore. No time. And I knew he needed space to work. I understood that. I wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t that he didn’t care he was just too busy to focus on anything but. Yet it still hurt. I was alone. I felt hollow and full of nothing but darkness at the same time. As dramatic as that sounds. I just wanted it to end. I wanted to not be a burden. I didn’t want the people I knew to feel they had to bother with me anymore. They wouldn’t need to worry or care or bother checking on me anymore. No more emotional mess that is me. No more mother hen monster fussing. No more pestering to hang out. No more.

I had a plan. I had a method. I had a place. All I needed was to wait for my husband to leave in the morning. Make sure the roommate was still sleeping in like always. And I’d take care of it all. I’d stop being a pest, a burden, a mess, a black mark on the lives of those I knew. I’d stop being a disappointment, a failure, a weakling, a pathetic excuse of life.

But one night...I realized those thoughts were wrong. just a moment. Just a spark of a thought. Through the dark fog that dominated my mind. And I sat down and talked to my husband. I told him what was wrong. I told him what I had planned to do. And he took me to someone as soon as possible. They sent me to a hospital (by the way 16 hours waiting in a hospital room is AWFUL and hospitals should be ashamed). And THEY sent me to a Behavioral Health Facility. A nut house. Yeah. BHF is just the nice way to name it. I was there for three days. It seemed to help. I calmed down. I discovered I had diabetes while there too.  I continued to seek treatment. I got my therapist. I got my psychiatrist. I have help now. Continuous help. Consistent help. And I’ve stayed on my meds this time. All this started in May 2019. I went into the BHF on May 10, 2019 and I’ve done my best to stick with everything. I’ve realized a lot about myself and I’m working on a lot of things. I’m hoping to keep getting better. There are a lot of people that helped along the way. People that kept me from doing something I’d regret sooner. Some that helped me more than they could ever realize and I wish I still talked to them. But I know they’ve had life keep them down. I want to thank them right now for being there for me. Misty, Tahki, Jessi, Tana, Fishy, Oobi, Verg, Aru, Naan, that one person who kept answering my depressing blogs and cheering me up ( I’m so sorry I can’t remember your name at this time I feel horrid), There are so many others...I want to thank you all. I’d @ you but I don’t want to disturb you with this long ass mess. I love you guys. Always will. I’m sorry for not talking to any of you more. But know I’m still here. And I’m still thinking of you. Always.

#personal #long post #depression #anxiety #suicide mention #new year #Abortion #mental health

[mentalmimosa]

ten and two (part ii)

Part i here: [https://mentalmimosa.tumblr.com/post/184328353150/ten-and-two]

Friends was one of those rubber band words that could stretch a dozen different ways, which was exactly why Steve had used it, to speak plain but still make Bucky guess. What was it Steve was trying to hide?

That question never did get answered to Bucky’s satisfaction; not while people were shooting at them, anyway. But he did pay more attention to the way Steve talked about Tony instead of just what he said: with warm but also trepidation, with a smile on his face but shadows over his eyes. Steve missed Stark, that was fucking transparent, and it was only later as Hitler’s tanks choked and the Luftwaffe burned that Bucky had enough sense to wonder why Stark didn’t write; yeah, mail was a crapshoot at best, but if anybody could make sure a letter got through, it was a rich mook like Tony.

But no word came and Bucky let it go, mostly. The rest of the world kept him busy enough watching his captain’s back.

In late ‘45, Uncle Sam called them home, first to Norfolk, then to New York, then the hot hell that was Georgia; and finally, in ‘47, the newly-christened Department of Defense gave them new titles and more stripes and sent them to San Francisco, city of streetcars and steep hills and, it seemed, of one Tony Stark.

There was a message waiting one afternoon when Bucky came back from the canteen with coffee: Mr. Stark calling for Major Rogers, the secretary had written. Requests a call back.

Steve had turned red when he saw it, a peculiar shade of cardamom that made his blue eyes shimmer like the Bay on a clear fucking day. “Well,” he said finally, staring at the scrap in his hand, the other folded around a mug of shitty regulation coffee. “Huh. How about that?”

It had been drinks, that first time, a little get-together at Tony’s club. Steve asked Bucky to come.

“Why?” Buck said, his feathers kinda ruffled. “I don’t know him. He’s your friend.”

It came out crueler than he meant, more like barbed wire.

Steve had flinched a little. “He was once. But it’s been a long time.” He reached for Bucky’s hand and pulled him into his arms, tucked his face against the stubborn curve of Bucky’s neck. “I’m gonna need your backup, baby. That’s one reason I want you there. And also”--here he smiled, a little thing alive on Bucky’s skin--“I think you’ll like him. And I know for sure he’ll like you.”

So Bucky had grumbled and put on his civvie suit and traipsed at Steve’s side to the nice part of town, to a Victorian-looking house with velvet curtains on the windows and a wall of expensive cigar smoke that you ran into the second you stepped through the door. He was expecting Stark to be old money, then, one of the few dozen gray-bearded men that they passed, but when they made it to the Oak Room and the butler turned the handle, that wasn’t who was waiting there at all.

“Oh my christ!” a dark-haired man said, his grin brighter than a fog light. “Steve Rogers. Steve fucking Rogers. Goddamn, kid! Not a kid. Look at you! Look at you!”

He made a beeline for them, this guy, and threw his arms around Steve. Steve laughed and hugged him back.

“I’m still me,” he said when Dark Hair let him go. “Same old Steve.” He patted the man’s shoulder. “And same old Tony.”

Tony had a slim goatee beard and a mustache that made him look kinda French. He was wearing a suit that Bucky knew for a fact cost more than a house and in Steve’s grip, he looked almost tiny.

“I resent that,” Tony said. “I’ve never been old.”

“No.” Steve squeezed his shoulder. Bucky saw his grin soften. “You’re not the type.”

Friends, Bucky’d thought, remembering that word from long ago. Uh huh. Right.

There was definitely something there, simmering like a familiar stew between them, and if Tony had been an asshole, a full-on son-of-a-bitch, Bucky might’ve hated him for it. But he wasn’t. He shook Bucky’s hand gladly and poured them a drink and fooled them into doing most of the talking: about the war, the other men in their company, about what Hitler’s fangs had left standing between Spain and Russia’s spine. He was funny, the kind of biting wit that Bucky had never been able to master; his brain seemed like it was always ten steps ahead. But he didn’t act like an egghead, either; he talked pretty when he wanted to but holy fucking god, could he curse.

A drink and a half in, the little hand pushing eight, Bucky thought: What the fuck. I like him.

And he still did even after they started bantering about old times, he and Steve: about Dr. Erskine, about a pretty brunette named Peggy Carter who’d been around then, about Steve and what a little shit he’d been then. Bucky hadn’t laughed that hard in fucking ages.

“Honestly,” Tony said, his legs draped over the side of a wide leather armchair, “it’s a miracle Erskine scooped you up when he did. Another day on the streets picking on bullies and god knows you’d have ended up in jail. Or the emergency ward.”

Steve brushed it aside. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I was fine.”

Tony grinned, raised his eyebrows at Bucky. “Uh huh. Remind me, Stevie: how many times did you illegally try to enlist?”

Bucky choked on a snootful of whiskey. “Did you what?”

Steve’s ears had turned red, the color of cherry cordial. “Only five.”

“You’re a--you tried to”--Bucky swallowed a wheeze--“you broke the law?!”

“For a good cause.”

“Oh sure,” Tony breezed, “right. Just what a criminal would say.”

Bucky laughed. “Yeah, Stevie.”

Steve glared at them both, hid his smile behind his empty glass. “You call me that again, Buck, and we can tell Tony why you marched into the Battle of the Bulge wearing no pants.”

Tony almost dropped his glass. “What--!”

“No,” Bucky said as Steve started laughing, the big, bright one that lit up the whole room. “No, no. Fuck you both. I’m not drunk enough to talk about that.”

The clock hit nine then--praise god--and Tony stood up with a stretch. “I hate to chase you off, gents, but I have a dinner engagement with a man from Lockheed.” He made a face, laughed. “Get away while you still can.”

At the door, this time, he offered his hand. “Don’t be strangers, ok?”

“No,” Bucky said, much to his goddamn surprise. “Thank you. We won’t.”

Tony smiled at Bucky, tipped his face up to Steve’s. “You see that, Rogers? At least one of you has some good sense. Nice to see you picked a guy with decent manners. Maybe if you try hard enough, it’ll rub off on you.”

There was a ripple of laughter, of electricity. Bucky saw Steve’s fingers around Tony’s turn tight.

“If it hasn’t yet,” Steve said with a smirk, “I’m not sure it ever will.”

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky said on the way home, as they cut the fog with Camels.

“Sure.”

Bucky kept his eyes facing forward. “Does Tony always flirt with you?”

He could feel Steve go stiff. “He wasn’t flirting.”

“Yeah, Steve, he was when we left. All that stuff about trying hard and rubbing? Come on.”

Steve was quiet for a long time, so long that Bucky was almost down to the filter. “I guess I’d never thought about it like that.”

“Yeah?” Bucky said. There was a flare of something in his gut, something green and mean that he didn’t like, that didn't feel fair. “Was that why you flirted back?”

Another half a block passed. “We’ve always talked to each other like that. Even before I got the serum.” He blew out a breath and dropped his stub on the sidewalk, ground it down into dust. “He’s like that with everybody, or he was back then. He’d make eyes at the delivery boy, the postman, every waitress he ever met. I didn’t think anything of it.”

Bucky plucked another from the pack and stuck it between Steve’s fingers, thought: Oh yeah, you did.

That night, he pushed Steve on his skinny bed in the BOQ and sucked him off until Bucky’s face was covered and Steve was nearly weeping and then he found himself pinned, back bowing as Steve growled in his face and opened him up just enough to get his dick in. It hurt and it was perfect and it burned the green away, left him lighter, loving, and afterward, while Steve stroked the mess on Bucky’s stomach, his cock still tucked up inside, Bucky touched his face, the pretty stretch of his mouth, and said: “It’s ok. You know that, don’t you?”

He’d felt the word against his fingers. “What?”

“You and Tony. That’s ok.”

Steve shivered. “There is no me and Tony, Buck. Never has been.”

“I know.” Bucky traced the heat of his cheek. "But if you wish there had been, that’s ok.”

Steve bowed his head, his trusts growing harder. “Bucky--”

“It’s ok,” he’d said again and again until Steve stilled in him, spilled in him, drowned his moans against Bucky’s shoulder. “It’s ok, baby. Baby. It’s all right. It’s ok.”

Later, when the sheets had settled, when reverie was close enough to touch, Steve had said, wistful: “I’ve missed him.”

Bucky tucked himself tighter against Steve’s side and shook his head. “Yeah,” he'd said softly. “No shit.”

#stucky #pining #1950s au #Post-World War II #did i mention there's pining

[justanotherbuckydevotee]

Always

Word count: 1758 words. Prompt: Corn Maze -- Steve x Reader Warning(s): Curse words. Some haunted-elements in there. Fluff (or atleast my attempt on it). Suggestive themes?? Protective Steve?? idk A/N: Hopefully you like the description I used here. I’ve never gone to a corn maze (let alone a haunted one) so I hope I did this justice. Written for @promarvelfangirl and her writing challenge. Thank you so much for letting me participate! And congratulations on your 2k!

masterlist

Ah.

‘Tis the season to be scared out of your wits.

You suppressed a groan as you eyed your surroundings, the darkness was not helping you find your way out of the maze you were currently in. The field had already puffed out an obscene amount of heavy fog moments before, obscuring your feet and the ground beneath it (as if you needed more obstacles to prevent you from actually finding your way out).

I should have not done this you thought to yourself, cursing a certain friend in particular.

James. Fucking. Barnes.

“Not scared are you, (y/l/n)?” he asks, that smirk ever so present on his stupid face when he sees you hesitating. You turn to face him, crossing your arms against your chest. “Do I look like a coward?” you retort.

Spending the rest of the day out was not part of the plan. In fact, none of you were supposed to get out of the confines of the library, heads between pages of books and notes instead of peeking through the tall stalks of corn. Sure it was stressful and (definitely) uneventful, but it was far better than being separated from your friends after a nasty encounter with a ghoul who was adamant to eat you instead of the rest of your friends.

Even though you would never admit this aloud but now that you were alone in the dark with actors and actresses dressed in disturbingly realistic costumes, you were terrified. Panic had slowly crept its way to you as you realized that you hadn’t memorized the map of the maze before crawling into it because why should you? You’d seen Steve look over it as you talked with Wanda and Clint, believing you were going to be with them the whole time.

You walked cautiously, left hand brushing the stalks with the hope that you could find your way out. It was far too quiet for your liking, the only sound accompanying your footsteps were the hissings of crickets and the loud thumping of your heart in your ear. It was deeply unsettling, reminding you just how alone you were that even the shuffling of your fingers against the harsh stalks made the hairs on your neck stand.

A rustling noise made you stop dead in your tracks. Straight ahead you could see something moving in the dark, followed by a soft rumbling of a tractor. You let out a sigh of relief. Maybe it was help? They did say there’s people in the maze who’ll help you should you get lost you thought to yourself as you inched closer to the source.

But it was far from help.

When a terrifying blood-curdling scream ripped the quiet air around Steve, he knew immediately who it was.

“That’s most definitely (y/n)” Wanda said, looking up at Steve with trepidation.

“We have got to find her soon” Natasha piped in, huddling with them both. “How we even got into this mess is beyond me” she continued, eyebrows furrowed.

“She can’t be that far away from us if we can hear her” Steve says reassuringly, looking up ahead and straight, as if calculating. “I think if we follow the curve and walk right ahead, there’s gonna be an intersection” he explains before turning his attention to the back. “Where’s the rest?” he asks, looking at an empty space instead of finding his friends where they should be.

Natasha rolled her eyes with clear annoyance. “Bucky being Bucky. The others should be here soon” she recounts before trudging her way, leading the three of them in the narrow pathway, mumbling to herself in the process (no doubt spitting curses to a certain someone).

As predicted, Steve was right. Standing in front two pathways was Steve, Wanda and Natasha. The others joined moments later, coming out of the corner with dirt and hay staining his jacket was Bucky, followed by Sam, Clint and Pietro.

“I’ve never seen Pietro run that fast in his life” Clint says, a playful smirk on his lips as he eyed the Silver-haired champion runner as he walked over to his sister, his face sulking.

Sam let out a chuckle before saying “He ran straight into the stalks when he heard the scream. Bucky couldn’t stop laughing”

“That scream belonged to (y/n)” Wanda said. “Which is why we gotta find her. If we take the left one, she should be there” Steve explained, his foot already taking a step forward when Bucky moves to walk beside him.

“Gotta save your girl first, right?” he teases. “Shut up” he retorts with a fond smile.

Clutching your chest, your fear churned into complete anger. Standing on a mini tractor, with a machete was none other than the Biggest Jerk you’ve ever had the disgrace to meet; Brock Rumlow.

“Were you trying to kill me?” you shrieked, the anger ebbing away from your shoulders. He simply let out a deep chuckle, placing the machete down before jumping from the tractor, the crunch of his heavy boots booming in the quietness.

“I’m paid to scare people, hun” he replied sickeningly sweet, taking a closer step towards you than necessary. You moved backwards, not liking the way he was looking at you in the dark.

It was a known fact that Rumlow and your friends do not get along. All you knew was that he’d done some cruel things to Bucky when they were in High School, and their rivalry was still present all the way to college. He looked around you before stating “I’m surprised your boyfriend and his lil gang isn’t here”.

The tone he used was mocking, making you hyper-aware of how foreboding the situation seemed. Even without the machete in his hands, the way he was standing looked as if he was a vulture circling its prey. Your brain (unnecessarily) began to spit out grim scenarios after another, recalling the times your International Studies class-mate named Matt have told you the many rumors about Brock, a majority of it involving his ‘nightly activities’ and as you eyed the scars that blemished his skin, you could only imagine how many of them were true.

“You here alone?” he asks with another step forward just as you felt a prickle around your back, indicating that you’ve hit the end. You open your mouth to answer back, only to be cut off.

“She isn’t” Steve declares. Brock slowly moves to face him, giving you the perfect view to see an incensed Steve Rogers; his intense and hostile glare towards Brock was clear to you, his massive figure almost looming over Brock as Steve stands taller than you’ve seen. You’d never witness this side of Steve before, so inimical and cold towards an enemy.

“Was he bothering you, (y/n)?” “We were just having a conversation”

“He wasn’t asking you, Rumlow” Bucky spits heatedly, emerging from Steve as he steps forward to stand in front of Brock. Seeing the opening, you walk over to Steve. At the back of your head you could sense Brock’s eyes following your trail, and with the way Steve was clenching his fist seemed to confirm your suspicion.

Steve was absolutely livid when he saw Brock cornering you, but what ticked him off the most was how he was eyeing you as if you were a treat right in front of him. When he felt your arm delicately wrapped around his waist, he physically relaxed, releasing a sigh he didn’t realize was tightening his chest before easing his arm around your shoulder, his previously jutted chin now lowering so he could focus on you instead.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, any trace of impassiveness now gone as his eyes look down at you tenderly. You give him a small smile with the hopes it’ll hide your sheer terror of what might’ve happened if they haven’t found you.

“With you? Always” you say cheesily, succeeding in calming him down when you saw his furrowed brows slowly cease to be, the corners of his eyes previously lined with concerned now replaced with a playfulness. He didn’t even have to say it, but you knew exactly what he was thinking.

Apparently so did the others behind you, who were in close proximity enough to hear you say that to him.

“God, you’re just as lame as he is” “It’s no wonder you two go well together”

You could only hide in embarrassment, bringing your free palm over your heated cheeks. In an effort to comfort you, Steve’s thumb ran in circular motion where his hand lay at your shoulder. Even with his simple touch, it provoked you to sneak your body closer to him.

“Can we go back now? My assignments aren’t gonna finish itself” chimed Pietro, nodding his head to the direction they came from. Steve tore his gaze away from you, changing his attention to his best friend now.

Bucky was still standing in front of Brock, back straight and hardened. There was a twinkle of satisfaction in Brock’s eyes, evoking further Bucky’s anger.

“It’s not worth it, Buck” Steve says, trying to put some sense of self-control into Bucky, knowing full well how he is when anger is clouding his judgements. Clenching his jaw but never breaking eye contact with the man he absolutely despises, Bucky slowly retreats, and eventually walks side by side next to you guys.

“You owe me ten, by the way” Bucky says suddenly. You cock a confused eyebrow his way. He merely pointed at Clint before giving a playful smirk.

“Ah, shit” Clint curses, shoving his hand in his jacket before pulling out a crumpled ten-dollar note and handing it over to Bucky’s open palm.

Confused, you look over Steve for an explanation.

“They had a bet” he begins sheepishly, then continues “to see if either one of them could scare you”. Indignantly you shout a “hey!” towards your friends.

“If it helps, Bucky paid that ghoul to scare you!” Clint confesses.

“YOU WHAT?!” you screeched, untangling yourself from the warmth of your boyfriend so you could walk over to Bucky. Now it was your turn to be angry as you repeatedly flail your hands on Bucky’s form, all the while blaspheming words of condemnation.

“Steve! Get your crazy girlfriend off of me!” Bucky begs as you continued.

Steve let out a hearty laugh, before shaking his head. “Can’t help you there” he simply said to his best friend, mentally taking a picture of the moment so he could treasure in the future, content with how this trip ended.

T A G G I N G : | @hellomissmabel @minervaem @buckyywiththegoodhair @rotisserierogers @alphaabucky @captnbarnesrogers @barnes-heaven @heartmade-writingbucky @buchananbarnestrash | 

tags are open. hmu if you wanna be tagged

#pmfg2k #steve rogers #steve x reader #steve imagines #steve fanfic #fluff #halloween #Marvel AU #marvel fanfic #marvel imagines #avengers x reader #jabd writes

[goodbonesassembling]

a few questions for tarot people

I spent nearly all of my waking hours today on the phone doing ridiculously adult things like reporting medical groups to the government for refusing to accept insurance and trying to convince the department head of a hospital that I deserve to be seen by a new doctor asap because the one I was orginally assigned refused to actually explain my own blood work to me and because she hadn't she didn't know it was actually super abnormal and not just vaguely weird.

BUT I have also spent a LOT of that time on hold and so I have thought of a few questions I wanted to throw out into the universe and see what others thought.

1) has anyone else used the Labyrinthos tarot app and found it's descriptions of the cards a little...off? I downloaded after seeing a few posts circulating mentioning it and it's free so what the hell, worth a try, and while on hold I worked my way through the Major Arcana and Wands suit card "lessons" and I was kind of taken aback and disappointed by the language used to describe some of the cards. I don't want to come off as elitist and I really truly do believe you get to construct meaning in the deck through usage and what works for you. But there is at least an established framework for base meanings for the cards and I felt like some of them for the app were just off or at least misleading about that framework. (in case you've never used it, the lessons work basically to give you a word or phrase association with each card by repeated selection) Like, I got the Queen of Wands wrong EVERY SINGLE TIME because the prompt word was Brave and I chose Knight over Queen or Page over Queen each time. At first I thought maybe I was having a bad fog brain day so I went into my Galaxy Tarot app and looked up the Queen. Creative, confident, sexual, influential, friendly, etc, all of those made sense to me. But Brave feels like a Page/Knight word. And there were other little things, like the keyword for the Hierophant is Conformity and the one for the Devil is Excess. Like neither is strictly wrong but trying to read from that kind of place is gonna give you really weird and regressive ideas I feel. I mean I literally wrote a shirt essay about why reading the Hierophant as conformity is kind of missing the point. Am I being nitpicky/judgemental or does that rub other people the wrong way too? I'm totally open to this being a me problem, I think I just want to gauge where I fall on it I guess....

2) I recently got the Mary-El Tarot in a trade and finally got a chance to flip through the guidebook. And I found myself being a little bothered by the repeated need to compare spiritual and creative processes to super hetero sex acts. I don't mind nudity/sexuality in tarot art for the most part and I don't think it's necessary to completely remove sex from the deck, it was just weird to see it so repeatedly referenced and it made me think of other spaces in tarot writing where creation and insight become really fraught metaphors involving, like, way more semen than I really needed in my brain. It made me wonder what the line was and how to both respect the intention of the artist who created beautiful works that resonate visually for me with an description that makes me frankly really uncomfortable (there was one in particular that bothered me, I believe it was the 4 of Disks, and it involved the image of the Emperor using his sword to penetrate the earth and the earth was "you, the reader" and because of the position of the card in the reading, it set off a really intense feeling of violation as though I was being forced to be involved in some quasi-sexual act that I had not asked to be a part of...). Are there places in Tarot where the language used makes you uncomfortable? How do you deal/choose not to deal with that space? I would really love to hear about it! I plan to keep using the deck for but will probably use the guidebook much less.

3) Imbolc is coming up and it's usually my favorite of the holidays since it's very close to my birthday and Brigid has been a(n accidentally chosen) patron of mine since I chose her name as my confirmation name in 8th grade (when I learned she was not just a saint but herself a god a few years later I chose to keep wearing my little gold St Brigid's cross even though I was fully beyond being Catholic anymore) and I have three "levels" of spreads I've designed that I'm considering offering here or putting into the shop. They're basically divided up into levels of depth and complexity to try to offer both a super cheap but still impactful option and a full out, here's an outline for your spring/summer option. Would people be at all interested in them? I think the prices would be $5 for 3-5 cards, $15 for 10-12 cards and $20 for 15-17 cards and I'd love it if I could manage to make enough to replace the bad treading on my wheelchair tires before they actually give out completely... Does this sound like something you'd be interested in at all and do those prices sound vaguely fair?

Alright, longest post ever, hopefully it wasn't so boring you all gave up and if you made it this point, you're excellent!

#tarot readers of tumblr #tarot #tarot community #mary el tarot #labyrthinos #tarot reader #tarot readings #imbolc #witch #witches #witch craft #tw sex acts

[terresdebrumestories]

Chapter 12/24: Out

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Marvel’s MCU SERIES: SEADLA Verse, version 2.0 RATING: Mature WORDCOUNT: 4 626 PAIRING(S): - CHARACTER(S): Tony Stark, Nick Fury, Clint Barton. GENRE: Jail time sucks. TRIGGER WARNING(S): This chapter contains brief and non graphic suicidal thoughts (it’s really small, but it’s there) as well as iffy matters of consent regarding telepathy that aren’t really discussed. (Check the AO3 listing for a glimpse of what’s to come). SUMMARY: In which there is a rescue team.

DEDICATION(S): As always, to the first version’s readers, to the people who leave comments on the fic three years after its last update, and to 2012!me, who needed to write this fic a lot.

SEADLA ON TUMBLR: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11]

Tony stares into the abrupt darkness with his heart hammering against his ribs until a green and gold flame, no bigger than a thumb, whispers to life. The light flickers over Loki’s face, makes his features handsome, childish and fearsome in turn, a thousand faces birthed and killed by a thousand tricks of lights.

It makes Tony’s head swim.

Loki, apparently unbothered, sends the flame hovering a little above his head and lights another one, then another and another, until several dozens of small fires float in the air around them, casting their light over Loki and deepening the pitch blackness around him.

“You look like the Boogeyman,” Tony blurts out through the wild rhythm of his breathing, twisting his fingers into his sheets, just to make sure the bed is still there.

The whole scene looks and feels a little like the Big Bang did, except there’s neither scientific wonder nor any sense of emotional closeness to keep Tony calm, and sweat starts prickling at his brow long before Loki shrugs and deadpans:

“Well I did do a bit of interim for him.”

Tony gapes, unable to tell whether this is supposed to be a joke or not, until his eyes catch on to a slightly-less-dark rectangle in the blackness behind Loki. He twists around a little, careful to keep his movements limited to the approximate area of the bed, until he catches sight of something moving in the rectangle, like black heavy fog trying to hide paler silhouettes. Tony thinks they look like trees, but they’re too pale to be real.

“Where are we?” He asks at last, struggling to tear his attention off the door and onto Loki.

“I suppose you could say we’re technically both in you cell. This is your mind. Well, a possible manifestation of it, at least.”

“A physical manifestation of—wait, I’m dreaming?”

“In technical terms,” Loki corrects with impossibly precise enunciation, “you are being Visited.”

“Oh right,” Tony retorts, switching from surprise to sarcasm almost before he has time to decide on it, “and you couldn’t ‘visit me’ before because…?”

“You didn’t pick up the knife.”

Tony’s face flushes red in less time than it takes to blink. What does the fucking knife even have to do with anything? And what the fuck does Loki mean, Tony didn’t pick it up? He spent literal days cutting into his arm with that stupid fucking thing, and Loki has the gall to blame him for not picking it up?

Worse, still! The bastard looks sad! Hurt, even! Like he’s the one who suffered instead of Tony! Oh, what a fucking joke, what a bastard—a week! A full week, at least, in custody, all but tortured into drinking, not knowing when he’d come out and that’s what—oh, what a fucking moron Tony was.

“Oh, forgive me your highness,” he hisses, trying not to choke on his fury, “I guess I’m not smart enough for princely mind games, after all!”

“That’s not what I said,” Loki replies in a neutral tone, one eyebrow raising with so much elegance Tony wants to punch it open, “I’m simply saying—”

“You’re saying bull, is what you’re doing. I picked your damn knife up! For nothing! I’ve been calling you for help—”

“I’m actually fairly certain you were punishing yourself,” Loki replies, drawing his head back like an offended bird.”

“You told me there was a spell in it—that you’d know if I tried to use it on myself—why d’you think I went back to cutting? The aesthetics?”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, I didn’t actually get inside your head about a minute ago. I knew you were cutting, not why.”

“Oh, right, because that makes everything so much better!”

Tony is all but kneeling on the bed by now, body tense and boiling with the urge to start throwing punches. He’s not even picky about where: face, chest, legs, anywhere it’ll take so long as it gets Loki begging for forgiveness and the ugly mess of Tony’s memories out of his brain forever.

Loki doesn’t seem to care, if he even notices at all.

“It doesn’t,” he says with a slight shrug, “you had to call for me. I planted the knife as because I knew you were too stubborn to—”

“What? Too stubborn to die like you planned?”

Technically, there’s no wall to stop him here, no ground to slam into, which is probably the only reason why flying off and landing in an undignified heap doesn’t physically hurt. The gesture still reels him though, pulls his thoughts into a sharp sideway twist.

Fuck, he wishes it’d hurt though. Wishes it’d bleed like a proper wound so he could just stitch it up and be done with it instead of having to watch himself fester down into nothing. It’d be a bitch to go through but it’d be clean. Straightforward.

Simple.

God, he misses simple.

But it doesn’t hurt.

Loki’s face though, that gets something out of Tony, because he looks hurt. He looks like he’s hurt and betrayed, like Tony should commiserate with the poor widdle god of trickery and lies regret at sending a so-called friend flying. Like Tony should be craddling his cheek and say ‘it’s alright, you’re not really an asshole for trying to throw me into concrete, or whatever you thought would stop me mid-flight’.

Fuck that game. Tony’s most definitely not playing it.

“If I’d meant for you to die,” Loki hisses after a long, shivering pause, “All I had to do was leave you here. I could have killed you a dozen times as Lorna. Better still, I could have ignored your letter and let you do the bloody job for me, you pathetic coward!”

The lights around them burn brighter with each word, swelling with Loki’s venom and turning his hair from black to a bright copper, draws lines of runes onto his face. Tony watches the change proceed with sick fascination, blood humming in his veins as Loki’s ordinary black leather shifts into thick winter gear, his chin colors with a thick copper beard where the runes come and go like words on the wind.

It fills something primal in Tony, like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t have access to, and there’s the beginning of a punch building up in his fist when Loki strides up to him, seizes him by the collar and hisses into his face:

“You’re a lucky coward, though, I do not intend to let you die. Be ready for an escape tomorrow. You will know when the time comes.”

Tony does punch then, as hard and fast as he can manage, satisfaction blooming into his chest when he hears Loki’s nose crack and spots blood dripping onto the elegant mustache. Fuck him. Fuck him and his mysticism, his arrogance, his every fucking thing! If he wants to think he’s above everyone, fine! But if he thinks Tony’s gonna lie down and take it in silence, he’s got another fucking thing coming.

His thing with Lorna might have worked wonder, but Tony is sure as hell not about to take another one of his lies, fuck him very much.

“Lorna was a lie, that much is true,” Loki says while he dabs elegant fingers under his nose, “but it wasn’t mine.”

He’s out of the door before Tony can try to punch him again.

{ooo}

Tony wakes up to a major kink in his neck and the taste of a hangover gone stale on his tongue. He lies on the bed like a a stringless puppet, crusty-eyed and sweaty, desperatly trying to ignore the headache forming behind his eyeballs. At the edge of his memory, shouting and pain mix with green flames in the dark, and it’s all he can do to push them back in favor of Loki’s words.

Be ready for an escape tomorrow. You’ll know the moment when it comes.

Of course he had to be a fucking cryptic with that, too. What an asshole.

Tony still hopes, though. He thinks about the not-quite-dream all day long as he lies down, unable not to wish Loki said the truth. Unable not to feel like time has turned into especially thick syrup as he keeps his hands under the pillow, clutching Loki’s open knife just in case.

Somewhere around what’s probably the beginning of the afternoon, Clint comes back with more food. He doesn’t make a show of roughing tony up this time, which is definitely progress, but he does mouth ‘be ready’ when he leaves the tray. If nothing else, it probably means Clint is on Tonys side.

In times like these, it’s a thought worth clinging to.

{ooo}

As far as Tony can tell, it’s about four when the guards start screaming. Muffled shouts and the slap of flesh on flesh fill the air for a hot second, and then there’s a pregnant silence and the hiss of Tony’s cell door sliding open. Tony, who at this point is little more than a random collection of ill-kept hair and bloodshot eyes in hospital pajamas, watches a skinny silhouette in red and blue spandex stride into the room with confident step, pause into a full-bodied show of surprise, and exclaims:

“Dude, you look like crap!”

The boy sounds something like seventeen, maybe eighteen. Barely college age, at any rate. It doesn’t stop Tony from saying he’s been worse.

It’s both true and false. Afghanistan hurt more, physically speaking. He doesn’t remember feeling that empty while he was there, though, too busy trying to figure out how to get Yinsen and himself out to feel sorry about his life.

He wouldn’t go back there just to stop being depressed though, thank you very much.

“How did you know where to find me?” He asks, following the kid out into empty corridors with Loki’s swiss knife in hand, “Clint managed to get blueprint out?”

“Yeah, and then a little spider talked to me in a dream.”

A pause, and then:

“I mean, it was really more like the biggest tarantula the world has ever seen, but it’s not as funny an image.”

Tony’s too busy trying to walk in a straight line to care much, either way, but whatever rocks the kid’s world, really. How or why on Earth Anansi got involved, he has no idea. Same goes for Spiderman, actually, but neither of these questions feel pressing enough to distract him from the very real, very urgent need to get away from this place.

So he runs.

They reach a doorway that probably leads outside about fifteen minutes into Tony’s escape, four S.H.I.E.L.D agents standing in their way with old Nazi weapons at the ready, and Tony’s heart sinks.

No way he’ll get past them.

“Okay,” Spiderman says, twisting his head until the bones in his neck crack, “no offense but I think we’ll be better off if I handle that one on my own. You’re in no shape to fight, pop.”

Tony would quip back and say the kid is being a little generous about his suit-less abilities, but he doesn’t have the time. He’s barely started opening his mouth, and one guard is down already, dragged to the ground with a clever use of silky—and sticky—rope. Spiderman runs toward the next one, yells ‘crotch!’ and hit the man with exactly that part of his anatomy, catching one of the two women in the jaw with his foot as he twists the male guard around.

The second woman manages to get a grip on him and twist his arm behind his back, but before Tony gets to helping him, he’s jumped and twisted in such a way that he broke the woman’s nose with his knee and wriggled free of her headlock.

“Phew,” he says, voice rough from the chokehold, “thank heaven for super flexibility, right?”

Tony doesn’t have time to answer before someone grabs his arm and forces him to start running. He barely realizes it’s Clint in time to avoid punching at him—and then it stops to matter, because he’s finally outside.

He was never a very outdoorsy person before but hell, he’s ready to get into full time camping right now, relishing the wind on his face more than he could have thought possible, so happy to be let out of that damned cave of a jail cell that he barely manages to hold himself upright.

“Stark!” Clint yells in his ear with the tone of someone who’s been trying to get his attention for a bit, “they’re trying to torture Banner into hulking, we gotta move out fast!”

“He’s not gonna do it!” Tony protests even as he picks up his pace to keep up with Clint, “Bruce—”

“I’m not wondering if he wants to hold it in,” Clint replies, guiding Tony away from where a gaggle of agents are fighting a man on a horse car, “I’m wondering if he’ll be able to! He’s never had to resist torture before, we don’t know how it’ll affect him!”

Tony, still half-drunk from sudden freedom, wishes he could protest. Bruce saved his life multiple times already—sometimes as Hulk, even!—but Clint as a point. This is brand new territory, and they’re probably better off getting to safety before they start pondering the nature of Bruce’s doppelganger and how it’s gonna react to pain.

Around them, the air screams with explosions and too many voices, multiple fights breaking on the ground and across the sky as Tony lets Clint and Spiderman drag him out into what may or may not be the desert of New Mexico. He thinks he makes out a voice that sounds like thunder in the chaos but, really, there’s no way to be entirely sure.

“We gotta come back for Bruce,” he manages between two steps, dodging Clint’s elbow when he shoots at an agent.

“We gotta get you to safety,” Clint says, eyes roaming the landscape around them for something, “if Banner’s smart he’ll let the other guy come out and get him out of Fury’s hands.”

“But he’s—”

“I don’t see out back up!” Spiderman yells, “Where’s she?”

“Hell if I know! You seen a cat recently?”

Tony stumbles on the uneven ground, legs of cotton and shot vision combining to mess up with his balance, but he’s still got enough brain to despair at Clint’s words. A cat? they’re hanging their survival on a damn cat? God, they’re so lost—he’s just gonna die here and get this kid who asked for nothing down with him and then—

“Oh fuck!”

Tony twists on himself to follow Clint’s line of sight, trusting the guy to take them through a manageable path...and immediately regrets his decision.

Behind them, mounted onto some kind of vaguely horse-like mechanical monstrosity, the scarred man who visited Tony is flinging people out of his way like they’re annoying flies and not full grown adults. He’s yelling something Tony doesn’t understand but, more importantly, he’s catching up to them. Fast.

“Damn it all!” Clint shouts, “Bastet! Where the fuck are you!”

There’s a flash of grayish-pink flesh by Tony’s feet, a shape running toward the artificial horse as the scarred man prepares to shoot, and then he’s flung to the ground under the weight of a hairless lion with a snarl of hatred that shakes the air around Tony.

“The portal’s behind the rock,” the lion—lioness, judging by the voice—yells over the scarred man’s struggling body, “go!”

Tony is scrambling to turn around before Spiderman even manages to grab him—there’s a sharp pain in his guts as he runs, the exhaustion finally settling in, but he doesn’t let it stop him and keep going, passing a giant boulder at breakneck speed.

He doesn’t notice the hole until he’s already falling.

{ooo}

“Finally,” a deep, cheerful voice exclaims when Tony climbs back to consciousness, “I was beginning to think you’d never wake up!”

Trying to ignore the voice, Tony keeps his eyes closed and tries to list his injuries—there should be some, considering the day he’s had...whenever he got knocked out.

He doesn’t find anything.

Nothing hurts.

There’s no fire in his veins, no throbbing in his head, no itching and pulling around the reactor, no dull ache where he thought he’d pulled a muscle running, nothing at all.

He’s not sure what it says about him that the absence of pain is what makes him open his eyes and panic.

“Alright, alright, try to calm down,” the voice says when Tony bolts upright, “it took a while to patch you up, and probably even longer to negotiate your return with Hades, let’s not go and ruin all that good work.”

Tony turns, and stares at the woman he finds there. She’s about as tall as Thor, though her shoulders and hips are slightly narrower. Long, bleached-blond hair tumbles into a thick braid over her right shoulder, and when she walks closer to examine Tony it’s easy to spot the freckles on her golden cheeks.

“What the hell?” Tony exclaims when she inspects his wrists and there’s no trace of scarring there, “Where the fuck am I?”

“The exact answer is a little complicated,” the woman says with an apologetic smile, “so for the sake of simplicity we’ll just say it’s my infirmary, for now.”

“Right. And how long have I been in ‘your infirmary’?” Tony asks with his heart in his throat.

“A little under three days. You were awake for some of it, actually, but you kept trying to tear your glowing gadget out and re-open your wrists, so I sedated you. You should be able to get out tomorrow, depending on your state of mind...i the meantime, you can visit Anansi in the next room but going further would be a bad idea.”

Tony blinks, and takes his first proper look around the room.

White stone walls, too smooth to be natural but not enough to be a modern building, curve in as if to cover whatever is inside them. Blue light, rippling over the room like it had to get through water, mixing with the light of several candles to paint the atmosphere a golden kind of turquoise. It’s unusual and somewhere halfway between magical and spooky, but it’s also oddly soothing.

Secure, more than stifling. It’s a nice change of pace.

As for the furnitures, aside from the way they curve in to accommodate the walls, they look fairly infirmary-like. A spartan bedside table for each of the three narrow cots, a roll up tray with instruments waiting to be used, and a basket filled with whatever it is an infirmary needs to throw away. To the left, a closed door. To the right, a door left ajar, the low hum of conversation filtering through it—probably Anansi’s room, then. Tony should probably go and visit.

He doesn’t have it in him to do it, though.

He didn’t expect to wake up. didn’t even really want to, either. What does he have to come back to, these days? An empty house without Jarvis? A bunch of broken dreams? More problems than he can even begin to count? And that’s taking Loki out of the equation. Loki who, unless he’s even more of a jerk than he already showed, might come walking though that door at any moment.

Wonderful.

Honestly, tony wishes he could stop thinking about him. He’s going to have to, at some point, whether he likes it or not. Might even be a good idea to do so, in the long run. Right now though, nothing in his body hurts—not even the reactor—and his mind is just numb enough to keep him from a fall in complete despair.

It’s not ideal, but compared to the past few days it’s progress, and Tony is not going to ruin it with undue concern, thank you very much.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about Anansi’s health?”

It take tremendous effort to look at the woman again. Here eyes, almond shaped with a distinct fold at the corners, are so dark they’re almost black, but they’re warm too, and comforting. Well, there’s also a hint of reproach in there, but Tony doesn’t really have the energy to care about that.

“I assume he’ll be alright. He’s a God.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t try and be a proper friend to him. Or, you know, a polite person.”

Tony tries to snort, but it comes our more like a huff of breath. Either way, it’s not the answer the woman was angling fro, because she crosses her arms over her chest with a more obviously disapproving stare. She’s wearing an apron over a purple wool tunic, more prepared for viking ships than the imperial court of China, but what does Tony know about mythology, after all? Just ‘cause nobody talks about godly emigration doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

“Just because you’re out of it doesn’t mean you get to be an ass, Tony Stark.”

“And just ‘cause you know my name doesn’t mean you get to use it like you’re my mom,” Tony replies without much heat, “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Only because you didn’t ask.”

The woman’s voice deepens with every sentence, like her annoyance at Tony can be measured in how many octaves she can drop. She still reaches for a bowl and holds it out to Tony, with a firm ‘eat something’ when he takes it in hand.

It’s something like gruel, bland-looking on the whole, though when Tony tries it he finds nuts, honey and dried fruits as well. He doesn’t have the capacity to enjoy it in full, that’s true, but at least it tastes of something.

There are worse thing to unenthusiastically munch on.

“My name’s Sigyn, by the way.”

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but Tony doesn’t quite get why until Sigyn adds:

“You might know me as Loki’s wife.”

#MCU Fic #Tony Stark #Loki #SEADLA #Fanfiction #MCU

[readerwinterbarnes]

Cure For Failure

Bucky x Amanda Stark, OFC

Summary: Amanda failed her test miserably, and Bucky and Tony take it in their own hands to make sure her day isn’t completely ruined.

Word Count: 2,518

Warnings: fluff, just tons of fluff, sad OFC, some tears are shed, dad Tony, it’s a puppy so of course, I’m going to write in a puppy!

A/N: for the lovely thebeastinsideusall on AO3 who suggested I’d write this and M_rude14 who encouraged me to keep doing my best. Summer classes are hard and their tests harder, so a fluffy story was needed. So thank you lovelies for helping me through it!

“Fuck him! Fuck his pasty old white ass and his shitty test writing!” The team watched as Amanda barged into the living room spurting out insults about her professor while tossing her bag off to the side. Marching straight down the hallway, only to come back a few short minutes later dressed in her workout clothes and headed straight towards Natasha.

“Nat, I need to spar. You free?” Amanda was still furious, really needing to hit something.

“Yeah, I’m free. Go down and stretch and I’ll be right there.” Nat got up and left.

“Why not me? You always spar with me, Amanda.” Steve made a small pout, which would’ve been cute if she wasn’t planning out different ways to make her ass of a professor disappear.

“‘Cause you fight too soft and I really need to hit something. Plus I don’t want to damage your old body.” Amanda left, leaving the team still utterly confused, while Bucky and Tony shared a look. Giving each other a silent nod, before they both got up and left.

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

Amanda headed back to her room after sparring out all her frustrations with Nat. Burning it all out, even landing a rare hit to Nat that caught her off guard. And a shower, preferably a hot shower was next on the list. She heard the door open and close as she was finishing up, knowing it was her boyfriend Bucky. JARVIS would’ve informed you otherwise.

“Babe?” He called from behind the door.

“Be out in a second!” Turning off the water and wrapping a towel around herself, she stepped back into the bedroom and got dressed in her lazy clothes. Sweatpants and a sweatshirt large enough that could swallow her whole. But she didn’t give a fuck.

Bucky was sprawled out on their couch on his back, showing off the length of his legs. Without a second thought, she walked around the couch and plopped herself down and landed on top of him. Resting her head on his chest. Bucky being well, Bucky, barely even let out a huff. He wrapped his strong arms around her, tangling their legs together.

“What’s got you so tense, doll? Something must be up if you managed to land a punch on Nat today.” She huffs out angrily, burying her face deeper into Bucky’s neck, her answer muffled against his skin. “Not sure I understand that language, doll.” She lifts her head and glares at him.

“Wanna know what’s up? My professor’s what’s up. He put things on the test we never even went fucking over in class. So, of course, I was unprepared, and of course, you know what happens after that. I fucking fail! I failed his stupid test, which will more than likely affect my overall grade, which will end in absolute complete failure!” Amanda returned to her previous position. Except for this time, Bucky could feel wetness slide down his neck. He closed his eyes, placing a kiss on her head, he hated it when she cried.

“Doll, what’s your overall grade right now?” A sniffle and a quiet response answered him back, “A, B, and that’s with the addition of the flunked test.”

“You’re passing, so why are you freaking out about this one test?”

“Because I’m a Stark, Bucky. Tony Stark’s daughter! You know, daughter of the billionaire, genius, philanthropist, past playboy? The man who basically flew through college with fucking flying colors! Ring a bell?” Bucky stayed calm, unaffected by her outburst.

“Yes, you’re Tony’s daughter. But you’re Amanda Stark. You’re you, you’re not Tony. And you’re smart in your own way.” He brushed the pad of his thumb under her eyes, drying off the tears. “You’re doing so well and I’m proud of you.”

“I know, it’s just. I don’t want to be a disappointment to him, ya know? I want him to be proud of me.” Bucky pulled her in for a small kiss, brushing his nose against hers. “But he’s already proud of you. Man, if I could tell you a number of times he talks about you while he’s fixing my arm on two hands...I’m gonna need more than two hands. So believe me, doll,” he kisses her nose, pulling a smile from her face, “he’s proud of you. Despite this small failure.”

“Okay, he’s proud of me. You’re proud of me, everyone’s proud of me.” Bucky nodded.

“And don’t you forget it. Now, I got us some things.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and sat up, Amanda sitting on his lap. “I’ve got board games and cheesy movies beyond belief. Oh, and ice cream in the freezer. What do you want to do first?”

Amanda looked from Bucky to the various board games that were displayed on the table. She gave him an evil smile, reaching out to pick up the movie trivia game. “Let’s see if you got any further old timer.” He glared at her.

“Oooh I really hate you right now.” She laughed and pecked his lips quickly before sliding off his lap to set up the game.

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

Bucky obviously lost by a landslide, but he didn’t care. Amanda had a blast teasing him and yet educating him at the same time, plus it brought a smile to her face. So, win-win. Amanda was in charge of picking the movie, while Bucky paid the Chinese delivery guy, bringing their food back into the room along with the tub of ice cream and two spoons.

“So what are we watching, doll?” Bucky asked as he sat down on the floor next to Amanda, handing over her food.

“Um,” she picked up the cover, “we’re watching Clueless because it’s super cheesy and a little stupid, but some would consider it a classic.”

“Well, I trust your judgment.” They started the movie and dug into their food. It didn’t take long until Bucky was grumbling under his breath, wondering why Cher needed a computer to help her decide what she needed to wear. Then when he saw the bags the girls carried, Amanda swore he was trying his best not to gag. However, he did laugh at the part where they almost killed each other with a semi-truck when Dionne was driving. Eventually, the movie ended and they found themselves back on the couch, Bucky laying on his back with Amanda stretched out on top of him. They were watching Legally Blonde now, well at least trying to. Sleep was hovering over them like a dense fog. Bucky just needed her to know.

“I love you, Amanda, whether you failed or not. You’re still my girl, you’ll always be my girl.” Amanda tilted her head up, kissing Bucky softly, Bucky slipped his hand to the back of her head, kissing her back. Amanda hummed against him, dragging her fingertips against his slight stubble. He tangled their legs together and turned them onto their sides so she was facing him, noses touching, eyes locked on each other.

“I love you too, Bucky. I’m glad I’m your girl.” Bucky kissed her nose, tugging her closer to him so no space was left between them.

Amanda laughed. “But I must say, Cuddly Bucky Bear is my favorite.” Bucky glared at her.

“I swear, I’m gonna kill Clint for giving you that stupid bear.”

Amanda gasped in mock hurt. “JB is not stupid, he’s handsome and fluffy.” Bucky pouted.

“But I’m handsome and fluffy.” She laughed and curled herself around him.

“You’ll always be handsome and fluffy.” They laid in comfortable silence, content in each other's arms.

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

Amanda just finished writing her third paper, rubbing her eyes tiredly. Trying to force away the facts about Art Nouveau, and Rococo Art out of her brain. It wasn’t easy being an art major, especially if art history was your minor. It was absolutely exhausting, but it’s history and for some odd reason Amanda actually loved it. It was better than having to write or do anything related to microeconomics. Numbers and equations just weren’t her thing, not like her dad. Closing her computer she got up and went to the kitchen to get more coffee. Bucky and Steve were training the newest members, so he was going to be busy for the next few days. She didn’t mind, it gave her time to get things done.

“Sweetheart, daughter of mine, the apple of my eye, care to give your old man a hug?” Amanda smiled at the nicknames, turning to see her dad’s arms wide open, a truly genuine smile on his face. Putting down her mug, she walked into his open arms and hugged him. Tony kissed her temple, hugging his daughter tightly. “I love you munchkin.”

“Love ya too dad.” Amanda smiled up at him. Tony pulled away and looked at her.

“Now, you have five minutes to get ready. Or we’re going to be late.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see, just dress casual!” Tony was already walking away, heading down towards the garage. Amanda rushed to go get ready, curious as to what her dad had planned. Knowing him, it was going to be worth it, but she just hoped it wasn’t going to be anything big or flashy. Not much later, they were both driving through the streets of New York singing along to ACDC, not giving a fuck who was watching. This was her favorite pastime things to do with her dad, singing along to their favorite music. Tony pulled over and parked in front of a building with a dog print logo on the sign. Her eyes grew to the size of saucers.

“No way...no fucking way!” Tony just smiled over at her, getting out the sleek black Audi. Amanda scrambling to catch up to him as he was already heading inside. There were puppies, kittens, rabbits, birds, the room was practically filled with animals she was trying her best not to jump up and down.

“Well, go pick one.” Tony’s hands were in his pockets, expression full of love.

“Really? You’re going to let me adopt one?”

“Yeah, you deserve it. You were feeling down, so,” Tony looked down, quickly shifting his gaze anywhere but his daughter, “so I wanted you to know that I’m proud of you. Plus you always wanted to adopt a puppy.” Amanda’s heart melted as she watched him, she’s never really seen her father like this, especially in public. “Bucky and I had a long talk and he agrees, we both think a puppy would be good for you. And one failed test doesn’t make me love you any less. You’re a Stark, which means you’re smart in your own way and makes you a badass.” She didn’t let him get another word in because she was running up to him and hugging him tightly. Shocking Tony, but he quickly hugged her back.

“I love you, dad.” She whispered into his chest, listening to the faint hum of his arc reactor.

“Love you too squirt, now go pick out a little guy.” Tony’s voice was raspy, clearing his throat, not wanting to break down in public. Amanda nodded and looked around. She looked at all the cats and dogs, of course, it didn’t take her that long until she found the one she wanted. His name was Jasper, he was already trained, which was remarkable for a puppy. But after looking into his big brown eyes, she was hooked. After talking with the lady at the counter, filling out all the paperwork. Tony, Amanda, and Jasper were on their way back home. She couldn’t wait to show Bucky the newest member of their family.

Tony left for a meeting when they got back, but not until he gave her certain rules she needed to follow, then sending her on her way. Amanda rushed back to her and Bucky’s room, seeing as he was in the shower, she let Jasper out of his carrier and watched as he made his way around the place. Automatically finding his way to the bathroom, pawing at the door. Laughing, you opened the door, Jasper pushing his way inside a small scream filled the room.

“What the?!” Amanda saw Bucky standing with a hand holding a towel around his waist, staring down at the little dapple dachshund who was licking up the water that was rolling its way down his ankles, while at the same time trying to climb his way up the towel. Bucky laughed, crouching down to pick him up. 

“Who’s this little guy?” Bucky asked her as he walked towards her, giving her a welcome back kiss, not caring if he was getting her shirt wet. She pushed back a wet strand of hair from Bucky’s face, then kissed the puppy’s head.

“Bucky, meet Jasper. He’s cute, right? Yes, you are, you’re the cutest puppy out there.” Bucky chuckled and just smiled as he watched his girlfriend talk to their puppy.

“He is pretty cute, but not as cute as you, doll.” He kissed her temple and handed her Jasper, “Let me get dressed and then we can talk with JARVIS and get everything we need for him.”

Amanda followed him out, totally not staring at the way his ass looked in the towel or the length of his legs looked. And totally not memorizing the way his back moved, why would she? She already had it memorized. “You’re staring, dollface, see something you like?” Bucky winked at her, she just smiled in response and walked over to kiss where metal met skin, hearing Bucky’s breath catch in his throat.

“I always like what I see.” With that, she headed back into the living room, leaving behind a content Bucky. He often wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. He got dressed however and joined her and their baby, just as excited as her, to actually start living their life with Jasper. Amanda watched as Bucky and Jasper played on the rug and just smiled. She knew she was going to fail at things in her life, but she learned that it was good to be prepared to fail because it made you stronger and eager to keep going. Just pick yourself up, brush off the failure and move on. So that’s what she did. Yes, she failed the test, but that wasn’t going to stop her from doing her absolute best, plus, she had those around her who knew she was never a failure.

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[scarletjedi]

Do all the fanfic asks you haven't yet! (And for ones that require a specific fic, go with your original stor ♡)

Cut for length

things that inspire you: Good writing in other people

things that motivate you: panic, fear, love

name three favorite writers: Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Gail Simone

name three authors that were influential to your work and tell why:  J K Rawling was a real inspiration as this book, loooooong ago, began life as a HP fanfic. Samuel Delaney was a major influence mostly because he was my graduate advisor and gave me some of the realist writing advice that I'm only now coming to understand. PG Wodehouse taught me how prose could be like poetry--and be cutting and funny at the same time. (Pratchett did the same thing, but I read Jeeves first)li>

since how long do you write? I’ve been writing since I was very wee, with a dedication to writing for publication since I was 16, and a dedication to improving my craft since I was 18 or so. 

how did writing change you? It gave me a greater appreciation of script, and a greater appreciation of the way language works. Anything other than that, I’m not sure because it’s been me for so long. *shrug*

I’ve already answered this :P

what time are you most productive? Morning, which means vacations are not productive because I sleep in. 

do you set yourself deadlines? Nope. When I do, I don’t meet them and it spirals. 

how do you do your researches? google, usually. For something more complicated, I have access to several different academic libraries :D

do you listen to music when writing? I do and I don’t. I do when I need to focus, and I don’t when I can’t focus. I try, and if it doesn’t work I shut it off. 

favorite place to write: My office

hardest character to write: My protagonist, Chris. He’s the main focus, so he has to be perfectly executed, and there’s a lot of pressure. 

easiest character to write: Jamie, his romantic interest. He sprang fully formed into my brain, and he’s a delight. 

hardest verse to write: 3rd? 

easiest verse to write: 1st!

favorite AU to write: TIME TRAVEL AU

favorite pairing to write: Jamie/Chris (my main pairing)

favorite fandom to write: right now, I’m diggin Star Wars - it’s been a love for so long. But I miss LOTR, and I’m trying hard to get the next chapter of WAMW out. 

favorite character to write: Katie, the protag’s little sister. (she’s 16)

least favorite character to write:  Pat, the dad. 

favorite story you’ve ever written: fanfic - Comes Around Again, though Old Man Luke is creepin’ in and I have a fondness for Pineapple. Original fic, I’ve got a porn ficlet called “Thanksgiving” that may see light sometime soon. 

least favorite story you’ve ever written: It’s not that it’s my least favorite, but I posted “Love Letters” before I was completely happy with it, and it twitches sometimes. 

favorite scene you’ve ever written: In fic: Bilbo recounting the Winter in CAA. In my book: interviewing The Beast. :D

favorite line you’ve ever written: “Everyone in the room wants to fuck me,” Jamie said airily, his smile sharp. “Lesser mortals use Tinder, now.”

story you’re most proud of: Comes Around Again, the BEAST

best review you ever got: I was told my fic, “Drowned in Moonlight” said *exactly* what someone wanted to say, they just couldn’t find the words. 

worst review you ever got: i was told CAA moving towards the movie ‘verse was lazy writing and they “thought better of me” 

favorite story/poem of another author: Sansukh - god, that last chapter killed me. 

hardest part of writing - getting it out initally. 

easiest part of writing - Revision

alternate title for (insert story title) - My book has had several titles, all terrible. It’s currently “The Beast” but it has been both “Weather Magic” and “Breaking” 

alternate ending for (insert story title) the original ending of the book involves a cross-country escape and a full-scale battle. it’s scaled back now, and better for it. 

alternate pairing for (insert story title) - there has never been another pairing for my original fic. Pineapple could also be Obi-Wan/Rex or Obi-Wan/Qui-Gon/Rex

single story or multi-part story? MULTI

one-shot or multi-chaptered story? MULTI

canon or AU? depends on the AU. GIVE ME TIME TRAVEL

do you reread your own stories? On occasion. sometimes, the story I really want, is the story I wrote. 

do you want to be published some day? VERY BADLY. 

which one of your stories would you most like to see as a movie/series. I’d love to see my book on TV. My wife and I talk about fancasts all the time. I think Netflix could do it - they’d make it gay enough without the gratuitous violence (HBO). That being said, the fact that CAA wont be filmed PAINS me. 

one song that captures (insert story title): Uuuhhhh….

do you plan or do you write whatever comes to your mind? I write from an idea, whatever it is, then I plan a bit, then I write between main points. 

would you ever write a sequel for (insert fic title here) My original work is the first in a series. :D

do you write linear or do you write future scenes if you feel like it? I write out of order. Usually, I have an idea, then a moment later in the work (like the climax) that I write out, then i fill in the blanks. 

share the synopsis of a story you work on that you haven’t published yet: BOY DISCOVERS MAGIC IS REAL, the Gods are real, and the world is about to end. Also, he’s bisexual. 

share a scene of a story that you haven’t published yet: Meet my main boys:

Chris sighed, knocking his knuckles against the car window. “You gonna tell me where we’re going, yet?” he asked. Jamie tapped his lips with his finger, humming, and Chris rolled his eyes. “I will hit you,” he said, mild.  

“Sure, why not.” Jamie said at last, and ran his hands over his steering wheel in a quick, practice move. “We’re looking for Burnt Mill Road.”

“Oh, that’s not ominous,” Chris muttered. He squinted to try and make out the writing on the street signs as they passed, but was hard to see; Mid-August rain had soaked the roads, and now it rose as a lingering, ground-hugging fog. That, combined with what felt like two-hundred percent humidity, meant that the letters of the street signs blurred in the headlights and didn’t come into focus until just as they were passing by.

Jamie grinned, his dimples casting shadows in the scruff on his cheeks. It was too short for a beard, but Jamie made sure to keep the edges trimmed like the vain peacock he was. Fuck him, if it didn’t look good on him. Adult. “Are you scared?” Not that he acted like one.

“No,” Chris said, strangled, and he winced. He wasn’t, really, but there would be no way of convincing Jamie that when his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “How many time have we done this shit? Have I ever been scared.”

Jamie barked out a laugh. “Every. Time.”

Chris sighed. Every. Single. Time. “I’m not scared, I’m cautious.”

“Uh huh,” Jamie said dryly, chancing a glance over at Chris. “Did caution check the flashlights three times? Did caution make me wait half ’n hour while his phone charged?” HIs voice dropped, like he was in on a secret, and he glanced down at Chris’s lap. “Is caution wearing your lucky underwear?”

Chris’s mouth twisted, and he sucked on a tooth. “It’s practical,” Chris ground out.

“You fucking are,” Jamie said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you just admitted it. What’s practical about lucky underwear?”

“Not that!” Chris said, rolling his eyes. He was, in fact, wearing his lucky underwear. They were comfortable, okay? But there was no need for Jamie to know that. “I meant the phone.”  

“Yeah,” Jamie snorted. “If we get a flat tire, not for ghosts.”

Chris looked out the window, conceding the point. He folded his arms. “How do you even know what underwear I’m wearing?” he grumbled.

Jamie sighed, overly put-upon. “Hello?” he said, sing-song, and rolled his hand to gesture at himself. “Gay. What do you think gay-dar is?”

“Knowing who in the room would fuck you?” Chris offered, shooting Jamie a lopsided grin.

“Everyone in the room wants to fuck me,” Jamie said airily, his smile sharp. “Lesser mortals use Tinder, now.” Chris laughed, finally, and Jamie’s grin brightened.  

They drove on, and Jamie ended up behind a boxy old Chrysler, its back end covered in bumper stickers that had been bleached white in the sun. One of them was one of those ribbon magnets, but Chris couldn’t tell which cause it supported. Maybe it supported all of them, or none of them. Schrodinger’s ribbon. A street sign caught his eye, and he frowned.

“How many “Pine” streets are even in Jersey?”

“All of ‘em,” Jamie answered without pause.

Chris crocked his head, still looking out the window. They passed a sign that said Welcome to Atco. What was in Atco? He pulled out his phone, and typed “haunted Atco” in the search bar. Loading. Loading. Loading. Fucking 3G. “All of the streets are called ‘Pine’? or all the streets called ‘Pine?’ are in Jersey?”

Jamie hummed. “I stand by my earlier statement.”

“I request clarification,” Chris said, closing the app and darkening his phone.

“Request denied.”

“Ass,” Chris said, with a crooked smile.

“Ginger.”

how many unfinished ideas/stories are you working on at the same time?: 7!

three spoilers for (insert story title): The boy gets the boy, the Beast Speaks, HE CAN FLY

open question to the writer: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR OVER AN HOUR!!

#meme #poplitealqueen

[how2to18]

MANY YEARS AGO, a patient I’ll call Alice had weakness, fatigue, brain fog, and joint pains that I was unable to diagnose. Eventually she took matters into her own hands. After connecting on the internet with others who suffered similarly, Alice determined that she had chronic Lyme disease. Through this online community she found a physician with a reputation for being Lyme literate — meaning that, unlike most doctors and medical organizations, including the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, he believed that in certain people (the majority of them women) Lyme infection can persist after the standard 14- to 21-day course of antibiotics and cause symptoms such as those Alice experienced. He prescribed high doses of doxycycline and erythromycin over many months. Sometimes the treatments made Alice feel better and sometimes, when she sensed that the drugs were killing large numbers of borrelia burgdorferi, the spirochetal bacterium that causes Lyme, she had painful Herxheimer reactions or “herxes,” as chronic Lyme patients call them.

Depending on your perspective, Alice had either reclaimed her autonomy from a patriarchal medical system dismissive of patients, particularly of women with difficult-to-diagnose conditions, or she’d fallen prey to a charlatan who charged her large sums of money to treat a fictional disease.

Few medical topics are as divisive as chronic Lyme disease or, as it is often referred to in medical journals, “chronic Lyme disease.”

A June 2018 editorial in the American Journal of Medicine asserts that chronic Lyme disease does not exist and that “Lyme literate physicians” are quacks in cahoots with shady labs that perform tests rigged to confirm the specious diagnosis. The editorialist, Phillip J. Baker, PhD, of the American Lyme Disease Foundation, argues further that the notion that Lyme is a “strange and mysterious” disease about which not much is known is false. Lyme testing is quite reliable, he states, and the scientific evidence on which current international guidelines regarding diagnosis and treatment are based clearly contradicts testimonies of individuals who claim to have chronic Lyme. The reason more resources aren’t being directed toward researching chronic Lyme disease is that there is nothing to research.

Within days of the publication of Baker’s editorial, an article appeared in Slate that might as well have been written to refute it directly. In “The Science Isn’t Settled on Chronic Lyme,” Maya Dusenbery and Julie Rehmeyer argue that doctors’ refusal to acknowledge the possible existence of chronic Lyme disease is driven less by science than by sexism. Dusenbery recently wrote about sexism in medicine in Do No Harm: The Truth About How Bad Medicine and Lazy Science Leave Women Dismissed, Misdiagnosed, and Sick. In her 2017 memoir, Through the Shadowlands: A Science Writer’s Odyssey into an Illness Science Doesn’t Understand, Rehmeyer wrote about myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS), another condition that, like chronic Lyme, affects mostly women and which many doctors consider psychosomatic. They don’t claim to have an answer to the question of whether or not chronic Lyme exists but, rather, suggest that gaps in our current knowledge of Lyme make the question worth asking. They point to the unreliability of symptoms and blood tests in diagnosing Lyme early, and to data indicating that some people may have abnormal spinal fluid and brain scans long after standard treatment for Lyme, as well as to other uncertainties that would seem to make Lyme merit further study, especially given that the infection, once mostly confined to the northeastern United States, is now endemic throughout much of the world. The reason medical scientists don’t study chronic Lyme isn’t that they’ve proven it doesn’t exist, Dusenbery and Rehmeyer write, but rather, “the attitude of ridicule for chronic Lyme is part of why we don’t bother to research it.”

These opposing views of chronic Lyme seem irreconcilable: chronic Lyme is either definitely phony or possibly real; chronic Lyme patients are either “head cases” or people suffering from a serious and poorly understood disease; doctors who dismiss chronic Lyme are either responsibly practicing evidence-based medicine or they’re sexist jerks.

¤

When I first opened Porochista Khakpour’s new memoir, Sick, about her pursuit of recovery from chronic Lyme over many years, I felt sure I knew where she stood in “the Lyme wars,” as the controversy has been called in both medical journals and the media. The very title of the book declares: “I really am sick.” The cover photograph, of Khakpour staring straight ahead, wide-eyed, oxygen prongs stuck in her nostrils, feels both defiant and accusatory. This is not a woman who is merely suffering. This is a woman who has been made to suffer.

Indeed, for the most part, doctors, particularly male doctors, come off badly in Sick. As a child, Khakpour is given insufficient anesthesia during ear surgery; as an adult, the ER staff laughs at her; a “gloomy” psychiatrist she consults looks “like black and white newsprint”; and a flashy L.A. physician who touts himself as “VIP Medical Concierge” reassures Khakpour, unreassuringly: “Don’t worry. We’re gonna run every test there is.”

With each medical encounter, Khakpour risks harm. Doctors usually don’t make her feel better, and often make her feel worse. Their disbelief in chronic Lyme erodes her humanity, leaves her “faded.” She has a positive Lyme test (many people diagnosed with chronic Lyme don’t) but this earns her little credibility with “so-called medical professionals.” Khakpour is well aware of their scorn:

I had been to the hospital so many times for my Lyme disease, not just explaining but overexplaining, as if I had something to hide. Lyme is a disease that many in the medical profession, unless they specialize in it, find too controversial, too full of unknowns, to buy it as legitimate. It’s thought of as the disease of hypochondriacs and alarmists and rich people who have the money and time to go chasing obscure diagnoses.

When doctors fail her, Khakpour seeks relief from healers who offer supplements, Chinese herbs, bee sting therapy, psychic readings, and other alternative treatments. This effort is not only expensive — Khakpour estimates she’s spent $140,000 on chronic Lyme — but it also results in a frustrating, self-perpetuating cycle familiar to many with conditions about which doctors are skeptical: doctors’ dismissal drives Khakpour to look for help outside conventional medicine, which makes doctors dismiss her even more.

It’s easy to see why Sick has been grouped in several reviews with other “illness manifestos,” recent books by women who insist on the validity of women’s experiences of and decisions about their own bodies, even when — especially when — those experiences and decisions are deemed invalid by a male-dominated medical establishment. These books include both Dusenbery’s and Rehmeyer’s as well as Abby Norman’s Ask Me About My Uterus, in which Norman recounts her struggle to have her endometriosis pain acknowledged and treated appropriately by doctors. They also include Michele Lent Hirsch’s Invisible, about how the health problems of young women such as herself are negated and, at the other end of the age spectrum, Barbara Ehrenreich’s Natural Causes, her declaration that, in her 70s, she is no longer buying the health industry’s prescriptions for immortality. Unrest, a 2017 documentary by Jennifer Brea, who suffers from ME/CFS and has become an activist for recognition of and research into this condition, is also frequently discussed in this context.

But Khakpour is no activist, and Sick is not an illness manifesto. Though Khakpour never abandons her belief that she has chronic Lyme, she doesn’t insist that her readers believe she does. Nor is it necessary to accept the legitimacy of chronic Lyme to embrace Khakpour’s story. She holds firm to the diagnosis, but she’s open to its many possible meanings.

Khakpour considers the possibility that she’s had Lyme for most of her life, having contracted the disease from a tick bite while hiking in the California mountains that reminded her father of Iran, from which the family fled after the revolution in 1978. Or perhaps she acquired the infection much later, and it compounded the PTSD she developed as a child refugee. Dislocation, not Lyme, is Khakpour’s central theme. She organizes Sick geographically rather than chronologically, with the names of the many places she’s lived — “New York,” “Maryland and Illinois,” “Santa Fe and Leipzig” — serving as chapter titles. Khakpour never feels at home where she lives, or in her own body. She often conflates her Lyme with her perpetual sense of displacement: “I have never been comfortable in my own body,” Khakpour writes. When her Lyme flares, she describes herself as feeling “off,” by which she seems to mean “not right” and also, in the literal sense, “not there.”

Many memoirs use illness as a prism through which to refract, and magnify, the themes of a life. Where Sick differs from most illness memoirs — indeed from most memoirs generally — is that it is not a tale of redemption. Khakpour eschews the arc that takes the memoirist from sick to well or, at least, to enlightened. At the end of Sick, Khakpour admits that she’d intended to write a more uplifting book: “The Book I Sold was a story of triumph, of how a woman dove into the depths of addiction and illness and got well. She got herself better. She made it. The Book I Sold might even imply you can do it too.”

Except that Khakpour doesn’t feel transformed by her illness in a positive way. In Unrest, Brea, though profoundly impaired by ME/CFS, expresses gratitude along with grief: “You have to be able to hold two things in your head,” Brea says. “This illness destroyed my life but what it showed me, I could never give that back.” For Khakpour, there is no silver lining. The list of plagues Khakpour endures — and seems always on the brink of not enduring — from Lyme and from life includes: paralyzing weakness, crippling fatigue, suicidal depression, panic attacks, insomnia, drug addiction, racism, family discord, war, homelessness, financial catastrophe, car accidents, and disloyal lovers, to name a few. The narrative tension in this messy and beautiful chronicle exists not so much between the heroine and her trials, but between the writer and the reader. In Sick, Khakpour challenges us to do what countless doctors, friends, romantic partners, and her parents have failed to do: witness her pain without turning away.

This is not nearly as depressing as it sounds. In fact, it’s not depressing at all. Despite her woes, Khakpour is excellent company. She has many friends and includes in her memoir an email she sent to them after a Lyme relapse left her dizzy and confused: “would you mind occasionally checking in on me?” She could also use some help walking her dog and riding the subway. This email appears early in Sick, and at first it’s hard to imagine it receiving an enthusiastic response. As her memoir unfolds, though, Khakpour’s intelligence, humor, and the generosity with which she exposes her vulnerability make us certain that her friends would be eager to help her. We’d help her.

Part of what makes Khakpour so compelling as a narrator is that she rejects the limited menu of identities we usually afford the ill and disabled, in life and in memoirs: brave or pitiful. Khakpour is sick but never only sick. She’s a party girl, a stunner in designer clothes. She wins prestigious fellowships and lands glamorous jobs. She has lots of sex.

The one place Khakpour does feel at home is writing. As a child, she retreated from her parents’ loud arguments by making up stories. “[S]torytelling,” she writes, “from my early childhood was a way to survive things.” Storytelling continues to serve as Khakpour’s refuge through a young adulthood marked by illness, addiction, poverty, and bad relationships. We breathe relief each time Khakpour’s writing leads her to a safe harbor: a college mentor, an MFA program, a book contract, a teaching gig. Yet, another familiar narrative Khakpour resists is that writing, including the writing of Sick, has healed her. She’s wary, too, about her “wish to tie the threads of narrative so neatly,” to have Lyme make sense of her life. She leaves her conclusions ambiguous. Khakpour finishes Sick: “The story didn’t end as I imagined so many times: in the end I would make it.”

Does she mean she would “make it” à la Mary Tyler Moore (“You’re gonna make it after all”)? Or that, in the end, what she would make was the story itself?

¤

Alice, my patient with chronic Lyme, continued to see me for primary care, despite knowing I had concerns about the prolonged antibiotic treatment her Lyme doctor was administering. Ultimately, her weakness worsened and she was diagnosed with a rare degenerative disease, which I thought in retrospect explained all her symptoms. She discontinued the antibiotics and quit seeing the Lyme doctor but, to my surprise, Alice never stopped believing she had chronic Lyme. Who was to say that the chronic Lyme had not coexisted with or even accelerated the degenerative condition? she asked me. Or that the antibiotics she’d taken for Lyme hadn’t held this other disease at bay for a few years?

I wish Sick had been available when I knew Alice. I think Khakpour could have helped me understand our relationship better. At the time, I thought that the reason Alice pursued alternative therapy was that she was grasping for the certainty of a diagnosis, the promise of a cure. That was true, but I was grasping for certainty, too: the certainty that Alice’s pursuit was misguided. I plan to recommend Sick to my medical colleagues. Khakpour has made a major contribution to patients and doctors in moving the intractable “Lyme Wars” narrative beyond unhelpful binaries such as “real” versus “psychosomatic.”

The last time I saw Alice she was bedridden and could no longer speak. With great effort, she scrawled a message to me, one with which I agreed completely. It read: THIS IS VERY BAD.

¤

Suzanne Koven is a primary care physician and writer in residence in the Division of General Internal Medicine at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. She writes regularly for The Boston Globe and other publications, and contributes the interview column “The Big Idea” at The Rumpus. Her website is www.suzannekoven.com.

The post Beyond the Lyme Wars appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[qualitytimewithpeteanddeb-blog]

Quality Time With Pete and Deb - Trump’s First Week

Peter Grosz and Debra Downing are alums of The Second City Theater, writers, actors and husband and wife, living in Brooklyn, NY. This piece was composed at home on their computer exactly as you see it. One person would write and the other would respond, essentially like an improvised written “conversation”. The content was not pre-planned. They only decided to talk about President Trump’s first week in office. They wrote on January 26th.

PETE: So it was a pretty uneventful first week. If you don’t count the controversy over crowd size, accusations of massive voter fraud, a GIANT protest march, executive orders undoing Obamacare, reinstating black sites and bringing back waterboarding, gag orders on federal agencies dealing with global warming, re-starting the Dakota and Keystone pipelines, proposing immigration bans from certain countries and giving Mexico the middle finger I’d say not much happened.

DEB: OH MY INDIGESTION! I didn’t mean to capitalize that but I think I will leave it. I have started taking a probiotic to help me with a condition I have called Trump Stomach. I got enough to last four years. Hopefully I won’t have to re-up. I think the inaugural speech was so insulting to the country and to the past Presidents who came to support the idea of the peaceful transfer of power. I wept as the gracious and elegant Obamas boarded that helicopter to leave the office. I’ve had a cold ever since that I can’t shake. But I have to say I was very encouraged by the attendance at all the marches. That is heartening don’t you think? By the way I’m sorry I gave you my cold.

PETE: Yeah, what the hell? Was that the message of the women’s march? That it’s OK to give your husband a cold? Not cool. I too was heartened by the turnout and enthusiasm, especially from little towns in the middle of Alabama or people who marched in freezing weather in Alaska. I was disheartened by stupid news reports that made fun of marchers or framed their coverage as, “What do these crazy women want, anyway? What the hell is going on here?” as if they were some unwashed mass of human garbage that was mysteriously swept onto The Mall by a gust of wind. I feel like there will be a real return to protest in the next four years and if he doesn’t do right by enough people the marches will only grow. I don’t want to root against him, I truly don’t, but it seems like the path he’s choosing is going to alienate more and more people as he goes.

DEB: It’s true. I think the fantasy that he would somehow change into a completely different person once he took the oath of office is over. He is who he is. I think there will be more and more protests as time goes on. There seems to be a realization that Democracy is fragile and so are your rights and you still have to fight for them or they could be taken away. By the way, don’t be surprised when people say negative things about a group of women getting together. Some people find it very unnerving because it threatens to upset the role of power in our society. To all those people I say, “Don’t worry bout a thing sweetie, we’re just having a Tupperware party! You know how important it is for we homemakers to organize! I mean to be organized. No, I mean to organize.”

PETE: Just reading that last part sent chills up my spine. All those women in one place… talking about God knows what… Someone told me that “Tupperware” is an anagram of  “Topple The Patriarchy”. That’s true, right? I don’t want you going out of the house today. Or reading the newspaper. Or watching TV. Or talking to the cat. Or the dog. Or the appliances. Just sit in the corner and darn my socks.

DEB: At least the appliances are non political. All they want to talk about is Tesla and Edison. Umbierto is very concerned about the building of the Wall because he thinks he is from Mexico and the dog Frankie Five Angels thinks he is in protective custody until he testifies against the Mafia. I’ve got my hands full around here! PS .- throw out all your socks and underwear that have holes in them!

PETE: We should explain that we named our dog, Frankie, after Frank Pentangelis from Godfather 2, who’s nickname was Frankie Five Angels and who was in protective custody until he testified against Michael Corleone. And we should explain that we named our cat Umbierto for no good reason whatsoever. Back to Trump… Or rather, back to my underwear, which I’m apparently supposed to throw away just because it has massive holes in it. Ever heard of “breathability”? Or “exhibitionism”? This is ridiculous. You were never like this before Trump became president. What’s your deal?

DEB: I guess I just really feel empowered as a woman! I finally feel strong enough to say, “Hey- that’s gross! Buy new underwear and socks!” Wow, that felt good. I bet Eleanor Roosevelt had to say that to FDR all the time. I’m going to light a scented candle to celebrate! Then I’m gonna tell those appliances what I think of them!

PETE: I think we’ve gotten a little off track. That’s just what Trump wants. He wants us arguing about socks and underwear while he’s dismantling our liberties and environment and relationships with our neighbors. Don’t you just feel so on edge all the time? Like he could do something crazy at any minute? I honestly wonder what life is like for people who are excited for Trump. What’s it like to not watch the news peeking through your fingers like when you’re watching a scary scene in a horror movie?

DEB: Nobody wants to be wrong. I bet there are some people who are having buyer’s remorse but I’m sure they are not running to reporters to say, “Uh oh – this is bad.” I think his supporters are hoping there will be some job creation at least? I just hope these same people don’t lose their healthcare or fall deeper into financial crisis. I am rooting for these people to feel better about things, I just don’t think Trump is a real cure for what ails them.

PETE: I agree. As far as a Trump voter, or anyone, is hurting, they deserve relief. I know he’s certainly not the cure for what ails me and on some level I’m prepared to put up with disappointment for 4 years and resist what I can’t put up with. I also think it’s interesting that people are using the word “Resistance” so often in reference to standing up to Trump. I recall plenty of people being unhappy with Bush or Obama’s decisions but you didn’t hear the word “Resistance” that much. It makes Trump seem like a ruthless dictator or intergalactic overlord. I mean, the things he does also make him seem like a ruthless dictator or intergalactic overlord so I guess I get why people are using that word

DEB: Well now you’ve gone and made me like the term “intergalactic overlord”.

PETE: Oh great, now when we get invaded by an actual intergalactic overlord you’re gonna roll over. You’re such a sucker for a catchy job title. 9

DEB: Wait until you see the outfit The Intergalactic Overlord gets to wear! It’s kind of a combination between Liberace and Flava Flav. I have this all worked out. I’m gonna be the Kelly Ann Conway to this guy/girl/creature/plant/energy field. You see, it will come to take over the planet when major coastal cities are disappearing into the sea, drought, famine, super storms, war, nuclear winter… you know, all that jazz is happening. He’ll have a press conference where he chastises the humans for being so irresponsible with the planet –

WITH A GREAT CLAP OF THUNDER AND LIGHTING, A DARK FIGURE APPEARS IN A CLOUD OF FOG

A BOOMING VOICE IS HEARD.

BOOMING VOICE: Don’t put words in my mouth!

DEB: Please tell me you are The Intergalactic Overlord.

BOOMING VOICE: Actually I am the Press Secretary for the Intergalactic Overlord.

DEB: I was gonna say, you’re not wearing the right outfit.

BOOMING VOICE: Well, my good dark cloak is at the dry cleaners. I got a bunch of Argonfefutosol sauce on it and can’t get it out. You know how it is

DEB: What’s Argonfefutosol?

BOOMING VOICE: It’s like your Cholula but about twenty times spicier and made out Fefutosol.

DEB: What’s Fefutosol?

BOOMING VOICE: You don’t want to know

PETE: Um, my ears are bleeding from your booming voice, Mr. Press Secretary, can you please boom a little less?

BOOMING VOICE: Oh, you just assume I’m a man? How sexist.

PETE: I’m sorry, it’s just your voice. Mrs. Press Secretary

BOOMING VOICE: I’m not a woman either. I am a genderless Fog Figure.

PETE: Ok. I hope you don’t have to use any public bathrooms while you’re here. We’ve got a whole stupid thing going on with that.

BOOMING VOICE: Too late.

DEB: What does that mean?

BOOMING VOICE: Anyway, I am here to relay the message that you still have time to change Scrooge - I mean humans – sorry, I was just in a production of  “A Christmas Carol” and I’ve got that in stuck in my brain. I received quite a few good notices for my performance. We are currently in rehearsals for “Oklahoma” in which I shall play Ado Annie.

PETE: Yeah, we’re not going to see that. Can you just tell us what you came to tell us?

BOOMING VOICE: Yes, sorry. Our ticket sales have just been abysmal so I’m trying to get anyone to come see it. You still have time to change, humans. You must not despair. You must stand up for what you believe in and not let your world be destroyed by a narcissistic egomaniac. (Whispering) Believe me, I know. My boss, the Intergalactic Overlord is such an intergalactic A-hole.

DEB: Well thanks for the positive encouragement. We’ll take it. I have so many questions about –

BOOMING VOICE: Where to get tickets for Oklahoma?

DEB: No… about the Universe.

BOOMING VOICE: I can only answer questions regarding tickets for the Intergalactic Community Players Productions. Sorry.

PETE: Well then maybe you can just go and we’ll figure things out for ourselves.

BOOMING VOICE: Agreed! You must be independent and brave. Much like Ado Annie who had to…

PETE: Get out of here!

WITH A GREAT CLAP OF THUNDER AND LIGHTING, THE DARK FIGURE DISAPPEARS AND THE FOG CLEARS.

PETE: I guess we’re lucky we’re not ruled by an actual intergalactic overlord. And that Sean Spicer isn’t trying to get everyone to see his play.

DEB: Well, it’s only the first week.

PETE: It’s gonna be a long four years…

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