#i have magic now and the wonder boy bull can suddenly live more then usual 12 years

[whollysensei]

since people liked my previous best budds drawing i think it's only fair to draw more of it so now they're YOUNGER

#pathologic #мор утопия #artemy burakh #артемий бурах #wonder bull #noukher #the haruspex #artists on tumblr #sketch #big dad man now in a child form #big bull boy shrank as well #or not #i have magic now and the wonder boy bull can suddenly live more then usual 12 years #though if big dad man is 28 yo and wonder bull is quite old perhaps about 11-12 yo #then artemy on the pic is 16-17 so i hope he atleast looks the age #maybe i'll draw kiddo puff cheecks boi soon #fucking watch me #i just need to pass all my uni exams first...

[astaroth1357]

How Often They Worry about MC…

For those who don’t know, I have a little dog named Charlie and she is a large portion of my world. There's no need to be alarmed, my dog is fine, but there are days where I hold her and all I can think about is how much I worry about her health down the line… I suppose we often do that for the people we love, particularly the ones who may not last as long as we will. Take that as inspiration if you'd like.

Lucifer 

Near constantly. 

If you tracked his blood pressure on a grid, you'd see it start to continuously rise about when he decided they were worth having in his life.

Lucifer is the eldest sibling to a whole crew of brothers so he's no stranger to worry. He worried about his brothers when they were young, he worried about them after the Fall, and he still worries about them now (even if he's less open about it).

But a part of him knows that his brothers can handle their own, at least to varying degrees. The MC, though? He's far less sure…

They've proven rather resilient, but also headstrong and reckless. Neither of which are good things to be in a place this dangerous...

If Lucifer isn't careful, he can catch himself staring at a wall or window just wondering where they are and if they're doing alright… If he called them every time he had a passing worry, their inbox would be full by the end each week.

He holds himself back because he doesn't have the time to constantly protect them, but that doesn't stop him from sending a text once or twice a day. They better respond or he'll start (secretly) panicking.

Mammon

He forgets their mortality from time to time, but every time he remembers it hits like a ton of bricks…

Mammon is a pretty "in-the-moment" person. He doesn't spend a lot of time dwelling on the future, but whenever he does the thought of losing MC always comes back to him again and again.

Like. It's gotta happen eventually, right? They're human, humans die, hell they don't even live that long to start with!

The MC can always tell when Mammon's getting worried because he'll get uncharacteristically quiet and pace around or hover by them…

Every little injury or strenuous task will suddenly seem like too much to him as well. 

If they need to carry some boxes, he'll carry them all.

If they have to jog to class, he's carrying them. 

If they so much as get a papercut, he'll have a heart attack.

It's not very hard to get Mammon out of these funks - he really does want them to reassure him that they're okay - but he's never going to get fully over it…

Not until he can steal whatever top secret immortality formula Solomon must have used anyway… He'll get it off that bastard eventually.

Leviathan

Thinks about it so often he has to actively try not to just to get any peace…

He dodges his fears for MC like a protagonist dodges lasting consequences. Every time he feels one creeping up, he's always got a distraction waiting…

"Hey where's MC at? I hope they didn't fall into the riv-OH HEY CHECK OUT THIS NEW GAME!!"

"What are they doing over there…? That looks hard, what if they bre-WAIT DIDN'T MY FAVORITE VOICE ACTOR JUST RELEASE A NEW PODCAST???"

"What if the MC dies tomorrow and they leave me all alo-DEVIL FIGHT 200! YOU CAN'T BEAT DEVIL FIGHT 200, LET’S BREAK MY HIGH SCORE!!"

Cut him some slack, his psyche cannot handle the idea of losing them on top of everything else he grapples with every day.

If, on the rare occasion, he does let himself fall down that rabbit hole he becomes extra clingy and practically begs MC not to leave his room… like ever. He'd bubble wrap them if he could.

Anytime they get really hurt or really sick he refuses to leave their side even if it means he has to awkwardly sit on the floor. He just needs to be able to glance at them every so often to be sure they're alive… Still breathing?? Phew…

Satan

He worries, preps, rationalizes, then worries again…

For Satan, knowledge is power and every scrap of information he can learn about MC is more power he can use to keep them safe and healthy.

Yes, he will want their medical history. Yes, he's going to need a list of prescriptions. Family members too. And no, you do not get a choice.

He'll read up on as many things as he can - pawn medical journals off of witches and get magical alternatives from Solomon.

The cycle usually goes: 

1. He's lying awake at night because he just heard about some terrible bacteria that makes human's skin peel off or something.

2. He does all the research he can on this bacteria, its treatment options, best prevention methods, etc.

3. Gets right about to break out the rubber booties for MC to wear around, then realizes they have a very slim chance of catching said bacteria since it's only native to incredibly remote parts of Indonesia.

4. Feels instant relief that MC will probably not catch flesh-eating bacteria and can finally sleep again…

5. Hears of some other human medical horror from Solomon and starts to worry…

It's a vicious cycle indeed… But at least he's getting a lot of medical training. Soon enough he'll be the Devildom's version of a human vet (which I guess is just a doctor, come to think of it. 🤔)

Asmodeus 

Lives so "here-and-now" that he doesn't remember often, but when he does it's always heartbreaking…

Asmo usually tries to worry about things as little as possible. It’s bad for the skin, you know? But when the MC is involved, all of that goes out the window.

Like how a delicate blossom eventually wilts in the snow, the MC is bound to leave them in time… Usually there's supposed to be something beautiful in that kind of tragedy, but perhaps he's just too close to them to find any romance in it.

The thought of their death gives him breakouts and anytime they get hurt or sick he's the first brother to offer them comfort. Every time.

Because he doesn't feel like he's as physically strong as he brothers, he tries to make up for it by minding their health in other ways. Anything to keep his MC strong and beautiful as always!

If Asmo is in a worrying mood, then he may also compensate by trying to take the MC out to a party or some fun event. Why sit around worrying by himself when he could be making memories with them now, right?

Beelzebub

It comes in waves, mostly at night.

When your thoughts throughout the day are mostly, "I wish I wasn't so hungry," it doesn't afford you a lot of time to think about much else.

In a way, it's a good thing since he experiences a lot less stress. But those worries are still there and they mostly plague his dreams…

Beel doesn’t feel hungry when he's sleeping, so a lot of his fears will make themselves known overnight. An injured or dying MC is often in his rotation of nightmares though, of course, he'd rather it not be…

After having one of these dreams, his first instinct is to always make sure the MC is okay. If they're with him, he'll hug them and check their heartbeat. If they're somewhere else, he'll go to them or shoot a text.

He has woken up without realizing his nightmare was all a dream though, and usually it's up to Belphie or MC themselves to console him while he cries… It's so heartbreaking, sweet boy just puts a lot of pressure on himself to be sure they're safe…

When he worries, it's like they're the most beautiful and expensive China set in a room full of bulls and hammers. If he could tape them to his side, he probably would. He gets scared for them that much…

Belphegor 

More scared about it than anyone else in the House.

Despite his calm demeanor, Belphie is truly afraid of losing his loved ones beneath the surface… He's already lost one of his most dear siblings before, going through that again may just break him.

Unfortunately, he's also felt just how fragile the MC is firsthand... He's not even the strongest of his brothers, yet he was able to snuff them out so easily… Who's to say someone else won't try?

Like Beel, MC's death is a recurring nightmare for him but he can usually shake off his dreams fairly well, if not change them mid-sleep. More scary is when something is actually wrong with them or they're not feeling well.

Belphie always sets his inner laziness aside for the MC when he can. If they get sick, he'll usually be right along with his family to take care of them - even if he has to skip school to do so (not that he cares about class anyway).

When he's worrying about them, he tries to play it off at first, but soon enough they'll notice him acting overly concerned and losing sleep… Best to calm him down before he starts getting cranky.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons

[shurisneakers]

harmless (vi)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)

Warnings: cursing, existential crisis, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, lil bit of angst, clint barton being a lil shit

Word count: 1.9k

A/N: BUCKY BARNES IS BACK AND HAS A CONFIRMED PERSONALITY 

also omg everyone who’s been sending me ideas- ur the lomls. 

if you have any ideas for future inventions/evil plans, lemme know! i might actually end up using them

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

Your place or mine? ;)

He stares at the text.

The right answer is mine. See you at the lair.

“Y’all are dating now?” Clint peeks over his shoulder. 

“Fuck no,” Bucky says indignantly. “God forbid.”

“Okay, man,” he retracts, giving Bucky space to turn around and face him. “What do you want to call your mini dates then?”

“Missions,” Bucky corrects him.

“No one wants to go on a mission. You volunteered to go back there.” 

“It’s for the good of the tristate area.” 

“I bet.” The snort he lets out contradicts his words. “Whole world is depending on you, Barnes. Go save them from the treachery of your crush.”

“Enemy.”

“Girlfriend.”

“Mortal nemesis.” Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “Go further, I dare you.”

“What are you gonna do? Choke me? Punch me with your metal arm?” Clint cranes his neck. “Bring it, big boy. I’m not scared of some kinky shit.”

He hates living here. 

The door is left open for him. 

This time, even though the lair is still illuminated by the green light out in the front, there’s a minor change. Sunlight streams in through a skylight in the roof. 

There’s a ladder there, leaning against the rim. It gives him an entrance to the roof, which, judging by the lack of any other presence in the lab, is where he’s supposed to go.

As he gets closer he notices there’s a note on one of the rungs.

‘Evil’ with an arrow pointing upwards.

He rolls his eyes, discarding it on the floor before swiftly scaling the steps.

“Ah, Mr. Barnes,” he hears your voice call out even before his head pops up above the surface. “We’ve been expecting you.” 

He pauses, looking around. “Who’s with you?”

Because other than the gigantic machine pointed up towards the sky, there’s only you with a visor and sunglasses. The  best way he can describe its design was that it was shaped like a pine cone, had a large antenna pointed towards the sky, two handlebars near its base to manoeuvre it with a large button in between them. 

“Just imagine I have my henchmen with me,” you urge. “I’m on a budget, man, I can’t afford them yet. Maybe when my cloning machine finally works-”

He doesn’t answer.

“It’s a James Bond reference,” you add when he doesn’t show any signs of answering. 

“Haven’t watched it yet.” Bucky shrugs. “We’re doing Star Trek right now.”

“You’re done with Star Wars?” you, receiving a nod in confirmation. “Nice. You’d find the spy shit ridiculous anyway, it’s way below your level.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He makes a mental note to add the Bond movies to the list. 

“Speaking of stars,” you begin, gesturing to the machine. “I’m going to harness the power of the sun.”

“For what?” He doesn’t bother asking how, he already knows you’ve figured out something. 

“There’s a science exhibition and my team’s stupid solar car experiment isn’t working and I need it for them to win.” 

“So build a better one.” 

“No, ours is the best and if Jeff and his stupid baking soda volcano beat us then we’re going to have a murder on our hands.”

“Your hands,” he emphasises. He has nothing to do with this.

“I said what I said, boy.” You glare at him. “This is our problem now.”

“How much power are you taking?” If it’s insignificant enough, it wouldn’t matter much. He thinks. 

“The whole thing.”

He laughs. He stops when you don’t.

“You’re taking all the energy of the sun to power your shitty science model.”

“Your face is a shitty science model,” you mimic him in a higher pitched voice. “I will do anything to win.”

He wonders which grade kid you stole that insult from was in. There’s no way they were anything older than 13. He could use it on Steve, maybe.

“Everyone on Earth will die.” He feels the need to remind you, even though there was no way it was actually going to take place. Eat shit, Clint. This superseded the tristate area.

“Not for eight minutes.” You look at your watch. “And, if Jeff dies then I win by default.”

“You’ll die too,” he points out. 

“I’ll die a winner.” You nod seriously as if that makes it better. 

He’s not that worried. Experience tells him that you’re not a mass murderer willingly. 

“You’ll die an idiot.” 

“Only if you don’t stop me.” Your lips curve into a smile. “And how will you when I do this?”

You yank the machine to point towards him and slam the button. His hand reflectively pulls in front of him to defend himself. Something hits him with enough force to send him skidding backwards slightly. 

He removes his hand carefully from in front of him, looking at you. 

Something feels off.

“You just-”

The knives strapped to his thighs suddenly feel heavier.

“Took your powers?” you finish his thought. “Yeah.”

He feels his body tip towards his left. He’s suddenly very aware of the weight of the arm. Had it been this heavy all this while? 

“You’ve barely changed,” you noted, “You’re just regular Bucky but like, 20% less beef.”

After all, he was a boxer when he was a teen. One of the best men the Howling Commandos had even before the serum.

His shoulder feels heavier though. And somehow he thinks he’s sensing things a little less. He can’t really hear the faint buzzing of the generator downstairs anymore.

“Yep, that’s real muscle.” He turns when you poke at his shoulder. He doesn’t know when you got there. “You’re like a modern day Schwarzenegger. Grade A beefcake.”

He can’t see the construction site near the horizon as clearly as he used to. 

Something about this situation makes him feel like he’s going to have a midlife crisis, even though he’s overshot the age by a huge number. No one has a midlife crisis at 106. 

“Now that we’ve established that this works,” you say, back near the machine again. When did you walk there? “Let’s show this bitch that I’m the brightest star allowed in this solar system.” 

He shakes his head to jolt himself awake, shoves aside his mental dysfunction and breaks out into a sprint when you pull the device down to aim it at the sky. 

He latches onto the side, using his left hand to pull himself up, straddling the machine.

“Excuse me,” you exclaim like it’s a minor inconvenience and he feels the machine sway wildly under him. “You’re weighing it down, get off my inator.”  

You’re shooting recklessly, trying to shake him off. It’s not dissimilar to the mechanical bull Natasha made him ride during a mission down south so she could win money off placing bets on him. They had lobster that night.

He reaches down to its side, hoping to feel maybe a panel he can rip off. He finds nothing.  

He hopes none of the rays are actually hitting anything. It’s a little harder to stay on than he’d imagined it would be, and he thinks that maybe this wasn’t the best plan. 

He changes his mind in a split second, swinging himself over so that he can climb the underside of the machine like a monkey bar. He feels like a fucking insect. How was Peter not mortally embarrassed? 

He factors in the fact that his hands are getting clammier and his grip is slipping faster than usual. Also, he can taste his lunch at the back of his throat.

“Motherfucker,” Bucky curses when his hand slips, leaving him to hold on only by his metal arm. 

“You okay?” you call out, not giving him a second to recover unless he really needed it.

He lets out a grunt, swinging his arm up and catching hold of the antenna, yanking it down and towards the machine itself. He pulls himself up so that he’s straddling the machine again. 

One more shot and-

“Very smart, Barnes,” you say dryly, letting go of the handles. 

He sends you a sly grin before sliding down the barrel, kicking the large button with his heel right before he jumps off. 

The beam shoots out, instantly meeting with metal. The device automatically gives a mechanical groan before powering down, turning off altogether. 

“I hate you,” you huff, before noting his paleness. “D’you want some water? An IV maybe?”

He dismisses it with a wave of his hand, inhaling heavily to catch his breath.

He’s tired, more so than he would have been under any normal circumstance. He feels a little dizzy, a little disoriented. 

“Don’t worry, your magic powers will be back in a few minutes or so.” You examine the bent antenna, pressing the button and sighing when it stands there lifelessly. “Once Jeff wins, I’ll send the dry cleaning receipt to you. You can pay to get the tear stains out of the kids’ outfits.”

“Your tears or theirs?” He’s relieved about the powers returning, he thinks.

“Both, bitch.” Your eyebrow quirks at his retort. Clearly, he had more energy in him than people realised; his brain seemed to be working fine. He was stronger than you thought. Good for him. 

“You’re smart. You’ll figure something out.” He lets out a final exhale before standing up a little straighter. 

“Thanks. It’d be better if you asked your billionaire tech genius to send us something, but okay.”

“It’s a middle school science exhibition. Make a potato battery or something.”

You tsk-tsk. “No points for creativity, Mr. Barnes.”

It creeps into his mind without warning. He wonders if he actually wanted the powers back. Wonders what his life could be if he maybe retired, settled down. For the brief time he feels like his pre-war self, he starts to think like his pre-war self.

“I’m not the one who’s about to lose to a baking soda volcano,” he finds time to respond, however. 

“Your face is a baking soda volcano.” You narrow your eyes at him. “I will not lose.”

“You’re running out of time. Chop chop.”

But the thought hits him. Who is Bucky without his super soldier serum? If he doesn’t have his powers then he can’t think of what use he is to the Avengers.

Who the hell is Bucky if he can’t provide a service to others? How else does he make up for being himself?

His, what he’s now deemed, afterlife crisis is starting to look more apparent.

He compartmentalises and stores it away in a box. He’ll bring it up with his therapist later. 

“I’m going to win and then you’ll be sorry you weren’t a part of it because you didn’t let me steal the sun.” 

“If you win, I’ll still be glad I didn’t let you.” He climbs back down the ladder, feeling the ache in his muscles reduce with every passing minute. 

True to your word, his powers do return a while later. 

And while he’s watching Avatar: The Last Airbender with Peter in the living room two days later, his phone beeps with a text. 

It’s a picture of a blue first place ribbon next to a toy car that looks like it’s powered by a potato battery. Beside it is an out of focus middle finger that is aimed at him. 

Congratulations, he texts back. Told you potato batteries always win.

Your face always wins, he receives in return. He can’t tell if you’re insulting or flirting with him. 

He just shuts his phone off and goes back to watching the show. 

Next part

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #harmless fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

[goldenhour-goldenboy]

I love the ask you did with William and his s/o and Benny, would you be up for more of those? I really loved that request. Do you have anymore hcs on it?

Aww, I glad you like them! I don’t have them ready, stashed somewhere secret but I am more than happy to write some William + S/O feat. Benny because it’s one of my fav combos :D I didn’t do it in traditional hc style but more like snippets, like I did last time. I really love this format, it’s like getting a glimpse into a situation :)

William and You and Benny (basically), the second

“No, no, no - tell me again!” You laugh, leaning back against Will’s chest as he adjusts the blanket wrapped around you two - or rather himself, with you wrapped up in his arms. “I always thought he got that scar on his forehead when he was in a car accident.”

“No, that’s the one on his back.” Benny corrects you, poking the logs with a branch. They crack yet again and the wind carries a welcoming flash of warmth in your direction. You settle even more against Will’s chest, being content and kept warm with his heat radiating through your body from his the back and the fire doing it’s job from the front.

“No, he - You told me it was from the windshield!”

“Got a lot of scars.” Will sends you a half hearted shrug, an embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I got them confused.”

“Bull-shit.” You turn back to Benny who grins to you over the fire, a satisfying look on his face from exposing his brother’s little secret like that as the flames reflect in his eyes. “I can’t believe you just ran into a glass door. Always thought that only happens in movies.”

Will grumbles something incoherent into your hair, his cheek pressed against the top of your head. His beard slightly scratches over your scalp but you don’t mind, you’re used to the feeling by now.

“No, it also happens in the Miller household.”

“I was eleven … ” Will tries to defend himself weakly.

“You were reading and didn’t watch where you were going. Always had your nose stuck in some book, you tiny little nerd.” Ben shoots back immediately. A pine cone goes flying to Ben’s direction and he dodges it easily. “Hey!”

“Who walks and reads at the same time?” You wonder but none of them seems to hear you.

“It was a letter, not a book!”

“A letter?” Both you and Benny exclaim at the same time, neither of you knowing that tiny little detail before.

You turn to give Will a surprised look. “What - like a love letter?”

The blush creeping up on Will’s neck is answer enough and now Ben’s howling with laughter. Will hurls another pine cone at him and this time it bounces off of Benny’s chest. “I was eleven!”

“Do you want me to get started on the garlic and the onions?”

“No, put do the meat first, please.“ You shuffle around the kitchen, grabbing a few small cucumbers from the bowl on the counter before returning to your place at the side with a chopping board. “It’s in the fridge, lower cabinet.”

“I know.” Ben chuckles and you forget how often he has been helping in the kitchen and cooking with you. Will, on the other side of the island is concentrated on shuffling a stack of cards, been that for the last 10 minutes now. Usually it would be him cooking and Benny watching but this evening the cards are, literally, turned.

“Is this your card?”

You barely glance up to shake your head, yet again. “Nope.”

Will heaves a frustrated sigh and begins to shuffle the cards yet again. He’s been trying to get either yours or Benny’s guess right and so far, he has gloriously failed.

“I think you need to go back to magic school, Will.”

“I think you need to shut your mouth and concentrate on the meat.” Will mumbles back at his brother before moving around the counter to hold out the flared out cards in Ben’s direction. “Pick a card.”

“I know.” Benny draws a card, holds it up in a dramatic fashion before stacking it back into the rest.

“Did you remember your card?”

“Yes, William.” You snort at Ben’s voice taking on a high pitch. “We’ve done this the whole night. Do you remember?”

“Let the man shuffle his cards in peace, Benjamin.”

You have exactly one minute of quiet in the kitchen, where Benny’s stirring the pan, you continue chopping and William is thoroughly mixing his deck of cards, leaning against the counter. It could’ve been nice, really, but then Will draws one card and holds it up for you and Benny to see. You’re suddenly more interested in the cucumbers.

“Is that your card?”

“Yes!”

“Really?” William turns the card around in disbelief and now you have to look up too.

“Yes, that’s my card! King of hearts.” Ben’s voice is stern and honest but you’re not the only one that’s spotting the faint glimmer in his eyes. Will lowers the card in disappointment.

“Ben, is that your card?”

Now there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “No.”

Sometimes you forget, though. You forget, this isn’t reality, this isn’t normal and before you know it Will’s drawer in your bedroom is empty again, his duffle bag and a backpack sitting on your bed. His hair is cropped short as he steps out of the bathroom, already dressed in his uniform and your heart clenches with the heavy heartache that comes with saying goodbye. It’s a last long hug at the door for both of the Miller boys and a kiss that you don’t want to end, fighting back tears as you watch Ben and Will getting in the car and you have to force yourself to lift your hand as a wave goodbye as they pull out the driveway.

The house without Will seems empty, the bed too big without his body dipping the side of the mattress in his direction slightly. Days become weeks, weeks become months and though it’s not the first time Will’s gone again, you have to keep reminding yourself almost daily he’ll be coming back, he’s fine, he’ll be coming back.

When the phone rings you’re excited, almost dropping a bowl you’re drying off as you rush to pick up the call. The “Hello?” you breath out gets almost caught in your throat from how fast you spit it out and it’s a wonder the other person on the line understands you at all.

“Y/N?” It’s not Will - it’s Ben. The excitement that rushed through your body seconds ago turns to ice. “Hello? Y/N, are you there?”

It takes too many hours for you to get to the foreign country Will and Ben flew out to weeks ago, too many hours trapped on a plane, only being able to repeat Ben’s few words in your head. “He’s been wounded, shot – Y/N, it’s bad, it’s really bad.” His hollow voice still echoes through your skull as you land and hail a cab. It takes too long to go to the hospital. “It’s really really bad.” You walk through cold and sterile hallways, the only familiarity being the burning scent of anti bacteria scrub. “They say you should come.” The hallway spits you into an more open waiting area and suddenly there’s Ben. A dry sob escapes your lips before you know it.

“Ben?”

You’re met with red eyes, hallow cheeks. Ben’s head snaps up so fast at the sound of your voice, eyes wild with fear and terror you almost flinch back but his expression immediately softens as he sees you, clutching your bag to your chest and crying - crying, crying, crying. You’ve held the tears back the whole time, didn’t cry when you got the call, didn’t cry on the plane but seeing Ben just as you unraveled  is the last straw. Suddenly there’s an arm around you and you sob into Ben’s chest, body shaking and fighting for a breath that won’t make it to your lungs.

“Oh my God, Y/N –” 

You choke and cling to him, desperate to feel some sort of comfort but Ben’s arms fails it’s magic. Instead Ben falter’s as well, gripping you just as tightly and it feels like you stay like that for forever, standing in the middle of the waiting room, heart beating hard against your ribcage, praying for the same man that fights for his life just a couple of doors down.

“I can’t look! Oh no, nonono. I can’t watch it!”

“Yes, you can!” Benny next to you doesn’t sound convinced either as you scoot further back from the screen as if bringing some distance between you and the TV might change any plot that’s already unwrapping before you. The blanket’s being drawn higher and higher in an desperate attempt to cover your eyes, yet you’re still too curious to wait and see what happens next.

“Ben, if she dies I’m gonna vomit.”

“No ones gonna vomit.” Will grumbles and you feel the vibrations rattle through his chest where you’re currently curling your face into. Though his voice is steady and he sports an unmoved mask with his eyes glued to the television you can tell his arm isn’t quite as relaxed around you as usually and there’s a certain lack of his finger trailing up and down your skin. “If anyone of you vomits I’ll throw you out myself.”

You shoot him an amused look.

“Yes, even you, my Love.”

The episode of Throne’s continues to play in front of you, all of your focus shifting back to the screen but it’s not for long until banter ensures again. You’re used to it by now, all of you squished on your tiny couch, both of Ben and you barely holding back on the comments because your hearts just clench every episode and you need to voice your emotions before either of you collapse of a heart attack. Will, on the other hand sits through each episode with a tense focus, body flexed as if he’s the one fighting for his life and at times holding you so tightly, you need to wiggle in his arms a bit before he relaxes them enough for you to take a deep breath as another plot twist is revealed.

A dreamy look glosses over Ben’s feature as Sansa appears on screen again and you can’t keep the grin to yourself as you nudge him teasingly with your foot. “Benny-Boy … ”

“I’d die for her.” It’s a short, ernest statement. Ben’s voice is dead serious, his expression so sincere you have to laugh into your blanket. “No, really. I’d kill Ramsay and then steal a horse and we’d live happily ever after.”

“You’d die of pneumonia in the first week.” Will muses as he shifts behind you slightly.

“I would not!” There’s a sheepish grin spreading on Ben’s face and he starts to wiggle his eyebrows. “I’d keep her warm and cozy just fine.”

“She’d hop off your horse the second you’re in the clear and then probably friend zone you forever.” You throw in your own plot. “And then die of pneumonia.”

There’s another foot being kicked in your direction but you pull up your legs just in time to dodge it and it’s Will who feels the pain, sending his brother a warning glare. “Try that again and I’ll throw your ass out like the Hound.”

#william miller #benny miller #triple frontier #triple frontier imagine #william ironhead miller #william ironhead miller imagine #william miller imagine #william miller x reader #william ironhead miller x reader

[elpiething]

Pointy Wooden Bits - Adoribull

Rating: M Warnings: Transformation, mild violence.  What It Actually Is: AU feat. Pirate!Bull and Cursed Figurehead!Dorian.  Notes: Is it odd that I’m excited to finally use the ‘Halward Pavus’ A+ Parenting’ tag? You can find this story on Ao3 here. 

-

Honestly, Dorian thought his father was being a bit over dramatic about all this. And he would tell him so, loudly and in grand public fashion, if he were not presently rooted in a pose of seductive invitation.

And made of wood.

Because, as Halward said, if he were going to be such a whore, he might as well be useful about it.

And then he’d made him into a fucking figurehead.

Which is in itself ironic, because it had always vexed his father so to see Dorian exposing himself, and now here he was, arms eternally outstretched, tits out in the open air, waiting to be purchased for slightly more than his usual drink and a smile.

It is simple enough to undo, my son. Halward said, like he hadn’t just rendered his son an inanimate decoration. You need only resolve to come home.

Stretched out like the heroine of some horrid romantic rag with Rilienus’ sheets still draped about him, he’s not certain how long he’ll be able to hold out amongst these cramped, dusty shelves.

Surely no one will purchase such a tawdry decoration. No one has such poor taste.

He has no idea.

-

The Chargers are red-faced with drink and elbowing each other near hard enough to bruise when they come across the grimy little shop with its collection of odds and ends. The Iron Bull has to duck and turn to make it through the door, and the shopkeep sucks his teeth at the sight of him.

He runs gentle fingers over a disgustingly pink tea set before gravitating towards the back, where a few figureheads in various states of repair hang in a riot of color and confusion.

And then, the whisper:

Krem! He hisses. Look!

In his voice, there is a mixed sense of wonder and pride. He stares, transfixed by the pierced brown nipples of a truly erotic carving.

Krem wanders over, still smiling and stumbling a bit, but the joyous expression fizzles a bit when he realizes exactly where this is going. “Chief. No.”

“Lookit that moustache, Krem. There’s real character there.”

“We both know it’s the pointy wooden nipples you care about.”

“They’re pierced, Krem. And he’s so pretty.”

“So was the one we knocked off.” Krem sighs. “Soft, pillowy breasts. Kinda like yours.”

Bull pouts, or gets as close to it as a qunari can manage. “He’s comin’ with us.”

At the bottom of the ocean, a busty redhead made of wood does not roll her eyes.

-

Under slightly different circumstances, Dorian would be living a well-frequented fantasy right now, being manhandled by a great hulking qunari with calloused hands.

That is, if a giggling elf weren’t presently securing him to a ship’s bow with magic that is simultaneously cold and itchy. But as the power ebbs, he’s taken by a sensation rather like a full-body sigh.

The wood at his back welcomes him in, and he feels the wind in the sails, the creaking of the deck, and the soft lapping of the waves on skin that is far thicker now. It’s almost like happiness, until that familiar twinge of boat sickness turns in his belly.

Oh dear. He thinks.

“Nice tits.” Another, angrier elf scoffs.

The Skinner, the ship supplies, helpfully.

The qunari—The Iron Bull— pats his hip gingerly and says, “Welcome home, big guy” and his ragtag—his crew, his precious crew. Footsteps on the boards. Skin on rope on sun on salt—they head up to their cabins with the soft-woven hammocks and ready themselves for sleep, and suddenly Dorian’s arms fall from their stiff position.

They ache horribly and all he wants to do is follow these strange folk down into the depths of sleep. But he’s attached to a ship bobbing on the water, and he is the farthest from freedom he has ever been.

But suddenly he can move, which is a thing that figureheads are most certainly not supposed to do.

“Kaffas,” He rasps.

Because he can do that, too.

-

The Chargers are strange, for pirates.

They’re strange for any group, really.

The Skinner hates humans, but tolerates the Krem, the Grim, and the Stitches, who are probably not named thus, (but the ship does not care.)

The Bull hangs somewhere between the Qun and the family, which is not part of the Qun, but very much a part of the Bull. Just like the ship is now part of Dorian.

No.

Yes, very much.

Fine.

Thank you.

Another wave of warmth, which is nice, because it drowns out the nausea and odd, because he is now sharing his consciousness with a boat.

But the Chargers—the lot of them, they’re strange and affectionate and easy, even when they are also violent.

Dorian thinks, ‘This is what friendship is like. It must be nice.’

And the ship—it can’t frown, but it sighs very sadly in a rolling shiver under his skin. You know the friendship. You call it Felix.

And Dorian suddenly very much appreciates sharing his consciousness with a boat.

-

But. The. Chargers. Are. Strange.

And. Ours.

It’s rather like arguing with a small child over a toy. A toy they’re prepared to kill for.

-

They re-christen the ship The Bull’s Rack.

The Rack is proud of this.

Well, it does not laugh, but the sensation is similar. What would you call us?

‘Friend, I think.’

Felix.

‘No. That’s someone else’s name. You are you.’

The Rack does not respond. It is too busy quivering happily in the ocean breeze.

-

Their first engagement by sea is pain and chaos and fury, and Dorian feels it twisting through his every nerve and sinew. The Rack rolls and lunges with the waves, but this time he is not sick, he is powerful and angry. He rolls with the force of it and feels the roar of the cannons under Rocky and Grim’s steady hands.

He feels the volley of magic that Dalish desperately hurls and he supplements it, his mind clear, his every thought focused and sharp.

He is helping. They are his.

This ship is his.

This ocean is home, and he will inhabit it as fiercely and wildly as he has ever inhabited his own body.

He is not sick anymore.

You have never been.

-

Bull comes to talk to him, which is a surprise.

And then, even more surprising, Bull comes to talk to him often.

And, most surprising of all, Dorian does not move an inch, nor does he bask in the shallow praise the captain lavishes on him like a younger lover. He is suspended, peacefully enveloped in the rumbling tones of Bull’s voice.

He listens to his concerns about the weather, the crew, the shadows trapped in the corners of his own mind. He listens to Bull breathe and move, and for the second time in his life, he wants desperately to shelter another person.

You are, says the Rack.

And that night, the lanterns burn brighter. There’s a song in the rocking of the ship.

Dorian is made of wood and cannot blush, but still he glows.  

-

Dorian is proud, impossibly so, and he cannot keep the smile from his face. Even when the Chargers disembark to stretch their land legs and spend a bit of coin, he can’t seem to stop.

“Oy.” Stitches says. “Wasn’t he frowning before?”

“It’s happened,” Rocky grins. “You’re seeing things.”

“I’m tellin’ you, he was frowning.”

“Impossible,” Krem snickers. “Chief’d never bring home a boy who wasn’t smiling.”

But he is nervous, Dorian knows.

Because Krem is smart and observant, and he looks back when they’ve walked a ways away. And because he catches the twitch of Dorian’s outstretched arms.

They won’t believe him, the Rack tries to placate him.

But the idea makes Dorian sad.

-

Their next engagement is less painful.

Dorian was ready for the raw sensation of it, the fire running through the lines of rigging like blood through veins he no longer possesses.

Dorian is prepared, but in the dead of the night with Grim lulled to sleep in the crow’s nest by the soft rocking of the ship and the waves, the Chargers are not. The enemy peppers them with gunfire that would sink a lesser (and, admittedly, non-sentient) vessel, but the curse has evidently not negated Dorian’s considerable abilities.

The ship shivers under his protective barrier, and he feels thanks wash over him like the summer breezes in Qarinus. The Chargers rise with pounding, steady hearts, and they are his more than last time, more than ever as they hurry to the deck to see ‘exactly what the fuck’ that was.

A warship. The Rack would spit if it could, but it is a very well-mannered vessel, well-equipped with many conveniences, none of which are a tongue. Kill it.

‘We will.’

Kill it.

But the Chargers are just hitting the deck now, gawking at the shimmering barrier separating them from a worrying number of bullets.

“What in the Void?” Stitches spits, because he does have a tongue.

The Rack is very proud, and Dorian huffs.

“Who did that?!” Bull shouts—afraid, not afraid, disturbed by the unannounced use of magic around his crew—and Dorian is tempted to shout at him to worry about that later.

He shivers under the strain of maintaining his focus when everything is so open and real and he gives up being a well-behaved carving quickly enough.

He was never quite as handy with barriers as he was with certain...other talents.

He can feel Grim stumble and issue a colorful streak of language when the first massive gout of flame wreathes from The Bull’s Rack to whatever nameless little tinderbox thought it a fine idea to fire on their crew.

Bring them. The Rack urges, because through Dorian, it can feel the souls of those far below calling up, calling out.

“You think they’re scared stiff now, they’ll shit themselves if the dead start swimming.” Dorian growls, and it is the first time he has spoken in months. They are not moving. He needs them to move.

And, before he really knows what’s happening, he shifts in place.

We will hold you! Go, go, go!

Dorian feels the wood shift as he moves, bolstering him up as he climbs to the railing. He braces himself upon the deck by his elbows and frowns at the Chargers as one might at a group of misbehaving children.

“Well?!” He hisses. “Am I meant to do this on my own?”

To their credit, they make it to their proper places in record time.

But not before Dalish throws a bolt of energy at him.

It stings.

It stings worse than gunfire, worse than his father’s curses.

But still, the fire pours from him until he slinks back to his position and waits. The warship sinks, the waves grow quiet as the ship grows quiet as the night continues on.

He waits, but no one comes.

He waits until he sleeps.

The Rack will stand guard.

-

Grim is the first to come to him, in the middle of the night, two days later. He lies on his belly, arms resting on the very edge of the deck, and studies Dorian intently.

Dorian tries to be still for a few moments, but Grim is patient and Dorian is tired. He lowers his arms and looks up at the other man.

Grim waves.

Dorian blinks, and waves back.

Grim reaches out to hold Dorian’s hand, and just...stays there.

“Heard you singing.” Grim says.

And this time, Dorian’s relief washes over the Rack. The sails buzz with energy. In the chill of night, the deck is warm. Grim falls asleep there, and nothing assails him.

-

One by one, they come to him.

Stitches is bitter, but quick enough to forgive.

Krem is angry, but not so cruel as to blame him for...well, all of this.

Rocky and Dalish both think this is all great fun, and Skinner is surprisingly unbothered by it all. Wooden isn’t much better than flesh, as far as humans go, he supposes.

The Iron Bull is the holdout.

Dorian does not peek behind the flicker of his candle, does not reach out to warm his cabin, does not so much as send a breeze sighing over his skin.

He waits, and eventually, the Bull comes to him.

-

“So, the boys tell me you didn’t enchant me into buying you.”

“I didn’t. That was down to poor taste and alcohol. I suspect the latter more than the former.”

“Hey, I’d say my taste is pretty all right. You’re not ugly or anything.”

“Be still my—well, no…” Dorian sighs.  

Bull laughs, but Dorian does not. “Er, yeah. You’re actually pretty…” He lets out a heavy sigh and sits on the deck with a soft thud. “It’s pretty damn strange to have wet dreams about a statue.”

Dorian is quiet for a few moments, letting that spark of real pleasure race through his body and then down the length of the ship before settling in his belly. “Technically, I’m a carving.”

“Really? I’d say you’re more statuesque.”

“I’ve been told this profile ought to be cast in marble.”

“Too right.”

“You aren’t frightened of me?”

“Oh, no. Yeah. Scared shitless. All that demon-y shit, but—”

“Did you just refer to magic in its entirety as ‘demon-y shit’?”

There’s a distant, hissing, ‘Oooooh’ from Dalish, but she quiets when Bull shoots her a Look.

“Nah. Just the turning people into talking figurines parts.”

“I don’t believe any demons were involved, though I suppose that would be undue charity on my part.”

“But you’ve been with us a while, and it’s pretty obvious you’ve been keeping us safe.” He runs his thumb over the wood of the deck, and the Rack shares it with him because It’s yours. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take ya in a barnacle fight.”

Dorian is silent.

“Oh, come on. That one was good!”

“No, it wasn’t.”

But Dorian feels awake in a new way, with the open sky and the lapping water, and the feel of Bull settled warm and solid on his back.

-

Bull’s visits resume, but now Dorian gets to respond.

Gets to talk to him for hours.

Gets to keep these secrets not because Bull is unaware they’re shared, but because he wants to share them.

Bull’s hand comes closer and closer to the edge, and Dorian’s flesh—or his bark, or whatever he’s made out of now—is eager and waiting for touch.   

Bull’s fingers make contact, and Dorian feels as if his chest is open for the ocean air to spill in and fill him up. Impossibly, inevitably blue.

-

“You moved, right?”

“I can, to an extent.”

“Need to make some repairs. D’you think you could give me a hand?”

“Are you using me for cheap labor?”

“And convenience. Don’t forget convenience.”

“Do you see how he treats me, Krem?!”

Krem rolls his eyes and calls, “Pretty sure he’d replace me with a good, strong mule if it could run inventory.”

“Not true!” Bull laughs. “I’d at least hold out for a team of ‘em to hoist that maul of yours.”

Krem makes a rude hand gesture, and Dorian laughs. By the time he finishes and looks to Bull again, the soft smile has not disappeared from those thin lips.

“You up for some menial work?”

“Yes.” Dorian says. “And thank you.”

“What for?”

“The Rack has been sore. This will help.”

“Wait, you can—”

But Dorian is already off toward the place where the ship has been quietly hurting, already part of an echoing circuit of pleased acknowledgement. The ship supports and cradles him, and he feels so impossibly light.

His arms no longer hurt.

The sheet around his hips feels almost like silk again.

-

One night, they set up a card game near the bow, and Bull comes to the gap where they’ve removed a bit of railing so that Dorian might pop up to say hello.

Or judge them.

It’s anyone’s guess, really.

Bull kneels in the gap and reaches down like a proper gentleman, albeit one missing fingers, to help Dorian up.

Dorian takes the offered hand and moves his right leg, waiting for the strange shift of wood and what was once muscle to carry him upward, but it does not come. Instead, his leg—his leg!—draws free of the hull and hangs in empty space.

He grasps Bull’s arm tight, but does not cry out. It’s too much to cry out. The sudden shift in his weight, and—

And Bull thinks he’s playing. The great fool chuckles softly and pulls him up, up, up and free and then Dorian is falling against him, his skin softening, and the sheets loosening before falling at his feet in a useless, expensive pile.

Bull catches him, thunderstruck and blinking like a newborn nug. “You...legs?”

“Me legs.” Dorian breathes, and then they’re falling to the deck while the Chargers whoop and holler. He scrambles over Bull’s legs, into his arms and presses kisses everywhere he can reach.

The Rack vibrates with joy, and he hasn’t lost that connection. He hasn’t.

They’re together, they’re free.

And they’re home.       

-

“Bull,” Dorian murmurs, some days later, against the warm grey of Bull’s skin. The dawn light is just peeking in through the window, edging over the deep blue-black of the sea.

The Rack giggles, knowing and waiting and loving it all so dearly.

Bull grunts, still enjoying the ability to sleep in with a warm body in his arms and not attached to the bow of his ship. “Mmmm?”

“How would you like to help me...with my ‘morning wood’?”

Bull laughs so hard Skinner spits curses from the next room, and muffles it with his teeth in Dorian’s shoulder.

But that big, broad palm slides down between his legs and around his cock and blearily Bull jokes, “Look, no splinters.”

And Dorian is alright with that.

#Adoribull #my fic #writing

[factszenwor-blog]

What If You Played Video Games for 1 Day Non-Stop

You know, I’m not a gamer myself, but there was a time when I could sit all night long, playing some new and awesome game. And it’s then I wondered completely out of the blue: what would happen if I played for 24 hours straight?

You think I didn’t check it? Fat chance! 

What I did first was prepare in advance. I planned my game day for Saturday so that I’d have no work to do, could sleep until well rested for the event, and would have another day to recover after it. I bought a dozen Red Bulls (big ones, not those tiny little cans) and made sure I had enough coffee at home to keep me going. Then I fixed my armchair so that it was a bit less comfy than I’m used to — I believed it would help me not fall asleep too. Boy, was I wrong, but that’s getting ahead of myself. I turned off my phone so that nobody could call and distract me from playing, and put some easy-to-grab food on my desk next to the monitor. Of course, I realized I would have to, um, do some business from time to time, but I thought it wouldn’t be cheating to spare a couple of minutes to visit the bathroom. The alternative was just too gross, you know. Having done that, I began my… let’s call it an experiment, shall we? I chose an action RPG that I knew would take me a lot more than 24 hours to complete. I considered playing some MMO because, you know, it’s kind of eternal, but I’m just not into that stuff. So I opted for a single-player game. I launched it and off I went into the world of might and magic. By the way, do you play RPGs? What’s your favorite class? Let me know down in the comments! Me? I’m a sucker for wizards. Feels good to rain fire and brimstone on your foes. Well, what can I say? The first three hours flew by like one minute. When I looked at my watch, I had to catch my eyebrows from slipping right off the top of my head. I remember thinking, “Hey, if that’s how it’s gonna be, it’ll be the easiest experiment I’ve ever done on myself!” I didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, or tired, for that matter, just nothing. But come to think of it, that wasn’t really surprising, because it was just three hours, after all. After two more hours I finally started feeling a bit of discomfort in my belly. No, not that kind of discomfort. I needed some grub and water, so I took a couple of buns I’d prepared in advance and continued playing. By the way, I didn’t lose any interest in the game whatsoever! I guess it’s because when you’re playing, you’re inside that world, living that life, so you don’t give a hoot to what’s outside. Ah well, psychology is cool and all, but I’m not here for that. After seven hours I remembered that I had legs. Nature called, and I tried to stand up, but almost failed. Sitting in the same position for such a long time did the dirty on me, and first I had to twist and bend some life into my feet and knees. When I stood up, though, another surprise called: my back was aching. Remember I told you about the chair I rendered a bit uncomfortable? Well, joke’s on me! I decided to make it as comfy as possible instead — it wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes, so I guess it wasn’t like I cheated or something. Anyway, after no more than 5 minutes I returned to my game. Three more hours passed, I had another couple of buns and my first energy drink of the evening. Gaming started to take its toll on me — apart from leveling up my character real fast, I started feeling a bit tired. But I was determined to go on. After all, I only had 14 hours left. Two more hours in, and I popped open another Red Bull. Not that I had to energize myself, but I just needed a distraction. You see, I’d just completed a really awesome chain of quests, and I really had to savor it for a bit. Was I tired? Nah, forget it! I was pumped up and ready to go playing the whole night! I was also ready to go and fight the crime in the streets with my magic sword, but that’s another story. Be careful with energy drinks, pal . Another 3 hours, and that was 15 in total. It was late at night already, but I didn’t care. I was on a Quest! With a capital Q! I don’t really know what was happening to me after all those hours of playing, but once again, care I did not. All that mattered was that I was going to collect that legendary set of armor whatever it took. And after two more hours I finally got it! Woohoo! Now my character was virtually invincible, and I could do whatever I wanted without saving the game every several minutes. I jumped up and down in my chair with joy when the unexpected happened. It broke under me. Yeah, snapped just like that. 17 hours of non-stop playing, and all of it only to get my armchair broken. I gathered myself from the floor, rubbed my back, and remembered about my legs again.  Ouch! I forgot that I hadn’t stood up for hours and didn’t even stretch them every now and then, completely engrossed with my in-game progress. I used the opportunity, though, and walked to the bathroom. When I returned, I tried to fix the chair, but couldn’t. So I took some wooden one from the kitchen and set it before my PC, determined to finish the chapter before dawn. Oh, and there was also my experiment, right. I couldn’t leave it just like that. 3 more hours and two more cans of energy drink passed. I did finish the chapter just like I wanted and, having lots of time ahead of me, went on to the next one. By the way, I completed more than half the game by that time, which was an achievement in itself. My vision was just a tiny bit blurry because my eyes were tired from all that staring into the screen, and my thoughts were increasingly chaotic, but otherwise I felt absolutely fine. Remember that legendary set of armor? Scrapped it. It turned out to be awesome only before the third chapter, and when that started, my gear became trash almost at once. Anyway, I had four last hours ahead, and I realized I had to squeeze everything I could out of them. I started looking at my watch more often than before, wondering how it could be that time suddenly moved so fast. Three hours to go… then two… then one. I was still somewhere mid-game, and I wasn’t exhausted or anything. Or so I thought. When the last minute of my 24-hour marathon ended, I saw that, ironically, I couldn’t just save and quit in the area I was at the time. And I guess you know what I did then. Yep, I gave myself time to finish that zone. As soon as I was done, I thought, how about going to the nearest town and selling my unwanted loot? After all, that’s just a few minutes, not gonna hurt. So I came to the town, sold my wares, bought some new gear and potions — the usual stuff. And then there was that NPC with a question mark nearby. You know what that means, right? Of course I approached him! He told me there was a very promising quest not far from where I was. How could I miss such an opportunity? Well, you see where it’s all going, don’t you? I quit the game after another four hours. I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until I closed the game. I stood up and rubbed my eyes, and then I started stretching as if my life depended on it. I just couldn’t stop myself! 28 hours of sitting, of which 11 were spent in a wooden kitchen chair. Not a small feat, if you ask me! But I can proudly say that my quest — I mean, my experiment, — was a total success. Not only did I spend 24 hours gaming, but I even stretched that goal and came out victorious! I can’t say I had any serious trouble connected with it. Yeah, my eyes were sore, as were my legs and lower back, so I stretched like crazy and went on to do some exercise before going to bed. But otherwise, it was pretty cool. I don’t know if I’m ever going to repeat it, because I don’t have that much time on my hands, but I don’t regret it in the least. After all, I managed to complete more than two thirds of that game! But man, did I sleep like a log after that… Hey, if you learned something new today, then give me  like and share it with a friend!.

[killprettymagazine]

Never Again - An Edible Marijuana Horror Story

“Never again” is a phrase that you should utter with decreasing frequency as you mature: You should learn from your mistakes.  When you’re a kid, the world is full of sparkly phenomena, and you have not yet accrued enough disappointments to employ skepticism in investigating the seemingly endless sources of sparkle.  When you’re nine-years-old, for instance, you may not have yet learned that candied apples are detestable pieces of shit.  Imagine a giant apple that you can hold on a stick, like a king with a goddamned scepter, encapsulated by a reflective deep red coating.  Just the sound it must make when you bite into it, that crunch – you’re left with no choice but to force your parent or legal guardian to buy you one.  Then you try one.  It turns out that you can’t eat this magical apple like you would a regular apple, expecting each bite to be covered by a proportionate coating of candy, because hard candy doesn’t break like that; it shatters into many hostile shards of candy that annihilate your teeth.  It turns out, shards.  It turns out that if you wanted to, you could theoretically break the apple and use it as a fucking weapon.  And all that work and torture went into unearthing the most flavorless, soul-crushing apple variety: A Granny Smith.  Is it any wonder that so many of us develop trust issues as adults?

Sometimes, after experiencing a never again situation, you’re struck by a wave of amnesia and get pushed back into a neutral pre-trauma state.  Unfortunately, when this happens, the universe is burdened with the task of correcting you in a more memorable manner.

A few months ago, I suffered a bout of this type of amnesia during an ill-fated trip to a pot dispensary.  While there, I was brazen enough to pose the question, “Why don’t I ever get edibles when I shop here?” 

(As a side note, yes, I used the word “shop” in this context: While I am an avid believer in the medicinal benefits of pot, whose properties are vastly complex, visiting a dispensary sure doesn’t feel very medically official. You’d be hard-pressed to find a medication called “Alaskan Thunderfuck” at a conventional pharmacy). 

After interacting with the budtender at the dispensary - whose white lab coat, long Zen master’s beard and cosmic presence made me feel like I was talking to God - I got home and prepared for an epic night.  I purchased a ribeye that was so beautiful that I felt like I should apologize to it for the mess in my kitchen.  I was going to cook it sous vide at 130 degrees and then sear it to perfection in clarified butter.  Coltrane’s Giant Steps.  16-year-old single malt Macallan.  Porn, probably.  I ate half of one of the grown-up lozenges that I procured and risky-business’ed my way into the shower.

As I dried off with a towel, I felt the first signs of tingling in my toes; a very welcome sensation. About 20 minutes later, as I was tinkering with the immersion circulator, I still only felt the tingling.  “Shouldn’t I be giggling by now?” I wondered, “I’m preparing a bath for a steak while wearing a robe and I have a mustache.  I look like I’m about to fuck this steak.”  But my high seemed to be reaching stasis and I was not about to settle for the smooth jazz of evenings after dropping $25 on a single piece of meat.  I popped the other half of the lozenge in my mouth and proceeded with my grooming routine as the steak-bath reached temperature.

By the time the immersion circulator reached 130 degrees, a smile appeared on my face.  “That’s more like it,” I thought, “now I can honor the bull that was sacrificed for this evening appropriately.”  I would have never guessed that the next five hours of my life would consist of scrotum-gripping dread.

The first signs of trouble appeared as I removed the steak from the butcher paper in preparation for its bath.  I unwrapped the packet and stared in horror at the practically pulsating piece of flesh that I was about to consume.  I must have stared at the thing for the better part of five minutes.  “Oh, Christ,” I thought, “Not again.  I’ve already been through this – I’m not going to become a vegetarian.”  But I could not tolerate the idea of eating this steak so I wrapped it back up and returned it to the fridge, where I hoped it would be safe from whatever awful force was possessing me.  I opted for a couple of potatoes that I “baked” in the microwave.

As the potatoes cooked, which could have occupied anywhere from a few minutes to several weeks, I noticed that I could feel my heart beating in my chest without touching it.  “Does it always do that?” I wondered.  Suddenly concerned, I elected to take my own pulse; I placed my index and middle fingers on my wrist and started counting.  I kept losing my place and had to start over, again and again, which it turned out did not help my anxiety.  But I’m not a quitter; I would take my own pulse come hell or high water.  As I counted, it occurred to me that I had no clue about what constituted a normal or an abnormal pulse.  “Who do I think I am,” I thought, “a fucking doctor?”  But I continued to count for some reason.  My efforts were then interrupted by a heinously loud siren, which catapulted me out of my kitchen chair.  “JESUS CHRIST!” I exclaimed.  I no longer had to check my pulse; I knew that it was off the charts at this point.  I was on the verge of weeping from fear – then I realized that my potatoes were done.

I opened the microwave door to retrieve my potatoes, which now resembled the wrinkly testicles of a 90-year-old, and realized that I did not have enough saliva in my mouth to move my tongue, let alone to eat potatoes – the driest of root vegetables.  I shut the door, imprisoning the potatoes in the microwave.  It was time to lie down.  

“This lozenge is very, very mellow,” the budtender at the dispensary said.  “You’ll hardly notice that you’re high,” he said.  “One might not even be enough for you,” he said.  As the second half of the lozenge high-fived the first that was already reclining in a La-Z-Boy somewhere in my amygdala, I fantasized about finding that budtender, yanking him by his wizard’s beard and screaming, “IS THIS WHAT YOU MEANT BY ‘VERY, VERY MELLOW,’ YOU FECKLESS TURD?”  I wanted to strap him into a “good vibe” equivalent of an electric chair and pump him with the strongest possible current of good vibes until he exploded into a supernova of ineffectuality.  Because I wasn’t mellow, I was going to die.  I’m not using the phrase “going to die” to indicate that I was in any actual danger, nor in a histrionic Morrissey sense (…and you go home and you cry and you want to die).  No, as far as I knew, I was dying. 

I’ve danced around the rainbow of anxiety experiences in my life, including several shades located in the “bad pot trip” wavelength.  Most pot anxiety I’ve experienced, while often terrible, is usually short-lived: You smoke, the effects come on and intensify rapidly, you panic, you take a benzodiazepine (at least if you’re me) and 15 minutes later you’re back to watching cat videos on YouTube and eating pretzels.  Easy as pie.  This, on the other hand, was like some archaic form of corporal punishment – like being chained to a giant rock and then pushed off a cliff into the sea.

I was now curled up in the fetal position on my bed, my whole body trembling violently; I was a six-foot vibrator.  “W-w-when will it stop?” I might have said out loud.  The Ativan wasn’t working.  It occurred to me that I had no idea how much time had elapsed since I had placed the tiny pill under my tongue so I grabbed a small alarm clock that was on my nightstand and placed it right in front of my face on the opposite pillow.  It looked like the clock and I had just finished making love.  Then I realized that tracking time might not be such a great idea so I buried the clock under the covers and proceeded with my trembling regimen.   

At this point, my anxiety was so severe that my perception of reality started to waver; I felt like I was in a movie or a dream.  I was so scared that nothing around me seemed real and, every time I thought my fear could not become any more severe, I was proven wrong.  “Aren’t I supposed to be enlightened by now?” I wondered.  I was hitherto under the impression that if I would experience a state of fear that was adequately extreme, I would ultimately be led into a state of oceanic tranquility and be one with the cosmos.  “That Alan Watts didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about!” I thought. 

It was now 1:23 AM according to the clock that I hid under the covers.  My anxiety was not letting up and I was hallucinating.  I needed to talk to someone, preferably a human.  I needed to hear something other than my auditory hallucinations or the sound of my absurdly dry “NPR” mouth, the latter of which was really starting to grate on my nerves.  I didn’t want to call any relatives because I was worried about being chided for my weed blunder.  I called one of my friends but he was busy.  Then I suddenly remembered a recent conversation with another friend who, upon learning that I was going through a bad breakup, made the mistake of telling me that I could call him whenever I wanted if I needed to talk. 

“Did I wake you?” I asked.  “Umm, no,” he groaned in response.  “Yes, I did.”  Silence.  “I’m having the worst anxiety attack I’ve ever had.  I’m gonna die.”  “You’re not going to die.  Just breathe.”  The conversation consisted mainly of me proclaiming that I was going to die and my friend telling me that I was not dying.  He eventually tried to distract me by transitioning to other subjects but I could not focus on what he was saying.  At one point, it occurred to me that he was talking about Jeff Goldblum for a reason that was beyond my comprehension to such an extent that I considered taking another Ativan.  If I was going to die, I really hoped that my last conversation would not be about Jeff Goldblum.

After about 40 minutes on the phone, multiple references to Jeff Goldblum and several hundred “I’m gonna die’s,” I felt an internal release.  Finally, after about five hours of swimming through the rectum of the psychedelic spectrum, I was free.  I suddenly realized that my friend was still talking.  Eventually, noting my silence he asked, “You doing better?”  “I think so,” I said, “I’m starving now.”  I remembered that I still had those delicious wrinkled potatoes.  While cradling the phone on my shoulder, I walked over to the kitchen and opened the microwave door.  The potatoes looked like Guantanamo Bay detainees.  I suddenly remembered Obama’s quote, “…under my administration the United States does not torture” and started laughing maniacally.  I couldn’t breathe.  I tried to share this thought with my friend.  “I’m going to sleep,” he responded.  I continued laughing when I got off the phone.  I ate the potatoes and went to sleep, occasionally bursting into laughter in the dark. 

The next day I woke up and treated myself to a ribeye breakfast.  As I chewed the steak, I reflected on the events of the previous evening and wondered, “Was that a valuable experience?”  I concluded that it might have been but only in the crudest sense.  It would be like saying that the experience of intentionally hitting yourself in the balls was a valuable experience because it taught you not to do that.  Would you really have to be doubled in pain to figure that one out?  Still, I can say with gusto that I would sooner wipe my ass with a cactus than ever ingest another edible.  Never, ever again.

#edible #marijuana #horror #axiety #funny

[cullywullycurlywurly]

I saw you did an ask for someone else, so I hope this isn't rude but... I really like your dad!Cullen/Cullen-family stuff you write. I'm an adoribull fan and wondered if you would do a fic or drabble with them babysitting the babies? Only if you want to!

(Thanks for this, Nonny! Love a little Adoribull on my dash!)

“Maaaayhem!”

The echoed shouts seemed to bounce from the walls, and Dorian stood at the door to the bathing room, an unimpressed curl of his lip emerging at the sight that greeted him. “Yes, because turning the flooring into one large puddle is such a good idea.”

“Aw, come on, kadan. We were just causing-“

“Mayhem.” Bull’s grin was less than apologetic. “I believe even the guard on the furthest battlement now knows that to be fact.”

“But Uncle Dowian!” Conner lisped, wet curls plastered back against his head, grinning up at him from amongst the towering bubbles that only Bull could have assumed necessary, “what’s baf’time without maaaaayhem!” The young boy thrashed in the water, drenching the front of Dorian’s robe and causing Bull to snort with laughter, the mage raising an eyebrow as he stared the boy down.

“Must you splash so ferociously, Connor?”

“It’s not mayhem if you do it sensitively, now is it?” Bull splashed the boy back, causing peals of laughter and Dorian rolled his eyes as he turned from the bathtub.

“Festis bei umo canavarum.” They had agreed to mind the children for a night while the Inquisitor and Commander dealt with a matter outside of Skyhold; Dorian had no qualms in suspecting this suddenly arising issue was simply a night alone minus the small people he was now in custody of. Even he would admit that a night alone with his love in a tent would be considered romantic compared to wrestling two wriggling cherubs into the bath.  “Come, Imogen, that hair of yours will take hours to dry. Join me in sweet, dry sanity.”

The eldest Rutherford glanced over, dressed already in fresh pyjamas, fighting with the wet tangle of blonde that covered her head and followed him wordlessly out into their parents’ private quarters. They found a spot before the fire, and Dorian found himself wondering how on earth one human being could have so much hair as he dried it with the flannel towel. He focused as he worked, enough magic flowing into the thick comb to warm it as he brushed, separating thick blonde curls with care. She nestled into him, humming along with him as he combed, and the warmth of the fireplace filled the room, the glow of the hot embers cloaking it in peace.

He had never considered himself particularly paternal (Maker knows the brats he usually encountered irked him enough to consider investing his efforts into finding a method of reproduction that entirely skipped this phase of life), and he was usually thankful children were most certainly not included on the path he found himself walking. His own experience as a child left a lot to be desired, to say the least. But the little girl currently occupying his lap had been different, as had her brother. Sure, he had gingerly agreed to hold them both as newborns as the Inquisitor had thrust them at him, regardless of the matter that babies were most definitely not his thing. But as time had passed, they had begun to speak through the crystal of their own vocation, to add notes and drawings to the letters their mother had sent north. They were no longer wailing infants needing napkins changed - they were people. Inquisitive, cheerful, entertaining little people, and their charm was compelling. He loved to listen to them play, to marvel at the ingenuity of their endless imagination, and he found himself leaving their company a little lighter in his step. Not to mention threatening to turn them all ‘Tevinter’, and watching Elicia’s amusement and Cullen’s profuse panic, had become his newest hobby.

“Uncle Dorian?”

“Mh?”

“Will you teach me more about magic tomorrow? I want to learn more about the fire.”

He chuckled as he began to plait her hair, fingers working through long tresses. “I fear your father will banish me from Skyhold if I teach you anymore, lest you burn a hole in the curtains. He can be ferocious when he is angry.”

“Daddy?” She laughed, tucking her feet together and shuffling in place. “Daddy isn’t scary. Daddy is…well, Daddy. He’s funny and he tells good stories, and he makes my favourite cocoa and he plays chess with me…” She paused, twiddling her fingers as her face fell. “ He gives good cuddles, especially when I have nightmares. I don’t think I could ever be scared if Daddy is there.”

Dorian supposed many years ago he would have been jealous, even admittedly of this little girl, for something so very natural and normal. For boasting of having a father so involved that he could calm fear with a mere hug, for wanting to spend time with a child he loved. For being the towering, strong, wise, fearless figure of a father he supposed was written into Varic’s best tales. His father had certainly never approached even mediocre, and he wondered how differently his life may have lead had he had a father that too made cocoa and wiped tear-stained cheeks. That, however, was the past and he had no reservations that Cullen was every bit the adoring father to these children out of the same devotion that he suspected the man lived most of his life with, rather than through any desire to see bloodlines preserved or familial honour. And him? Well, he played the adoring uncle, aloof enough to avoid embroiling himself in petty things such as discipline, but involved enough to receive the latest artistic master pieces by raven.

“Well, I am glad he is good at something. He is terrible at chess, and I suppose it runs in the family.”

“Hey, I beat you twice today!” Imogen reached a hand back to prod at him before she sighed, curling a blonde strand around her finger as she straightened up again. “I like having you and Bull here.”

“Well, I suppose I rather like being here too. I have many happy memories at Skyhold.”

“Can’t you stay then? And we could have tea parties each Friday, and you could read me more of the books in the library and…and…it’d be great!”

Oh, and the thought was delightful, not only for the company of his de-facto niece and nephew. A library of his own to complete, to study and to research at his leisure. Bull nearby, at his beck and call when at home, with friends aplenty and the splendours of Skyhold to behold each day. But the cruel reality of duty pulled him back from imaging such pleasures - they were not his to dream of. He completed the plait with a tut, tying the end with a simple bow and tucking it over her shoulder before replying.

“As much as I may wish it, I must return to Tevinter. I am rather important, you see. However would the Magisterium cope without me? It would be so dull, so uninspiring, and so very bland.”

Imogen leant back into him, obvious disappointment in the scowl plastering across her face as she raised her eyes, meeting his gaze as she folded her arms. “What’s so good about Tevinter? What’s it like anyway?”

“Simply breathtaking. Wide landscape, dramatic scenery, the high spires of the city…It is rather brilliant.”

“It can’t be that brilliant. I’m not there.”

“No,” he admitted with a chuckle, patting her cheek with a tender smile. “You are not, little one. I suppose Tevinter shall always be missing that.”

“We could come and visit!” The moment was broken by the arrival of Connor, perched precariously on Bull’s horns, beaming broadly from underneath a thatch of golden curls that bounced with each large step.

“Suggest that one to your father and write me with his decision, Master Rutherford.”

Bull snorted once more, lifting the boy from his shoulders and placing him down on the awaiting bedsheets. “I’d pay silver to see Cullen’s face at the idea of a family vacation to Minrathous.”

Dorian managed to hold back the mirthful sneer that threatened, only for fear of having to explain the inner politics of Thedas this side of midnight to two easily excitable youngsters. He chivvied Imogen gently from his lap, straightening the robe he wore as he stood. “I am going to fetch our bedtime refreshments from the kitchen. I will leave you in charge of the story-telling, amatus.”

“Okay, okay. Settle down, c’mon, because this story kicks a…I mean…butt. Alright…once upon a time, there was a dragon. A biiiiiig dragon. And you know what dragons mean?”

The echo of mayhem followed Dorian down the stone stairs, and he could not help but quench the bittersweet taste in his mouth with the most exasperated, yet content, of laughs.

[kevicornell]

Sneak peek in "The Element Saga Vol 2 Rise of the Descendants "

“I honestly don't think doomed is a descriptive enough word for what i'm sensing, girls brace yourself I think we need to be ready for anything.” Misty added as she looked to Lee and Kate who nodded, while Megan and Alexis reached for their backpacks. “Now now ladies it's not polite to keep your fellow students and I waiting, I do believe I asked you a question.” Mrs. Ramirez stepped toward the students cautiously as she continued to crack her neck. Her hands were now at her sides with clenched fists and she grit her teeth as she glared at the girls. Lee looked at Kate and Misty who then looked over at Farrah, Megan and Alexis who all shrugged and nodded in unison. The girls slowly started to rise to their feet and they finally noticed that the other students were immobilized and at that moment Misty grabbed her stomach as she felt a sudden familiar kind of terror. “My dears you should know by now, that is story will not have a happy ending, from the moment you walked into those doors, your demise was imminent.” Mrs. Ramirez unclenched her fists as the doors to the classroom latched, she then took another step as she hunched forward with the sounds of bones popping from behind her. “HOLY SHIT THIS BITCH IS POSSESSED!” Lee thought louder than need be as the girls glared at her for a moment. “Don't be mad at the little healer witch, she’s surprised to see such splendor that's all,” The teacher snapped back as her chest shrunk and her butt grew in size, her legs turned black as she sprouted four more of them and her dress molded to her body forming a large bright red hourglass shape on her abdomen. Her head grew in size and the cracking of her bones made her grow larger as she grew three more pair of eyes. The girls stood taken aback in shock as their eyes widened and their mouths fell ajar in awe. “Don't worry my dears, did I forget to mention that we can read your thoughts too!” Mrs. Ramirez fired two webs out of her hands and locked onto the open doors in the back of the classroom and pulled them shut with a BOOM! “Silly little witches, always getting in the way.” “What in the actual fuck?” Alexis said out loud, while Megan reached in her bag. “That marking it looks like….” Kate started her thought when Misty cut her off out loud. “That's a WIdow, the spinster demon and if we don't act accordingly she’s going to eat us all.” Misty let go of Kates hand and summoned her black orbs, “Girls get ready and remember that we aren’t alone here, no friendly fire.” She nodded at Megan and then turned to Lee, the other girls all fanned out across the alse’s. Mrs. Ramirez slowly crawled backward and scaled the chalkboard as she spoke to the children in her class. “You didn't tell them that, you expecting a different result perhaps?” The spider slowly studied the witches and then her gaze shifted to one of the other students in front of Misty. “We need their gifts and we are only going to ask you to stand aside and let us!” Misty started to reach out for her class mate when suddenly the widow fired off a string of webs that snatched the girl right out of her seat. “NOW NOW CHILD, we all have to eat now don't we?” The spider hissed at Misty who held up her hands in haste. “Whoa whoa wait, you aren’t eating anybody here today, i'm not sure what you want or why you want us to stand aside? Who are you looking for exactly?” Misty asked her as she lowered her hands back to her sides and tightened her stance. “Caution child one more step and I’ll snap this brats sternum and have her guts for breakfast.” The widow started to spin the girl in her web at impossible speeds, spinning her around in a tight cocoon. “Misty wait, be careful we don't know what what were dealing with here!” Kate called out in warning as she studied the room looking for a way out. “Wrong Misty knows more than she’s letting on per usual, but I agree with Kate we gotta play this shit smart.” Alexis said as she shifted a step toward Megan which caused the spinster to hiss as she fired off five more webs snatching up more students wrapping them in webs. The witches all screamed out in protest as the cautiously watched as the widow flung her prey across the classroom, allowing them to stick to the walls like pinatas. “I told you to stand aside, one more step and I’d end this, and you still wouldn’t listen.” Mrs Ramirez climbed up the wall all the while never turning her head from the coven. “We have no idea what you're talking about okay, we have never heard of any damn prophecy!” Farrah called out as she stared up at the spider. “Perhaps you and your master have been mistaken and you can simply go about your business and leave us all including these other believers here be in peace!” Lee tried her best to sooth the beast while one of the others formulated a plan. “Foolish little girls, you think that you actually have a say in the matter? We will have what is promised to us and in the name of the one we serve, I shall see it so!” The spinster’s fangs began to salivate the words as they escaped her mouth. “Who is this damn master and what are we standing in the way of?” Megan asked as she glanced down at her open nap sack, “I think it's best if you let everyone go !” “What is the debt? How much needs to be paid in order for you to leave?” Alexis turned around to face the direction of the spinster so that she wouldn’t be caught off guard. “Where do we start? Who do we eat? Never the twain shall meet. You’ve seen the truth and you’ve watched them grow, once it's made aware you will all know.” The widow spinster serenaded the girls and she watched their puzzled faces as they acknowledged her words. “Did you hear her girls, we watched them grow, and once we are made aware we will all know?” Kate chimed in with her gaze fixated firmly on Misty who was still staring at the chalkboard. “One of us is unreasonably quiet right now, even in the face of uncertainty she still won’t fess up.” Kate clenched her teeth as she watched a tear escape Misty’s eye, while the rest of the girls glanced around at each other. “There there my sweet treats, don't judge your leader too harshly she was only doing what's right by her own moral code.” The spinster said as she started release shimmering white mist to flow from her body as she spun around. “Just look at her standing there without the courage to face you or the truth for that matter, while you stand here and allow reality to set in and the judgement to pass!” mrs. Ramirez flung bowling ball sized pods out of her rear that clung to the webbing that the shimmering mist had left behind. “Now would not be the time to clam up Mist, big guts up their is telling us that you know more than you've led us to believe. Normally I'd be inclined to send this eight legged freak of magical nature straight to hell, but you have got to give us something. We deserve to know the truth, especially if we're going to die for it!” Kate glared at her best friend and coven leader, looking for something, a sign that she believes in them enough to let them in. She glanced at the girls and up at the Widow and then turned her back on the girls . “Look who finally grew a pair.” Alexis huffed as she looked down from the hovering spider above. “Must you really be so crass sister?” Megan said as she reached for the small leather pouch that rested in her bag and then turned herself around and faced the doors at the back of the class . “What, it's about time that someone said it and I'm glad Kate did. She has had us running around for months now chasing this lead or that lead, we have to protect the boys we must save Devin at all costs, blah blah blah.” Alexis glanced at her sister and put her hands behind her back turning away from Misty while Lee turned around face the wall in silence. “Enough already, this isn't getting us anywhere!” Farrah said as she turned to face away from the girls, taking in the scene as the pods along the walls and the bodies that hung in cocoons started to vibrate . “You little witches bicker like school children, however do you manage each other’s company? Wait I suppose you are school children so that jab really doesn’t make sense, but either way you get to die. It appears that you can't obey a simple demand, it's no wonder why you can't answer your second in commands questions. You really are a pathetic excuse for a coven leader, especially for a Dandridge witch!” Mrs. Ramirez scaled across the ceiling while her webs danced with energy, she studied all of the girls trying to find out which one was going to be her first live meal. “She’s not wrong, about most of this anyway. You do deserve the truth, you all do and I will tell you what I suspect, I don't know anything for certain.” Misty stood still staring at the chalkboard finally breaking her silence. “But the one thing that you got wrong is that no one is dying here today bitch.” As the words escaped her lips the members of her coven stiffened with their hands behind their backs as the Widow hissed down at them in repulsion. “You disrespectful little brat, it looks like i've just found my first meal. I suppose my children will have to teach you a lesson!” Suddenly the vibrating pods erupted one by one then two by two, sprouting out from the pods were scrabs. Large raven colored flesh eating dung beetle spiders that were descending from the walls making their way toward the girls and the other students who still sat frozen in their seats. “Bring me their bodies my babies dead or alive and well mangled!” The spinster smiled wickedly and threw it's head back in laughter while Misty yelled her command and the girls leapt into action. “NOW BITCHES!” Misty summoned a bull whip out of her smoke shrouded hands and flung it around her head ripping through ten of the scarabs closing in on her with a CRACK! “Ew.” She said as she compelled the whip back to her hands while she watched the blood splatter. Kate flung her hands outward and fanned out a green mist that covered all of the other students in her protection spell. She turned back around just in time to blast the scarabs that we were about to attack her. “In the name of Timonium, NOT TODAY DEMON!” Kate held up her hands that were now covered in her green misty orbs, stopping four of the bugs in mid air while she made a motion with her hands like she crumbled up paper. The scarabs crushed themselves magically into little balls that she then compelled them to race around the room smashing through more of the critters, popping them like shimmering dust. “Here we go with this shit,” Farrah pointed bother of her fingers at a few of the scarabs and summoned blue orbs to appear at her fingertips. She made the outline of a heart and then grabbed both sides of it causing it to break in two zig zagged halves. “Aww look at that,” she spun around and sliced the scarabs to shreds. “Never mess with a bitch who has a broken heart!” “NOOOOO, YOU IMPETULANT LOATHSOME PESTS, DO NOT HURT MY CHILDREN! DIE NOW AND WITH HONOR!” The widow moved closer to the center of the ceiling and prepared to strike when suddenly Megan and Alexis sprang into action. Megan opened her leather bag and pulled out her potion vials and she began to fling them at every scarab that came her way. She ducked as Misty whirled her whip once more and then jumped when a fly scarab carcass ball came flying at her feet blasting a bug that was about to sink it's teeth into her ankles. “Thanks for that !” she called out as she watched the scarabs freezing in mid air and falling to ground like lead. Alexis pulled a long three foot femmer from behind her back and started whacking every other bug that she saw. Some she swat away like she was hitting home runs at Camden Yards, others she hit like she was a golf pro who was trying to earn her green blazer at the Masters. “Leave us alone dammit!” She then kicked a bug and sent it barreling through several more in it's wake like she was a world cup soccer star. “I think it's time for you girls to feel the widow’s bite, that is because my children can't seem to get it right!” Mrs. Ramirez lowered herself slowly as she watched the witches battle her young when suddenly she felt a tugging on her web which caused her primal instincts to take control. Lee had run on the backs of stadium seating in the classroom and fired a yellow blast of energy at the scarabs below which hoisted her body upwards into the web. “Shit!” Lee swore as she landed and thee more she struggled the more the web rippled. She summoned a golden orb on energy and started to hurl kill shots from her vantage point when suddenly she felt the tug coming to her right. “Looks like i'm having healer for the first course!” The Widow’s words sent a chill through Lee’s body when she turned her head and came face to face with Mrs. Ramirez. The spider grabbed Lee and began to spin her around wrapping her quickly in webbing when Lee screamed. “MISSSTTTYYYY!”