This story began as a solution to writer's block. I sat down to a blank paper one day and came up with nothing. I thought to myself "Lucy is a writer. I wonder what she does for inspiration. Let's find out." So I sat Lucy at her desk and refused to let her pen move, and here you have it.

I am not awesome enough to have created Fairy Tail.

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Lucy was hunting inspiration. She had finished her latest story and shipped it off to the publishers the previous day, and had hit a big, ugly creativity wall when she sat at her desk to start her next potential masterpiece this morning. When she looked down with a stack of blank paper and picked up her pen nothing happened.

Staring at her desk for almost an hour got her nothing. Dancing around her apartment with her favorite music at a volume ensuring Natsu would not be entering without suffering bleeding eardrums got her nothing. A fresh batch of double chocolate cookies got her nothing, unless she counted the pound it was sure to add to her hips. A mental review of recent missions got her, again, nothing.

She was stumped. Hence why she was stomping toward the guildhall for an afternoon brownies and cookie dough ice cream fix. Her own cookies were a forgotten memory already and her usual strawberry milkshake wasn't going to cut it today. A mission where she could hit things would have helped her mood but her teammates were all individually enjoying their own versions of a vacation right now, none of which she would enjoy, so she was alone. She didn't do solo missions. Her tendancy to get caught up in chaos, through no fault of her own, made that a very bad idea. So yeah. Icecream.

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Bickslow was bored. Really bored. Master Makarov had guilt tripped Laxus into taking responsibility for a stack of paperwork taller than the pervy master who should have taken care of it months ago. Evergreen was who knows where doing he didn't want to know what with Elfman. He caught them riding the carousel like a couple of little kids once. It was horrifying. Levy had brought home a manuscript that was apparently written in a dead language, so Freed would be buried under a pile of books with her for weeks doing books and letters stuff. Even his trusty pranking partner had abandoned him to go fishing. How she could think sitting next to a puddle for hours holding a stick was fun he had no idea.

So, here he was , just lying here, watching the ceiling spin. Sort of. The ceiling wasn't moving. He had his babies under him twirling him in midair in the middle of the guildhall. He knew he looked lazy, and more than a little crazy, but he was actually training with his babies and it took an incredible amount of focus.

He was, at this moment, in complete control of the movements of each totem individually. The one supporting his lower back was just spinning in place. Simple, accept the other four were each spaced different distances from the focal point of his spin and he there for had to move them at different speeds. Most of the time his babies moved themselves, as they were self aware entities, but for some things he had to have precise control over all their magic, himself included.

He was starting to get dizzy though, and it occurred to him that he didn't know how to get down without crashing. Changing his babies speed was much easier before he made himself crazy dizzy. Forethought and planning weren't his thing. That's what the boss and the nerd were for. His babies could slow themselves down or lower him to the ground, but they got loopy and had little seizure things when he first handed the reigns back to them and he didn't want to end up splattered on the wall. So he kept spinning.

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To be continued