#but it eventually almost died because mar never get any training with it

[halforc-mercenary]

𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔅𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔡𝔒𝔣ℭ𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯

When Mar would look out the corners of her eyes the world would blurr, move, twist, as if caught in a whirl while it turned, turned, turned wildly.  But when she would then turn her head towards this movements, what she would see was still, unmoving, dying like this whole world was dying.  It gave her headaches, a broiling silverneedle of pain  that stitched, stitched, stitched into her skull. Mar knew that pain, she knewn it from the nights she had spend crying in her Fostress arms after she had waken up from a dream that had been (real) too real, to not be scared and the pain she had after the dreams had returned as Azeroth had been ripped appart by the Cataclysm just as her head had felt as if ripped appart by the Nightmares and the following headaches. Since she had been thrown in this place, this foreign place that was not Azeroth,  the headaches and dreams had returned, clawing into her mind at every moment. Mar hoped that when she leaved this place- this world, this dimension, this time?- she would leave the headaches behind too. To do this, she needed to But at the moment, in the daylight with dust shimmering like jewels in the pale streaks of light, the headaches had moved to the farest corner of her mind as the Sellsword slowly made her way towards the castle. She had yet not drawn her sword, but one of her hands rested on the hilt. The lonely, forgotten castle loomed before her grey and scragged like a Wolf, ready to jump at her, or like a brutaslly broken body hidden under a greyed cerecloth. She had avoided the guards around the place as good as she could, but that did not changed the fact that Mar felt watched.  Even thought the woman knew, knew so well, she was alone, she drew her sword. 

[ @boredofcinder ]

[stovetuna]

Oh! Oh! Your Tony-finally-accepts-Steve-Loves-him fic was so lovely. A+ 🥺

And the reverse-ish! The first time Steve realizes Tony doesn’t actually believe him when he says I love you and how Steve both reacts and comes to term with the situation (does he plan on talking about it? Love offensive with super romantic dates? Figure out that the solution to this problem a marathon not a sprint?)

aaaaaahhh I am gonna EXPIRE

can you imagine?? the moment I think about it my heart absolutely BREAKS in the best, most bittersweet way, because oh, Steve. you really thought the moment you kissed Tony the first time—you were sitting next to him on the living room sofa, a whole empty seat on either side of you because you were so unnecessarily close together, but then you were struck by the thought not close enough, and you were in the middle of listening to and watching Tony watch the Lost in Space reboot (so many science critiques you didn't understand a lick of but you are more than happy to play audience to the things Tony cares about, loudly) when you leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss on the corner of Tony's motormouth, which apparently was all the invitation Tony needed to crawl into your lap and press his warm, warm, warm lips to yours and kiss the breath out of you—he understood.

because it was so easy to go from best friends to romantic partners, and you had years of friendship between you to hearken back to. Plenty of moments when you thought you'd made it clear to Tony that you loved him, that you cared about him, that you admired and respected and yes, deep down (not that deep, really) were very much attracted to him.

you thought.

so when you kiss the first time, you think he knows. when you go on your first real date and play footsie all night under the table and hold hands the whole walk home, you think he knows. when, a few days later, he slides inside you, deep and hard and wet, and butterfly-kisses the tears from your eyes and tells you how beautiful you are as he fucks you, wailing, into the mattress, you know, down to your soul, to the basest atoms of your existence, that Tony loves you as much as you love him.

but something isn't right, because even as weeks, months go by, and you move into Tony's suite and fall asleep wrapped around him almost every night (except those when he's in another country, and the bed is almost as cold as the ice, or when he's consumed by some project in the workshop and loses track of time), and you tell each other "I love you" out loud multiple times, and say it without words in a million other ways, you get the feeling that Tony. doesn't. believe you?

you're baffled. genuinely, it doesn't make sense. you've loved each other for years. even when you fought, bloody and fierce and deeply, horrifically wrong, you loved each other. it wouldn't have hurt nearly as much—felt like a piece of you being ripped away, phantom pain aging you inwardly until every step in any direction that wasn't toward Tony was agony—if you didn't.

but even though Tony says it back, and he does, every time, even when you're yelling at each other after a battle goes "tits-up," thank you, Logan, he has this look in his eyes, and the only word you've been able to put to it is doubt.

at first you think it means Tony doubts you—your feelings, your intentions, yourself and all the baggage that entails—but that thought quickly passes. because you know he doesn't. you know, from experience, that Tony's worst thoughts and feelings very rarely have anything to do with anyone other than himself. which means Tony doubts himself. maybe even reality. not in a "you might be a Skrull" kind of way, but in a "this is too good to be true" kind of way.

and doesn't that just break your fucking heart.

for months you watch this doubt flicker like a guttering little flame in Tony's bright blue eyes, every time you say "I love you, Tony" with your voice. it's never there when you're brushing your teeth next to other in the morning, bumping hips and giggling like the children you never got to be; it's not there when you silently hand him his coffee and kiss him on the temple on his way out the door to a morning meeting, grousing on the phone even as he blows a kiss to you before the elevator doors close; it's not there when you sit down next to him after a battle, on the steps of some middle-of-nowhere courthouse that just got blown up by some no-name villain, taking unspeakable comfort in the radiating heat coming off the armor that kept Tony safe in combat, and without having to ask or say anything at all Tony takes the helmet off and you lean your foreheads together and just breathe each other's air, too relieved and too exhausted to kiss; it's not there when you make love to him, slowly, excruciatingly sweet, your hips rolling in a steady, undulating wave between Tony's long, golden thighs, his arms loose around your neck, his gorgeous voice gone raspy and quiet from screaming through two orgasms already, and you tell him to look at you as you come together one last time.

it's only when you say it. put words to it. make it real. that's when that banked ember of doubt flickers to life, and it feels like you have to start all over again. which isn't a hardship, per se. not at all, really. it's an honor and a privilege and an absolute pleasure to be a part of Tony's life like this. it's also frustrating, and infuriating, and dangerous, but that was always the case. the only difference is now, you can have make-up sex.

you fight about it first. it starts out in earnest, a forthright—if frighteningly vulnerable—conversation over dinner that turns into a shouting match to rival anything from the war that of course gets cut short by the Avengers alarm going off and having to Assemble before you can clear the air. he almost dies in the battle, short-circuited by an exceptionally advanced EMP that takes out the RT (and whoo, boy does that make you spiral, thinking back, to the moment you did that to Tony, almost killed him, and thinking those thoughts while you keep vigil at his bedside for days makes you wish harder than you ever have before in your life that you could drink yourself to death), and you're too relieved when he opens his eyes and the first word out of his mouth is your name, like he's the one who should be relieved, to bring it up again.

you love him. he loves you. it works. better than that, it's good. and eventually—quickly, even—you learn. you learn tell him in every which way you can think of, without words, how much you love him, and why. you text him pictures from your runs through Central Park (he makes the photo you sent him that spring, of the adolescent raccoon emerging from a hollowed-out tree, his lock screen for a week before he changes it back to a picture of you in bed drooling onto your pillow). you help him take off the armor when he's dead on his feet. you feed him. you train with him. you listen to him ramble on about bad movie science and cheer when Matt Damon mentions him in that Mars movie. (You literally cry laughing when Tony picks up the phone at the end of the movie and calls Matt Damon and tells him to text him next time, "I'll come pick you up, just stop getting lost in fucking space, asshole!")

you kiss his scarred fingers, with their fresh cuts and scrapes and bruises from working in the shop, with a reverence. you draw baths for him and don't join, even though it's one of your favorite things to do in the world, because you can just tell Tony is going through something and he needs the space to work it out for himself. you're always there to fish him out when the water gets cold, and by that time Tony's ready to tell you about whatever's eating him.

you call him every foul, dirty name in the book when you fuck him loudly against the wall and sob yourself hoarse when he makes love to you for what feels like hours, so slow and deep and steady you honestly lose track of how many times you come. you clean him up after and tuck him in. you kiss him on the forehead before you go on your morning run, every morning without fail (except for those when you're apart, and you still, even after almost two years, catch yourself mid-motion sometimes, about to kiss empty air—you text Tony about it and he laughs every time).

you learn to be patient. you learn to show more than you tell. because you realize that Tony was lied to his entire life, about so many things. Lied to his face about who he was, who he was going to be, who he never would be allowed to be. Told over and over again by liars and cheats and villains and friends and lovers and family that he wasn't worth the effort of loving. that he would never be loved for anything other than the black credit card in his wallet, the cars in his garage, the houses and the private jets and the clothes and the money and the things he invented—the things he made—that were supposed to help people but only ever ended up killing them.

money, and blood.

it's no wonder he doubts.

so you set yourself to the long and genuinely joyous (if at times frustrating) task of convincing Tony that not only do you love him, more than you've loved anything else in your life, ever will, but he is lovable. not worthy of love, not deserving, and he is those things, but inherently—he is a sweet, caring, kind, fierce, sexy, strong, dangerous, incredible, dorky, suave, fumbling genius of a man and he is loved for those things.

it takes time. good things always do.

you've had a little velvet box hidden away in your bottom bedside drawer for four months when Tony wakes up and sees you in bed with him, realizes you've been watching him sleep—so peacefully, the furrow between his brows erased, as you play with his slightly overgrown hair (you wish he'd keep it, but it's a hazard, in your line of work). you kiss him on the forehead and say good morning, sweetheart, because it is, even if it is pouring down rain outside.

maybe especially because it's raining outside. because here you are, high up among thick grey clouds that smother every inch of the city, so it's just you two, in this bed, together in your own little world, and you're watching that stubborn ember of doubt in Tony's eyes finally get washed away.

read part one

[my2phetaliaheadcanons]

Pet Owners Part 1

Owning pets is rare for nations because a true nation’s pet has a bond with their owners as much as they do the land. Many of their pets don’t really have something they represent inexactness, it's just they were there when the nation was born, and they bonded. No one can really explain how they come to find their owners, both parties just know.

Some nations don’t have the nation pet, but instead either found a mythical creature or own regular pets that will eventually die.

America – A big black shaggy dog. Allen has owned Makwa since he was a small child. No matter where he went Makwa would follow. This mini mammoth is very protective of Allen and has bitten Oliver many times. This dog has even followed Allen into war zones. Their bond is as deep as man and dog can go.

He is Allen’s best friend and more often than not the wall he bounces off of. Whether he is venting, planning, or just sleepy mumbling, Allen takes the time to talk to Makwa.

England – Flying Chocolate Bunny (FCB) and Flying Strawberry Bunny (FSB). These mythical evil bunnies are downright monsters. Unlike his 1p that has only one, Oliver has two. Both nations discovered their bunny allies together, but instead of taking just one. Oliver decided to take two. They were found when the nations were about 150 yrs old.

Since mythical creatures have longer lifespans, they aren’t nation pets and die much later than an average pet.

FCB has red beady eyes and is the color of dark chocolate. His wings are shaped more like raptor’s wings and have a white chocolate underside to his wings. FCB often twitches and drools and looks like he is about to eat the nearest piece of flesh. He is known for being wilder and more chaotic, he does some of the dirty work for Oliver by getting physically involved. Scratching and biting Oliver’s victims, slowly driving them mad by wounds made from an unseen force.

FSB on the other hand is much sweeter. She is a light red with small yellow spots. Her wings look like a swan's, and have a light green underwing. Her eyes are small beady and green. FSB looks like a toy rabbit, small and fluffy. She is Oliver’s eyes and ears. She spies on whomever Oliver asks her to and takes the time to ensure that Oliver has whatever information that he needs. When Oliver had many colonies she was the one sent to spy on them. She is quick and knows how to use magic to shorten her fly time.

Oliver loves his bunnies and feeds them a lot of cupcakes and meat. He spoils them with fancy beds and toys. Though he does expect them to earn their keep with various tasks given by him.

Canada – A big white polar bear. Kuma is Canada’s oldest frenemy, over the years they have traded blows and saved each other. The amount of trust these two have is unrivaled by any other nation and their pets. Kuma has been with Canada since he was about a week old. Kuma is a typical adult polar bear with a scar across his left shoulder and it splits his fur.

Canada’s scars on his chest come from Kuma. They got really intense in a fight one day and came at each other for blood. That same fight gave Kuma his scar. Both winded up extremely wounded and ignored each other for a week before making up.

Over the years Kuma mostly follows Matt’s orders. But occasionally Kuma acts like a brat and ignores Canada. Kuma has his own little house outside that Canada built, but he also has a huge mat on the floor inside Matt’s cabin.

Japan – Koi. Like it’s been said before, Japan likes koi. They are beautiful and he owns many. He has been keeping them since he was physically about 12 years old. He has a pond that connects to a tank within his home. It is a huge tank that has all the proper fixings that allow for a comfortable space for his fish.

He invests heavily in the industry and always checks the farms himself when he has the time. Many family farms know of Kurai, at least a fake name he puts out, and newer farms hope to receive his blessings. His name carries a lot of respect and honor for the koi industry and those that don’t meet his standards close shop quickly.

Every so often he will enter his koi in contests. He loves to know that his are the best and has many ribbons from the past ones he has either won or come close to winning.

Germany – A small brown tabby. Luther loves his tiny kitty and spends many a nap with this little baby on his lap. His little tabby is called Winzig and her name is literally her size. Winzig was found by Luther one night after making his way home after a night of drinking about a year ago. She was small and hiding under a box by his apartment. In his drunken stupor, he picked up the kitten without thinking and brought her home. She is actually his third cat.

There were two others he had owned in the past. His first was a calico that was named Schnurrhaare (Whisker). She was very aloof, but they too napped together often. She sadly died in the year 1901. His second cat Axel came to him about 1950 and was a gift from his boss. Axel was a big Mainecoon that looked like a burnt cookie. He acted more like a dog than a cat and Luther loved him. They played fetch together.

None of Luther’s cats have been a true nation pet. So, each one has passed, Winzig is still young and very lively so she has a while still with Luther. Though the other two, Luther has kept their collars and buried them behind his father’s house. He leaves little bits of string on their graves for them.

Rome – This old man had a lion. Not just any lion, the extinct European lion. Mars was the name of this old boy and Rome had him from the time he was a child. At first, Mars was unsure about Rome and chased him. Over time the two became close. Mars didn’t have a huge mane it was more of a gentle fluff around his head and down his chest. His body and head were covered in scars. Mars was known to have a light pale coated rather than the deep dusty color of many of his brethren. He had a regal air about him and Rome cherished his lion a lot.

When Rome passed Mars lived on, but not much longer than Rome. He lived about 5 years while being taken care of by Luciano. Mars being old then, didn’t do much and seemed to enjoy the calm final years that Luciano offered him. He got a bigger and cooler grave than his master did.

Prussia – Alvin is an old destrier and looks like a Percheron. Lightly colored with dark grey boots and muzzle. Alvin has been with Wil since he was born, this stocky little foal just showed up outside and has been with him ever since. Alvin has been Wil’s first pick of steed into every battle that used horses and Alvin like his owner is brave and loyal.

Both master and pet love spending nights together riding through the woods. Prussia gives Alvin lots of training and treats. They are so close that more often than not spend many afternoons together. Alvin is also trained for various horse competitions.

Spain – So we all know this man owns a bull. Idiota is special to Armando even though he won't admit it. When Armando is tending to his fields Idiota is there giving a presentation of an old friend. Many believe that Idiota is a nation pet because of how long he has lived and Spain agrees. As much as he gets angry at his bull being stupid he could never bring himself to part with the bull.

The centuries of being petty with each other make it interesting to both parties. Though in times of danger both have each other's backs. Once during a siege when Spain was young, Idiota was all that stood between him and Rome. Though despite losing, it took Rome impaling the bull and beheading it to keep it from defending a young Spaniard.

Netherland – He has a snake. It’s a simple grass snake that often hangs out with him at home. He loves his little snake and named him Hazel. He says his snake looks like a Hazel. Baas and Hazel go on many adventures when the weather is ok for Hazel. He takes him to the store, to meetings with his boss, and other places. They spend lots of time gathering info on people and just pulling pranks. Baas believes that Hazel enjoys it as much as his master.

 Hazel has a huge terrarium with plenty of space, heating lights, and pools of water. It takes up a whole wall in Baas’ home. It also contains fish and other small creatures that make the tank self-sustaining. 

Baas relates to his danger noodle; in that, he sees himself almost the same as his snake. Both are hidden predators that take care of nasty rats. Which happens to relate to his favorite thing to do with Hazel, feed him.

Austria – A Greater Mouse-Eared Bat, I mean what could be better for him. Austria found Krampus around Christmas time when he heard some noises coming from his attic. Krampus had found his way into the attic and freaked out trying to get out. This caused a tear in his wing, and Austria being surprised by this tiny nightmare.

Austria feeling the spirit of Christmas was compassionate and took care of the bat. First, he forced his way into a vet clinic and had his little Krampus looked at. Krampus's huge tear would heal, but it makes it difficult for him to fly again. That was the vet’s opinion and then went off to call a sanctuary to come and collect the bat. Well, Jon didn’t like that and ran off with Krampus.

Since then Jon has done a lot to ensure his little friend was becoming better. Eventually, the wing healed, but not well enough for flying. So Jon has a little bat that can glide short distances and has a little cave in his home. Krampus gets all the proper nutrition and cleanings.

Though shortly after bringing Krampus home, Jon did call Matt. Matt had some words for Jon when he found out what he did.

Switzerland – This man loves goat cheese, so obviously he wanted goats. He and his 1p own a small herd together that they both manage. Vash does most of the physical labor while Hans makes them look good for competition and takes care of their papers. 

They are all Swiss breeds and earn their keep by giving milk. They have a great life with all the latest things for goat care. Hans even personally watches the new items get installed to ensure that it is done right and that his goats are given something nice. 

Hans pets them often and coos to them as he does. He keeps plenty of treats on hand, to the point all the herd runs toward him wanting treats.

Iceland – Mr. Puffin or Puff as Iceland calls him. This is puffin is nothing like his gangster 1p. He wears a small top hat and monocle. He is much more gentlemanly and often speaks about how Iceland could be better behaved. He often says things like stand straight, address the lady with respect, and so on. Unlike most nations and their pets growing up at the same rate, Puff was an adult when he met baby Iceland. Which concerned 2p Norway, because he could have been some kind of monster trying to destroy his new colony. One of the few times Norway showed concern for Iceland.

Though being the typical expectation for nation pets, Iceland loves Puff. They spend time together going about and causing havoc and attempting to win Norway’s attention. Though Puff still tells Iceland that there are better things to do than pursue Norway, but Iceland wants his brother’s love and acceptance.

Puff does his best to keep Iceland under control and professional, but he fails often. Though he refuses to give up and rather would keep on taking care of his young ward.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “Survival.”

I had a lot of fun writing this one. Honestly being inside his head is so much fun, and I hope you all like it  :). Hope it makes you laugh today. 

So, I survived….

Surprise!

Not sure how that is going to turn out for me, and as I wake up lying back down in the sand and my right hand chilled from the cool inland ocean, I begin to realize that the awful ordeal I had gone through wasn’t just a dream. At first it felt like it, warm sand below my back and cool water on my fingertips. Somewhere birds are chirping, and I lay there for a while simply soaking in heaven, that is until I hear the secondary explosion as one the aux engines which  jolts me upright sitting there covered in sand, my clothes singed, my arms aching from minor burns…. Completely alone.

Looking around I realize that this is not in fact earth, those are not, in fact birds, and I am not, in fact dead and being shown to heaven, but in fact much of the opposite. This is not earth, those look like tiny dinosaurs, and this is honestly, probably hell.

I take a minute to get my bearings before slowly crawling my way to my feet stumbling upright. The prosthetic takes most of the weight as I limp up the beach and back towards the wreckage of the command deck. I don’t expect to get much out of it considering that the entire thing is on fucking fire, but give me a bit of a break, less than a day ago I had been plunging towards a blakhole (or what I thought was a black hole that clearly turned out to not be) sure that I was going to die. In a way I was just a little pissed off. Don’t get me wrong, its not because I WANTED to die, I am actually one of the few humans on the face of the galaxy who enjoys living, but simply because I had accepted the fact that I was going to die. I had made peace with it, I had expected it, but instead I had been thrown into one of the worst warp experiences of my life, rattled around inside the command deck and then crash landed spectacularly onto an unknown planet.

I mean, it didn’t look like any place I Had ever seen before. Sure the sand and the ocean were almost natural, but tall, skinny, thousand foot trees certainly weren't, and neither were  the large shelled crustaceans shambling up the beach .

I sighed and sat down in the sand with a soft plop watching as fire continued to smolder at the wreckage of my ship. It was only now that I realized my shoes were  gone, and I could  feel the sand between my toes. 

Then the slight hissing hits me, and I turn to look down at my arm where a glint of bright silver catches my attention.

The iron eye suit.

I hadn’t had time to take it off.

I flexed my fingers watching the mid morning light run up and down the metal.

Ok, that was interesting.

Of course my dumbass had managed to take off the jetpack at some point….. shit.

I flopped back in the sand staring up at the sky. It was all coming back to me now, the entire ordeal from start to finish. The fight with the Kree, the space battle --that was arguably pretty fucking awesome…. Eat your heart out kirk-- and finally my destruction of the ship and my journey to the sort of blackish but not really, hole. 

It occured to me: Everyone thought I was dead.

That stopped my musings for a second. What would happen? They wouldn’t look for me…. Would they? Then again UNSC policy held that no man was considered KIA until there was a body. I would be pronounced missing in action though assumed dead.

Someone else would be given command, my ship would have to be repaired, and meanwhile the crew would be disbanded or sent on leave.

Katie, maverick, Ramirez, Krill, Conn, Narobi, Cannon…. They all thought I was dead.

Waffles?

Fuck… thinking about her made me want to cry. Like I am going to be honest here guys, when a dog dies in a movie or when a dog is sad in a movie because their human dies, I don’t give a shit about the human, but I will cry. I will cry like a weenie because the dog is sad. 

Like when all three of your brothers are sitting on your right hand side, and you have this magic ability to be water falling out of one eye while the other is dry  to save face with  your manhood kind of cry, no? Is that just me 

Then my family, my father, my mother, my brothers. What would this do to them? They'd be devastated sure… Imagining my mother hearing about my untimely death was heartbreaking, and I was worried more than ever about Thoams. His quiet struggle with heroin addiction, and his recent one year sobriety was a big step for him…. Would my death mean setting him back? Was I that important to him that something might happen? He never dealt with stress well, so what was going to happen.

And… Sunny?

I had saved her life, yes but what had I done to her in the process?  I had made her watch me die, unable to do anything. I had made her helpless, a victim of circumstance: something I knew she would never forgive herself for. I may have saved her life but…. I possibly ruined her in the process.

…

…

It's a good thing my brothers weren’t here because I wasn’t going to be able to do the one eye waterfall trick. This time it was going to be both eyes…. Still mad that that screwdriver hadn’t ruined my tear ducts too, I could have benefited from that.

I’d say I took about five six minutes to myself to be a pathetic bitch lying there in the sand feeling sorry for myself, and then I wiped my eyes manned up and got to my feet.

Alright.

I looked around at the open planet and the smouldering wreckage of my once beautiful ship. There was only one option here. I had to find a way out, or at least a way to survive, so maybe one day someone might find me somehow…. Yeah yeah yeah I get it is unfounded optimism and it is totally not going to happen, but let a man dream a little.

I was going to have to channel the spirit of one of my childhood idols.

Mark Watney 

You know from that book about the guy who gets stuck on mars by himself for a year, the one that was made into a pretty good movie with Matt Damon. 

I liked both the book and the movie though they diverge a little towards the end:you know, because hollywood.

There are a couple of problems with this plan of course…. Number one being that I am not a super smart engineer botanist. I am in fact, a fighter pilot, and a raging idiot. 

I mean granted I did go to that pilot training school where they drop you out into the forest for a month and tell you good luck, that sucked shit, so it's not like I am completely helpless but still.

However, luckily for me, unlike Mark, I don’t have to worry about air, or water. Granted I have to worry about food, but in a different way. I don’t know what here would be edible to humans, so I am going to have to read carefully. THere is also the issue of clean water which Mark never had to worry about, I do.

YEah, I get it, our circumstances are very different, but I think what I want to channel most about him is his attitude, nihilistically optimistic. 

I am going to survive this.

I look up at the sky watching as the planet’s rings glow dimly overhead through the blue atmospheric haze.

First thing was first, water, food and a weapon.

Fun fact about my model of ship:It is already ready for a scenario like this and has emergency packs stored under every seat of the bridge. Of course the problem there being the bridge is now on fire.

I walk over to the ocean and cut strips of my uniform to tie around my hands. I know it won’t give me much, ut it is better than nothing. Then I dunk myself in the water. It’s cold and causes me to shiver, but the air around me is warm, so I am not so worried.

I turn and head back towards the ship keeping a distance from the larger fires and heading towards the more smouldering ones. I don’t strike much luck to begin with, but eventually I manage to haul out one emergency pack from under one of the crew chairs. MY hands get a bit singed in the process, and the hot metal causes me to yowl like an angry cat and drop the case to the ground, but at least I have something.

I wait or it to cool off for a few minutes before dragging it back up the beach and sitting down to open.

Jackpot!

I have a canteen (with purifier) one of those filtration straws, to make the inland ocean my cup, and a handy little device that analyses organic material and tells you if it's edible or not.

I love living in the future 

I also had emergency blankets, fire starting material, a knife, a flair gun, a radio. This was also along with a couple of other odds and ends like a compass, paracord,  first aid kit, inflatable life raft, a multi-tool , monocular, and a box of nails.

The first aid kit included, bandages, antibiotic ointment, antibiotics of the general: for whatever stabs or infects you variety, painkillers, a turnakit, sewing needle and thread, staple gun: sort of, gauze anti-inflammatories, and fuck yes, a razon a toothbrush and some toothpaste. 

If i ever got off this planet and back home I was to kiss whoever made this case, man woman does not mater, they are getting a kiss, cheek if they happen to be married of course, but if they really insist I um up for full mouth contact on the person who saved my life.

All jesting aside, this was good, and I first went to go get a drink of water.

HYdrations is important kiddos.

Next I had to tend to my injuries, minor burns and scrapes, bruises that I could do nothing about. Then it was time for a little shelter, which i erected with great ease between a couple of the strange tall trees, using torn up ferns to provide bedding on the inside and a canopy overhead.

I was feeling pretty badass right now, survivor style, though lets be honest, I was kind of lame since I had so much help from the magic box of wonderful mysticalities.

You know between this gox of medicine and the arc of the covenant, I would definitely pick this box first, for sure.

Took me a good day or two to get settled, and I’ll admit it wasn’t easy.

Gathering food was fine, I found some berries and fruits off of nearby plants, a couple of roots that were ok to eat, and even some of the crustaceans were palatable once I cooked them, using my fire pit and laying them out over a slab of discarded ship metal.

But there were a couple things I failed to think about.

A couple of things being 

1# there is no fucking TP on this planet, also I had to dig a hole for fear of accidentally giving myself cholera or some nasty thing on accident by contaminating a water supply.

2# bed uncomfortable 

3# no sunscreen 

4# After a couple days your really start to smell like ass, now hold on for a minute there, I am completely in the habit of washing my ass,I promise, but I am telling you unwashed human just  smells like ass, no way around it, greasy nasty sweaty stank.

The clothes don’t help obviously, and I found a way to wash the clothes by rubbing them in the sand and using some sweet smelling leaves.

OF course you know the problem with all that, right?

Naked.

While on laundry day I am completely nude out in the sun on a tropical planet. If someone were to go flying overhead, they would see more than they bargained for, and way more than they wanted  as my pasty white ass flapped around in the breeze as they drove by.

A change of clothes was in order, so I spent the day, while my clothes were being washed, sitting on the sidelines using plant material, scraps and thread to pull together a rudimentary grass skirt/ loincloth of sorts

Now don’t think it didn’t cross my mind everyone.

I half expected god to descend from the sky and ask me what I was doing.

This whole covering your junk with leaves thing seems to be a theme for people named Adam  

And yes that was a biblical reference, I am in fact named after the first man, so this is a fitting bonding moment for me and my namesake.

The biggest issue of course is when everything slows down, late at night as I am trying to fall asleep, and I realize that…. I may be stuck here forever.

I will grow old and die alone on this island.

And no one will ever know. 

[bumbleberrysky]

alexa, play candyshop (bass boosted) | 01

pairing: gabriel x reader genre: soulmate au, canon divergent around s13, hurt/comfort, humour, future smut (probs) wc: 3.2k rating: sfw warnings: none except the appearance of battered gabriel fresh out of asmodeus’ hold notes: welcome to my first dive into writing for supernatural! i saw someone say that s13 lit a fire under their ass like nothing else and honestly i don’t think i could have described it better. i binged so much while catching up the past few weeks idk who i am anymore

You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no idea what that reason is. It's something you're destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point you'd thought was dead. What does his return have to do with the changes you're suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason you'd been brought here in the first place? Maybe...

Chuck works in mysterious ways after all.

next.

“Honeys, I’m home!”

The bunker has the same light aroma of musty air and metal as you let yourself in through the heavy front door, feet carrying you, out of habit more than anything, to the steel landing that marks the entrance to the fortress. It’s been so long since you were last here that the two men you used to hunt with regularly have likely forgotten they gave you a spare key. Well, they hadn’t exactly given it to you so much as you’d made a copy on the down-low and kept it for occasions such as this.

One hand keeps pressure on your arm, an attempt to stem the bleeding, and the other carries your single carry-on bag. You make it about halfway down the stairs before your gaze swings out over the foyer and you freeze, mid-step.

Sam and Dean, the two figures you expected to find here, are standing stock-still with their guns half-poised (not directed at you) and expressions on their faces that are a combination of shocked, pissed, and extremely confused (mostly directed at you). Following the line of their weapons leads you to the other two occupants in the room, most definitely unexpected and completely unfamiliar.

One is in rags, cowering, and whimpering, unrecognisable underneath filthy tangled hair that covers his face, and the other is in a prim suit marred only by blood and a bit of dirt, barely a single strand of dark hair atop his head out of place.

“Twinkletoes? What the hell are you doing here?!”

It’s Dean’s stupid, old nickname for you that breaks you out of your shock, a glare already falling onto your face with the practised ease of muscle memory.  

“I’ll answer that when you tell me what the hell I just walked in on—” You come the rest of the way down the stairs, slower and more cautious now, with your gaze trained on the two at the other end of the table. It’s when the man in rags finally looks up from where he had been cowering and you catch a glimpse of his face, bloody and bruised but instantly familiar, that your words swell and catch in your throat.

“… Gabriel?”

The brothers in front of you heave a great, unanimous sigh, a look passed between them telling you that you’re about to be on the receiving end of a very ludicrous and typical Winchester story.

x     x     x

The first time you met Gabriel was not long after you’d gone through the biggest plot twist of your entire life. You’d gone to sleep in your bed, in your home, and woken up in a completely different part of the world, like some magician had snapped their fingers and you’d been the punchline of their very next trick. Much to your regret and distaste, some minor investigation revealed that where you’d woken up in the backseat of a car on the side of the road was in some state in the US. You’d sworn to yourself that you would never step foot here in your entire life and then, like God or whoever reigned above was laughing straight in your face, you’d just up and woken up in some random car in a place that made you long to be literally anywhere else.

Preferably somewhere where the occupants didn’t have such easy access to guns.

…like the two men who screamed and pointed theirs at you when you popped up from their backseat after they climbed into the cabin, fast food in their arms.

That was the first time you’d met the infamous hunting brothers, the Winchesters, and the first time of many you’d nearly died in their company.  

It had taken a while for them to trust you, but after you inviting yourself onto a few of their cases and saving their asses a handful of times (ignoring the amount of times they saved yours because you forgot that almost every American slept with a gun beneath their pillow) they’d eventually taken you under their proverbial wing. It helped that you had literally nowhere else to go and nothing but the clothes on your back and a bare handful of belongings to your name. Once they figured out you weren’t hiding anything up your sleeve and that you’re just naturally annoying and a little dumb, they’d happily invited you to become an official-unofficial part of their little hunting gang. This means you’re also familiar with the hilarious angel they have in their back pocket. Castiel is a riot and one of the things you miss most when you go off to hunt on your own.

Having been around during the whole ordeal of Lucifer and Michael going through the motions of continuing their family spat on an apocalyptic scale, you too grew to be familiar with their youngest brother, the archangel Gabriel. Of course, while you’d been there for a fair amount of the angel-turned-trickster’s shenanigans, you weren’t there for the final appearance he made at a hotel in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. In complete juxtaposition to the fact that you could count on one hand the amount of times you’d interacted properly with Gabriel, the sensations you experienced at the news of his sacrifice, his death, were unlike anything you’d ever felt before. You like to consider yourself much more emotionally healthy and with an emotional range far larger than that of a teaspoon and the Winchesters’, but that… that news was something that it had taken you months to recover from fully.

And even then, apparently your recovery wasn’t as complete as you’d thought, because hearing what the boys have told you now has made your eyes burn and your stomach turn into a nest of manic bees, your insides lined with flowers and pollen. You think, for a moment, that you just might be sick.

You’re sitting in the library, Gabriel having been taken to a room of his own by one Winchester while the other fills you in before they’re both reunited before you, and you’re in the kind of mood where you sort of want to just sit there and dissociate for a few hours, truthfully. You can tell you’re not going to get that opportunity though, so in the wake of the bombshell they’d just dropped on you about all you’d missed in the past few months—that they had apparently forgotten to tell you over the phone when you checked in occasionally— you do the next best thing you can think of for the moment.

Put it on the backburner, baby.

You massage your temple with your fingers as you lean your head into your hand, a sigh escaping through your nose. “See, this is why it feels like I have been brought on as a babysitter—I leave for a few months and you old men manage to dig up another almost-apocalypse and find and raise Lucifer’s kid?”

“Alright, first of all,” Dean whips out a finger to point at you, filling you with glee. You’ve barely been back a few hours and already you’re stepping back into your favourite “stir-the absolute-shit-out-of-Dean” pants. As always, he is almost pitifully quick to rise to the bait. “Old? Who are you calling old? Alright so maybe we have a few years on you but that’s just because you’re a toddler and w—”

“Dean,” Sam places a placating hand on his brother’s shoulder, a look that seems to be a mixture of amusement and exasperation crossing his features. “You’re making it too easy for her.”

The older Winchester pauses, turning to pin you with an accusing look. You smile, not even attempting to appear innocent. After staring at you for several long moments, Dean makes the ‘eyes-on-you’ gesture with his fingers before turning away, rolling the tension from his shoulders as he takes a seat across from you.

“You were gone for almost a year this time, did you have any luck, well, leaving?” Sam brings your attention back to him, the question dragging out a sigh that feels like it’s been dredged from the very depths of your being.

“No,” you answer, sounding somewhat petulant even to your own ears. “Why is it so hard to leave this god-forsaken country! I hate it here. I’m sick of trying to make a run for it and being zapped back into a swamp, or—or a pool at the top of a penthouse suite in the middle of some random city! It sucks balls.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean waves his hand, enjoying the dirty look you give him. “So you still haven’t found whatever purpose you’re meant to fulfil while here?”

You huff, shaking your head. “No. It’s been years and I still have no idea why I woke up here that day. Or why I can’t leave.”

Over the time you’ve spent with the Winchesters, a few things became apparent to the three of you about your stay here. One, it was indefinite. You’d discovered quickly that you are, quite literally, unable to leave. Every time you get close to escaping this country you black out and wake up back inside. Sometimes in a helpful place, sometimes…. Not.

Two, the three of you had thrown around and entertained the idea that maybe you’d been brought here for a reason, that like them maybe you’d been divinely allocated a role to play. But you’ve been through a lot with the Winchesters, whether in person or by association, and still…

You’re no closer to being able to leave and return from whence you came.

You have no idea why you’re here!

This is something that has really contributed to your temporary career as a hunter here. That isn’t to say that this profession isn’t something you were involved in before you came here, but you’ve really… you really dove into it, whether as a distraction or as an ongoing investigation as to what on earth was going to set you free of your tie to this place. A part of you thinks that each case you take on, each person or family you save and creature you slay might be the one reason that brought you here, and the one task that with its completion will grant you freedom. You’ve never been a fan of being caged; just because this one spans a grand total of 9.834 million square kilometres doesn’t make it any less of one.

This most recent expedition that led you to part from the Winchesters for such a long time was another of your failed attempts to leave. You think you’ve tried escaping at every possible point along the coastline and border by now, with a definite lack of success.

“Well, if it really is some divine intervention keeping you here, then it’s better if you just sit back and settle down, twinkletoes.” Dean huffs a laugh, leaning back in his chair with an accompanying creak from the wood. “Those divine types have proven to be… kind of assholes.”

You frown, but he isn’t saying anything you haven’t already thought. It’s part of why you’d settled so easily into hunting here, actually. ‘When in Rome…’, as they say. You’re familiar with the hunting grind and there is comfort in familiarity.

“Are you going to stay a while?” Sam asks, opening the first-aid box he’d first brought over when you’d settled down. Ah, right—you’d almost forgotten about the injury on your arm, despite the fact that you are still pressing a palm to it. You listen as he speaks, almost swearing you can detect a hint of hopefulness in his voice. “You still have a room here for you, of course. We haven’t touched anything inside.”

“Yeah, mostly because we didn’t wanna deal with the mess and the booby-trapped doors—” Dean’s under-the-breath mutter is cut off by your coo, a wide smile pulling your lips.

“Oh, you two missed me, didn’t you?” Instantly, you are successful in ruffling Dean’s feathers— Sam might take a bit more work, though. “I know I really light this dark, dingy place up but I didn’t know it was that bad without me! Ah, perhaps I will stay a while. You know, out of charity.”

“Sammy,” Dean says, beseeching. “It’s not too late—you hold her back and I’ll find her key. It’s not too cold, she’ll be alright outside.”

An appalled and affronted look slips onto your face and Sam has to clear his throat so that he doesn’t laugh and add to his brother’s torment.

“I’m not a misbehaving puppy,” you say, holding your arm out for Sam as he comes over and finally freeing your bloody hand. “Wait, unless you want me to be. Been broadening your horizons beyond animated tentacle porn have you, Deanie-bo-beenie?”

On cue, Dean’s face flushes light red, whether from anger or a brief spritz of embarrassment, only God knows. You can see Sam’s face grow tense from the effort of holding back noise in your peripheral as he tends to your arm.

“You know what? I’m better than this. I’m gonna let it go.” Dean rises from his chair, making a show of dusting off your metaphorical drama. His light eyes flick to you, squinting. “I’m tired; I have a date with my memory foam pillow and nice, warm, feather duvet and a good night’s rest, so goodnight. I hope your bed has bed bugs, twinkletoes, and I hope they bite.”

“I hope you sleep well too, Dean!” you call after him, deciding you’ll have to give him a break from the bullying tomorrow  or else he’ll explode before you can have much fun. “Do you want me to come tuck you in?”

“No! Goodnight!”

His yell and disappearance down the hall is followed a few moments later by the familiar sound of a door slamming shut,

“That’s not very fair of you,” Sam announces, sounding strained and very much like he’s trying not to laugh lest Dean has an ear pressed to his door. “He’s too tired to fight back right now.”

“I know,” you answer, wincing as he wipes down the laceration on your bicep and cleans the blood away with an alcohol wipe. It burns, but it’s definitely not the most painful thing you have ever experienced. “I hadn’t seen you guys in so long, though. I couldn’t help myself.”

Sam simply snorts, reaching for the needle and thread to being stitching the skin back together, and you breathe harshly through your nose as you reach for another topic to distract yourself.

“Are the two—sorry, the three of you actually dads now? To… to Lucifer’s half-angel kid? I thought angels getting frisky with humans was, uh… illegal up in heaven.”

You feel rather than see Sam roll his eyes, your own pointedly directed away from your arm where he has begun to get to work. “It’s Lucifer, y/n, I don’t think he cares about what’s illegal up in heaven.”

You purse your lips—he makes a fair point. Honestly, you feel a little silly for questioning it. “Right, and he’s… trapped in some other dimension? An alternate world where the apocalypse really happened.”

“Yep,” Sam says, hitting a particularly painful spot with his needle. You hiss, giving him a glare.

“I wasn’t even gone a year! Just hearing all this shit is stressing me out so much, dude.” You sigh, attempting to adjust your position in the wooden chair without jostling your arm too much. Thankfully, practice has made Sam quick at his job and already he is almost done piecing you back together. He finishes up with a knot, snipping the thread and then placing a large bandage carefully over the wound. He dusts his hands once done, standing from where he was leaning against the table and proceeding to loom over you like a T-Rex.

“You’re blocking my light, bro,” you inform him, narrowly avoiding a subsequent good-natured smack to your good arm. “Damn, what the hell! Didn’t you take an oath or some shit? I’m your patient!”

“I was studying law, not medicine,” Sam retorts dryly. He turns to leave and put the first aid supplies away, his back facing you but not before you see how his lips twitch. “So your annoying ass is free game.”

“Maybe so,” you acquiesce, rising from your seat with a light grunt as you jostle your arm. You consider asking Sam where Castiel is, to see if you can get a hit of the good stuff and skip the healing process, but think better of it. You always feel a bit bad asking him to heal you, though you barely ever have to since he’s like a rabid mother hen the second he sees blood on any of you. “God, I’m beat. I didn’t think I could get any more tired than I was before, but as always catching up with you two has aged me a few years and now I’m just about as tired as you two are all the time.”

Sam doesn’t rise to the ‘old man’ bait you dangle in front of him—never really does, if you’re being honest; that’s mostly Dean’s vice— but he does offer you a smile that is unexpectedly sincere and fond.

“Go to bed, toddler,” he retorts, before continuing in a softer tone, “… It’s good to see you again, y/n. I’m glad you’re here. Dean and Mom are going out on a hunt in the next few days and I think you can really help with, uh… the whole Gabriel thing.”

For a moment, you don’t say anything. You’d sort of been trying to avoid thinking about the elephant in your mind, for the very same reason that makes your eyes burn once more. It hurts, a lot, thinking and imagining what he must have gone through at the hands of Asmodeus. It feels like your heart is going to tear itself to pieces in your chest from the sheer extent of your empathy and how terrible you feel for him. The Gabriel you saw cowering before you earlier is nothing like the confident feathery asshole you used to know.

Even having only seen him once, it’s enough to make you fearful of the possibility that… he might be too far gone to ever return to that last echo of his previous self.

“I’m not sure what I’ll even be able to do to help,” you respond, approaching the doorway to the hall with your bag in tow. You pause to finish what you’re saying, meeting Sam’s puppy-like gaze from across the room. “But I’ll try. It hurts to see him like that, so… I’ll stay a while, to do whatever I can.”

Sam’s answering thankful smile and nod is all you can ask for in response as you turn and head further into the bunker, dragging your bags back to the room you’d come to call your own over the years. Your gaze strays on the way to one of the doors that has a little note taped on saying, ‘please do not open suddenly or loudly’, undoubtedly the room that they have allocated to Gabriel for the time being. Heart heavy in your chest, you continue on down the hall and tear your gaze away.

You’re not sure how much you can do for him, but you hope you can do something.

next 

[babyybitchhhwrites]

Shikaku x Reader 18+

Title: Kiss it Better

Rating: Explicit/R-18+

Words: 3830

Warnings/tags: barebacking, begging, older man/younger woman

♥♥♥♥

Shikaku’s body was a menagerie of scars. Some so old that you could just barely make out the pale, jagged pink lines cutting across his skin. Others more recent and darker. They were a stark contrast against his warm complexion, drawing your gaze and making the others seem less noticeable by comparison. You were struck by the sheer number of them; how every inch of his body appeared to be marred with some physical reminder or another of hard won battles just as much as narrow escapes. There were almost too many to count. Surprisingly, though, they did not detract from his undeniable good looks. If anything, they only added to the pretty picture he painted sprawled out underneath you. 

Reverentially, you traced the path of what looked to have been a particularly gruesome wound with your fingertip. It was probably a miracle he hadn’t been eviscerated. You wondered how he’d ever survived - not only this attack but all of them combined. Just how many battles had he fought and walked away from? You weren’t so sure you wanted to know the answer to that question. 

It’s not as if you could have ever given voice to your curiosity anyway. It wasn’t your place to pry and he was already watching you with a steady interest that made you feel decidedly put on the spot. Like a stagelight had been trained on you and you alone; effectively highlighting your role as the instigator in all this. 

He seemed perfectly at ease playing the observer, your audience of one. Content to let you peruse his body at your own leisure. Those sharp, pinpoint eyes that never seemed to miss even the smallest of details tracked the motion of your hand whenever you’d reach out to touch a new scar before flicking back up to your face again, silently gauging your reaction to each one. You weren’t sure what exactly your expression was conveying in that moment but Shikaku drank it all in with unwavering complacency. If he was offended by your keen scrutinization of his scars, he certainly didn’t show it. 

Drawing your gaze lower, you followed the lean line of his stomach until he disappeared underneath you. The meat of your thighs seemed especially soft and pliable where they were bracketing his narrow hips, bulging around and molding to the firm shape of him. He was lithe and hard despite his age. Despite his role as Jounin commander which consisted almost entirely of desk work. He must have taken the time to keep up on his own training over the years and with some frequency, and it showed. 

You couldn’t help noticing that there were signs of past altercations even this far down on his body, much too below the belt to have been anything but a cheap shot. Who was petty and malicious enough to hurt someone here? A tinge of ire sparked through you as the pad of your finger circled the pock mark blemish that was just shy of his hip bone. It must have hurt like hell getting injured so close to the groin. 

Shikaku drew a quiet inhale then and your head came up. Worry that you’d overstepped some unspoken boundary or touched on a nerve that still ached even after the flesh had long since mended itself flooded your thoughts in a sudden rush. You started to issue a hasty apology but, to your surprise, he didn’t look in any way put out. If anything, the crooked smile playing at his mouth only seemed to suggest amusement and the words died in your throat when he brought his hand up to poke at the pale indentation too.

“Shuriken.” He said, finally breaking the silence. “Friendly fire.” 

Your brows lifted. “Really?” 

Nodding, Shikaku abandoned the pale scar tissue in favor of squeezing your thigh. His palm was rough with thick calluses - yet more proof of his consistent training efforts - and wide enough to give the impression that even the plumpest part of your leg was a mere handful for him. It made you feel small and delicate by way of contrast, like something fragile under his touch, and you shuddered on top of him.

Your reaction did not escape his notice, the curve of his mouth taking on a more sly, knowing edge as he turned his head against the pillow to look at you from a different angle and size you up. “Back when I was still in the academy.” He explained. “Gods, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Just an accident during shuriken throwing practice though. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over.” 

“I wasn’t worrying.” You insisted but you could tell he didn’t buy it. Huffing, you slouched forward and splayed your hands across his chest to cover the dense cluster of crisscrossed lines littering his sternum. “You just have so many ...”

“Do they make you uncomfortable?”

You thought about that for a moment. “No. They make me sad.” 

Shikaku pinned you with a wry look of humor. “Whatever for? I’m alive, aren’t I?” 

“Yes, but I don’t like to think about you getting hurt.”

A warm, rumbling chuckle vibrated up through his chest to set your guts on fire, making your loins twist and curl in on themselves. You drew a steadying breath as your fingers flexed and the nails sunk into the smooth meat of his pecs. There was more give than you’d expected. It was the only indication you’d yet found that his hard earned muscle mass, as slight as it was, had begun to deteriorate with the passing of time. You wondered if anyone else had noticed yet. Then, in the same breath, you wondered why that knowledge excited you so much.

“Aren’t you sweet.” He murmured, distracting you from those thoughts when he palmed your rib cage between his hands. A gentle tug was all it took for him to drag you further up his body until you were perched on his stomach rather than his hips. The casual display of strength had your pussy fluttering in eager anticipation, clenching around little more than your own slick as Shikaku threaded his fingers through your hair and pulled you down into a kiss.

His lips were firm but soft against yours, molding to your mouth in a way that seemed to suggest you two had been made to perfectly fit one another. Leaning further into him, you sighed through your nose and kissed him back. You wanted to stay with Shikaku just like this forever. There wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be than tangled up in bed with him. But, as all things must eventually come to an end, that brief exchange ended long before you were ready for it to.

“When you make that face, I feel like I should apologize.” He said against your mouth. 

“What face?” You whispered. 

“The one you’re making right now.” Shikaku kissed you again; a slow, lingering peck that inspired a shudder down your spine. Eyes that were such a dark shade of brown they looked black - true black - gleamed playfully at you from just a scant few millimeters away while he studied your expression. Taking in your every shallow breath, every minute muscle twitch, and neatly filing it away for later. “I just can’t stand to see you looking so sad because of me. I don’t think ‘sorry’ would actually make you feel any better though.” 

You gave your head a small shake, allowing him to cup your face in the cradle of his palms. He was so gentle with you. Tender despite the calluses digging abrasively into your skin. You hadn’t thought a man like Shikaku actually existed until you’d found yourself working under him and subsequently, perhaps even inevitably, writhing under him in blissful ecstasy only a few short months later. It was almost too good to be true. A dream you never wanted to wake from. 

“I don’t want your apologies.” You told him quietly. 

“What would you have of me then?” 

That was a question you didn’t have to stop and think about. 

“You. I only want you.” 

Leaning up, you pecked at his mouth and then his chin. The coarse hair of his beard tickled slightly as you trailed butterfly kisses along the curve of his jaw and cheek until you could press your lips to the scar slashing across the side of his face. You lingered there for a moment. Feeling the heat of him seeping through his skin and into you before pulling back just enough to speak. “If I could, I would kiss away all your scars. You look very handsome with them. Distinguished. But I wish you’d never gotten hurt in the first place.” 

Shikaku turned his head and nuzzled into your hair, making the tip of his nose brush the outer shell of your ear. “That’s what it means to be a shinobi. You get hurt and learn from your mistakes.” 

“You’ve made this many?” You asked

“And then some.” 

A faint, masculine grunt later, you abruptly found yourself flipped over onto your back. The sudden rush of movement happened too fast for you to comprehend what was happening until you hit the futon with a half stifled gasp. Your eyes widened up at Shikaku as he moved over top of you, sinewy muscles under his skin dancing in a delightful display of subdued strength. With one elbow braced against the mattress, he brought his other hand down to slip under your thigh, grabbing a tight fistfull of doughy soft flesh and hiking your leg up into the air. The faltering groan that tumbled off your tongue sounded needy even to your own ears and you grabbed onto his shoulders with fingers poised like talons. 

Shikaku’s mouth curled into a mischievous little smirk, never missing a beat as he settled between your hips. His pelvis slotted to yours seamlessly, almost like you were two pieces of the same puzzle. The unmistakable nudge of his stiff cock at your pussy lips had you arching against him and trying to curl your captured leg around his ribs; writhing in anticipation as much as you were basking in the immovable force he presented above you. 

He pressed himself flush to you then and your breasts squished against his chest. The sweat slick friction to your nipples sent livewire sparks shooting throughout your body, setting every nerve ending to vibrate. You drew a haggard breath, mewling softly when he bent your leg higher and hooked your ankle over his shoulder. Effectively locking you into place. 

Helpless, all you could do was flex your toes while Shikaku took his time slowly angling his hips back and forth, teasing you with the hard weight between his legs. Gliding it along the puffy slit of your labia and coaxing yet more arousal out of your gushing cunt. Prodding your clit with the ridged glans on every smooth, drawn out stroke. It was maddening and wonderful at the same time. You could feel every bump and vein on the underside of his cock as it drug against you, feel it twitching with the need to sink balls deep into your body. Pulsing with red hot desire. It was enough to drive you wild and you whined softly in the back of your throat.

“Shikaku … please ...”

He groaned encouragingly in response. “Please, what? Use your words, sweetheart.”

You closed your eyes against the deep rumble of his voice, so gentle and soft despite the gruff note in his inflection. That alone would have been enough to send you over the edge if you’d allowed it. You could’ve listened to Shikaku speak for hours on end. This wasn’t how you wanted to find your release though and you squirmed, lifting your other leg to throw it over the small of his back and draw him closer. Trying to make him slip inside you.

It was no good though. Shikaku was as stubborn as a mule when he put his mind to it and there likely wasn’t a person alive who could force him to do something he didn’t want. He merely issued another low, carnal chuckle that made your pussy flutter and spasm, grinding his cock against you with more concentrated thrusts. Slipping and sliding through your drenched folds as if he were well and truly fucking you now. 

You were entirely at his mercy, so wet for him that it bordered on obscene, and you shook as you threw your head back against the pillows with a half choked sob. “Please! I want you to take me … I need it ...” 

“Is that so?” Humming his approval, Shikaku dipped his face down and kissed the tender column of your throat. His beard scratched and tickled, leaving a burning trail in its wake as he worked his way over the line of your jaw and higher still until he could capture your lips again. This exchange was far more heated than the last, more demanding, and you keened into his mouth when the head of his cock bumped your clit with growing insistence. 

Trembling, you tore your mouth from his and gasped. “Don’t make me cum like this! I want to feel you inside of me! Please, Shikaku! Please cum inside me!”

He groaned, tense and halting as a shudder rippled down his spine. You could feel every inch of him rolling with it, not unlike the motion of a cresting wave, and your breath hitched as he adjusted the position of your leg over his shoulder. Shikaku shimmied a little lower then and leaned into you with his weight. His cock found your entrance through muscle memory alone, or perhaps instinct, and you tried to arch against him, eager for the sear of penetration. He had you so thoroughly pinned that it was no use though. Your only available option was to cling to him all the more desperately while he impaled you straight down the middle one excruciating fraction at a time. Forcing you to comprehend each inch of him that entered you in daunting slow motion. 

You seethed. He had you wound so tight that you weren’t sure how much more of this teasing you could stand. The ache inside you only seemed to double down and grow more intense the further he sunk into your contracting passage, stretching you wide around his girth. It felt good. So good it almost hurt and tears of pleasure welled up along your lash line, blurring your view of Shikaku’s marred face. You tried to blink them away to no avail. He made you feel whole and complete; filling you up and taking you just shy of the breaking point. Reaching deep inside and touching parts of you that no other man had ever even come close to brushing against. It was overwhelming in the best possible way and you sucked in a ragged breath as his hand came up to cradle the side of your face, shaking. 

“There you go looking sad again.” He murmured, settling against you at long last with an accompanying grunt and a wet squelch. 

“I - I’m not …”

“I know, baby. I know. Shh.” Leaning close, Shikaku kissed the corner of your trembling lips. Those dark, dark irises studied you up close - taking in the flutter of your lashes, the moisture wetting your eyes, the way your brows furrowed and jumped in wonderful agony. You were sure he could see all of you in that moment, right down to your very soul. “You’re still so sensitive even after all this time. What am I ever going to do with you? Hm?”

A hiccuping moan was your only forthcoming response. You couldn’t seem to get your mouth to cooperate but that didn’t appear to bother him and you were grateful for that.

Smiling faintly, Shikaku backed off just enough to push up onto his elbow. His body, beautiful in its imperfection, flexed and roiled above you. The weight of his cock gradually retreated until you were sure he’d slip right out of you before surging forward again on a single, powerful thrust. You jerked at the intense pleasure that spiderwebbed through you, gasping and groaning. Your pussy flexed, squeezing around him in gooey palpitations that made his breath come a little harder. A little faster. 

His mouth fell open with a barely audible groan, his expression pinched while he watched your face twist up in ecstasy. It looked like he was holding himself back. There was a bead of sweat forming on his brow, right above the scar gouged into his temple and you lifted a trembling hand to wipe it away. Shikaku readily leaned into the warmth of your palm, his eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. 

They opened again when he angled his hips back and locked onto yours as he drove into you on another powerful thrust. He didn’t pause to let you adjust this time; quickly taking on a steady rhythm of long strokes and sharp, pointed jabs that had you seeing stars. It felt like he was punching the air right out of your lungs and your breathless cries rapidly rose to join the deafening noise of skin clapping against skin. The humiliating schlucking sound of your cunt sucking him in deep on every downward lunge seemed loud between your bodies and only added to the lewd cacophony filling the space between you two. It echoed inside your head and seemed to heighten your arousal that much more, sending you barreling blindly towards the edge of oblivion. It was as if he intuitively knew how to hit that spot inside you at just the perfect angle and, as usual, you were powerless to stop it even if you’d wanted to.

“Shi - Shikaku!”

The breath puffing out of him grew more labored, straining against the exertion. “Go on, baby. Let it go. I’ve got you.” 

You screwed your eyes shut and curled into him, holding on for dear life as the pressure in your loins rapidly mounted and threatened to suffocate you. Nails digging into long damaged flesh. The tension weighing heavy on all your muscles. Your leg quaking uncontrollably where it was stretched right to the edge of real discomfort over his shoulder. The delicious burn of his cock carving out a space within you one relentless thrust at a time. His sweat damp hips driving into the backs of your thighs with loud, wet smacks. The smell of him, intoxicating and woodsy. It was too much. You could feel the heat of your orgasm bubbling over, reaching critical mass, and your hands flew up to cover your face as you shrieked in delight. 

“Let me see you, sweetheart.” Shikaku’s voice rumbled above you. “Don’t hide from me.”

His long fingers curled around your wrist in the next moment, gentle and coaxing. You let him tug that hand away from your flushed cheek, watching as if through a daze when he pressed your knuckles to his chest, but the other slipped back to tangle in your own hair. You could feel his heart pounding out an erratic rhythm against his ribs and he was looking at you like you were the only woman he’d ever known. Like you were the only one that mattered. Your stomach flipped over itself and, just like that, the coil snapped.

Arching so hard that you caught a sharp pop in your lower back, you threw your head against the pillows and wailed. The fingers in your hair clenched, desperate for something to hold onto while you shook with the force of your release. But the tug to your scalp only seemed to highlight the intense bursts of pleasure radiating from your cunt, making you cry out with more fervor. 

As you shattered around him, Shikaku slowed to a standstill. Panting and tense with the effort of holding his own release at bay but content to let you ride out the waves of pleasure on his cock. He stayed lodged deep inside your pulpy cunt, just watching you writhe on him and shuddering each time your contracting walls spasmed and squeezed like a vice grip. All the while, you twisted and lurched, realizing in a far off, dreamy sort of way what he was doing but you were too far gone to care. It wasn’t nearly enough to dampen the sharp twangs of ecstasy cascading over your heaving body and you groaned dazedly when you started to come down from the high some moments later. 

It took even longer to find your voice and when you finally tried to speak, your voice was thick with the lingering traces of your ograsm. “You never cum when I do …” 

A short, breathless laugh rang out through the statically charged air. “I like to make sure you’re satisfied first, that’s all. Is that so wrong?”

You turned your head to regard the far wall, feigning a pout. “Am I one of them?” 

“One of what?” He sounded mildly perplexed now and you couldn’t really blame him for not knowing what you were talking about. You felt silly even bringing it up again but you had to know. For your own peace of mind.  

“One of your mistakes.”

Carefully taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Shikaku manually turned you back around to look at him. The fond look of exasperation you found peering down at you wasn’t what you’d been expecting - especially not when he was still flushed and sticky from having sex - but it made your heart skip a beat anyway. He was everything you could have ever hoped for and then some.

“You know you’re not. What a silly thing to say.” He muttered, craning his neck down to kiss you again in a lazy, lingering exchange that was as possessive as it was comforting. His lips curled against yours when you enthusiastically returned the gesture, leaning up to meet him, but he was quick to pull back and pin you with a knowing little smirk. “If you don’t think I’m paying you enough attention, all you had to do was say so. We can fix that right now.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You said, trying and failing to wipe the grin off your face.

“Even so,” His expression took on an almost boyish, mischievous edge as he grabbed onto your other ankle and hefted that one up over his shoulder too, effectively bending you in half like a pretzel. “How about we rectify it anyway?”

Your heart thumped wildly inside your chest when the change in position made him feel that much bigger inside you. The glans pressed tight into your spongy inner wall, sending fresh waves of exquisite pressure shooting throughout the sensitized nerves, and you groaned. This was certainly going to be another long, sleepless night and you couldn’t have been any happier about that prospect. 

“Please, Shikaku. Please pay attention to me.” You gasped.

“As you wish, princess.”

♥♥♥♥

Link to fic on AO3: Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069682

[beck-a-leck]

OOPS! @valuvr03 got me thinking and having feels about Jak and Sig and I wrote a thing!

Set post-Jak3, cw for angst, alochol use, canonical character death, and Baby Jak feels! Approx 1.5k words. You can also read it on AO3!

Fair warning, it’s rough, I typed most of this on my phone so who knows what typos there may be.

What About the Boy?

Sig ducked out of the victory party early. Let it not be said that Daxter didn’t know how to scrape together enough booze and merriment to make even sand-crusted Wastelanders forget how truly broken the world was. That kid had a gift for bringing people together. But Sig wasn’t really in the mood for a party, even if he had cause to celebrate.

Before he had gone riding off to war, Damas had named Sig his successor to the Wasteland throne. Sig hadn’t actually thought that would be necessary. But Damas hadn’t made it back from Haven alive. His oldest friend and mentor was gone.

Haven didn’t mourn Damas like Spargus did. Haven had been without a king long enough to hardly miss him. Spargus had sent Damas off to the next life with all the pomp and ceremony he deserved. It was his wake that Sig left early, lingering near the back of the room as Daxter regaled an increasingly tipsy crowd with tales of his triumph over the Dark Makers. When the Ottsel was suitably distracted, Sig stole a bottle of the strongest stuff off the bar and slipped out the door.

He went up to the throne room, figuring nobody would bother looking for him there until tomorrow. The throne loomed in front of him – his throne now, he supposed – but he didn’t take his seat there yet. Instead he eased himself down on one of the lower steps, pulled off his boots, and soaked his feet in the cool water.

He was tired. Precursors, he was so fucking tired.

Sig opened the bottle, tossed the cap off over his shoulder, and took a long drink. He caught his reflection in the gently rippling surface of the water and laughed dryly. If Damas were here, he’d give Sig a swift kick in the ass for moping around like this. Nothing good ever came from sitting on your ass, feeling sorry for yourself.

Sig took another long drink. He stared at the tattoo on his arm, four letters that crawled around the skin, reminding him what was most important. Life. When it was new, it was meant to memorialize a friend, a comrade killed by a Metal Head. Over the years, more lives applied themselves to the ink beneath his skin. And now when he saw it, he would think of Damas and… and little Mar.

Biggest failure of Sig’s life.

It was his job to protect the kid, keep the baby safe from anyone who might want to hurt or use him. And when it came down to it, Sig hadn’t been there. Five minutes was the difference between him protecting the kid and his mom, and utter failure.

By now… the kid had to be dead. If he had been taken to Haven there was no way a kid that young and small could have survived everything that city had gone through. The Metal Head invasion, the war within the city, KG deathbots, and the collapse of the palace, too many children had died in Haven over the last couple years. Who was going to notice one more unclaimed orphan?

Sig had promised to bring Damas’ son back to him. He had failed that job too.

Maybe he should stop making promises.

The rattling elevator drew Sig’s attention. He looked up to tell whoever decided to bother him to go away, but the words died in his throat. He knew that blond hair and blue shirt. If anyone else deserved some time alone after everything, it was Jak.

The thrice minted hero dropped heavily onto the step beside Sig, he took the bottle when it was offered wordlessly. The kid had taken Damas’ death pretty hard. Sig wasn’t surprised, he had seen how much the younger man had grown to respect Damas. Hell, if things had been different, with a little more training and grooming, Sig wouldn’t have been surprised if he declared Jak his successor. They two of them were remarkably alike, in more ways than he suspected either of them realized.

Jak was watching Sig carefully, his eyes trained on his face. Several times he opened his mouth as if to speak, but opted for a drink instead. After the third of forth aborted conversation starter, Sig finally said, “Out with it, Chili Pepper, or just leave me to drink in peace.”

Jak was quiet for a moment more, as if he expected Daxter to jump in and start the conversation, but the Ottsel wasn’t here. The kid would have to get whatever was weighing him down off his chest on his own.

“I know what happened to Damas’ son.”

Sig turned to look at him fully, not quite sure he had heard that correctly. Hope bloomed in his chest. “Mar? You know where he is? Is he alive? Is he okay?”

Jak laughed dryly, quietly, “He’s had better days, but…” he reached into his pocket and pulled something out and placed it in Sig’s hands.

Sig knew what it was without having to even look properly. It was what he had been searching for for the last three years. Mar’s seal, the emblem that would identify the kid. He was supposed to always wear it; he hadn’t been without the seal since his birth!

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s mine,” Jak said.

“No.” Sig shook his head slowly. Jak wasn’t a thief, and he wouldn’t have taken this from a defenseless child, of even from a child’s dead body. Where the hell did he get this from?

Jak drew a deep breath. “You remember the kid Daxter and I went to rescue when we defeated Kor? The one with the Underground?”

Sig shrugged. He hadn’t been involved with the Underground or their side of the battle against the Baron. He had settled in with Krew in hopes the gang lord’s connections to even the darkest corners of the city would help him turn up any clue about the boy. But he vaguely remembered Daxter babbling about some kid that got sent through a rift gate. With a little prying, Jak had eventually revealed that he and his friends had traveled through time somehow, from peaceful Sandover village, Haven’s precursor.

“That kid was me. I was born in this place, in this time, but I grew up in Sandover. We had to send the kid back so he could grow up and become me, and destroy Kor, or he would stay in that time and be safe because I already saved him.” Jak shook his head. “Either way, before the kid left, he gave me the seal. Our seal of Mar.” Jak took the seal back and turned it over in his hands. He was quiet for a long moment before continuing. “I didn’t realize what the seal meant, nobody told me who his father was or why he was important. I didn’t even realize he was Damas’ son until he told me. When he was dying, he said I would know his son Mar from the seal he wore around his neck.”

Sig was dumbfounded. What Jak was suggesting was impossible. Little Mar was six years old, Jak was eighteen. He could accept that the kid Jak had connected with had been Mar, and that Mar was so far out of reach now, he couldn’t return. But the jump between Jak had connected to a lost little kid and had been given a gift, and Jak was that same kid, grown up and angry was a bit too far.

“It’s poor taste to joke about something like this, Jak,” he growled, “I’d expect that kind of shit from Daxter, not you.”

“I know it sounds crazy, Sig. Ask anybody, even Veger. He took me in the first place.”

Sig growled again at the mention of that rat-politician. Veger had always seemed suspicious, but he kept himself so scrupulously clean, even Krew didn’t have any dirt on the bastard. Sig had never been able to get close to him.

He looked back at Jak. His face was honest, even if he was doing his best to keep any emotion off it. Damas hadn’t liked showing weakness like that either. It wasn’t in Jak’s nature to joke about something like that, if he said that he and the kid were one and the same, and the kid was Damas’ son, then Jak believed that he was Damas’ son.

All this time, he had Damas’ son right there and he had never known. That trigger-happy lunatic with a death wish… he should have known. There was so much Damas in the kid. And, Sig realized, in a way he had kept his promise to Damas. He had found his son, protected him, taught him what his father couldn’t, kept an eye on him while he ran off trying to save the world. He had even returned Mar to his father – he had been the one to slip Ashelin the Wastelander beacon before the council exiled Jak.

Sig laugh, low and gentle, and threw his arm around Jak’s shoulders. “Shit, Chili Pepper, at least you made it back.” He fell sober for a moment, looking him over solemnly. “A shame Damas never knew but… he woulda been proud of you, Jak. I know he would have.”

Jak almost smiled, but Sig saw his eyes light up. “Thanks, Sig. I had a good teacher.”

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #230: THE LAST FAREWELL!

April, 1983

“Yellowjacket no more!”

Aw, dang! Hank got raptured!

Captain America, Thor, and Hawkeye is a weird collection of characters to be staring forlornly at the empty Yellowjacket uniform.

Thor hasn’t really expressed much about the Yellowjacket situation in comparison. You think they could squeeze Wasp into the shot. Just her ex-husband is all. She’s just the team leader is all.

Put Wasp on the cover, you cowards.

So last times on Avengers: Hank Pym got himself kicked out of the Avengers and out of his marriage and pretty much deserved it. He was tricked into committing treason by his arch-nemesis Egghead and sent to jail. He sat in jail for, like, a really long time. The wheels really spun on the arc.

He was kicked out of the Avengers/walked before he could be kicked out in #213. He was arrested at the end of issue #217. His trial was in issue #228.

He was kidnapped from his trial by the Masters of Evil. Then in #229, he turned the tables on them all in quite a satisfying manner and slugged Egghead in the egg head.

Then Hawkeye manslaughtered him. He’s dead.

Hawkeye arrowed the science gun to stop Egghead from shooting Hank in the back and then the science gun backfired and microwaved that egg.

This makes Hank’s victory a little bittersweet for him.

Hank Pym: “I defeated the Masters of Evil single-handed... but more than anything, I wanted to bring Egghead to justice. He was a thorn in my side for so many years. I was never able to defeat him for long, not when I was Ant-Man... and not even after I became Giant-Man! He bedeviled me in every identity I assumed. He did me the greatest wrong when I was Yellowjacket. I’d already ruined my Avengers career, when he tricked me into committing a federal crime!”

Hawkeye too is set to thinking by what happened. Maybe humming a bit of Bohemian Rhapsody to himself too.

Hawkeye: “This is unreal! I’ve never killed a man before! I never planned on anything like this happening! Yeah, but I can’t feel sorry for Egghead! If anyone deserved this, he did! My brother Barney bought the farm, stopping Egghead from killing the Avengers. And if I hadn’t acted when I did, Hank Pym would be dead! If I had to do it again... I would!”

Hawkeye: ‘Eh, fuck ‘em!’

hah.

But Hank laments that with Egghead dead, so goes his chance of proving his innocence by turning him over to the law.

Hank Pym: “Egghead was always getting away from me, Hawkeye. It’s almost as if he’s pulled the ultimate escape!”

Fun fact: There doesn’t seem to be an Ultimate Egghead! Why would there need to be? Even more than in the 616, Ultimate Hank Pym is by far his own worst enemy.

Hawkeye basically tells Hank to buck up and that there’s basically incriminating evidence lying all over the place.

He doesn’t say it but even Egghead’s dead deceased corpse is kind of like evidence. Evidence that he wasn’t dead until recently.

Captain Marvel shows up because someone finally came looking for Hawkeye.

Hank is surprised, much like others have been that this is Captain Marvel. He knew the old guy, the super saiyan. And I guess he didn’t hear there was a new one.

Hawkeye: “We’ve had a few changes since you went in the slammer, Hank. C.M. is an Avenger in training.”

Huh. Captain Marvel doesn’t even react to the dead body. Then again, there’s a lot of bodies lying all around the place.

And while Hawkeye is introducing the new Captain Marvel to Hank, one of those bodies stirs.

Moonstone has regained consciousness and assesses the situation. She could blast Hank, Captain Marvel, and Hawkeye with her coherent light pew pew but that’d just weaken her.

Like in the previous issue, Moonstone is one of the few supervillains who knows when to fold ‘em.

So she decides to skeedaddle while the getting is good but whoops.

Getting wasn’t good.

The rest of the Avengers have shown up and cornered her while she was pondering.

So Moonstone decides ‘eh fuck it’ and promises to spill all the beans if it gets her a lighter sentence.

So days later, the mostly off-screen trial of Hank Pym finally ends.

A loooot of new evidence suddenly popping up led the prosecution to withdraw all charges.

The lead prosecution witness, Trish Starr, suddenly reversing her testimony after putting on Tony Stark’s magical mental-scan helmet kind of tanked the case, really.

Wait, they really did just admit the use of the helmet in the trial when its new, unsubstantiated technology whose inventor disappeared?

Damn, I knew the Marvel legal system was wild (considering comic books as legal documents as explored in Dan Slott’s run on the character) but still!

Although it makes sense. Egghead got Trish to incriminate Hank by using the bionic arm to alter her memories. The helmet Tony invented undoes that kind of alteration. This connects the dots quite reasonably. Glad Stern was paying attention when preparing to finish this arc.

Moonstone and Beetle confirming that Egghead was using Hank as a tool also helps.

In fact, not only did the prosecution drop all their charges, the judge also dismissed all the charges. Which feels redundant? I dunno much about law, really. Just the She-Hulk version of law. Which, again, uses comic books as legal documents.

Apparently happening at around the same time, Hawkeye also had his day in court.

Literally a day.

It wasn’t a trial, just a hearing to investigate whether he was guilty of wrong-doing in the death of Egghead.

Newsman with a newsplan: “Though he was threatened with contempt-of-court charges a number of times -- Hawkeye was found innocent of any wrong-doing in the death of Dr. Elihas Starr -- the self-styled Egghead.”

Yeah, I bet Hawkeye was threatened with contempt-of-court a bunch. And I bet you anything that at least one of the times he rejoined with “No, you’re out of order! This whole damn courtroom is out of order!”

And then the judge probably just sighed.

I mean, look at that unbelievable Hawkeye in the bottom left panel.

Anyway, I think Stern must have felt a little pent up having to start his Avengers run finishing off someone else’s story, especially having to devote a recap issue to it since the plot had been interspersed with fill-ins.

Because in the middle of concluding this arc, he throws in two plot beats that I have to assume are to set up stuff of his own.

A day after the trial, the Beetle is being escorted to a cell in a Western Pennsylvanian federal maximum security prison when he bumps into another prisoner.

What neither the Beetle or the guard notices is that the bump to “Sam Smithers” has peeled off some skin on his arm and revealed THAT HE IS ACTUALLY MADE OF WOOD!

Suspect possibly a living puppet.

And elsewhere but samewhen, IN SPACE, specifically on Saturn’s moon Titan, Thanos’ brother Eros is basically complaining about being bored.

When Captain Mar-vell died of having a lot of cancer, he asked Eros to look after Mar-vell’s... uh... -google- robot girlfriend?? Elysius.

Eventual mom to Genis and Phyla-Vells.

Soooooo, Eros has done as Mar-vell’s deathbed wish was and spent an agonizing several consecutive months hanging out in Titan’s beautiful inside forests and just having a real hard time caring about one thing for such a long period of time.

I’m not even being unfair to him.

Eros: “This is the first time in ages that I’ve spent so many consecutive months on Titan! I have ever been a wanderer! I’ve sought out adventure across the wide cosmos. Frankly, I have known romance on more worlds than most sentient beings could imagine. That’s part of the problem. Our friendship has been wonderful, but I’m having a hard time adjusting to it. My previous relationships have all been of a fleeting nature.”

‘Look its not you, its me’ except for attempting to dump someone as a friend, instead of romantically.

Not dump, even. He just kind of wants to ditch her and is asking in a roundabout way if she’s emotionally stable enough to ditch.

She goes, yeah sure, go off and have fun. And maybe she’s getting tired of his company too.

Elysius: “Look... you’ve been a great comfort to me these last few months, but now I need to be alone for a while with my thoughts.”

Geez, how clingy has he been this whole time while desperately wanting to be anywhere else?

Anyway, since she’s fine with him fucking off, he does fuck off. Right to the Hall of Science.

Where Eros’ dad is like ‘oh ffs’ when Eros tells him that he needs to use the LIVING COMPUTER Isaac to look up planets with the highest adventure potential.

Mentor of Titan is a man deeply disappointed in both of his sons for very different reasons.

Anyway, would you really be surprised if I told you that Earth was in the Top 3 planets in known space for adventure?

You wouldn’t, right?

Meanwhile, back at the plot, Hank Pym is on a boat with Trish Starr.

She wants to apologize for that time she incriminated him but Hank isn’t going to blame her for being as much a pawn in Egghead’s scheme as he was.

Trish: “Yes, uncle was like that all of his life. I think he really enjoyed using people.”

And she remembers the first time they met in Marvel Feature #5, where Egghead tried to drain her mind to power his machines. Because. Batteries hadn’t been invented? Because he’s just not happy unless he’s screwing over someone else?

Second one sounds likeliest.

She also remembers the time he car bombed her car but siphoned out most of the gas first.

Trish: “He didn’t want to kill me... only maim me. Nice guy, my uncle.”

Yeah. Its stories like that why its only Trish and Hank also Fred Sloan on a boat at Egghead’s funeral. Yeah, by the way, this is basically Egghead’s funeral.

Fred is only here for Trish.

Hank reacts to Fred so I wondered if he’s important in some way or if Hank recognized him but I checked the wiki and his main importance seems to be... this issue? So I don’t know why Hank reacts to the guy.

So Fred is just here for Trish. Trish is here out of duty, since she was Egghead’s only known family. And Hank is also only here out of duty but more archnemesis ‘can’t believe that asshole is dead and I don’t even get to feel good about it’ duty. I assume.

Hank even gets the honor (?) of laying Egghead to rest. By dumping his ashes into New York harbor.

Mostly because it doesn’t seem like Trish wants to?

So Hank quotes some Mark Twain and dumps the ashes.

Hank Pym: “‘Death... the only immortal who treats us all alike, whose pity and whose peace and whose refuge are for all -- the soiled and the pure, the rich and the poor, the loved and the unloved.’ Farewell, Egghead.”

Trish: “It’s awful to say this -- but I can’t find it in myself to be sorry. I think I’m glad he’s dead.”

And that’s Egghead’s legacy. Mourned by no one. And his death is only not cheered because the only people that cared feel shitty about feeling glad he’s dead.

ANYWAY, there’s some other loose ends to tie up.

So Hank takes a taxi to the Avengers Mansion and I guess finally explicitly explains why the mansion has seemed to change positions over time?

Hank Pym: “I never thought I’d be coming here again. The place has certainly changed since the day Jan and I met here with Iron Man, Thor, and the Hulk to draft the Avengers charter and by-laws. And I still recall the time Iron Man and Thor moved the mansion back from the street to give us more privacy. What a project that was!”

Sounds like a heck of a noodle incident, Hank.

... Why just Thor and Iron Man? Did they... did they literally just shove the mansion back from the street? ... There’s... basements and caves under there. How does that work? That seems like a massive architectural project.

Hank, pls, I need to know more details. You can’t just drop that information and casually stroll away. HANK!

Captain Marvel meets Hank at the door and escorts him inside, captain marveling at how calm Hank is despite everything he’s been through.

Hank shows up to the Avengers meeting and-

Oh god, She-Hulk looks like she wants to punch the suppressed emotions right out of Jan. She-Hulk, pls.

So, Wasp is super formal, calling Hank Dr. Pym and telling him that they want to use the mento-scan helmet to see if he was under outside influence when he did all the very bad things he did.

All of the Avengers are harboring their own concerns.

She-Hulk: “I’ve read legal briefs that were more informal! She’s cool on the surface, but inside -- ! Jannie, why are you doing this to yourself?!”

Are you guys already at the cute nickname stage of your friendship or is that just the way She-Hulk be?

Cap is worried that this is rough on Jan but that she’s doing what she needs to do as the Avengers chairwoman. But he’s more worried about the absence of Iron Man who is still missing and who ignored three calls to assemble.

Thor is just internally like ‘just do the helmet, my dude.’

Hawkeye is literally biting his lip at the tension.

Hawkeye: “Jan divorced Hank after his last breakdown. If we find out that he wasn’t to blame, what’s it gonna do to the both of ‘em? I hate this! That stupid court hearing was a breeze in comparison.”

Huh, Hawkeye has a point. Even if outside influence is proven, its not as straightforward as Jan and Hank instantly getting back together, no harm no foul. There was harm. And the problems with their relationship were deeper than one incident. But it would also create this possible expectation that they should get back together because the specific incident wasn’t Hank’s fault.

And Captain Marvel is still looking at this from an outsiders’ perspective.

Captain Marvel: “They’re really hurting over this... all of them! They all care so very, very much. If I ever become a fully active Avenger, I pray that I can live up to their example.”

So Hank very calmly agrees to use the helmet. But...

Hank Pym: “Sorry... no outside influences. It would have changed a lot of things if there had been, wouldn’t it? But no, I made my own mistakes... and I have to live with them.”

Thiiiiis was the best decision for the story arc. It may seem, in retrospect, the worst decision in the long run, but I can respect the story for standing by what it has done and standing by the growth Hank has had as a result of everything that happened.

I think a lot of more modern marvel comics have gone a little wild with letting the heroes do all kinds of dubious things and also die because it can be easily undone. It was a Skrull, they were being mind-controlled, it was an AU Nazi version of them created by a cosmic cube child. Or by giving the hero some big redemptive moment like Iron Man wiping his mind to make up for doing Civil War. Or Iron Man dying to make up for Civil War 2. You can explore whatever scenarios you want without worrying about dealing with the consequences long-term.

But in this era of Marvel, they were concerned with the long-term. Not to say that there weren’t cop-outs back in this day too. But since books were expected to keep going indefinitely instead of being cancelled and relaunched, there’s less of a sense of ‘this thing is only here to play with for a little while.’ If you wrote a thing, another writer was expected to follow up on it.

And I miss that a little.

So not giving a cop-out bullshit thing that undoes Hank’s actions was bad in the long run for his image as a character. But that’s a long way from now problem, exacerbated by writers like Chuck Austin and Mark Millar who wanted to wallow in it.

For an arc where Hank fell from grace and proved himself again, taking ownership of what a garbage fire his life can be was necessary.

One among many reasons I probably won’t like the Crossing when I get to it, haha.

With Hank’s actions proven as being Hank’s actions, Hank says there’s one more loose end that he wants to help tie off.

He wants to participate as witness when the Avengers hold a court of inquiry for Hawkeye killing Egghead.

This comes as an absolute surprise to Hawkeye, who I guess never read the bylaws. Which honestly, is very in-character for him.

But it being brought up, he insists that all he has to do is enter the findings of the state judge and be done with it.

Hank insists he participate though.

Hank Pym: “Hawkeye is faced with charges because he acted in my defense. It’s only right that I act in his.”

So, the Avengers go to the first floor library, which is apparently the court of inquiry room. I feel like we’re suddenly getting a lot of details about the layout of the Avengers Mansion in recent issues.

So Wasp convenes the court all formal style, so formal style that Hawkeye thinks that stickler Cap(tain America) couldn’t have done a better job. The purpose of the court of inquiry is to determine the validity of the charge of “unreasonable use of deadly force” and determine what if any proper disciplinary action should be taken.

I think Hawkeye is annoyed at having to go through with this (read the bylaws, my dude) because when Wasp asks if he has anything to add to his claim of innocence of the charge, he says he already gave the court copies of the court transcript that cleared him of the same charge, but also decides to speechify a little, because he wasn’t accused of contempt of court enough today.

Hawkeye: “I have already given the chair copies of the transcript of a hearing of the state courts... a hearing which found me not guilty of the same charge. And I have something else to say as well!”

“I don’t deny that my actions caused the death of Egghead. But in no way did I use undue force! I found Hank Pym in mortal danger, and I used the necessary means to save him... period. After all, we are supposed to be the Avengers, right?”

Luckily for Hawkeye, the Avengers are more willing to put up with him than a state court so Jan just goes ‘ok, noted.’

Captain Marvel also has a minor change of heart on Hawkeye. I don’t think we’ve gotten her in-depth feelings on him before (although he did get pissy about her joining the team, we didn’t see her response to that) but she’s impressed because she thought he had more wind than conviction but is seeing that isn’t so. And she’s also impressed by Serious Mode Jan who she thought was kind of flighty.

Captain Monica Marvel seeing all kinds of new sides of the Avengers lately.

Also, this isn’t important and you won’t be able to see what I mean unless I included more caps than I wanted to, but in the panel establishing the court of inquiry, Monica is just standing off to the side. But in the next panel she appears in, she’s moved over to sit on a couch instead.

I think its a framing thing but its still kind of funny to imagine her going ‘wait why am I standing up’ and heading for the comfy couch.

With Hawkeye’s statement given, Wasp invites Hank Pym to speak his piece.

And Hank gets up and gives an entirely unnecessary but probably appreciated defense of Hawkeye.

Hank Pym: “Ladies and gentlemen... I have not always been on the friendliest of terms with Hawkeye. Point of fact, we nearly came to blows a number of times... back in the days when I was an Avenger. But in all the time I’ve known him, Hawkeye has never used undue force.”

“I realize that this inquiry is little more than a formality. I have no doubt that you will find in his behalf. He did, as he said, act only in my defense. Unlike my own recent case before you, there is not the slightest hint of misconduct or negligence. The only thing Hawkeye is guilty of is being a good Avenger.”

“When I last spoke before this body, at my court-martial, I was not in a rational state of mind. I was unfit to be an Avenger. You wisely expelled me. I never expected to speak before you again. And now, I can think of no finer final statement than this... It has been my sincere honor to have known Hawkeye’s fellowship... as it has to have known yours.”

Okay. So. Half a defense of Hawkeye. And half... just a general good-bye and a demonstration that he actually does know how to deliver a defense at a court-martial. Cool.

I imagine if he had a mic, he would have dropped it.

Probably not, actually. Hank isn’t that exact blend of cool and inconsiderate for a mic drop.

Jarvis intercepts Hank on his way out and asks that he come with him to the second floor study. Jarvis has taken the liberty of gathering up the personal items Hank just kind of left in the mansion and packing them for him.

One suitcase has a bunch of Hank’s clothes that he had stashed in the mansion over the years. Including some wacky ties for wacky tie Fridays and a shirt that Hank had just plumb lost.

The other suitcase is a spare Yellowjacket outfit. In case Hank ever needs it.

Then Hank and Jarvis shake hands, Hank thanking Jarvis for everything that he’s done for him and the Avengers. He asks Jarvis to take care of himself because he knows he doesn’t have to ask him to take care of the Avengers.

This is a very touching scene. Its so touching that Jarvis excuses himself to go get misty eyed.

This is a Jarvis appreciation blog because I appreciate Jarvis as well.

Then, as Hank heads back down the staircase, he is intercepted by Thor, Captain America, and Hawkeye.

Yeah, the court of inquiry resolved off-screen because of how forgone a conclusion it was.

The three Avengers basically fall all over themselves to pat Hank on the back. Hank actually looks somewhat panicked by the positive affirmation.

That’s some mixture of funny and sad that I can’t identify.

Hawkeye tells Hank how much he appreciated his unnecessary defense. Thor clasps Hank’s shoulder and tells him he’s a class act, but in Thor-y words. And Cap extends an offer for whatever the Avengers can do to help Hank get back on his feet.

Hank thanks him for the offer but he’s already received an offer from a small research foundation in the Midwest.

Seems like getting exonerated of a treason charge is the best resume of all. That and Hank’s actual impressive resume.

But Cap has some stuff to work out re: Hank because he starts off on the stuff he put on the back burner back in that Ghost Rider issue.

Cap(tain America): “Hank... I know Iron Man would agree, if he were here, that we’re all sorry about the way things worked out. We should have realized the pressures you’d been under, prior to your breakdown. I was group leader at the time! I should have -- !”

Hank Pym: “Hold it right there, Cap! What I did, I did to myself! If I could have admitted that my problems existed... If I’d been willing to open up to you folks... Well, ‘if’ can be a big word sometimes. The fact of the matter is, I screwed up. And you did the only thing you could do! I don’t blame any of you.”

Hank has boarded the personal responsibility train and goddammit he’s riding it to the end of the line!

Good for him. Good clarity for the arc to have in its last issue.

But having started to slightly shout at the Avengers that he’s taking responsibility dammit! (he looks a bit pissed when he’s responding to Cap) Hank awkwardly excuses himself.

Cap tries to stop Hank from leaving because he has reached the bargaining stage of grief, I guess.

Cap: “Hank, wait! It doesn’t have to end like this! We could make a special amendment to the by-laws! We could reinstate you as an Avenger! You could be a special reservist -- !”

Hank: “Thanks, Cap. But no thanks. Trying to play super hero was the biggest mistake I ever made with my life! I was only fooling myself in ever thinking otherwise. But if you ever really think you might need a Yellowjacket again some day...”

He hands Cap the Yellowjacket suitcase.

Hank: “... Here! All you need is a good man and what’s in this case!”

I would hope, anyway. It’s going to be awkward if he opens it up later and its full of wacky ties.

The funny thing, although not really funny ha ha, is that Yellowjacket is the one codename of Hank’s that never really catches on outside of him.

You have multiple Ant-Men, a couple Goliaths, at least one other Giant-Man. There was a second Yellowjacket, eventually. But she didn’t make a big splash.

Despite Hank’s attempt here to pass the torch, Yellowjacket is a codename that remains inextricably tied to him. Which might be the problem. If there were another, more successful or at least more endearing Yellowjacket, Hank’s infamy in the role would not stand out so much.

Alas.

She-Hulk and Captain Marvel try next to intercept Hank. They don’t know him very well but they wanted to say their goodbyes too, despite not really knowing him that well.

Its the thought that definitely counts, probably.

But Hawkeye has some social awareness for a change and draws their attention to Wasp who is hanging back, but who clearly wants to talk to Hank.

So the rest of the Avengers quickly vacate to let Hank and Jan finally have closure. Or re-closure. “I want a divorce and to never see you again” is a kind of closure.

The situation has changed, however.

They both try to apologize to each other and then laugh at the awkwardness.

Hank: “Janet van Dyne, you are one in a million! After all that I put you through, you want to tell me that you’re sorry?”

Wasp: “I think we both made some mistakes along the way, but there were some good times... weren’t there?”

Hank: “Yes. But you can’t base a marriage on just a few good times. I fell for the young lady who reminded me of my first wife... and you thought you’d found the strong, silent hero. But I was never that strong, Jan. You know that now.”

Wasp: “Uh-huh.”

Damn, his prison time really did bring Hank a lot of clarity. That or the pile of therapists Tony kept throwing at him.

Hank also kind of talks over Jan here. Or at least steers the conversation. I don’t know what Jan would have said because Hank tells her that they both have other lives to lead and tells her to take care of herself.

Maybe its for the best, if, like Cap, she was going to try to shoulder all the blame for Hank’s bad decisions.

Hank walks out the door and finds Trish and Fred from the boat waiting to give him a ride to the airport. And then he is gone.

Like in the final image of the COURT-MARTIAL issue, Jan watches at the window.

“The last time Henry Pym left these walls, Janet felt like crying... but couldn’t find any tears. Today, at last, she has found the tears... for her former husband... for her team... for herself. Today, there is pain and remorse and release. There will be time enough for joy and hope tomorrow.”

Emotional catharsis can be like that.

In that the book kept going ‘Jan is really holding her emotions in and that’s probably not overall great for her’ its good that she can let it out now.

Kind of laughing at Captain Marvel and She-Hulk who only recently just met Jan being the ones going there there while the men she has known for years are just awkwardly standing in the background.

And that’s the fall and rise of Hank Pym. Apparently collected in trade as The Trial of Yellowjacket, which is a decent enough name too.

Overall, a good arc. That is kind of hampered by the need for filler and a writer change near the end. But honestly, Stern catches the ball and runs with it. He concludes the arc just as good as Shooter would’ve.

This arc is all kinds of iconic for Hank, although, unfortunately, most people are only aware of the beginning and maybe have a hazy understanding of what the ending does.

Although. This is a really good send-off for Hank. A really, really good send-off that would have worked best if he did like he said and quit superheroing forever.

That’s not to be, obviously, not in a perpetual narrative machine like Marvel. But it feels like it could have been and maybe should have been the last word on his character.

I enjoy Hank in Busiek’s Avengers and in Avengers Academy. And also, conceptually, Hank telling Reed “it’s on, bitch.” I very don’t enjoy Ultimate Hank Pym. So its a balancing act. The perfect exit for the character vs but I like some stuff when they brought him back.

Anyway.

After this, Stern gets to move on to his own material. Which he already planted the seeds for in this issue.

That’s a pun.

Follow @essential-avengers​ because of my bad puns. Also like and reblog, if you like to reblog.

[the-light-finds-its-way]

Kahun Tu’mak

Guardians name: Kahun Tu’mak

Age: Entirely unknown, but seems young, somewhere in his mid adult years.

Race: Cabal

Call signs/alias: Traitor, Son of Zavala, The Pale Titan

Pronouns: He/him

Class: Titan

Preferred subclass(es): Arc

Ghost's name: Gul’tan

Their Vanguard: Zavala, Ikora, Cayde-6

Fireteam name: Harbingers of Destiny

Fireteam teammates: Magnus, Dominus Ghaul, Anthem-99, Velliks, Gadrax, Kahun

Favorite legendary weapon: The Messenger

Favorite exotic weapon: Memoriae, a custom exotic I came up with for his backstory. It’s a rocket launcher made from Ghost shell fragments. The gun is made to represent the combined might of every fallen Guardian, and to keep their memory alive. Its name is from Latin, a dead language, because “Things may be dead, but they aren’t gone so long as we continue to hold onto them.” It’s a metaphor for the fallen Guardians, and how their identities cannot be forgotten, either.

Favorite exotic armor: Curiass of the Falling Star

Favorite ornament armor set: Phenotype Plasticity

Favorite weapon ornament: Bloodline Memorial

What stats do they focus on: Resilience, Mobility, Intellect

Are they offense, defence, or support: Offense and defense equally

Do they prefer being close, mid, or long range: Close to mid range

Do they lean more "Element of Surprise" or "Upfront and Aggressive": Upfront and aggressive

Strikes, Gambit, or Crucible: Crucible

Who was their mentor(if they had one. If it is a character you created, tell us about them!): Zavala

Who are they mentoring(if they are. If it is a character you created, tell us about them!): Nobody, Kahun is a fairly new Guardian, and thus doesn’t have the knowledge or skill to mentor anyone yet.

What ship do they have: High Gravitas

What is their Sparrow: Golden Pride

Favorite Ghost shell: Predator Sun

Favorite shader: Horizon Blush

Favorite color: Red/gold

Favorite food: Popcorn

Favorite piece of Pre-Collapse tech(if they've seen any): Laptops. Kahun is fascinated with computer technology from before the Collapse began, but especially the first portable computers. They’re slow bricks compared to what is available now, but they’re still full of interesting components and mechanisms!

Favorite Pre-Collapse music(if they've heard any): Finntroll

Favorite place in The Last City(if it's a place you created, give a little description!): The Tower

Favorite NPC(s): Zavala, Saint-14, Lord Shaxx, Ikora, Amanda Holliday, Ada-1, Tess Everis, Eris Morn, Asher Mir

Favorite patrol location: The Crater on Io. It’s quiet, lonely, he can think, and it’s relatively close to the Traveler, which he always desires to bond and connect deeper with.

5 things your Guardian likes(can be anything): Solitude, combat, allies/friends (they’re one in the same to him), learning, kids

Least favorite food: Fish of any sort

Least favorite shader: Dead Zone Bark

Least favorite patrol location: Anywhere on Mars

Least favorite Pre-Collapse tech(if they've seen any): Corded telephones

Least favorite NPC(s): Emperor Calus, Mara Sov, Lakshmi-2

Least favorite weapon ornament: Coup de Main

Least favorite ornament armor set: Luxe Titan

Least favorite legendary weapon: Timelines’ Vertex

Least favorite exotic weapon: Devil’s Ruin

Least favorite exotic armor: Eternal Warrior

5 things your Guardian dislikes(this can be anything): Disloyalty, mistrust, betrayal, ignorance, malignance

Your Guardian has to rest. What is their living space like: It’s very neat, very minimalistic as Zavala has inadvertently influenced him to be. It’s across the hall from Zavala’s room, and is rather large to fit his huge size.

Does your Guardian have any casual wear?(Y'all remember Polyvore? The website URSTYLE works very similar if that helps!):

What hobbies and/or skills does you Guardian have: Translating Ulurent, construction and architecture, astrophysics

What would your Guardian's lore book be called: Solemnity and Turbulence

Where was your Guardian reborn?(If you created the location, give us a little description!): Frigid Wastes. It’s a now-destroyed Cabal base on Mars, most notable for its gladiator arena where Cabal would kidnap Guardians, slay their Ghosts, then challenge the Lightless to their death in attempt to show the universe what Guardians are truly worth. The place used to be grand, almost like a castle, but has now become rubble and dust coated in layers of pemafrost.

What were they wearing when they were reborn: Busted Cabal power armor, and a broken rebreather.

What was their reaction to being reborn: Absolute confusion

What was their reaction to their first rez: Kahun had no idea what was going on, and couldn’t understand what was happening to him.

After being reborn, did they meet friendlies first or hostiles: One friendly person, and lots of hostile people. The only friendly person was Zavala, whom Kahun stood up in front of with a blank look of sheer confusion on his face, not knowing why everyone else held a gun aimed at him.

Who was the first other Guardian they met?(Same thing! If you made them, give a little description!): Going before res, Kahun met countless Guardians whom he never knew the names of, sadly, and all of whom were slain by his comrades. After res, there were many Guardians in a whole legion, swarming him cautiously except, again, Zavala.

Did your Guardian get reborn with, or find, any indication of their past life? If so what do they have/found: Kahun has learned a LOT about his past life, despite Zavala constantly deterring him from this. First and foremost, Kahun was resurrected in the remains of his base, with lots of dead Cabal around him, leading Kahun to question what he was doing there. From this question sprang many others, eventually drawing Kahun back to his former base whereupon he learned he was formerly a Gladiator, forced to be there by Calus’s orders, and slay Guardians for their Final Deaths. Kahun looked in the rubble of the arena and located thousands of Ghost shell fragments, all of which scattered about, and he knew he unwillingly partook in this. There, Zavala told him Kahun jumped in front of a rocket to protect Zavala’s Ghost because he wanted no more pointless deaths, and died on impact, therein protecting the commander and his Ghost. This is why Zavala feels a major duty to raise and protect Kahun: a debt repaid. Kahun now uses those Ghost fragments and has made Memoriae with them to defend every Guardian and innocent soul in the galaxy with the combined might of everyone who’d been slain in the arena.

How did your Guardian get their name(if they didn't rez with past life momentos): Kahun remembered his name upon being resurrected. When him and Zavala formed a tight enough bond, Kahun suggested a last name for the both of them so they could be considered family: Tu’mak. In Ulurent, this name means “United”.

Going back to your Guardian's lore book, what would be some some quotes or passages from their book: One text would certainly be about forging Memoriae. I’m currently working on his lorebook and compiling the passages in it on AO3. It’ll contain record logs of his training with Zavala when both met, tales of Kahun discovering his past and lamenting over it, and his endeavors as a Guardian to make the galaxy safe against anyone who dares threaten the innocent.

Does your Guardian have a significant other: No, not at the moment. I can’t decide on one.

Did your Guardian go explore first before going to The Last City? If so, where to: He did! Zavala kept him in the EDZ for a while before going to the Tower, and trained him there so nobody would panic upon seeing a Cabal Guardian.

What was their reaction to first seeing The Last City: Sheer awe and wonder. Kahun had never seen anything like this, and never knew such unity or peace. In fact, he never knew peace at all, he wasn’t taught it as a militaristic Cabal. He was entirely shocked, and in love!

Is your Guardian a part of a clan: The Traveler’s Legion

Does your Guardian's clan have a back story? If so, what is it?(if you want to or able to share): After Dominus Ghaul was resurrected, and worked with Magnus to unite the Cabal under one banner, Ghaul offered Kahun to form his own Legion of Guardians who’d be ambassadors to the Cabal, and thus Kahun formed The Traveler’s Legion.

If your Guardian would have a quote as a flavor text for a weapon and/or piece of armor, what would they be: “To have and to hold... I’ll hold your Light, I promise. Until we meet again.”

If your Guardian has had any interactions with any civilians (The Last City/The Farm), Eliksni, Cabal, Vex, Hive, Taken, Scorn, Rouge Lightbearers, or Iron Lords/War Lords(if your Guardian is an Old Light) tell us about it!: Kahun’s first interactions within The Last City were entirely hostile, full of people trying to hurt and hunt him down. Kahun was not allowed out alone, and it took years for anyone of Humankind to accept a Cabal is a Guardian. Cabal around the galaxy hated Kahun and attempted to slay him for having gone against his kin, until the unity came and Kahun was given position as a Primus. Kahun has befriended many Eliksni, and he thinks they’re adorable. He loves children from The Last City, and many come swarming him curiously during his patrols to ask questions about him being a Cabal. Kahun always answers happily, and teaches the children that no species is entirely, inherently evil, and anyone is capable of doing great things. Kahun is devoted to the Crucible, so he doesn’t enjoy seeing Lord Saladin or any of the Iron Lords around. But he believes Saladin may someday come to his senses and recognize what he’s done.

Does your Guardian have any unconventional allies or connections(By Vanguard standards): His connections to Ghaul and Magnus. Kahun tries to separate himself from most of Cabalkind due to his past, but he maintains his connections in the form of The Traveler’s Legion in hopes that other Cabal will someday be seen as worthy by the Traveler’s standards as he and Ghaul were.

How does your Guardian feel about themselves or others using Stasis: Kahun doesn’t trust it himself. He sees and understands why others use it, but he couldn’t be paid to use Stasis himself.

Did they run The Last Wish raid? How did they react to seeing a live Ahamkara a.k.a Riven: N/A since Kahun isn’t actually playable :(

Did they run The Deep Stone Crypt raid? How did they react to the Crypt and seeing Exo Eliskni: N/A

Is your Guardian from D1? How did they react to seeing Taniks alive once again: Kahun isn’t from D1, so seeing Taniks alive was just a sort of “Who are you?” moment.

Where did they go and what did they do during The Red War: Kahun was still enslaved on the Gladiator base on Mars. He was avoiding fighting Guardians at all costs, and in fact, worked to set many of them free before their final fights.

Here are some characters that are either polarizing or have created a strong enough mass emotion within the community. What opinion does your Guardian hold on each of them(These are only a handful of characters!)>>>

Osiris, First Warlock Vanguard, originally exiled: Kahun admires him and looks to Osiris for wisdom.

Eris Morn, Bane of the Swarm: Pity. Kahun wishes she still had the Light, that she was still safe, and untouched by the Darkness. He truly feels bad for her, and just wants her to be ok but knows Eris will never know peace again.

Cayde-6, Sixth Hunter Vanguard: Insane and utterly self-destructive. Kahun wonders how he’s still alive...

Ikora Rey, Second Warlock Vanguard: An absolute guiding force. Ikora has taught him lots, and give him great insight into the Light.

Commander Zavala, Second Titan Vanguard: Dad.

Saint-14, legendary Titan, First Titan Vanguard: Absolute admiration. Kahun deeply appreciates and aspires to be like Saint, even trying so hard as to mimic his moves in the Crucible.

Lord Saladin, Iron Banner handler, One of the last remaining Iron Lords: Kahun hopes Saladin will realize the error of his ways someday, and make amends as he is doing himself.

Lord Shaxx, Crucible handler, Hero of Twilight Gap, living megaphone: His teacher and other guidance. Like Ikora, Shaxx taught Kahun how to vent his feelings in the Crucible by fighting and using his adrenaline.

The Crow, New Light, Ex-Enforcer to The Spider: A friend and child who MUST be protected at all costs. Kahun knows who Crow truly is, and he wants Crow to be safe as a Guardian.

The Spider, The Shore's Only Law, founder of "House" Spider: Untrustworthy, and not somebody whom he’d turn to unless absolutely necessary.

Uldren Sov, Prince of the Reef, Master of Crows: A disaster who, like him, was manipulated and controlled.

Mara Sov, Queen of the Reef, Queen of the Awoken, Ex-Kell of Wolves: She must pay for her crimes by death.

Variks, the Loyal, founder of House Judgement: Indifferent. If he hadn’t released Uldren, then Crow wouldn’t exist. But at the same time, what Uldren’s release cost the galaxy might not be worth Crow. Kahun doesn’t know what to think of Variks’s past actions, and certainly doesn’t let them go or forgive them.

Mithrax, the Forsaken, Kell of Light, founder of House Light: Kahun trusts him entirely and wholeheartedly. Mithrax is an ally and friend.

The Exo Stranger/Elizabeth "Elsie" Bray, Granddaughter of Clovis I and Sister to Ana Bray: She can be an ally, someone to rely on if necessary, but he’d rather not trifle with the Darkness in any way.

Eramis, of House Salvation, Kell of Darkness: Nope nope nope, he will fight her on site because the Darkness isn’t something he’d like to have hanging around, even if it can be harnessed by others.

Empress Caiatl of the Cabal Imperial Empire: Hhhhhhh don't trust!!! Calus bad, therefore Calus family bad! Right? RIGHT??!! HHHHHHHEEEELLLLLPPP!

Taniks the Scarred, the Perfected, the Abomination, the Shadow Thief: “Who the everloving fuck is this dude, and why is he after me???”

The Darkness is fast approaching. How is your Guardian handling it: Kahun is anxious, but ready to go head-on. He’ll fight as best as he can, no matter how hard that may be to do. Kahun will stave the Darkness off at literally any cost, including his own life. Ride or die.

And finally, does your Guardian have any advice for any New Lights: “The Traveler chose us for a reason, and it’s our duty to uphold that reason. Debts are repaid only to make new ones, but just maintain your duties as a Guardian, and you can someday die knowing you’ve done the right thing.”

[anotherisodope]

Master List of Fallout Canon and Canon AU Muses

Fallout 3

Charon

A gigantic, forbidding-looking, brainwashed badass of a ghoul whose protection, and combat services, are tied to the holder of his very high-ticket contract. Nobody knows who the organization was that Ahzrukhal purchased his contract from, how long he was in their service, or what horrors he was subjected to in the process of making him what he is. He isn’t talking, if he remembers at all. But despite the mental cage he is in, Charon constantly seeks ways to assert himself, follow his personal code, and prevent his own exploitation--or avenge it. A highly trained commando with a preference for mid-range weapons such as his combat shotgun, he lives for a good fight, and becomes bored and restless if his guns go cold too long. He’s got great instincts and is very protective--but is mentally and socially stunted, is observant enough to recognize that on some level, and is frustrated by it and his captivity, making him grumpy and sarcastic. He uses very formal language, sometimes with painstaking effort, in part as an attempt to be better understood. Will cause unmitigated chaos to save your life in a fight, then yell at you because you attacked an innocent shopkeeper. Probably not good to give him too many explosives.

Fallout New Vegas (or wherever)

Robert Edwin House (postgame AU)

One of the most brilliant men ever to be born into the prewar world, Robert House is the owner and primary programmer and inventor of RobCo Industries, which is responsible for everything from Fallout’s programming language, to most of its robots, to the PipBoy. Calculating the coming thermonuclear war down to a one-day window, House leveraged his tremendous wealth, influence and genius to save his beloved Las Vegas. This included preserving his body on life support while wiring his brain straight into the city’s network and defensive grid. Though not entirely successful, he survived and was able to eventually recreate and defend a walled-city version of the Las Vegas strip: New Vegas. 

The AU

In a twisted version of a Good Karma Courier House playthrough, House won but was convinced by the Courier to make more merciful and thoughtful decisions. However, the Courier then betrayed them at the eleventh hour and murdered House’s physical body, leaving everyone convinced that House had died. Details can be found here. However, House had used another contingency program stored aboard the Platinum Chip to enable him to upload his mind to his own network. The Courier ended up fleeing New Vegas. (I am currently working on a description of the fates of various factions in this AU).

After the events of Fallout New Vegas and his takeover of the Hoover Dam, this version of House used code hidden in the chip to make the following changes from current canon:

Recreate a nationwide wireless Internet using freshly activated networking capability in every single Robco product

Make this Internet publicly available through the persona of the benevolent hacker Snow

Escape onto this newly created Internet, gaining access to and potential control of all RobCo products

Use this to access various new bodies, eventually including a pair of comatose synth bodies from failed Railroad memory wipes

Since then, he has been hatching plans all over the former US to steal Institute and Brotherhood of Steel technology--and reclaim as much of his own as he can. While doing this, he is acting through multiple personas. These include two Gen 3 Synth bodies he stole from the Railroad’s comatose “failures”. 

House’s aliases (besides Snow) include 

Edwin “Ed” Case (Gen 3 synth body, former infiltrator), a brilliant repairman and roboticist operating in the Commonwealth who recently did a lot of repair and upgrade work at the Memory Den. Closest to House in voice and diction, but significantly less of an asshole. Always has at least two combat-capable robots with him. 

Daniel Mason (Gen 3 synth body, former courser), recently arrived in New Vegas. Not well known, as this body is largely used for physical infiltration and social engineering, or when House wishes to oversee robotic combat units more directly. Sounds nothing like House but still talks like he ate a thesaurus, though in a much more cool and reserved way. House being House, he has no idea why this body gets so much attention. Armed and dangerous. He is currently acting as House’s lieutenant and enforcer in New Vegas, along with his force of upgraded Securitrons.

He is still working on his Robert House synth body, which needs to be perfect of course...

Because of his activity in the Commonwealth and his ability to reach anywhere his network reaches, House can be interacted with by literally anyone in the Fallout universe circa 2287. Unless your character is in a memory pod or other full-interaction environment, however, you will be interacting via text, via robot, or via one of his two synth personas.

Vulpes Inculta (postgame AU)

One of the most wicked and bloodthirsty of Caesar’s commanders, this former head of the Legion’s Frumentarii was one of the most infamous men in the entire Mojave. Thoroughly and hopelessly indoctrinated in Caesar’s depraved and brutal values, he carried them out with terrifying zeal, sometimes resulting in the destruction of entire communities. Always cool, calculating, wily and in control, he never let anything get in the way of his duties--including his own needs, desires, and safety. His loyalty to Caesar was almost worshipful, and rooted in the belief that he served the actual Son of Mars.

To this end, he even plotted with the Omertas to release poison gas in the opening volley of an attack on the New Vegas strip. Forcibly stripped of any independent moral thought on the matter and thoroughly indoctrinated, he never thought twice about such actions. He served the son of a god, how could his actions not be righteous?

And then Caesar died. And Vulpes lost everything except for his life. And that was only the beginning of his comeuppance.

The AU

After brutally murdering Caesar upon learning that he had lied about his divine heritage and was afflicted with a mortal disease, Lanius took over, and promptly ordered Vulpes’s execution. Vulpes, who had anticipated this, fled, getting as far as he could from the Mojave. He knew that under Lanius’s hand, the Legion would first become a monstrous shadow of itself, and then would fall.

Illusions shattered and shamed by having to run, Vulpes spent years traveling with caravans in disguise as he sought a place to settle. Landing in the Commonwealth, he started carving out a place for himself, but his sense of purpose beyond survival and security was gone.

Worse...with it had gone his certainty that his depraved actions had been necessary and for a good cause, Doubt had crept in, and it kept growing and growing as he reconciled the differences between Caesar’s words and the reality he had lived through. Left to his own thoughts for far too long, and realizing that any remnant of the Legion that still exists will be hunting him, he is starting to crack.

He is very good at hiding this, however, being forced to learn to keep his cool in all kinds of bad situations. And so he has set himself up as a high-end, “independent problem-solver” in Diamond City, handling the kind of bloody and unethical work that would horrify Nick Valentine. But even as a showdown with his horrific karma is brewing internally, so too are external problems and temptations as he gets more and more deeply entangled with the Commonwealth’s Underworld.

Vulpes is a cold-blooded, scheming, psychopathic asshole with a volcano of repressed emotion that really only comes out when he fights. As he does not drink, date, use chems or confide in anyone, violence is and has been his only outlet, which leads to him often charging into dangerous situations with ripper in hand. When he is better under control, he deals with targets through stealth kills of various types. Unlike the vast majority of the Legion he is comfortable with most technology (science as a tagged skill), and has taken even more of an interest since fleeing East. For some reason, neither animals nor wasteland beasts will attack him when he travels alone.

His primary motivation while he wrestles with his many inner demons (which he will never let on about to anyone) is survival. He believes he will soon be the only one left who remembers what the Legion once was, and the higher aims it once strove for (through horrible means, but he doesn’t see that). While he is now hunted by the Legion’s remnants, he believes that he has a duty to survive, and maintain his discipline and his traditions before finding others to spread them among. The problem is, instead of going straight for taking over a settlement or raider gang, he’s dealing with growing doubts about Caesar, who was revealed to be mortal, and what Caesar taught him. This has made him hesitate. However, he is still using the time to gather as much information as possible about the Commonwealth, its people, its factions, and of course, their weaknesses.

Vulpes’ alias: Victor Renard

Victor Renard is a new Upper Stands resident who moved into the Latimer residence after both father and son were presumed killed by Triggermen outside the city. He has a part stake in the Colonial Taphouse, which has recently had a change of management, and is often found there, brooding over a glass of watered wine. He has a developing reputation for being very private, likely very dangerous, and being some kind of high-end mercenary. He generally wears a black suit and carries concealed weapons--at least, inside the city walls. He and the mayor/security team have a strained but polite relationship...so far.

Fallout 4

Nick Valentine

A highly talented Chicago detective, on loan to Boston PD, whose original life came to a crashing end after crime kingpin Eddie Winter murdered his fiancee and disappeared. Traumatized by the loss, he was ordered to seek treatment at a facility that was run by what would become the Institute. They scanned and copied his mind and memories, and he then died in the nuclear bombardment that soon followed. When he woke up on a trash heap in a damaged robotic body around a century later, he was left with no context or explanation for his bizarre “reincarnation”. That mystery would haunt him, like the mystery of Eddie Winter’s escape from justice, for another century. After wandering the wastes for a time, and slowly acclimating himself to his new environment and interactions with modern humans, he settled in Diamond City as a handyman after returning the late mayor’s missing daughter. Eventually, he became a trusted member of the Diamond City community...and took back up the mantle of a detective. Nick stoically carries a lot of trauma, and a lot of outrage. He works to provide peaceful, rational alternatives to the constant violence around him, and tends to be smarter and more competent than most, especially when it comes to computers or investigation. He is a bit of a curmudgeon, with a dagger-sharp wit he’ll sometimes overuse when sufficiently angered. He smokes, though he gains no benefit from it, as a tie to his human past. He tends to feel divorced from his own body to some degree, and that plus his distrust of most roboticists has caused him to forgo repair thus far.

John Hancock

Mayor of Goodneighbor and a self-styled revolutionary hooligan who is usually high on something, Hancock has more layers than you might expect, and a tragic history. Born John McDonough, he grew up in a shack with his parents and brother on the Boston waterfront. His brother was something of a bully, but not particularly wicked. They started growing apart as they grew up, with John sneaking off to Goodneighbor regularly to party and do chems. Empathetic, and significantly smarter than most people, he was able to see the suffering and inequities all around him, even after his family moved up in the world and ended up in Diamond City. John realized that his brother had...changed...when he decided to run for mayor. Running on an anti-ghoul platform, he capped off his inaugural speech by announcing the banishment of all ghouls from the city. John watched in horror as the ghouls fled with their few belongings, being brutalized by citizens and police the whole time. After confronting his brother to no effect, he forced himself to act, successfully leading several families to temporary safety in Goodneighbor. Most did not survive, however, leaving him despondent and forever loathing his pogrom-promoting brother, who is still Diamond City’s mayor. That night changed something in him, and it wouldn’t go back to sleep no matter how many chems he took. Finally, on learning that Vic, the gangster running Goodneighbor, was letting his men gun down drifters, he had a bizarre, chem-fueled epiphany. He discovered John Hancock’s coat and hat in the depths of the State House, and suddenly realized what he needed to do. He took on the clothes and cause of John Hancock, and after brutally liberating the town from Vic’s people, gave an inaugural speech declaring Goodneighbor to be “of the people, for the people”, regardless of who those people were. He took on the persona of a daring, reckless, ferociously protective folk-hero Mayor and started the long process of turning Goodneighbor into a safe haven for all. But even that wasn’t enough for him. Less than a decade ago, he discovered an experimental serum intended to turn the user into a ghoul. Sick of the face in the mirror, and motivated by half a dozen different reasons, he completed his “remaking himself” by becoming the same sort of being that his evil brother so loathed. Now, having consolidated power, he has found himself in a rut, spending most of his time putting out fires and dealing with challengers to his position and to Goodneighbor’s safety. Constantly wrapping himself up in his role and work when not carousing, however, has left a lot of painful unfinished business in his life to fester.

[thesecondcircleofkel]

A First Time for Everything

Young!All Might x Reader 

5.2K 

Request: "Anonymous asked: Hello Circlekel, May I request a Young! All Might x Female Reader NSFW scenario? I would like it take place when he was in America. He saves his new Girlfriend from her villian ex-boyfriend, (she wasn’t aware the ex was a villian and when she found out she dumped him which made him mad 😡 lol) and after All Might saves her he gets rewarded with nice romp between the sheets 😉 (Also if possible have it all take place in Detroit, because the “Detroit Smash” 😆)"

Warnings: NSFW, first time (for All Might), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, too much lube

Notes: I couldn't quite work out the Detroit aspect of this, but everything else should be in there. And speaking of first times, this felt like my first time writing smut all over again for some reason, so...it might be a bit rough. 

Toshinori wasn't much of a believer in the idea of love at first sight, or at least he hadn't been, until that auspicious day when he moved into his new apartment in the States. Love had been the last thing on his mind at that point in his life, the loss of Nana still so fresh on his heart, the threat of All for One constantly looming in the back of his mind. He had every intent of completely ignoring his social life, of focusing only on training and his hero studies and not putting any thought into making new friends. He'd only put them in danger anyways, he figured, because even with All for One supposedly on the other side of the world, he didn't trust that the villain couldn't pop up at any moment, and even if he didn't, Toshinori was sure that it was only a matter of time before he made even more enemies thanks to his heroics.

Fate apparently had other ideas for him, though, ideas that slapped him in the face as soon as he brought his last of his belongings into his new home. You'd been leaving for work at that very moment, in too much of a rush to give him a proper greeting, but the million-watt smile that you threw at him almost brought him right to his knees. Even as you scurried down the hall away from him, he was frozen in place, mouth agape and no doubt looking like a fool or some love-struck teenager as his heart tried to claw its way out of his chest. The whole thing threw him for a loop; nothing like this had happened to him before. None of the meager crushes that he had had in his youth could even hold a candle to this. He didn't expect it to happen, and it also happened at the worst possible time, at least in his opinion.

But again, fate seemed intent on pushing him towards you. He tried to avoid you, hoping that the infatuation he felt for you, a woman whose name he didn't even know, would fade away quickly when given some distance from its source, but it didn't. It didn't, and he was left with a burning curiosity that he had no business feeling after having only seen you once, and even though his mind told him to stay away from you, his heart made him gravitate towards you. A friendly nod in passing, a 'good morning' or 'how are you today' here and there- each met with that same brilliant smile that got him into this mess in the first place.

It took him about three months, but he finally learned your name, and he felt like it was burned into his very soul once you said it. It felt strange on his tongue, a foreign sound that still somehow seemed to perfectly match the beautiful face that had haunted his mind for months. He had told you his name in return, and that led to an even longer conversation, one that he cherished no matter how simple it may have been, where you discovered that he was studying abroad as a hero. Your face lit up at that new information, fascination and something almost akin to pride in your eyes, only marred by a hint of worry as you wished him the best of luck and thanked him for all of his efforts towards keeping society safe. You probably only said it out of common courtesy, but that didn't stop his mind from running wild with thoughts of how kind and gracious you were.

He thought he'd been saved about a month later, when some casual conversation in the hallway gave light to the fact that you already had a boyfriend. An almost nauseating feeling of disappointment swept over him at that realization, but he knew that it was for the best. You'd be safer this way, with him only being an acquaintance, a neighbor that you had no deeper feelings for so there’d be no reason for anyone to target you. He never saw your boyfriend, but he knew that you wouldn't lie to him, so he yet again tried to snuff out his feelings.

It was harder than it should have been. He didn't have it in him to completely cut ties with you, the joy and sense of peace that being around you gave him addicting beyond all comprehension. That led to a strong friendship budding between the two of you, and you became a constant presence in his life, one that he was grateful for, and one that he doubted he deserved. He eventually met your boyfriend, and even though it was a short meeting in passing, and even though Toshinori was positive that he had gotten a hold on his feelings for you, something felt odd and strangely ominous about the man. Toshinori just attributed the feeling to jealousy; what else could it be? He'd only seen the man face-to-face for about ten seconds, and he was sure that he hadn't met him before, so there wasn't much else that it could have been. That was the only time that Toshinori met him, though, so it was easy to forget that foreboding feeling as time passed by.

He had known you for about a year and a half, his feelings for you still lingering like a bad habit the whole time, when he found out that he should have trusted his instincts. He would never forget the look of pain and fear in your tear-filled eyes as you ran past him into his apartment, your whole body shaking as you held onto him for dear life.

Villain.

The word had never hit him as hard as it did when you uttered it. The man you loved so dearly, the man you trusted with your life, was a villain, and his tastes lied well beyond petty crimes. He was a dangerous man, and thanks to your efforts, he was now a wanted man. Your horrifying discovery of what he had done had brought all of his crimes to light, a fact that your ex was fully aware of. You were scared, and Toshinori would be damned if he wasn't going to protect you with all of his might.

You stayed with him that night, sleeping in his bed while he respectfully stayed on the couch, awake for most of the night so he could keep watch for any sign of your ex. He'd be lying if he said that the thought of you in his bed didn't also keep him awake, but that was hardly important at the time.

You never really left after that. Sure, you went to work the next day (Toshinori escorted you, of course) and carried on with your life as you normally did, but you always went back to him at the end of the day. He tried his hardest not to suffocate you with his presence, wanting to give you some space so you could work through your grief, but that apparently wasn't an idea that you agreed with.

It was like the two of you were glued together at the hip when you were both at the apartment, your own apartment only a glorified storage room at this point, and while he certainly wouldn't complain about having you so close to him, he was still afraid that he was taking advantage of you in some way. You assured him that he wasn't, that you wanted to be around him because he made you feel safe, and Toshinori would never admit to how woozy that confession made him feel. It would be unseemly for a rising hero to swoon in front of the woman that he loved (and yes, he had finally accepted that that was how he felt and that those feelings wouldn't be going away any time soon), but he almost did that day.

At some point, you convinced him to share the bed with you, saying that it was beyond big enough for both of you (and it really was, because Toshinori had long since lost the luxury of skimping out and getting a cheap mattress thanks to his size) and that you were both adults perfectly capable of keeping your hands to yourselves. He felt like he died and went to heaven that first night, your scent surrounding and overwhelming him in the best of ways, and his gut did summersaults for hours after you scooted close enough to him to use his chest as a pillow. He may not have gotten much sleep that first night, but he was pretty damn chipper the next morning regardless.

Toshinori didn't make any arguments against sharing the bed after that, because it truly felt amazing to wake up with you in his arms. He may have only gotten a few hours of sleep, but he still felt like his whole body and soul had been rejuvenated in those few hours. You seemed to be happy with the arrangement, as well, so you both stuck with it.

It was only about a month later when you both finally agreed that it was silly to keep saying that you weren't dating. To his embarrassment, you had been aware of his feelings for a long time. He didn't think that he'd been so obvious about it, but apparently, he was more of a blundering mess around you than he thought. Your confession truly touched his heart, though, claiming that he had helped you to heal from your breakup and that he made you feel safer and more special than anyone else ever had. He was pretty sure that his smile had never been so big and bright before, because it honestly felt like his face was going to split in half at that moment, but he didn't try to hide it. He couldn't, not with how overjoyed he was. He never thought he'd be this happy again after the death of his mentor, never thought that he'd have the chance to be, but you had proven him wrong about that in the best way possible.

He felt like he was on cloud nine for the entire first month that you two were officially together, and if he was honest with himself, that feeling never really went away. He tried to tone things down a bit so he didn't seem so lovestruck, but, well, he had a hard time resisting sweeping you into his arms every time he saw you. He also had a hard time sleeping without you in his arms and having to let you go in the morning felt like subtle torture to him. The smile that you gave him whenever you both returned home for the day made it all worth it, though, and for that short little bit, Toshinori didn't have a care in the world.

Something was bound to happen eventually, though. Nothing could stay so perfect for so long, and in this case, your ex finally worked up the gall to try get some revenge against you.

It started off like any other weekday; you and Toshinori woke up at about the same time, got ready for the day, and then enjoyed a quick breakfast together. You had to leave a bit earlier than him on this particular day, so after a quick goodbye kiss, you set off for the day.

Toshinori had never been so grateful for his instincts before. Sure, he hadn't been in the hero business for very long, but Nana had trained him well, and when that was combined with his natural capacities, his instincts were finely honed even at a young age. As soon as the door shut behind you, it was like a switch went off in his brain, the sinking feeling in his gut so strong that he thought he was about to be sick. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to go after you, so without further thought, he let his instincts take hold of him and he rushed out of the apartment.

He made it down the street just in time to see a hooded figure dragging you into an alleyway. You barely had enough time to realize what was happening before the harsh grip that had suddenly overtaken you was being ripped away, and when you looked back, there was Toshinori, holding your ex up off the ground by the front of his hoody, his usual grin long gone as he glared at the man.

"Are you alright, Y/N?"

You only nodded in reply, probably far too confused and stunned to put anything into words at that moment. Toshinori hummed in response, his grip tightening on your ex's hoody as he fought the urge to throttle the man right then and there. He had to take a deep breath to calm himself, mainly because he didn't want to subject you to something that violent, but also because he was a hero, and heroes always did the right thing, no matter how personal things got.

"Head back home. I'll be back in a little bit."

Part of him wanted to hand the scumbag off to a nearby hero or officer so he could take you home himself, but he didn't want to take any chances on your ex escaping and coming back to try to harm you again later. So, after taking one last look at you to make sure that you really were okay, Toshinori left at a breakneck speed, making it to the local police station in what had to have been record time. He took no small amount of pleasure in seeing that bastard put in cuffs, but once he was sure that your ex was properly detained, he left the station, intent on making it back home to you so he could make sure that you were safe.

He was afraid that you would take this hard, especially given how scared you were when you first found out that your ex was a villain. He was ready to stay with you for as long as you needed, never letting you go until you finally felt safe again, but, well, you always did have an uncanny ability when it came to taking him off guard.

You were sitting on the couch when he walked into the apartment, no doubt waiting for him, but it didn't look like you had shed a single tear yet. If anything, you looked impatient, and that confused him more than anything, at least until you ran to him and pulled him down so you could slam your lips against his. He was only expecting a quick kiss, maybe one born out of relief at seeing him again before you sought out some comfort from him, but what you gave him was something so desperate and passionate that it felt like it burned him to his very core.

You had never kissed him like that before, always keeping things chaste for his sake since he didn't have much experience when it came to romance. Apparently this had been enough for you to throw that caution to the wind, though, because there was nothing innocent about the way that you grabbed at him, one hand kneading the muscles on his arm as the other wove its way into his hair. Toshinori wasn't one to deny you what you wanted, but he wasn't exactly prepared for this, taken off guard and struggling to keep up with you as his hands awkwardly settled around your waist.

Your eyes were alight with something that he'd never seen before as you pulled away from him, a spark of mischief running through them as you looked at his face, no doubt seeing the blush that he could feel burning across his cheeks. The smile that you gave him was one of genuine joy, though, and that helped to settle his racing heart.

"You're my hero, Toshi."

And that just sent it racing again, even faster than before. Those words would have been enough to turn him into a mess on their own, but the breathless way that you said them truly sealed his fate. You gave him one more peck on the lips before tugging on the edges of his jacket, coaxing him to follow you. He went without question.

You brought him to the bedroom, and the devious look that you gave him made all sorts of anticipation bubble in his chest, and he tried to gulp all of that down in order to say something, but you didn't give him the chance, pushing him until the back of his knees hit the bed. He was still so flustered that he couldn't put up any resistance to the motion (not that he would have wanted to anyways), and he fell back onto the bed, his hands immediately shooting up to cradle your hips as you crawled over him.

"My hero."

You barely whispered it this time, and the only reason that he even knew you said anything at all was because he'd been looking at your face right then. The movement of your lips caught his attention, but your eyes trapped him, so full of adoration and so many other emotions that he couldn't even begin to name. It was so soft compared to how heated things had been just moments ago, and the switch was starting to make his head spin in a way that could only be described as wonderful.

Those soft and innocent feelings didn't last long, though, because you pulled him into another searing kiss that put the final nail in the coffin of any complex thoughts that he might have had. He was all primal urges and nerve after that, his hands aching to feel more of you but too shy in their inexperience to actually reach for you. That wasn't a problem that you shared with him, your own hands rubbing along his chest and kneading the muscles that you found there until you finally made to pull him up a bit, just enough to where you could start pushing his jacket off of his shoulders. At least he knew what to do at that point, and he quickly rid himself of both his jacket and his shirt before leaning back against the bed again.

You took a moment to look at him, as if you were trying to memorize every curve and dip of his torso. He would have felt self-conscious if it hadn't been for the sheer desire in your gaze, and then your hands followed the trail that your eyes had scoped out. Your touch was gentle at first, your fingers barely even brushing against him, yet it was still enough to send shivers running through him. And then you pressed harder, kneading again, and without his shirt in the way, he could feel those motions in their entirety. He was embarrassed by the groan that he let out, but it seemed to spur you on, and your massaging moved further and further south until your fingers came to the waistband of his pants, and then you suddenly stopped moving altogether.

"Damn..."

Toshinori's eye shot open (hell, he wasn't even sure when they'd shut), only to see that your own eyes were locked on the bulge that was covered by his jeans. His face really did burn then, and he coughed to get your attention, having to turn his head away when you looked up because he couldn't bear to meet your eyes at that moment.

"Something wrong...?"

"Not at all, big guy."

That cheeky grin you sported did nothing to calm him down.

"I think we're going to need some lube, though."

"...bedside table."

...

"Toshinori, you sly dog."

It was like you wanted him to pass out from sheer embarrassment. You leaned over him so you could rummage through his bedside table, your grin only growing once you found the bottle hidden inside it. You set it on the bed beside you, leaving it there as your hands moved to grip the hem of your shirt. Toshinori's heart pounded as you slowly brought your shirt up over your head, each new inch of bare skin revealing another reason for him to get over his shyness, and when you threw your shirt to the corner of the room, his hands finally moved, trailing up your torso.

Your skin felt impossibly soft beneath his rough fingertips, and even though his mind screamed at him to slow down, one of his hands raised up to palm your breast, even though your bra was still in the way. If you thought that he was moving too fast, you didn't show it, and you even encouraged him by reaching behind you to unclasp your bra, flinging it off to who knows where before you brought both of his hands back up to cup your breasts, moving his fingers around until he got the picture and turned his attention towards your nipples.

At first, he only lightly brushed his thumbs against them, entranced at how they hardened under his touch, before he took one of the peaks between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a light tug. The gasp that you let out had him aching, his erection straining within the confines of his jeans, and it also made him feel just a bit braver. He leaned up enough to where he could place a trail of kisses along your sternum before veering off so he could lave his tongue against your free nipple, his fingers still teasing the other peak.

He briefly wondered if he was doing this right, but little pants were still leaving your mouth, and when he closed his lips around the hardened bud that his tongue had sought out, your hips sharply rolled against his. That was the only verification that he needed, and it also had him bucking up into you. He must have done it at just the right angle, because the sharp moan that you let out was one of the sweetest sounds that he had ever heard and he was already desperate to hear more like it.

"I need you to touch me, Toshi."

He truly felt his inexperience showing at that point, because he didn't have a clue what you were talking about it. Wasn't he already touching you? Did you need him to touch you somewhere else? It wasn't until you stood up and pulled your shorts and underwear off that it finally clicked, and you handed him the bottle of lube as you retook your place on his lap.

"I-I don't-"

"I'll talk you through it."

That made him feel a little better about it, but he was still nervous as he reached for the lube, his hands shaking as he uncapped it and poured some out, although ‘some’ was a bit of understatement since he nearly emptied the previously half-full bottle right then and there.

"That might be a bit much, but I guess you can never be too prepared, huh?"

Well, at least you got a laugh out of it.

"Should I just...?"

"Just go for it and I'll help you figure out from there."

He really had no clue what to do, but it seemed like a good idea to at least spread the lube around a bit. So with that, he lowered his hand to your mound, his fingers tracing your outer lips briefly before spreading them. Even though his fingers were already slick with lube, he could still feel the wetness that already covered you, and the thought that he had such an effect on you made his chest burn with an odd mixture of anticipation, desire, and fondness. It also made him a bit more confident in what he was doing, and he moved his forefinger forward so he could trace it around your opening. He felt your hands moving up to the back of his neck, working their way into his scalp and massaging in a way that was both comforting and encouraging.

"You're doing great, Toshi. Go ahead and put one inside of me."

At any other pint, he would have turned into a stuttering mess because of how lewd that statement was, but at that moment, when he wanted nothing more than to please you, he instead eagerly complied with it. He wasn't oblivious to how big he was in any aspect, so he took his time, making sure that the lube and your own fluids were adequately spread as he slowly drew his finger back and forth into you, working into you little by little and giving you ample time to adjust in case you needed it. The grip that you had on his hair tightened, and he was afraid that he had hurt you for a moment, at least until you started to rock your hips against his hand and a breathless sound fell from your lips.

"Fuck, Toshi, just crook your little finger a little bit and touch my clit."

He immediately followed your demand, his finger bending to where it pressed against your frontal wall and his thumb moving to massage against your clit, just like you had asked. You were apparently content to take care of everything else. You rocked your hips at an angle that had you moaning in seconds, and Toshinori could have died a happy man at that moment with the way his name sounded as you gasped it right then, the sound going straight to his cock. In the hopes of helping you along, Toshinori leaned forward until his lips met your breast again, and as he took your nipple into his mouth, your gasps morphed into moans of pure bliss.

"I need more, Toshi, please!"

He immediately knew what you were talking about this time, and he gently eased his middle finger into you, working it in right next to his other finger. There a bit of resistance this time, but you slowed your pace to accommodate for that, allowing yourself time to adjust before your hips started their frantic pace again. One of your hands had moved down between his shoulder blades, and he could feel the marks forming there as your nails dug into his skin, although it was hardly an unpleasant feeling. And even if it had been, it would have been easy to ignore, especially when your walls started to quiver around his fingers and your hips jerked hard against him, your head falling against his shoulder as you cried out. The sound that you let out was something that Toshinori would remember for the rest of his life, right along with the glazed over, blissed-out look in your eyes that he saw when you finally pulled back to look at him.

"Are you...ready, Toshi?"

Even if he hadn't been right that second, the breathlessness in your voice certainly would have been enough to get him there.

“God yes."

You leaned back and reached down to unfasten his pants, pushing them and his underwear down far enough so he could kick them the rest of the way off along with his shoes. Toshinori couldn't help the choked groan that he let out when you wrapped your hand around his length, pumping it a few times before you settled your hips over his and then ran the head of his length through your folds. You were already making him feel more amazing than he ever had before, and he wasn't even inside of you yet. It was truly mind-boggling, at least while his mind was still working, that is, and that wasn't for very long at all, because before he knew it, the tip of his cock was being engulfed by your wet heat, and the feeling of it was indescribable. His hands twisted into the sheets underneath him as you pulled off of him a little bit, only to sink back down, working a bit more of his cock into you.

It was a bit of a slow process, one that had Toshinori panting and tensing underneath you, struggling to keep from bucking into you, and you had to pause at few points to get used to the stretch of him, but when your hips were finally flush against his, the pleasure that you both felt was beyond worth all of the effort. Your entire body was already shaking from exertion, but before he could even question whether you were alright or not, you slowly lifted your hips until you were almost completely off of him, before you quickly sank back down. The action caused you to throw your head back and moan loudly, so Toshinori could only guess that you felt just as good as he did right then, and he let out his own groan as his hands finally settled on your hips.

"Fuck, you feel so good Toshi. I've never-Fuck! It's never felt this good before!"

He wished that he could have told you how amazing you felt, how soft and warm you were around him, how you squeezed him so perfectly, but he could hardly form a comprehensive thought at that point, much less put anything into words. You were riding him with vigor by that point, and when you started to shake from the effort that your pace took, Toshinori easily supported and helped guide your hips against him.

"You're so damn big, Toshi, I can feel so much of you! I just- Fuck! I love you!"

Toshinori was torn. Part of him wanted to put a pause on things so he could make sure that he heard you right, but another part of him was more interested in what you were doing, because what you were doing was the most gorgeous thing that he had ever seen. He doubted that you even realized what you said, because you looked like you were completely lost in ecstasy, your eyes clenched shut as a tear rolled from one of them, your nails digging into his chest as you held onto him to try to anchor yourself to reality. Your hips slammed against his as your whole body tensed, and you practically screamed his name as your walls clenched him in a vice grip that had him gasping for breath.

When you finally slumped down against him, Toshinori ran one of his hands up your back, trying to soothe you as you came down from your euphoric high. When you finally had enough composure to look at him, a shy grin had taken over your face, your eyes still hazy from the remnants of ecstasy but also holding an uncertainty in them that let Toshinori know you were perfectly aware of what you said, and the thought that you actually meant those words had his heart swelling.

He gently rolled you over until you were lying under him, and a brief look of surprise crossed your face when you realized that he hadn't come yet. He didn't let you think about it for too long, leaning down to give you a searing kiss before he slowly started to grind his hips into you again. He'd wait until later to tell you that he felt the same way, because for now, he was content to show you how he felt about you instead.

[seanhtaylor]

Sean Taylor destroys the Pulp Heroes

As promised, here is my destructive mind unleashed on the classic pulp magazine heroes. For this little thought experiment, I'm recreating these characters in the time period of the actual pulp magazines, as if published in an alternate universe. I’m also trying to stick to the magazine characters.

Without any further delay, you may totally hate me now in case I have spread my nonsense all over one of your faves.

The Avenger -- Upon returning home to the U.S., David Cowen was lynched because he dared to publicly hug a white female friend he had met in Paris while touring with a jazz ensemble, but his story didn't end there. He was reborn to seek retribution for all who were punished unjustly, whether by mob violence, the justice system, or by killers who thought they got away with it.

The Black Bat -- Emily Jenkins used to have it all, but when her family name was smeared and her family fortune lost when he father was taken by authorities and blamed for an attempted assassination of the touring President Roosevelt, she grew bitter and swore she’d get even and steal it all back. As the thief and assassin, the Black Bat, she targets those she believes were responsible for her family’s ruin.

Captain Future -- A disgraced spiritualist who really can see roughly seven minutes into the future, but failed as a medium to the high society because they wanted more than that, Antony Fratelli decided to end it all when he just happened to be able to glimpse the future of a woman near him who was about to be kidnapped. Using his knowledge of the future, he saved her life and was able to disable the two kidnappers. Now revitalized, he wears a cap and full face mask as Captain Future and seeks to protect those who don’t know yet that danger is just around the corner.

Dan Turner, Hollywood Detective -- Dan Turner just escaped from an asylum, where he has been for 12 years after convicted of murder (he may or may not have committed, he remembered nothing about it) but considered unfit for trial due to his mental state. After leaving the Midwest and heading to California, Dan has recreated himself as a private eye. But how long can he keep the truth hidden, especially when a real PI shows up trying to track him down.

Doc Savage -- Doctor Alex Savage was one of Chicago’s premier surgeons, but when a tragic reaction to a medicine during a study caused him to regress to an almost feral state, he practically became a true savage overnight and was legally given to his sister’s care. After she was attacked and left for dead in a New York park, his sister now uses him as her weapon against those who would harm women as she finds brutal men and unleashes her savage brother on them.

Doctor Death -- Byron Kincade is an African-American bouncer at Mama Joe’s in Savannah, Georgia. A former boxer who retired with a bum leg, he was at work one night when thugs busted into the bar and killed his secret lover, Desmond Smith. That night he made a hooded mask and built a mechanical brace to enable him to seek justice on the streets. Don’t expect mercy from Doctor Death.

Ki-Gor -- Franklin Anderson was an actor, portraying the serial’s greatest matinee hero -- Ki-Gor the Jungle King. Only, an accident almost killed him and left him in a coma. When he awoke, he believed himself to truly be the jungle king he portrayed on screen, and now he only pretends to be Franklin Anderson by day, determined to prove himself the king of this new jungle in which he finds himself. And to do that, he must first protect from anyone who seeks to hurt his new subjects.

The Phantom Detective -- Jeremy McDonald died in 1786, but that didn’t stop him. Connected to his wife’s broach due to her love for him, he eventually found himself in the presence of his great-great-great and then some) niece Agatha Breckenridge, one of Chicago’s few female P.I.s. Although only she can see and communicate with him, she’s learning that it can be really helpful to have a ghost as a partner.

Secret Agent X -- They’re trained. They’re lethal. And they don’t know they’re even agents until activated by a sonic device carried by their handler, Mr. Washington. Certain citizens are born with a genetic predisposition toward activation, and it’s Washington’s job to find them and put them to good use for the US of A when dangerous spies are on American soil.

The Shadow (La Umbra) -- Maria Rodriquez was killed in a mob shootout, but before she passed, her spirit took refuge in her shadow. Now a living shadow, she seeks out vengeance against the two mob groups that caused her death. Able to interact with the shadows of other people to affect the person to whom the shadow belongs, she’s more dangerous than she knows. Finally aware of her and her vendetta, the Andressi mob has called in a Voodoo priest to capture her and control her as a tool for the mob.

The Spider (Arachne) -- Beware Arachne, criminal scum. Her touch is poison. Madeline Wilshire was born into one of the oldest and richest families in New Hampshire, but not even that could save her from being cursed by a Shaman from whom her father stole a tribal heirloom. Born with a touch that can seep a deadly poison, she was kept locked away for years until she was old enough to be sent away to an asylum in New York. Learning how to control her curse, she was able to finally be released at age 21. Now refusing to have anything to do with her family, she has decided to create a new life for herself in the Big Apple and just maybe trying out her hand as the vigilante schtick with her venomous abilities as an asset for once and not just a curse.

Domino Lady -- Greta Hanwick may only be 17 years old, but she’s already a fantastic athlete with medals in swimming, archery, and gymnastics. Upon hearing of all the new masked vigilantes popping up, she decides to join the crowd and “age up” as the sophisticated but deadly Domino Lady, but is such a dangerous job a safe place to be for a teenage girl? Or will her determination be enough to help her succeed?

Green Lama -- Born on Mars, D’jrk spent centuries studying and learning to fit into Earth culture. Now he has a family and a job as a district attorney in Los Angeles. He has avoided using his otherworldly abilities for years, but since his 10 year old daughter Margaret has begun to show signs of such abilities, he decides that it’s time to teach her now to use them without being discovered, even by her mother. And the best way to do that is to blend in with the new capes and masks crowd that is appearing all over the U.S.

Jim Anthony, Super Detective -- A former cop with a perfect record of closing murder cases, Jack Yeoman was gunned down by the local gangster with a grudge. After healing, Jack changed his name to Jim Anthony and used the scars from his shooting (body and face) to open up shop as a P.I. with an ego as big as his abilities -- The Super Detective!

Moon Man -- Moon Man isn’t even a man. Darla Hopkins has been on the run from her cult family and pretending to be a man for so long thanks to her (as she was told growing up) unwomanly build, she can barely remember growing up as a girl. Moving from circus to circus as a strongman (she always had been stronger than her brothers), and taking odd jobs as she could, she never stayed in one place for long -- until she met Lorraine Pierce during her stay in Nashville. Now, determined to stay and finally create a life for herself and Lorraine, she continues to pretend and has even allowed Lorraine to convince her to join the ranks of costumed vigilantes as Moon Man, since she patrols and protect under the light of the moon -- with Lorraine as her sidekick, Luna, of course.

Golden Amazon -- Discovered in 1894 in a dig in the jungles of South America, a solid gold statue of a beautiful woman was excavated and brought back to New York and placed on exhibit at the Grover Museum of Antiquities. But when a child with one brown eye and one blue eye is born to the Mayor of New York, the statue suddenly comes to life. It’s mission -- to destroy the child prophesied to bring about the end of the world.

[pacifistofpatience]

okok. pirate au. what are the boys doing? which ones are actual pirates and which are privateers/navy/work on land/etc? what are they doing on the ship? i love your writing!!

((AGhskh skd I just... I just started and couldn't stop... I dont know what happened but inspiration hit so I’m hoping I can finally get back into the swing of things))

Undertale:

Sans

A simple land worker hired by the Navy to keep a look out for any incoming ships. Has a pretty nice set up right at the edge of the sea and naps at his station more often then not. Hasn’t been fired because he’s somehow still on top of his job and a fully capable member. Hangs out at the local bar on his days off and makes some good money telling jokes and making others laugh. He puts every bit of it into Papyrus, believing that no matter what his lil bro will make his dreams come true!

Papyrus

What a sweetheart! A real charmer and beyond kind! A lot of people humor him when he announces that he wants to be part of Navy but none of them believe that he’s capable to fighting both the harsh seas and Pirates because of how soft he is. It’s a little... disheartening every time he goes to train with Captain Undyne but never seems to change her mind. Until one day he decides that, if the Navy wont have him then he’ll make his own Navy instead! And thus begins the adventures of Papyrus!: The skeleton that “borrowed” a Navy vessel in the dead of night and very much insists he’s part of his own branch of the Navy that he totally didn't just make up. Wheres the Navy, despite his protests, insists that he’s a Pirate. Gains quiet the crew on his adventures. Sightings of his (Slightly vandalized) Navy ship at sea are considered good luck, and he’s always willing to help those in need.

Underfell 

Red

A conman, a thief, and a lone wolf. Separated from his “asshole” of a brother at a young age when the call of the sea was too strong and he had very a narrow view of the world. Now that he’s grown he’s struggling to reconcile with the fact that he seriously fucked up and is desperately searching for the little brother he left in the cold years ago. Of course he won't have to look far because...

Boss

...The Navy is right on his tail! And who else is the Captain of the entire fleet then the bother Red abandoned years ago! At the beginning of the chase neither of them know who the other is but after a face to face encounter where Red almost didn't survive he’s left struggling to reconcile a lot of conflicting emotions. Should he be angry that the brother he thought died years ago left him? Should he just be happy to see him again, albeit on the other side of the law? What about his duty's? Of course he’s enraged, but then... why had he let Red escape? 

Underswap

Sky

A barkeep with an itching for adventure! He tries to deny it and be an honest monster but there are times where he’ll look out to the sea and sigh with this deep longing. One day... just maybe...

Pappy

A lighthouse keeper. He loves his job, it keeps him busy throughout the day and he gets to help those at sea. Secretly a fantastic map maker as well, using the stars as his guide. He becomes second in command when sky finally finds the call too strong, and learns that he has a fantastic sense of direction as well (But only when he’s at sea, it seems that it never translates over to land quite as well)

Swapfell

Black

Captain of one of the most feared pirate ships. A surprisingly fair and just leader of a ship that holds only the most loyal of crew members. At one point he was a high ranking Captain of A navy fleet but... something that he refuses to mention caused him to defect. He refuses to tell but maybe if you get Rus in the right mood he might give you a few snippets of Blacks story.

Rus

A good luck charm to Blacks crew. It seems that whenever he’s around the Seas are always calm and the weather is perfect! The crew treat him as their personal mascot and love him dearly. He’s typically a very quite monster, but after a few drinks will become a little bit more rowdy and opened with the others, even opening up about his life before and his time in the Navy with Black. He’ll weave tails of drunken nights and long forgotten escapades and.... and stars he never... never meant to... to kil--- but they were.... She was so young... his own crew members were-- he had to--

Horrortale

Jup 

An old tale. Passed down through generations about the dangers of bad seas and the dangers of the weather. Was part of an old Navy crew for a while as a look out that went out to sea once and... never came back. The waters became too much and the Captain of the ship was far too cocky. In the end the ship crash into a deserted island. A lot of crew members died and He was left with a horrid crack in his skull that messed him up pretty badly. What was left of the crew that survived... had to do unspeakable things in order to survive. By the time they figured out a way off the island all that was left was him and his brother. They sail as a crew of two, constantly at sea searching for shipwrecks and hoping that others never have to succumb to the horrors they did.

Mars

After the whole ordeal at sea has grown to become a surprisingly stable individual. His teeth are a little wrecked but he’s learned how to right them himself and is a great makeshift Doctor. Whenever he and his brother find someone at sea he’s the first to tend to the survivors and dose a great job at healing them while Sans hands out supplies. Typically people are terrified of both of them at first- often thinking they’re Death coming to take them away- but eventually they gain a reputation as Saviors of the Sea. Often they're passed off as myths, but to those who've met they first hand they're Heros.

[stahlop]

Once Upon a Time 2x15 “The Queen is Dead” Review

Reviews 1x01 1x02 1x03 1x04 1x05 1x06 1x07 1x08 1x09 1x10 1x11 1x12 1x13 1x14 1x15 1x16 1x17 1x18 1x19 1x20 1x21 1x22 2x01 2x02 2x03 2x04 2x05 2x06 2x07 2x08 2x09 2x10 2x11 2x12 2x13 2x14

Well, Cora has certainly had her hands in the pot for a very long time. We find out that she not only killed Snow’s mother, but also orchestrated young Regina saving young Snow (which young Regina had totally called her out on in The Stable Boy and Cora had denied). And Mary Margaret has terrible birthdays. Too many people die on them. And we get confirmation that Neal has been alive for a couple hundred years, and the fact that he knows Hook and how to steer his ship, I think Neal has definitely been in Neverland for awhile. And Neal has a fiance, so thank goodness we’re not going to go down the Neal/Emma train that Gold was so into. Ew!

Summary: Mary Margaret and David rush to find Gold’s dagger before Cora and Regina find it. Hook makes his way to New York and manages to find Gold and stab him with poison. In the Enchanted Forest, Snow’s birthday celebration is marred by her mother’s sudden illness and Snow goes to great lengths to try and save her.

Opening: Library and Clock Tower

New Characters:

The Queen: She’s never given a name in this episode, maybe we’ll find out in the future. She’s a benevolent queen. She doesn’t believe they are any better than anyone else in the kingdom just because they’re royalty. Something she has to teach young Snow, when she becomes a little brat. It’s nice to see where Snow gets her heart from. She has a mother that not only teaches her what is right and wrong behavior, but also doesn’t let Snow get away with acting like most royalty would. The queen tells Snow that when they crown her with the tiara on her birthday, it will represent that she always holds goodness in her heart. They all look in the mirror and the the queen has some sort of attack, but tries to convince Snow that she is fine. She continues to tell Snow she’ll be fine, but then she starts coughing up blood, and Snow knows she won’t be fine. After Snow goes to see the Blue Fairy, she tells her mother she couldn’t save her because she wouldn’t take another life. The queen is visibly relieved to hear that Snow didn’t do something dark. She tells Snow that it wasn’t fear about killing someone else, it was strength. She’s very proud of her. Snow begs her to not to leave, but the queen says she’ll always be with her if there is goodness in her heart. And then she dies. That escalated very quickly, whatever she was poisoned with worked really fast, Leopold couldn’t even get home to see her before she died.

Character Observations:

Snow/Mary Margaret: Basically, we get to see that Snow was a brat at one point, and her mother taught her about goodness and treating people with respect, whether they were royals or servants. Snow is tested when her mother is dying by Cora pretending to be the Blue Fairy. She gives her a candle that would save her mother, but it would require killing someone else in the process. Had Snow not been taught goodness from her mother, she may have just killed a random peasant, but instead, she comes to terms with the fact that her mother’s life is no more important than anyone else's. Snow thinks she couldn’t do it out of fear, but her mother tells her it took strength. And then her mother dies and Snow mourns. The funeral is being held on the day that was supposed to be Snow’s birthday celebration (that sucks, my grandfather was buried on my mom’s birthday (her father) as it was the only day we could get the rabbi, so I get Snow’s feelings on this). Johanna gives her a pep talk about how the kingdom will get their strength from her, and Snow questions where she’ll find her strength now that her mother has died. Johanna lets her know she’ll still get it from her mother. Snow puts on a brave face for the funeral and leads her kingdom for the first time.

Mary Margaret is not having a good day. It’s her birthday and she does not like to celebrate her birthday. David tries to play it off like he had no idea it was her birthday but she’s not buying it. She finds a present that someone left for her. It’s her tiara and it’s from her old servant Johanna. Mary Margaret goes off to find her. She finds her gardening behind her house and they reunite. They bond over their shared grief of missing Mary Margaret’s mother. It’s almost like Snow is at least getting her surrogate mother back. They hear something in the woods, and wouldn’t you know, Cora and Regina just happen to be digging, looking for the dagger and talking about it, right behind Johanna’s house. Mary Margaret overhears them and specifically that Cora will make the Dark One kill anyone Regina likes. Mary Margaret goes to tell David (who she finds knocked because of Hook), and tells him what she overheard. Mary Margaret thinks she can talk to Regina and put some doubt about Cora in her mind. Regina meets Mary Margaret at Granny’s and she thinks Mary Margaret asked her to come to tell her about Henry. Mary Margaret comes straight out and tells her she knows all about Cora and the dagger. Regina tries to say what she does is her business, but Mary Margaret basically tells her that a war is about to happen and she needs to choose the side of good. Regina says she’s always been good; Mary Margaret added the evil part. Mary Margaret tells her what she’s doing isn’t good and questions why she’d go back to being like this after working to change. Regina says it got her nowhere and accused of murder. Regina tells her to stay out of her way. Mary Margaret reminds her that Cora doesn’t care about Henry, just about power, and she doesn’t care about Regina. Regina asks what Mary Margaret would know about mothers. Ugh! Poor Mary Margaret. Her mother died when she was young and then she never got to be a mother to Emma. Mary Margaret, David, and Mother Superior try to use fairy magic to break into Gold’s store, presumably to see if they can find the dagger, but he’s protected it and Mother Superior can’t get in with her magic. Mary Margaret makes reference to using dark magic like before, but Mother Superior has no idea what she’s talking about. Luckily, Emma calls David with the location of the dagger right at that moment. Mary Margaret and David find it attached to one of the hands on the clock tower and they are happy that they can now control the Dark One, but Cora and Regina show up to fight for the dagger. Mary Margaret practically rubs it in Regina’s face that good has won like usual, which, of course, means evil is about to triumph. Because Cora poufs Johanna in and Regina takes her heart. Johanna begs Mary Margaret not to give them what they want, but Mary Margaret can’t bear to have another mother figure die when she can help her. But then Cora says something that makes Mary Margaret realize that Cora was pretending to be the Blue Fairy when she was a girl. Mary Margaret wonders if her mother was actually sick, and Cora says she actually was, but Mary Margaret realizes Cora is the cause for everything. Cora then mocks Mary Margaret about not using the candle, and Mary Margaret wants to know why Cora did all this to her. Simply put, Cora wanted to make Regina queen. It’s nothing against Mary Margaret personally. The look Mary Margaret gives Regina at this point is really interesting. Like, Mary Margaret knows how awful Cora is by reputation, but she’s never realized the extent Cora went to put her daughter on the throne. She actually looks like she feels sorry for Regina at this moment. Cora puts more salt in the wound by saying if she doesn’t give up the dagger she’ll lose another connection to her mother. David tries to convince her that they’ll still win even if Cora has the dagger. Johanna tells Mary Margaret to let her go, but watching Johanna’s reaction when Regina squeezes her heart is too much to bear. Cora is still using her mother against her and it’s getting to be too much for Mary Margaret. She throws the dagger down for Cora and is hysterically crying at this point. Regina puts Johanna’s heart back and as they go to hug Cora throws her out the clock tower. Regina makes a comment about what good gets you before she and Cora pouf away. If I was Mary Margaret I’d probably be catatonic by this point. Too many bad things have befallen her. She is hysterically crying with David trying to figure out how to care for his grief-stricken wife. Mary Margaret and David bury Johanna and Mary Margaret is blaming herself and taking stock of the situation. Following goodness has cost too many lives. She runs through all the times she did the ‘right’ thing and what it cost them in the end. David reminds her that they still have time to get the dagger before Gold gets back to town and carry out justice, but Mary Margaret doesn’t want justice. Mary Margaret says they’re always trying to get others to change, but maybe she needs to change instead. She’s going to kill Cora!

Past Cora/Cora: And speaking of Cora, we all thought she was a real piece of work in previous episodes but she’s really pulling no punches in this one. Like What The Fuck! She purposely poisoned Snow’s mother, posed as the Blue Fairy to get Snow to doubt herself, and caused Snow’s horse to spook, all in hopes of making Regina queen. I’m surprised she didn’t kill off Henry, Sr, to try and marry the king herself. She’s closer to his age than Regina was. Either way, Cora seems to have a personal vendetta against Snow’s mother. This does not seem like a random royal that Cora decided to target to make Regina the eventual queen. Especially with her comment about Snow finding out what it's like to be the miller’s daughter and then saying she’s going to turn Snow’s heart black as coal and ruin the queen’s legacy. That is some pure rage right there.

Cora will do anything to get the Dark One dagger. She may have been playing the doting mother to Regina in the past few episodes, but she’s showing her true colors in this one. She and Regina discover that the location of the dagger is not where the map says it is. Cora says she can find it, it’ll just take a little longer. Cora and Regina manage to find it right when Mary Margaret and David find it in the clock tower. Cora conjures up Johanna as incentive for Mary Margaret to give her the dagger. Cora lets Mary Margaret know that it’s not good or evil that wins, but who has the power. David attempts to shoot Cora, but she magics his gun away (never bring a gun to a witch fight). Cora tells Mary Margaret to surrender the dagger because she’ll follow her mother’s advice at all cost since all she ever wanted was for her to be good. Mary Margaret realizes that’s what she said to the Blue Fairy and that the Blue Fairy was actually Cora. Cora does not deny it. In fact, she revels in this secret finally coming to light. All she wanted was for her daughter to be queen, and she’d do anything to make sure that happened. Cora uses manipulation to eventually get Mary Margaret to give up the dagger (using her mother and Johanna’s connection to her), and then Cora kills Johanna anyway, because she simply doesn’t care about anyone but herself. She and Regina pouf away. At Regina’s office, Regina is upset that Cora never told her what she did to make her queen. I mean, to be fair, young Regina would’ve been horrified to find out what her mother did, and since Regina banished her to Wonderland before the wedding, there was never really a chance for her to find out. Cora just brushes it off. She knows now. Regina also realizes that Cora set up Snow so that Regina would rescue her. Cora wonders what this means to Regina, now that she knows. Regina says it means Cora won, so what does she need the dagger for? Cora says she’s still all about helping Regina get Henry, and that by the time Gold returns, Mary Margaret, David, Emma will be a distant memory (what does that mean?). Cora strokes the dagger lovingly, which does not go unnoticed by Regina.

Regina: She is blindly following her mother which is really bad. I know part of it is that she’s finally feeling like her mother is taking an interest in her and not just using her for her own agenda, but by the end she’s starting to wonder if she’s wrong about that. We start with Regina digging where Hook told them the dagger would be. Regina doesn’t seem to be able to find it and Cora immediately wonders if Regina read the map right. They determine that Hook gave them the wrong location. Regina is frustrated but Cora says she can figure it out given time. Regina goes to meet Mary Margaret and assumes it’s about Henry. It’s not. Mary Margaret comes right out and tells her she knows she’s working with Cora and that they’re looking for the dagger. Regina immediately gets defensive and tells Mary Margaret what she does is her business. Mary Margaret tells her she’s willing to give her another chance to fight for the side of good. Regina is not having this conversation again. She thinks maybe she is good and it’s because of Mary Margaret that she’s known as evil, since she apparently added that to her name. Mary Margaret says the things Regina does are not good. Regina’s pissed because she tried to change, but all it got her was a bunch of people who were certain she couldn’t. She tells Mary Margaret to stay out of her way. Mary Margaret tries once more by telling Regina that listening to Cora is a mistake. Cora doesn’t care about Henry, just power and Regina says that power is how you get things. Mary Margaret says that Cora doesn’t care about Regina and Regina asks her what she knows about mothers. Way harsh, Regina. Cora and Regina show up at the clock tower at the same time Mary Margaret and David find the dagger. Regina follows her mother’s orders, taking Johanna’s heart so Mary Margaret will give up the dagger. When she finds out that Cora poisoned Mary Margaret’s mother and did it all to make her queen, the expression on her face is heartbreaking. You can see that she is struggling to come to terms with what her mother did while still maintaining the facade of being united with her mother. But she is shocked by this new information. The lengths her mother went through to make her queen. She later confronts her about this in her office. Notice how Cora takes the position of power by sitting at the desk. Regina figures out that Cora was also responsible for Snow’s horse spooking, setting her whole future trajectory (remember, she had asked her if she had anything to do with it in The Stable Boy and Cora had denied it). Regina says she won by making her queen, since that was what Cora always wanted for her. So what will having the dagger accomplish, especially since David and Mary Margaret now know they have it and they can’t make Gold kill everyone without blame? Cora basically says to trust her as she strokes the dagger, and Regina’s face definitely conveys that maybe Mary Margaret was right and Cora doesn’t care for her or Henry.

Emma/Neal/Gold: She and Gold are keeping their distance from Henry and Neal, as they are both mad at each of them. Emma is beating herself up over lying to Henry about Neal. Gold is confident that Henry will forgive her. Gold wants Emma to convince Neal to come back to Storybrooke with them. She says she already gave him his favor, but he says she’ll do it for Henry because he’ll want to get to know his father (and so he doesn’t run away to NYC like he did to Boston to find her). Emma says Henry will be happy with Neal until he lets Henry down, and she knows he will. Then he’ll understand that she lied to protect him. Gold compares her to Regina. Um, no. Regina lied to protect herself. She made Henry think he was crazy and insane. That is not what Emma is doing. Emma doesn’t feel like this is what she is doing either. Gold says she lied to protect herself. He says she wants a second chance with Neal, and no, ew, no. Emma cannot have carefully constructed these walls to want to get back with the guy who framed her and put her in jail. I don’t care what his reasoning was. Emma wants to know why Gold would think she’d want to get back together with Neal, and he says it’s the look on her face. Are we seeing the same look? I’m seeing a ‘I wouldn’t let that guy touch me again with a 10 foot pole look’, but apparently Gold is seeing, ‘How did you guess I secretly still desire my ex.’ Henry and Neal come back out with pizza and Emma asks Henry if he likes it, and he says he does, because it doesn’t lie. And poor Emma’s face just falls. Emma subtly talks to Neal about coming back to Storybrooke. Like how was Neal expecting this to work out? Henry has school and a family in Storybrooke. He can’t just stay in New York. Emma thinks from Neal’s apartment that he doesn’t have much going on, but Neal says looks can be deceiving. He tries to tell her something, but gets interrupted by Henry wanting to go on the subway. Neal and Henry go back up to the apartment to get Henry’s camera while Emma and Gold wait down by the buzzers, and Hook decides to attack right at that moment, stabbing Gold with his hook. While Hook villain monologues to Gold, Emma hits him on the head with the trash can. Neal comes down concerned and Emma tells him an old enemy found them. Neal recognizes Hook which surprises Emma. Neal gets Gold up to his apartment while Emma locks Hook up in a storage closet (should I be keeping a tally of how many times Hook has been bested since meeting Emma?). Emma says he had a map on him which means he sailed his ship into NY. She tells Neal it was cloaked when he wonders how he was able to do that. Henry is worried about Gold and goes to ask him if he’s alright (um, no, he just got a hook in the chest), but Gold goes all feral on him and blames him for the whole thing. Is Gold blaming him for coming back for his camera right then, or for bringing them to NYC in the first place? Because Hook would have waited until they got back and attacked him regardless. Neal wants to take Gold to the ER but Gold has figured out there was poison from another realm on Hook’s hook and he needs to get back to Storybrooke because there’s magic there. Neal suggests driving there, but Gold needs to get there fast, so he says they need to take the Jolly Roger. Emma doesn’t know how they’ll do that without a captain, but Neal says he can sail it. Gold realizes what that means, but Emma is still questioning how he knows how to sail a pirate ship. Emma wants to know how Neal knows Hook. Long story short, our world wasn’t his first and he’d be a couple hundred years old if he’d come straight here. Emma is trying to process the information that not only is Henry’s father from the Enchanted Forest, but is also a couple hundred years old. Emma’s phone finally charges back up and she sees texts from Mary Margaret and David. Emma tells Gold that Cora is after his dagger, and he doesn’t want to give up the location, but she emphasizes that they’re family now, so he needs to trust them. Neal and Emma go to get the car that will take them to the ship. Emma is surprised that Neal is doing so much for Gold, but Neal says there’s a difference between running from someone and watching them die.  He still doesn’t think reconciliation is possible. They get to a car and Emma hopes he isn’t going to hotwire it like back in the day, but he says it belongs to a friend. Neal wants to quickly get back to the conversation they were having before (and Emma seems a little nervous about it, like maybe he’s going to talk about getting back together), but now they’re interrupted by the person who owns the car and who is also Neal’s fiance, Tamara. Emma tries to keep a neutral face, but you can see there’s something else going on behind the mask she puts up. I’m hoping it’s relief that Neal won’t try to get back with her. I’ll even be happy with shock that Neal cleaned his life up enough that he found a woman willing to look over his conniving ways. I might be vomiting if it’s sadness that she can’t get back together with Neal.

Questions:

What seems more plausible: Hook lied about the location of the dagger before he knew Cora was going to betray him, or Gold hid it again before he left town because Belle could no longer protect it in her amnesiac state?

Why is Regina digging to find the dagger? Can’t she or Cora just use magic to get it out of the ground (if it had been there)?

Why hasn’t Emma filled in the pieces to Henry about Neal? He already knows she was in jail and that he was born there. Has Henry not figured out that Emma and Neal were separated right before she went to jail? Shouldn’t Emma tell him why she went to jail in the first place? Or is she doing the ‘noble’ thing and letting Henry make his own judgements about Neal?

Why is the queen’s bedroom at the end of a large hallway with no doors? 

How is the cloaking magic on the Jolly Roger still working outside of Storybrooke?

We know that the Blue Fairy was Cora in disguise, but was Cora disguised as Johanna as well? How else would Cora know to pretend to be the Blue Fairy if she hadn’t put the idea in Snow’s head?

What would happen to the Gold’s power if he died of natural causes?

Where did Johanna come from in the scene where the queen dies? There is no one next to Snow and then Johanna is right there in the next scene.

Why did they hold the queen’s funeral before the king came home? Who made the arrangements?

Observations:

The flowers Johanna is planting and that Snow leaves on her mother’s body are snowdrops.

When Johanna calls Mary Margaret, Snow, she tells her she goes by Mary Margaret in Storybrooke.

Snow was born during the harshest winter, hence why she was named Snow.

I know that the fashions in the Enchanted Forest aren’t equivalent to the ones on Earth, but the queen is wearing a dress that is more Dark Ages, and Snow’s big fluffy skirt is more Restoration, which is a good 300-400 years apart.

The queen never makes Snow apologize to Johanna.

Snow was so named because she was born in the harshest winter.

Regina is doing all the digging in the forest, Cora is apparently just supervising.

Henry has gone back to calling Emma by her name instead of mom.

Well, Neal has finally confirmed that he went to another realm first (most likely Neverland), and that he’d be a few hundred years old if he had (you’re still a few hundred years old technically). Which also means that Rumplestiltskin and Hook are a few hundred years old as well.

Regina’s horse is named Rociante which is the name of the horse in the novel Don Quixote.

Timeline Issues:

How did it become winter already? We established in Child of the Moon that it was most likely May (based on when sunset was). Into the Deep and Queen of Hearts both took place a few days after that. The Cricket Game was maybe a week later, so we’re into June now. The Outsider was also maybe a week later with In the Name of the Brother, Tiny, and Manhattan all taking place within a day or two. At the most, we could possibly be in July. But Johanna makes reference to Snow being born in the harshest winter and it’s currently Mary Margaret’s birthday, so unless they’re celebrating Mary Margaret’s cursed birthday, the timing doesn’t make sense (and I don’t think Johanna would know Mary Margaret’s cursed birthday, especially since she didn’t know her cursed name). Also, there is absolutely no snow on the ground and there would definitely be snow in Maine during winter time. According to Google, Maine gets snow regularly between November and February.

So, that was that. Cora has always been a manipulative bitch, she’s just more crafty and cunning than we gave her credit for. Regina is beginning to have doubts because of all the secrets Cora is keeping and because she can see her mother admiring the dagger and it’s power. Mary Margaret is keeping with the tradition of having mother figures die on or around her birthday. And Emma, Neal, Henry, and Gold will soon be on their way back to Storybrooke on the Jolly Roger.

Please leave comments and reblog! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future reviews.

@searchingwardrobes​​​​​ @thisonesatellite​​​​​ @justbecauseyoubelievesomething​​​​​ @laschatzi​​​​​ @profdanglaisstuff​​​​​ @mariakov81​

[ffp1facemask-blog]

Day to day life in Italy During the actual Period of Reino Trojan, CoViD-19

dust masks For more compared to monthly, Italians had listened to of the particular 'Corona Virus' in Tiongkok, having viewed the testimonies on typically the news about how often the China's Government was coping with the actual epidemic. This information appeared like something that ended up being from a remote territory that could never reach the Italian peninsula mainly because it was the kind associated with situation that just happened in order to 'others', an amazing normal answer, much like several multitude responded. Thus, citizens were gradual to put any unexpected emergency plans into place. With one point in beginning Thinking about receiving, it was proposed that an Italian language director come up with a good emergency prepare, but this kind of had not been initially this manager had already been encouraged that establishing regulations to safeguard people from the particular normal flu virus was throughout order. However, a single experienced to think positively rather then to living in dread of typically the Corona Disease, which was deemed 'unlikely' to spread above The far east.

3m masks

People from most experience, not just Italians, are definitely favourable of looking in lifestyle from a good point of view; nonetheless planning for the greatest is sometimes the same as hitting the bucket the next day to be able to someone else. Politicians are trying to find some sort of solution to help small companies that are facing troubles throughout this trying period, along with dollars is being issued to help households along with children who need to hold a mother or papa at home to observe often the children whose schools possess recently been closed. About the surface, these types of look to be the very best solutions to troubles going through the country, but the actual long effects could most likely bury the continent in spectacular debt, triggering difficulties intended for future ages.

Not just have hugs, smooches, in addition to handshakes been prohibited. Basketball games open to supporters have also been restricted for 1 month by the particular decreet of Giuseppe Conte, the Prime Minister regarding Italy. This has saddened almost all Italians, although a lot of argue that actually football players should have the justification to keep their distance from a another. Furthermore, all sports' events must be presented in today's world until the 3rd of The spring, something in which remains incredible in the land acknowledged for kisses on typically the cheekbones.

COVID-19 has interupted substantially with the process of religion, specially often the Catholic religion, throughout March and March 2020. Recently, the author visited the actual Church of Santo Stefano in Borgomanero, where custodians had just cleaned the particular floors and disinfected typically the church. Not a lifestyle heart was to become found, not a clergyman nor a new tourist, which often allowed this articles author to target on the frescoes plus the beautiful stained-glass windows alone. If one travels over Italy this month, they or she can face numerous churches without having parishioners because people are by natural means afraid to meet just one another with closed spots no matter how significant and accommodating they may be. Many experts have recommended this priests get rid of the holy normal water from Catholic Churches to get fear of growing often the virus. Although citizens as well as tourists can visit holy shrines, church services should be conducted via television and also internet. Additionally, churches have got been closed since, within recent years, people get begun of stealing religious combinaison from them as soon as the chapels and shrines are definitely not secured.

The author has recently been investigating what is going on in the churches all through Italy; however, there is usually considerably more information available regarding sports games and the actual survival on the economy, which will seems to be the main objective right now. For illustration, in the media 1 finds much info on keeping the reputation of 'Made in Italy', so low-level employees are forced for you to work also harder as compared to before as they desire other countries will carry on and demand their products inside times of difficulties. The company which had was required to quit producing medical encounter masks for fifteen decades (due to Chinese competition), suddenly had to reopen the doors to support meet the needs involving the particular Italian population which would not have enough markers to protect people through COVID-19.

Not having plenty of masks was ironic in the country known for it is Venetian Carnival celebration. Regretfully, Venetian Carnival parades got to be terminated that year for fear connected with contamination, causing the state to lose quite a few visitor dollars and commencing typically the current crisis in German tourism. According to Assoturismo, eighty per cent associated with hotel reservations in Paris have been baulked, along with the United States possesses granted a level-3 notice to help its citizens, mentioning that they can should avoid vacation to Croatia in Mar. Travelers visiting Italy tend to be required to stay property with regard to 14 days soon after returning to the us. Any well-known leader of often the 5 star Party was stressed that will such travel limits might trigger discrimination against Italians in addition to 'Made in Italy'. A lot of members of Chicago Lega have confidence in a bailout amounting in order to 50 thousand euros.

People who employed to hate seeing the actual news because they normally hate politics are at this point glued on the TV to be able to see what will transpire up coming, whether or not necessarily they should stock upwards on as well as masks, no matter if or not they will probably go to function, and who else will help them defeat the crisis.

On the optimistic note, unlike almost all People in the usa who have for you to worry about paying very much money to be taken care of to the Corona Virus, Italians understand they will definitely not take on a weight of private debt to shell out for initial examining as well as further cures. The Plan Sanitario Nazionale aims to help treat all Italian residents in addition to those who include the appropriate visa to be seated in the country. Notwithstanding these kinds of fine intentions, there is definitely the likelihood how the wellness system will become overburdoned with too many people in order to care for in the course of the crisis. Like throughout a message written from 12: 30 on the particular 3 rd of March, typically the Piemonte Region announced in which simple surgery that make the most of the operating areas possess had to be hanging (if they are not really urgent procedures) so as to guarantee that the diffusion with the virus is contained.

About the fourth of March, the us govenment decreed that all universities and also universities would end up being closed for any month until eventually the fifteenth regarding Drive although they are authorized to present lessons on the web when probable with often the goal of quitting the actual spread of the trojan or at least slowing down down its distributed. Until eventually now, most Italians are actually suspicious of online training; for that reason most teachers have got not possessed training with how to convert to be able to the net platform; nor get college students been prepared regarding this brand-new learning shape. Fortunately, this particular experience will certainly change the First-rate way of thinking, so that everyone learn to utilize the world wide web for mastering, telecommuting, along with flexitime.

Typically the Decree involving the Prime Minister connected with the Council (DPCM) indicates citizens to limit leaving the home if these people are over the era of 68, to avoid from shaking arms, for you to refrain from kissing in addition to hugging, and to steer clear of traveling to family members within hospice or maybe in made it simpler for living. Residents have also been advised not to get directly to the crisis bedrooms, but that they will should face 112 ahead of going in order to help ensure they are certainly not positive with the Culminación Virus.

The Lombardia Place, having closed the health clubs as well as swimming pools, acquired also purchased its individuals not to proceed to the community health clubs. Many folks surviving in Lombardia interpreted the particular orders placed differently, thus selecting to venture to use the game clubs from the nearby Piemonte Region. For that reason the Apoderado of Novara, one associated with the cities in Piemonte, had to order this all from the city's health and fitness clubs be shut. Moreover, some people have attempted to escape the Red Areas and specific zones of containment in Lombardia to reach their family members elsewhere. One of them was which of two open public institution teachers from the lower village of Irpinia who also had been bought not necessarily to leave Codogno, nevertheless who returned home in order to Irpinia near Naples because fast as they could possibly exactly where they were compelled to be quarantined together with their families, causing typically the overall condominium to include to be quarantined.

No matter if museums should be maintained open during the COVID-19 economic crisis remains a issue for issue amongst art work enthusiasts. Museums take inside much money when likewise attracting much-needed vacationers coming from across the globe. In addition, unusual tourists have to be able to pay the required traveler taxes, known as often the tassa di soggiorno, and that is going to be have missed by the urban centers regarding Rome, Florence, and also Venice (as well several various other cities) if tourist lessens, not to mention the actual offenses to museums that are often higher intended for noncitizens. Italians themselves enjoy to visit museums through their country, in order that they realize they will be dissatisfied whenever they find museums shut down to get a month.

The motion pictures, concert arrivée, and theaters have started out once once again, but the Italian TELEVISION SET news has instructed reduce weight leave space between by themselves and others. One tip is usually to leave a vide place between every a pair of seating, and this need to be organized with the keepers of the venue if they sell the tickets. As outlined by TV reports, entertainment fans have been slow for you to get out and about once once more. Whereas many Italians are usually not at all reluctant involving going to the particular cinema, there has been recently any humongous decrease throughout sales since evidenced by simply empty theaters and live show halls. During the last weekend (March 1-2, 2020), according to help the Associazione Generale Italiana Spettacolo (AGIS), there seemed to be some sort of forty-four per nickle decrease in priced income for various varieties of leisure.

Since Italians adore to try to eat fresh food, they can be a lesser amount of prone to stocking through to food for the problems. When Americans typically commodity up on discontinued veggies, frozen foods, along with foodstuff in glass jugs, Italians prefer to buy fresh new at all times--a wonderful practice, but it may possibly be useful in a crisis to have something using an lengthy expiration particular date. According to a great Swedish shopper, "It had been odd that they were getting a lot of eggs in addition to prosciutto. " Italian customers consider purchasing fresh greens, fruit, garlic, bread, calo, and almond, the very last two of which unquestionably have long shelf existence.

Italians approach the COVID-19 crisis in numerous approaches: Pro-active Italians help some others deal with this crisis with an sorted out and sensible manner. These are the city and even cruise directors who really present typically the crisis. Sergio Mattarella is still calm at the time of suggestions concerning how to be one as a nation. Counter-active Italians are those who have remain jammed and who all do not try and transform their ways of performing to meet the demands of the anxiety. That they are unrealistic and hesitant to sacrifice something to guard their employees, and numerous of those would like in order to borrow vast amounts connected with money to solve often the travel and leisure, healthcare, and job desperate. At the similar time, some religious Italians (not all) want to be able to placed everything into the actual hands associated with God with no trying to help make endeavours to avoid getting not well. Others are fatalistic, simply experiencing a negative final result, really worried about obtaining to exit the property, crazy about cleaning every little thing all-around them. Those who are generally in-denial never even consider in the existence regarding the particular dangerous Corona Pathogen; a lot of them think it is actually 'just the flu' as well as they are taking zero measures. Furthermore, others usually are simply tranquil about the idea all as they feel they must go having the flow. These allergic reactions are common even within other societies.

[anthropwashere]

i’m still, still dreaming magnificent things (part 2)

chapter 1

AO3 || FFN

Man, remember when I said this was going to be about 12k total? Remember when I admitted yeah, okay, scratch that, but there’s only going to be two parts and an epilogue? Forget that too. Here’s part two of who-knows how many parts now, it alone is just shy of 19k, and I sure hope you’re in the mood to be distressed about Alphonse again! I don’t have any idea what I’m doing here but boy I sure am having fun with it. \o/

=

Another year, another visit for maintenance. Ed's reliable in this at least; he breaks his automail as if he needs an excuse to visit the only family he's got left.

"Limping again? You're really starting the new year off with a bang, aren't you?"

Ed, of course, doesn't react, but it’s 1914 now. Alphonse has long since grown used to being ignored. Still, he wants something, so he reaches over and sticks an arm through his brother's side. He's rewarded with a shiver, a sharp hiss of pain, and Ed's hand jumping to his ribs.  He almost feels guilty for a moment—the limp might not be just a mechanical fault after all—but he shrugs it off. He's learned to ignore that old pain as a matter of self-preservation.

"Lousy goddamn drunk," Ed growls to himself, dropping his hand and picking up the pace again. So that narrows down the list of causes running through Alphonse's head. An accident, more than likely. He wonders if any of Ed's ribs are broken.

"It's your own fault," he tells Ed airily as they walk up the hill to Rockbell Automail. "You're too reckless. If you're not going to bother looking both ways before you cross the street, you have to face the consequences. And that's nothing to say of how often you come limping back after a mission either. Face it, Brother; at the rate you're going, you're gonna be one skinny streak of scar tissue before you're twenty."

He's only being honest, after all. The years since that night haven't been kind to Ed—or perhaps it's more honest to say that Ed hasn't been kind to himself. He's picked up a habit of high collared jackets and gloves to hide the worst of it—always black, the only thing he ever wears that isn't black is that flashy red overcoat. He can't hide the scar on his chin that needed nine stitches (Alphonse had counted, appalled), his crooked nose, or the ever-present shadows under his staring eyes. In photographs or in person Ed always looks haunted, and Alphonse could just laugh.

"You're useless on your own," he tells Ed, because it's true, and because no one can admonish him for being petty. What's the sense in being polite, in holding back, when no one can hear you? If he doesn't look at Ed's face on the way up he can't see it tighten with pain. He shouldn't have to convince himself not to feel guilty. It's not like he could have done anything to stop it.

Winry, bless her, can do all the shouting at Ed he can't. She's his favorite.

"Were you hit by a car?!"

Ed scowls, slapping her hand away from the raw scrape across his cheek. "A truck, actually. And before you start—" She scoffs loudly, but he barrels on before she can get another snide word in. "—it wasn't my fuckin' fault. The asshole was drunk."

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "You usually have better reflexes than the average drunk asshole."

He shoves past her, limping down the hall to his room. Winry follows a step behind. "Yeah, well, wasn't like I was expecting him to jump the goddamn curb, now was I?"

"Hmph. You did go to the hospital, right?"

"Course I did, I'm not an idiot—"

"You sure as hell act like one most of the time. Stubborn as a mule—"

He shoulders his bedroom door open. There's a dent in the wall from the doorknob banging off it he quit repairing with alchemy ages ago. "—and I'm fine, thanks for asking. Now can you get off my back so I can change?"

"What? You just got here, why don't you relax for a little while?"

"Next train's in two days and unless that asshole really fucked my leg up I plan on being on that train. I don't want to be here any longer than necessary."

"God, Ed, do you have to make it sound like it so horrible to come home now and then? I can't remember the last time we didn't see you beat to hell."

"What do you care? I'm your best customer."

Winry throws her hands up in defeat. "Oh, for—! I don't know why I even bother sometimes."

"Me neither. Now get out."

Ed slams the door, bracing against it in case Winry tries to jimmy it open. There's a loud bang that sounds like she gives it a solid kick on principle, but then she huffs and stomps off down the hall. Ed remains tense a few seconds longer, then sinks against the door with another hiss of pain. His breath hitches, his eyes scrunch tight, he bares his clenched teeth in a snarl he doesn't allow himself to voice.

Alphonse watches this display of pain curiously. He can't quite remember what pain felt like anymore. It's one of those intimate details of life—of living, of being alive—that slipped away when he wasn't paying attention. He looks at his hands, reviews the scars that he died with, that will be with him forever. If he concentrates he can remember being hurt—a finger broken while sparring, bruises, scraped knees, a time he burned his hand on the stove. There's a pink scratch on the back of his left hand—from a cat, probably. An older sun-kissed scar on his right wrist—that one's from Yock Island. White twists across three knuckles—the eventual wear and tear of sparring everyday with Ed.

He can remember being hurt, he can remember the shock that came with being hurt, but the actual pain eludes him. It's like trying to remember what hunger or thirst were like; he remembers that these things were unpleasant, but the acuteness of them, the visceral concern... it's beyond him now.

So he watches the living. He reflects on the care they take to avoid unnecessary pain. He watches Ed cross the bedroom with the same hesitant, wrong-legged walk of a praying mantis creeping along a garden wall. Ed limps to the bed like he doesn't trust his automail or his balance or the floorboards or gravity. He drops the suitcase to the mattress, eases out of his overcoat, pulls off his gloves, pauses. He breathes. He grits his teeth. He unclasps his jacket, tugging it off one sleeve at a time. His black shirt is last. He only uses his right arm to pull it over his head, holding out the left like he's trying hard not to jar it—

Alphonse sighs. "Oh, Brother."

Ed's whole left side is a patchwork mess of deep purple bruises, only just beginning to green at the edges. His ribs stand out starkly where the bruising skips across the bones. His left arm is just as battered, and the ginger way he moves it must mean it’s a miracle he didn’t need a cast. God, did he go under the wheels of the truck? If he didn’t make it habit to wear so many layers, how torn up would he be otherwise?

At least it’s unlikely he’s earned himself any more scars this time.

Alphonse winces normally whenever he sees Ed undressed. He’s too skinny, never mind he eats like it's a competition he intends to win whenever he's in Resembool. But it's not just the jut of his ribs that makes Alphonse worry (Don't military bases have cafeterias? Doesn't anyone pull Ed away from his research to make sure he eats regularly?). It's his damage.

Ed is a good fighter, there's no question of that. But he's hot-headed, he never watches his back, and he doesn't know how to defuse a bad situation before it can come to blows. He fights too much, too often. It's obvious. One look at him without a shirt on is enough to know Ed's in over his head more often than not. These marks on him, all over him, down his arms and across his back, his ribs, marring all the places he'd left himself open to a knife or knuckle dusters or debris or who-knows what else—these marks tell the stories Ed refuses to. They tell of the victories that came at a cost.

The easy wins, the times Ed walked away with nothing more than another headline in Central Times exulting the People's Alchemist, leave no marks that Alphonse can measure easily. There's only the cracks in the brutal, foul-mouthed front he puts up. Every time he comes back to Resembool he's fractured a little more in this broken glass, red-edged raw kind of way that never leaves his frantic, unblinking stare.

Alphonse stands by the bookshelf that bends quietly beneath the weight of all the books Winry collected from their house one armful at a time during Ed’s rehabilitation. His forced dismissal of Ed's pain falters here behind the privacy of a locked door, in the quiet spells where Ed has no audience to put a front on for. Here, in this room that's the closest thing Ed has left to a home, Ed's just a kid again; alone, lonely, hurting.

It's obvious that Ed is always scared these days. More and more, Ed is scary too.

He watches Ed toe his boots off, undo his belt, shimmy out of his trousers. He watches Ed pull on a pair of workout shorts and a long-sleeved shirt. He hears Ed's breath hitch; he tries not to wince along with him, feels guilty for the need of it, forces his useless hands to remain at his sides. He watches Ed tiptoe around the edges of his pain. His leg is as damaged as the rest of him; the knee doesn't bend as it should and the shin plate, when he pulls it out of his suitcase, is warped enough to look as if it had been sheared off its bolts.

"Does it hurt to walk?" Alphonse asks. "Or is the limp only because it's broken?"

Even if Ed could hear him he doubts he'd get a straight answer. It's not like he ever gives Winry one after all, and she's the one who built his leg. Ed ought to realize by now that he does more harm than good by being cagey about how the automail feels or operates. Winry doesn't need to be coddled; she needs accurate data to keep him on two strong legs.

Oh well. Winry's smart—a hell of a lot smarter than Ed, though whether Ed will ever realize that or not is a different story. She'll see the bruises on his other leg and make him do laps around the yard to gauge the damage by eye if he won't tell her outright. Stubborn mules, the pair of them.

"It's good to see you," Alphonse says quietly.

The thing is, it should be good to see Ed. It should be good to see his brother with his own eyes, to know for sure Ed's survived the latest wild story that's made headlines and busted his leg again. But it isn't. These short trips for maintenance only emphasize the years that separate them now. Alphonse has watched Ed grow up in spurts, like a badly edited film reel. Despite how Winry and Granny tease, Ed is growing. He's more than a foot taller than Alphonse now. He never cuts his hair, just braids it back and shakes his bangs irritably out of his eyes. It falls nearly halfway down his back now when he lets it down. He's put on muscle, gone wiry and lean, gotten strong enough by necessity to handle whatever madmen he meets on the missions he's sent on. But he's only fifteen. He's got years of growing up left to do, but he acts like he's already checked the whole untidy affair of puberty off his to-do list.

"Shut up and eat," is a common retort out of Granny whenever Ed visits. She worries about him too. Ed's face always reminds Alphonse of Yock Island; of being too weak to defend themselves against Mason, of Ed being so out of his mind with hunger he thought a line of ants looked like fancy chocolates. He's glad Granny glowers at Ed until he's cleared his plate at least twice.

It hurts—in a manner of speaking—to see Ed when he comes home again. Fracturing day by day, too skittish to linger, dooming himself to break down far from the rolling hills of the childhood he shelved after that terrible night.

Being a State Alchemist is going to get Ed killed one day, Alphonse is sure of it. Each time the radio blares praises for the Fullmetal Alchemist a part of him expects Ed to come home in a pine box with the Amestrian flag draped over it like an apology. Tommy Granger was buried like that last year, just a couple weeks before Ed came back for maintenance with a mostly healed burn all down his right forearm he refused to say anything about. Tommy Granger, who used to sleepwalk in unhurried circles in the market, who told the pair of them off for wandering around in the middle of the night, who used to send money home to his mom every month. Tommy Granger was killed in some skirmish a hundred miles away and all Mrs. Granger got for it was a pretty medal to hang on the wall beside Tommy's boot camp graduation picture.

That could be Ed one day. Buried too young beside Mom's first grave, with his pocket watch and some letter that goes on out about "services rendered in defense of our nation" given to Winry and Granny because there’s no one else left. If Ed dies maybe Granny will use the money they'll give to finally give Alphonse a headstone too. An empty grave is better than nothing. Sometimes he wonders if Granny would be morbid enough to take a photograph to add to the corkboard in the kitchen. The family Elric; deceased.

It hurts too, to see the way Winry flinches whenever Ed snaps out something ugly and barbed so she'll leave him alone. Alphonse doesn't get why Ed's so intent on pushing Winry away, especially after all the things the other kids their age have said about the both of them. She's always bruised easier than Ed, has always taken the cruelty of others to heart. Ed makes an effort to salt the half-healed hurts Winry picks at on her own when Ed is far away risking his life for some half-cracked cause (Just like her parents, and why doesn't Ed ever realize that's why Winry worries?). He stomps off to sulk and leaves Winry with the piece of him he's dumped in her lap again with barely more than an apologetic trinket to bribe her with and a, "Sorry, thanks, wasn't my fault, put that down holy shit—"

But the thing is, Ed's kind of an idiot. He bristles and bares his teeth and calls her names and thinks she's stupid for caring about him, but Winry's brilliant. She's twice as smart as the two of them ever were together and she sees right through the worst Ed ever slings at her. Yeah, it still hurts her. Yeah, Ed's upset her to tears more than once. But Winry is something Ed isn't. She's adaptable. Ed is steadfast and unyielding; he draws his line in the sand and demands the world meet his expectations (and fractures a little more every time it doesn't). Winry takes the hits the world throws, turns the other cheek for another, and no one—especially his idiot brother—ever thinks to pay any attention to that throwing arm of hers.

Ed's turned vicious over the years, it's true. But Winry gives as good as she gets, firing Ed up and kicking him when he's down and belittling him to the point where Ed's only option is to go hide up a tree until dinner, spare leg or no. Bickering is too kind a word for the fights they get into all up and down and around Rockbell Automail. They scream. They push and pull and hit. They've gotten mean with each other, and no matter how many times he sees these fights break out Alphonse just can't understand it. It's just the three of them left, Ed and Winry and Granny, and Granny won't be around forever. They're the only family they have, so why are they so intent on tearing each other apart?

He knows they can’t hear him—he knows, he knows, he knows—but he still can’t help but try and stop them when they get like this. It isn’t right, to hurt each other like this. Ed’s not even been back a day and they’re at each other’s throats. As far as he can tell it started with elbows on the table and an innocuous comment about being raised in a barn, and now somehow it’s escalated to insulting each other’s dead mothers, never mind how much that hurts themselves just as much as it does each other.

“Stop,” he shouts. “Would you two stop! You were both raised better than this, what the hell’s the matter with you?”

He makes a grab for Ed’s wrist, trying in vain to hold him back. Ed shivers bodily when his hands passes through him, snarling out, “—and I hate being stuck in this drafty goddamn house for that matter!”

Alphonse turns to Granny, begging, “Do something.”

Granny's mouth has gone thin and pinched again, the way Alphonse has learned means she's at a loss for how to rein these two in. Worse still, it means she's disappointed. "Enough," she barks, startling them both. Ed's got a lock of Winry's hair in his fist and she's shoved him up against a wall, purposefully pressing on all the bruises Ed's pretending don't exist. They blink at Granny like they'd forgotten she was still in the room. "Not in the house," Granny says, voice sharp as a slap. Even Alphonse shies back a little. "Our three o'clock is due any minute. Winry, try and make yourself presentable for company. And Ed?"

Ed scowls. "Yeah?"

"I'm sure you've got better things to occupy yourself with than trying to scalp my granddaughter?"

"I wasn't—!"

The glare she levels over her glasses could curdle milk. Ed's an idiot, but he's at least smart enough to duck his head in an apology he's too stubborn to voice. "...Sure, yeah."

He shoulders past Winry to beat a hasty retreat to his room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle pictures on the wall. Winry opens her mouth, no doubt to shout something nasty after him, but Granny puts a stop to it. "I said that's enough!"

"But he—!"

"Has a lot on his mind, as well you know."

Winry chews on her lip, glaring down the hall. "He doesn't have to take it out on us."

Granny puts on a smile that doesn't fool Alphonse for a second. "Who else is there?"

Den starts barking out in the yard; their three o'clock has arrived right on time.

Two days later Ed's on the train bound for East City just like he wanted, a whirlwind that comes and goes and never says thank you for all trouble. Normalcy is restored.

In the years since Ed burned their house down, Alphonse has had to find ways to keep himself distracted. He spends his days wandering; always moving, always restless, always wanting more. He's been bored for so long he can't remember what it's like to be satisfied with sleepy mornings or sun-soaked afternoons, of finding peace in the still hours. He spent the ten short years of his life making as much use of his waking moments as he could, working towards the day he and Ed could finally get their lives back on track once Mom was alive again. Now? Now he can't so much as doodle on a piece of scrap paper because he isn't real enough to touch anything.

There are only about a thousand people in Resembool, mostly clustered together in the town proper. He didn't know all of them by name before he died, but he could recognize most of them in that absent, automatic way the human mind categorizes people after you've seen them enough times. But he died years ago now. His life ended in bloodshed and ruin, and all of the distractions of his life have been excised from him. All that's left is an unflinching eye for detail and a restlessness impossible to sate. The people here are his only entertainment, and in the years since Ed earned his pocket watch he's learned to love them all for a hundred different reasons, a thousand, for far more than he could ever quantify.

He's learned the names of every single person, the complexities of their family trees and the intricacies of their social circles, their favorite candies, their least favorite chores. He knows the gossip mongers from the shut-ins, the hard working and the frenzied from the lazy and the slovenly. He'll chose someone to follow for days on end, memorizing the way they speak with their hands as much as the tone of their voices, all they ways they'll laugh, who they avoid and who they seek out gladly. He memorized their lives, from the celebrations to the inanities to the pitfalls, and loves them for every moment they shine.

He watches families rise for each day, house by house, room by room. Siblings and only children, toddlers and kids and teens, all loud laughter and roughhousing and first times for everything. Young mothers and old wives, young fathers and old husbands. Spouses who hold hands over their morning coffee. Spouses who put on a front of a loving marriage but sleep in separate bedrooms and never speak to one another otherwise. Grandparents who outlived their spouses once, twice, three times, sitting alone on their narrow beds and looking at their wizened hands with weary astonishment. The handful of MPs in the cramped barracks on the east side of town, with the sour-faced lieutenant stuck in command of old sergeants who look down their noses at this would-be hard-charger. He watches people stumble out of bed, yawning unabashedly wide, scratching and picking at themselves in bathroom mirrors, holding quiet conversations over breakfast, making to-do lists to check off another day of their lives.

He loves them all, from the oldest (Cadogan Pugh, who's going to be 103 this September, who still speaks with the thick accent of his home country though he immigrated to Amestris when he was 26) to the youngest (Lorena Rudaski, only three weeks old; Alphonse had been there when her mother had named her). He has to love them because the alternative is too ugly to consider; how could he dare envy any of them? He died because of his own choices, his own mistakes. He has to love them because they can do all the things he no longer can. He watches them cook and clean, eat and sleep. He reads over their shoulders, devouring newspapers and trashy dime store novels and medical textbooks and personal diaries without bias. He walks through storefronts and sitting rooms, barns and bathrooms, eager always to listen in to any idle conversation or hushed argument. Sometimes he does walk in on something people wouldn't want anyone else to see, let alone a ten year old boy. But he doesn't mind, not really, and a little embarrassment now and then keeps things lively—in a manner of speaking, any way.

Resembool is a little town, reluctant to change. Granny's photographs of fifty years past show a town nearly unchanged. Just the people change. Faces, fashions, the brikabrak inside each home. The day-to-day drudgery blurs and crystallizes to his eyes. Kids go to school, farmers tend to their fields, mail is sorted, coffee made, rips mended. So it goes.

He learns the little things adults do to keep their chins up when they have to put on a good face for their neighbors. He learns how low people can be brought by personal demons as invisible to him as he is to them. He learns who needs a touch at the elbow to remind them that it's alright to take breaks, and who needs that touch but has no one there to do it. He chills their hands until they grumble and fetch a fresh cup of coffee, and he smiles to himself for a job well-done.

The people almost make his loneliness bearable.

Of course, there's more to find than people in Resembool.

"Good morning, Mister Tafano," Alphonse calls out on his way past the post office.

"Graaaaaagh," Mr. Tafano replies.

To be fair, Alphonse doesn't think Mr. Tafano ever spoke Amestrian when he was still alive. He's fairly sure the other ghost was a native of whatever country claimed this valley before Amestris came along. The few words he can coax the man to grumble sound a little like they might be Aerugan, or at least a near dialect of it. It's difficult to tell if it's the language barrier or a simple lack of inclination that leaves Mr. Tafano a slouched and snarling thing curled up in the roots of the oldest tree in town proper. It took Alphonse four months just to learn his name, and he hasn't gotten much more out of him since.

In retrospect he's a bit embarrassed by how much shouting he did back then. But back then, just days after Ed burned their house down, he hadn't known about the other ghosts of Resembool. In the year of Ed’s rehabilitation he never left Ed’s side, barely going beyond the hill Rockbell Automail is perched on. He'd shied away from town, from people who would walk right through him and tug at their jackets against the chill. He spent the days clawing at the invisible wall that stands between him and the rest of the world—and far more importantly, from Ed—and the nights at the edge of the burnt-down ruins of their house. He avoided Winry and Granny, sunk lower and lower into his own misery until....

Well, until the day he didn't hurry through town quite so fast as he usually did, and he looked up and saw a monster looking back.

Alphonse once thought time couldn't touch him anymore. Mr. Tafano and all the others have since taught him otherwise. Time, in its own way, wears all things down to dust and less than dust. People die and their bodies decompose quietly in boxes beneath the earth, but ghosts are torn apart one papery layer at a time until there's nothing but a shadow left of the people they once were.

Mr. Tafano must have died at least three centuries to go, and every year of it shows. There's no telling what he used to look like, if he'd been fat or thin, brown-skinned or pale, dressed richly or in rags. Now he's a red-eyed, skeletal, toothsome thing that growls like an ill-tempered dog at the living that can’t hear him. Still, he's not all bad. He's content enough to let Alphonse spend a few hours with him now and then. He won't say much, and if he does speak at all it's gibberish to Alphonse, but they'll sit together in the shade of the old oak tree, watching the people go to and fro through the square, and it's… nice. It really is nice. Mr. Tafano doesn't look like a person, not like Alphonse or any of the others do. He's like a child's scribbled charcoal drawing with two hot coals for eyes, but Alphonse is pretty sure that has to do with how long he's been dead rather than out of any malicious intentions. He's the oldest ghost Alphonse has found still capable of any sort of recognizable speech, though not the oldest ghost in Resembool.

There are several wisps out in the western woods, curls of dim gray smoke with the vaguest suggestions of hands and fireflies for eyes, that can only snarl and shriek when he draws near. There's one more just outside the invisible barrier that weeps when Alphonse calls out to it, its tears wrung dry of meaning a long, long time ago. He doesn't know who they were or how long they've been there. They can't touch him anymore than he can touch them, but he keeps his distance anyway. He prefers the ghosts who can speak his language, even if they're just as much of a warning of what awaits him as Mr. Tafano and the shades.

The next oldest ghost he’s found was a few years younger than Alphonse when she died. Uschi lives—more or less—in the overgrown ruins of a gristmill about two miles out of town. She speaks a stilted, old-fashioned sort of Amestrian, and it was her parents' generation that settled in this valley and gave it the name it has today. She was one of the last ghosts he found but the most helpful in understanding this limbo he's trapped in; what she can't explain in words she shows him, giggling and grinning for the pleasure of his company.

She's the one that showed him gravity is a state of mind, that walking on the ground is optional, that he  could trail his unfeeling hands along the bellies of clouds if he dared to. It's not flight, not like how birds and bats and insects work to defy gravity with a grace that only appears effortless. He can just—do it, simple as that. It's thought. All he has to do is think, Up, and he's left the waving grass and tilled fields of his home behind. There's no stomach swooping terror, no thready rush of adrenaline, no heartbeat knocking wildly in his chest. Up and up, as high as he dares, until Resembool is laid out like a watercolor painting beneath his kicking feet.

He could go higher than that, if he dared. He could rise and rise until the clouds were cream-colored streaks beneath him and all that was above would be the blue-black nothingness glittering with innumerable stars. The thought of what might be beyond there, up beyond the barrier around Resembool, grounds him always. How high could he go before the last reluctant finger of gravity loosed its grip and just—let him go?

(He never dares to find out. He's still ten years old at heart, and there will always be a part of him that's terrified of the dark.)

Uschi is old, not in the years she lived but in the years—centuries—since her death. He would have thought she'd know everything there is to know about Resembool, from the days when Granny's father established Rockbell Prosthetic Limb Outfitters, back when automail was in its primitive infancy. But she doesn't know anything, not about the Rockbells or any of the other families that have been here since she died. She doesn't know when the church or the smithy were built, when the railroad extended this far into the mountains, not anything.

Well, no. That's unfair. She knows the seasons and the years they count. She knows the river's freezes and thaws, the migration patterns of birds, where the gnats will swarm on sticky summer afternoons, and a thousand lonesome things besides.

She never leaves the ruins of her home. Alphonse isn’t sure she can. He’s never asked.

There are several other ghosts Alphonse has found over the years. He's about positive he's found all of Resembool's restless dead by now, but he holds out thinking that for certain. It's a little town, sure, but it's got a long history. There are a lot of ways people can die, a lot of nooks and crannies where a ghost might pace.

There's Mr. Beckenbauer who lurks—it's really the best word for it, he lurks—over his granddaughter Felicity Hildebrand, her husband Elias, and their son Barnabas out in their farm by the eastern hills. He died before Felicity was born and Barnabas is 23 now.

Mrs. Morgenstern drowned in the flood of 1873, when she was 39 years old. The thaw claimed six lives that spring, but she was the only one who lingered.

Steffie was 19 and married only three months when her house burned down. Her husband, Owen, survived to remarry a few years after that. He lost one son to a border skirmish, another to a farm accident in the neighboring town, and died himself in the bombing of Resembool station. His second wife and third son, Victoria and Conrad Sauter, own the clothing boutique on Main Street.

Ada Nichols had been the nurse at the clinic in town, taken by an epidemic over a century ago. She'd been 27.

Walt Teller had thrown himself under the train in the first year after the railroad was built. He'd been 51.

Isaiah Shriver had been an MP, killed by another soldier in an accidental misfire when they’d been drinking at the pub. He’d flirted with Granny back when she’d been 20 as well, but that was a long time ago.

Gil Cuttler lost both legs in a border skirmish—a different one than Owen and Victoria Sauter's first son, Alphonse had asked��been outfitted with automail by Granny back when Uncle Yurie had been Ed and Winry's age, then drowned in the storm Teacher saved the town from. His ghost still has automail limbs, a touch less blurred than the rest of him, a touch more solid somehow. He died within shouting distance of Mrs. Morgenstern, and he visits her on every day it rains.

Sleepy little towns up in the mountains don't have much in the way of bloody excitement, and that's something the ghost stories got right. Violent deaths. Life torn out of a body in a bright burst of pain and terror. Nobody who died old lingers over the families they left behind, nor those who died of sickness nor disease.

Alphonse has clung to that realization like a drowning person to a life preserver.  They killed Mom, that night. She died bloody and torn open, gasping her last even as her new lungs tried to find purchase in her broken ribs, but she didn't leave a ghost behind. Her first death had been slow, untreatable, expected. She died in her bed trying her hardest to comfort the both of them right up to the end. None of the ghosts he'd asked knew for sure if a piece of herself had lingered after her first death—none of them wandered out as far as their old house—but he hoped. He hoped her first death balanced out the second. Better that she died too quickly to have felt any pain. Better that she choked quickly and went back to whatever comes after for the peaceful death, if there really is something so nice as an after.

He had been so afraid of Mr. Tafano when he first saw him. Uschi too, scared him pretty badly. He knows better now than to be afraid of old ghosts. They're the only ones who can see him, and they light up when he comes to talk to them. None of them wander as far as he can, not even Mr. Cuttler, the youngest ghost before him.

Maybe its' a fluke of how he died; deconstructed by alchemy, his atoms scattered. Maybe one day, long decades from now, he'll be like the others. Trapped in the overgrown ruins of the house his long-dead brother burned down. Maybe he'll always be able to walk the full breadth of Resembool as he can now. Either way, he’s going to become one more skeletal, grumbling shade that won't be understood by the future ghosts of Resembool.

That, he knows, will come in time.

Time passes, as it does.

Alphonse, as always, remains attentive for any mention of Ed in the newspaper, on the radio, or from any of the out-of-towners who make it to the end of the tracks. By necessity he’s learned to piece together the stories that Ed refuses pointblank to share.

There is, of course, the sensationalism that dogs—pun very much intended—Ed's footsteps wherever he goes. He’s famous these days, and not just for being the youngest State Alchemist in history anymore. Journalists and reporters have nothing but glowing words for him, even if it's all wrapped up in adroit alliteration and positive propaganda for the military as a whole (Granny's scoffing reaches new depths of pessimism every week, it's as impressive as it is hilarious). The gossip that makes its way by word of mouth to Resembool is so much fluff and nonsense. There's never much in the way of details and Alphonse is, as always, left wanting more. But if nothing else it's always good press for Ed.

More often than not Ed puts his missions and his myth-hunting on the back burner to save those little towns because no one else will. Ed saw a demand and became the supply, and the only thing he demands in return from the people whose lives he's bettered is that they keep moving, that no matter how bad things get they mustn't stagnate. Don't slip, don't fall, don't sink into the mire, never drown.

People all across the country have taken to calling him the People's Alchemist. All these little backwater towns he's saved from brigands and corruption and disaster, just like Teacher saved Resembool when they were kids. Is she who he aspires to be ? Did everything she taught them set the groundwork for the kind of man Ed might want to be? Alphonse wonders if Teacher pays as much attention to what the military-funded media channels pump out as he does. What she thinks of her stupid pupil's antics? Does she ever wonder why Alphonse's name doesn't crop up alongside Ed's?

Ed has never mentioned Teacher since that night, at least not anywhere Alphonse could overhear. He's never brought up Dublith or their training, or even the Southern region at large. Sometimes Alphonse wishes Ed would seek Teacher out, never mind she'd skin him alive and strangle him with his own tanned hide for good measure. Whatever punishment she'd dole out would be worth it for Ed to have another alchemist not allied to the military to talk to.

Alphonse understands why Ed hasn't gone back there, and certainly doesn't envy Ed the day he does darken Teacher's doorstep again. There was one thing she hammered again and again into their heads—the great flow, the cycle of life and death, the finality of a headstone, the brutal slap of the past tense—and what did they do?

(Alphonse can't feel anything anymore, but he shivers anyway whenever he thinks about how furious Teacher would be with them.)

Winry and Granny are almost as obsessive as he is about keeping an ear and eye out for Ed's name. They’ve put together a photo album to catalogue all of his exploits that make the paper. There are the front page stories, full-color photographs, interviews, and even the little blurbs that amount to little more than the latest FULLMETAL SIGHTING that make Ed sound like some kind of rare bird. It's obvious Ed's not doing any of these good deeds for the fame; the interviews always come across like Ed's irritated by the journalists for wasting his time, and the journalists always come phrase their questions like Ed's knife collection is on full display by question three.

Ed scares Alphonse. He really does. He's a shadow of the kid he used to be. He's not growing up so much as breaking down, like he's swallowing every bit of broken glass he snatches away from the people he's saved so they can't hurt themselves with it. He's all cut up inside and outside both and still, still he's convinced that this path is the only one allotted him. Worse, it's the only one he'll allot himself.

But still—still—Alphonse is proud of his brother. Ed's photo album is nearly full of all the wonderful, astonishing thing he's accomplished in a few short years, and every one of them could have killed him and didn't. Ed could have broken down so much worse than this cracking, ramshackle cage he's made around his heart.

He’ll survive. He’ll survive as long as it takes him to realize the futility of his goal, and he’ll throw his pocket watch in Colonel Mustang’s face and build a better life for himself, free of brigands and corruption and disaster. He’ll come home to Resembool, he’ll reach out to Teacher, he’ll find something better to focus his brilliant mind on for the rest of his long, long life.

He has to, because the alternative is too much for Alphonse to bear.

There are a dearth of Fullmetal sightings for a while, which as always is as much of a relief as it is cause for concern. No news is good news, sure, but news is the only way he knows where Ed's at and what he's doing.

During these quiet interludes Alphonse likes to imagine Ed squirreling himself away in some dusty old library or another. Barricaded behind a wall of precariously leaning tomes and research journals, his fingers stained with ink, as content as he ever permits himself to be. He hopes Ed has a lot of good days like that, just Ed and alchemy and a pervasive quietness that might ease the tension always working in his jaw.

Of course, the interludes never last. One evening on the cusp of spring Ed's title blares out of the radio, startling the Powell family's mid-dinner. Alphonse just so happens to be perched on their mantle, having been eavesdropping on their oldest son’s plans to go study engineering at East City University.  Mr. Powell turns the volume knob and the lot of them listen intently for the latest on Resembool's poster boy.

The latest, as practically babbled by an audibly shaken newscaster, sounds like something straight out of a science fiction novel. Glaciers have formed up out of the canals of Central City, tearing apart infrastructure and homes, converging on Central Command in an unmistakable attack on the top brass and perhaps even the Fuhrer himself. Fullmetal is on the scene—when had he traveled to the capital?—doing everything he can to stop the alchemist responsible. Alongside him are two other State Alchemists, Flame and Strongarm, as well as what sounds like every soldier in the city working to keep civilians out of harm's way. The Powells forget their meal entirely, breathless with shock—"Every canal?" Mrs. Powell asks the room weakly—and Alphonse hovers over their heads, hugging himself tightly. The newscaster goes on to to explain that this impossible display of alchemy is—somehow—the work of only one man; a former State Alchemist named Isaac McDougal who had been given the entirely apt title of Freezer during the Eastern Conflict.

"But there's no way," Alphonse says to himself. "There isn't. One alchemist couldn't possibly freeze an entire city's water supply!"

But—But there could be a way. If this McDougal had somehow found the Philosopher's Stone....

That's got to be it. It has to be! There's no other way one transmutation circle could span a city, let alone one as large as Central. And there's Ed, right in the thick of it, fighting tooth and nail to stop this guy from destroying Central Command or whatever his insane plan is. If Ed's as smart, as fast, and as brutal as he's learned how to be out there on his own, then maybe this is it. Maybe his hard work will pay off. Maybe, maybe—!

Flame and Strongarm work together to break the array to stop the flow of the ice. They succeed and the ice shudders to a standstill, apparently right at the moat encircling Central Command. Elsewhere, Fullmetal and Freezer come to blows. Fullmetal injuries Freezer, Freezer injures Fullmetal, Freezer books it, and none other than the Fuhrer himself cuts him down. The newscaster assures those listening in at home that the Fuhrer wasn't injured in the altercation, that Fullmetal's injuries are minor, that the full damage done to Central will have to wait to be determined until the ice has melted. State Alchemists across the country will be called in to hasten it along, with Flame directing them as the best-suited to the task.

As the emergency report jingle fades out Alphonse sags with relief, his feet dangling through the Powells' dining table. Ed's—okay. He's okay. He went up against someone who must have had a Philosopher's Stone and walked away. The Stone is real. This is the proof, one madman doing something truly, unmistakably impossible. Even if his plan was stopped, the fact that he came so close as the base of Central Command—freezing half of Central to do it—is irrefutable proof of the Stone's existence.

But it's unlikely Ed had a chance to take it from McDougal, not if McDougal hurt Ed and then ran off. Did he have it when he went up against the Fuhrer? Surely not; the Fuhrer's 60th birthday is this year. He might still be an accomplished fighter, but one man against the same myth that destroyed a country? That almost destroyed the capital tonight? So the Stone was lost, or destroyed, or—something. So that puts Ed—almost—at square one again. Nearly, but not quite, because Ed’s not hunting a myth anymore.

The next Fullmetal reporting only warrants a four-paragraph article in the Times, and not even on the front page.

(The top headline that day belongs to a State Alchemist's murder, the sixth since the new year, and the whole of Resembool worried for Ed.)

The article briefly describes Ed's hand in dismantling a corrupt religious order in a city called Liore. There’s some property damage, as always, including the church itself being brought down to its foundations. Typical. Ed's rejection of God, all the trappings of faith, and his inability to keep his damn opinions to himself has gotten him into trouble again . Still, from the sound of things this Church of Leto was up to some shady business, so good on him.

There's no telling from such a small article if this was a mission Colonel Mustang sent him on, or if Ed had thought there'd been something suspicious about the head priest's "miracles." Alchemy has often been mistaken for magic and miracles in the past, after all. Still, apart from the destroyed church it doesn't sound like Ed got into too much trouble on his own. (Funny, how blasé he's gotten over Ed's penchant for property damage; even Winry and Granny just roll their eyes and cluck mild disapproval as Winry pastes the article into the photograph album.) He doubts Ed's going to come back for maintenance, and the next lull proves that.

Despite his attempts to convince himself not to, Alphonse worries. He second-guesses his previous dismissals of Ed ever finding a real Philosopher's stone, and lingers over the now uncomfortable thought of what Ed will do with one once he does. What if he'd gotten McDougal's? Or the possible one in Liore? What if Ed—far too reckless, completely unapologetic, forever gnashing his teeth impatiently—tries to perform human transmutation without testing the Stone's abilities on a smaller scale? What if he makes some clever variation on the array they made together and decides the risk of losing another limb—or limbs—is worth the reward of bringing Alphonse back? What if it's not a limb the next time? What if the next time kills Ed and his ghost is left haunting the streets of East City or some other far-off place? What if they'll both persist for centuries, unseen, unheard, out of reach forever from one another?

Each time his thoughts bear down this path he tries to wrench himself elsewhere, distract himself with a different household, a different person, a different taste or texture he tries to remember. He has to believe Ed's alright for this lull, the same as he has been for all the previous ones, the same as he'll be for all the ones that come after. Just because there's a vanishingly small chance Ed might have found a Philosopher's Stone in the coffers of some money-grubbing priest doesn't it make it automatically true. The Central Times would be all over it if the famous Fullmetal was hospitalized, or worse, went missing under mysterious circumstances. This is a lull, a pocket of benign banality.

Picture dusty libraries. Picture corner cafés and over-sugared coffees. Picture those uniformed coworkers of his known only by ranks, last names, and the odd anecdote shared offhand during maintenance visits. Picture them all getting dinner together after work, scolding Ed for not taking better care of himself, teasing him over some other kid his age making doe eyes at him despite his atrocious fashion sense and foul temper.  Picture Ed getting enough sleep to chase away the shadows under his eyes.

Ed's fine. Ed's always fine. He has to be.

The lull ends, as usual, with a great deal of fanfare and belated metaphorical heart attacks. This time Alphonse is in the Taylor residence when the emergency report jingle interrupts the afternoon news program. Fullmetal single-handedly took down a faction of the Eastern Liberation Front which had hijacked a train bound for East City. Their goal had been a hostage exchange; a major general and his family on the train for the leader of their political extremist group. Colonel Mustang is mentioned as having met Fullmetal at East's train station to apprehend the twelve men. From the sound of things Ed got away unscathed, and only three passengers—including the major general—required medical treatment upon arrival in East.

So, that's—good. Not Ed fighting twelve armed men in a moving train full of hostages. But Ed saved the day, and he won't have to be hospitalized (again) for his efforts. It's good enough.

Mrs. Taylor huffs, picking up her embroidery again as the news turns to other topics. "I don't understand how they can justify putting a child in harm's way like that."

"He's not really a child," Bella, their youngest, points out. "He's a whole year older than me."

"That's much too young to be fighting armed terrorists!"

Alphonse agrees wholeheartedly, not that he's got any say in it.

"That boy's always been an odd one," Mr. Taylor grunts from his well-worn chair nearest the fireplace in their sitting room. "And he's turned out to be a real nasty piece of work ever since the accident."

Alphonse scowls.

"It's no fault of his if he went a bit strange after that," Mrs. Taylor says.

"Stranger," Bella and Matt correct in unison, then laugh. Alphonse's scowl deepens. He never did like Bella much—she used to pull on Winry's hair in class when they were little—but Matt always seemed like a nice kid. People act so much differently when they're behind closed doors.

Mrs. Taylor hushes them both. "He's been through so much, and at his age no less! Poor thing.”

"I wish he'd stay longer when he does come back," Matt says after a pause. "He and Al used to fix stuff for us all the time, you know? And they never wanted money or anything."

"Bit thick of them," Mr. Taylor says. "They could've done well for themselves if they'd charged, paid back old Pinako with interest for her trouble."

"And how much would you have paid out of pocket when they fixed your dad's watch?" Mrs. Taylor asks archly, and both of the kids grin at their dad when he harrumphs.

"Well. I suppose it doesn't matter much now, does it? They must be paying him a fortune, being a dog of the military and all."

"D'you think he gets a bonus for every bad guy he catches?" Bella asks. "He's on the news all the time; he's gotta be rich!"

Mrs. Taylor sets her embroidery down again, tangling her fingers together nervously. She hates the news, whether or not Ed's involved. Any minute now she's going to go busy herself with the kettle and smoke on the back porch until her hands stop shaking. "I wish he'd never joined the military. There's no telling what awful things he's had to do for them, or how much of what we hear is even true!"

Alphonse slips out of their home as their conversation turns to the terrorists and the trouble they've been causing up and down the eastern region for years; yet another group in in a long string of them unhappy with the current state of things. Leave the grownups and the kids that still have a chance to grow up to worry about men with guns and the price of bread. He's not interested in the big picture; it doesn’t have any bearing at all on him.

Still, he walks out of their garden with his head down and hands fist in his pockets. He can't shake what Mrs. Taylor said. About the radio, and propaganda, and the nearly-full photo album Winry and Granny have compiled of all of Ed's good deeds. He thinks about the swell of pride he hopes Ed feels when he’s called the People's Alchemist before Fullmetal. He thinks about Auntie Sara and Uncle Yurie, and all the good they did during the Eastern Conflict before they were killed. He thinks about Colonel Mustang, and how the paper likes to remind its readers that the State Alchemist program put a stop to the seven-year conflict in a matter of months. Alphonse wonders what kind of deeds a man like Colonel Mustang must have done in Ishval.

Who's to say Ed won't have to do the same one day too?

Who's to say he hasn't already?

Weeks pass. Spring shrugs off the last stubborn chill of winter. It'll be another month, maybe two depending on how much rain there is, before Resembool's rolling hills explode in a riot of bright wildflowers. In the meantime the countryside is overwhelmed by the bright shock of new grass and budding trees. Alphonse spends hours with Uschi out in the ruins of her family's gristmill, trying to help her remember what all of this beauty should smell like.

"Earthy! Come on—damp and warm, that good kind of humid smell that makes you want to curl your toes up in some mud. You know?"

She wrinkles her nose. "I think perhaps smell is first to go, when you die."

"Aw, c'mon, don't be such a downer. Think back! I know it was a long time ago—"

"Thank you, I had almost forgot."

He grins, spinning on tiptoe on the highest point of the stone wall that hasn't crumbled yet. It's kind of fun, all the places you can reach when you don't have to worry about body mass. "Uschi...."

She harrumphs, folded up in the empty space where a window used to be. The sun-bleached wooden frame would have left terrible splinters in her hands and legs if she were still alive, but that’s not something she’s had to worry about for a long, long time. "I don't remember. It's been too long!"

"But you're still way more—you—than Mister Tafano is, and you only died like, forty years after him or something. Come on, try a little harder!"

She crosses her arms over her narrow chest and scowls. Her eyes blaze like disturbed embers, shockingly bright against the grayness of herself and the home she died in. "I don't care about him. I will never know him, so what does it matter?"

Alphonse considers this. He considers her. It's true that she does look a fair sight better than Mr. Tafano, but that's hardly saying much. He can tell she died wearing a long dress with her hair plaited back, but details beyond that are hard to parse. She's a sketchy, shaking shape, all her colors bleached to the fine gray ash of a spent fire save for the blaze of her eyes. She used to scare Alphonse, but there are worse things than little girls to be afraid of.

He asks her, "Doesn't anyone ever come out here?"

And she says, "You're the only one who can."

He's back at Rockbell Automail again a few mornings later, perched neatly out of Winry's way and bobbing his head along with the radio. Granny's out weeding in the garden while Winry does the last of the washing up after breakfast. Winry hums along with the jazzy number playing, a little out of tune but neatly in time. Even the clink of the cutlery being set out to dry matches the beat. It's been a lull for them too; no new customers, no maintenance visits, nothing but fiddly stocking and prep work for worst-case scenarios.

There is, of course, always the risk of injury in a village centered around agriculture and livestock, and Granny's the only surgeon in town. Well, Alphonse amends, give Winry a couple more years to earn her certifications and Resembool will have two surgeons again. Of that, Alphonse doesn't have any doubt. She's assisted in a lot of outfittings since Ed's and her skills have improved in leaps and bounds. She's a brilliant mechanic, never mind that she and Granny both think she could do with a lot of improvement still. As far as he's concerned that's just the Rockbell streak of perfectionism at work again.

The song wraps up, but instead of a brief commentary on the composer or the band that performed that recording, the emergency news jingle jangles out. Alphonse and Winry both freeze, leaning in intently. The latest story is that of yet another murdered State Alchemist, killed just the same as all the others this year. Shou Tucker, the Sewing Life Alchemist, and his four year old daughter were found murdered in their estate this morning along with two MPs stationed outside. Tucker had been facing disciplinary charges for reasons not yet disclosed to the public as the investigation was still ongoing as of his death. There's a brief, conciliatory comment from someone from Central's Investigations who had come to East City to—

"But that's where Ed's at!" Winry yelps, bolting for the back door. "Granny!"

Alphonse is just as worried, flinging a prayer in a vaguely skyward direction, hoping he won't hear any mention of Ed this time. If this serial killer is targeting State Alchemists in the same city Ed's stationed in, then there's every likelihood that—that—

Ed's fine. No matter what happens, Ed will remain fine. He's a fantastic fighter, for all that never watches his back—

"He'll be fine," he assures Winry and Granny. "You know he's holed up in some library somewhere—or hey! I bet Colonel Mustang's sent him off on another mission! You know how Ed's always complaining he never has enough time for research, right? He's gotta be miles away from East City, totally safe from this Scar guy."

Maybe if he says it loud enough and often enough, he'll convince himself as well.

That same day the lunch hour program is interrupted again by the emergency news jingle. All three of them fall tensely quiet, praying for good news. But this time, as with any other time this shit jingle blares out of the radio, it's anything but. The serial killer known only for the X-shaped scar across his face has targeted another State Alchemist; Fullmetal is the first to have survived an encounter with this mysterious man.

"Oh god," the three of them say.

The newscaster goes on to detail a—literally—explosive chase across East City, with several streets damaged by alchemical attacks by both Scar and Fullmetal, three MPs killed, culminating in the timely arrival of two other State Alchemists—Flame and Strongarm again—as well as a team of soldiers to back them. But even with all of that firepower Scar managed to escape into the sewers. Citizens in East and the adjacent towns are asked to be on guard for a man matching Scar's distinctive description, warned not to engage as he has proven to be aggressive to anyone who gets in his way. Fullmetal declined to make a statement, but both Colonel Mustang and the Lieutenant Colonel heading Central Investigations reiterated that the military is doing everything in its power to catch this madman—

"But Ed's okay," Winry stammers. "Right? They would have said if he'd been hurt, wouldn't they?"

Granny's got an expression like she's been sucking on a lemon, which speaks volume for what's left unsaid. Not if they were intentionally downplaying how dangerous this maniac is. Out loud she says, "Of course. Knowing Ed though, I'm sure we can expect to see him in a couple of days or so. I suppose we ought to freshen up his room. It's almost been long enough since his last visit that it could benefit from some dusting."

Winry smiles weakly, so that almost makes it all okay.

There are 37 years couched between Steffie and Owen Sauters’ deaths, but they've had plenty of time since Owen's to catch up. The Sauters' first home was only a block from the train station, near enough that they can sit side by side again, holding hands and sharing stories. It's honestly a bit sweet how well they still get on.

"Your brother's a brat and no mistake," Steffie informs Alphonse flatly.

"He's not a brat," Alphonse replies, defensive. "He's just got a lot on his plate."

"Sure, and he's shoveled it all there himself. Nobody forced him to run off and fight serial killers."

Owen rests a hand on Steffie's shoulder, shooting Alphonse an apologetic look. Neither of them can feel it, of course, and their edges go a little fuzzier where they overlap, but it calms her all the same.

They both died in terrible fires, ravaged by burns, their lungs scorched to the last breath. Some days—on low days—they mirror how their bodies must have looked when they died; twisted limbs, the flesh sloughing off their cracked bones, a halo of fire devouring their faces. But not today. Steffie is more washed out, like damp watercolors, her fingertips and the curling ends of her auburn hair transparent, but her crooked smile is friendly. It's still easy to see how pretty she had been when she'd been alive. Owen's only been dead a handful of years longer than Alphonse. He looks just as real to Alphonse as his own body does.

The train whistles its arrival farther up the tracks and he slips down off the crate he'd been on. "He's worked hard for everything he's managed to hang onto. And besides, you've never seen him in a real fight."

Steffie shrugs. "Neither have you."

"I don't need to. I know him. He'd never let some psycho get the better of him. No matter what, Ed will keep going."

If he says it often enough, it might even hold true.

As if to prove his point Ed's the first off the train; impressive, considering he's on crutches. For one terrible moment Alphonse freezes, thinking of pouring rain on a black night, Ed sobbing in the mud. But no, no. That was then. This is now. Ed's moving with ease, impatience even. He practically dances out of the way as an absolute mountain of a man steps out after him. But the shock still coils in the muscle memory Alphonse clings to; he can almost feel his heart in his throat, his stomach twisting, his knees turned to jelly.

Ed's automail is gone.

His pant leg is neatly pinned out of the way to keep it from dragging, the empty space an explanation point of just how close he must  have come to—

Alphonse can't finish that thought. He can't bear to. But Scar must be a terrifyingly skilled fighter to have not only beaten Ed but to have destroyed Winry's work too. Still. Alphonse forces himself to relax, to focus on the easy smile Ed throws the large man's way. There's no tightness to his expression, no smothered pain. He isn't hurt this time. At least there's that.

"Got a ways to go yet, Major," Ed says. "They don't live in town."

"Is there a car we could requisition?" The large man asks in a surprisingly gentle rumble.

Ed laughs too lightly. "Cars haven't made it this far out into the boonies yet. Besides, I'm sick of sitting on my ass, aren't you? C'mon, we're burning daylight."

Alphonse waves goodbye to the Sauters—Steffie sticks her tongue out at him, Owen waves languorously—and trots after Ed and the major.

"You've never come back with any soldiers before," he points out. "Is he an escort? Mm, no, a guy this big, he's got to be a bodyguard, huh? That makes sense. You wouldn't be much use in a fight right now. And speaking of use—Brother. You know anyone would lend you their wagon if you asked. You don't have  to be so stubborn all the time, you great big idiot. It's okay to rely on other people sometimes, which I know you've got at least a passing grasp of, since you're letting this guy carry your suitcase."

Ed moves like an old pro on the crutches, never mind it's been years since he's had to use them on the regular. He's such a skinny thing, swallowed up by all those heavy layers he wears, that it's easy to forget he's wiry with muscle. Ed hops along with hardly any strain, just a slight breathlessness as he points out a few things or greets people around town as they walk through. The major nods, making polite comments now and then on the long walk out to Rockbell Automail. Ed doesn't sound tired or shaken, like he hasn't just survived what must have been his nearest brush with death since they night they tried to bring Mom back. He almost sounds cheerful.

"You're a shit liar," Alphonse tells him. "I hope it helps to pretend anyway."

So it turns out what's left of Ed's leg is packed up in his suitcase. It's less recognizable as a leg as it is so much deconstructed scrap metal, which begs the question of what the fuck kind of serial killer is targeting State Alchemists. The Times has provided so little detail on the previous murders, just the date and general location, along with a lengthy biography on the latest late State Alchemist. But that's unmistakably transmutation marks all along the metal exterior, which suggests someone using prepared arrays. No way Ed would have allowed himself to be held down long enough in a drawn array.

But he can wonder about that later. He listens, satisfied, as Winry gives Ed a well-deserved scolding—a little smashed up? Really, Ed?—then promises to get his new leg built in only three days. In the meantime Ed's put on a spare leg and sent out to pasture while the major—Alex Louis Armstrong, the Strongarm Alchemist in the flesh, which cements him as Ed's bodyguard in Alphonse's eyes—offers to cut some firewood. Ed putters around his room for a bit, but quickly grows restless and gets dressed again.

Alphonse follows him into town, knowing where he's going. He wishes Ed wouldn't visit the cemetery every time he came back to Resembool, wishes he'd stop beating himself up over what happened, but there's nothing to be done for it.

It's another trip to Mrs. Caddeo's flower shop, Den trotting at Ed's heels and shying away from Alphonse's cold touch. She knows better than to dare more than polite small talk, then it's out of town again, to the neat rows of headstones, to Mom's first grave all on its own. Ed transmutes the usual wreath, placing it carefully.

He lingers a long time, saying nothing.

Alphonse stands beside him, paying no attention to Mom's grave. He can look at it any time he likes. Graves don't go anywhere, but Ed never stays in Resembool a minute longer than he has to.

It's in these quiet, unguarded moments that Alphonse can best note the minute changes that have undergone Ed since his last visit. Without an audience Ed's dropped his forced cheer, set it aside like so much dead weight. Alone, he allows himself to wear his exhaustion and his fear freely. He's fifteen years old and a grown man with a list of dead appended to his serial killer's moniker tried to cut him down for—what, exactly? Why would anyone try to kill Ed? Because he's a State Alchemist? Never mind all the good he goes out of his way to do even though no one expects him to bother?

Ed looks scared. He looks lonely. He looks like a kid that's been doing a grown up's job for too long.

"I'm sorry," Alphonse says quietly. "I wish I could have been there. I wish I could have helped you."

Den whines, and that seems to be enough to shake Ed out of his thoughts. He does a stiff about face, limping quickly out of the cemetery. Alphonse and Den follow, and as always Alphonse hopes Ed won't cross the bridge at the T junction on his way back to Rockbell Automail. As always he does.

Ed's predictable, each time he visits. It's always bickering with Winry and Granny, eating three helpings at every meal, fixing anything Granny asks him to in a flashy show of alchemy, and this dead-eyed self-flagellation he insists on no matter that any living person tells him he needn't. Flowers bought and transmuted and placed on Mom's first grave, where they decided together to try and bring her back. Then a pilgrimage up to what's left of their house. He'll linger there for an hour or more, saying nothing, doing nothing. He always just stares at the burnt-black ruins with his eyes like two cigarette burns in his pinched face.

Alphonse never goes to their house when Ed isn't here. He suspects one day he won't have a choice. One day, a century or more after everyone who knew him is dead and buried themselves, the range his ghost will be able to travel will shrink so much that he won't be able to leave their house. One day he'll be like Mr. Tafano and Uschi, trapped in a scant few feet of space. One day he'll be like the skritch-scratch shadows in the woods who can only scream and weep like trapped animals.

He tries not to think about that. He avoids their house, skittish of knowing its shape too well. Still, he'll follow Ed every step he can, even when it takes him to the place where he died.

Ed never tries going into what's left of their house. Smart of him, really. What little there is left of the first floor surely isn't sturdy enough to bear his weight. He just stays in the yard, eyes caught in some distance Alphonse can't ever reach, haunted by more than the brother he can't see or hear.

Alphonse stays beside Ed, watching the ebb and flow of unuttered thoughts war on his face. With an audience—with Winry and Granny, all the townsfolk, and probably anyone he's ever spoken to regarding his reasons for joining the military—Ed is loud and stubborn, bombastic and impossible to argue with. He declares he's going to do the impossible even though their first attempt cost him his leg and that was with them working in tandem. He's consumed by the need to make right what went wrong, by a drive to break the great flow of life and death to drag Alphonse out of the nothingness his body was scattered to. He sprints for self-destruction, hopes to wipe the slate clean by undoing what he believes he did to Alphonse.

(Alphonse has long since given up trying to convince Ed of how wrong he is. He could scream until the cows came home and Ed wouldn't hear a whisper.)

But alone, here, standing before the closest thing Alphonse has to a grave, Ed—falters. Here in this place that Alphonse would do anything to avoid otherwise, Ed seems to come the closest to admitting to himself how insane his goal is, how impossible, how likely it is that it will kill him in the end.

Maybe there's a part of Ed that wants that to happen. Maybe Ed's just spinning his wheels until he's confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that the taboo is truly impossible. Maybe once he confirms the Philosopher's Stone is out of his reach or that there is no cheating the great flow, he'll just... commit the taboo anyway. Die trying.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. That's all Alphonse has. It’s not like Ed’ll ever say anything out loud.

He sighs. "I wish you'd quit punishing yourself like this. It isn't healthy. You'd yell at Winry until you were blue in the face if she pulled something like this over her parents. Hell, Brother, she's yelled at you until she was blue in the face, and have you listened? Of course not. You're not to blame for what happened. I don't blame you. I never have. It was me. It has to have been my fault. That’s why it killed me. We were so sure we knew what we were doing, but we didn't. We were arrogant. I should have done more. I should have reviewed our work more. Somewhere we miscalculated, I know we did. I wasn't sure that night. I didn’t think we were ready, but I didn't say anything. I should have. I'm sorry."

Den whines again. Ed blinks dreamily, comes back from whatever distant hell had stolen him away. He looks down at the dog with something that might, if one were feeling generous, be considered a smile. "Come on. Let's go home."

Ed never calls Resembool home when he talks to someone who can talk back. Is he even aware he does that? Probably. Probably the same way he never says Alphonse's name aloud either.

Ed's second night back, he has a nightmare.

Alphonse always stays in Ed's room when he's here, curled up in a corner out of the way. It's calming to be near Ed while he sleeps. To hear his steady breathing, to know for sure that he's safe. But all too often his nights are disturbed like this.

(He wonders how frequent these nightmares are elsewhere, far from home, surrounded by strangers, playing a grown up's game with inscrutable rules revealed to him at only the most inopportune moments. It's no wonder Ed looks so scared—so scary—these days. Alphonse can only imagine the life Ed is forced to lead beyond the barrier he can't cross.)

Tonight Ed twitches, twists like there are embers burning him beneath the sheets. His skin gains a sheen of sweat as his breath quickens, becomes an erratic panting interrupted by a plaintive moan. "Nina," he pleads. "No. No."

Alphonse stands beside the bed, hands clasped tightly together. He could rouse Ed easily, a sudden chill just as shocking a glass of water upended over his head. But Ed's bristling shields are at their weakest when he's like this; pitiful, raw, plagued by the horrors Alphonse can only hear secondhand accounts of. This, awful though it is, is real. He listens. He watches. He wonders who Nina is, what happened to her. He wonders if her ghost walks the moonlit streets of some far-off city he can never see.

Ed grunts, startles awake like he's hauled himself bodily out of tumultuous waters. He sits there, gasping, like it hurts him to breathe at all. He hisses, hugs his spare leg to his chest, whimpers pain through clenched teeth.

It's been years, but his stump still seems to hurt him all the time.

"Who was she?" Alphonse asks. "Who was she to you?"

Ed breathes, and breathes. Eventually, he relaxes. Eventually, he gets up and limps out to the front porch. Alphonse follows him. Together, a foot and a lifetime apart, they wait for dawn.

Winry finishes Ed's new leg in three days, just as she said she would. She didn't sleep a wink to pull it off, but does Ed thank her? Of course not! He's really got no idea how lucky he is to have such a dedicated friend and mechanic that's almost as crazy as he is.

Ed, of course, immediately rushes outside to break it in the second the brace is attached. He runs through warm up exercises and several increasingly acrobatic maneuvers, getting dirt in all the joints. But he gets his comeuppance when Major Armstrong boisterously declares that he'd be delighted to assist Ed in his calisthenics with a friendly bit of sparring. Ed’s shriek when he does a ridiculous backflip to avoid Major Armstrong's huge fist is the funniest thing Alphonse has heard in ages.

But his fun has a bittersweet edge to it. Ed, as always, adjusts quickly to the new leg, and is pleased to have gotten what he came for. Because Winry worked day and night he and Major Armstrong will be able to board the train departing Resembool tomorrow instead of the one four days from now. Ed can go off and do whatever it is in Central that's had him twice as antsy to leave as usual.

Alphonse wishes for what surely must be the thousandth time that Ed would be more open regarding his research with Winry and Granny. Sure, they wouldn't get more than the gist of it, the same as he and Ed will never really grasp the complexities of automail. It's a matter of interest—or perhaps obsession is the better word for it. Still, Winry and Granny care. They're family, by bond if not by blood. They hope he excels, and are delighted when he does.

If nothing else, Alphonse sure would appreciate having more than an inkling of Ed's plans for once.

Ed and Major Armstrong had one inscrutable conversation while Winry was working and Granny was in the kitchen making lunch. There had been vague mention of a doctor they'd met on their way to Resembool, something about research notes, something about the First Branch library in Central, and something that sounded an awful like like a real breakthrough in Ed's search for the Philosopher's Stone. It must be good news, the way Ed's paced and grinned around the others.

Alphonse... isn't sure how to feel about this development, if he's honest with himself. Before Ed had become a State Alchemist—in that year of sweat and blood and feverish fervor, when the idea to hunt down a myth first occurred to Ed, and Alphonse had given up being furious with a self-destructive brother who couldn't hear his insults—he hoped. He used to hope it was true, that the Stone was real and that Ed could find it, because the alternative—an endless purgatory, beating his fists against his head in an effort to feel something because he can't touch anything else—was the worst possibility he could imagine.

But that had been before he'd met any of the other ghosts, before he learned that there would one day be a second death for him, many centuries from now. Ghosts wear thin, wear out, wear away to a mindless mist in the periphery of the living. One day, a long, long time from now, he'll be scattered on a breath of wind. The last sentient scrap of him gone forever. He's heard stories from the others, of red-eyed wisps that used to weep and snarl in other places. But they're all gone now, faded away to a true and final nothingness.

This isn't forever. This too shall pass. He knows that now, and the knowledge that forever isn't something he has to come to terms with has put him at ease in a way he once thought was impossible. An eventual, inevitable nothingness is better than lingering forever.

He doesn't want Ed to try and resurrect him anymore. The odds of the transmutation going wrong again are simply too high. Adding in a variable as dangerous as the Philosopher's Stone—if it's real, then the truth behind the fall of Xerxes must be real too—is no guarantee at all. Instead of the transmutation only—only!—killing Ed, it might destroy Resembool, or the entire Eastern region, or all of Amestris for that matter. It sounds preposterous, sure, the idea that the consequences of a single transmutation could affect an entire country, but who's to say? The myth of the Stone says that the Philosopher from the East hid it away so that no one could use it. Not misuse it, simply use it all.

One life can't be worth that risk. It simply can't. If only Ed could understand that.

Ed and Major Armstrong leave. Life—metaphorically speaking—returns to its usual order.

Weeks pass, as they're wont to do. Alphonse watches people pack away their winter clothes and bedding, don cotton shirts and dresses, throw open their windows to let in a clean breeze after a good rain. The late spring storms don't get as bad as they have in years previous; the river doesn't flood, the town isn't in any danger, nobody dies. He watches families tell each other about their days over meals, listens to their radios, reads over their shoulders, spends the nights watching the stars wheel overhead. He watches busy hands wash dishes and fold laundry, hem tears and work smithies and make sandwiches and till rich brown earth and shear sheep. He watches busy hands do all things his own can only pass through and tries to find contentment in the watching.

About two weeks after Ed left he goes out to the Stendahls' farmhouse, walking around to the narrow hole in the back porch. He lays prone and peers into the gray shadows, sees a pair of luminous green eyes staring back. He smiles and waits for the dusty little mouser named Silvia to decide whether or not she's in the mood to be bothered by a ghost today.

(He learned that night that dogs could hear him. It took longer to realize that cats could see him, but it was a delightful realization nevertheless.)

"Mrr," Silvia trills after a moment, and she blinks contentedly.

"It's good to see you too," he says. He's pretty sure cats can't hear him, but cats are funny creatures. It's just as likely that they don't see any point in bothering to answer anyone who isn't as real as them. He holds out his hand, like he used to with cats when he was still alive, giving her the option and opportunity to sniff him and find nothing to smell. Silvia stays where she is, but after a couple minutes she blinks again and starts to purr.

He crawls in on all fours, ignoring the unease his mind can't shake whenever he goes somewhere a living person wouldn't be able to squeeze through. Beyond the narrow hole, thankfully, there's plenty of space to lay without bits of him passing through anything. He sprawls on his stomach with his chin rested on his hands once he's in, smiling at the scene he finds.

Silvia keeps on purring. Out of the soft gray shadows her kittens cheep and mewl, wobbling to their little paws and yawning so widely they stagger over again. The one with fur like a tuxedo is the first to toddle over to him, big eyes staring like it can't believe this big weird thing that's showed up in its nursery is real—more or less, anyway. He passes his hand through its back and laughs when it mewls loudly in surprise. Two more kittens come closer to investigate him, wanting to be braver than their sibling. In the deeper gray shadows Silvia curls up in a comfortable loaf, happy to catch a nap without her young to interrupt.

There are so few joys left to him, but at least he has this.

Some weeks after Ed and Major Armstrong left, Alphonse walks through the front door of Rockbell Automail to find a scene of controlled chaos awaiting him. Winry's charging around her workroom grabbing all manner of wrenches and screwdrivers and tin jars of polish and oil, tossing them all into a traveling toolbox Granny bought for her fifteenth birthday. She mutters a checklist under her breath, counting out the things she's already packed on her stained fingers.

"Don't forget to include clothes along with all of that," Granny teases.

"I will," Winry replies, distracted.

"You're leaving?" Alphonse asks. "What for? What happened? You didn't mention anything yesterday."

"You've got time before the train leaves," Granny says.  "There's no need to stomp around like you've lost your head."

"I know. I just want to make sure I have time to double check I haven't forgotten anything."

"If you don't rush there won't be any need to double check. Toothbrush."

"Right, yeah, thanks."

Alphonse hops up to brush against the ceiling rather than risk startling either of them with an unexpected chill. He's too confused to remember to feel sullen about being ignored. This is all just so—sudden, is the thing. Winry's never left Resembool before. Sure, she's daydreamed about traveling to the "holy land of automail" one day, but that's always been a dream for later. She's as singularly focused on automail as he and Ed are with alchemy. It's always been a bone of contention between her and Ed, but Alphonse has learned to respect and admire her passion.

(Granted, it probably helps that he's never had to have Winry dismantle parts of him.)

"Is that where you're going?" He asks aloud. "Are you starting your apprenticeship already?"

Winry pauses in the hallway, toiletry bag in hand. "It is strange though, isn't it? He's never wanted a house call before."

Oh no.

Granny hums. "No, he hasn't. Then again, he does seem to at least try to keep his trips out here to once a month if he can help it."

Winry laughs. "For how much they pay him you think he wouldn't mind the train fare."

"Or the free room and board," Granny grins, and they both chuckle before Winry dashes back up to her room.

"What did he do?" Alphonse asks, a touch desperate. "What's happened? Is he hurt? Or is he out of leave again? Did he say for once? Granny?"

Of course Granny doesn't hear him, and of course neither of them say outright what the reason is that Winry's been called out to—wherever. They don't even say that much. Is Ed still in Central, looking for whatever-it-is that some mysterious Dr. Marcoh sent him there for? Or did he find it—or was it perhaps a wild goose chase—and he's back in East City again? Or did Colonel Mustang send him out on another mission and he's in some other far-off city, doing who-knows what all on his own again?

They don't say. Granny just makes sure Winry's packed sensibly, hands her a sandwich for the trip, and hugs her tightly before pushing her out the door. Alphonse follows Winry's brisk pace into town, watches her buy a ticket—as far as East, but she could be buying a transfer ticket once she's there—and then she's on the train and the train is on its way past the invisible barrier, where he can't go for all the wishes and curses he hurls at it.

He stays at the station a while, filling in the ghosts there on the latest Fullmetal Vagary, as Ada Nichols jokingly calls Ed's more official exploits. They comfort him the best they can, assure him that Ed's alright, that Ed will be home again soon, that Ed won't do anything truly crazy out there on his own. And Alphonse smiles and thanks them, because the alternative is too heavy a burden to share.

After that he doesn't leave Rockbell Automail again for fear of missing a phone call from Winry. Granny appears to be in the same nervous boat as him; she doesn't go into town for groceries or for a drink at the tavern, choosing to remain alone up in the house despite not having any appointments until Thursday. She smokes more than usual, the embers burning out as she stares into the middle distance with a book left forgotten in her hands. Her attention strays north again and again, and after a time she stops fighting it. She keeps the radio off.

Winry doesn't call the day she left, but that's alright. It's a long trip to East City, even longer to Central if she had to go that far, and she's sure to be busy sorting out whatever-it-is that Ed did to his leg this time (and shouting at him all the while for making her worry). After that she'll need to find an inn, and there's no guarantee the inn will have a phone, right? So there's no sense in lingering even after Granny finishes her evening tea and goes up to bed. Winry wouldn't call so late, right? So there's no reason to stay, no reason to pace the kitchen and worry. He should just go out and walk the fields. He should go watch the mousers and foxes and owls hunt by moonlight, or go sit with Uschi or Mrs. Morgenstern or—somebody. He should distract himself.

But what if there's something seriously wrong? What if Ed's in trouble? What if, what if?

He stays by the phone all night, just in case. It doesn't ring. Some small and superstitious part of him thinks it might have if he'd bullied himself into leaving. Either way, the sun rises and Granny comes downstairs again not long after. She lets Den out, makes coffee, smokes out on the porch (with the door cracked, in case the phone rings). She putters, she tidies, she keeps herself busy. She doesn't eat breakfast, has only buttered toast for lunch. She's just as worried as he is.

Dinnertime comes and goes. Granny's good and eats something more substantial, but it's clear her heart's not in it. Even if Ed is okay and they're both worrying for nothing, she's got every right to be worried about Winry too. Winry's never had any training like Ed, and she's far more trusting. Sure, she's got a terrifying throwing arm and she's hard to scare, but how far can that get her in a city as big as East or Central? Granny nurses a cup of coffee and her evening smoke, and Alphonse sits with his legs dangling off the table beside her.

It's after seven when the phone finally rings. Granny all but jumps up to answer and Alphonse hastily maneuvers himself near enough to eavesdrop without chilling her.

"Hey, Granny! It's Winry!"

A smile breaks the forced calm Granny's schooled her face into all day. "Ah, there you are. And don't I feel silly for worrying."

"I know, I know! I'm sorry. I really did mean to call yesterday, but I got kind of caught up in something until pretty late."

"I hope that 'something' wasn't Ed's automail. He hasn't destroyed your hard work already, has he?"

"N-no, no. I'm staying with a friend of his here in Central, with his wife and daughter too. It was their daughter Elicia's birthday yesterday. The party ran long and there was cleanup and everything afterward."

"That's awfully kind of them. Truth be told, I'm not sure I can believe Ed's managed to make any friends."

Alphonse snorts.

"So go on then," Granny says. "What's the damage on his leg? I expect you'll have charged him a small fortune in house call fees."

Winry—

—hesitates.

When she speaks, she's quiet. Subdued. "It wasn't that damaged, actually. His kneecap needing a dent hammered out of it and an output wire had frayed badly enough he couldn't move his toes. He couldn't come back to Resembool for that because...."

"Because what, girl?"

"Because he's been hospitalized."

"Hospitalized?" Alphonse yelps.

Granny’s knuckles whiten around her glass, its contents sloshing. "How bad is it?"

"Bad. He—he won't tell me what happened, just that he got into another fight. But he can barely sit up on his own, and his face is all messed up, a-and—"

"And what?"

"—his fingers. He's lost two fingers."

Granny sucks in a breath between her teeth, though whether that's because of what Winry's said or because Alphonse dips through her head and hand in shock is difficult to tell. He shrinks back, covering his mouth with both hands. Ed—what happened to Ed? Who hurt him so badly? What could have happened in the capital to have gone so wrong? He pictures a gurney meant for a grown man, an IV—Ed hates needles, but would he have been in any state to fuss?—and big machinery to measure his vitals. Gauze and stitches, the harsh white overhead lights like in the Rockbell's surgery room, the ones that wash everyone out and makes them look far sicker than they really are. His face—what happened to his face?

"Which fingers?" He whispers.

Winry goes on in that hushed, trembling voice about the soldiers assigned to Ed as bodyguards—not because of whatever landed him in the hospital, but because of Scar. He's still being targeted by this serial killer, might still be a target for however long it takes the military to catch him. Major Armstrong is their superior officer, and he tasked them to watch Ed while he remained in Central. They're not State Alchemists, just a second lieutenant and a sergeant assigned to Investigations, but they're the ones who saved Ed.

"Saved him from what?" Granny asks.

"They wouldn't tell me. Said it was 'regarding an ongoing investigation.' Honestly, they're not very good liars, either of them. I wouldn't put it past Ed to have ordered them not to tell me anything. He does technically outrank them."

Granny harrumphs. "And here I've been assuming Mustang hadn't actually given him any real authority to go along with that leash."

"Which fingers?" Alphonse asks again.

"At least he seems to be doing well enough to bark orders at his bodyguards. He was pretty quiet both times I visited him."

"The life that little maniac leads," Granny swears. "It's enough to make me want to drive him out of town for good."

Winry manages a slightly damp chuckle. "R-right? Well, I just—I've decided to stay a few extra days even though I got his leg sorted out. I want to make sure he's gonna be okay, y'know? Since he won't just tell me what's going on. I'd prefer to stick around and get some idea of what's happened, rather than go home imagining the worst. I mean, that serial killer's still after him!"

Granny leans forward, slapping the table smartly. "You be careful, Winry. I don't want you getting caught up in any of the ugly business the military might demand of him, you understand?"

"Of course, Granny, I just meant—"

"I know what you meant, and I also know you haven't got much experience in needing to be careful. Central is a far cry from Resembool, and some of the worst stories I've heard have come from the heart of that city. Truth be told I had my share of unpleasantness there too when I was younger, and that's saying nothing of the kind of murderer who can make scrap metal of your handiwork."

"I—" Winry huffs. "Granny, I"m not staying to track down the people who hurt him or anything crazy like that. I'm not stupid, I know that's best left to the MPs and Mister Hughes' office—oh, that's who I'm staying with. Mister Hughes is Major Armstrong's superior in Investigations. I just.... Ed's been hurt really badly. The nurse I spoke to said he can be released next week, but he'll have to keep most of his stitches for longer than that. He's gonna be okay, but I'm still worried about him. He was still a little out of it when I got in yesterday, but today he...."

"What happened?" Granny and Alphonse both ask.

"I dunno. He's... a different kind of cagey than usual. I know that doesn't make any sense. It's just this feeling I've got though. I'm hoping he'll loosen up if I stick around a little longer. His bodyguards—Second Lieutenant Ross and Sergeant Brosch, I don't think I mentioned their names either—they seem worried about him too. I just want to help him."

Granny shuts her eyes, leaning back in her chair again. She looks too old again, carved from wood, worn down to indistinctness. "I know. I'm worried about you too, though. That's all."

"I know. But I"m not wandering around in the middle of the night or anything, and the hospital and Mister Hughes' apartment are in a nice part of the city. I'm being careful."

"You're not overstaying your welcome, are you? I gave you enough money for a week's stay at any decently priced inn."

"Mister Hughes wouldn't take no for an answer when he offered to let me stay with them. I tried to pay them, but—" On the other end a man calls out something boisterously indistinct that makes her laugh. "—Right. Mister Hughes said—well I mean, they've both made it clear they won't take a cenz from me, so I'm just going to help out anyway I can while I'm staying with them."

Granny smiles. "Good girl."

"Well, anyway, I don't want to tie up their line for too long. Mister Hughes gets a lot of work calls. But I'll phone again tomorrow, okay? Same time, or would you prefer a little earlier?"

"Now's as a good a time as nay. Take care of yourself, and pass along my gratitude to the Hugheses."

"I will."

"And be sure to smack Ed upside the head for me."

Winry laughs again, warmer this time. "Trust me, I"ll be happy to do that. G'night, Granny."

"Good night."

They hang up. Alphonse falls back, his feet touching soundlessly to the floorboards again as he lets his hands drop from his mouth. "Why didn't you ask which fingers?"

Granny finishes her drink, washes out her glass, lets Den out and then back in, and goes off upstairs to bed. For all that Alphonse wants to stomp and shout, he's learned better by now.

The next several days settle into routine. Alphonse spends the days wandering. He chats with the other ghosts, riles up the dogs, spooks the cats. He eavesdrops, he watches, he reads over people's' shoulders. All the usual ways he passes each endless, interminable day. It's in this fashion that he belatedly hears about an explosion in Central that destroyed a condemned military structure. There's no mention of Ed, Fullmetal or otherwise, but it's an easy pair of dots to connect.

Come suppertime he makes sure he's back at Rockbell Automail, bouncing impatiently on his heels for Winry's next call. Every night at seven sharp she calls. For the most part she sounds happy, happy enough to be exploring the capital with Missus Hughes and their daughter, happy to be out on her own for the first time in her life, happy to have her own adventure. Whenever the conversation turns to Ed, however, her cheer falters.

He's recovering well enough, antsy to be released, as petulant with the nurses as he ever is with her and Granny. But it's like she said before; there's a new caginess to him, unlike his usual efforts to keep Winry in the dark. He refuses outright to say how he was hurt—"He told me, 'It doesn't concern you.' Can you believe the nerve of that twerp?"—and has had several conversations behind closed doors with Major Armstrong and Lieutenant Colonel Hughes. Something serious happened, maybe something truly terrible. But does Granny ask the right questions? Does Winry? No they do not!

"You're both going to drive me around the bend," Alphonse declares dramatically, glaring daggers at Granny as the pair of them change topics from vague worrying about Ed's latest shenanigans that somehow cost him two still unspecified fingers to automail models popular in Central. "Really, I mean it. I'd even go so far as to say 'You'll be the death of me,' but I beat you to that."

Den whines. Alphonse glowers at the dog too, for all the good it does. It makes him feel better anyway.

If he could he'd march right up to Central, wring Ed's neck for almost getting himself killed again, then demand every last detail of his breakthrough on the Philosopher's Stone. Because that's what this is all about, he's sure of it. Dr. Marcoh gave Ed access to his research, a couple weeks later Ed almost died fighting mysterious people, and that same night a condemned military building exploded. Major Armstrong had mentioned that Marcoh had served in Ishval, a tidbit of information given out as a simple aside over dinner one night. So, a doctor with interest in the Stone who served in Ishval adds up to a former State Alchemist, and that points toward a worrying idea that the military was funding his research.

It makes sense though, when he considers the idea more thoroughly. It'd be natural enough for the military to have at least a passing interest in the theory of recreating the myth; it would be stupid for a country as power-hungry as Amestris to ignore the power to level its neighboring enemies. But the building Ed almost certainly was hurt in wasn't given any kind of drab cover story. If they'd called it storage or a warehouse or something equally banal, no one would think twice about it. But to call whatever-it-really-was condemned, remaining vague about the cause of its collapse, and keeping the Fullmetal’s name out of the news when he’s been hospitalized with severe injuries? That suggests someone out there wants to draw as little attention as possible to whatever research Ed's been working on. And—

Hold on. Hadn't there been a fire in Central while Ed was in Resembool? Alphonse had been distracted, having his brother around again however briefly, but he recalls hearing something to that effect on the radio. He can't remember what it was, only that it had been something big. Something else with military connections. A lab? A library?

Ah, he can't remember.

Whatever it was, it’s one more tally of chaos in Central this year. Scar, destroyed military infrastructure, protests, unrest regarding the ever-present tensions with Aerugo, Creta, and Drachma. On and on and on....

Alphonse leaves Winry and Granny to their evening chat. He spends the night out in the fields, watching the stars wheel overhead, and he wonders.

Two evenings before Ed's to be released, Winry calls the same time as usual. This time, however, she's as subdued as the first night she called.

"What happened?" Granny and Alphonse both ask.

"Nothing," Winry replies too quickly. "I—well, I mean, nothing's happened. Ed just... kind of scared me today, is all."

"What did he do?" Granny and Alphonse both ask.

"Oh—jeez, I knew you'd think of it like that. He didn't hurt my feelings—not this time anyway. It's just—I finally got him to talk to me a little about what happened, which is what I hoped he'd do, but...."

Granny harrumphs. "You regret it now that you've heard him out?"

"...A little. That's awful of me, isn't it?"

"Not at all. What did he say, Winry?"

"Well, nothing that made much sense. Not to me anyway. He told me he'd made some progress on his research—" Alphonse punches the air. "—but wouldn't say anything else about it. He didn't seem happy about it though—" Alphonse drops his fist. "—just that he went somewhere for answers, and that's where he ran into trouble. He said some of the people who hurt him weren't human."

"What does that mean?"

"He said they were souls bound to a blood seal. I think like a transmutation circle drawn in blood? He wouldn't go into detail—and honestly, I'm a little glad he didn't. He went off on this tangent, really got into it, bad enough he strained a couple stitches in his side. He kept going on about a suit of armor that used to be in his house?"

"Mm," Granny says. "There were two of them. His father brought them back from one of his business trips, oh, years ago. Long before either of you were born. He liked collecting old things."

"Really? I don't remember seeing anything like that."

"They were down in the basement, if I recall."

Alphonse remembers them. A pair of towering, dusty antiques keeping watch over them when they used to fall asleep over their work down there. Ed thought they looked really cool, even if that was almost like admitting he liked something about Dad. They always gave Alphonse the creeps though. What do they have to do with what happened to Ed?

"O-oh. Sure," Winry falters. No doubt she's trying not to think of their array, of the bloodstains, of Alphonse's empty clothes. Certainly Alphonse is trying hard not to. "Well, Ed kept going on about those, and about Alphonse, and that night too. He kept saying all these awful things about himself; calling himself stupid, a coward, that kind of thing, and that he should have realized he'd 'been given a chance to save Al,' but didn't realize it when he could have done it."

"What did he mean by that?"

"I'm not sure. I was trying to calm him down by then, which I was able to, eventually. But you know him. He got embarrassed and tried to pick a fight with me instead of talking things out like a normal person, so I left pretty soon after that." She sighs again. "I know I should try and get him to talk about—about all of that, but... it scares me. Seeing him so upset really scared me, Granny."

Granny braces herself against the countertop, her eyes shuttering closed. "I know."

"What should I do?"

"Be there for him, as long as he'll let you. Don't needle him—I know you'll want to, I've seen you start the fight a hundred times if I've seen it once—but don't let him stew either. Is he returning to East City after he's been released?"

"No. He mentioned something about wanting to visit someone, but he got all weird and cagey about that too. I'll try and figure out what his plans are. In the meantime... yeah. Yeah, I think I know what to do now. Thanks."

"Of course."

"I should probably go now. Good night."

Alphonse is out of the house before Granny can hang up the phone, half-running, half-skirting the thin air, rushing as fast as he can to the one place he never goes without Ed. Home—and more than that. The one place he's never gone since Ed burned their house down.

The basement.

He hesitates at the edge of the property, where the burn edges have been softened by another spring's growth. He wrings his hands together, tries to remember the pressure he should feel, the bite of his joints, the swell of strangled veins. He tries to remember the cold pit he should be feeling in his stomach, the squeezing in his throat, the trickle of nervous sweat down his spine. He clings to the memories of things he can no longer feel, grounding himself in almosts and maybes, and in reminding himself that his fear is unfounded.

The worst thing about being a ghost—out of the long, long list of things that are terrible about this embittered, shadowed existence—is how easy it is to let go. Gravity is optional, and yet instinctual. If it's overthought, it becomes a strain. It's so, so easy to lose control if you think about it as needing to be controlled. The ground, he's learned, is a hungry thing, eager to swallow up any unwary ghost walking along its surface. Even the dead are scared of drowning, of suffocating, of being trapped in some dark hole where no one and nothing will ever pass by again. One day, he's certain, he'll be trapped in the basement for good. He died down there and a year later Ed burned their house down. Much of what didn't completely burn collapsed in on itself, and now the basement is a dark hole filled with jagged and charred rubble.

If he goes down there he won't be hurt—can't be hurt—no matter the state of it. But it won't be like walking through a door or standing in an end table. He'll have to linger down there, in a blackness that will want to choke him.

But he has to know.

So he crosses the threshold of the place where the front door once stood, takes an unnecessary breath, and lets go. He sinks. He's swallowed up as if the darkness has grown hands and has pulled him under eagerly, Panic claws at him. He lets it go. Claustrophobia holds him fast. He lets it go. Blackness blinds him. He lets it go. He opens his eyes wider, and sees.

Human eyesight is limited by the constraints of its physical anatomy, yet a ghost can see just fine without the body their soul has outlasted. Why should he be limited by the sight he was born with? He strains to see better, and is rewarded. Dim shapes make themselves known. Jutting beams, heaped stone. The crumbled height of an emptied bookshelf, a snarled heap of blackened dining tables, a charred shape that might have been the trunk that had sat at the foot of Mom's bed. He ignores these things. He ignores the imagined weight pressing in on him on all sides, the very real solidity of everything he passes through. He's not real enough to feel it. He's not real enough for it to matter.

The suits of armor. That's what he came down here for. If he can see them again with his own eyes—metaphorically speaking—maybe he'll understand Ed's train of thought. He almost had it earlier, listening in on the phone, but it slipped away from him before he grasped the whole of it. He's got to know.

They'd stood side by side in a corner. He remembers that now. But he's gotten turned around, coming straight through the floor instead of finding the collapsed staircase first. He doesn't know what corner is which now, so he'll have to check them all. The armor will be badly damaged from the fire, perhaps unrecognizable as anything that could have once held a person inside them.

He's rewarded in the third corner. There they are—what's left of them, anyway. Huge lumps of soot-blackened iron and cracked leather straps, stood apart from the wreckage of the house for the puddled shapes they'd cooled in. He forces himself to go nearer, hovering a hand over each as he tries to remember what they once looked like. They'd been severe, intimidating, covered all over with spikes and filigree. The helmet of one of them had been shaped to look like it had fangs, right? Of course Ed liked them. Everything he transmutes has fangs or spikes or waggling tongues. Alphonse wonders where Dad found these things, why he dragged them all the way home. But that's idle curiosity, something he can gnaw on like a dog with a bone later.

A blood seal, Winry had said. Iron bound to iron. An array that would remain active so long as it remained unbroken.

"A soul bound to a suit of armor," he whispers to himself in the dark. Ed had fought at least one of these... these things in Central. Probably more than that. A body of iron that could neither tire nor bleed.

It's no wonder he almost died, fighting monsters like that.

"You don't really think this could have been an option, do you, Brother?" He runs his hand over the ruined suits, wonders if its surface would be coarse and pitted by the fire, if it would be cold to the touch. Trying to bring Mom back cost him his life, and Ed his leg. If he'd tried to save Alphonse too, who's to say what that might have cost him?

Alphonse drops his hand. Better that Ed never thought to try.