#my brain just reminds me of my own Mangle whenever I see it and sometimes it tries to get me to make Mangle stuff by convincing me there's

[monty-glasses-roxy]

Oh hey actually I can't do some of the stuff till after my dad leaves for his night shift (ya know to make sure I don't hold him up and stuff) so I have bit of time so I have two thoughts to share right now!

I'm seeing an increase of 'Mangle in the Pizzaplex' art and stuff in the tags and it's really funny that my brain sometimes jumps at it like "QUICK!!! You NEED to make your Mangle stuff NOW otherwise everyone's gonna think you're copying or be so bored of seeing her no one will like it!" Like bro. Who cares? Who gives a shit? No one is ever going to make a Mangle like mine and I'm never gonna make a Mangle like anyone else's that's how it works. Literally who give a shit lmao calm down it's all fun to see

On another note, I've also been seeing a lot of dogs chewing through raw carrots so I've decided that Meteors Roxy also does that. Just sits there cronching her way through either a carrot or an apple or something, no thoughts head empty to unwind a bit. She deserves it

[hartigays]

#1 "I'm in love with you" cause I'm just a sucker for straight forward confessions 🤩 thank you bb!

1. “I’m in love with you.”

the air tonight is crisp and cool, and the breeze ruffles steve’s hair as he makes his way down the train tracks, bat slung over his shoulder.

steve is on high alert, his eyes flitting around in the darkness, keeping the beam of his flashlight low. billy’s footsteps crunch through the leaves beside him, and the sound raises steve’s hackles, setting him on edge.

billy is smoking a cigarette, the smoke blowing in steve’s face with every drag. they’ve been walking in amicable silence for about twenty minutes now, but with the noise billy’s boots are making, it’s growing less and less comfortable.

primarily because steve can’t hear any looming threats. if there are any, steve likes to have a heads up before things come charging out at him, ready to tear his head off at a moment’s notice.

“don’t think we’re gonna find anything tonight,” billy laments, tossing his cigarette butt on the ground and putting it out with the heel of his boot. “and ‘m fucking starving. maybe we turn back? go grab burgers or something?”

“we have to meet jonathan and nancy at the junkyard,” steve reminds him, sweeping his flashlight across the tree trunks. “they’ll think we’re dead or something if we don’t.”

billy just snorts, shrugging. “good. maybe then they’ll stop asking us to hang out and shit.”

“they’re my friends,” steve says pointedly. “no one said you had to accept their invitation. but i happen to like hanging out with them.”

“whatever. guess ‘s not so bad when they leave to go suck each other’s faces.”

steve pauses, giving billy a strange look. “you saying you prefer to hang out with just me?”

“you’re better company than the momma’s boy and the princess who thinks she’s annie fuckin’ oakley,” billy tells him, and steve can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “don’t let it stroke your ego.”

taking a moment to turn that over in his head, steve falls silent, rolling his flashlight between his hands. he knows billy doesn’t like nancy and jonathan, but he likes steve. he’s made that much clear. and okay, that maybe makes steve feel a little special.

because billy doesn’t like anyone. but for some reason, he’s taken a liking to steve.

over the last few months, since his indoctrination into the monster-fighting, upside down defense squad, billy hasn’t grown close to much of anyone other than steve. joyce has made some headway, and max gets the soft side of billy when no one else is looking, but other than that, steve seems to be the only one close enough to billy to see past his brash exterior.

and maybe that’s given steve a soft spot for him. maybe a little more than a soft spot - maybe something closer to fondness. despite billy always being a bit of a dick, and nearly impossible to please or get along with, he tolerates steve more than anyone else.

which, yeah, is a pretty good indication of steve’s current self-esteem level. he’s able to develop a soft spot for someone who merely tolerates him a slight bit more than other people.

but sometimes it feels like more than that. billy actively chooses to hang out with steve. he actively chooses to lose a bit of his edge whenever steve is around. he actively chooses to stick by steve’s side during their nightly sweeps, despite putting up a front of complaint at the prospect of having to spend the night traversing the woods with him.

if that causes steve to gravitate towards billy more often than not, well. no one needs to know that but him.

most certinaly no one needs to know about the tingly feeling steve gets whenever he manages to make billy smile, either. so he keeps it to himself, locked away in a corner of his mind that even he doesn’t dare to cross if he can help it.

“guess i should feel special, then,” steve says finally, his lips twitching a little.

billy opens his mouth to answer, but a rustling coming from the woods on billy’s side has them both stopping short, flashlights pointed at the trees. steve scans the treeline, squinting. and then they hear it again, a rustle and a low chitter, the very noise that always makes steve’s blood run cold.

steve fumbles for his walkie, dropping it on the ground. billy just walks forward, making a beeline for the trees without so much as a flinch.

“billy, wait, we need to call for backup,” steve says, his voice hushed, dropping his flashlight as he leans down to pick up his walkie.

“i’m just gonna check it out, calm down,” billy calls back, and his voice is already distant, his flashlight dim in the thick of the trees.

when steve rights himself, securing his walkie on the waistband of his pants and his flashlight back in his hand, billy is nowhere in sight.

“billy,” steve hisses, sweeping his flashlight back and forth across the treeline. “billy!”

with steve’s anxiety mounting, he takes a step closer to the trees, calling out for billy once again but getting nothing in response. he pulls his walkie from his waistband and tries calling for the others, but it’s busted after its impact with the train tracks.

“shit,” steve mutters, shoving the now-useless hunk of plastic back onto his waistband.

steeling himself, steve takes a deep breath and shoulders his way into the woods. his hands are trembling, the beam of his flashlight shaking. it’s not making his visibility any better, so he tries to guide himself by sound rather than sight alone.

he calls out for billy every now and then, his voice a rough whisper. the deeper into the woods he goes, the more it feels like he’s stepping into a vacuum, the silence becoming more and more deafening.

there’s not even the sound of leaves rustling. as the lump in steve’s throat grows, the feeling of dread growing in his stomach gets stronger and stronger with each passing moment.

steve is walking for another few minutes when he hears it. it sounds like a strangled-cry, half-choked and close enough for steve to follow. he turns in the direction of the sound, breaking into a jog as he twists and turns through the woods, dodging trees and underbrush as he goes.

the treeline breaks when he reaches a clearing, and steve scans the area with his flashlight, his heart hammering in his chest. the light finally lands on what looks like a large, squirming mass. at first glance, it doesn’t look like anything distinctive.

then, steve’s eyes adjust, and he can see the demo-dog on top of what can only be billy, being barely held back by billy’s arm. steve can see its teeth sinking into his forearm, and can hear billy’s strangled curses.

“hey!” steve calls out, and the demo-dog pauses it’s attack, it’s head turning towards the sound of steve’s voice.

steve only falters for a moment when he’s confronted with the face of his nightmares, opened up and baring its rows of razor-sharp teeth. then, he’s charging forward, swinging his bat and clocking the dog on the underside of its neck.

the blow sends the dog flying a few feet back with a broken whine, coming to a stop and resting lifeless on the ground. steve kneels down next to billy, offering a hand to help him sit up. billy’s arm is chewed to hell, but there isn’t bone or muscle showing. a good sign.

“you okay?” steve asks, his chest heaving.

billy gets to his feet, wincing when steve’s hand brushes against the mangled skin of his arm. “yeah, fucker just caught me by surprise.”

“i told you to wait,” steve mutters, taking billy’s arm gently and examining it, his grip delicate.

“you’re really gonna bitch at me right - steve, move!”

steve feels it before he sees it. it’s a searing pain, the feeling of hundreds of teeth sinking into his shoulder. he pitches forward with a strangled yelp, knees colliding with the dirt beneath him.

he grapples for his bat, but the force of the dog jumping on him had knocked it from his hands and out of his reach. steve reaches back, grabbing for something, anything. he gets his hand around the leg of the dog, trying in vain to pull it from his back, at the same time that billy swings his axe.

steve hears the high-pitched whine and the wet crack of the axe cutting through flesh and bone. the pressure of the dog’s teeth releases, and he feels it slowly slip from his back.

“hey, hey,” billy says, kicking the dog with his foot to move it out of the way. he sinks to his knees next to steve, peeling off his jacket and pressing it against steve’s shoulder, applying pressure to the wound. “you’re okay, c’mon. i got you.”

“motherfucker,” steve groans, flinching when billy’s hands apply more pressure. “that’s gonna leave a mark.”

billy snorts, scooting around until he’s facing steve, tilting his chin up to give his face a quick once-over. “gotta make sure it didn’t get that pretty face. that’s your money-maker.”

“ha ha,” steve says, monotonous. “you’re hilarious. ow, don’t be so rough, damn.”

it’s then that steve notices billy’s hands are shaking, and the wild, wide-eyed look he’s giving him.

“hey, you okay?” steve asks, his voice laced with concern. “it’s just a shoulder. shoulders heal.”

“yeah,” billy mumbles, taking a steadying breath. “thought it got you in the neck, though. scared me so damn bad i almost shit my pants.”

“so nice to know you care,” steve jokes, rolling his eyes. but it’s fond, because billy’s being serious, and that makes steve’s heart beat just a little bit faster.

billy just blinks at him. “i’m in love with you, dumbass. ‘course i care.”

steve chokes on his own spit, billy’s words feeling like a sucker punch to the gut. “you what? did you hit your head? suffer some mild brain damage?”

“if i did it happened about six months ago,” billy mutters, helping steve to his feet.

and steve knows. six months ago was when billy joined their little monster-fighting group, seemingly voluntarily. for reasons no one could understand, but seem blindingly obvious now.

“you’re really gonna spring this on me when i just got a chunkling ripped out of me?” steve asks, steadying himself now that he’s back on his feet. “when i can’t even move my damn arm?”

“do you really need to?” billy asks, stepping closer, and again when steve doesn’t move away. “move your arm, i mean?”

“i mean, no,” steve says, “but that just means you’re gonna have to do all the work.”

“not a problem.”

when billy’s lips find steve’s, it doesn’t feel like some mind-blowing revelation. it doesn’t feel life-changing or eye-opening or any of that romantic novel type shit. it just feels right.

billy’s lips are warm and soft, and his kiss is far gentler than steve would’ve expected. maybe that’s just because steve is still bleeding into billy’s jacket and billy is being careful, or maybe billy is just surprisingly different from the person steve had built up in his mind. either way, steve can’t help but tangle his other hand into billy’s hair, crowding in closer while being careful to not aggravate billy’s own wounds.

the taste of nicotine and tic-tacs is pleasant as it spreads over steve’s tongue. billy knows how to kiss, steve will give him that. so well that it leaves steve’s head spinning and his lips tingling, chasing that taste and tenderness with a hint of desperation.

“can we at least get that burger now?” steve asks when he pulls away, and billy huffs out a laugh.

“i think we should get you to a hospital first,” billy tells him, shaking his head with a smile.

“fine. but after that, burgers,” steve repeats, letting billy push him gently towards the treeline.

“sure. whatever you want, pretty boy.”

[tsarisfanfiction]

Melt IV

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Angst Characters: John Tracy, Scott Tracy, Virgil Tracy, Gordon Tracy, EOS

Part 4 of my entry for @gumnut-logic‘s SensorySunday: Smell. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

I’d say I’ve got this fic back on track - despite John going off on me at the start of this part - but that would be a lie.  I know where I think it’s going to go from here, but we’ll see if it listens to me.  I’m doubtful.

“Talk to me, Scott. What happened?”

Virgil wasn’t the only one worried.  All John had had was heat readings way past Scott’s suit’s parameters to deal with to tell him what was happening to his older brother as the avalanche had borne down on him and Gordon – who, aside from an increased heartrate and rising temperature in his gloves, had no maladies reaching Thunderbird Five’s sensors. Scott would no doubt be devastated when he found out that John had sacrificed Thunderbird One to the avalanche to shield them; ideally he’d have opened the cargo bay doors and swallowed both brothers up, away from the snow, but there were limitations to remote controlling Thunderbirds from space.  He’d done what he could, and no matter what Scott had to say about it later, John would never regret it.

Lives before machines.  Relegated to listening and watching rescues and his brothers’ recklessness (all four of them, no matter what Virgil might claim about being the responsible one), John had learnt to prioritise.  A Thunderbird could be repaired, or replaced.  A brother could not.

He had no desire to ever be the eldest brother, and if he had to destroy his sole big brother’s Thunderbird to keep that title away from him, then he’d do it as many times as it took. Similarly, he had no desire to end up an only child, nor indeed to have anything less than one older brother and three younger.  John had always had a gift for gaining unauthorised access, but it was with his own Thunderbird that he’d honed that to the art it was now.  His siblings thought he did it to help them with their missions, to take part as best he could.

They weren’t wrong; John was a member of International Rescue just as much as the rest of them. ��It just wasn’t the entire reason – or even the main reason, if he was honest to himself. Gaining control of the most innocent of things – a plane door, a train signal – was always to keep his brothers as safe as they could possibly be in this dangerous job their father had left in their hands.

Sometimes, John resented their father for that, in his darkest moods, when there’d been yet another too close moment, when he’d been the sole witness to a brother’s breakdown because the pressure was just too much.  He resented him for leaving them, even if there was really no other way Jeff Tracy could have left the world – with a bang, saving lives.

That end awaited them, one day.  One day, all together or one by one, they wouldn’t come home from a rescue and the world would mourn a hero, forgetting that heroes had families, too. Up in space, in a constant state of danger as opposed to the ever-fluctuating levels his brothers threw themselves into, John didn’t know if he’d be the first or last to follow their parents.  He suspected the latter, because that was all he could ever do, wasn’t it?  Watch, and be useless when he most wanted to be able to do something.

He hadn’t been useless today.  He’d had Thunderbird One at his disposal, and both his brothers were alive.  It was just another day of too close, bringing back to the fore the ever-lurking fear that one day too close would become too late.

EOS was taking Thunderbird Two to the nearest hospital with a burn specialist unit.  Not New Zealand – for all that was their usual hospital, the local one they liked to use whenever they had a choice, there were other, better hospitals closer, and John was worried.

“The HeliPod exploded,” Scott rasped at him.  He looked awful, and John didn’t bother trying to convince himself that it was just the hologram’s blue tinge making him seem pale.  Enough of his big brother was being projected into his Thunderbird that he could see where his mangled uniform had been cut off, stuck to burns that should never had happened.  “Some of it landed on me.  Gordon tried- Gordon!  John, how is Gordon?”

Typical Scott.

“Gordon is fine.”  He knew for a fact that Scott had already been told that.  Several times.

“Has he woken up?”

“We’re talking about what happened,” John reminded him.  Gordon had woken up.  In fact, he’d been awake since Virgil had put him in the cargo pod, but all three brothers had unanimously decided that Scott was a higher priority.  If Scott was thinking properly, he’d have known that Virgil would not leave an unconscious patient alone for that long (as much as John hated it, as long as he was only there via hologram he didn’t count), but he wasn’t and all three of them had unashamedly preyed on his concern about Gordon to get him to co-operate.

Cruel?  Probably, but Scott had long since proven that the only way to get him to even vaguely co-operate with medical care was manipulation. They’d deal with Storm Scott later when he figured it out.

“Give me an update on Gordon, Thunderbird Five.”

Of course, the downside was that Scott had a single-track mind regarding their younger brother and getting him to focus on anything else would be an absolute nightmare.  Right now, John was rather concerned about an ‘exploding’ HeliPod, considering nothing Brains ever built and approved for use would explode unintentionally, and would appreciate more details.

Besides, Scott had suffered through the first stage of treatment.

“He has a broken leg and a broken wrist, but both breaks are clean,” John assured him.  “His suit protected him from the cold so there’s minimal concern regarding hypothermia.  His fingers have some first degree burns, but nothing of concern.  And yes, he has regained consciousness.”  Scott visibly relaxed, and John kept a close eye on him for an escape attempt even as a hurriedly typed message to Virgil informed him of the update to Scott’s knowledge. A moment later a text reply arrived.

Almost done w G.

“Now, what was that about the HeliPod exploding?” he asked Scott.  “That shouldn’t happen.”

“I don’t know,” his brother groaned.  “Gordon took us around the peak, and then it fireballed.”  No, John did not like the sound of that.

He immediately pulled up all the scans of the area, looking for anything that could have possibly caused a malfunction of that level.  Nothing immediately showed itself, but John was nothing if not persistent.

Especially when his brothers were involved.

“Thunderbird Two will be arriving shortly,” EOS chipped in, just as Virgil left the pod and headed back to Scott’s side.

“Thank you, EOS,” his brother said.  “Scott, this is your stop.”

“What?”  Scott sounded horrified at the idea, and John watched Virgil jump forwards to lightly hold him down, securing the straps enough to stop any successful escape attempts from their injured brother.  “What do you mean, my stop?”

“Exactly what I said,” Virgil said matter-of-factly.  “You might be conscious, but you’re still seriously injured beyond anything we can handle at base.”

“This hospital has a specialist burn unit,” John interjected, before Scott could start arguing back. It didn’t pacify their older brother at all, but there was nothing he could do about it as Thunderbird Two landed and Scott found himself being pushed out to the waiting paramedics. Virgil ushered the climbers out as well, to thanks and more apologies.

“We’re not leaving Scott there alone, are we?” Gordon asked him and he turned to his younger brother’s hologram.  Of all of them, Gordon knew best what it was like to be alone in a hospital, and always made a point of ensuring none of the rest of them were alone for long.  The only thing stopping him this time was his own injuries, none of which were severe enough to justify taking up hospital space when they could treat them just fine at home.

“Kayo’s on her way with Grandma,” he informed him.  Their sister was furious at what little information he’d already streamed her way, and it had taken some stern words from Grandma to get her to agree to go to the hospital instead of heading for the crash site to investigate.  “Scott won’t be alone.”  Gordon sighed but seemed pacified enough for the moment.

There was no cameras John could legally use in the hospital, but when it came to his brothers, John wasn’t overly concerned about legality.  It took barely a minute to get into the security system, tracking Scott’s journey and watching as he was taken straight to the burn ward.  There was no sound, but he could see Virgil debriefing one of the physicians before heading back to Thunderbird Two.

There was nothing more John could do for his brothers; EOS kept the feed from the hospital up in the corner, always showing whichever camera was currently focused on his brother, but John had better things to do than sit and watch helplessly as they began work on Scott’s injuries, although he couldn’t help glancing over periodically to see high-grade anaesthetic being administered before treatment began.

Thunderbird Shadow was quick to appear, landing next to Thunderbird Two.  John watched as hugs were exchanged, Grandma briefly entering the module to hug Gordon, and then the two women were heading inside.  He directed them to the relevant ward personally, rather than letting the well-meaning staff waylay them, then watched Thunderbird Two take off for home.

Satisfied for now that his brothers were in good hands, and allowing Gordon to patch himself through to a by now agitated Alan – who had been largely kept out of the loop and therefore getting more and more frustrated ever since Thunderbird Shadow had taken off – he turned his attention to the biggest concern of the day.

He needed to talk to Brains.

Part 5

[edenfalling]

[Fic] “Frog Hunt” -- Homestuck

Summary: SBURB is not turning out anything like you'd hoped, and your game session may be broken. Which is a problem, because you can't go back to Earth -- last you checked, it's busy being an apocalyptic wasteland -- and judging by your most recent dreams, the rest of the Medium beyond your little Incipisphere is an equally apocalyptic wasteland of ghosts and horrorterrors. The only way out is through. You have to win the game.

Winning SBURB requires frogs.

Note: I started this fic way back in 2012, hit Jade's horrorterror dreams, and had no idea where to go from there. Last week it occurred to me that actually the horrorterror dreams made a perfectly reasonable ending, provided I filled in a missing middle scene, established an emotional/thematic through-line, and tweaked stuff until the new parts played nice with the old ones. So I did. :) [2,325 words]

--------------------------------------------- Frog Hunt ---------------------------------------------

SBURB is not turning out anything like you'd hoped. You wanted to see your friends in person, go on cool adventures, and save the world. You guess technically the cool adventure part is happening? But it turns out that being in the middle of an adventure is mostly very upsetting and dangerous.

Also your game session may be broken. Which is a problem, because you can't go back to Earth -- last you checked, it's busy being an apocalyptic wasteland -- and judging by your most recent dreams, the rest of the Medium beyond your little Incipisphere is an equally apocalyptic wasteland of ghosts and horrorterrors. The only way out is through. You have to win the game.

Winning SBURB requires frogs.

You have a lot of pointed questions to ask whoever designed the symbolism behind this process.

You also have no idea what you're doing. Zoology is not your thing! Botany and rocket science are your things!

But you've done crazier things in the name of friendship than breed magic universe-creating frogs. And this time you'll have Dave by your side, even if all he can help you can do is win the Olympic gold medal for synchronized flipping out, which might as well be a thing now since Earth is gone and if anyone ever reestablishes the Olympics it will be you and you can stick in any sports you feel like.

That analogy may have gotten away from you a little. You decide to preemptively consider it Dave's fault, and send him another message asking for an ETA.

"Kanaya says we won't have enough time to collect all the frogs, let alone raise them and do the breeding and mutation stuff. Not even if we yank Rose and John into the project, and especially not with just you and me," you tell him when he shows up in person, popping out of nowhere with two discs floating at his side. They look a little like Grandpa's old vinyl records, but with red gears turning underneath them. "Not that you aren't helpful! But there's only so many seconds until disaster."

Dave arches the backs of his hands, fingertips still ghosting over the ridges of his floating record thingies. "Harley, c'mon, work with me here. What's my aspect?"

You blink. Oh. Time travel, durr. Okay, possibly your flipping out was a little premature. "Whoops, forgot that! Potentially infinite seconds, yay recycling. So how are we doing this?"

Dave shrugs, letting the records vanish back into his sylladex. "We have limited absolute time, basically from when I got your house up to reasonable height to, let's say, an hour before whatever runs us off the rails goes critical. So we have to maximize our use of space -- duplicate this ectobiowhatthefuck setup and run an assload of slime zapper tadpole tanks at once. I'm thinking one on each of the top ten floors of your house. We'll do one floor on each master loop so we don't keep running into each other. Mark the space and time coordinates for each croaker we target, then head out to poke them or whatever literally the second after we zap them, take notes on any other frogs that look useful, and move down a floor and back in time to start again."

"What about breeding?" you ask.

You think Dave frowns. It's hard to read his expression behind his shades, but he doesn't guard his posture as much as his face. "Whoops, forgot that. Uh, let's say every third floor and third loop is for breeding and mutation games. Shouldn't be too hard, especially if we whip up a regular appearifier. They don't have these bullshit temporal lock restrictions."

"Sounds like a plan," you say. "Let's get everything set up and start breeding!"

Dave's discombobulated expression is so faint and brief that if you'd blinked, you would have missed it. Hmmm, you think to yourself. Maybe...? But no, you probably just reminded him of something one of the trolls said. They can be so bizarre sometimes.

"Time to rock and roll," Dave says, and you shake off your daydream and get to work.

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

It turns out that ectobiology is actually very simple! You don't need to know genetics or metaphysical zoology, which you were a little worried about. You just need to zap frogs and run their ghost slime through the game-provided machines until you hit a gene combination that pings a little automated reward mechanism. Scanning for useful frogs is a little trickier, since you get the reward ping for any potentially useful gene sequence even if it's one you already have on file -- you have to weed out the duplicates manually, which is time-consuming and a total pain.

Creating hundreds of potential paradoxes to make sure the appearifier grabs slime instead of actual frogs is also time-consuming and a total pain.

It would be simplest to just shoot the frogs, but first of all, that's mean, and second of all, it would probably screw up LOFAF's ecology to storm around wiping out its native fauna less than an hour after thawing them out in the first place. If you had a dart gun you could trust not to mangle the frogs on impact, maybe you could stun them for a few minutes. Unfortunately, all of Grandpa's guns (and by extension, all of your guns) are designed to shoot projectiles straight through solid objects and totally fuck up their day. Which means that instead of perching in a tree like a cool and sexy sniper, you are galumphing around on the ground, hot and sticky and covered in a gross combination of mud and panicked frog secretions. Ugh.

"I look like a swamp zombie, don't I?" you say before you can think better of the words.

"Yeah, but in a cute monster-girl way," Dave says. "I'm just a scarecrow that got left out in the rain and turned into a mold sculpture."

You look over at him just as a clump of mud and moss slides down the left lens of his shades. "Um. No comment." You are determinedly not noticing that he said you're cute. Nope. Completely thought-free zone over here, nothing but genetics and logistics, which everyone knows require no brain power at all.

Dave shakes his head in faux solemnity. "Tragic. Faced with the death and destruction of my awesome good looks and you can't even dredge up a "That's sad"? I am betrayed. I am devastated. I am--"

"--still cute underneath the glop, stop fishing for compliments," you interrupt, and are furiously grateful for the mud hiding your blush. Stupid Dave and his stupid... everything. Why do you even like him? He's such a butt.

Of course, all your friends are kind of jerks. Possibly there's something miscalibrated about your friend-finding radar. Or possibly you're also a jerk? Hmm. That's something to ask Rose about, whenever you finally get to see in her person.

You will get to see her in person. You refuse to acknowledge any other possibility.

"Ouch," Dave says, but the corner of his mouth quirks up just a degree. "Damned by faint praise. I guess I'd better step up my frog-napping skills, can't let my dashing good looks outweigh my knightly swag. Speaking of which, have we been standing still long enough for that little orange fucker to stick his head out?"

You glance around, then down, then up. There's a tiny flash of color just over-- you shift slightly-- yep, right there on the tree by Dave's shoulder. "Um. Yeah. Just... keep standing still. Really still."

"Making like a tree, yes ma'am Sergeant Harley ma'am," Dave says as you inch slowly toward him through the muck between the tree roots. "It's right behind me, isn't it? Getting all ready for a jump scare, gonna leap out and poison me to death with its slimy frog toes, alas, Horatio, here dies a fellow of infinite memes, taken from us too--"

You lunge.

You catch the frog.

You also knock yourself and Dave flat into the muck. His shades knock into your forehead. Your own glasses skew against his nose. Your left knee is jammed between his shins and his belt buckle is digging into your stomach.

Your mouth is right up against his chin. If you moved just an inch or two...

"Ooh, Miz Harley," Dave says, somewhat breathless.

"Oh, shut up," you say, and shove the frog into your sylladex as you scramble back to your feet. "Look who's talking, Mister Swamp Thing."

Then you bend down to yank Dave up, too, because fair is fair.

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

By the fourth loop you're ready to drop from exhaustion and the weird, indefinable tension of actually being around one of your friends in person instead of getting to mediate your interactions through computers. "I don't care how tight the schedule is. I'm starting to see double and I'm taking a goddamn nap," you tell Dave as you drop to the floor and lean back against the wall. You lay your rifle across your lap and keep your hands carefully away from the trigger. You know your temper sharpens when you're tired, and Grandpa taught you never to take chances with guns.

Dave frowns, and you know he's tired too because this time you can see his mouth curve downward to match the annoyed set of his shoulders and the fuck-you shove of his hands into his pockets. "The more loops we run, the harder it is to keep shit from falling apart," he says. "You that eager to trip into a doomed timeline? I can go back and hit reset anytime, easy as cake and pie and banana splits, but every screwup costs one dead Dave and one Jade abandoned in a dead-end universe. I don't even know if that you would get erased or keep on living until you go shithive maggots."

He's been talking to the trolls too, you remember, especially the teal one who uses l33tsp34k. He says her name is Terezi. She's been running time loops with him too. He likes her a lot.

You are not jealous. That would be stupid. You are not stupid; therefore you are not jealous. QED.

"The more tired we are, the harder it is to keep from screwing up," you say. "We're creating a whole new universe and we'll have to live there after we win the game. It's kind of important, Dave!"

Dave presses his back against the wall and slides down to join you on the hard tile floor. "We're not gonna win the game, you know. There is literally no way to do that. The game was borked from before the word go was a twinkle in its druggie teen mom's eye."

"Maybe this session's broken," you agree. "But that doesn't mean we can't find a way to cheat, and even if we lose, I'd rather lose trying my hardest instead of half-assing shit because I was so tired I fell asleep while operating complicated machines."

Dave sighs. "Yeah, okay. Naptime. But not here. This is a work floor; we've gotta keep it clear for work loops. We'll go crash further down." He taps your shoe with his own. "Up and at 'em, Harley, let's go hit that transportalizer."

You groan and haul yourself to your feet.

The obvious place for a nap would be your bedroom, but then where would you sleep on the next loop? Anyway, you only have one bed and it'd feel... presumptuous? pushy? maybe just go with awkward. Yeah. It would be awkward to share it with Dave, especially without John and Rose there as well to clarify that it's strictly a friend thing.

So you alchemize an armful of blankets and pillows and make a little nest in one of the hundreds of blank, identical stories Dave copied from the real-world part of your house. It's still a little weird sharing the space -- Dave is so close you can feel him breathe, every exhale stirring stray wisps of hair over your ears -- but you think you could get used to this.

You think maybe you want to get used to this.

"Sweet dreams, Jade," Dave mutters as he flops over onto his side, one hand curled loosely around the hilt of his sword.

"You too," you tell him, before you remember he's just going to wake up on Derse as his dreamself, still stuck in this stupid, lying, Möbius tangle of a game. And you're going back to those weird bubbles in the monster-filled void. Neither of you can get free until you finish Frankensteining your magic frog and beat an unwinnable game.

"Heroes always beat million to one odds in stories," you say to nobody in particular. "Why not us?"

Dave mumbles something unintelligible in response, already mostly asleep.

You wiggle sideways until your shoulder brushes up against his, so the warmth of his body radiates through the thin blanket onto you and your warmth feeds back into him. He's alive. You're both alive. Somewhere else in the Incipisphere, John and Rose are (you hope) also still alive.

You would do anything to make sure your friends make it out of SBURB, to a new world safe from meteors and monsters and predestination. Anything.

You dream of bloody, mangled ghosts, groping desperately toward you for salvation while you stand frozen under the horrorterrors' incomprehensible regard.

In the dream, you imagine yourself reaching for Dave's hand. You imagine him weaving his fingers between yours. You imagine Rose and John standing beside you. You imagine all four of you stepping through a door into a new universe.

If you imagine something with all your heart, that makes it a tiny bit less fake, and being less fake means it's at least a little bit real.

The pressure of the horrorterrors' attention attenuates, just that vital fraction.

You turn away from the ghosts and think of frogs.

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End of Fic

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If anyone has constructive commentary, I am all ears! Also I am going to bed soon, because being awake is overrated and also I took a Benadryl in order to eat a BLT for dinner, so, you know, probably better to lie down than to slowly drift off in front of my computer. *wry*

[mariequitecontrarie]

People Will Talk: Part 2

Summary: Atticus Gold and newcomer Belle French have developed a relationship no one in Storybrooke approves of, and people make their opinion known in small-minded, small-town fashion: he’s too old for her, and the pretty young librarian needs to find friends her own age. When Gold ends the relationship to protect Belle’s reputation, the town turns on him again. To make matters worse, his friends and family are mad at him, too. But as we all know, love wins in the end. Chapter Summary: Gold hasn't seen Belle in two weeks and Alice is not happy with him. Belle gets an unpleasant surprise. Rating / Word Count: T / 3000  A/N: Continuing Marie’s Three-Year Writing Anniversary Rumor/Assumed Fake Dating/Family AU that no one asked for. @maplesyrupao3 -- bless you!

On AO3

Part 1 on AO3 | Part 1 on Tumblr

Two Weeks Later

“Alice, why are you looking at me like that?”

Gold held his breath and waited, cursing himself for asking. He was guaranteed not to like the answer, but anything was better than the silent treatment.

Alice stopped dusting the cabinet of china dolls to fix him with another poisonous glare. “Because you’re a horse’s ass who has more money than brains.”

“Noted. Can you at least keep up with your duties while you insult me? Time is still money, dearie, even here in the barnyard.” Squabbling, at least, was familiar territory.

Gold waved a hand around the tidy pawnshop, wondering who worked for whom. He owned the store, but Alice called the shots. Sometimes it seemed like his only job was bankrolling Alice’s Amazon Prime spending sprees while she worked her way through Storybrooke College.

The only person he knew who shopped more than Alice was...no, he wasn’t going there.

Still glowering at him like he was something she scraped from the bottom of her shoe, Alice worked her way around the perimeter of the shop with her feather duster. He had to admit she did keep the cobwebs at bay and his stockroom organized, even if she annoyed the hell out of him in the process.

He glanced at the restored cuckoo clock on the wall. It was almost lunchtime, and Alice had been scowling at him since she’d shown up for work this morning. Trying to ignore her, he eased behind the counter and opened the books.

She fell silent for a short, precious moment, then slapped her hands on the countertop.“Ha! I know what your problem is. You’re in a foul temper because you haven’t seen your sweetheart. Belle hasn’t popped in for two weeks. What’s wrong? Lovers’ quarrel?”

“Beg pardon?” he asked, pretending to study his ledgers.

Feigning ignorance never worked on Alice. So like a Jones. Stubborn and mouthy, just like her father. She continued to bore holes into the top of his head, muttering to herself about how he was apologizing to the wrong person until he looked up with a long-suffering sigh.

Talking, talking. Why was the girl always talking? An ocular migraine threatened to form, sharp and urgent above his nose. Tiny sparks exploded in his peripheral vision, and he pressed his fingers against his forehead.

He supposed he could send his little conscience home from work to get her out of his way, but she was more than an employee—she was his goddaughter—and he’d promised Hook he would keep tabs on Alice while he was at sea. Killian “Hook” Jones’ career as a Naval officer meant lengthy tours of duty up to six months, and he knew Alice and her papa missed each other dreadfully while he was away. Guilt poked his conscience; he hadn’t emailed Hook with an update in at least two weeks. But he knew his oldest (and only) friend would question him about Belle, and he was neither willing to lie nor ready to confide. Besides, he reasoned, Alice could text her papa anytime she wanted with her smartphone thingy.

“If you’re not going to work, why don’t you study?” he murmured, trying to concentrate on his July sales numbers. “Isn’t there a women’s lit paper due tomorrow or something?”

“Books!” she shouted, making him jump. “That’s it! Why don’t you take these books back to the library for me?”

Alice plopped a pile of novels on top of the financials, jarring him from his thoughts. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard. Now he would have to rework the column of numbers all over again.

“I was hoping to get advice from Belle on a dress for my date with Robin on Friday, but this’ll give you an excuse to see her instead.” Alice grinned, delighted with her solution.

He shoved the books aside with a huff. “I’m not looking for an excuse.”

“Why the hell not?” Abandoning the pretense of working entirely, she dropped the feather duster on the floor and hoisted herself up on top of the counter.

He set his teeth on edge. “Belle and I aren’t friends anymore.”

“Friends?” She smirked. “If you’re friends, then I’m straight. Hate to break it to you, Uncle Atty, but you two have never been friends. She’s in love with you! And you love her, too.”

“What makes you say so?” he asked carefully, looking at his nails.

“Oh, I don’t know. The dark circles under your eyes. The constipated look on your face. You look like a saggy, twitchy, miserable old man.” She held up a brown paper bag. “Want a sandwich?”

He turned around, assessing his appearance in the antique mirror that hung on the wall behind the cash register. “I am a saggy, twitchy, miserable old man,” he snapped. “And no, I’m not hungry.”

“When Belle’s around, you look all soft and floppy and happy, like Rabbit does whenever I come home.” Alice smiled another cheeky grin.

He smiled back at her in spite of himself. “Well, I’ve been called worse, dearie, but If you’re expecting to bring me to heel like that stupid old dog of yours, it’ll be a cold day in hell.” He slammed the ledger closed and headed for the workroom. The girl trailed after him, still clutching her paper sack.

“I have egg salad,” she teased, shaking the bag. “Your favorite.”

It used to be. He shuddered, his stomach lurching. Eggs were a definite no. Now whenever he saw any sort of egg concoction, he thought of Belle’s pinched, white face on that hot July afternoon thirteen days ago when he ended their friendship. Not that he was counting the days since they’d been apart.

“I don’t eat eggs anymore,” he said. “Too much cholesterol.” No one knew his house had been egged besides Belle, and he wasn’t going to whine about it to Alice. He still had some pride. “You don’t like eggs, you don’t like Belle.” Alice spread her hands wide and twirled in a circle. “What do you like, Sam-I-Am?”

He pulled a face. “Peace and quiet. Both seem to be in short supply.”

Laughing at his sour expression, she plopped down on one of the stools at the work table and dangled her sandwich in front of his nose. “How about marmalade? I’ll trade ya.”

Alice was volunteering to eat the egg salad and offering her favorite lunch. Things really were as bad as they seemed, then. “Fine.”

Resigned, he sat down beside her, accepting half of the sandwich. He took a small bite to stop her prattling, but he had no appetite. Food had no flavor, the whole world drained of color and light without Belle. He missed her; her laughter, her touches, her insatiable appetite for stuffed crust pizza.

“Eat,” Alice insisted, clucking over him like a little mama.

He swallowed the bite of sandwich and forced himself to take another. “So, did you choose a dress for your date?” he asked, attempting both to change the subject and rejoin the land of the living. “Where are you and Robin going?”

“It’s just Tony’s.” Alice shrugged like the occasion was no big deal, and took a massive bite of her sandwich.

A six month anniversary is an important milestone.” He took out his pocket square and folded it into a perfect crown, trying not to be hurt that she hadn’t asked his advice. “Your father wouldn’t know style if it bit him on the arse, but I know my way around a clothing boutique.”

“I know,” she said around a mouthful of egg salad. “But I was kinda wanting the opinion of another woman. No offense.”

‘Another woman’ meant Belle. He cleared his throat. “None taken.” Not for the first time he was reminded that walking away from Belle didn’t only affect him. Alice looked up to Belle like an older sister, and he hoped his relationship failings weren’t driving a wedge between Alice and Belle, too.

Poking at the crust on his sandwich, he wondered what Belle was doing right now. She was probably balancing a book on her lap while she ate, dropping sandwich crumbs between the pages and... no. Gold mentally slapped himself. Cutting a person out of your life meant giving up the right to wonder.

Alice polished off the first half of her sandwich and started on the second. “Belle was at Granny’s the other night,” she offered slyly, employing her uncanny knack for reading his mind.

He choked on the sticky bit of bread in his mouth. “Oh? With anyone?” Ugh . When it came to the people he cared about, he was terrible at nonchalance.

“Yeah. Tall bloke with sparkling blue eyes and a strong, lean jaw.” She batted her eyelashes. “Didn’t recognize him, but it looked like a date.”

Date? Belle had gone on a date? He would find out who the bastard was and he would crush his windpipe with his cane. Gold looked down at his hands. They were coated in marmalade, the mangled sandwich crushed between his palms.

“Way to play it cool, Uncle Atty.” Alice smirked and he rose to wash his sticky hands. “I’m kidding. But I wouldn’t have made a joke if I knew you were this upset. Belle was at a booth with some other people. Ruby, Mulan, and Mary Margaret. Waved at me once, but she was picking at her food and staring at the wall whenever I tried to catch her eye. It’s obvious she’s missing you. Can’t you fix this?”

“I couldn’t possibly be intelligent enough to do that,” he said, grateful sarcasm was there to cover his relief at Belle not being on a date after all.

“Mmm, I see.” Alice rolled her eyes. “She’s the first woman who saw through your little act, isn’t she? Now you’re grouchy because you’ve gone and screwed up the best thing in your life because some Granny, Marco, and some other ignorant busybodies have their noses out of joint. Since when are you afraid of them, anyway?”

“Afraid? Ha!” He flashed his gold tooth in a warning snarl. This conversation was ridiculous.

“Cripes, this place can be so backward. Even the clock doesn’t move here.” Alice gestured down the street toward the clock tower, which had been stuck at 8:15 for twenty years. “I’d say we’re living in a land time forgot, but it’s been a common practice in most societies for younger women and older men to marry for generations.”

“Marry?” He sputtered. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“Obviously not you!”

He crossed his arms and grunted. “Reverse psychology doesn’t work on me, child. I used to change your nappies.”

“That’s right, you did. So why are you pretending I don’t know you?” She swallowed the rest of her sandwich in a gulp and chased it with half a can of Dr. Pepper soda. “People whisper all sorts of wicked things about me. Some of them are true and some of them are outright lies. We’re alike in that way, you and I. So what? If I paid attention to what everyone said, I’d never leave the house.”

“I know, honey.” He smoothed his hands over the smooth grain of the worktable, ashamed of himself. Alice had more than her share of bad days, days when she couldn’t come into work. Times when she came to the shop and wandered around as though in a dream, trailing her fingers through cabinets coated in dust, a faraway look in her eyes. What he suffered was nothing in comparison, and yet he couldn’t seem to ignore the thick fog of prejudice and judgment that suffocated him whenever he was with Belle.

“People talk no matter what we do; doesn’t mean we have to listen.” She patted his shoulder. “You sure as hell don’t listen to me, and I talk your head off every damn day.”

He gave her a fond smile and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t remind me.”

Day after day of pretending she was fine was exhausting, but Belle had been doing a fair job of holding herself together since Gold had unceremoniously dumped her on his front porch. She wasn’t sure it counted as a dump if you only fantasized you were a couple, but according to the ache in her chest, it was real.

The busier the day, the better. If she kept moving from task to task, she could ignore her shattered heart. She showed up for her library shifts without fail, she checked books in and out, and chattered with people about their lives. Today she had even helped several eleventh graders with their Marie Antoinette biographies. Staying busy was working until the last hour of the day when the flow of patrons slowed to a trickle and she sat down at her desk to open the mail.

She quickly sorted through the typical bills, catalogs, and overdue fine payments, arranging them into piles. A plain, clean white envelope addressed directly to her stood out from the rest of the mail, and she saved it for last. There was no return address, but the faint scent of antiseptic clung to the crisp envelope.

Belle ripped the envelope open and a drawing sketched on a piece of ruled notebook paper floated to the floor. What she saw made her bite down on her lip hard, the metallic tang of blood filling her mouth. It was a crude illustration, but she could make out the Beast from the movie Beauty and the Beast , drawn wrinkled and old, wearing a suit and tie and clenching a cane in his gnarled claw. He was ogling a young woman who was reading a book. The woman wore a version of movie Belle’s famous golden dress, but the skirt barely grazed her thigh and the bodice dipped all the way to her navel. Clearly, the image was meant to be of her and Gold.

She stared down at the crude representation, then crumpled it in her fist. It was a cheap attempt at an insult, drawing her to look like some sort of slutty temptress and Gold as a dirty old man. Rage ripped through her in a white-hot streak, and her mind narrowed to a singular purpose: finding out who had done this. Tonight.

Belle shot to her feet, knocking over her chair.

Granny’s Diner was the social hub of Storybrooke, and the best place to get to the bottom of nonsense, but she was far too impatient to wait until the library closed. She chased the last few stragglers out of the library and slammed the door behind her, jamming the key in the lock with shaking hands until it clicked. With frayed nerves, she stomped all the way to Granny’s, the drawing clutched in her closed fist. The early August evening air was warm and humid, and sweat trickled down her back as she marched down Main Street. While she hurried down the sidewalk, she tried to puzzle out who had drawn and sent the picture and why. Rumors and innuendo aside, there was something perplexing about caring so much for Gold and yet holding physical evidence that other people couldn’t see the tender, handsome man she knew.

Small towns produced small minds.

The tables at Granny’s were packed. It was Thursday during dinner rush—the most popular night—and people clustered inside the front door and on the patio outside, waiting for the chance to sit down. All the barstools were occupied, platters and baskets of food sitting in front of every person. Good. Belle wanted a large audience for what she was about to do.

She toed off her heels and climbed up on the counter. Mr. Clark from the pharmacy stared at her in horror, then sneezed and wrapped an arm around an enormous, sauce-covered square of lasagna, drawing it closer for protection. Ruby stood frozen at the cash register, and Ashley Boyd narrowly missed dropping the tray of dirty dishes she was carrying, almost colliding with town psychiatrist Archie Hopper as she narrowly saved the plates from slipping to the floor.

Behind the counter, Granny made an outraged, sputtering noise, the heat of her glare rivaling the sizzling grill. At the moment, it didn’t matter if Granny never sold her another hamburger or slice of chocolate cake for the rest of her life, Belle was getting some answers tonight . She turned around and faced the crowd.

“Who did this?” Belle called out, looking down over the sea of faces. She held up the drawing, still clenched in her shaking fist. The noise continued to drone on around her, the clatter of forks against plates, the townspeople oblivious to anything but their meals and their conversations. “I said who did this?”

“Look, Mommy!” yelled a blonde girl with curly pigtails. “That lady is fifty feet tall!” A hush came over the diner in a languid wave and all eyes turned to stare at Belle standing on the counter. Forks were laid down on plates with a quiet clatter. Time seemed to stand still and no one appeared to so much as breathe.  

“Does anyone want to confess?” she asked, shaking the drawing in her fist and glaring around the restaurant with narrowed eyes.

When no one stepped forward or admitted guilt, she dropped the drawing on the counter and ground it into the tile with her bare heel. “You’re all a bunch of cowards, you know that? Mr. Gold and I are friends, and it’s no one’s business but ours what we do. Your problem isn’t that he’s befriended a woman a few years younger than he is. Your problem is you’re a classless bunch of small-minded prigs.”

Jaws dropped and they gaped at her like fish in an aquarium, then fell back to their eating and chattering as though people stood on top of Granny’s counter raving like lunatics every day of the week.

Her limbs shook with anger, and she caught the sympathetic eyes of Mary Margaret and David Nolan. One minute they were sitting at the counter holding hands and sharing a basket of chicken fingers and the next thing she knew, they were flanking her, standing one on each side, like a pair of orderlies preparing to strap her into a straight jacket and wheel her away.

“Okay, Belle, that’s enough now, honey.” Mary Margaret’s voice was quiet and soothing, and Belle felt her knees begin to give out.