#one or more of these claims. but uh. the strong versions in the release i am pretty confident are just not demonstrated right now.

[unopenablebox]

this is an insanely misleadingly overblown press release about a kind of lackluster paper that basically demonstrates none of these claims

the premise of this paper is that there is a version of mouse nodamuravirus (NoV) (which is as best as i can tell not a human pathogen nor terribly similar to any) which, when attenuated via mutation/KO of a protein that suppresses the cells' foreign-RNA-targeting RNAi response, does not cause disease in mice, presumably because the mice can destroy all the viruses with their RNAi pathway instead.

so what this paper shows is if you inoculate mice, even mice lacking the B and T cells that usually confer immune response to vaccines, with attenuated NoV followed by usually-lethal doses of normal NoV, this leads to survival by most of the mice for up to 3 months after initial inoculation. this is interesting because 1. it's unusually long-lasting for an adaptive-immunity-independent immune response 2. it implies that removing RNAi suppression could be a productive method of generating attenuated viruses as part of vaccine production, and that there's some kind of systemic (body-wide) response being generated to this specific attenuated virus (surprising if it really is due to RNAi activity, since RNAi is a cell-autonomous response)

things this paper absolutely does not show:

that this immunity comes from RNAi/is actually processing or responding to the "whole genome" of the virus

that it confers immunity to multiple variants or strains of NoV (they only tested the NoV strain that the attenuated virus was made from)

how strong the induced immune response is (e.g. is it causing the mice other issues from massive inflammation due to circulating attenuated virus or hypothetical circulating small RNAs?)

that it would last beyond 3 months (the press release claims "9 mouse days are 1 human year" which is extremely dishonest w/r/t the timeline of mouse vs. human immune response; for our purposes that's just a lie)

that it would work for a nasal spray (they use a kind of injection not used in human vaccines for everything except a negative control, where they nasal spray in a different virus that isn't immunized against by attenuated NoV and that accordingly it doesn't work on)

that it would work for the flu

that it would work in humans

the first three, especially 1 and 3, are, frankly, crazy oversights from a paper trying to propose a new vaccine development method & type of vaccine response and i'm kind of shocked they weren't addressed in the paper more. 4, 5, 6, and 7 would be pretty unreasonable criticisms of this paper and could be considered out of scope, except that there is an insanely irresponsible press release implying all these things are known.

the only time the paper touches on the idea of creating a non-strain-specific vaccine is in the final paragraph of the discussion a.k.a. the most speculative part. the entire premise of the claim that it would be non-strain-specific depends on the idea that this is all due to the body developing an RNAi-based "memory" of past viruses, possibly due to previous work (from the same lab) claiming that they find extracellular vesicles in the blood containing small viral RNAs after infection with attenuated NoV, and that adding these vesicles to cells promotes NoV resistance. however, they don't demonstrate that these small viral RNA vesicles are either sufficient or necessary to generating the kind of medium/long-term responses they're discussing in this vaccination paper. also, extracellular vesicle research in general is a... messy field with very bad causal demonstration (especially when you need to perfectly isolate the vesicles from any identically-sized viruses among them), it's otherwise not clear how RNAi could lead to a response over the whole body, and they don't even do any other tests impairing RNAi activity in order to confirm more clearly that this is an RNAi-dependent phenomenon.

like, if it were an RNAi-based vaccine that worked by somehow transmitting a long-lasting RNAi response against a virus to most or all cells in the body, that might well be relatively strain-agnostic and much harder for viruses to evade, and there's probably some chance it might work in some immunocompromised people if the b/t-cell-independence of the effect held true in humans and it doesn't work by e.g. also causing massive inflammation. but, uh, it's a real fucking journey from where we are to there.

“Scientists at UC Riverside have demonstrated a new, RNA-based vaccine strategy that is effective against any strain of a virus and can be used safely even by babies or the immunocompromised. Their flu vaccine will also likely be delivered in the form of a spray, as many people have an aversion to needles. “Respiratory infections move through the nose, so a spray might be an easier delivery system,” Hai said. Additionally, the researchers say there is little chance of a virus mutating to avoid this vaccination strategy. “Viruses may mutate in regions not targeted by traditional vaccines. However, we are targeting their whole genome with thousands of small RNAs. They cannot escape this,” Hai said. Ultimately, the researchers believe they can ‘cut and paste’ this strategy to make a one-and-done vaccine for any number of viruses. “There are several well-known human pathogens; dengue, SARS, COVID. They all have similar viral functions,” Ding said. “This should be applicable to these viruses in an easy transfer of knowledge.””

—

Vaccine breakthrough means no more chasing strains

This is HUGE. This will fundamentally change how we get inoculated.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Acutely (coda to 15x13 ‘Destiny’s Child’, Dean/Cas, 2.5k)

ao3 link

Jack said he's sorry, after getting his soul back.

Jack said he's sorry, and he's looking at Dean. They're all looking at Dean.

Jack said he's sorry, and Dean can't take it. It's too much. Like a frog thrown into a boiling pot he hops out, jumping out from the room towards safety. Doing his best not to succumb to the pain.

He can't hide forever, let the wounds fester. It's too much to deal with on his own, though. Can someone help him through it?

           It’s no secret, where he hides. Where he ran away to after Jack broke down in an apology. Overwhelmed by the sorrow in the younger boy’s voice; his remorse for actions Dean hadn’t mentioned in so long. Dean barely made it before his knees buckled, collapsing on his bed instead of the floor. Face pressed against the pillow Dean counted his breaths while ignoring the heavy lump sitting in his throat.

           He loses track after seventy-five, mumbling ‘one… two… three… four… five…’ over and over until he felt like his feet were farther from the edge than they had been. As he lifts his head, Dean takes stock of himself. Grimaces at how sweat dampens both his shirts, dark fabric clinging annoyingly underneath oppressive denim. And as the knot unwound in his stomach, Dean realizes he hadn’t eaten yet. Hunger gnaws at his awareness, begging for attention. Thinking about food, though, guides his paths towards the kitchen and – ultimately – Jack, again.

           There’s not much of an appetite left after that.

           Instead he blindly throws off his outer layer, then his undershirt. Bends, clawing at his laces and when they unravel, he yanks them and his socks off, too. Discards his jeans by flinging them into some far corner. Red boxer-briefs are all that remain, for the moment. In the next second Dean reaches for a set of pajamas. Picks the set at the top of the pile. Cowboys riding bucking broncos on the pants while lasso script spells out ‘Save a Horse’ on the shirt. As he pulls it overhead, he hears something shift nearby. Turning, Dean finds Cas watching him from the hallway.

           “Crap,” he hisses, tugging the shirt down. Cheeks burning under Cas’s intense gaze, “Ever hear of knocking?” Instincts say he should cover himself, but midway through wrapping arms around his midsection Dean realizes what a ridiculous notion that is. Actions aborted Dean’s fingers twitch before they retake his shirt’s hem. Twisting it as the awkward silence continues. “Cas?”

           This breaks Cas from whatever trance he fell under. Cas steps into his room, “Sorry, Dean, you left your door open.”

           “Right…” If his hands weren’t busy strangling fabric one would be rubbing a hole into the back of his neck. “I – uh, must’ve forgotten.” Dean finally fights back the static drowning his mind, releasing his shirt hem. “What uh… what’re you doing here?”

           “I came to check on you.”

           Sweet, but totally despicable. Cas’s earnest tone easily overpowers his crumbling defenses, making the flush across his skin deepen. Lips pursed, Dean dips his eyes so he won’t fall prey to the deadliest of his angel’s weapons. Angel blades have nothing on those baby blues. “Thanks,” he coughs, shrugging, “but I wasn’t the one having a full breakdown five feet from the cookie cereal…” He sits down once more, at the foot of his bed, squeezing his knees. “How is Jack, by the way?”

           “He’s calmed, somewhat,” Cas tells him, slowly pacing Dean’s room. Picks up Dean’s stray button-down, loosely folding it while he talks. “Sam had a brilliant idea of taking him for a drive.”

           “A drive? Is that allowed?”

           “Well, Billie didn’t appear and tell us no….” He sets the shirt on Dean’s dresser, claiming the nearby chair for his own. “They left awhile ago. Not sure when they’ll be back.”

           “Awhile, huh?” Dean snorts, arching a stern brow. “And you’re only visiting me now?”

           Cas stiffens, “Yes. You see – um…” Stuttering, Cas stalls for time as he thinks up an answer.

           Tension leaks out of Dean’s shoulders watching him, seeing his angel go through human motions. Dragging a hand through his hair and pulling at his tie, both alight a familiar warmth in his heart. He snuffs that flame a second later, knowing how dangerous it would be if he let it keep. “Kidding,” Dean sighs, smiling, “I’m glad you waited. Probably wouldn’t have been this… chatty?”

           “Of course…” Cas says, nodding, “I figured you’d need some time alone… to – to sort through things.”

           He’s being generous. Dean used all his strength to not remember the pain stricken across Jack’s face. The wound is still so fresh, Jack ripping off the scabs with a frenzy caused by his soul’s return. Mary’s death hurting like it happened yesterday. “Maybe you should’ve given me five or ten more minutes, then,” he chuckles, tapping at his temple, “still a mess up here.”

           “Hmm…”

           “Hmm what?”

           “Oh, nothing –“

           “Bullshit, Cas,” Dean leans forward, a more devilish expression on his face, “C’mon. Tell me what’s going on in your mind.”

           “Nothing you probably don’t already know,” Cas says, “I’m… trying to wrap my head around this whole day. Jack getting his soul back… it’s remarkable. But also, troubling. How could that even be possible and – and will it last?”

           “Don’t think about it too much, man,” he says, “what happened with Jack it’s… it’s a gift. Probably one of the few we’ve ever gotten that’s come with no strings attached. A win.”

           “Have we ever gotten a win like that?”

           It’d be so simple. Unfortunately, Dean chomps off the head of his one-word confession. Swallows the three-letters alongside all his other feelings. By the time the corpse of it decomposes in his stomach, Dean realizes it’s been too long since he last spoke. Cas waiting, staring at him. An awkward chuckle bubbles forth, his breath reeking of ashen sincerity. “Bout time we got one, then, don’t you think?”

           He concedes, mouth thinning in a cunning smile. “I suppose we are… but enough about what I think.” Dean’s lips pinch tight. “I think we’ve delayed the inevitable conversation. Don’t you?”

           “No,” he says, “we can delay it some more. Like… what was up with those bootleg versions of us?” Dean scoffs, “I bet that other me doesn’t even know what pie tastes like… too busy cramming caviar down his throat.”

           “You might enjoy caviar. I hear it’s very popular?”

           “Caviar’s only popular because it’s expensive,” Dean tells him, “and all those rich dudes spent too much money on it to hate it, so they lie and convince others it’s good and it’s an awful, self-servicing cycle.”

           “I didn’t know you had such strong opinions on caviar?”

           “I’ve got strong opinions on just about everything…” Dean makes the mistake of glancing up, catching sight of Cas’s judgmental bend of his brow. “But you don’t wanna hear any of those…”

           “Not right now, no…” Cas stands, drifting towards his door. “I guess you were right, you do need more time by yourself. Perhaps in the morning –“

           “Shit, Cas, I’m sorry,” he says, rising, grabbing his elbow. The touch sears even through the jackets and shirt; Dean’s grasp on it firms, savoring it. “Y’know how… how tough this has got to be for me, right?” His throat cracks on the last word, eyes glistening. He feels the tears brimming behind them, pooling, waiting for release.

           Cas sighs, dropping any pretense of exiting. “I do,” he says, hand hovering over Dean’s briefly. Considering if he should. A short argument, as it gently embraces his hand; the one chaining Cas to him. “That’s why I want you to speak. Free yourself of the burden… let me help carry it with you.”

           “You don’t have to, Cas,” Dean says, “You’ve got your own things, worries t’deal with –“

           “That won’t stop me.”

           Stubborn. A double-edged sword that makes up the arsenal of Cas’s traits, all weapons Dean would gladly throw himself on.

           Cas quiets, then, waiting for Dean and his response. Words were unneeded. Dean can decipher all he thinks by looking into his angel’s eyes. Captivating, whether in the harsh fluorescents of his bedroom or the soft moonlight of an abandoned church. They always make his head dizzy, thoughts unspooling like Dean drank half a bottle of whiskey or smoked three joints. The more he stays the course, the worse it gets. He nearly forgot hellhounds were baring down on them, Sam their last defense against the creatures, because Cas’s eyes hold a magic that quells any fear or worry gnawing at Dean’s senses.

           “Dean?”

           “It hurt being around him,” Dean whispers his admittance, inching closer. Chests almost pressed together. Noses dangerously close. His toes practically climbing atop Cas’s dress shoe. “I hate that that’s true but… it is. Because as glad as I was to see the kid still kicking it… I’m just reminded of her.” Cas’s thumb rubs a comforting circle into his knuckles, Dean dropping his gaze there. “Reminded of what he did. How he just didn’t… didn’t get it, y’know. Couldn’t tell that it was bad. He – there was still this… this disconnect. And after he came back I could tell he’d look at me and try to find the words t’apologize but they were never there. And without them, we’d never move past it. He’d still be hurting, and so would I… Which sucks because – because I know you think of him as your son, but y’know… I think of him as mine, too –“

           “I like to think of him as ours, Dean.”

           “Yes, well…” he clears his throat, tongue wetting his lips as he recovers. Dean chooses tactical evasion, ignoring Cas’s comment and moving on. “He’s like… my second chance. He is a second chance. A second coming, really – sorta like Jesus –“ He pauses, gaze darting towards Cas’s face. “That doesn’t matter. I just… I wanted to make things right with Jack, but he didn’t know how – and I sure didn’t know how. So we were circling each other, doing nothing. I could feel things festering. The happiness that came after Jack’s return began fading; instead of relief there’d be dread whenever he walked into a room. Got it into my head that things’d never get any better, and there was no way of fixing this rift between us.”

           “But with his soul, he finally understands,” Cas says, “he’s apologized. That’s what you wanted?”

           “It is. I… yeah,” Dean shudders, neck suddenly weak. It bends, Dean’s chin saved from touching his neck by Cas’s forehead supporting his. There noses are beside one another, lips a breath apart. “I know it’s for the best but… seeing him cry, all I wanted to do was hug him. Let him know it’d be all right. Except I ran I… I couldn’t say anything. He was hurting and that – that made me hurt even worse. And then I felt glad he could feel hurt… it sorta spiraled from there.”

           Cas hums, Dean’s mouth vibrating with the note. “You were overwhelmed,” Cas says, “there’s no reason for you to be ashamed.”

           “Yes, there is.” Dean scowls, “I’m middle-aged, can gank a monster twice my size without blinking, but the second a situation gets too touchy-feely I stomp on the gas and speed through all the red lights.” While Dean talked about Jack, a highlight reel of all his shortcomings playing on a giant screen in his mind. Times where Dean’s emotions short-circuited. Fried his circuits, caused him more pain than necessary. Many of those scenes feature a recurring character, shaped like a man in a trench coat. It flickers out, leaving Dean with a blank slate. That fades, too, and Cas’s face is there.

           “It’s not fear, Dean. Not at all,” he says. Protest swells, but with a sharp look from Cas it wanes. “Trust me, as someone who knows you… knows your soul, you – you are not afraid of feelings. Not at all.” He smiles, Dean leaning back for the full effect. Blessed by heavenly light. “On the contrary,” Cas continues, “You embrace your emotions. Unfortunately… sometimes you feel too much and that – that can be particularly difficult to manage. I remember when I was human, sometimes the smallest of ripples in my heart caused me great pains. Something modest like being cold or hungry… or in pain, were too much for me to express. Your capacity for feelings, your intelligence and understanding it’s… fantastic. But there are limits. We all have them. You feel too much sometimes that you cannot express yourself or even deal with them.”

           Dean’s tears prick at the corners of his eyes, dangling. Still unshed. “It does feel like that,” he says, “Sometimes it’s… like there’s a highway, and it’s rush hour. Traffic on – on all sides. No one’s moving, and I’m behind the wheel and I want to go but I can’t and I… I get so angry that I can’t.” He lets go of Cas, slipping from his loose grip. “S’what I’m feeling right now.”

           Cas accepts Dean’s need for distance, hands retreating into his pockets. “And what I’m here, to tell you, is this. You might be behind the wheel, but you’re hardly alone in that car. Sam’s there. Jack’s there. And I am most certainly there.”

           Dean nods, wiping a hand down his face. “Thank you, Cas. I… needed this.”

           “I’m glad to be of service, then.” Cas’s tone fell, a discordant pluck of the harp that triggered Dean’s worry. Before he could ask about it, his angel floats away. “I should let you get your rest. Today was exhausting…”

           Halfway out the door, Dean stops him. “Cas, wait!”

           “Yes?”

           Standing there, framed by his doorway, waiting for Dean to continue with shining eyes, Dean thinks his angel never looked more gorgeous. And he wants to tell him. Despite how the words stick in his throat, the sweat dripping from his forehead, and how his feelings might be received, he wants to tell him. He wants to tell him everything. Finally.

            That flame from earlier, snuffed out, relights. Burns hotter than Baby’s engine gunning down the highway. Ballooning, spreading through his veins and disorienting him. The room spins, his vision blurs, but Cas stays clear and firm. It’s right there, on the tip of his tongue –

           “Yes, Dean?”

           He’s cold. Doused by an untimely thought that quells any of his passionate desires, leaving him charred, ashen, and helpless.

           Dean notices the frown lines around his mouth. The way his eyes drooped in a way they’ve never done. Shadows stretch across his body, slithering, hiding most of his expression from Dean. But he senses a tiredness there that, on Cas, seems foreign.

           The moment passes. It wouldn’t feel right, anyway.

           “Just…” his face hurts from the tight grin he forces, “I go both ways.” Blushing, he amends his statement. “I mean, I don’t have to give you all my baggage – I can… I can also help you carry some of yours, if you’d like?”

           Cas tilts his head, light revealing a gentle smile. “I’d like that. Night, Dean.”

           “Night Cas…”

           A closing door never felt more ominous.

           Dean stares at it, chewing on his lip. Chest aching, heart beating against it with the force of a storm wreaking havoc. He walks towards the switch, flipping it off. Bathing the room in shadows. Making it easier. “Cas,” he says aloud, looking ahead into the endless darkness. “I love you. After this is all over, and we don’t have any more fights heading our way… I’d like for you to stay. With me. And we can have the life we both deserve. I just… I want you to know what I’m fighting for. It’s not the world. It’s you. It’s us.”

           He slips under the covers. Talking to empty air didn’t make the feelings disappear, or easier in dealing with. But it’s a start.

           Maybe he’ll do better in the morning.

[nonbinarybrainstorm]

Thunderclash Ruins Normal Spike for TFA Roddy

So, by popular demand or at least high interest, I’ve written my tfa!Roddy and ll!Thunders fic idea

Content: size kink, tummy bulge, excessive cum, kindling feelings

Enjoy!

Shots fire over the battlefield with resounding explosions as they make impact on the gray stone around them. Rodimus Prime pushes his back against a low outcropping and checks his bow, cursing as he takes in the damage. It was going to need extensive repairs after this and as it is now, he probably would only be able to get a few more shots in. Well, better make them count. He whips around to aim above his cover, targeting towards the Decepticons charging at him at full speed. Shutting his optics for just a flicker of a moment, thanking Primus that at the very least his team had managed to getaway. He pulls back and is just about to release as a sudden flash of light and a thunderous boom shakes the thin atmosphere, startling him and making his shot fly wide. Everything goes still as the dust begins to settle and a large silhouette lifts from the ground. It’s a mech like none Rodimus has ever seen, large and powerful like a Decepticon but land-bound like an Autobot. All Rodimus can think this mech could be is back up for the Decepticons here but they were far from needing any. What was going on?

Thunderclash looks around, dazed and confused, trying to gather his bearings and make sense of what just happened. Oh, right, Brainstorm happened, his processor finally provides helpfully. He turns to spot some unusual looking transformers emblazoned with the Decepticon insignia making him go on guard immediately. The war may be over but that certainly didn’t seem to stop any Decepticons they’ve met so far from wanting to continue hostilities. Realizing they were already on the attack as he puts his stance wide, he traces their line of attack to find their quarry. His optics land on a small bot, a mini and at that moment Thunderclash recognizes his shape, his colors and realizes he must be in another universe for he’s staring at a small replica of Rodimus Prime. He doesn’t need to spare a moment more to think about it, whatever the current situation, these Decepticons were going down. He wasn’t about to let any incarnation of Rodimus come to harm, not even that one evil one they met.

Rodimus watches in slack-jawed awe as the new arrival swiftly knocks the front-most Decepticon back like he weighed nothing more than an annoying stack of datapads. The mech’s movements were practiced and elegant like he’d been doing this all his life, a true machine of war. It didn’t make any sense in Rodimus’s processor as to why this mech who should be among Megatron’s most elite was defending him and he knew this mech was defending him after seeing that look in his red optics. Before Rodimus can come to any kind of census in his processor, the Decepticons who had been on the verge of bringing him to his end are retreating with heavy wounds of terribly dented armor and rips through their plating leaking energon. The mech turns around now covered with blast marks and scratches that don’t even seem to phase him with the occasional splatter of energon here and there. None of the energon could be his with how there wasn’t a single significant wound on his body. The strange mech smiles down at him and Rodimus can feel his frame heat inexplicably.

Thunderclash slowly walks towards the small Rodimus and kneels down to reach his hand out to him.

“Are you alright?” Thunderclash calls softly to him, not wanting to startle him.

The mech has an Autobot brand on his chest but he’s so tall and big, Rodimus can’t fathom it. Without thinking, Rodimus reaches it out and places his hand on the mech’s outstretched one. Upon the light touch, the mech’s hand wraps around his completely, encasing it gently but firmly in a warm embrace before he’s helped up from kneeling. Rodimus stares up mech and feels very small as he stands to see he only reaches the mech’s spike cover which serves to fill his processor with very unseemly thoughts that make his faceplates heat up. He blames it on the high of battle and pushes the thought roughly away.

“Yes, thank you,” Rodimus keeps his optics firmly trained on his face.

Thunderclash smiles down at this mini Rodimus and then feels his face heat in embarrassment as he realizes he hasn’t even introduced himself yet, “Oh, uh, I’m Thunderclash by the way.”

“Thunderclash,” Rodimus repeats and clears his intake, embarrassed at how dreamy his voice sounds saying this mech’s name.

“You must be Rodimus Prime, the Rodimus Prime of this universe that is,” Thunderclash says and releases his hand when he notices he was still holding it.

Rodimus blinks up in surprise and nods, “Yes, you’re from another universe? Do you know my alternate there?”

“I am,” Thunderclash’s smiles warmly again making Rodimus’s spark stutter, “He’s my captain, the captain of the Lost Light. I’m rather proud of that claim.”

A burst of jealousy that Rodimus knows is completely unreasonable bubbles up in his spark as he puts on a smile for Thunderclash.

“That sounds nice,” Rodimus scratches the back of his helm nervously.

Suddenly, his communicator beeps and he sees the message is coming in from command. He looks up apologetically at Thundeclash who waves him off with understanding. Rodimus nods his thanks and walks a few steps away to answer his communicator.

“Rodimus Prime,” Ultra Magnus’s strong voice pops in with a burst of static, “What is your situation?”

“I remained behind to give my team a chance to escape,” Rodimus reports, chancing a glance at Thunderclash every so often seeing him on his own call, “The Decepticons retreated after I received some aid from…”

Rodimus stalls as the ridiculousness of Thunderclash’s existence crashes over him. He couldn’t just tell Ultra Magnus he’d got help from a giant Autobot from another universe, that would sound insane.

“Rodimus?” Ultra Magnus prompts him, sounding concerned.

Rodimus shakes his head and responds, “I received some aid from a surprisingly adept civilian who helped me beat back the Decepticons.”

“That is… surprising,” Ultra Magnus says over the comm, thankfully sounding more surprised than doubtful, “We will have to give this civilian a commendation. A transport is set to arrive at your destination in two cycles with a Red Alert. We anxiously await your return.”

“Thank you, sir,” and with that the call ends.

Thunderclash walks up to him, “I’ve been told that I’m going to be picked up in just a few hours. So, I guess I’m here until then. You?”

“Transport is on its way,” Rodimus shrugs then tilts his head, “Hours?”

Thunderclash shrugs, “Earth time. It caught on pretty quickly on our ship.”

“Okay…” Rodimus says not sure how else to respond.

They stand there awkwardly for a moment, neither of them quite sure what to say. Thunderclash pats his legs for a moment and looks at an outcropping of rocks, thoughts flitting behind his optics.

“It’s going to be a while until I can get back, until either of us are going to get back,” Thunderclash points to the outcrop and looks back at Rodimus, “I’m going to go sit over there, maybe catch some recharge. Feel free to join me if you wish.”

Thunderclash walks over to the outcropping and slides down its surface so his back is to it and stretches his strong arms out before resting them on his knees. Rodimus watches him, feeling a sudden sense of indecision. There was a real possibility he was never going to see this mech again and Rodimus wanted… He didn’t know what he wanted really or, rather, he wanted to many things. He knew exactly what he wanted what was he kidding himself for? If they’re never going to see each other again after this then there was no harm in testing the waters or even taking the plunge. If he asked the worst that would happen is that he would be embarrassed for two whole cycles and that would be the end of it. Making a decision, Rodimus walks up to Thunderclash and rests a hand on his knee, getting Thunderclash to look up at him with an open expression.

“Uh, I would like to give you my thanks,” Rodimus drums his fingers on Thunderclash’s knee, “for saving me, I mean.”

Thunderclash smiles sweetly at him, genuinely touched, “It was no trouble.”

“No, I know,” Rodimus gets closer, moving his hand to Thunderclash’s shoulder, leaning in closer with his spark spinning a mile a minute, “I saw how you defeated them with barely straining a cable. I just want you to know…”

Thunderclash doesn’t move as Rodimus leans in, optics traveling to his derma and staying stock still, not entirely believing that this was happening. Rodimus leans in close and presses a kiss against his lips which Thunderclash would like to say that he had a bit more self-control and didn’t immediately melt into it but he did. Having this small version of Rodimus in his arms was like a dream. He doesn’t remember when he pulled Rodimus into his lap, but there he was, kneeling and kissing Thunderclash like his life depended on it. Thunderclash trails his hands over Rodimus’s frame, unable to resist the mech in front of him, feeling how small he is with his frame fit perfectly into Thunderclash’s hands. One of Rodimus’s knees rubs Thunderclash’s panel and it snaps open to let his spike pressurize between them. He tries to apologize to Rodimus but his words turn into a gasp as he feels Rodimus grab the head of his spike and run his thumb over it.

“Is this okay?” Rodimus pants out and Thunderclash just nods.

Thunderclash feels his processor practically melt as Rodimus starts stroking his spike, eyeing it with a hungry optic that Thunderclash had never even imagined on the face of his captain. Then, Rodimus uncovers his valve and lowers down in front of Thunderclash’s spike so he can push up against it with his wet valve. Making a choked off sound in his intake, Thunderclash grabs onto what he can of Rodimus as he balances on Thunderclash’s knees and starts grinding against Thunderclash’s spike. Thunderclash just moans and watches as Rodimus’s, this alternate Rodimus’s valve lips hug his spike as Rodimus moves his hips along it, gasping whenever his node rubbed against the head of Thunderclash’s spike. Rodimus’s legs begin to shake so Thunderclash takes him in his arms and moves to his knees so he can keep grinding his spike between the hot folds of Rodimus’s valve. He looks down at Rodimus whose optics are blazing with light and his face is practically split with how wide his smile is, optics firmly locked on Thunderclash’s spike.

Thunderclash moves his hips faster, getting Rodimus to cry out sweetly and pant, hot to the touch in Thunderclash’s hands. Then Rodimus grabs the head of his spike and squeezes, sending a jolt through Thunderclash that makes him stop cold, panting and moaning heavily.

“I want you to overload inside me,” Rodimus leans up and captures Thunderclash’s derma in a slow, gentle kiss before breaking it with a swipe of his glossa over Thunderclash’s lower lip.

“I don’t think…” Thunderclash vents out between pants only to screw his optics shut as Rodimus lines himself up with Thunderclash’s spike.

“Just go slow,” Rodimus trails his hand down Thunderclash’s length with one hand as grips Thunderclash’s arm with the other.

When Thunderclash still hesitates, Rodimus pushes himself down onto his spike some, the head of Thunderclash’s spike already stretching him obscenely so his node rubs against Thunderclash’s spike. Leaning down to steady himself on one hand, Thunderclash pushes in at a painfully slow pace, terrified of hurting this Rodimus. As the spike pushes deep inside of the wet heat of Rodimus’s valve, he relaxes to let more and more in. Rodimus moans as he sees how his plating shifts to let Thunderclash in, a bulge forming on his abdomen where Thunderclash’s spike is. Thunderclash feels himself shaking as he tenses every cable in his body to keep him from simply sinking into Rodimus, his valve impossibly tight around his spike. He can feel heat gather in his array and pressure build in his spike, waiting to be released.

Rodimus grips Thunderclash’s chestplate and tugs him down sharply to look him in the optic, “You’re not allowed to overload yet, not until you’re all the way in then you can.”

Something ignites along Thunderclash’s lines and he bites his derma as he continues to push in slowly, using every ounce of his willpower to hold back which comes harder as more of his spike pushes into Rodimus. Rodimus feels Thunderclash’s spike twitch in his valve as he’s stretched wide and filled so completely his hips twitch and spasm, unable to escape the almost overwhelming sensations. Finally, Thunderclash feels Rodimus’s valve lips press against his pelvic plates and sighs with relief, pausing as he vents heavily, heat and charge clouding his processor. Rodimus runs a hand over his lower plating over the shallow bulge and bites his derma as he writhes on the spike, gasping as the ridges rub against the walls of his valve.

“Well come on,” Rodimus pants excitedly, his optics flaring erraticly, “I know you’re desperate to overload. So, do it, I want to feel you overload inside me.”

Thunderclash chokes off a groan and practically overloading upon Rodimus’s command, filling him with hot transfluid, so that some pushes past his spike to drip onto the gray stone below. Rodimus cries out as he’s filled, overloading on Thunderclash’s spike, his valve unable to tighten anymore around Thunderclash’s spike that’s filling him so completely. They come down from their overloads rapidly rather than gradually and charge immediately begins to build again in Rodimus’s systems and he moves his hips however much he can.

“Keep going,” Rodimus begs, gripping desperately onto Thunderclash, “Please, I need more.”

Thunderclash swallows a moan and pants out, “Say that again.”

Rodimus groans in frustration and all but shouts, “Just frag me! I want you to use that spike of yours to- Ah!”

Thunderclash thrusts and Rodimus digs his fingers into Thunderclash’s arms, unable to form words, barely even able to think as Thunderclash’s spike fills him over and over. Unable to control himself any longer Thunderclash let’s loose, pounding into Rodimus as he keeps him still in one arm, his hand holding Rodimus’s hip tightly. It’s fast and rough, with the obscene sounds of Rodimus’s wet valve being used. Overload takes them both more violently this time, charge licking their frames in broad arches as Thunderclash spills again into Rodimus’s valve, making Rodimus feel warm and heavy in a way he’s never known before. They calm down completely this time and Rodimus winces slightly as Thunderclash’s spike depressurizes out of him, letting cold air hit his valve. Rodimus scrambles to hold onto something as Thunderclash stands up rapidly and walks him over to a taller bolder and sets him down gently. Pulling a clean rag out, Thunderclash begins cleaning him up, muttering under his vents.

Rodimus puts a hand on Thunderclash’s chest, getting him to stop for a moment.

“What is it?” Rodimus asks and Thunderclash looks incredibly chagrined.

“I should’ve had more control, now look at you, you’re all…” Thunderclash rubs his fingers into Rodimus’s abdomen plating soothingly, encouraging them to return to their normal extension.

“Stretched out?” Rodimus offers teasingly but Thunderclash only looks regretfully.

Rodimus pulls Thunderclash’s face down and kisses him again.

“I liked that a lot,” Rodimus smiles up at him, “I hope you did too.”

Thunderclash nods sheepishly and stares down at Rodimus, a faint pang forming in his spark. Wanting every moment he can have of this fantasy, he finishes cleaning them both up then pulls Rodimus to him, to hold him and kiss him sweetly until he gets a notice that just in a few minutes, he’ll be able to go home. The swirling blue vortex appears suddenly in the air and with one last farewell, one last kiss, Thunderclash walks through the hazy portal, returning to his own universe and leaving Rodimus alone.

Later, his transport arrives right on time with Cliffjumper and Red Alert in tow. He boards it with barely a word, feeling a strange kind of melancholy that he didn’t know how to describe. Red Alert guides him to the small medbay and checks him over. To lost in his own thoughts, he misses the concerned glances of the transport crew and the critical gaze of Cliffjumper. Red Alert smirks and that’s what catches his optic.

“What?” Rodimus asks, his tone reflecting his sour demeanor.

Red Alert just shakes her head, “Usually, mechs are a bit more cheerful after getting fragged to within an inch of their life. Have fun with our hero did we?”

Rodimus splutters and Red Alert waits patiently for him to form coherent words. He has to clear his intake of static, her comment throwing him so off guard.

“How do you mean?” he asks as flatly as he can even though he’s completely on edge now.

She points to his abdomen and explains simply, “Your plating is distended at quarter capacity. That only happens for two reasons and seeing as how I didn’t have to turn you the right way out again, you got fragged.”

Rodimus looks away, faceplate heating to a bright red, “Oh.”

“Oh indeed,” Red Alert chuckles, “I guess your hero got all the commendation they wanted then?”

Rodimus doesn’t say anything at first then very quietly says, “He was… nice.”

Red Alert stops and turns around at that to see the melancholy from before return. She walks over and pulls him into a tight hug.

“Oh, Rodimus, I’m sure, you’ll see him again.”

They journey back to Cybertron and Rodimus tries very hard to forget a mech with kind red optics, and a sweet smile.

[brokenbuttonsmusic]

Howard Tate: A Philadelphia Soul Resurrection

This post is a near- transcript of the Broken Buttons: Buried Treasure Music podcast (episode 1, side B). Here you’ll find the narration from the segment featuring the great Philadelphia soul singer Howard Tate, along with links, videos, photos and references for the episode.

Listen to the full episode on Spotify, Anchor or Mixcloud.

Music history is packed with bands and artists that had the talent, the songs and even the fully realized recordings to make it big, only to be passed over. Some miss their window, or worse, some get their big break, but somehow  self-destruct or fail to capitalize on it. It’s the reason why I decided to do this show. There is so much overlooked and under appreciated music out there to be found and enjoyed.

This next artist doesn’t quite hit any of those scenarios exactly though. Howard Tate got his break and made it happen. Howard Tate hit big and he hit fast. Tate said he came home from work one day and a big limousine was sitting in front of his door. 

“You gotta get in here right away. You gotta get a suit. You’re playing with Marvin Gaye tomorrow night.”

Between 1966 and 1970 Howard Tate had six top 40 R&B singles. And then he disappeared. Plunging into obscurity, almost as quickly as he soared within sight of the summit. Tate never completely crossed over. While he regularly appeared on the R&B charts, the highest he ever placed on the Pop charts was #63. 

Let’s start our dive into Tate, by hearing his highest charting single. One of three top 20 R&B hits in his catalog. This is Ain’t Nobody Home by Howard Tate. 

Ain’t Nobody Home by Howard Tate.

Here’s what the Rough Guide to Soul & R&B has to say about that recording and the chemistry of the whole crew who made it happen.

“With a groove laid down by keyboardist Richard Tee, guitarist Cornell Dupree, bassist Chuck Rainey and drummer Herb Lovell, the production of Ain’t Nobody Home by Jerry Ragovoy both borrowed from and influenced the music coming from Memphis and Muscle Shoals, and set the precedent for Atlantic’s first recordings with Aretha Franklin. While the music was great, however, it was Tate’s vocals that made the record. Sounding like a less overwrought Percy Sledge, Tate’s simultaneously Northern and Southern phrasing was impeccable, and economical use of his falsetto made it all the more effective.”

Tate had the voice, which many compared to Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye. He also had a distinctive gospel-blues delivery that sticks with you for days. But the tunes came from somewhere else.

Before his quick ascent, Tate was singing in a group with Garnet Mimms. Mimms was the original singer of the Janis Joplin hit,  Cry Baby. He also introduced Howard to record producer Jerry Ragovoy, who co-wrote Cry Baby. Ragovoy is known for writing Time is On My Side for the Rolling Stones and another Joplin hit, Piece of My Heart. Clearly Janis liked the songwriting of Jerry Ragovoy. In fact, she also performed this Ragovoy composition that you’ve probably come across at one time or another.

That’s Janis Joplin singing Get It While You Can from her massive second album Pearl in 1971. What you might not know is that Get it While you Can was originally performed by Howard Tate, five years earlier in 1966.

Ragovoy was taken with Tate’s voice and began recording him as a solo artist for Verve Records. Ragovoy’s memorable, punchy Northern soul production paired with Tate’s soulful blues phrasing was a perfect match.

Here’s Howard Tate’s version, the original version, of the Jerry Ragovoy penned Get It While You Can.

That was Howard Tate with Get It While You Can from the 1966 album of the same name.

American rock critic Robert Christgau had this to say about Tate and his collaboration with Jerry Ragovoy.

“Tate is a blues-drenched Macon native who had the desire to head north and sounds it every time he gooses a lament with one of the trademark keens that signify the escape he never achieved. He brought out the best in soul pro Jerry Ragovoy, who made Tate's records jump instead of arranging them into submission, and gave him lyrics with some wit to them besides. In return, Ragovoy brought out the best in Tate.”

Despite the magical team up on early singles and a debut album, Tate recorded his second album without Ragovoy, instead working with Lloyd Price and Johnny Nash. Released in 1969, Howard Tate’s Reaction is more uptown soul than the grittier southern soul of its predecessor, but it’s another recognition worthy collection of performances.

Ragovoy and Tate reunited for 1972’s eponymous Howard Tate. This time an Atlantic release. Critics knock this album as being a notch below Ragovoy’s best songwriting, but I think it’s a worthy piece of Tate’s catalog. Tate sounds great, as always, and there are a couple of really explosive, interesting covers. The Band’s Jemima Surrender and this one.

Bob Dylan’s Girl From the North Country. Listen to this voice.

Howard Tate covering Bob Dylan’s Girl From the North County from 1972.

After recording a handful of additional songs—one single for Epic and a few for his own label—Tate retired from the music business. Frustrated with his lack of crossover, but downright bitter about how little he was paid for his successes, which again, included 3 top 20 R&B hits—he quit. Disappeared, really.

But not everyone was ready to forget. And while his name would fade from memories over the coming decades, Howard Tate’s impact was undeniable.

One of Tate’s heroes, BB King, covered Ain’t Nobody Home. So did Bonnie Raitt.

Ry Cooder and Grand Funk covered Look At Granny Run Run

Jimi Hendrix covered Stop

Foghat covered Eight Days on the Road and so did the one and only queen if soul.

And not everyone forgot. Tate’s old partner, record producer and chief songwriter Jerry Ragovoy made many attempts to track down his old friend over the years. He contacted old business associates and got them in on the search. They all came up empty.

A New Jersey DJ named Phil Casden had developed somewhat of an obsession with Tate’s whereabouts. Casden hosted a weekly radio show, spinning soul, blues and R&B and had taken to asking his listeners for any information about the missing (by this time) cult soul legend.

Even Verve, Tate’s old record company, had given up trying to track down the long retired crooner. The 1995 CD reissue of Tate’s Verve sessions included liner notes that flat out said: Howard Tate is probably dead.

''It wasn't sufficient to leave a story like that open-ended,'' Mr. Casden said. ''I had to find out: 'Is the guy alive? Is he dead?' There had to be something more than, 'He just rode off into the sunset.' ''

In 2001 the mystery was solved. Ron Kennedy, singer of Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes recognized Tate at a grocery store and the old pals played catch up after nearly 30 years. They exchanged numbers. Kennedy put the New Jersey DJ, Casden, in touch with Tate. Casden enthusiastically announced the good news to his listeners and the soul fanatics across the internet. Howard Tate was alive! He even put Tate in touch with a lawyer to help him recoup past royalties from his reissues.

Apparently Tate had quite a loyal following overseas. Eventually, a British journalist reached out to Tate’s old partner-producer Jerry Ragovoy for a reaction. The only problem was, Ragovoy didn’t have a reaction to give because he didn’t know Tate had been found. Ragovoy was elated at the news. After reconnecting with his long lost friend and confirming he was doing well, the next thing on his mind: could Howard Tate still sing?

Before we answer that, let’s answer this: where had Tate been all those years after walking away from the music?

After becoming resentful and disheartened by his missing paydays, Tate decided to go missing himself. He didn’t intentionally go into hiding, he just bailed on the industry that he felt wronged had him.

He worked as a securities dealer with Prudential for a while and then darkness hit. He lost his 13-year-old daughter in a house fire. In 1981, after 20 years, his marriage fell apart. Soon after, Tate unraveled too. He tumbled into drug addiction and lost everything. He lived on the streets for years, struggling to get by and feed his habit. Finally, in the mid 90s, he started to climb out of the hole. He cleaned up and found god. He became a minister and dedicated his life to helping the poor and homeless.

And that brings us up to the moment of his big reunion with Jerry Ragovoy and loyal fans awareness that Howard Tate was alive and well after all those years. But now more than your die hard R&B/soul enthusiasts were interested.

But did he still have that voice? Could Howard still sing?

Uh, yeah. Jerry Ragovoy was stunned at how strong Tate sounded after decades of being out of the game. And he was REALLY out of the game. Howard claims he never sang a note all those years. Not until Jerry approached him about recording a comeback album and got him into the studio. Tate also says he had no clue that Janis, B.B., Jimi, Ry or any of the others had ever covered his songs or took an interest in his music.

Howard and Jerry recorded a new album in 2003. It’s called Rediscovered. And remember that Elvis Costello quote from the intro to this episode? Elvis called Tate the missing link between Jackie Wilson and Al Green. Tate asked Costello to write a song for his new album and he agreed. 

Let’s here that now. From his comeback album, Rediscovered, more than 3 decades in the making, here’s Howard Tate with Either Side of the Same Town, written by Elvis Costello.

That was Either Side of the Same Town from Howard Tate’s first album after 30 hears away from the music business. But not his last.

Tate had quite the victory lap. He made numerous tv, radio and festival appearances in the ten years after his reemergence. He recorded two more studio full lengths and a live album. On December 2nd, 2011, Tate passed away of complications of multiple myeloma and leukemia.

With a superb first act and a spectacular resurrection that led to the near doubling of his recorded output, there’s plenty of Tate music to check out and enjoy.

Other sources for this segment are listed below.

I referenced several NPR features in this episode, including the obituary they did for Tate. 

Deep Southern Soul - This blog did a great post on Howard Tate. Lots of other good stuff here, but they recently announced they are closing up.

Gadfly Online - Another nice write up on Tate and his back story.

New Jersey new feature - The clip of Howard talking is from this segment. They did a feature on Tate’s rediscovery.

Trunkworthy - Post about Tate and his comeback. This site digs into music, movies and TV you might have missed. They also did a post about the Elvis Costello song featured in this episode. Elvis’ version is on The Delivery Man album. 

New York Times Obituary for Howard Tate

The Guardian Obituary for Howard Tate

Billboard Magazine, July 26, 2003 - Article about Howard’s return after 30 years.

[askmicrowavegaster]

Microwave grapes ending summary

Gaster does jump down the elevator shaft, and uses his magic to craft bones as steps to slow his descent, and finally rip through the elevator at a basement level, far below where the elevator usually goes. Beneath Fig’s arboreum and everything. 

And he does find sans, but more importantly-- 

He finds Ursama and Serptrine’s assistants looking over another skeleton, a little bit taller than Sans, and hidden away in a separate room. He doesn’t have Sans’ odd bone deformity from the DT overdose, but almost looks the same age all the same. 

Ursama demands to know what is going on that Gaster burst down like this, clearly destroying the elevator and definitely committing a crime in doing so if nothing else, on top of his kidnapping charges. 

Gaster is going to uh. Take those kidnapping charges again. He walls up the room with bones and grabs Sans to run--and Sans talks to the other little skeleton, who todders over, and holds on, too. 

Unfortunately, Gaster has only really one place to go, and that is back to his apartment. Which he does. And then barricades the door. And then shouts across the wall to Po-Yo that he needs someone to deliver a letter for him. Po-Yo gets a carrier (from chapter 6, Ava) and Gaster slides the message he needs delivered and the handful of gold pieces under the door. 

The letter is addressed to Asgore. 

Gaster never thought he would want to call the attention of an old monster down on himself, but right now, he’s the only one higher ranked than Serptrine that Gaster can think of who might object to the discovery of creating child monsters for warfare. 

In the meantime, Gaster barricades his wall and sets the kids up in the back room of his house and tells Sans to tell-- the boy’s designation is ‘PS-1’ (Prototype Skeleton 1) rather than ‘CS-1’ (Control Skeleton 1)-- to hide if anyone other than he comes in. 

But PS-1 seems to understand his speech just fine. And he doesn’t know what to make of that, except that someone has been teaching PS-1 the same way he taught CS-1. 

He makes them tea, and ignores anyone pounding on his door, and hopes no one pulls out magic or the royal guard. But the pounding on the door stops, and he isn’t sure how much time passes, but there’s not quite enough food in his apartment for three people. There was hardly enough for one. 

He doesn’t want to leave his apartment and come back to find both skeletons gone. 

He tries to pass the time by talking to them and figuring out what was going on. And this is what he learns: 

PS-1 has been outside of the building before. PS-1 knows how to summon his magic. PS-1 has a rotating series of caretakers. PS-1 has seen Sans before. 

PS-1 has a LV of 7. 

Gaster dreams about murder. 

Eventually through a lot of hand gestures and struggling conversation, he starts making a plausible scenario: 

Sans has been taken from his room at night periodically. This is probably where PS-1 met him and they had a ‘comparison’ between the control subject (Sans, who is not being pushed to learn much or learn an agenda) and variable subject (PS-1, who is being trained very specifically towards a goal.) The mistakes and ‘mistakes’ Gaster makes with Sans are corrected with PS-1 and it’s led to a very strong, dangerous, and unhappy toddler in his apartment, and that toddler is getting very hungry. 

The good news is that PS-1 seems to like Sans and will calm down when comforted. The bad news is that while Papyrus (Sans named him) doesn’t seem interested in ‘rebelling’ by attacking his new ‘handler,’ that doesn’t extend to furious pouting tantrums, fits, and crying. 

At some point, Papyrus summons the biggest attack he has— a strange, toothy skull sort of thing. It might’ve been dog-ish if not for the horns. 

Gaster recognizes someone trying to copy his dragon skull design and has to retreat for… a while. It’s sort of like setting off a firework show at a wake, maybe a ‘celebrating of life’ if you were being optimistic, and then turning around and finding your fireworks being pointed at people.

After a long while of hiding where Gaster can start to feel exhaustion weighing on him and is certain the low-magic meals are really starting to affect the kids, too, there’s a knock on the door and a familiar voice coming through.

Choris is a cat monster with a messed up ear and bad personality, but he grew up under Gaster’s parents and they went through college together. It is not an affectionate relationship by a stretch, but jealousy doesn’t mean you want them to fail, and so they’ve kicked each others’ asses through things a handful of times.

Today, Choris has shown up to say things like ‘I bet you haven’t been outside this whole time’ and ‘do you even have food in there? I bet you don’t. You haven’t even checked your mail. Get your shit together.’

Then the mail is shoved under Gaster’s doorway and the thump of several bags of groceries is heard outside the door. Once the footsteps are gone, Gaster reaches out to grab the food and hurriedly makes the kids a meal before checking the mail. 

One of them is a response from the king, alerting him to an investigation and for his testimony to show up at x day. Which is almost immediately. Tomorrow, or in nine hours, even. People probably would’ve shown up to his house and broken in if he didn’t show up, holy shit, he would’ve died (but only emotionally, not literally.) 

The idea of showing up in front of a Fucking Boss Monster is absolutely psyching his little traumatized brain out, but he has already kidnapped like two people barricaded himself in an apartment building for several days, so he doesn’t really have any room to say he’s paralyzed by nerves.

Still paranoid that someone is going to come swipe them when he’s not looking, Gaster gets Sans’ crutches and tells him he’s in charge of Keeping Papyrus Chill, and takes them with him (in a backpack for transport) to the castle for a Fucking Hearing. 

(Once they’re there, they get out of the backpack, but he is extremely not interested in people spotting them on the street and asking questions, because he has absolutely no doubt that someone has gossiped this all the way back to Snowdin by now. )

Serptrine and, unfortunately, Ursama are there as the ‘hey we need to break the barrier’ team, and Gaster shows up with two skeletons half his height wearing stripes, holding onto both his leg and each other. 

It’s pretty obvious who Asgore sides with. Everyone knows the moment he looks over at the kids. 

That doesn’t mean everyone is happy. Serptrine is removed from his post as head scientist, the position is suspended, and Ursama is on leave for a bit, or at the very least is no longer Gaster’s direct superior. They also forget to really give him a new superior. Or if someone is assigned, they aren’t claiming him, and when he’s told to return to the lab for regular work, he finds no one is really looking at him or minding him much at all. People he casually spoke to seem to acknowledge him a bit, but that’s about all. 

Whether they thought he was in the right to kidnap Sans and Papyrus or not, a lot of people also now view him as The Guy Who Stole Our Best Chance at the Surface. 

Yes, humans are falling down, but it’s… taking a long time. And then people are in danger and killed each time. And they’re still relying on the strength of humans when they use that captured power. And what about when they get to the surface, and then there are still humans out there to deal with? 

If they’d just Had Someone Who Could Handle the Barrier and the Humans Beyond It…

Haven’t you ever heard of the needs of the many? If five children die to save a city, how is that the wrong choice?

It’s easy to dream big about a project that barely got off the ground, but seemed to have some promise—especially if one of the experiments was successful and managed to end the last human’s rampage. 

...but Gaster has a child at home who has just learned about jigsaw puzzles, and who takes the newspaper from him to do the word searches and junior jumbles in pen. 

Then again, Gaster has an advantage in being kind, here. He’s never believed they would make it to the surface again, anyway.

++ 

As Gaster raises the two and deals with ostracization at work (which started out as just spite, but then was picked up as a hint by others, and has grown into a Habit) he uses the lack of oversight to start building small CORE experiments. 

He’s doing his best with the CORE but still works a lot on it at home, which Sans watches him do when he’s not watching over Papyrus. 

Because that is unfortunately quickly becoming Sans’ job. He’s still pretty young and needs crutches to stay upright for long stretches of time, but Papyrus has proven to be A Little Troubled, especially since he started talking more. 

He’s fond of fighting, which is normal for a monster child, but he’s actually fighting with intent to harm, because that’s what fighting has been for him this whole time, and at LV 7 it’s very difficult to break that sort of habit. You can think of LV as a disability almost— it makes it more difficult to move through life, as you’re on constant “when all you have is a hammer” mode. They had a fun incident where upon getting very frustrated with a puzzle, Papyrus summoned bones from the floor and one of them happened to have Moderate Contact with Sans’ knee. 

Sans ultimately has a monster version of hemophilia—a small cut can still cause him to bleed out. This eventually affects his magic to create KARMA, where his max ATK being small still bleeds out a little bit longer than would otherwise be expected. 

It is still a very frantic and uncomfortable trip to a healer, where Papyrus ends up left alone in the house because Gaster didn’t know what to do when you had two kids, and one needed the healer, and the other had caused the wound. 

Papyrus has been extremely careful about injuring Sans since then, and they’ve gotten him to somewhat release his pent up energy by doing ‘trick shots’ with his magic. Spelling things with his bones, biggest and smallest bones you can possibly make, haha hey kids what about bones that go backwards? 

Whatever was in that DT was fucking potent, because Gaster was a pretty good kid with magic for his age, but Sans and Papyrus outstrip him fast enough that at some point theyre just swapping tricks with each other and doing things Gaster is pretty sure aren’t physically possible but. Whatever. Fuck it. 

He’s going to do physically impossible shit too if he ever gets this geothermal shit up and running. 

...it is definitely not all fun and games. Most of the time, it is the opposite. When Papyrus grows old enough to start to care more, he starts thinking a lot about morality, and LV, and finds that he can’t even remember where all of it came from, and he doesn’t know if he should want to or not. But he still likes using magic. Even though he’s careful now, he still thinks fighting is fun when he goes out and duels kids in the backlots (the monster equivalent of kittens fighting each other) . 

He and Gaster eventually work out that maybe it’s okay to be happy, even when you’ve done something bad in the past. Puzzles are very popular now, even though they’re historically military traps. Magic is even more innate and expressive than a hobby, though, and over the years Papyrus can hone it to be something different. Maybe knives aren’t only used for murder. Maybe you can fight to defend, too. 

Papyrus decides he’s going to be talented enough he never loses control of his magic ever , and can avoid even the most accidental, normal mistakes. 

(Sans, who curls up on the couch and watches Gaster do physics on the coffee table at night, also starts talking about those sorts of things. Some childhood conversations cropping up that Gaster doesn’t know if they’re normal or if it’s because of where Sans and Papyrus come from-- or if they’re the only ones talking about this at all, even, because these talks feel like the only conversations that have mattered in his whole life sometimes. His parents were kind, and supporting, and loving, but no one has ever said ‘I’m sad’ and then followed up with it—with something other than a quip, or a joke.  But he and Sans and Papyrus keep talking instead.

The people in the underground don’t like talking about the unfixable. Maybe it’s because of the puzzles, he thinks. Maybe the underground has decided that no one would ever make a problem there wasn’t some way to solve.

He doesn’t think there are ways to solve some of them. He doesn’t think there’s a way to break the barrier that will let them survive outside. He doesn’t think there’s an answer he can give Papyrus about how he can feel the LV in him surging with excitement when he fights. He doesn’t think there’s a way he can tell Sans that no one person can fix everything.

“But I guess I have to try,” he says, like a joke and a quip, and exhausted. 

“you just said you couldn’t,” says Sans, who has grown out of his crutches and gained a few centimeters height.

“Yes. But if you’re in a position to do something , aren’t you obligated to try?” Gaster replies, trying his best to stay in this conversation for Sans, who is so distressed lately, and yet he is already so very tired.  “If you’ve got the ability, aren’t you obligated to try?”)

++

(Gaster dreams about finding Serptrine, wherever he is in retirement, and murder. He also thinks about Papyrus, and how frustrated he is at his LV, and his childhood stolen away by other people’s choices, and the cessation of possibility. He thinks about Papyrus who has changed, and so has decided everyone can change if they want to, even if Gaster argues that Papyrus didn’t choose to be a killer— Gaster never chose to be an angry, lonely child. But maybe he did. Maybe he decided going with his emotions was easiest, and maybe he had to grow enough to find the will to reach for something that wasn’t his first impulse. The first impulse to violence. 

He doesn’t know. He was just a kid. But he dreams of killing Serptrine, and when he wakes, he does not follow his dreams. For a crime committed only in imagination, maybe that’s the best he can do.)

++

Gaster talks a lot about Snowdin, when he’s feeling good. He wants to go back some day, because it was such a strange little town, and so much room, and so much more welcoming than he remembers being anywhere before. They never go back to Snowdin. 

His work on the CORE gets him promoted to head scientist after several years of the position vacant and in limbo. A lot of the anger has had time to die down, though there are a few brief surges after he takes the position and starts focusing the whole of the lab towards electrical production. 

Sans and Papyrus have started schooling. Sans tests well and is good at theory, and is rocketing towards college, while Papyrus gets stuck in the minutiae, and seems to be enjoying himself plenty well refusing to move up until he has gotten a perfect score on every assignment each level can throw at him. Fudging to give him a perfect score does not work, as he only trusts his own grade evaluations, and his criteria are mysterious and vague. 

Sans—in a very aggressive move on his part—starts to work at the lab. 

Many people have gone and been replaced since he was a child here. He wanders through halls he barely remembers. He rediscovers Fig and Jam (still very young— fish mature differently, though Jam has sprouted some legs and walks on their own sometimes) and helps some in the medical wing before Gaster Very Firmly transfers him into field work and sets him about laying the wires through the underground that will eventually carry their charge. It is an absolutely mind boggling undertaking, especially with something not actually functioning yet, but Sans finds he’s actually a pretty social guy, and laying groundwork gives him a lot of time to goof off some and talk with the locals. 

Fig and Jam transfer to the CORE building site. The tubing twists and turns like roots an the central walkway is laid out like a maze. It was almost inevitable, with how more areas grew upon each other as needed, more power rods and catwalks anywhere they could go. 

In what seems like a very short time, the CORE starts to tower at the deepest edge of Hotland. It reaches so deep they need elevators to reach the lower floors by the end, and yet they still have to build on the outside around those same elevators. Eventually the moving floors are installed, just to try and keep everything stable.

DT extracted from the atmosphere over the years starts to be moved to the CORE site, because as volatile as DT can be, it’s also one of the few substances that can temper materials steeped in magma, without allowing the metal to melt. 

The channel from Snowdin is dug. Wires are laid. Small central generators are set up, to distribute the energy from within the communities— 

And Sans gets a feeling one day. Not a bad feeling or an omen. A whim, probably, and goes to visit the CORE, knowing they’re near the end of construction and Gaster is going on three days of nauseas energy and Red Buffalo, and soon he is going to explode. 

Sans finds no one on the upper floors, and no one on the walkways. Someone’s been posting motivational posters on the wall, things that started to sound a little like sentimentality and anxiety and a wild hope holding all the mess together. 

When Sans descended to the lowest levels of the CORE, on the floors just above the magma, something was wrong. Different. 

It was cold, for one. Or chilly, at least. The heat from the magma was always rising, but this wind had a bite of cold to it— and as Sans opened the first door to the observation deck, there was light that shouldn’t have been there. The whole platform down here was lit by magma glow, and yet, this light was shining instead.

For a moment, he thought, perhaps, it was electricity. A lightbulb. The first one to turn on, maybe. 

And then he opened the door wider, and he saw oblivion. 

It looked like a hole. A white hole, hovering just above Gaster’s head, in the dead center of the room. 

He could see other things around that said there should be others in the room— Fig and Jam’s water cooler. Head Guy’s binder of notes. A plate of lightly smoking bagels, partly eaten. 

And Gaster, just staring into oblivion as it grew slowly bigger, like a dark drain letting all the world around it just spill in.

And Sans, who was small and lightweight, and who hadn’t had a thought to brace— stumbled forward, and was caught in the current. 

It did feel like water. Like the world rolled up around him, and all the air sucked away, and plunged him into a bright, white ocean. 

...and like a fish, something hooked him. Caught him right in the soul. 

It flung him out, bright purple, and into the elevator a room away, where he didn’t crumble, but blacked out just long enough to miss how The End, losing one mass, took another in his place. 

(And for the first time in his life,

Gaster 

Saw 

Stars .)

[hookedonapirate]

Mis  Fix-It

Summary: Miracle worker. Relationship Guru. Savior.

Those are just a few of her monikers, but most people have taken to call her Miss Fix-It. Helping broken-hearted women get back together with their former boyfriends is her specialty. How does she do it, you ask? Simple—she becomes his date from hell so he’ll realize what a catch he had before he let her go.

Emma Swan is an expert at fixing relationships, it’s just too bad she’ll never have one of her own.

Her particular set of talents is put to the test, however, when a cheating ex-girlfriend requests her services. Emma’s reluctant at first. It’s not an easy task to make someone seem like a catch when they’ve cheated, but the potential client is an emotional wreck desperate to get her former boyfriend back before he heads back to England. Besides, Emma Swan never backs down from a challenge. They don’t call her Miss Fix-It for nothing. She’ll find a way to make him wish he was back in his ex-girlfriend’s arms, no matter what it takes. If only she can squash the feelings she develops for him and stop breaking her rules.

A/N: I know, I know, I shouldn’t be starting any more stories, but I was rewatching a movie I saw a long time ago, starring David Boreanaz, called Mr. Fix-It and I had to write my own version of it. I also did a gender swap because David’s character was just too Emma Swan to not write it that way. So this is pretty much My Best Friend"s Girl meets How to Lose a Guy in 10 days. I was originally going to write this for Captain Swan Movie Marathon, but I just couldn’t help myself or wait to share it! Some of the ideas in the story regarding relationships and love may seem stretched for the purposes of this fic, so please keep in mind, this is only fiction.

A big shout out to @ultraluckycatnd​ for beta reading and to @onceuponaprincessworld​ for letting me share my ideas with her!

Also available on: AO3 l FF.N

Catch up: Ch 1

Chapter 2

“You’re sure you don’t mind watching it again? I heard it’s one of the scariest movies of all time.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s the scariest, but it’s definitely scary. I can handle it,” Emma says confidently into the phone as she pulls into the parking lot of her friend’s apartment building. “Can you?”

“Are you kidding? I love scary movies. I was thrilled you suggested it for our date. If I get too scared though, I wouldn’t mind you wrapping your arms around me to comfort me,” he says in a flirty tone.

Emma rolls her eyes and forces a laugh. “Believe me, after the dressing room scene, you’ll need to be held.”

“Really? What happens during the dressing room scene—actually, don’t answer that. No spoilers.”

“I promise, no spoilers.”

“Okay, do you want me to pick you up?”

“No, that’s okay, I’ll just talk your ear off in the car.”

He chuckles. “Hey, I don’t mind. I like a woman who speaks her mind. My ex was always so quiet and reserved. She never told me what she was thinking and it drove me nuts. I’m not a mindreader.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that with me,” Emma claims, suppressing a mischievous tone as she shuts off the engine. “I don’t mind making a little noise. Or a lot of noise when necessary,” she adds in a seductive tone. “I do have to warn you, though, I can get a little too vocal at times.”

“Are you kidding? I love a vocal woman. It means she’s not afraid to express herself. You can get vocal with me anytime, baby doll.”

 Emma can hear him winking over the phone and has to refrain from rolling her eyes again, or vomiting, as she gets out of the car and slams the door shut. They haven't been on one date yet and he’s already calling her baby doll. “I’ll meet you at the cinema, say 7:15?”

“Great. Can’t wait. See you then.”

“I can’t either.” This will be the second time today she’s been to the cinema to see this damn movie. In fact, she just came from there, but hey, she has to be prepared for tonight. “I’m looking forward to our date,” she exclaims promptly, striding down the walkway to the apartment building while forcing a small smile to make her enthusiasm sound believable. A smile that immediately disappears once she ends the call and throws the phone in her purse. Her grandmother always said, people can hear a smile through the telephone, so always greet them with a smile. She was referring to business calls, especially when she was dealing with tenants of either rental houses or apartment buildings she owned, who couldn’t (or didn’t like to) pay their rent on time. In this case, however, it's a business call her grandmother would’ve never imagined if she were still alive. Emma sashays up the porch steps, and as she enters the key code to the building, her phone dings in her purse. She opens the door while digging into her bag to retrieve it.

MM: Are you here yet?

Emma rolls her eyes, a smile lighting up her face, and this time it’s a genuine one, despite being slightly annoyed. She’d just talked to her friend ten minutes ago on her way here, but Mary Margaret said she had some big news to share, and that woman can only withhold information for so long. Especially if she’s super excited, which is how she sounded over the phone. Emma looks up briefly to see the elevator doors sliding open before her eyes quickly return to her screen. She starts typing a message as she races to the elevator before it closes again.

“Ooof.” Her phone falls from her hands and hits the carpeted floor of the lobby as she slams into a solid mass.

Strong hands are gripping her arms to keep her from falling and she looks up, her gaze connecting with the most drowning, most mesmerizing, most beautiful deep ocean blue eyes she's ever seen in her life. She feels like the wind has been knocked out of her lungs, but it’s not because of the collision.

“Easy, love.” A smooth British accent fills her ears, tearing her from the hypnotic trance she’s in. 

It’s not until she peels her eyes from his when she notices the charming grin gracing a pair of perfectly soft, exquisite looking lips. She also notices he’s standing in the elevator entrance to keep the doors from closing. Even when he releases her arms to bend over and pick something up from the floor, he kicks back his foot to hold the doors open. After he rises, he places a firm hand on the elevator entrance while her phone is extended to her with the other hand.

Right. Her phone. She had temporarily forgotten she had dropped it during the collision.

“Uh… sorry, I...” she stutters as she takes the device, her heart fluttering as her fingertips lightly brush his. She shakes her head to get a grip on reality again because for some goddamn reason, her voice decided to betray her. But maybe it’s because she has a modest-sized list of qualities she finds attractive in a man, and his distinguishable qualities have so far checked all of her boxes.

Blue eyes that rival the beauty of the ocean. Check.

A heart-melting (or panty-melting, or in this case both) smile. Check. 

Sexy British lilt. Check.

Messy dark hair that looks like he’s just been thoroughly fucked while remaining picture perfect. Check.

Cologne with a hint of spice that she can detect as she passes him to step onto the elevator; it’s a subtle fragrance, yet very enticing. Check.

A gentleman based on the assumption that he’s been holding the door open for her since he saw her rushing for the elevator. Check.

Scruff on his chin that she imagines would feel amazing on her lips (or between her thighs). Check, check and check.  

“Thank you. I guess I shouldn’t be texting and walking,” she says with a strangled laugh as she presses the button of her floor, watching it light to avoid getting lost in his eyes again. To ignore the butterflies in her stomach. Which is stupid because she never gets intimidated by men. She has a mile-high fortress surrounding her heart and she prefers to keep it that way.

“Aye, that might be a good idea,” he chuckles, scratching behind his ear in a rather adorable manner as he casually leans against the elevator gate. And of course, his laugh is so fucking sexy, she has to add it to her list. 

His gaze flickers to the lit-up button and back to her eyes as he lifts a curious brow. “What unit are you heading to?”

“What are you, a stalker?” she accuses as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Just curious is all,” he answers, raising his hands defensively. "You’re going to the same floor I came from. If I were a stalker, I wouldn't be a very good one, considering I asked you where you lived instead of sneaking around and following you, now would I?" 

Emma opens her mouth to respond, but before she gets the chance, her phone is dinging in her hand as another incoming text from Mary Margaret appears, reminding her she never finished replying to the previous message.

MM: You must still be driving so don't respond. See you soon!

Emma laughs and shakes her head, holding up her phone screen to the handsome stranger. “This is why I was texting while walking. I swear my friend has a mini heart attack whenever I don't respond right away. Even though her apartment is where I'm heading,” she adds, vaguely answering his question.

He glances at the screen briefly before meeting her gaze again, and she turns the phone around and lowers it in front of her again. 

“Ah, I see. Guess you should go then. Wouldn't want her to have a heart attack on my account.” 

She glances at the elevator entrance he's still leaning against. "Might be easier if you stepped back so the doors can close.”

“Right. My apologies, love,” he says with a bashful smile, his cheeks painted with a slight blush. “As you wish.” With that, he steps back into the lobby, letting the doors slide shut. 

Her eyes are locked with his until the doors are completely closed, and even then, she’s still staring at the doors as though trying to burn a hole in them with her laser stare. She immediately feels a pang of regret from no longer being able to drown in those ocean blue eyes.

Emma blinks a few times to pull herself back to reality. The one where she’s very single and very much not looking for a man. Men are trouble, and that’s all they’re good for.

The elevator reaches the eleventh floor and Emma steps off, heading to Mary Margaret’s apartment before she receives another text from her friend.

She uses her key to enter the apartment and finds Mary Margaret sitting across from her boyfriend, both of them drinking what Emma only assumes is hot cocoa with whip cream and cinnamon. See, that’s what normal couples are supposed to do. Not sitting on the same side of the table. Mary Margaret and David may not be married, but they sure act like they are.

“Hi, Emma,” David greets her warmly, causing Mary Margaret to spin her head around.

“Oh good, you’re here!” The brunette springs up from her seat and goes around the table. She takes her boyfriend’s hand and tugs him toward the living room, practically bouncing up and down as she directs Emma to the sofa, looking like she’s about to combust at any moment. “Have a seat, Emma, there’s something we have to tell you.”

Emma narrows her eyes warily as she makes her way to the couch.

“Sit, sit, sit!” Mary Margaret chants in excitement as she and David stand in the center of the living room, waiting for Emma to have a seat.

Emma lifts a brow and quickly sits down. “What’s going on? Did the Evil Queen and Wicked Witch finally move out?”

Mary Margaret’s exuberant smile dims, but only slightly. “I wish.” 

Regina and her sister, Zelena, live in the unit directly below them, and every time they hear so much as a footstep above them, Zelena has a broom in her hand, banging on the ceiling with the end of the stick, and Regina is always calling the cops when she hears music; and not even loud music at that, but the walls are paper-thin. Any day they don’t pay Mary Margaret or David a visit about the noise is a very rare and very good day. Hence the monikers, Evil Queen and Wicked Witch.

“No, actually, it’s even better than that,” Mary Margaret beams as she and David exchange adoring looks before reverting their eyes to Emma.

“Okay, what is it?” she laughs. Her friends' excitement is contagious.

Mary Margaret holds up her left hand and wiggles her fingers. “We’re engaged!”

Emma’s mouth falls open in excitement as she sees the gold band holding an emerald green stone. She's not shocked though, only surprised that it didn't happen sooner. She knew they would tie the knot one day, she just wondered how long they’d be able to wait.

Emma jumps up from her seat and takes Mary Margaret's hand, studying the engagement ring. "It's so beautiful." She draws each of them into a big hug. “Oh my God, I’m so happy for both of you!”

Mary Margaret lets out the huge sigh she had apparently been holding. “Phew, it feels so good to get that off my chest. I thought I was going to explode.”

“I know,” David and Emma say simultaneously. 

“Jinx, poke you owe me a coke!” they both say.

“Ha, I said it first,” Emma teases, pointing at him.

“Only by a millisecond.”

“Alright, you two,” Mary Margaret laughs. “Now that we got that out of the way, I wanted to ask you if you would be my maid of honor, Emma.”

“Of course I will!” Emma replies enthusiastically and hugs Mary Margaret again. 

“Oh, I’m so glad! And you know you have to bring a date to the wedding, right?” Mary Margaret adds as they break the hug.

Emma frowns. “Do I have to?”

“Emma, come on, it wouldn’t kill you to go out and meet a guy for once.”

“I do go out. In fact, I have a date tonight.”

Mary Margaret scolds her. “Okay, one, you were hired to date him and two, our engagement dinner is tonight at 7:30 at the Radisson Plaza.”

“Oh, well I can reschedule the date for tomorrow then,” Emma assures them. 

Mary Margaret sighs and shakes her head. “Emma, when are you going to stop trying to save relationships and start finding one for yourself, huh? You deserve to be happy, too.” 

“I am happy.”

David crosses his arms over his chest and Mary Margaret places her hands on her hips. 

“Are you really?” he asks.

“What are you, my parents?” Emma rolls her eyes and heads for the kitchen, her friends following behind her.

“We’re just worried about you, that’s all.”

Emma grabs a box of Cheez-Its and turns around, digging into the box to scoop up a handful. 

“Emma, don’t eat too many, you’ll spoil your appetite,” David chides in a fatherly tone. 

“Okay Dad,” she teases and looks at Mary Margaret, continuing their conversation. “I’m happy with the way things are, okay? Some people need true love to make them happy; I only need my two best friends, a roof over my head and a job that pays the bills. And I have a very fulfilling job at that. I get to be Superwoman and swoop in and save the day,” she says before shoveling the Cheez-Its in her mouth.

“Okay, but who’s going to save you?” Mary Margaret asks with a raised brow. “Even Superwoman needs saving from time to time. Besides, I’d hardly call getting paid to go on dates with unavailable men fulfilling. Why can’t you do something you actually enjoy, like flipping houses?” 

“Okay, first of all, only I save me,” she mumbles through a mouthful of food, pointing a clean finger at her chest. “And secondly, I need money to flip houses. To make money, I need to be Miss Fix-It. To be Miss Fix-It, I can’t have a boyfriend. I mean, can you imagine me going on an actual date and the guy asking me what I do for a living? I can’t exactly tell the truth and say, I fix relationships, so if you see me on a date with another guy, don’t worry,” Emma says cheekily with a flick of her hand, “his girlfriend is paying me to go out with him. You cool with that?”

“No, you definitely can’t say that,” Mary Margaret shakes her head. “Which is all the more reason why you need to stop this, Emma,” she pleads, resting a gentle hand on Emma’s arm. “You know we support you and what you’re doing, but most importantly, we support your well-being.”

“I know, I know,” Emma sighs in exasperation, closing the box and pulling away from Mary Margaret to return it to the pantry. She sucks the powdered cheese remnants from her fingers before washing her hands. She’s heard her friend's spiel many times before. “Even if I did start dating, what makes you think I’m going to find my Prince Charming like you did?”

David grins and wraps his arm around Mary Margaret, kissing her temple. “She sure did.”

Mary Margaret blushes and smiles, turning her head to kiss his lips before looking at Emma again. “Look, if I can find love—hell if Ruby can find love—then so can you.”

Emma cocks a brow at her friend as she dries her hands with a hand towel from the rack. “Ruby has a boyfriend?” 

“Yes, she does. They’ve been dating for four months now.”

Emma doesn't know much about the woman who lives down the hall, only that she tends to be a maneater, so Emma’s kind of surprised to hear she’s in a stable relationship. “Must be one hell of a guy.”

“Yes, from what I hear, he is,” Mary Margaret nods matter of factly.

“Believe me, I’ve heard too much,” David groans.

“You would get along famously with him, Emma,” Mary Margaret adds, ignoring her fiance’s comment. “He’s an architect. You won’t get to meet him tonight though, he had to work.” 

Emma shrugs, unimpressed. “So, he’s an architect, big deal.” 

Mary Margaret gently scolds her. “The point is, she’s happy. You can be, too.”

Emma turns from the sink, folding her arms over her chest. “Yeah, and how long would that happiness last for me? For five seconds—long enough to get my heart shattered into a million pieces? No thanks.” She turns to leave the kitchen.

“Emma, not all men are like Neal,” David says, stopping Emma in her tracks. She spins around to face them again. 

“And not all relationships end with a broken heart,” Mary Margaret adds.

“Yes, they do,” Emma claims adamantly. “Even when someone is lucky enough to find their true love and live happily ever after, one of them will die first, eventually. People either leave a lonely life when they die or they leave their loved ones with a broken heart. Sound like happiness to you?”

“Emma…” David tries to get her to listen with a pained expression on his face, but Emma cuts him off.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, glancing between them. “Today’s supposed to be a happy one. You just got engaged and I don’t want to spoil it or drag you two down with my miserable theories on love, okay? So can we just drop it?”

Mary Margaret offers a small smile and a nod. “Okay, sorry, Emma. We didn’t mean to make you upset. We just love you and we care about you, you know that right?”

“Of course I do,” Emma says with a frail smile. “I love you both, too.”

“Well, how about we all get ready for tonight. Are you sure you don’t mind changing your plans?” David asks.

Emma scoffs and waves off his question with a flick of her hand. “Please, how often do my two best friends in the world get engaged?”

“Well, hopefully once,” David chuckles.

Emma points a warning finger at them. “It better be only once because I can’t play Miss Fix-It for you, MM, since David here already knows me and my operation.”

Mary Margaret laughs and wraps her arms around the back of David’s neck. “You won't have to worry about that, Emma, trust me.” 

David grins and wraps his arms around her, kissing her on the lips. 

Emma sticks a finger in her mouth, making a gagging motion as she grabs her purse from the table with her other hand. “Okay, that’s my cue to leave,” she laughs. “I’ll be back at seven.” She doesn’t give them a chance to answer before she’s out the door.

~*~

“This movie is so great, you're going to love it,” Emma says enthusiastically as she walks with her date, holding a bowl of popcorn. “Thank you for paying for my ticket and the snacks.”

“It’s not a problem. I’m not against women paying, just to clarify, I just think it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, you know?”

“You’re definitely a gentleman, Greg, and I love that in a man,” she says, making him blush. “Can you hold this for a sec?” She shoves the bowl into his chest before he can answer.

“Sure,” he says with a chuckle, even though he’s already holding it.

Emma opens the box of Milk Duds and pours them over the popcorn. “You don’t mind, do you? I love to let the Milk Duds melt over the popcorn, it’s so good.”

“No, it’s fine. I told you, I like a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to voice it.”

Emma retrieves the bowl and starts munching on the popcorn before the chocolate gets a chance to melt. “Mmmm, I love how buttery this place makes their popcorn. It’s so good, don’t you agree?”

“I haven’t tried their—”

Before he gets a chance to finish, Emma shoves a few popcorn kernels in his mouth. “It’s good, right?”

“Mmhmm,” Greg answers with a nod as he covers his mouth and starts chewing.

“Thank you again for agreeing to reschedule the date,” she says as they make their way toward the theater their movie is playing in. “As I said, I couldn’t miss the engagement dinner, they’re my best friends.”

“I told you it’s no problem,” he says, waving off her words. “I wouldn’t want you to miss that.”

“Oh, I would never miss their engagement dinner, they're just so important to me. I’ve had friends before, but no one as loyal as them, and certainly no one willing to stick around as long as MM. She and I have been best friends since Kindergarten, and I have no idea what I would do without her. We do everything together. MM and I even lived together for five years,” Emma rambles on and on, even when they enter the theater. She looks over and has to fight off a smirk when she sees how slightly irritated her date is. She’s been talking his ear off since they met outside the theater. “Where would you like to sit? I really like the front row because I like being right in front of the action, but I also like sitting in the back because there’s more privacy,” she snorts and elbows him in the stomach, “if you know what I mean,” she winks at him.

“The middle’s fine,” he groans, rubbing his stomach like she had injured him, and they make their way to the middle, finding two available seats. 

Her eyes widen in concern. “Oh, I didn’t hurt you, did I? Sometimes I forget how strong I am for my size. I work out at the gym—”

“I’m fine,” he says curtly, holding up his hand to silence her. “Let’s just sit, shall we?”

“Okay,” Emma says in mock defense and drops into her chair. “Oh, this just won’t do. We’re right under the vent and I’m afraid I’ll get too chilly. Can we move to the back?”

“Fine,” he grumbles through gritted teeth, and they get up and move to the last row. 

Emma chews on her popcorn rather loudly and comments throughout the previews, saying things like, “Ooooh, that looks like a good one,” or “that looks so awful, I’ll be missing that one,” or she’ll joke and make fun of it and laugh hysterically, even when no one else is laughing. 

She thought this particular job would be difficult for her, considering she’s no Chatty Cathy, but it feels rather freeing saying everything that comes to mind. Every time a thought enters her brain that might annoy him, she speaks it out loud.

When the movie begins, Greg leans in, whispering, “Okay, now it’s time to be quiet.”

Emma frowns at him, continuing to obnoxiously chew her popcorn as she faces the screen and slumps back in her chair. 

She waits approximately five minutes, after the opening credits are over, until she starts talking again. “This movie is so scary,” she whispers loudly, her eyes fixed on the screen. “You’re gonna be on the edge of your seat the whole time.”

“Okay, let’s watch the movie,” he whispers back.

“Okay.” 

She watches the film intently, even though she’s extremely bored. She just watched this movie two days ago, so she knows the surprises, she’s already experienced the spine chilling moments and most importantly, she knows who the mystery killer is. “Oh my God, that guy’s an asshole!” she shouts, throwing a couple of popcorn kernels toward the screen; they land in the hair of some lady, who’s completely unaware.

As Emma chokes back a laugh, she sees out the corner of her eye Greg cowering in his seat, burying his face in his hands. Whether he’s trying to hide his embarrassment or hiding his face so no one recognizes him, she’s not sure. She smirks briefly and grabs his wrist, pulling his hand away. “You’ve gotta see this part, it’s getting good.”

He lowers his other hand, sighing in exasperation, and she can tell he’s doing his best to maintain his composure.

The dressing room scene she told him about is close and she points at the murderer, unbeknownst to any first-time viewers when an onscreen actress invites him into her room. “Don’t trust him! He’s the killer!”

“Shhhhhh!” someone shushes her from a few seats ahead.

“You shush,” Emma mumbles and sits back with a scowl on her face.

The theater is silent again, other than the soft conversation from the movie, when the most suspenseful part is about to begin. Knowing this before any excitement happens during the scene, Emma springs to the edge of her seat and screams, “Ruuuuuun! He’s gonna slash your throat! Oh my God, run, Kelly, run!!!!”

~*~

“I can’t believe you got us kicked out of the theater!” Greg shouts when they reach her car.

He looks extremely pissed. For good reason. 

Her eyes fill up with tears and her bottom lip quivers like she’s about to cry. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” She turns around and starts sobbing in her hands. Or at least, she makes it look that way. In reality, she’s squirting her cheeks with water from an eyedropper to make it look like she’s crying.

He sighs and puts a gentle hand on her back. “Please, don’t cry. I just—I can’t…” he begins, fumbling for words.

After discreetly slipping the dropper back in her clutch purse, she wipes at her fake tears with her hand and turns around, glaring at him. “You can't what?”

He stares at her for a few seconds, apology flickering in his eyes. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry. You seem really great, but—”

“But what?” she demands, her sadness quickly replaced by anger.

“But you talk too damn much,” he answers bluntly.

Emma slaps him in the face. “You’re an asshole!” She spins on her heels and gets in her car. 

“Wait, I’m sorry!” he shouts after her, but she slams the door in his face and starts the engine. He throws up his arms in defeat and walks away, giving Emma the opportunity to retrieve her phone from her purse and type out a text. 

Emma: Go.

She peels away from the curb and heads down Maple Street, making a right-hand turn. She proceeds around the block and stops just before she reaches Maple Street again and pulls to the curb before parking and pulling out her binoculars. She watches as Tamara crosses the street several feet ahead. She watches as Greg’s face lights up when he sees his ex-girlfriend. They have a reunion hug and chat for a few minutes. He appears to be completely relieved and makes hand gestures and faces as he talks, like he’s telling her about his awful date as she listens intently, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. They end up walking down the street, his arm around her as she rests her head on his shoulder. 

Emma smiles in success as she lowers the binoculars, but her smile slowly fades. It’s so satisfying when she brings a couple back together, but honestly, it hurts like hell in the end. Watching the happy couple walk off into the sunset is a stark reminder of what she doesn’t have and probably never will. It’s a reminder of the large, gaping void in her heart. 

Maybe Mary Margaret and David were right. If they can be happy, then why can’t she? Why does she always have to play Miss Fix-It? Why can’t she, for once in her life, have her own love story instead of fixing the ones other people had initially failed at? Emma sighs and trails away from the curb. 

Maybe someday.  

For now, she wonders if she’ll ever see the hot, British guy again. She curses herself for not getting his name. If she knew his name, then she could ask Mary Margaret and David if either of them know him, or whether he lives there or was just visiting one of the tenants at the time.

She hasn’t had sex in far too long, so maybe that’s why she’s feeling lonely. She’s not looking for love, just a good, satisfying fuck with a warm-blooded male. More specifically, with the hot British guy she ran into. 

But who knows, maybe she’ll run into him again.

~*~

Two Months Later….

She still hasn’t seen the hot British guy since that day she bumped into him. Which is a shame because she’s so sexually frustrated, especially since she’s been fantasizing about him this whole time. She could easily invite some other guy to her bed, but she has a feeling the hot British guy is the only one capable of scratching her itch. He’s the only thing she’s craved for two damn months. Yes, hot, steamy sex, with the that man, her legs thrown around his hips, ginger scruff dragging along her neck as he drives into her is exactly what she needs right now. Emma bites her bottom lip and has to clench her thighs together just thinking about it as the elevator ascends to the eleventh floor. She hears the ding when it stops, and the doors slide open. 

She goes to Mary Margaret’s apartment, wondering what to expect. All she said in the text was, 

MM: Can you come over? It’s an emergency.

At first, Emma had panicked and replied back, expressing her concerns, but Mary Margaret assured her she and David were fine and that it wasn’t a life or death situation. She still wouldn’t divulge any information other than that.

When Emma uses her key to unlock the door, she finds Ruby crying on the sofa with Mary Margaret’s arms around her, trying to console her.

“What happened?” Emma asks in concern as she sets her bag on the end table by the door.

“Ruby was dumped,” Mary Margaret answers as she strokes Ruby’s hair. 

The sobs only grow in volume and intensity, and she’s visibly shaking as her friend tries to calm her. 

“It’s okay, Rubes, everything will be okay,” Mary Margaret coos. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Emma offers her condolences as she approaches the couch.

Mary Margaret tilts her head toward the other side of the sofa. “Emma, please have a seat.”

“Okay,” she says skittishly and takes a seat next to Ruby. She’s not sure why Mary Margaret invited her here at this time, considering she doesn’t know Ruby very well. She’s really only spoken to her a few times since she moved into the apartment building last year. “So, um… if you don’t mind me asking… why did he break up with you?” she asks Ruby.

Ruby lifts her head from Mary Margaret's shoulder and wipes away her tears with a Kleenex. She blows her nose before shifting in her seat to turn toward Emma, her eyes red and swollen with mascara running down her cheeks. “Because I’m an idiot.” She bursts into a fit of tears again and buries her face in her hands. Emma places her palm on the woman’s back, moving her hand in soothing circles as she glances up at Mary Margaret, who’s torn expression sends an uneasy feeling to Emma’s gut. Something tells her she shouldn't have asked. “It’s okay, you can tell me…”

Ruby sniffles and dabs her cheeks with the tissue. “Well, um… I did something really dumb, Emma. I mean, this guy was so fucking perfect and I royally screwed things up with him.” Ruby shakes her head, resting her hands in her lap as she stares at the tissues she’s holding.

Emma’s not sure what she’s expecting. Maybe Ruby got too jealous or clingy or maybe she lied about something huge. Considering her history, Ruby doesn’t seem like the type of woman who would try to rush the guy into marriage or having kids, so it probably wasn't that. In fact, maybe that’s why the guy dumped her. Maybe he proposed, she said no and he didn’t want to be with someone who wasn’t ready to settle down with him.

“Come on, whatever you did couldn’t have been that bad,” Emma coaxes softly, but she has a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

 “Oh it is, trust me. And now his roommate says he’s moving back to England once his lease is up.”

Wow, he’s fleeing the country to get away from her? Okay, maybe it’s worse than Emma thought.

Ruby sucks in a sharp breath and tells Emma the one thing that could possibly make her stomach churn, the memories of her own failed relationship hitting her like a tidal wave. “He caught me in bed with someone else.” 

Oh. 

Okay, Emma was wrong; it’s way worse than she thought. The expression on her face must be saying way too much because after Ruby catches the look on her face, she bursts into tears again. Emma politely extends her arms to Ruby, even though it’s very difficult for her to feel sorry for this woman, considering she was once cheated on, herself. Her blood burns as she thinks of her cheating bastard of an ex-husband. She sure as hell would never take him back. Not in a million years. 

She’s towed from her unpleasant thoughts when Ruby starts wailing so loudly, she’s sure the Wicked Witch and Evil Queen can hear her.

“Oh God, what have I done?! I cheated on Killian!”

A/N: So far readers have said they’re surprised by who Killian’s girlfriend is because they thought it would be Milah, but there is a particular reason for my madness, I promise. You’ll see later on...

[golden-deer-dear]

Love of Mine, Chapter 5/5, a Claude x Byleth Fic

Summary:  They were so looking forward to the birth of the first child, but when complications arise, Byleth and Claude must face the fact that their moment of happiness could turn into a tragedy.

Notes:   Uh yeah, so I needed a break from writing kid Byleth and Claude, and decided to just go ahead and finish this. Thank you to everyone who stuck with me through this. Your support means a lot to me.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Read on AO3.

Love of Mine, Chapter 5

Kiana took a deep breath as the gate before her opened and the cheers of the crowd washed over her. As she stepped out into the blazing Almyran sunlight, the cheers reached a fever pitch. They knew what would happen at the end of this fight, and they had already embraced its outcome. Through the care and dedication she had shown her people, they had come to embrace her. 

“I am the King of Almyra, Dowager King of United Fódlan, Hero of the Western Wars, and Blessed of the Green Star! Who are you to challenge me?” 

Her father’s voice cut across the noise of the crowd, declaring the traditional battle cry that came before a coronation, and they waited with bated breath for her answer, despite knowing full well who she was. “I am Queen of a United Fódlan, Archbishop of its faith, Princess to the lands of Almyra, She Who Blessed the West with Water, and Bulwark of a Nation!” 

At her words the crowd shouted again, and she had to wait for them to calm before she could speak once more. “I have come to claim the throne of Almyra! Through birthright I challenge you, and by my strength shall I prove worthy!”

Kiana came on hard and fast, dodging to the side when she felt her father’s axe disturbed the air near her. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest, adrenaline fueling every spell and punch. This fight was her destiny, and she would not fail.

/

“Tear him apart, Kiana!” 

“Uh, Tessa, that is your father down there.”

Tessa rolled her eyes and waved a hand at her in law. “Oh, she knows I don’t mean literally, Hanneman. Besides, that’s your wife!”

“And I’m very proud of her,” Hanneman said, as calmly as they ever did. Cyril and Lysithea’s child, named for the man who had given Lysithea back the years of her life before he passed on, stood at Byleth’s side, watching over the children that played at the former archbishop’s feet.

Tessa’s mother, the revered Byleth, queen of two nations and leader of a religion for many years, seemed so much happier with her burdens removed. Despite the laughter lines around her eyes, and the grey streaking her once rare green hair, she seemed younger sitting there holding Kiana and Hanneman’s third child. The older two, only six and four, had been entertaining each other until their mother appeared. Now they stood with eager faces pressed against the railing of the royal box as they watched their mother and grandfather fight.

Tessa clicked her tongue in distaste and turned, her skirts swirling out around her and transforming her every movement into a dramatic effect. She had long ago learned to wield fashion as effectively as any other weapon available to her. She sank onto a lounge next to her fiance, leaning into the other woman’s side. It wasn’t that she disliked her in law, she just never really saw eye to eye with them. Hanneman was much too business comes first for her taste, but it did make them a good ruler. And her sister loved them, so tolerating their presence was the least she could do.

“Lucina, love, how are you doing? Is there anything I can get you?” Tessa asked as she hooked her arms around one of her fiance’s own. She caught the flash of her mother’s smile out of the corner of her eye, and it warmed her own soul. 

“No.” Lucina shook her head with a smile on her lips. “I’m fine. I’m just reminded of Ferox right now.”

The adventurer in Tessa jumped for joy at the mention of the other kingdom. “You’ll have to take me there when we go back to Ylisse. Father will be fascinated.” The fact that her parents had agreed to go to Ylisse with her when Tessa went back for her marriage only made her more eager to leave. And Byleth seemed very interested in the alternate version of Lucina that had come back in time to fight in a war beside her parents. It was a fascinating topic, but Tessa preferred her version of Lucina. 

It was not that she did not enjoy being in Almyra that made Tessa want to leave, but she knew it would always be there for her to come home to. It was what made Tessa serve so well as her sister’s ambassador. Kiana touched the hearts of their people at home, and Tessa reached out to those beyond their borders. 

“It’s almost over,” Byleth said softly, drawing everyone’s attention back to the fight.

Claude had once been the most feared warrior in Almyra, challenged only by his queen. But his movements had started to slow with age, his grey hair proof of the toll time had exacted upon him. Kiana threw fire from her fists, reading the changes in the air to determine where her father moved. Tessa had to admire Kiana’s fighting style every time she saw it. It was something unique to her sister. Kiana had mastered preparing spells while throwing punches and kicks, releasing their potency right beneath her enemy’s nose. 

Kiana landed a particularly vicious hit across Claude’s jaw, lightning sparking at his flesh as she hit. The King of Almyra hit the floor hard, rising to his feet a minute later with the help of his daughter, all without his crown. No, that belonged to Kiana now. 

Tessa’s beloved older sister was now queen of two countries. 

She leapt up, cheering her sister’s name louder than anyone else in the crowd. Even Hanneman let loose a cry of triumph for their wife. 

And through it all, Byleth smiled, soft and serene, surrounded by the people she loved most in the world. The burdens of leadership were removed from her shoulders, and the joy Tessa saw in those mint green eyes, eyes she had inherited, made her own fill with tears. 

Her mother had sacrificed so much over the years. She deserved to spend the rest of her life proud of her children, spoiling her grandchildren rotten, and spending time with the man she had come back for time and time again.

/

“You’re missing a party.”

Byleth leaned back into Claude’s strong arms as he joined her on the balcony, wrapping her in his warm embrace. Even after all these years, she could still marvel at how wonderful she felt when he held her close. “It is a party for the young, the generation we have passed the world to. Right here, on this balcony with you, is the only place I need to be right now.”

Claude hummed against her hair, his lips kissing the top of her head before he laid his cheek against her. “How did Seteth take the news?”

“He knew. He knew long ago when the first grey hair appeared.” Byleth sighed heavily, a sudden chill going through her. It was the one regret she had about choosing to give up the long life the crest stone in her heart would offer her. She did not want to cause Seteth and Flayn another hurt, but her place was with Claude. “He said he wasn’t sure how I had done it, especially with his blood and Rhea’s in my veins, but didn’t seem surprised.”

“I’d like to know how you did it,” Claude pointed out. “An eternity with you doesn’t sound so bad.”

Byleth smiled and shook her head, turning in her husband’s embrace. Her hand lingered on the bruise across his jaw, softly caressing the marred skin. “We have our own eternity right here. Look.” She took his hand and led him to the center of the balcony where the night sky sparkled up at them as moonlight played on precious gemstones embedded in black stone. They shone brightly, the static sky on the night Claude had purposed, matching the moving stars above. “They’re in the same positions,” Byleth pointed out, lifting her head to look at the heavens.

“Huh. They really are. I lost track of where everything was with Kiana’s coronation.” He swept Byleth back into his arms, swaying gently to a simple melody he began to hum. 

Byleth let him lead the dance, harmonizing with her own tune. She smiled up at him, Claude’s face, no less handsome for the years that weighed upon it, was illuminated by starlight. She knew she would want for nothing else the rest of her years. However many were left, they would all be spent side by side with the man she loved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I FINISHED A FIC! Guys, you have no idea how hard it is for me to finish a multi chapter fic! I am really happy right now!

[elisaphoenix13]

What about a fic where Stephen is under a spell from an evil wizard? Making him "evil", and peter and tony are the only ones that can bring him back to normal , because you know, mama bear would never intentionally hurt is cub... or something like that ?

A Gut Feeling

He noticed something was wrong the moment Stephen came back home via a portal. Actually, Peter was halfway to his feet when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he watched in utter confusion as the sorcerer ignored him and walked into the kitchen. Usually, if the teen is the same room that Stephen portals home to, the man will wait for him to approach him and welcome the doctor home with a hug. Even if he had a really bad day. Those he definitely waited for Peter’s hugs because it made his day just a little bit better.

Stephen ignored him this time.

He never did that. In fact, he would have to be dead, dying, or unconscious to ignore Peter, and even if he was unconscious, the teen was relatively positive the sorcerer was astral projecting.

While being ignored was weird, his spidey-senses going off around Stephen was much weirder. Maybe the sorcerer wasn’t out of danger? Peter looks around but his senses kept screaming at him, the intensity growing with each step he took into the kitchen. It was too late when he finally realized Stephen was the danger. Too late because the idea that his pseudo-mom would ever hurt him was preposterous.

But he was. Stephen had glared at him when he entered the kitchen, and then tightly conjured red bands around Peter’s neck when he opened his mouth to greet the sorcerer. The teen’s eyes widen as he struggles with the magical binding and the Sorcerer Supreme sighs with annoyance.

“I thought maybe you would take a hint. That I didn’t want to be bothered…but I guess I gave you too much credit.”

Peter’s vision begins to spot and he gasps for breath when the bands tighten, and then they finally loosen when Stephen releases his end, sending Peter to his knees. He sucks in precious air as the sorcerer shuffles around the kitchen to make tea, and when the spots finally fade, Peter scrambles to his feet and escapes to his room.

Maybe he was being too clingy and Stephen had tried to kindly tell him to back off before? That would explain why he got so violent. Peter was pretty bad about reading someone’s body language. It could also be that parenting Peter was too much of a hassle and he was done with it. He was technically only Tony’s even though they were married, and Peter couldn’t really blame him. Who would want a clingy, mutant teenager for a son?

The train of thought turned into a dangerous one.

What if Stephen told Tony to get rid of Peter?

The teen curls up into a ball on his bed and shakes his head. No, Stephen was just having a bad day. One where even Peter’s hugs wouldn’t make things better, as the sorcerer claimed. He would just need to give Stephen his space and hope that Tony figured out what was going on and help make things better.

He laid in his bed for hours. His room slowly darkening as the sun set until only the city lights dully lit his room. Peter did eventually move to his desk to work on his homework, and was only a little surprised when he checked the time halfway through his chemistry homework and found that it was past nine. No one got him for dinner.

His stomach growls at the thought of food and he bites his lip as he glances at his closed bedroom door. Maybe enough time had passed for Stephen to relax that he could grab something to eat? He didn’t want to stress him out more. It was probably late enough that his parents would be watching tv in the living room and the kitchen would be open.

With that thought, Peter puts his pen down and quietly slips out of his room and down the hall into the kitchen. He found Tony sitting at the table with leftovers from last night and reading something on his phone, and Peter opens the fridge to see if there was leftover leftovers.

“What the hell?!”

Peter looks over at Tony and finds the man glaring in his general direction. Was he in a bad mood too? “I’m just getting something to eat.”

“Did that happen on patrol?”

Patrol? Did Stephen tell Tony he was on patrol and that’s why no one got him for dinner? Or maybe the fact that Tony was eating leftovers was why. It must have been a ‘fend for yourself’ night.

“Uh…what?” Peter jumps when Tony stands and approaches him and the elder grabs his chin and tilts his head to the side.

“There are bruises on your neck. Who did that?”

Bruises? Peter clears his throat and gently bats his father’s hand away to heat up the food he pulled out of the fridge. Tony must not know what happened earlier, and if he was right, Stephen took advantage of his silence and took the opportunity to place the blame on criminals. Just thinking that felt wrong to Peter. First Stephen strangled the teen then lied to Tony.

Something wasn’t right.

“Just your typical lowlife. I’m alright. It’ll heal in a couple of hours.” Peter lies.

Tony frowns. “Maybe you should let Mama Bear look at that.”

It felt like the man had thrown ice water at him. It didn’t take much to identify the feeling as fear. He was actually afraid of Stephen. “No. It’s okay. I’m breathing fine and it doesn’t hurt.”

The billionaire looked unconvinced but nodded. “Alright. Just…take it easy. Eat and head to bed.”

“Okay.”

Tony affectionately ruffles his hair and returns to the table to finish his leftover casserole, leaving Peter to finish putting together a simple sandwich. The teen joins the mechanic at the table temporarily, and when Tony finishes he throws his dishes into the dishwasher and heads to bed with a 'good night’ over his shoulder. He may be going to bed, but he wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. Stephen sort of made it a thing that if Tony was going to stay up, to at least lay in bed with a Starkpad so he was at least next to the sorcerer while he slept. That little rule was helping Tony have somewhat of a more decent sleep schedule.

Peter heads to bed as promised after he finishes his sandwich, with just a few minutes to finish his homework, and despite his interesting (terrifying) day, he fell asleep pretty quickly. He had his usual nightmares, but this was one of the times he was aware it was a nightmare. So the heavy feeling on his chest, and the difficulty breathing wasn’t as panic inducing as they normally were. Peter discovered that if he relaxed in the nightmares he was aware of, he either woke up faster or the dream changed to something more pleasant.

He woke up…but he found himself in another nightmare. One he would rather replace with his dreams of being crushed by a building over and over again, because what he woke up to was horrifying.

He really was having difficulting breathing because Stephen was standing over him and strangling him again.

Every part of him was screaming that something wasn’t right. This was not the sorcerer that was always so gentle with him, that was sometimes annoyingly overprotective of him. No. This Stephen was angry. His eyes, which always held love and fondness for him was filled with resentment and hostility.

Peter just didn’t know why.

“W-Why?” He croaks out when he pries surprisingly strong hands away enough to talk.

“It won’t matter in a minute.”

The teen chokes on a whimper when Stephen tightens his grip, and as his vision began to spot again and when confusion was about to set in, he realized that the hands at his throat weren’t scarred. They were strong though so Peter could only guess the sorcerer was focusing his magic into his hands. While Peter would have been strong enough to throw him off, Stephen had the element of surprise and the teen was already too weak to do much of anything.

Just when he thought it was the end though, he faintly recognized the sound of a portal forming, and Stephen was pulled away. Peter gasps loudly and holds a hand up to his released neck and watches through blurred vision as Stephen is punched and Levi wraps itself around the sorcerer’s arms after forcing them against his sides.

“You won’t kill me.” Stephen snarls.

The responding voice had Peter looking toward his savior. “You hurt mine. I don’t know what happened in your dimension for you to do what you did,” this was around the time that Peter finally recognized a second Stephen, and the man looked both enraged and devastated. “But I have no qualms against killing myself to keep my son safe.”

Peter’s vision clears a little more as Levi unravels itself from the wrong Stephen, who gets thrown through a portal, and the remaining Stephen turns to the ailing teen. He approaches him slowly, the teen recoiling just a bit when the sorcerer reaches out, and gently cups Peter’s cheek. His senses, for the first time all day, were silent. This was the Stephen he knew. His familiar scent (something the other Stephen didn’t have but Peter didn’t process it), his gentle shaking touch (definitely amplified by fear), and kind eyes filled with worry and a bit of devastation still there.

“Mom.”

That was all the other man needed before Peter was pulled into a tight embrace. He could feel the other man trembling when his face was quickly pressed into Stephen’s collarbone. Sure, Peter was scared when he woke up to being strangled, but he could tell something was bothering the doctor.

“I am so sorry. A rogue sorcerer managed to switch me with an alternate version of myself without my knowledge. It took me getting to the tower in that dimension to realize something was wrong.”

Well that already explained a lot. An alternative version of his Stephen would be messed up.

“It’s okay. You got here just in time. I’ll be okay.”

Stephen holds him tighter. “Barely. Peter…you were dead in that reality. He killed you and apparently told that Tony that it happened during your patrol.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything that would turn me into that monster. I was already coming back as soon as I found out though. When I did…” Stephen’s breath hitches.

They sat there in silence, Stephen’s grip on him unwavering, until Peter finally manages to get them both laying down. The doctor lays down without a fuss, using magic to change his clothes, and directing Levi to a corner of the room. They both definitely needed the validation that the other was either okay or real, and Peter wasn’t about to complain. In the back of his mind, he was still a little afraid that this was another dream, that the other Stephen had choked him out of consciousness, but then the man next to him clung onto him again once they got comfortable.

Being shoved into a world where someone he vowed to protect with his life was dead because of him (although indirectly) shook Stephen to his core. Peter was considerate and wore his heart on his sleeve, it kind of made the sorcerer wonder what caused so much hate in his alternate self.

“Your father doesn’t know.” It wasn’t a question. If Tony knew, the other Stephen would have been dead.

“He thinks I got hurt on patrol.”

Stephen swears under his breath. “I’m sorry cub…so sorry you had to go through that. I’m surprised you haven’t thrown me out yet.”

“My senses went off around him. I’m okay now though. He didn’t have all the small things that you do, so I know for a fact that I’m safe again.” He pauses for a few seconds. “I don’t blame you by the way. I’m sure you’re thinking about the what ifs and I just wanted you to know that.”

Peter was far too good for this world.

Any world really.

“Love you Mom.” Peter says after a few minutes of quiet.

“…I love you too Spiderling.” Stephen whispers.

It wasn’t guilt that kept the sorcerer up that night. It was pure unadulterated fear. Fear that one of the most important people in his life would be taken away if he closed his eyes.

So he asked Karen to turn on the tv to a quiet setting when Peter eventually fell asleep. It helped distract him from everything but his thoughts of having Friday delete any and all footage of the other Stephen harming Peter. Just thinking about it made him sick. He couldn’t see it again, and definitely wouldn’t let Tony either.

[moviemunchies]

Hellboy (2019) Review

So I finally watched the new Hellboy movie.

I’m a longtime fan of both the comics and the Guillermo del Toro movies. I was bummed when del Toro announced that any hopes of a third movie in his series were dead, and a little skeptical and stressed when immediately afterward Lionsgate declared that they were making a reboot. But they insisted that it would be a more faithful adaptation of the comics; because while the del Toro films are brilliant and wonderful, they are not very good adaptations of the comics. 

And then the first trailer dropped onto the Internet. And it was… not a good trailer. It focused on humor and violence, the former of which was not very good and the latter of which was gratuitous. Neither of those are features of the comics. Furthermore, the trailer worried me because while character names and backstories were from the comics, the details weren’t: they didn’t act like the characters in the comic. Which isn’t necessarily bad, mind you; a movie adaptation doesn’t need to be precisely like the source material, but the team behind the film claimed it would be accurate to the comics, the trailer with its peppy out-of-place music and terrible comedy and characters that were in-name only versions of the comics characters… the trailer made it look like a bad movie, and I had concerns.

Then the film came out, and reviews came out. They weren’t great. Listen, I don’t think you should put too much stock in review or Rotten Tomatoes; if you’re interested in a movie, you should go see it and form your own opinions. But I don’t think it’s always worthwhile ignoring them. Because the problems described by critics were exactly the things I had anticipated from the trailers. I still resolved to see the movie, but I had less urgency than I really should have. Because by the time I decided I’d go and see it, it was no longer in theaters. 

Whoops!

And because the library system here often makes it hard to put new releases on hold, it took forever before I was able to get my hands on the DVD. But I finally did, and I finally saw the movie, and, uh

It’s a bad movie.

Alright I’ll try to put a positive spin on this first: it has some okay action scenes. It’s got some good design and visuals. And if you’re a fan of the Hellboy comics, maybe you’ll get some joy from seeing some of that stuff on screen.

And that’s kind of it.

I’ve heard some people say, “At least the acting from the lead is good!” I’m going to have to chalk that up to a Your Mileage May Vary thing, because I didn’t find any of the acting in this movie to be particularly outstanding. It’s not terrible, mind you, but there was nothing in it that made me say, “Wow, David Harbour did a fantastic job!” At most, there were some performers who looked like they had fun on set.  Maybe it’s because the acting is betrayed by terrible scripting.

I don’t want to compare this movie to the comics it’s adapted from, because you shouldn’t constantly compare an adaptation to its source material; they’re separate texts. But the makers of the movie kept inviting that comparison. And yeah, you can see from which characters are present and where the plot takes cues from comics, but it rings hollow. “We have Ben Daimio!” Yeah, but you made him British, gave him a different personality, and made his werejaguar form a powerup rather than a curse that’s the worst thing to happen to the BPRD. “We have Alice Monaghan!” Yeah, but instead of an Irish woman who doesn’t age and has a strange connection with the faeries, she’s a British woman that talks to dead people. It’s the shape of the story and the characters, but with different substance. Which wouldn’t be bad if the substance was actually, y’know, good.

Another problem was this film claimed it was going back to the horror genre, instead of the dark fantasy of Guillermo del Toro’s films (again, claiming this was a callback to the comics). But if that’s the case, then it’s the worst kind of horror. There’s barely anything atmospheric about the scenes. This is not the subtle, gothic horror the comics have, or the chilling Lovecraftian horror it delves into. It’s just monsters tearing people limb from limb whenever they’re on screen, spraying blood everywhere. It’s not scary, and it’s disturbing that it happens so often. The film seems to think it’s cool, waving its violence in your face like a child showing you a new toy. But this wasn’t made by children, so it’s just annoying. 

The plot isn’t strong either. It’s adapted from my favorite arc in the comics, but it’s one of the penultimate stories, so using it as a starting point for a film makes very little sense and has the movie doing the film equivalent of cramming before the exam. So often Hellboy will arrive somewhere, and someone will explain who they are and some part of critical backstory, usually with a flashback sequence. So much of this movie is made up of flashbacks, and I’m not sure why. Why did they choose to tell a story that relies so much on previous information, instead of just doing movies about one of those flashbacks?

All of this I might be able to handwave if I liked the characters enough, but I don’t. Hellboy is a whiny, annoying dick who keeps making “witty” comments that make you want to hit him. You know the kind of guy (and it’s usually a guy in my experience) who just won’t stop cracking jokes, almost all of which are not funny, and refuses to shut up no matter what’s going on? That’s how Hellboy is in this movie. The few moments he does get serious feel heavy-handed and tacked on.

He’s also really dumb. He gets easily distracted, and when the Blood Queen talks to him for the first time about how life’s not fair for people like them, he immediately starts whining about how people think he’s a monster and how the bloodthirsty vampires and zombies and demons he’s killed are his “brothers and sisters.” Early on the Osiris Club pretty much admits point blank that they’re sworn to kill him, and then he gets surprised when they stab him in the back.

The side characters aren’t much better. Alice is the annoying spunky girl who Hellboy keeps around by virtue of being the one character other than Bruttenholm who doesn’t want him dead on sight. Daimio is alright, but he’s just a grumpy surly douchebag who’s there to learn that Hellboy’s not so bad after all and doesn’t actually contribute anything plot-wise. Bruttenholm is--

[rubs head]

Look, okay: Ian McShane as Trevor Bruttenholm is such a weird choice that it boggles my mind. They’re going a different direction with the character. Okay, fine. But the way Ian McShane plays him looks like it’s going for the ‘stern and distant father who ultimately cares about his sone more than anything in the world even if he’s a bit of a dick about it.’ Except what they end up getting with his performance is just ‘he’s a dick.’ And his relationship with Hellboy is supposed to be the emotional center of the movie. 

I think, at its core, the movie is trying to distance itself from the Guillermo del Toro films. Which again, wouldn’t be bad if it weren’t for the fact that they do it in the worst ways possible. This film wants to not to repeat the kindly old man Bruttenholm of del Toro’s Hellboy? Let’s make him a bristly douchebag! Getting away from the Hellboy and Liz love story that’s not in the comics anyway? Let’s not have a romance subplot (which is fine!) and instead add a female companion that’s annoying! And instead of an origin story, like with del Toro’s first film, it gives a quick summation of Hellboy’s backstory twenty minutes into the story and doesn’t bother explaining much other than he’s destined to end the world. For Reasons.

They could have made a Hellboy movie that was all of the things they wanted AND a good film. I think it’s definitely possible to make a movie that’s closer to the original comics, and completely different from the del Toro films, was rife full of horror elements, and was a great movie all rolled into one. But that isn’t this movie. This movie’s a mess of a project that makes me shake my head.

I can only recommend if you’re a fan of the original comics and are curious to see how it all went wrong, or to see some of the monsters from the comic art brought to life on screen. But for everyone else? Steer clear. It’s not worth your time or attention. 

[snowycrocus]

Frozen Fanfiction “Such a Cost” Ch.6/? Elsa Sacrifices her Magic to Save Anna

Start with these first:  part one   part two   part three   part four   part five

Sorry this took so long! Life got in the way and I’m simply just not good at writing long stories. (someone send me some one-shot prompts!) Anyway, here’s the next chapter. Look for the heavy foreshadowing ;)

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

Her life is not her own; it never was, and never would be.

Such is the life of a Queen, of a ruler. She knew that. She should have known.

But somehow she forgot that fact, and it all comes back to her now, how her personal business is also the business of everyone in the entire kingdom.

Particularly, the business of her council. Or at least, they think it’s their business.

It nearly makes her want to retreat back to her bedroom for another thirteen years.

“You must get them back!”

“But the princess, Jon!”

“- leaves us open to attack-”

“-and we were not consulted!”

“Yes, precisely – that’s why you have advisors, Your Majesty!”

For the first time, without the ice responding to her anger under her skin, Elsa feels her blood begin to boil.

It used to be that when angered, the ice would skitter to the surface, sending prickling tendrils out to her skin, waiting to be released (or not waiting, sometimes). She used to have to focus to hold it all in, contain it inside of her.

Not this time.

Now, her forehead breaks out in a sweat. She feels flushed, damp, breathless. Angry.

Where there was once ice inside of her, now there is heat. Strong and raging, a roaring fire.

The last reprimand strikes a chord and she lets the fire out.

“Advisors?!” She bursts. It takes all of her willpower not to sputter and she tries to enunciate each word clearly and carefully. “Why would I require my advisors to tell me to save my sister’s life?”

The heat is spreading – across her cheeks, through her chest. It’s too hot in here. She can’t breathe.

“If my so-called advisors would have advised me to do anything else other than save Princess Anna, I suggest they leave right now and advise me no longer!”

The heat is too much. It’s too strong. She feels like she’s gasping for air.

Maybe she is. Anna, next to her, reaches out to take her hand. Elsa nearly pulls her hand away. Anna’s warm, her hand too warm. It’s too hot in here. She can’t breathe.

“Elsa is your Queen!” Anna exclaims. “She did what she had to. She shouldn’t have consulted anyone. She did what she had to so that we could stay together.” Her voice on the last sentence grows weak and guilty.

Elsa’s hand is growing warmer and wetter beneath hers and her sister pulls her hand away. Anna looks at her with worry. Elsa’s cheeks are flushed pink and the color is spreading across her face and chest.

They’re right, Elsa thinks, trying to calm her breathing and focus on the discussion at hand. She didn’t consider matters pertaining to the kingdom when she had Grand Pabbie remove her powers. Didn’t even think about Arendelle.

Just Anna. Only Anna. As it should be.

She wouldn’t change a thing, she knows. But it’s hard , and it hurts, to be reminded that once again she has inconvenienced her people, perhaps even placed them in danger.

Councilor Aren’s voice rings in her ears. “We’ll need to send out more spies. This occurrence may leave Arendelle open to attack, now that the Queen is…vulnerable.”

Vulnerable. That’s what she is now. That’s what Arendelle is now, without her magic to protect it. Her mind races as quickly as her heart. What if another kingdom came to invade? Her navy was small, untested. They hadn’t really, truly fought in decades. She needed them to recruit. Practice, grow stronger. They didn’t have enough people, enough weapons. Did they have enough steel? Enough blacksmiths, swordsmiths? She’d have to look into that, increase the apprenticeships and incentives. She couldn’t remember which areas were most defensible and which were the most vulnerable. Make a note to study the geography and battle plans. Talk to some generals, some captains. Devise a new training plan. And yes, like Aren said – find spies, and oh! and-

“Your Majesty.” A sharp reprimand breaks her out of her twisting, coiling thoughts. “We need your utmost attention on this matter.”

Elsa chokes on her next breath. She wants to scream. As if she hadn’t been paying attention. As if the ramifications of her actions hadn’t been snaking through her mind for hours, taking away her sleep, her appetite, her recently-acquired version of calm. She hadn’t thought about anything else, couldn’t think about anything else, ever since the ice had left her being and she felt lost and devoid and lacking.

Her mind is swimming, her hands shaking, and she just can’t do this anymore. The panic has now set in.

Before, with her powers, she could focus on those during a panic attack. She had to, had no other choice. She would ignore her lack of oxygen, her trembling limbs, her aching chest and instead pay attention to the call of the ice – trying to hold it in, keep it back, contained.

But now? Now she has no alternative. There is no ice raging to be free from under her skin anymore. There is only panic, panting, shaking, and loss of control.

How does she feel less in control without her magic than with?

Just fear that she is not enough. That she is nothing without her magic.

“Excuse me.” She bites out, stumbling out of her chair and nearly falling into the door and out into the corridor. She prays that Anna senses her need for isolation and doesn’t follow.

She finds herself in the garden, just a few steps away from the conference room. She stumbles to her knees in the green grass, not even caring that her skirts will sport stains or that her heels will be caked with mud.

She plants her hands down to the ground, breath heaving. Her hands tremble in the grass and she digs her fingers into the soil to ground them and stop their shaking. The earth is soft and cool. So soothing. Her shoulders stop their trembling.

She closes her eyes, breathes in the earthy richness of the soil and the bright bitter notes of grass. Some sweetness to her left, perhaps a rosebush or another flower. Her breathing begins to even out and she notes the tight knot in her chest and stomach.

Another whiff. It tickles her nose and she scrunches it, focusing on her surroundings and not the slowly-loosening knot. Flies buzzing, the brief, sharp caw of a bird. She can feel there’s now dirt underneath her fingernails and wonders how she will get it out before her handmaid sees it.

Her body loosens and she can breathe once more. She opens her eyes.

There is grass, and earth, and bushes and flowers and trees. No ice, no snow, despite her running emotions and desperate panic. The world is still here, the nature untouched. How she feels now – it doesn’t matter. Nothing else will feel her emotions except her. They are safe.

Everything is safe.

She cries out a note of blissful disbelief. What a gift!

No matter what she does, what she feels – there will never be ice again. The grass will stay green, the roses will keep their pink soft petals. The air will stay warm and bright and people will stay safe.

It brings such a thrill humming through her veins that she can barely remember how upset she was a few minutes ago.

Who cares what they think? You have not left your people at risk by losing your magic. You have kept them safe.

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

“I heard a witch cursed her and took away her powers.”

“Wouldn’t that be un-cursing her, then?

“Uh…”

“C’mon, witches? Really? I was told she got really sick and lost them. That’s why she wasn’t seen for a while.”

“What? That’s so boring!”

What was really boring, Kristoff thought, was hearing these crack-job theories. Over and over and over again, day after day, he heard discussions and arguments over why their Queen was suddenly brunette and powerless.

It was getting draining. He just wanted to tell them all the truth just to shut them up. But he couldn’t. Not his place, and besides, he didn’t want to be spilling such sensitive secrets and put the girls in danger.

But not only was it getting tiring, it was stressful. Depressing. The whole castle was depressing. It was quiet and empty. No more laughter in the halls, no more chatting in the rooms. It was all Anna talked about anymore. She felt guilty – beyond guilty that she was the cause of this drastic change in her sister’s life.

The Queen…Elsa didn’t know how to take it all; how to process it. She tried to explain to him once that she felt lacking. Empty. Without her powers to focus on controlling, her attention moved to her anxiety instead. She grew even more quiet and withdrawn in response to the way everyone stared at her and passed around rumors. She was depressed.

“What do I have to offer now?” She once tried to explain to him when he confronted her. “I can’t protect my people. I haven’t married to form an alliance. I haven’t extended the royal line with children. I’m a failure – and that’s all I’ll ever be.”

Despite Kristoff’s fervent protests, he couldn’t convince her otherwise.

Anna, racked with guilt, instead grew angry. Not only did she feel like it was her fault that Elsa gave up a major part of her identity, she couldn’t comfort her sister – or at least she didn’t have as strong as an effect on her as she would have hoped. Despite Elsa’s constant claims that Anna was her everything and she’d give up her powers a thousand times over for her, Anna had hoped that she could break Elsa out of her chain of depression and anxiety. But nothing could.

“Don’t you talk about her like that!” She’d yell to villagers she heard gossiping about the Queen. “You don’t know half of what she went through and why!”

She grew snippy and impatient with him, then feel even more guilty about it later. “All I do is hurt people,” she’d claim, despite his protests.

He couldn’t do anything. And neither could she. Neither could any of them.

At least, not without the pendant.

The pendant, which rested locked up in a box to which only Elsa had the key.

It sat, so he was told, in the dusty closet of the late king and queen. A place where no one ever walked, or cleaned, or touched. A place no one would ever lay eyes on it.

No one, that is, except for the Queen, who visited when the longing inside of her grew so deep and gnawing, only to be relieved by the cool, smooth touch of the crystal against her ever-so-ordinary skin.

But she never went any further with it than a simple touch, no matter how it called to her.

She shouldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

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Anyone catch the foreshadowing? There’s basically two elements that will return to finish off this story, wondering if someone picked up on what will happen :) As always, please please comment and review, that’s what keeps me writing and your words are incredibly important to me. Let me know what you think!  Here, Elsa begins to feel nearly bipolar. She’s struggling with the pain of missing her powers but at the same time experiencing the great relief that the lack of them brings. But that newfound relief can’t quite overshadow what she’s lost.

Next chapter, as some of you have been waiting for, will feature the loss of Marshmallow and Olaf. There will probably be 2-3 more chapters of how the characters are dealing with all these big changes before we get into the meat of the plot.  Tagging previous readers/reviewers, hope you don’t mind:  @lelitachay, @egoeas, @a-frozen-kind-of-love, @aqueenthatisfrozen, @arendelve, @the-sky-is-awake, @elsaannasnowqueen, @justlookatthosesausages, @above-d-clouds, @frozen-heart101, @sketchypalette20, @maregnbue, @imperial-imp, @onepieceofartplease, @snowqueenofmyheart, @thegeekogecko, @99884321, @everrealmdweller, @grrlgeek72, @frozenartscapes, @habibi18, @thankfullyimgay, @wandering-bard-from-the-id, @a-frozen-kind-of-love

[porthecrawl-witness]

Bonus Content (Quinn) + Update

Hello, everyone! Been a minute, but here’s the overdue content for Quinn, as voted for on the forum. Once this is posted, I’ll try and catch up with a few asks.

Chapter seven is...much bigger than anticipated, but it is coming along nicely at 70,000 words. There’s a good bit of variation, so you’ll only see so much of that during a run and I’m the fence about one scene in particular. But, once this is done, we’ll be over half-way there!

M!Quinn below. Second version upcoming.

.................

You aren't sure what to expect after a series of indecipherable drunk texts from Quinn vibrates your phone off the bedside table and onto the floor. Quinn, of course, had not answered when you called. Staci had, assuring you that the doctor was not at the rented Dye house – and you're positive he had still been laughing when you had hung up the phone.

You are undoubtedly Quinn's closest acquaintance outside of his temporary housemates and that, combined with equal measures of curiosity and concern, lured you to Little Porthecrawl's dockside neighborhood. The docks are poorly lit, part of the small, underprivileged section of town that has not benefited from modern trimmings. The area suffers from one too many layers of grime, a far cry from the nearby, candy-colored town center.

The Little Bar-crawl Bar and Grill is one of only a few bars in town. It's old, as is everything here, and offers cheap beers and bottom-shelf shots three nights a week. It boasts the only neon sign in town, which glares out at you from a sagging, dirty window. The building was originally the town customs house, its foundations having settled over the centuries so that when you enter, you have to take a short step down from street level.

Quinn's crisp white shirt is easy to spot amidst the few patrons. He stands from the bar stool, the top of his head nearly grazing the sunken ceiling beams before his legs fold slightly, tipping him over the bar. He perches there, smiling, on his bony elbows. Another shot of rot-gut is poured and Quinn, to his credit, throws it back without complaint. He swivels around, bright eyes widening momentarily before he squints at you through the dim blue lights.

"You're here! My dear," he pauses, smiles again, and waves you nearer with a flutter of his delicate hand, "dear masticator of commercial prose."

What?

That hand comes down on your shoulder, the touch inelegant and loose. He pats you several times.

"I'm…so glad you came."

A loopy, closed-eyed grin follows.

"Uh, Quinn – "

"No one ever, ever told me about this place. This," he taps a finger against the top of the bar, "this is a veritable trove of…sticky…old things."

You move a little closer. The music isn't loud by any means and the bartender has the bored look of someone who only perks up for tips and cigarettes. Quinn, however, doesn’t look as though he'll register your voice, much less understand you if you are more than a foot away.

"Are you alright?"

" – you know, the last time I had drink at a bar, it was New York and I," he staggers slightly, "I was younger and had a much, much higher tolerance."

He's in a melodramatic spiral, perhaps, but clearly fine. Mostly fine. He'll probably be less fine come morning.

Suddenly, a long arm flings out, draping around your shoulders and hitching you into his side. He's surprisingly strong, or maybe you just weren't expecting it, but the ambush has led you into an awkward side-hug, from which he seems reluctant to release you. The damp, sweet scent of the bar nearly overpowers the plain soap and expensive cologne that clings faintly to Quinn.

Quinn leans forward, nearly toppling off the stool. You catch him before he slides too far.

"You are a good, good friend – acquaintance?" He makes a face the thought, thin features pinching. "Associ – associate? Companion!"

You snort, patting his shoulder. "Friend is fine, Quinn."

"Really? You mean it? A wonderful surprise, not to have mislabeled you. Perhaps, as a friend, you could escort me home?"

"You mean you don't want another drink?"

"I want to hear the Bitch is Back once more but this – " he flings a finger in the direction of the bartender, "this man claims that three renditions are enough."

Familiar with the song and surprised to hear Quinn is a fan, you turn to the bartender. "Three?"

The man sniffs, his rag squeaking about the rim of a tumbler. "Does this look like a karaoke joint to you?"

"If you charged more for beer, you might consider a decent machine," Quinn argues, slurred voice still managing to be clipped.

"More for beer?" The bartender's eyes flick to yours, uncomprehending. "More for beer?"

To his credit, Quinn appears to understand the implication of a man dressed in tailored pants sitting at scuffed, nearly empty bar, calling for higher quality libations.

"Perhaps," he turns to you, "perhaps this bitch should go back home?"

You press your lips into a thin line and glance at the bartender who, up until the moment Quinn places a hundred dollar bill down by his collection of empty bottles, looks as though he agrees. The man sets aside the glass he has been polishing, tucks the money away, and a smile manages to crack through his craggy features.

"You're welcome here anytime, Doctor Amsler. I'll keep Elton on rotation, just in case."

Quinn squints at him. "Bold of you to assume I'm going to survive the hangover." He turns to you. "I estimate twenty minutes before I become violently ill."

One hand on his arm, the other reaching out carefully to steady him, you reply, "I think we can make it."

"You're a saint." Suddenly, he stops short. "Staci's going to be inco – incorri – uh, he's going to think this is funny."

"He's not the only one. Were you really singing Elton John?" Quinn's weight seems as though it will be slight at first, though as soon as it settles against you and you are left to heave the man along with shuffling steps, you are left to lament the prior assumption.

"Yes," he sniffs.

"But…out loud?"

"Are you implying there is another way to sing?"

For a moment, you consider dropping him. The limbs promise a disastrous tangle, however, and you bite your lip until the pair of you are out the door.

"Still a saint," he says as you prop him against your car.

Fumbling with the keys that are hardly illuminated by the dull glow of the bar's sign, you spare a glance at him.

"Is there reason you're out drinking alone?"

He peeks at you, a single eye opening behind a mussed curtain of hair.

"Ghosts," his head falls back against the roof with a dull thud, "I'm tired of all the incorporeal dramatics."

Fingers tensing over the keys, they slide from your grasp, hitting the pavement with a clatter.

[ai-qa]

Horizons

Parana took a deep breath and tilted back her head, snout toward the ceiling.  She took a brief pause to try to find her words.

"I'm...not really sure how to explain this," she began.  "Even I don't really understand it."

I stared intently while my sister just cocked her head-- surprisingly even Xhianei was paying attention.

"Basically," Parana sighed, "your parents weren't legally married, so your mother isn't a true citizen.  Your births are, uh, unregistered, so as far as the government is concerned neither of you two exist."

"...What?" was the only word I could muster.

"The problem is less about your citizenships and more about your mother's.  After your father, er, ousted her from your home, she was granted some means of protection to try to get a better look at this whole situation.  The other problem is that, all this time, your father has been given default custody of Xhianei as he's a registered citizen."

I saw Xhianei's ears perk as she looked back to me.  Her eyes gave away the same question I had.

"What...about me?" I asked.

"Well...your mother loves the both of you very, very much and is working very hard to get custody of the both of you, but because of this whole legal song and dance she's not allowed to keep either of you until, hopefully, her process is complete," Parana shook her head.  "I don't really understand it, either.  The most I can do is provide a place for your mother to stay during this time, and because of claims of insanity from your father I'm not even able to allow the both of you visit until it's confirmed that's not the case."

"Insanity?" I asked.  "Where did that even come from?"

"Your father has some deep roots here, it seems, so his accusations are getting taken more seriously than they might from anyone else.  I don't know anything more than that, I'm afraid."

"But, wait, if this is between mom and dad, then why are we getting brought all the way here?  Where are we going?"

"Yeah, I was getting there," Parana reassured, putting the envelope in my bag.  "Because of how these laws work, by default you're both considered citizens of your mother's home region and not here, at least until all of this is over and your citizenship can be processed along with hers."

"Her home region?"

"Your mother is from Faradus.  Surely you've wondered how your family doesn't really look like most of the people here," she chuckled.  "Faradus is the home region for those who look like you, all fluffy and flat-footed like you both are."

I looked to my feet, then back to her.  I could see Xhianei doing the same from my periphery.

"So, wait, we're going to a different region?" I blurted, the gravity of it finally hitting me.

"At least for a little while," she replied, putting her arm around me and pulling me close.  "I really, really wish we didn't have to do this, but your father seems hell-bent on making this process as difficult as possible.  Over the past few weeks we've made arrangements at a temporary housing facility in southern Faradus, a town called Huot.  At least there you won't have to deal with this, or him."

A moment of silence passed.

"Parana?"

"Hm?"

"Why does dad hate me?"

"...Honestly, I don't really know.  I know what he's said, but I don't understand what it means."

"What did he say?"

"It's...got something to do with your eyes," she said, releasing me.  "Something about being bad luck and I guess this makes him feel ashamed.  My guess is it's a faraden thing, because I'd never even thought about it."

She turned around to nudge both our faces in her direction.

"All I've ever seen is a couple pairs of pretty honey eyes, and I think that's all anyone else here has seen, too," she smiled.

Admittedly I smiled a bit, too.  For the first time ever, I had some insight into my father's disdain.  Even if I didn't really understand it, it was somehow comforting to at least have some kind of reason.

Parana looked up at the clock as other people in the shelter started picking up their things and moving about.

"Looks like it's time to go," she said, stretching.  "Xhias, in your bag I have a signed note you'll need to give to the people in charge at that temporary housing place so they know who you are.  Make sure not to lose that."

I picked up the bag and spun it onto my back as Parana took Xhianei's hand.  We made our way to the ship gate, but only Xhianei and I walked through it.

"Wait, are you not coming?" I yelped.

"I'm sorry, Xhias, but by law I have to stay here while this citizenship thing is getting sorted out.  If I leave the region, your mother will likely be deported as I'm her strongest reference in her case."

The man at the gate felt the tension of the moment and allowed her a step forward past the gate, her arms wide open.  My sister and I ran to her, the only comfort away from this turmoil we had ever known, and hugged as hard as we could.

"I love you both very much and we'll see each other again real soon," she whispered through our sniffling and tears.  "It's a promise, but you both have to be strong.  I know you can do it."

We reluctantly let go and took a few steps back toward the ship.

"Xhias, Xhianei, remember to take good care of each other.  For a while, you'll be the only family the other has.  Hold on tight to that."

Xhianei and I both nodded our heads in firm understanding as Parana took a step back behind the gate.  I turned around with purpose, grabbing my sister's hand and clinging tightly to the strap of our bag before running onto the ship just ahead of us.  A loud horn sounded not even a minute later, and before we knew it we were on the move.  The both of us scrambled to the edge to see our guardian one last time as she stayed behind waving back at us until the coastline disappeared.

---

The voyage took some time, maybe a bit over two weeks.  I thought back to my first time seeing the ocean, when I was so captivated by its seeming endlessness.  Seeing it and experiencing it, just like those times back then, were two very different things.  Strangely, though we'd been out in the middle of true nowhere for however long, it was relieving, even comforting, though I couldn't really make sense of that at the time.

We spent our spare time helping with various chores while at sea, things like washing dishes, helping with food, and other small tasks we could reliably do at our age.  Time went by a bit faster as we worked and we even got rewarded with extra food helpings, small pastries, and other simple things depending on the task.  The other passengers were quite friendly, telling us stories about where they were from, experiences they'd had, people they'd met, and all kinds of things.  I felt more at ease among these strangers than I recall feeling most days at home.

Ah, home.

I tried not to let on too much, but I admit I still missed it.  I missed my mother, I missed Parana, I missed the islanders, the sparkling beach, the food...  Despite the hardships, the abuse, there were still those good moments to which I clung.  Xhianei never said much, but I could tell she felt the same way.  I held her close often, thinking back at our guardian's last words and contemplating what lied ahead.

---

A knock on our cabin door woke me up after an afternoon nap post-chores.  I sat up and stretched, looking to the door as Xhianei just rolled over.

"Hey, you two," came a voice, the door opening just a crack.  "We've arrived."

---

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[neuxue]

Before you get to the arc payoffs, I think it would be cool if you could illustrate your thoughts on the journeys the main characters have gone on to get to this point. Like, your thoughts on their consistency and what you think worked and didn't work, aside from Perrin's plotline temporarily dying and Mat disappearing for a book.

This is an excellent question and I could probably take several weeks to compile an answer but I’m going to answer it now because I am an adult who is entirely in control of her life and her choices especially regarding fiction, fictional characters, and the discussion thereof.

‘Main characters’ is a rather flexible definition in WoT so I’ll start with the original set from EotW and go from there, and we’ll see how far I get.

(Okay it turns out I only got through the Emond’s Field group, becasue I’m me and I can’t just write a sentence or two for each one, but I might try later to do the same for some other characters)

Rand al’Thor: Rand’s character arc, and the way it’s executed, is fantastic. He definitely benefits from the sheer length of the series (well, his arc does; he just suffers), because it allows for a nuanced, complex, thorough character journey from farmboy to broken hero, from human viewpoint protagonist to distant focal point around which everything spirals, from determined trusting optimist to desperate half-mad fatalist. Any of those transitions can be and have been done in shorter wordcounts, but the length of the series, and the way everything about what Rand does and goes through escalates a little (or sometimes a lot) with each book, gives his arc this feeling of an inexorable pull, of compounding pain, of just a series of small steps, each only a little further than the next. 

When you have 12 books (so far) to do that with, you can end up a huge distance away from where you started, without it ever feeling like too great a jump. Each ‘level’ (either of what he has to endure or what he himself does and becomes) is gradually normalised over time; he and the reader acclimate, so then it’s time to step up to the next. Put The Last That Could Be Done after, say, Falme, and it would still hurt but it would feel almost like too much (and also not enough, because it would lack the weight and momentum of everything that came before). Instead, you get to watch the slow unravelling of a character even as his power grows, tension building, until (like his ancestors the Aiel) he becomes all but unrecognisable as who he was at the start, but every step along the way feels like just another step, until a single step is all it takes to push him off the cliff his narrative has spent the better part of twelve books building for him.

I also love the way Jordan has played with POV in this particular arc, with Rand going from the main viewpoint character to barely having a POV. It suits the way he goes from being a protagonist beginning his journey to becoming the centre of a whirlpool that expands to encompass the entire world, as well as how he goes from being very young and human and real to… “I don’t know how human the Dragon Reborn can afford to be,“ to just dragging himself and the world to the Last Battle. He loses POV chapters because he no longer sees himself as a person with agency or even the right to his own mind – which, too, is invaded and eroded as time goes on, again fitting well with the decrease in POV chapters: his mind is literally no longer his own, nor – he believes – is his life.

I expect his to be one of the arcs with the greatest catharsis in its payoff, just because there’s so much that’s built up over time; the potential energy, if you will, is huge, and at some point it has to be released, and while building it took 12 books and counting, there’s…not all that much time left, so it’s going to be released in a far shorter time than it was built, and if anyone remembers anything from physics class, that means it’s going to hit with a hell of a lot of force.

Also okay in my head this was going to be maybe a paragraph or two per character so uh….

Egwene al’Vere: Another character arc I absolutely love, because she grows so much. She goes from strong-willed village girl seeking adventure and trying adulthood on for size to young woman finding her place in the world to true Amyrlin in strength and understanding and maturity. She’s allowed to make mistakes; and throw herself wholeheartedly into things the way so many of us do when we’re still figuring out who we are; and then smooth all of those pieces together into somoene who is still herself; but a more experienced, older, wiser, stronger version of herself. She grows up, in a very real sense, and we get to watch that play out in a way that isn’t always smooth and isn’t always perfect, but feels very real.

I’ve also talked a few times about how the main difference between her and Rand, beneath all the parallels drawn between them, is that in terms of their heroic arcs, she chooses while he is chosen. It’s something I love about Egwene’s arc and her character overall – she’s allowed to be ambitious and to want things and strive for things, and is rewarded for it rather than shut down.

She asks the world for a chance to be more, and it demands a great deal from her in return, but she rises to the challenge at each step, and then takes the next one, and then the next – like Rand, a gradual change that seems small at any given point but is huge overall – but for all that she leaves her home behind, she never loses who she is. And some of that means she keeps some of her flaws, and makes some mistakes along the way because of those flaws, and that’s…permitted, and taken into her overall arc.

And the way her arc is drawn parallel to Rand’s, in a way that draws similarities and yet simultaneously highlights the differences in how they approach these similar things, is excellent and, I think, enhances both of them as a result.

Mat Cauthon: Here’s an arc that I feel is a bit uneven or inconsistent. Some of that fits who he is – the rogue, the trickster, the one who is by his very nature inconsistent except for the aspects of him that are absolutely constant (his commitment to keeping his promises, for instance). So to some extent you don’t expect his arc to follow the same pattern as a more ‘standard’ heroic archetype. This archetype demands a bit of freedom and flexibility to play around with and sometimes flip on its head.

And I think that works well for him from TDR through TFoH. There, we watch the push-pull of denying his fate yet remaining loyal to promises and friends, telling himself he wants no responsibility and is no bloody hero and yet very much acting the part and gathering an army who follow him because they respect and believe in and trust him. We see him learn to use his luck, see him visit the Aelfinn and Eelfinn and manage to come out just a little bit ahead despite always feeling a few steps behind (and also almost dying, can’t forget that). And by the end of TFoH, he has grown, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

And then…he stagnates (’the right hand falters’), for approximately five goddamn books. He gets bogged down in a storyline that at times seems to exist purely to be a ‘battle of the sexes’ sandbox, serves as a narrative tool for belittling or putting down other characters when it’s not belittling or diminishing him, and vanishes for a book for no particular narrative reason beyond not having much to do. And then he wanders with the circus for a while before finally taking some bloody initiative and marrying his enemy’s empress. By accident, but still, it’s progress.

The thing is, if he had gone straight from the end of TFoH, with a newly acquired army and responsibility that he claims to want nothing to do with, to freeing the Windfinder(s) in Ebou Dar and then staring out at the devastation that escape caused, to giving Tuon a cluster of silk rosebuds while planning the use of gunpowder in war, to the events of As If The World Were Fog and Prince of the Ravens, I think I’d still enjoy reading about him. The pieces of a great arc are there, but the pacing is off, and there’s too much in the middle that seems to serve no real purpose (except to irritate and be irritated by other characters, which doesn’t make anyone look good).

I also think one of the issues with Mat’s arc is that more than others, he is put in positions where his gain is another central character’s loss (see for example the latter half of Swovan Night and Small Sacrifices) for…seemingly no reason. I much prefer the moments where he gains by his own merit (see This Place, This Day and The Lesser Sadness, where he acquires the Band and helps win the battle of Cairhien by being awesome), or, if it’s to be at the expense of other characters, in a way that doesn’t end up making other protagonists just look…less.

For the record, I also disliked when Egwene spent a few chapters making a fool of Nynaeve as part of flipping the leadership/power dynamic between them. I have no problem with conflict between characters (Egwene and Nynaeve bickering all the way to Tear felt real, and suited their development) or with power struggles, but I think it’s important to make sure it’s…fair, I suppose, if you’re using protagonists on both sides. A character can be narratively served by losing a conflict, so long as they’re treated as an actual agent in it, rather being temporarily demoted to narrative device, existing just to make another character look good at their expense. And the resulting ‘benefit’ to the other character feels sour as a result. (An example of this being done better is Mat fighting Gawyn and Galad; the stakes are relatively low, it’s done in a lighthearted way, and while Galad and Gawyn lose, they don’t really lose face).

I also feel like there’s so much more that could be done with the memories Mat acquires - they certainly contribute to his arc and to the positions he ends up in, and recently there was the issue with him realising that the Eelfinn might have some sort of link to him, but we never go very far into the…psychological impact, I suppose. I mean, he remembers dying. Multiple times. And even the memories that don’t involve death often involve battle. So he’s got sort-of-but-no-longer-really secondhand literal war flashbacks coming out his ears, he has howmany fragments of identity floating around in his head and seeming a part of him and yet also not? That’s fascinating, give me more. It just seems like such a cool thing to play with, and instead more often than not it’s a plot device.

Nynaeve al’Meara: Ah, Nynaeve. Another arc I love. I’ve actually written about hers already (albeit a three years and several books ago) but I’ll go into some of it briefly here as well. Where we see Egwene grow up, Nynaeve begins the book as an adult, if still on the younger side, but established in her position and her identity, even if she has to fight for it at times because of her youth and particular personality quirks. And then she has all of that taken from her, and is thrown into a world where she no longer knows who she is or should be, where none of that authority or experience she possessed means anything. It’s such an interesting way to start a character’s arc, and it plays out beautifully as Nynaeve tries to find her footing again and stumbles so many times along the way but, like Egwene, in a way that feels very real. 

Through it all she holds to certain core aspects of herself even as others are recognised as mutable, and thus learns who she is and grows into not a different person entirely, but someone more herself. Not self-aware, precisely, but…in control. She breaks her block by finally surrendering, by letting go of the walls she built around herself and her own power out of fear and insecurity, and in doing so accepts what lies beneath them. And as a result, she now controls that vast power within her, rather than having only an occasional grasp of it through anger. That’s something of a metaphor for her entire arc, really: she faces herself as much as she faces any external enemy, pushing past those walls and insecurities and fears, through that uncertainty of where she fits in a world so much vaster than the one she came of age in, and thus gains control of her abilities and strengths and self, and can use that to work toward what she has always held as most important: protecting and helping and defending and healing those she loves.

Perrin Aybara: I love his arc from the beginning through to the end of TSR. The Two Rivers arc? Absolutely gorgeous. But, like Mat, I think his arc falters a little (or, if we’re continuing with the prophecy, strays) in part, perhaps, because he almost completes some of it too early. I do like that it’s not treated as perfectly linear – that just because he’s learned leadership and come to more or less accept it in his home village doesn’t mean he’ll be 100% great at it and fully on board from here on out – but I also think the way we revisit some of those problems could be done better. 

I also just hate the Malden arc in general, because once again it makes Perrin look good (sort of) by putting Faile in the role of damsel-in-distress (not in mindset but absolutely in contrived situation) and forcibly holding her there until Perrin can finish his arc. Which detracts from the payoff of the arc itself, for me.

I’d rather have seen that done differently – there are other ways Perrin could have struggled with truly accepting leadership, and also come to throw away the axe – and perhaps slightly earlier, which would allow Perrin to make the decision regarding the wolf dream a little earlier as well, because I don’t see how he’s supposed to convincingly learn it well enough to do anything with it between now and the ending. And if he doesn’t have time to do that, why was it brought up?

All of that said, I do think his arc itself is a really interesting and sometimes understated but often beautiful one. The axe/hammer conflict that winds its way  through so much of his arc across ten books is not always subtle but it’s present like a drumbeat, a constant that illustrates the heart of the conflict at the core of who he is and who he wants to be and who he needs to be. It also ties so well into the overall salvation/destruction theme and duality. It’s an interesting way to handle a character of the general archetype Perrin represents, and I think that aspect of his arc is done very, very well. He’s not always my type of character, and there are some inconsistencies in his arc and places where the way aspects of it are accomplished that irritate me, but the overall shape of it is lovely.

[takadasaiko]

Second Chances: Chapter Four

FFN II AO3

Summary: Steve has every intention of returning the Infinity Stones to their correct place in the timeline and heading back to his own. His problems start when he makes an impulse decision to jump over to 1946 and Peggy decides to go back home with him. It only gets more complicated from there when Howard tags along with them to 2023. Tony lives fix-it fic. Pepperony.

Chapter Summary: Howard explores the tech needed to get Peggy back to 2023 along with Steve while Tony works on an upgraded ARC reactor that will give him the fighting chance he needs.

Note: Just as a side note, the amount of time covered with the team in 1946 does not necessarily correspond to the amount of time covered in 2023, even if they're both in the same chapter. In other words what may be the next day for Steve, Peggy, and Howard might be a week or a month later for Tony and the gang in the future. It will all make sense once Steve et al jump to 2023, but I wanted to make sure that I mentioned it in case anyone out there is crazy like me and wobbly timelines drive them crazy.

Chapter Four

They had released Mr Stark from the hospital sometime during the day. Peter had a text waiting for him the moment his last class of the day wrapped and he found himself mumbling excuses why he has to skip out right away. When Iron Man calls, you don't make him wait, even if you can't tell MJ that's the reason why. So he had hopped the train into Manhattan, foot tapping nervously the whole way.

He had only been to the New York HQ for Stark Industries once to make the 'internship' official, and it hadn't even been with Mr Stark. Happy had had to give him a tour of the facility. The head of Stark Industry's security had grumbled the whole way and probably skipped half of what he was supposed to show him. Peter had wanted to see the R&D labs, but it hadn't been in the cards that day. Instead he had seen a few stray offices, the kitchen, and the lobby. Oh, and Happy chasing more than one person down the hall yelling at them over a badge.

Today was different. Today was perfect. Not only was Mr Stark finally out of the hospital - that had to be a good sign, right? They wouldn't let him out if he wasn't doing better - but he'd asked Peter to come help him with a special project. Maybe it was the braces his mentor had shown him the designs for. They had been clumsily sketched out with his left hand, but all the moving parts had made sense when he had talked him through the design one afternoon after Peter had dropped by after school. He might not be a natural engineer like Mr Stark, but he caught on pretty fast. Maybe not quite as fast as chemistry, but if he had to rate them he'd say physics was right behind it. If Mr Stark was willing to talk him through it, Peter was sure that he could —

The teen slammed to a stop at the entrance into Mr Stark's private lab that he had been directed to. The older man sat in a chair, right arm fitted into the very brace he'd designed. Standing with him was a young man only a few years older than Peter. He wasn't an employee. At least he didn't look like it. He was dressed in an MIT hoodie and wasn't wearing a badge as far as Peter could tell, but he was talking through the way the new brace worked as Mr Stark carefully stretched his arm out with it.

"Yeah, we need to tighten it just a hair around my wrist."

"You didn't exactly warn me how much weight you'd dropped," the young man responded, and there was a hint of worry in his voice.

"Hospital food," he answered with a noncommittal shrug.

"Better than alien spacecraft food?"

Mr Stark shot him an exasperated look. "Really? That's where you're going with this?"

"I'm just saying you hop on a spaceship and five years later I'm still waiting on stories."

"Then keep waiting. You don't need stories. You need to pay attention in Elger's class."

"I do!"

"Uh huh. Snoring straight through it is what I've heard."

"What'd he do? Call you?"

"It's cute you think I don't have eyes and ears all over that school."

The younger man shot him an exasperated look. "Not creepy at all. Obviously I'm learning something. You called me for your designs."

"I offered to let you put it together because if you've been sleeping through Edlger's class you're gonna need the extra credit." Mr Stark smirked, stretching the fingers of his right hand with the help of the brace that ran along each finger. "You did good, kid." His dark gaze flickered towards the door. "You just gonna hang out there all day, Underoos?"

Peter could feel his face heat up at the sudden realization that Mr Stark had known he was standing there for…. well for some amount of time. He wasn't sure how long he'd known. "I, uh…. got your text."

"I know. And sent one back."

"I didn't know you'd have someone else here."

The young man flashed a grin. "Harley Keener. You must be Peter. Tony was telling me all about you earlier."

"All?" the teen squeaked.

"Well yeah. That you're an expert chemist and crazy quick learner. Not gonna lie, I'm a little jealous you're gonna get to work on the ARC reactor. I wish I could. That thing is hella cool."

"I'm… what?"

"I mean, I could stay," Harley offered. "Lend a hand. Maybe even-"

"Get outta here," Mr Stark grumbled. "Go fail your tests."

"Gonna ace them."

"I know."

"I'll send you the tightened up version as soon as I get a chance."

"Mark Two," Mr Stark responded, his smile bordering on tired, but he offered a wave with his right hand as if to prove that he could.

Peter watched as Harley started for the door and back to wherever he'd come from and he swallowed hard. The two seemed perfectly at ease with each other. Tony. He'd called Mr Stark Tony.

"You with me, kid?"

The tone made it sound like he'd called Peter's name several times and the teen sputtered. "Yeah. Yeah, I was just thinking Happy's gonna have a fit if he sees him without a badge."

Mr Stark snorted a laugh. "Happy knows who he is. I've known Harley for a decade. It'll be fine."

Oh. Okay. So he hadn't just met him. Or met him while he was gone. That was a relief.

"What'dya thinking kid? I just went out and replaced you while you were gone?"

And he was pretty sure his face was bright red all over again. "I, uh, well I mean…"

His movements were slow, tired, but the older man pulled himself from his seat for the first time since Peter had walked in and took a hesitant step forward as if he weren't entirely comfortable with the brace around his knee yet. Unlike the brace on his arm, that one didn't have to support his entire limb, just help to steady him on it. The brace on his arm stretched from shoulder to fingers though, a shell that fit over his scarred arm and Peter saw the bluetooth receiver that he must have been using to control it like he used in his Iron Man suits. Better or not, he still was having trouble doing much more than twitching his fingers before fitting the mechanics around the nearly useless limb. All of his plans seemed to work out from theory to execution, though, and that had to count for something, even if Peter was wondering if maybe they had released him earlier than they should have. He didn't exactly look healthy.

Mr Stark made his way over and closed the gap. "Hey." Peter's gaze flickered from the brace to his mentor's face, and his expression tough to pin down. Almost like he was reliving some terrible memory, but he reached forward with his uninjured hand and clasped his shoulder. "There's no replacing you, kid."

"Really?"

"Really."

Peter's lips stretched slowly, the smile taking on a life of its own. "I'm glad you're feeling better. I mean… you are, right? Feeling better?"

"I will be once we get this dealt with. What'dya say we get started?"

                                                   _______________

The house was so quiet as Peggy made her way down the stairs that she found herself wondering if the night before had all been a dream. Really, if she were honest, it would make more sense than Steve Rogers showing up at her front door, an ecstatic Howard in tow, and claiming he'd come back to her because of time travel. She'd seen a lot of strange things - and, admittedly, most of them had had something to do with Howard Stark - but this one topped them all. It was fanciful. The kind of thing her brain might betray her with after finally trying to say goodbye to Steve. Perhaps she should ready herself for the strong possibility that she and Angie were the only ones there.

She heard the swinging door leading into the kitchen open and freshly brewed coffee wafted from towards her. Breakfast was laid out on the table in the breakfast nook, Angie already digging through it. Her friend looked up, fork still in her mouth, and she swallowed hard. "Hey, sleepy head. You up late last night?" If her tone hadn't been suggestive enough, the look that she gave her said it all.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Peggy answered coily and reached for a piece of bacon. "Are we sure that's caffeinated coffee?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

The door to the kitchen opened again and Mr Jarvis paused midstep, looking rather sheepish as Peggy turned her cool gaze on him. If his expression was anything to go by her suspicion that he had swapped her coffee for decaf the night before were more founded than the lingering fear that Steve's arrival had been some sort of cruel dream. "Oh, I don't know, but I think Mr Jarvis might," she said pointedly, but her smile eased the sharp edges of the words. "Are the boys in the lab?"

"Wait. This place's got a lab?" Angie squeaked, eyes wide.

"I found it a couple of weeks ago. Hidden door in the library."

"You don't say."

"Something about rich men and their hidden doors."

Jarvis cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yes, Miss Carter. I know that Mr Stark is still in there, and I wager Captain Rogers is as well."

"Oh no you don't, Peg," Angie called out as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "I want to hear everything."

"Of course, Angie. Soon."

She didn't give her time to argue as she took her coffee and started back for the library. She pulled the appropriate book forward as she pushed another at the same time, a satisfying click proving signalling the mechanisms movement. It slid open to reveal a moderately stocked lab.

Howard sat on a stool, bent over his work and, if the way his foot tapped nervously on the rung was any indication, he not only had been up all night, but Mr Jarvis had failed to cut off his supply of caffeine. Well, he did sign the butler's checks, she supposed.

Steve was the one that looked over first and it didn't look like he'd slept any more than Howard. He reached up, smoothing back blond hair. "Good morning," he greeted and she couldn't stop the smile.

"Hiya, Peg," Howard offered without looking up from his microscope.

"I see you boys didn't bother to turn in as promised. Mr Jarvis has a full spread on the table."

"And coffee?"

"Haven't you had enough?" she asked the inventor and Steve chuckled.

"We should probably take a break. Howard's been picking Tony's tech apart all night."

"Tony?" Peggy echoed and she didn't miss the mildly panicked look that flashed across his face when he realized he had dropped the name.

"One of the Avengers," he said carefully. "He's, uh…"

"Cap's been dancing around names and details all night," Howard said, amusement lining his voice as he stood. "Thinks he's gonna break time and space. Got news for you, friend. She's going with you. She'll hear it all anyway."

"But you're not, and I don't want to-"

Peggy wasn't sure she trusted the look in her friend's eyes as he waved a hand. "Right, right. I'm just putting the tech together so you and Peg can have your dance. I get my place. Did you say breakfast is ready?"

"It is," she confirmed carefully.

Dark eyes narrowed at her and suddenly Howard's laser focus was directed squarely at her. "What's that look?"

"I'm not giving you a look," she answered immediately.

"Oh, that's a look," he chuckled. "It's the I don't trust Howard look, and I'll tell ya, Peg, it hurts. Especially when I delayed my trip just to help you out."

His tone was teasing and she offered him a smile. "Are you telling me the future holds no appeal to you?"

Howard shrugged. "'Course it does, but Cap was clear. One of us needs to stay and you've earned it, Peggy. You both have."

She pulled in a deep breath, gauging the words that sounded genuine. "Thank you, Howard."

He flashed her a charming smile and breezed past, shouting at Jarvis about coffee. Steve came to stand with her. "You think he's up to something?"

"Maybe. Probably. You dangle something like time travel in front of a man like Howard and he'll be tempted at the very least." Her brows pulled together, a question dancing around in her mind before finally falling from her lips. "Why is it that he needs to stay?"

Steve glanced in the direction that Howard had disappeared in. "He has… a lot ahead of him."

She lifted a skeptical eyebrow and saw the small twitch of his lips downward like he was struggling with something. "You know you can tell me anything, don't you?"

"It's just… I didn't really think this through, you know? Howard does a lot, but so do you. You are…. There are so many people that you help, so much good you do in the world. If you come with me, I'm taking you away from all of that. How's that fair to them?"

Peggy pursed her lips and leaned against the open door frame to the lab. "I understand that you're torn," she said carefully. "You have… You must have so much information that could alter everything as we know it. One step to the left or the right could change it all. I'm not a fool, I know that, but also believe we have a choice in what we do and the paths that we take." She caught his gaze and held it. "You're a hero, Steve, but not because you're Captain America. You're a hero because of the choices you've made again and again…. You fall down on the grenade every time,, and when you went into the ice I..." She swallowed hard, steeling herself as best as she could, but no matter how determined she was she could feel those damned tears building. "I mourned. For over a year I mourned you. I'd only just said my goodbyes and hoped I could stand by them and then there you are standing in the doorway, real as day, and I got my choice back."

"What choice?" he asked, his voice small, almost as if he didn't dare speculate on the answer.

"You, you idiot," Peggy laughed and reached out, her hand brushing his. "I don't just want a dance. I want it all. If I can change the world here, I can change the world anywhere. If Howard can manage it on his own, I want to choose you."

His fingers wrapped around her hand and he pulled it up to his lips to press a kiss to the back of her knuckles. "I should tell you. If it's your choice, you should know."

"Alright."

"Hey, lovebirds!" Howard shouted from down the hall. "You coming?"

Steve finally broke into a real smile and Peggy echoed it. "And you thought you missed him."

"I did. I know someone a lot like him though… Sometimes I forget how much they remind me of each other."

"Tony?" she asked slyly and his look said it all.

"We should probably get back out there before he comes looking for us."

"Probably so," she conceded as she tightened her hold on his hand, not letting go as she led him towards the breakfast nook. She wasn't going to let him go this time. Not when she had a chance to hold on.

                                                  _______________

TBC

Notes: This was a much more difficult chapter to write than the others because I adore Peggy so much. I came to some realizations (right along with Steve) about what taking her to the future before founding SHIELD would actually mean for her as a character. Sure, Howard and Phillips could do it. It might be different, but I think they could have gotten it off the ground without her. The point is she was there. A woman in the late 40's helping to kickstart SHIELD into being, and isn't that  the core of Peggy Carter? Definitely one of the many reasons I love her. I found my fix, and I think from a character standpoint I'm very happy with the questions it will cover. It just caused a bit of a hiccup in the writing process.

Originally this chapter was going to bounce back and forth between the ARC reactor and Howard researching the time travel tech, but I decided I really prefer shorter chapters and more frequent updates for this story. I am fond of the fact that I get one of my parallels I love so much with Tony and his father working on tech that originated with the other in different timelines. It's a lot of fun.

Next time: Howard gets a closer look at the Pym Particles and Tony finishes the new ARC reactor.

[hyrulessongkeeper]

A beginning

For my discords AU for Bone Tiba Wild, a history of sorts, before Red met our Boss, and when he was still known, as Sans

Ebbot City has been here for a long time. History books will tell different stories, but monster history is a bit more closer to the truth. Monsters were in this land first, then humans came.

The humans were not cruel, in fact, they seemed to be closer to monsters than they realized. They held magic, but it did not control their form, their SOULs were different as well. Some monsters are old enough to remember the time, but their minds are too far gone from age to give you a coherent answer though.

The war in history books differs as well. The fight began over a misunderstanding though. When a human and a monster disappeared. One side blamed the other and the peace ended quickly. The war lasted for many years, humans claiming one side of the valley, and monsters claimed the other.

Human history books, will tell you they won. Monster history books have the true story. The war was devastating on both human and monster sides, but when the missing two came forth, from the underground that was under the mountain. They held something small and tiny, a baby. The first of its kind, a half breed.

“UGH THAT’S GROSS!!” a loud voice shouted.

Sans groaned and looked to his brother, his eyelights rolling in their sockets. Why can’t this damn kid just shut up and let him tell a damn story, he was tired, been workin’ too hard.

“I know bro, but that’s what stopped the war, least back then.” Sans grumbled. Papyrus shifted in his bed and glared, his sockets narrowing. “Can i keep tellin’ the damn story now?” Sans asked.

“YOU MAY CONTINUE!” Papyrus nodded. Sans sighed and shook his head, his brother was so demanding sometimes.

“Well then let’s keep goin…” Sans trailed off as he continued the tale.

Humans and monsters were shocked at this. They never thought breeding was possible, but, this human and monster were apparently SOULmates, a thing that is rare even between monsters. So a truce was reached. Monsters and humans would come back together, to live in peace.

Sans scoffed at that. Peace? Nah, not no more. There may be ‘peace’ but not PEACE. There were gang wars, kidnappings on both sides. Stars, the royal family was even victim to it, their children being claimed. Now Asgore don’t talk much, his wife Toriel is in the best monster mental ward at the foothill of the mountain. He advocates, but nothing more than rallies and the like. Sans huffed out a breath as he looked to his brothers sleeping form, walking out the room to let his little brother sleep.

Sans didn’t think Asgore needed to be so careful, from what the JUDGE has been observing as of late, humans magic was pretty much dead. Then again, half breeds were a whole new story. They were enigmas, even to Sans, they had different abilities compared to monsters and humans.

Sans walked to the basement of the large mansion. He sighed softly as he reached the large metal door. He remembered liking coming to this place a long time ago, back when his father was around. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, feeling the smooth gold tooth.

“Yeah, back before the old man started goin’ crazy.” he grumbled. His old man was working on this odd machine. Wingdings says it will make them the most powerful family on the monster side of Ebott City, powerful than even the royal family.

Sans didn’t really get it, they were already a pretty powerful gang family, that’s why they live in a large house. He didn’t question it after getting decked by the old man. He lost a damn tooth for stars sake! He wasn’t making the same mistake twice.

He passed through the magic barrier, that made the entire basement soundproof, magic proof, except for Gaster and Sans, and undetectable. The old man was quite paranoid about this project, but hey, geniuses were paranoid to an extent. Sans shuddered. He hoped he wouldn’t lose his mind as much as his pop.

Gaster was working on the machine as usual. Muttering to himself and at no one in particular. Sans glanced to the work table, seeing an empty plate and coffee cup. He sighed in relief, at least he ate today.

“What’s up pops?” Sans shouted. The taller skeleton shot up and looked to his stout son, his eye sockets black. Sans stiffened quickly, readying a dodge. His eye lights returned, a big smile forming on his face.

“Ahhh Sans! I am almost done!! Soon we shall have such a big family!” he laughed in that manic way again as he started to flip some switches here and there. Sans sighed. Maybe if this didn’t work, he would finally go back to normal. One could hope yeah? He walked a bit closer, then he felt it. A shift. He looked around quickly, trying to find the source, when he landed on the pull of reality near his dad.

Holy shit the old man did it, Sans was about to congratulate the old man, when something went wrong. Sans’s magic flared, grabbing his dad’s SOUL, the gravity magic only holding him slightly as Gaster was pulled into the nothingness of the Void.

Sans tilted his head, worry crossing his face. How did he know that that is what it was called? He looked to Gaster who was still all smiles.

“You crazy old man!! look at what you have done!” Sans growled, trying to pull his dad back, he himself being pulled forward.

“Isn’t it great Sans?”

“ n o.”

“Soon we shall have so many ‘cousins’..”

“What the hell are ya talkin’ bout old man!?”

“So many alternate versions of us, pulled to this reality.”

What the fuck was this lunatic going on about?!

“Turn the machine off pops! yer gettin sucked in!!” Sans tried to pull again, sweat lining his skull as he was pulled in more. Gaster looked at him confused, then, realizing what was going on, he snapped back, worry coming across his features as he reached for his son.

Sans grabbed him, trying to pull with his strength and magic, but the Void, it demanded.

“Sans…”

Sans looked down, his old man was finally back to, his usual calm there, cold, calculative. Sans shook his head. He knew what he was going to ask.

“Sans. You need to let me go.”

“ like hell i’m lettin’ go!” Sans growled.

“Sans, it’s too strong, Papyrus needs you.”

“..he needs you too!”

“Sans..”

“ i said no damnit!!” Sans cried out.

“Sans, be strong for Papyrus, you will not be left alone, I promise.” Gaster smiled and released his hold on Sans’s hand. Sans gripped as tight as he could, he refused to lose his dad, REFUSED. The Void though, it is not kind. It tugged one last time, claiming the bulky skeletons father. Sans shouted, trying to dive in, but something stopped him, claiming something from Sans for glancing into the Void. Whatever it was, it was powerful.

Sans sat there, magic beading on his skull as he felt a new magic melding with his own, and knowledge, new knowledge was swirling through his head.

“ hey uh...ya okay there pal?” a deep voice asked.

Sans whipped around, his magic flaring, a red smoke coming out of one of his sockets. Only to stop.

The old man...he did it. The crazy fool did it.

There stood, copies of him and Papyrus. His copy looked around and sighed.

“ did you do this?” he asked, placing his hands in the pockets of his blue hoodie.

“ nah...old man did.”

“ anyway you can get us back home?”

“ no…”

The guy sighed and rubbed his temples, he spotted the machine. It was broke beyond all repair. Him and his alternates were stuck here for a long time.

“ well buddy, i hope ya plan on housing all of us.” he spoke calmly, a calm that hid a dangerous side.

Sans nodded, starting to set everyone in rooms, there was so many of them, it was hard to keep up.

So this was their life now? Living with their ‘cousins’? What was he going to tell Papyrus? The truth. Paps was smart, more than he lets on most times. So the truth is what was going to be told. Tomorrow. Sans wanted nothing more than to sleep right now.

Well, old man will be right about another thing. They will become the most powerful monster gang this side of Ebott City. He would make sure of it.

[artlessictoan]

Day 3 - Family

eyyy looks like we’re back to my fave theme that is the hardest one to write! why do I do these things to myself.. this one….. this one got kinda very dark at points. I uh………. yeah, tw suicidal thoughts, it’s only implied and he gets better but please avoid this chap if you need to

just a lil reminder that in these fics I’ve altered ages a little so the sibs are each a couple years apart instead of being born basically back-to-back, for poor karura’s sake. also autistic kank hcs abound!

(ao3 version)

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Day 3 - Family

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Age two and the world is far too big and scary for him.

Outside there is wind and sand constantly brushing his skin with their feather-light touch that turns his skin inside out, and his mother insists upon holding his hand loosely wherever they go, no matter how her grip rattles down to his bones; he much prefers inside, where it is cool and quiet and he’s allowed to play alone with his toys as much as he likes, even if Temari keeps trying to take them for herself.

Family is a word mother keeps repeating to him, broken up into small, slow sounds, eyes wide and hungry as she waits for something, he doesn’t know what, but he knows that the word is the long sigh when he flips his bowl onto the table, is a firm press of lips against his forehead every night before he falls asleep.

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Age three and he realises how much he misses routine.

There doesn’t seem to be any explanation for why mother hasn’t taken him out for several days now, no reason for father’s sudden disappearance from family dinnertime, just the reassurances of his sister as she pulls him away from mother’s room, she’s tired, she needs to sleep, c’mon I’ll tell you the story with the owl again, you like that one, mother will get well soon, then we can all go out together, .

Family is worry and feeling the sharp pain of a missing presence at his side, wishing he could be big and strong like Temari, so he could help make mummy feel better.

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Age six and he hates how everything is being kept from him.

Father has been spending less and less time with him and when he does, it’s only to instruct him on jutsu and frown when metal does not shiver at his touch; Temari is busy with her tutors, he can’t remember the last time they said hello without her apologising; uncle Yashamaru’s hair is wilder and his eyes darker every time he sees him, apparently his little brother is doing well, but he wouldn’t know, he hasn’t seen him since he was a baby.

Family is trying to piece together the broken fragments of an old life, work out what he did wrong and how he can make it right, it is asking father what he needs to do, is it picking up a weapon for the first time in his life.

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Age ten and he can no longer feel his fingertips.

Chakra burns as he forces it from his body, it whips and flails like a desperate animal as he stretches it out further and further, a distant voice barks at him to focus, silk-fine threads snap and the puppet crumbles to the ground in a heap of fabric and wood. He holds his aching hand with a white-knuckled grip, bites his lip until it bleeds, holds his eyes wide open until the urge to cry burns away under the scorching midday sun.

Family is the wrinkled old men and women of the puppetry core, with their sharp tongues and hard glares, the ancient, crumbling papers that are quickly becoming the only thing he truly understands.

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Age twelve and he is sick, sick, sick of it.

He’s not good enough, never has been, never will be. The Kazekage’s disappointment comes through in every curt, backhanded compliment that slips out of his slimy mouth and his tutors dismiss every win he takes, grinding away at his pride until he can’t bare to even look at himself in the mirror. When the first strokes of deep purple cross his features – paint laced with a mild poison, in Suna tradition – he claims it’s because he knows he is ready to call himself a true puppet master, whether the elders accept it or not, in private, he tells Temari that it’s because he’s seen the venom in the stares Gaara sends their father and has no desire to face an early grave, but when he’s alone, with nothing but a mirror to judge him, he knows it’s because he can’t bear that hate reflected back at him in his father’s eyes.

Family is never feeling safe, never feeling content with himself, because himself was worth less than the dirt on Gaara’s shoes. He spends a long time staring at the kunai, carefully sharpened to a dazzling gleam; Temari’s call from down the hall jolts him back to reality. Blade hidden back under his pillow, he welcomes his sister home with a smirk and a joke and tries to believe that the warmth in her tired eyes and weak smile prove his value to the world.

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Age fourteen and he doesn’t realise how much he loves Suna until he leaves.

The air here is too sticky, the people too loud and the colours too garish. He finds himself urgently fidgeting every time he sits down, fingers going through the motions that would see a hidden blade spring from Karasu’s arm, a pack of senbon scattered in a wide arc, lethal, invisible gas released in the middle of a crowded street, only when a hand lightly slaps against his and a warning is hissed in his ear does he stop and recognise the exact same restless agitation in his little brother’s face.

Family is seeing the life and joy of the people around him and wishing for the simple, familiar distrust of home, where he knew where he stood and didn’t feel the aching want when he saw a trio of siblings playing in the street, running away laughing when their mother called them home.

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Age fifteen and, for the first time in years, he can breathe.

New responsibilities and worries keep him busy, distracted from emotions that he refuses to look at, lest the old, comfortable claws of anger once again claim their rightful place at his throat, but suddenly he doesn’t have to rely solely on himself. Temari demands that he stop shouldering his burdens alone in an attempt to protect her, Baki-sensei shows up at their home unannounced bearing food, gentle, uncertain touches and sly warnings of political machinations. More than them though, Gaara is the one who finds him in his pit of heavy, guilt-laden quicksand and reaches out, not to pull him free, but to find comfort from one entombed in the same suffocating place.

Family is support and comfort, it is warm meals eaten together to the sound of laughter, it is long, dark talks stretching long into the night, it is desperately clinging to the one person you thought would never understand and dragging each other back to the surface.

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Age eighteen and he couldn’t stop the emotions escaping if he’d tried.

He still hated touch, hated how it made him feel trapped in his own skin and so uncomfortably close to another… but when they were finally home and free of prying eyes and constant attention, he pulled his siblings into the tightest, most painful hug he’d ever experienced. None of them let go, not even as they fell to the floor together – legs bent awkwardly beneath them – not when Gaara started mumbling every pain and fear he’d never let out, not as Temari finally broke down and howled, long and wretched and terrified, into his dusty, bloody coat, not when the hall became too dark to see, not even when Gaara had passed out from exhaustion and Temari fell into a light, fretful sleep; Kankuro refused to close his eyes or let go, keeping silent watch over them until the sun rose.

Family is horrible and wonderful and he will never, ever, lose a piece of it again, to do so would be to lose a part of himself.

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Age twenty-nine and he has to wonder what the hell Gaara was thinking.

As much as he’d grown past his childhood hatred of those younger than him, there was a difference between tolerating children in specific situations, and suddenly having them infiltrate every part of your life. He wants to resent them for it, wants to pretend that he doesn’t get a kick out of Yodo’s games, doesn’t enjoy sharing his love of puppetry and art with Shinki, doesn’t feel a deep connection with the boy who loathed his own face.

Family is half-hearted protests and insincere complaints, poorly hidden laughter and smiles that warm him down to his soul. Araya lights up when he gives him a mask, cries when he assures him that there’s no shame in hiding, as long as it’s on your own terms.

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Age fifty-six and he’s looking forwards to an early retirement.

The news that the three Kazekage siblings would be stepping down from their political posts had rocked Suna to it’s foundations, though Gaara’s calm words and unshakable faith in the next generation had soothed most concerns; they hadn’t done all they could in shaping the new world, but they had done enough, now was the time to let those with new ideas for change and progression take the stage. Now was the time to experience all those things they’d missed out on growing up.

Family is finding the time for the small moments as well as the big, it’s sticking together through the bad, in the hopes that one day you’ll be able to enjoy the good and the mundane and the thousand states in-between.

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Age eighty-two and there simply isn’t enough time in the world.

He refuses to stop moving, no matter how his joints complain and eyes cloud; as long as he draws breath, he will live each day to its fullest.

Family is messy and confusing and he could never properly describe it, but if asked he would say it is the friends who stand by you, through thick and thin, the communities you build with like-minded people, the children you mentor, comfort, encourage and raise, the man who embraces you, sharp, broken edges and all, the siblings who push you to be better, to be your truest self, it is accepting someone as they were, good and bad and so terribly human, it is the comfort found in a gentle touch against the forehead.

Nothing in the world would ever be as precious.

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