#and words don't hurt

[kensatou]

you think YOU had a bad day at work?

bonus: sid shrieking "no!!!! NO!!!!!" loud enough to be heard in the stands and on camera

[keferon]

Two Peas in a Pod: part 6/?

Thank you for the cake and the art and your crazy tags♡♡ you feed me so well so here's some more words!!

Lets see how many of you guest right, lol, they're both stupid, I love them.

__________________________________

A group walking down the corridor on the other side of the glass before six a.m was unusual. And given the volume and rapid chatter, something had either excited them or had them nervous. But when one stopped to peer through the window, looking for Prowl – they would not see him, he refused to be gawked at – there was a possibly it had something to do with him.  

Prowl suspected that if that was the case, his mobility played a key part. The humans had been more skittish since he had first left the hammock yesterday. Their fear was not misplaced, with the returned ease of swimming, his threat value had more than doubled.  

While he would not act unless pressed – as it would be wasted effort with the current situation – Prowl was not completely against whatever illusion that the humans had of him. Let them fear him. It would keep most away and leaving fewer for him to deal with; those brave or stupid enough to still come near him. 

The elated shout of Jazz that came from beyond the wall drew in his attention. Prowl sighed softly, recalling the current state of the language barrier. What he wouldn't give for a stylus and a data-pad. Even a simple drawing one would suffice. 

He didn't get to linger in dismay as he heard Jazz swim by, but not stay. The view port on the gate was still shut from yesterday so maybe Jazz had just come to check if they would open it? But then he came by again a few seconds later, and then again.  

Swimming laps. But was it excitement or anxiety?  

Prowl silently approached the gate and rested his forehead against it, listening. The body of water on the other side was much bigger, that much he already knew, but most of the walls and floors of this place were like stone, leaving empty spaces all over his vision. Places sound bounced off of, but didn't pass through.  

Metal wasn't necessarily any better, but it tended to reverberate; depending on its composition, and if one was skilled enough, you could see what was beyond or within the metal.  

But the gate was metal, and Prowl was that skilled. Tuning his sonar with careful precision, he eventually found the frequency that gave him the best image.  

Inside, it was primarily hollow, with large connecting rods and cylinders leading to alien machinery that was too complex to make out with outside noise causing glitch-like distortions across what he could see. But the guts of the wall weren't his goal currently. 

Outside was where he drew in his focus. Towards the centre he could very faintly see Jazz as he circled. His sonar images may be in terrible quality, but Prowl had become quite familiar with the other orca's particular blob. It was like watching something move from darkness to light or adjusting the contrast of an image. Jazz was bright and his silhouette shape clearly a mer when he was close, while dim and barely a lopsided oval when he was far.  

He was tempted to calculate the distance and overall, the space Jazz was swimming, but – to the right he had picked up on a platform. One that more and more humans seemed to be gathering on. At first, Prowl was worried that the other mer might be in danger, but after a few more laps Jazz approached and waited at the edge. 

For a few minutes, nothing changed. Until Jazz moved to somewhere in the middle, almost straight out from the gate, and the humans began to spread out. Something was up and Prowl kept searching and listening for anything that might give him insight.  

Till the screeching hiss of the machine attached to the gate suddenly came to life, causing Prowl to recoil. Losing his sonar temporarily as he worked through the noise. It was like a camera flash that blinded you for a second, only this one was a flash against your mind and a bang in your ears at the same time. But Prowl was used to ambushes and this certainly wasn't the worst sonar attack he's experienced, so this wouldn't hinder him, it was just annoying. 

Pressing himself against the floor and the wall out of view of the door, he waited. After the passageway had slid completely open, Prowl remained only for an extra moment, just long enough to tell that nothing was coming. Then he cautiously moved to investigate. 

With the recovery of his sonar and the obstacle removed, Prowl sent a few quick clicks to pinpoint all the humans. There were seven he could find, though there could be more outside his currently limited range. A poorly laid out ambush regardless, if that was the plan, and chances were very low – seeing as the humans were providing him with medical treatment, they clearly wanted him alive – but it wasn't zero. Prowl really didn't want to fight at this stage of his imprisonment, firstly; his wounds still posed a risk to his overall survival, secondly; he needed to gather more information before he could put together a plan of escape.  

When Jazz waved at him, Prowl resigned to the fact that he – or perhaps they – were being closely monitored and there was nothing that could be done about it. So, for now, he would resume gaining an ally, or at the very least a cooperative collaborator. The other captive orca remained at the top of his priority list for making any future plans have greater odds of success. Working out the communication issue aside, he needs this 'first meeting' to go properly and smoothly before anything else could proceed.  

And it looked as though the audience had Jazz tense and on the defensive. Nothing a little show of reassurance of Prowl as an ally couldn't remedy surely. 

So, Prowl approached with an appropriate speed for closing the distance between an acquaintance, with his arms set at a relaxed, yet polite place along his sides. When he stood before Jazz, he made sure to keep a respectable space, posed with and holding a practised expression of polite professionalism. Choosing to have his most vulnerable side forward in a grand gesture of trust, further expressing that he had no intentions of bringing him harm. 

He anticipated a moment of hesitance, allowing Jazz the time to observe him, to look for signs of deceit. But when his roaming eyes became fixed on his wounded flank, admiration showing in his expression, Prowl flicked his tail for Jazz's attention. Prowl wouldn't look too deep into it, but past experience made him keep note. 

Jazz showed that he was at least slightly embarrassed – good – but when he did not make a move to greet Prowl with the same gesture of goodwill. Continuing to face him head on had Prowl now searching for signs of what his intention were. But while he did, Prowl began to express slight irritation, in hopes the other would cease and desist.  

The other mer reacted by rising and Prowl tensed. Jazz must have had trust issues from past bad experiences if he was attempting to intimidate him with the present state of their body. Where he had been found gravely wounded, Jazz must had been found starving… Or there was the very slight chance that he had recently hit his last growth spurt and he was just a lanky cocksure young adult wanting to show-off. 

Jazz quickly paused, pointing and waving for Prowl to follow. Obviously wanting to move to the surface to speak. Fine.  

But then he smiled, and not in a friendly way, no, this one was clearly practised. Smooth, confident, and forward. Prowl had dealt with plenty of celebrities and politicians to know what a charming smile looks like, and very aware it was an illusion of friendliness to lure or entertain. Cocky youth had adjusted from 'very slight' to 'likely'. So, Prowl readied for a foolish game of posturing. 

{Sorry, Prowler.} Was the first thing out of his mouth and his smile diminished to a more acceptable nature.  

Good, Prowl thought at first, maybe Jazz had realized that he would not sway Prowl. However, Jazz still refused to back down, flaunting confidence with lax posture. Speaking in an almost gentle reassurance, {it's okay. Prowler, it's okay.} 

Then everything started coming together – prolonged staring, hints of interest, slight embarrassment, insistent forward facing, too friendly of smiles aimed at a stranger – and the almost certain likelihood of Jazz's youth. Prowl was both irritated and bewildered at his own conclusion; Jazz was flirting with him. 

Primus, he wanted to be wrong. But… nothing else made sense about Jazz's behaviour! 

Not wanting this nonsense to continue, Prowl kept his formal disposition of his side facing Jazz and backed off just enough to show refusal, but not a sign of submission. Prowl firmly said, {no.} 

{Wait! I —– } Jazz started to approach.  

{Stop,} he said as his scowl had grown into a harsh glare and he quickly turned his body to face him fully, but didn't back away. {trying okay.} 

Jazz did stop his advance. Though now apparently, they were locked in some sort of stare down. How else could he express his rejection without this braking out into a physical confrontation? 

Again, Jazz moves, this time slowly opening his arms to boldly offer a hug and still keeping a steady friendly smile. Like he's asking for a chance. But was only baffling Prowl further. Why are you so instant? 

" 'tzz." He said, the other mer's name was still difficult to pronounce, but he wanted to be clear. Speaking with a warning as he readied to strike. It wouldn't be the first time a pursuer needed a smack to take a hint. But Prowl really didn't want to fight. {Stop.}  

Jazz was back to rambling in the human's language, his tone was wavering between calm and frustration. But when he pulled away; after his words had done nothing to change Prowl's stance, Jazz squared up. 

Prowl did not hesitate and made a clean charge to Jazz's chest, forcing them both under.  

While Jazz recoiled and darted away to collect himself. Prowl rolled his shoulder in discomfort. The impact had still jostled his injuries, but it had been the best option. Biting would have been taking it too far, using even his right arm would have been agonizing, and spinning around to use his tail would have allowed Jazz time to react. No, this was good enough.  

Or so he thought when he returned to Jazz to see if he was willing to be respectful of the situation. While Prowl was willing to try and start anew with a mutual understanding, side-ways faced and still offering trust with showing his wounded side.  

Jazz looked upset, understandably so as that harsh of a rejection was never pleasant. But this language barrier was really getting in the way. He was speaking human words again, irritation clear in his voice. But then he took a deep breath and started slinking towards him. Still openly refusing Prowl's offer of peaceful intentions. 

And... now we've come down to a battle for dominance. Wonderful. Prowl had a slight bit of respect for the other's determination in not wanting to submit when clearly out matched, but this was hardly the time nor the place. Prowl fixed Jazz with a glare, promising punishment as he started to plan out his attacks that would not cause too much pain, but enough to humble the punk. 

{Please, Prowler, stop.} 

Gladly, but you first. {No, you stop, ['tzz.]}  

He did, {what,} but not without pointing back and forth between them, {why?} 

WHY!? 

Despite his mounting frustration of being unable to explain or even have Jazz possibly clear things up on his end as well. Prowl did his best to make it as physically clear as he could by returning to the calm request and offer to have no ill intentions between them, that they can be on equal ground. He even went as far as to break eye contact and look away, just in case that was feeding into his miscommunication with Jazz. 

{Prowler,} Jazz sighed, calling out to him softly, and daring to inch closer.  

Prowl tensed; he had tolerated that nickname due to his own inability to say Jazz's properly. But him using it– using it like that was–  

That was not– I'm not submitting to you, you punk!  

Bristling, Prowl twisted and lunged for the other mer. Only clipping him this time, but was swift with a sharp turn to follow through with his earlier threat. And Jazz tried and failed to escape him. Charge after charge, Prowl battered him with carefully made strikes. Making it clear that when he stopped and let Jazz get away, that he had allowed it to happen.  

When he met Jazz on the surface once more. Prowl remained facing him head on, silently asking if he wanted another round of showing just how out of his league he really was. Regardless if that kind of movement put strain on his healing body, that he could feel the sharp pull of new tissues fighting against the flex of muscle. He could probably get away with a few more attacks before something popped open. 

{Please, Prowler. Please, stop.} Jazz begged. 

But Prowl waited to see if Jazz was being honest about putting this to an end. After a minute of neither of them making a move. Prowl once again turned so his side face Jazz and this time Jazz mirrored him.   

Prowl then gave a loud breath of relief and laid down to float on his back. Finally! No more idiotic posturing.  

Jazz also followed him in releasing the tension and floating, though he looked humiliated. 

Good, you should be embarrassed. 

__________________________________

I hope you found this as funny as I did. XD And now that the boys can be in the same pool, it's time for bonding and shenanigans!! >:3c

Prowl: doing everything by the book and reading into every micro expression to aim for the best results.

Jazz: trying to restrain his overflowing excitement and desire to make a friend. (but also has a budding crush) be cool, be cool OuO;;

Prowl: sees Jazz's not-so-hidden excitement and desire. what – here – right now – but also why? … sigh, you're just a shameless flirt aren't you? :/

IS IT really a jp fic if they aren't– Check List ✔ Arguing at least once ✔ Fighting at least once ✔ Jazz being an absolute flirt (unintentional currently, but still counts!) ✔ Prowl greatly misunderstanding a situation with Jazz at least once

Also, I've seen the pleas of the lovely readers!! I will post this fic on ao3 in the next day or so. But since this is my gift to my platonic love ♡♡♡Keferon♡♡♡ updates will be delivered here first.

Until you want me to stop dropping the fic in your inbox♡ -GLC

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WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE oh my god they're fucking stupid ahahajjakfkfmgndb

I was wroNG ahaha I was completely wrong. Jazz wasn't saying "fuck you" in the last part it was "let's fuck" /j

To be fair. If I was held captive with the other random human and they greeted me by staring at my ass and then enthusiastically approaching despite me showing that I'm not okay with them flirting with me? Yeah no I completely understand Prowl haha.

Also. This isn't directly related to this part but. Sigh. I made some doodles of Blaster after reading the previous part and then.uh. completely forgot to show them. So I guess I'll throw them here now lol

[niewanyin]

personally, i think men need to grow a backbone like white women have done after being told by leftist spaces that they are evil and complaining about Anything is utilizing white women tears because god knows leftist men clung to the ability to be a misogynist and get away with it by putting the word "white" in front of "women" and they can act like they're the real victims of the patriarchy unlike nasty bitches who might feel unsafe around them. like if you're not secure in yourself as a person to continue doing what's right after a few mean words that you say don't apply to you, that's a problem you should figure out with a therapist.

[hitlikehammers]

The One Where Wayne Munson KNOWS BETTER Than to Lend Air to IDLE GOSSIP

(and does it anyway on accident and ends up thinking his 💕boy's boy💕 might be ✖️stepping out) ——(1/3)

Wayne Munson’s lived his life mostly free from the hubbub of small town gossip. Some was unavoidable in his tiny holler as a boy; more was part and parcel to the service, and plain keeping half-sane in war—anything for a distraction. After all that though, Wayne’d had more’n his fill of even a teaspoon of hearsay, and compared to where he came from? Hawkins, Indiana was small potatoes for keepin’ his nose clear out of it.

Which is all to say he don’t mean to collect any of the latest scuttlebutt on his way just to town after he gets off his shift with the sun barely a glimmer, just past 5 for Leah’s to be open for a better cup-o-joe than the sludge he gets on the floor. All he wants is a hot nightcap because he knows damn well his boy didn’t pick up more grounds before Melvald’s closed last night, and Wayne doesn’t want to see his bed until he’s had a full mug of fair-to-middling coffee.

And honest: he don’t think that’s more than he’s earned to ask.

But it is more than he bargained for signing’ up to, when he sees the only other people in the diner at this hour on a Saturday.

Because the only other people are a girl he don’t know, though he can’t see her real well from the back, which only really means he sees her coffee date full-on and much too well in exchange because they’re leaned in and they’re being all touchy across the table, voices low but not too low—he don’t think they even noticed him come in, let alone come to wait close enough to hear ‘em while he insists on saving the lovely Leah herself the trip to a table when he can damn well carry his own drink, thanks kindly.

“You’re gonna have a coronary if you keep hiding this.”

The girl sounds…she sounds the way Wayne remembers his Mamaw sounding when she was about to hit his Grampy up the head over some harebrained such-and-such. Exasperated, but all from a deep well of unshakable loving.

Which is what perks up Wayne’s attention, and then churns his insides quick right-next, because—

Well. The boy this young lady’s being all over-fond at for his antics is Steve Harrington.

Who, for all that Wayne understands, is meant to be his boy’s boy.

“No, no,” Steve’s shaking his head, tone bowstring-taut; “I’m gonna tell him.” Kid sounds resolved for all of half-a-second before he’s groaning, running hands over his face: “Or, I mean—”

The thunk of the boy’s head to the tabletop clatters the cutlery, and if Wayne weren’t already clued into their conversation, he’d be wholly absolved for dropping eaves given how the noise echoes through the mostly-empty establishment bar-to-door.

“Dingus,” the girl says, and it drips with concern, with affection, with a deep choler that, again, sings loud of married-couple.

Which twists Wayne’s guts all the more to hear.

Because she’s talking to Wayne’s boy’s boy.

“I’m gonna, I promise,” Steve sounds not unlike a man on his way to the gallows, even more when he sighs deep as anything and traces out his lips with his fingers, hands shaky even out the corner of Wayne’s eye for a distance as he hisses low:

“Fuck.”

And Wayne, see, he don’t like borrowing trouble. He meant it about keeping his nose clean of the gossip and the hearsay. So he makes sure he reminds himself good in his own head that he don’t know the facts here, and jumpin’ to conclusions don’t do no favors to nobody.

It don’t do nothing for the way that what he does know, what he sees and hears with his own god-given senses in the now, don’t add up too kindly for the Harrington boy.

Not least because it seems to be adding up poor indeed for Wayne’s boy.

“Do you think he’ll—”

“Steve,” the girl’s voice goes softer, but also frantic almost, as Wayne sees her reach across the way and gather Steve’s hands with a familiarity to the motion that wouldn’t make sense unless…

Unless they’re something special to each other.

Wayne’s watched Eddie reach out for Steve that way. He’s watch Steve do the same. So it…it just don’t make sense—

“You’re shaking,” the girl says, all kinda pitiful, and Wayne’d seen it before, but now he chances a look again and: oh.

Boy’s a leaf in a cyclone.

“It’s a big deal,” Steve rasps out near under Wayne’s ability to hear it.

But he does hear it.

“You need to just lay it out,” the girl tells him, earnest now and more of that than any irritation, any frustration put-upon or otherwise; “be up front with him.”

And it ain’t fair, yet, even if all the signs are pointing that direction; but Wayne likes Steve. He doesn’t want to think the worst of him. And he doesn’t, really, in his heart, think Steve could do or be the worst, from all he’s learned and seen—Wayne’d had uncharitable thoughts about it he kid, before he knew better, based on hearsay which one more time, he don’t countenance as a rule, and he’d been taught better and quick from the second he saw Steve at his nephew’s bedside, and heard the only thing he’s proud and happy to have dropped in upon uninvited:

You nearly fucking died yourself dragging him out, Steve, what the hell—

That Henderson squirt, scolding Steve something fierce.

So Wayne reminds himself this boy loved his boy enough to risk himself to bring Eddie home. Before they were anything to one another. And Wayne knows damn well they’re both something to each other, now. It don’t make sense that Steve wants to…be up front about a notion with Eddie that could hurt.

But then: care can look a lot of different ways, and can change over time. Ain’t nobody to fault for that. And much as Wayne can’t quite believe the Steve he’s gotten to know these past many-months could swallow hurting his Eddie…

Wayne’s been proven incorrect about people more than enough in his life to know better than to think it’s impossible to be wrong about a man’s heart.

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll go over fucking fantastic,” Steve’s huffing, rolling his eyes—apparently he don’t want to be up front with the person they’re talking about. Wayne tries to remind himself that they’ve not flat out said it’s Eddie yet. Wayne shouldn’t go making assumptions.

“Why not?” the girl’s pressing him. “Be honest, with him,” then her tone does go a little judgemental; “you can’t honestly think he doesn’t suspect—”

“I really don’t think he does,” and it’s a strange thing, because no matter the words themselves, it don’t sound like Steve’s meaning to be deceitful about a thing. Kinda sounds a little like he’s mourning, like he’s just in a kind of pain. “If he did, then at least maybe I’d have some kind of,” he waves his hand in the air, looks frantic, at loose ends all around; “heads-up for where his head’s at.”

And they’re both quiet for a spell, and Wayne looks for Leah in the back, knew she was getting food ready and was happy to wait—for better or worse with the conversation he’s been privy to without permission unspooling at his side—but he’s starting to feel antsy for all that he’s hearing, and the way he can’t quite tamp down associating it all with Eddie, with touchy things Steve might have to tell Eddie—

“Tell him by the end of the weekend.”

And now: think he might have to tell, encouraged so damn strong and single-minded by his lady friend with her hand on his arm.

“That’s fucking tomorrow!”

“End,” she’s narrowing her eyes sharp enough Wayne notices more in the shift of the room than to see it head-on; “of,” and then she’s smacking Steve’s arm to emphasize hard enough it rings out; “the weekend.”

Then Wayne notices how her posture shifts, and she leans closer again, so much affection, and easy with it, and welcome for it, no doubt about it:

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” she says low and earnest; “especially not when the thing you’re like this about is,” and then her tone shifts to something bright, near-on hopeful, even:

“It’s such a good thing, Steve.”

“I mean,” Steve mumbles, kind of miserable really; “of course you think so.”

And Wayne don’t like where his head goes for things the girl who’s watching Steve with such soft eyes might think to be good, might think while she’s touching him so close and —

“He’ll,” and she huffs a touch before going all heartfelt again: “Eddie is going to—”

And the moment his plausible deniability about the subject of the discussion is gone, Wayne gives up waiting for his coffee at the counter and…retreats to the corner by the door, far as he can get from whatever’s said next. He’d leave, honest, but the truth of the matter’s this:

He can’t be expected in good faith to figure out how to bring any of this up with Ed if he don’t have no caffeine in him.

☕ 👀 ☕

✨ part ii >>>

For @thefreakandthehair, who requested 'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—and since this is almost a YEAR LATE, could I possibly offer it as a normal-amounts-of-late birthday gift, more than as an egregiously-and-unforgivably-late prompt fill for you?

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

NOTE: it's important to me that you know that Wayne's accept belongs to nowhere, and is just the voice of someone I knew as a kid, who also sounded like a little of everywhere and then again nowhere. so if you think some turn of phrase doesn't fit what you think you're reading in terms of dialect? it's just that this way of stringing words together is—with intention—its own amalgam of places and times

divider credit here and here

[skimmingmilk]

Pizza and a Pretty Solid Pep Talk

A/N: One shot fic based on TailsTube episode 11

His face burned as the hushed murmurs of students in the corridor whispered past his ears. Dozens of phone screens lit up in their hands and any eyes that weren’t preoccupied by their pocket pixels followed him on his exodus through Spagonia University’s hallowed halls of knowledge. A place he’d always felt safe to explore his ideas, where all questions and theories were welcomed and encouraged and never made to feel like… to feel…

Childish.

Stupid Orbot. Stupid Eggman for creating such stupid dumb bots time and time again. If only Tails had thought to have his tools on him, he’d have dismantled the pile of scrap in seconds and turned his overinflated head into a bowling ball.

He couldn’t even pretend all eyes weren’t actually on him, given that the Miles Electric 2.0’s massive external monitor was floating just behind him like a big, yellow version of his own scarlet letter, leaving no question what social faux pas he’d been branded with. Even if they didn’t watch TailsTube, news would make its way to the student body eventually. He had amassed enough of an audience over the months that surely talk of his most recent show was already trending on random people’s “For You” pages. Students would recognize their school or their professor and curiously click to see what it was all about.

The ornate, glass doors to the university swung open as Tails shoved his way through, frustration still simmering on a low heat as he barely kept himself from stomping down the stone steps like a child who hadn’t gotten his way. Even if, technically, that’s what he was.

“This has been very… cute.”

Embarrassing had been an understatement. Tails had been humiliated. He’d managed to keep his cool for his audience, used to embodying a certain persona for his livestreams that made him sound intelligent as well as relatable. A reliable source of information to combat the swathes of misinformation people like Eggman and other enemies of freedom who crawled out of the woodwork to sow panic and doubt in the minds and hearts of the masses. 

All of that would’ve been undone in seconds if he’d let his composure slip, and it nearly had. 

Cute.

Tails couldn’t think of anything more insulting than to be condescended to by a fellow scholar.

The intensity of his glare was enough to burn holes into his sneakers on his descent of shame. As he rounded the stone fountain set in the center of the steps, his downturned gaze caught sight of a familiar pair of shoes just at the edge of his field of vision. Tails stopped. His tails, which had been discreetly tucked around his legs, flicked themselves free instinctively. Whether out of irritation or elation was still up to the jury in his mind, but the moment Tails lifted his head, his surly expression softened.

Sonic sat perched on the edge of the fountain with a flat, cardboard box beside him. A lopsided sort of smile pulled at his muzzle as he watched him, waited for him. He wasn’t supposed to be in Spagonia today. He’d been hanging out with the Chaotix in Seaside City for the past couple of days. He’d even gone as far as to make a big fuss about Tails being in Spagonia, claiming he’d purposefully picked the setting for his first livestream on the road to be somewhere Sonic wasn’t close to just to spite him, despite having told him his plans when he first started organizing his itinerary and guest list weeks ago.

But Tails knew, even if Sonic wasn’t always around in-person for his shows, he never missed a single one. He was always the first comment in the chat, always claiming that title too, because no one was beating the fastest thing alive to his best buddy’s streams. This one wouldn’t have been any different, regardless of being in another timezone, on another continent.

“Was in the mood for some pizza,” Sonic volunteered as an answer to Tails’s unspoken and unnecessary question. He knew exactly why he was here.

He’d seen everything.

“Couldn’t get one in Seaside City?” Tails asked dryly, though his tone was a little too flat for their usual banter.

“Nah, they just can’t do it like Spagonia!” Sonic flipped open the lid of the box, revealing a fresh pizza piled high with soft discs of mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, mushrooms, arugula, and garlic; Tails’s toppings of choice. “Might’ve been feeling a bit nostalgic, too. This was Chip’s favorite place to get pizza.”

It might’ve been a ploy to tug at Tails’s heartstrings, but if Sonic had been watching the live stream, then he’d absolutely heard them discussing Dark and Light Gaia. He’d have seen Orbot’s cartoonish rendition of Sonic with Chip, their doodles surprisingly accurate for someone who hadn’t even been invented yet at the time of that particular adventure. Tails’s gaze drifted to Sonic’s wrist, the one Chip’s bracelet sometimes adorned, but it was hidden by the lid of the pizza box so he couldn’t tell if the token was there as a reminder as well. His brother wasn’t often the sentimental sort, but after the events of the Starfall Islands… he’d been a bit more…

Well, as he’d put it himself, nostalgic.

Tails didn’t fight it; he let Sonic’s not-so-subtle attempt at comforting him carry him to his big brother’s side. “It was the only place we took him to get pizza,” he replied, knocking his shoulder into Sonic’s as he settled on the fountain’s edge beside him.

Sonic nudged him back in playful retaliation, then grabbed a slice from the box and held it out to Tails. “Alright, smart guy. Even if we'd taken him to every pizza place on the planet, it'd still have been the first place he ever had pizza with us, which makes it pretty special in my book.”

“You really are feeling nostalgic, huh.” Tails took a small bite, watching as Sonic attempted to wrestle his own slice out without losing too many toppings. “You know what that means. You're getting old.”

“Pfft. Yeah, right. I'm as spry as a hedgehog half my age,” he boasted, kicking up one leg over the other as he took a huge bite.

“No cap, you just don’t have that rizz, fam.”

“Half of those aren’t even words. Stop speaking witch.” Sonic flicked Tails in the forehead, grinning when it got a laugh out of the kid. “You’re cringe, little bro.”

“What can I say? I learned from the best.” Tails stuck his tongue out at him.

“And yet somehow still severely lacking in the sense of humor department,” Sonic drawled, polishing off the rest of his pizza slice.

Tails glanced down at his own slice, but didn’t take another bite as he picked at one of the cherry tomatoes threatening to slide off the end. He was suddenly extra conscious of the sounds around them; the steady trickle of water as it flowed from the fountain into the shallow pool just behind them, the hum of distant car engines in the streets throughout the city, and constant clatter of footsteps on stone as pedestrians passed them up and down the stairs. Watching them when they walked by. Whispering.

Tails’s ears drooped, but even that couldn’t drown them out. “And the rolling with the punches department,” he murmured.

Sonic glanced over at him. “Nah, I’d say you’re pretty good at that.”

“And I’d say you’re pretty biased,” Tails huffed, then shrugged one shoulder self-consciously. “I dunno. Could’ve handled today better. I just let Orbot roll over me completely, which is pretty pathetic on my part considering he doesn’t even have wheels. Or treads.”

Sonic cast a glance at the giant yellow monitor still hovering nearby. “You were hosting your livestream and interviewing someone you really admired. A meeting of the minds, like you said. You didn’t show up here thinking you’d need to square up for a fight. He caught you off-guard on purpose, that was the whole point. His ‘revenge’ scheme, or whatever.”

“Yeah, and I let him,” Tails sighed, slumping forward. “You wouldn’t have let something like that slide.”

“No, but I’m not exactly known for my tact, am I?” Sonic’s smile turned rueful as he tapped his fist against Tails’s shoulder. “Don’t really care what people think of me either, which isn’t super helpful when it comes to building a rapport with ‘em. You know firsthand how many people I piss off on a regular basis, and half the time it’s not even on purpose! Something tells me that professor gal definitely would’ve been one of ‘em. I don’t think she’d have appreciated me trashing her office with busted up robot pieces.” 

Tails tried to imagine it, and the picture it painted wasn’t a pretty one. “Probably not.” 

“Ya kinda had your hands tied, partner. But you salvaged what you could. You didn’t completely burn a bridge with that professor, after all.”

“What are you talking about?” Tails’s brow furrowed as he stared at Sonic in sheer disbelief. “The interview was a complete disaster. There’s no salvaging any of that. She called me cute. You know what you call cute? Chao, babies, Cream’s tea parties, Knuckles when he understands a reference. You know what’s not supposed to be cute? Scientific discoveries. Cosmic theories. Bridging gaps in the timelines of our planet’s history. I look like a joke. A laughing stock to everyone in a field focused on the pursuit of knowledge. Tori—Professor Victoria—even made up a fake lecture so she could get out of the situation. I checked her class schedule ahead of planning the interview. She was clear for the next hour. But she knew spending even a second longer with me would’ve been a waste of her time.”

“At least she made up an excuse,” Sonic pointed out.

Tails bristled. “What do you mean ‘at least?’”

“If she really didn’t want anything to do with you, she probably would’ve just said so. The fact that she made something up means that, maybe, she didn’t want to burn a bridge with you either. Besides, didn’t she say you guys could continue your conversation another time? I’d like to think she wouldn’t make a point to say that just to be polite.”

Tails blinked, the creases in his forehead smoothing out as he considered the logic behind Sonic’s words. “She’s a professional. An educator. Not to mention an archaeologist and historian. There’s a certain level of decorum she has to adhere to in this line of work. And unyielding patience is practically a job requirement.”

“Then maybe she’ll have some of that patience on hand the next time the two of you cross paths.” Sonic’s eyes crinkled with his smile. “Because she’ll remember a sweet kid who didn't push or press his luck and respected her decision to back out of a conversation that got outta hand, even though he was totally in the right to call her out on it. And she’ll give that kid the second chance he deserves.”

It might’ve been more of Sonic’s bias on full display, but Tails had to admit it helped to hear. “You really think so?”

“You bet,” Sonic assured him, slinging an arm around Tails’s shoulder, the comfortable and familiar weight of his brother’s belief in him made it a bit easier to bear the burden of his own embarrassment and disappointment. “And if she doesn’t, then maybe she’s not the kinda mind worth meeting.”

“Yeah, I guess you have a point,” Tails agreed a little reluctantly.

“I have several, actually,” Sonic teased, gesturing towards his own quills.

Though it was absolutely a joke worth rolling his eyes at, Tails let him have that one since he brought him pizza and a pretty solid pep talk. “I was really looking forward to meeting her.”

Sonic’s cheeky grin eased up at the soft admission and the way Tails leaned against him for comfort. “I know, bud. I’m sorry it wasn’t everything you hoped it would be.” He rubbed his arm, then gave him a firm squeeze. “Wanna try and track down bolt brains before he goes crawling back to old egghead and take out some of that disappointment on him? Maybe turn his empty head into something that’s actually useful. Like a bowling ball.”

Tails snorted and his twin tails fluttered as his mood improved; they really were cut from the same cloth. “Nah. Let him think he’s won this round. I’ll get him back when he least expects it.”

“Atta boy,” Sonic praised, removing his arm so he could ruffle the fur atop his head instead. “Keep me posted. I’ll want popcorn and a front row seat.”

“You got it.” Tails held out his fist and bumped it against Sonic’s before reaching for another slice of pizza. “So you heading back to Seaside City after this?”

“Eh. Figured I came all this way, might as well do a little sightseeing.” Sonic nabbed a second slice for himself. “Whaddya say? Mind if I tag along for a bit?”

Tails shook his head, holding up his pizza like he would a glass for a cheers and Sonic met him halfway. “For a bit,” he agreed, his grin all teasing before his eyes lit up. “Oh, but first—Professor Pickle’s got open office hours in a few minutes. Want to stop by and say hi while we’re here?”

“Sounds good to me. It's been a while since I’ve checked in on the old prof.”

Sitting on the edge of the historic fountain, sharing a pizza between them, and equally recognizable on their own rights, Sonic and Tails might've attracted a few curious stares and been the subjects of hushed conversations. But they sloughed off Tails like cherry tomatoes off melted cheese, because what they thought of him didn't actually matter. Not when he had someone like Sonic in his corner. He knew what he'd experienced, what he was capable of. He knew his own merit.

Someday the world would see it, but for now, Sonic was more than enough.

He could always count on Sonic to see him.

---

A/N: I would’ve had this written faster, but we had a party at work earlier in the day so I was away from my desk for most of it and then I had tummy ache when I got home :( It shouldn’t be so hard to write with tummy ache.

Anyway, I just have one thing I’d like to say: Tails, babes, sweetheart, why is your floating monitor so huge. Honey, how do you take that on the road with you? Where do you pack it? That can’t possibly fit in the tornado, it’s like a 50” television.

The thought of it just floating around behind as he walks through Spagonia was just too funny for me, so I gave up on trying to logic the compatibility and portability of this stupid thing. I love it.

Also I based Tails’s favorite pizza toppings on some of the ingredients that can be found in his recipes in the Sonic Cookbook. I feel like he’d really like curry pizzas based on the spices in his chickpea recipe, but for a more traditional Spagonia pizza, I went with some of the veggies in his fish skewers recipe, as well as combinations I saw on the menu of an Italian restaurant I ate at while I was in France a few years ago, since Spagonia has both of those influences in its design, lol.

Lowkey, part of me also thinks Tails would enjoy a caper, olive, and anchovy pizza… like his recipes also have a salt and vinegar component to them that makes me think he’d be onboard with that xD Not so sure about Sonic though. He's an adventurous guy, but something makes me think he wouldn’t be super keen on that combo, so I played it safe with the cherry tomatoes and garlic. Both these boys love their tomatoes and garlic <3

[the-broken-pen]

Hey hey

Could you perhaps write a snippet where the building hero is in, gets bombed? Its bombed as an assassination attempt to get them, however the people in that building die and hero, succumbed to their injuries couldn't save everyone of them. At last they watched the last ambulance left without them, even as they called for help

Villians villa is just few kilometres away

Thankfu hero's legs aren't broken

They begin walking

The problem? Vil is way to composed and prim and perfect to let all of hero's blood get on their expensive carpets and fabrics. They could even be mad at the hero for reddening their porch if they hero stood their asking for bandages. What now? And the fight the two had yesterday that ended with "never see me again" and "don't ever talk to me"s.....vil was stopping hero from attending the event the building....

Will vil help them? They can just ask for bandages and leave.

What hero doesn't know: vil would literally destroy the world for hero, and there's no way in hell are they leaving hero on their doorstep.

(Anon you were cooking with this ask, thank you!)

The hero realized the building was going to explode a split second before it did, which wasn’t enough time to do anything other than brace.

They tensed, and there was a horrible screeching of metal and brick, followed by a deafening silence that covered them more completely than the rubble did.

The hero coughed once, weakly, pain rocketing through their chest, and shoved a piece of concrete off themself.

From somewhere else in the building, a soft, terrified wail began, broken around desperate sobs.

The hero coughed again, hand rising to their ribs. They didn’t have the energy to be surprised when their fingers came back coated in blood and dust. They grimaced at it, struggling to their feet–

And oh, god. That hurt.

The hero had a surgery once, the kind that resulted in bandages and a care regime and a set of stitches, and when they had woken up in the recovery unit, it had felt sort of like this. A moment of loopy half-awareness, and then a pain that had knocked the breath out of them, hands clenching into the sheets as a nurse tried to figure out if they needed more medication. 

This was worse. Their vision swam, and they blinked it back with a hiss.

Because someone, somewhere in the wreckage, was crying. And if one person was crying, it meant there was someone who survived. Which meant it was likely there were other survivors–ones too hurt to make any noise, ones knocked unconscious, ones still too shocked to do anything other than lay there–and it was the hero’s job to find them.

It took them far too long to locate the source of the crying. Longer to dig them out, vision going white as the person slammed into the hero’s chest in some facsimile of a terrified hug.

“You’re okay,” they managed, voice like gravel. “It’s okay. I’m going to get you out, and you’re going to be just fine. Were you with anyone?”

And then again, and again, and again.

The hero panted, hands on their knees as their body fought them in an attempt to just collapse onto the concrete below. They just–they just needed a minute. Just one, maybe, and then they could–

This time, the hero wasn’t even aware of it before it happened.

The remains of the building shook, then disintegrated into itself in a plume of dust and rock. The hero shielded their eyes with one hand, blinking against the onslaught.

What little air they had managed to get stuttered out of their lungs in something close to a sob. They had done this enough times to know there wasn’t anyone in that building left alive. 

They sagged down against the nearest thing–more rubble, maybe? They didn’t know–and this time when they rested a hand on their side, there was a considerably larger amount of blood.

“That’s…not great,” they said, and their fingers blurred in front of them slightly. There was an ambulance right there. Just a couple feet away. They had already helped most of the survivors, so maybe it would be okay for the hero to–

A paramedic rounded the back of the ambulance, and the hero lifted a hand, reaching–

“Please, wait, I think–I think,” it hurt coming out of their mouth, “help. Please I need–” they trailed off as the paramedic took the step up into the ambulance.

And closed the door behind them.

The hero wasn’t even that surprised when the ambulance began to drive away.

“Help,” they finished weakly, then sucked a breath in through their nose.

They were supposed to be good at this kind of thing. Surviving, no, thriving in catastrophe. A pillar of light. The one with the plan. 

The kind of being that didn’t beg for help on the ground.

The hero wasn’t entirely sure how they managed to get themselves back to standing. It was as easy as that–one moment they were on the ground, gravel embedded in their knees, and the next they were up and shaking but they were up.

“If I stay here, I’ll die,” they murmured. They had hoped maybe the threat would keep their legs from buckling again. It didn’t.

They weren’t near any place that could be trusted. There wasn’t a safe clinic for heroes on this side of the city, and even if there was, the hero wouldn’t trust them. Couldn’t afford to.

But as for near…the hero swallowed the nausea as it rose in their throat. There was one place they could go. One person they could go to.

Four miles. They could do four. There was no other option.

Where the hero had had some blurry recollection, or at least, a good guess of how they got to standing, they had absolutely no clue how they made it onto the villain’s porch. They managed a blink, retching slightly as they stared at the villain’s wavering door, then had to freeze just to bite down the pain that had come from the gagging.

They tried to knock and ended up collapsing against the villain’s door, knees giving out entirely as their fingers scrabbled for purchase and left behind smeared bloody marks on the wood.

They weren’t entirely sure how that happened either, or how long it took the villain to answer the door. Just that it hurt—so, so much, it hurt so–and that they managed to shove themself back into some semblance of standing right before the villain pulled the door open.

The villain’s face did a sort of spasming thing as soon as they saw the hero, jaw dropping slightly in what the hero could only really read as shock.

There was a very considerable amount of blood on the door. They were cold.

“I–” the hero tried, but they weren’t really sure where they had been going with that sentence, and after yesterday and the screaming and the fight the villain probably didn’t want to see them at all, didn’t want to ever see their face again, so–their mind blanked. “I got blood on your door.”

They tried to gesture towards it, but that hurt, so their hand simply twitched slightly from where it hung by their side.

They glanced down at their feet, because they didn’t want to see what the villain’s face was doing, especially if what it was doing was anything resembling anger.

“Oh.” There was blood at the hero’s feet. “And on your porch, too, I guess.”

They looked up at the villain, but they were still staring at them, brow furrowed, hand clenching on the doorframe.

“I’m sorry.”

There was a very faint quiver of tears when they said it, and the hero knew better than to hope the villain didn’t catch it. 

Were they saying sorry for the porch or the door or yesterday–

“Holy shit,” the villain finally breathed, and it sounded like it had been punched out of them. The hero froze, panic rising in their chest.

“I’m sorry,” the hero blurted out, stammering. “I’m–I’m so sorry, I’ll go, just–could I maybe have some bandages? Just–just one, maybe, please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” they said uselessly, head swimming. They couldn’t even remember what they were doing here. The villain was perfect in every sense of the word, stoic and proper and collected in a way the hero would never be; a marble statue brought to life. The idea of them letting the hero–the personification of a train wreck in motion–in to bleed all over the villain’s soft carpet and nice shoes and cause irreparable damage to their very expensive house was almost laughable. 

If they had had the breath to laugh.

More of the hero’s blood dripped onto the slats of the porch, and they stepped back. “I’m sorry–”

The villain reached for them, and the hero flinched, taking it for the dismissal it was–

The hero blinked, and it stuck for a moment too long as the world tilted, and when they pried their eyes open again the villain was staring at them with something the hero was too out of it with pain and possibly delirium to identify. Their gaze drifted back to the blood smeared on the door, and the villain’s grip tightened on the hero’s bicep–when had they grabbed the hero’s bicep?–until the hero’s gaze returned to theirs.

The villain said something, but there was a roaring that had started up in the hero’s ears. They seemed to take the uncomprehending blink the hero gave them in return for an answer anyways, and guided them down until they were both sitting on the cool wood. A tug, and the hero was resting against their own propped up knees, villain’s hand still firm on their arm.

“How much blood did you lose?”

It was like screaming underwater, the hero reasoned. Or through a mirror. But they heard it nonetheless, and that was their villain, and even in hatred and war they would always answer them.

“Was ‘supposed to be counting?” If they had any more energy–or maybe slightly more blood–in their body, the slur to their own words would have been concerning.

The villain’s lips pursed into a thin line, and the hero felt them begin to run an assessing hand over their injuries, cataloguing them, brow furrowing further with every second.

“M’sorry,” they managed, tongue thick. The villain didn’t pause.

“For what?”

“Bleeding on your door,” they managed. The villain stopped them from raising their head from their knees. “And your–porch.”

“I don’t give a shit about either of those things,” the villain said, simply, easily. Like it was nothing. Like they didn’t feel the weight of it as they threw it into the air.

The villain sat back on their heels, clearly having learned what they wanted from the hero’s injuries.

When the hero didn’t immediately look at them, the villain grabbed their chin, gently turning it until the hero faced them.

“How far did you walk,” they said slowly, and the hero had never been more grateful for anything in their life.

“Four miles,” the hero said, and they couldn’t hear their own voice above the roaring, but the villain obviously could from the way their eyes darkened.

The hero wanted no part in making the villain angry again–I never want to see you again, do you hear me? If you ever try to talk to me again I will kill the both of us, I promise you that–, but when they attempted to push themselves up to leave, the only thing they managed was a piteous whine and a stab of pain so intense they forgot to breathe.

“Idiot,” the villain hissed. But oddly, the hero didn’t sense any anger coming from the villain.

They blinked–too long, again–and found themselves in the villain’s arms as they walked through the house. Their head lolled back onto the villain’s shoulder, and the villain glanced down as if–to make sure the hero was okay. That they were conscious, and breathing.

Oh.

Oh.

The villain wasn’t angry.

They were afraid. For the hero.

Which didn’t make any sense, because–

I never want to see you again–

“You’re mad at me,” the hero reasoned, and it came out half strangled and petulant. The villain looked down at them, and the hero caught the tiniest flinch in their jaw.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“That’s not what you said yesterday,” the hero whispered, and the villain flinched.

“I wanted to stop this from happening.” The villain settled them onto a bathroom counter, lights flickering on as the hero leaned back against the mirror. Blood began to dry, sticky, between their fingers.

The hero’s mouth went dry, and it caught in their throat when they tried to swallow it.

“You could have just left me there.” Their voice only shook a little bit, but the villain’s head still snapped up from where they had been digging through a drawer.

“What?”

“On the porch,” the hero clarified, clearing their throat. The lump didn’t go away, and they had begun shaking at some point, and they couldn’t stop. “If you didn’t want to deal with me you could have just left me there–”

The villain’s face had darkened into something the hero almost didn’t recognize. 

“I would burn the world for you, and you think I would leave you to die on my porch?”

“You said you didn’t want this to happen.”

“No, that’s not–” the villain rubbed a hand over their brow, and the hero winced at the blood it left behind. “No. No, that’s not what I meant. I was trying to keep you from going to that stupid event and getting hurt. I knew it was going to blow.”

“I would have gone anyway.”

The villain stilled. “I thought maybe if you never wanted to see me again, and you knew I was there…”

“I would,” the hero repeated. “Have gone anyway.”

The hero watched as the villain’s face rippled through a dozen emotions, settling onto something unidentifiable.

“Why?”

“Because you were there,” the hero said easily, shrugging one shoulder. Because when it came to the villain, it really was that easy. They could scream, and shout, and hold a knife to the hero’s throat, and the hero would still follow them into hell. That was their villain.

The villain looked like the hero had stabbed them, face draining of color. Their fingers went white around the edge of the counter, as if it was the only thing keeping them upright.

“What,” the villain’s voice was hoarse.

“I went because I was hoping you would be there,” the hero said honestly

“Stop,” the villain raised a hand between them, a shield, voice breaking. They sucked in a breath, then another, like they were trying to keep themself from breaking down onto the tile.

“You would have gone to the event no matter what, just to see me,” the villain said slowly, and the hero nodded

“Yes.”

“Even though I screamed at you?”

“Yes.”

“And told you I hated you.”

“Villain, please–”

“Now you know,” the villain interrupted, voice incredibly soft. “Why I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero forgot to breathe for a moment, tongue going numb in their mouth. The villain couldn’t mean–

They blinked for a moment too long, and then the villain was standing between the hero’s knees, hand on their chest.

“You love me,” the hero said a moment later.

“Ruinously,” the villain agreed.

“So you–”

“I was trying to save your life,” the villain’s hands were gentle as they began to patch up the hero’s side. “And now I’m saving your life in a new and unanticipated way. But there is nothing you could ever do to stop me from saving your life.”

The hero’s heart clenched. 

“Really?”

The villain caught their chin, eyes boring into the hero’s. They brushed a piece of hair off the side of the hero’s face.

“Really.”

The hero sighed, and the villain caught them as they slumped.

“I thought you hated me,” the hero said, and they hated how raw they sounded. The villain made a choked little noise.

“I’m so sorry.”

The hero sniffed.

“Don’t do it again.”

The villain simply hummed, and smoothed the ends of a bandage down against the hero’s abdomen. The hero could feel their hands shaking.

You scared me.

A second later, their hands settled on either side of the hero’s head, and the villain rested their face into the hero’s hair. They pressed a kiss to the hero’s temple, tension easing from their shoulders.

I’m sorry.

The hero clutched the front of the villain’s shirt between their hands, drawing them closer. The villain went willingly, loose limbed with affection and the rapid draining of terror from their system.

“I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero had never believed anyone more.

[skimmingmilk]

"If it helps, one of the many scenarios my brain likes to twist around is imagining Sonic's perspective of No Cracks In A Closed Loop (and I adore Tails getting to be a badass and pulling off the impossible, too- my brain just likes to spin on the angst sometimes)" - @manynerdthings

A/N: So I was inspired...

I think it's safe to say this helped a lot xD Thank you, manynerdthings!

This is a continuation of my fic "No Cracks in a Closed Loop"

No Cracks in a Closed Loop — Sonic's Side

"Sonic."

That single word—no, just the voice alone—was enough to cut through the adrenaline rush as pure chaos energy sang through his veins and ignited every nerve with its spark. In a flash of light and sound, Super Sonic punched a hole through the Starfall-titan-wanna-be by using his own body as a projectile. A cocky grin cut across his muzzle as it wobbled in place, setting its sights on him instead of the city it had been about to level; its laser cannons aimed directly at the fault line.

This fight wouldn't last twenty seconds. They'd already won.

"What's up, partner?" Sonic said into the comm as he shot skyward.

The streak of gold drew the mech's cannon higher, until it cleared the tips of skyscrapers and nearby mountaintops by the time it shot at him. The laser's heat didn't even singe his fur, firing at full power into the stratosphere instead of drilling deep into the crust of the planet. It zinged past the satellite Tails was communicating from, but Super Sonic's gaze didn't linger on it for more than half a second—already more than certain it was out of the laser's range. Speeding through the air, he whirled around towards the mech for his next move. He was going to cyloop Eggman's newest addition to his junk pile right off its feet. 

Swerving down in a sharp arc, Super Sonic avoided the next blast while he swung around to try and circle it. It's clawed hand swiped at him before he could complete his first circuit. He shot straight up before it could catch him, homing attacking it in the face instead.

The comm was still quiet. Tails must've swapped to their own channel. Super Sonic flew backwards, putting both the titan and the distant satellite in his line of sight. Whatever he had to say, he didn't want anyone else to hear it.

Super Sonic's brow furrowed as a barrage of bullets opened up on him. He weaved between the hundreds of projectiles glinting dangerously in the sunlight, but his chaos energy and speed worked in tandem, as fluidly as a dance, while he searched for another opening to try the cyloop again.

He could beat this thing without it, sure, but it was the fastest way to take it down.

"Tails? Still with me, bud?" Super or not, Sonic still spared a second to check in, static ringing in his ears as he burst through the center of the mech's chest plate for a shortcut.

"I'm here," Tails answered, but his voice sounded faint, like the feedback was drowning him out. "Sorry, I…" Super Sonic started his cyloop. "I just wanted to—" He was halfway around. "I'm sorry—"

Sonic closed the loop. A burst of chaos energy swelled up with a deafening boom. The air rippled with the force of it in great gusts of wind that rocked the trees and the grass of the nearby hills. Waves rose up in the bay, their white caps scraping the bottom of the golden bridge that marked the edge of the sea. The fake titan lifted into the air, sparks crackling off its metal casing as its system overloaded. Super Sonic didn't give it a second to recalibrate itself.

Faster than anyone could see, he smashed into it on all sides. A tiny mote of golden light against the towering behemoth, but it struck every weak point, fried every circuit, as the chaos energy pressed in on it from the outside. Metal crunched and caved it on itself, contorting into a twisted configuration until it no longer resembled a machine.

A cheap imitation of the ancients' attempts to defend themselves, designed only to destroy instead of protect.

Super Sonic grabbed onto mech's arm—or maybe its leg, it was hard to tell at this point—as the cyloop's effect faded, catching it before it crushed Westopolis. He swung it around and around, gritting his teeth as he built up momentum and set his sights on the ocean out ahead of them. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—

Super Sonic let go.

The mech's remains were flung through the air, over the coastline and beyond the bridge that cut off the bay from the sea. It crashed into the water, the ocean spray shooting up into the air in a tower of mist once it hit the surface. The waves rolled aggressively towards the coastline, but ultimately broke apart in the bay before they could do too much damage. Some millionaires might have to replace a yacht or two, but that wasn't Sonic's problem.

As he dusted his hands off, he could finally acknowledge the warning bells Tails's last words to him had set off. "Hey, what was that, bud? I didn't catch—"

Super Sonic turned towards the satellite, addressing it like he would Tails, but it was gone. Instead a cloud of smoke filled the space where the satellite had been not ten seconds ago. Metal shards and fire rained upon the bay. Everything in pieces. Everything gone.

His comm was in chaos. Unintelligible voices shouted over one another in a cacophony of white noise that was already fighting a losing battle to the ringing in his ears. But he still noticed one voice was missing. He couldn't hear it.

He hadn't heard any of it.

Over the sonic boom of his cyloop and the screeching of metal as he demolished the titan, Sonic hadn't heard the satellite explode.

The satellite his little brother was on.

He'd been trying to tell him something.

He'd been trying to tell him something before a satellite exploded with him on it.

"I'm sorry."

Tails. 

Super Sonic shot off like a bullet, speeding towards the black cloud of smoke and smoldering debris like there was even a chance—

No. There had to be a chance—

"I just wanted to—I'm sorry—"

Why? What happened? What did you do, Tails?

He hadn't even properly seen him off before he left. Tails had been trying to hack into Eggman's satellite remotely while Sonic was out chasing after the faux titans. He told them all about his plan to board the satellite and everyone agreed it sounded like the right call, so long as he could do it quickly. They needed to disrupt the signal, after all, and Tails was their best shot.

That was what he'd said, wasn't it? "You're our best shot, Tails. I believe in you, partner."

Their best shot, but not the only one. Not if it meant this.

Nothing was worth this.

Sonic didn't need to breathe while super, but his lungs still burned twin holes in his chest as his own nervous system caught fire. Golden sparks flicked off his quills as he raced through the air. Fiery eyes frantically scanned each scrap of metal that fell, but they must've already been irritated from the smoke because they burned and blurred with the rest of the world around him—

"—onic, wait! Come back! Sonic!"

One voice.

Super Sonic stopped. He stopped so fast and so suddenly, it felt like his own soul completely missed the memo. Like everything inside him continued to hightails it towards where Tails had been without him, leaving him empty. Hollow. Cold.

A vacuous space in the center of himself where there'd once been something. 

The chaos energy inside him didn't know what to do with that.

With so much… nothing.

Stunned, he could only float in place for a stupid second until he remembered he'd stopped for a reason. With a sharp turn, his stare locked onto a splash of orange amidst the blotchy colors of the rest of the world bleeding into one another. Like he was still moving too fast to see clearly. Like he couldn't catch up to himself.

"Sonic…" Tails's voice broke like it had on the comm, but it wasn't with pain guilt fear regret static.

Vision clearing, Sonic could see him now. At the edge of one of the hills overlooking Westopolis and the bay. Tails just rubbed at his nose with a sheepish sort of grin, like the explosion was a minor miscalculation. A hiccup. My bad, he could hear him saying, like he was standing in the middle of his workshop, covered in soot and singed fur, one hand on his hip and a fire extinguisher at his feet.

Like he was fine.

Like he hadn't been incinerated in the fiery inferno smoldering above them.

Tails lowered his hand, eyes shining as they looked up at him, reflecting the very sky Super Sonic was caught in as the satellite's remains fell all around him. He'd been on that satellite. Just seconds ago, Sonic had been so sure of it.

He'd been so sure he'd lost him…

Then Tails opened his arms to him and laughed.

All at once Sonic crashed back into himself, chest heaving with a sharp inhale as his heart lurched forward. 

Faster than a blink, Super Sonic barrelled into Tails and sent them toppling down the hillside. They smacked hard against the ground, but Sonic took the brunt of the fall even with the world spinning around them. His arms encircled Tails tightly, one hand protecting the back of his head while the other braced the small of his back as they tumbled and whooped like a pair of idiots. Pure joy radiated through him, burning brighter than the chaos energy coursing through his quills. It knocked the emeralds right out of him. The seven gems fell into the grass around them as the two mobians eventually rolled to a stop.

Sonic clutched Tails to him, shaking with breathless laughter as he felt his little brother hug him back just as tightly. "I'm here," Tails was saying, and it took a minute to realize he'd been repeating the words while Sonic's hands were trembling. "I'm here. It's okay, big bro. I'm here. I’m here."

"And you say I'm the one that's gonna give you a heart attack," Sonic wheezed, not bothering to give himself room to breathe if it meant letting go for even a second.

"Can't let you have all the fun." Tails smoothed his hands over Sonic's spines to try and settle him, his touch purposeful and grounding. "Deep breaths, big bro. You're gonna pass out."

"Nuh-uh," he argued, but filled his lungs with his next inhale anyway, then let all the air ease out of him.

"That's it. There ya go," Tails encouraged, but Sonic couldn't help his snort of indignation at being coddled and pushed away from him. 

Except Tails just tightened his grip; fingers curling in his fur like they'd be forced apart if he didn't. He hid his face in the crook of Sonic's neck, his breaths coming only a little too fast. But his hands were shaking, too, and his twin tails wound around them both as if they were enough to protect them from the next threat. 

Sonic didn't pull away. He just sat back, the eleven-year-old practically in his lap, and rested his hand atop Tails's head.

"Gave me a real scare there, pal," he said, voice low and gentle as he smoothed out his fur, picking at the grass and brambles they were both covered in.

"…Scared me, too."

Sonic's heart clenched, the open admission like a bludgeon to his protective instincts, even if his pride assured him Tails could handle it. After all, the proof had all but climbed into his lap. But now that he was looking at him—really looking at him—he could see his fur was mussed up from more than just a tumble at supersonic speed. A streak of blood stained his fur on his shoulder and there was a lump near the center of his back that filled Sonic with an angry fire hot enough to burn through the atmosphere when he so much as brushed against it with his fingers. 

Tails didn't flinch when he grazed it, but his muscles gave an involuntary spasm that rippled beneath his fur and his hold on Sonic tightened. It was enough to quell the roiling rage to a simmer. Something he could stick a lid on without worrying it would boil over if left unchecked. It wasn't what Tails needed from him right now.

But Sonic still wanted some answers.

"What happened up there?" he asked. 

Tails shook his head. "Just a bit of a closer call than I thought it'd be. But I'll be okay. I am okay."

Sonic instinctively bristled, prepared to be shut out of whatever it was he'd gone through. "Tails—"

"I'll tell you someday," he promised, pressing his paw over Sonic's heart. "I mean it. But right now we've got a lot of Eggman's mess to clean up. There's still six other titans out there and I'm sure everyone else is worried."

Sonic sighed, as exasperated as he could manage when he was still just glad this kid was alive. "Gonna hold you to that," he threatened, ruffling his fur to muss it up on purpose. "You owe me. Nearly shocked the Chaos Emeralds right outta my system."

"Says Mr. Guy-Who-Loves-Adventure," Tails teased as he pushed himself up to stand. "You should be used to it by now."

Sonic snorted when he was offered a hand up, but he took it nonetheless. "When I go gray early, I'll know exactly who to blame."

"Don't worry. I'll help you dye your quills, old man," Tails snickered, but it broke off with a wince as a sharp twinge ran through his back.

Sonic was quick to lay a supportive hand at his hip to steady him. "Look who's talking. At this rate, you're gonna be right there with me setting the record for the world's youngest old timers."

Tails sent him a look, but accepted the help nonetheless as he leaned his weight against him. "Did you really have to knock us all the way down the hill like that?"

"Heh. Well, in my defense, wasn't exactly thinking straight." Sonic scratched at his nose, giving him a not-so-subtle onceover. "Didn't bang ya up too bad, did I?"

"Nah. I'll bounce back," Tails assured him, giving him a pat on the back.

"You always do," Sonic agreed warmly as they took a few steps in tandem so they could start collecting the Chaos Emeralds on their way back up the hill while Tails alerted everyone to their status on his comm and checked in on everyone else as well.

Sonic just listened, taking in the rise and fall of his voice, his steady assurances and sighs of relief to hear that the world hadn't fallen apart in his absence. Even if it very nearly did. As far as Sonic was concerned, anyway.

But he was okay now. That was what mattered. And whatever it was that happened on that satellite—whatever reason Tails had for calling him seconds before disaster—he would trust that his little brother would come to him when he was ready. Because he'd be there for him. No matter what.

Keeping his arm looped around Tails’s waist even after they made it back up the hill, Sonic looked up at the smoke still fading from the sky. He tightened his hold on him. It felt like another lifetime, like another him had first seen the explosion and feared the worst. Tails followed his gaze, quiet again with all the calls taken care of and winded from the uphill climb. Through his labored breaths, there was the slightest tremor that traveled from his chest to where he stood pressed against his brother.

"…Scared me, too."

 "Hey, whatever happened up there," Sonic broke the silence, his voice drawing Tails back down beside him. "Whatever you did, I'll bet it was seriously way past cool." He glanced over at him, waiting to catch his eye before giving him a wink.

All too easily, Tails grinned up at him, the shape of his smile the spitting image of his brother's. "Way past is definitely one way to put it."

———

Five years later…

———

"You've been quiet all day, partner. Something going on in that big brain of yours?"

Everyone else had split off for the night. Team Dark vanished sometime after lunch, after Rouge once again tricked Shadow into accompanying her, and Team Chaotix had an appointment for their next case. Amy took Cream back home to Vanilla while Tangle and Whisper left to help Jewel out with some Restoration business.

Which left just Sonic and Tails lounging on the couch; the former picking up where Vector had left off in the game he'd been playing, tapping away at the controller while the latter watched.

Tails hummed in acknowledgement, so Sonic let him have a minute of quiet to collect his thoughts. He picked at one of Whisper's cinnamon muffins, crumbs scattering across the coffee table, but he didn't eat any of it. He hadn't had much of an appetite since slinking out of his lab earlier that afternoon.

It probably had something to do with the quiet and the way he'd been kinda clingy. Sonic had planned on going for a run as soon as Tails retreated back to his lab to tinker with whatever gadgets he had tucked away back there, but he seemed pretty content to stay curled up on the couch beside him. Still, Sonic could adapt. He kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and slumped back into the cushions as he wandered aimlessly around in a game he couldn't remember owning.

"Do you remember that time you went up against Eggman's seven fake titans?"

Sonic let out a low whistle. "Boy, is that a blast from the past. What about it?" 

When Tails didn't immediately continue, Sonic pressed the pause button, then shifted against the cushion to sit up and face his not-so-little-anymore bro. The sixteen-year-old fox tore his gaze from the screen to watch him instead, eyes bright from television's glow. Looking at him like that, for a split second, Sonic could still see the insecure, little fox kit he used to be in the way his shoulders hunched up as if to make himself smaller. To take up less space in the world.

Sonic draped one arm along the back of the couch, leaving space for him to lean into if he wanted it. No matter how big he got, there'd always be space for him.

Tails scooted closer and rested his head against Sonic's arm. "I needed to disrupt the satellite signal powering the Chaos Emerald vaults, but Eggman locked me out of the remote connection so I had to access it directly—"

"On the actual satellite," Sonic interjected, fingers drumming against the back of the couch. "I remember."

Tails released a long exhale. "Well, he set a trap. A way to slow me down so I wouldn't be able to unlock the emeralds for you in time. The same code that would disrupt the satellite's signal would also cause it to self-destruct. Eggman banked on me having enough self-preservation that I wouldn't engage it without trying to disable that function first."

"But you set it off anyway."

"I set it off anyway," Tails confirmed with a decisive nod. "It was the outcome with the highest percentage of saving people. The fastest way to help you guys. I thought I could get out in time. I should've gotten out in time," his voice lowered, eyes distant as if he was reliving the moment right there on their couch. "But I couldn't. Not on my own. I needed… help."

Sonic tried to follow him there, even if he didn't much like to relive that day in his waking hours. "So you called me."

"Not… exactly." Tails sat up straighter so he could look him in the eye. "I knew you'd come get me if I asked, but then countless lives would've been lost if the titans had gone on unchecked, even if just for a couple of seconds. Sometimes that's all it takes…" Tails's fist clenched as he dropped his hardened gaze to his lap. "I made the call to initiate the self-destruct in order to save people. I couldn't take that back. I couldn't take you away from them. Not again."

A younger Sonic would've snapped at him—would've argued over the value of his life with him until he wasn't the only one blue in the face. But at twenty-three, Sonic had fought more of these battles than he cared to count and never once walked away a winner. So he sat back, held his tongue, and let Tails explain himself.

"I called you to say goodbye," his voice lowered to a whisper, "I wanted to give you that, at least.”

He'd had a feeling. It wasn't one he dwelled on freely, but sometimes the thought wandered in uninvited. Moreso during the first couple of months after the incident, when everything was still fresh and closer to their present.

Before Sonic could respond, Tails pressed forward. "But then an older version of myself traveled through time with two Chaos Emeralds to save me. He said it was the only way. Because at the time, only the two of us knew what transpired on the satellite. We created a temporal paradox, a loop without a proper origin, but as long as it was contained between the two versions of me, nothing could disrupt it. That's why I couldn't tell you before. I wasn't sure… I didn't know if the future version of myself had told you what happened and if that would open up possibilities in the time stream that would botch the encounter entirely." Tails lifted his gaze to seek out Sonic's again, and he could see the eleven-year-old sitting in front of him like it was that very same day. "I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you."

"Nothing to apologize for, bud. I get it. I wouldn't want to mess up the time stream for that particular moment either." Sonic shifted the arm draped along the couch so he could cup the back of Tails's head, idly ruffling the fur there. "But if you're telling me all this now…" he drawled, moving to scritch behind Tails's ear. "Charmy wasn't the one who swiped Shadow's Chaos Emerald earlier, was he?"

Tails shrugged, muzzle quirking up on one side. "When he showed up with it today, I just had this feeling that it was time to make my move…" Tails explained. "I've been feeling it for a couple weeks now, to be honest. I had all the equipment I'd had on me that day and I looked close enough to how I remembered. I knew I probably had to go back soon. Just needed everything to align so no one would interfere. Today seemed good…"

Sonic tilted his head as Tails trailed off, his eyes still a little distant. "Well, you made it back in one piece, didn't you? Mission accomplished."

"Yeah. Mission accomplished," he echoed, but whatever was on his mind continued to fester. "I thought I made a mistake."

"Hm?"

"There were only three seconds left," Tails whispered. "I thought I messed it all up. I thought I killed us both—"

"You—"

"I was so sure it would work because it already had, but there was still the possibility I could've gotten it wrong. I could've caused a split in our realities. Created two timelines where I ceased to exist, except in this one no one would've known what happened to me and two of the Chaos Emeralds would be lost to time. How would any of you have known where to look?" Tails rambled, pressing his hands over his face. "I estimated the time of day with a standard deviation of a couple of seconds, but those seconds could've been what killed us—"

"Hey, hey, hey," Sonic hushed, shifting to wrap both arms around his little brother as he slumped against him. "You didn't. You're here. You're right here with me, see?" He gave him a firm squeeze, smile tugging at his muzzle as Tails hugged him back tightly. "Atta boy."

"Stupid…" he mumbled into Sonic's shoulder. "Why does this still work so well?"

"Heh. What're big brothers for?" Sonic huffed out a chuckle. "Listen, you can't live a life of what-ifs, bud. It'll drive you outta your mind. I should know. And I know you know that, too." He felt Tails's nod against his cheek. "You did exactly what you set out to do. And heck, you used the Chaos Emeralds to travel through time! When did you learn how to do that, huh? Holding out on your big bro?"

Tails snorted, but it got him to relax enough to pull back. "Figured if I could use Chaos Control, time travel was just an added boost. Like adding a supercharger to the Tornado's engine."

"Tch. You figured." Sonic rolled his eyes, but the warmth in them was nothing but fond. "Give yourself a little more credit. You did something incredible today, Tails. You defied time and space to save yourself. And not only that, you gave yourself a future to look forward to. Because who wouldn't want to turn out to be like you?"

It was Tails's turn to roll his eyes, though it was his own chuckle that betrayed him. "That's what I told me."

"And wiser words were never spoken," Sonic assured him as he gave his knee a firm pat.

"I dunno. Could make a case for the consequences of rewriting timelines and creating unsustainable permutations of past and future events." Tails grinned.

"Now you’re just being smart," Sonic snorted.

"Well, I am a genius." Tails bumped his shoulder to Sonics. "But I also learned from the best. Even eleven-year-old me picked up on that."

"Well, he's a genius, too. He knows what's up." Sonic slung his arm around Tails’s shoulder, this time his turn to watch as his brother picked up the video game controller to continue where Sonic left off. 

He let him, taking his turn to be content as he watched Tails figure out the game faster than he did and go farther than Sonic could. They said nothing for a few minutes, Tails working out the rest of his pent up feelings through the game while Sonic quietly processed what he'd just been told. He wasn't a stranger to time travel, not by a long shot, but even so, it wasn't what he thought the answer to that day had been. As much faith he had in his best friend, his self-sacrificial tendencies were something he couldn't help but take notice of. After all, he'd learned from the best, hadn't he?

But it wasn't with bitterness or disdain when he set his gaze on the teen beside him. That wasn't possible; not when he saw every age at once. Not when he was in absolute awe of how far his kid had come. 

"Tails."

"Sonic," Tails answered instinctively, matching his tone with the hint of a crooked smile.

"Thanks for saving him."

Tails blinked and paused the game so he could look at Sonic. In the light from the television screen, green eyes glimmered with a depth that took him back to a younger version of his big bro, who was trying to do everything in his power to be there for him. Because he wanted to be. Because he needed to be.

One tail curled around Sonic's back and draped over his lap, giving back the same reassurance he always gave so freely.

"Anytime, big bro."

[rookinthecrownest]

Bedtime Stories For A Demon, Night 4: The Girl & The Glass Slipper (Lucanis x Rook Fanfic)

Lucanis,

I’ve nearly finished the preparations for Caterina’s funeral. Meet me at the Diamond when you can, I could use your help with a few things.

-Teia  

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting on his cot, with the letter in his hands. A part of him thinks if he burns it, it won’t be real. Like Caterina’s death could be carried away with embers on the wind. The paper crumples at the edges under the pressure of his grip, and the throbbing in his head won’t stop.

A year in the Ossuary. A year of torture. Of starvation. Of shutting down to his most base instincts. Of Spite.

Then, a light in the darkness. A tiny prickle of hope settled in his chest that Caterina would be waiting for him at the Dellamorte Estate if Rook could break him out. He started to wonder what she would look like after a year. A few more wrinkles on her brow from constantly scowling at everyone (except Teia)? Was her light grey hair wispier and thinner? Would she lose some of her height to age but still stand taller than anyone else in the room?  

There was no time, then, to dwell on those thoughts. They had much to do before he could escape. What had Rook said back then? A prison break, a blood heist, and an assassination just to get her mage killer?

They quickly fought their way through the prison, destroyed his phylactery, and killed Calivan.

And so, a Tevinter mage, a dwarf, and a possessed assassin had walked out of an underwater prison and into a casino. It was like the start to a bad joke.

Unfortunately, he would never get the answers to those questions. Would never see how much or how little she’d changed during his imprisonment. Lucanis learned his grandmother was dead at the hands of the Venatori soon after arriving at the Cantori Diamond with Rook and the others. He missed seeing Caterina again by hours, maybe minutes. Throwing himself into this job with Rook was the only thing that would keep his thoughts on anything but the lingering guilt, and anger, and frustration. It keeps him preoccupied enough that he doesn’t to deal with the fallout of his own emotions.

Lucanis Dellamorte doesn’t need time, he needs a target.

But there’s no target between now and the funeral. There is only time. And he doesn’t know how to fill that time without Madeleina and her stories.

He doesn’t know when she will return from the Grand Necropolis. If she’ll even return in time for the funeral.

Lucanis leans forward on his forearms and faces an uncomfortable truth.

He doesn’t want to return to Treviso without her.

Not for Caterina’s funeral, at least. He knows himself well enough to realize that going alone would be a recipe for disaster. There won’t be a target to bury his sword in. Nowhere for him to escape his thoughts. Nothing to redirect all that pain and anger somewhere else.

Unless she’s beside him, creating wonders with her mind and magic. Sharing a cup of cioccolata, devouring his desserts. Just being there, with no expectation of anything other than good company and trading stories.

I want. To Talk. To Rook. Spite echoes. He’s practically clawing at the back of Lucanis’ eyes. Want. Rook.

The demon’s howling in his head grows louder. It takes every ounce of hard-won self-discipline, hewn from a childhood of starvation and torture, to put up a wall between the echoes of Spite and the rest of him.

“Enough, Spite” He growls, tossing the letter aside and gripping the sides of his head. He shuts his eyes tight, as if that will keep Lucanis in and Spite out.

Find. Rook. NOW.

He squeezes harder until tresses of raven hair are bunched between his fingers.

Find. Rook. Find. Rook. Find. ROOK.

WHERE. IS. ROOK.

“Mierda! Spite! STOP!”

A flash of pain, a gush of blood from his nose. He grunts and wipes the blood dripping down his nose with the back of his hand. Lucanis is used to Spite’s retaliations but that doesn’t make them any less pleasant to deal with.

His tantrum mirrors the one from their first night at the Lighthouse.

The first night that Madeleina insisted they could find a way to help him. Outright rejected, and even seemed a little angry, at the mere mention of killing him to cure his possession.

He now understood why she staunchly defended him and Spite against those in the group that were wearier of them. Lucanis would have never guessed, not in a million years, that the bubbly and joke-slinging Rook was almost possessed by a demon herself once. And not just any demon, despair. It was one of the strongest variants of demons because it feeds from one of the strongest emotions; the antithesis of hope, that small light in the distance that makes one willing to endure any torture, any hardship, for the promise of something better. Despair was a void, an abyss. So easy to sink into and never return.

She almost sank into that void.

Spite was an unpleasant demon to deal with, downright bratty and vindictive most of the time– but he couldn’t imagine pure despair.

It ate up her life until nothing was left.

As his thoughts turn to Madeleina’s story, Spite, miraculously seems to settle.

Only for a moment, because just now, he hears a soft knock at the door. Normally he would have heard the person before their footfalls even reached his doorstep – would have clocked exactly who it was, too, by the sounds of their footsteps.

Short, brisk steps for Harding. Light skips for Bellara. A soft clink and a confident step for Neve. And sure, even steps for Davrin.

Soft, unhurried, leisurely steps for Rook.

“Hey Lucanis, can I come in?” Comes Madeleina’s soft voice from the other side of the door.

Rook. He can feel Spite’s cheshire grin at the edges of his consciousness.

Although they are of one mind, he doesn’t know what the demon’s infatuation with Rook is. What it means for her. What it could mean for both of them. And that scares him. This tenuous reliance he’s building with her - Spite is an unknown variable in that equation. Until he’s solved it, he’ll do whatever is necessary to keep her safe. Even if that means denying what he may feel for her. That thing he still doesn’t have a name for.

“Come in” He answers, quickly wiping clean the last of the blood before it dries down and he has something to explain to Rook.

The door opens, and in she steps. She’s looking much better than a few days ago when he found her in the music room eating Solas’ ancient cheese.

Why was Solas storing cheese in the music room when he had a pantry?

He refocuses. She’s wearing her casual Shadow Dragon armor – a lilac purple ensemble with a red sash around the middle that does her ample curves every favour.

He stops that train of thought with a hello and a forced smile.

Smells like death stink and mothballs. Not. Right.

“Back from the Necropolis already?” He asks, desperate to ignore Spite, “Did you find Bellara’s Fade expert?”

Rook smiles and rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. She’s beaming so hard he worries she might fly through the roof.

“We did!” She gushes, “Professor Emmrich Volkarin. He’s quite the character- you can really tell he’s got a passion for what he does. I’ve never heard someone explain sub-astral manifestation so eloquently! And!”

She excitedly holds a finger up, “He has a skeleton assistant!”

Lucanis takes a pause.

“The Necromancer … brought a skeleton with him…”

Madeleina frowns. “Not just any skeleton. This one moves. Of his own accord! And he speaks – well hisses, but sometimes I think I can tell what he’s saying. His name is Manfred and he’s absolutely delightful. I was just having tea with the Professor and Manfred brought me a nice cup of jasmine – that he made himself!”

When he doesn’t share her excitement, she lifts a brow.

“What? You’re not a fan of necromancy?”

Lucanis sighs and folds his arms over his chest. “I’m a large believer that dead things should stay dead. It’s every assassin’s worst nightmare to plan a kill down to the minute, and the target starts walking again”

Madeleina considers his response and shrugs, “I guess that makes sense. I still think it’s incredible though.” Brows drawn together in thought, she puts a thumb under her chin and looks down “I’ll have to pick his brain later about the metaphysical implications of necromancy and how Fade resonance may impact reanimation…”

“Madeleina?”

She snaps her attention to him once more, “Oh… sorry”

Lucanis shakes his head and gives her a light smile. He doesn’t want to linger on how cute she looks when she’s deep in thought. The way her brows scrunch together. Dark, wispy lashes falling over light green eyes. The corners of her soft, full lips pulling down. Ringlets of brown curls falling over her face. No, he won’t linger on that.

“I … wanted to ask you something. If you have a minute”

Madeleina straightens and smiles. “Of course. What’s going on?”

“Teia wants to meet”

She grins, “That hardly sounds like a bad thing.”

Madeleina and Teia, although having met only briefly, had already become fast friends. There’s something in their easygoing nature that attracts everyone to them. They spin people around their light, catching them in their orbits, like planets circling the sun.

“She wants to plan Caterina’s funeral”

Madeleina’s face falls almost instantly, and she looks like she’s about to kick herself for her comment earlier. “Oh …. Right ….”

He hesitates, and silence falls between them. Madeleina still isn’t looking at him.

He sighs, and builds up the courage to ask her what he was going to seek her out for.

“If you don’t mind, I … could use some back up.” He points to his head, “In case Spite gets out of hand”

Her green eyes meet his own. Sometimes he feels like she’s drowning him with her gaze, pulling him in until there is nothing but her.

“Let’s not keep Teia waiting then”

~*~

They meet Teia and Illario on the top floor of the Cantori Diamond.

“Good! You’re here” Teia smiles warmly.

“Thank you for making the arrangements, Teia” He gives a respectful bow of his head. Lucanis knows what Caterina meant to Teia. The old bird always had a soft spot for her. Then again, he’s certain almost everyone did. Even one prickly, and all-too-peculiar Fifth Talon.

She waves him off, “For Caterina? How could I do otherwise?”

Her pretty features fall into an expression of mixed pity and sorrow.

“I’m so sorry Lucanis…” She starts, turning towards him, “This must be such a blow”

Teia then turns to Rook, and flashes her a dazzling smile.

“Rook, thank you for coming with him. I need one Dellamorte to help plan this” She jerks her head to his cousin, standing behind her like a shadow, “This one has been no help at all”

Illario frowns, not even contesting the point. “I’m sorry Teia. This is just … too much right now”

Illario always caves under pressure. Lucanis reigns in the sigh that desperately wants to escape his lips.

Madeleina gives Teia an earnest smile, and puts a hand on her chest, “If there’s anything I can do, just say the word”

Teia’s smile grows even wider at that. “You’re such a dear. I hope these two are paying attention”, she grins at both Lucanis and Illario.

He’s not sure why he says what he says next, but the second the words fly out he wants to pull them back with his hand and shove them into his mouth.

“Teia, don’t flirt with my … colleague”

Teia gives him a knowing smirk, “Jealous?”

He’s going to protest, but she continues before he has a chance. “Fine, to business then. There’s a lot to plan, but first, I need the ashes”

She casts an expectant glance at Illario, who looks caught off guard. Unusual.

“… Ashes…?” He repeats slowly.

Teia puts a hand on her hip and frowns, annoyed. “Maker help us, yes, the ashes! Caterina’s ashes. From the cremation?”

“Oh, yes, of course” Illario gestures and smiles, but there’s something insincere about it – even for him. “I’ll get them to you rightaway”

He can’t stop himself from asking, “Illario … what happened?”

Madeleina tenses next to him. Illario just looks confused.

“What do you mean?”

Mierda. What else could I mean, he thinks, wondering if his cousin is playing dumb on purpose just to piss him off. “Caterina” he answers, barely hiding the aggravation in his voice, “How did the Venatori get to her? When? Where? In the Estate? In the City”

He wants to stop, but he can’t. His mouth is forming words faster than his brain can think them.

“How did they get past our people? What did they use? Poison? Blades? I need to know”

Illario frowns and there’s something almost patronizing in his voice when he speaks next. It frays every nerve in Lucanis’ body. “Cousin. Stop. You can’t dwell on this- it will drive you mad”

“I’m not dwelling” He frowns. Lucanis can hardly believe he even needs to ask for these details. Illario should be offering them up unprompted. “Zara killed the First Talon. I have to know how if I’m going to stop her”

“I told you, I’m handling it” The hard, almost defiant edge in Illario’s voice strikes another nerve. Some deep, raw, primal anger he’s trying hard to pull back from, lest he give Spite more fodder.

There is something off about his cousin, and he can’t quite pinpoint what. Was he really acting unusual, or had he truly changed so drastically in the time he’s been away, that Illario may as well be stranger?

Teia interrupts his thoughts with an exasperated sigh, “Boys, enough of this. We have other things to discuss”

“My apologies, Andarateia. Continue without me. I’ll … get you the ashes” Illario says quickly, seemingly desperate for a reason to excuse himself. He all but takes off down the hallway.

Madeleina clears her throat. Lucanis might have forgotten she was standing next to during that odd exchange with Illario, but there’s a certain steadiness she provides him that makes it impossible to do so.

“How are you holding up, Lucanis?” She asks quietly. He can tell there’s more she wants to say but is keeping it to herself- perhaps to divulge later, or, to simply bury away in her own mind.

“I’ll be fine” He nods, “Better once we kill Zara Renata”

Lucanis jerks his head to the spot where Illario stood just moments before, “It’s him I’m worried about”

Teia folds her arms over her chest, and concedes, “Illario can be a handful sometimes”. She shakes her head and turns in the direction he sprinted off in, “But this … the only time I’ve seen him like this is when we thought Lucanis died”

Her expression morphs into something softer, more teasing. Teia grins, slyly, “You’re worrying, aren’t you. What will people say when they learn the ‘Demon of Vyrantium’ has a big, soft heart”

Madeleina looks like she’s holding back a giggle.

You’re more heart than you give yourself credit for.

Now was not the time for this. Lucanis decides to ignore her comment for his own sanity.

“He’s been careless at times, but never when his own life was on the line. Zara took down the First Talon. Anyone could be next. And my cousin doesn’t want to think about it?”

“You’re right, it’s not like Illario to ignore the knife coming at him …”

Lucanis decides to shift the subject. “What do you need from me for the funeral?”

Teia looks happy for the distraction. She smiles, and motions for the two of them to follow her, “Come” The Seventh Talon says, as she makes for the grand, winding staircase, “I’ll get us some drinks, and we can talk about the arrangements”

~*~

The funeral passes by in a blur.

Madeleina, excited to show off some new spells she’s learned in her short time with the Necromancer, helped set up the decorations for the funeral. She summoned wisps to close all the curtains in the casino – an Antivan tradition thought to keep wayward souls from wandering. The wisps also carted flowers – boughs of deep crimsons, blacks, and purples, to and fro, setting them down gently wherever she commanded.

There are words and prayers from a revered mother of Treviso’s Chantry, from Teia, and a few from him. But none from Illario. He doesn’t know what to make of that but decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. Lucanis is dead for a year, shows up, and now Caterina is gone. He supposed to it would be a lot for anyone to take in.

He and Madeleina have found a quiet hallway after the funeral. Most of the attendants have already filtered out of the casino, a sea of black flooding Treviso’s narrow streets.

Madeleina sits beside him, in that familiar, companionable silence they’ve come to enjoy with each other. She plays with a wisp she’s summoned, smiling as the faint green-blue creature of the Fade makes playful circles around her hand.

“Thank you … for being here today” He says quietly.

Madeleina turns to him and smiles, “No need to thank me. It’s what friends are for”

Friends?

This is the first time she’s ever called them… something. He supposed friend was an apt description. He ignores the how the word makes his heart tug lower into his stomach.

“Goodbye little friend, thank you for your assistance” She whispers to the Wisp, and snaps it out of existence. He feels – well, something, at being referred to in the same manner as this little ball of light from the Fade. He’s not sure it’s a good something.

He doesn’t know how to ask her this. If there’s even a normal way to ask what he wants her to do for him. Oh well.

“Madeleina … will you … will you show her to me?” He hopes he doesn’t have to elaborate.

He wants to see what Caterina looks like through Madeleina’s eyes. How much she had changed, how much she stayed the same since his time in the Ossuary.

His faith in her is not misplaced. Madeleina’s expression softens with understanding.

Smells like roses and incense, Spite remarks quietly.  

Madeleina wordlessly conjures an image, with an elegant flourish of her hand, of Caterina. There is much of her that is the same. That familiar stony expression, that fierce, indominatable look in her narrow eyes. But she has changed, too. There’s a faint glimmer of sorrow he can pick out, even in her illusion. Her frown lines are more prominent. Her hair is a bit shorter, thinner than he remembers. She has more age spots. But her cane, her long leather overcoat- those are still as he recalls them.

He can tell from the look on her face that she’s concentrating hard, likely trying to remember every last detail of Caterina.

For him.

Lucanis releases a soft, pained breath. Almost shuddering. Tears prick at the edges of his eyes, and he bites his tongue to keep them from escaping. He can’t look at her anymore.

When he turns away for a moment, Madeleina waves her hand, and the illusion of Caterina vanishes on the wind.

“Lucanis…?”

Her hand is hovering next to his arm. Not touching, but close enough to feel its warmth, the comfort it provides. “Are you alright?”

Lucanis gives her a sidelong glance and forces his mouth to stretch into a tight smile. “Yes – yes, I’m alright. Thank you”

She’s gotten quite good at picking out his lies. Impressive for someone who’s not a trained assassin. Or perhaps he’s merely let too much of himself be free and unrestrained in front of her, that she’s gleaned all of his tells.

Madeleina is quiet for a moment.

“How about a story?” she pulls her hand away from by his shoulder and rests it on her lap. “One with a happy ending today, maybe”

He chuckles bitterly. A small part of him was hoping she would offer that. He’s asked too much of her already to say it himself.

Alone in a dimly lit hallway, sitting on a bench underneath an alcove. He supposes it’s as good a spot as any. This is as quiet as he’s ever heard the casino. Teia must have closed up shop early after the funeral, because there is no raucous laughter from the gambling halls.

“I’ll take that as a yes” Madeleina turns her body slightly, so she’s facing him. “I think I know just the one”

Lucanis lets himself relax for the first time all day. He lets the tension fall from his jaw, his shoulders, his legs, and simply watches and listens.

“This one comes from Starkhaven” she starts, leaning closer for a conspiratorial whisper “Some say it’s actually the story of King Artesian Vael and Queen Wilhemina Vael from all way back in the Exalted age” Madeleina leans back and shrugs, “More than likely she got tied up in it because he was the first King to marry outside of royalty. It’s called ‘The Girl and the Glass Slipper’”

Lucanis can’t tell whether he enjoys her little history lessons for what they are, or he just likes the sound of her voice. He watches intently as her hands glow blue, and with another flourish, conjures her first image.

“Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a happy family”

Three figures spring to life, rotating in the space between them. A tall, lanky man, with a kind countenance. A younger woman – beautiful with long, curly hair, and soft features. A little girl, with her mother’s hair, and her father’s gentle eyes.

“Her father was a travelling merchant, and so his work took him away for long stretches of time. But he always brought his girl back something special, just for her”

Madeleina smiles and the family disappears.

A figurine of a delicate porcelain ballet dancer spins in place. Then, it morphs into a hardcover tome – he can’t make out the title, but it looks far too large and complicated for a child’s bedtime storybook. The book becomes a gilded hair brush, before fading into nothing.

The family appears once again, but the mother is on her knees, with the other two standing behind her. The figure coughs several times and doubles over again.

“But her mother was not well. With time, she kept getting sicker and sicker” Madeleina continues, “As she was dying, she said to her daughter ‘Be good, be pious, be courageous – and above of all, be kind. Do this, and the Maker will take care of you where I cannot’”

The woman holds her daughter’s hand in hers, before she scatters into ashes on some invisible wind.

“And the girl was kind” Madeleina continued wistfully. She raised her hand, and the girl changed into a beautiful young woman. “Kind to others, kind to the animals in her care and those that weren’t” She is visited by all manner of wildlife – squirrels, birds, mice, chickens – even deer. The woman hands out food to each of them – big or small.

“In time” Madeleina waves the girl and the animals out of existence, replacing them with the figure of the father and three others. “Her father decides to remarry.”

The other woman has sharp, elegant features. Her thin lips are set in a permanent sneer. Her two daughters appear to share this feature.

“The Vicomtessa and her daughters quickly make themselves at home. At first… they’re cold, but polite”

The woman is seen trying to befriend the two stepdaughters, but they turn their noses up at her and walk away down some invisible corridor.

“One day, her father has to go away on another business trip. He asks the girls what they would like as presents. ‘Fine clothes!’ answers the first sister. ‘Fine jewels!’ exclaims the other.” The two sisters are practically falling over themselves at their imaginary jewels and clothes.

The scene shifts to the young woman and her father next.

“But his daughter thinks for a moment, before answering. ‘Bring me the first twig, father, that your traveller’s cap strikes on your way home. That is what I should like you to bring me.’”

She and her father embrace briefly, before he disappears into the air.

“But he would never return home. He’d fallen ill on the road back from Orlais. One of the servants who travelled with him brought the girl a hazel twig in a small box. ‘What of my jewels!’ cried the first sister, ‘What of my clothes!’ cried the second.”

Then, the stepmother appears behind them and slaps each on the shoulder. It looks so realistic he swears he can hear the sound of her gloved hand striking skin.

“’Quiet you fools – don’t you see we’re ruined’ The stepmother said. And she began consolidating the father’s remaining assets as her own. She releases all of the staff, that she may take the money meant for their upkeep to enrich herself”

The figure of the woman watches as a few faceless servants leave with rucksacks and little wagons of their belongings. The stepmother appears behind her.

“’But madam – ‘The girl starts, ‘How shall we maintain the estate without our people?’”

Lucanis already doesn’t like where this is going.

The stepmother’s figure boasts a wicked smile, sharp enough to cut glass.

“The girl was forced to take on the role of all the servants who left. They took her bedroom so the sisters may keep their dresses, always in the latest fashion from Orlais, stored away there.”

The young woman is now dressed in a tattered, old kirtle. Her long hair is pulled back into a bun, as she sweeps. Then washes the invisible floor. Then hangs the laundry. Then dutifully feeds the animals. But she never frowns. She always smiles and signs while she works.

“The stepmother and stepsisters treat her terribly. But the girl is always kind, as her mother told her to be”

Want to stab. Spite thinks gleefully. Stab. The sisters.

The sisters point and laugh as she does the chores. The stepmother watches with cruel indifference.

“Every night she lies down by hearth, for she has no bed, and wakes with the marks of cinder ash on her face” Madeleina has the figure of the girl curled up by a ghostly fire. “And so, they call her Cinderella – a cruel joke”

“One day, a proclamation from the palace comes. ‘All maidens of marriageable age are invited to attend a ball, in honour of his Royal Highness, Prince Theodore, that he may find a wife. The stepmother and stepsisters waste no time spending what little coin they have left of their dwindling fortunes on the most expensive dresses they could get their hands on”

The stepmother and stepsisters twirl about in puffy, fancy – gaudy, ballgowns, while the girl watches in her rags.

“’But I am also of age’ Cinderella proclaims. The stepsisters laugh,” The figure of the stepmother cuts them off with a hand, and the girls are silent. “’You may go to the ball if you finish your chores. Sweep the kitchen, the parlor, the bedrooms. Then wash the floors. Afterwards, wash, dry, and fold all of the laundry. Mend all the clothes. Feed the animals. Collect the eggs and milk. Clean the stables.’ On and on the stepmother went with an impossibly long list of chores. And it was meant to be impossible, for she would not allow Cinderella to go to the ball”

Madeleina frowns and waves the figures out of existence. She blinks and rubs her eyes.

“Madeleina – what’s wrong?” Lucanis asks quickly, daring to lean closer.

She pinches her cheek, leaving a red welt in place. “Mmm … yeah. I guess I used a lot of magic to help with Caterina’s funeral” Her eyes blink in and out of focus. She slaps her own cheeks a few times to perk up. “It’s easier to keep the illusions up in the Lighthouse since it’s in the Fade. I don’t need to expend as much mana”

“If you’re tired – “

She cuts him off with a dismissive wave. “No, no… I’m fine, I’ll be fine. I just need a moment. The story’s almost done anyway”

Madeleina sucks in a deep breath and exhales. With a clap of her hands, she’s launching back into her story.

“Where was I? Right”

She waves the figure of Cinderella back into existence, who is sweeping an invisible floor.

“Cinderella, although she tries her best, doesn’t finish all of her chores in time for the ball.”

A carriage, led by two decorated chargers, appears next. The stepmother and stepsisters push Cinderella aside as they climb into the carriage. He watches as it speeds away and vanishes into thin air.

The dejected form of Cinderella drops her broom and starts crying silent tears.

“She can’t help but cry. All she has ever been is kind to her stepmother and stepsisters. Why do they treat her so? What did she ever do to them?”

As the girl cries, he sees the hazel twig from earlier in the story reappear in front of her. The twig transforms into a ghostly figure of the girl’s mother. Cinderella looks up.

“But from far away in the Fade, her mother’s spirit hears her cry for help. ‘My child, you have done as I asked. You have been so courageous and so kind. The Maker bade me return to your side. Fear not Cinderella, for you will go to the ball tonight”

The figure of the mother waves her hands in the air and summons a gilded carriage, with two ghostly chargers – eyes glowing white like burning diamonds, to helm it. Her kirtle transforms into a beautiful gown, with rose appliques decorating the skirts. The figure of Cinderella peaks her foot from underneath the ballgown. Her feet are clad in wooden clogs, the inelegant footwear contrasting her incredible gown.

“’But mother, what of my shoes?’ She asks, and the spirit of her mother smiles. ‘I shall give you the finest shoes this Kingdom has ever seen or will ever see!’” And with a wave of her ghostly hand, the clogs transform into iridescent glass slippers. Lucanis leans in closer to inspect them. Madeleina has even managed to create the illusion of prisms of light reflecting off of them.

Will her wonders ever cease?

The mother shoos her daughter into the carriage quickly, “’Go on now! Time runs late – my magic will only hold until the bell tolls midnight! Fly Cinderella and find your happiness!’”

“’Thank you, mother!’ she cries”

He can’t help but smile as Cinderella is spirited away to the ball.

Madeleina conjures the image of a grand ballroom next. A string quartet in one corner. Nobility and commoners alike spinning about the dancefloor.

When the figure of Cinderella appears, the crowd parts immediately. If the figures could speak, he would be hearing shocked gasps and whispers.

“Cinderella arrives at the ball, and the Prince immediately takes notice”

A handsome young man dressed in an elegant doublet makes his way towards the figure of Cinderella, bows low at the waist, and holds out his arm for her. She takes his arm, and they begin spinning about the dance floor in a slow waltz.

“And when they dance together, it’s like there’s no one else in the world” Madeleina snaps her figure, and the rest of the crowd disappears. “The two quickly fall in love. And just as about the Prince is about to ask her name, the first toll of midnight arrives”

The figure of Cinderella parts from the Prince quickly and begins to run away. He chases after her, only stopping to pick up a glass slipper she left behind. “Cinderella runs to the carriage, and has it take her home. Although she only danced with the Prince for a short while, that little memory was beautiful enough to keep her warm for the rest of her life”

The figure of Cinderella is back at the manor, scrubbing the air below her clean, with a smile on her face.

“The stepmother and stepsisters return home, incensed that the Prince’s eye was caught by someone else. They don’t suspect for a moment the mystery princess was Cinderella. For she had nothing in her possession that beautiful – they had made sure of that”

The scene is now of the prince, staring at the glass slipper.

“Try as he might, Prince Theodore couldn’t forget about the mystery woman he danced with. He had to know who she was. He decided he would have every woman in the kingdom try on the glass slipper. He takes his Guard Captain, Ser Arryn, and rides out to find his true love”

The figure of the prince tries time and again, with girls of all shapes and sizes, to fit the slipper to one of them. All for nought.

“Eventually, he arrives at the home of the Vicomtessa, and her daughters eagerly try to make the glass slipper fit their feet. But the older sister’s feet are far too large, and she is too forceful. She breaks the slipper in half”

The older sister looks on in horror as the broken glass slipper lies in her hands. The Prince sinks to his knees, devastated that he’ll never find his true love now”

But the figure of Cinderella appears in the scene a moment later, smiling brightly.

“’Fear not your highness’ she says, ‘For I have its twin’” Madeleina waves her hand and has the figure of Cinderella pull out the other glass slipper. The Prince gently takes it in his hand, drops to one knee, and places it on her foot. A perfect fit.

The two share an embrace.

“Cinderella and the Prince are married. And they lived happily ever after”

Stab. The sisters? Spite asks.

When he doesn’t react to the ending of her story, Madeleina blinks and waves a hand in front of his face.

“Lucanis?”

He shakes his head and comes to. Lucanis grins sheepishly, “Spite wants to know if anyone stabs the stepsisters”

Madeleina makes a face and chuckles, “No Spite. There’s no stabbing in this story”

Not fair. Want to stab.

“What does happen to the stepmother and stepsisters?” He asks, tilting his head in curiosity.

“Ah, good question. There’s a few different variations but the most common one seems to be that they are relegated to working as servants when they lose their own fortune”

“I would’ve poisoned them” He adds, with a satisfied grin.

Madeleina laughs, “Well, when you tell the story, you can add that in”

They share a smile and settle back into silence for a few moments. He watches her blink in and out of consciousness. She’s rocking back and forth unsteadily. Lucanis reaches an arm behind her back – not quite touching her.

“Madeleina?”

“Mmm?” Her vision is bleary and unfocused. She’s facing him, but not looking at him.

“Mierda” He whispers. He knew he shouldn’t have let this go on.

She falls face forward against his right shoulder, unconscious. He would be concerned, if not for her gentle, steady breathing. Nothing dangerous, evidently. Just in dire need of some sleep.

A flush creeps on the back of his neck and his ears.

Her head is resting against his shoulder. The rest of her body is practically limp. Lucanis’ heart is pounding in his chest. So loud he can practically hear the frantic pace.

Quiet snores fill the air. He doesn’t know what to do. He keeps his hands laced together, almost afraid they’ll fly away from him if he doesn’t. To her hair, her cheeks, her lips.

To his surprise, relief, and horror, Andarateia Cantori comes sauntering down the hallway and spies the pair in that compromising position.

Mercifully, she doesn’t say anything but gives him a knowing look that he doesn’t like. He can’t find the strength to meet her warm, brown eyes.

Teia turns to Madeleina and gently nudges her awake.

“Come cariña, I’ll show you to your room for the night, hmm?” She whispers to the woman on his shoulder. Madeleina blinks a few times and rubs her eyes, parting from his shoulder. She’s so tired she doesn’t even realize what’s transpired or where she’s been sleeping. She takes Teia’s hand and lets the elf pull her to a standing position. She’s wobbly, but Teia steadies her with a hand on her back.

The two women start making their way down the hallway, leaving Lucanis alone with his thoughts.

That is, before he sees Viago trail after them.

The other Talon stops to give him a look.

“Shut up Viago” Lucanis mutters, pushing himself by his thighs to stand.

“I didn’t say anything” He replies cooly, but the slight quirk in his lips says more than enough.

“Mierda…”

[burningcheese-merchant]

Wake up, BurningCheese/GoldenSpice babes, new poorly drawn blorbos just dropped

They look cooler in my head, I swear.

the images didn't show up the first time wtf lol

The kids are finally here, yay. I promised I'd show you them, and I finally stopped being an asshole and followed through. Almost got 200 followers and I'm very grateful for it - really, I'm nobody. I'm just some clown who says dumb stuff and makes dumb memes and writes cringey stories, and yet I convinced almost 200 people to tune in. Thank you all so much, users on here and anons in my inbox alike. As a token of appreciation, you can all endure my rambling about my OCs and witness a person in their early 20s draw like a 12 year old.

The boy is Pepper Jack (or Pepper Jack Cookie). He's the firstborn and older than his sister by a few years. He takes after his mother in a lot of ways, primarily in her appearance (save for nabbing his father's red eyes). He's incredibly bright (and a smartass lol), preferring to think his way out of conflict rather than fight his way out... not that he's above violence at all, if that glaive doesn't give it away lol. He harbors a deep sense of love and loyalty towards his family and his peoples, and carries the weight of his responsibilities and heritage with as much confidence and poise as he can muster. (There are/will be times where he stumbles, of course. He's not perfect. He struggles a lot more than he lets on, really. But he tries his best, for everyone's sake.)

The girl is Matar Paneer (or Matar Paneer Cookie). Again, she's the younger one by a few years. She was all but made in her father's image, save for inheriting her mother's eyes. She's a little firecracker: lively and fun-loving and stubborn as a mule. She doesn't ask "can I have/do this thing", she tells you "I'm going to have/do this thing". Golden is proud as anything to see her daughter be so greedy... until that greed comes into conflict with her and Spice's authority lol. But she's a good kid, despite being such a handful. She has an enormous heart and is not afraid to stand up for others/what's right, and she loves her parents and brother more than anything in the world. She might doubt her own capabilities, she might secretly fear that she's not strong enough to do what she needs to... but she keeps pushing anyway, because she'd honestly choose death over quitting.

Your eyes are not deceiving you, Pepper Jack's wings are blue lol. There's an actual reason for that. And that USO (Unidentified Sitting Object) in Matar Paneer's hair is a lotus (the cheese one in the GCK decor set lol). There's a reason for that, too. I thought it would be cool to give Jack a glaive and swap out the normal blade for that of a khopesh sword (glaives are not Egyptian, they only saw use in Asia and Europe, but I just HAD to give him a glaive), to add that Egyptian touch. Paneer's supposed to be wearing a pattu pavadai, it's a traditional Indian dress for young girls. It's a blouse plus a skirt. She's holding katar, Indian knives (Cilantro Cobra has them, too). And her hair's supposed to be in a low ponytail.

Merchant thinks that if they explain what their terrible drawings are supposed to convey, people will understand their intended vision and the pain will stop

I sat down and did research into both Egyptian and Hindu mythology for the sake of drawing inspiration for them both. I'll explain in detail in another post, but basically: both of them take after one Egyptian god and one Hindu god each. Golden takes after Ra and Spice takes after Shiva, so I figured I'd follow along that line.

Please flood my inbox with questions about them now. I've really been dying to talk about them for ages now. I've drafted extensive character sheets for them both, I even made up in-game descriptions for them lol. They're my little fankid blorbos and I love them :') I hope you all come to love them, too

(Also, I'm sorry they're on lined paper. I'm visiting family rn and that's the only paper my grandmother has in her house. I'd have to drive to a stationery to get printer paper and I'd really rather not drive in this particular country lol (shit roads, even shittier drivers). I'll doodle them on printer paper whenever somebody remembers to bring me some)

[that-fish-who-writes]

hello.

.

.

.

*deep inhale*

KEEFITZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

...uhhhmm.

.

what's a keefitz...?

I don't think I've ever heard of such a thing :( sorrryyyy /j

anyways wanna see this cool drawing I made of a certain two characters? :3 !!

[hitlikehammers]

PART 2/2: in which lock-picking⛓️‍💥 is 100% a valid love language, and waking up with ✨Steve Harrington✨ was NOT the future (exactly. maybe. ish.)

...but waking up in a hospital bed just might be ♥️

<<< last time: And Eddie thinks that’s highly fucking debatable—he’s not sure where it comes from, because it’s a little out of place, Eddie didn’t say anything but maybe he’s just that transparent, the heart of him so quickly, so completely, and if that’s the case then it’s entirely fucking debatable because Eddie thinks he’s going to burst, splinter like a starburst, glorious in the unmaking for how big this thing that’s building in him feels, how certain he is that it’s about to break his ribs and he fucking looks forward to it, so no: Steve doesn’t love most because he can’t, because Eddie is overcome with this feeling and he, he— He’s drifting, because Steve’s heat is a heady fucking drug, and his heartbeat’s a metronome, a lullaby against Eddie’s back and it’s instinct, it’s unquestionable when he shimmies tighter into Steve’s hold and sighs the weight of the world out between his lips because… Because goddamnit, this feels right.

OR: y'know. Eddie thought he was dying in the Upside Down but then he's waking up in the future, in bed with Steve Harrington like what the fuck

Eddie comes to—again: un-fucking-expected—with the same sensation of his ribs snapping, the pain of it a dull thing he thinks he can just float through because his heart’s so gone on the impossible possibility of some future imaginary day where he, where Steve, where they—

“Eddie?”

Wait.

Wait, that’s…okay.

Back up.

He tries to take in what his senses are willing to offer him: something starchy, itchy against his skin, both sides—definitely not the sheets from the bed he’d just felt visceral underneath him. Pressure and aching at his chest: but less sweet the longer he focuses on it. Stinging and the pull of maybe-bandages, maybe-sutures, maybe both and something deeper, like…oh, wow, fuck, it’s entirely possible his ribs are already broken. His heart still feels full, but also scared, unsure, wrong-footed as more and more little clues seep into his consciousness, before maybe the clearest of them all: a shrill little beep that’s fast, like embarrassingly fast—

A monitor.

He draws a shaky breath—iodine, like, burning levels as he inhales and holy fucking shit, he’s in a goddamn hospital.

He’s, did he…

Is this what Steve meant, when he said ‘wake up’? Did Eddie…

Did Eddie fucking survive?

It’s in the spiral of that thought that Eddie clocks the same voice that jarred him out of his own head…in his own head, before. With the fancy sheets and the warmth and the home and—

What…what if it wasn’t in his head at all—

But his body, his pulse recognizes that voice as safety. As…rightness incarnate.

“Oh fuck,” and that’s the Steve Eddie knows best, right there, a little breathy and a little pitchy for frayed nerves and constant worry and the weight of the fucking world to make sure everyone—everyone else—makes it out as okay as possible.

And it’s in thinking that, that Eddie recognizes what Steve-in-his-headin-the-future-in-his-dream-in-his-maybe-not-quite-death-hallucination meant, when he’d said Eddie’s eyes softened. Because Steve’s heart on his sleeve, in his eyes, had looked peaceful, then. Content, even.

Not so frantic. Not so…scrambling.

Still just as blinding, though.

“Thank fuck, you’re awake,” Steve half gasps, a tiny clattering against the tile floor vying to draw Eddie’s gaze away but there was genuinely nothing in the whole goddamn universe that could take Eddie’s eyes off of Steve just now, those lips parted ever so slightly, cheeks that tiny bit rosy, pulse maybe-maybe-not visible just below the bandages on his neck.

He’s beautiful.

“What do you need?” Steve’s leaning closer, hands reaching but then kinda fluttering, kinda hovering, not sure where to touch and even if they knew the answer, kinda like they’re not sure if they can touch in the first place, yet all Eddie can do when he sees them, when he feels the shift in the air for how close they are; all Eddie can do is remember what it’s like to be pressed close to Steve’s body, to feel Steve’s arms around his chest, like they’re keeping him.

“What can I do,” Steve asks, so earnest and Eddie’s pulse does a little skip for it, how good it feels; “I—”

And Steve’s eyes are already big, just short of pleading, darting to the corners of the room maybe for water, maybe for a button to call someone to help more than he can—as if anyone can help more than Steve can, just now, because Eddie’s waking up from what it feels like to have Steve, and the most pressing possible thing in the world just now is SteveSteveSteve, near enough to feel, to breathe in—

Steve’s eyes are already big, though, is the thing, even before the full-on fucking crash of something to the floor makes him freeze. Eddie tries to peer down, winces as it pulls to much at…everything, kind of, Jesus H., but he hurts everywhere, and…

“The hell were you doing?” he asks in the absence of being able to see because…metal. Metal had hit the floor, from the height of probably-the-bed, after Steve had pressed into the mattress, shifted the weight, and then he’d blinked all owlish and adorable: culpability for whatever he’d been up to written all over his gorgeous fucking face.

“Umm,” Steve chews at his lip a little, eyes peeking up through his lashes, that look that makes Eddie weak and wobbly at basically every juncture it’s possible to tremble at like that, but he doesn’t duck away; he doesn’t even blush. He’s not…whatever he was doing—and Eddie’s range of motion is fucked, he’s already super well aware of that shit when he even tries to move to see the floor, to follow the sound—but whatever Steve was doing, he’s unrepentant. But in a way where he maybe recognizes that other people would have been less brazen.

Eddie’s wrist tingles out of nowhere—weird, when all of him is already kinda in a sort of dull, narcotic-shrouded pain—and he frowns, glances down at least that far and notices the slightest ring of red that’s less angry, not attached to bite marks and broken skin, and he has the wildest thought cross his mind just then, and he steels himself to crane his neck as far as he can, to limit the strain he’ll put on his middle because now he needs to see, because he kinda knew before he cut the sheets and ran into the fray that coming out on the other side meant life behind bars if there was any life at all, yet here he is, increasingly seeming like this is real, and this is his ‘other side’, and…

He’s just in a fucking hospital. He’s…he’s here, and he’s, he’s not…he’s not in fucking chains.

And it stings like a bitch, and Steve’s a second away from stopping him, reaching for him and pressing him safely back onto the the bed, but Eddie gets the glimpse he needs. Recognizes the shape on the floor, shiny steel against the scratched-up linoleum.

“Were you,” Eddie traces the ridges of his teeth with his tongue, because there are layers to what he’s about to ask; “were, umm, were you picking the,” and the first little clatter from before makes more sense if he’s right, and if he’s right, well, fuck.

It’ll be hot as hell, if he’s right.

“That?” Eddie tilts his head toward the floor because: cuffs. What he’d seen, what had fallen: handcuffs. On the floor. And they’d have had to have been not on the floor, and probably on him before, and so, he—

“Possibly,” Steve answers with a straight face, as unapologetic as ever, maybe more; maybe even defiant, and oh, wow. Steve Harrington picking his fucking handcuffs, setting his stupidly-quickly-lovesick ass free.

Hot as fuck; seriously.

“How positively criminal of you, Harrington,” Eddie grins half-maniacal, feels the stretch of it burn against a cut that’s gotta run half the span of his cheek but fuck it, the warmth flooding him is undeniable, is incredible—he’s giddy all of a sudden, straight to his bones.

“S’nothing on hot-wiring,” Steve shrugs, like it’s not fucking everything; “but I wasn’t,” and Steve takes a deep breath before he squares his shoulders, looks at Eddie straight-on and shit, if he thought the warmth in him up to now was something?

It’s kinda got nothing on what consumes him under those eyes.

“I wasn’t going to let you wake up fucking…shackled.”

And goddamn if the fire in that voice, those words, doesn’t light Eddie up like burning, doesn’t shake him to the core and then blanket him in sureness and the kind of protection he didn’t think really existed.

Save that he does kinda think it’s exactly what this man’s made of; made for.

And Eddie can’t escape the certainty rising in his veins and pumping, fierce and unshakable, that he wants—more than maybe anything—to be the one to give that same safety, that same promise of something unwavering and permanent and beyond question, right back to Steve.

“You’re an innocent man,” Steve leans in then, emphatic with it; “you’re a goddamn hero,” and he means it, holy shit, he believes that:

“Like hell I was just gonna,” and he shakes his head, like the idea is just that preposterous; like he cannot even consider anything but Eddie being free, and okay, and here, and…

Eddie’s struck with the sudden slap of realization across the fucking face that he couldn’t have gotten topside by himself. That someone had to get him from the hellscape to here. And of the able bodies in the Upside Down, no matter how strong the girls were, only one could have wrestled him through that gate. Only one could have…whatever he maybe needed, between this bed and that bat-strewn ground, it was, Steve would have been, he’d have—

The force his heart trips, then leaps with, is fucking cataclysmic. Eddie’s honestly surprised it doesn’t just tear out from his throat then and there.

“Plus they’re in the process of finishing the paperwork to make it all official, dropping the charges and all that, clearing your name,” Steve gestures vaguely in the air, like it’s all routine, the feds and the cops sweeping shit under the rug but then he remembers all the side comments he’d collected in the back of his mind these last few days about the ‘last time’ and then ‘the time before that’ and fuck all also the first time—

Maybe it is, just…sick and twisted and harrowing and heartbreaking routine.

“They’re just really fucking slow,” Steve smiles at him, all small and devastating and…

And okay, so that overwhelming urge to be a constant in Steve Harrington’s life, safe next to his heart kinda for always, zero to forever in half-a-blink?

Eddie knew he wanted, when he threw his vest at Steve’s bare chest more for Eddie’s own fucking sanity than anyone’s modesty, but it was all washed in the hopeless-helpless colors of desperation, of why not when I won’t see tomorrow; and now.

Now, all Eddie wants is tomorrow. Every tomorrow. No tomorrows without this man. Without what he saw, how it felt: what he knows in his marrow loving him would be.

It’s probably that conviction etching into his cells that makes makes him softer, a little weepy around the edges; drives him to need through the next words that escape:

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, wishes Steve were just that little bit closer so that the distance he can reach could reach him:

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Steve waves him off almost, like he doesn’t think everything he is, everything he’s done is monumental. Not just the cuffs but with the cuffs like the cherry on top of how Eddie would—will, if he’s given the chance—devote all that he has and all that he is to making Steve happy. To making him as calm and warm and loved as Eddie could feel in that bedroom, in his head or in the future or on death’s fucking door.

“I mean,” Steve starts, and Eddie can already feel how he’s angling to downplay the thing that’s only swelling, building, growing under Eddie’s own ribs and, well: no.

No, Eddie won’t be standing for that.

“Stevie,” and Steve’s gravitated wordless just close enough for Eddie to be able to brush his fingertips against Steve’s wrist, to curl and pull his hand into Eddie’s grasp, palm splayed above Steve’s knuckles, holding. Keeping.

“Thank you.”

And Steve stills a little, stares at him like he can see what’s tucked up tight and dear in Eddie’s chest and maybe he can, because his voice is feather-light and a little bowled-over. A little…a little awed.

“You’re welcome.”

So yeah, maybe he can see what’s in Eddie’s chest, less tucked in this moment now than fucking, like…

Blooming.

“Do you believe there’s anything waiting when we die?”

Eddie’s gonna blame the frantic blossoming warmth coursing through him for the way he blurts that shit out with no preamble, like maybe the flowering wonder of it all pushes it out without permission, sweet on the back of his tongue but heavy because it matters so much; because it’s all just nostalgia.

For now.

“What?” Steve gapes a little, sounds dumbfounded; maybe a little wary. Fearful.

His hand’s still held under Eddie’s, though, so it’s only natural the way Eddie lifts his fingers and presses them palm-to-palm like it means something.

“Do you?”

“I…don’t know,” Steve swallows hard enough the follow down the taut line of his throat, fucking mesmerizing.

So maybe the way Eddie licks his lips before he says anything more isn’t…isn’t just for the sake of the topic and its weight, is all he’s saying.

“I,” and Eddie doesn’t really know where he’s going, here, or else: he knows exactly where he’s going.

He’s just not totally sure the path he’s planning to chart along the way for getting there.

“When we were down there, and I was telling you to go after Wheeler,” which yeah, okay, surprise direction there, weird little detour, but…it doesn’t feel wrong.

Which means, if it’s right instead: then that’s everything that is Steve in Eddie’s lungs for breathing, in the chambers of his heart. So he leans into it.

Squeezes Steve’s fingers laced together with his.

“Eddie,” Steve starts, sounds tired, spent, and Eddie was never going to let that happen; no matter where he’s going, or leading them down the path of his revelations, the truth etched new but also deep in his bones like it was only waiting to be found and known.

“It was because that’s what I wanted. For me. I wanted to,” and his breath catches on a little chuckle, so light and choked and a little hysterical as he adds, giddy and a little bashful all together at once:

“Unambiguously, umm,” and he trails a little, wants to hide behind his hair just a touch but to do that would require a broader capacity to move in the first place and more, so much more: it would mean letting go of Steve’s hand.

So: absolutely not.

Especially not when Steve’s gone full dropped-jaw gaping at him, his fingers in Eddie’s grasp twitching like he’s confused, like maybe there’s part of him short-circuiting, and Eddie feels his exhales tremble when he finally blinks, finally tilts his head and takes Eddie in at a new angle before he asks, genuine and not just a little lost:

“Seriously?”

And Eddie…Eddie’s actually never been more serious in his life, so.

“Like,” and he circles Steve’s knuckles delicate-like with his thumb: “I wanted the chance, to try, I guess, yeah.”

And he doesn’t know if he’s risking everything to own it, even if he’s owning just a sliver of the breadth and depth that he feels, but he does know unequivocally that he wouldn’t hold it back if given the choice, the opportunity to do it over and not show his bloody-beating heart on display.

A bloody-beating heart that’s moving quicker, slamming harder against his chest but…that actually feels like the only correct thing it could do. Because this merits it.

This kinda is his whole fucking heart.

“Do you still?”

It takes Eddie a longer string of seconds than he’d prefer to own to, to process the words as having meaning, no matter that he doesn’t fucking understand what they’re aiming at.

“What?”

“Want,” and Steve’s the one squeezing Eddie’s hand now, turning a little to graze at the line of his veins at the wrist; “the chance.”

And he says it deceptively casual, despite how he’s staring at their hands, determinedly not meeting Eddie gaze as Eddie gets his chance at the gaping.

“Fuck yes,” Eddie finally huffs on something not unlike unabashed fucking joy, save that this thing he’s feeling is so much bigger, and when Steve looks up, meets his eyes and his own glimmer, shine so bright and brim with such disbelief, but so much stronger and with such hope, Jesus.

Eddie can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of him. Like his whole fucking soul gets shaped into a single breath of exultant delight.

And they both hold to one another, trace across skin and map the lines and dots and scars, and Eddie’s not stupid, he knows this isn’t how it works but…

But he’d still bet money on the fact that the way he’s touching Steve, so innocent and so quietly intimate, is healing his wounds, shoring up his weaknesses and stitching him up fuller, better, breath by shared-sacred breath.

It’s heady as fuck. It’s exquisite.

“Why’d you ask me about when we die?”

Steve’s the one to break the still, and even that’s not breaking anything, really; he speaks so soft. He’s stroking down from Eddie’s thumb back and forth.

It’s not breaking anything.

“I saw something,” Eddie whispers, not sure what reaction that’ll get, and Steve’s staring at their hands again, marveling really, so Eddie can’t read any hint save for the crinkled furrow in his brow.

“But you didn’t die.”

Which isn’t the reaction he thinks he expected, even if Eddie couldn’t name what he did expect. And it’s also not a revelation he thought he’d receive.

“Not at all?”

Because he’s genuinely surprised. He at least figured he’d flatlined like…long enough to have visions of absolute and total domestic bliss and shit.

But Steve’s shaking his head decisively, holding on to Eddie just a little bit tighter.

“You had a pulse, whole way to he hospital,” he tells Eddie, voice gone a little hoarse; “it wasn’t strong but,” and Steve looks up at him, and fuck, those eyes are too shiny now and Eddie doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want his Steve to hurt, he—

“I fucking held you,” Steve croaks and oh, oh he’s shaking, Jesus—

“I kinda,” and he swallows with a click Eddie can hear, around a throbbing pulse Eddie can see, wants nothing more than to soothe with his lips against that tender skin; “I kinda had to make sure, so,” and the hand that’s not holding Eddie’s comes up, trembling as he reaches toward Eddie’s chest:

“Kept my hand pressed, just,” and his voice gives, and he looks up at Eddie with something like devastation, begging something like permission because he doesn’t know that everything that Eddie is, is his.

But he will.

He will know.

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes out, holds Steve gaze as he nods, as he tries to make it clear that anything Steve needs is his, and then some.

It takes a second, but the shine in those eyes finally shifts, finally brightens and then Steve’s breathing’s made of tremors, but his hand finds Eddie’s chest and sends something sparking like lighting through him just as the whole of Eddie feels immediately like he’s home.

And Steve’s hand on his chest feels exactly like it did in their future bed, in their future room, in their future life.

Their always love.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, then takes a moment, palm splayed wide just above Eddie’s bandages, before he’s gripping Eddie’s wrist with the other hand a little harder:

“It’s so fast,” he exhales like it holds the whole world and then some; he wonders at just Eddie’s heartbeat under his touch and god.

God, but Eddie…Eddie couldn’t have imagined he’d ever feel like this. Let alone feel like maybe it’s mutual, maybe it’s real, maybe he can keep it and stay in this feeling for forever.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Eddie murmurs, then he chuckles, inhales deep maybe just to better feel the weight of Steve’s hand; “making up for the lost opportunity, y’know,” and fuck, all he wants is to be able to lean, to kiss the pout of those lips, to taste what it means to love somebody like he’s never done before.

“Making up for what it missed the last time your hand was there to feel it.”

And Steve’s hand above his thrumming heart twitches just a little, but never flags or makes to move, to leave, and Eddie thinks that he’d be fine if he lived the rest on his days with Steve like that, near enough that he could press a hand to Eddie’s heart at all times and just…just know that it’s his.

Because maybe it’s sudden—it’s definitely quick—but Eddie’s never known anything like he knows this.

“Eddie,” Steve finally whispers, a question and a claim and a means of cradling Eddie to his heart, somehow, for how swathed in light and affection Eddie feels in that moment, in just the shape of his name like it’s never been spoken before.

“I saw the future,” Eddie blurts out in a rush, breath coming a little quicker and heart-under-Steve’s-hand pounding harder. “Maybe. I don’t know, I mean, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud but it felt so,” but then he looks into Steve’s eyes again and Steve is listening, Steve’s maybe doesn’t think he’s crazy, so he feels safe enough to say with his whole fucking chest:

“It felt real, Stevie.”

“What was it?” Steve asks, so quiet, so gentle like he doesn’t want to disturb this thing either, like he doesn’t need to hear it spelled out yet to know it’s delicate, the most important thing in the world, which fuck yeah it is, even as it cracks and chokes for the flood of feeling around it when it presses up from Eddie’s chest:

“Us,” Eddie breathes it out like the precious truth it genuinely fucking is:

“It was us.”

And Steve doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glimmer all the more, swimming with a riot of emotion to a degree than Eddie feels drowned in awe just to see it, and his hands on Eddie hold tighter, more fervent, devoted like a pledge for the way it runs through Eddie’s blood and sings in his veins:

“Even if it wasn’t real,” but Eddie’s doesn’t believe that, not really, not in his heart of hearts where it all pounds into the crevices that map Steve’s touch; “even if I wasn’t seeing the actual future,” and maybe he wasn’t, maybe that wasn’t their future, and maybe he’ll never know, but what he does know, is—

“It felt right, Steve.”

He knows that clearer than he knows the sky is blue.

“It was just a few minutes,” Eddie flounders a little, mostly because he remembers how good it was, written indelible into how much he wants, here and now:

“But I have never felt anything so right.”

He breathes, shaky and shallow and too fucking fast, but then Steve starts stroking his palm along the unmarked spaces of his chest, back and forth over the gallop of his heart like he means to stay there. Like he could ever want to keep.

“Well,” Steve whispers, his eyes on the path of his hand to make sure he doesn’t draw any pain—as if he ever could—until he knows the safe route over and back, again and again, and then he looks up, catches Eddie’s eyes and locks there, doesn’t pin so much as holds, holds, holds.

And good fucking god, Eddie feels it glisten through him like starlight; Eddie feels remade before Steve’s leaning in, lower than to meet Eddie’s mouth but then he’s pressing his lips to the dip between Eddie’s collarbones, holding there, breathing like he means to savor, like he means to cherish, like he means to, to…

To stay.

And Eddie’s heart’s under that hand and those lips all at once, wholly Steve’s while it quivers like a riot, while it leaps as Steve changes the world, writes their fucking future where his mouth drags wet and warm and ardent and there’s nothing in it at all that can be anything other than at least on the way to love as he breathes, fucking vows:

“We gotta try, then, don’t we?”

♥️

>>>also on ao3✨

for @penny00dreadful 🖤 still very fucking sorry it's this late

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divider credit here and here

[shatterred-unvoiced-thoughts]

[pinklesbionade]

I was rewatching i7 third beat again and I genuinely think ep. 8 is a perfect episode of television. It's gorgeously animated and directed, and the voice acting is fantastic, but what stood out to me the most was how silent it is. After the end of the OP and until the beginning of 未完成な僕ら there is no background music at all. I love the i7 OST and I've listened to it so much Katou Tatsuya has ended up on my spotify wrapped, but I think it was such a good decision.

All you can hear aside from the characters speaking are the soft ambient sounds of what they're doing. Trains rumbling, papers shuffling, rain falling, cars passing by, waves on the water, footsteps. Good background music heightens the emotions of scenes but cutting it out completely has a similar effect.

It's tense in dramatic scenes and relaxing in more peaceful ones, but the whole time I felt like I was holding my breath. Not to the point of suffocating, but like if I exhaled too hard it would shatter the space. The episode pulls you into this fragile and slightly melancholy moment of Re:vale's past so well. It's perfect.