#i do not know how to write happy endings

[rattini]

god i really am sitting awake crying over and oc x canon ship with cooper howard lmao

[mipexch]

comic about v2 and the goal they'll never fully reach alongside a dissatisfying conclusion. intimate rivalry and all (alternative ending comic. V1 dies instead of V2 during 4-4. V2 is narrating. V1 is dead.)

[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

[asgardian--angels]

Scene Breakdown: What Actually Happened Atop the Hexgates

Hi everyone, this has been bugging me literally since I watched the finale for the first time three months ago and I've been trying to put the pieces together ever since. I still have a lot of questions about the metaphysics of hextech and the alternate timelines (Mage Viktor you frustrate me!!), BUT, setting those aside for the time being, I wanted to break down that final climactic scene atop the hexgates so we can see what actually occurred. A lot happens very quickly, with multiple key elements interacting - Viktor (i.e., the hexcore), the anomaly, the z-drive, and the runestone. This is my best attempt to make sense of it, and I'd appreciate your own theories and feedback! It is rather long but has plenty of pictures.

So, the first very important element to examine is the anomaly - in particular, what Viktor's doing with it and why it acts the way it does in this scene. I still have a great deal of questions about that first point, that is, what role it's playing in the Glorious Evolution, because it's really not super clear. But, as it pertains to what we see in this scene, Viktor says the following -

"The sublime intersection of order and chaos."

Hextech is engineered order, wild runes/anomalies are organic chaos. Both are apparently needed to carry out the Evolution - while Viktor on his own with the hexcore can Evolve individuals, for some reason (help me out here) the anomaly allows him to extend his power and will. I won't say a whole lot on this as it's not super pertinent - but I still intensely question why in the ruined timeline, we see only some Evolved (likely only those who had mind-strings) while the rest of the population just got anomaly-blasted (I refrain from calling it hexcorized as many do, because it literally isn't - it's the corruption we see from the anomaly) and just, Pompeii'd in place. But I digress.

In the hexheart, Viktor frees the anomaly from its chamber, instead moving it to a containment field in his hexcorized staff.

The anomaly hypothetically can only exist in conjunction with the hexgates, or more broadly, concentrated runic activity that wears thin the wall between the material world and the arcane (thus the hexcore may fit this also). It would not persist outside of these conditions. Thus, Viktor keeps it stable in this hexcore force field, allowing him to safely transport it up the gravity chute of the hexgate.

I haven't seen it mentioned before but I don't think Viktor in his Evolved form can actually fly - he appears to rely on the gravity field generated by activating the hexgate gemstone mesh. This creates a concentrated beam that travels up the length of the chute, and we're going to assume here, atop the hexgates as well, in a very narrow field - where Viktor and the anomaly float but not where Jayce and the Evolved stand. This could be a result of him breaking through the dome or not.

He releases the anomaly, where it floats upwards into the sky along what we can presume is the same gravity field.

Key here is that it is still, somehow, tethered to Viktor. If it leaves the hexcore field, it would implode. It's not shown explicitly what this connection is, but it must be there. It is no longer connected to the hexgates - if it were, it would not implode at the end of this scene. It is solely tied to Viktor now.

One thing that remains unclear to me is whether Viktor intended to use the energy of the hexgates to power himself/the anomaly. The concentration of the energy into a vertical beam is stated by Jayce earlier in 2x03, but we never see this - either Viktor was stopped before it could get that far, or it's unrelated and has no bearing here.

The next element here is the z-drive (or inverse anomaly).

There's been plenty of theorizing and speculation about the z-drive, as it was created from inverting the acceleration rune, thus controlling time rather than space. (It is not abundantly clear to me how the anomaly made the jump from a 4-second time travel machine to a reality-hopper thanks to some mysterious tinkering from Heimerdinger... but let's ignore that here). But its role in this scene is actually less than it may seem.

The primary consequence of Ekko launching the unstable z-drive at Viktor is that blasts what I'm calling a time-hole in Viktor's armor (physical, emotional...). This allows Jayce to get through to him where he'd otherwise be impenetrable - yeah yeah, the cosmic yaoi, we've all seen it.

The z-drive does not destructively interact with any other element in this scene - not the anomaly, nor the rune. Just Viktor/the hexcore.

It actually breaks Viktor's staff into pieces, which is a neat detail though I'm not sure it has any impact on events.

It's easy to think that the two anomalies canceled each other out - but that is not what happens, as we'll see. While I don't have a perfect screencap for it, after watching this scene a few dozen times, I can tell you that the rotating cloud cover concealing the anomaly does not change during the z-drive explosion. Those bursts of corruption we see in the above shot are what the anomaly's been doing the whole time. The two anomalies do not affect each other.

The time stop we see during this explosion could either be a visual storytelling effect from the animators (i.e., everything we see actually happens in a split second but time works differently in the astral plane) or the explosion of the z-drive actually creates an isolated time bubble around the top of the hexgates. It is not clear which is true. I'm inclined to believe the former.

That brings us to the runestone, the most complicated element.

The runestone has been embedded in Jayce's body by Mage Viktor, complete with anomaly corruption webbing. Mage Viktor's ultimate plan here is still largely a mystery (and it keeps me up at night). But I maintain, purely speculative, that he did this for a dual purpose - the runestone is now linked in some way to that ruined timeline/with that timeline's anomaly; it glows whenever Jayce activated the alt-hammer, which was able to hurt Viktor (perhaps it was the only thing that could?).

But, relevant here, it appears to act as a pre-programmed set of runic instructions to be read, interpreted, and executed by the hexcore inside Viktor. It activates when placed into Viktor's spectral body, anomaly corruption traveling up his arm. This triggers hundreds of copies of the acceleration rune to burst outwards which frees the souls of the Evolved from their bodies.

These souls travel in the astral plane into a swirling mass that close in on the rune.

We never actually see the souls go into the rune, although we are shown beams of blue light being gathered into the rune on Jayce's wrist, which could potentially be the souls though it could also just be energy/a sign of the rune activation. It's highly unlikely the souls went anywhere else even though visually at times it looks like they're floating near the z-drive - it would make no sense for them to go into either anomaly as those are both about to explode, and it was the rune that beckoned them in the first place. They could just be 'freed' to disperse into the aether, but, ehh, that does not appear to be what's happening based on the visuals.

Most of the souls are sucked into the rune before the spell runs its course and interacts with Jayce and Viktor. The last remaining appear to go with them.

So here's where it all comes together, and everything happens very quickly.

We have the anomaly, in the sky, tethered to Viktor & the hexcore. The z-drive is mid-explosion. The rune is now running its course.

This is what happens in quick succession, in order:

The rune sucks in Jayce, Viktor, and the z-drive explosion.

It's hard to capture in a screencap, but yes, the rune takes the z-drive explosion with it.

2. The shockwave of the z-drive explosion, which had been in progress before it was sucked into the rune, throws everyone back. However, since the explosion is gone, Ekko and others are unharmed. The soulless drones are ragdolled around.

3. The anomaly, no longer connected to the hexcore, becomes immediately unstable and collapses, imploding, which sends a shockwave outwards from the top of the hexgates (both screencaps are of this moment).

Now, I am a wholehearted believer that Jayce and Viktor were teleported elsewhere, and there's plenty of speculation posts both here and on twitter that lay out evidence for why it's likely.

I'll just mention that besides the fact that the blue flicker at the end of the rune's disappearance perfectly matches that of the other example we see of it being used - by Mage Viktor saving young Jayce - it also glitches out:

What does this mean? Potential reality-hopping? Anomaly influence to say the least, perhaps caused by the z-drive explosion interacting with it. I personally don't see why Mage Viktor would embed a pre-set teleportation rune into Jayce's wrist to give to Viktor without the intention of, yknow, teleporting them, especially if freeing the souls was an intended part of his plan. But we may never know.

So there you have it. The play-by-play. The anomaly needs the hexcore and imploded when the connection broke. The z-drive did not cause the anomaly to implode, its only narrative purpose here was to give Jayce the precious moments to reach Viktor. The hexcore is hypothetically still part of Viktor, and we have no idea if getting his face blasted open would be fatal for Evolved Viktor's body were they to get spat out somewhere, nor whether the z-drive would also explode in their faces or just fizzle out in the arcane. Many questions remain, but I hope this clarifies at least the technical aspects of what actually went down atop the hexgates.

Thanks for reading, and please let me know your own theories!

[starry-bi-sky]

more clone^2 memes because i think they're funny

[slayerdurge]

Durgetash Resurrection AU

"Is that...? That's my body. I remember now. The Morphic Pool. The Elder Brain, it... I was dead. What did you do?" "I made a deal... with Lord Bane."

[ninyard]

hello I would like the kevallison smut ?? Please

The promised kevallison headcanons (aka how the two of them figure out what the other person is into + how they might go about doing it)

When they start hooking up it’s all pretty standard stuff. Allison gets him off after a game. Kevin eats her out if there’s ten minutes free in between classes and an empty dorm room. They’re a booty call before, during or after a night out, or a no-strings-attached way to get some frustration off their chest. Their friends-with-benefits situation is more often than not just a quick fuck when they’re bored. But it's kind of just… that? It's just fucking. It's a handful of different positions, in a handful of different places, but nothing more than fucking, finishing, and leaving. They don’t feel a need to bring it any further though, in some ways hesitant that the other will catch feelings if it gets too intimate. But from the get-go their agreement is clear - if either starts to get attached, or jealous, or even thinks that it might be worth pursuing, they stop. It doesn’t happen, of course, but in the beginning they really try to err on the side of caution until they know that for certain.

There’s one of two ways that their casual hook ups becomes more... interesting every now and again: one) accidentally. two) intentionally.

If it is accidental, I think they stumble upon the other’s kinks by the Grace of God. It's a quick fuck that turns into something more because one of them picks up on how the other's demeanor changes and they realise oh. oh. That did something for them. The moment when it happens is so intoxicating and sexually charged; So intense at the realisation of how turned on the other person is, that they’re just waiting for someone in the dorm room over, or outside the bathroom at a party, or in the almost-empty parking lot to ask did anyone hear Allison and Kevin fucking last night? For either of them, single and used to quick fucks with strangers that don't mean anything nor have the longevity for experimenting with, getting to dip into their fantasies is unparalleled pleasure.

If it’s accidental, it’s a pleasant surprise for them both, and Kevin and Allison have that in common - they are both incredibly, heavily turned on by their fuck-buddies feeling satisfied. It happens, where sometimes Kevin just wants to be blown without returning the gesture, or where Allison wants to come without having to put in the effort it takes to give back. More often than not, though, whether it be with each other or with other people, they're most satisfied when the other person is satisfied, too. So when the topic of kinks and turn ons is broached, or accidentally revealed, it doesn't matter that it's Kevin, or that it's Allison. When they've been fucking for long enough that they find themselves discovering these things, they're comfortable enough with each other to not feel embarrassed about what happens when they have sex. If it makes her wet, and it keeps him hard, then it doesn't matter. They don't talk about their sex lives outside of when or where it happens - a kink or two isn't going to change that.

For Kevin, sweet submissive baby boy who just lives to be praised - oh, when Allison finds out, it opens this door for changing their dynamics that she hadn't even realised existed. Kevin gets so turned on that he practically melts, and Allison eats it up like it's the hottest thing she's ever laid eyes on.

They've found themselves standing up against a wall in a bathroom at a party somewhere, too many suggestive looks across the room leading to a desperately desired handjob or two, and Kevin is fumbling with the buckle of his belt. He struggles with it for a second, before pulling the black leather out from it's square frame and Allison offhandedly says good job with a laugh as she trails kisses up his neck and her fingers down his stomach. She feels his reaction to her words before she notices how his eyes glaze over with the thoughts in his head; how he stills at her words, how he's yearning through his sigh when she follows with a knowing whisper of oh, you want me to tell you how good you're being?

Him in her hand, the long acrylic nails of her free hand dragging lines down his neck, Allison feels how needy he is and softly purrs in his ear to tell her how much he wants it. It's not lost on him how she plays with him like putty between her tender fingers, but still he looks into her eyes with his eyebrows knitted into each other, too close to argue; The please that escapes his lips trapped in between a gasp and a moan is rebutted with her sultry say it again. I want to hear that pretty voice beg. It takes the stalling of the rhythm in her working hand before he finds the ability to whimper out his desperate please, please, please. She's using her free hand to hold his face still, their eyes locked together, while he can barely keep himself in one piece. Her thumb is soft over his lips, brushing over little gasps and short breaths, holding him while she whispers a question and he falls apart in her hands.

If Kevin loves to be topped by strong women, Allison loves to hear a man moan. And she’s never heard him like this before, his lips drawn apart just inches from hers, one hand steadying himself against the wall and the other tugging and pawing at the skin of the small of her back. She doesn't let him look away as she guides him to climax with her soft words of gentle praise. How pretty he looks when he's trying his hardest to be quiet, how well he's doing at keeping himself composed.

Allsion doesn't care that she's accidentally unlocked this submissive side of Kevin; firstly, he's hot as hell when he's this desperate, and it's not as if she's going to be leaving that bathroom and calling him a good boy on the court, because that's not how this works. She's fucked him angry and she's fucked him needy - the passion of fulfilled fantasy only working on a different level to anything else.

(When he's caught his breath and started to clean himself up, she washes her hands and admires her work; his rosy cheeks burning up as she watches him in the mirror. She pushes herself up onto the vanity, and when he can finally bare to look at her again, she says I'm proud of you with a playful smile. Kevin covers his face to laugh in semi-embarrassment, his head shaking as he finds himself in between her legs. They don't talk about it too much before he returns the favour.)

Then there's, Allison, sweet Allison, who's interests work in harmony like a perfect composed song. We knows she loves to hear the men she sleeps with, but there's two things that really get her going that more often than not go hand in hand - rough sex, and loud sex. Living in dorms, it's hard to indulge, especially the second, but usually she'll just pull him close, with his lips to her ear or hers to his. Allison gets off on hearing the person she's fucking, and Kevin is not an exception to that.

They've somehow had a stroke of luck - an empty house in Columbia and some time to kill. Kevin is on the edge of the bed, and Allison is facing Kevin while sitting on his lap, her knees resting on either side of him, in a skirt that is already so short that it's barely even there. They're making out, and Kevin isn't really thinking, but he slaps her ass - something he'd done once or twice before, but never that hard, never that loud. Allison sits back, hands on his shoulders with her mouth open wide. She doesn't get the chance to finish her questioning what are you doing? Before his mischievous smile curls around, what, this? as he laughs and does it again. When she stands up off of him in a half-protest, shaking her finger at how close he was getting to really getting her going, he follows her up. He stands in front of her with feigned apologies for his boldness. She leans into his kiss, with arms wrapped tight around her waist, but instead of pouting his lips, he picks her up and throws her back onto the bed while she scream-laughs.

Body over body, on top of her then, a hand finds it's way in between strands of shiny blonde. A hand that she takes into hers, guiding his fist to grasp a handful of her hair. When he doesn't hold it hard enough she tugs it gently, keeping his fist closed with her hand around it. Looking down at her, he purses his lips with an oh that pauses his other hand while it pushes up her skirt to touch her over her panties. Reading him while waiting for the laugh that never comes is agonisingly long, as she braces herself for the mortifying conversation that he was not going to be entertaining it. Instead he waits for her hand to trail away before pulling her head, hard, back into the bed. And when she shuts her eyes and parts her lips in pleasure, he is quick to bring his hand up to her chin, tilting her head back. The two smallest of his fingers fingers tuck themselves neatly behind her ear, the other two tight between her jawline and her cheekbone. The ball of his thumb is resting on her chin. She doesn't stop him when his thumb trails down from her cupid's bow and into her mouth. She doesn't stop him when he takes it out hold it around her throat, either. Kevin is careful to scatter wet bruises down her chest where they won't be seen. When he's standing back to take off his pants and she’s lifting her top over her head, he asks, you want it hard? and she responds do you even fucking have to ask?

Her skirt is up over her hips and her thong down her thighs. He’s on his knees with her legs over his thighs, maybe he’s pinning her hands down above her head with one big hand over her little wrists. Headboard banging, unrestrained volume, handprints on ass cheeks and scratches across spines. Allison gets sex-drunk when he manhandles her. It’s sloppy, it’s messy, it’s loud, it’s so hot that it’s on fire. It’s eye-rolling, being in a daze afterwards type of fucking. It’s mascara running down cheeks, how the fuck am I supposed to look anyone in the eye after having that done to me type of fucking. It’s needing to have a shower immediately afterwards type of sweaty, messy fucking.

(It’s probably one of the only times they almost/kind of get caught. Not because of the noise, or the sex itself but because of the aftermath. Andrew and Neil clock INSTANTLY the missing and changed details when they regroup - how Kevin’s hair is freshly washed, how Allison has taken her heavy makeup off leaving only a fresh coat of mascara and some lipgloss remaining. How they can barely look at each other in case it reminds them of what has just happened. Their puffy lips, their general daze. Yeah, they fly a little too close to the sun that time - not enough time afterwards to recuperate from an absolutely dirty, filthy, fucking.)

If it's an intentional thing, a discussion about what they're into, and they know before getting into it/it's a conscious choice/it's intentional/some sort of discussion/WHATEVER? There's a few ways I could potentially see it possibly coming up.

A game of Never Have I Ever or some other drinking game with the group and the discussions of kinks come up; Kevin drinks when somebody mentions a praise kink, or being dominated. Allison drinks when somebody mentions liking it rough. Their looks to each other are quick but knowing, Kevin's raised eyebrows when Allison drinks to say she doesn't mind being degraded, the flick of her eyes when he drinks to say he doesn't mind begging for it.

They don't hang around after hooking up, usually. Clean up, get dressed, and leave. That's the routine. But they're talking afterwards for a little while, and the subject of fantasies comes up, and while shes fixing her makeup and tying up her hair she asks him what's the one thing he'd go crazy for. he considers it for a little bit but then gets embarrassed because it's a way harder thing to talk about when you're not actively turned on or drunk. They offer each other tiny pieces as they joke about it, starting tame before they eventually just say it out straight. (she calls him princess when she's leaving and he calls her a slut before she shuts the door.)

They ask each other outright. Kinda similar to accidentally figuring it out but they ask each other for it instead of the other person just doing something and stumbling upon it. Maybe Kevin asks her to tell him how good he feels and she asks why, are you into that? and they like. talk through it . Do you like it when I ask you this? Can I call you this? Do you like it when I tell you you're doing such a good job? Talking through sex can be so hot and even hearing the questions out loud sets the imagination off on a fucking marathon. Maybe Allison asks can you choke me? and he asks her how she likes it before agreeing. Do you like it when I hold you like this? Do you want me to spit in your mouth? Do you want to shut the fuck up and listen to what you do to me? It's a much more thorough discussion than them simply going oh, i think the other person has [blank] kink, so i'm just gonna go ahead and do that. It's a request, instead. Both of them knowing what they want and knowing how to ask for it? Yeaaaahhhh

[vaguely-humanoid-form]

maybe I haven't been looking at the sky

post-sonic 3 fic about stone. stobotnik too. oh yeah baby it's time for some pain.

word count is a bit under 3.6k

featuring: grief like so much grief, lots of hurt, a smidgen of comfort, second-person narration, so many goddamn timestamps, did I mention hurt, acknowledgement of shadow the hedgehog being like an actual teenager, shadow the hedgehog being kind of like a weird cat, the smallest hint of sonadow, and, of course, hurt.

have fun! >:3

p.s.: the title is from Maud Gone by Car Seat Headrest because I like that song and it fits too well

June 24, 2024, 3:26 AM

You wake up.

You don't immediately open your eyes, though, because if you stay in the darkness, you can pretend that everything is alright. You can pretend that nothing's changed.

You can pretend he's still here.

You open your eyes.

It's still dark, and you can only just barely make out the hotel room ceiling above you.

You can hear the soft pitter-patter of the London rain against the window.

You spare a glance at the clock on the bedside table.

You know you won't be able to fall asleep.

Four hours of rest is enough, anyway.

You get up.

You take a shower.

Your reflection in the mirror seems to bore holes through your skull.

You brush your teeth, and you get dressed.

You work, because you have nothing else to do.

You go to get shitty hotel coffee and breakfast.

On instinct, you grab two cups.

You decide you don't want coffee anymore.

June 24, 2024, 12:58 PM

Your lunch is tasteless, and not just because it's British.

You think you would've laughed at that only 24 hours ago.

You don't think about if he would've.

You don't have much to work on.

Your hands itch. Everything feels so still. So static.

You try not to think about it. You try to think about anything else.

You think about how cold it is for a summer day.

You think about the smell of rain on the sidewalk.

You don't look at the sky.

You count your steps to fill your mind with something, anything.

It takes you precisely 673 steps to get back to your hotel from the lunch spot.

You don't think about how odd it feels to walk so slowly.

You don't think about how lonely you are.

You don't think about the Crab sunk in the Thames.

You don't think about him.

June 24, 2024, 7:31 PM

It's been 24 hours since it happened.

You feel empty.

You feel empty and sweaty and gross despite the wind chill and you shower again.

Your reflection stares at you again. It accuses you, blames you. It says it's your fault.

In its eyes, you can almost see something like him.

You cover the mirror.

You get yourself ready for bed, and you lay there under the hotel duvet, air conditioner blasting, and you shiver, but you don't get up to change it.

The Doctor prefers it cold, so–

You stare at the ceiling. It looks blurrier than usual.

You don't fall asleep for another few hours.

June 30, 2024, 1:08 PM

Montana is certainly better than London. At least, you'd say so.

It was a good idea to keep paying the lease on the Mean Bean. It's something you know.

You can't decide whether the familiarity makes you feel better or worse.

At least G.U.N. doesn't want anything to do with you, which you are more than welcome to.

Your “house,” if it can even be called that, what with its studio apartment style, in the back of the Mean Bean feels foreign to you, but the warmth feels nice.

The café stays cold.

You say it's to save money on the heating bill.

You were always good at pretending.

July 23, 2024, 4:23 PM

It's been exactly one month.

The hedgehog visits you today.

You know you should be plotting against him. You should be planning your revenge. You should be scheming to get rid of him once and for all–

But you're just so tired.

And in the end, he didn't want what happened, either.

He smiles at you as he orders a hot chocolate, but you can see the tightness in his face.

You bring up the other hedgehog, Shadow, and he falters for a moment.

You don't smile, not really, but your face softens as you come to an understanding.

You can't talk about him, but listening to Sonic talk about Shadow helps to dull the pain for a moment.

Before he leaves, Sonic gives you a sad smile, and tells you he's sorry about the Doctor.

Your throat closes up.

You stand still as the door opens and closes.

Your hands are shaking as you close.

August 16, 2024, 1:15 PM

Ever since he visited you the first time, Sonic has come back every other day for a hot chocolate and a chat.

The kid seems to always have something to say. You suppose he's hyperactive in many ways.

He's nice to you, and a part of you hates it, but you can't get yourself to get rid of the kid. Even if he says he stops by to check on how you're doing, you know it's helpful for him, too.

Deep down, you feel guilty for commiserating with the enemy. The guilt is something you opt to push down, though, because it makes you think of him.

You're interrupted when Sonic walks through the door with his human quasi-father in tow. Tom, you think his name is.

If you're honest, he looks like shit. His arm is in a cast and he's walking with a slight limp. The bags under his eyes are nothing to scoff at, either, but he gives you a soft smile.

He only orders a water, and drinks it slowly as Sonic chatters at his side about the shop.

You know he's been worried about Tom, and you're glad to see he's alright, but a twinge of resentment bites at you.

Why couldn't have you gotten a happy ending, too?

August 27, 2024, 1:00 PM

He's back again, and he brought his friends: the fox and the echidna.

You freeze for a moment when you see the fox. The conversation you had with him plays in the back of your mind and you relentlessly shoo it away.

The echidna is still annoying, but it's funny to see him order a shot of espresso and then immediately choke when he takes one sip.

When you're not trying to fight each other, they're good kids. You appreciate the effort they're making, at the very least.

It's nice to have noise to fill up the air. Helps quiet the thoughts a little bit, especially when the shop doesn't get much traffic these days.

Chatting with the alien children gives you something to do, too, since you can't do latte art anymore.

Your hands start shaking the moment you try.

So, you listen to them talk: teasing each other, making bad jokes, ranting about this or that.

When they leave, they all say goodbye, and while the silence is still suffocating, you're finding it slightly easier to breathe.

September 10, 2024, 8:01 AM

It's his birthday today, and you can't get yourself out of bed.

You can't even properly cry. Quiet tears roll down your face and stain your pillow.

You can't get back to sleep, either. You don't know if you would even want to. You don't know if you could bear to see his face in your dreams.

You stare at the brick wall, bare of photos or posters or plans, and you can't get yourself to look away.

September 10, 2024, 1:30 PM

The door to your “house” opens and you jump from your bed.

Team Sonic broke into your house.

You would be angry. You should be angry. But you can't muster up the energy.

Sonic says something that you don't register, and Knuckles proudly holds out a messily-made cupcake in front of him.

When you get a closer look…

Oh.

It's for the Doctor.

When you look up, Sonic is giving you that same sad smile he did the first time he came to the cafe. He says he knows how you've been going through a hard time, and that since today is the Doctor’s birthday, he wanted to do something special.

It takes everything in your being to not burst out sobbing in front of the kids.

You all sit around the cupcake and sing to it.

You falter on the name. They don't seem to mind.

You can't bear to eat any of the cupcake, so you stick it in the fridge.

The second those kids are out the door, you cry so hard you can barely stand.

September 12, 2024, 1:12 PM

Tails bursts through the shop door, startling you and the single customer sitting at a table in the corner.

He starts talking, so fast you can only make out a few words.

Before you can tell him to slow down, Sonic runs in after him, smiling brighter than the sun and presenting to you…

…Shadow?

You nearly short-circuit.

How is he alive?

You ask as much, and they all shrug their shoulders, minus Shadow who stands there staring at you without expression.

Apparently, Shadow has some sort of minor amnesia. He can't remember much immediately before…

Well.

But, still, he's alive.

And that sparks something deep in your chest.

You wouldn't dare to believe anything. You know he's… gone.

But a tiny, near molecular voice in the back of your head says what if?

And you can't give into it, but the voice, small as it is, nestles itself in between your cerebrum and cerebellum.

Back to reality, the alien children have decided that Shadow will stay with you.

Their home doesn't have the room for yet another anthropomorphic hedgehog in it, apparently.

You don't seem to have a say in the matter.

You can't say you mind too much.

September 12, 2024, 4:25 PM

You take him in and set up a futon in a clear area of your house.

You give him a tour, which really isn't much considering there are only two actual rooms.

He follows you around, nodding or shaking his head slightly whenever you ask him a question. He's quiet. Shy, even.

You make a simple dinner in silence, and he mumbles a thank you when you hand him his plate.

He falls asleep while you're working, and when you get a closer look at him…

…Did he always look that young?

Minus the 50 years he spent in stasis, he couldn't have been more than 15. Maybe 16, if you're being generous.

His brows furrow in his slumber, painfully familiar, and you're suddenly reminded of the fact that he is, in a way, a Robotnik.

You draw in a sharp breath and blink away the stinging in your eyes.

Maybe you'll sleep early.

September 23, 2024, 1:08 PM

Three months.

It's been three months since it happened, and the pain has only barely dulled.

You're starting to wonder if the coping mechanism of bottling everything up as much as you possibly can isn't working as well as you thought it would.

Shadow has opened up more, at least. He's still quiet and sometimes stares at you, wide-eyed and expressionless, but you've had a good few conversations with him.

You've shown him how to operate some of the coffee machines, even if he isn't quite tall enough to reach them very well on his own.

Every day you spend with him, the more it sets in just how young he is.

For the first week or two after… what happened, you resented him for being a part of it all. But now?

You just see a scared kid.

Team Sonic has been back to the Mean Bean a few times since Shadow arrived. He's incredibly socially awkward and is not one for idle chit-chat, but you've seen a hint of a smile on his face a couple times, and that's enough for you.

His memories have been returning slowly. Despite the voice screaming at you at every waking moment, you don't want to hold out hope. You don't want to be crushed again when the inevitable reality hits you that he is really gone.

You remember when it happened, when three months ago, you watched the Doctor dedicate his last words to you.

You remember going through every stage of grief and then some all at once.

You remember thinking you were done with that process, then, after it hit you like a freight train in all of 20 seconds.

You checked into a hotel, perfectly calm. You went up the elevator, fine. You unlocked the door to your room, ok.

Then you shut the door behind you and realized you'd accidentally gotten a room with two beds.

You remember the taste of bile at the back of your throat.

You blink and you're back where you were, alien children conversing at the counter in your coffee shop. You realize you've been holding the same empty mug and towel for a while.

When you set them down, your palm is indented from the fabric.

October 12, 2024, 2:00 PM

Shadow has warmed up to everything a lot more since he arrived last month.

You've seen him shoot back straight espresso like it was water, which drove Knuckles insane, and, for whatever reason, made you glow with pride.

He's slowly started asking for things directly: meals, things to do, what have you. You finally got to make that revenge guac for you both. It was great.

You had to try to not choke on it.

He's insanely excited for Halloween. It's refreshing to see him like this. He's usually a pretty doom-and-gloom type of guy, and there's a pain within him that you resonate with. But right now, he looks so happy, asking if you can decorate the cafe for the holiday. Of course, you do.

His memory is almost fully restored, too. You're happy about it, but it also instills an intense anxiety in you.

You aren't sure which situation it is that's making you feel like this.

Maybe both.

It'll be 4 months in a little under a week.

You don't think it's stopped hurting.

When you get a moment to be alone, it all comes rushing back at you, and suddenly you feel like you did when it first happened.

But the hurting isn't that bad all the time. Not anymore.

It settles in your chest when you're distracted by something, knocking on your ribs when you're reminded of it.

It's constant, like a bruise that just won't go away.

But it's manageable.

What is less manageable, however, is the voice.

Every day that passes, the voice gets louder, crawling further into your brain and making itself known.

Hell, it's even shown up in your dreams.

As annoying as it is, though, it makes you think about your grief beyond what you had been.

Whenever you have one of the dreams, you wake up and shower, and sit in the water and think.

Mostly, your brain has focused on his absence. The fact that he's… gone.

But, then you start to wonder.

Would this have happened if you'd told him? Would he be gone if he knew how you felt?

Would that have even changed anything?

You have to stop before you spiral too far. Asking questions is dangerous.

You convince yourself that it's just the shower water running down your cheeks, even if your eyes burn.

October 23, 2024, 1:02 AM

You wake up.

You don't immediately open your eyes, though, because if you stay in the darkness, you can pretend that everything is alright. You can pretend that nothing's changed.

You can pretend he's still here.

You open your eyes.

The room is not silent. Faraway thunder rumbles in the sky and Shadow lightly snores from where he sleeps.

It's four months now, and you've suddenly forgotten how to feel numb.

Your hypothesis about emotional suppression seems to be correct.

You sit up.

You stare at your hands.

You can't breathe.

At first, you think someone is trying to kill you. That's the obvious answer.

But then you feel the tear drop down to the tip of your nose.

And then you break.

You lose all sense of time as your vision is flooded. You hiccup between sobs and you know you've always been an ugly crier.

What makes it worse is when you feel a hesitant hand on your shoulder, and look over to see Shadow looking at you with so much concern and understanding.

You don't want to cry in front of him. You're meant to be strong for him, for this kid that you've grown closer to, for this kid that you want to take care of.

But when he reaches up to hug you, all you can do is fall apart on his shoulder. And you feel so bad, because no kid should ever have to be the one to comfort an adult, but the tears keep coming and you can't make them stop.

You don't know how long you sat there, weeping on him, when it seems the well has run dry.

You try to mutter an apology to him, but he gets up and walks away. You stare at nothing in front of you and curse yourself for making this child have to support you, but he comes back with a glass of water, averting his eyes nervously.

You think back to the first week he was here.

He'd had a nightmare and woke up screaming and crying. When you'd gone to comfort him, you brought him a glass of water.

You had awkwardly stuttered about how crying can be dehydrating in a sad attempt to make him feel better, social skills be damned, and it had worked.

That was the first time he'd really smiled at you.

And now he's doing the same for you.

He says something similar about water and dehydration and you can't entirely understand what he's saying, but you smile as best you can through the tears in your eyes and take the glass with a choked thank you.

He lights up at the affirmation, and you feel a warmth bloom in your chest as you realize that you are to Shadow as Tom is to Sonic.

You gently ruffle the top of Shadow's head, the corner of your mouth quirking up. He flusters at the action and tilts his head, almost like a cat, you think, sporting a ghost of a smirk.

You tell him you're alright now and to go back to bed, and you yourself fall asleep with the knowledge that you are this weird alien hedgehog’s weird quasi-father, and you don't mind it one bit.

October 31, 2024, 5:30 PM

Turns out Tom and Maddie made a costume for Shadow. Sonic had apparently told them about something Shadow said about it after one of his trips to the Mean Bean, and they'd decided to surprise him. Needless to say, he was ecstatic. Others may not have registered the level of happiness he was at, but you know Shadow.

You know your boy.

Sonic, Knuckles, and Tails somehow convinced Shadow to go trick-or-treating with them. You encouraged him, too. He seemed a bit nervous, and even sort of embarrassed, but he ultimately agreed, smiling as he waved goodbye to you.

This was the first time in a while that you've been really alone. The pain starts to catch up to you and for a moment, you feel incredibly empty. Your throat begins to tighten.

You take a deep breath as the grief curls up once more, resting for the moment. It makes you cold.

You make yourself a simple latte and draw a little jack-o'-lantern on the top. Your hands still shake, but it's not too much to deal with.

You doubt anyone else will come into the shop. You already planned to close early for Halloween, and the sign at the front tells as much to any prospective customers.

You turn to begin dealing with the back counter, cleaning the machines and putting things back to where they belong. You've grown fond of the routine.

Then you hear the door open, and turn around to see Shadow running into the shop. His eyes are bright, brighter than you've ever seen them.

He tells you that he remembers everything now. He says, excited—God, it makes you happy to see him excited—that his memory is back and he can tell you what happened to–

The door opens again.

You look up.

He's there.

He's alive.

You stand there for a moment, completely still, completely silent.

You almost scream.

You leap over the counter, running and tackling him in the tightest hug you've ever given anyone.

He smells horrible. Like smoke and sulfur and dirt and grime and he's alive and he's holding onto you just as strong as you are and the voice is cheering and exploding into fireworks in your brain and the pain squeezes your heart in its hands and he's alive.

You don't even notice when the tears begin to fall. You only notice his pulse, alive, his breath, alive, his arms around you, alive, alive, alive.

When you finally pull back after what feels like both an eternity and a millisecond, you get a look at his face, and you put it in your hands and holy shit he is alive.

He looks absolutely disheveled and it's possibly the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, and then he smiles, wide, genuine, warm, so rare, so real, and then he leans forward and kisses you and you can't think anymore.

He tastes awful and you've never loved him more than you do now.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

The fandom can't make up its mind on what's supposed to be a joke and what's supposed to be serious because the show can't either half the time. It's a tonally disjointed mess that wants to have absurd over-the-top humor as well as a plot and moments of drama, romance, and angst that demand you see the characters as people and feel for what they're going through. Except you can't do that without also treating the dumb bullshit in a somewhat grounded way. Like, you're still dealing with the same characters. You can't just go "Oh, that? Let's ignore that!" the moment it's no longer convenient to you. You've opened this can of worms and now you have to sleep in it. So, every character flip-flops between two different versions of themselves depending on what the writers need in any particular scene.

This is not to say surreal humor can't be used right alongside characters you're supposed to empathize with, Teen Titans (not Go) did that and it worked. It's just that the absurdity can only come from the setting (Mad Mod, Mother Mae-Eye, pretty much anything Control Freak is in) or from designated joke characters (Date With Destiny). Teen Titans never had the main characters acting in clearly absurd ways as the butt of a joke unless those characters were brainwashed somehow, because the writers knew that would ruin any of the more grounded moments they wanted to write. The writers of Miraculous missed the memo on that one.

I don't disagree. A perfect example is Derision where the show takes all of the bad jokes about Marinette's crush and decides to take them seriously as if you can possible take them seriously without making Marinette come across as unhinged and dangerous. You can't, which brings us to the topic at hand: how do you even begin to understand these characters when the show is constantly making character-breaking choices?

My approach - and the approach I recommend others take if they're going to keep watching the show - is to focus on the characters' cores and reject anything canon does to violate those cores. I don't argue for this stance because I love the characters so much that I only want the good things to count. I take this stance because, if you don't, then the characters fall apart. There is no way to make them work as fully realized characters while embracing every choice canon has made. Miraculous has massive characterization issues that go well beyond the humor.

For example, Adrien has multiple moments of terrible behavior that are played in a serious manner such as the moment in the episode Frozer where he tries to start a fight with Ladybug in the middle of an akuma attack because she wouldn't accept a rose from him earlier:

Setup

Ladybug: I can't accept this rose from you. I told you already. I'm in love with someone else. Cat Noir: I know, M'lady. But if he weren't here, would things be different between us? Ladybug: Well, you know, I can't even begin to imagine him not being here. I'm sorry, Cat Noir. I really gotta get going, and you better do the same. (Swings her yo-yo to head back home; Cat Noir is sad, looking downwards, with one petal of the rose falling.)

Payoff

Ladyice: Cat Noir. We need to set up a trap for whoever turned the city into a giant ice rink. (throws yo-yo) Icecat: (bitterly) My feline instincts prefer to track and observe before I attack. You go your way, I'll go mine. Ladyice: Please don't tell me you're mad at me about the rose. Icecat: There may be a certain chill now between us. Ladyice: I get it, but we should really focus on saving Paris right now. Icecat: We don't always have to do everything together, after all. It's not like we're a couple. (skates away)

There's no way to argue this off as a bad joke. While Adrien has every right to feel hurt, those feelings don't excuse him acting like a pouting child in the middle of an akuma fight. It doesn't excuse him acting like this at any point! Ladybug is not a villain for telling him no. She wasn't even mean about it!

I clearly fully agree that Adrien looks awful and selfish here, but I'd still argue that it's not something that should be used to define Adrien's character if your goal is to tell the "ideal" version of Miraculous. "Ideal" being the version that canon seems to be going for based on the overall picture we can sort of make out if we back way, way, way up and look at the extremely abstract picture canon is clumsily painting.

Unless canon is going to do something monumentally stupid, Adrien is Marinette's endgame romantic interest. It's also clear that there is no plan to cut him from the team. He's going to be Chat Noir for the rest of his life or at least well into his adulthood. This means that he is supposed to be a good hero who deserves his miraculous just like he's supposed to be a charming and cute romantic lead. These are the two things I keep in mind when trying to shift through canon to figure out what writing choices I should fully embrace and what writing choices I have to either ignore or treat as true flaws that get an actual character arc. In my book, either approach is fine because most of the characters are deeply flawed at this point and you can't give them all arcs without bloating the story to nonsense levels.

My goal with this approach is never to say, "oh, that moment shouldn't count in terms of how people feel about the character." It's more, "that moment goes so hard against who this character is very clearly supposed to be that I can't take it into account if I want to tell the kind of story that Miraculous is trying (and clearly failing) to tell."

As an example, let's list off Adrien's worst behaviors. The things that make him look terrible:

He sucks at communicating his needs and feelings, leading to multiple moments where he gets mad at Ladybug for things she's totally unaware of

He has quit or considered quitting without warning multiple times and only one of those was because of something he did "wrong" (NYC Special)

He puts his feelings before the safety of Paris on multiple occasions, even going so far to purposely miss akuma fights to see what happens

He is incredibly pushy about his crush, often ignoring Ladybug's feelings on the topic by continuing to bring it up even after she asked him to stop

There have been multiple instances where he almost cataclysmed multiple people in a fit of anger

His love for Ladynette isn't strong enough to let him break free of things like akumas and nightmare dust even when he's looking her in the eyes making him a pretty crappy romantic lead

People will argue that some of this behavior makes sense for his character because of the abuse that canon has technically introduced, but that the writers seem blissfully unaware of. I don't disagree with that argument, but that doesn't change the fact that none of this is acceptable behavior for a hero and Adrien is a hero who keeps doing these things. A sad backstory doesn't give you the right to behave poorly without consequences.

At the same time, if I fully embrace these elements of canon, what I get is an Adrien salt fic where he loses his miraculous for good while Marinette finds her real true love or even just a non-salty fic where Adrien leaves for his own meatal health and gets replaced by someone who can handle being a hero right now. Canon's not writing either of those, so the only way to engage with these flaws while enjoying canon or aiming for the same end goals as canon is to say, "I guess this doesn't count" or "I guess I need to tone this way down and work through it via a character arc" or even "I guess that was just a bad joke maybe?"

That is the essence of what I mean when I call myself a writing salt, character sugar blog. It comes from looking at canon and seeing that there's simply no way to embrace the worst moments and the best at the same time. We're not dealing with a coherent plot and/or complex characters. We're dealing with a nonsense plot that will warp the characters to bizarre shapes to make random ideas work even if those idea go wildly against canon's end goals.

As an example, Glaciator and Frozer should not exist in the same universe or, at the very least, something should explain why Chat Noir randomly changed his stance on Ladybug's crush from acceptance to pushiness. As is, the pieces don't fit together. The behavior is too contradictory. Remember, this is how Glaciator ends:

Perhaps Ladybug will love me someday. I mean, like, I love her. I have to believe. In the meantime, her friendship is the best gift of all.

Where did this version of Adrien go? Why did he regress in Frozer? There's no in-universe reason. It happened because the writers weren't ready to let the love square date or grow close, but they also wanted the love square to cause drama, so Adrien ends up looking terrible just like Marinette ends up looking terrible when it's her turn to cause love square drama. Her terribleness takes a different flavor so it can be hard to realize that this is a systemic issue, but that's what it is. It's deeply frustrating, but it also clearly stems from cheap writing and not quality characterization.

This is also why my stance is that canon as a whole only supports my Doyalistic core-character analysis style of approach. The writing is too poor quality to do Watsonian analysis where you embrace the full picture and try to put it all together. The closest I'll get to Watsonian analysis is pointing out how much the writing botches a Watsonian take by showing you all the way the writing contradicts itself, twisting into a nonsense pretzel of frustration where the payoffs never satisfy! (See the season four rant for an example or anything where I talked about Chloe's supposed damnation arc.)

There are even characters where canon is such a total mess that you can Doyalistically argue for two separate takes! Gabriel is a perfect example. He is all over the place and his ending was so poorly handled that you can make strong arguments for writing him as a cold-hearted villain or a sympathetic villain without the end result feeling like it spits in the face of canon because both takes maintain his one core element: villain.

That's the big thing I keep in mind when I look at the characters and the lore and the plots and try to come up with versions that the average fan would like. I don't think that there's one true version of any of these things, but I do feel comfortable saying that there are versions that will very clearly only appeal to people who are salty about a specific thing that canon did poorly. That's not who I want to appeal to in my adaptions, so while I'm not going to argue that those takes have no backing in canon, I will argue that those takes are not supported by canon as a whole. Embracing them requires you to take the worst parts of canon at face value while ignoring what canon is clearly trying to do with the overall story.

I get the appeal of that, but it's not fun for me because that approach feels like rolling around in the mud with the pigs. I don't want to sink to canon's level! I want to have fun! That's why I talk about how to make canon into its best self, not its worst self. If you want its worst self, just go watch the actual show. I will be shocked it if disappoints you.

[altschmerzes]

i need to stop shadowboxing the concept of romance when i write. i need to make my brain go to a world where romance doesn’t exist when i write because feeling its constant presence and people’s expectations of its presence and reading in of its presence is making me a worse writer.

like. thinking a lot about that post that’s going around rn about Books That Are Clearly Afraid Of The Reader. been thinking about how fear of being interpreted or perceived or whatever permeates a Lot of what i do and always has, creatively, and frankly compromises it, especially in terms of fear of people reading romance into my stuff because of how much i write about interpersonal relationships and intimacy and reliance and vulnerability and intense emotional situations.

i need to stop trying to build a boat with my main priority being ‘i dont want people to insist to me that this is a car or make people feel tricked into seeing a car etc etc’ when there is actually no part of this boat that needs to be made with cars in mind at all i could just Build The Damn Boat. this metaphor got lost.

point is i need to stop letting romance take up space in my stories at all. even if it's just as something i'm doing backflips over and around. i need to just start writing about platonic relationships - friendships, queerplatonic relationships, familial relationships, etc - without feeling like i need to first disprove romance as an automated and inherent assumption. romance should have no quarter here, even in feeling forced to deny it.

[im-still-watching-anime]

trying to write for sskk while ignoring the big giant blinking “DOOMED BY THE NARRATIVE” sign my brain puts under all thoughts about them

[evilkitten3]

naruto crack au where kakashi manages to successfully drill the "never abandon your comrades" thing into team seven's heads

so when sasuke deserts naruto and sakura immediately desert with him. like he gets to the village gates and they're just waiting for him bags packed like "what took u so long we doing this or what"

he tries to get them to go back bc of course he does. "no you losers this is about me i'm going to kill my brother. also i'll have to kill my best friend for the super sharingan and you two are like the only people i talk to". but they do not listen. teamwork sasuke we will defeat your brother (OUR brother #communism) with the power of teamwork. just like kakashi-sensei said

suddenly orochimaru has to deal with three horrible little goblins with an even more codependent relationship than his old team

[ecoustsaintmein]

ghosts (part iii of v)

part i here

part ii here

part iv here

part v here

pairing: paddy x eoin; rating: M. slow burn.

this was the first time they'd had this conversation as eric and killian. but it was as if they'd had this conversation, many years ago, many times before.

(or, paddy mayne and eoin mcgonigal, reincarnated as eric love from 'starred up' and killian from 'angel'. they meet again, during the heights of the pandemic -- but they don't remember - until much, much, much later).

--

it's saturday morning and already eric could hear bhangra tunes bangin' from some flat across from the opposite block (though he could never really tell which one), waking up the entire compound. killian used to say that he quite enjoys it, even if he understands not a word. but killian is a morning person and annoyingly so, one who finds anything and everything fascinating.

eric once even found him humming to the music, mumbling punjabi lyrics that don't make sense, while watering his plants. head swinging to the beats.

mrs sinha, who lives in the flat between eric and killian's, doesn't approve of the loud music, and complains this as much whenever they bump into her.

today killian's at mrs sinha's flat, teaching her daughter how to play the guitar. they aren't allowed to visit other people's houses yet, but killian's been perching outside mrs sinha's door, in the corridor with khushi, strumming on their guitars. they're technically in the open air, as the corridor ledge stretches into an open space, anyway.

this has been going on for the past four weeks. eric thinks that khushi, who's only thirteen, may have been making moony eyes at killian, so eric tells him straight. killian's laughed then, at eric's wee scowl. he told eric he has it on good authority that khushi's got a crush on her schoolmate, another girl, and wants to impress her by showing off what skills she's learnt during lockdown.

'don't tell me you're jealous of a thirteen year old kid?' killian's asked, not unkindly. eric's cheeks turned hot. he shrugged and waved it off. 'just lookin' out for ya, ain't i?'

had it been some random geezer who'd asked him that, eric would have slashed him there and then.

but this was killian. one of the good things he's got in this world, apart from subodh, though he knows that subodh's only there because he's allocated to eric's case instead of really wanting to spend time with him.

eric's been questioning killian's existence, and his own, though. lately with all the unwanted visions that have infiltrated his head, he doesn't know who he is, or whose memories they belong to. he knows that he's there, but it's not him -- and killian's there too, but it's not killian. it's those men whose names were on that bloody notebook.

is this the universe's way of telling him that killian's only there because they used to be friends, in one of their past lives?

is destiny folding itself again and again, so that even if eric were to run away, killian would still be there regardless?

he's kissed killian, in a moment of inebriation, despite not having consumed even one drop of alcohol. he's drunk on killian and paddy and eoin. killian's kissed him back, thought it was as if his body was taken over by eoin and eric's body was taken over by paddy's and they no longer know who they were, their conscience intermingling and constantly alternating between the then and the now.

he's run away, then, with the foreign taste of killian's lips on his tongue but also thinking, it's familiar to him. it's killian but it's also eoin, who still tastes the same as before. the paddy in his head wanted him to turn back but the eric in him dragged his body kicking and screaming back to his flat, one foot after the other and slammed the door shut.

--

'oh, to run away, eh, eoin? how grand a life it would be, to be a coward. to love life that much.'

--

killian's texted, 'we need to talk,' and eric's replied, 'yeh'.

but eric's never been really that good at talking anyway.

--

while killian teaches khushi the chords for 'ain't no sunshine', mrs sinha is making roti and chicken korma as payment for killian's services. eric could already smell the spices emanating from mrs sinha's kitchen, hear the sounds of oil hissing and pots clanging in between killian's gentle strums. his voice carries the melody of bill withers' song, but retaining his usual speaking accent. he could hear killian repeating, 'i know, i know, i know, i know,' again and again, several times, but with his distinctive irishness, the 'o' in 'know' somehow fuller than the way bill withers had intended it to be sung.

on his phone, eric types into google search:

'paddy mayne'

'eoin mcgonigal'

and shudders when he sees the black-and-white photos, digitized. sucks in a deep breath when he reads about paddy, and about eoin, and the lives they led, the things they did.

how they died.

eric throws his phone to the ground.

he lies on the floor, curled up in a ball, shaking.

this is how killian finds him, fifteen minutes later. with a plastic bag filled with chicken korma and palak paneer in one hand, his guitar in the other.

he dumps the all the stuff on the floor. cradles eric's head in his lap. smooths his brow. holds his limp, sweaty hand and doesn't let go.

'everything will be ok,' he tells eric.

eric believes him.

--

what do you do, when you have one foot in the present but the other stuck in the past? what do you do when you have to straddle both worlds, when your memories are imbued with the ghosts of men who used to be you but you can never live up to their achievements, in their very short lives?

--

later, eric says, i have another eight years to live.

killian says, i died eight years ago.

that wasn't you, eric retorts. that was him. eoin.

yeh, killian says. so you won't die in eight years' time. because that was paddy. that wasn't you either.

he is picking at his korma, now, stabbing the chunk of chicken meat with a torn piece of roti. from this angle, killian looks nothing like eoin, with his wild curly hair let free instead of being side-parted and combed back and flattened with brylcreem.

eric's finger itch to reach out to touch him, still.

instead, it was killian who reaches out and wipes a bit of spinach from the corner of eric's mouth, with his thumb. 'you've got something, here,' he starts to say, but pauses when eric leans into the touch, head jerking, like a rusty automaton.

killian pulls away, but eric reaches up, then, and holds his hand there.

'we shouldn't do this if you don't want to,' killian whispers. afraid. he's meaning eric, not paddy. because paddy wants. but he's not sure if the eric within him has the capacity to consent to this.

'i do,' eric-paddy says, with conviction. 'do you?'

'who am i talking to right now?' killian asks.

eric doesn't know the answer to this question, and it scares him. is he eric love, or paddy mayne, or user @/blair_e? why did he choose the name blair as his handle? in his head it had been because of george orwell, whose real name is eric blair, and orwell's works had always resonated with him.

but maybe there's a more sinister reason for that. an unconscious desire that blooms and resurfaces when he found cu chulainn on that site. when he met killian for the first time, on the wards, many moons ago.

'robert blair mayne', eric mutters under his breath. eoin's eyes narrow into slits, hands falling away. a flash of recognition in his now pained gaze, mingled with uncertainty. 'what?' he asks.

'that's his full name. paddy's name.'

eoin sighs. 'i should know that. in fact, it's coming back to me now.'

'what is?'

'you. me. us.'

silence falls between them. a beat, then:

'i shouldn't have let you come with me,' eric says, meaning -- paddy shouldn't have let eoin come to kabrit with him, shouldn't have let him join the sas.

'but i wanted to. i've always wanted to,' killian replies, defiant.

eric doesn't miss how killian replies in the first person, just like he just did. 'who am i talking to right now?' eric asks, instead. 'is it killian, or is it eoin?'

killian hangs his head low, the balls of his hands pressing deep into his eyes. despairing.

'i still feel the sensation of falling, falling, falling,' killian says. 'the parachute - it opened, but it might as well haven't bothered. the wind carried me away. sand in my eyes. hissing noise in my ears. and all i could think of, were the faces of my brother, my parents, the house i grew up in, how nice it would be to go back to ireland, live a life without war. and then i thought of you. i thought of you, and then there was the bang, and then the hurt, and then nothing.'

eric huffs. slides down from his chair, kneels at killian's feet, as if asking him to absolve his sins. he holds killian's hands again, gripping them so hard that his nails are digging in deep into killian's pale flesh, but killian doesn't pull away. he grips just as hard. shifts their angles so that their fingers interlink.

'i'm sorry,' eric says.

'i could hear you calling my name,' killian says. 'i could hear you searching for me, but i couldn't respond. and then you went away, far away from the deserts. but i know you carried me with you, until the very end, for better or worse.'

'i think of you, too,' eric replies, earnest. 'every day. every year, on your birthday. i offer libations at the altar that was your memory, even if my own memories were no longer as good as what it used to be,' eric concurs. 'i think of you even in my last moments. and then there's the bang, and the hurt, and then nothing.'

for nearly fifty years their souls lay undisturbed, before paddy and eoin were borne again. souls replenished in vessels anew.

dormant, until now.

--

this time, it's killian who leans down, and kisses him.

this time, eric doesn't run.

'paddy,' killian says, between kisses, devouring him whole.

'eoin,' eric responds hungrily.

--

'we'll sleep here, tonight, i think.'

--

'we need to talk,' killian once said, and eric's said, 'yeh'.

but when it comes to words that matter, eric swallows all of them up again. even when they're begging to be released from the tip of his tongue.

--

eric and killian know that paddy and eoin have never done anything beyond stealing kisses in the night. they never have time or the space. if they get caught, it will be more the reason for ghq to shut down the sas, den of sinners and iniquity and irreverence. they know that paddy and eoin never talk, neither. the way that eric and killian never talk.

what eric does say, is this: 'i'm not a poofter.'

they're lying on eric's unmade bed. his head is on killian's chest, killian's fingers playing with his hair, grown longer than he's remembered since he got out of prison. nails grazing his scalp just ever-so-gently.

killian jerks his head back, then looks down at eric with a wry smile. 'is this you saying that the reason why you kissed me last night, and why i kissed you today, was because of them?'

eric huffs, then, and rolls to his side to hide his face in killian's armpit. they're still fully clothed, but eric likes the sensation when he nuzzles his nose against the fabric of killian's t-shirt, smelling of laundry and a hint of sweat and the fancy bergamot cologne that he always wears. killian rests his hand against eric's neck, holding it still, almost in a gentle chokehold. his thumb against eric's fluttering pulse point. if killian presses harder against eric's trachea, he could have easily constricted eric's breathing, but eric lets himself be placed under killian's mercy.

'we can't let their ghosts haunt us, kill. just because they're a bunch of repressed gits doesn't give them the authority to take over our lives, yeah?' eric reasons. he presses his suit with such conviction, because he wants to tell himself that this is also the reason why he's obsessed with killian, with cu chulainn. that it's not because of his own choosing, but because the ghost of paddy mayne, the fucking war hero who hides behind poetry and violence can't get his act together and fuck eoin raw when they were alive.

he doesn't even know if this mortal coil of his is being controlled by eric love, or paddy mayne. why he lets himself being coddled by killian, and why killian's letting him do this. the real eric love would rather be dead than being caught canoodling in some irish waif's arms.

then he thinks of neville and ashley in their prison cell like this and his back straightens. jumps off the bed and looks at killian with so much hatred and disgust. the words 'i know what you are' is on his tongue. he wants to be cruel and unkind. he wants to tell killian 'you've always been a poofter, even before paddy and eoin invaded our heads.' he wants to ruin that wide, easy smile of killian's with his fists. he wants to lick the blood off killian's face and kiss the bruises and the welts from where he's hurt him.

'you need to get out, kill. before i do something awful,' he exhales, instead. arms stiff, stubborn by his sides.

the bedsheets rustle. killian stands up, taller than him, looking down at eric with pity. as if he knows what eric's thinking. 'i'll leave, but not until i've said what i needed to say.'

eric nods, couldn't quite meeting his eyes.

'do you remember that lady who gave me that notebook?' he asks, gentle and non-judgmental.

'yeah.'

'her name's eve. eoin's never met her, but paddy has. i don't know much about her, but i think she's trying to tell us something.'

'fuckin' ell,' eric groans. 'can't she just talk normal like other people?'

killian purses his lips, considering. 'aye, but we're not exactly normal, are we?'

eric grunts, agreeing in reluctance. he wishes killian would just hurry up and get to the point, because the longer he stands there the stronger the urge for paddy to come out again, the stronger the urge for paddy to wrestle him onto the bed and do unimaginable things that eric's only fantasised doing to cu chulainn, and never killian.

boundaries, oliver once said. fucking boundaries.

'my point is, she probably wants us to figure it out ourselves. because paddy and eoin, they never got the chance to. not in the time that they had. even if they'd lived -- it's not something they could openly talk about,' killian says. eyes shining bright, hands windmilling, stray curls bouncing off his forehead as he speaks. eric knows that this is killian, and not eoin who's talking. eric could tell the difference. 'not in the army. not in ireland. not in those years,' killian adds, voice falling to a hoarse whisper.

it's not as if eric could talk about it, now, either, but he digresses.

'why do you think that this time it would be different?' eric asks, pitch rising, like a whiny dog.

'because we're not them,' killian says curtly, fire in his eyes. 'i'm not eoin as much as you're not paddy. you're right, we shouldn't be constrained by their memories. we should be free to choose what we want to do in our own lives. who to be. who to love,' he continues, and then, softly, -- 'i want you to be free,' killian says.

'are you?' eric asks. 'free?'

'i wish i could be,' killian replies.

and just like that, he leaves.

--

like a bigot, eric continues to watch killian's cu chulainn videos. pulls on his dick and takes pleasure when cu chulainn takes off his clothes and the lingerie he wears underneath. eric thinks he could come again and again, just by watching cu chulainn's fingers, his thumb pressing at the head of his delicious, red, uncut cock. the camera zooms in on the string of precome, and eric mouth waters. he wishes he could taste it.

the birthmark on cu chulainn's right hand. the thumb that only this morning, has wiped the corner of his mouth. eric wishes he's had the guts to catch it with his teeth. give it a good suck. the way he wants to suck cu chulainn's beautiful cock and has him come all over eric's face.

--

one of the viewers has asked in the chat: what would you like for christmas?

eric thinks, there's a new, uncharacteristic heaviness in killian's voice when he replies, 'a dog.' even when he tries to sound chipper. 'a puppy would be nice,' he says, but i don't mind an old dog either. 'one of those ones from battersea. i don't have a pet now, but i've always had a fondness for strays.'

--

an interlude:

'i wouldn't mind dying for you, y'know?' paddy says quietly, the night before the jump. unsure. he doesn't even realize that he's said it until the words stumble out of his mouth.

eoin raises his head, the frantic scribbling of his final letter suddenly stops. he studies paddy intently, as if he's staring at the enemy lines, warily watching. head tilting. 'what would your mam say if she finds out you died saving someone like me?' he asks.

paddy shifts slightly in his cot, glaring daggers at eoin. 'don't say that. don't ever say anything like that, because i'm like you too.'

eoin returns paddy's sharp gaze with his own, and for the first time paddy thinks that his eyes look -- sad, for the lack of a better word. 'paddy, if we survive this -- if we survive all of this, i don't even know what kind of world we'll wake up in tomorrow.'

'tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,' paddy begins. 'creeps in this petty pace from day to day--'

'--to the last syllable of recorded time,' eoin continues for him. 'and all our yesterdays have lighted fools, the way to dusty death.'

this whole conversation is a mistake, because paddy thinks he’s spent enough time with this man to know eoin, but clearly he doesn’t. paddy nods, not knowing what to expect, but when it all boils down to it, he thinks he’s probably been prepared for this his entire life. eoin stands up from his cot, takes the extra step closer towards him.

his lips are dry, but soft against paddy's.

he cups paddy's grizzled face in his hands, gentle, as if he’s scared that paddy will break. paddy widens his legs so that eoin could kneel between them. it’s dark, and the next tent is only yards away.

there is the sound of their clothes rustling against each other, but if he could keep his voice down, no one will know.

no one should know, or both of them will hang.

paddy swipes his tongue against eoin's bottom lip, causing him to moan, teeth clacking against each other. paddy lifts one hand up to rest at eoin's nape, feeling the sharp, short hairs there against the pads of his fingers, deepening the kiss. he tastes like smoke and ash and cheap coffee, paddy thinks, before eoin bites at his bottom lip, causing paddy to yelp.

'what--,' paddy breaks the kiss and licks at the split lip, tasting blood.

'you’re not supposed to kiss me back,' eoin says, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. there is a flash of panic in his eyes. 'you— you’re supposed to push me away,' he continues, nostrils flaring.

paddy only replies by pulling eoin into his lap again, for another searing kiss that knocks the breath out of him, earning a desperate groan from eoin. i will never push you away, paddy wants to say, but he decides to let his actions declare how he feels instead.

between their bodies, eoin's hand reaches for paddy's dungarees, tugging at it to unbuckle his belt. paddy breaks the kiss for a split second to help eoin, hands frantically moving to get this over and done with as quickly as possible – not out of disgust, but out of fear should anyone find them like this. there is no good way of explaining the situation if they get caught.

he helps to undo eoin’s dungarees too, bringing both their cocks together in his large, calloused palm. paddy's intention is to jack them off together dry, but eoin has other ideas – as if he really wants to show paddy who he really is. he brings his head down to paddy's crotch and takes him into his mouth, tongue swirling around the head as his right hand begins to pump paddy from the base of his cock.

'fuck—,' paddy squirms, but eoin lets go of his cock and slams a hand over paddy's mouth, effectively shutting him up. 'do you want to get caught?' eoin whispers hoarsely. paddy shakes his head, eyes wide as paddy merely blinks at him, and resigns his fate as he shoves his cock into eoin’s warm, wet, inviting mouth.

paddy's not had time to jack himself off in ages – and he certainly never had anyone suck him before, so he almost lets out a whine when he realizes that eoin is way too good at this, as if eoin's done this before, with other men – and he thinks, how could i have not known? and, i wish we had more time. and, i wish we'd done this sooner.

paddy's hips stutter as eoin begins to slide his head back and forth, letting his cock out of his mouth for a few seconds to be replaced by eoin's right hand as he lathers his attention and sucks on the underside of paddy's balls, too. paddy wants to scream – but eoin's left hand continues to clamp down on paddy's mouth, muffling his groans. paddy doesn’t know what to do with his free hands, so he ends up grabbing aimlessly at eoin's head, eoin's curls, eoin shirt, eoin's everything for purchase-- as his hips continue to thrust into eoin's mouth, out of its own accord.

he has never fucked a girl, let alone a man’s mouth – and he could feel hot tears forming at the corner of his eyes, as he opens his eyes and watches as eoin hums around his cock, his tongue like silk against his skin. paddy watches, mesmerized by the trickle of eoin's saliva mixed with paddy's come as he lets go of paddy's cock, only to tongue the slit languidly, lifting his gaze into paddy's eyes as eoin swallows him whole, again.

paddy couldn’t breathe – his lungs are on fire, eoin’s warm hand against his mouth and nearly covering his nose. his vision goes blurry with tears and desire and pleasure, and he might have made a sound because eoin has stopped sucking him, only to reach up to kiss him again. paddy tastes himself – and saliva and come and eoin, before moaning into the younger man’s mouth, rutting desperately against eoin's cock. finally, finally – eoin manoeuvres paddy's hand and wraps it around their cocks, before paddy finally relents, muscles clenching, thinking he could see stars.

eoin comes not long after, paddy helping him to his release, as he nuzzles his head against paddy's damp neck. they’ve made such a mess with their dungarees and shirt and the tent smells of sex and sweat – and in the distance, paddy could hear footsteps approaching. eoin and paddy tidy up as much as they could, and paddy lets out a heavy sigh when he realizes that the footsteps are moving away from them. even then, he couldn’t help but agonize that the others might have heard them. he’s painfully aware that there is probably eoin's handprint across his face where he’s had his hand clamped over his mouth too tightly, the unfamiliar, unpleasant feeling of shame pooling deep within his stomach.

'did you regret it?' eoin asks, as if he could read paddy's mind. he doesn’t seem as fazed as paddy. strangely cheerful, almost.

'fuck you,' paddy says – but he’s not angry at eoin. maybe he’d felt angry at how long they've waited to do this, but mostly he’s angry at his own stupidity. he would never be angry at eoin. and then, against his better judgment, he laughs.

eoin laughs, too, before he falls silent. 'don’t make promises you can’t keep,' eoin says, stern, his inflection hiding a deeper, darker meaning. paddy blinks at him before eoin shakes his head and grumbles something that paddy can’t quite catch, reaching out for paddy’s hand and tentatively linking their fingers together.

when eoin is sure that paddy is alright, he leans forward and brushes a finger over paddy's cheekbone – clearing a fleck of sand, perhaps, before rewarding him with a soft smile. 'i’m going to catch some kip, now,' he says. 'wake me up at zero-three-hundred,' he tells paddy, as he rests his head on paddy's outstretched legs, and closes his eyes.

--

this memory is new to him, but killian knows what happens next.

--

he still wakes up, sometimes, thinking that it was his own neck that had snapped, when eoin landed on those dunes.

he still wakes up crying, suffocated by the wind and the sands and the loneliness, until someone (reg?) finds him and buries him, and paddy holding his hand in the rain.

he wakes up, at zero-three-hundred, to find a text pinging on his phone, from an unknown number:

'hi killian, it's matt here, from horsham. sorry for the sudden msg. jess passed me ur number.'

the second text bubble goes like this: 'just wanted to say hi, check in. it's been a while. can we meet up?'

'matt. xx'

--

tbc

part iv here

[dazais-guardian-angel]

Chapter 110 is 13 pages long welcome to hell!!! so in a lot of ways this is just more fuel for a theory that I've had for a few weeks now, that's only gotten stronger with each recent season 5 episode, which is that the last episode of the season is gonna end on 110, and that Asagiri/Harukawa and Bones have been collaborating to make this happen, specifically because it's a major turning point that would be the only good place to end the season on.

When we started getting especially long chapters again (like from 25-35ish pages, with the exception of 107.5, the last two being some of the longest we've ever had), at first I just assumed that Asagiri/Harukawa got freed up from some other obligations they'd been having to cause the extremely short/half chapters, like promotional stuff for the anime/Beast movie, or working on light novels. But then 109 happened, with the "supposed" death of Dazai, and heavy emphasis at the end on how literally everyone is at their lowest point right now, and I got to thinking. 11 episodes is a strangely specific number for an anime season -- why not 12, or 13, or even 10, like you'd usually see? Why have we gotten suddenly gotten two 35 page chapters out of nowhere, that's almost unheard of at this point? They're both beautiful chapters, don't get me wrong (as always), and maybe A/H simply just didn't want to cut them in halves because they felt like the full emotional impact wouldn't hit/that there were no good cutoff points in them, but you can't deny that it's surprising, after all the shorter chapters we've been getting. Why has the anime been going at such insanely breakneck pacing for the most part ever since around the Sunday Tragedy chapters, even more so than it has in the past? So much so that it feels dangerously close to overtaking the manga?

Well, maybe, just maybe, it's because..... Asagiri decided a long time ago that whatever happens in 110 is the only point that feels "season finale"-worthy enough, in an arc that still isn't anywhere close to being completely wrapped up, and so both the manga and the anime have been specifically coordinated to reach that part within 2 and a half weeks of each other?

I've seen a lot of people now think season 5 will end with 109, and as much as my sadistic side would find that hilarious, I honestly don't think they'd do that and realistically don't want it to happen; it'd be so cruel to cliffhanger the anime for years like that, and just doesn't feel like a season cliffhanger BSD would do, a series that is ultimately hopeful and uplifting. Seasons 2 and 3 had a positive, conclusive ending; the only reasons seasons 1 and 4 didn't was because they're technically not really full seasons of their own, and are more like the first cour of another "season" that also came out that same year (seasons 1 and 2 both aired in 2016, so they're more like one big season, and seasons 4 and 5 have both aired this year, so they're also more like one big season, again taking into account how episodes 12 and 50 are not satisfying finales like episodes 24, 37, and hypothetically, 61, are). I really can't see season 5 ending with Dazai and Fukuzawa's supposed deaths, Sigma being unconscious and maybe close to death, Atsushi being vulnerable and limbless again, everyone we love still vampires, and the entire world being basically doomed; that's just too depressing and not like BSD at all. However, having said that, if it doesn't end there, there really isn't any good place to end the season before that, either, that feels in any way satisfying or like a finale at all. And so, to me, that only leaves after 109: chapter 110.

I think things are really gonna turn around next chapter. Like I said, everyone is at their lowest point right now, it cannot possibly get any worse, the framing of Dazai, Fukuzawa, and sskk at the end of 109 is telling us that; this is the time for the heroes to finally start winning again, with Aya being so close to pulling out the sword, and for all the thematic reasons other people have talked about to death that I don't need to go into here again. This upcoming chapter being so short again makes a part of me wary of 110 being "the one", so to speak, I won't lie, but at the same time, it's very possible that it needs to be that short because that's all the final episode of the season will be able to reasonably fit in, since it's already gonna be VERY close if they do make it all the way to 109. And at the end of the day, I don't doubt at all that Asagiri and Harukawa can make these the most monumental and game-changing mere 13 pages ever if they wanted to; a chapter does not at all need to be extremely long in order to be an important and impactful one, even if short ones we've gotten in the past haven't felt the most important.

An additional thought I've had, though this is much more crack territory than all this already is, is that since we know from Anime Expo that a Stormbringer movie at some point is highly likely (judging from Asagiri's reaction when someone brought it up), it's possible that chapter 110 and thus the final episode will involve the long-anticipated return of Verlaine and/or Adam, or at least some other major reference to Stormbringer, that would naturally and smoothly lead into a Stormbringer movie to explain things to people who haven't read the novel. It would make a lot of sense, especially since the s4 OP has the Old World sign behind Chuuya, which might be a hint that this has been in the works ever since seasons 4/5 were first in planning with Asagiri. We also know that Dazai and Chuuya's voice actors apparently struggled to record their lines together this season, which probably relates to 101 and possibly 109, but it could be 110 too.... I could be very wrong, as I'm no expert on this kind of thing, but I kinda doubt they would bring Chuuya's actor in for just the vampire growls, and Asagiri placing heavy emphasis on Chuuya's importance this season in that one interview gives me the impression that he's talking about much more than just 101/109. But that's the least solid evidence I have, that's just mostly based on vibes I get.

So basically, I think a lot of factors -- the unusual episode count, how close the anime is to catching up to the manga with three whole episodes left, the seemingly arbitrary recent chapter lengths, and the climactic events of 109 -- can tell us that 110 might be a very, VERY big deal. Again, there's of course no way this arc is anywhere near close to being finished, with so much left to address and resolve, but since it is currently incomplete in the manga, unlike the previously adapted arcs, if the anime was going to adapt it at all, they'd have to find a place that feels satisfying enough to end this season, knowing there won't be more anime for a long time after this, and so I think they specifically planned for that, from both Bones' and A/H's sides. 10 episodes might not have been enough to reach that point, but 12 or 13 might have been too many it wouldn't have been if Bones actually decided to slow down and let the story breathe the way it needs to, but this post isn't meant to criticize the anime, so maybe 11 was just right. And maybe Asagiri and Harukawa specifically pushed to make recent chapters longer than usual, in order to make sure that the manga reached the story content in 110 the monthly release right before season 5 was to end.

Is this just copium? Absolutely. Am I going to look like an absolute clown in two days when this post ages like milk? Probably. But the evidence is There, so let me just enjoy my delusions until Sunday, okay 🥂🫡

[marimbles]

i miss carpisuns sometimes </3

[wewerebornsextuplets]

it's looking like a restless night for me once again and i can't lie at least half of that is the fault of me thinking too hard about how memory worlds work