#I feel like Jazz would be remorseful over his fear

[obsessedwithstarwars]

OP HOW DARE YOU HIDE THIS UNHINGED JAZZ CONTENT IN THE TAGS

I say even though I also hide things in the tags regularly

DP x DC Writing Prompt #10

Damian wakes up to low-pitched arguing, and in his daze thinks the hand running through his hair is Richard's.

"S'rry," he murmurs, turning his cheek into the hand. His head hurts, and Richard's hand is cool against his cheek, delicate nails ghosting over his scalp.

Hm. Richard does not have delicate nails. Nor a woman's voice.

"-lty is to Danny, all you've done is put a bigger target on our backs!"

"So be it," the young woman says, voice measured. It's her hand that's in Damian's hair. He'd pull away but his body is weighed down, eyelids barely ably to slip open to grab a glimpse of ginger hair before slamming shut again.

He's...drugged. He thinks. Nothing he recognizes immediately, but it's been a while since his poisoning sessions and thinking right now is difficult. His mask is still on, which means his identity is intact. There's nothing he can do except hope it will stay that way.

And so he sinks back under.

Some time later, he resurfaces with more lucidity. He's still costumed, mask on. His body still feels heavy, but this time he can wedge his eyes open enough to catch three figures next to the bed he now lies on. The redhead stands closest.

"--you an out," she is saying, her back to Damian. The other two, a pale girl with pitch black hair and a boy wearing a red cap, look at each other.

"That's not what we're asking for, and you know it!" The pale girl yells.

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't take it." The woman says, her voice extremely level in comparison. This only seems to agitate the girl further.

"Team Phantom means we make decisions as a team, Jazz." The boy says through grit teeth. "And if you had run this by us, we would've,"

"Said no--" the pale girl says, meanly.

"--At least figured out a better way," the boy says, head turning sharply towards the girl. "Between this and Jefferson you've been making really rash choices. We can't find Danny if we get caught by the Justice Loogies--"

"Team Phantom," the redhead interrupts. She turns towards Damian, and if she notices he's awake, she doesn't say anything. "You really don't get it, do you. There is no Team Phantom, because Danny's gone. We're not going to find him."

"Stop eating their bs--"

"Stop living in denial, Sam. Both of you. We can't find Danny because Danny's not anywhere to be found."

"They wouldn't get rid of him--"

"Why wouldn't they? Don't you see?" Jazz says, whirling around. She waves a blurry arm in Damian's direction.

"They can recreate the experiment anytime they want. And they do want. They found his genetic doppelgänger when they got their hands on Robin's blood. That's what they had on file in Jefferson."

Jefferson, Damian thinks. It's familiar. Information starts to filter in. It's not a person, but a place. There was an explosion at a government facility. Blew up three city blocks. 45 Casualties.

The redhead's a terrorist. He thinks. Redhead.

Fuck. She'd been getting mugged. He'd rescued her. Her face had been bruised.

She'd wanted to go to the hospital. Held onto his cape for dear life. Flinched back from Richard.

He'd smirked at Grayson before offering to escort her.

He'd felt important.

...He'd been an idiot.

"--You really think he'd just hand him over?"

"I don't know anything about Batman," the girl says. "But I'm not letting another brother die."

There's a sharp inhale, and neither side speaks.

"So that's it," the pale girl says. "You give up and immediately go get a replacement?"

"Sam..." the boy says warningly.

"Danny would want me to protect him," Jazz says. "So that's what I'm going to do. And you are free to leave."

"You're acting fucking crazy," Sam says. "And you're too deep in your grief to realize it. Danny would want none of this."

"Well then maybe it's a good thing he's not here," Jazz says, "Maybe I should be thanking you two instead."

The resulting silence is so sharp Damian hears only the sound of his own breaths.

"Fuck you," the girl spits, a door slamming a split second later. The boy doesn't say a word, crossing over to Damian.

"I'm going to keep looking, Jazz," he says, after a long moment. "I'm going to find him. Because he's alive."

Jazz doesn't respond.

"Listen, they found Robin's blood, right? They don't know who he is, so if we tell him to stop with the costume, lay low-"

"They'll finger prick all of Gotham if they have to. You know that. They can't get to him here, not with the portals and research destroyed. Even if they catch Mom and Dad, the ghosts will rip them to pieces if they ever step foot in the zone."

Jazz steps closer to Damian. "Here, Superman won't be able to hear his heartbeat."

"What happens when he wakes up? Wants to go home? He must have a family out there, he can't be Robin 24/7."

"You know I used to read to Danny?" Jazz says. Her voice is distant. "Every night before bed. He'd never heard a fairy tale before. He could read, of course, but he liked the way—" Jazz swallows. "He liked the way I did the voices. We were supposed to be in bed by 9 but when Mom would come to check on us we'd just pretend we were asleep. Danny was really good at it, but I could always tell when he was pretending."

A hand brushes through his hair again.

"You really are his twin, Damian."

Damian opens his eyes and sits up as the boy, a teenager his own age, takes a startled step back. Jazz, yes, the woman he'd 'rescued', smiles warmly at him.

He's in a canopied bed, surrounded by rich fabrics and what looks to be purple-bricked walls. There's a green tinted window to his right. Bookshelves with old looking tomes lines the walls and a suit of armor stands by the door. He notes the mace in its hands. With any luck, it won't be welded to the gloves.

"Danyal is dead," he says shortly. Jazz's smile turns sad.

"Yes," she takes his hand. "I'm so sorry you had to find out this way. He was so brave—,"

Damian yanks his hand away. "No, he's not newly dead, he's been dead. For years."

Jazz shakes her head, that same sad condescending smile on her face. "No, Danny didn't die. He escaped the League. He told me all about you. He," her voice wobbles, "he loved you very much."

Damian's blood churns. "You're lying."

"He lived, and he was a hero, like you. He helped people. And then he became a King," Jazz says. She continues to smile, even as tears start to trail down her face. "Which makes you a prince."

She sounds, to quote Sam, fucking crazy. And now that he can see the manic gleam in her eyes, she looks it too. Damian shoots an incredulous glance at the boy, but he refuses to make eye contact.

Jazz stands up and opens her arms out, gesturing to the room. "This was his home. And now it's yours."

Damian weighs his responses. Remembers Dick's lessons in diplomacy.

And still chooses the nuclear option: "If you know of the League then you know what it means to be the heir of Ra's Al Ghul. I will not be made into a prisoner and if you attempt to keep me here, you will be sorry."

The boy mouths "the league" to himself, questioningly, but Jazz doesn't so much as flinch.

"I know this is a long to take in," she says, voice dripping with sympathy. "But I promise, it will all make sense, and in time you'll come to adjust. Let's let Damian rest, Tucker."

The boy, Tucker, looks at him now with a troubled gaze, but when Jazz opens the door he reluctantly walks out. Jazz pauses in the doorway.

"Damian," she says, that same far off tone in her voice, her back to him. "Danny used to tell me about the League's code. Hunting down those that threatened its power without ceasing. Ensuring every target was dead. No mission left uncompleted. No failure tolerated."

Jazz looks back at him, a small serene smile on her face. "I'm going to avenge our brother Damian. I'm going to hunt down every last one of them. Without ceasing. Without failure. You have my word."

She cocks her head at him thoughtfully. "Danny loved macadamia nut muffins. I'll pick us up some on my way back. A welcome home present."

She strides out the door. Damian waits to hear a lock turn, but there is nothing but the sound of her fading footsteps. He waits until the noise has fully faded before he attempts to stand, glaring at his legs until they sluggishly begin to respond.

A squeaking noise erupts from the far wall and he watches in disbelief as the suit of armor creakily moves to stand in front of the door. Sufficiently positioned, it ceases all movement once more. However, now Damian can make out the two glowing red dots staring straight through the slits of its helm.

Damian's lip curls up in a wicked snarl that Jason calls feral as it becomes clear the guard is not going to attack but rather...guard. He heads for the window instead and stops short as he gets his first peek of the outside.

The window is not tinted green at all. Instead, for as far as he can see, there is an unnatural, electric green. Blobs of more of the green float and drift through the expanse, as if he is trapped in a lava lamp.

Here, Superman won't be able to hear his heartbeat.

"Where am I?" Damian asks, staring out into the void. This whole time he's been angry, and embarrassed, and annoyed. But for the first time since this ordeal began, he feels afraid.

"Where am I?"

[krossan]

A Brief AU Explanation

I noticed that there are a lot of new followers that do know Danny Phantom, and others that the know very little. I am also aware that I haven't fully explained - maybe NOT in too much detail - the "story" and plots of my AU. You only have the ideas that I've been telling of this story through illustrations.

This AU is all about reconnecting with one self, with Jazz and Dan as the main two of this particular game.

Jazz remains as the same character that is portrayed through the OG show. She has always been the psychology enthusiast of the group, the one that cares for others and help with whatever she can. For her, others come first. First being her family.

On the other hand, we have Dan, an alternate entity of Danny’s ghost half and Vlad’s. A new form of entity that lost his humanity. For him to show any form of emotion is null.

Jazz involvement in this has to do with her putting everyone else first and then herself, and being keen to the study of the human-psyche, and now ghost-psyche, she secretly partakes to the role of Dan’s therapist. This was kept in secret from the rest of her friends and Danny until she can gain more control over Dan.

This, of course, prove to be a VERY difficult task. With her having to hide her constant fears when facing that “particular someone”: he could go on a rampage, have uncontrollable outbursts, cause havoc, and that he could turn against her any day/time without any remorse. She knows this, but she also knows that deep down, her little brother is still there. She’s looking to rekindle that part of him again. Of course, never knowing at what extent this could go.

And this, apparently started to bear fruit, although at a slow pace. As Jazz stood closer and closer to him, she understood that he stayed alone his entire life, and after losing everyone he cared, his violent actions were his significance of showing the world "hurting". The hurt he have been caring so many years. Now he has that second chance. To “live” a new life and Jazz wants to help him out.

With this new information, each time Jazz got close to him, Dan, instead of seeing her as an obnoxious-human-parasite, he slowly starts bonding with her. His interest increasing each day he is with her and grows more comfortable being around her (something Dan originally despised).

***

Part of this AU, enrolls on a particular context that the ghost of a halfa is sentient. The original show as proven this*. When Danny’s ghost has been separated, his ghost has a mind of his own, but when staying together, human-ghost, the consciousness of the halfa acts as one. *Episodes in question: What You Want, Identity Crisis, The Ultimate Enemy

This part that the ghost plays on the known halfas is a mayor plot point from this AU. Let me explain my concept briefly:

This roll that the ghost is part of the halfa is the one that caries the power of the wielder (human). The human can transform into the ghost and vice versa. The ghost powers remain within the ghost half. The human half acts as a vessel/host to the ghost half.

All living things have the instinct of survival. And on this case, the ghosts would do ANYTHING to keep their host safe as they are the means of a linked connection human-ghost. Not unlike the rest of non-halfa- ghosts that their link/host relies on the Ghost Zone -since they no longer have a corporeal body, the vessel for their survival is ectoplasmic energy, the one that emanates from the GZ.

***

Since Dan is no longer connected to a human, he became a full-ghost. An entity that merged from two ghost halfas. He can sustain himself alone, but strangely enough, he building a bond with Jazz, it rekindled what Jazz intended, but in an unusual way. Jazz intention was to try and reconnect Dan with his long-lost humanity. Even if he didn’t have a human half, both his ghosts may have some little information stored deep within of what that used to feel like. And even though that started to give results, the ghost also retained that of his original purpose: Protect the host.

And as the bond Dan and Jazz grew more and more, unknown to them, it caused a physical manifestation: a white streak formed in Jazz’s hair. And even if this came up as a surprise to Jazz, she later discovered that this manifestation was much more than just physical.

Dan rekindled his humanity but he, unknowingly, intertwined Jasmine’s humanity to his. Her humanity is part of him. Jasmine’s emotions have an impact on him. Whatever she feels, he can sense it, let them be good or bad ones.

They both are this new form of halfa, both human and ghost are separate life forms, but from the ghost side -Dan’s perspective- Jazz is acting as his human half. His host. That’s is why his instincts respond to protect her at all costs.

No. This new form of a halfa representation doesn't mean Jazz has ghost powers. The one with that power is Dan. This bond is more of a psychic link.

 (i.e. In European folklore, you “could” say Dan is Jasmine’s "familiar", although Jazz is not considered to be a witch, but imagine the possibilities of this small plot causing people or ghosts to think Jazz is a witch… idk… random ideas)

This is why Dan is more sympathetic towards Jazz and why their bond is very important.

______________

It's worth pointing out that I don't have a specific name for this AU, like many people do when they create these stories. And NO. Please refrain from saying this is a romantic relationship. It is a sibling/platonic relationship.

[poepoe-thebunny]

Life of Scott and Logan: Song Vibe List Part 1

Part one of a song list miniseries that includes a whole bunch of nonsense for this pairing, it is entirely the fault of the wonderful ScottxLogan, who’s fics brought back memories of a movie series I haven’t seen in almost a decade. I have no idea how many parts this will have, the song list is growing day by day but I had some finished I wanted to put down! 

So have some scogan feels, some song lists, some random HC’s and a bit of dialogue for fics I am eternally to lazy to write. This started as a playlist inspired by these two and is now over 2k words, so expect more eventually. 

Human- Cody Johnson

Y’all, this is a Logan song. Look me in the eye and tell me this isn’t a Logan song.

I think what I love about this song for Logan/Scogan in general is WHERE it would put Logan at mentally. This is a middle of the road song. It’s an acknowledgment of all your faults, your mental struggles, every bridge you burned and every bad decision you made because of your fears. But it’s not a damnation of those things.  It’s not an “it gets better” song so much as it is an “I’m better than I used to be, but I know I might accidentally hurt you because I’m not perfect. But that happiness is worth putting in the effort for.” There is both a sense of bittersweet remorse and hard-won tinges of contentment.

There’s this notion with Scott and Logan, that while things like communication or feelings are never easy, it’s worth it because they make each other better. Not always happy, not always content, but rather they're constantly pushing each other in a way that feels like antagonism but often ends up with them being forced to finally acknowledge something important. There’s an interesting dynamic between them in which there is simultaneously a hesitation to know each other, to sometimes take each other at face value and judge, while also knowing each other more intimately than most assume. That they don’t always make each other happy in the traditional sense, but they make each other better, and that support is what slowly leads to their happiness.

I guess all I'm sayin' is forgive me If I don't know what I'm doing I'm still learnin' to be human

HC/Vibes/Feels/General Nonsense

This is either established scogan, or at least one where Scott and Logan are closer now and slowly working to acknowledge their feelings.

Logan is in another run-down bar in another small, forgotten town in a string of run-down bars in small forgotten towns. When he leaves, he’ll walk to the ground floor of a tiny hotel with a cracked concrete parking lot, stand outside the door for a moment to smoke as he watches the stars, and quietly wonder what he’s doing here.

It’s not an uncommon thought.

In his pocket is the phone he rarely uses. He never really was the calling type. Maybe curled around it are the worn pages of a letter with handwriting neater than his own, or a kitschy postcard from a little shop a few miles back that he writes a dumb joke on.

He calls Scott. Thinks about calling more and more often.

It’s always late at night, with bits of gossip and laughter and whispered honesty they couldn’t say face to face. Used to not be able to say it all, but distance makes the heart grow fond and all that jazz.

Sometimes Logan doesn’t say anything, just listens with a soft buzzing of longing and something close to contentment.

So apparently, Marie has roped Jubilee and Kitty into the “save the trash pandas” committee. They have t-shirts.

Last night the kids wanted to go bowling but it was raining out, right? Guess they decided the next best thing was to use Jamie as a set of bowling pin. Somehow. It went about as well as you’d expect. Side note, it looks like Peter can officially hold up four Jamie’s all on his own, whether that's because Jamie lost his balance is not clear yet.

Kurt watches terrible soap operas with ‘Ro.

Logan stares up at the cracked ceiling of that tiny hotel room and let’s himself want, just a little bit, for the first time in a long time.

Hey slim?

Yeah?

Sorry I haven’t been around much.

Don’t worry about it, you're coming home soon, right?

Yeah, yeah, I just...thanks for waiting up for me. I’m not very good at this.

You’re only human Logan.

Dyin’ Ain’t so bad (solo and reprise)- Bonnie and Clyde the musical

Didn’t expect musicals on this list? No? You should have because Hugh Jackman and I won’t apologize.

He wasn’t in this production, but I feel like the song fits the two of them well.

'Cause dyin' ain't so bad Not if you both go together Only when one's left behind does it get sad But a short and lovin' life That ain't so bad

On one hand you have Logan, who’s lived so long that he knows the heartbreak of losing your loved ones no matter how much time you had together, and the grief of having to keep on keeping on because he doesn’t even have the option of dying. On the other you have Scott, who having already lost one love of his life before they truly had a chance at a full life together, slowly coming to terms with loving again. There is this constant set of extremes, Logan who has lost so much that he’d genuinely be happy with a short life full of love as long as he didn’t have to lose someone again, and Scott who’s suffered a loss so young that he’d be happy spending, or lengthening, any amount of time he was with Logan. Even the contrast between the song and it’s ending reprise carries this sense of extremes, one holding a grim-faced but ultimately loving choice to stay together despite an impending tragedy, the other ending with the harsh reality of death but ultimately not seeing it as a tragedy so long as they are together in the end.

HC/Vibes/Feels/General Nonsense:

This song feels like a match cut movie scene, or maybe a flashback in some ways. A moment of recall to a special memory in the face of heartbreak and tragedy.

Maybe that’s what it is, a scene from early on in their relationship, compared to a scene at the end.

Maybe Scott is injured, Maybe Logan is holding him, doing his best to shield him with his body, hoping to take the brunt of the damage. Maybe some part of Logan thinks it’s too late, but he can’t admit it.

At this point Logan isn’t sure which one is worse. His one in a million chance of dying before Scott, healing factor pushed to the limits but unable to handle the thought of leaving Scott to die alone despite contemplating it for so long.

Or the much likelier option of his body healing, knitting itself back together while Scott dies with a smile on his face. Happy despite the pain, because Logan is here, Logan stayed, Logan always came back.

Do you think it hurts?

Trust me slim, compared to everything else, dyin’ ain’t so bad.

The look in Logan’s eyes when Scott reaches out to caress his face, smiling at him despite barely being able to breath, voice raspy, tears sliding down his face from the eyes Logan knows he’ll never be able to see.

He’s never hated the thought of seeing them so much.

You were right, like this, with you, it doesn’t feel that bad at all.

Blue Moon- Dean Martin

Come on y’all, we NEEDED a fluffy, dancing together alone late at night type of song. It was practically a requirement! We need more dreamy, oldie’s song fics ok, consider this motivation. Yes, I do in fact have multiple oldies themed playlists for fic writing gushy feels, thank you for asking.

I love this because it feels like the quintessential fluffy piece, that domestic, dreamy sort of content that occurs between all the chaos of life. Simply holding one another, contemplating all the decisions that lead to happiness despite all the hardships. One waking up because the other can’t sleep, slipping behind them to wrap them up in your arms, staring out at the expanse of night sky and glistening moon beams that enter through fluttering lace curtains from a large window.  There’s something to be said about the loneliness of sleepless nights. Logan has spent years haunted by his nightmares, the fear and the rage coalescing and stealing his sleep from him, only to end up in trashed hotel rooms where the only one who saw was the moon he would stare at, alone, trying to make sense of his own fractured memories. Scott hasn’t seen what the moon truly looks like in years, lost behind the constant haze of red that is his field of view, knowing it only in memories of the light it cast upon the snow as a child, or the books he read. Outside of seeking the reassurance and comfort of each other as they sleep, there is this added element of heartbreaking tenderness at the realization that being awake in the night no longer means they have to suffer alone.

HC/Vibes/Feels/General Nonsense

There’s something about this song that has a hazy, dreamlike effect on this scene. I have this stunning image in my head of Scott, arms wrapped around himself, staring quietly out a large window with moonlight dripping past the curtains, as Logan walks in, spots him, and leans quietly against the door to watch him for a few moments. Logan takes in his ruffled sleep clothes, the rare stillness of the night, the way the beams of light dance across his soft face, as he stands, relaxed and contemplative.

Couldn’t sleep?

That’s funny coming from you, old man.

But not wrong, what’s gotcha awake scooter?

Nothing just...thinking, I guess.

Can ya think less loudly, they probably heard ya on mars.

There’s the sound of quiet laughter as Logan hugs him from behind, a set of smooth dulcet notes playing from a small stereo nearby. Eventually, they end up swaying in place, letting the song roll over them as they dance.

Blue moon, you saw me standing alone Without a dream in my heart without a love of my own Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for You heard me saying a prayer for someone I really could care for

What?

Didn’t expect ya ta be the singin’ type slim, that’s all.

Your not so bad yourself.

And though Logan wouldn’t admit it, Scott can hear the timbre of his voice as he hums along to the song playing in the background.

Alright I’m ending this here because I don’t want it to get to long XD. I do have a lot more that will be finished soon, because for some reason my brain is now obsessed with this ship. I don’t know how many parts this is gonna have, but hey, we are here for the vibes. 

[dameronology]

it's no use, i just do {bucky barnes}

'if i just wanted someone to hold, then really anyone would do/i'd close my eyes and really try not to turn them into you, but it's no use, i just love you' - no use i just do, hayley williams

(a.k.a: the one where bucky needs a hug, but specifically from you)

eugh more bucky stuff from my drafts? yes. i think so. truth be told, I started writing this like 3 months ago (whenever flowers for vases came out) but it's been sat collecting dust. enjoy :-)

- jazz xx

p.s this is spoiler free!

The nights were always hardest for Bucky Barnes.

The dark always reminded him of the furthest corners of his mind; the ones holding his worst memories, skeletons collecting dust, rotting away until he forgot about them completely or forced them out with intensive therapy. Both were options that he was completely dreading - so he forced them down, forced them to the back and did everything within his power to ignore. It was easy enough during the day, when he was surrounded by his friends, occupied by work and the buzz of New York City.

Then the sun went away, and with the rising of the moon came the echoes and ghosts of Winter Soldier's past. Thanks to the likes of Netflix and YouTube, the modern world was filled with enough things to distract Bucky from the grips of his own mind. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

And tonight was one of the nights where it didn't. Every time he shut his eyes - squeezed them shut and gripped onto his thin blankets like a flimsy anchor to the present - he got flashbacks. Reminders of the things he'd done and the people he'd hurt. They always had the same look in their eyes, whenever they flashed into his mind. He couldn't see it then, but now he could feel again, he knew it was fear. The same look he had in his eyes every time he was clamped into a chair and forced to have the last remaining ounce of his humanity wiped.

Bucky's hold-ups about his feelings for you seemed almost comical compared to the problems he dealt with then. But he could feel more now, which meant his brain was so hyperaware of every little thing he felt for you; love, attachment, fear. All things that were enough to send him into a spiral, even if the feeling of your arms around him and lips meshed against his was the first reminder of his humanity since nineteen-forty-fucking-five.

Distance had felt like the answer. Cutting you out completely and acting like he hadn't fallen into your bed every night for six months seeking comfort. It was kind of a dick move, but it was one you understood. Actually, no, it wasn't, because you didn't understand a single thing the man ever fucking did. That's probably why you'd let him go so easily - people came and went. Maybe he was just supposed to be the latter.

How was it going, you ask? Given that Bucky had elbowed his way into your apartment complex at 3AM and was pacing outside your front door - pretty fucking terribly. Normally, he wasn't that bad at resisting the urge to seek you out, but tonight had been hard. Too hard. His hands were still shaking, shirt still sticking to his back with sweat. The nightmares had been...visual, to say the least. He felt like a monster, and you were the only person he trusted enough to convince him otherwise.

"Hey, dumbass. I have a Ring doorbell - what the fuck are you doing out there?"

Bucky jumped at the sound of your voice. Technology: 1. Barnes: 0.

The front door swung open, revealing a tired-looking you. Your hair was pushed back off your face, large nightshirt swamping your body. He knew you got mad when your beauty sleep was interrupted, but you got even madder when he suffered in silence.

"I..." Bucky trailed off.

"Nightmares. I know." You stepped aside. "Come in."

You didn't push any further, or berate him for his radio silence over the last few weeks. He was grateful for that. You were the only person who didn't ask so many questions all the time. Bucky didn't mind talking, but recounting his entire life story to Sam Wilson whilst they drove to Walmart wasn't his idea of fun.

Your apartment still felt homier than his. The walls were covered in photos of you and your friends and family, and shitty little drawings done by your various, younger relatives. Your fridge had postcards and letters hung on it, and there was clutter all over the kitchen counter. The thousands of pillows piled high on your sofa were practically a safe haven. There was a soft scent of vanilla hanging in the air from all your little diffusers, making him smile slightly.

"You got new curtains?" Bucky helplessly pointed to your window.

"How very observant of you." You placed a hand on his arm as you brushed past him. "What's going on, Buck?"

"With my life, or just tonight?"

"I don't think we have time for the first one." You fell onto the sofa. "Sit."

He took a seat beside you; not on you, but close enough so that your knees were touching. "Every time I close my eyes, I remember."

"That wasn't you." You gently reminded him, reaching out to push his hair back. "Not then and not now."

"I still did it though." He held his hands out in front of him. "These are the hands that killed innocent people. This is the brain that felt no empathy or remorse."

"No." You firmly said. "Those are the hands that fought in Wakanda, for the good fight. This is the brain that comes up with the worst jokes I've ever heard and regularly forgets to buy toilet roll."

His blue eyes wavered from the floor, capturing your gaze. He suddenly fell back against you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your chest. Everybody else went out their way to make him seem like a monster or a saint - but you? You just made him seem like a human. There wasn't a single perfect one of those. Steve Rogers probably came close, but he was a fucking terrible driver.

"I..." Bucky trailed off. He knew what he wanted to say. Just didn't have the courage to verbalise it. "I appreciate you."

"I know." You murmured, carding a hand through his hair.

Bucky had gone to therapy. He'd taken up exercise (and boxercise and jazzercise) and yoga. He'd tried those stupid fucking cleansing smoothies that his neighbour had sold him - at the time, he had yet been introduced to the idea of multilevel marketing schemes - and gone to meditation classes. None of it worked. Not for a single second.

Then you came in the picture, and he began to see colour etched into the edges of an otherwise black and white world. Where there had been nightmares and flashbacks, he'd found a peaceful night's sleep and pleasant dreams (normally of you, truth be told). The simplicity of it was what made it so complex - because he didn't understand it. Couldn't get his head around the fact that you actually, genuinely wanted to help him.

And he knew it wasn't just your touch or the softness of your skin against his. He'd tried it - sleeping with strangers and staying around the morning after to cuddle. Anything to find human contact with the emotion and the commitment; the very two components that were the secret ingredients to the two of you working so fucking nicely.

"Thank you." Bucky murmured.

"For what?"

"For just..." He glanced up at you, blue eyes holding an emotion you couldn't quite place, "treating me like everyone else. Like a normal person."

"You are a normal person." You softly smiled. "Maybe with a little more baggage, but to the right person, that won't matter."

"Does it matter to you?"

"That's a trap." You thinned your eyes at him. "But no, it doesn't."

He tightened his grip on you, the fear and anxiety draining from his soul. He knew now more than ever that the comfort didn't come from the way he was being held, or the way he was being spoken to. It was who was holding him, and who was speaking to him. You came out on top, every time.

That was why it worked.

It was you. And there was nothing he could do about it.

[five-rivers]

Medium Despair

For @sapphireswimming

.

Danny woke up gasping for air and fighting against his sheets. By the time he’d recognized his surroundings, he’d already rolled off his bed. He dragged in ragged, shuddering breaths. He could breathe. He could breathe. He wasn’t suffocating. He wasn’t at school, in his locker or otherwise. He could move he could stand. He did stand, skin prickling with the memory of electricity.

“Sydney?” he called, softly. “Is that you?” He could see a glowing form in the corner behind his dresser, and with that dream there weren’t a whole lot of other people it could have been, but it was polite to ask. At least in Danny’s opinion.

The ghost slid out, slowly, flickering. “Sorry, Danny,” he said, and he really did sound remorseful.

Danny might believe it more if it wasn’t 2:20 in the morning on a school night, and this wasn’t the third time Sydney had done this. Still, Sydney was something like a friend.

“What is it, Sydney?” he asked. “Did something happen at the school?” Casper High was one of the most haunted buildings in Amity Park, which honestly didn’t make sense.

Danny had done his research. The school was old, sure, but Sydney was the only person who had ever actually died there. That didn’t stop the Lunch Lady, Technus, and a whole host of others from hanging around the place, although most of those others were pretty weak. Hardly strong enough to even interact with Danny or other ghosts.

Sydney shrugged.

“Then what’s wrong?”

Sydney looked down at the ground. The puddle of not-light he cast on the ground – visible only to only Danny and other ghosts – rippled and glimmered.

Danny frowned. “I have fun talking to you during the day, Syd, but I do have to sleep. I’m human, you know?”

“I know,” said Sydney.

“So why are you here?” asked Danny, briefly spreading his arms in exasperation and the dropping them to his sides again. He was still unsettled by the dream he’d just had.

Being close to ghosts while he was sleeping was just a recipe for nightmares. They weren’t always about their deaths, but more often than not…

Sydney’s death was a particularly unpleasant one. Danny did not expect to get back to sleep. Not tonight. Hence his annoyance.

“I need to…” started Sydney, before trailing off. “I need…”

“Sydney?”

“Warn you.”

“About what?”

“Not what they seem,” whispered the ghost. He looked away and phased out through the wall.

Danny’s frown deepened. Usually, Sydney was much clearer than that. Sometimes, talking to Sydney, Danny forgot he was talking to a ghost.

Danny sat down at the edge of the bed and tried to work a kink out of his neck. He caught himself scratching at his skin as if he wanted to pull it off a minute later.

It was always like this since the accident. Especially after he had a dying dream.

Forcibly, he stopped himself. His skin was fine. There was no electricity flickering under his skin. He was alive. He was safe. His body was his body. His body.

(He was not floating above it, light as air, staring at its waxy pallor, at the glassy, empty eyes.)

He was alive, alive, alive.

Awake.

Not dead.

Slowly, he laid back down on the bed. He was alive, awake. A medium, yes, associated with more ghosts than could possibly be healthy, either physically or mentally, yes, but alive. Definitely, clearly, alive.

He didn’t like it when ghosts woke him up. Especially when they came with ominous warnings about the future.

Maybe Sydney would let Danny track him down tomorrow, but Danny doubted it.

.

“Something’s off,” said Danny, staring up at the tall front of the school.

“Yeah,” agreed Sam, “it’s Spirit Week. When the teachers participate in medieval rituals to brainwash us into supporting the troglodytes that ‘represent’ our school in sports.”

“I was going to argue,” said Tucker, “but that is about what it’s for, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Danny, “I don’t think it’s that. Probably. Unless there’s a ghost that appreciate the pun?”

“You appreciate puns.”

“I’m not a ghost,” said Danny, frowning at Sam.

“That’s true.”

Danny sighed. “I just have a bad feeling about this. I know you can’t see like I can, but… be careful. If you do see anything weird, let me know.”

“Hey, Danny!”

“Oh, I changed my mind. Kill me now, I want to be a ghost.”

Jazz ran up and threw an arm around Danny’s shoulders. “You left so early!” she said. “Are you excited about Spirit Week, too?”

“No,” said Danny.

Jazz paused, looked at Danny more closely. “You look terrible,” she said. “Maybe you should talk to the counselor?”

“Pass,” said Danny.

“You know, you’ll have to talk to me in more than monosyllables at some point.”

“Do I?”

Danny rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go to talk to Mr. Lancer about my speech! Have a great Spirit Week, guys!”

She ran off.

“I will never understand her,” declared Sam. “But I think she does have a point about the counselor. Maybe they’d be able to help with the nightmares? At least the non-ghost-caused ones.”

“All my nightmares are caused by ghosts.”

“Eh,” said Tucker, giving a half-shrug.

“Will it make you feel better if I agree to go?”

“Yes,” said both Sam and Tucker.

“Ugh. Fine,” said Danny.

.

Danny walked though the deserted hallway, pass in hand, study hall abandoned behind him as he looked for the counselor’s office. He’d never been there before, but it should be around here somewhere, right?

A cold hand settled on his shoulder.

“You must be Danny Fenton! Your sister told me all about you.”

Danny turned to look up at a tall woman. She was dressed a lot more flamboyantly than Danny would have expected.

“Yeah? That’s me. Who are you?”

“I’m Penelope Spectra. Your counselor! Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with you?”

“Uh,” said Danny. There was something unpleasantly an unexpectedly pejorative and assumptive about that statement. Weren’t counselors supposed to tell you that there wasn’t anything wrong with you? That your feelings were valid.

He shrugged. He couldn’t put his feelings into words.

(Couldn’t open his mouth for fear of cold leaking out past his teeth, his soul exhaled with his breath.)

(Why did he feel this way?)

“Why don’t you step into my office?”

The room was… not what he expected.

“Sorry about the dust,” said Spectra. “I’m just moving in. They upgraded me.” She smiled, showing all her teeth. “So… like I said, your sister told me a lot about you, and I have a few things I’d like to try for your laz—Excuse me. Your difficulty with staying focused. It happens sometimes with traumatic brain injuries, that a promising young mind can be—Well. In any case. I am here to support you and find a way for you to succeed. What’s troubling you?”

Danny’s ginger perch on the dusty chair turned into a frustrated slump. “Nothing,” he said. He pushed himself back up. “I should go—”

“Oh, just humor me,” said Spectra. “There has to be some reason you came. Anxiety? Stress? Social pressures?”

Danny shook his head and stood up.

“Nightmares?”

He sat back down.

.

Danny leaned over the table to whisper to Tucker during English, when they were supposed to be reviewing vocabulary words.

“Have either of you seen the counselor before?” asked Danny, after what was easily the worst week of his life. He was starting to have suspicions, but…

“Yeah,” said Tucker. “When you were in the hospital. He was pretty cool.”

“He?” asked Danny. “He?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been seeing a ghost for the past week.”

“Ghost therapist? Well, if it’s working…”

“It isn’t. She’s from hell. I swear. A literal demon from hell.”

“Exorcism?”

“Exorcism.”

.

Jazz didn’t often come to school after hours, but she’d left several important things and she was the student body activity director, voted for and everything.

Important thing #1, her speech, which she had to practice.

Important thing #2, the—what was that?

Already spooked by the late-night atmosphere, she ducked into a doorway and peeked at the place she’d seen movement. There weren’t many classes held down that hallway, and she didn’t come down this way often, so maybe she was just—

No. That was her little brother and his friends conducting some kind of satanic ritual over a wastepaper basket.

Their parents were terrible influences. She was going to give them a stern talking to when—what what what what WHAT—

What had she just seen?

She looked back around the corner to see the… whatever it was dissolve in smoke and fire and shadows. Then Danny and his friends started cleaning up as if this was a perfectly normal Thursday night.

Jazz… Jazz was going to process this. Later.

She turned around and walked straight back out to her car. There was, after all, nothing that important.

.

“So,” said Danny, leaning towards Sam on the bleachers as he watched his sister give her speech. “Looks like we saved Spirit Week.”

“Never say that to me again,” said Sam.

“But we did. Look at all this spirit-filled people.”

“You were literally the only victim.”

“But Sam~”

“It does seem less grim, though, doesn’t it?” asked Tucker, contemplatively. “You are no longer the goth bird of happiness.”

“Maybe a bit,” allowed Sam. “I think that’s just because everyone’s glad this week is over, though. No offense, Danny.”

“None taken. I’m glad it’s over, too.”

[razrbladekiss]

Tyrants | Chapter Five - Consolation

WORD COUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Mentions of murder, grief, the aftermath of that death...all that Jazz! Plus a lil moment I’ve been fucking itching to include.

Chibs's breath was stuck in the middle of his throat, jutting thickly the more he thought about Opie cradling Donna's sallow cheeks as she bled out onto the gravel.

It'd cut deep, this one.

So many bodies he had bared witness to over the years. So many lives lost and souls snatched and whatever else right before his undaunted eyes--but nothing really hurt as much as that.

Because he knew what it was like. How it maimed a man. How it felt like his world was hurtling toward the chasms of hell during the moments after arriving at the scene and seeing his wife there. Dead.

Cold and dead and lonely. And completely gone.

Guilt resided, too. It was true tangible remorse for the simple proficiency of; that should've been me.

It happened with Diane--it happened to Chibs's wife, the mother of his kid, and the one true light in his life right after Isla. And it should've been him.

It was brutal, the way it happened tonight. It was fierce and heartless and Chibs knew in a flash that those bullets struck the wrong skull.

He couldn't bear the reverberation anymore, the gutturals from Piney's son who'd just lost his wife for no good reason during a drive-by in their quaint little town. The town that'd swelled wickedly with corruption these last few weeks.

Stahl was at the scene before he left. Looking pensive, actually. She looked guilty.

Chibs's basic instinct had landed the blame at her door--put the blood on her hands--but he kept his mouth shut for fear of what'd happen next. He didn't think that SAMCRO could handle this.

Because this wasn't a product of Mayan or Niner rivalry. He wasn't stupid--he knew that his President had something to do with this.

This was cultivated from the seeds sown by June Stahl, the pips planted so very deeply into the mind of Clay Morrow which forced him to believe that Opie Winston was a rat.

And he wasn't. He'd never sell his club out--no matter the damage, the pain inflicted upon him--and he'd never dream of pinning the fault on his brothers.

But he had to look a little bit closer to home if he wanted those answers. If he wanted to know just who sniped Donna--a completely innocent woman caught in the most ferocious of crossfires--he had to turn to someone that he knew was culpable of such activity.

Chibs's heart ached. It impaired him so very deeply that the only thing he could visualize on the ride back to Jax's house was her face.

Her face that dripped blood. Saturated crimson plagued his thoughts and forced his stomach to churn vociferously. He felt sick now.

He felt sick because Opie had lost his wife, Piney had lost a crucial member of his small family, and her kids had lost their mother. The woman that had worked so tirelessly to provide a life for them, to love and care for them unconditionally no matter what.

Opie was strong, he knew that--but he didn't know if he was strong enough to handle this. This crippling weight, this hurt and the idea of what could've been done differently.

Because so much could've happened to prevent this.

His tongue had become inoculated with bile, acrimonious ire for whoever the fuck was to blame for such unnecessary brutality--and, really, Chibs knew that he didn't have to look much further than Isla's favorite blue-eyed heathen this time.

And that broke his heart because of the pedestal she held that man upon. The pedestal she'd always held him atop, so fucking highly, too.

She knew that he was bad--an inherently bad human being--but he was just Tig. Her buddy. Clay's right hand that, really, he'd always count on. No matter what. And he'd always deliver the king's request, too.

Tig was the one that Isla called when her car broke down on the freeway and she needed to get home in time for Gemma's dinner.

The one she turned to for cheering up because he always knew how to crack a smile and get through to her.

The one that she strangely respected the most. Nobody really recognized what it was about that man that had Isla overjoyed when in his presence, she just was. And that was part of his charm.

But her father was anxious, now. Worried that she would take this news--if it came to light--badly. Because it was going to break her heart, regardless.

It was how she would handle it, which was the true hardship.

"Christ." Chibs's voice struggled to materialize, gesturing to his daughter passed out on Jax's couch. "How long's she been sleepin'?"

Mascara and eyeliner and whatever the fuck else she'd painted onto her face had started to melt away, trails of black and grey faintly running her cheeks.

"'Bout an hour." Gemma responded, sniffling back the putrid emotion she'd so obviously let flood the moments leading up to their arrival.

Jax's stomach was doing backflips at the thought of Isla crying herself to sleep in his living room--after everything that he'd put her through, too.

He feared that this was going to be the tip of the iceberg. That this was going to pulverize her sanity and compromise everything she had sought to fight off these last few days.

And he couldn't help but harbor those same suspicions as her father, either. Jax wanted to keep his mouth shut until he was certain that this was an inside job, but he was teetering toward that conclusion regardless.

It was the only viable explanation.

He, too, worried about what this would do to her. That finding out Tig was the potential culprit and reason why Opie's children were officially motherless.

"How's Ope?" She continued, already knowing the answer but asking anyway. Jax's head shook. "Oh."

"Not good, ma. But he's home now."

"And you're sure of that?"

"Yeah--I followed him back to make sure he got there in one piece. He wanted to leave the second the fuckin' ATF stormed in."

"Oh." Gem repeated herself, running her fingers through Isla's hair as she rested in her lap. "What about Clay? Where'd he get to?"

Chibs took a seat at one of the wooden chairs that'd been positioned around the coffee table, and Jax sank into the couch opposite the girls.

It was pitiful. Darkness enveloped them as Isla slept, innocently resting as the world shattered around her.

She wasn't oblivious to the happenings. She hadn't slept through it all, but she was done. Isla had been distant for days, had been fretting over the unimaginable and Gemma was worried that she was going to make herself sick if she continued the way that she was.

So she twisted her fingers and nails through the flowing waves of golden blonde, and soothed her the same way that she always did.

The same way that she found comfort as a kid.

He sighed. Exhausted. "Dunno. Last I saw he was with Tig."

"Aye." The Scot agreed with a nod, too. Hating the thought of Trager being responsible for something like this.

But it was merely a suspicion that Chibs hoped and prayed would get debunked sooner or later.

"Did he say anything?"

"Nah. He talked a little to Unser--seems to think it was a hit on Ope gone wrong--so, I guess they're gonna be lookin' into the Niners."

"Aye." Chibs spoke again, gesturing to Isla. "Did she say much when we left?"

"Not really--she just busied herself and cleaned up with Wendy. Seems like they're getting along now."

Jax smiled a bit, happy that his best friend and the mother of his child were starting to accept the presence of one another in Abel's life.

Truly, that's all he really wanted. That and his mother finally being able to turn the other cheek, and quit castigating his kid's mom.

"Did Clay leave before you?" Gemma asked, antsy. She was itching to get home, itching to see and comfort her husband because she knew that he was going to be fretting over this.

"I told you, the last I saw, he was with Tig. Dunno if he left after us, or if he's still there."

She looked away, smoothing her thumb over Isla's cheek.

"He'll be home soon--I should take off."

"Not on your own." Jax upheld, simply terrified of what could've happened to his mother had she left alone.

As far as Jax wanted her to know, this was bad blood between clubs. This was a hit put out on an innocent bystander because they knew it'd jolt SAMCRO--and it did.

It shook them to the very fucking core, jutting them repeatedly--mere moments away from crumbling and completely disintegrating into Harley Davidson dust.

And he really didn't want to admit that this was the work of his step-father and Alexander Trager. But he feared that was the only viable explanation.

"I'll--eh--I'll take her back." Chibs offered, getting up to ghost a hand over Isla's blushed cheek. "I was gonna take her home with me tonight, but I think she's better off stayin' put."

Jax agreed with a nod, smiling weakly at his mother. Though, she knew it was a coverup. A not-so-brilliant facade and attempt at showing that he was okay during this barbarous time.

"I don't wanna wake her." She mused, pushing strands of hair from her face. "She looks so damn peaceful."

Gemma hadn't a cozy moment with Isla for a while--not since she was recovering from a broken heart four summers ago.

The last time that she turned to Gemma--the same way she would as a child--for that motherly comfort.

"I know." The older man crouched to the ground, tracing faintly along her arm. Isla grumbled, slowly rousing. "C'mon petal, it's gettin' late."

He kept a hand against her, running this thumb over the freckled skin softly. Diane's crucifix caught his eye as she shifted, impairing him that little bit more tonight.

"What time is it?" She asked roughly, feeling a sting in her throat. Isla lifted herself off of Gemma's lap, rubbing at her eyes. "Is it late?"

"It's about one o'clock."

"Shit." Her hiss was sharp, galled that she'd been allowed to rest for so long whilst there was a literal wildfire sweeping its way through the club. "Ope--oh my god--Opie. Is he okay?"

Isla knew the answer. She knew what Jax was about to say before he even opened his mouth, and so tears ensued. Crystalline hues weeped and watered, and he was unsettled.

Unsettled because she was so strong in the face of such tragedy, rarely shedding any tears before an audience.

Unsettled because, up until the Kohn incident, Jax hadn't seen her cry since she was shot in the knee after three Mayans decidedly stormed the T M lot and strived to gun down each and every person on the premises.

He never forgave himself for that, actually. Because those bullets--though completely un-fatal and leaving a simple mark that, really, Isla referred to as her battle scars--should've been for him.

"He went home. To be with the kids." Jax cleared his throat, kneeling in front of her when Chibs got to his feet and gestured for Gemma. "He's--uh--he's in a bad way."

"Understandably." She mumbled. "Any ideas on who did this?"

Your favorite son.

"No. Clay thinks it might've been the Niners--shits been off since they decided to pull their fucking guns on us after the warehouse was raided."

"That was their rationale?"

"I guess so." He added. "It'd make sense. We lost their guns, so we lost a life--"

"But Donna." Isla argued, sitting upright. "Donna was innocent."

"We know that, love, but Laroy was probably under the impression that Ope was the one behind the wheel." Her father spoke over Jax, heeding his uncertainty. "It wasn't meant to be her."

Chibs had to blow his theory out of the water, firstly.

"A life is a life. To them, so long as they've got one of ours--someone close to us--they've succeeded with somethin'--"

"All they've succeeded with is leaving two kids without a fucking mother." Isla spat, throwing away the small blanket that Gemma had draped over her as she stood up. "And you've gotta stop being so fucking insensitive."

Jax stumbled backwards, watching her storm out of the room in her pretty little summer dress. He couldn't surmise whether following behind or leaving the woman to simmer alone, was the best idea.

It was a touchy subject, the loss of a parent. It was prickly and raw and it never ceased to strike Isla's heart. Because she understood.

She understood how much it hurt. The uncertainty of it all. Not knowing what to do next. How life changes more than what anyone ever prepares you for and, really, how nothing is ever the same again.

Isla knew it all too well. She'd been there, done that, and refused to go back. But with Chibs's life, his line of work, she was never granted that security.

And it wasn't particularly the security that she wanted, more so the knowledge of what--god forbid anything--would happen to her father. Because that's what bothered her the most about Diane.

She never knew anything about her mother's passing.

Jax got a pretty tight grip on the concept, too. But it was different with Isla--it was something she never quite grasped.

"A life is a life," Gemma mocked the insensitivity from the baffled Scotsman, shaking her head. "That wasn't just any life, Chibs. That was Opie's woman, the mother of his children, and one of Isla's oldest friends--she was family. She wasn't just a life."

His lips twitched before he exhaled sharply, knowing that she was right.

Knowing that his response was much too unsympathetic and heartless and, really, he was an idiot to forget how upset she got whenever something that pertained to the death of her mother was brought up.

"Your kid is grieving. She's grieving for Ope, for Piney, for Kenny and Ellie--for herself because this--" she gestured to nothing in particular, but he understood, "--is something she knows all too well, ain't it? Diane?"

"I know." Tersely, he responded. He pulled a hand through his hair. "I fuckin' know how she feels, but I didn't think she'd storm out when I said it!"

"Well, she's always been unpredictable."

"I know." His riposte was braided with anger, pure fury.

"Then why'd you say it?" Gemma jabbed. "Isla has been about six thousand miles away from us these last few days, and you thought that saying such a stupid thing wouldn't tip her over the edge?"

She was defensive of the blonde--always had been.

And Jax was sick of it.

Sick of the back-and-forth between the two. Sick of that holier than thou bullshit from Gemma--pretending that she wasn't thinking the same fucking thing--and sick of the way Chibs cared more to argue than to go after his daughter.

"Make sure Wendy stays if you two leave--I'm going."

"Where?" Chibs demanded.

But Jax just glared at him, stuffed his hands in both pockets, and walked straight out of the house.

It was cooler, now. The breeze had hit him square in the face the second he stepped over the threshold, and it was nice. To feel a little breeze that'd inevitably take the edge off of the lament sizzling away inside of him, was nice.

It was short lived, though. The second he realized that he couldn't see Isla--that she was completely out of sight--dragged him straight back down to earth, and the panic had set in.

He trusted her, of course he knew that she wasn't going to do anything stupid because she valued her life too much, and she wanted to do great things. So many great things.

But Jax also knew her too well. Well enough to know that the first place she would've thought about storming toward was the Clubhouse--the place that she'd find Tig.

And under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have rushed to get to her before she had a chance to get to T M. But the possibility of walking in and discerning Trager's inconsolable fury--his resentment and self-loathing--was much too great a risk for Jax to take.

He had to intercept.

He had to save her before she got the chance to set foot onto the property.

But, realistically, Jax was more than aware that Isla was probably already halfway there by now, and weaving through the unusual bustle of traffic in his small town just wasn't worth it.

"Shit." He growled, hopping onto his bike regardless. Saving a sliver of hope that he'd find her tonight.

He wasn't exactly optimistic, though. Because she'd already stormed four blocks.

Isla wrapped her cardigan tightly around her body--feeling the cold a bit more than what Jax had earlier--and hastily made her way downtown.

Surprisingly enough, she didn't fear the short walk toward the garage, but it was chilling. The thought of Donna's killer roaming freely, parading around that neighborhood, was daunting.

But she wasn't scared.

Or, at least, Isla wasn't scared until she heeded the red and blue flashing lights right in the middle of the intersection. The apparent murder scene.

Her heart sank, actually. The organ dropped to her stomach, pulsating slowly--barely--at the sight of Charming PD, CSI, and her. The group scattered, conversing, and speculating.

It was horrible. Sick.

She'd seen this before. She'd seen deaths and murders, and whatever came during the moments following. But she hasn't felt this way before.

The incapacitating throb. The discomfort and grief for such a horrendous--albeit freak--accident. And she wasn't stupid. She was as cognizant as her father and as empathetic as Jax, and she knew just as well as those two that this was not a purposeful attack.

Whether it was a consequence of Mayan or Niner misconduct, it was a wrongful onslaught that was about to cull an entire family. An entire charter.

If it hadn't already, that was.

She choked around the swell in her throat, padding along the sidewalk. She took her time, but she wasn't slow by any means. She had a place to be, and a specific person that she had to see--to talk to because she didn't know how to cope with this.

And it wasn't exactly her place to mourn for Donna. She hadn't been involved with her for some five years and she felt bad about the pair unable to rekindle their friendship. She felt bad about grieving the loss of Opie's wife--about taking the focus away from him.

But it hurt. It hurt so much--it sliced deeply, through flesh and tendon and bone--and she knew that Tig wouldn't judge her for this inveterate sorrow. He wouldn't see her as selfish or stupid for wanting to project her sincerities, her emotions.

Her heels clicked across the yard and she smiled a little bit when she passed Juice and Tig's bikes beside one another, letting her know that she wasn't going to be alone in there.

She was scared now, though. Because she hadn't talked about this yet. Hadn't talked about how she felt and how she was going to approach Opie the next time she saw him.

"Juice?" Isla squeaked from the doorway, waiting for him to turn around and run to her, or something. But he didn't move, didn't lift his head.

It was dreary inside. The lights had been dimmed, the men surrounding the tables and bar were downtrodden, and Isla felt as though she'd just walked through the gates of hell.

The vibrancy and boisterous nature of SAMCRO had come to a complete standstill, and she was actually yearning for the sleaze that usually enveloped the space.

Her sigh was defeated, forlorn. She sniffed as her nose ran, making her way to the bathroom to go and clean herself up--because she knew that she looked dreadful, and didn't want anybody to really see her that way.

"Is anyone in here?" She asked softly against the locked door, knowing that the answer was yes and that Tig was the occupant--but she persisted, anyway.

The mellifluous rhythm bled through the oak, jolting him still as blood poured from the gash in his head, and shattered glass surrounded his frame and the sink.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, glaring monotonously at himself in front of the mirror. Glaring at the fucking monster that was about to welcome Isla into open arms, comforting her because he knew that she'd need it.

"Yeah," He opened up, smiling down at her. "But I'm done, if you wanna--"

"What happened to you?" She put a hand against his chest, pushing him back into the room. Her brow furrowed when he didn't respond. "Tiggy?"

His entire body winced at Isla's soft touch. At the way her pink nails traced over the patch of skin on his chest, uncovered by his shirt--the shirt he was going to burn after tonight.

She gently gripped at his chin, turning his face to the right to get a better look at the incision on his left. Her eyes filled again, lips turned downward.

"Let me clean you up."

"You don't gotta--"

"I do." Isla cut him off, blinking away her tears. "If it doesn't get treated, it might get infected."

Like father, like daughter--always the first person to tend to an injury. She was so loving, so benevolent. Nothing like him, he thought.

Tig watched her maneuver around the tiny bathroom, admiring her desire to patch him up. To care for him and help make him feel better.

Not much would've helped at that moment, but she was trying her best.

"How'd you get over here?" He asked, leaning against the sink.

"I walked--"

"You walked?" Pissed, Tig spat. "Jesus fuck, Isla, you can't walk these parts alone, anymore."

She looked up at him from the spot she was crouched at, sifting through a small first-aid kit in the cabinet. "Who said I was alone?"

"Were you?" His eyes narrowed. She got to her feet, putting the small plastic box beside him, looking his face over a few times.

Her head shook. "Nope. Never alone with these thoughts."

Tig couldn't not chuckle at her response, but he was still worried about her. He didn't worry often--he was too selfish for that--but anything to do with his favorite blonde saw him panic like a madman.

"And the voices, too." She mused, breaking out into a genuine smile the first time all evening. "They always keep me real good company."

"Yeah?" Isla's head bobbed, cupping his chin again. "Me too--me 'n you don't seem to be too different after all, baby."

"Never said that we weren't." She poked her tongue out a little bit, surveying the damage. "Never said that we were the same, either."

"We're not the same." He confirmed, curling his hand around her wrist as she held an alcohol pad above his cut. "We are not the same, Isla."

Her head tilted, trying to discern what he meant. But she couldn't, and it caused an uncomfortable shiver to flicker down her spine.

"This might hurt." She whispered in an attempt to dissipate the small tension, gently running her thumb over his chin.

The other was--alongside her pointer finger--tapping the small antiseptic against the wound. She frowned the more he winced, though Tig's smile and hold on her wrist was still present.

"I like the pain."

"I know you do, Tiger." Isla joked. But she couldn't help wondering how the fuck he managed to do this to himself tonight.

Why he would do this to himself tonight.

"I don't wanna have to stitch your pretty face up," she pursed her lips and got him to hold the cotton in place.

"You think I got a pretty face?"

"The prettiest." Her retort was instantaneous, missing that usual glint of something resembling a joke.

She was serious--she wasn't engaging in that usual banter with him today. She was too run down for it, actually.

"Gonna have to give you a couple of butterfly stitches, if that's okay?" Isla looked up at him, holding out the small bandages with a smile. "It won't hurt. And they'll probably dissolve in, like, a week or so."

"Go for it. I love when you play nurse."

She lightly whacked at his chest, laughing as she got him to sit on the closed toilet lid to get a better reach. He wasn't tall, but neither was she. Isla needed him to lower his height if she wanted to successfully repair him.

The comfort, the aid and assistance had him forgetting about tonight--had her forgetting the real reason for her impromptu arrival to the clubhouse--but not forgetting about the newfound misery that encircled SAMCRO.

"You alright?" He asked when she hadn't made a movement, when her eyes seemed to focus on the shelves above the tank of the toilet. "I can do it myself, if you don't wanna--"

"I wanna." The smile she produced was fake--uncomfortable as tears rolled down perfectly blushed cheeks.

It broke his heart. Everything she was doing and saying--and even feeling because her pain was palpable--was breaking his heart and Tig felt like hell for doing this.

"I'm sorry," she stuck the first stitch to his forehead carefully, getting him to rip off the back of the second because her fingers were too shaky to get a solid grip.

"Don't be." He handed it to her. "It's been a tough night."

Her laugh was humorless, dull. "You can say that again, Tiggy."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." She sent him an apologetic look, but he got it.

Isla trusted him with her life--for some reason--but she found it hard to open up sometimes. In regards to something this serious, she struggled to get a solid handle on her emotions and how to express them.

He understood her, though. Understood her well enough, her mannerisms and thought processes, and he just wondered if she felt like divulging her pain tonight.

She didn't, though. And Tig didn't particularly mind that. He didn't want to feel that twisted pang of regret, the vehement churn of his stomach whenever she said Donna's name--which she was yet to do, and she probably wouldn't at this point, either.

"I just wanna cry." She stated plainly, not even reluctantly anymore.

Like Gemma, he hadn't seen her cry for a long time. And it wasn't a nice visual, actually.

But he was supportive, and just wanted her to do anything that'd make her feel somewhat better--so he encouraged it.

Isla put everything down, gave his face the once over for the last time, and set herself on the tile with her back to the door.

"You wanna cry? Do it, baby. If it'll help, just do it." He assured, getting to the ground beside her. "I know you don't like doin' it in front of me, but I won't tell anyone, if that's what you want."

"You make me seem like a battle ax." Isla quipped, sniffling. "I don't care if anyone sees me cry--everyone knows that I do. It's just..."

"Showing vulnerability ain't a nice thought. I know."

God. She hated how well he understood her. How he knew what she was going to fucking say. All the time.

Tig wound an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. Instinctively, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"I get it." He stated mindlessly, pushing tousled blonde strands from her forehead. "But y'know you can always trust me, kid. I'll never tell anyone that you feel emotions--"

"I'm literally the most emotional person you all know." Isla protested weakly, hoping he didn't mind the feeling of her tears bleeding through his shirt.

He didn't.

"I just don't really like crying. It's not a true testament to my character--I'm supposed to be the happy one around these parts. The sickeningly optimistic Irish girl--"

"You can still be a crier, too."

"I know." She finally wrapped her arms around his middle as they sat together. "But people just don't take girls seriously when they cry. And I don't want my position here to be compromised, I guess. I don't want my dad, or Gemma, or Clay to think I can't handle being around the club anymore--because I can. And I always will."

"They wouldn't think different of you for that." He promised, rubbing circles over her shoulder the more he felt the navy cotton dampen. "This is a real tough thing, Isla, nobody is gonna chastise you for shedding a tear. They'd probably think different of you if you didn't cry."

"You think?"

He nodded.

"Crying shows that you got empathy and a heart. We all know your heart is bigger than..." Thick eyebrows crumpled together before he let out a little chuckle. "Bigger than Clay's ego. It's huge, your heart."

"Well, it's gotta be. If I wanna love all of you--warts 'n all--my heart has gotta be huge."

"Exactly," he drew out his response, earning a laugh and something reminiscent of an optimistic smile from her.

Trager never saw himself as the kind of man to make a girl smile or laugh after a little pep talk--after or before incredible sex, perhaps, but never as a result of his unusually comforting nature.

But he just had that effect on Isla--something she wasn't able to extrapolate verbally. Something she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to comprehend, either.

"You've just gotta try not to make yourself too vulnerable, that's all, 'cuz people will get used to coddling you. And I know that's now what you want."

"That's what I mean." She frowned, pulling herself away a bit. "I don't wanna be seen as inferior for being able to cry about the things that you, or Gem, or dad, are able to keep a poker face over. I'm just...I'm just thin-skinned sometimes, and I'm yet to be desensitized to this stuff, I guess."

"You're not thin-skinned for crying tonight." He scolded, knowing that she didn't want to elucidate her thoughts about the happening, but he just couldn't help himself.

"Desensitization don't mean shit when you've lost someone you care about--it's always gonna hurt, sweetheart. Always. And there ain't nothing you can do to stop that."

He was the one with misty eyes, now. He was the one trying to bite back tears, trying to conceal the spread of his sadness--the uncomfortable soreness in his chest. In his heart that wasn't anywhere near as big and full as hers.

"You're never gonna grow immune to grief--I promise you'll always feel that. Whether you show it--how you show it--is another thing, though."

"You feel it?"

"Tonight?"

"In general."

She couldn't seem to recall the last time that she saw him cry--if she'd ever seen it, actually. Aside from this moment, of course.

Tears fell to the apples of his cheeks and she, without any reluctance, used the pad of her thumb to brush them away.

And he got it, now. The idea of showing vulnerability being a fucking liability. Because the pity washing over her soft, beautiful features made him feel fragile.

"All the time. All the fuckin' time."

"It really never goes away?"

"No." Tig sniffed harshly, forcing a smile. "But you learn to cope. You learn that it ain't the end of the world and that life just goes on after death."

"Profound." She chuckled once again. "That's some deep, deep shit, Tigger. Almost made me forget about how much I wanna hysterically break down."

"Do it. That'll make me feel better about my injury."

"Your self-inflicted injury." Isla stated knowingly, but she didn't clarify just what she meant.

Because it could've been an array of things, but he liked to think that she was just referring to his little forehead aperture.

"I like it. It makes you look badass." Isla held a hand out to Tig when he pulled himself upward, and she wanted to follow suit.

"Does it make me look hot, too?"

"Absolutely." Again, it wasn't laced in a tease. It was honest, and the small smile she produced was sincere. "Be careful with it, though. Try not to get it wet or anything, because it'll dissolve too soon--"

"I've had them before, y'know?"

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Isla rolled her eyes. "You're a super scary, malicious, calculating guy when you've gotta be. But I know that you're accident prone."

He curled his eyebrow upward. "Scary?"

"Totally. I've seen you hold a gun to a guy's head." A chill impaired her, frightening her. "Shits terrifying, Tig. Remind me to never get on your bad side."

"You couldn't even if you tried."

"You think?" Her qualm was unexpected, almost challenging him as she unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway. "I think I could."

What's she playing at? She was sobbing two minutes ago.

Oh, I get it. This is her facade--actin' all care free, and shit.

Tig followed behind--every step--as she clicked along the wooden floor of the clubhouse.

"You couldn't. Trust me." He stated lowly, reaching for her hand when she stuttered a little.

Isla noticed her father next time Juice, drinking at the bar with their backs to the duo. She didn't want to see him, right now.

Talking to Chibs would've ignited whatever fucking fire inside of her that'd started to blaze out of control earlier tonight, and she'd worked hard to contain this inferno.

"What you can do, though, is turn your pretty little ass back around, and go get some rest in the dorm. It's been a long night."

She didn't refute, she didn't try to get out of it because she didn't want to. Isla couldn't bear the thought of waltzing past her father, talking to him about her tiny outburst, and resuming as normal.

Because she couldn't do that. Not tonight, anyway.

"Tig?"

"Uh huh." He responded, his eyes glued to the back of Juice's cut as he slammed yet another shot back.

Probably wondering what the fuck had gone down tonight.

"Can you stay with me?" Her retort forced his focus to land on her, and the defenselessness--sheer exposure--in her attitude.

It wasn't the simple fact of wanting to be alone.

She couldn't be alone. Not anymore.

Ringed fingers squeezed her hand reassuringly, guiding her into the back room, holding her close. Because that's what she really, truly wanted.

"'Course I can. Anything for you, Isla."

[savagenutella46]

And Thus With A Kiss I Die

Jasonette 1/1 - A fic I wrote for @moonlitceleste because she’s amazing

All quotes/title in bold italics derived from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

"Banishèd' is banished from the world, and world's exile is death."

There's no finite end to where white and black meet. Everything is shades of grey; infinite on a foreboding scale of fate and destiny: entities that push you to make the choices you do.

It had ended with a flash of light—real or her imagination, she had witnessed it between her own eyes. The kind of flashing light that tells you, "you've died."

Ladybug could still hear the shrieks and screams of civilians echoing ringingly around her, confused, scared, as to why an akumatized villain was hurting them the way that it was; this wasn't how akumatizations usually went, maybe a few scratches, worn out knees, but never this.

(—And to think, it had started out as a normal day.

Marinette rose out of bed with the same grogginess lingering at the corner of her eyes, brushed her teeth, kissed her Maman on the cheek as she ran to school, late.

You'd never suspect you were going to die on a day so normal, so domestic.)

What had this person been through before submitting to Hawkmoth with such a vicinity? How had Hawkmoth prayed to a cacophony of emotions like this—to kill, order, destroy everything in its path? Marinette would never catch an inkling, dying and all that jazz.

It's easy to see the world through a rose-colored lens. To believe that people do the things they do because they're bad. (but no one ever talks about why they do the things they do because they're good.)

And Marinette, masked in all her red-and-black glory, had pushed a frozen-with-fear civilian out of harm's way, an absurd amount of unleashed dark magic from the akuma hurtling its way toward them, and she'd taken the hit. Rolled on the ground for yards from the sheer force that the akuma's magic had flew and stricken her and pierced the skin, blood splattering and trailing as she slapped and hit the street from every possible angle.

Ladybug can't move, can't call for help when she desperately needs to, because her partner is miles away trying to fight what has her plastered to the ground, laying limp underneath her dead weight, breathing muffled and heavy underneath her physical detriment.

Ladybug's eyes droop under the weight of exhaustion, barely running on fumes before she had run out in an attempt to defeat what was supposed to be an everyday activity.—Crazy, how something can seem so domestic until its so, so much more.—A hemothorax forming in her chest where Marinette had been hit, a very open thoracic cavity filling up with blood, and she's spluttering for breath, because her throat is closed up, filled with blood from where the akuma hit her to where it burned.

It burns real bad, almost like an explosion stemming from her chest to the nerve endings on her toes. Marinette feels like she's being tortured with every meek twitch of her wrist as she lays on the ground, unable to see over the car shouldering her path, the pain burning behind her eyes, the white-hot disappointment in her heart.

—And she knows it's time. Because this is the work of fate. Her life in its hands. It had seemed miles away from Marinette just this morning, and how she wished she could go back and cherish the moments since she'd arisen from unpremeditated slumber.

She cannot. This is her destiny, as it seems. No one can be saved if Ladybug cannot save herself, can't will herself to detransform and heal herself because she can't, and she feels a gripping amount of remorse before emotions hit her all around—she should've told Adrien something, she can't recall what it is—should've told her Maman she loved her before running out the door in such a rush—should've squealed about the hot superheroes in America with Alya one last time, before she feels nothing.

Nothing except for the white light. And then dark again. Absolutely nothing.

                                               _________________

It's dark when she opens her eyes, and she blinks to make sure her eyes are actually open, and sees a big, fat, load of nothing.

Marinette's—the ladybug suit had disappeared, her normal clothes taking its place—body feels light, floaty, and utterly weightless against the dark mass she's standing atop of. Her head feels eerily light, calm without the weight of the world on her shoulders, and a calm feeling washes over her.

Her voice echoes against endless sound barriers as she utters her first words since death.

"This is what death feels like, huh?" Utterly amazing. Marinette can't believe she didn't do this earlier.

—But, for a moment, she feels empathy. Empathy for the people stuck in Paris, wondering if this was the day they were going to die, the people all around the world living in fear of something so inevitable.

She closes her eyes for just a second, a moment of vengeful peace. Opens them again, and this time, she's somewhere different.

She's in a library. Unfamiliar, but welcoming all the same. The smell of crisp, unopened books float idly in her senses, a synthetic warm feeling creeping up behind her back. Distantly, she realizes that she recognizes the place, tables placed and shelves abundantly filled with books, ranging from science fiction to classic literature, and it feels exactly how it did all those years ago.

Years ago, when she'd first visited the United States of America, the first place her Maman and Papa took her was a public library in Gotham City, New Jersey. It had welcomed her so openly that she couldn't help but smile a little, slip under from her parent's grasp, and wander toward a vast section of William Shakespeare, someone she'd heard so much about in her eight—nine years, she couldn't help but be pulled toward the ordain shelf.

She'd even met someone, too. Her mother would forever deny—if Marinette had still been alive, but Marinette was convinced the little boy sitting against the mass of wooden shelves had been very, very real. Marinette had smiled at him, sat down next to him, even if he gave her a wary, and borderline aggressive look, she'd introduced herself.

"Hi, I'm Marinette." She'd said with a horrible stutter and an almost unintelligible accent. The boy closed his book—a black and white cover with words she couldn't quite understand the meaning of as well as a simple name like Shakespeare's, and she smiled a little harder.

"Jason," He'd said in a heedful voice, staring at her curiously. "Whadda' you want?"

Marinette shrugged as best she could with weak shoulders, and turned her head from the person next to her to drink in every corner of the library that she could see without moving from her increasingly-uncomfortable crouch on the ground.

"Nothing. Just wanted to see what you're reading." She leaned over his shoulder, monosyllabic and complex English text alike filling her view, so many words that blurred together, and she felt a heat at the top of her head in frustration.

She couldn't read English.

The boy next to her—Jason, had seemed to recognize her distress and pull the book closer to him, floundering for a moment before he exhaled loudly, and started to read.

Words flowed out of the him, smooth and languid, and she found herself trapped in the moment, mesmerized by such an eloquent reading from a boy who looked just her age.

"What cursèd foot wanders this way tonight to cross my obsequies and true love's rite?" He reads off, breaking unevenly for gulps of air, and dove back right where he stopped without much distraction, and moments, minutes passed under his voice.

And the memory fell away from view. She opened eyes she didn't realize had closed when a voice seemed to float from the corner of her vision, a body stepping into view and a realized this wasn't imagination.

Another boy, dressed in tattered—but comfortable looking jeans finds his way over to her, a curious glint in his magnificent blue eye and a raised eyebrow, though he looks troubled, aged where he ought to look youthful.

"Who're you?" He mumbles, lips barely moving around syllables as he stares at Marinette, defensive, yet hopeful.

His voice. Despite the clearly street-wise accent, his voice is beautiful. A voice that could recite hundreds of words and never get old in the canals of her ears. Marinette found herself wanting to hear more.

"Marinette." She blinks, seems to realize the way he seems nervous, and, "You like jazz?" Blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, which, just so happens to be the only sentence capable of such utterance in damning—literally—times like this one.

Jason finally cracks a smile after a few more moments of cricket-inducing silence, and the newfound tension in her shoulders seems to melt away again, just as it did with her entrance to a magnificent limbo such as this. "Not in particular, but I do like to read." His smile is utterly contagious, and Marinette feels it spread its way along her own face, eyes crinkling under the weight of emotion.

They spend their days in an endless limbo like that, reading, laughing, sometimes in the comfortable chair in the library, and sometimes they're gazing upon clouds, feeling the prickly sensation of grass under their backs as they lie next to one another under a cool breeze and warm sun—which is the scene they're settling in, when Marinette turns her head toward the boy next to her.

"It's been," She pauses for a moment, adding up the days since they've both died—it had to be around the same time—and Jason turns his head toward her in a similar fashion, an eyebrow raised. "A few months? And..." She trails off, suddenly feeling less confident in a horrid question.

She knows the way she had died hadn't been peaceful, and if the boy she'd grown so close to in months of passing had died as painfully, he might doubt their budding friendship, as new as it is.

But then Jason reaches over and covers her hand with his, a blooming warmth enveloping her hand all the way to her heart, her vision snaps back to where it had wandered down to the rest of her body, reliving a turret of emotions. "Marinette," Jason stares at her in earnest, "You can ask."

Another thing she'd never understand was Jason's ability to read people so well. He'd always know her intentions, as bad or good as they may be, like something mundane, a book she'd eyed for a few minutes before he'd sighed heavily and got up to get it for her, or when Marinette wanted to be left alone. Just for a minute, to pull herself back together.

"How did you die?" She watches as Jason closes his eyes, curling in on himself despite the foretold question, and waits.

She's good at waiting. (A familiar feeling of heat creeping up to her cheeks, the same way it did with someone else, not so long ago, but in a different lifetime.)

"It started out when I tried to steal Batman's tires—" Marinette widens her eyes in surprise.

Oh, so they're going way back then, huh?

But by the time Jason finishes speaking, pats his sweaty hands down on the slacks he wore that day that came from God knows where, Marinette finds the humor and her mood had dimmed significantly.

And Jason, he looks terrible. Like it was the first time he'd said something about it since, well, death. Almost hyperventilating, Jason is breathing heavily, gripping onto his pants with malice and intent, almost as if stopping himself from something. He'd told his beginning to end with an increasingly shaky voice, cracking at the edges where he'd relived the fear and abandonment he felt when trapped in an unfamiliar country, in a dirty warehouse, trapped in his own feelings in a suit that he thought would always protect him.

Without a dad that he'd thought would always protect him.  

Marinette feels a little sick. The boy next to her had died so brutally, alone, scared and slowly.

"I don't regret it. Being Robin." He adds quietly after a moment of hesitation. It's small, but it's there and plain. He doesn't regret something that changed his life, but— "Just the death part."

He would want to change his death, and she couldn't agree more.

If only it meant they could've still met despite living, that is.

She doesn't say that. Instead, she laughs a little. "You and me both." Marinette reaches over to hold his hand once more, and pretends not to see the tears climbing out of his eyes.

"So early waking, what with loathsome smells, and shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, that living mortals, hearing them, run mad—?"

How it felt to tear his way out of the ground, shivering, shaking, flinching at the way his fingernails tore away with every claw and scratch at the unyielding wood before him. Jason was vaguely aware of a horrible groaning noise that might've been his own, but when his hand stuck through to crisp Gotham air, dirt flinging and spilling down on his face as he gasped and choked for breath, he could only think of a single quote from such a cliche play.

He thought of it while tearing out the bloody uvula of his victim, spurred on by the Pit and Talia's ruthless training, starving for the sound of screaming that rung in his ear, continued to clang loudly even in sleep, when it bestowed itself upon him.

Because he couldn't think about anything else. Wouldn't allow himself to, because then he would start thinking about her.

About how she left him.

Jason had turned to retrieve a book from their peaceful library limbo one day, muttering to himself about something so mundane that he didn't even remember, but he'd grabbed the book—a simple fiction, because they were both bored of astronomy—and turned around to silence, instead of the shiny mop of dark hair he was expecting.

"Marinette?" Jason calls, swiveling his head around when the chair previously occupied by her stood empty.

Jason waits.

He doesn't know how long he waits, searches, but she isn't there.

And the feeling of disappointment and fear runs up his spine again, before he knows it, he's kneeling on the ground, trying to catch his breath as tears run down because he's been abandoned again, and it's just as damning as the first time.

His father, his brother, his mother, his birth mother, and now his friend.

Jason breaks down again, gripping harshly onto his hair while he cries, where he'd usually hold onto Marinette's hand.

So he doesn't think of much at all, really. Not when he turns on murder mode, not when he forces himself to stare into the eyes of the person he's killing while they die, because he wants to remember how it felt. How it felt before he met another superhero torn away from her life almost as harshly as he was ripped away from his own.

He wants to go back. Before he flew to Ethiopia unsupervised and unprepared, before he took the Robin mantle, before he decided to make quick cash off of the Batmobile, before his mother died by her own hands, loosely holding a syringe and shaking, shuddering from her overdose.

Jason wants to go back to Before. He can't stand living in the After, where he makes the choices he does.

He’s supposed to be good.

permanent taglist: @nathleigh @stainedglassm @officiallydarkgeek @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @buterflies-and-ladybugs @maskedpainter

[mymadmedleyw]

I really hope I wouldn’t have any other idea, that would grab my attention away from finishing in fine wtph... until then, here is my other rambling from yesterday (I typed into a document today, but I wrote it yesterday night, so then, yesterday I wrote - sort-of out of nowhere - two shorts, which is wow...)

Sort-of could be counted as filling this @danphanwritingprompts

“What if ghosts really are all evil and have no feelings and after Danny becomes part ghost, his ghostly nature starts taking over his human one. (Basically ghosts are evil sociopaths and Danny is slowly becoming one as a result of his powers)

(Preferably with more emphasis on sociopathy being a mental disorder (ASPD), so Danny starting to be more selfish, pretty emotionless, not caring if someone gets hurt when he’s fighting another ghost, etc.)”

---

Bits of the Past / Being Him (ao3 | fanfiction)

Since Jazz knew Danny was Phantom, she couldn’t say everything changed, but couldn’t say it didn’t.

First of all, she didn’t know anything regarding ghosts or about their behaviours. During the years, growing up, she became deafer and deafer to their parents’ ramblings. And eventually, it turned out as a numb background noise. She even didn’t flinch to any sudden flashes, explosions or literally anything, that daily occurred in their home. But now, she wished if she would have listened. Then, maybe, now she would be capable to understand Danny more.

She couldn’t say she was afraid of him, but all in all, she couldn’t say either she wasn’t. Not after him.

Even if Danny acted like everything was the same, Jazz could identify the resemblances, even taking the question of why she hadn’t noticed until now the vicious demeanour. Maybe it was because she hadn’t been paying much attention to Phantom, but then, soon, she had learned Phantom was in fact her little brother. Then she had counted the Ghost Boy as a hero and she had been worried about him. Unnoticed checking after the remains of the fights, coming up with excuses to their parents, and taking every step to protect and help him. Supporting him from the shadows, until that day.

Sure, he had hugged her, and Jazz still was giving him a hand when it had become clear she knew he was Phantom, but… since him, everything changed. It was hard to admit, but Jazz was afraid of Danny. She tried to convince herself, that her little brother wasn’t changing – more like, being Phantom hadn’t started to change him – but that would have been a lie. And since that, she questioned everything.

It might have been the fear, the paranoia, or the side-effects of those double electroshock that day, but her mind couldn’t rest. The more she examined Danny, the more cruelty appeared. First, she tried to calculate it as tiredness, impatience and the necessary change in behaviour when he was Phantom, but Jazz just saw more of him in Danny. Even if, technically she hadn’t got to know him better. But those minutes had been enough…

Acting like everything was the same was hard, especially that Danny was eluding from her since they had had that short talk about him, being Phantom. But somehow Jazz felt it was about Danny must have sensed in a way, she had begun to realise something was not okay with him.

No matter how much she was on to behave as his sister at daytime, the all came back along with that picture at night at double force when she was alone. It was hard to hide, but she had nightmares, that after two days merged with the question: what if Danny was still him? Or, worse, what if it wasn’t him, but Danny would turn into him? To the one who had shocked him with those- with those red eyes, mirroring nothing but harm?

Since Jazz had learned Danny was Phantom, she perceived more from their parents’ ramblings. Ghosts were nothing but a post-human consciousness, unable to feel, unable to any human emotion, just as remorse, care or anything. Jazz debated with them mentally, keeping the picture of Danny in front of her, as a reminder, telling Phantom was else, because Phantom was Danny. But what if Phantom slowly was changing her brother, to then, ten years later, became him?

Jazz couldn’t escape from that theory. Not when Phantom fought with ghost cruelly, not when Danny lashed out at her, as she tried to near him, and-

What she had done? She had just let him in!

Jazz couldn’t tell the cold realisation grabbed her out of the thoughts, or the suddenly felt heavy weight, landing in her face.

“Uh-” Jazz took off the object, recognising it. “Did you just throw me with a pillow?” she pointed, stunned as she put together.

“I asked you something and you weren’t listening.” the other explained. Jazz pushed herself up to a half-sitting position, and sent back the nice gift. But against her, he just caught it without any effort. Jazz huffed but straightaway gazed to the taller figure in the darkness, spotting as he was preparing for another one.

“Don’t you dare.” Jazz told him. „It’s ten.” she cleared, like that could mean anything to him. “If you are bored, I told you, there are options.”

An unmistakable scoff was heard from the other side of the room. “I won’t ever read one of your stupid books. Or fill out your even more stupid questionnaire, Jazz.”

“Then occupy yourself with something.” Jazz said, laying back to the bed. “I’m sure you could find out something over my options. Just let me sleep.”

“You weren’t sleeping.” the older version of her brother called her out. “That’s why I tried to communicate, but you didn’t pay any attention.”

“Maybe, I was sleeping.” Jazz debated.

“You weren’t. Don’t try to convince me about the opposite.”

“Fine!” Jazz rolled her eyes, instantly forgetting by this arguing where her mind had been stuck a moment ago. Because just as during daytime, she forgot everything about him, about the ghost impersonating her brother a few days ago, but right now, she just couldn’t equal the two. The ghost with this current person.

“What you wanted to ask?” Jazz enquired instead, before her thoughts could return to the shrieking doubting thoughts, that what she was doing now, hiding him, a wall away from Danny, was just wrong. And a hasty stupid decision.

“Hm?” he asked after a moment as he finished with the readjusting of his made-up sleeping place, making it comfortable with that other pillow too. “Oh.” he said then. “Not important.” was it mumbled.

For a second, Jazz opened her mouth to push it further, because if he had thrown her with a pillow, it must have been something important, but then she gave it up instead, feeling her eyelids heavier and heavier. And much to say, it was an eventful day – or more like the afternoon needed to be rested out…

“Good night,” Jazz breathed out then to the darkness. The elder version of his brother firstly just hummed, but then let out a hardly noticeable murmuring, wishing her a good sleep, so then Jazz closed her eyes.

First time, after that, now the eyes again appeared, but this time, instead of that red gaze, she was seeing the blue, identical to her little brother’s as he had been looking at her during taking care of her hand. The expressions on his face were annoyed, but the bright eyes had a weird shine, that Jazz just couldn’t equal with the murderous ones. In that, there had been fear, seeking for any sign of hope.

To that memory, Jazz unconsciously ran her nails on the covered injury, just to then, realising what she was doing, as she let out a hiss, scrubbing the cuts uncomfortably.

“Jazz, don’t touch that.” came the lecturing voice. Jazz grumbled to the tone, turning to her other side, leaving it without any note. But she couldn’t cease to stare at her bandaged palm. He was so different… she couldn’t tell how, but as she recalled the all afternoon, the question she had thought she missed slipped into her mind, like he would have taken it again. If you know all along, I was Phantom, why didn’t you say anything?

[monster-bait]

Soooo 👀 you got anymore HCs up your sleeve on Rukh? He has been living rent free in my brain for a while now (like a lot of your OCs!)😅🤩😍

Here are some HCs for Rukh, our favorite gruff bartender in the GW universe. (I've already started writing a small one-shot of Rukh's job interview with Tate, because once I started writing these, I couldn't get the idea out of my head! That will be posting to Patreon shortly!)

If you're interested in learning more about any of my existing characters, all ko-fi contributions earn a headcanon! (Higher amounts will be more detailed!)

Previous Rukh headcanons, including the extremely memorable moment of IvyMemnoch finding a Celtic flute version of Despacito (my fav Tumblr moment of the year, by far! 😂) can be found here

RUKH

Had never heard of the tiny resort town where the Pixie is located before responding to the job listing, despite the fact that he lives in neighboring Starling Heights. He’d been working in one of those quick-service garages before then—an embarrassing waste of his skills, but he figured with his prison record, he was lucky to find a job at all. He’d not been planning on leaving his position, was only looking for a part-time gig, but the job post for the Pixie was too intriguing to scroll past—it was written in Orcish, practically unheard in a mixed-species society, catching his eye immediately. Unlike the other half-a-dozen bartender help wanted ads he’d looked at, the Pixie’s post said nothing about requiring an “upbeat personality” or his “smile being part of the dress code,” all descriptors that made him cringe. Punctuality, accountability, and an authoritative presence were the expectations, experience a plus but not required...it was straightforward and direct., it was clearly directed at orcs...he fit the bill, he thought. He considered himself to have a finely-tuned bullshit meter, and the Pixie’s ad didn’t set it off at all

He has since admitted to himself that he has fallen for Tate’s particular brand of bullshit repeatedly over the years

Rukh is a very tightly closed book. He’s definitely the strong silent type and is not at all comfortable talking about himself. (Despite that, he spilled his guts and told Tate his whole life story during his job interview—falling for the bullshit instance #1)

He discovered a love of reading during his incarceration, one he didn’t possess in his younger days. When he moved to Starling Heights, he was low-key delighted to find his apartment was on the same block as the library. He prefers mysteries and crime novels to anything overly literary, doesn’t have the patience for the endless world-building of high fantasy, and enjoys a wide spectrum of non-fiction. It’s become a game of sorts, engaging Ainsley in conversation and being able to not only keep up, but add his own insights and facts.

Another mental game he likes to play is trying to pinpoint Tate’s actual age. He’d never come right out and ask but sometimes Tate will chime into conversations knowing things he just...shouldn’t, or else will make references to things that Rukh can barely remember from his *own* childhood, things he remembers his parents reminiscing over. He’s added some Celtic history books to his rotation and surreptitiously jots down notes on the random head-scratchers Tate will casually drop and follows rabbit holes looking into said notes...as a result, he’s even more spooked by Tate than he was before he started snooping 😂

When Rukh first started at the Pixie, he thought they would fail. He was positive about it. Too small, in the middle of nowhere, an owner who very quickly made enemies with most of the people in town...he was shocked when the old girl's business plan actually fell into place. Shocked and thrilled, of course. He loves having a routine, loves having a reason to get up and feel energized every day, likes the clientele and takes his job of overseeing the “sightseers” during tourist season seriously. Since the bar turns a respectable profit, they're constantly receiving promotional odds and ends, which is how Rukh wound up with a Bourbon of the Month club subscription for a free year. (Tate hissed like a cat and shooed the offending pamphlet away as though it might bite.) He continued the subscription once the free year ended, and looks forward to his monthly ritual—he waits until his night off, puts on some moody jazz, cracks open the month’s bottle, and enjoys it with a cigar. Thessa referred to it as a self-care routine once, after asking him about his plans for the night, and he nearly turned inside out in mortification.

He doesn’t talk about his time in prison, nor the crime he committed to wind up there. Tate is the only one who knows, and Rukh is happy to keep it that way. It’s not that he regrets the act itself all that much—he has no remorse for his brother, but rather the way it fractured their family, upended his life, and had branded him as someone to be wary of since his release.

That being said...things he did pick up during his incarceration—the ability to keep his head down and just get by, the knowledge that sometimes you simply need to kick someone’s ass, and the value of tidiness—are assets at the Pixie.

Loves nothing more than his solitary days at the Pixie during the off-season. The night-time regulars, while they consistently fill the cash till, are still a handful. He loves the quiet of the daytime, the handful of day drinkers, the time to hear himself think without needing to watch over every aspect of the business. Speaking of which—he knows how to do everything in the Pixie. The ordering, the inventory, the budgets, the schedules, the upkeep...he's not entirely sure why, as Tate very much micro-manages every bit of the day-to-day management, but it was something the boy insisted on and Rukh wasn't about to argue. "Someone needs to be able to take care of her if I'm not here anymore," was the only answer he got, and he decided it was easier not to ask questions. Since Silva has been on the scene, Rukh has been left to his own devices more often and it is *bliss.*

He thought he'd left his days of vice behind him. He drank, he smoked, he dabbled in recreational drugs, he worked on souped-up hot rods and bet on drag racing...prison changed all that and his life afterward left little room for any of it...but Tate and Ainsley are terrible terrible influences. Gamblers and hustlers, he has someone to talk cars with again, to trade intel on illegal street racing with, the chance to get his hands just a littttle bit dirty again, and he loves it

Smokey blues, soulful R&B, moody rock

Sloooow dancing

He is *incredibly* protective of Elshona. He’s the first person who meets her once she arrives in her new home, and he recognizes the fear in her eyes. He’s the only one who understands what it means to be cast out of one’s community, he knows what it means to have to start over again. He doesn’t understand the relationship she has with Tate, doesn’t know all of the details of her expulsion and shunning from her clan, but he’s made a quiet promise to himself that she’ll never be left to flounder completely alone again.

Has a FWB relationship with a half-troll woman in his building. Single mom, splits custody with her ex, so has several nights a week free, and she’ll spend one of them in his bed. It’s casual and neither of them is interested in pursuing more, but it’s occasional companionship and scratches an itch.

He's not immune to the plethora of easy sex the commune attracts. There would be hell to pay if the staff acted on anything beyond mild flirtation at the Pixie, but he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't drifted down to the parties and pool-side bar before to check things out. He's been on the receiving end of more than one edge of the party blowjob to know how addictive that sort of access to easy sex could be; he sees the commune residents and the reckless way they behave and knows how easy it would be to slip into that lust-crazed mindset, and makes a point of only indulging in visiting that side of the resort occasionally

He much prefers to find his partners the old fashioned way: closer to home, in one of the dimly lit little pubs around his neighborhood. He loves the adrenaline rush of a flirtation turning into close talking and lingering hands, that first heat-filled kiss. He doesn't mind the evening ending back at his or her place, he's not picky, and prefers to savor the night (as opposed to the fast, anonymous sex at the commune parties.) Ladies on top or old-fashioned missionary, any position that lets him see their faces: heads dropped back, faces screwed up in ecstasy, that moment when they come...he'll take that over a blow job in the dark any day of the week

A skill that Tate possesses that Rukh greatly admires and strives to emulate: easy banter which leads to confidences shared. They were talking about cars one minute, and in the next Rukh was revealing the details of the day he killed his brother, the shunning of his clan which followed, and his incarceration. He left that initial interview feeling shaken, positive that he'd been the victim of fae magic...but he's come to realize that there is truth in the old adage of hairstylists and barkeeps being the keepers of the whole town's secrets. Tate knows everything about everyone, is able to tease out information as casually as pouring the next drink, and Rukh has begun to employ the same tactics. He was shocked to find that it actually works. As the years have gone on, he's improved his game and knows much about all of the Pixie's regulars, hears the commune gossip and news from town, and is gleeful with the power of being able to pass on information that the Pixie can use to leverage her business.

There is very little that scares him in this world. Possessions are just things and things can be replaced, he's been in fights with bigger, meaner dudes than the Pixie's roughest patrons, and he's not afraid to meet his maker. He's let go of the past and the people in it and tries to live life one day at a time, and that's not a mindset that lends itself to fear much. Tate is a wholly different story. Rukh knew his type in prison: those who viewed other people as pawns, who traded and secrets gossip to advance their own positions; had a minotaur cellmate who was that sort and he got his ass kicked on the regular for it. He knew a lizardman who was as slippery, who contorted himself in and out of trouble, ingratiating himself with the guards and the inmates of the upper echelons to hold himself out of real hot water...but he's never met anyone with the same capacity for mischief and spite as his current employer, has never met anyone so terrifyingly adept at causing trouble while staying out of it. The boy isn't overly concerned about making enemies or worrying about his own hide and wreaks havoc for havoc's sake, and Rukh might be impressed if he didn't actually care about him. Silva is, in Rukh's opinion, Tate's perfect match. A sweet little angel, an absolute beauty, wide-eyed and innocent looking and, Rukh (rightly) suspects, just as shrewd and self-preserving as Tate. He has a feeling the entire town will be set ablaze if/when their relationship consumes itself, and only hopes it happens on his day off.

I hope you enjoyed this little peek into a character who doesn't get as much page time as some of his peers! If you'd like a headcanon of your own, visit my ko-fi! Thanks so much, IvyMemnoch!

[atsixesandcevans]

in love just a little - part 1

Summary: In a battle between head and heart, which will win out? Will you and Steve let down your walls enough to admit to yourselves - and each other- that there might be something between you?

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: angst, referenced character death, self-depreciation, language, sam wilson being a little shit

A/N: once again, i am SO sorry it’s taken so long to get this posted! life’s gotten in the way a bit but i hope this was worth the wait!

*technically* this is the last part to the fire it ignites, but it ended up being a lot longer than i anticipated so i split it into 2... i plan to post the second part sometime in the next day or so :) enjoy!

Read on AO3 || Masterlist || Series Masterlist

The next few days passed in much of a similar fashion; you and Steve would while away the quiet hours in the compound by watching movies and television, reading and listening to music, the snippets of pop culture that Steve had never had time to catch up on. You had begun to grow more comfortable with one another, awkward exchanges giving way to light-hearted teasing, and where the captain's presence had once put you on edge, you now found yourself looking forward to spending time with him.

Over those three days, your injuries had healed nicely. While you still had to take care, you were now able to move around freely, without fear that you might do yourself more harm. You were, thankfully, able to shower on your own - not that you hadn't enjoyed it when Steve helped you, his bare skin so close to yours that you could almost feel the heat radiating off of him... No. It was for the best that you showered alone. You couldn't allow those thoughts to plague your mind, no matter how much you wanted to. Nothing good could come of it.

Steve's almost constant presence had become... oddly domestic. Once you were able, you helped him cook, though he insisted on doing the dishes himself afterwards. There was a sketchbook of his, along with a pack of charcoal pencils, on the coffee table, and a couple of his sweatshirts draped over the back of one of the armchairs. The thought of him in your space like this sent a weird surge of butterflies through your stomach.

It became a regular thing to relax on the couch with a movie after dinner. To begin with, you would sit at opposite ends of the couch, neither of you wanting to breach the other's personal space. But you soon shifted closer, inch by inch, until less than a foot of space separated you. It was times like those where you found your mind wandering, longing to know how it would feel to press your body up against his, to drink in his warmth, to feel the weight of his arm draped over your shoulders, holding you close. 

Sometime during the evening of the third day, the rest of the team returned, sending the previously still compound into a flurry of activity that only waned when exhaustion forced the team to retire to bed. 

The sudden change in noise levels felt oddly unnerving to Steve, and in the quiet stillness, he found his mind drifting.

He thought of the team, and their successful mission, and what would need to be done next. He was thankful that there were only mild injuries sustained so, as long as they were given a few days to rest and heal up, he wouldn't have to take anyone off of active duty. 

His thoughts, then, drifted to you, and Steve allowed himself to wallow in the feeling that had begun to grow stronger and stronger the more time he spent with you. A feeling that he hadn't allowed himself to feel for another person in so long... Affection.

Steve never thought he could feel this way for someone again, not after everything that had happened. For years he believed that his ability to love like that had died with Peggy, that he would never again get to feel the rushing of his heart when tender gazes met. 

And yet, there you were. And Steve had been so blindsided by his own opinion of you, for months, that he didn't see it until you were - quite literally - standing bare in front of him. Inches away, and yet a seemingly unbreachable chasm between you. There was no way that you could feel the same for him, not after how poorly he had treated you. But you'd had a beautiful vulnerability in your eyes that night in the hospital wing, and an openness he had never seen from you before. Not that he had seen much of you at all. 

He quashed the guilt rising in his chest, forcing himself to remember the soft way you had spoken to him, the forgiveness that you had expressed. He knew that you were on better terms now, but still the remorse lingered, having taken root in him with an outright refusal to budge. He concentrated on the image of your face earlier, bright with laughter, and the mental picture both comforted and scared him.  

But the scariest part was that he had no idea how it had happened. It was like a switch had been flipped, and all of the negative feelings he held towards you vanished, leaving in their wake the recognition of your earlier behaviour for what it really was. A front, carefully designed to keep people from seeing you, the real you, the one you kept hidden under your outwardly prickly exterior. The you that had been broken and mended and broken all over again throughout your life, that wanted nothing more than to help the people who couldn't help themselves. Steve already liked that person a great deal more than the person he had met all those months ago, more than he ever thought he could. 

It couldn't be love. Of that much he was sure, he wasn't naive enough to believe that he loved you, not now, not so soon. But there was a softness there, a tenderness that he hadn't felt in years, decades, even. It was new and exciting and perhaps even more terrifying than an actual alien invasion. At least he knew what to do in that situation. But, in matters of the heart, Steve was utterly clueless. 

The last time he had felt any sort of affection like this, was in the midst of an actual and literal war. There wasn't the time nor opportunity to act on romantic feelings with an endless stream of Nazis to dispose of, a world to save. (He supposed that that hadn't really changed. The world was still full of threats that needed to be neutralised and, by some cruel twist of fate, Nazis were still a thing.)

Steve was by no means free from responsibility, but now he had a whole team with whom to share the burden. He was no longer 'America's New Hope,' was no longer being pulled in sixty different directions at all times. 

Even so, he had never entertained the mere idea of pursuing a relationship with someone. It always seemed impossible to maintain something like that, with anyone. Not to mention that, in his line of work, it was nigh on impossible to meet people for whom he might develop romantic feelings. 

So why was this any different? Why couldn't he shake you from his head, the image of you naked before him, the scent of your shampoo, the feel of your soft skin beneath his fingertips? How had you managed to crawl under his skin so seamlessly, take root in the nerves at the tips of his fingers? Meld yourself to his brain so that the only thought he had when he allowed his mind to wander... was you? 

Steve scrubbed a hand down the side of his face, sighing, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He knew he wouldn't get to sleep any time soon, and decided to take a walk around the compound. He slipped some shoes and a hoodie on and headed out of his room towards the stairs that would eventually lead to the roof. Before he could make it that far, however, the glow of light emanating from the common room caught his eye and stopped him in his tracks. 

As he moved closer to the doorway, he registered the sound of soft jazz music playing quietly, the melody distantly familiar to him, buried under decades of fog. Peering around the corner, he was surprised to see you, standing at the window, looking out at the still grounds, a pensive but relaxed look on your face. You had wrapped yourself up in one of the blankets that lived on the back of the couch and cradled a mug in your hands.

Steve spent several moments, just watching you like that, until he spoke up, his voice startling you. 

"I didn't have you pegged as a jazz fan." Your head whipped round to find the source of the sudden noise, your body relaxing upon discovering who it was, a sigh of relief escaping your lips.

"What were you expecting?" Your tone was light, teasing. "Punk rock? More of what Tony insists on blasting?"

Steve chuckled wryly, shaking his head a little, pushing off the wall with his shoulder to come and stand closer to you. "Something like that, I guess." He mentally berated himself for, once again, passing judgement like that. "I suppose I should know better than to make assumptions by now."

You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, eyes watching the peaceful landscape outside. "It's okay. I forgive you." You met his eyes briefly, and he could see the humour settled there. You shared a soft smile that held a more profound meaning before returning your gaze to the window. "I'll admit, it's not exactly all that common for someone my age to like jazz. It kind of went out of fashion a little while you were asleep."

Steve laughed at that, his head tilting in almost resigned agreement. "That's true." He was quiet for a few moments. "Is there a specific reason why you like it?" He spoke softly, inquisitively, and found himself genuinely curious. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love jazz just as much as the next hundred-year-old man," you laughed softly, and Steve found it hard to ignore the blooming in his chest at the sound. “But I feel like my reason might be a little different from yours.”

You smiled sadly at the window before turning and moving back towards the couch. You placed your empty mug on the coffee table and settled in the corner of the sofa, curled in on yourself, the blanket still wrapped securely around you. Steve approached slowly and carefully took a seat a few feet away from you before he spoke softly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. You don't have to answer if you don't want t-"

"No," you interrupted quietly, but firmly. "It's okay, I want to answer, it's just... hard to talk about." Steve nodded but didn't say anything, content for you to talk whenever you were ready. Your hand reached up and rubbed at your eyes as you began speaking. "My, um... my parents were really into jazz music. For as long as I can remember, it was almost always playing in the house." Your face took on a faraway look as you paused, eyes glossing over with emotion. "They had this... old record player in the living room. It was second-hand, tattered and worn, but it was almost like a part of the family, you know?" You smiled fondly, wistfully at the memories flitting through your mind. "We didn't have all that many records, but we had the greats... Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald... plus some others from the 50s and 60s. 

"Every Sunday evening before bed, we'd put those records on and dance in the living room. My mom and I would take turns dancing with my dad. He'd let me stand on his feet as he moved because he was afraid he'd step on my little toes." You chuckled softly before your expression turned sombre again. "It was our own little world, away from all the fear and the hardship my parents faced. I guess the music just reminds me of those happy times with them.”

“That sounds nice,” Steve said, but there was a sadness that remained in your eyes when you smiled at him. He took a few seconds to figure out how to ask you about it, neither wanting to pry nor upset you and ruin the nice moment the two of you were having. “Do you still have the record player?”

You shook your head, looking intently at your hands folded in your lap.

“What happened to it?” His voice was nearly at a whisper, speaking as gently as he could, trying to convey the fact that it was okay to talk to him if you wanted, but it was also okay if you didn’t.

“My parents…" you swallowed thickly, trying to rid the lump that had formed in your throat. "When they died, it was all taken. The records, the player, all taken along with almost everything else we owned."

"Who took it?" 

You shook your head, running your hand across your cheeks to remove the tears that had begun to fall. "I don't know. Bailiffs or loansharks, I guess." You could see the question in Steve's eyes, so quickly explained. "When I was young, my parents... we fell on hard times, neither could hold a job, and we struggled to make ends meet. They couldn't get any bank to give them a loan, so they had to ask other people for money. But it came with a hefty interest rate, and they couldn't pay it back. And when they couldn't the loansharks come looking." Your breath caught in your throat as you relived the painful memory of losing your parents. You buried your face in your hands and let the tears fall freely. You felt the light brush of fingertips across your shoulder, heard Steve calling your name softly, gently.

"Y/N... were your parents murdered?" He internally cringed at the bluntness, but he found himself desperate to understand you, where you came from, how you became the woman you are today. 

You sniffled and brought in a shaky breath as you lifted your head back up. Steve's hand trailed down your arm, taking your hand in his. The action was oddly grounding, and you swallowed down your emotions with a sigh, focusing on the soothing motion of Steve's thumb against the back of your hand. "I came home from school one day - I remember, I was really excited to show them the good mark I got on this paper." You laughed almost bitterly. "I found them both on the floor, and the apartment ransacked. They killed them, then took whatever they wanted to make up for the payments. Including our records, and the player." 

Steve found himself unable to say anything, not wanting to make the situation worse or offer the typical 'I'm sorry.' It seemed too trivial. You deserved more than that.

So, rather than say anything, he simply shifted closer to you, and pulled you close to him, enveloping you in his strong arms. His embrace calmed you, made you feel safer than you had in years. He held you like that for a long time, music still playing softly over the speakers. Neither of you spoke, just enjoying being in the other's arms. 

The music changed again, and the room was filled with the familiar intro to a song he knew and loved. The sound of it after all these years made something stir deep within him. He fell in love with the song the first time he heard it, and it became something of an aspiration to him; back in the 40s, Steve would imagine dancing to this song with the woman he loved, holding each other close and stealing a kiss or two. There was a time when he believed that he would never get that, and then there was a time he imagined that he would be able to do that with Peggy. And now... he wasn't entirely sure.

Before his brain could shut the idea down, Steve disturbed the quiet. "Dance with me?" You uncurled yourself from him to look at him in confusion. But before you could question him, he stood, offering his hand to you, looking at you expectantly, as the mellow voice of Kitty Kallen began. He could see the amusement in your eyes as you took his hand and stood, allowing the blanket to fall onto the couch. With a sudden wave of confidence, Steve took your hand in his, and placed his other hand on your waist, drawing you close. 

The two of you began to sway gently, paying no real mind to the beat of the song. You settled yourself closer to Steve's chest, his chin resting lightly against the crown of your head, your free hand resting on his bicep. Your eyes fluttered closed, and Steve's hand tightened around yours as you lost yourselves in the music.

Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again

It's been a long, long time

Haven't felt like this, my dear, since can't remember when

It's been a long, long time

The familiar lyrics held a new meaning for both of you, and the weight of it was simultaneously burdensome and uplifting. Steve pulled you ever closer to him, and you shifted so that your forehead was pressed lightly against the side of his neck, his cheek resting upon your head. The hand that was on his bicep snaked up and round, coming to rest at the nape of his neck, your fingers playing with the soft, short hair there. The sensation made him swallow thickly, the movement evident to you in your position. 

You'll never know how many dreams I dream about you

Or just how empty they all seem without you

You felt like you could stay in his arms forever, the steady thrum of his heartbeat next to your ear soothing your nerves, lulling you into a state of calm. You couldn't remember the last time you felt this way, so comforted by a person's mere presence. Your line of work didn't allow much room for relationships, neither platonic nor romantic, so the blossoming feeling in your stomach was foreign, exciting, even, and you never wanted it to stop.

It's been a long, long time.

As the song drew to a close, the room returning to silence with the end of the playlist, both of you stopped swaying. However, neither of you made any move to pull away from the other, wanting to remain in your little bubble for as long as humanly possible.

It was you who reluctantly pulled away, tilting your head to look into Steve's eyes. In the dim lighting, his eyes were oceans you wanted to get lost in forever and, being so close, noses almost brushing, you could just make out tiny flecks of green in his otherwise periwinkle irises. He raised the hand that was holding yours to your face, cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone while your hand fisted the fabric of his hoodie at the side of his chest. His eyes flickered between yours, searching for a sign, anything to indicate that you didn't want this. 

Finding none, he shifted his face closer to yours, brushing your noses against each other. You didn't dare close your eyes, trying to commit every detail of his face to your memory. His lips were a hair's breadth away from yours, so close you could feel his breath on your skin, smell the faint, lingering scent of his mint toothpaste. 

Your eyes had begun to slide closed, fingers tightening around Steve's neck, about to push up and press your lips to his, when a loud pointed cough came from somewhere behind Steve, making you both jump apart. 

You looked around Steve for the intruder, spotting Sam over by the doorway, arms crossed, with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Your face and neck became very hot all of a sudden, though you found the rest of yourself cold. The two feet of space between you and Steve was suddenly much too far, the warmth of his body no longer pressed up against you.

Your hands fiddled with your sleeve, and you looked around the room, anywhere but at the two men. Steve cleared his throat and spoke in a clipped tone, "what are you doing here, Sam?"

Sam seemed surprised that he was being spoken to. "Hm? Oh, I just came for a glass of water." He moved towards the kitchen, pulling a glass from one of the upper cupboards. "I just didn't fancy a front-row seat to whatever you guys ended up doing on that couch. I am way too tired for that shit." He muttered the last part, but it was quiet enough in the compound that you and Steve could both still hear it. 

The air in the room became tense, though Sam seemed none the wiser, as he stood drinking his water leisurely by the sink. 

You cleared your throat and buried your hands deep into the pockets of your sweatpants. "Right. Well... Goodnight, Steve." You spoke softly and chanced a glance at him, finding his face full of regret and disappointment, cheeks flushed red. You ducked your head and made a beeline for the door, not looking up as you passed the kitchen, grounding out a terse "night, Sam" as you did so. 

You rounded the corner just as Sam responded with a cheery "goodnight!" before you hurried down the corridor to your room. Once the door was shut, you leaned heavily against it, knocking your forehead against it a couple of times in exasperation. 

Suddenly overwhelmed by how emotionally exhausting the past hour had been, you stumbled over to your bed. Burrowing into your pillows, you settled in for what you knew would be a restless night of broken sleep.

Steve watched you leave with an expression that Sam could only describe as that of a kicked puppy. Without looking in his direction, Steve slumped off to his room too, his own "night, Sam" a half-hearted mumble. Sam watched him go and, once he knew that Steve was well out of earshot, let out an almost incredulous laugh.

"I am so getting my ass kicked."

---

It was several days before you saw Steve again.

Not that you were surprised, really. You had barely left your room for fear of running into him and the - let's face it, inevitable - awkward conversation that you knew was coming. 

Steve didn't come to see you, unsurprisingly, and you found yourself missing him. You had so easily slipped into a routine with him, become comfortable in his presence, that his sudden absence felt... wrong, despite having Nat and Wanda around again. And you seemed to be reminded of said absence at almost every turn; the "Continue Watching" panel on Netflix that displayed the most recent show that you had been binge-watching together. His coffee mug (or at least the one he had claimed as his, the one with his shield on it, that Steve had ribbed you for owning the first time he saw it) left upturned on the draining board after he washed it up. The pair of sneakers left neatly side-by-side by the door. 

He had permeated your life, and there was nothing you could do to mask the odd longing you felt in your chest. You hated yourself, for how easily you had allowed him into your life, your heart. You should have known better than that.

And yet, you wanted him, here, with you. You wanted him to yell at you again, tell you how stupid you were, admonish you for your recklessness. Anything, anything but this. You'd take anything if it allowed you to see him, be near him again. Anything would be less painful.

Oh, how wrong you were.

On the third night after your almost-kiss, you finally ventured out of your room to the common area. You were growing tired of the same four walls and figured that it was late enough that you wouldn't bump into anyone while you were there. Thoughts of that night plagued your mind, as they had done every night since, and you were so engrossed in your thoughts that you didn't notice the dim light emanating from the common area as you approached it.

It wasn't until a tentative voice spoke your name that you were startled from your thoughts, and came face-to-face with Steve, an expression on his face similar to that of a deer caught in headlights. You both froze, you mid-step, and Steve with a plate in his hand, part-way to putting it down. 

You were the first to speak and break the silence between you.

"Sorry, I was just... going to make some tea." You pointed vaguely in the direction of the kettle and Steve snapped out of his frozen state with a small jolt that you probably would have missed if you hadn't become so tuned-in to his every move. 

"Oh! Yeah, that's cool, don't let me stop you." You nodded your thanks and made your way to the opposite end of the kitchen island to where Steve was. He resumed the process of making a sandwich, as a tense silence settled between you. 

Needing some way to break the quiet, as well as distract yourself from your wandering thoughts, you attempted some small talk.  

"Couldn't sleep?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of the night, it sounded almost too loud, and you internally winced. 

You glanced over at Steve, who had paused at your words. He shook his head and resumed his movements. "No," he said, almost as quiet as you. He seemed to think for a second as if deciding how much to share. "I get nightmares, sometimes." He said it almost casually, but there was an underlying vulnerability there, telling you that this was something that he didn't share often. Even with how tense things were between you right now, you were touched that he felt that he could tell you that. His head shook again, perhaps ridding himself of his thoughts before he turned to you with a slightly raised eyebrow. "You?"

You shook your head in response, turning to reach the teabags and a mug from one of the upper shelves. "Nope, I can't sleep either. Overthinking, I guess." Steve just nodded, and you both turned your attention back to your respective tasks, settling once again into a silence broken only by the sound of metal against china and the whistling of the kettle. 

You finished up before Steve did, and passed him with a soft "goodnight," but before you could make it to the door, he called your name, his voice a gentle whisper. Internally cringing, you turned back to him with a questioning look.

He appeared to shy away from your gaze slightly but continued speaking regardless. "Listen, about the other night, I-"

"No, Steve, it's okay, you don't..." You heaved a sigh, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. You had known this conversation would have to happen at some point. Still, you hadn't anticipated it happening tonight, in the middle of the common room when you were sleep-deprived. "You don't have to say anything, okay? I get it, it was... a spur-of-the-moment thing, we were both caught up in our emotions." You chanced a glance at Steve's face, finding his expression even more stunned than before. There was a crease in his brow, and you wanted nothing more than to smooth it out with your fingertips, your lips. Sighing again, you said, "I think it’s best if we just... forget it ever happened, okay?" The look you gave him was so pained, almost pleading, that Steve couldn't find it in him to try and fight back.

"I..." he swallowed, then sighed. "Yeah, if that's what you want." His tone laced with resignation. 

 You nodded, almost too vigorously to have been genuine - though Steve was too defeated to notice - and swallowed the disappointment. "Yeah. Yes, that's what I want." If only that were even a little bit true. The awkward silence returned once more, though it only lasted a few seconds before you spoke with forced cheerfulness. "So, I'll see you at the gym in the morning? Ten, right?"

One side of his lips quirked up into one of his half-smiles, though his knotted brow remained unchanged. "Sure, Y/N. I'll see you there."

You nodded once and gave him your best attempt at a smile before you turned and retreated to your room, rapidly cooling mug of tea clutched in your hands.

You missed Steve's disappointed gaze that followed you from the room, as well as the dejected sigh that escaped his lips once you were gone.

[the-odd-job]

Up in Flames chapter 18 - Sink the Blade (Ashes Part 2)

Warnings: Major Character Death, Chose Not to Use Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Relationships: Megatron/Sunstreaker, Megatron/Sideswipe, Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Characters: Sunstreaker, Tracks, Sideswipe Additional Tags: Dubcon, Mechpreg, Sticky, Canon Typical Violence Words: 3167

I miss the bad things The way you hate me I miss the screaming The way that you blame me

I miss the rough sex Leaves me a mess I miss the feeling of pains in my chest Miss the phone calls When it's your fault I miss the late nights Don't miss you at all

— Halestorm – I Miss the Misery

( Previous )

Fuck.

That summarized the whole situation pretty well, didn’t it? Sunstreaker thought it did.

He had never thought too highly about the Autobots. He had belonged to the faction, sure, but he was an arrogant bastard, and admittedly a pretty cold-hearted one at that. He’d always looked down on them to some extent, even when they were his comrades. He’d thought them weak and soft-sparked, not capable of doing what needed to be done. 

This? This didn’t need to be done, but at least they showed coldness perfectly comparable to his own. Sunstreaker killed without remorse and the Autobots had always called him bad for that. Maybe they’d feel remorse for this and thought that excused them as the morally superior beings.

Pits, it didn’t.

There was a moment of silence after his question—his challenge. It was Jazz who spoke up, showing no emotion when he simply said, “We could snuff the sparkling.”

Snuff the sparkling, when that was the very first option Sunstreaker had thought of when he’d first found out about it.

An option he’d fragging discarded. He hadn’t changed his mind about it either, or he could have done it himself at any point in time. It wasn’t like him to give a shit about the fact the sparkling was fully conscious by now. It was a life as worthless as all others.

But it was a life he had something to do with. If it was just because of the infernal protocols the Autobots were so obsessed with… He doubted it. That was just his frame. It wouldn’t affect his spark.

His spark cared about the fate of the sparkling too, though. Maybe not about the sparkling as an individual, but at least as the concept of something he had created (with a bit of help), that belonged to him, was part him—no matter how much Megatron laid claim on it too.

But the crux of the problem seemed to be just that: Megatron laid claim on it. Rightfully, but the Autobots only cared about the fact it was Megatron of all mecha. Anyone else and he was pretty sure they’d be just fine with the sparkling, even if he’d fraternized with the enemy to bring it to life. Some other enemy. 

It didn’t matter that he was, personally, rather happy with the sire, no matter how accidental the whole thing had been. Megatron was a powerful individual. Maybe not the… Kindest, or however you wanted to put it, but those were the types of details Sunstreaker wasn’t inclined to give a damn about. Strength of spark, mind, personality—that was what mattered.

And Megatron had all of that in spades. 

“What?!” He was the only one that looked shocked by the suggestion. Optimus had a sorrowful look in his optics; Prowl’s expression didn’t change. His wings didn’t so much as twitch. “You can’t do that!”

Was he a little hysterical? He felt a little hysterical when he hit the bars again, harder this time, before taking one step away from them.

It wouldn’t do him any good if they really wanted to do something to him, to it. He was perfectly stuck in the small cell. Putting all the distance of one step between them was no protection. 

“It is a last resort but it’s clear you are not listening–” Optimus started.

There was no fucking way Sunstreaker was going to let him finish. “I’m not listening? You’re not listening! It’s mine and you’re not slagging touching it!”

They’d talked about it. They had to have talked about it even before they’d come see him—maybe even before they’d even captured him. He could imagine it, all of the command gathering to discuss what to do about the sparkling and about Sunstreaker and the whole damn mess he’d gotten himself into, and then concluding he had to have no will separate from that forced on him by his coding, because how could he possibly want to stay with Megatron otherwise?

Anything he said, anything he did, they only twisted into more proof of that. 

Did Ratchet know about this?

“If you’re so worried about the goddamn protocols, why not just turn them off?” he growled at them. It was too easy to hide all other emotion beneath just anger. Oh, he was angry.

Fear wasn’t even a thing he rightly processed, but his spark was disquieted in a way it usually wasn’t. The feeling of inevitability wasn’t exactly comfortable, either.

The sparklet responded, naturally. Sunstreaker rubbed at his chestplates even as he stared at the Autobots.

“First Aid examined them–” Prowl said, looking down at the motion of his servo. Sunstreaker glared at him, but let his arm drop, “–And how did he put it? That your coding is ‘a house of cards ready to come down at any moment’? He feared that forcibly turning them off would render you nonfunctional.”

So fucking concerned about him, were they? Sunstreaker gestured violently with one hand. “Why not just straight up reprogram me if you really want my head to clear?” he hissed.

“That is also an option.”

He hadn’t actually expected them to go there. It had come up before—wiping him clean, installing new hardware, installing fresh new code, starting over from scratch. No memories, nothing left about the past him aside from his spark... Just to fix his glitch and undo everything his life had done to him. 

Maybe one day he’d want to go through with it just to give his spark another shot at life without everything being so goddamn traumatic it messed him up for good, but that day wasn’t here yet. He wasn’t about to agree to go through with it. Especially not if he’d have an inexplicable sparkling on the other side that he wouldn’t even remember igniting.

Provided they didn’t just snuff it even in that event. Then he wouldn’t ever know about it.

But just to turn off the protocols they seemed ready to consider even that. Snuff it, reprogram him, whatever else… Free him from Megatron’s influence once and for all, no matter the cost.

He cradled his helm in his servos as he sat on the small slab of a berth in the cell. The sparkling hadn’t calmed down one bit since all of this had begun, and he couldn’t blame it. He’d already nearly rubbed the paint straight off his chest before the uselessness of the gesture had fully sunk in. Only his spark itself could do anything to ease the sparklet’s emotions, and with how much his spark wasn’t calm and collected or anywhere near that, there was really slagall he could do to convince the sparkling that everything was alright and that everything was going to be fine.

Things weren’t alright and he couldn’t even promise they would be fine. The Autobots had left him alone for now aside from the one mech left to guard him, but who knew when and how they’d decide to act for his own good. He knew very well Megatron was on a warpath. He had known that from the beginning, but Sideswipe was there to see it firsthand.

The Autobots had to know as much too, though. They had to know their window of opportunity to “fix” things was closing quickly, that Megatron would waste no time in getting his sparkling back.

He didn’t particularly enjoy being a damsel in distress, but things didn’t always go how you wanted them to and he wasn’t going to get out without some help. Oh, out of the brig, sure, but he highly doubted the Autobots would just let him walk out.  

He wasn’t the only one feeling the sense of urgency, though. The Decepticons knew just as well as he did what the Autobots were ready to do, all thanks to Sideswipe.

And thanks to Sideswipe he knew they were hurrying. Stay alive. Both of you.

Probably an easy request to make when it came to his life. The Autobots didn’t seem eager to kill him. 

It, though? That was going to be harder if the Decepticons didn’t make it in time. 

It was laughable how upside down things had turned. First he was an Autobot fighting the Decepticons for the sake of fighting them, never showing any true inclination to switch sides. 

Then he’d made some questionable choices—he wouldn’t call them bad choices—and suddenly it was the Decepticons that were interested in his well being. Only on Megatron’s order because he was carrying the tyrant’s sparkling, but still. 

And there was Megatron, of course. There was their sex, their shared violence, the things they did to each other that the Autobots were so concerned about and didn’t care to understand or accept… There was their accord, forever without a shred of peace, but an agreement all the same.

There was the high and the thrill, the drug Megatron was that he couldn’t get enough of. He was as good as an addict, at this point.

There was the all-encompassing rightness of being around mecha that thought along the same tracks as he did, too.

Sunstreaker chuckled out loud, as unfunny as the situation was. But it was absurd. It was fucking absurd he wanted to the side of his former enemy just to escape his former friends.

He could hear his guard’s pedesteps before Tracks appeared on the other side of the cell’s bars. “What’s so funny?”

“Just thinking,” Sunstreaker said with all the calmness he didn’t feel, straightening on his seat of choice. “About friends and enemies and how those tables have turned a little bit.”

Tracks was quiet for a moment before he growled. “They should just execute you for defecting.”

Sunstreaker tilted his helm in his direction demurely. “I’m not a Decepticon yet, you know. The most I’ve done is abandon my post.”  

“‘Yet’,” Tracks repeated flatly.

“Yeah, well, this whole incident is making me rethink some things.”

“Uh-huh. As if it’s not enough you berthed Megatron. I think that’s enough to warrant a proper punishment.”

“Maybe. Doesn’t mean I plan to hang around for it.” How close to running out of time was he? When would the command be back with their decision?

Not soon enough, he hoped.

Sunstreaker rose to his pedes smoothly, stepping up to the bars. Tracks twitched like he was tempted to take a step back despite the barrier between them. Smart mech, after all the times Sunstreaker had kicked his aft. “So excuse me, but I’m leaving right about now.”

“What are you talking about?” Tracks asked suspiciously a second before the alarms blared to life.

Sunstreaker smiled. “I think my side just arrived.” And he better book it before someone got the idea of doing what they thought needed to be done before he could get the hell away from here.

The bars were high on energy, hot, searing, damaging. Despite that, Sunstreaker slipped his servos between two of them and pulled to both sides. He ignored the burn in his palms and digits, digging deeper and deeper into his armor… Stared straight into Tracks’ alarmed optics.

“The pit you’re doing..?” his fellow warrior asked in alarm, cut off when the bars blinked out of existence under the duress Sunstreaker placed on them.

“Design flaw,” he commented mildly as he stepped through, the energy bars recovering and closing back up right on his heels. “If you can handle a little pain… Well.” The results spoke for themselves, didn’t they? His palms were slag now despite the strength and resistance of his armor, but he could handle that.

Tracks went for his blaster, an option Sunstreaker didn’t have—an option he didn’t need. They were already in close quarters. Oh, gunshots would have hurt like a motherfucker at point blank like this, but he was a melee fighter.

All he needed to do was force Tracks into hand to hand to have very good chances against him. Sunstreaker proceeded to do that with long familiarity at disarming others for his own benefit, grappled the Autobot—redlined his engines before Tracks could do the same, overpowered him into stumbling.

There were several ways he could have gone about this, but what Sunstreaker chose was to grab his current opponent by the face, and–

Slam his helm against the wall with all the considerable force he could muster.

Then repeat that.

And repeat that.

Repeat.

Tracks made a pained, distressed sound from his vocalizer as his helmet first caved in, then caved in some more, and some more until it was pressing against his protoform.

Again, until his protoform was crushed similarly.

Again, until the blue mech’s helmet began to crumble.

Again, until it fell apart entirely.

Tracks was limp in his hold by the time Sunstreaker saw fit to drop him, the dent on the wall rather massive as well. He looked down at the mech falling at his pedes like a pathetic pile of junk, barely an undamaged component left of his helm—and there, among the wreckage, he could see Tracks’ processors, uncovered by the undoing of the helmet and protoform protecting it.

Intrigued, Sunstreaker reached down, picked it up, yanked it out… Held it in his servo for a moment, considered it... 

Before closing his fist around it, grinding a mech’s physical consciousness into nothing but pieces of scrap.

“Fix that,” he growled to himself. It wasn’t a kill, Tracks’ spark was still just fine—but the Autobots were sure to not have the resources to recreate an entire brain module. 

What did the humans call that state? A vegetable? Seemed appropriately derogatory.

It was close to a kill, though. It provided much of the same satisfaction, and the sparkling was vibrating in his chassis for reasons that had nothing to do with the danger they’d been in—and still possibly were, if the wrong mech intercepted him.

Bloodthirsty little thing, wasn’t it? Violence, death… It reveled in the emotion brought on by that.

Time to go, though. The brig door was locked, but that was nothing a bit more force wasn’t going to fix. The Ark was never meant to hold prisoners, at least not dangerous ones, the type that would get out when they wanted to get out. And he and Sideswipe, they had busted out of cells and brigs before. Not from this particular one, but others, and not prettily, but effectively. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar thing.

Sunstreaker jammed his digits into the center seam of the door, caving it inside until he could grab both halves of it and tore them to the sides. The halves broke apart, reluctantly, slowly, and he could feel the growing urgency, concern that someone was already on their way with bad intent.

Someone other than Sideswipe and his company. They had good intent.

He only opened the door enough that he could barely slip through. The halls of the Ark were familiar, and now, all but empty thanks to the diversion the other Decepticons were putting up. Sunstreaker set on a run down the corridors, taking the shortest route towards Sideswipe and the mecha with him—a team just big enough to blast their way through anyone who tried to stop them.

They hadn’t fought with the Decepticons before, and on principle they were not good team players… But Sideswipe and co were still doing just fine in forcing their way into the Ark, deeper and deeper into it.

Sunstreaker skidded another corner and nearly ran into someone red. It was the wrong red, though, and this red was alone. 

Ironhide blocked his path, looking rather surprised to see him. Had no one expected to see him running around? Fools.

“Out of my way,” he growled at the old mech when Ironhide didn’t simply let him go past him, instead moving to block him again. 

“Sunstreaker–” Ironhide started, but for the love of Primus he was done listening to anything the Autobots said at him. His growl and rev were loud enough to put a stop to anything Ironhide could have wanted to say.

“Out of my way.”

“Kid–”

“Sunny!” This time it was a voice behind Ironhide that interrupted him. Sunstreaker looked past him and Ironhide glanced behind him to see Sideswipe—and Vortex, and Skywarp, and Barricade. A little worse for wear, the lot of them, but still perfectly fighting fit.

There was no way Ironhide could have held off against all of them, especially surrounded as he was now, but they didn’t even get that far before Vortex grabbed one of his rotors off his back and threw it like a goddamn spear. Ironhide didn’t have the time to dodge and the apparently weaponized part of the copter impaled him through his abdomen.

Far from fatal, but it was enough to make Ironhide stumble—giving Sunstreaker the opportunity he needed. While running by he grabbed the rotor too, yanking it from Ironhide’s frame to another grunt and a pleasant gush of blood from the weapons specialist. Figures Vortex might want that back.

“Thanks,” the interrogator said to him once Sunstreaker reached them and handed it to him. It sounded like he was grinning, mask or no mask.

“Don’t mention it,” Sunstreaker responded flatly before Skywarp asked if everyone was ready, didn’t wait for an answer, and warped.

They reappeared a few feet above the ground right outside the Ark’s entrance, far too close to being behind the Autobot lines for anyone’s comfort, but at least they were out. Of course, everyone but Skywarp was suffering rather severely from the damn mech’s teleportation. Skywarp took it upon himself to fire at any Autobots nearby as the lot of them stumbled towards the Decepticons.

Soundwave’s order rang in their comms. ::Barricade, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe: board Astrotrain.::

::Why am I not included?:: Vortex whined over the line. Sideswipe snickered.

::Vortex: capable of flight.::

::Right now I’m not!::

Sideswipe laughed out loud this time, and for all Vortex wore a visor on top of a mask, his field definitely passed on his glare. 

Sideswipe laughed harder even as they took the course towards Astrotrain who transformed into a shuttle closeby enough that it wasn’t too tall of an order to reach him, even on unsteady pedes and through the gunfire around them.

The Seekers took to the air on order from Starscream at that, abandoning their ground fights and momentarily leaving the Autobots looking a bit more victorious.

Up until the whole flock of them circled around and took to dropping bombs on the Ark’s entire entrance. Sunstreaker stole one glance backwards to see the Autobots running around, alternately trying to dodge the explosions and get back into the Ark.

Quite a few of them didn’t quite make it. The amount of injuries from this was going to be substantial.

Barricade ushered him forward and the three of them climbed the ramp into Astrotrain just as Megatron ordered the Decepticons to retreat, not because they’d lost the battle, but because they’d gotten what they came here for—the sparkling, and the pain of the Autobots. 

( Next )

[luvbotclub]

stay — part one: mark lee.

it’s not me, it’s you— you had a change of heart. what kind of change of heart was that and why didn’t feel it? or in which mark doubts himself as an idol, a boyfriend, and a person.

content warning for angst, i’m sorry markzens. 4,867 words.

this can be read as x reader or x oc since i didn’t give mark’s girlfriend a name (this applies to the other parts as well). the other parts may be a little delayed since i’m working on some other fics as well, but i’ll try my best to finish this series! i hope you will enjoy reading this one :D

the sun was shining outside his window. the sunlight seeped through his silk curtains, and for some reason, mark lee didn't feel like sliding them aside and welcoming the april warmth with open arms today, or any other day to be honest. he didn't bother getting up and cooking himself some delicious breakfast, nor did he get up and at least fix his appearance a little bit. he was so disheartened to do anything ever since she left.

but mark has been feeling less like... well, mark nowadays, so there was no question as to why he was acting the way he is. but who could blame him? almost five months has passed and he has made close to no progress with moving on from her. her departure and the demise of them has impacted mark in the worst ways there is to exist.

mark has managed to go out with taeyong and jaehyun for some coffee two days prior to this unfortunate saturday morning without somehow making everyone around him feel burdened by his troubled presence.

mark hated that feeling the most ㅡ the feeling that he’s slowly becoming a burden to the people around him. and perhaps he is, indeed, starting to become a burden to the people around him.

he's tried. he's tried so hard. but it hurts, so so much. the feeling of her warm embrace and the sound of her laugh and the way she smiles are all fucking imprinted in his mind. there was no escape from her torturous murder. the poison she uses is cutting into his skin… slowly, leaving a trail of rotten memories behind.

maybe if she hadn't left him so harshly, mark would've dealt with her farewell a lot better than he is doing right now. maybe, just maybe, if she hadn't been so cruel enough to just tell him straight in the face that it's not me, it's you, you had a change of heart; mark would've forgiven himself faster. his chest would have been filled with something other than guilt and confusion to what he's done wrong, why did she leave, who made her leave, what kind of fucking change of heart was that and why in fuck's name didn't he feel it.

mark has tried to spend more time with her. he really did try, but success came for his group faster than nct and sm entertainment had expected, and he trained longer in the practice room for six days per week for their tour and comeback to make a bigger impact than before. but, in the end, when he's back in their shared apartment, it feels like everything he did wasn't enough. the awards he won, the effort he put into dancing, each lyric he sings out every blurred, sweaty night just for millions to hear. they weren't enough to make her smile reach her eyes. they weren't enough to make her satisfied with him.

they weren't enough for her to stay.

sometimes, mark would think. maybe he's really the one to the blame. maybe he should have just taken more breaks and spent more time with her ― cook lunch with her, cuddle with her on the couch, give her massages while she ranted and ranted about the rude customers at her workplace, the marais. maybe, instead of sweating and singing his heart out, he could have stayed home. maybe he should have been a better boyfriend. maybe he wasn't good enough.

for the past few days, mark's mind has been filled with maybe's and what if's and i'm never going to be good enough's. it was strange. he felt all this remorse ― he even blamed himself because he was doing what he had been wanting to do for a long time ― and all this confusion because of a girl who has sent his friends snapchats of her playing just dance with her workmates a day after she said goodbye, because of a girl who left him on a living room floor with a heart that fell into pieces and the echoes of his pleas for her to please stay with me in each corner of the room ㅡ haunting him, crawling to his skin like the remnants of a bad dream.

it was selfish for mark to think, nor to say aloud, but a despicable part of him wished she felt somewhat guilty for leaving him behind in the dust like this ㅡ or even be concerned about his well being. but no. she left in the first place without a care ㅡ why would she care about whatever’s happening in mark’s mind, now that she has a great life without an idol boyfriend who's always dragging her down?

but today. today. it felt like the day to start living his life again, to live like mark lee who could make people smile just by the sound of his laugh alone. he's disappeared for exactly two weeks from television appearances, family dinners, and friendly get-togethers ㅡ even company parties, he couldn't attend. he was in the stage of denial in the first week, like he was mourning over a death of a loved one. fans have left comments, questions as to why he disappeared all of a sudden all over nct’s twitter and instagram pages and they’ve started to worry whether mark was doing okay or not. his family grew concerned for his well-being, so did his fellow members. they sent him food with stupid little hearts taped to the lunchbox (taeil once sent him naengmyun, along with a paper heart with a classy dad joke and his well wishes scribbled on it). they sent him encouraging messages almost everyday ― the fans, his family, his fellow members. they're all there for him, because they knew that mark isn't okay.

mark decided to get up from his bed an hour after he finished the piece of toast and cup of coffee he both made in a haste. he didn’t even bother putting anything along with the toast, and it was burnt. everyday, his breakfast gets worse. but he needed to put something in his stomach ― he's not going to be in this state forever and he still needed to take care of himself.

mark's grip on the plate was tight, knuckles white as he rested the ceramic plate on the sink. he turned his head after washing his hands and saw the shoe and coat rack by the front door. it was strange to see her newly bought pair of nikes and her ivory coat gone from the racks ― they were her least favoured articles of clothing. maybe she could have left them with him, so he could have something that reminds him of her presence.

but, no. that's way too cruel, isn't it? she did mark a favour of not leaving a single trace of her behind, even as little as a speck of dust from her belongings or a smear of her red lipstick on his favourite white mug. she knew she was practically death itself to him ― her name a lethal spoken curse, her scent a guilty pleasure, her voice a melody so deadly. to love her will be a death wish, but he feels and loves her without a single trace of fear that it'd harm him one day. he loves her. every inch, every night spent watching stupid random shows in the tv, every kiss, every parent joke they've cracked together. he misses them. he misses her. and sometimes he didn't even care if it were his fault or hers ― because either way, she'll still leave an empty shell in his chest, a shell that longed to be filled with her love again.

mark lee never thought it was possible for his heart to ache for someone so much.

he closed his eyes and breathed out a heavy sigh, wanting nothing more than to scream out his frustrations and drink some good fucking coffee right now. but the coffee maker was broken, and mark didn't feel like going out to town and buying a new one. it might sound like it was a stupid reason and he knew perfectly well of the fact, but he doesn't want everyone to see him like this... whatever he is right now.

is he even human at this point? he feels like someone ripped half of his body and soul and he just feels the opposite of the caring mark everybody adored. he feels like he doesn't even have a heart beating right now as his eyes are closed to the darkness — just an empty chest and an empty head.

mark wants to be somewhere else other than this damn apartment. it was way too depressing and he finally got sick of being burdened by it all — it was way too exhausting to be so burdened all the time, to have your head weighed down by thoughts of what could have happened. maybe he can go to a clear field with a nice, baby blue sky, or the coffee house in town where soft jazz played. he didn’t even like jazz. maybe anywhere, just to get away from this place. even the recording studio sounded inviting right now.

the roar of mark's ringtone ripped through the silent room, and it took him a few seconds to recover from the small jumpscare he got before he grabbed his phone that was in his sweatshirt pocket. mental note: put your phone in silent mode next time.

it was a text from jeno.

[jeno]: hi hyung. you up for coffee later with jaemin later? XD

mark suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the emoticon. jeno could be really ridiculous (and cringy) sometimes, yet he couldn’t ignore the letters that were practically glowing at his eyes, screaming for his reply to be fuck yes i am up for this, but as mark was somewhat in mid reply (and it was an awfully nonchalant yeah, sure with no stupid emoji to support his message), his fingers stopped typing.

would it be worth it, though? he doesn't even have the mental energy to go out and buy his own food, let alone go out for coffee (even though he's succeeded once...). a small part of him felt bad for jeno. all the boy wanted was to drink coffee with his members, but mark's fucking sadness is stopping him. it's not even jeno's fault mark turned out like this these past few weeks.

after a few seconds of contemplating, mark continued typing his message, feeling a little afraid of making jeno think he was uninterested.

[me]: yeah, sure. 😃 can you pick me up?

he tapped the send button, instantly regretting that he added the smiling emoji at the end (because now he sounds so enthusiastic to go, even if a part of him really did) and the fact that he just asked his friend to do him yet another favour. mark felt bad for jeno, he really did, but he didn't even know where the coffee shop was, and, knowing mark, he gets lost sometimes because the boy had no sense of direction whatsoever. jeno's response came a few seconds after, which amazed mark for a bit since jeno was never the fastest replier.

[jeno]: geez, hyung 😒

[jeno]: i'll be there around 1, jaem had to run some errands so he’ll be a lil late. see you later!!!

feeling relieved jeno didn't pry any more into the subject, mark locked his phone and put in his sweatshirt pocket. he felt more fresh, somehow, he felt like his steps won't be heavy and that his life will actually improve today. like an imaginary weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. maybe he should treat jeno and jaemin with lunch one day, if the day went well.

after a few hours of sitting in the sofa and listening to a bunch of songs taeyong has sent him over the past few days, mark went to take a nice, warm shower and changed into his “outside” clothes (...which were the same as his stay-in clothes) and waited for jeno and jaemin outside his locked home, foot tapping on the pavement out of habit.

as promised through his text, jeno arrived at mark's place at the same time when the clock in mark's phone read 1:00 pm. mark felt like grabbing jeno and giving him the biggest hug he's ever given to another member once he jumped off of the black van he arrived in ㅡ the boy's done so much for him ㅡ sending lunchboxes, agreeing to meet up with him in 3am nights where mark couldn't sleep at all, and, now, agreeing to pick mark up right on time even if he probably had million of things going through his mind right now, with nct dream's comeback slowly approaching them.

“hey, hyung,” greeted jeno, brown hair swept to the side messily. after a very long time, there was a genuine smile on mark's lips ㅡ he was happy to see a familiar face in the midst of this chaos. “you ready to go?”

mark gave the younger man a nod, and pocketed his phone in his pants.

a few minutes of catching up led them to full time story-telling, which is totally typical of the parent-like pair of friends. mark was smiling the whole time, because, again, he was with a familiar face and he hadn't been able to speak his mind to another person for a few days, constantly insecure of what others would think of him and his thoughts.

they were overcome with surprise when the driver pulled up on the pavement since they were too caught up in their conversation to pay attention to their surroundings, signalling that they've arrived in the said café. it seemed like the other cafés he's visited before. it had treats and specials lined up by the baby blue tinted window, ranging from strawberry cream puffs to the manager's favourite mushroom pizza. mark looked at the café’s exterior in astonishment and glanced back at jeno. jeno had good taste.

mark looked at the café one more time. he still had a few moments before they went inside; jeno was taking too damn well to adjust his facemask. it was perfect ㅡ black tables at the patio with white chairs as a contrast, fancy little plants lined up just by the café's entrance.

it was all fun until his eyes darted over to the shop's logo, etched in a fancy script font and a mighty golden colour. the light in mark's eyes faltered and the smile plastered on his face dropped in desultory, as the letters made his throat go dry.

the marais.

singing is a stupid thing now. he doesn't feel like singing a bunch of twisted words just for millions to hear. no. he doesn't feel like doing anything. getting scolded at for not singing a note properly is getting tiresome. constantly redoing certain parts because the producer didn’t like it is getting tiresome. thinking of her at any given opportunity is getting tiresome. doing this, whatever it is... it's tiresome.

“i hope you’re happy today,” came the soft muse of donghyuck through his headset. it was strange that mark felt something strong snap in his chest just because of these words. they were going through the songs in the album and mark didn’t know why he was even required to be here for that — he wasn’t even in make your day.

when he heard his dongsaeng’s verse, he felt like crying again. he’s gotten so bad — this was just all so fucking tiring. all he can think about is the way she looked that day in the café, stunned to see the two tall idols in her sight and soon seeing jaemin rush into the shop without much care if he was causing a ruckus or not. she didn’t think that she would see him ever again, thinking that she’s ran away from all of that, the exhausting world of mark lee and being constantly shoved to the side.

“i'm ― i'm sorry," his voice is weak. the words were strained coming out of his throat. he couldn't breathe, but he had to do this. “i can’t do this. not today, no.”

am i really doing this?

mark's heart skipped a beat. yes.

he removed his headset quickly, the song cutting off just as jaehyun’s part began. mark grabbed his cap and mask from the table and put them on. he felt no feeling of hesitation or remorse from his actions as he stared at the producer and members, all staring back at him and obviously stunned. mark shook his head and turned his back on them, ignoring donghyuck’s tired and annoyed stare burning at the back of his head. he really tried to be okay for one day, but he can't do that. the closure she gave wasn't enough — well, was there ever any closure in the first place? he had to give his own closure, or else he'll explode from all these feelings burning his insides with guilt that he didn't even have to feel in the first place if he just became a better boyfriend, a better person.

“mark, come back here,” taeyong’s tired drawl came, echoing through the halls. mark stopped walking but didn’t face his hyung. “you’re really going to skip a recording just for a girl who doesn’t even want to see you anymore?”

taeyong’s words stung, but mark swallowed and gave a firm, “yes.”

as he walked down the hallways and ignoring the incredulous burning stares of the crew, wondering why the hell he was out in the hall instead of being in the recording studio like his schedule declared so, mark thought of all the things he'll say. they need to make sense or else skipping a recording session will all be for nothing and the scolding from taeyong would make him feel even guiltier for the rest of his entire life. i love you, you heartless prick. no. that's way too blunt. i love you, and i don’t need you to say the same thing. i just want you to say goodbye one last time.

that’s all mark ever wanted.

that’s all mark ever needed.

he called a taxi and immediately got in, telling the driver his destination which was the marais. a frown was evident on the young idol's face as his phone vibrated text message after text message, all either from taeyong or taeil telling him he has the next two hours to get his ass back to the studio or else they were telling the ceo about it. it was tiring. he was debating whether to ignore them or reason it out like the adult he was, because he was feeling annoyed at their lack of understanding and at the same time he just wanted to be mature with them.

both of mark’s options sounded too far out of his reach when the taxi driver suddenly stopped his car and told him they were already at his destination, and he was forced to lock his phone instead, ignoring the constant vibration of the device.

he started shaking as he gave the driver money, and his hands became sweaty when he exited out of the car and slammed the door shut. mark walked over to the café with a heavy heart, his legs wanting nothing more than to retreat to the studio and spare his ego the embarrassment, but he was here now. there was no point in turning back. he’d embarrass himself anyways if he came back to the studio, he could practically hear donghyuck cheekily saying “i told you so” and the small knowing smirk on the younger’s face. mark shuddered at the thought.

as he went through the door of the shop, he instantly got a whiff of the strong coffee they were brewing — their bestseller and the same coffee she used to bring home for mark to drink. the boy only swallowed the fear in his throat and shook the memories off.

he walked up to the counter, legs still shaky as the employee working the cashier looked at him with a bright smile, “um, hi. i’m looking for someone who works here? is—”

“mark?”

mark looked up at the sudden voice, his words cut off halfway. if his heart was already beating fast even before he'd seen her, mark was pretty sure it’d jump right out of his chest as he made eye contact with the woman who got him into this predicament in the first place. he exhaled heavily and bowed his head to the employee behind the cashier, apologizing for the interruption before walking over to her who was standing just by the kitchen door and dressed in the white coat she hated so much. the sight made mark want to go home for some reason.

“what are you doing here?” she laughed nervously as he came closer. “aren’t you busy? i heard you guys are having a comeback?”

mark shook his head, ignoring the urge inside of him to tell her i skipped a recording for you. he knew it wouldn't matter to her anyways. “i’m not busy at all. i just want to talk to you about something. is that okay?”

she nodded yet the look in her eyes clearly said she really didn’t want anything to do with him at all. “sure, do you want to step out for a bit?”

mark only noticed the stares of the customers at the pair of them when she glanced around the room, and he immediately nodded. the last thing he needed was for someone to recognize him and spread rumours (even though he knew that was practically unavoidable at this point—people were already starting to point). she took hold of his hand and led him out of the coffee shop, ignoring the incredulous whispers of everyone.

once they were outside, mark was the first to pull his hand away from her grasp in such a haste. he almost apologized when he saw the brief shock emerge in her face at the brash action, but at this point, he didn’t have time for games anymore — figuratively and quite literally, since he only had an hour left before taeyong and taeil will call the ceo on him.

“so what is it that you want to talk about?”

“i wanted to talk about us,” mark exhaled, finally feeling a weight being lifted off of his shoulders. he saw her face contort a little, obviously displeased at the topic. “i just — you gave your closure. but i didn’t.”

“mark, it’s been months,” she laughed, the sound coming out as breathless. “you still haven’t moved on?”

“how could i do that?” mark started laughing too, albeit humorlessly. he ignored the pang in his chest as he realized that she found the entire situation funny. “everything i see, everyone i talk to. everything reminds me of you. i can’t even do anything right, i can’t even live normally anymore, because i keep thinking, why? why did she break up with me? was i a bad boyfriend?”

“mark— no,” the smile on her face dropped. “you weren’t a bad boyfriend. i just—”

“then why did you tell me i had a change of heart?!” mark was enraged. he didn’t want to be angry. he didn’t mean to raise his voice like that. he didn’t mean to let his tears cascade down his cheeks. he probably looked so pathetic right now, practically seething at the image of himself, tears falling and eyes pleading for an answer, for anything. “i didn’t. i didn’t have a change of heart. if i did then i would have been the one who ended things. if i was such a good boyfriend, then why did you leave me? right when i needed you most?”

mark didn’t even let her open her mouth before he spoke up again, the pain in his voice raw. “i tried so hard. i’ve always tried so hard but you made me feel like i didn’t. i’ve always protected you from everything and everyone. i’ve always defended you. you made me feel like everything i’ve ever done, for myself, for you ­— they weren’t enough for you. i always thought that maybe i wasn’t good enough to make you stay. i guess i was right, wasn’t i?”

“i was scared,” she answered calmly. “i fell out of love with you and i didn’t want to admit that. it was my fault. all of it. i only said that so i wouldn’t feel terrible about leaving you but i didn’t realize it was too harsh of me to say that right away. i’m sorry, mark, for everything. please stop blaming yourself.”

mark only nodded, wiping at the tears that were on his cheeks and blinking away the ones that threatened to fall. he got what he wanted. he got the truth. he gave his closure. so why did it still hurt? why did it still pain him to see her, looking at him like he was the saddest, most pathetic person to ever exist? the pitiful stare she was giving him made mark feel so sick in the stomach that he had to look away so that the feeling won’t resurface.

“just know,” mark breathed out shakily, fingers trembling and aching to brush the stray hair that fell on her face aside. he bit the inside of his cheek to stop the urge until he tasted blood. “i still love you and i don’t think that will ever change. even if you hurt me. even if you broke my heart so bad to the point that i didn’t know if i’ll be fine by the end of it all. you became a part of my life no matter how bad it got in the end.”

“i love you too, mark,” she smiled warmly and mark knew she was lying straight to his face right now. but he didn’t care. it felt good, strange almost, to hear those words tumble out of her lips again. “i don’t want to leave you like this but i have to go now. i made some plans with a friend. maybe we can hang out together soon? i can call you?”

“it’s okay,” mark shook his head. “i’ll be busy anyways. enjoy your day. thank you for everything.”

he was pretty sure his friends had already deleted her number from his contacts (it was either johnny or donghyuck who did it). after this, he was going to back to the studio and suffer the consequences of his actions, he’d have to put up with the hyung line staring at him with disappointed glints in their eyes during the entirety of the car ride back home and donghyuck bombarding him with questions about what happened once the younger boy has cornered him somewhere in the dorm. but he wasn’t bothered or even annoyed that he’d be experiencing these things soon.

mark was about to turn away and find a taxi when a tall man approached them, his long arms soon snaking around her shoulder and pulling her into an embrace. mark was quite surprised but shook his head — he was going to stop caring about her from now on. whatever business this man had to do with her, he didn’t care.

“who’s this, babe?” the nickname caught mark off guard.

“hyunwoo,” she mumbled under her breath, obviously uncomfortable at the current situation. “this is mark. remember? i told you about him.”

“oh, the idol?” ‘hyunwoo’ turned his head to mark and the shorter boy nodded. “nice to meet you! i heard you’re quite acquainted with my girlfriend here. she told me a lot about you.”

“oh, girlfriend?” mark was surprised at the cool tone of his question. “well, yeah. i used to be quite close with her.”

“we’re not dating or anything,” she tried to laugh off, but the nervous glint in her eyes screamed otherwise. “i’m just friends with hyunwoo. it’s like what it looks like, mark—”

“it’s okay,” mark smiled warmly, looking at her then back at hyunwoo. “i don’t care who you date. it’s not like you owe me an explanation of any sort.”

“i—yeah, of course,” she mumbled to herself, looking down at the ground before looking back up at mark. “it was nice talking to you. we’ll get going now. keep in touch, okay?”

mark nodded and the warm smile on his face didn’t falter even for a second. after the two had walked away, mark stayed in the same spot. he didn’t miss the way the two shared a short kiss before hyunwoo opened the car door for her and helped her inside before hopping in the driver’s seat and driving away. once they were gone, mark’s phone began ringing, calls from taeyong flooding his missed calls.

mark only smiled to himself, pressing the call button on taeyong’s number while his eyes were still fixated on the spot where hyunwoo’s car was previously parked.

i’ll forget about you, someday.

[cyberneticfire]

Rude Awakening

(Credit to Void!Al goes to @daydream-squad!)

(Takes place after Epilogue)

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Characters: Alastor, Charlie Magne, Angel Dust, Niffty, Husk

TW: Panic Attack, Self-Harm, Vomit

~~~

Alastor didn’t wake all at once. His thoughts were sluggish, limbs were slow to respond, and his senses were all askew. He was uncomfortably warm. There wasn’t the empty coolness that came with the lack of air in the void; there was something smooth and soft beneath him and a fabric that made him itch to move away. The deer sank deeper into the plush instead with a barely audible sigh.

The gentle crackle of static weaving out of his chest screeched to a stop as red eyes pried open to peer into the darkness. They shut immediately after not being met with the familiar endless abyss. That wasn’t right.

There was ticking, tapping, a radio somewhere that made his ears twitch in discomfort after being in silence with nothing but his own thoughts and voice for so long. Alastor decided the headache was worth not being in the dark like that any longer, so he let his eyes open slowly and adjust to the dim lighting of the room. His room.

“What-” a cough wracked his body at the horrid scratching in throat, and he grasped at it in distress. Why was his throat so sore? A flash of white on his arm accompanied the movement and drew his attention next. The confusion, dread mix swirling in his stomach only got worse at the uncertainty of his situation. Bandages? This wasn’t… a hallucination. It felt too real.

His claws shifted to scratch at the wraps around his arms as he looked around. What the hell had happened? Light wasn’t filtering in through the window, so it must’ve been late. Alastor was beginning to hate this recurring cycle of pain, unconsciousness, then confusion. It left him with less dignity every time, and yet, what did he have left of that? No, if any of this was real, then that meant Charlie had been there, and he was really back at the Hotel.  

A soft click had black and red ears perking and Alastor’s head swiveling towards the door. The princess of Hell slid her way into the room, a hint of salt and something steamy making the deer demon lean forward in enticement. A tray was clutched in Charlie’s hands and she jolted upon seeing the Radio Demon dial-eyed and drooling at the smell of a simple broth.

“Oh-! Er, you’re up!” Her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the tray before she noticed him picking at the bandages. Her entire demeanor changed in an instant, and she was at his side immediately, nerves replaced with worry and irritation as she fussed over him. “Don’t tear the bandages, Al, you’re going to hurt yourself again- or more!”

Static buzzed as Alastor shrunk back at the sudden proximity, ears drooping, smile stiffening while his gaze flicked between Charlie’s concerned expression and the soup. The demon belle was obviously exhausted as well, dark circles prominent beneath her eyes, but with every breath making his stomach ache it was rather hard to focus on that. Food was right there out of reach.

Charlie’s eyes softened at the lack of response and the way the deer curled into himself instead of speaking or making himself bigger like usual. Then they widened in remembrance causing her to let out a squeak, “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, you must be starving!” In a flash the apologetic expression was back, and she was pressing the warm bowl into his hands, ignoring the flinch, after ensuring he wouldn’t drop it. “Don’t drink it too fast or you might get-” The soup was gone in three gulps when he tossed back the bowl, “-sick…”

The warm liquid soothed the soreness, making speaking sound like less of a challenge, and the broth filling the deer’s stomach let him blink the radio dials out of his eyes. Then they were narrowing in confusion and Alastor cleared his throat to speak before a bout of nausea had him gagging. Charlie yanked the bowl away with a yelp, shoving a bucket into his lap right in time for him to heave his guts out.

What a lovely impression he was making. Not even five minutes conscious back in the hotel and the deer already regretted waking up.

By the time he was aware again, Alastor was panting for air, clutching the edge of the container in a white-knuckled grip while Charlie muttered soothing nothings, rubbing circles into his back. Her fingers brushed hesitantly over his prominent spine, only pulling away at his shudder. Now this was humiliating.

There was a prickle of magic, a ghost of his former power, back in his body that he would address later, but summoning even a napkin seemed too big of a task. Thankfully, Charlie seemed to notice the deer’s plight and handed him a handkerchief which he used to wipe his mouth clean. Now vulnerable, weak, and a mess doubts began to surface. Charlie surely knew all of this, so why was she still bothering to help him?

When he was sure he wouldn’t be sick again, he asked the question that’d been plaguing him mercilessly since he woke up.

“What… happened?” Alastor’s radio tin warbled and shook. Pressing a hand to his sternum, he marveled at the throbbing pulsing in time with the erratic heartbeat behind his ribs. Being connected to all channels again for the first time in a long time he should easily be able to have a soft jazz rolling through the room, through his head, calming the furious beating of his heart. The radio fizzled and popped, but only jumbled bits of music began to filter softly through the air while Charlie wrung her hands. The sound wasn’t nearly as therapeutic as he’d hoped.

“W-Well,” she took a steadying breath, shifting to face him entirely. Her hands hovered over his own, but she refrained from touching without consent again. Despite the kind gesture, Alastor found he wanted the touch this time, so he closed the distance, wrapping his fingers loosely around hers. His ears pressed lower when she tensed up. Oh dear, fear was… not something he liked to see in her anymore. Certainly not because of him. She was quick to flash a smile and offer a gentle squeeze in return, regardless.

“I… found a way to save you, Al.” Her grip tightened minutely while a crackle filtered through his teeth. Yes, she had, but at what cost? He raised a shaky hand to brush a few of the tears welling up in her tired eyes.

“You look exhausted, dear…”

Charlie let out a watery laugh, and something settled like a stone in the deer’s gut. It was a feeling he’d become quite acquainted with in his time in the… void.

Guilt.

“You don’t exactly look too energetic yourself,” she joked. Huffing out a weak laugh, Alastor let his eyes trail lower. They widened marginally upon following her wrists up to her forearms.

White bandages. They were wrapped around her arms too. There was an audible click as realization dawned. Charlie’s gaze followed his own, and she winced as he gripped her arm in a firm hold.

“Al- “

“Did I do this?” There was no attempt at humor as his brows furrowed, smile diminishing. He turned her arm over carefully, claws lingering near the red dotting the white cloth. Charlie went rigid. These are fresh. They must have been from when she grabbed him.

“Alastor, it was an accident, you didn’t mean- “

“Did I do this?” He hardly heard her utter the yes.

Claws trembling, grip constricting, he fixed his gaze on the crimson seeping through. The scent of iron was more discernable now, making his head throb, his senses sharpen, and drool practically pool in his mouth. It was getting hard to think. He hurt her. Shame sank into the pit in his stomach – it was aching again – as he mulled over the fact. She helped him. And he cut open her arm. Dense static rolled from his chest as the tantalizing smell overwhelmed him. It’s been so long since he’s had a fresh meal. Even as he leaned forward, horns twisting, teeth sharpening, he thought things would’ve been better for all of them if she would have just let him wither away in the void.

“Alastor stop!”

Alastor’s eyes snapped open from their half-lidded, radio-dialed state as he jolted, attention jerking back to Charlie’s face. The poor dear looked terrified. It’d been a while since she’d looked at him in such a way and he didn’t fully understand why…

Warm liquid dribbled down his wrist. The deer looked down. His claws were embedded in her arm, drawing more of the sanguine liquid from beneath the bandages and gripping so tight it looked painful.

“L-Let go please,” she whispered, voice high like tears were threatening to spill over. Alastor ripped his hands away like she’d burned them. The smell of iron suddenly made his stomach turn over.

“Ch-Charlie I-” What could he even say to that display? Chest rising and falling mechanically, he wrapped his arms around his torso, digging nails into his sides instead. “- I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me…”

Taking a deep breath, Charlie stood – strangely, panic lodged itself in Alastor’s chest – and she offered Alastor a tiny, tired smile at the genuine remorse plastered on his face.

“It’s okay- I’ll heal quickly. You’ve… been through a lot and you must still feel so confused… Besides, you rarely apologize, so I know you mean it,” she let out an awkward laugh. “I’m sure you’re still hungry, so I’ll just go get you some more-“

“Don’t leave!”

Charlie froze mid-turn at the unrestrained fear in the words. Alastor stiffened as well, slapping a hand over his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. When she’d started towards the door terror had seized his chest and squeezed the air out of his lungs, forcing out a pathetic sound too close to a whimper for comfort. What was wrong with him? She was going to be right back! Charlie wouldn’t leave him alone. She wouldn’t leave him to talk to himself until his throat hurt, to think until his head throbbed, to tear out all the blood from beneath his skin until red stained his hands, his arms, the black surrounding him, because everything was wrong, he was starving and going numb, going insane-

“Hey, breathe! Alastor, breathe, you’re gonna be okay- You’re okay, everything’s fine, I’m right here!” Charlie’s concerned face rushed back into view, food and injuries forgotten.

Breathe? Was he not breathing? That would certainly explain the burning lungs and raw throat. It was a contrast to the cold sweat plastering fabric to his skin and hair to his forehead. Ignoring the twinge in his side, Alastor jerked his claws up to tear the fabric, because that’s what had to be making it hard to take in a full breath, it was confining, it was suffocating-

Hands wrapped around his wrists, pulling them away, and he let out a high laugh, what little air he had wheezing out, because she was trying to stop him from helping himself! He wasn’t some useless deer demon; he just needed to get some semblance of control back and stop his chest from locking up, so why couldn’t she see that?

But Alastor was helpless, wasn’t he? At the least, he was too weak to twist out of Charlie’s grip, so he slammed his eyes shut, pressing back against something solid while teeth sank into his lip again. The blood leaked down his chin as shivers wracked his frame, Charlie’s voice fading in favor of the white noise filling his skull and bubbling up his throat.

Alastor hated this. Feeling exposed. Feeling vulnerable. Feeling cut open, irrational, petrified like the prey animal he represented. Charlie’s worried words of comfort and nervous chatter weren’t even audible anymore. Occasionally she would squeeze his wrists, but that was about the only grounding thing about this situation because opening his eyes would be a mistake. The deer wouldn’t be able to hold it together if black was all he would see, and static was all he could hear.

Hands were brushing against Alastor’s side, making him flinch, drawing a distressed keen from his throat. So much uncertainty. God, he was a coward and useless at the moment. There was a second’s hesitation before they were back, palms pressing against his chest and pulling him away from his safe spot pressed against the headboard.

His wrists were released at his weak struggles, but were reclaimed again with another pair of hands, the coarse material of gloves grating against his skin and doubling his confusion. This wasn’t Charlie. This touch was gentle, yet insistent, as it guided him back against something soft and warm and… breathing?

Yes, there was an exaggerated rise and fall against his back that was almost soothing in its repetition. The arms wrapped loosely around his chest shifted to make room for a third pair curling around his waist. Confusion gave way to relief as the static threatening to split his skull diminished at the safe, grounding feeling of being held. If he were in his right mind, he might’ve recoiled at the prospect of being embraced – trapped -  for any amount of time, but for now he supposed, this was fine…

The static diminished further until Alastor could hear himself hyperventilating, shallow gasps not dragging in nearly enough air to keep him conscious. There were deeper breaths coming from the one restraining him. A voice became clear soon after, and he could put a face to it almost immediately.

“-got it, just try to breathe like me, Al-“

Angel. That certainly explained the extra arms but not what he was doing. Alastor was having difficulty fulfilling his request anyhow. Didn’t Angel think that he would if he could? He was trying.

“C-Ca-Can’t…” was all he managed to force out in a whine. Black and red ears flattened further against the deer’s head at the state of his voice. Angel hugged tighter in either surprise or reassurance.

“Sure ya can, Al, just open your eyes… Try and copy me,” he hummed, starting to count his breaths aloud. Alastor could’ve cried in frustration, but did as he was told, gradually peeling his eyes open. Finding vague blurs of color and what looked like a concerned Charlie perched on the edge of the bed he concluded he had in fact been crying. The tears were still rolling down his cheeks, making the fresh cuts on his lips burn. Lovely.

After some coaxing from Angel Dust, breathing came at a pace resembling normal, even if his lungs were aching from the previous abuse. Still trembling violently and sucking in air greedily, Alastor was shocked to find he didn’t want Angel to let go just yet.

“Hey, Smiles, you back with us?” the spider asked, tentatively. Alastor offered the barest minimum of a nod, smile lacking its usual energy and eyes hollow. “I can let go of you now, if you-“

“No,” Alastor swallowed the lump rising in his throat, claws hooking themselves in Angel’s sleeves. Angel blinked in surprise at the sharp reaction but readjusted his grip in compliance, releasing the deer’s hands once he was sure they wouldn’t gash anyone, himself included.

“I-I mean… I’d rather you d-didn’t…” The deer, usually immaculate in his speech, stammered. Heat rushed to Alastor’s face. Now that he had the presence of mind to consider his words and the scene he’d caused, he struggled to ignore the shame burning within him. Any demon in their right mind would drop him in an instant, thinking much less of him of course - him the late, great Radio Demon! – and now Alastor waited with bated breath for the hatred, the disapproval, the disgust he was sure painted his friends’ faces-

“’Kay.”

And with a single word, not even a full one at that, Alastor’s expectations were dashed. He was reluctant to let hope flood his chest – Lucifer, he didn’t recall caring this much about what others thought – but the six arms wrapped snugly around him, the spider wiggling to lean back more comfortably against the pillows, and the soft look on Charlie’s face made it all the more difficult to stop the warmth blooming in his ribcage.

“Most people would pay to get cuddles like this you know,” Angel let out a soft laugh, concern still lacing his voice, and just like that the warmth was gone. Alastor swallowed thickly, eyes dropping to look at his and Angel’s legs sprawled before them. The feeling of wrongness was back. He didn’t belong here, in this place, with these people that he’d hurt. Of course, he’d be a bother, they’d all had so much time to get used of his absence!

“I apologize,” he’s been doing that frequently as of late, “it’s wrong of me to ask this of you! I still haven’t the foggiest idea of what came over me-” he was moving to get up as he spoke, only for Angel to gently pull him back down until the deer was slumped sideways against his chest and blushing furiously. His hands curled – against his will – into the spider’s jacket, and Alastor stole a glance at his face, half expecting to see some form of annoyance or exasperation. Angel’s brows were furrowed, yes, but it didn’t seem to be in annoyance, considering his eyes were soft and a sympathetic smile was tugging up the corners of his mouth.

“Al, it’s fine, I was just making a joke. I ain’t gonna kick you off for wanting comfort after a whole fu- fricken panic attack.” Angel amended his words at the Princess’s glare, but something about Alastor’s reaction seemed to confuse him. “You ever have more of those before?” Alastor blinked slowly, eyes narrowing in puzzlement.

“Panic… attack?” The words rolled unfamiliar off his tongue. No, the term wasn’t one he was… familiar with. And now it was Angel’s turn to look uncertain, but realization was quick to dawn at the deer’s clueless expression.

“Shit, Al, do you even know what that is?” A tiny shake of the head. Angel let out a breath through his teeth, ignoring Charlie’s stare. “Um, alright… well what you just went through looked to be a panic attack. I’ve seen a lot considering my job. Usually you’ll feel scared, out of breath, and if it’s really bad you might think you’re dying or something like that… They can be triggered by a bunch of different things. Charlie said you started freaking out when she tried to leave, and you weren’t responding to anything else so…” He waved his lower set of hands pointedly as he continued, “Sorry about breaking the whole ‘Five Foot Rule’, but it was the only thing you reacted sort of positively to.”

Alastor mumbled a dismissal, already having trouble focusing with his eyelids getting heavier by the minute. A panic attack, hm? So, there was a technical term for these lapses. Poor Angel seemed to know more about them than he let on, but… if he were to go by that description, then Alastor could recall one or two instances – outside of the void – that he’d had one. Though, just because they had a name, he didn’t feel any less ashamed that a vulnerability had been displayed at all. Then again, Angel has already seen him not at his best, and Charlie most definitely has seen him at his worst…

Oh, what the hell.

“I do remember an occurrence in my… youth that sounds similar to what you described.” He took in a steadying breath, pushing the thoughts of weakness out of his mind, as their heads jerked to stare at him in surprise. “I was never fond of dogs, you see, and… one day a particularly aggressive mutt decided to follow me while I was on my way home. I tried to outrun it once I’d realized, but… by the time my father had come to see what was taking me so long, the damned thing had latched onto my leg and I’d been experiencing… symptoms like the ones you described.”

Alastor could still remember the feeling like blunted knives sinking into his leg; not sharp enough to make a clean cut, but strong enough to make up for it. The sound of the thing’s snarling, the deranged look in its eyes as it jerked it’s head back and forth, spilling more of his precious blood into the dirt.

“He was able to scare the beast off, but I never did look at them the same way after that… Even the thought of going near one of those creatures again made my breath falter. I always assumed it was just a lapse of fragility on my part, and my father agreed, so I ignored it. I didn’t allow myself to avoid where I knew they would be. Eventually these… attacks… stopped of their own accord, or I got so used to the feeling that they no longer could stop me in my tracks.”

Silence.

Alastor swore he could have heard a pin drop after his little monologue. Perhaps they weren’t expecting him to speak quite so much after his spell of silence? Or of the subject matter? The Radio Demon wasn’t known for sharing his innermost feelings, after all. Exhaustion sank deeper into his bones. Truth be told, the amount he revealed surprised him as well.  Something written on Charlie’s face made him reconsider telling them the story in the first place, and Angel was giving him the same undecipherable look.

“Alastor that’s… horrible, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Charlie breathed, looking sympathetic as ever. Alastor’s brows lowered further at that. He wasn’t looking for pity- he was simply answering Angel’s previous question! The story itself certainly wasn’t something to feel sorry about. It was his fault for being such a coward, so why were they looking at him like that?

“Al, you realize that… this doesn’t make you weak, or whatever shit you’re thinking, right? Hell, it can happen to the scariest demon you could think of! It’s not something you can control.” Angel shot a look to Charlie over his head.

Now they were both being ridiculous. Surely with enough time, these panic attacks would be just as… manageable as they were back then. If miraculously forgetting how to breathe at the sight of a dog could be considered manageable…

Regardless, this train of thought was pointless! He hardly had a fear of the hellish creatures anymore; a mild discomfort maybe…

“Alastor?” Charlie chimed in from the edge of the bed, a touch of concern coloring her voice. The deer blinked a few times, mind jumping back to the present conversation.

“Yes, darling?”

“Sorry, you just looked… lost in thought for a minute there,” she chuckled, moving to stand and watching carefully for any reaction. Claws curled further into Angel’s blazer, but other than that he offered none. “Since you and Angel seem to have things… handled, I’ll just run to get that food,” Alastor’s ear twitched, “and have Niffty bring some more bandages!” Her eyes flicked to the bit of red seeping through the white on his arms, while Alastor’s went to her own bloody bandages with a pang of remorse.

The clicking of her shoes as she walked set Alastor’s teeth on edge – he would have to grow accustomed to these regular sounds again – but mid-reach for the door, Charlie was whirling around with a startled, “Oh! And before I forget- Husk, Niffty, and Vaggie might drop in to see you on their own time, if that’s alright with you?”

Alright with him? Well, he certainly wouldn’t send them away, but apprehension rose as he considered the number of things they might have to say. Ignoring the inner turmoil, he offered her another muffled affirmative, face still smooshed against Angel’s chest, causing said spider to snicker.

“Sorry Princess, he’s using the best damn pillow in all of Hell! It’s only natural he’d be out like a light.” That earned a brighter laugh, and Alastor couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from quirking at the spider’s antics. He retaliated by making himself more comfortable and curling his legs up. Yes, that’ll show Angel…

When the door shut with a click, Alastor found himself relaxing further. His sides were throbbing, but he was more comfortable than he’d been in ages. He was safe. Not alone. Not drowning in silence.

Then the radio on the nightstand clicked on, sending a jolt through his body – he hadn’t even realized the thing had fallen silent – while bits of music filtered in and out of the air.

Angel readjusted his hold, pulling his hand away from the device and glancing down apologetically. “Sorry, I thought you might like the radio back on.”

Alastor did. Radio waves tugged insistently at his heart, easing a pressure previously ignored in the void, but he simply let the sound remain without much consideration on the matter. Thoughts were too jumbled to bother changing the channel or thinking too hard on the lack of strain he’d grown used to. The sound itself was… soothing in its own way. The deer had no idea how to convey the appreciation he felt for everything Angel was doing, so he just offered a tighter squeeze, arms wrapped firmly around the spider.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling the overwhelming warmth again. Words would catch in his throat if he tried to speak again, so he stayed silent. Alastor’s face was entirely hidden in Angel’s chest at this point, pride be damned, as the bone-deep exhaustion fought to claim him, and the red refused to leave his cheeks.

“It’s no problem, Smiles,” Angel let out a soft huff, “Just try and get some sleep, huh? You can repay me by getting better and telling us dad jokes until good ‘ol Huskie slams his head into the bar…” The spider’s voice trailed off. “Al?” Glancing down, he found the deer breathing lightly, ears twitching, fingers curling gently into his jacket. The sight was adorable, and it took everything in the spider not to rip his phone out and take a picture. Another look, and he had to suppress a squeal of delight at the extra black and red appendage wagging slowly, peaking from beneath the red undershirt.

“Oh my god, he has a tail?”

.

.

.

Nearly an hour later and the hotel was thoroughly blanketed in Hell’s version of night, darkness leaking through the curtains and absorbing any sliver of light that attempted to slip by. Angel Dust was still wide awake, five arms tasked with snuggling the life out of the infamous Radio Demon, while the sixth hand tapped mindlessly away at his phone and sent messages to the various others still up at this hour. Said deer demon, thankfully, slept like the dead and didn’t wake when Angel moved the red head to his chest fluff. Hey, he might get kicked or have an antler jabbed in his eye come morning, but he was going to make sure Alastor was damn comfortable using him as a pillow.

The past few hours in themselves had been… difficult to say the least. One minute he’s thinking of all the different ways he can annoy Husk without getting cut off from his beloved supply of alcohol, and in the next Vaggie’s saying Charlie’s ‘ready’ to try and bring their resident Strawberry Pimp back? He’d thought it was too good to be true, but hell, the deer was sleeping soundly on him right now!

Challenged with wrapping more bandages around the deer’s stomach, – the previous panic focused the brunt of his clawing there – Angel was thankful for the extra limbs and dexterity because Alastor hadn’t so much as twitched, now wrapped like a Christmas present. Though he did have a really fuckin’ adorable snore that Angel would gladly remember for the rest of his afterlife.

After a brief conversation over text, Charlie found a good time to stop by to drop off the thermos of soup, shoulders slouching, black circles evident under her eyes, for all purposes making Alastor look like the pinnacle of health in comparison. To put it honestly, Angel thought she looked like double-death warmed over. The thought was not a pleasant one. Despite the obvious exhaustion, she’d offered a tired smile and a wave before walking out, presumably to find her girlfriend and snuggle up for the night.

Niffty had come rushing in a second later, nearly crashing into the side of the bed in her haste, and he’d had to free a hand to slap over her mouth before she could wake Alastor up with her rapid-fire questioning. After receiving a look of understanding and less surprisingly, tiny teeth sinking into his glove, he removed his hand and wrapped it back around the deer’s back. She’d been the one to bring the bandages in the first place, placing them neatly to the side, before settling in to just watch them for a while. It was a tad creepy, but Angel’s seen worse, and he couldn’t exactly blame her considering her old boss/mentor/father figure(?) was lying unconscious after being previously double-dead for the past five months. The poor bug couldn’t even say anything to him. Eventually she’d zipped out the room fast as she’d come, muttering something about a ‘mess’ somewhere and sounding a bit too sniffly for Angel’s liking.

Even Husk had poked his head in at one point. The cat’s ears perked, and his nose scrunched up in a cute way at the sight of Alastor huddling up against the spider. Sunset colored eyes narrowed in something like frustration, but at what he couldn’t be sure. Angel had put on his best ‘aw you do care’ face, blinking half-lidded eyes slowly while Husk flipped him off, slinking away to get even more drunk than he already was.

The rest of his time was spent tapping away at his phone until the static in the air slipped into background noise and he thought he might have a chance of sleeping at this point. The static may have been soothing to the Radio Demon, but other demons would have a bit more trouble sleeping with the ruckus. Good thing Angel was used of sleeping through most anything. With a yawn, he reached to place his phone on the nightstand, blinking in surprise as he noticed the radio.

“What the…” he mumbled, watching the thing sift through channels with a distinct lack of music. Earlier, clips of 1930 era songs had at least been playing irregularly, but now, there was only a white noise that punctured the air and made his fur stand on end.

The source of this problem was easily identifiable as Alastor himself, considering the deer had tightened his hold, brows furrowing, and smile shrinking. His claws were beginning to prick uncomfortably into Angel’s lower back, and it took a moment to register what was actually wrong with the deer.

Alastor was trembling. He was honest to god shaking like a leaf, tiny pips of static crawling up his throat and escaping past his tight-lipped smile like whimpers. Angel’s eyes softened. He was certainly no stranger to nightmares.

“You’re okay, Al… Pretty impressive that you’re smilin’ even now, but that static gets any louder and everyone in the hotel might drop by to complain…” The noise really was reaching a harsh volume that made Angel wince. “I know you’d hate that, wouldn’t you?” he huffed out a nervous laugh, hands hesitating over the deer’s head. Would this get him bitten, kicked, or otherwise stabbed? Probably. There was only one way to know, and Angel was standing by the assumption that the ‘five foot rule’ was still being bent for now.

Gently, Angel ran his hands over Alastor’s ears. By Lucifer, he’d always wanted to pet the fluffy things, and as his fingers trailed down to the base, carding through the red hair, he was pleased to find the slightest bit of tension easing out of his friend’s body. Rubbing around the bottom of the appendages made them flick and flatten slowly against Alastor’s head, the white noise that filled the room lowering with every twitch, until the music was audibly skipping in and out again.

Angel sighed in relief, head falling back to the headboard with a quiet thunk. Wiggling himself lower, letting his head plop back onto the maroon pillows, he was glad to note that Alastor’s shaking had subsided too. Previously labored breaths slowed to an even pace, bar the occasional hitch. A low static rumbled out his chest as Angel continued to rub around the black-tipped ears, and the spider would consider the sound reminiscent of a cat’s purring.

“Damn it Al, why you gotta be so secretly adorable? It’s too late for this shit,” he sighed. There was nothing but fondness in his voice as he watched the deer twitch and curl closer in his sleep. The usually terrifying Radio Demon was letting him see a more vulnerable, reserved side, and Angel would not take advantage of it. That isn’t to say he wasn’t going to enjoy the adorable mental images he was imprinting into his brain, but he also wouldn’t go telling people that he’d ‘slept with the Radio Demon’, despite how hilarious the looks on their faces would be. Alastor wouldn’t think it was funny.

With another deeper sigh, Angel decided he may as well follow in the deer’s footsteps – hoof-steps? Oh god, did Alastor have hooves too? Just what else was the deer holding out on? In any case, sleep sounded like a great idea. He let his eyes slide shut with an amused grin.

“If you promise not to kick me with your possibly secret hooves when you wake up, I promise not to tell anyone you like to cuddle…”

Alastor, unsurprisingly, didn’t respond, only offering a soft huff of air to the conversation. Angel submitted himself to the idea of being rudely awakened once Alastor came to, but he found as the drowsiness took over and the deer pressed closer, that he wouldn’t be too mad either way.

They’d all been through hell these past five months, and he’d be damned if he pushed their resident Radio Demon away when he needed them most. There were a lot of things to be explained after all… Alastor had missed a lot in his absence. With that thought in mind, Angel settled in for the night, silently vowing to help their friend adjust in any way that he could.

Neither demon stirred for the rest of the night.

[lokidiabolus]

The Deal - Bonus

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (web series)

Pairing: Alastor / Angel Dust

Warnings: human!Angel Dust (Anthony), Deal with a devil AU

Summary: Sometimes you had nobody to spend the Christmas with. Sometimes you didn’t want to. Sometimes you took a chalk and drew a pentagram on the floor fully ready to deal with anything that would come out as an alternative to self-pity occurring otherwise.

or

The time when Anthony thought if he can’t get anybody to love him properly, he can just make a deal with a devil and find out what affection feels like. Alastor thinks this mortal is pitiful beyond belief and concede. Cuddles happen.

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: I swear NOW it’s done lmao.

Unbetad!

2024, 275th day

It was rather unexpected to see this kind of development, when it came to the form Anthony took in Hell. When Alastor gave it some thought here and there (more often than he would admit, granted), he could imagine Anthony as some sort of cat demon the most. There was something feline about the man when alive – the unpredictability maybe? He wasn’t sure.

So when the Hell opened to swallow yet another sinner – and the sinner was his beau – his expectations were about everywhere but in what he actually saw once he located the trembling creature in the Pentagram outskirts.

A spider demon. White as fallen snow, but covered in his own blood, six arms and two long, long legs and tear stained face, trembling in Alastor’s arms like a frightened child. The last few months of Anthony’s life were fluctuating and the more Alastor had to stay in Hell to deal with Vox, the more Anthony’s light was dimming, and Alastor knew that, he saw what was happening, how the will was weakening and the desire to join him here winning over. A selfish, petty part of him thought good, finally, come to me but at the same time Anthony was young, so, so young to die, it made him indecisive and when was the last time he felt like that? If ever? Not even during his own life and death he never doubted, but with Anthony… he wanted him to be his without remorse. No regrets, no sadness over his life ending.

But now here he was. Finally calming down, the trembling subsiding, the pain from his face easing away until he was just resting in Alastor’s arms, breathing deeply. An adorable spider, caught in the web of his own inner demons… maybe it was fitting.

***

“You are pouting for an hour already.”

“I’m sorry to rain on yer parade, but I’m a fuckin’ spider monster,” Anthony flashed him an unhappy sneer and glared at his reflection in the mirror for umpteenth time, his eyes narrowing, sharp teeth baring just to growl and turn away from it once more. “Who fuckin’ picks this? What did I do to deserve bein’ a six-armed horror?!”

“But imagine how good are you going to be at hugging,” Alastor couldn’t stop himself from grinning, even though Anthony was clearly distressed by his new look, but there was simply no reason to be. He was such an adorable creature, white and pink and soft and cushy. If he wasn’t walking around like a ticking bomb, swearing at each step, Alastor would definitely be trying the new cuddle arrangement. But there was time for everything.

There was eternity for them now.

“I could hug with two arms just fine!”

“Maybe I would like to be hugged with six,” Alastor shot back, which stopped Anthony in his stomping with a defeated sigh.

“But… spider,” he whined, gesturing to his lanky body and abundance of limbs, and ironically all Alastor could see was a cute pouty face and dangerous claws he honestly found threateningly appealing – all six clawed hands with them. Anthony just couldn’t see past the shock yet, but Alastor had means to make him so.

“And a deer,” the red-eyed demon smiled at him from the table he was sitting behind.

“All ya have is a cute Bambi tail and ears, big deal,” Anthony rolled his eyes – his unevenly coloured eyes, Alastor mentally added, which was fascinating – and glanced down at his feet with a frown.

“If that is all you can see, then I suppose I am a lucky man,” Alastor tapped on one of the radios near him and smooth jazz started playing. True, he never had a single issue with his demonic appearance, even when he first arrived here. At this regard he was always a perfectionist, so all of him the others could see was perfectly tailored to show his dominance. Nothing about him was cute, no matter what Anthony was saying. Not the tail, not the ears. He was an Overlord, demons feared him.

Well, except of this particular case, that is. But Anthony was special, he was allowed.

“Oh yeah, I forgot, handsome guys are scary as fuck,” Anthony grumbled, but there was some sort of playfulness in his voice, which signalized his mood was getting better. “Pretty sure all demons just run at sight of ya, oh nooo. Pretty guy inbound, ruuuuun~.”

“They do run though,” Alastor smiled at him sweetly. “Different circumstances though.”

“Yer dad jokes, huh,” the pretty spider smirked at him, softening the rudeness. “Don’t blame them.”

“Now now, Anthony,” Alastor tapped his claws against the table, stopping any other eventual teasing that would definitely follow, because Anthony never left things at only one jab when he had a chance. “If you are done with your moping, how about you come here?”

There was an evident hesitation in the demon’s features, insecurity written in his whole body language, but Alastor was patient and willing to show him there was nothing to feel insecure about. Only proud.

He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing, and Anthony let out a squeak when a pair of shadowy hands curled around his waist, gently pushing him forward like walking a child on the first day out.

“Aww, hi Al Junior,” Anthony cooed back at the Shadow, which gave him a raggedy grin in return. Evidently too happy to see him, that for sure. Even more evidently appreciative about Anthony’s new look as well. “Haven’t seen ya both in one room yet, that’s new.”

The Shadow waddled him all the way to Alastor’s desk and nuzzled his neck from behind, obviously delighted about the experience. Anthony patted him with one of the six hands, still not that good at coordinating them all, apparently, and Alastor cleared his throat while tapping against the table again.

One more nuzzle and then the shadow slithered away, blending into the walls, and Alastor would have sworn if it could, it would stick its tongue at him.

“Hehe,” Anthony looked happy though, which was amendable, and then finally circled the mahogany desk and stood next to Alastor comfortably sitting in his chair. He let himself to be touched on his thin waist, lower on his hip, then back up on his chest – fluffy chest, if anybody asked, so, so fluffy – and then let Alastor took one of his hands and gently pull him on his lap, sitting on his legs carefully like he could shatter any moment.

“There~,” Alastor crooned. “Not that hard, was it?”

“Might be even easier with the voice,” Anthony suggested meekly, like he was asking for something risky, and Alastor circled one of his arms around his waist and touched his face with the other.

“Whateva you want, darlin’,” he spoke softly and Anthony’s smile widened. “Feelin’ better now?”

“Yeah…” the spider demon nodded curtly. “Still weird, but I’ll get over it.”

“Don worry, I’ll be there fer you every step on da way,” Alastor tilted his head down and gently pressed their lips together. “Promise.”

He was right – six armed hugs were absolute heaven.

***

2024, 277th day

“Huh.”

Alastor took several more steps before he realized Anthony stopped all of sudden, staring at the vending machine sitting between dark corners of dubious streets filled with vermin. He was staring at the lowest button, head tilted, and Alastor returned to him with a silent question in his eyes.

Not that Anthony noticed, his eyes were glued to the vending machine with something akin to wonder, and when Alastor glanced down at the point of the spider’s interest, he noticed Angel Dust written there in all italics.

“Fuckin’ swell, huh,” Anthony mumbled more to himself than to Alastor, judging from his expression. “That this would be here too.”

Alastor knew how Anthony died, of course he did. PCP overdose might have come as a surprise, but at the same time they talked about it when Anthony’s heart was still beating. His coping mechanism, his addiction, his attachment to something that could ease the state of despair. If Vox didn’t get in Alastor’s way, maybe there would be a possibility to prolong his life for few more years.

But then again Alastor would be lying if he said he regretted having Anthony here with him, finally. He wasn’t that much of a good guy for playing a Good Samaritan (if even a little, honestly), and if Anthony wasn’t in such a bad state at the beginning of their deal, he would probably (definitely) drag him to Hell right away, especially after being asked to be killed from the get go.

“Anything you can think of,” Alastor commented. “Any drug. Any alcohol. Any poison. Any weapon. It is all here. And worse.”

“Hell yeah,” Anthony chuckled bitterly and averted his eyes from the nameplate, little raw at the edges, vulnerable. Still so new, still so open. “Oh well. Sorry. Let’s go.”

Alastor made sure they didn’t pass any other vending machine on their way back to the Radio Tower.

***

2024, 285th day

It wasn’t like he wanted to make a habit of spying on Anthony, but once the spider demon left the tower on his own and ventured to the city, he had his reasons to make sure he would make it back home in one piece. Barely any demon would notice the shadow of a person was different unless really looking, and he kind of doubted Anthony would meet anybody like that on his first independent stroll anyway.

There wasn’t much the spider had planned, from the way he behaved outside. He just wandered around, peeking into shops and avoiding trouble, then peeking into more shops, got some clothes and then practiced his totally not six armed spider act when he managed to hide the middle set of arms like they were never there. Alastor didn’t know he could actually do that, but he was impressed anyway.

He had several cat-calling demons around whistling at him while skilfully flipping them off, and in case they wouldn’t be deterred, the Shadow blinked at them menacingly and they scuttered to dark corners like filthy rats.

It was nothing out of ordinary until a dark purple limo stopped at the edge of the sidewalk he walked on, pulling down the window just to reveal the Princess of Hell herself smiling nervously, calling at Anthony in her bright princess-y voice. Now that was interesting for sure.

“Hey,” Anthony blinked in surprise at her sudden invitation to get in, obviously not having a single clue who the girl was. “Daddy told me not to talk to strangers.”

Alastor totally did not choke on that.

The princess laughed, bright and happy and shook her head while opening the doors of the limo wide open.

“We won’t do anything bad,” she assured him, and there was another girl next to her in the car, though Alastor had never met her. Her displeased expression was spot on though. The princess dragged her closer, leaning her near the opening of the doors. “I’m Charlie, this is Vaggie! We just want to talk a little?”

“Ya can talk with me standing right ‘ere,” Anthony crossed all his four arms, eyes looking her up and down, not budging. “Whaddya want?”

“Weeeeell-,”

“What is your name, mister?” Vaggie stared him down pointedly, her voice sharp as a knife. Anthony visibly hesitated, then glanced away to the rest of the street. They talked about it shortly after Anthony got to Hell – not everybody wanted to keep their human name. Alastor did because he was not a fan of aliases, The Radio Demon nickname just happened on its own. Anthony didn’t seem to be in need of getting any kind of demon name either, but now there was an obvious reluctance in his features.

“Angel Dust,” he looked back at them, the drug name slipping past his lips. Intriguing. “Ya can call me Angel, toots.”

Vaggie didn’t look impressed but Charlie was smiling like a sunshine. When they started spouting nonsense about rehabilitating a demon in one of a repurposed royal family’s buildings, Alastor laughed so hard he almost let the Shadow spill it out.

It was only an hour later when Angel burst into the Radio Tower, dropped the shopping bags and yelled:

“Ya won’t fuckin’ believe what I’m just gonna tell ya, I shit ya not!”

Just few days later the 666 News broadcasted Charlie’s plan live (with an immense failure in the reception, but that was expected) and Alastor got a brilliant idea. Out of everybody involved, Charlie was probably on the board of it the most.

***

2024, 300th day

The hotel was a whack. It was a total fucking ruin in dire need of reconstruction. Angel didn’t know what the hell was repurposed here, but it must have been hiding in a basement because the rest of it screamed ancient. Not that any part of Hell was pretty or anything, but at least some of it had class. Ironically the most class was visible in the Lust circle in porn studios, but Angel was not getting even near of that filthy lair, that for sure (not to mention Alastor didn’t even let him wander too close, probably for a good reason. Said something about moths. Angel didn’t question it).

Niffty made a bit more presentable though, scurrying around the hallways like a sonic Roomba and at least the entrance hall looked nicer once Alastor was done with it.

Alastor The Radio Demon, Angel learned. An Overlord even. Vaggie was super into telling him how bad and evil and absolute horror-ish Alastor was, how bloodthirsty and merciless, and Angel just thought of his Bambi tail wagging when they hugged and kind of spaced out.

Sure, guy had a reputation. Angel saw some flattering posters in the 666 News studios with BEWARE !!! HIM and RADIO SOUNDS = STAY AWAY and DO NOT FUCK WITH HIM but if Alastor was anything, a cuddler would be the right description. Also probably a cold-hearted murderer, but nobody was perfect.

He told the girls he was new and had barely any kind of comprehension of Hell’s inner workings back there when they stopped in in the city, and obviously that immediately must have raised red flags when he got to the Hotel just few days later with Alastor leading him in and keeping him close like a pet on an invisible leash (though not really a pet, Angel was just super amused by the height difference, so he stuck close to him for shit and giggles).

“You can stay here, Angel,” Charlie was just telling him in a shushed whisper when they walked through the hallways, Alastor several steps in front of them, looking around with wide smile on his face. Fucker was definitely enjoying it, but even Angel felt rather giddy about it.

“Here?” he imitated her low voice and she quickly glanced towards Alastor humming a tune and twirling his microphone.

“You know. If you need a place to stay,” she gestured towards the deer demon quickly.

Oh. Oh. She thought he feared Alastor or something? Or that Alastor kept him around against his will? A big bad Overlord and a newbie, what else would she think, right?

“Can’t do, Cha-Cha, made a deal with this guy,” he made finger guns pointed at the red-clothed figure with his all four arms. “Hands are tied.”

“Oh,” Charlie’s eyes widened for a second, like she was saying oh no, you fucked for good, gurl and then hesitantly nodded. “I see. But… I mean. It depends on the deal, of course, but… If you needed to stay away or something, you understand?”

“I fear that just won’t do, my dear!” Alastor’s voice thundered through the hallway cheerily, loud as fuck, even though he was standing few meters away from them. “I own his heart, you see. He cannot leave even if he wanted to.”

Charlie’s eyes widened even more, and Angel had to bite his lips to stop himself from laughing. How fucking vague, just playing it like Angel was suffering in the Radio Demon presence.  

“Isn’t that right, my dear Angel?”

“Oh yes, poor me,” the spider demon swooned dramatically. “Can’t leave ever! He’d totally find me and cu-,” ddle me to death, he wanted to say, Alastor’s eyes warning him not to, “-t me to death! Double death even.”

Charlie started to visibly panic. Oh damn, she was so naïve, it was fun.

“Do not be alarmed, princess,” Alastor assured her with a chuckle. “No cutting needed. Angel is quite knowledgeable in his duties.”

“Pffft.”

“Aren’t you, my dear.”

“’bsolutely,” Angel saluted him. “Controlled by fear and fear only.”

There was a mischievous gleam in Alastor’s eyes right before he turned around and continued his way through the raggedy hotel, resuming the tune. Angel patted the small woman on the top of her head, but still wasn’t sure if she got it was all a joke or she unironically feared for his life.

***

2024, 304th day

She feared for his life. She kept on trying to get him to stay overnight in the hotel for therapies and fun activities and movie nights and Angel was wondering how to break it out to her without revealing Alastor was a big softie who liked to snuggle in bed (and honestly he liked it even more now, in Hell, and Angel was wondering if it was because he was fluffier or because Alastor was just happy he didn’t need to keep fearing if he didn’t leave the stove or lights on in Radio Tower when up in the land of living).

From all he gathered during the days he spent in Hell by now, Alastor was a big thing around the Pentagram City. As one of the Overlords and one not hellborn on top of that he harnessed tremendous power through fear, his shady as fuck deals and radio broadcasts where he delivered the carnage for everybody to hear. Angel didn’t listen to any yet, but he was sure he would eventually, when Alastor would feel like letting him on it.

“She thinks yer abusing me,” he said while petting the red hair gently, lying on his back in the bed. The red sheets were silky and felt really nice around him and he doubted Alastor owned anything that was not red or black, like a walking, talking stereotype. Classy though.

“I am abusin’ you,” Alastor agreed from Angel’s fluffy chest, where his face was buried. He had been cuddling Angel for the past hour, like it was one of those days when he didn’t feel like being big bad deer and just stayed in the tower, making Angel spoil him. Then there were days he didn’t feel like being touched at all, unless it was at night when sleeping, and Angel was starting to be a real pro in reading those moods in his natural environment. Sometimes Al Junior gave him a hint even before Alastor appeared in flesh, and it was appreciated. Alastor wasn’t really making a big fuss when touched in his untouchable mood but the way he stiffened was red enough light for Angel to give him space.

“Yeah, yer a menace, I need to pee for like twenty minutes now,” Angel sighed and his poor bladder with him.

“Unfortunate.”

“Well, it’s yer bed I’m gonna pee in, so suit yerself,” he shrugged and Alastor huffed out a laugh. It was nice he could laugh at Angel’s crude jokes now, since before he just told him off.

“Don worry ‘bout the demon belle,” Alastor mumbled sleepily. “She’s just too nice fer her own good.”

“Aw, she’s a cutie tho,” Angel pulled a little at Alastor’s ear and it flicked. “Enthusiastic and all that shit, I guess ye don’t see that down here often.”

“Barely,” Alastor hummed.

“Well, if anybody can rehabilitate a demon, it’s her,” Angel pulled the other ear and it flicked too. Cute.

“Mmm,” his companion let out. “Don’t be too much of a good boy, darlin’. I refuse to part wit you.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that,” Angel chuckled warmly at Alastor affectionate speech. “They’d have to kill me to take me away from ya.”

“You ‘nd me both.”

Angel thought if Charlie saw Alastor like this, she’d definitely coo at him. Honestly, he kind of wanted her to, for funsies, but maybe it was better to leave sleeping deer lie.

***

2024, 310th day

“Cupcakes?!”

“Ugh.”

Angel ignored Alastor’s sound of distaste and grabbed Charlie’s hands in all four of his, eyes shining.

“Ya mean like real ones?! Not like… sugar water ones, right?” He was craving sweet things and Hell had shit. The best things came from topside and apparently not as many demons ventured there for ingredients, so Angel was seriously super low on sugar.

“Yeah!” she smiled at him happily and nodded towards the kitchen because he was still holding her hands like a vice, but she seemed to be fine with it. “We thought we could try baking them tonight!”

Another obvious attempt to get him stay the night, he knew. But cupcakes. It was like… the only bait that could potentially work, apart from Frappuccino orgy and pole dancing. She gave a vibe like she wouldn’t condone the latter though.

He sent Alastor a pleading puppy eyes and the demon let out a defeated sigh. He didn’t even need to say anything, he was just done. Angel didn’t blame him, he was bothering him about sweets for days now and since Alastor disliked those, he was driving a hard bargain every damn day.

 It was an obvious plan, really. The baking didn’t start before nine in the evening and Charlie made sure only the patients were attending, which meant only Angel, really (the hotel didn’t have many patients so far, and by many I mean none) and Charlie as a main helper. Vaggie joined them around half past nine with a badly hidden curiosity and Niffty kept running around, sweeping crumbs that had the audacity to touch the floor, and if she had nothing to sweep, she helped them with filling the forms, quite skilled for such a little lady.

“Here I thought Husky would be leading the baking party,” Angel commented when they put the first batch into the oven and Vaggie made a snorting noise somewhere behind the counter.

“Busy pouring drinks for Happy face,” she shot back while mixing the dough in the bowl. “He’s lounging at the bar like a shark, just waiting for a drop of blood.”

“Fitting,” Angel had to agree, though in much better light than Vaggie meant it. Charlie’s enthusiastic expression fell slightly and Angel just knew she got him here for a talk or two. Maybe even an all-nighter.

“Angel,” she started, swiping her hair behind her ear like she always did when nervous. “I know you said you made a deal with him and all-,”

“Careless of you, by the way,” Vaggie added with a sigh. “His deals always have a catch; you can never win.”

Angel leaned against the counter, giving them his full attention, which seemed to encourage Charlie a little. Maybe it was for the best to get them let it out of their chests and then ease their minds, no matter what Alastor would say about it. He knew his partner enjoyed people grasping for straws and worry, but neither Charlie or Vaggie deserved that – in both death and life combined they were the nicest girls he ever talked to, when he didn’t count his mum and sister. Sure, Vaggie was sharp as the spear she used, and Charlie had a naivety of a child, but they meant well, and he had to admit he was fond of them.

“I don’t doubt that,” he made a vague hand gesture for them to continue.

“He found you the moment you got to Hell, right?” Charlie asked with caution of a dancer on a nail bed.

“Well… yeah.” Not a lie. But he already belonged to him anyway, so it was not the moment of import as they thought it was.

“Can you tell us what the deal was about? Maybe we could help you somehow,” she smiled hopefully, and Angel took a deep breath.

“Ah, crap. Cha-Cha, I didn’t think you’d take it so seriously,” he scratched his head. “We were just playin’, you know. It’s not like he’s ever gonna hurt me or anythin’. Or cut me or whatever we said before.”

She didn’t look convinced. Fair.

“The only danger I’m in, and I mean, that’s a fact,” he crossed his arms on his chest. “It’s that he won’t let me get up from the bed when I need to pee. Like. That’s how lazy he is, ya know. Just not moving. Just stayin’ in.”

Okay, might have not been the best example, he realized when Charlie just stared at him and Vaggie’s upper lip curled into a sneer. Did he just make Alastor into a sexual predator?

“We just sleep together,” he assured them with all four hands raised. That didn’t help either. Charlie looked at Vaggie with tight-lipped expression and Vaggie seemed not wanting to be part of the conversation at all.

“No sex,” he added for good measure. “At all. Zero. Nada.”

Disbelieving stares. Even Nifftys’, she stopped sweeping, that’s how much she didn’t believe it.

“I mean… does he look to you as somebody wanting to fuck all night or…?”

“Ugh, Lucifer help us,” Vaggie groaned while smacking her forehead. Charlie looked unsure and huh. Interesting. Sure, Alastor was always making an impression, but he didn’t know Charlie potentially thought of him as somebody with sexual drive. But then again, Angel was probably biased, knowing him for the asexual he was.

“Okay, let me… get you on a secret,” he conceded in a low voice. “I made a deal with Alastor ‘bout four years ago.”

“I thought you said you’re new?” Charlie blinked in surprise and Vaggie raised an eyebrow. She was definitely onto him now; he saw the realization in her face.

“You were still alive,” she said in a shocked voice. “You made a deal with him when you were still a human.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed her words with a small smile. “I summoned him on Christmas Eve, and we made a deal that day. And four years later I fucked up my life and here I am. He just collected what belonged to him, is all. He’s not forcing me to do anything, ya know. I wanna be with him on my free will.”

“Or so you think,” Vaggie added with a frown. “Never thought about it?”

“No, never,” he refused immediately. “I get it, toots. He’s a big, scary Overlord here. He kills people. I mean this is Hell, of course he won’t be paintin’ their nails, right.”

She just stared at him with the same expression.

“But ya gotta believe me on this. Al is… well. He’s…” he rubbed his neck with a nervous laugh. “I don’t wanna sound corny as fuck. I just like ‘im. Like a lot.”

The oven dinged into the heavy silence and Charlie was the first who reacted, probably happy for a break in the flow. The cupcakes looked like a treat and Angel was kind of glad when they got into decorating and neither of the girls pressed him for more. Niffty did give him shifty looks though, probably still thinking they were going at it as rabbits behind the closed doors.

 Alastor was still at the bar sipping bourbon from a tumbler when Angel was finally allowed to leave the kitchen around midnight, full to bursting. They burned the first batch a little, but he blamed the talk rather than their culinary skills.

“You seem unperturbed,” the red eyed demon commented when Angel sat down next to him and put a small basket with cupcakes on the counter. Husker behind the bar eyed it with disdain and took a swing of his bottle instead.

“Well, takes more than that to ruffle my feathers, ya know,” he grinned. “Not amused by my choice of words in there?”

“I quite approve, actually,” Alastor sipped his drink again. “Except of making me into a sexual deviant, thank you very much for that, darlin’.”

“That one slipped out on accident,” Angel chuckled. The expression of the girls made the misstep worth it though. “I kinda didn’t want to give out yer a cuddle monster but had no idea how to explain properly. Charlie might have troubles to look ya in the eyes for some time.”

“I can live with that,” Alastor shook his head. “I will make sure to let you get up when you need to pee from now on at least.”

“Somebody kill me again…” Husker grumbled and dragged down the cage with a grunt, locking the alcohol behind it. “I’m fucking leaving.” And with that he shuffled away from the bar with an unhappy flap of his wings until they were alone in the hall, staring at the place he disappeared at.

Angel snorted and Alastor drank the rest of his bourbon before standing up as well and offering a hand for Angel to take.

“Shall we go home then? Or do they want to keep you here so I can’t ravish you tonight?” he asked like it was no biggie to use home and ravish in one breath and Angel felt his face heating up, probably from all that sugar, before he took the hand in his and stumbled up.

“Home…” he mewled, grabbing the basket. “Please.”

“As you wish, cher.” Alastor’s voice was low and warm and Angel really had to think more on how to express to the girls on how much he loved this man, no voodoo involved.

***

2024, 325th day

There were several parlours in the hotel, most of them in terrible state of neglect, except of one Angel found by sheer coincidence one day and then made it his secret hideout for lazing around with music on. He got a permission from Charlie to paint the walls and adjust the place to his own liking, since it was in the second floor and basically nobody came there anyway. He planned to ask her for a pole as well, but that could wait – one step at the time, as they say.

He mostly used it for busying himself, since there was always something to do, and if he didn’t feel like working, he could always just dance to songs Alastor didn’t find fancy enough to play in the Radio Tower and it did the trick.

To Angel’s delight Alastor visited the Hotel often, but even when he didn’t have time or didn’t feel like it (though he never explicitly stated I don’t feel like going today, really, but Angel could tell when he had to do something and when he just said it), Angel ventured here by himself, much to Charlie’s excitement every time she saw him (it was actually pretty heart-warming, really. Though it also kind of sucked he felt welcomed in Hell a lot more than he ever did during his life).

“Look at you, so busy,” a static voice interrupted Angel’s reminiscing while absentmindedly scraping the remaining tattered wallpaper off the wall, and before he could turn around in surprise, Alastor was already standing next to him, inspecting the wall with raised eyebrows before glancing back down on Angel squatting at the bottom. “No fun therapy today? Or is the manual labour Charlie’s idea.”

“Yer the only fun around here, Smiles,” Angel grinned at him cheekily. “Didn’t expect ya today though.”

It was one of those I have something to do excuses while meaning I just don’t feel like rainbows today and Angel respected that. Seeing him here all of sudden was a nice bonus and he wondered if he even checked with Charlie first or she had no idea he arrived.

“Surprises are my speciality,” the Radio Demon said, eyes skimming from every part of the parlour critically. “Which this place is, to be honest. Less of a dump than the rest of the hotel, though.”

“Yeah, it’s more neglected than tattered,” Angel agreed and put the scraper down. “Yer gonna help me paint?” He nudged Alastor’s leg with his knee and the Radio Demon seemed to ponder that. He was more of a let do my totally not cursed magic do the work rather than actually attending himself – unless it came to cooking – so Angel didn’t expect him to actually take off his coat, neatly fold it on one of the barstools and roll up his sleeves, which meant business. Angel liked when it meant business. He liked it a lot.

“I can do that for a while,” Alastor hummed and the spider demon didn’t know if he was that bored or if it was his way of asking for attention but both were cute, especially when he meant to join Angel in this. “Can’t let you have all the fun now, can I.”

“Tsk tsk, what would others say, an Overlord painting walls by hand,” Angel stood up, his upper set of hands dropping on Alastor’s shoulders and the demon let him with half lidded eyes and a smile on his lips.

“Hmm.”

“And by an ordinary fuckin’ paint too. Not even blood!” he gasped and Alastor took him by his waist and pulled him close.

“Mmmmm.”

“Yer riskin’ your reputation just for me?” the spider demon leaned back in theatrical swoon. “Oh, Alastor!”

“Literally only for you,” the deer demon purred back at him, holding him by the waist, letting him lean back so his head almost touched the floor, and if somebody walked in at that point, it would raise some serious questions, especially when Angel curled one of his legs around Alastor’s hips.

That’s why Charlie did arrive at exactly that point, Angel’s name on her lips, just to stutter to complete halt in between the doors, staring.

“Oh… hey, Princess,” Angel greeted her from basically upside down, Alastor not letting go or making any other move to remedy their positioning. “Didn’t hear ya comin’.”

“I… can see that,” her eyes switched from one to another. “Wanted to ask if you want to join us for lunch… both of you.”

She peered at the Radio Demon with raised eyebrows and that apparently made him get back to reality since he finally pulled Angel back up – still not letting go of his waist – but his hands were mostly just resting rather than holding. Angel dutifully put his leg down as well and earned a small cough from the princess.

Awkward.

“Would be my pleasure, sweetheart,” the static buzzed in a jolly tune and the Radio demon focused back on Angel, his expression softer than Angel would expect, given Charlie’s ogling. “Now shall we, darlin’?”

“We shall,” Angel grinned back at him and genuinely didn’t expect Alastor to grab his face and smooch him on the spot, then let go and leave the parlour with a happy twirl of the microphone he summoned out of thin air.

Charlie’s jaw was probably on the floor, but Angel’s was kinda too, so at least they matched.

***

“I’m just saying it looked like I interrupted something intimate, that’s all!”

“Juuuust please bury me somewhere alreadyyyyyy,” Angel whined, and Charlie patted him gently on his head like a dog she got in the pet store. Vaggie looked mildly interested in the conversation and that was bad news. They were the only ones in the dining room now, Alastor, that sneaky bastard, just poofed home once they finished the lunch, singing some happy tune and obviously left all this to Angel to deal with. Husker disappeared almost immediately, definitely knowing something horrible was going to happen and Angel didn’t even see Niffty the whole lunch.

“I think it was rather sweet?” she tried again, and Angel groaned and hid his head between his legs. “I suppose it gave me a bit more perspective of you two now!”

“Seriously, what did happen there?” Vaggie stared at them both, perplexed, as if she wasn’t here at the lunch where Charlie asked Alastor if he ever thought of spending the night in the hotel with Angel, in Angel’s room, to get the full hotel experience. She specifically said Angel’s room because she had no fucking filter and probably also because Alastor seemed to mightily approve of her choice of words and Angel’s utter mortified expression. The more frustrated Angel became, the wider was Alastor’s smile.

“They just kissed,” Charlie happily announced and yeah, Vaggie’s expression of total and utter disgust was spot on. “But it was cute!”

“Ya thought we were fuckin’ there at first!” Angel huffed. “And now ya say it was cute?”

“Well, you weren’t…” she rolled her hands around. “You know. And I know you said you don’t do that! So, I believe you!”

“Now ya believe me,” his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Because of one obnoxious smooch?”

“Was it obnoxious?”

“He made a show out of it, ‘fcourse it was!” Angel groused, expecting Alastor to be real smooth about it later. Just helping he was going to say, for sure. Totally not making Angel want to hide under a rug and stay there because he was caught smooching the Radio Demon (though anybody else doing the smooch would be resting in pieces by now, so maybe it was more like a praise than a handicap, but still) and the Princess of Hell being the witness.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before though,” Charlie sat a bit closer, clacking the chair with her until she could put her arm around Angel’s shoulders. “I guess I’m still a little surprised to see Radio demon actually possessing a beating heart.”

“A heart of his own, not the hearts he had stolen,” Vaggie added matter-of-factly. “Just for the record.”

“Thanks, Vaggie,” Angel huffed, but she was probably right anyway. “But it wasn’t like… why would one stupid show-off kiss make ya suddenly play a different tune?”

“Weeeell…” Charlie nervously looked away and Angel just knew.

“Ya were totally eavesdroppin’!” he pointed at her accusingly. “Holy shit, Cha-Cha, the Princess of Hell and ya just-!”

“Okay, okay!” she batted his hand down, her cheeks redder than normally he would even say steam was coming from her ears. “I might have been eavesdropping here and there-.”

“Here and there?” Angel couldn’t believe that. “So, there was more? Damn, you only act like an innocent girl, huh?”

“I was just worried!” she squeaked like a toy being squeezed too much. “I thought if he was being bad to you, I could save you somehow, but…”

Angel felt like the words actually physically smacked him over the face. Charlie, the bloody Princess of Hell, a hellborn demoness that knew him for how long? A month? This girl right there was caring for his wellbeing? She was ready to save him from an Overlord? Just because… because of what?

“But… why?” he couldn’t help but stare at her, eyes wide. “Why would ya go that far for a random sinner?”

Her face lit up with the most honest smile he had ever seen, like a puppy being petted for the first time even after peeing on the carpet, and Angel’s lower lip trembled in repressed sob she absolutely noticed, because of course she would.

“Because I care, Angel,” she pulled the chair even closer, so they were touching with their sides. “You’re my friend!”

“I bet ya say this to every girl ya meet,” he laughed trough ugly sobs and damn, that was so humiliating, he was going to need a real therapy after this.

“Just roll with it,” he heard from Vaggie, but couldn’t even look at her because Charlie was suddenly smooshing his face against her chest in a bear hug, petting him with cooing noises.

Holy shit, yeah, that was so going into a mental vault, Angel was so thoroughly embrassed.

And the worst thing was – he liked it. It was the nicest, warmest, the most awkward and cringiest thing he had ever experienced, and he did lots of shit in his life for this to top it all. Even Vaggie patted him awkwardly on his back in her way of showing support, and it only made him sob more.

It was probably good Alastor was fucking gone for this. That would be suicidal.

***

“Now wasn’t Charlie nice?”

Obviously Alastor was aware of everything. Angel didn’t even question it, especially not when he saw Al Junior peering at him from behind the Radio Demon, his smile wide and raggedy, as if he was not a spy master of gigantic proportions.

Alastor’s study was all lit up with the owner sitting behind the table, smiling at Angel softly. He only had a red shirt slightly unbuttoned from the top and his pants, but otherwise the rest was off, and it somehow added to the hominess Angel felt in the Radio Tower.

“Ya knew she was spying on us, didn’t ya,” Angel walked closer, stopping only a step away from the table. “Several times.”

“I would be a terrible Overlord if anybody could spy on me so easily, wouldn’t you agree,” Alastor grinned proudly, because obviously he would be proud of that in this regard. “There were no words able to sway the demon belle anyway. I may not be safest bet in any other regard, but for you, I am the safe heaven.”

“Mmm.”

“I was just trying to help.” There it was. “The situation was rather dire, as you sure agree.”

“I’m not upset, Al,” Angel breathed out with a small laugh. “I’m just… kinda offline right now. It was tiring as fuck.”

Alastor understood, that much was obvious. When he stood up and reached for Angel’s hands so he could lead him to the bedroom for a good night sleep, Angel had a fleeting worry of this all not being real, of waking up eventually in the hospital because somebody found him in the dirty bathroom of the club he overdosed himself in, and they managed to save him. And he would so fucking hate it he’d probably just kill himself with a yoghurt spoon or something the moment they’d leave him alone, just to end it.

But when Alastor pulled him close to his body and raked his clawed hand through his hair, the fear disappeared like a fleeting dream. He was where he was supposed to be. And he was happy he could cling to Alastor like a lifeline and never let go.

“Anthony,” Alastor’s static-less voice broke the gentle silence. “You touch my tail one more time and you lose dat hand.”

“That’s fine, have five more,” Angel grinned into Alastor’s chest and took the leap of faith.

[penninstitute]

CASE #9200529

Statement recovered from a journal of an unnamed author, claiming to be the Axeman of New Orleans. Statement recovered May 29th, 1920, original date unknown.

I love the sweet sound of jazz. It relaxes the gnawing and pressure inside my head to pick up an axe and swing. Dear reader, do you know the sensation? The pounding of your own heart in your ears, this building pressure that if you don’t relieve your head will explode? I feel it so very often. You may not, of course, considering that you are mortal and I.... am not.

I used to be. I used to be a mortal, small and weak such as yourselves, but always had an urge. One that drove me to find the enlightenment that I eventually reached, creating the monster that you, dear reader, may know as the Axeman. 

I like that name, it is rather intimidating. It instills a fear in your hearts whenever you hear it- the Axeman of New Orleans, although that is not where I hail from. I hail from far away- somewhere you may have never heard of. Or maybe you have, in your books about Hell and whatnot. 

You may wonder if I feel remorse. My answer is simple- no. I feel no such sadness for slaughtering you humans, in fact, I find it quite rewarding. Fulfilling, if you will. It gives me a purpose on this plane so that I may not die out of utter boredom. But I cannot die, not anymore, for I am not mortal, and I am quite close to the Angel of Death. You should know if you read my letter, it was published everywhere.

When I gave my life to the Violence I was weak. Weak and human, barely able to fend for myself, bullied and beaten for a lot of my childhood. Was it even a childhood? Can one who was never truly human have a childhood?

But I started feeling the urge, the pressure, and I killed for the first time in my life. It felt good to slam the axe into my mother’s brain, her skull cracking and caving under the sharp blade of my weapon. Her brains spilled out all over the pillow. She didn’t even scream. She whispered my human name and something in her native Italian, though, in horror, when she saw me above her. There was a glint in my eye and a grin spread across my face. 

My father was next. He woke up when the spray of his wife’s brain and blood hit his face from the spot in the bed next to him. The drunken bastard was the one that yelled at me. I didn’t want any of that, so I swung the axe into his mouth, unhinging his jaw and slicing through the tongue. I slammed again, and eventually the top part of his head was detached from the rest of his body. It was quite the sight to behold, my dearest reader. It was beautiful.

I cleaned up after that and went to a local jazz club where I came down from my murderous high. I love that music. It would be a shame to kill someone who created it, you know? I mean, a saxophone player without any hands isn’t much of a saxophone player. 

That night, when I slept in my bed so soundly for the first time in ages, a vision was beheld to me. It changed me into the person I am today. A monster, a demonic spirit full of all this rage against you humans. It was only a year later when I found myself in New Orleans, a place full of the music that I love, but also of so many idiotic people.

And the pressure in my head grew. The Violence was speaking to me, telling me I must kill, that I must feed it. Feed it with the violence and the murder. And that’s what I did over some nights in this gorgeous city. I killed six people. I almost killed more, but it can be tricky sometimes, when you’re in a frenzy. But they will be dead soon. 

As I write this, I’m heading to Satan knows where. The unbridled anger inside of me desperately calls for me to kill, kill, kill, and I will do that. The United States of America needs a monster like me. I can kill so much, I can bring so much horror and rot and blood and death into this world. The Violence says that I must transform this world into another living Hell. I will do what I must.

If you are reading this, you found my journal. Congratulations. Who knows how or why you may have it in your possession, but I hope you love this token of the Axeman, the bringer of Slaughter...

See you in Hell.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

- For obvious reasons, this statement is... incredibly difficult to do follow-up on. The Axeman of New Orleans was a real figure, an American serial killer active in New Orleans, Louisiana (and surrounding communities, including Gretna), from May 1918 to October 1919. He was never identified, and the murders are unsolved to this day.

- A majority of the Axeman’s victims were Italian immigrants or Italian-Americans, leading some to believe the killings were ethnically motivated, but if this statement holds any truth to it, that may not be the case.

- It’s questionable if the Axeman was a demon, though this statement claims he was human... once. He seems to believe that he became something else, and it is assumed that that something else is a demon. I can’t exactly disprove this aspect of the statement.

- There is a famous letter written by the Axeman that was published, which is also in our files and can be found here. It is interesting how, oftentimes, statements will tie music and violence together. I wonder if there’s something more to that.

[rubberduckyrye]

If Kokichi is a rival Phantom Thief, does he also have a persona?

-Softly Wheezes-

Okay so L DON’T LOOK THIS IS GONNA HAVE SPOILERS OKAY SO GET.

I’m also gonna put this under a readmore just in case too, so anons please be aware I am trying not to give spoilers to L and word things carefully please

Also side note, I’ve only just gotten passed Futaba’s palace so all of these ideas are based off of the information I have been given fro the game up until this point.

OKAY SOOOOOO...

I’ve been DYING to screech about my ideas for Kokichi in a P5 AU tbh???

Anyway

So I have this idea where Kokichi actually doesn’t have a persona, not yet. I’d imagine that while he’d be introduced pretty early on as a rival, you wouldn’t get him to join the Phantom Thieves until later, and after a certain palace happens. Kokichi can still manage without a persona though, and is able to get into the metaverse with the navigation app, but you know how this boy is, stubborn to the end about being true to himself and all that. So he essentially uses melee weapons in the metaverse only when he has to and otherwise just does a sneaky sneak to get the treasure to steal it.

The specific events that would allow Kokichi to “join your party” essentially are the following:

The discovery of Kenshin Oshiro and his palace

Defeating Kenshin’s palace

Kokichi’s palace

The idea here is that Kokichi has been essentially training himself up with other palaces to deal with the big bad--his own father but he keeps failing to actually force his father to have a “change of heart.” And honestly, Kokichi kind of convinces himself that he can’t have a change of heart, that he doesn’t and will never feel guilt or genuine remorse. That perspective comes into play a bit later.

So to be quite frank, my idea of Kenshin is that he purposefully leaks his information in a very specific way so it gets to the Phantom Thieves, and this is a ploy to lure them in and get rid of them/kill them before they actually cause him problems. Kokichi immediately catches on to that fact, and tells the gang to stay away from Kenshin’s Palace since it is “his” target, no touchy. Ofc you can’t just leave Kenshin alone so you’d ignore Kokichi’s demand. And you kind of get a hint that his initial reason to try to get the Phantom Thieves to stay away is a lie, since you’d be able to offer him all of the treasure you find in the palace and you just offer help to get it done and he’s still resistant.

Ofc when you get to Kenshin’s shadow, you also see a cognition of Kokichi, and that’s the big reveal that he is Kenshin’s birth son. But the cognition of Kokichi is a mindless, obedient child--essentially what Kenshin wants him to be. Bla bla bla, you fight Kenshin, beat him up, but then things get really intense when Kokichi gets confirmation from Kenshin what he did to his brother (in a way that would only really reveal it to Kokichi but not the others though) and he flips out, ready to kill this shadow and make Kenshin have a mental shutdown. He can’t do it, and even if he could, he would have been stopped, so this causes havoc on Kokichi’s own heart. Guilt, fear, and self hatred warp everything and distort his heart and desires, similarly to Futaba’s situation.

After learning that his suspicions about his brother’s abuse weren’t only true, but worse than he could ever imagine, Kokichi’s own heart becomes distorted and twisted, and his desire to protect Kurochi amplifies tenfold. He ends up locking Kurochi in his palace, which is a cage, and is a distortion of their home. Kokichi’s shadow is really.... not quite possessive of Kurochi, but paranoid and terrified that if Kurochi leaves, he’ll get hurt again. Essentially the idea is Kokichi is locking Kurochi in a cage--like locking up a bird in a cage to stop them from flying off into a storm. Since Kokichi doesn’t see Kurochi as an intruder, Kurochi isn’t attacked by the shadows or cognitions that form from Kokichi’s mind. Truth is though, the reason why it’s a cage and not a safe house or a safe haven is because Kokichi himself feels like he’s trapped as well. But they must be trapped, because then they are safe. That’s the idea, anyway.

Like how Futaba was her own treasure, Kokichi’s treasure is Kurochi--of course, since his desire to keep him safe is what’s going haywire. But also like Futaba, there is probably a distorted cognition of Kenshin, lurking in the shadows, waiting to attack Kokichi’s shadow. The palace is a fuggin mess of chaos.

When Kokichi’s shadow is confronted, you don’t actually fight it. He’s just a scared kid, his desires twisted by grief and self hatred and paranoia, he’s not malicious. He just wants to protect his brother, and these Phantom Thieves are trying to steal him away. Of course the shadow is going to see them as evil--they’re trying to take Kurochi away and hurt him.

Meanwhile, Kokichi in the real world is probably not even aware he has a palace, or that the Phantom Thieves are in it trying to help him and his brother. All he knows is that Kurochi’s gone missing, and he’s freaking out. Looking for him all over, panicking, thinking Kenshin took him despite the fact that Kenshin probably turned himself in or went quiet from the guilt and is about to turn himself in. He only learns that Kurochi is trapped in his own palace when the Phantom Thieves give him the calling card, and tell him as much. Kokichi’s shadow ofc reacts to the calling card like the Phantom Thieves are going to take and hurt his brother, but Kokichi is at a loss. He decides to find his way into his own palace, like Futaba, and confronts his own shadow.

This leads to the Kenshin cognition attacking, and ofc, Kokichi finally getting his persona after he can get accept his shadow and all that jazz.

Yeah so Kokichi’s current arc is similar to Futaba’s palace rn but this may be subjected to change after I watch the whole LP. Also, rememver--please no spoilers! For me or L.