#heavy violence tw

[electrozeistyking]

START AGAIN IN STARS AND TIME.

yes

>no

[ghosts-and-glory]

I started this like two months ago but finally got time to wrap it up. I love this stupid cat’s final form. Idk why this low key looks like a heavy metal album cover but it does.

I spent a many hours manually painting the gore just to cover most of it in shadows. And i have mixed feelings about the lettering

[radio-writes]

I Don't Know if I'm Real Without You

— Part 2 of 2 (Read Part 1 here: What is Left of Me Without You)

Synopsis: He didn't love you, but he needed you—that's what he said, at least. He needed you to show him just how deep your devotion to him really was.

Warnings: abusive relationships, power imbalance, some misogyny, heavy manipulation, gaslighting, murder and violence, physical injury to reader, major character death(s), angst

Tags: married, one sided romantic love, Alastor x Reader, female!reader

MDNI

"Why, just the other day a green fuzzy caught sight of another stiff by the river! Poor green egg went green in the face!" A laugh track followed the voice on the radio.

Alastor sat on the couch as he riffled through his briefcase, making sure he had everything he needed today.

"What poor taste," You commented absentmindedly from behind him. "Is that really any way to start off a Sunday morning?" 

Alastor let out a distracted hum at your words. He hadn't really been paying you much mind. A lazy smile simply played on his face.

Just one body? Seems they missed the other two friends it had in there.

"Well, it takes talent to entertain, my dear. Something these hacks clearly lack," He said casually, waving a hand at the radio's direction. 

"And speaking of stiffs! We've got a fresh one today, folks—" The host's voice was chipper as it came from the radio.

Alastor sat a little straighter, as if on instinct.

"Darling, do you mind fetching my script?" Your husband spoke over the hack radio host. "Seems I might have forgotten it in our bedroom." 

"Not a problem, dear," You replied almost instantaneously. Your hand landed on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze before you left the room. 

Alastor stood up, cooly making his way towards the radio as he turned the volume down slowly. 

"Glue stuffed in his mouth, chilled off, and absolutely tattered by nails, people! Brutal new body found behind the local—not so secret—juice joint!" The radio continued, but Alastor's smile remained calm despite the gruesome news.

His eyes stayed at the doorway you left through, making sure you had actually gone.

There was no need to sully your little ears with useless chatter like this. You were much more use to him all oblivious and naive, so he'd prefer to keep you that way. 

When the radio host finally finished talking about his the most latest victim, Alastor turned the volume back up to how it was. He made his way back to the couch, hands gathering his script neatly into his hands from the top of his briefcase.

He chuckled to himself before calling out to you. "Never mind, dear! The little bugger was at the bottom of my case this entire time!" 

He wasn't the type to forget these things. He was always so organized, sometimes to a fault.

And you knew that.

And Alastor knew that you knew that.

But he wasn't worried. You'd never doubt him. Whatever pesky little thought you had related to him, you'll just brush off easily.

He'd made sure of that.

Alastor heard you playfully scold him, your soft laughter rung through his home.

"—I guess you can say he really nailed that Chicago overcoat!" The annoying little shit on the radio joked just as you entered the room.

Alastor spared it one quick glare before his sight fell on you once more. You didn't seem to care for the joke much, but your eyes did linger on the dials of the radio for a second too long Alastor thought.

"Does the radio seem a bit louder to you, Al?" You asked him.

Ah, he must have turned it back a tad bit too far.

He looked at you with faux confusion. "'fraid I don't know what you mean, dear. Why would it be louder?" He stood up, closing the briefcase in front of him and straightening out his collar. "But I do have to split now, darling, or the ol' big cheese would have my head."

Your eyes met his warm chestnut ones. Alastor could practically see the way you brushed away your silly concerns in your head, a soft smile once again gracing your lips. 

He knew you were confused as to why his boss supposedly needed him at work on a Sunday.

He knew you wanted to ask why.

He knew that, at least some part of you, didn't fully believe that he was headed off to the radio station. 

If you were smart you'd have listened to it.

But you were his wife. 

So you simply nodded in understanding, moving closer to where Alastor stood. You made to grab for the suit jacket that still hung on his arm but the tall man was quick to pull it high above your reach.

"Not so fast there, darling." He teased, smiling down at you.

"It's cold out, dear. I'll help you put your coat on," You insisted, small, delicate hands reached up for the jacket.

Alastor stepped back from you, briefly tapping his fingertip against your nose. "And who said I was in any hurry to cover up this lovely new shirt my wife got for me?" He teased, snapping the suspenders he wore against the crisp white shirt.

He simply adored it when he made heat color your soft cheeks. He loved seeing proof of his effect on you.

His eyes drifted to the clock behind you, his smile straining just a tiny bit when he realized what time it was.

He'd miss his mark if he wasted any more time here.

"In any case, darling, I really do have to dash," He smiled back at you, already heading towards the door before you could say anything else. "But do keep yourself free, baby. I'll be back before you know it." He shot a wink at you.

He grabbed his hat from the coat rack and plopped it neatly on his head, then he was out the door in a second. 

Alastor let out a short, tired breath.

Sometimes, he did find your love to be a bit tiring. But he supposed, at the moment, it was still worth much more than the hassle it caused him.

He hurriedly strolled down the street, smiling and greeting everyone that passed by him politely. His ego stroked just a little bit with every flustered dame.

He didn't care for any of them, but he never grew tired of knowing the charming effect he had on people.

Alastor tried to clear his head of you as he hopped into a taxi. He laughed as the cabby recognized him almost immediately, but he didn't pay the man any mind as he yapped about how much of a fan he was.

Instead, he found that his thoughts have annoyingly strayed back to you. He's found that you've been so persistently present in his mind lately.

One would think that sounded so romantic, that he was a cold man finally falling for a sweet little thing.

But in reality he was weighing his options.

You've always been so behaved, so meek.

He found you endearing, that much was true.

You were great company, after all. You loved the same music he did, kept up with his dancing, and sang so beautifully along whenever he tickled the ivory keys.

You dressed up to compliment his style, even if it wasn't to your comfort. Smiled at all the wretched people, even as they gossiped behind your back. Perfectly prepared and happily ate every dish he liked, even stranger ones you found hard to stomach.

Because you shaped yourself to be his partner. You did everything and anything that you could to gain his approval.

And that was indeed endearing. The lengths you went to, just to hear a simple praise from him.

Alastor used to wonder if there was ever a limit to it, but as the times flew by he realized you were just too happy to rewrite even your own logic just to stay by his side.

And it was also true that you were a brilliant cover.

As a taken man, there were much less people prying into his life as opposed to when he was an eligible bachelor. And no odd rumors ever spread about him thanks to how behaved you were.

People saw him as soft, gentle, caring. Because a violent, murderous, psycho could never keep a delicate little thing like you as his wife, could he?

Yes, you definitely had your perks. That much he already knew.

But you've been so restless lately. So oddly, insistent on being by his side more. 

He'd tried to talk it out of you. Whispered how he was so lucky that you weren't like other wives. How you trusted him and respected his space. How you didn't nag him like a terrible partner would.

And it worked...for a while.

Until you've been fixated on getting the darn basement door open, at least. Somehow, you had it stuck in your brain that opening that stupid lock would have proved your worth to him.

You've been visiting that mug of a shopkeep at the locksmiths so often that Alastor just simply had to get rid of him already. He returned the useless tools he sold you last time too of course. He didn't quite like others making a fool out of what was his.

Only he could do that.

The cab stopped by a rather classy bar, the driver letting out a low whistle, going on about how they also wished that they could live up the big life.

Alastor tipped him generously, bidding him a great day as he stepped out.

He tossed his jacket on quickly before he adjusted his bowtie in the reflective glass window of the building. This was, he thought, his second favorite part of it all.

For such a detached man, Alastor loved many things.

He loved meeting his victims for the first time in person. The thrill of so many eyes on him as he clasped their clammy palms in greeting.

He loved talking to them, watching their eyes light up as he mentioned what they wanted the most. That moment where he knew he had hit the nail on the head and found out exactly what made these scum tick.

He loved using it against them, luring them to a false sense of security.

And, his absolute favorite part, he loved dragging the sharp edge of his knife against the skin of their necks. The lovely shade of red bleeding down their stiffening bodies.

He just can't help but love—

"My darling?" A voice—your voice—rung out in the dark alley. 

There wasn't time. There was no time to hide the body, toss the knife, flee from the scene.

There was no time to come up a with a story, a lie, a cover.

Because you were right there, standing in the alley with him. His blood stained hands and the corpse by his feet plainly in your view.

Even with the blood smudged on the lenses of his glasses, he could see the fear in your eyes, the gears turning in your head as you tried to process the scene in front of you.

It's a real shame. Earlier today he had decided that you still had more purpose to serve him. That he could still put up with you. That he would still be able to stomp out whatever stubborn will riled you up lately.

Clearly that wasn't the case anymore.

"Now, now, dearest," He started, hand reaching out to you as he held the knife still in his hand.

Your feet moved, but to Alastor's shock you ran to him.

Your panicked eyes took in the violent red that stained the pristine white shirt as you took his outstretched hand in both of yours.

"We should go," You hurriedly whispered, fearful eyes met his confused ones. "You can't be seen here."

You tugged him along the streets, careful to keep yourself in front of him as you tried to hide most parts of him stained with red.

Alastor's eyes were wide, his long legs working on their own as he tried to understand what exactly was happening.

"Dearest?" He whispered to catch your attention. "I just chopped off a man, you know that, right?" 

Your steps didn't falter as you hurried along, but you didn't turn your head to look at him either.

"Yes," You responded. The tight knot against your throat kept you from saying anything more.

"I sliced his throat open," Alastor continued to prod more. "His blood is all over me, in fact."

You whip your head around in urgency. You meant to shut him up. You meant to warn him not to talk so loud, that you couldn't be too sure who could be around to overhear.

But when your fearful eyes met his calm, warm, sweet, ones you ended up swallowing against your dry throat. Adorning a shaky smile instead.

"And I'm sure you did it to keep yourself safe, dear." You said, although it seemed as though you were trying to convince yourself of that.

It was as if a light bulb lit up in Alastor's head. He finally understood what was happening. He fought against his own body to keep himself from smiling as he stared into your uncertain eyes.

"I knew you'd understand," He feigned a sigh. His hand, that was previously unresponsive in yours, curled its fingers to hold onto you. "I knew I would be safe with you, my darling wife."

Alastor noted the way your stiff shoulders slacked at his words. As if you were waiting for his praise; as if you were waiting for that little bit of confirmation to fully push away all those pesky, silly, little doubts you held.

As if you were begging to have the slightest bit of reason to cling onto, to prove that there was no cause to leave your spot beside him.

"If anyone asks," You said softly, your hand reached out to wipe away the little bit of blood on his cheek. "I'll tell them you came home early to me. You did promise that you would come back quickly, anyway."

Alastor smiled down at you, letting himself lean into your touch as you seemed to love it when he does. "I am so lucky that you love me, doll."

You continued to lead him down the streets, sticking to less lit areas as you did so.

Alastor couldn't stop the grin from spreading widely across his face.

Because you did love him. You loved Alastor with all your sanity it seemed, but he was, unfortunately, far too happy to take advantage of that.

It was a huge weight off his shoulders really. 

Alastor enjoyed the hunt, the kill, but the clean up? Not so much.

While yes, he did enjoy tricking people into eating up his stories, misdirecting them this way and that, silently mocking how clueless they were. It was still such a pain to have to constantly make sure his stories were air tight. 

He didn't have to do that anymore, though. Not when all his darling wife had to do was smile shyly at people and hint that he was back home all night busy with more usual pleasures.

It wasn't even that hard to convince you to let him stay out late, hunt to his heart's content.

It was all just bad, terrible people. Scum of the earth. Dangers that could hurt you, or others. And Alastor, the dashing, selfless, secret knight in shinning armor was willing to dirty his hands if it meant keeping people safe. He'd taken on the burden so everyone else didn't have to.

Your husband, a great, tragic hero.

And besides, it's not like he asked you to kill someone. All you had to do was lie a little. Nothing grand, nothing elaborate—he wasn't so sure you'd be able to handle it after all—just smile, and hint, and spread a few insignificant white lies. 

It was easy enough, wasn't it?

And your little love for him did everything else. Your own lovesick mind fought your instincts without Alastor even doing much of anything else.

You convinced yourself so quickly that all this blood, all this violence, all this murder, just made your husband an even greater man.

Ah, he truly did love the way you loved him.

You were with him now down in the basement—Alastor conveniently finally figured out how to open the stubborn padlock—and if he was being honest, he never really imagined you joining him here.

Well, not alive anyway.

You watched him as he neatly packed the most latest body into a bag and burn the gloves he used during the act. Going through his simple routine to make sure he could continue to get away scot-free.

Alastor noticed how your eyes always averted from the corpses, insistent on staying on his form instead. He didn't really mind it, but oh did he enjoy that little spark of fear you worked hard to stomp down whenever your glance landed on a limb or two. 

He heaved the bag over his shoulder, before finally fully turning to you. "Well, let's get a move on, shall we, darling?" He smiled cheerfully, motioning with his arm for you to head up the stairs first.

You were glad to do so it seemed, you always were. You didn't have to watch your husband dispose of bodies, but Alastor found it rather cathartic how you've now started to cringe away from the basement door, after weeks of pestering him over opening it.

A little lesson, he thought. Well deserved. 

And look how behaved you were now again.

The walk to the nearby woods was uneventful. Silent. Routine.

Unlike the first time around he dragged you along. You kept wondering and wondering until you finally asked out loud how Alastor knew the streets so well. How he knew where to go where no one would see him. The man you saw him kill was the first one, wasn't he?

He laughed at your unsure smile, brushing your worries off with the flimsiest excuses. How he'd been home late so many times already because of work. How he just preferred to take the quieter roads so as to decompress from all his adoring fans—fans who weren't you.

And it was enough.

Because you foolishly trusted him. You wanted to believe him, and so you did.

Alastor hummed cheerfully as he continued to shovel dirt over his most recent victim. He was certainly far enough into the woods not to care too much about being overheard, anyway.

A sudden soft beeping noise joined his melody, and he looked down at his—rather expensive—watch.

"Would you look at the time! I hadn't realized it was already so late. Time surely flies when you're saving the world, right, darling?" He looked over his shoulder at your unsure form.

You stood hunched over, your back against a tree, and your arms wrapped around yourself, a fair distance from the man burying a body.

Your eyes avoided the hole in the dirt as you painted a strained smile on your face. 

Saving the world.

Alastor could practically see the way you tried to remind yourself that that is what your husband was doing.

"It's hard to keep track when you've got a lot do," You vaguely answer, choosing your words carefully.

It's not that you worried Alastor would do anything to you. But you were, unknowingly, cautious of any single thing that could trigger any more silly concerns within yourself.

Alastor hummed in response, his eyes staring at the mangled corpse he threw in the ditch. "They'll be looking for me at work if I don't show up soon, though." He thought out loud. "But I can't exactly leave this rotten stiff like this, can I?"

He sounded troubled. He looked troubled, with that wrinkle between his brow.

A good wife would soothe him.

A good wife wouldn't stand around watching her spouse do all the hard work.

He didn't need to say it though, not that he had any mind to. You heard his voice in your head regardless. 

Your timid, unsure voice spoke up. "I...I could stay behind and continue burying it?" It sounded like a question.

One that it seemed like you hoped the answer was no. 

Except you'd be a horrible wife for thinking that. You should be praying that he'd say yes.

After all, a good wife would do anything to help her husband.

Alastor froze for a second, his eyes catching yours from above his glasses before he adjusted them up his nose. 

Then you were rewarded with a smile.

"My darling wife, always so helpful," He cooed, walking towards you. He dropped the shovel to the ground and wrapped his arms around your waist, almost lovingly.

Alastor could feel how fast your heart beat in your chest, almost fighting to get out. "But I could never ask a lovely doll like you to do such a dirty job like this." He tsked as he looked down at you.

"I can handle it, my dear," You responded, eyes bright with stars at his praises. It was almost as if you'd forgotten what exactly it was you were agreeing to.

Alastor pretended to think for a moment, but his eyes caught sight of the watch on his wrist and decided he didn't exactly have time to enjoy playing with you more.

"Only if you promise not to get caught, my darling." He smiled down at you, and you quickly nodded, promising you'll do a good job and meet him at home.

He pressed his cold lips chastely against your forehead, and left you with a corpse in the woods to bury.

But it's just that, anyway. Nothing too much to ask for.

It's not like you killed him.

And he was probably a horrible person to begin with.

Right?

You brushed away the heavy, gnawing feeling, as you met the glassy unseeing eyes of the corpse in the ground.

Alastor surely knew what he was doing. And you loved him enough to do this simple thing to help with that.

Just as you shoveled in one patch of dirt to cover the man's eyes, you heard a loud gun shot echo through the early morning woods.

You jumped out of your skin, cold hands gripping the shovel as the sound rung out.

Your heart was at your throat as goosebumps littered your skin. 

Alastor.

You ran. You barely registered your own body moving until you felt the cold air whipping against your face as your legs carried you to where your husband went.

Worry. It all but consumed you, as your blood rushed loudly in your ears and your heart pounded.

Please be okay. Please be okay.

Please—

You didn't know what you were doing. You didn't recall it. You didn't feel any of it.

You remembered seeing your husband's body collapsed and bloodied on the forest floor.

You remembered seeing someone with a gun standing panicked over him. 

But no, you didn't remember when you ran at the culprit.

You didn't remember the feeling of stabbing the shovel into their side, nor the warmth of their blood as it splashed on your cold skin.

You didn't remember bashing the steel against their skull with all your might; the metal dented and morphed as it disfigured the man's face.

You didn't remember screaming until your throat was raw. You didn't remember the tears scrolling down your bloodied cheeks. You didn't remember the horrible, unbearably cold, ache in your chest.

You didn't remember staring down the barrel of a shaky gun.

You didn't remember dying.

All you remembered, was the feeling of Alastor's warm arms embracing you as he pressed his welcoming lips to your forehead. 

And how you knew you'd never feel it again.

At least, you didn't think you would.

You blinked in confusion as you stared up the man—thing?—that caught you in their arms like a bride.

"I guess someone ought to rewrite those wedding vows because death didn't seem to do us part!" It laughed. Its voice sounded as if you were merely listening to it from a radio.

No, wait. Sure the thing that caught you also laughed, but you could have sworn you heard a whole crowd do so as well. Strangely, almost like a laugh track.

It's sharp yellow teeth showed proudly as it grinned down on you, and you couldn't help but cringe away a tiny bit from fear.

What are you? You wanted to ask, but you knew better than to be blunt.

You wouldn't want those nasty paper folk to catch wind of Alastor's little wife being rude—

Except. Were you still his wife? Where was he anyway? Where were you?

The thing that held you laughed cheerfully as it gently set you down onto your own feet. "Darling, I will never get enough of how easy you are to read," The thing said, twirling it's cane—microphone?—in it's hand before it leaned on it to study you. 

You got a strangely familiar heavy feeling in your gut, but before you could think much of it, your arm was looped through its as it pulled you along to a shop window.

"It seems you're a tiny bit confused, my darling," It said with a bright smile. "It's alright, you weren't always the brightest bulb in the room, but you certainly made up for it with your passion." It chuckled, once again a laugh track following its words from seemingly nowhere.

You felt the tip of its microphone at your chin, tilting it so that you'd turn your gaze from him to the shop window.

You almost jumped away, like an animal not recognizing itself in the mirror.

It took you a minute to realize that you looked at your own reflection.

You even waved your hands around and tilted your head to make sure it followed your movements. To make sure this was real.

You looked nothing like yourself. Hell, you looked nothing human.

"Truthfully, I'm a little offended, dear." The thing beside you spoke up, now turning to his own reflection as he adjusted his bowtie and dusted off his red pinstriped suit. Something oddly familiar.

"It took me less than a second to recognize you, and you still seem to not even know who I am." It said, glancing at you from the corner of its bright red eyes.

Your gaze trailed up to the top of its red hair, seeing two small horns—at least that's what you thought they were. 

"The devil?" You asked cautiously, still confused. "Am I in Hell?"

It let out a hum at your response. "One of two. I suppose it's one of your better shots, my dear." It said.

It turned to face you, suddenly leaning down close, so as to have it's mouth right by your ear. Your body freezes on instinct as it spoke.

"Must I really bed you again for you to remember me, darling? Or would watching me bury another body be enough to jog your memory?"

You leaned back, only enough to catch a look at the thing's face. The knowing eyes that seemed so warm, so inviting, so charming, despite how monstrous they looked. The smile that seemed incapable of falling.

The familiar feeling that brewed in your gut.

"Alastor?" You asked, your now clawed hands reached up to caress his cheeks, and the thing—your husband—leaned into it. His eyes briefly closed.

"Took you long enough, really." He said, a joking exasperation in his tone. 

The thing—your husband, you had to remind yourself again—abruptly pulled away, his tone bright and cheery as he began to drag you along the streets with a heavy clawed hand on the small of your back. "Now enough of that! Time for more important business, darling!"

"Wait, Alastor? How? What?" You stammered, attempting to pull away to take a second to breathe and clear your head.

The hand that guided you slid to the side of your waist, pulling you tightly against it's Alastor's side. "Ah, my darling thing. Always so slow on the uptake." He shook his head as if he found it adorable. "We're in Hell, dear!"

The words rang loudly in your ears, your heart sinking to your stomach.

"And we have important business to take care of, yes indeed!" Alastor continued, not letting you process a single thought. "And for this, I'll need a partner I can trust! I'll need a partner who I can rely on! I'll need someone absolutely devoted to me." His eyes met yours but he saw how the alarm still outweighed his words.

His eyes narrowed, lowering his face abruptly to yours, to the point where you could feel his breath on your skin. He wanted your attention, all of it, and didn't really care all that much about what else you had to think about.

"Hellooo? Anybody home?" He joked, tilting his head as he saw your eyes come back to focus on him. "Ah, there you are, dear. Thought I lost you for a moment."

You supposed you could think things through later. Even if Alastor looked terribly different now, this was still your caring husband after all. And he needed something.

A devoted parter? Was that what he said?

"Well, you know I'm always here for you, Al. Whatever this plan of yours is." You tried to paint a smile on your lips as you always have.

"Oh, but how exactly do I know that?" Alastor stood back up to his full height, his head tilting as he smiled down at you.

Your brows furrow. You don't quite know how to tell him that. You swore you've done so much for this man, and yet when trying to think of an example, none came to mind.

You cooked and cleaned and looked pretty for him? Spent time with him? Loved him? Lie for him? Hide a body for him? That's just what a good wife would do.

But you supposed—you think—you killed for him.

"I avenged you?" It came out more of a question than an answer. "I killed for you."

Alastor didn't blink as he responded. "Then do it again."

Your mouth ran dry.

Had you heard him correctly? Was it a joke?

You waited for the laugh track to play but none came.

"What do you mean...exactly?" You asked with a nervous laugh, your lips straining to keep the smile.

"Kill for me again," Alastor casually said. He turned, eyes locking onto a random demon further down the street you walked along on. He raised his microphone to point at them, turning his head—unnaturally—to face you again.

"Like that one. I suppose he'll do." His tone was still as cheerful as ever.

You follow to where he pointed, eyes hesitantly looking at the creature. 

You quickly looked back up to meet your husband's gaze. That feeling was there again.

And you weren't sure if it was the fact that you just died, or the sheer lunacy of the request, but you finally realized what it was.

Doubt.

You doubted Alastor.

"Why?" Your voice was small. "Is he a bad person too?"

Alastor rolled his eyes. "Hell, if I know dear. I've only just seen him now. But we are in Hell, you know?" His shoulders casually shrugged as if he didn't really care. "So, maybe?"

You tried to hide the tremble in your voice. Tried to hide how you doubted him. "But I already killed for you. Why do I need to prove my devotion even more?"

"You killed out of passion, darling. It hardly counts." He laughed, as if you were being so silly.

You're left with even more questions when Alastor grabbed your wrist, and you melted into shadows before re-appearing right in front of your supposed victim.

"What the fuck?" They exclaimed, jumping back.

"Good day, good fellow! The name's Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you, quite the pleasure!" Your darling husband stepped in front and forcibly shook the confused sinner's hand.

Alastor waved a hand in your direction to showcase you. "This right here is the Mrs., and she'll be killing you now."

You flinched as Alastor's voice further distorted.

Black tentacles wrapped around the now thrashing demon. And to your horror, you realized they came from your still-grinning husband's back.

His red eyes now consumed by black as he looked down at you expectantly.

"I...I don't have a knife." You avoided his eyes and looked away.

Alastor's head tilted. "You have claws now, dear."

You felt bile raise to your throat at the idea of ripping some stranger apart with your own hands.

"It'd be terribly difficult if these clothes get stained. Who knows where I could get new ones in...Hell." You had to spit the word out. "A-and, we're out in the open. Anyone can see us, there might be police here o-or their friends and family."

"You won't do it." Alastor cut off your rambling, more of a statement than a question.

You didn't meet his eyes.

You heard him sigh in dismay. "Well, it's alright, my dear. I suppose I knew your love for me had its limits."

Your eyes widen in shock, head whipping to look at him in panic. There was disappointment in his gaze as he looked away from you. Even as his smile remained painted on his lips, you could see how he seemed to shrink away from you.

"That's not true!" You half yelled, ignoring the struggling demon still held off the ground. "I'd go to the ends of the earth for you. I'd give up my life for you. I followed you to Hell, even! How could you even think that my love for you isn't boundless, Alastor?"

"Because it isn't." He sighed, his clawed hand gripped his microphone tight as he started to walk around you. "You say you'd do anything for me, that you'd give everything up for me. But I'm asking you for something so simple, and you couldn't even do that."

Your shoulders stiffen, you try to turn your head to follow him around. "This is not simple, Alastor." You said, a tinge of hysteria creeping into your voice. "You're asking me to kill someone for you, again."

"Wrong." Your husband said in a rather, sing-song manner. A jarring buzzer effect played at his words.

"I'm asking you to kill someone who is already dead." Alastor explained, barely paying mind to the sinner who now just looked very uncomfortable. "And you're already in Hell."

He looked at you as if you were stupid not to have put this together yourself. "He won't lose anything. You won't lose anything. There is nothing to give up with this tiny request of mine."

He stopped walking in front of you, but a greater deal of distance away now than when he started.

"And yet you can't even do that, my love."

You glanced down at your hands—your claws—in uncertainty.

That persistent feeling—doubt—swallowed you whole as you stood there willing your body not to move.

You should stop.

Run.

Never look back.

But instead your body moved toward the sinner; sharp, shaking, hands hesitatingly sinking into their flesh.

Once. Twice. Thrice. You couldn't be useless to your husband.

Their muffled screams sounded so far away from you, even as they yelled right by your ears.

You felt it.

Their skin giving way and the blood dampening your clothes each and every time you sank your soft, delicate, clawed hands into him.

The feeling of your long claws coming into contact and tearing through whatever bone or muscle stood in their way.

The awful, gut wrenching, guilt that swallowed your chest.

You hated it.

Alastor's hand clasps affectionately at your shoulder as he watched you cheerfully. Enjoying the conflict in your eyes as your heart died with every drop of blood that spilled from your hands.

"I think I may have just fallen so deeply in love with you, my dear wife." He cooed into your ear.

And your chest didn't flutter, or grow, or skip a beat like you had thought it would at those words.

But it's probably just the guilt, right?

It's just because so much has happened that you couldn't process anything.

Because you still loved Alastor, didn't you?

You loved him with your very soul, but he was a liar, and you may have finally started to see it.

Taglist @lil-bexie / @mizukikyong / @amurtan / @fokrilove / @fairyv-ice 

[spark-river]

Mammon & Levi's fights

Headcanon:

Levi and Mammon often get in physical squables despite Levi knowing fully well that Mammon is stronger.

It's often about a figurine or something Mammon stole. The head bashing is especially inevitable with the way their sins work (greed and envy easily causing or strengthening each other).

Still, Mammon almost never uses his full strength on Levi. The only times being when he's startled and goes straight into a fight response, effectively knocking Levi out.

Whenever that happens, he too will be the one to make sure Levi is safe until he wakes up. Luckily demons don't get hurt as easily, not that Mammon doesn't desinfect and wrap any injuries he might have caused.

Levi on the other hand will leave Mammon with scratches and bites from their scrabbles. But as soon as he sees Mammon with horrible, loose wrappings, he'll go to scold him and rewrap them. Similarly to Mammon he's not entirely able to express his true emotions like care or guilt.

[starry-bi-sky]

my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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

What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it. 

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats. 

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.” 

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.  

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died. 

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream. 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.  

He has no mouth, but he must scream. 

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood. 

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off. 

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts. 

Scrappy is just not enough. 

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all. 

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash. 

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane. 

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings. 

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice. 

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail. 

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it. 

Being dead is agony. 

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow. 

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever. 

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be. 

Being dead hurts. 

[apolaskiart]

"Please don't make Hootsie an orphan..."

[kalivasquezart]

a change in you

part 1 // part 2 // [part 3]

[kermahillway]

I’m not at home right now and really wanted to draw one of Maxime. Either way, I had a very bad headache last night and had to vent. Sorry Bratt :(

CW: HEAVY GORE WARNING!!!

[frissy]

Earth42! Miles Morales x fem!Reader

ATSV SPOILERS

(Edited) ——— (Part 1) (Part 2)

• fluff to angst

• tw: mentions of death

• google translate used, so excuse any mistakes

• short! • Miles loves to spoil you

• little bit OOC, Miles has a soft spot for you

• not proofread!!

”Where next, mí amor?” He grabbed your hand.

You and Miles were out on a date, and he was spoiling you.. like a lot.

But you’re not complaining though.

He’s gentle with you, which is unlike his apathetic and cold demeanor.

But you are his [name]. His world, his love. He would do anything for you if it ended up withyou safe and happy.

“Miles.. isn’t this a bit much? We’ve been out all day and you’re carrying so many bags.” You looked at him, slight confusion in your eyes.

He has bags all around his arms. He didn’t let you carry anything. He didn’t want you to, he heave you major princess treatment.

“nonsense, mí amor… it’s never too much when it comes to you.” His grip on your hand got tighter.

You had no clue where Miles got all this money from, it’s kind of concerning to you. But he’s not gonna tell you, so you just go with it.

“oh.. okay then.. how about.. uh.. the jewelry store?”

“Of course.”

He went the rest of the day spoiling you, and being affectionate.

”I love you, [name]. Mí amor… mí vida… mi bella querida.“ he kissed your cheek. Wrapping an arm around your waist.

.

Everything was great, it was all fine. Nothing bad could happen, right? .

.

Your date was later over, he went home while you went to work.

That’s when everything went terribly wrong. .

.

Meanwhile…

.

.

Miles was slouching on his couch, he was thinking about you, and how much he loved spending time with you… then, he saw the news channel. It was live.

The whole world stopped for him. There was a crumbling building… and it was falling to you.

That’s when he saw his dad too. He had ran to you, attempting to help, but it was too late. Miles watched it all from the TV. .

He was crying. He hadn’t noticed. But he did when it all sunk in… you were dead. His darling, his world. Was dead.

.

All he could do now was beg for you to walk through the apartment door, coming to see him again with a bright smile on your face.

He was waiting for his dad to come home, with dinner in his hands from Miles’s favorite restaurant.

He would never witness either of those ever again. .

As soon as he could, Miles and his uncle Aaron made a tribute to you and his dad with graffiti on the brick wall on the roof of the apartment complex. .

.

His father was smiling in the portrait. In his police uniform…

JEFFERSON DAVIS: BELOVED HUSBAND, AND FATHER.

.

You were also smiling. But Miles’s had painted a halo around your head. You were his angel after all, but now you were truly an Angel.

[NAME, L.NAME]: BELOVED FRIEND, BELOVED DARLING.

.

.

TO BE CONTINUED

[biblomaniac]

Kara’s jealous of Lena’s relationship with James. What happens when she learns what’s really been going on?

——————————

Kara regrets ever telling Lena to date James. At the time, she thought it would be bad of her as a friend to not support Lena, but dear Rao, she hates seeing them together.

It’s been months of them dating. Lena doesn’t share a lot about their relationship to Kara, or to anyone for that matter. They seem happy, or at least comfortable with one another, but something about seeing them together irks at the Kryptonian.

And to be honest, it’s more than just Kara having feelings for Lena. At first, Kara thought jealousy skewed her perception; that she was looking for issues where there were none. She’s come to terms with the fact that she’ll always love Lena, that Lena will never care for her back, but she cannot let go of the nagging thought that something was wrong about Lena dating James.

When Kara first met Lena, James was one of the staunchest opposers to their budding friendship. Even a year later when Lena purchased CatCo, James was more than weary of not only her last name, but her presence in general.

Then, all of the sudden, James is attracted to Lena? Wanting to date her as if he had not vehemently rejected even the very idea of her, minimized her individuality, labeling her as just another Luthor.

It makes no sense. Illogical in every form of the word, but Kara bit her tongue, trying to be the best friend she could to both parties.

It isn’t until Lena starts pulling away from Kara that she actually begins to watch how James and Lena interact.

At CatCo, it’s very professional. They don’t spend extended amounts of time alone and Lena certainly doesn’t play favorites. One of Lena’s main concerns before they started dating was the fact that she is James’s boss, so this makes sense.

I assume it’s the same at L-Corp. I mean, I’ve never seen or heard James there apart from when he was supposed to look in Lena’s vault.

Speaking of the vault, damn did Kara screw that situation up. She should’ve just trusted that Lena didn’t have any more kryptonite. She should’ve trusted her reason for why she had kryptonite. The PTSD from previous exposure has certainly clouded her mind a bit. She knew Lena had never wanted to hurt her and yet, she let her emotions lead her. Sending Guardian to essentially break in was her most reckless act of jealousy to date. It drove a bigger wedge between Supergirl and the youngest Luthor that Kara fears they’ll never recover from.

It’s right after this debacle that Lena begins to cancel movie nights and lunches out with Kara. It’s gradual at first. Kara knows the CEO is much too busy to make it to every one of their plans, and on more than one occasion, Kara herself has had to call for a rain check. But when the rescheduled dates turn into cancellations and rejections, Kara does start to take it personally.

It has to be me, right? She still comes to game nights and out to drink once in a while, but it’s like she doesn’t leave James’s side.

The blonde sees an opening one evening while the brunette is refilling glasses in the kitchen. While the others are busy arguing over what game to play next, Kara slips into the kitchen, leaning against the counter next to Lena.

Kara isn’t quite sure how to start the conversation. She stands there for a moment picking at her fingers before blurting out a rushed, “Are you okay?”

The brunette pauses in her reach for another bottle of beer. It’s the only indication in her body language that Lena has heard her.

“I’m fine,” she says plainly, resuming her task.

“Are…are we okay?” Kara asks next.

“What do you mean? Of course we’re okay,” she replies dismissively.

“I dont, I mean… did I do something to offend you?”

Lena must see something she doesn’t like in Kara’s pleading eyes. Her shoulders loosen and she breathes out a soft sigh.

“I haven’t meant to be distant. It’s just…James made some comments about me not spending enough time with him. I’ve been trying to make it up, but in the process I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry, Kara. Truly.”

Lena sounds apologetic and Kara can’t really fault her. She’s been in that position before with Mon-el; wanting to please a partner can sometimes make maintaining other relationships difficult for a time.

“It’s okay; I understand. Don’t worry about it,” Kara assured her, laying a hand on Lena’s arm for a moment before helping her carry the drinks back to the living room.

I should just be patient. It’s only been a few months; everything will go back to normal soon.

*************

It’s been two more months, and somehow Kara feels the situation has gotten worse. Lena has just become plain dodgy. She hardly accepts Kara’s calls, answers texts vaguely, and on the rare occasion she sees her in person, it’s only been with James wrapped around her.

Kara tries to mind her business, knowing it can be intrusive to listen in on people’s private conversations. Yet, she doesn’t need super hearing or x-ray visions to see how tense her friends always seem.

James puts on the cool guy exterior; calm, collected, confident. But Kara can pick up micro expressions even the most trained specialists couldn’t decipher. The looks were usually in relation to Lena. Whether it be her jobs, businesses, opinions, or her family, James always seemed to be irked by her.

Kara hated it.

She hated every second of seeing them together. It reminds her of the start of her friendship with Lena; James vehemently opposed to Kara befriending the young Luthor.

Every time the thought crossed her mind, she feels her heart beat increasing and a minimal tinge of heat vision creeping behind her eyes. Many glasses have been the victim of her temper lately. More than once, she’s had to excuse herself from group settings to cool down.

Alex thinks it’s just Kara being overprotective, that she’s reading too much into it and being too sensitive. But Kara knows in her heart that James and Lena aren’t right for one another. She doesn’t want to overstep by inquiring about it with Lena (that’s if she would even give me the time of day to talk), so she watches as the love of her life slowly fades from her reach into the arms of another, praying to Rao Lena will return to her one day.

*************

Though it has been several weeks and the Children of Liberty have gone underground for now, Kara is still reeling from her near-death experience on Shelly Island. She felt such undeniable rage at James for getting them both in that situation. She may have accepted his apology, but her trust in him is broken indubitably.

The moment James dawned the mantle of Guardian, Kara knew it would never work out. It was clear he felt inferior, that he needed the adrenal rush of danger to feel like he was making a difference.

This is exactly why I didn’t want humans acting as vigilantes.

Kara tries to keep her “god complex”, as Lena so eloquently said, in check. It’s not her place to police humans, but dear Rao, has is been more of a hassle to have another vigilante in the mix.

Not only has he been more of a hindrance in the field, now that he’s making headlines by revealing his identity and essentially co-signing the Children of Liberty, he’ll never be fully safe. If not for Lena, he would’ve been charged and arrested.

He hasn’t even thought about his friends and family. About Lena. It would be more than easy for the public to associate his alliance with the Children of Liberty and their anti-alien rhetoric with the Luthors. Hadn’t Lex put her through enough? Hadn’t he seen how his actions could be a trigger for Lena?

It’s incredibly hard for Kara to remain impartial. To keep her thoughts to herself as everyone else goes on about their lives while hers remains stagnant.

Now that she has a better handle of her duties as a reporter and a hero, she is able to better manage her time when she gets to be just Kara. With her group of friends being pulled in so many directions, and without Lena to spend a lot of one on one time with, she’s beginning to pick up hobbies she once had to set aside in favor of being Supergirl.

Kara busies herself painting at human speed. It’s a calming ritual that helps her to unwind after especially hard days as a hero, or trying days as a reporter.

She focuses on the color theory of her work, deciding which shade of maroon best complements the beryl eyes of her muse. Just as she goes to mix the next set of colors on a clean palette, there is a knock at the door.

I wonder who that could be.

Kara rises from the stool by the window, turning her easel to face the wall before crossing the room to open the door.

The sight that greets her is unexpected. Lena stands in front of her, tears streaming down her red face. Her nose is running, cheeks blotchy, and hair loose. Kara’s never seen her quite so distraught.

“Hey, what’s wrong?!” Kara asks worriedly. Lena only sobs in response, raising a hand to cover her mouth as if surprised by her own response.

Kara ushers her inside, trying to think of a reason for why Lena could be crying so profusely. Closing the door behind her, Kara reaches toward Lena to comfort her. Just as her hand makes contact with Lena’s arm, the brunette jerks away violently holding her arm across her chest. Her eyes are crazed, open wide and bloodshot.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Kara doesn’t know what to do. She’s never had to help someone so hysterical. “Lena, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“N—no. I’m sorry,” she cries backing away until she hits the wall.

Kara takes two steps back. She hold her hands out in front of her, trying not to come off as a threat.

“Breathe, Lena,” she instructs. “You have to calm down.”

Lena tries to slow her breathing, but she can’t catch her breath. All she can hear is the yelling, the snide remarks about her name, feel the press of the wall against her back and hands tight on her arms.

“Lena. Lena! Look at me, baby, can I come closer?” Kara just wants to wrap the brunette in her arms, but she knows from experience that too much too fast can be detrimental in moments like this.

She waits for Lena to answer, to give just one sign of acknowledgment to Kara’s request. All she receives is a jolted nod of acceptance before the brunette is slipping onto the floor. Kara walks closer slowly, approaching her friend like a scared animal. When she is just two feet from the brunette, she drops to her knees.

“Lee, can I touch you?”

She whimpers, face twisted in fear.

What in Rao’s name happened to her?

“Look, match my breathing.” The reporter begins a round of exaggerated breaths, trying to get Lena to breathe in and out with her. It works marginally; Lena finds the rhythm but the breaths are too shaky to be providing any real comfort.

Kara inches closer on her knees, “Good, you’re doing so well, baby. Here, put your hand on my chest. That’s it; good girl.” Her voice is low and soothing, words infused with a calm she herself doesn’t even feel right now.

Lena reaches out with a trembling hand to rest her palm against the hero’s chest. Kara notes that the arm she reached for earlier is still clutched tightly to the CEO’s chest, as if protecting an injury. Kara covers the hand against her chest with her own. She holds it there lightly to showcase the cadence of her own breathing. Her thumb rubs soothing circles against the soft skin of Lena’s hand.

They sit there, cramped on the floor of Kara’s loft for quite some time. When Lena finally catches her breath, her hand tightens on the collar of Kara’s sweater, using the hold to pull herself into Kara’s chest.

The blonde opens her arms for the crying woman, allowing her to crawl into her lap. The shorter woman tucks her head into Kara’s neck, legs pressed tightly to her own chest. She crowds herself into Kara small, small, small, as if she alone could block out the horrors of the world.

“Lee—“

The brunette shakes her head, apparently not ready to speak. Her sobs have hushed to a silent stream of tears falling down her cheeks, but the blonde can still hear the erratic beat of her heart. Kara wraps her arms around the smaller woman, holding her close but not tight enough to constrict.

“I’m gonna stand, okay? Just going to the couch. It’s more comfortable.”

Kara positions Lena better so that she can stand. The hold is awkward with Lena balled up as she is, but it’s no real trouble for the girl of steel. Lena holds tighter, seemingly ready for the short travel to the couch. Kara lowers herself slowly, rather than plopping as she usually does. The reporter sits there, murmuring quiet assurances to Lena. Before long, she feels the body in her arms going limp. Checking her heart, the hero finds it steady, the lub-dub much calmer than when she first arrived.

Kara doesn’t dare to move, wanting to allow Lena the chance to rest after her ordeal. Many scenarios cross Kara’s mind. There isn’t much that truly shakes Lena. When the brunette whimpers, Kara starts to card her fingers through dark locks. She immediately calms under Kara’s gentle caress.

She sleeps for a while longer. Kara continues her ministrations even once Lena rouses. The hero hears her breathing change, but she doesn’t speak until Lena does.

“I’m sorry,” she says into Kara’s chest. Her voice in muffled against the soft material of Kara’s paint-spattered sweater.

“What for?”

“Coming here. I didn’t mean to disrupt your evening, especially after I neglected your text to hang out.”

“Lena, I don’t care about that. You are always welcome here,” Kara assures.

Lena doesn’t reply. She just lays in the safety of her best friend’s arms. Kara allows her a moments peace before addressing the obvious elephant in the room.

Her voice remains calm and even, “Lena, tell me what’s wrong.”

Silence.

“Did something happen today?”

Silence again.

“Lena. You have to work with me here. I know something is wrong. I want to help you, but you have to let me in,” the reporter admonishes lightly, “I want to help you, in any way you need. You just have to let me in.”

A shaky exhale escapes the scientist before she removes her head from Kara’s chest. Her eyes never meet the blondes, but she can absolutely feel her pointed stare as she rolls up the sleeve of her left arm.

The purpling bruises painting her alabaster skin look worse in the hours following their placement. They trail up her arm in ribbons of finger prints. Kara is silent, but Lena feels her body tense into the hardness of a rock.

The brunette glances up at the tanned face of her friend. The first thing she notices is the absence of Kara’s trademark glasses. From her position, she can’t see the entirety of her face, but the hard set of the reporters jaw indicates a great deal of anger. Blue eyes remain focused on Lena’s arm, her free hand moving to trace one mark carefully.

“Who did this?”

The infliction of her voice, it’s so…familiar. It doesn’t sound like the soft upbeat tone the bubbly blonde usually has. The timbre is husky, a low gruff that has the potential scare Lena if it was directed at her.

“Lena. Tell me who did this,” Kara repeats, turning her head so that stormy blue meet glassy green.

Features she’s memorized over the last three years look off. There is something about Kara in this moment that clashes with the image in her mind. Lena doesn’t answer her; only continues to search Kara’s face for the inconsistencies her mind is fighting to recognize.

Kara is growing impatient, she wants to make whoever did this to her beloved pay. She moves her hand to Lena’s jaw, pulling her closer ever so gently. Only inches remain between the two.

“Tell me who hurt you, please,” she whisperers. It’s so soft compared to her tone just a moment ago. A gentle breeze following the tempest of her earlier pleas.

Mismatched eyes flutter closed, silent tears leaking slowly. The broken explanation she delivers is hushed, voice cracking and devolving into choked whimpers every so often.

“He got so upset; angry. I told him it wasn’t right. That he was endangering so many with this facade. He didn’t care; accosted me for not siding with him. I went to leave and he grabbed me. It startled me. All I could see was Lex’s angry face spitting in mine as he raved about aliens and their inferiority, Lillian slapping me for misbehaving, Lionel…”

Kara can’t bear to hear the rest. She places her forehead on Lena’s, pulling the brunette back into the safety of her own body. The urge she has to protect Lena calls to a violent part of herself that she hadn’t experienced since being poisoned with Red Kryptonite all those years ago.

“Shhh. I got you. I’ll fix it. Tell me who did this and I’ll make sure it never happens again.”

The whimpering CEO spits out the answer as if it burned her tongue with its utterance, “J—James.”

Son of a bitch.

He’s finally crossed the line.

There are a lot of things Kara isn’t proud of. Not making it to Earth to raise Kal-el, hiding her alien-ness, failing to observe the all the Kryptonian rites and holidays she’s missed over the last 14 years on Earth. In this moment, she regrets two things more than all the others combined: hiding her identity to Lena, and not putting a stop to this relationship sooner.

“Rao, I’m so sorry—“

Lena feels like her heart has stopped. Her emerald eyes shoot open to stare directly into icy blue. There was only one other time, one other person, who she heard that desperate mention from. This can’t be happening. What the fuck have I gotten myself into.

“S-supergirl?” She stutters, mouth falling open minutely. The pieces connect like a puzzle, fitting in seamlessly with countless memories and quotes: how she could effortlessly carry Lena across the room, the voice, all the excuses to leave lunch early, even “I flew here…on a bus.”

She tries to untangle herself from the hero, but Kara’s strength holds her pretty much in place. “God, I’m an idiot. You… you lied to me! Was this all fake; part of a plan? Did you know this would happen?!” Lena is crying in earnest, voice pitched high and a tremble of fear underneath the thin veil of anger.

“No! I would never do that; you know me, Lena—“

“No I don’t!” She protests, but they fall on deaf ears. She continues her struggle against the impenetrable blonde, becoming erratic at the feeling of being trapped, “Let me go! Let me go!”

Kara gently deposits the woman on the couch. She kneels before her, hands on the couch bracketing both sides of her thighs. “Okay, okay. Please, just listen to me. I was going to tell you. But I got scared. You were already so distant because of James; I didn’t want you be leave me. I’m sorry I lied. I thought I was protecting you.”

Lena immediately protests the statement, “How could you be protecting me? I was already in danger; I have been since the moment I met the Luthors.”

“It feels like every time someone else finds out, everyone who knows becomes open to more danger. I don’t want that. Especially for you.”

Tears still fall, but their flow turns from raging rapids into steady streams. “Why are you saying this? You told me you wouldn’t trust a Luthor with your name.”

“I didn’t mean that—“

“Yes you did! You were angry at me, and you said it to be cruel.”

“Lee, I didn’t mean it. I swear I didn’t! I was hurt, and I lashed out. I’m sorry,” Kara says placing her hands into Lena’s knees and leaning up into her space.

“Don’t lie to me.” She whispers brokenly. The day has been too long, too hard. The earnestness in Kara’s eyes is alluring. So different from the spark of hate and loathing James’s had earlier. The fight drains out of her when the Super presses their foreheads together.

“I’ll never do it again. I’ll tell you everything: about me, about Krypton, how I got to Earth. Khap vrreiahv vo rrip, i shokh nim i.”

I promise to you, my truth is yours.

Lena’s face feels wet, but she doesn’t know if it’s her tears or Kara. “I—I can’t trust you,” she whimpers, voice choked and mouth dry.

“You don’t have to. I wouldn’t deserve it even if you did. I promised to protect you, and I failed. Just let me help you,” Kara avows, running the tip of her nose along Lena’s, around her regal cheek bones and to the shell of her ear.

“I’ll fix this,” she pledges, “You are my everything.”

You are my everything.

The brunette sinks down, holding herself to Kara with her uninsured arm as tightly as she can. “Don’t hurt me. I can’t bear it.”

Kara hugs her back, pressing kiss after kiss to Lena’s dark unruly hair, “Never again, Lena. I’ll take care of you. Khap vrreiahv.”

Always.

[aannonn]

I FINALLY FINISHED ITT LETS GOOO

(to anyone who wanna read it on ao3 instead! ><)

not-actually-so-funfact; my computer started to burn in the middle of the translation :D (im brazilian so i write my fics in brazilian before translating them to english- xd)

anyways!! hope u enjoy the read just as much as I did while writing it! <3

- , "Ruined. All Ruined."

(updated/fixed) Tags ;

Rating : Teen and Up Audiences Warning : Graphic Depictions of Violence Tags#1 : rated t mainly because of the swears // violent thoughts // threats of violence // whump // self hatred // self depreciation // self esteem // self esteem issues // angst // angst and feels // heavy angst // hurt no comfort // emotional hurt // crying // selective mutism // talking in musical notes Tags#2 : hurt/comfort // comfort // emotional hurt/comfort // emotional // inner dialogue // minecraft mechanics // neurodivergent // {not exactly the focus but y'k- its there} // author is projecting

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Ruined.

All ruined.

   Green sat on his bed, the tie tied carefully around his neck crumpling from the tightness of his knees being hugged close to his chest. A crumpled tie was certainly not something he would take lightly, and he would quickly fix his posture so he could tidy it up and leave it the way it was before, perfect as it should be. But- honestly? Green felt no motivation to do so right now.

   He doesn't understand what he did wrong. Did he prepare too much? Did he create a lot of expectations? Did he let his anger and arrogance get the best of him again?

   Everything seemed perfect, everything was perfect, but then that silverfish suddenly emerged and, in the blink of an eye, everything around him seemed to be shattering; All the months of planning and preparation and so, so many songs he wrote and scratched because none of them felt perfect enough felt like they had been stepped on, crushed and thrown into lava, slowly burning right before his eyes.

   Is not fair. None of this was fair. He worked so hard to get to this moment, to improve his musical skills and impress an entire audience with his music, his passion. His friends, friendly acquaintances - everyone he knew was there - even Orange was there! They were all there for the concert, for the performance, for him.

   He felt like he was on cloud nine, happily boasting about the praise and applause floating around him like birthday confetti, roses being thrown at him as a sign of love and admiration - His friends and family were congratulating him and looking at him with so much admiration and love and affection for his amazing and so well-planned, so well-done, so perfect performance.

   He felt so adored, like the celebrities he saw on YouTube, being praised and complimented and talked about by many, many people, with so much admiration and adoration in their voices when talking about them. He felt so envied, as if several people adored him so much that they wanted to have his talents, they wanted to be him. He felt so loved, friends and family being so proud of him that he felt himself laughing happily, smiling so big that his cheeks hurt.

   ...Then a silverfish rised onto the stage, stepped on his noteblock, and the adoring, gazing eyes of the crowd - of his friends - were on the mob, and suddenly it seemed like it wasn't his concert anymore, but rather a random silverfish who just invaded the stage and stole his place, his audience, his moment.

   Green clenched his fists, bringing his knees even closer and crumpling his tie even more; Is not fair. None of this is fucking fair. He worked so hard for this, he worked so long for this, and now it's all ruined. Everything is ruined.

   The audience applauded and the show was a success, but the silverfish was the one in the spotlight; It was what was being boasted about, congratulated, adored, happily applauded for its' incredible performances.

   Meanwhile, Green was collapsing in pain in the middle of the stage and suffering from a horrible concussion.

   He felt humiliated, awfully humiliated. Shame, disappointment, and anger flooded his entire being, and the moment he woke up in his room, in his bed, with an ice pack on his head and a potions kit right on his desk, the only thing he did was have a staring contest with the ceiling with hazy eyes, his mind was a complete fog as he felt himself swinging his leg from side to side, jiggling it repeatedly distractedly.

   They cheered, the audience cheered, his friends cheered, but none of the cheers and joyful whistles were directed at him, as if the show had never even belonged to him in the first place.

   Green clenched his fists so tightly that he felt the faintest hint of blood coming from his palms, tears stinging his eyes distressingly, falling and spilling and wetting the mattress like rainfalls.

   Small bubbles appeared in his throat and made him let out soft sobs while small melodic notes came out of his mouth, making unbearably unpleasant and hostile noises, seeming as if a million instruments were being played at the same time, forming a loud and unpleasant noise for the ears. Fortunately the canorous notes that came out were small and therefore you wouldn't be able to hear them properly if you weren't close enough to his face.

   He felt so pathetic, so ridiculous. It wasn't even that bad; Everyone in the audience loved and genuinely enjoyed the show, his friends even formed a band and Orange finally played the electric guitar he had after years of not even touching it! So why was he so sad? Why did he feel like his entire world had just collapsed? Why did he feel so angry at the silverfish that only wanted to play with him?

   Because he was so selfish. So selfish and arrogant the little musician.

   He wanted to pull his head off, his stupid head with a stupid brain that only knew how to think about itself - He wanted to find that stupid silverfish and sink the tip of the diamond sword at its' stomach, jab it and stab it and all over again until all that was left of the mindless mob were little white clouds signaling its permanent death.

   He wanted to punch himself, spank himself - He wanted to be vengeful, he wanted to scream - He was so angry at himself, so angry at the silverfish, so angry at his brain, so angry at his feelings, so angry at his friends who didn't even try to help him get the silverfish off the stage and bring everyone's attention back to him, so angry at the world that was never merciful to him, hurting him again and again and again and again and again and again like a fucking punching bag.

   He wanted to isolate himself from everything and everyone to show the world how fucking angry and tired he is right now. He wanted his friends to invade his room to shower him with love and affection, hugs and apologies and promises that they would take better care of him, that they would never try to hurt him again, that they would never let the world hurt him again.

   He wants the world to burn, he wants the world to hold him like a baby.

   He's so selfish. Selfish and arrogant little adorable musician.

   His mind was a fog full of thoughts as his emotions took control, his body swayed slightly from side to side like a mantra, all of this making his brain unable to register the sound of footsteps approaching his position on the bed or even extra weight being added to the green mattress.

   Green jumped when he felt a hand holding his arm gently, rocking his body serenely and distracting his mind from thoughts for a few brief moments. He still didn't take his face off his knees, but he didn't take the hand off his arm either.

   Faint sobs and small musical notes echoed through the spacious house, the fog of dark thoughts in his mind gradually fading until all that was left were just faint sobs and dry tears gracing his face, a few tears still running down his chin towards the bed, small drops of water, some already old, wetting the mattress.

   He didn't register and didn't want to register how long it had been since he and the familiar but currently unknown stickfigure had been sitting on the bed. The stickfigure just rocked him calmly and slowly, distracting him from his thoughts that only got darker and darker, while also giving him time to calm down at his own pace, which Green deeply appreciates.

   Eventually, his breathing seemed to have finally eased and he opened his eyes, raising his head slowly and groggily, somewhat destabilized after the horrible mental breakdown he had just had.

   Yellow's composed and slightly worried face greeted him, the gentle movement of his head cooled off the nervous spasms he felt in his body after his brain had correctly registered the pathetic and disappointing scene he had just made, right in front of one of the last people he wanted for to see him in this state.

   Yellow remained quiet, his hand still on Green's arm as he continued to rock him gently, his movements filled with nothing but pure affection and concern for him. For Green.

   Green raised his head groggily, feeling light bubbles rising in his throat again and a new spiral of crying emerging before he pushed it back by force, several carefully chosen words in his head ready to start a conversation and break the suffocating silence, even though none of them had any actual desire to actually produce real sounds.

   He coughed, a hoarse, noisy wet cough, taking a deep breath - with some difficulty - before merely forcing a sound out of his throat, words in his mind all jumbled together - he just wanted to break the silence, a silence so quiet and still and suffocating.

   - W.. what." His voice was hoarse from crying and small musical notes were muddled with the words, making the words that came out of his mouth a confusing cacophony of sounds and verbs without a correct direction.

   Yellow patted his free hand on his knee nervously, whispering softly; - I just wanted to check up on you."

   Green no longer felt any motivation to actually form words and say them out loud, so he just shook his head sharply and pushed Yellow's hand away from his arm, a small musical note faintly leaving his mouth; a twisted, angry, broken sound.

   Go away.

   Yellow quickly understood the message the older one wanted to convey and tapped his hand on his knee nervously again, a slight, almost imperceptible movement of his shoulders lowering in defeat before he stood up and walked to the door, his steps light, but steady, echoing in the now empty space; where a single green stickfigure sat on his own bed of the same color, hugging and consoling himself from the world that only knew how to hurt. The only sounds that could be heard were his own whimpers and small melodic notes that the form curled up like a ball of the arrogant little musician emanated.

   It's so quiet. The world seemed so much lonelier and more dangerous when it was quiet.

   It's just him, and the world that hates him.

.

.

.

.

   At some point in his breakdown; round two(2), Green fell asleep; spilled tears still dripping onto the mattress while light, dry remnants clung to his cheeks. Honestly, Green isn't sure if he actually fell asleep, all he remembers is that his perception of his surroundings was momentarily desensitized and he found himself lying in his bed, a pair of hands on his shoulder shaking him with enthusiasm to side to side, presumably being the reason why his brain seemed to have regained awareness of his surroundings when he felt a sudden and unexpected physical contact stirring him impatiently.

   Red's excited and unbearably happy face was what greeted him this time, determination and enthusiasm adorning his movements as he continued to shake him the way he normally would when he had done something cool and desperately wanted to show to someone.

   Noticing the slight movement of Green's head moving towards him, Red let go of the shorter stick's right shoulder and jumped back, his arms bobbing up and down happily before grabbing Green's hands and pulling him in a way so that he was now sitting on the bed, relinquishing him and quickly rushing to the door, giving him one last look (still jumping up and down and waving his arms happily) before jumping out of the house, his steps happy and hurried resonating even outside the household.

   Green just stared at the door now open to him, not moving a single inch to follow Red to wherever the latter wanted to show him, an internal debate in his head with the decisions he could make.

   Getting out of bed, let alone walking to the door, seemed like a challenge. His body had little to no motivation to exercise and his head was still a fog that momentarily distracted him from his surroundings. He really didn't want to get up.

   But there would be no more silence if he did. The world would no longer seem so dangerous and immense for him if he went outside.

. . .

   Green sighed, staring at the floor for several long moments before merely forcing his body to stand, stumbling a bit in disorientation after sitting for so long, before practically dragging himself to the door, his slow, sloppy steps echoing through the silent residence.

   The entire time he walked towards the open door, Green stared at the ground, absentmindedly counting the pixel particles of the blocks he passed in his mind.

   He really had no desire to do anything... But the silence he was in was too suffocating and oppressive for him to bear.

   As he walked, Green quickly noticed that the light gradually dimmed with each new block, getting darker and darker until he couldn't even see the color of the staircase.

   Green took his eyes off the floor and raised his head, noticing how the computer's lighting seemed to have suddenly faded, enveloping both him and the programs and the PC's characteristic background in immense darkness - Much like when he himself removed the brightness of the computer to blast his latest music at that time.

   Green straightened up, feeling goosebumps all over his body as he took his cell phone out of his pocket and turned on the flashlight, quickly taking out his diamond sword from his inventory and holding it tightly, keeping his guard up for any possible mobs or whatever it was that could suddenly jump on him.

   He slowly descended the steps, his steps light and careful as he illuminated the darkness around him and kept his ears open for any sign of movement or noise.

   He wonders where his friends are...

   Suddenly, red and orange and yellow and green and blue lights illuminated the computer and momentarily blinded him, causing him to stagger back in fright and throw his sword and cell phone into the air before quickly grabbing the sword in alarm, pointing the sharp tip towards the light source as he vaguely registered the sound of his cell phone falling to the ground with the flashlight still on.

   A stage - his stage - his concert stage - greeted him back, colorful lights enthusiastically illuminating the center of the stage, where stood his dearest friends that he had known for as long as he could remember.

   Friends who also just watched as his concert was ruined by a fucking silverfish.

   Green shook his head sharply to dispel that thought, slowly lowering his sword as he quickly settled down, no longer feeling the impending danger scratching the back of his neck, though that also didn't mean his irritation had disappeared.

   He simply stared at the four(4) stickfigures on the stage, irritation was obvious in his movements as he gave them the silent treatment.

   Blue clasped his hands together nervously, Red dragged his feet on the floor without looking at him while Orange shifted uncomfortably; The only one who seemed more balanced and stressless of all was Yellow, although Green could detect a slight touch of nervousness in the movement of his shoulders.

   None of them said or made any movement as an indication that they were going to break the silence, Green just stared at them demanding an explanation while the others just moved and looked at each other nervously.

   Blue turned to Red, grabbing his shoulder before pushing him forward. Red stumbled before immediately shaking his head roughly and pushing Blue forward, to which Blue grabbing Orange's hand and pulling the shortest one in front of him, pushing him nervously to be in Green's gaze. Orange looked back and forth between Blue, Red and then Green, staring at the ground while rubbing his arms nervously, before finally taking a single step forward before Yellow suddenly stopped him by grabbing his shoulder and pointing at himself, to which the youngest nodded in thanks and quickly went to Red's side.

   Yellow took a deep breath, only taking three steps forward before finally breaking the silence, his voice a soft whisper with varying degrees of guilt and apologetic tone emanating from it.

   - We're sorry."

   Green bounced in surprise, confusion adorning his movements.

   At the sound of Yellow's voice, the other three(3) seemed to find courage and quickly echoed their own apologies with equal degrees of guilt and apologetic tones, a cacophony of voices over one another as they made several sudden and clumsy movements.

   - We had fun but you didn't have fun and that wasn't- It wasn't what- It was not cool. Nothing cool."

   - We're really, really sorry- The show was horrible- It was horrible to you- It was scary, wasn't it? It was terrifying... We laughed but- And- We didn't even think how hurt would you be..."

   - We didn't try to help you when you needed it most, and we completely understand if you- How angry you might- How angry you are and we won't force you to forgive us or anything-"

   Sincere. Genuine. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Don't forgive us. You don't need to forgive us. We are really sorry. We will take better care of you.

   Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry-

   - So we thought about- Ah. To repair. Give you the concert you truly deserve."

The firm tone emanating from Yellow's voice quickly interrupted the fog that was beginning to form in Green's head, turning his head towards him to realize that the taller one had raised his hand and stopped everyone from continuing with the cacophony of voices. Of I'm sorrys. Of apologies-

   Oh wait.

   Oh. Oh.

   The stage was for him?

   - I know nothing will fix the damage that silverfish caused- The damage we didn't even try to cease- But." Yellow paused, clasping his hands and fidgeting nervously in his seat before taking a deep breath and continuing; - That's- The concert really mattered to you, so. We wanted to- Give you a chance to- A second chance to. Show to the world-

   - The world being us."

   Yellow elbowed Red. - Your performance. And just your performance only. No silverfish to take your place."

   The stage was practically the same as the show, although it was significantly reduced to fit the computer and not cover the entire space to the point of being almost claustrophobic.

   The instruments from before - from the villagers who agreed to help him with the concert - were not there, just the blocks and noteblocks that had been used previously in the concert. On his concert.

   It was his show. It is his show.

   The stage is his. The performance is his. The audience is his.

   Green just stared at the stage, then at the instruments, then at his friends.

   Millions of emotions flowed like musical notes, the fog in his head forming like fluffy, adorable clouds, and suddenly he felt an immense urge to jump and bounce and play and scream and stim and-

   A single musical note, so small and confused and twisted and broken - yet joyful and hopeful and excited and free - floated from his mouth, the harp-like sound echoing so low that Green is sure none of them would have heard it if the room was not in a complete silent.

   For me?

   Yellow tilted his head gently, Blue touched his hands like he always does when he's excited, while Orange nodded and Red happily waved his arms up and down, encouragingly signaling the older one to come on stage.

   For you.

   Green timidly walked to the stage, Blue and Red quickly helped him by grabbing his hands and pulling him up, Orange walked towards him and gently pushed him to the center where the noteblocks were carefully placed in a way that formed a piano, patting his back in encouragement before going to join Red and Blue on the chairs in front of the stage, sitting right next to Red who was resting his parrots on his shoulders.

   Yellow had the staff in hand, placing his hands on his hips in a sign of lighthearted annoyance, confusing Green momentarily before realizing that the taller stick was looking at the crumpled tie with small traces of dried tears.

Oh.

   Green looked down at his shabby tie, dismay filling him at how careless he had been with his beautiful tie, before perking up when yellow hands suddenly grabbed his tie by the ends and stretched it, trying to straighten it back to the way it was before. Finishing, Yellow walked away and placed his hands on his hips as a sign of pride, while Green just stared at his tie, now even more messy and shabby than before.

   Such a mistake like that would freak him out, reprimand the causer and quickly fix the damage done.

   Now, somehow, he found no reason to care.

   It was perfect. It is perfect.

   Green took the staff extended to him with such delicacy and care, as if the staff would break with a single sloppy touch, holding it close to his chest like a plush.

   Yellow patted his head, touching his forehead to Green's in a tender and gentle manner, before retreating and getting off the stage, sitting right next to Blue and putting all his attention on Green, on the show. On Green. On the performance. On Green.

   All eyes and heads were on him, all attention was on him and him alone.

  Playing his slightly altered melody as he now played solo, he felt on cloud nine. Gloatingly boasting of the enthusiastic applause and whistles of his beloved audience, who adored every performance he performed no matter how imperfect they seemed to him. Of his friends, who would always be there welcoming him with open arms and would help him in any way they could. Of his family, who adore him and love him so, so much.

   It was perfect. It is perfect.

   He is adored. He is accepted. He is loved.

   He always was. And he always will be.

.

.

.

.

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[thesoulesscollection]

Summary: They were destined to be the other's demise. A treacherous game of Russian Roulette with no winners. 

Ch 1 Tws: Threats (Death & Physical Harm), Whump, Heavy Angst, Graphic Violence & Torture, Complicated Relationships, Knives, Blood, Major Character Injury, Hand Trauma, Implied Death & Injury, Mention Of Self Harm & Suicide

(Hopefully with the wait this is a good read. Also tell me if I'm missing a tag, please)

[thejesterconcept]

|[ You're No Savior ]|

Another oneshot, about the wonderful Lord Bloodmoon AU @o-i-w-u has created! A link to the AU is here, and their profile's 'Lord Bloodmoon AU' tag will help you find all the posts with this AU! I also created another oneshot prior to this one, and it is right here!

I hope you enjoy this one! TW/CW: Light blood, heavy violence

Sun was running. The motors in his body were working overtime, and though he probably could run slightly faster, the human he was trying to save wouldn't be that fast. Not that his speed would be enough.

No, no no!

He had to stay positive, he had to stay positive, he'd get this human out of here, he'd make a difference this time! He could do it!

Sure, Eclipse always told him to quit, and he was the only company Sun really had, aside from Bloodmoon, but Sun could do this, he could do something useful, for once since this whole thing happened!

Sun turned to look back at the human, and to make sure they weren't tripping up over their own feet too much. Going too slow was bad, and the human was barely keeping up, breath huffing and their fear evident on their face.

He glanced back at the corridor they had gone through, the red lights illuminating the halls flickering, before looking back at the path ahead. The human was safe, they were so close-

...

Sun should have known better at this point. He really should have. He never had been able to actually save someone, to get them away from Bloodmoon's grasp...he supposed Lord Bloodmoon now, although Sun wasn't sure if he wanted to call Bloodmoon that, ever.

Every time he tried to help, he failed. They were always caught.

He should have noticed the shadow approaching. Bloodmoon was sneaky.

Sun could only stand there and watch, as the human was turn from his grasp, and was slammed into the ground. Bloodmoon kept his eyes on the human, grinning with amusement as he slammed the human back down, leaving blood splatters, before digging his claws into its flesh as it wailed in agony, trying to pull away.

Sun only took a few steps back, before feeling Eclipse's grasp on him leading him away from Bloodmoon before the Star user decided to turn onto Sun himself.

...how did Sun look in Eclipse's eyes? As numb as he felt? As useless and unable to do anything as he felt? Eclipse didn't even say anything to Sun, just getting him away. Or maybe he did say something, but Sun wasn't listening.

.....

If he could go back to when this all started, would he have been able to do anything to fix it?

[mistervinney]

Episode 8 acrilimus death scene but more gorey

[shadesofnavy]

Animatronic Keith AU Lore

This is obviously inspired by the FNF Animatronic Boyfriend mod, the 2011 remodeled design here was partially inspired by DJX Boyfriend's design

Shoutout to @xenoshadow13 for helping a LOT on the brainstorming for this one--this took months hah

2k+ words below

Warnings: Murder, violence, guns

There are no pairings here, only family

An apology to any Senpai-lovers, he's not the best here at all

This takes place back in time

Like his counterparts, in this AU of mine, Keith, or more widely known as The Boyfriend, was always known to have been an ambitious boy with big dreams. His affable and witty personality made him a well-liked fellow, and an insufferable nemesis. His passion for good food, love and music had always been a setback in his academic years, but upon graduating college they would prove to finally be an advantage to achieving his goals.

He would start with making his own music shortly after under the striking stage name of “The Boyfriend.” It would take a few years, and a lot of encouragement and help from his parents and friends, but after moving city to city, playing live and picking up gigs wherever he could, at some point he would finally find opportunities to reach more ears with the help of music producers and developers, opening to the doors of his fame. 

By the late 80s, The Boyfriend had been able to officially release many of his written songs with the proper equipment and modifications, his music ranging from rock love songs, deep and meaningful grunge, and funky rap. His broad choice of music genres would make him spread relatively fast, and he would reach the top charts with other popular bands and artists by the early 90s in no time.

At that time The Boyfriend would be considered a successful musician with multiple hit albums and a continuously growing fanbase. His music had been a success, but he still had another goal in mind. Food had always been an important part of his life, having lived with parents that both knew how to cook and passed down their skills to him. He wanted to make something out of it. Food always tastes better with good music and friends, and the three combined could make wonderful memories. Keith wanted something everyone could enjoy–family, friends, lovers, even a person alone. A spot for everyone to forget about problems for a moment and have a good time. What better way than to use his talents and money to make that possible? 

The Boyfriend’s Funkstaurant, named by yours truly, began its development in 1992. Keith had a friend for anything, in everything, and with his hefty income from his fame, it wasn’t excessively hard to afford the necessary equipment and permits. Employees were not at all tough to find in the busy city, and alongside his childhood anchor, Michael Hart, Keith founded the Boyfriend Entertainment, managed to find a suitable building in the city of Philadelphia, and within two years, the family entertainment restaurant would open its doors in 1994, a polished, well-managed business with good-natured staff, all whom were associated with The Boyfriend himself. 

The establishment would be an instant hit, and Boyfriend’s Funkstaurant would quickly become one of the top family restaurants around Philly. Keith would leave Michael as the manager in charge of the place while he continued to work on his music and concerts, as his own music producer was eager to have him perform across the country, and Keith couldn’t say no (literally). He would however come by quite frequently whenever the schedules weren’t tight, to either manage the place himself for a time, or to simply enjoy himself with his friends and family, even performing there in person. 

As four years passed, the restaurant held up successfully, better than ever. The music productivity was slowing down for Keith. Less concerts, more focus on The Boyfriend’s Funkstaurant. Michael decided to bring in a college friend as another manager who went by Jeffery Davis to help lessen the amount of work for him and Keith. Jeffery, who had worked as an employer for several other businesses, wasn’t as much of a friend with Keith as he was with Michael, who often spoke fondly of the singer, but they were mostly on good terms and genuinely respected each other enough for a steady companionship. It turned out Keith actually knew how to manage a job seriously, Jeffery realized, unlike his seemingly cocky and witty stage persona. He still had a humorous side of himself, even with work, and frankly enough it could annoy Jeffery sometimes, but at least the singer knew when it was time to drop the jokes. He had to admit, it did keep it from getting bland on the job.

Jeffery spent a lot of time at the establishment working. The place was almost always busy, especially during the weekends. He would occasionally bring his nine-year-old daughter Cherry at the time to look after her while she wasn’t at school. The girl had been extremely fascinated with the restaurant ever since her family took her there when the place first opened up when she was five years old. 

Keith would come to find himself growing fond of little Cherry. The girl would look up to him whenever she stuck around during his work hours when her dad brought her over, where the singer would take the time to show her around, and share his future plans to the curious youngster for the restaurant—one of these plans being the animatronic mascot he, Michael and some other crews were working on. 

He wanted to completely focus on his music career again now that Michael wouldn’t be left alone to manage the Funkstaraunt, this time going on tour internationally, and his producer was ecstatically encouraging him. But that would mean he needed to spend a lot of time away from The Boyfriend’s Funkstaurant, and since he was often around there entertaining customers and overall being the life of the party, his absence would be particularly hard on some folks, especially the youngest ones, which included Cherry. He wanted something that would somewhat fill the missing gap while he was gone. With the suggestions and creativity of his staff and some friends, the idea of the Boyfriend mascot was quickly turned into reality within a year.

In 1999, however, an old nemesis from Keith’s school years stopped by. None other than the crooked Stephan Lindberg, who also had a dream of soaring high in the music industry but never managed to do so. He one day stopped by the restaurant he had been hearing so much about for ages already, only because he was fed up on how the stupid blue-haired jerk who kept getting the girls from high school actually managed to make it so far—his music was on the radio, he was famous for it, he was on the top of the music industry, he somehow got a huge restaurant going, and it boiled Stephan’s blood. 

Bitter and blinded with jealousy and hate towards Keith for his fame and success, Stephan came up with a twisted scheme to get back at Keith when on one of his snitching visits at the restaurant he overheard two ladies fussing about how awfully close the singer was to Jeffery’s daughter and the security guard’s 12 year old son during a visit in the restaurant to observe its environment. A wicked idea came to mind when he overheard the ladies who he secretly taped on a voice recorder, and he’d later blackmail two associates to take pictures and frame Keith for having ulterior motives on the staffs’ children that were frequently at the restaurant. 

Using these photos, Stephan snuck to the establishment one night when there weren’t any workers besides Keith, Jeffery and a few other staff members, who were busy preparing the restaurant for Cherry’s tenth birthday the next day, and the reveal of the now finished Boyfriend animatronic mascot. He would approach Jeffery first, somewhat surprised to hear that the manager had heard about him from his coworker who at the time was taking a few days off. Stephan, even more angered, calmly informed Jeffery about his “worrying conclusions,” presenting him with the false evidence he had managed to fabricate with his associates—photos, voice tapes of the ladies who gave him the idea the other day, and even videos taken at an intentional misleading angle of Keith simply hugging Cherry.

Jeffery had heard about Stephan’s deceiving tactics and second-nature through Michael before, and he was well aware that Stephan was just a stranger to him, not someone he should lightly take his word for. However, the mention of his daughter’s name and Keith’s “supposed” evil intentions struck a nerve, and he became horrified, sick, and furious. Without a second thought he immediately jumped the gun and rushed over to confront Keith, who was understandably taken aback when Jeffery began to accuse him of Stephan’s lies. 

The situation escalated to a fight in which Jeffery initiated when Keith tried to defend himself, not believing anything the singer told him. Stephan watched with satisfaction from the sidelines as the few other staff members began to rush over in a panic. It would flatter when Keith took the upper hand and reluctantly struck Jeffery with a powerful uppercut, sending his manager back in stumble, and despite his constant desperate denials, Jeffery shook off the punch and pulled out a small handgun of his—one gifted by Keith himself for a birthday. Consumed with rage and unknowingly thrilling Stephan, he unloaded the pistol on Keith, six shots to the chest, nearly killing him. 

If he were any smarter, Stephan would’ve left and let the situation play out tragically. However, like the gluttonous fool he was, he decided to step in and reveal himself, taunting Jeffery for believing his false evidence, sneering over his naivety and shock. He planned to blackmail Jeffery, knowing the man’s reputation was now at stake for killing the famous singer. Jeffery wasn’t going to want to face the consequences for it, wasn’t he? 

Before he could go any further with his plot though, his associates who helped him fabricate the entire scenario had a change of heart upon witnessing how far Stephan had let things go, both knocking the crook who blackmailed them first and bonding his wrists and ankles. 

Jeffery was sick to his stomach and tremendously mortified as he stared down at Keith’s body. He knew he had committed a second-degree murder, and he would be taken to prison. He rightfully deserved to. He let a complete make him do something irreversible, all based on lies. Jeffery knew he belonged behind bars, but he panicked. He couldn’t go to jail. His family would hate him. His wife, his daughter—Lord his daughter would completely want his guts to rot in a cell if she ever knew about this. He decided, as much as his own actions pained him, he could not let it happen. 

The staff wanted to tell authorities of what really happened—they had the camera tapes, Stephan’s made up evidence, and the handgun, everything. But Jeffery, all too terrified for his own being, shot down each of their concerns, threatening them with blackmail and even dragging them into the mess. Deep down he knew it was wrong—it was sinful, but he couldn’t bring himself to plead guilty. At least, not while Cherry was still so young. None of the staff members wanted to follow, but they too didn’t want their lives ruined either because of this, so in the end they hushed up and remorsefully went along with it. 

The staff and Jeffery covered up the incident to make it look like Stephan himself had killed Keith. The body was stuffed into the Boyfriend animatronic to make it look like Stephan tried to hide the corpse for later disposal. Unbeknownst to them however, Keith was still conscious during all of that. His final moments were spent stuffed inside the cage of his own creation, agonized and paralyzed, until finally he drifted off. 

Any evidence of Jeffery having killed Keith himself was destroyed. Any tapes, Stephan’s fabricated plot, and fingerprints were cleared away and shredded. Jeffery took the camera footage that caught the event, but before deleting it all permanently, out of guilt he copied it all to a spare VHS tape. He was a coward, and he hid the tape for the longest time, praying no one would find it until after he died of old age. 

Keith’s death was reported the early morning after, the news first reaching his family’s and Michael’s ear, and his body was properly taken care of. Stephan would be charged for first-degree murder and sent to prison for life, the new fabricated story being him having shot Keith instead. The truth stayed between Jeffery, the few unfortunate staff members, Stephan’s two associates, and hidden deep in the animatronic mascot. 

That same day, the news of Keith’s death was kept away from Cherry, who was ecstatic for her birthday with her friends at the Funkstaraunt. Though it wouldn’t be long before the official reveal of the mascot that she would see on the news about what had happened the night before. 

The poor girl, who was given honors to pull down the sheet over her long awaited surprise, would instantly be overwhelmed with grief and horror, along with the other boys and girls around her who also looked up to the singer who brought them so much joy. What was supposed to be an amazing day turned out to be one of Cherry’s nightmares in a flash as she began to cry, staring up at the dreaded words on the tv up by the corner that sent thousands of questions running across her little mind.

BREAKING NEWS: KEITH BURLINGTON “THE BOYFRIEND” FOUND DEAD

Unbeknownst to everyone, Keith’s spirit, which had latched onto the mascot after having been stuffed inside it, began to stir as his distorted subconsciousness managed to recognize the anguished wails of his little friends. Desperate to help, he gained control over the shell for a time and began to move, the sheet falling off his new form and gaining the attention of the weeping children below. 

His mind, twisted and confused as to what happened, and what was happening, instead focused on the tear-stained faces of the little boys and girls below, all whom he knew. He focused on Cherry, and the little ginger-haired boy beside her, and knelt down to them, his mechanical joints working perfectly for the first time. 

Hey, it’s okay. I’m still here. 

The working staff at the time were confused as no one had yet activated the animatronic, but they let it slide when all of the children—and even the older ones—started to lighten up a bit with the mascot’s presence. There was something about it that made them feel as though it was really Keith… even though they all knew it wasn’t. Or, at least, believed. 

For the rest of the day Keith’s spirit managed to stay awake for Cherry. There was an irresistible tiredness bearing down his consciousness though, tempting him to shut down again. However he stayed awake until he was sure Cherry and the kids were okay. Only then did he let his mind slip into the deep alluring darkness, and the Boyfriend went back to performing its usual programming for the rest of Cherry’s childhood.

Fast forward to the year 2011, now 22 years old and freshly out of college, Cherry gets news that the restaurant’s mascot’s remodel has been finished, and with her new culinary degree, she decides to go back to the Boyfriend’s Funkstaruant to work as the lead cook. Miraculously it’s been holding up fairly well for all of this time, but Cherry knows that ever since Keith had died the Funkstaraunt’s original spark had gone with him. Wanting to bring that feeling again to the place, she believes it’s a good place to start her career. 

She’s surprised to see a few familiar faces back there. More so when she learns they have the same goals in mind, too. 

She’s certain they can bring back The Boyfriend’s Funkstaraunt’s former glory, just like Keith had when she was little. 

Little did she and her new coworkers know, however, that there was more to the restaurant than she had known it for. For starters, The Boyfriend animatronic itself. 

BOYFRIEND AND CO. COPYRIGHT 1999 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

More of modern au Mariano's prison arc!! He sure is normal and okay. This one is VERY heavy so no shame in needing to skip it!

TWs: Suicidal thoughts/ideation, starvation, institutional abuse, abuse of power, dehumanization, exposure to low temperatures, neglect, captivity (of the prison variety)

The moonlight streamed in, turned crisp and sharp by the winter air. The blanket he was issued wasn't enough to keep it off of Mariano's skin, or out of his bones. It crawled in under the blanket with him and curled in close.

It sighed across his shoulders and neck. Its kisses made his nose numb. He couldn't feel his toes or fingers anymore.

Mariano could see his breath every time he exhaled.

It didn't matter. No one would do anything if he mentioned it, and this was normal anyway. February was always the worst in isolation.

Vaguely, Mariano wondered if he'd die in his sleep. It wasn't really cold enough for it, but for all he knew it was just a particularly dry night. The mattress pad rustled as he curled onto his side, tucking his fingers between his sides and his biceps.

His shoulders and hip ached, the cushion almost nonexistent between Mariano's body and the concrete. The persistent shivering wasn't helping much either, but that was just how one spent winters in solitary confinement.

Dying didn't sound so terrible.

His parents wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. They wouldn't have to keep sending him money for commissary. They wouldn't be blamed for raising a monster anymore, because the evil would've died behind bars. He wouldn't be able to hurt anyone ever again.

Maybe dying would be warm.

Mariano could make it warm. His hands gripped his sides tighter. It would be so easy. He wasn't warded. It was too dangerous to ward him permanently, would make him too sick. The guards didn't want to deal with it, and it wasn't like the charges he'd catch for using his magic would matter if he was dead. All he had to do was wrap his hand around his own throat and cast. He wouldn't feel it for more than a second.

He swallowed against his own icy palm. He didn't realize he'd put his hand to his throat. It trembled in the cold air.

He wouldn't be hungry anymore if he died.

Mariano's stomach ached, chewing on itself. They'd forgotten to bring him lunch and dinner. Sometimes that happened on shift changes. It was probably why he felt colder than usual. It was fine.

He wouldn't be thirsty, either.

No food meant no water. Solitary confinement meant that he couldn't just go get water, because his cell was never unlocked and left unsupervised. He could drink from the sink, technically, but that had made him violently ill the last time he'd tried. The pipes were too old, the nurse had said. The guards had laughed. Mariano didn't blame them.

It would be so easy.

It would be as easy as breathing.

Mariano exhaled, and only a plume of condensation from his breath met the air.

It didn't help. There was no sense of peace. No comfort. Mariano dying wouldn't make a difference. It would just make his parents sad. It would just annoy the guards. It would make strangers happy. It didn't help.

Mariano's hand slid to his chest, over his heart. It wouldn't make things better. It wouldn't even really make anything worse. It would just happen. He brought his hand to his hair and started slowly sliding his fingers through his own hair like his mother used to do. Like Luis used to do.

It didn't help.

It didn't hurt.

Mariano slept.

It was fine.