#Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mediumgayitalian · 1 month

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At around half past one, Nico gets a Feeling.

He gets feelings a lot. Nothing he can quantify, just something telling him that something is up, somethings wrong. Or something’s about to be. At this point, he’s learned to trust his intuition, based purely on the number of times it has saved his life; a number he’s long since given up counting. (He’s only ignored his gut feelings three times in his life: when Bianca went on her quest, when his father promised not to hurt Percy before the Titan War, and when he went looking for the Doors. He has learned his lesson.)

So when something at the bottom of his stomach tells him to get up, to check things out — he does.

He knows it could be nothing. (The last time he had a Feeling, it turned out that he had placed a book precariously on the edge of his desk, and it had been about to fall. Not exactly world-saving stuff.) But regardless, he steps out of bed, shoves his feet into his shoes, and creeps out of his cabin.

Camp is kind of beautiful at night.

There’s an eerie calmness to it without so many human disasters running about, and the quiet reflects that. All Nico can really hear is the hooting of owls in the distance, the chittering of nocturnal animals and monsters alike, the distant screeches of curfew harpies, and the pleasant crashing of the waves. The air is clean, when he inhales, and he takes the time to hold it in his lungs for a bit, imagining the sweet breath is healing his burned lungs, turning the scar tissue back to something flexible and normal. Whether or not it actually works, he doesn’t know, but it feels nice.

Under the light of the brightly shining new moon and billions of stars, he starts his patrol. Around his own cabin first — there’s nothing, as he expected, the warning doesn’t seem overwhelming like threats tend to be — and then he makes his way around the circuit, checking behind gardens and shrines and inside braziers. He hums quietly as he walks, something preppy and bright the Apollo kids have been hollering for days, and waves to Lady Hestia, sword heavy at his waist.

“Come sit,” she calls, patting the seat next to her.

Nico does.

“Haven’t seen you out at night in a while.”

He hums, toneless this time, leaning back on his hands and mirroring her gaze at the sky.

“Been sleeping, for once.”

“I’m glad.”

He smiles, knowing that she means it. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she picks up his sword, sliding it from his belt loop, and uses it to stoke the flames. She doesn’t seem afraid of it, or wary. To her it’s just a stick of metal. It’s nice.

“You have you been, my Lady?”

She pokes at the embers a few more times, scooping a few to balance at the tip of the blade for a while. It glows with the heat, and he knows he’ll have to sharpen it tomorrow, but he doesn’t mind. Maybe he can do it while Will is in the archery range. It’ll give him an excuse to be at the armoury at the same time, anyway.

“I’ve been well.” She breathes deeply, small smile pulling at her face. “It’s calmer, and more people wave to me. I like it.”

“Good.”

She dismisses him a few minutes later, sending him off with a promise to chat again soon. She doesn’t need to worry about him promising — he makes a point to sit with her at least once a week — but it’s nice to know someone wants his company, so he appreciates it. He leaves with a wave, walking towards the eastern half of the cabins.

Nothing’s amiss. He can hear campers snoring, and see the odd reading light. Malcolm catches his eye as he walks past the Athena cabin and winks, sending a cheeky salute when he sees the sword held loosely in his hands. So far, everything seems fine. He’s beginning to think the Feeling might have simply been about Lady Hestia, so he decides to do one last check around the Big House and then head back.

Of course, that’s where the issue is.

The infirmary lights are always on. They’re dimmer in the night, more of a glow than anything, but there’s an extra brightness streaming out from the windows, and when Nico peeks inside, he sees Will, standing with his back turned at the nurse’s station.

He takes a moment to check his strength, making sure he has the energy for it — dinner last night was pho and he had three bowls, he most definitely does — and sinks into the shadows by the door. He materializes back in the little alcove by the bandage & wraps cabinet, lurking silently while he blinks the dizziness away.

The first thing he registers is soft singing.

He’s facing Will, now, and can see the glow coming from his hands, enveloping a bowl of some kind. He has both hands coated in some dusky pink substance, massaging and gently pounding it against the sides of the bowl, working it through with great care. As his voice gets higher, the glow gets brighter, fading as he dips lower. He sings something about hills and meadows and the breeze, about wing-song, about the sound of flower stems bending in the wind. For a while Nico stands, listening to the melodious ancient Greek, swaying with every pitch and hold. It’s captivating.

Will is almost haunting when he heals.

There’s a divinity in him — in all of them — but he glows when he sings. Not just his hands, and sometimes his head if he puts enough power in his words, but there’s an almost shimmer to the air around him, a shining warp. His skin gets clearer, and his hair goes more metallic, almost, like spun gold rather than blonde. His freckles make his skin into an inverse replica of the night sky, dark specks surrounded by bright empty between them. His long fingers pluck through bright strands of light like a harpist strums their chords; lightly, carefully, skillfully; like a braider weaves their hair. There’s an undeniable age to his magic, a practice that’s visibly replicated millions of times over thousands of years, as if every healer who has come before him links their arms with his, breathes their strength in his lungs. Sometimes, when he does something truly unbelievable, amazingly beyond reason, he flickers — his orange camp shirt fades into a white chiton, or long robes, or a white coat, or a blue tunic. Watching him heal is like watching the sunrise — breathtaking and unique, every time, but powerful in its cyclic archaism.

It takes Nico a long time to realise Will is swaying.

Snapped out of his trance, he begins to notice Will’s long, slow blinks, the unsteady way he stands, the weight he has leaned on the counter. Even his face looks plainly exhausted under the glow, face pillow-creased and eyes bruised, hair mussed, limbs leaden. Footsteps as silent as he can manage, Nico creeps over to the schedule posted by the door, scanning through the scrawled pen ink.

He curses quietly. Will is not supposed to be awake.

There are really only three people who can work the infirmary to its fully capacity, barring Chiron. Kayla, Austin, and Will are the only ones who can magically heal, as much as the volunteers are imperative, so when the camp is in full swing one of them must be stationed at all times. That’s how Will sets it up. A bit of a waste of time, he acknowledges, but Nico knows he has memorized every time a camper who should have been saved. He carries far too much guilt to ever let it happen again, as inconvenient as his rules may be.

Night shift, though, is a need-be basis. If the infirmary is as empty as it is right now, then there truly is no need to keep one of the three of them awake outside their circadian rhythm, staring at nothing. Instead, they take shifts in the on-call room — asleep, but prepared should anything go wrong, should a monster chase a new camper at an odd hour. It’s Will’s turn for on-call. It’s two in the morning. He should be asleep.

And, yet.

Nico recognizes the look in his eyes. There’s a — frailty, to them, a deep-seated, animalistic fear, one he recognises from the hours after his own night terrors. A single-minded panic that cannot be unseated in any logical way, cannot be comforted with any gentle hands.

Nico handles his fear with slashing swords and bruised knuckles. Will, he knows, handles his fear with obsessive, endless preparation.

Knowing full well nothing is going to drag him away from his focus bar actual cardiac arrest, Nico walks right by him. Will doesn’t move. He settles behind him in the old, creaky leather office chair, curling his legs under him and resting his head on the soft arm. He watches Will, watches the almost machine-like movement to his kneading arms, and falls back asleep to his humming.

———

“…Nico?”

He wakes up warm and a little cramped, in the same position he fell asleep. Sun is streaming on from the many issues, blocked from burning his eyes by Will’s hunched frame, facing towards him now, hands and shoulders shaking with equal violence.

“What time is it?”

His voice is croaky and wrecked from hours of singing. Nico is willing to bet his throat is burned as badly as his hands, cooked from non-stop, sun-borne glowing. The divinity that had emanated from him before has abandoned him and he looks young, lost.

“Early,” Nico says softly. He unfolds himself from the chair, stretching slightly — gods, he is going to ache today — and wraps a slow, careful hand around Will’s wrists. “Probably around six, if I have to guess.”

“I don’t remember waking up.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s okay.”

His breathing is heavy, laboured.

“I don’t —”

Nico squeezes gently. “It’s okay, Will.”

Will swallows and says nothing.

“Come on.”

Carefully, letting Will’s stiff joints set the pace, Nico guides him out of the infirmary. The sun shines brighter as soon as he steps outside, but he doesn’t seem to notice bar a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch at the change in lighting. Nico switches from holding his wrists to laying a hand on the small of his back, half-worried he’s going to fall over.

Luckily, he makes it to the Apollo Cabin upright, although the stairs take them a while. The hinges of the old screen door creak as Nico pushes it open, and he sees both Kayla and Austin, up and dressed, jump.

“…Will?” Kayla asks softly, eyebrows creased in concern. She walks over to him when he doesn’t answer, frozen still, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Will leans — almost hesitantly — into the touch. The same blankness from before clouds his eyes, although this time there’s less of the fear.

“Hey.” Nico walks over to stand in front of him, waiting patiently for him to meet his eyes. In the minutes it takes, he hears Austin pad over, standing opposite to Kayla, hands clenching and unclenching like he can’t decide what to do with them. “You think you can sleep?”

Will doesn’t answer verbally, but drifts after a moment to his bed. Nico follows, helping him out of his shoes and shirt. After a beat of hesitation, Austin hurries over, turning down Will’s sheets and helping him crawl in. Soft guitar music begins to play, and when Nico looks over Kayla is fiddling with the CD player, turning the dials carefully. Without much fanfare, Will’s eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows to something deep and even. His twitching fingers still.

“I don’t think today’s an activity day,” Nico murmurs. “I checked up on him a while after midnight; he’d been at it for hours. He didn’t stop ‘til sunrise.”

Kayla rubs harshly at her eyes. “Fuck.”

“He’ll be okay,” Austin whispers. He runs a gentle knuckle over Will’s forehead, then turns his careful, imploring gaze to Nico. “You kept an eye on him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Nico inclines his head. “Had a feeling.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Kayla admits. “He was —” She trails off, staring at something in the left half of the cabin — the empty half. “He was like this after the Titan War, too. I think he spoke maybe two words for the entirety of September.”

Nico almost can’t imagine it. The very thought of it makes something twinge in his chest, clench in his stomach.

“We’ll figure it out.” He nods, to convince himself as much as Kayla and Austin, who look to him with way more trust than he deserves. “We won’t let it — it won’t get that bad. We’ll help, and if we can’t figure it out we’ll get help. It won’t be as hard as last time.”

It won’t be as hard as last time because there won’t be twelve shrouds, Nico doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. Both Kayla and Austin nod, looking at their sleeping brother with firm resolution.

“This time, we’ll be there.”

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adrift-in-thyme · 17 days

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@uncleskyrule happy belated birthday!!! Thank you so much for your patience while I wrote this! I hope it's worth the wait!

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Four knows what sleep deprivation looks like.

He’s seen it spelled out on his grandfather’s face when long days turn his usual joviality to melancholy exhaustion and draws the shadows of half moons beneath his eyes.

He’s seen it painted across Dot’s beautiful features after an arduous night when the memories resurface, memories of a leering crimson eye, of claims to possession hanging heavy over her, of cages and darkness and smothering magic.

He’s seen it shadowed across his own face too, when the battles within and without grow to be too much, darkening his features, drawing them thin, sucking the youthful fat from his cheeks, the light from his eyes.

And he’s seen it…on the faces of his brothers.

On Time’s when the moon is full. On Twilight’s when a quiet twilight falls and skeletal trees whisper in tongues known only to some. On Wild’s when the amnesia recedes, Warriors’ when phantom lips press across his cheek, Wind’s after he awakens screaming his sister’s name. On Hyrule’s when he gives too much, Legend’s when the adventures he never speaks of tell their tale in his petrified cries at night…

And now on, Sky’s.

Some may find it strange for a man who can drift off practically anywhere to suffer from fatigue. Add to that uncanny ability, Sky’s penchant for seeming one of the most mature of their little group, the most…put together.

But Four is well acquainted with the deceptions someone can tell through demeanor alone. He himself has been dubbed mature, put together, responsible. And while, yes, those labels are true (Four would certainly be cross if people decided to start dubbing him childish or, Hylia forbid, a disaster as they call some more unruly children in his Hyrule), the lie rests in the assumptions they bring about.

Beliefs of invincibility and impervious spirit. Beliefs that there is no need to be gentle or kind, no need to offer respite or lighten the load.

It is the same fate their leader suffers so often, the same Warriors and Twilight sometimes crumble beneath. Suffering silently, yet always strong. So strong.

And Sky…

Sky hides it better than anyone.

Four is uncertain whether or not he is the only one who notices his distress. Perhaps, he is.

It doesn’t matter though. In fact, if he is the only one who has taken note of it then it is all the more important that he do something before Sky’s inevitable collapse.

But life never makes things simple. And in the end, he’s too late.

It has happened too many times now — a portal that separates the heroes into mismatched groups. Four thinks that perhaps, after his near defeat at the combined hands of the champion and the rancher the Shadow is attempting to be more careful.

More conniving. More vicious.

Attack first and you won’t be defeated. Such is the attitude of wild animals and beasts. More than likely, the Shadow shares it too.

This would explain why in addition to splitting the heroes up, this portal also dumps them right onto a battlefield.

Or at least, it does for Sky, Legend, and himself. Four can’t be sure what the others are facing. But he can only pray it isn’t a sand-drenched dungeon packed with redeads and stalfos.

The unearthly screeches of the emaciated corpses fill his ears as he fights, teeth gritted, heart pounding. It’s all the three heroes can do to stay out of reach of their paralyzing cries.

Back up to escape one beast and you nearly collide with the mad swing of a stalfos’ claymore.

Four winces as the very tip of a blade slices across his left arm and leaves an angry gash in its wake.

That’s going to need a bit of potion to remedy.

Beside him, Legend growls what sounds like a curse as he plunges his hand into his pouch and retrieves a fire rod. He brings it in a sweeping horizontal arc. In a blaze of blistering heat, a group of the monsters fall.

“Well done,” Four says with a breathless smirk. He plunges his sword into the gaping chest cavity of one of the stalfos still struggling for survival on the darkened floorboards. With a raspy exhale, it dissolves into ash. “I think you just turned the battle in our favor.”

“I’d better have,” Legend huffs. “The sooner we get rid of these things, the sooner we can get out of here.” He screws up his face in a grimace. More monsters crumple beneath his skilled hands. “It smells like death.”

It does, indeed, Four thinks as, finally, the last of the monsters fall. The stench of it hangs heavy, permeating the thick darkness that surrounds them, wafting from the thin threads of light carrying from faltering torches.

But now that the battle is over they can focus on escape. Hopefully, to a place where it proves easier to breathe.

He sheathes his sword, glances around. The gash on his arm throbs and the various bruises and smaller cuts he earned join in its stomach-churning beat. Still, it could have gone far worse.

“We all okay?” Legend asks, bangs falling into his face as he replaces his fire rod.

“Yes,” Four says. “How about you…Sky?”

His voice pitches an octave higher as he catches sight of the Skyloftian, turning the question almost into an exclamation.

The knight lies crumpled where he had stood mere moments before. The Master Sword lies fallen beside him, his cape flows over him like a blanket of snow. His breath comes in shuddering gasps that grate upon Four’s ears as he races to his side.

“Sky!”

He shakes him, slightly, and hazy blue orbs flutter open. Sky groans.

“What happened?” Legend drops down beside him, panic in his voice and a half-empty potion bottle in his hand. “Did a monster get him?”

Four shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” A quick inspection provides no sign of blood or other injury. But Sky’s face is ashen and he shudders as though in the throes of fever. “Sky, are you hurt?”

“N-not hurt.” Sky curls his fingers into a fist, as though attempting to gather strength. “J-just…just…” He swallows, tries to drag himself up, and nearly collapses again. It’s only Four and Legend’s quick movement that keeps him upright. “‘M fine.”

“Like hell you are!” Legend’s eyes are blazing with emotion now. “Sky, what happened?”

Sky shudders again. He glances down at the trembling hands he has folded into one, white-knuckled fist. There is a certain helplessness in the look.

“I dunno,” he croaks. “Was fighting and the room start-started swirling.” He curls in on himself further, and Four wonders if the next shaky exhale brings tears with it. His voice is very small. “I just-just fell.”

“And you didn’t have the strength to get back up,” Four says, solemnly. An idea is already forming in his head, a confirmation of what he has witnessed these past few hellish weeks.

I should’ve acted sooner.

But there had been fights both in and out of the group, and injuries and secrets unveiled. There had been discussions long overdue, restorations to be made in the face of pain and sorrow. And he, he had been in the midst of it all.

Between explaining the Four Sword and its powers and making up with Wild, he just hadn’t found the time…

“You haven’t been sleeping, Sky…have you?”

Now, Sky raises his head, glazed eyes focusing unsteadily on Four. Slowly, he shakes his head.

Legend blows out a sigh. He sits down beside Four and brings a dusty hand over his sweaty brow.

“Sleep deprivation? Yeah, that’ll do it. How long haven’t you been sleeping?”

Sky swallows. A beat passes, then another. The oppressive feel of death begins to crowd in on Four again. He struggles to breathe beneath it.

Then, “Since Twilight,” Sky whispers, and Four’s heart plummets to the depths of his stomach.

Legend’s hand falls to his lap with more viciousness than defeat. His face screws up in an expression that toes the line between sorrowful and intensely irritated. “I knew something was up! I knew it! I should’ve — ”

“Couldn’t have done anything,” Sky croaks, leaning further into Four’s touch. A small smile quirks his lips. “Was me that should-should’ve d-done something in the…in the first place.”

Legend’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

Sky looks back down at his hands.

Another theory is beginning to form in Four’s mind now, joining with the previous one, enlarging it, and embellishing it until things start to make sense. A theory born out of something Sky has said before, a snippet he had overheard and tossed aside in favor of giving his full attention to fighting the Yiga that had taken Wild captive.

“I’m sorry, champion,” the Skyloftian had said as he had helped Warriors tend to the boy’s wounds. “I was late…again. I’m sorry.”

“You blame yourself.” Four measures the words carefully, speaking each one with intricate precision. Lest he step in the wrong place and cause them all to plummet. “You blame yourself for what happened to Twilight.”

Sky lifts his bloodshot eyes. A tear wells in one of them then spills over to slither gracefully down his cheek.

“Why would you blame yourself?” Legend asks, even as comprehension burns in his violet irises. “It’s not your fault the rancher got hit. You weren’t even near him when it happened!”

“I was near enough.” Sky’s voice is quieter than ever now, more like a whisper than anything else. “I know the skyward strike. I could’ve hit that…that thing if I’d been…b-been faster.” His breath hitches. But to Four it sounds defeated more than panicked. “I was late and he paid for it. I’m a-always…”

He curls in on himself, weighed down by exhaustion, shuddering with pain and sorrow. Legend looks at Four and Four looks at Legend. Then, slowly, together they reach out and draw Sky into their arms.

It’s strange. Four hadn’t taken Legend for someone willing to show physical affection freely. But he embraces the Skyloftian as though it is no price to pay. As though he has done so before.

Long nights. A shuddering sob. Soft feet dressed in boots with wings adorning their sides. Whispers in the dark that exhaustion muddles before Four can make them out. Amethyst eyes staring from over a hazy cloud of silken white. Sliding shut as a larger form huddles deeper into an embrace.

Sky shivers again and Legend holds him tighter.

“It’s not your fault,” Four murmurs, pouring every ounce of confidence he possesses into those words and praying that it is enough. “It’s not your fault, Sky. You did everything you could do for him. There’s nothing else you could have done.”

Sky doesn’t reply.

They hold him, whispering assurances, as his tears wet their tunics and his fatigued body quakes beneath the burden he forces it to carry. They hold him until, at last, in the murky darkness, surrounded by carcasses of monsters and piles of resting sand, he drifts off.

In the arms of his brothers.

#trin writes #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu sky #lu legend #lu four #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #angst

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wikiangela · 2 months

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I'm comin' back, don't let me go

rating: G

word count: 7.3k

tw: mild suicidal ideation

summary: Buck's post-lightning breakdown takes him on a drive through the country, fighting not to give into his dark thoughts - a phone call from Eddie might be all he needs to lead him back home.

[read on ao3]

___

As soon as he starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot at the station, he thinks he doesn’t wanna go home, like all the time lately. Well, he doesn’t wanna go to his loft. He’s not sure he can call it home, it’s- it’s not. It probably never has been and never will be. He thinks he knows what home feels like, with Eddie and Christopher, if he’s even allowed to think about their house like that. That’s his home, that’s where he feels safe and comfortable, and like he can just be himself, and be wanted.

He doesn’t want to go to the loft. He doesn’t want to go home, either, doesn’t wanna bother Eddie, worry him, when he has no explanation for how and why he feels the way he feels. His screwed up head is his concern, Eddie is probably busy anyway.

Ever since he died, Buck has been feeling… off. Numb. Sad. Exhausted. He’s not even sure how to explain it, how to voice it, so he doesn’t. When people ask how he is, he says he’s fine. And he is, he swears he is. He’s okay, he’s alive, he has his amazing friends and family, a job he loves, everything is fine. But… but. He’s not sure what the hell is wrong, but a part of him is not fine. Hasn’t been fine since the lightning strike.

[read on Ao3]

#buddie fic #buck driving fic #angst #evan buckley angst #emotional hurt/comfort #wikiangela writes #pre relationship #tw sui ideation #< not really but just in case #buddie #buck x eddie #911 fic #roundabout love confessions bc eddie couldn't shut up lol #self indulgent

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hitlikehammers · 2 months

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the rhythm and the music

rating: t ♥️ cw: emotional hurt/comfort, criminal-levels of softness, rockstar!eddie having a sad for missing his husband (on the road), deep undying love ♥️ tags: established relationship, rockstar!eddie, rockstar husbands, emotional hurt/comfort, soul-deep love, slice of life, softness

for @steddielovemonth day ten: Love is missing each other (@lihhelsing)

this is 100% the first attempt to separate the rockstar!husbands in je ne regrette rien for the sake of a show ♥️ (with the title being a callback to this instalment)

The facts are these:

They’ve just played their first show not-in-driving-distance of where they live. They have a label, and management, and publicists, and they made sure their shit was all paid for. They’d been asked if they wanted to get a tour bus together, or if they’d wanted someone to book them plane tickets—Eddie’d never even been on a plane before. They’d opened for fucking Slayer, and how, and during their set they’d hyped the album they were releasing later in the year—and how—it was just…it was amazing. It was everything Eddie’d dreamed of since he picked up a guitar and strummed so hard it stung his fingers.

Eddie’s walked ten paces from the stage, and it’s not for the joy of it, or even the overwhelm, that he thinks he’s gonna fucking cry.

Because the rest of the facts, are these:

Eddie hasn’t slept on his own in literal fucking years. Meaning he hadn’t slept without Steve—as his friend, as his lover, as his boyfriend, as his fiancé, as his husband, as his life-mate, as the love of his life and the mate of his soul, as his whole goddamn heart and then some—he hasn’t slept without Steve since—

Since the fucking Upside Down.

And yeah, he’d hugged him for probably ten whole minutes before they’d climbed out to make security at O’Hare, they’d been close to missing the flight altogether and there’d been a part of Eddie that wouldn’t have cared in the slightest if they had, would have called Steve back and greeted him as if they’d been separated a month and not less than an hour. And yeah, he’d called Steve’s when they’d landed at the first payphone he could find, breathless and clinching it fit to snap the receiver in two, its outline bright red against his hand for most of the afternoon. And yeah, he’d called again in someone’s office he probably shouldn’t have been in, on a separate floor of the venue, where he’d sneaked in and dialed and just asked if Steve would talk to him, not because he was nervous, but because…

Because he fucking missed him. Like, like his bones, or his veins knew on some cosmic level they’d been separated from the best part of any of them, the only reason for any of them to hold up his body at all: he could feel the distance between him and the heart he called home so clearly, this bodily loss in him, he feels a lot like how he felt when he realized there were goddamn holes in his ripped by those fucking bat, but this is bigger, because there’s a whole of him missing and people have always made comments, how they’re attached at the hip, codependent lobbed around by their brainier friends in varying tones that honestly, Eddie couldn’t give a fuck less to read into because yes, he depends on Steve, Steve is tied into the fucking cells of him, he makes up more of Eddie than probably Eddie makes up of himself, at this point, and Eddie would not have it differently for a second, doesn’t know if he remembers how to breathe in a version of his body that’s not this comprised of Steve-Steve-Steve: and doesn’t fucking want to. Remember.

What it’s like without.

And this, right here: this moment, a thousand miles away from the whole of him, when he should be on top of the world by rights?

Eddie’s having trouble with that breathing thing. These lungs don’t know what to make of air that’s not…that’s not made up of Steve, even just a little.

He waves off his bandmates, says he just needs some water, knows they’re planning to go out for the night and celebrate and honestly, all he wants it to give them the slip, feign an ache pounding in his head instead of the very real one throbbing like an open wound inside his chest. He thinks he almost manages until:

“Eddie!”

Their manager’s a petite woman, always in high-tops, wears lipstick but bites it off too often for it to stick for long, and Eddie adores her to pieces. His steps falter as soon as he hears her call out for him, and shit: betrayers, his own fucking feet. He has to turn now.

She’s smiling so goddamn bright that Eddie almost feels bad that the best he can fake for her right now is a grimace, his heart too sour as it struggles with the remembering, too—how is it supposed to beat, anyway, there are chambers in it, right, so is it one at a time, the top and the bottom together, one top one bottom, none, all, it’s so confusing, where’s his Steve—but he meets her grin and weirdly enough it doesn’t dim in the face of his expression, however pathetic it has to look.

“There’s someone who wants to see you,” she says, doesn’t wait for his response as she taps his shoulder as indication to follow when she leads the way.

“Morgan,” Eddie tries to halt her momentum because he can’t, he really just, he can’t right now, okay? He’s so grateful for the fans, and he’s sograteful for the band and the higher-ups that got them here and inviting them on this tour specifically but Eddie kinda things he’s about to collapse, or that some seams in him that he doesn’t know the exactly location of are going to pop and he’s going to spill out all blood and viscera right here on the floor and he just, he—

“Waiting for you in there, pet,” Morgan knocks on the door to one of the prep rooms that Eddie wasn’t entirely sure was made to be used how they’d used it, but it’d hadn’t mattered, they’d played their damnedest and it had been a fantastic show, if they were going to make their mark and draw in their base this was how they were gonna do it, but Eddie…

Eddie’s never played to a crowd, be it ten or ten-thousand, without Steve. Not…not since Steve.

He doesn’t think he can do this. He just wants to go home, and if he can’t go home, then he just wants to find the hotel they’re springing for and call his husband and fall asleep to the sound of his voice, his breathing, until he has to get up and start this all over again. He—

“Just a couple minutes, Eddie,” Morgan’s voice is pitched lower, and her expression is softer now, prodding but almost lulling, like she sees just a hint of his inner torment. “Then you’re free to go wherever you need, okay?”

Eddie nods, and she lays a land on his shoulder as she leaves him be; doesn’t stay to watch if he’ll turn the handle or bail. Trust him enough.

Goddamnit.

He swallows, pulse heavy and off-rhythm in his throat as he grabs the knob and pushes in.

Just a couple minutes.

He braces himself, tries to school his expression into something better than the grimacing, just a couple minutes—

It’s useless, though.

Because as soon as the door opens, his face fucking, just, falls.

Hell: the whole of him falls, the coming-apart-at-the-seams he was fighting, fearing, his goddamn knees give out on him—

But he doesn’t hit the floor.

No: strong arms wrap around him, an equally-strong and solid chest cushions him and he clings, he clings because the whole of him is coming back together, the missing pieces slotting instantly back into their proper places, he breathes in, and it works this time, because:

“Stevie,” he moans, and fuck yeah he’s kinda sobbing, because his Steve.

Is here.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Steve’s stroking his curls still damp from the sweat, for all the run and jumping under the stage lights; “it’s all okay.”

“Baby,” Eddie keeps his chest to Steve’s chest almost compulsive; almost magnetic, but he tips is head back to see him, just to drink him in.

“Oh my god,” he marvels; “babydoll,” and he traces Steve’s cheek, his lips, disbelieving save that everything feels lighter, and he doesn’t disappear for the touch, and that means he’s real; he’s here.

“When—“ he starts, a little lost and still awe-struck, breathless in a new and much sweeter way.

“The whole time, love,” Steve brushes a curl back behind Eddie ear, so delicate: “the flight was delayed.”

Eddie tips his head; it doesn’t make sense.

“Delayed?”

And Steve just smooths both those warm palms, so broad and sure, down either side of Eddie’s neck to hold to him as he smiles so soft:

“I booked it at the counter as soon as I dropped you off,” Steve tells him simply, then the softness veers a little pained:

“I saw the look in your eyes,” and he leans to kiss Eddie gentle, and Eddie fucking soaks in the sensation full-on and unabashed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, you were already through security, and then I ran to your gate before mine and you were gone there already, too,” he tries to apologize for…what, knowing Eddie too well, for seeing the hurt in his heart and making a U-turn immediately to fix it, damn the consequences: and how. Why?

There’s nothing here but being grateful, and thankful, and undeservedly lucky, that the partner of his whole goddamn life would do that. There’s no…no apology, there, it’s—

“We can’t do this,” Steve says softly, and maybe there’s something in Eddie’s expression, or the way that he’s quiet, or the way that he’s shaking a little, or that he tears are silent but still streaming: maybe all of the above and more, but: Steve sees.

Steve knows.

So does Eddie.

“I know,” Eddie nods; inhales deep: “I know, I thought this was for me,” he bites his lip and shakes his head, now: “I thought I could—“

“It is for you, are you kidding?” Steve cuts him off, leaning in and framing his face now, baffled and adoring all at once. Eddie stills for it, confused but loved so quick and sure and strong in just those words, in just that touch.

“You were made for this,” and it’s so fucking strange, the way those words warm him and fall sour all at once, but it’s not on bit strange that he feels beloved, treasured for all of it, no questions, no exceptions: no contest.

But…Eddie could give this up: the touring. Even the music, at least like this. He could; he would.

He can’t, and won’t, give up Steve for another goddamn night. And fuck: he didn’t even last the whole night.

He doesn’t understand what Steve means—

“The thing where we’re apart,” Steve says clear but still so gentle, still cradling Eddie into him: “that’s what we can’t do.”

Right. Right, exactly, but then—

“So I come with you,” Steve answers the question unasked, and does it like it’s simple, like there’s no question: “we budget differently at home, we—“

“No, we write this into the label’s budget,” Eddie surges into the exchange vehement, relentless suddenly and he…he’ll leave this, he knows it in his bones; if he has to there is only one thing he cannot be without: “if the band wants me, and if the label wants the band,” he shakes his head, defiant; “one more ticket can’t be what makes or breaks them.”

And fuck them, if it is.

And god: the way Steve captures his lips is like a bolt of lightening, it jolts through his veins: it’s revitalizing, it’s resuscitating, it’s life itself, it’s everything.

“Maybe I could be like,” Steve speaks breathy between their lips; “some kinda of manager, or security, like on paper?” then they’re lost to kissing, licking, biting a little and he only adds on when they part for breath:

“Personal assistant, I don’t give a flying fuck, Eds,” Steve gasps, then dives in, frames his face and pulls him in and then rests their foreheads close as he breathes:

“I need you,” and he kisses it into Eddie in a way Eddie’s never felt before, so much weight: “I need you.”

“You’re the air,” Eddie breathes back, bowled over by Steve’s ferocity and the rise of fervent need, undying love in him to match.

“It felt like I was,” he licks his lips, doesn’t want to go back to feeling so lost and pained as he walked off the stage; “I,” he gnaws a little on his bottom lip then, until Steve swipes a thumb over it, soothing him away with such gentle care as it gives him courage to put words to what he knows so deep:

“I don’t remember how to be without you.”

And it’s in the quiet between them just so that Eddie clocks his pulse against Steve’s hold, evident for the pressure of Steve’s touch and he chuckles, watery; Steve’s eyes slant in askance. He grins a little, just shy of sheepish, but brings Steve’s hand to his chest without a thought, the whole of him given to this man without question; always.

“It’s right again,” he breathes out, and yeah, yeah; “it was like it forgot how,” and he presses Steve closer as he squeezes Steve’s fingers in the cadence of his own blood, for the words he can’t quite get out.

“But that’s how it felt, like it forgot so it was just,” Eddie shakes his head, then brings Steve’s fingers up to his mouth to kiss as he whispers: “a mess.”

And he bows his head close, and misses seeing Steve’s eyes for it, but Steve is everywhere, Steve is here, Eddie can hear him breathe, the world’s at rights, and before, it was—

“I was a mess,” Eddie chokes out, leaning more into Steve’s touch than kissing on his hand but it’s okay, it’s all okay because Steve’s there, and he knows, and he’s reaching and cradling and bringing Eddie to his shoulder, wrapping around him and—

Eddie doesn’t have to be a mess anymore.

“I love you so goddamn much,” Steve breathes, and just holds him tight, safe, and it’s everything he needs. It’s perfect. Steve’s perfect.

They’re perfect.

“You saw the show?” he asks, voice a little tinier than usual when he finally stills, sniffles, leans back just the slightest bit.

Steve nods, kisses the tip of his nose. “You were incredible,” he tells him honest, shining so bright with it: the joy and the pride, in Eddie; “just like always.”

And Eddie bites his lip and hides back in Steve’s embrace again, but this time he’s smiling so fucking hard.

“The boys going out?” Steve asks after a couple beats, into the curtain of Eddie hair.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to go with?”

It’s an answer with no expectation, only curiosity. Which might make it…harder.

But so much better.

“I,” Eddie starts, makes himself straighten a little, bear some of his own weight. “I wasn’t gonna,” he swallows hard before admitting:

“Was gonna just go back and call you.”

Steve doesn’t apologize, or pity him. Steve doesn’t do anything but run hands up and down his arms, his neck, his back: present. Support. Love, always. For all of it.

No matter what.

“This is big, baby,” he finally breaks the still, but never stops the soothing motions of his hands: “I will do whatever you want to, whatever you want me to,” he tells Eddie, clear and devoted and once more time: no wrong answers. “I can come with you, I can go back to the hotel with you,” his voice dips a little lower and his smile turns a little sly; “I can wait in the hotel,” and for the first time Eddie laughs, just the littlest bit, heart leaping the tiniest little jump: “for you,” and it doesn’t have to be sad again, or really ever, for Eddie to know without a shred of doubt.

There’s no wrong answer.

“I don’t want to be without you,” is the surest, purest thing he knows, so he starts there. “Not right now, not,” he swallows hard and meets Steve’s gaze, no matter how watery his own starts to get, yet again: “not ever.”“Okay,” Steve answers with a nod: whatever Eddie wants.

Jesus H. Christ: but beyond this man, what more could he ever want?

“I should celebrate with them,” Eddie settles on as an answer finally, whenSteve doesn’t move, when his strength and his steady presence bolsters him without end, here: “this was a big deal,” and it was. Before the loss and the wishing and the missing consumed him, Eddie was very much aware of that. He knows, now, they never should have tried to be apart like this. It wasn’t worth it.

He knows, now, that they’ll never try again: and that’s what counts. “You okay with that?” Steve prompts, so clearly in Eddie’s corner, so ready to support whatever’s best for him, and fuck anyone else.

Eddie loves him so goddamn much.

“Yeah,” Eddie’s able to answer with a level of certainty that would maybe surprise him, if Steve weren’t here like this at his side:

“Yeah, I am,” and Steve smiles at him like the goddamn sun coming out from the clouds, like he always does, the body Eddie charts his orbit around by rote:

“Sounds like you’ve got a plan, then,” and Eddie can’t help it, he cannot possibly help but to lean in and capture those grinning lips, to devour some of that endless light.

“I love you with everything, Steve Harrington,” Eddie breathes, wondering again; “whatever comes of any of this,” he drags his lip against Steve’s with every syllable: “you know that you’re my one and only, my first and foremost,” and he draws back just enough to lock eyes, and make sure: “yeah?”

And Steve holds his gaze for a moment, another, before he smiles a different smile; his own kind of wonder. “Never thought I’d be able to say it,” he shakes his head with that warm, that grin; “but yeah,” and it’s honest, and Eddie’s chest swells for it: “I do know.”

That….that right there is worth more than any tour, or headline, any album or award. Steve is worth more; but Steve knowing he’s loved?

Eddie could never do a goddamn thing in this world more worthwhile.

“You’re my heart and soul,” Eddie breathes into him: “the rhythm and the music,” he reminds him, as he often does, because it’s always true.

“That and more, baby,” Steve answers, because he always does just the same: “all that and more.”

And he means it. They both do. They have always meant it.

“Let’s not keep the guys waiting,” Steve grabs Eddies hand, gives him time to change course if he needs to as he laces them together one by one.

But Eddie’s not changing any course. He’s just grateful to be tethered to Steve so tight, for whatever comes next.

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch

♥️

divider credit here

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #established relationship #established steddie #rockstar!eddie munson #slice of life #love so deep you can't see the bottom #steddielovemonth #love is missing each other #stranger things

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honeyhhearted · 9 months

Text

Sweet Dreams

Read on AO3

Warnings: Health Anxiety, Depression, Mentions of Illness (No one is sick, reader just suffers from severe anxiety)

Relationship: Loki/Reader

Summary:

You can't sleep (again).

You're afraid of burdening Loki, so you try to face it alone, when he catches you on one of your sleepless nights.

A/N:

Another fluff short for you <3

I personally really struggle with health anxiety/mild hypochondria, so this one is partially for me too.

You couldn’t sleep again.

When you got out of bed, eyes stinging, neck aching, you sighed to yourself. You hadn’t been able to get any sleep for the last few weeks. Nights spent staring into your phone until 3AM, watching the sun rise and dragging yourself out of bed every day were starting to wear you down. You were sluggish, shoulders drooping, dark circles beneath your eyes.

The sounds of the night kept you company.

You padded quietly down the hallway, doing your best not to wake Loki. You didn’t want to worry him. Part of you knew that you should tell him. He could probably help you, you thought. But something in you tightened at the thought of inconveniencing him. He had a difficult enough time sleeping as it is, without you waking him in the dead of night. You didn’t want to become a burden more than you already were.

Night time was when anxiety plagued you the worst. Its spindly tendrils wrapped themselves around your chest, squeezing every time you dared to close your eyes. What if someone broke in, and you couldn’t stop them? What if they hurt you? What if they hurt him?

Every ache and pain in your body scared you. Sometimes it felt like you were afraid of yourself. You couldn’t let yourself sleep out of fear that you just…wouldn’t wake up. You couldn’t sleep beside Loki without worrying that the usually comforting sound of his even breaths would stop in the middle of the night.

During the day, he would catch you staring too long at a bruise, a scratch. Logically you knew where it would come from. You were incredibly clumsy, prone to bumping into things constantly. But when you could see it, when you stared at the lumps and bumps on your body long enough, you could convince yourself otherwise. Those were the moments he would comfort you, waving a hand over you before telling you, for the eighth time that day, that you were fine.

“Sweetling,” He would say, gently every time, “I promise that you are in good health. What is worrying you so much?”

You always felt a rush of shame. He was so patient, so kind to you, even on the days where he’d have to tell you ten, twelve, times, and his brow would furrow and lips would purse at your fear.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered back. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

So, you stayed awake. Tossing and turning in bed until he drifted off to sleep beside you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling until your eyes burned and your battery drained. Then you’d get up at 3AM, like clockwork. You’d walk through your home, listening to the soft sounds of crickets outside. You’d sit in the kitchen, coffee prepared in the fridge in advance so the sounds of you rustling around wouldn’t wake Loki.

You sighed. Your head throbbed constantly from exhaustion, and your hands shook. As you sat, sipping your coffee, you felt your eyes begin to water. You were so tired.

It was beginning to take a mental toll on you, the lack of sleep. You were more irritable, snapping at Loki over what you used to laugh about. You knew he deserved better, and you hated yourself when you saw the confusion in his eyes at your poor moods. You just felt so terrible, all the time, and you didn’t know what to do anymore.

Some days, you considered just leaving. It felt like you couldn’t breathe, and you didn’t want to keep dragging him down with you. But the thought of doing so made your stomach clench. So, selfishly, you stayed.

Thor had recommended you see someone. You knew you should. But you just…couldn’t. He approached you hesitantly, some weeks ago, the way someone would a feral animal. He looked so uncomfortable it almost made you laugh to think about, as it was such an out of place look on him.

“I don’t mean to overstep,” he said, awkwardly, “But, sister, are you well? You have been looking…I apologize for my bluntness, overtired. You do not seem physically ill. Has something happened?”

You smiled at him, heart warming at his care for you. The two of you had always been close, but had grown even closer when you started dating his brother. He treated you like a sister, protective and sweet. Your smile faded quickly, though, at his question. You didn’t want to get into it, not when you knew he’d likely tell Loki. You didn’t want to make either of them worry about you - at least not more than they clearly already were.

“I’m okay, Thor, it’s just…I’m just in my own head, I think. That’s all.” Was what you came up with.

He didn’t seem to believe you, but didn’t push it. You were thankful for that. “If you say so. Might I recommend those Midgardian mind healers? Jane regularly attends one.” He looked sheepish. “Don’t tell her I told you. But, I believe it is for moments when you are ‘in your own head’, as you put it.”

You sighed. “I know. I’ll think about it.”

That was weeks ago. You had a tab open to Google, the search “therapists near me” opened on it. It taunted you, most nights. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

“Darling?” A raspy, sleep-filled voice came from behind you. You whipped around, trying to blink away your tears. Loki stood in the entryway to the kitchen, eyes bleary as he looked at you. He was paler than normal, a frown firmly pasted on his face. Your heart thumped. Even half awake, you still found him so beautiful.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” You asked, making your way over to him.

He wrapped his arms around you, breathing you in. You felt your shoulders relax. He always made you feel better, the familiar scent of spice and pine surrounding you as you listened to the strong sound of his heart.

“I woke, and you were not there.” He said. “I dreamt you were gone, and when I woke, you were.”

Guilt squeezed your stomach. Loki’s nightmares were not frequent, but when he had them they would typically revolve around you. You hurt, missing, dead…those nights were the ones he woke, a horrified noise ripping its way out of his throat, his hands shaking, skin pale. He always reached for you, hugging you to him like a lifeline. You felt terrible that you were not there for him.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” You said, your voice muffled into his chest.

“Why are you out here? It is late.” He pressed a kiss to your head before leaning back to look at you.

You hesitated. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I…didn’t want to bother you.” You bit your lip, looking down.

“My love.” His voice was stern, yet gentle. “You are never bothering me. Do you hear me? If you need me, I am here. Always.” He paused, taking in your haggard appearance. “How long has this been happening?”

Tears welled in your eyes. Guilt and shame stabbed through your throat as a sob burst out of you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” You sobbed, fisting his shirt in your hands. “I didn’t want to worry you, or burden you, or make you take care of me-” You inhaled sharply, the pain in your head worsening as you cried. “I just don’t feel good and I’m scared, please don’t be mad at me I’m sorry I didn’t mean to lie to you -” Loki shushed you, cradling your head to his chest as your whole body quivered.

“My love, my love,” He said to you, rocking slightly. “I am so sorry you have dealt with this alone. I am sorry I did not notice sooner. I am not mad, I could never be mad at you for doing what you thought was a good thing. You are not a burden, darling, you never have been a burden. It is an honor and a privilege to take care of you every day. Every day I spend making you happy is the greatest thing I can do.”

You sobbed harder, squeezing him. “I just - I didn’t want to become a chore, I didn’t want you to resent me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just so tired.”

He shushed you again, softly, before lifting you in his arms. He pressed a kiss to your forehead as he walked you both back to your bedroom.

He laid you in bed gently before summoning a glass of water for you, placing it on your bedside table, and crawling under the covers. He held you as you calmed yourself, pressing kisses all over your face and whispering gentle affirmations to you. He wiped your tears with a sweet softness, massaged your scalp in a way you’d always found comforting, kissed your fingertips. When you caught your breath, you looked up at him through wet eyelashes.

“I think I need to talk to someone.” You said.

He smiled sadly at you. “Thor told me that he recommended a mind healer for you. They are called therapists on Midgard, yes?”

You nodded. “I was too scared to go.”

He kissed the tip of your nose. “I will be with you every step of the way, my sweet love. There is nothing to be afraid of, and if there is, I will be with you.”

You pressed yourself close to him, burying your head into his cool neck as his arms circled you.

“I love you, Loki,” you said quietly.

“And I love you, so much,” He replied.

He began to sing to you, an Asgardian lullaby you had heard many times, but never deciphered. The rhythmic motion of his hands running up and down your back soothed you, as your eyes drooped and you finally drifted off to sleep.

It was the sweetest sleep you’d had in weeks.

#fanfiction #Loki Laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #loki/reader #loki fluff #emotional hurt/comfort #tw health anxiety #health anxiety #hypochondria #tw anxiety #tw depression #nightmares #one shot #angsty fluff

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phantom-playdough · 10 months

Text

Hobie Brown (Spider-Punk) x GN!Reader: “I choose you, Hobie.”

I made this because I love me some hurt/comfort fics and there are basically none for Hobie. So, if no one else will do it, I will damn it lmao Hope y'all enjoy some sweet and adorable hurt/comfort.

TW's: Angst with a happy ending, Reader has hardcore insecurities, depression (No suicidal ideations, just sadness) and self-deprecating thoughts.

Tissues littered the floor of Y/n's bedroom, thrown anywhere but the actual trashcan. Not that Y/n could really bring themself to care; they'd clean it up later. They stopped crying what feels like hours ago. Now, Y/n was just sitting down on the floor in front of their bed and sat there, lost in thought.

However, they were brought out of that state when they heard their window open. Y/n didn't even need to look up to know who it was. Afterall, most humans could not climb 15 stories to reach their apartment.

"'Ey, Y/n. You havin' a tissue party?" Hobie said, taking off his mask and looking around the bedroom.

Y/n didn't have it in them to croak out a response. So, they didn't try. But that was all it took to clue Hobie in to know that something was wrong.

Without a word, Hobie sat down beside Y/n on the floor and wrapped an arm around their shoulders. Even though Y/n felt so empty, they couldn't help but take in Hobie's cologne. Somehow it suited him.

"You alright there, (Nickname)?" Hobie asked, despite knowing the answer. Of course, he knew. The two of them had known each other for so long now that this type of thing was as obvious as a person's nose.

He and Y/n knew each other after he saved them from a mugger. Hobie still remembers how after he knocked the mugger out, Y/n just said, "I like the spikes on your costume." It was definitely a strange response to have after getting save from a mugging, but it was good to know that this person had taste. At least, that was what Hobie thought in the moment.

"Thank you, cutie." Hobie said with a wink. He then swung off and may or may not have followed Y/n home to make sure they made it safely. At least, that was his defense whenever that was brought up.

The two of them became super close after that night. Which meant that Hobie was around whenever Y/n got a boyfriend. Hobie really tried to be supportive. Like, really tried. But as time went on, Hobie felt his concerns grow for Y/n as time had passed.

At first, the guy sounded pretty cool to Hobie when Y/n talked about him. He and Y/n were very close friends, similar to Hobie (Albeit for longer). Y/n gushed about the nice things they did with him. Clubbing, going to concerts occasionally, shopping dates, even just staying at home and chilling. Hobie didn’t seem to have many concerns at the beginning. (Even if he was jealous…)

But as time went forwards, Y/n’s boyfriend really seemed stubborn in hanging around other people instead of Y/n. He seemed really stubborn about going out clubbing when Y/n just wanted to stay at home. He seemed very stubborn about getting handsy. That one probably wouldn't have been that big of a deal. But what made it hard to handle was when Hobie met Y/n's boyfriend. The guy seemed very inclined on sucking Y/n's teeth in front of Hobie.

However, Y/n tried to cut their boyfriend slack whenever Hobie voiced his concerns to them. They knew him for a long time. Hobie knew that. But he gently pointed these problems out to his best friend. Y/n was well aware that they did not feel comfortable with what was going on in their relationship. So, they knew they had to voice their concerns.

That didn't go so well.

"Y/n. You're doing it again." Hobie said, a finger grazing his best friend's cheek.

"Huh?"

"You're spacing out on me. C'mon, what is it?" Hobie tried to keep his tone both firm but sweet.

Y/n sighed. "I went over to his apartment. To try and talk about how he has been acting lately. Try and tell him I think we needed to set up some ground rules, or something like that."

"But...?"

"But he... had someone else over. She answered the door. Said that her boyfriend was in the shower."

Hobie's eyes went as wide as moons. The level of fury he felt at hearing this could NOT be understated. To think that someone who was lucky enough to have Y/n as their partner and go and ruin both that perfect and amazing chance as well as break Y/n's heart in the process.

Who could even come close to competing with Y/n? No one, in Hobie's mind.

"Maybe it's for the best." Y/n grumbled out, tearing Hobie out of his fury. "I mean, I was just stupid for thinking he thought more highly of me. But why would he?"

Hobie felt his self-control slipping, but at this point, it gone. "Y/n," He began, grabbing Y/n's chin to make them look at him and make sure they wouldn't turn away. "Listen to me, will ya? That moron was stupid for not seeing you as a gem. ‘Cause that's what you are. You don't have a Scooby-doo about how amazing you are. How captivating you are. He is fucking stupid for trying to replace you when he can’t. You deserve so much better than that crock of shit."

“I really don’t, Hobie.” Hobie was just about to object, but Y/n yanked their head away. Effectively cutting his comeback off and speaking lies to Hobie’s sensitive ears. “Let me asking you something, Hobie. Did I turn him into a jerk or am I just plain dumb? Or better yet, both?”

“Knock it off, Y/n. These fuckin’ planks (idiots) lie. And they’re good at it, too. They are good at pretending like they care and that they love you. Guys like that twit also manipulate others. He knew you both were friends for a long time. He took you places, gave you things. Please don’t hate me for saying this babe, but I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he said something fucking stupid like how he did all of this for you and you couldn’t do those creepy things for him.”

“I feel dumb I didn’t see it.”

“Love, almost no one sees the signs when you fall for someone you’ve known for years. Plus, he gave you so much. Good laughs, good moments, good memories…I didn’t have a Scooby-doo, for fucks sake! So, if you wanna be gutted (upset) at yourself you should be with me too.”

Y/n tried to ignore the way the nicknames like babe or love caused a flush to flood their face. The way their heart jumped just a little too much when they heard that. Y/n made the mistake of looking back at Hobie’s gorgeous face. The way his eyes held a serious look. Y/n gathered that he wasn’t angry at them. It was more their ex.

They looked away to avoid looking at Hobie’s pierced and sexy lips, as well as avoid letting him see the tears in their eyes. “Maybe it’s karma.” Hobie was barely a beat away from interrupting. But Y/n put a finger up. “No, shut up. Let me explain.” Hobie literally bit his tongue to do so.

Y/n took a breath. “I knew at the time that I liked him. I did. But I…liked someone else more. I just knew it wouldn’t work with him because he probably wouldn’t want to be held down and backwards. He would probably want to swing free. So, I thought that my ex would be enough. Again, I did like him. He literally confessed to me when I brought up that I that I thought wasn’t good enough for…someone else. He said I was more than enough for him. So, I just decided that I could make it work. Especially because he was great in the beginning. But maybe it’s karma for replacing my true feelings with something I wasn’t a hundred percent invested in.”

Hobie felt his heart break for what felt like the millionth time. “Do I know this other mate of yours?” He asked after a beat of silence.

“Like the back of your web-throwing hand.” Y/n said. They inhaled for a moment or two. “He’s you.”

“Wait, what?”

“He’s you, Hobart Brown. I literally hinted it just a second ago.”

“How? When?”

“When I said that you would rather swing free.”

“Well, how was I supposed to pick up on that?! That’s super subtle, (Nickname).” Hobie defended, making Y/n laugh. “You seriously thought I wouldn’t want to be with you? I hinted at it too, just now by the way!!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I just said you’re captivating and amazing. That the fucking dumbass who kissed you with more teeth than lips when I was around was stupid for thinking someone else could compete with you. Unlike you, I wasn’t subtle.”

“Literally everyone who cares about someone else would say that.” Y/n deadpanned. “But…thanks.” They said softly. They leaned on Hobie’s shoulder, curling their legs up close to their chest and snuggling into Hobie’s side. Hobie responded by putting a hand on their shoulder, squeezing it just a tad. Y/n then took it a step further, wrapping their arms around Hobie’s built waist.

“What now, punk?” Y/n asked quietly.

“What?”

“What now? Do you want to progress or not? I mean, you don’t believe in consistency. So, I kinda just assumed you didn’t have interest in anything related to romance.”

“Modern romance is a marketing scheme full of corruption from the people making chocolates and growing roses, plus the cunning bastards who look to find it.” Hobie took in a deep breath. “But…that doesn’t mean I don’t have interest in you.” Y/n heart was racing so fast it felt like they were about to travel through time. There was no way Hobie didn’t notice this. But luckily he didn’t comment on it. “If you want to try this, Y/n…I will. But if you don’t feel ready or comfortable, I won’t mind. You can be with any bloke you want. If you chose me, I’d be happy. But I’d say the same if you didn’t. So long as we don’t drift apart.”

Y/n took a while to respond, making Hobie worry. But once Y/n was ready to answer, they decided to answer without a word. They pulled their head off Hobie’s shoulder and kiss him on the smooth skinned cheek.

“I choose you, Hobie.”

#hobie x you #hobie x reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown #spider punk #sony spiderverse #i wrote this at 4am #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort fic

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autisticlancemcclain · 7 months

Text

The mission was fine.

It wasn’t even a big one. It wasn’t even complicated. There were hardly any stakes.

Keith is exhausted.

He doesn’t know where it comes from, to bone-deep fatigue. Maybe it’s the way he’s struggled to sleep right his whole life, maybe it’s the tumultuous nature of being a paladin, maybe it’s the will of God. Who fucking knows. Not Keith.

He feels leaden. He doesn’t know how he summons the strength to walk to his room, doesn’t even remember doing the walking. He presses a heavy hand to the lockpad and keeps it there as the door open, because he realises abruptly that this is it, this is where it ends. The lockpad is currently holding him up. He can go no further — there is not a kilowatt of energy left in his body.

“Keith? What took so long? We landed at the same time but it’s been nearly fifteen — oh, baby.”

Keith’s vision is deeply unfocused, so he can’t see exactly, but he hears the soft thump of something set on a surface, then the familiar slide of Lance’s slippers against the floor.

Cold fingers resting gently on the side of his face shock him somewhat out of his stupor, and he blinks away the blurriness, focusing now on the face of his partner in front of him, eyebrows creased and brown eyes clouded in worry.

“‘M so tired,” Keith croaks before Lance can ask. He pitches forward and he’s damn lucky Lance is there to catch him, to stabilize his head on his collarbones and run gentle fingers through his tangled, sweaty hair.

“I see that,” Lance murmurs, troubled quality to his voice. He’s stunningly careful with his hands, taking time every time his fingers curl around a knot to untangle it without pulling, without hurting. He scratches the back of Keith’s scalp softly and Keith thinks he might just turn to liquid in Lance’s hands.

Lance presses a kiss to the crown of Keith’s head and then stays there, lips pressed to skin, hands falling down his sides to rest at his hips. “D’you know why?”

Keith shakes his head, exhaling long and slow, sagging deeper into Lance as he does.

Sometimes he just…gets like this.

He remembers how it would cost him at the Garrison. He would sink into these episodes of pure, endless, soul-leeching tiredness, weighed like a rock in his bed, asleep but aware of the hours and hours passing. When he shuts off like this time feels like thick honey, and he is trapped in the thick of it, trying desperately to yank his way through and only succeeding to get himself stuck further. He is a fly in a glue trap; the life is leeching out of him and he’s too groggy to panic about it.

Lance knows this, and Lance has never faulted him for it. It’s more than Keith has ever had before, more than he knows he deserves, deadweight as he is.

“C’mon,” he says, and then Keith is being tugged. Boneless as he is he does not resist, stumbling after Lance into their room, door sliding shut behind them. Lance tugs them further than expected, past their bed and to the ensuite, and he must read the distress in Keith’s face because he laces their fingers together and says in the same voice he uses when everything has gone to shit and Lance is their last hail mary: “Trust me.”

And Keith does.

Lance stops them a couple steps into the small room, moving Keith’s limbs for him so he’s leaned against the counter. He’s already down to his underclothes but doesn’t bother with himself for a moment, instead making quick work of the latches of Keith’s armour. He starts on the chest plate, unlatching it and pulling it off, letting it clatter to the floor. Keith is surprised at the relief it brings, at the extra breath that settles into his lungs.

Altean armour is made to be lightweight, but as Lance meticulously peels off every pieces of it from his shoulder pads to his boots, Keith feels as if one of the dozens of rocks on his shoulders has been removed, as if things are just a little bit lighter. Brazened by the newfound relief, however minuscule, he lifts his hands and reaches behind him to unzip his flightsuit, only to be stopped by fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Let me,” Lance says quietly. Keith wants to protest but there’s the look in Lance’s eyes again, a bid for trust, an assurance that he can handle it, so Keith lets his hand drop back down to his side. Lance looks pleased, tugging down the long zipper and pulling the skintight fabric over Keith’s shoulders, down his hips, all the way down to his feet where he pauses for Keith to step out of them. Keith’s face burns, humiliated at his own babyishness, at his inability to undress himself like an adult; hell, like a kid. He knows Lance and he knows there are no unkind thoughts in his head right now, knows Lance has done this and more and for people in worse states than Keith, knows Lance has played nursemaid and clinician and sober friend and every other role where someone couldn’t function on their own and needed someone steady to function for them, because at the core of him Lance is whoever people need him to be. Because Lance will stretch and mold himself to help and help and help because he is painfully, endlessly, unbelievably kind, for all his brashness and bravado.

But the humiliation still warms him from head to toe, still makes acid churn in his stomach, still makes something crooked and twisted sneer in the back of his mind and whispers you think he will still respect you after this? after weakness? and Keith lets it echo because he can’t fight that sentiment off even when he has the energy to undress himself.

Skin still heated with his mortification, he watches as Lance quickly strips himself, stepping to the shower and turning the dials with great concentration. The sight makes Keith’s lip twitch involuntarily, at the furrow of his brow and tongue peeking out between his teeth. He stands with his hand under the water for well over a minute until he’s satisfied with the water, nodding to himself once before shaking out his wet hand and turning back to Keith.

Wordlessly, he links their fingers together again, squeezing three times in quick succession. He pulls Keith in and closes the curtain behind him, manoeuvring him so he’s under the stream, water soaking into his hair and pelting his bent neck and tense shoulders. It’s hotter than how he would usually have it, but surprisingly the extra heat is like a balm to his worn muscles, and it’s a struggle to keep himself upright.

He has no idea how long he stands under the spray. The only measure of time he has is Lance’s humming and the steam that slowly fills the shower.

Eventually though he forces himself upright, jaw set. He needs to wash off, needs to push through. He has been coddled enough — he is a grown man. He is a paladin of Voltron, whom others depend on for survival. What would they say if they saw him like this, struggling to wash himself, to move on his own? The faith in the universe’s strongest weapon would crumble in an instant. The fate of the universe would rest even heavier on Keith’s shoulders.

He counts to three in his head then forces himself to move, tried and true method. He catches Lance’s eye when he lifts his head, and Lance smiles at him. (He’s beautiful, all the time, but when he smiles he becomes for a moment the most stunning thing in the universe. Keith has seen so much of it and so he is sure.) He offers a weak smile back, because it’s almost impossible not to, and reaches around him for the shampoo bottle. For the third time that evening, Lance fingers wrap themselves around Keith’s wrist, stilling him.

“Let me,” he says again, and his voice is equally as quiet, equally as steady. “Let me help you.”

He holds Keith’s gaze and his expression is unreadable not because Keith can’t understand what emotion it conveys, but because it doesn’t fit, it isn’t right, what has Keith ever done to warrant that gentleness? What has Keith ever done to bring out such an intensity, such a single minded focus on taking care of Keith, as if he hasn’t been the one to care for himself his entire life? As if he isn’t the one who is meant to be doing the protecting, the caring? Keith is supposed to be strong. He is strong. He doesn’t need to be handled like strained glass, like the tip of a prince rupert’s drop, explosive under pressure. He can handle himself. He can.

“Please.” Lance’s grip loosens, slick anyway with soap, and he slides his fingertips down the palm of Keith’s hand, tracing small circles on the calloused flesh. “I want to.”

Keith makes a noise he’s never made before, a punched-out, hollow kind of sob. The last dregs of strength, of stubbornness that kept him standing, leave him. He slides to the floor, knees first and then they aren’t enough to hold him either. The tile is icy cold on his thighs, at direct odds with the heat of the water still raining hard down his back.

Keith starts to cry, and no amount of steam or water flow will hide it. The sobs and wails that rip their way out of his throat and chest are horrible, broken things, painful in the way they jerk him around, louder and more wretched than anything he’s ever sounded like before, ever. He knows he cried when he lost Shiro and he knows he cried when Shiro lost Adam and he knows he cried when he lost his Pa and a million times before and after. Keith has spent a lot of tears; they come when he’s frustrated or hurting or frightened and he hates the way they make him look small. But never has he ever clutched himself desperately together as hurt tears itself out of his lungs and burns his eyes, never has his body wracked with the effort of expelling this hurt from him.

He doesn’t understand where it’s come from.

The mission was fine.

There’s a click and a squirt, loud enough to be audible even over Keith’s cries. Seconds later Lance’s hands are in his hair again, fingers combing out the tangles, palms lathering soap deep into his roots. He takes his time to massage the soap deeply into Keith’s scalp, every so often moving his soap-covered hands to rub into his neck, his shoulders, his back. Over the course of Keith’s tears he hears the click of the bottle again and again as Lance moves to a different place in his body, spending careful amounts of time cleaning and caressing until the tightness in Keith’s muscles recede by pure loving force. Keith knows Lance is satisfied when his hands stray away for a moment and the stream of shower water is shifted, high-pressure stream shifting to feel more like the trickle of a creek, drizzling in rivulets down the dips and hills of his spine, his hips, his thighs. No soap ever stings Keith’s eyes, and soon the sound of Lance’s humming soothes some of the wound-up ache in his chest. The floral scent of the soap, of Lance’s soap, plays a part in the relief, too, a scent he has associated with security for longer than he has realised.

Soon Lance’s love is pressed into every inch of his skin, and the bonelessness laden in his body feels less like a sapping of energy and more like a moment of rest.

The steam still wraps warmly around Keith when the shower head turns off, and the weight of Lance’s hand on the wide expanse of his back is heavy and reassuring, rising and falling with each of his stuttered breaths. His finger traces a line across the base of Keith’s ribs and up the side of his chest, making him shiver, hugging the curve of his pectoral and travelling over the swell of his shoulder, running a line down Keith’s arms until it rests finally at the base of his wrist, where it circles once before linking around Keith’s pointer finger, tugging him gently to his feet, steady, and out of the shower. He stands eyes closed on the soft bathmat, water dripping steadily from his soaked hair, eyes burning from his tears and lips trembling.

Something soft and warm brushes against the curve of his ribs, tickling him slightly, making his muscles twitch and quiver. Lance drags the towel over his skin, mapping it in the same, slow, gentle way he washed it, soaking up the water and exchanging the wet towel for a new one three whole times before he finally gets to Keith’s hair. His fingers are deft then, too, digging the towel through his locks to squeeze out the water, pull it back from where it was stuck, soaked, to his skin.

Lance leaves the towel draped over his head as he begins to tug Keith out of the bathroom. Keith still has — he keeps his eyes closed, because he doesn’t think he can open them, because right now, he truly is fragile. He is tittering on the edge of somewhere he’s never been before, and he knows opening his eyes will send him careening over, and he’s not ready to fall quite yet. He trusts Lance to guide him, anyway.

Lance��s soft humming never breaks as he stands Keith in the middle of the room and then putters around; fabric rustling, more tubes and bottles clicking, some other sounds Keith can’t identify. When he comes back to Keith his hands are coated in something creamy and cool and fragrant, and he takes his time working the lotion into Keith’s skin like he did the soap; meticulous, fingers moving in small tight circles from area to area. He doesn’t miss a single square inch of Keith’s skin. By the time he finishes the stutter in Keith’s breath has faded and he’s steady, now, every time he inflates his lungs. He no longer feels the dried tear tracks on his cheeks.

He moves where Lance’s hands guide him, eyes still closed, stepping into soft pyjama pants and a loose t-shirt. When Lance pushes gently on his shoulders he sinks to the floor, feeling Lance settle on the bed behind him, leg on either side of him and fingers tilting back his head to rest against his stomach. He starts the comb at the end of Keith’s hair, carefully working through the thinner and more knotted pieces, before slowly making his way up to the roots and combing it all back. The drag of the teeth along his scalp is nice, but it’s nicer when Lance switches back to his hands, nails less abrasive and impersonal. He thinks Lance ties his hair back into a French braid, strands of hair pulled taut but not tight, not painful.

When Lance pulls gently on his shoulder, kindly asking him up, is when Keith finally finds within himself the strength to open his eyes, to fall, to careen off that edge. Lance is looking at him so lovingly, eyes dark as packed Earth, and inside them Keith melts and crumbles and rises again.

“Thank you,” he whispers, hoarse and crackling.

Lance smiles until crinkles form at the corners of his eyes. He cups Keith’s face in his hand and presses the softest of kisses to his lips, unexpectant and open and inviting. He pulls away but doesn’t go far.

“Of course,” he says, and it doesn’t escape Keith’s notice that he says it instead of you’re welcome, instead of no problem; of course, I will hold your weight, of course, I will help you remove your armour, of course, I will wash you, cleanse you, caress and anoint you. Of course, of course, of course. I would consider no other options. “I love you.”

You are not the first to love me, Keith thinks, impossibly, as he crawls into the sheets Lance has turned over for him, curls into him as Lance flicks off their lamp, tucks their sheets around them. He thinks of fathers and brothers and distant distant distant mothers, of teammates and father-uncle-figures and sisters and brothers, as Lance wraps his long arms around him, tucks his face into his neck. Keith thinks, No one has loved me like this.

“I love you too,” he says, pressing his lips to the hollow of Lance’s throat, and he thinks You are my centre of gravity. He thinks there is no weakness in the way he is loved. He thinks all he has left after being stripped to his soul is the strength Lance has wrapped around him.

He thinks he is so, so grateful, to love and be loved by Lance.

———

based on this post

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morgan-the-lonely-brick · 7 months

Text

I have thoughts about the clip and especially about Fang and generally all of the scene so yeah, an analysis-like tangent full of spoilers below cut

Out of the entire crew, I think Fang and Frenchie (especially Fang) are literally the best people to recieve comfort from. It's double true for Izzy.

Not only do they have like. The least invasive and violent trauma out of the crew, but they're both very empathetic and want to help others in distress. Even when that person isn't a particular ray of sunshine... like Izzy.

It also makes sense for Fang to be the main comforter. He knows Izzy. He's known him for a long while. And he's known Blackbeard for a long while too.

Watching him from the beginning of the clip, he seems to be the first one to notice Izzy's not feeling great. Far before the others do!

This is the first we directly see Fang in the clip and yeah he looks surprised that they're throwing loot overboard - as you should be but... even more than that he looks ALARMED. He knows something's up.

After listening to Izzy for a few seconds he is completely sure something's up. He checks in with Frenchie to know if he's seeing it too. We don't know where Frenchie is looking, but I'd assume he reciprocates the look.

Izzy stops mid-sentence. That's not like him. The others will have noticed it too now. Sure enough, here's Jim, thoroughly confused and/or taken aback at least.

Fang protection mode ACTIVATE! His first thought is to ask how Izzy's doing (i am so soft for them oh my god-) and to touch him - reassure him. Ground him.

we then get a "I'm fine, unhand me" which Fang does, to give Izzy some space and checks in again with a "you really don't seem fine". He waits for Izzy's response. He wants to make SURE Izzy's okay, or rather, is patiently waiting for him to admit that he's not.

The others join in saying that they've noticed. They've noticed how destructive his relationship with Ed is. I can't even imagine what's running through Izzy's mind at this moment. Probably like a waterfall of emotion - shame and anger and sadness and everything is too much - he's soon to break. He's trying so hard to hold it back, but he can't. He can't, when the truth is being thrown directly at his face by his own crewmates.

Frenchie comments "he's cut off at least two more of your toes hasn't he?" and Izzy almost flinches at that sentence. He quivers. That's his breaking point. And I. have to stop a bit to look at the implications of this. Form this scene at least, I understood taht when Izzy fails to make the crew follow orders, he gets physically punished. As we heard earlier: "It is your job to f-" *he stops, he shakes slightly* he's thinking about the consequences of them not following his orders - more of his toes cut off. That's horrifying. I'd start crying too, jesus...

Fang knows it's his breaking point and goes back to comfort him - even forcing it a bit on him, because he knows Izzy will struggle, but needs it. God, does he need it. He's always pushing people away, but Fang won't let him this time. He won't let himself be pushed away, because he cares. And he wants to show Izzy that he cares. So he persists.

And after only a few seconds of a very feeble struggle, Izzy accepts it. He's been strong for so long. He's been brave and hurting and isolated and repressed for so. So long. And he needs to let go. And he does. He whimpers. He sounds like a puppy who's been kicked. And he is. He is a puppy. A puppy that's been severely hurt and doesn't WANT to be hurt anymore. (god, i am weak at the knees, someone call the ambulace, i think i'm dying)

Frenchie steps in as secondary comfort to show that Izzy's really not alone in this and that none of them actually hate him. Even if he thinks he deserves it. Not even Stede's former crew hate him. That's what Frenchie represents here - to me. Fang and frenchie together show him that love isn't meant to hurt so much. It's not meant to be like this. And they also ground him in that moment. Izzy looks at Frenchie several times as he whimpers, perhaps checking in - seeing if Frenchie leaves after seeing him weak. But he doesn't. He stayes and he waits for Izzy to be okay and I think that means the world to Izzy. It means the world to me too. Izzy deserves all the comfort by this point.

Also I want to throw Edward overboard.

11/10 i need Izzy to have more hugs

#boooo edward! booo!!!#how dare he #ofmd #ofmd spoilers #ofmd season 2 spoilers #ofmd 2 #izzy my baby my puppy <3 #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #whump #emotional whump #izzy hands #ofmd izzy

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lets-try-some-writing · 6 months

Text

Immortals

Cybertronians are ancient beings, but even they age. Their frames deteriorate, and if that isn't what puts them in the grave, then eventually their sparks grow weary and fade. It is the way of things, and with time, every Cybertronian reaches the end of their road. All accepted this reality, but with the passage of time, a few mecha have found that they simply do not suffer as the rest.

Megatron more so than others.

[Please note this is a solid 10k nightmare that was also posted on Ao3 so be ready to READ if you click on the read more.]

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Death was by no means a new concept for Megatron. He was raised amidst it, lived relishing in it, and now wandered through the remnants of places that once flourished. In a way, it was part of him just as much as he was part of it. He brought death wherever he went, as such it was only fitting in a rather poetic sense that death spared him its embrace. He offered so many sparks to satisfy the appetite of the void, why would it not reward him by refusing him the chance to perish in peace?

For several long vorns, all he did was wander the stars after being freed from Unicron’s control. He had no purpose without his cause, and he had no desire to see any suffer as he did under the great devourer. Whatever urge to conquer once plagued his spark was long gone. In its place… he felt the desire to instead try and find himself again. So much madness and devastation. He forgot who he was, and he desperately wished to recover that lost sense of self.

He wasn’t entirely sure when the decision was made, but at some point during his wanderings, not even a millennia after he fled to the stars, Megatron meandered his way back to Cybertron. There was no hiding who he was, nor did he really bother trying. What was the point of that? Everyone was bound to know him based on his face alone regardless of whether or not he went through the trouble of filing down spikes and rusted armor plates. He fully expected to be met with raised blasters and blades, however, he was instead greeted by familiar faces and smiles.

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“Look who crawled in from the asteroid belt. While you were off doing who knows what, I Starscream was given a senatorial seat!” Starscream stood as proudly as ever, a slag-eating smile on his face as he gestured toward the badge on his shoulder. Megatron could only be thankful it wasn’t a crown or gaudy cape the seeker had chosen as his designator of profession and rank.

“I can see that, Starscream” Megatron hissed as the seeker continued to preen with pride. Beside him, Soundwave and Optimus stood. The former refused to even look at Megatron, an unsurprising reaction when all things were considered. The latter merely smiled as kindly as ever, his frame still bulky and unsightly, no longer the smaller more mobile form that he possessed before their Primus forsaken war.

“It is good that you have returned Megatron. I believe there is much to discuss.” The Prime stated simply as if Megatron hadn’t fragged off for almost a millennia and then sauntered back to Cybertron still carrying the burden of the many lives he ended. Then again, if the Prime allowed Starscream of all mecha to have a seat of power, perhaps Megatron being greeted kindly was not totally out of the question. Optimus was always a soft sparked fool.

“You aren’t going to try and blast me to bits, Prime? One would think after a war as bitter as ours that the people would demand justice.” Starscream scoffed, Soundwave twitched from where he was looking over a datapad, and the situation as a whole grew somewhat tense until Optimus replied.

“The war is over Megatron. You are no longer leader of the Decepticons, nor am I the sole leader of the Autobots. Things have changed, amends have been made. I will not say there is no lingering bitterness, but there is a second chance for you if you wish to take it.” A long silence reigned as Megatron considered. The world around him was not the one he knew or wanted, but it was Cybertron, it was his home. He had no intention of lingering for long, but what was the harm in remaining for a time?

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Arrangements were made and Megatron took up a job as a simple poet. His spark demanded he climb the ladder and try to wrestle some form of control away from the senate that formed in his absence. However he did not trust himself to not abuse that power should he gain it, not when the power of Unicron still tainted him. He remained quiet, contemplative, and docile as he worked on his various philosophical writings, largely uncaring of the world outside. Too many new faces, too many strange places with new names that were once locations he considered ‘home’.

Most only recognized him from their history lessons and thus treated him fairly normally. A few of the older bots wandering around sneered or hurried away in fear, but as a general rule, Megatron was left alone when he did go to the cities for whatever reason. He had no need for fuel, Unicron’s taint made the inherent necessity of energon null and void. It was disturbing at times, but he preferred it that way. It meant he was not required to head to cities often to restock. The newness of Cybertron was unsettling, and he was perfectly content to remain far away from the cities out in the renewed spire forests near what was now titled New Kaon. He didn’t want to or rather didn’t trust himself to get involved in the changing state of his homeworld. Thus, he kept quiet, held his helm low, and focused on himself.

The only ones he interacted with were old companions and enemies, mecha he knew well from war. He never left his hideaway out in the woods save for when Optimus dragged him away to do something or other or give his opinion on a legislation. The Prime seemed to have made it his life mission to redeem everyone and everything if his growing collection of reformed Decepticon and Autobot advisors said anything. Still, it was a comfort in a way. It made Megatron feel… normal, especially once he finally began dealing with old wounds.

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“Megatron: Abandoned the cause.” Soundwave sat beside him on his porch, looking up at the stars above. He had not spoken to his former second-in-command since his arrival on Cybertron. Neither was willing to speak to the other despite how much it ate away at them both. It hurt too much.

“I know,” Megatron replied simply. There was little else to say. What could he say? Soundwave gave everything to their cause, believing in Megatron and what they fought for. Then without warning, Megatron abandoned that cause, leaving all their efforts to waste away and Cybertron to fall under Autobot rule, at least technically. The senate was composed of mecha from all factions. Optimus was a fool, but he and his inner circle were good about trying to have a wide variety of opinions.

“Megatron: Left Soundwave to rust. Left Shockwave in Autobot servos. Left loyal followers to be captured and imprisoned.” Again, his oldest friend spoke and Megatron repeated his prior phrase.

“I know.”

Soundwave sat still beside him, his visor keeping Megatron from knowing what expression he was making. They said nothing for what had to be at least a long thirty or so kliks, both lost in their thoughts. The stars shone above them, a testament to the glory of their world when the skies were not blackened with smog and the fumes of burning cities. He could still smell the plasma in his olfactory sensors, he could still hear the screams in the dead of his recharge cycles. Despite that, there was peace to be found just… sitting and observing with his dear friend as if they were both still young and hopeful.

“Will you stay? Will you abandon us again?” A soft and grim voice called out to him in the gloom of the cycle. Megatron hummed, feeling his thrusters warm a degree as he considered again retreating to the stars. This world was not home anymore, but those he cared for remained. It would not do for him to leave them for good, not after the torment he dragged them through in the name of freedom.

“I will Soundwave. Until there are none who care for me, I shall remain.” Spindly digits reached out and gently touched him. Megatron did not need to look to appreciate the weight on his arm where Soundwave offered a degree of comfort. They needed each other, more than anything else, they needed familiarity.

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Time was something Megatron did not often pay close attention to in his quiet dwelling. His servos were occupied with his written works, his mind consoled by the occasional queries sent to him by Soundwave and Optimus, and his spark was eased as he watched the forest around him thrive. The anniversaries of Cybertron’s restoration were his only true method of keeping time. First, there was the 691st, which Optimus dragged him off to in order to show the people how much old wounds were healing. Then there was the 843rd where Starscream threw a tart at his helm and spurred on one of the most impressive fuel fights Megatron had ever seen.

The 927th where Soundwave scared Optimus’s favored medic so badly that the spymaster was nearly met with a blade. The 1034th where the Earth team Megatron fought against during the last days of the war threw all their collected blackmail at one another. Then there was the 1130th where a whole batch of younglings managed to convince Megatron to tell them a few stories…

Vorns passed and yet not once did it seem that anyone he cared for changed at all. Starscream was still a glitch, Soundwave was as dutiful as ever assisting the Prime and his senate in handling internal affairs, and Shockwave remained a genius in science once he was allowed to roam on parole. Knockout was doing something or other and evidently making a great profit off it, and the Autobots Megatron recognized seemed to be doing just fine. The world changed, but the mecha he knew stayed the same for the most part, that is save for the odd paint change such as Starscream’s botched attempt to sport gold for a short time.

They were constants, stable reminders of who Megatron was and what influence he had aside from the pure devastation he wrought. But of course, that mindset did not last. Not once he made the decision to visit the rebuilt city of Iacon on a whim. When he arrived, Optimus sat with the elected senators discussing policies and other things that Megatron had little care for. However, as he looked around, concern and a degree of shock were quick to worm their way into his spark.

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“Did you really invite him to assist in these matters, Optimus? I can’t exactly patch you up like I used to if he goes off the rails!” Ratchet, the Prime’s loyal lap dog, raised his cane into the air with a scowl as he gestured toward where Megatron stood in growing horror near the door. He hated the fragger with a vengeance, yet he couldn’t help but wonder… When did the medic get a cane? When did his plating dull so much? At what point did his joints begin cracking every fourth step?

“I did not invite him, old friend. However his presence is welcome, he has much he can contribute.” Optimus smiled gently and gestured for Megatron to take a seat in an empty chair a few seats down from him. Megatron obliged, albeit with a degree of hesitation as he examined the rest of the senate members.

Most were new faces he did not know well aside from what he gathered from the data Soundwave occasionally sent him for review. However, those he did know were… different. Perhaps the celebrations clouded his judgment, but now that he saw them without the atmosphere of cheer and remembrance, their differences were stark and clear.

“Finally done with your self-imposed exile Lord Megatron? I am sure there is some position I could have you fill serving under one of my officers.” The urge to chuck something at the arrogant seeker was strong, but any retort died on his glossa as he observed his former officer. Starscream had gotten a frame change long before Megatron returned from the stars, and it never really struck him how drastic the differences were until that moment when he really looked.

Starscream’s plating was darker, no longer lustrous, and a sure sign of nanite failure. His wings, which he religiously held high throughout all of his youth, now dipped to a degree due to tiredness in what were once strong cables and hydraulics. His face was sharper, still polished and shining, but covered in small nicks and creases in the metal from long vorns of continual activity. What was most startling to Megatron was the way in which the seeker sat. No longer did he hold himself as if he were attempting to impress everyone, instead he sat perfectly composed, still proud, but with an air of earned respect. Shockwave and Soundwave were not much better off. Both sat slightly hunched in their seats, their armor dulled and any exposed components appearing far frailer than they once were.

Where had his proud warriors gone? Megatron had not experienced any signs of wear and tear, so why should his officers be dealing with it so seriously? If they were being overworked, he would have words for the Prime…

And yet, seeing how Ratchet all but hobbled along with his cane as he grumbled his way to his chair, Megatron began to doubt it was Optimus’s doing. The others at the table were perfectly fine, almost exuding youthful energy with how vibrantly their plating shone and with how energetic their voices were as they put forward ideas and debated.

“Let us continue, shall we?” Optimus guided the conversation along with expert precision that left Megatron slightly bewildered. The Prime was always an excellent speaker, but now he seemed older, wiser perhaps. His optics were tired even as he maintained his smile and welcomed the late arrivals.

Megatron sat in silence throughout the meeting for the most part. All he could do was watch and finally see how much those he knew had degraded. He struggled to believe it, especially when his armor still glinted and his spark hummed with power. This wasn’t right, it couldn't be right. How could those he knew be falling to pieces while he endured? Perhaps he was overreacting. Optimus seemed fine after all.

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After the revelation of his compatriots' degradation, Megatron made far more frequent trips to the cities to visit them. Death was nothing new, and yet he could hardly comprehend it in those he once saw as functionally immortal. Cybertronians did not wither as other species, it was not in their nature. However, given time, their frames would break down, and should that fail to bring them to their end, their spark would weaken and putter out at some point, regardless of the newness of a frame.

Most simply never bothered trying to hold themselves together once their frames started to fall apart if they lived long enough to reach that point. Self-repair systems could keep a mech up and running in prime condition for millions of years. As such when they finally started to show signs of aging, it was often taken as a sign and allowed to be. No matter how many components were replaced or how many times mind and spark were transferred, once the original frame started to crumble, it was only a matter of time. Some like Ratchet could last far longer than others for any plethora of reasons, but sooner or later, death would come for them, one haunting step at a time.

After that meeting, Megatron knew it would happen eventually. He knew sooner or later those he cared for would start to fall one by one. Even still, when he came to visit Shockwave and found the mech dead in his laboratory, his spark long had gone out and his frame undisturbed due to his lack of friends… Megatron found it hurt more than he thought it would.

Shockwave’s funeral was a short and sweet affair. Those who knew him from before the war bid their final goodbyes, a few loyal Decepticons offered condolences, and surprisingly, the Predacons who had taken to ruling over the still undeveloped west came as well. They knelt before Shockwave’s gray and lifeless frame and offered quiet words of thanks to the scientist for giving them life. As Shockwave left no will behind, there were no objections when Predaking took the body of his creator to be laid to rest in the lands he had dominion over. A great scientist, a master geneticist, and once upon a time, a true friend.

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“Thank you for all you did Shockwave. I do not know if this is what you would have wanted, but I doubt you would have minded this outcome all that much.” Predaking had taken care to ensure that Shockwave’s memory was properly upheld with a memorial engraved with abstract images of the scientist weaving life from mere bones. Megatron appreciated the effort, especially once blue crystal flowers began to grow around the headstone of his old companion.

He hoped Shockwave would have at least found a degree of satisfaction in knowing that his creations endured. The reforged Predacons held little love for their creator, but Shockwave was the one who gave them life, and their appreciation was quite clear in their efforts. The memorial was spotless and the newly emerged Predacons that climbed from the Well were all brought before Shockwave’s grave at least once.

Megatron liked to think Shockwave would have been pleased to know that his life served as an example to his creations. Last Megatron checked, there were a few Predacons who had opted to follow in the pedesteps of their creator, aiming to be scientists and researchers like Shockwave. There seemed to be an underlying urge to surpass him amongst all of the newly forged Predacons. Megatron personally found it rather amusing. None would ever be as brilliant as his head scientist.

“Rest well Shockwave. I will return to visit you soon.” Megatron smiled as he watched younger Predacons meander around, observing him in silence. He sighed and patted the memorial once before turning to leave. A growing heaviness weighed down his spark, but he paid it little mind. His old comrade would want him to be strong. Shockwave always despised it when emotions overcame rationality.

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It really shouldn’t have surprised him when the old bag of bolts finally offlined. But it did despite the fact that it was a long time coming. Ratchet’s death was devastating for many of the Autobots, but Optimus more so than any other. It had been a rather sudden thing apparently. According to Soundwave, Ratchet had bid Optimus a good recharge cycle and then passed quickly sometime during the early groons of the cycle without warning. No one suspected much until he failed to arrive for his shift in the clinic. At that point, it was Ratchet’s apprentice and caretaker First Aid who came to check on him only to find his frame lifeless but still warm to the touch.

Ratchet was a cranky glitch who, while often right in matters of science and medicine, was not the most pleasant to be around. Despite that, hundreds of former Autobots came to his funeral. Ratchet was buried in the forests of Southern Iacon, as per his will. Optimus was too large to be part of the procession carrying the medic’s coffin, but that did not stop him from bidding his companion farewell with the most saddened and sorrowful song Megatron had ever heard from the vocalizer of his former foe.

The medic was given military honors and his will was seen to. Megatron only came to the funeral partially to spite the fragger with his own continued functioning but largely so that he could be there for the Prime. Bumblebee and other mecha Megatron knew were close to Ratchet stayed for several groons, but they eventually left after their coolant stores ran dry. Despite that, when the other Autobots cleared out and the last came to bid their farewells, Optimus Prime did not move from where he stood at the side of the freshly made grave, his sword dug into the ground and his expression firm as he gazed resolutely ahead.

Even when acid rain rolled in from the Rust Sea, Optimus did not so much as twitch. He remained quiet, standing guard over the grave of his comrade in what Megatron could only imagine was one final act of loyalty. The rain did not hurt Optimus much, not with how sturdy he was built, but as his paint melted and was washed away by brutal winds, Megatron decided to linger.

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“These rains will continue for cycles, Optimus. How long do you intend to remain here?” Megatron stood beside the Prime as the wind howled as the rain assaulted his frame. It didn’t hurt, his armor was touched by the Unmaker. Next to nothing save for the strongest of weapons could damage him. However, Optimus was not the same. The Prime was hardy, that much was true. But he was still mortal in the end, at least in frame. The rains chipped away at his paint and had to be aggravating with their sting as acid puttered against increasingly sore plating.

“I will remain until I have fulfilled my promise.” Megatron raised a brow at the Prime’s words, watching on curiously as Optimus started to hum quietly, his blade still driven into the ground and his stance firm.

“And what is that promise?” He questioned cautiously as the wind picked up in severity, battering his and Optimus’s frames with a greater vengeance. The Prime remained quiet for a long few kliks, seemingly lost in thought before at last, he replied.

“It was one of our rites we performed during the war. We made many promises that cycle, not all of which we were able to fulfill. But one of them was that should one of us fall… the other was to stand guard one last time.” Megatron said nothing as the Prime continued to stand, his expression stoic and strong. Optimus and Ratchet’s relationship was something Megatron never fully bothered to look into. It was not relevant to the war, and after his return to Cybertron, it simply was not important. Whatever their connection, they never made a show out of it.

Still, it was quite clear that their bond, regardless of its type, ran deep enough for Optimus Prime to wish to endure the long watch, unmoving until their final rite was complete. It was sweet in a sense, but Megatron found himself more uncertain than anything else as he observed the slight crease around Optimus’s optics. Reaching up to touch his own face revealed nothing of the sort, and for that reason, Megatron worried.

Optimus’s frame was biologically far younger than his due to his reforging at the behest of the other Primes. Combined with the Matrix ensuring the Prime could not die due to his spark puttering out… there were worrying implications. How was it that Optimus and so many others were aging when Megatron did not? Was he like the old medic in that death was taking its sweet time getting to him? Or was there something else, something far grimmer to be concerned with?

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After Ratchet, things seemed to fall apart far faster. Almost as if a switch had been flipped, suddenly Megatron could see the differences in everyone.

Soundwave became frailer, even reaching the point where he physically required the aid of symbiotes to function. His sight grew weaker and his senses poorer so that he could either find himself confined to using a cane or getting symbiotes. Soundwave was quick to choose the latter. Megatron’s former spymaster was not pleased in the slightest when he was offered a few young symbiotes without carrier units, but he accepted them begrudgingly. Often he would shoo them away during Megatron’s visits, usually complaining off and on about how energetic they were. Deep down though, it was quite clear Soundwave cared a great deal about them. They were too high energy for his tastes, but the former spymaster tended to them dutifully and they in turn showered him with assistance when it was required.

Even still, Megatron was always somewhat distraught when he visited. It was not hard to realize that he simply… did not age. It had been millennia and Megatron felt no weaker in spark, body, or mind. He had no need to visit a medic to confirm it. He could sense it in his very core whenever he took Soundwave’s arm to help him walk. They were almost the same age and yet Soundwave had a cloud of death lingering above him at all times. It was harder to accept than he thought it would be when he watched Soundwave trip and break his leg for the first time from a simple fall.

Speaking with his dear friend in the hospital was optic opening for him to say the least.

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“I apologize for not catching you, Soundwave. I was not paying close enough attention. I thought the fall would not have affected you so greatly.” Megatron stood by the berthside of his former spymaster. Soundwave for his part lay still in the berth with his arms placed at his sides and his venting was so shallow that it was downright disturbing. He looked so very thin from where Megatron towered over him. His wrists especially seemed two kliks and one stiff breeze away from breaking like a rust stick.

“Soundwave: Understands. Megatron: Has not fully comprehended situation.” Megatron gave his companion the most befuddled look he could manage, and in response, Soundwave laughed.

It was a broken and raspy sound that led his vents to hitch in what had to be a painful manner. Soundwave’s symbiotes were quick to flock around him, wiping down his vent filters and adjusting his berth settings so that he was sitting up a bit more. The little things were worried sick, but Soundwave merely hummed and waved them off with one stick-thin arm. They obliged and stepped back after a moment. It hurt Megatron somewhere in his spark to watch the scene. Less than a millennia ago he wouldn’t have put it past Soundwave to be able to eliminate him in the arena. Yet now he laid in a medical berth, his leg welded back into place but his frame so small and fragile looking as to make the repairs seem far from satisfactory.

“Megatron: Has not aged a cycle since Cybertron’s restoration. Forever youthful. Frame still strong. Mind still sharp. Spark still powerful. Megatron: Untouched my time.” Soundwave gestured toward Megatron’s shining armor, particularly his shoulder plating and his optics with one painfully thin digit. The symbiotes made noises of agreement from where they huddled nearby but otherwise said nothing as Soundwave continued.

“Soundwave: Not like Megatron. The others: Not like Megatron. We age. We decay. We will die.” Megatron paused as the words registered. His spark flared in his chassis in denial. Logically he knew Soundwave was right. He was different on a fundamental level now. Whatever Unicron did to him changed him, made it so that unless he was cut down, nothing would touch him. Shockwave had already fallen, it was only to be expected that others would soon follow…

“That won’t happen yet, not for some time. You still have strength in you, my friend. I know you can endure.” Reaching out, Megatron was as gentle as he could be in taking Soundwave’s servo and holding it. The former spymaster shook his helm slowly as he grasped Megatron’s far larger digits with such pitiful strength that Megatron felt true fear worm its way into his spark. Soundwave had always been by his side, ever since the beginning. To lose him-

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Soundwave: Will one day offline. Megatron: Will be left alone.” Soundwave lifted his other arm and with both servos held Megatron’s far larger one. There was a hint of desperation in Soundwave’s field as he pulled himself up as much as he could and began to speak again.

“Soundwave and others: Will not be here forever. Megatron: Will endure?” Silence reigned for a long moment as Megatron’s spark flared in pain and grief. He did not even wish to consider losing Soundwave… but now he knew it would one cycle be reality. It was going to tear him apart, but he refused to leave Soundwave without comfort.

“I will try.”

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It hurt to think on Soundwave’s words, even if Megatron knew he was right. His fellows were aging, younger mecha were taking their place. Soundwave was quickly forced to retire after the incident with his leg, and a younger model bearing the same designation was swiftly pushed into the vacant position. The original Soundwave taught his younger namesake as much as he could, but he was weakening and many of his cycles were spent in his hab in the center of Iacon where he could still be of use if need be.

Starscream was not much better.

Over the vorns, he and Starscream had largely reached a strange agreement that bordered on true friendship. Megatron would visit Vos off and on, and in return he would be welcomed and treated as a guest, sometimes even helping Starscream run the city he had dominion over. But it became painfully clear that Starscream was weakening. He still looked his finest at all times, but more tasks were delegated to his younger assistants, and his flights were shorter and less in sync with those he traveled alongside. Starscream’s steps were slower, his wings held lower, and his voice deeper and with an undertone of wisdom, Megatron never expected to hear in his former officer.

At some point, Starscream had Conjunxed a Speaker from a colony world, one whom Megatron only knew as Windblade. Megatron missed their ceremony since no one informed him of it, but from what he knew, she was far younger and tended to handle rulership when Starscream could not. Supposedly the Conjunxing was merely political, but Windblade seemed to genuinely care for the ailing Lord of Vos, if only in a manner not too dissimilar to an Amica. They even took on a whole gaggle of sparklings of their own to raise, a surprise to Megatron who all but expected Starscream to try his best to be an immortal ruler for as long as physically possible.

The named Aerialbots were highly skilled due to Starscream’s training, but their existence and excellence only served to further show Starscream’s age. Every vorn his sparklings grew stronger and his Conjunx took more control. It was a slow and sad decline, one that Starscream surprisingly handled with grace. By the time he actually sat down to speak with Starscream one-on-one around Cybertron's 5491st anniversary of restoration, Megatron found himself even more distraught.

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“Thank you for coming to visit, Megatron… I worried I would not be able to see you again.” Starscream’s voice was deep and rumbling from long vorns of use. His usual snark was nowhere to be seen as he gazed up at the skies, taking occasional sips of his energon as he observed the Aerialbots performing feats of flight above. His optics were dim and his plating dull, and yet he still smiled softly as he watched his five sparklings soar through the skies in perfect sync. Megatron wanted to be awed by the display and pleased with Starscream’s success in teaching, but he couldn’t let go of Starscream’s words. The seeker he knew would rather find him dead in a gutter than talk to him for any reason that did not have an underlying benefit.

“They remind me of Skywarp and Thundercracker.” Starscream mused as the Aerialbots performed a perfect roll, leaving twisting trails of smoke behind them. Following his gaze, Megatron had to admit it was impressive. And yet… it wasn’t Starscream and his trine. They were new, not mecha that Megatron cared to know or was particularly attached to.

“You have taught them well.” Megatron settled on commenting as the Aerialbots performed a few twists that Skywarp and Thundercracker performed with far more eloquence alongside their trine leader. If Starscream shared that opinion, he said nothing as he merely hummed and continued to watch for a long few kliks.

“They are good mecha, Megatron. They are young and just as arrogant as any other seeker, but with time, I know they will do well.” Confusion radiated off Megatron in waves until he saw the wistful smile Starscream had plastered on his face. It seemed so… wrong for the ambitious fragger that Megatron both loved and hated to be bearing anything close to a smile of contentment and peace. He seemed older, wiser, and more ancient than Megatron despite the fact that their ages leaned more in Megatron’s favor in regard to experience.

“Why did you call me here, Starscream? You have always been ambitious and a pain in the aft. Seeing you like this is unsettling.” It took a moment, but as Starscream registered what was said, he chuckled in what was almost a fond manner before he put down his energon cube and turned to face Megatron properly. Starscream had always been a spindly thing, but seeing him so small was a bit of a shock, especially so soon after really seeing Soundwave’s state. The cape the Lord of Vos wore did give him a bit of extra bulk, but beneath it all, he was thin, weak, and aging.

He was no longer the Air Commander Megatron relied on for so many millennia during the war.

“I doubt you’ve noticed much until now considering your circumstances, but I’m old Megatron. All of us are. Even Prime is getting on in vorns. We are all tired, and all those little things that meant so much even a millennia ago simply no longer matter.” The Winglord coughed somewhat harshly, causing him to grip the table and shake for a moment. Megatron reached out to assist but was waved off as Starscream collected himself and continued.

“I’m out of time. Windblade will be the next Winglord and my sparklings will assist her in leading. I tell you this because I want you to keep an optic on them, just to make sure they stay on track. The Aerialbots are arrogant little glitches just like I was. They will need someone to remind them of their place every now and then.” As if to prove his point, the five Aerialbots hooted and hollered as they flipped overhelm, diving toward the ground and shooting up at the last possible moment. Pretentious and arrogant indeed.

“I understand. I won’t be soft with them though.” Starscream laughed again, this time with more of the gusto Megatron recalled. Only it lacked the malicious undertone he was used to, a fact that threw Megatron for a loop despite being well aware that Starscream lost most of his aggression vorns upon vorns ago. Megatron just hadn’t been able to see it amidst the cloud of his thoughts.

“Give them a few beatings. The little glitches will need it once I am gone.” No more words were exchanged between them as Megatron abruptly stood and marched off. Starscream frowned but did not stop him. A hint of regret prodded at his spark, but he paid it no mind. He had no interest in hearing his former Air Commander discuss his death, not when Megatron was not acutely aware that he would likely never be faced with such a prospect.

Not anymore.

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Starscream’s prediction was right. Within the next half vorn, the Lord of Vos passed away quietly in his gardens, held aloft by a thin hammock so that he could feel the wind gushing past his wings as his spark, at last, went out. Megatron attended the funeral alongside Soundwave and Optimus. Both his companions offered words of condolence for the loss and offered Windblade their sympathy. Megatron followed in their pedesteps and even went so far as to give Starscream’s grieving widow a few old trinkets he’d kept around from his former Air Commander.

He was unsure if it did anything, but Windblade offered her thanks all the same. Megatron merely felt… nothing. Even deca-cycles afterward, he was void, cold, and unfeeling. He didn’t want to feel. It hurt too much to think about the newest absence in his life. Shockwave was one thing, but Starscream was another.

He tried not to contemplate the loss of another familiar face or the increasing number of new ones that took Starscream’s place at the odd meeting he attended. Instead, Megatron spent more of his time with those who remained, clinging to Soundwave and oddly enough even Optimus as much as he could. Occasionally he would fly to Vos, and as per Starscream’s final request, beat around the Aerialbots to remind them that they were not in fact as amazing as they thought they were. It was humorous to a degree, but largely sorrowful above all else. The defiant look in the optics of the Aerialbots was far too similar to Starscream for Megatron’s liking.

He tried to only come to Vos when required, but when he was there, he always made sure to walk past the statue dedicated to Starscream, usually leaving some random piece of jewelry behind as well. He liked to think that a younger Starscream would have been both pleased and offended, and that alone made the effort worth it.

Then as if to pour acid into the wound, a mere twenty vorns after Starscream’s passing, Soundwave passed away in the comfort of his home, surrounded by his symbiotes. Megatron hated himself for not being there, he despised that he was not made aware of Soundwave’s passing until he returned to his residence and only became concerned due to a lack of messages, resulting in him reaching out to Optimus. His spark screamed in denial, grief, and rage. However, there was nothing he could do aside from bite back tears when Soundwave’s funeral was held and his last will and testament read out.

Soundwave wanted his frame to be cremated and his ashes turned into gemstones to be given to each of his symbiotes and to Megatron. It was such a small thing, but when the eldest of Soundwave’s symbiotes came to him and offered him a small black jem already within a pendant and ready to be worn… he wept softly and held it close. He didn’t want to believe that Soundwave was gone, not while he remained pristine and not so soon after Starscream. Optimus was his only comfort in the following few vorns. The Prime took up the position Soundwave left in Megatron’s life, and soon enough, Megatron retreated to his hab in the forests and received reports once a deca-cycle.

For a long time, Megatron could not bear to leave his place hidden away in the forests. He warded off wandering mecha who came too close and convinced Optimus to give him the land so that none could intrude and break him from his reverie. He hated the new faces, he hated the new sights. It was so different and always changing on the surface of the world he once called home… and yet he did not change with it. Forever a remnant, a relic of a war that ended millennia earlier.

He did not weep when he was informed of Knockout’s passing, then of Arcee, Bulkhead, Wheeljack, and countless other names that he recognized as both Autobot and Decepticon in origin. He did not attend their funerals, nor did he visit what remained of his former comrades. No, instead he stayed hidden away, unwilling to deal with it all and instead trying to comfort himself by wearing the pendant made of Soundwave’s ashes.

He managed to get away with his behavior for roughly a dozen vorns before Optimus seemed to have had enough as the next thing Megatron knew, the Prime was on his doorstep and promptly invited him to visit Iacon. The prospect caused his spark to ache, but the familiarity of the one he once knew to be a foe and long before that a friend…

He couldn’t find it within himself to object, not after seeing the weariness around Optimus’s optics.

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“You are the Master Archivist now? How are you managing such a position alongside being the head of the Council?” The archives were deep and dark, just as they were back when Megatron was still but a gladiator and Optimus not yet a Prime. In the back of his processors, he was nearly certain the archives would have been renovated to match the newest trends, but it seemed Optimus had kept the pre-war aesthetic. It was a comfort despite the mix of good and bad memories that befell him in response.

“I imagine you have not been keeping track of current affairs, but I have not been head of the Council since Ratchet passed. I handled some affairs for them from here, but otherwise, I have focused my efforts on keeping our history preserved.” The Prime walked softly despite his towering frame almost matching Megatron’s. Many of his gaudy outer plating attachments had thinned and his frame overall seemed somewhat weaker, but it was nothing as prominent as the frailty Starscream and Soundwave showed before their deaths. Optimus’s words almost didn’t reach him amidst the storm of it all, but Megatron still found it within himself to feel a degree of shock.

How out of touch was he?

“What of your scout and the rookie you took a liking to? How do they fare?” Megatron asked, partially to try and distract himself but largely to try and get Optimus to speak on something Megatron actually knew. The yellow nuisance and the elite guardsmech rookie were two mecha that Megatron despised for their efforts during the war but also held respect for due to their show of skills. He didn’t care for them, but if they got Optimus talking and discussing subjects that didn’t cause Megatron’s spark to flare in distress and loss, he would take it.

“They are just fine. Bumblebee has long since risen to the upper echelons of the ranks of Enforcers and Smokescreen has been focused on integrating the Wreckers, DJD, and Elite guard all into one cohesive unit. He’s had limited success so far, but he is trying his best.” The Prime smiled as he led Megatron to the heart of the archive and stood before a console. For a moment, he looked just like Orion Pax, the brother Megatron thought lost to him so long ago. It hurt, it ached.

“I brought you here because I do not wish to see you suffer alone. This burden you bear is great. As such, if you would allow me, I would be here to help you endure it for as long as I am able.” Optimus reached out and gently grasped his arm, pulling him a little closer so that he could see the screen. On it was an image of him, Orion Pax, Soundwave, and Ratchet before everything went to slag. They were all smiling, save for Soundwave who projected a smiley face on his visor. Tears he had long tried to suppress clouded his optics as he clutched Soundwave’s pendant, unable to hold back any longer.

“I do not desire death, but I do wish that I would not be left in this state, untouched by time while all I know fades away before me.” His words came out between harsh sobs. Optimus merely held his servo and drew him into a comforting hug, understanding filling his field. Why was it that all he had left was the mech he once hated the most? Why did his companions have to wither while he did not?

“All will be well Megatronus. This reality that plagues you is not one you need to endure alone. I am here, and I will remain until my end draws near.” Optimus’s ominous final statement flew right over Megatron’s helm as he wept and truly felt the grief of all he lost for the first time. His cause, his Decepticons, Shockwave, Starscream, Soundwave, Knockout, and so many others. All of it was gone, and nothing remained save for echoes, shadows, small trinkets, and the odd mention of them in the history books.

He hated this, but at least he was not alone.

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He took comfort in Optimus for many long vorns. The Prime understood him and was the only one who really knew who Megatron was. Often his routine for the following few millennia amounted to retreating to his abode in the forests where little ever changed and going to Iacon a few times a vorn to visit Optimus and teach the sparklings his former foe gave lessons on history to. Surprisingly, the little ones did not fear Megatron when he stood before him. Whatever anger from the war still remained only seemed to linger among the first generation of forged bots who came from the Well. Most war veterans were dead or too old to care, and for that reason, Megatron did not mind teaching at the archives as required.

Time was a blur for him for the most part, a mess of emotion that largely consisted of grief, reminiscing, brief flares of joy, and apathy. Lots of his time was spent in his hab, writing down his experiences, his poetry, and his wisdom. Those things he brought to Optimus who in turn published them under Megatron’s name. He would have preferred he remain anonymous, but the Prime insisted, and Megatron did not have the spark to say no when Optimus was all that remained.

There were moments of joy and comradery, but overall his life was a mess. Optimus helped and proved to be an anchor, but the way of the world meant that when Megatron finally saw, it was too late to do much of anything.

As with his old comrades, Megatron remained unblemished whereas Optimus suddenly grew to be frailer. Optimus was a Prime, the Matrix kept his spark ablaze and youthful, but it did not maintain the vitality of his frame. As such Optimus rather quickly deteriorated. At first, Megatron said nothing. It was not his place to speak on such matters. He assumed that Optimus was merely biding his time, enjoying the familiarity of his frame for as long as possible before going to get a new one, as was customary amongst Primes who lived long.

They were functionally immortal. Why would they not wish to continue on when all it would take was a quick frame change? Megatron understood better than ever why immortality was a curse more than a gift, but despite that, he still could hardly believe his optics when Optimus continued on, never getting a frame change even when he obviously needed it. The Prime’s armor fell off in droves, leaving him thin and emaciated to the point of requiring one of his younger archivists to guide him around. Then his vision began to fail so much that whenever Megatron visited, he often needed to read things out to Optimus if the print was too small.

Even still, he said nothing for vorns. He was positive Optimus had a reason… up until the Prime tried to go fetch a datapad for Megatron to review only to instead trip, fall, and break his hip in three places. That was the final straw for Megatron.

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“Why won’t you get a fragging frame change?!” Megatron demanded as he marched into Optimus’s office, noting with grief the stabilizer that was now welded onto the Prime’s hip to keep it in place.

“Because I have no need of it,” Optimus replied simply as if he weren’t using reading glasses and didn’t require three pillows just to sit upright in his chair. Megatron growled in outrage, anger boiling within his core to cover for the fear and sorrow that threatened to break loose.

“You are falling apart, Orion!” He all but screamed, his fists shaking as he tried to make his point. Optimus merely put down his glasses with a sigh and turned to face him, suddenly looking so much more tired than Megatron remembered. His old foe always had an air of exhaustion around him, even when they were both still young. But the mech before him was wearier, darker, and seemingly so done with it all that even his spark lamented life.

“I know, and I allow it to be. I am tired Megatronus, I have lived long enough and I want nothing more than to rest with my loved ones in the Allspark.” White hot rage ran through every fuel line and processing unit in Megatron’s frame as he marched forward and grabbed Optimus’s servo, holding it gently despite the way a dark part of him wanted to crush the weakening limb.

“You want to abandon Cybertron? You archivists? Your position? Do you really want to leave it all behind? Are you truly so selfish as to have me endure this reality alone!?” He wasn’t sure when his tears began to fall, but as his wrathful questions poured from his vocalizer, he knew Optimus had already made up his mind. The Prime met his gaze calmly and squeezed his servo in that fond manner only Orion did back before the war.

“I take no joy in this, but I wish to make this singular choice for myself. I want to rest.” Sorrow, rage, denial, and so much more drowned out all logical thought as Megatron tore his servo away and fumed. Memories of the High Council and Orion’s ascension to the rank of Prime plagued him as he marched off, saying only one final thing before he left the archives for what was going to be a very long time.

“FINE THEN! FRAG OFF AND DIE FOR ALL I CARE, PAX!” He slammed the archive doors behind him and took to the skies in a rage, unwilling to heed the messages Optimus sent to him. He couldn’t handle them, not right now.

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Megatron retreated back to his hab and fervently refused to so much as look at any messages from Optimus for vorns on end. He didn't want to hear it. He didn’t want to listen to Optimus’s slagging reasoning for essentially offing himself. The Prime was a selfish fragger and always had been. He could be the one to wait until Megatron was good and ready to come back, at least, that was Megatron’s thought process as he fumed.

Optimus wanted to leave him alone. The Prime was the only other living mech who could essentially go on living forever just like Megatron. Why did he have to decide to abandon him? Why did that hurt so much? Why couldn’t Megatron move on already?

Thoughts plagued him, his anger simmered into remorse, and by the time Optimus contacted him again after a lull of a whole three vorns… he, at last, returned to Iacon.

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“Orion…” His voice echoed in the near-silent room. The only other sound was the tortured venting of the mech before him. Optimus Prime lay on a simple berth in a small hospital room. There was a pile of audio recordings beside him that he had evidently listened to quite frequently if the marks all over them were any indicator. But aside from that, the most notable and startling part of the situation was just how far Optimus had fallen.

He was stick thin, even slimmer than Soundwave was before his death. His plating was all but gone and his limbs were so frail that Megatron doubted the Prime could raise his arm for more than a half klik at most. Despite that, he seemed content as his dull and useless optics remained uncycled while still managing to look in Megatron’s general direction.

“You came…” Optimus murmured, his voice so gravelly and filled with static that it was hard to hear at all. Megatron moved to his ailing companion’s side and gently took the servo that reached out for him. This time he held no anger in his spark, and instead he felt nothing but regret. Vorns he could have spent enjoying the closeness of a former foe and friend were lost because of his bitterness, and now all he had was a few short kliks at best.

“I did. I’m here Orion.” A weak smile met his words and never more did Megatron wish he was capable of aging. He wanted to have been able to age alongside his fellows, to banter about the woes of growing older, and to have the slagging peace that all of his fallen fellows seemed to have right before the end.

“Thank you… for coming… one last… time.” Optimus’s optics flickered and his field crumpled. He was out of time.

“Sire, rest easy, we will take care of things.” Bumblebee came forward from wherever he was previously loitering in the room and took up Optimus’s other servo. The former scout was aged as well, but it did not show with how kindly he cradled the dying Prime’s servo in his own. Megatron did not even bother trying to fight back tears as Optimus continued to smile so hopefully as if he were but a youngling again, just so pleased to be with those he loved.

“I know… you will both… endure… I know… that one cycle… we will… meet… again.” Optimus’s voice started to fade and Bumblebee began to sob. Megatron held himself upright, wishing he could spill out the millions of apologies that he had rehearsed during his trip to Iacon but knowing he had no more time to utter them. Optimus was fading, and if he could hear the words Megatron wished to speak, he would not have the chance to respond.

There would be no comfort from his dear old friend, and so all Megatron could do was listen and obey.

“One day… an Autobot shall rise… from our ranks… and use the… power of the Matrix… to light… our darkest… hour.” The Matrix pulsed, its light shining through Optimus’s thinned armor and causing his optics to glow.

“Until that day… till all… are… one…” And just like that, Optimus’s frame went still, his venting ceasing and his spark chamber opening so that the light of the Matrix could bathe the room. Megatron did not stay. He carefully allowed Optimus’s lifeless servo to rest at his side and allowed Bumblebee to do whatever he wanted with the slagging relic as he stepped outside and flew back to his hab in the forest.

He did not care to linger, and as soon as he was home and the door firmly shut, he collapsed against the wall, weeping and clutching Soundwave’s pendant as if his life depended on it.

“Forgive me Orion… forgive me….”

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Megatron stopped bothering to keep track of time at all after Optimus’s passing. He stopped writing, he stopped doing much of anything. He left his hab with only Soundwave’s pendant and a datapad Optimus gave him vorns prior to read from. Once he had those two items, he merely… wandered.

He contemplated ending his life by blaster or blade, but he found that reprehensible considering how pathetic it was compared to his comrades who died content and with honor. And yet he also had no desire to really continue living. As such Megatron fell to marching on, wandering the forests, seeing the sights of Cybertron, and avoiding cities like the plague. On the off chance he met another mech, he was quick to fly away.

Loneliness ate at him, but he disregarded it. He could have left Cybertron and fled back to the stars, but he couldn’t bring himself to. That felt… disrespectful in an odd way, especially after all his comrades did to care for the world he walked. A strange sense of duty kept him firmly planted, and the rational part of his processors explained it away as him keeping his promise to Starscream. He was, by continuing to be present, ensuring that if things really needed to be looked at, he could come to handle the issue.

At least that was what he told himself as cycles bled into one another and countless deca-cycles were spent laying flat on the ground staring up, unmoving and uncaring of the world around him.

He wanted to be left alone to wallow, and for what could have been but a handful of vorns of countless millennia, he was allowed to do just that. But of course, Optimus’s final words had a way of following him, and eventually, he was greeted by a new and old face while resting along the edges of the Rust Sea.

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“You’re Megatron, right? Megatron of Kaon? Lord of the Decepticons, the great and mighty slag maker, the Herald of the Unmaker, and Champion of the pits? Do any of those ring any bells?” A young mech, one likely not older than perhaps millennia, stood above where Megatron lay on the ground uselessly. He sat up quickly and waved a servo dismissively, agitation blooming in his spark as he moved to gather his datapad and leave. But that didn’t seem to be enough for the pesky thing to leave him alone as quickly the orange, gold, and red youngling stood in front of him, stopping his path.

“Got any time to spare for an adventure?” The youngling asked with a big smile that seemed slightly unnatural to Megatron. He grunted and tried to sidestep before Bumblebee of all mecha hit his leg with a cane the former scout had evidently acquired.

“Been looking for you for quite some time Megatron. We have a situation on our servos that requires somebody with actual experience to deal with.” The yellow scout scowled as he glared at the youngling who sheepishly whistled, seemingly uncaring of whatever distress he was causing.

“Something’s gone wrong with Cybertron’s core. The Well is turning up empty with less and less sparklings every vorn. We found some of Optimus’s old texts talking about the ‘Knights of Cybertron’ and we could use your assistance hunting them down.” Surprise was quick to override agitation at the mention of the fallen Prime. Megatron stopped trying to get away as Bumblebee tried to speak only to be interrupted by the youngling before him.

“Bee’s got it mostly summed up! My designation is Rodimus Prime! Just got the Matrix, not all that long ago and I’ve already got a crew ready to go and find these Knights!” A Prime? Megatron could feel his brow raising in cautious curiosity as he looked the mech over. He didn’t at all match any prior Prime Megatron knew of, but then again, it was a time of peace. Odd things happened during peace just as they did while at war.

“According to Bee, you’ve just been wandering around for the past few millennia since you can’t die. So what do you say? Want to go on an adventure and shake things up? I’ve got stickers!” The stupidity was astounding, and yet Megatron found himself compelled. It had been so long since he’d really attempted to connect with anyone, and quite frankly, Cybertron held too many painful memories to continue hanging around. He kept his promise to Soundwave and Starscream as much as he was able.

Maybe it would do him some good to leave for a while. If nothing else, he might find someone out there to kill him in an honorable fashion.

“Only if I can be co-captain of this expedition.” He settled on a compromise, not fully trusting the so-called Prime before him. Rodimus seemed only partially let down before he gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up and grabbed Megatron’s arm.

“Then let’s get going! Cybertron won’t save itself!” Rodimus smiled, Bumblebee grumbled, and Megatron sighed. Whatever was going to happen, at least he wouldn’t be alone.

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