The Best Thing You've Ever Stepped On

𝐈𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓   𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄   𝐓𝐎   𝐀   𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓   ,   the   way   their   eyes   met   each   other   and   refused   to   leave   ;   she   was   reminded   of   𝙤𝙡𝙙   𝙬𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣   𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙   𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙨   ,   like   a   cowboy   waiting   for   the   opponent   to   make   a   move   .   What   that   move   translated   to   in   this   circumstance   ,   she   wasn’t   all   that   sure   ,   but   didn’t   dwell   on   it   much   as   a   𝙲𝙻𝙾𝚄𝙳   𝙾𝙵   𝚂𝙼𝙾𝙺𝙴   𝙳𝚄𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳   𝙰𝙲𝚁𝙾𝚂𝚂   𝙷𝙴𝚁   𝙵𝙰𝙲𝙴   .   

“   Well   ,   I   thought   the   whole   thing   was   fucking   stupid   ,   so   I   decided   to   do   something   about   it   .   Put   together   an   𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙪   𝙜𝙞𝙜   𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝   𝙖𝙡𝙡   𝙩𝙝𝙚   𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙖𝙡   𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨   ,   spun   it   into   a   fundraiser   .   .   .   everything   worked   out   ,   all   went   towards   your   bail   ,   so   .   You’re   welcome   ,   ”   she   said   ,   hand   escaping   pocket   as   the   woman   gently   elbowed   him   .   At   her   core   ,   and   in   her   heart   ,   𝐒𝐇𝐄   𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐀𝐍   𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐓   ,   a   go   -   getter   ;   some   might   say   she   was   stubborn   ,   but   really   ,   𝚂𝙷𝙴   𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃   𝙺𝙽𝙴𝚆   𝙷𝙾𝚆   𝚃𝙾   𝙶𝙴𝚃   𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚃   𝙳𝙾𝙽𝙴   .   This   scenario   was   a   prime   example   of   just   that   ,   and   her   track   record   was   forged   of   solid   gold   .

“   You   can   pay   me   back   later   ,   I   don’t   doubt   the   cops’ll   start   cracking   down   and   carry   me   out   in   a   pair   of   handcuffs   soon   enough   ,   𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩   𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙨   𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙙𝙮   𝙤𝙪𝙩   𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚   𝙛𝙤𝙧   𝙪𝙨   𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙨   .   ”

“Damn right,” Damian said, his smile curling into a smirk. Jane was a wild child, for sure. All chaos and confidence. It was that kinda bullshit that really drew his attention. Anyone could stand on stage and scream about whatever bullshit, but not everyone could properly ROCK a stage. Jane and her gals were some of the best, hands down. If they ever got out of this shit town and did a proper tour, D wanted them, no question.

Fuck, an entire concert, just to raise bail money for them. She’d done that for them. No one had ever given any kind of a shit to do something like that... And Jane had done it without a second thought. Part of him just wanted to laugh. ‘Jane Ward, Community Organizer. Liberator of Junkies and Scoundrels’

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘   𝐇𝐀𝐃   𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒   𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍   𝐎𝐍𝐄   𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑   ,   rapid   growth   of   a   scene   bonding   them   and   𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜   𝙖   𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚   𝙤𝙛   𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨   she   had   yet   to   understand   .   In   the   span   of   a   singular   night   ,   forces   beyond   their   control   had   caused   even   more   of   a   frenzy   ,   and   Jane   could   recall   the   sight   of   her   own   friends   being   𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘   𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃   𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎   𝐀𝐍   𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃   𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐊   ;   although   she   wasn’t   capable   of   dealing   with   this   on   her   own   ,   she   knew   the   collective   mentality   of   those   around   her   ,   those   who   had   supported   the   music   since   the   beginning   ,   were   ready   to   help   𝙸𝙽   𝙰𝙽𝚈   𝚆𝙰𝚈   𝙽𝙴𝙲𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙰𝚁𝚈   .   It   was   with   this   in   mind   that   she   had   begun   to   take   action   ,   with   careful   but   quick   plotting   ,   and   everyone   had   managed   to   chip   in   .   A   few   generous   donors   had   made   a   large   difference   ,   𝙖𝙣𝙙   𝙨𝙝𝙚   𝙬𝙖𝙨   𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚   𝙩𝙤   𝙗𝙖𝙞𝙡   𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢   𝙖𝙡𝙡   𝙤𝙪𝙩   .

Now   she   stood   outside   the   police   station   ;   𝙖   𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚   𝙨𝙝𝙚   𝙝𝙖𝙙   𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣   𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚   ,   a   place   she   harboured   hatred   for   (   𝙵𝚄𝙲𝙺   𝙲𝙾𝙿𝚂   )   ,   leaning   against   the   side   of   a   beat   up   van   that   had   seen   too   many   trips   ,   too   many   breakdowns   ,   for   the   engine   often   couldn’t   handle   it   .   But   hey   ,   so   far   𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐃   𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍   𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄   𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘   𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐃   𝐓𝐎   𝐆𝐎   ,   and   for   that   ,   she   was   thankful   .   Cigarette   filter   between   painted   lips   ,   she   kept   eyeing   the   door   ,   𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜   𝙩𝙤   𝙨𝙚𝙚   𝙖   𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙧   𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚   ,   and   soon   enough   ——   she   did   .   Face   breaking   out   into   a   grin   ,   the   woman   𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄   𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄   𝐄𝐅𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓   to   conceal   how   pleased   she   was   with   this   turn   of   events   .   

“   What’s   up   ,   you   fuckin’   scoundrels   ,   𝐘𝐎𝐔   𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄   𝐀   𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃   𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄   𝐈𝐍   𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍   ?   ”   she   called   out   ,   flicking   the   cigarette   across   the   asphalt   before   making   her   way   towards   the   group   .   Each   one   received   a   hug   ,   many   thanks   for   all   the   work   she’d   put   into   their   release   ,   𝙮𝙚𝙩   𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙙   𝙨𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙙   𝘿𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙖𝙣   𝙛𝙤𝙧   𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩   ,   staring   at   him   with   that   same   smug   grin   .   “   You   know   ,   it’s   weird   ,   I   almost   missed   you   and   your   stupid   face   .   ”   she   said   ,   lowering   her   voice   a   bit   as   lithe   digits   reached   for   another   cigarette   out   the   pack   ,   holding   it   up   to   his   lips   .   “   I’m   sure   you   need   this .   ”

@deathbetweenmyteeth  𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒   𝐀   𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑  .

From the moment the cops had told them someone had posted their bail, Damian had been wondering who the hell had managed that. The venue was witholding their earnings from the last concert (From a sold out show, he wanted to add!) and as a group, their bail wasn’t exactly cheap--repeat offenders and all that. Damian had spent his phone call trying to call in favors to get his brother out of here.

And now they were all leaving. Together. Who the fuck...

He couldn’t say he was surprised to see Jane standing there, but... shit. All the guys hugged her, clapped hands together, thanking and moving on to holler and scream about their new found freedom.

Damian just took the cigarette into his lips, brown eyes watching their savior like she was a damn wild fire. A wide grin slowly came to his face.

“Jane, you might be Rock n’ Roll herself,” he said. With his newly returned lighter, he lit the end, taking in a good, unhealthy drag of smoke. Fuck, it was perfect. But even as smoke came out of his nose like a dragon, his eyes didn’t leave Jane. He didn’t know her too well, but there was every bit of drive in him to change that.

D felt a pang of guilt at hearing Damian’s voice again. It was, he knew, his own damn fault the two of them had lost touch for so long. His self-imposed solitude made it somewhat difficult to maintain any kind of communication when ranging the wild, violent frontiers of this not-so-brave new world. The horse snorted and stomped, nervous around two dhampirs. It was then that D realized he’d taken his concentration—effectively retracting his will from the horse.

“Be still,” he chided gently and the beast did, its quiet servos adjusting for it to stand and wait. The wind picked up its mane and tail, tossing them this way and that. D’s hair mimicked the motion, flowing with the breeze, which was not at all unpleasant.

“I’m told I have a terrible sense of fashion,” D admitted, ducking his head almost sheepishly. The countenance carbuncle, which had yet to make itself known, was absorbing all this information, this weird exchange and wondering why D insisted upon avoiding all things which could be misconstrued as “nice”. Why d’ya punish yourself?

D did catch this and bade the creature be still. He would reveal the parasite, in time, if Damian needed to know. Otherwise, D would prefer this be as pleasant and nostalgic as possible. He followed Damian into his home and was immediately assaulted by the aforementioned paint smell. His heart fluttered at the prospect of at least one of their kind following a dream other than hunting. Something prickled at the corners of his eyes and he swallowed down an impossible lump in his throat as he hung his hat on the rack near the door.

Indeed, paintings were everywhere. The house was not terribly big, but it appeared almost gargantuan if it could possibly hold the amount of canvases the occupied the front room. Most were either hung on walls, leaning against walls, or stacked on the floor. It rather looked like Damian had robbed an art museum, save that on a number of these canvases, the paint was still wet. The subject matter ranged from still life to captured moments, portraits, some cut silhouettes, a few abstract paintings, even the image of a dancer scratched into a small copper sheet. 

Damian led his friend past the room, gesturing to some chairs around a small wooden table. It was a humble little thing, only slightly sporting spots of paint, but so was Damian, after all. And after centuries of long, grand, mahogany dining tables, Damian was infinitely grateful for the small, wood circle in his home.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jasper,” she grinned. With a flourish of her wrist she put her hand over her chest. “My name is Amelia, and this guy–” she pointed her thumb at her friend. “Is Damian.”

She looked at D, and felt irritated. “Be cool,” she hissed, “He just needs our help. We help him, then we go back, okay?” She leaned in closer to him, her lips near his ear. “I won’t let anything happen to you. So just do this with me.”

She glanced behind the ghost, almost a person now, and saw the floating items a few feet away. She nodded, mildly impressed, “Any of those things belonging to your dad?” she pointed.

Damian watched as Jasper turned to look over his shoulder. Oh god he’s gonna see the floating shit and realize he’s dead and he’s gonna go full poltergeist oh god...

But Jasper just looked at all of the items, squinting. After a moment he shook his head. “No,” He sighed. “I don’t think so...” 

“...Okay,” Damian said, side stepping to a nearby box, keeping his body facing Jasper even as he looked into the box at his side. “Um... Maybe we can narrow it down... Is it something your dad kept... in a desk?”

Jasper seemed to glow a bit brighter, his face turning into a wide smile. “Yes!! I took it from his office desk the last time I was home!” 

Damian nodded. That ruled out the clothes and probably most of the school supplies, since he was pretty sure this guy’s dad didn’t have a lisa frank pencil case. It also ruled out the larger things, like lamps, mirrors and small statues. If a teen couldn’t quick put it in their pocket or shove it up their shirt convincingly, it probably wasn’t what Jasper had taken. Didn’t bring the number too far down, though. So he took another look in the box, trying to think of what else they could knock off the list.

“Ah... Jasper, was it a book? Or some papers?”

The ghost thought about it, furrowing his spectral brow. “I... I don’t think so?”

The blonde tensed, instantly on red alert the second the older man pressed his blaster to his chest. He slowly processed what was being said and backed up only when the other offered the promise of an explaination if he did. “Fuckin’ hell this whole fuckin’ night has gone all Costa Rica…” He grumbled, more to himself, before flicking his switchblade closed with a small ‘Click’.

“Start talking.” Kobra huffed, the slightest hint of a displeased growl to his voice. Needless to say he wasn’t impressed with the stranger in front of him….

Damian lowered the blaster, keeping it in his hand just in case. He wasn’t looking to waste a Killjoy today, but he wasn’t looking to die at the hands of one either

“Call me D,” he said. “By the pages of a calendar, I’m a grand total of four years old. BLI made me--grew me in a lab and fixed me to be a special spokesperson for ‘em. Had me go on headphone frequencies and news shows, being their little propaganda machine. I pretended to be your brother for the public, showing how Killjoys can be reformed... After about... 8 months, I ran outta there. Bust my way to the zones. Baptism by fire, fucking figured out how to live out here and have been trying to fucking survive like any other desert dweller.”

And that was the honest truth. Damian had spent 3 years out here, learning, living, adapting, hiding. He left out the part about being a whore. Figured Kobra wouldn’t need that kind of detail just yet. Hell, if he got lucky, maybe the guy wouldn’t tell anyone else and D could go back to living in perfect obscurity.

“Honestly, BLI probably hate me more than you, since they made me. But I’m clean, man. I don’t touch their shit, canned or otherwise. I’m off the grid. I’m laying low. I’m trying not to get mixed up in the Killjoy shit. If they get you, you’re in for a rough time, but they’d rather make an example of you first. They get me? I’m expired goods.” 

Dante felt himself tugged closer to the vampire. Damian’s strength was really fantastic for someone who had, at one point, been human. The nephilim hardly noticed, however, in favor of observing, dissecting and then perhaps answering Damian’s question.

“It is… totally… fucked up, yeah.” He realized then–though the dawning clarity was made somewhat hazy by the brew–that he could not lie in this state. The truth came from his lips unbidden. “Like, you definitely look like you’re my age… or like…. maybe younger, I’unno.” 

He put his hands on either side of the vampire’s face, examining him, tilting his head this way and that, as if he’d forgotten exactly what Damian looked like. “But like… isn’t that… kinda what vampires do?”

Dante wasn’t sure what he meant by that. He hoped Damian would figure it out for him; the guy was good at that.

He wasn’t exactly fond of people manhandling him, but something about Dante’s soft examination... Maybe he was just lonely, craving the touch. He simply closed his eyes, letting the man conduct his investigation. When he was done, Damian rested his hand over Dante’s own, laughing at the comment. When he spoke, his voice was soft, only for Dante’s ears.

“I wonder a lot about if I’ve lived too long. Like, should a creature even be able to live this long? I would’ve died a long time ago, but I’m still here and...” He paused, those red eyes looking down, lost in memories and thoughts--so many memories.

He was still here. Most of the others were not.

         he  should  have  gone  home  long  ago.  he  should  have  had  his  couple  of  drinks  and  stumbled  to  bed.  but  he  didn’t.  he  went  from  bar  to  bar  and  had  his  fill  before  leaving  —  —  until  he  met  this  stranger  ,  of  course.  until  his  fate  was  decided  and  there  was  no  going  back.

         his  hands  found  their  way  across  the  male’s  chest  ,  fingers  tangling  in  the  fabric  of  his  shirt.  he  seemed  so  different  ,  intriguing  in  a  way.  warren  wanted  to  know  more  ,  to  feel  more.  to  feel  something  ,  at  the  very  least.

         breaths  came  in  short  little  rasps  at  their  closeness  ,  dull  eyes  seeking  out  the  man’s  features.  ❝  ‘m  relaxed  ,  ❞  far  from  it  ,  though  that  wouldn’t  be  for  long.  his  lower  lip  rested  between  teeth  as  he  pulled  the  other  just  a  tad  closer.

         something  about  that  kiss  had  warren’s  head  swimming  ,  desperate  and  …  and  something  foreign.  something  animal  awaking  within  warren  as  he  pressed  closer.  a  noise  escaped  the  back  of  warren’s  throat  ,  teeth  catching  the  man’s  lower  lip  for  a  moment.  ❝  y’got  a  plan  or  somethin’  ?  or  we  just  gon’  make  out  like  a  bunch  of  sixteen  year  olds  ? ❞

A soft shush fell from Damian’s lips. “I’ve got you,” he said, grasping the man with a strength that his thin frame wouldn’t have denoted. “Don’t think. Just feel…”

It was then he lifted the other man, pressing him up against a nearby wall like it was nothing. He held him there, knee just lightly pressed just between the man’s legs. Damian would have control here. He would move this at his speed. The man at his lips was just along for the ride–the victim, the passenger, whatever title he wanted. D certain’s wasn’t going to ask.

TAGGED BY: @lickbatteries TAGGING: @bastardsunlight, @lostrobingang, @the-red-red-rose, @brxkenllglass, @daedalcs

Ah yes, the fabled makeout session Dante’s mind had been doing an excellent job of erasing. Like many other things he told himself he shouldn’t have done or shouldn’t have to remember doing, it was circling the drain until the vampire brought it back up.

The word beautiful had brought his head up with a snap, the reiteration of it forced his gaze downward. No, you idiot, that’s you doing that. He’s not forcing jack shit. And he knew that to be truth. Damian had not forced him to do anything, not once. Dante never felt as if he was obligated in any way, which somehow made it worse, because that meant he wanted whatever this was and that just couldn’t be the case. 

“I can’t do this,” he said suddenly, standing quickly and moving away from Damian. “This isn’t me… it’s not–I can’t do this shit, this…” What shit, precisely, do you mean? It sounded more like Vergil than Dante in Dante’s head just then and the thought of it shook him to his admittedly fragile core. “I can’t.”

His last two words were spoken just above a cracked whisper, feeble and plaintive, as if somewhere, his subconscious was begging Damian to take a swing at the chains with which Dante had bound himself.

“Dante...” The vampire lowered the camera. letting it and it’s undeveloped pictures fall to the work table. He didn’t want to pin Dante into this corner of the studio but... goddamn it, he was fucking sick of the guy running away like this!

“You’re okay,” he said. “This... it’s not a bad thing. You’re not bad for feeling it! I know people have told you all sorts of shit, but that doesn’t make them right. No one gets to tell you who you are except you... I know you feel like to you can’t open this part of yourself up, but there’s no danger in it, I can promise you that.”

But. Just as he said, no one could tell Dante who to be. Which meant him too. He moved to the side, opening the path if Dante wanted to leave, but keeping those red eyes firm on the nephilim as he did.

“Sissa-who?” Dante asked, one brow rising. This, he was sure, was one of those things Vergil had probably told him, but he’d forgotten–a regular in one ear and out the other sort of thing. His brother had never berated him for this, however, never treated him like he was stupid. 

In fact, Vergil had told him it was actually a sign of past trauma, that he sometimes had genuine trouble remembering things. Trauma was the kind word for it, but Dante didn’t want to split hair with the first person to treat him like an intelligent being. 

Damian felt a little like that, too, but with less of an agenda. At the moment, he was just taking pictures of the Nephilim, who had long since forgotten he was wearing the keyhole sweater-dress like a regular shirt. Rather than worry about how he was dressed, Dante’s mind had flitted back to the painting of Floyd in Damian’s office at the gallery. 

When the word “beautiful” rolled so easily out of the vampire’s mouth, Dante’s breath caught, momentarily stealing away any thoughts of competition with his dead predecessor. Somewhere, Floyd was likely laughing at the man, but Dante cared not a wit for this, either. If two people think so, it must be true, his heart insisted.

But then the artist had moved onto the next thing. Clearly the word had not been meant for Dante’s ears, even if it had been about him.

“Sure,” Dante grunted, “she’s weird an’ shit… but honestly, how far have normal people gotten us?” He took the comparison to Red in stride, knowing Damian meant it in a complimentary way.

“Just about all the way, really,” Damian chuckled. He lifted the camera, thinking of what he wanted next and how he’d get there. He needed the guy to fucking relax, really. The posing was nice, but it was all a part of the construct Dante had made for himself--the role he was playing for everyone, including Dante.

So he paused, smiling and standing in front of Nefilim, camera in hand.

“You’re beautiful, you know?” Of course he didn’t. Or at least he wouldn’t let himself believe it or understand it the way Damian meant it. “And I’m not just saying that because we made out last night... You are beautiful, Dante.”