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2smolbeans · 6 months

Text

Part 1 Part 2.5 character info

He let out a soft series of chuckles. Staring at you with a pitiful look, showing an expression of fake sympathy.

"I don't love you, and I never will. Not even if you beg and try. "

Love Me, Love Me Not (2)

Yandere Best Friend x Obstacle Reader

*unedited

Tags: small description of Nsfw- they don't fuck, self loathing, hostage keeping, one sided attraction, betrayal, mentions of previous friendships the yandere broke, slight angst, yandere is attracted to someone else, escape planning, mentions of a previous murder victim, reader is complicit to the murders, guilt, past memories.

Disclaimer: This is just a scenario I thought of with an Oc! So nothing is really 'official' or canon-

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You look at the door, contemplating your next move. It's right there, just staring at you. The latch was loose, Marco didn't consficate the butter knife like he did usually whenever the two of you ate, and he was no where to be seen. It was so fucking conveinent, so perfect. Too perfect...Maybe you were just paranoid. The latch. The door. Just do it. Run. Sprint. Why were you panicking? This was all on you now. Your legs were shaking as you wobbled your way towards the door, grabbing the butterknife that you were previously cutting the lamb chops with. Trembling, you tried to bust open the secuirty latch. But ultimately you ended up throwing the butterknife into the sink.

Falling onto the couch, grabbing a soft pillow as a soother, you let out a frustrated scream. It's better to be safe than sorry. If anything, Marco could be hiding behind the door waiting for you. For all you know, Marco could be waiting outside the apartment complex exits, standing by while he prepares to tackle you when you finally rush outside. He could be testing you. Why wouldn’t he? It was just predictable. You knew better than to assume that Marco would freely let you loose.

So you waited, and waited. The more time passed, the more you started second guessing your choice. Wow, maybe he was just clumsy. For what seemed like forever, Marco finally rushed into the room, slamming the door open before closing it shut.

"Did I scare ya?"

He smugly spoke, swaying his way towards you while he dragged two suitcases. Stiff from the frozen fear that had shot you in the chest, you only stared at Marco wide eyed.

"I'll take that as a yes..? Anyways stay put, I just need to do this real quick.."

Peeking into the contents of the suitcases, you heard Marco examine and fix the locks. Noticing that one of the latches were left loose, Marco turned back to look at you- surpirsed yet expecting this from you. You stayed, you're still here.

Huh...

While Marco was preoccupied with himself, you reached out into one of the luggages. It was your stuff! Holding out an old shirt of yours, you let out an accidental gasp.

"Oh yeah, I figured that you might want a few things of yours. I mean I can't have my roomie empty handed~"

Underwear, socks, shirts- everything! He even brought a few extra things like your plushies and accessories! Smiling, you thanked him while you zipped up the zipper of the suitcase.

"No problem dude! Anyways you can go do whatever, fool around in your room or something. I dunno?"

Can you leave?

"Hahaha! HA! You're hilarious!"

Scoffing, you nudged Marco's shoulder, making your way to your 'bedroom'. Closing the door behind you, you took out all of your belongings from the two suitcases. Searching through the pile of stuff you had, you managed to find your phone! Immediately powering it on, you tried calling the authorities. Even trying to turn on your mobile data so that you could contact somebody through your socials. Though expectantly, your phone had blocked all of those options. No service, no nothing. Scrolling through the photo gallery, you looked at the photos you took, all the stupid screenshots you saved. You and him, it's always been the two of you. Of course, sometimes it would be you, him, and.. Matheias and Angela.. You just stare at their faces, feeling nothing as you observe their smiles. You were all so happy back then..

Matheias screamed as he lunged himself towards Marco, crying as his sobs echoed the room. Quickly, you grabbed Matheias by the arm, struggling to keep him still as he dragged you along with him. You shouted at Matheias, scolding him while also begging him to calm down as he continued to howl at Marco. Trying your best to keep Matheias away from Marco, you were forced onto the floor as Matheias shoved you away from him. Showing concern, Marco rushed towards you, trying to help you back on your feet.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER- HOW COULD YOU?!"

He screeched, throwing chairs, his face red with anger. Helping you up, Marco cautiously approached Matheias- holding his two palms up as he slowly approached. Calmly, Marco tried to speak to Matheias.

"Come on..Please let's not do this. Not now - just not now, okay? Please, let's just talk this out-"

Panicked, Matheias threw something at Marco, trying to keep more distance.

"LIAR! You fucking CUNT!"

Persistent, Marco was beginning to lose his composure. His voice was now on the verge of shaky tears as he lowered himself to Matheias's height level.

"P-Please..We just- it's her- fucking hell.. Come on Matheias! Really man?"

The more Marco spoke with sincerity, the more Matheias reacted. The more Marco tried to reach out to Matheias, his grieving work buddy.. His best friend..The more terrified you saw Matheias get.

"Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. You're sick- Stop that. Those aren't real.."

Trying to descalate the situation, you spoke firmly towards Matheias. Enough is enough. You've had it with the accusations about Marco, the delusions and rumors Matheias had accumulated about him. It was tiring seeing Matheias grow bitter against the only person trying to hold everyone together. You were annoyed with how he was reacting. Everyone was mourning, nobody was themselves. You understand that, you can sympthazie with him. You're also hurting. You miss her too. It was just the three of you now. So why, out of all people, he could've chosen to take his anger out, did it have to be Marco? Hysterically, Matheias let out a series of laughs. Rolling his eyes as he pointed a finger at you.

"Oh yeah! Of course you believe him! I think I know why. Trying to get some brownie points aren't you?"

He marched towards you, keeping his finger pointed at you. His voice so loud and angry, it began to ring your ears.

"It's always been like that! Don't you find it fucking unfair how he's always the innocent little sheep in every sitaution?!"

He let out an exasperated breath, his hands aggressively flying everywhere.

"But NOOOOOO! EVERYONE LOVESSS MARCO! The fucking psychopath. Fucking murderer. And I'm the only one that fucking knows!"

Stop it, you beg. You're being delusional, you cried. You held back your tongue, knowing that Matheias wasn't being himself. He always had an issue with his temper, so you knew you had to be patient with him. But you've done that so many times throughout the friendship. It's beginning to run thin. Espically now.

"Why don't you just say it huh? Why don't you just admit it? Tell him. Just fucking-"

Out of instinct, you rushed towards Matheias. Raising your hand as the palm of it harshly came into contact with his face. Tears streaming down your cheeks, you slap him again..And again..And again..Stopping when Marco had to pull you away from him. Holding you in a hug as the hiccups and sniffles begin to escape you.

It was quiet for a while. Your sniffles and his loud, hyperventilating breathes were the only thing left in the room. You remember the look in his eyes, the grief he felt when he saw Marco shake his head dissapointingly. As tension filled the room, suffocating the three of you in an uncomfortable moment- unsure of what was to happen next. Matheias finally spoke up, defeated as he slammed his hand against the table. Memorial cards, photographs, and sympathy letters falling onto the ground.

"..You know what? Fine. Suit yourself. But she's gone, and I know who fucking did it. Sooner or later, you'll know I'm right. And when you do, you'll be wishing that you listened to me."

Without a word, Matheias grabbed a memorial card. Shoving chairs out of his way while he walked out the door. With a final glance, he looked at Marco, and then at you. Scowling, he shut the door violently, leaving you and Marco alone.

Your eyes burned as you stared at the ground. Your body feeling limp as you pressed your back against the bedframe for support. Matheias was always the smart fucker of the group..You wonder how he'd react if he knew what was going on. Probably with a snarky remark of how "I told you so!". Funny how the end of their close bond was the start of yours. You want to cry, to get rid of this awful feel that brewed inside of you. But you can't. Maybe it was your body's way of punishing you for being such an awful human being.

Yeah sit with your guilt. Let it simmer with no outlet to release it.

Looking at the screen, you decided to check out your notes. Scrolling through them, you recalled how you always used it as a personal diary rather than a proper agenda tool. Just a pile of insecurities about your crush on a friend who clearly had the hots for someone else. A bunch of useless shit that you bitched about. A series of notes that revealed what type of selfish person you truly were.

Last opened a week ago...?

What?

Your heart sank as you looked at the bottom of each note.

Each note, every single one of them, he read them all. All the words you said to yourself, all the thoughts that you had- he knew about it. You went rigid the more you thought about it. Before..Was he playing with your feelings? He knowingly roped you into this shitfest because he knew he had you wrapped around his little finger. You were the perfect loyal pawn that helped him clean the messes.

Hahaha. Haha. Ha.

That's hilarious, isn't it? You stand up, furious of how stupidly feeble you felt. You pick up the clothes and your belongings and organize them in their rightful place. The couch, when he touched you like that..It was just to keep you on your toes, to keep you obedient. Your 'reward' for being so good.. Pissed, you started to pace around your room. That's it, you want out. You should've left the room when you had the chance. You lay there on the floor, mind numb as you stare into nothingness. That poor girlfriend, whoever they are, hoped they were okay. Why did Marco like them again? How did they even meet? Do you even remember what she looks like? You should know, he's talked about her so many times you've lost count. Charlie? Ashlyn? Abby? No.. none of those sounded right. Does it matter in the end? You should be worrying about yourself.

What if you tied your clothes and made a makeshift rope? Looking down through the window, you grimaced as you thought about it. It's too high. You're on the highest floor of the building. You laughed at another desperate thought that came up. What if you fought Marco yourself? Sure, yeah, if you wanted to get suplexed to death. Right, fight the 6'2 "maniac who goes to the gym every week and could easily pick you up like a ragdoll. There has to be someway.. Who knows how long he really plans on keeping you. It was so easy for him to drop Matheias, someone he knew longer than you - and swiftly wiped Angela off the face of the earth. You're next. Time was ticking. You sat there for a while. Thinking to yourself. Did Marco really care about anything other than himself? Is he capable of emotion? He has some capability, or maybe he plays the illusion that he does fairly well.

Without another thought, you got up, walking towards his room. Knocking the door, you called his name. No answer. You knock again. No answer. You try opening the door to check if he's inside. It's locked. Going to the front door, you began to play with the locks. Loudly banging them against the doorframe, the metalic sounds echoing the entire room. Still no response. Using this opportunity, you scan the entire apartment, looking for anything you could use or take note of. But you couldn’t think of anything. Deciding to go back to your room, you try to get some shut eye. Changing into some nightwear to get comfortable.

Eventually, you were able to find yourself melting into the matress. Dreaming about what could've been, you were sound asleep. You wished you could've stayed like that forever. Blissful and full of rest. However, it was short-lived as you felt yourself being lifted up. Groggily, you were brought up onto your knees. Slowly, you were propped up at a certain position while a warm breath fanned against the back of your neck. Your back was pressed against his chest, legs spread apart, and hands on both sides of your thighs. Fully awake and aware, you froze as you felt his hands play with your chest - barely grazing at your nipples. Alert, you tried to turn your body away from his wandering hands. Out of protest against your reaction, Marco hushed you as he pushed you back to the position.

"Ah ah ah. Nono. Stay put for me okay? Trust me"

It felt so foreign with the way he spoke to you with such geniune softness. You couldn't help but lean further against his body as he began to travel his hands further down your lower half.

"You've been so good, such a good friend to me..I've never really thanked you properly, so I'll do it now..Yeah?"

His hands now grabbing onto the waistband of your pajama pants, you went paralyzed. Why was he doing this?

"You deserve it. That's why.. Do you not like this?"

What about her? Doesn't he hate you for standing in the way?

"Just answer my question. Do you like this or not?"

You were starting to get on his nerves. So quietly, you meekly squeaked for him to continue. Even though you knew you should've denied his offer and advances, you still couldn't help but fall into him. So, lifting your hips up, you allowed him to pull your pants down.

"I just want to make it up to you, that's all..You'd enjoy something like this afterall.."

Rubbing all the right places, going at that perfect rhythmic pace, focusing on your body movements. He made sure to treat you carefully, leaving gentle kisses along your neck as he watched your chest rise up and down. Back and fourth, he left your mind in a daze as he whispered those sweet praises into your ears.

"Finally got what you wanted, huh? How long have you been thinking of this for? Hah.. And don't lie to me, I know everything.."

You didn't answer him as you focused on chasing your release. Your hands pathetically gripping onto his arms while you whined as his hands continued to play and stroke at your sex.

"It's only fair. I realised if you hadn't helped me, I would've been so lost..So good job. You did so well for me. You earned this"

Twisting and brewing, you felt the heat inside you threaten to spill as he changed his pace. His hands now trying to chass the pleasure out of you while you quivered underneath him. You were close, so close to tipping over the edge.

"I love you"

With those words that you so desperately fantasized about for years, you felt the heat in your body spread. Milking out your orgasm, Marco continued at the same rhythm, pulling his hand away after he felt you try to shove him off. Getting off the bed as he left you there to calm down, he wiped his hands dry. Smirking at you as if he had just pulled the world's most amazing prank.

"I did good didn't I?"

....What the fuck was that? Why in the hell did you say yes? Why the fuck did he- Looking at him in confusion, you pulled up your pants. Giving him a look that demanded an answer.

"Okayy fine. I just felt like it. Plus it's fun seeing you melt like puddy!"

Huh? You felt dumbfounded as he kept walking around the dark room. The moonlight providing the only source of light to the bedroom.

"It's funny..You like me. I've known that for a while..Even before the notes. You were never really a good liar."

He let out a soft series of chuckles. Staring at you with a pitiful look, showing an expression of fake sympathy.

"I don't love you, and I never will. Not even if you beg and try. "

He leaned close to your face, his hands caressing your cheek.

"I only said it to get your rocks off. And clearly..It worked~"

Well fucking ouch..A pang went through your chest as Marco moved away from you. Disregarding your feelings he kept going, the softness and genuie warmth you felt earlier, disintegrated into nothingness. Like a flip switched inside him, he was back to his comedic cold personality.

"Ohh hun..Please don't be dissapointed. I wasn't lying when I said you deserved every second of that moment.."

Circling the room, he continued to monolog casually.

"Afterall for being such an obedient dog staying put in the room..You deserved a little treat!"

Patting your head to further squeeze out the feelings in your heart, Marco left the room.

"I'll see you tommorow okay? Dream about me~"

Alone by yourself again as you laid your body on the bed. You curled yourself into a ball, grabbing all the blankets, hugging them for some comfort. His words replayed in your head, trying to process what just happened. He was fucking with you. But why? Why like that? Staring up at the ceiling with your back on the bed, you muttered a few words while you felt the shame creep up on you.

What an asshole.

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Part 3 coming soon!

You looked at her in horror as she sat there on the chair, tied up and gagged. Her face was stained with fresh tears as she struggled against her restraints. Oh god, did things not go well with her and Marco? Why was she here? You tried calming her down as she thrashed around, threatening to tip over the chair.

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actual-changeling · 5 months

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based on this post by @crawley-fell, i dreamed this up in a sleep-deprived haze and will now hopefully fall into bed. petition to get a moment like this in s3 because by god do i need it. this is pure comfort fluff and absolutely tooth-rottingly sweet.

Crowley watches him silently for a little while, arms crossed in front of his chest and leaning against the doorframe.

It's late, later than they usually eat dinner, but up until now he had been napping on the living room sofa, and regardless of how peckish he might feel, Aziraphale always waits for him. There is a pot with sauce simmering happily on the stove, not daring to burn or boil over under the angel's watchful gaze, and Aziraphale is humming along to a pop song he most definitely does not know but enjoys anyway. When Crowley darts out his tongue to taste the air, he recognises the freshness of basil leaves, which he probably took from the plant sprouting on the windowsill, and the familiar aroma of their favourite pasta.

A smile inadvertently tugs on his lips, small and soft, for no one but him, and maybe it is the wave of love following right after or simply his awareness of his presence that makes Aziraphale turn around. In the dimmed kitchen light, his blue eyes glint like polished sapphires.

"Done sleeping for now?"

Crowley uses his elbow to push himself into motion, his bare feet making the slightest of noises on the tiles, and slinks towards him.

"Mhhh," he responds as he presses up against Aziraphale's back, loosely wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his right shoulder. "Missed you."

Even with the cold seeping up through his soles, the heat radiating off of him is both comfortable and comforting, a steady assurance pulsing with his heartbeat. His hands unfurl, fingers splaying across his stomach, and the gentle give only has him tighten his hold, causing him to bury his face in the side of his neck. Embracing him like this, or in any manner at all, really, feels exactly what one imagines a cloud to be like, just infinitely better.

"Your nose is cold," Aziraphale hums, but he makes no attempt to move away, instead picking up his knife and continuing to cut up the recently picked basil leaves. Crowley rubs the tip of his definitely cold nose into his skin and brushes his even colder toes against his bare ankles for good measure, soaking up the amused giggle it elicits.

While he is indeed done sleeping for the next hour or two, he remains contentedly dazed, his eyes fluttering shut, and they lazily sway along to the music. Most of the light is blocked out either by Aziraphale's neck or the curtain of red hair falling into his face, growing longer by the day, and it is only by pure force of will that he doesn't drift off again right there and then.

Despite the many months they have spent in their cottage together, Crowley continuously marvels at the quiet, gentle, and not at all fragile peace they have gained—a garden for them and them alone, without forbidden apples or punishing celestial powers. Aziraphale sighs happily and drops the knife in favour of slotting their hands together, holding Crowley as he holds him, and he tips back his head, wiggling until he lifts his chin to kiss him.

"I love you," Crowley breathes, brushing their lips together again and again and again.

"I love you too."

(If the house hadn't long known better, dinner would have probably gone up in flames while they distracted each other for the better part of an hour; luckily, it would never dream of disrupting their 'us-time', let alone waking the wreath one hungry angel can unleash upon it.)

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #south downs cottage

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mythicalmyles · 1 year

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Dubcon/rough/alcohol/self hate/self image issues/sub/bottom reader/spitroasting/alcohol use

This was kinda thanks to @myersfavorite also to thank for another coming up soon

Your mind had broken the moment you had laid eyes on Toby, almost not recognising him. The sounds of the cafe became nothing more then white noise as all of your attention focused onto Toby, his skin was impossibly pale with big purple bags under his eyes. His brown hair was as fluffy as always. He’d changed a lot, things were definitely different. Not in a good way, he almost looked cruel with those empty brown eyes staring back at you.

Rather then acknowledge your presence he brushed past you, not a hint of recognition on his face. It was almost like he didn’t even see you, you tried to deny that it felt like a hot knife through the heart but sadness swelled your heart as you quickly left the cafe. You figured you deserved a drink on the way home.

You found yourself pushing the pubs doors open sooner then expected, the sound of the local drunks yelling about the football had you relaxing with the familiarity, nodding your head at a few of the regulars as you all but dove onto a bar stool, immediately flagging down the bartender for a double vodka and coke.

It took you a few seconds to clear the drink, quick to wave at the bartender for another. You knocked four back before the bartender told you to chill out, a sympathetic look on his face. “Fuck off Tony.” You growled out as he rolled his eyes, serving someone else as you mindlessly stared at the T.V.

You didn’t understand, you and Toby weren’t that close. You may have slept over every weekend, held him when he cried because of the bullying but that didnt give you the right to so much as a “Hello!” four years later, you let out a sad exhale. Looking at Tony and tapping the bar, he rolled his tired eyes but half filled a glass with vodka and a sprinkle of coke. “Love you Tony.” You smiled, ignoring whoever had taken the seat next to you. Tony laughed, throwing a towel over his shoulder. “Yeah thats your last. Im calling you a taxi.” You let out a whine. “I can walk just fine.” Tony’s eyebrows raised due to the slurring of your voice, but otherwise he went back to drying glasses.

You knocked the drink back quick, letting out a squeak as the alcohol burned down your throat. You took a moment to breath before quickly swinging yourself off of the chair.

The air was cold and bit into your skin as you exited the bar, door slamming behind you, mind too drunk to even remember why you started drinking in the first place. You kept your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trying to block out the cold of the night.

Luckily you weren’t too far from the bar, you heard steps behind you and chose to ignore them. Seeing Toby brought back too many old feelings you had tried to desperately bury deep down inside, your entire life had been spent convincing yourself Toby wasn’t like that, or if he was he’d never be into someone like you. Seeing him dragged back all those feeling of worthlessness, especially with the way Toby just, didn’t see you.

It didn’t take long for you to feel tears dripping down your cheeks, letting out an angry groan as you roughly wiped them away. “Stupid boy. Fucking stupid pathetic prick.” You growled chastising yourself, hands gripping (h/c) locks. It felt like a millennia by the time you finally reached your door, struggling to get the key into the lock as you swayed side to side.

You let out a small cheer of victory as you finally opened the door, you nearly fell as you tried yanking your key out. Sigh ripping from your mouth as you clumsily made your way through the door. If you were smart you would’ve noticed the door didn’t close until you were halfway up the stairs.

Your mind buzzed as you made your way to your bedroom, sadness blooming in your chest as you threw yourself into bed. A few moments of your head swirling past before a voice had you jumping and spinning around, mind going blank again when you caught sight of Toby and someone else. “T-toby.” You gasped out, wide eyes staring into lifeless brown ones.

Before you’d even had time to draw a second breath a body slammed into you, pushing you into the bed. Dazed you tried to focus your eyes, only to see Toby on top of you. Rather then his usual blank face he had a smirk coating his cheeks, eyes sparkling dangerously as he stared down at you.

You blinked and suddenly his lips slammed into yours, hands running over your body and squeezing your thighs as he wrapped them around his waist. “T-Toby what th-the fuck.” You gasped out as you forced your lips to disconnect, Toby instead biting his way down your neck. You bit your lip to try and keep back the moans that desperately wanted to leave your mouth. Your hands gripped Tobys arms tightly, a cough having you almost jump out of your skin.

Toby’s hands dug into your sides as he suddenly pulled you onto his lap, your head darting around to see another guy standing behind you. Eyes widening at the smirk on his face, green eyes almost glowing in the darkness of the room. Toby’s lips quickly recaptured your attention as he began sucking bruises into your neck.

You felt the strangers arms wrap around you from behind, you jumped in Cody’s arms, overwhelmed with everything happening. It felt impossible to catch your breath as hands roamed your body, squeezing and pinching your flesh. Another pair of lips began running along the back of your neck, sending your mind reeling as you gasped for air.

Toby left a large bruise covering your throat before ripping your shirt off, quickly latching onto your nipple. A loud moan ripped from your throat as you arched into Cody, his large hands gripping your wrists and keeping them either side of your head so Toby had free roam of you. Toby was quick to shove two fingers into your ass, causing you to let out a strangled gasp. “Thats it pretty boy, make some noise for me.” Toby’s voice was much deeper now, it sent sparks running up your cock.

A low moan left when Cody gripped both your wrists in one hand, the other quickly moving to play with one of your nipples. Despite your mind spinning all you could do was focus on their hands, both had rough, cold, calloused hands. Despite the chill that seem laced deep into their DNA you found yourself leaning into their paws, Toby and Cody leaned into your neck. You knew you’d have a nightmare even trying to cover any marks they were leaving, despite the pain of their teeth scraping against your skin you found ecstasy in everything they did.

Toby fingered you quickly, hazing out any thought. Alcohol and pleasure drowning out everything. Toby slid another finger in, spreading them as he stretched you out. Drool dripped down the side of your mouth as you looked up at him, Cody’s hand resting on your neck.

Toby’s eyes went black, one of his hands yanking up your thigh so he could align himself with you. He stared at you for a few minutes before beginning to push his cock into you. Despite the preparation it still burned, you let out choked sounds of pain as he slid deeper. Your breathing went deep and ragged as he finally bottomed out inside of you. Smirking down as he watched you struggle to take him, leaning down to lick a stripe up your cheek. “If i knew you’d make such pretty faces I would’ve fucked you years ago.” His words had your cheeks burning, belly dropping and filling with heat.

He fucked you like this for a few minutes before pulling out and turning you around. Toby wasted no time slamming back into you, smirking at himself for the scream he managed to pull. You burned bright as Cody’s hands gripped your cheeks, staring into your eyes as you moaned while Toby pounded you. Embarrassment didn’t have its hold long before he pushed your head to his clothed cock, your eyes widened as you stared while he took his belt off and slid his fly down.

His hand made its home in your hair when he pulled his cock out, rubbing it against your lips. You had no hope taking him all inside of your mouth, choosing to wrap your lips around the tip. Cody let out a groan as your tongue played with his slit, taking a deep breath when you mouthed down the centre of his cock. You kept going down until you were mouthing his balls, tongue running all over the flesh.

Cody pulled you back by your hair, toothy grin as he eyed your drool covered cheeks. Toby picked up his thrusts, Cody quick to push his cock into your open mouth. The feeling of you moaning around his cock almost had his eyes rolling to the back of his skull, pushing deeper into your mouth and revelling in your panic.

The tight heat of your throat almost had him busting a load then and there, holding you in place as he tried to regain his composure now he had his dick down your throat. “Breath. Through your nose.” He rasped out, smirking at Toby who grinned back. “So tigh-tight, bet your a lit-little virgin.” Toby stuttered out, slamming into you at an inhuman pace. Cody couldn’t deny the sight of you drooling while he deep throated you while your eyes rolled what had him cuming down your throat. Smirking at the way you moaned and choked on his cock, almost cuming again when cum dripped from your nose.

Cody pulled you back by your hair, biting his lip as strings of cum broke and splattered your skin. “This was the best idea you’ve ever fucking had.” Cody praised, voice airy as he sat back. Content to watch as Toby continued to screw the (h/c). You came with Toby, screaming and toes curling as his hands gripped you hard enough to leave dark bruises in their wake.

Toby flopped down on top of you, deep breathing as his hand ran over your back. The boys smirked at each other, you passed out between them. “We’re doing this again.” Cody demanded, Toby chuckling and nodding.

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iguessthisisanewobsession · 1 year

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It takes a mob pt. 7

First

Ao3

Bill thought the kid’s first introduction went pretty well all things considered.

“Well aren’t you a littl’ dumpling? Yes, yes you are. Oh you’re going to be so distracting! I need to call in Gabe. Bill! Who’s his mother? Why is he here!?”

With a grunt he placed another bag on the rack,

“Why do you assume it’s mine?!”

“Well, he ain’t Marv’s, that’s dam for sure! And he better not be Kenny’s! I taught him better than that and I am too dam young to be a Great-granny!”

Bill smacked a snickering Marv as he exited the pantry.

Me-mah was gently swaying to an invisible beat as she worked around the baby on her hip. Danny giggled as he watched the old woman make a roux. Earning himself a peck on the head.

Contrary to what she claimed, Me-mah wasn’t hindered in the slightest, she may have been twirling around but she still held the kitchen with the same iron grip.

Even if said grip was one arm less than usual.

Bill sighed as wiped his brow,

“It ain’t like that Me-mah..”

“Oh did a saucy littl’ minx run out on you? Do in need my boomstick?”

“No No! Ain’t like that! No need for the stick!”

The lady huffed as she went to check on the stock.

“So, then what’s it like? Information is important sonny!”

Marv joined Bill on a stool before butting in,

“There ain’t a lot of information to go around mad’m.”

“Oh?”

Me-mah shifted Danny onto her other hip as she turned,

“How’s that?”

The two men shared an awkward glance as Marv continued on,

“Me-Mah I-, there’s really no easy way to put this. You see-“

“We found him in a garage can.”

Bill decided to take over,

“Had nothing on him but crusty cape.”

Me-mah stopped swaying, much to the displeasure of Danny, and with a gentle ease switched the heat to low.

“Me-mah?”

“Bill, do you mind taking back your son now?”

Bill hesitated for a second,

“He’s not really- “

“Now. William.”

Bill took back the kid.

With a deep breath Me-mah reached under her table,

“Woah Me-mah! There wasn’t shit in the alley way!”

Marv stated as he raised his hands in placating manner,

“They were long gone by the time we walked by and that was hours ago-“

“I’m well aware Marven.”

The lady loaded the auto shotgun in a precise manner,

“Like how I’m well ware I am not a bat. That being said-.”

She cocked the gun,

“If I do not work my frustrations out somewhere then I can’t exactly put my all into the cooking. The soup can simmer.The gun range will do.”

~~~~~~~~~

Ken made his way over to the other guys as they once again wrapped Danny back up in the corner. Marv stood in front of Bill, blocking sight.

“So how was every thing in the kitchen?”

“THAT GODDAM MOTHER FUCKIN’ FLOOZY!!”

Several goons flinched as buckshot could be heard making target.

A quiet muttering of Jesus Christ.. being came from the closest goon to the trio.

“WE’VE BEEN WORKING THESE STREETS FOR TO GODDAM LONG FOR DAT!!”

Bang

“WE AND THE WAYNES”

Bang

“HAVE NOT POURED OUR SWEAT AND TEARS INTO POLISHING UP THIS HELL HOLE!”

The sound of a heavy knife meeting its mark joined the fray,

“TO HAVE SUCH SHIT HAPPEN AGAIN!”

Another shot,

“Jesus fuckin’ crisis, what the fuck did you two do?!”

Ken hissed,

“What did you expect us to do? Hide something from her?”

“When it makes her this angry? Yes!”

“How could we know that she would react this way to the kid’s backstory? Marv isn’t psychic last time I checked.”

Bill finally zipped up the coat and stepped into the open.

“WE GOT BOXES FOR THIS SHIT! INSULATED!”

Bang

“BOXES!”

Bang

“WITH ALARMS!”

One last shot rang out as the old woman finally lost steam. The only thing that could be be heard was her exhausted breaths as she hobbled out of the range.

“As... interesting as that was to hear.”

A voice piped up,

“I didn’t expect such a welcome back.”

Eyes turned up to the warehouse window as the boss made his entrance.

“Everything alright Me-mah?”

The cook let out an embarrassed huff before calling back

“Nothing I can’t handle sonny. Sorry about that.”

“No problem granny, but whoever was the two idiots helping tonight, I expect you in to be in my office with a good reason.”

Fist wave of hoodlums:

@reinluna,@confused-moose-child,@mimilikey,@emeraudesfateandfandoms, @dolfay, @boredomfarie, @aconitewolfsbane, @withoutcontxt, @onyxlightdragon, @satanicrutialspecialist, @phoenixdemonqueen, @vixen-uchiha, @skulld3mort-1fan, @bytheoldwillowtree, @illusionwolfwriter24r8, @thewondersoflebanon, @vipower001, @autumnwulf, @alice-hazelwood, @fisticuffsatapplebees, @f4nd0m-fun, @markus209, @latheevening226, @dolfay, @basilf1res, @jotaroslooseeyebrowhair, @skirter01, @bun-fish, @ascetic-orange, @thegatorsgoose, @sunflowershine03, @ladythugs, @firegirl108, @glitchedchaos, @rangerhorsetug, @mimilikey, @booberrylizard, @lehana37, @dragongoblet, @flamey-comet, @mandyne-1001, @starscreamlover, @moonfirearc, @bae-graphomaniac, @mewzaque, @wolfeyedwitch, @idfk-man10, @demon-cat-goes-woof, @undead-essence, @jaguarthecat,

#dp x dc #dc x dp #it takes a mob #red hood #jason todd #danny fenton #danny phantom #somewhere in the infinite realms there is an old clock who feels like he has made a mistake

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nirikeehan · 6 months

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Dragon Age Lore Prompts

Bits of lore compiled from codex entries, letters, and other marginalia found throughout Thedas.

In the Mists: The Windline Marcher. A ghost ship. Still, the story continues to be told, its intent to chill, amuse, or even titillate. As a consequence, the tale has grown more colorful over time. In many later versions, the "Marcher" is manned by a crew of stunningly beautiful spirits, who can fulfill one's deepest (carnal) desires, should one succeed in boarding the ship.

The Lost City of Barindur. A city lost to time or disaster. Swaying grass hid flocks of birds so vast that when they took flight, their numbers blocked the sun. This, our guide informed us, was the great city of Barindur, wonder of the ancient world, famed for its fountains which were said to grant eternal youth.

The Pyramids of Par Vollen. Structures of unknown purpose pre-dating the Qunari. Par Vollen's distinctive pyramids, looming from the overgrowth, have remained largely intact, even if their intended purpose has been lost. They do not seem to be tombs, though some chambers contain bodies that have been carefully preserved. Amazingly, the pyramids' proportions are mathematically perfect.

Confessions of a Lyrium Addict. Rare first person account of the Templars' plight. But the ration's too small. If they don't give you enough, your hands get cold. The sky starts to press down on you. Little things slip away. So you have to stay.

The Aeonar. Mage prison found abandoned by Seekers, with no sign of violence, during the Mage-Templar war. Accused maleficarum and apostates are held in the confines of Aeonar. Those who have a powerful connection to the Fade, and particularly to demons, will inevitably attract something across the Veil, making the guilty somewhat easier to tell from the innocent.

Notes on Methods of Enchantment. Ancient notes on enchanting eldritch items. Using up the last of the stock was well worth it, as I explained to it as a courtesy before final work began. Adjustments to the underlay were a great success, and will allow the recipe to be made with material taken from lesser animals, if the need arises.

The Hand That Cuts. A unique ring. This ring grows unusually warm when slipped onto a finger. It pulses slightly and steadily, as if in time with the wearer's heartbeat.

The Eye That Weeps. A unique amulet. This amulet is heavy for its size, and the metal is clammy and sticks jealously to the flesh. The gem in the center contains a liquid that glowers a sluggish red in bright light. Condensation slowly forms on the gem's outer surface, no matter how many times it's wiped clean.

The Bind that Guides. A unique belt. No matter how loosely this belt is tied, after a few steps, it warps itself snugly around the waist. The stitching, while fine, is of a strange, thin thread that resembles hair and can't be cut with even the sharpest knife.

The Skin That Stalks. Unique armor. The leather of this armor gives off a faint, living heat. It is heavier than it looks, but the weight and warmth are somehow comforting. The armor makes little noise in motion, and after a surprisingly short time, wearing it feels quite natural.

Chronicles of a Forgotten War. An account of encounters with mysterious Scaled Ones in the Deep Roads. A robed Scaled One stood before the altar. Its voice was different from the others: softer, almost feminine. It chanted and raised a basin of blood towards the altar. The other Scaled Ones bowed low. The robed Scaled One produced fire from its palm and mouth and ignited the blood.

Grim Anatomy. A book on animal dissection and demonic possession, by an unknown author. It's not wearing the creature's skin. It has become the creature: its mind, its senses... its blood.

The Hedge Witch. A witch who transformed herself into a giant hawthorn bush. She possessed only a modicum of magical power—enough to draw the templars' attention, but not nearly enough to defend herself from them. As the templars closed in on her, Saramish worked a spell of transformation. No one knows what her intentions were, but the outcome could not have been to her liking.

Arboreal Fort. Creative solutions to uncommon problems. Flatten the area? —Cullen. Of course the commander suggests hitting the hills until they forget they're hills. —L I was joking. Meanwhile, have you threatened to cut out anyone's tongue today? —Cullen Thinking about it right now. —L

A Compendium of Orlesian Theater. Fascinating cultural practices from the artistic heart of the empire. If a director believes they can sell the part, men can play dowagers, women can play dukes, and even an elf can play a king. Once donned, the mask is understood to be absolutely them. None of the actors I spoke to could explain to me the history behind this tradition, but bristled when I suggested other nations find it strange.

She of the Highwaymen Repents. A song unsung for a dead man walking. For know my crime was cruel, and all my pain deserved. I stand here as a fool, despite my brother served.

The Silver Knight. The final verse for a fallen knight. In lost verses of a song, painstakingly unearthed, I found the answer to my question. Who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?

The Executors. Those across the sea. “Remember that, for the moment, we are not your enemy.”

Constellation: Visus. The Watchful Eye. The early Inquisition took Visus as the symbol of their holy calling when they joined the Andrastian faith: the Eye representing both their search for maleficarum and the Maker's judgment upon their actions. When the Inquisition ended and became the Seekers of Truth and the Templar Order, the templars took the sword while the Seekers retained the eye.

The Lover's Alcove. To be seen not being seen. Dignity of course requiring that one does not also make use of the darkness for actual physical gratification. This has, of course, never occurred.

#writing prompts

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demetriandelibinaryboyfriends · 5 months

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@ckhalloween23 heyyyyyy bestie(s) I know I'm an entire-ass month late, BUT

HERE'S A PREVIEW OF THE ELIMETRI DARKFIC I PROMISED

Listen, y'all can't give me a "Serial Killers" prompt and the opportunity to write the dark, unhinged Demetri Alexopoulos of my dreams presented on a silver platter and NOT expect me to go a little apeshit ^^;

Or. A lot apeshit. Because boy did I let this funny little comic relief guy SNAP ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Also, funnily enough, I realized over the course of the last year or so that I'm probably autistic? For the longest time I held off on writing Hawk's POV because I hc him as autistic and I didn't think I could do him justice, but...I've unlocked this Fun Secret Collector's Item now, I guess XD Eli "Hawk" Moskowitz POV acquired!

Decided to give it a stab here, since him having NO fucking idea how to react to Crazy Demetri was just too much fun. Hawk came to me surprisingly easy once I got started, actually??? I mean I've always related to him a lot but I had no idea it was like. An autism thing. I thought it was just an ND thing akisudhlkuhyfu

Head's up to Tory and Robby stans...this may not be the fic for you. You have been warned 👀

CW for blood, violence, knife-threatening, light knifeplay, toxic relationships (although YMMV), mentions of murder, implied slut-shaming, homophobic slurs, and sexual subtext.

Fic under the cut! As always, moodboard pic credits available upon request :3

***

Hawk’s on his 30th rep when he hears the front door.

He stops mid-jab, the punching bag rattling on its chain as it sways back and forth. Scoffing, he rolls his eyes.

His mom must be home early. How fucking annoying.

He was looking forward to having the house to himself. With his father on a weekend-long business trip and his mother at her Friday night wine hangout, he was finally going to catch up on training without any interruptions.

The last thing he needs is to be outdone by Kyler Park and Robby Fucking Keene.

Hopefully his mom won’t come knocking, pestering him to watch movies or some other frivolous crap. He doesn’t have time for that anymore.

Strange. There’s a notable lack of the jingling and clattering that usually comes from 50 million things being shifted through an oversize purse. Hawk pauses, listening for any noise.

Maybe he imagined it.

“What the hell.” He takes a sip of the Red Bull on his bedside. Some sleep-deprived delirium or whatever it was wasn’t going to fuck up his focus.

Sure, he’s been averaging 5 hours a night, but who gives a shit? It’s not like anyone in high school actually gets enough sleep.

Sensei Kreese said in ‘Nam, they had to be ready to fight on a moment’s notice—geared to slaughter enemies after a mere 30 minutes’ rest in 48 hours. Hawk doesn’t strive for anything less.

The stairs creak.

His mom isn’t usually one for sneaking past his room, but perhaps she’s too tired to be chatty. He thanks the powers that be this seems to be the case, and returns to his reps.

Jab, cross, roundhouse. Jab, cross, roundhouse. Elbow. Knee to the chest.

He counts them out as he goes, power surging through him. Sensei will be sorry he started singing Keene’s praises when Hawk’s a better fighter than that piece of shit ever was.

Because throwing someone off a balcony when they had their guard down was a coward’s move. Typical Miyagi Do bullshit.

God, Hawk hates them. Hypocrites. Losers. Pussies.

He thinks of a new insult every time he lands a punch.

Miguel’s fucking insane for not appreciating what Cobra Kai did to get payback. What Hawk did to get payback.

His fists are starting to ache, fingers burning from being smashed against rubber again and again. Hawk doesn’t care.

Sensei would say the pain makes him stronger.

Jab cross jab cross jab cross jab cross jab cross jab cross jab cross—

“You know, at some point, I think you’re as good as you’re going to get at punching.”

A shadow blocks the hallway light.

Dread grips him in frosty talons. His arms still, the punching bag swinging back and smacking his chest.

He gasps, stumbling back. Still, he refuses to look at the doorway.

Refuses to let Demetri see his shock.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

He presses as much venom into the words as possible. Enough intimidation, and Demetri will back down.

He knows now that Hawk is as real a threat as he ever was. And Demetri’s smart enough not to keep poking at a tiger that’s already mauled him.

“In what world would I not remember where you keep your spare keys?” Demetri sneers.

Well. Maybe that’s a bit generous.

“What do you want?”

Hawk keeps his tone steely, hoping he can kill whatever plans are swimming around his ex-best-friend’s head before they even form. In all likelihood, Demetri’s here to be a nuisance at best and a night-ruiner at worst.

Fucking Demetri. He’s always been such a distraction.

Hawk needs to get rid of those.

He thought he did. But Demetri is apparently either too stupid or too obsessed with the past to be properly scared away.

Irritating, but admittedly also interesting. It shows a kind of boldness that he wouldn’t expect Demetri, of all people, to have.

“Maybe I want to check in on my best friend.” Groaning footfalls as Demetri starts to slowly cross Hawk’s room. “I see you avoiding me at school. And you didn’t even bother to show when your little friends crashed Sam’s party. Perhaps I want to see how you are, hmmmm?”

And try as he might, Hawk can’t pick up the usual sarcastic edge to Demetri’s tone. He frowns at his far wall, confused.

There’s something odd in Demetri’s voice, and Hawk can’t for the life of him pick up what it is.

He still refuses to look at his oldest friend. He’s not going to give him the satisfaction of undivided attention.

Demetri is a pest, and should be treated as such.

“We’re not best friends,” Hawk says tightly, landing another punch on his bag. “Whatever we were? It’s done. Has been for a long time. Why can’t you get that?”

He finally graces Demetri with a look. He’s expecting the usual sullen look—scrunched brow, open mouth, widened eyes. Like he’s eternally surprised Hawk doesn’t need him anymore.

A look where maybe, if he prods it farther, Demetri will storm off. Or run off crying. Be out of Hawk’s sight.

Be somewhere where Hawk doesn’t have to think about that night at Golf N Stuff. Or how it felt to watch Demetri writhe on the floor. Or the streams of vomit that ripped from Hawk’s stomach as soon as he got home.

Or what he did to himself in the wee hours of the morning, when no one—not his mother, not Cobra Kai, not Sensei Kreese—was around to see.

But when Hawk glances over now, Demetri is smiling.

Not a contemptuous sneer, or a pained grimace. A full-on grin, splitting his cheeks and stretching much wider than the situation calls for.

Hawk inhales sharply.

Demetri shakes his head, laughing. “It’s almost endearing, you know. What a tryhard you are.”

He squares his jaw, refusing to budge as Demetri advances on him. “I thought I made it pretty clear what I think about you. You want another reminder?”

Hawk balls his fists, trying not to think about how hard the words are to force out. How hard he’s working to keep the iron shell he’s built around himself intact.

A strange smell hovers around Demetri. Acrid and metallic, like he’s spent too much time mucking around inside one of those computers he’s so besotted with.

“How revoltingly naïve.” Green eyes burn into him like acid, the glint behind them unlike anything he’s ever seen. “You thought you’d break my arm once and be done with me?

Hawk finds himself backing away.

“I’m not going to make it that easy for you, Hawk.”

Something in the way Demetri spits his new name finally gives him clarity.

“So what the fuck do you want from me?” he spits. “Why did you come here?”

“I came here because you were right. About everything.”

Any response is snatched from Hawk’s mouth.

For several seconds, all he can do is stare. Demetri smirks, apparently reveling in getting a leg up.

Hawk is so confused that he can’t even find it in himself to be angry. A strangled “what?” is all that comes out, pulling a snigger from his adversary.

“You think you’ve got it all figured out. Becoming the scariest fighter in the Valley. Making everyone quiver at the sight of you. Doing whatever you like because people aren’t brave enough to tell you no. Becoming your badass karate teacher’s little golden child. Getting rid of your weaknesses. Getting rid of me. But there’s one thing you got wrong.”

Typical Demetri. Monologuing around the point.

But Hawk is, nonetheless, finding his confusion turning to intrigue.

The mopey kicked puppy routine had gotten unbearably tedious. At least Demetri finally has the decency to give Hawk some variety.

“Oh, yeah?” He curls his lip. “What’s that?”

Demetri casually leans on Hawk’s dresser, like this is nothing more than a Friday night video game session.

“You think I avoid fights because I’m scared. But that’s not true anymore.” And there’s that grin again—that wide, unnerving grin that looks like it was pasted on from another human being’s face. The sort of manic look that would never in a thousand years belong on Demetri Alexopoulos.

“I avoid fights because I know who’s worth fighting. And who’s worth hurting.”

Well, that’s new.

Hawk narrows his eyes, trying to piece together if this is all some kind of trick.

“See, Eli, you were right that the world isn’t kind to people who get too soft.” Demetri starts sauntering over again, and that odd, metallic smell strengthens. “Or losers. Or weaklings. Or people who admit defeat. Give in too easily. Run off cowering and scared. So I’m shaking all that off. Next time I fight, I won’t lose.”

As Hawk pieces everything together, he scowls.

“So that’s what you want?” he hisses. “A rematch? Like you’d stand a chance.”

“So touchy. Do you only think of people in terms of whether you can beat them in a fight now? Boooooring.”

Demetri clicks his tongue disapprovingly. It’s a mocking gesture he’s been doing since they were little, but now something about it feels chilling.

Hawk’s back bumps his bedroom wall. Demetri’s closing in on him.

Fucking hell—he’s getting fed up with this cat-and-mouse. Why is he even entertaining this stupid nerd again?

It’s not like he gives a shit about him anymore. Then he wouldn’t snap his arm in half.

“Fuck off, Demetri!” he roars. “I fucking hate you. I don’t give a shit about anything you have to say! Get the hell out of my house, or I swear to god I’ll break your arm again.”

He fills the words with fire and force and poison, hoping something will hurt Demetri enough to make him go.

He can’t cave again. Not after he’s worked this hard to oust Demetri and everything he represents from his life.

Not after he’s severed Demetri’s bone with his own hands and smiled with his friends about it.

That should’ve been the last straw. That should’ve been what sent Demetri running for good, abandoning everything they’d once had to save himself.

But it didn’t. It fucking didn’t.

Demetri takes another step into his space, curling his lip. “You’re full of shit.”

“Fuck you.” Eli returns his stare, baring his teeth. “How are you so sure?”

“Because you hesitated.”

Hawk goes rigid.

“I begged you to stop.” Demetri’s hands slide onto the wall on either side of him, trapping him. “And you thought about it. You didn’t break my arm until all your psychotic teammates goaded you on. If you really hated me?” His voice drops to a breathy whisper. “You wouldn’t have even thought twice.”

“You don’t know shit.”

Demetri snickers.

“Poor little Eli. You’ve always sucked at arguing when you get backed into a corner.”

“I still broke it,” Hawk growls. “You know I can do it. Easily. So how are you stupid enough that you’re still fucking with me? You some kind of masochist?”

“You still care about me, Eli.” They’re inches apart now, Demetri leering over Hawk. “You never got over me not wanting to join your little club of sociopaths. Whenever there’s a rumble, you can’t stay away from me. And you want to know what I think?”

“Shut up.”

Demetri’s voice is husky in Hawk’s ear. “You wouldn’t hurt me when there’s no one to show off to.”

Hawk’s done with this.

He lunges, shoving Demetri’s chest and flying at him with an outstretched fist. He waits for that gratifying moment of shock—the familiar shift in Demetri’s features as he realizes yet again Hawk has no intention of going easy on him.

Demetri doesn’t even blink as he moves out of the way.

Hawk course-corrects, swiveling and diving for Demetri again. He throws the fastest punch he can manage straight at Demetri’s jaw.

Why the hell won’t he give up?

Demetri’s fantastic at giving up. He always has been. He gave up on standing up to bullies and he gave up on Cobra Kai and he gave up on Sensei Kreese.

So why won’t he give up on Hawk?

Demetri doesn’t dodge this time. He only swerves, allowing the fist to graze his chin.

He lets out a hiss of pain—angry, but not surprised.

Without warning, Demetri’s hands shoot up. Hawk freezes as long fingers snake across the skin of his arm.

The next second he’s screaming, Demetri’s hands twisting until his skin burns. The other boy’s grip tightens, thrusting him toward the floor.

He’s stealing my fucking moves again.

And frustratingly, he can do them fast. Hawk barely manages to use his other arm to shove Demetri off, stumbling back.

Even one moment of disorientation is too long. Demetri charges again, teeth bared like a wild animal.

One arm slams him against his bedroom wall while the other digs into his chest, squeezing the air out of him. And Hawk hates to admit it, but Demetri’s training-broadened shoulders have a terrifying amount of power behind them.

Nothing he can’t handle. Hawk’s taken on bigger opponents before.

He squirms in Demetri’s grip, his own arms loosening enough for his hands to make a grab for the taller boy’s throat. Then Demetri’s pinning hand is gone, slipping in and out of his jacket in what feels like less than a heartbeat.

Something cold and sharp presses Hawk’s throat. His hands drop, tensing against the wall.

“What the fuck…?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you, Eli.” Demetri tilts his head, pouting mockingly. “But you make it so damn hard to talk to you. Can’t do a thing without you coming at me like some kind of rabid coyote.”

“So you pull a…are you fucking insane?”

“Like you’re one to talk, Mr. Red Hulk Rage Issues.” The pout morphs into a smirk. “Clearly, you’re not above playing dirty, using that sad little Eli voice of yours to get out of trouble. Figured it was time I caught up.”

Hawk feels something sticky dripping down his neck. His breath hitches in his throat.

He aims a hit at Demetri’s stomach. The taller boy bends with it, and the blade presses harder.

“Oh, come now.” Demetri tuts disapprovingly. “Don’t make me slit your throat.”

Hawk hardens his expression, channeling everything in him into hiding the shock.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I don’t think you’re in a great place to test that.”

And he’s right. Hawk hates it, but he’s right.

This isn’t the Demetri he knows better than the back of his hand. The Demetri he knows so uncomfortably well that he convinced himself over and over and over that it meant he was sick of the fucking geek.

This isn’t grounded, rational, sensible Demetri. Something’s snipped his threads, made him start fraying at the edges.

He’s unraveling, floating in an ether where the pragmatic and the path of least resistance that he made his life philosophy are losing their appeal. He’s…

Well, it seems he’s done some script-flipping of his own. Decided—perhaps on a whim—to overhaul everything Hawk knew and replace it with something cold and alien and completely fucking unpredictable.

Was this how Demetri felt, that day Hawk showed up at school with spiked hair and a conniving sneer? Is this some kind of payback?

He doesn’t care if this new boy with a knife to his throat killed and gutted the friend he grew up with. It doesn’t matter anymore. That relationship only ever got in the way, anyhow.

He truly could not care less. Honest.

The only emotion he feels is annoyance that this new opponent will be harder to match, with erratic moves and a quickly-thinning conscience.

This Demetri isn’t pulling any punches. One stupid or sloppy move, and Hawk will be on the floor gurgling his life out.

He’s never taken Demetri for someone impulsive, but perhaps he just had a talent for controlling his most brutal and primal urges—for his own safety, if nothing else. Perhaps he’s lost this ability.

Hawk wonders what it says about him that he isn’t bothered by this at all. If anything, he finds the whole concept exhilarating.

Fighting Demetri had gotten so boring. Now, at last, they’re on equal footing.

Regardless, there could be a trace of the Old Demetri yet. He might be able to use that.

“Put the fucking knife away or I’ll call the cops,” Hawk snarls. “Think you’ll get into Stanford with a police report on your permanent record? Or whatever fucking nerd school you’re trying to—”

“With what phone?” Demetri interrupts. “The one you left on the coffee table downstairs so it won’t distract you from wailing on your stupid bag?”

Fuck. How did Demetri even notice shit like that?

Hawk tries not to let the dismay show.

“When my mom gets home, she’ll—”

“Mommy’s not coming for you, Eli.” Demetri’s smirk widens. “Mommy’s getting drunk with all her friends to forget her unfulfilled suburban picket fence life with her nasty, violent delinquent of a son. And Mommy’s going to crash at Michelle Galinski’s house, just like she has every Friday night for the past 10 years. And oh dear…Daddy’s out of town on his top-of-the-month business trip? Looks like no one’s coming to save you.”

Fuck that. He can save himself.

Hawk makes a grab for Demetri’s wrist, other hand clawing at the arm compressing his chest. Demetri seamlessly lifts the elbow of his knife-holding arm and jabs the bony appendage into Hawk’s skin.

The knife blade doesn’t even falter, pressing more firmly into Hawk’s neck. A sting, and he feels something warm trickle toward his chest.

The scent from earlier intensifies, and Hawk realizes abruptly that it must have been blood.

“Mmmm-mmmm.” Demetri purses his lips and shakes his head, like he’s scolding a disobedient child. “It’ll make it much easier for both of us if you don’t act up. I really don’t want to cut your throat, but I will.”

As Demetri sneers down at him, Hawk realizes too late that he couldn’t cover his alarm.

“What? Don’t think I’d actually hurt you?”

The taller boy fiddles with the knife, sending little pricks of pain rippling through Hawk’s neck.

“I guess you know how it feels now,” he purrs.

Hawk spits in Demetri’s face, sudden fury overtaking him.

This pathetic nerd’s not going to make him feel bad now. Not after everything he’s done to crush the part of himself that possibly could feel bad.

“Fuck you.”

And slowly, never once breaking his gaze, Demetri licks Hawk’s saliva off his chin. The dim hallway light just catches the moisture on his face.

“Keep it in your pants, Moskowitz. We’re not there yet.”

Now Demetri’s definitely fucking with him.

It’s growing tiresome. Nonetheless, he doesn’t want that cut in his neck getting any wider.

There’s something distinctly unnerving about the way Demetri’s eyes are boring into him, sizing him up with a kind of cold contempt. Looking at him like he’s nothing more than some ugly insect to crush under his shoe.

It’s the sort of callousness that Hawk has never once—not in the entire time he’s known Demetri—been the target of.

And maybe he’ll admit it. He dislikes it for more than just the fact it throws him off.

Demetri is spiraling into someone unrecognizable, and the sheer foreignness of the whole process makes Hawk shudder.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Hawk’s voice is small and weak. Like Eli’s.

He doesn’t care.

His entire sense of reality—every absolute, irrefutable truth he’s ever attached to himself and his life and his oldest friend—is uprooting and spinning out of control, and it’s not like anything fucking matters anymore.

Demetri laughs—a sharp, hollow sound devoid of any real humor.

“Like you’re one to talk. I know what you did to Brucks.”

Hawk’s blood freezes.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Demetri’s knife slides from the cut on Hawk’s neck, beginning to tease the underside of his chin. “Mitch told us what happened. And I damn well noticed when Brucks stopped showing up to school. Nice of your war criminal sensei to help you cover that up.”

Hawk’s breath comes in quick, short gasps.

Of course Demetri put two and two together. Of course he’d gone snooping so he could find something else to hang over Hawk’s head.

And the fall of that knife might be worse than the one currently tickling his jaw.

Part of him hates it. Hates being reminded of that day and hates being reminded what he’s capable of. Hates remembering the sight of a living, breathing person crumpling to the floor, and realizing they would never get up again.

But Hawk isn’t stupid. If anyone can play Demetri’s games, it’s the person who knows him better than anyone in the world.

“Demetri.” He keeps his tone as calm and non-abrasive as he can. “Who else’s blood is on your knife?”

Because it was still wet when Demetri shoved it up against him. And Demetri’s a moron if he thinks Hawk missed that.

“Ah. And we finally get to that.” Demetri chuckles, gently tracing Hawk’s jawline with the honed edge. “You see…the difference between you and me, Eli, is that I don’t need anyone’s help to hide my bodies.”

His heart drops to his feet.

“What did you do?”

“Not any worse than you.” Demetri cocks his head. “I hurt someone who deserved it.”

“Demetri.” Hawk steels his voice. “What did you do?”

Because whatever it was, Hawk sure as hell needs to take the proper precautions to make certain he isn’t next.

“Stopped at the convenience store on the way over here.” Demetri follows the knife with his eyes as he talks, expression almost affectionate. “Ran into one of Kyler’s old buddies from the wrestling team. One of the kids who used to call us fags, remember? He thought it would be fun to shove me around. So I pretended I was running my ass away, and got him to chase me somewhere a little more…private.”

Hawk gapes at him.

“Did you really…?”

“Shanked the asshole like a pig. He was so surprised he didn’t even fight back. And let me tell you, it was the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

And there’s that laugh again—the broken, disjointed chortles that feel so jarringly out-of-place. Green eyes shining with a frenetic light that makes Hawk’s hands grow slick with sweat.

Demetri leans in again, knife held steady as his lips brush Hawk’s ear.

“I know how it feels, you know. I know what it is to get so angry that you don’t even know what your body’s doing until it’s too late. Watch the life fade out of another human being’s eyes. Realize you like it. Sit there panicking about being some kind of inhuman monster and then suddenly realizing you don’t fucking care. And I suppose…I suppose that’s another reason you were right. There is a certain freedom in embracing that the world is cruel and cutthroat and unforgiving. In finally unmuzzling the wild animal thrashing around inside you and letting it hunt the way it was always meant to.”

Hawk shudders.

Sensei Kreese promised no one would ever find out about Brucks. Staged some kind of car accident or binge-drinking tragedy or drug OD or some other way stupid teenagers die all the time. Kyler was barred from the funeral, with Kreese worried (probably reasonably) that the dumbass would let something slip.

Kreese told the class that if anyone snitched, he’d be more than willing to look the other way as they met the same fate as Brucks.

Hawk hated how much he enjoyed it. He hated how after the deed was done, he couldn’t find a scrap of guilt in his psyche. It made him feel detached from himself—the abstract idea that doing that to another person was bad, but the complete lack of any emotions to back it up.

But that’s who he is now. No going back, he supposes.

Perhaps, on some level, he figured Demetri would pick up on this and leave him alone. Decide that Hawk’s path was too dark and too dangerous for his pasty basement nerd tastes, and stay huddled away with the Miyagi Dos singing kumbaya.

That would probably be best for him, anyways. Hawk still doesn’t know what other horrific shit he has it in him to do, especially when his victim pleaded so hard for mercy that would never come. When Brucks’ fruitless begging gave him an unmistakable rush.

And yet here Demetri is, claiming he was in a similar position. Claiming he lost control.

It isn’t that Demetri can’t put on an act if he needs to. But on some level, Hawk’s always been able to tell when his best friend is exaggerating or embellishing to make a story more interesting. There’s a kind of snarky undertone he uses, always giving that he isn’t completely serious. Subtle, but easy to pick up if you’re familiar with it.

There’s none of that here. If anything, this is the kind of emotional vulnerability Demetri never displays intentionally.

Until now, apparently.

Hawk bites his lip. “You’re not lying, are you?”

“You’re so cute.” The tip of the knife jabs into the underside of Hawk’s chin. “You thought I was some…what? Some sissy little do-gooder? The pinnacle of morality and mercy and all great virtues? No, no.” He giggles. “I’ve always been as fucked up as you. I only managed to keep it buried longer.”

Hawk scowls, suddenly remembering exactly who he’s talking to.

“Give me a fucking break. You joined the pussy-ass ‘defense only’ karate dojo. Your entire philosophy is about being sissy little do-gooders. Like you’d have the balls to pull even half the shit Cobra Kai—”

The knife flies back to the wound in his throat, Demetri using his arm to ram Hawk harder into the wall.

“You think I ever gave a flying fuck about Miyagi-Do?” he spits. “You think I’m some slavering pet like you, tripping over my little lapdog paws to appease my sensei’s every command? You think these asinine karate wars ever mattered to me? No.” He shoves his face into Hawk’s, blood on his breath. “You’re the one so obsessed with following orders that you can’t even remember who you were before you became some demented old man’s attack dog. You’re the one so drunk on loyalty to a fucking karate dojo that you can’t see none of this shit matters.”

Hawk bares his teeth, hoping with everything he has that Demetri won’t notice him shaking.

“Easy for you to say, when you pussied out after one punch in the face,” he sneered. “Of course you want to believe all of this is pointless when you’re on the losing team. But I’m not like you, Demetri. I’m no quitter.”

“Oh, how admirable.” The knife presses a little harder. “Tell me then, Hawk. How’s being on the same team as Kyler? As fucking Robby Keene? You excited for the chance to help them hurt Miguel again?”

Red-hot rage rips through Hawk. He lifts a leg and knees Demetri’s shin as hard as he can.

Demetri barely even winces. His other foot kicks up, ramming the side of Hawk’s knee. Hawk scrambles for balance, heart pounding as he just avoids falling into the knifepoint.

“Thought that’d hit a nerve.”

“Fuck you!” Hawk spits. “Keene was from your fucking dojo! You fought with him, too!”

“Not since he hurt Miguel.”

Demetri’s voice is frigid, rivaling the most biting winter rains. Every inch of him drips with a venomous hatred that Hawk has never seen before.

Not directed at him. Not directed at anyone.

“And now he’s in your dojo. Funny how that works.” Demetri clicks his tongue. “Guess your roaring rampage of revenge was all for naught.”

“It wasn’t.” Hawk curls his lip. “You were all responsible, and we got our paypack. It’s not our fault Miguel wasn’t grateful.”

“Ooooh, gotta love the Hawk’s impeccable logic! ‘Ah, yes, I think I will terrorize everyone in this dojo except for the person who actually almost killed my friend, who I will agree to team up with for some reason!’” Demetri returns his sneer. “Are you really such an obedient little bitch that you do whatever your precious sensei tells you? Even when you damn well know it makes no sense? You’re more pathetic than I thought.”

“Park and Keene know their place,” Hawk hisses. “They know I’m the alpha. They answer to me.”

Demetri cocks his head, looking amused.

“Even if I were to believe that. Do you like sharing a class with those assholes? Do you like knowing that if one of them were to get their ass handed to them by a Miyagi-Do or an Eagle Fang—by Miguel—that you’d be expected to rescue them?”

“I’d do it.” Hawk grits his teeth. “I wouldn’t like it, but I’d fucking do it. Sensei Kreese gave Sensei Lawrence and the others a chance to join back up with Cobra Kai, and they said no. Miguel chose his side.”

Demetri sighs, expression almost pitying.

“I guess ‘Cobra Kai for life’ trumps a Cobra’s desire to beat another Cobra into the damn ground. Kind of a shame. I think you’d enjoy hurting them.”

What Demetri said earlier circles back into his mind.

I avoid fights because I know who’s worth hurting.

Hawk straightens, keeping his composure.

“Sensei says we need all the allies we can get,” he says. “Even if we don’t like them. I’m putting up with Kyler and Robby long enough to win the tournament, and that’s it. Then I’ll find some way to weed them out.”

“I doubt it.” Demetri smiles down at him. If it weren’t for the knife, Hawk would punch his teeth in. “Contrary to how you act, I know you’re a smart guy. If you knew how to get rid of them, you would have already. No, Eli…” His voice drops to a purr. “You’re stuck with them, aren’t you?”

Hawk feels sick.

Leave it to Demetri to pinpoint his deepest fears—a karate clan filled with the worst people Hawk knew. Not a single friend to speak of, and a sensei with constantly divided attention.

Even Tory was turning out to be a fucking snake in the grass. She certainly took to the boy who nearly killed her ex with not an ounce of guilt.

And yet she believed with all of her being that Demetri deserved a broken arm for what Robby Keene did. That he was a pussy for crying out in pain. Actions didn’t matter to her—only the name branded across the merchandise you wore and the color of your gi at tournaments.

For the first time, the thought makes Hawk seethe.

All this time she’d seemed nothing but tough and fearless, but all she was was a shallow bitch who cared more about rank and status than a damn thing you actually did.

She was always going to hate Sam LaRusso for being rich and popular. She was always going to hate Miyagi Do for its association with LaRusso. But the second Keene bailed? Put on a belt with a cobra on it and showed off his snake-snatching skills?

She couldn’t wait to get on his dick. The filthy slut.

And suddenly Hawk realizes that he hates her, too. He hates so many of the people who are supposed to be his allies. But he can’t afford to think like that. And most of all, he can’t afford to let Demetri see it.

He glowers up at his ex-best-friend, keeping his gaze stony. “And why do you care? You have your posse of Miyagi losers to pal around with. Why do you give a shit what I do? Just go home to your little—”

“I left Miyagi-Do!”

The words come out in a forceful scream that practically knocks Hawk even further into the wall.

The sheer disdain in Demetri’s eyes for the group he had so cozily assimilated into sends Hawk reeling. He’d never—not in this lifetime or the next—expect Demetri to toss the whole lot of them out like garbage.

Demetri breaks into another grin, reveling in Hawk’s stunned silence.

“See, that’s another difference between you and I, Eli. I don’t need some washed-out old man telling me what to believe and how to fight. I can think for myself. And frankly, I got sick of the ‘safety in numbers’ business when it seemed ‘the numbers’ were always the ones who got to pick my enemies for me. And no one—” His eyes burn into Hawk. “No one decides that but me. I hurt who I like when I like, and I’ll fucking gut anyone who gets in my way.”

Hawk exhales slowly, keeping his scowl pulled tight.

“So…what?” Hawk sneers. “You’re going to fight Cobra Kai by yourself now? That’s so fucking stupid.”

“Not all of them. Some of your class are just brainwashed idiots who don’t know what they’re doing.” He sighs, shaking his head. “And you, Eli…well, I think you’ve lost sight of who your true enemy is. I was hoping I could help.”

“You really bounced?” Hawk narrows his eyes, still trying to make sense of everything. “After everything, you…just up and left?”

It can’t be that easy. He knows it wouldn’t be in Cobra Kai.

“Yeah.” Demetri shrugs. “And now I have way more time for important things.”

“I don’t get it.” Hawk’s frown deepens. “Why would you strike off on your own? Did something happen?”

“You happened.”

Short. Simple. Concise.

Completely baffling.

Not that that was anything new today.

Maybe it’s Hawk’s imagination, but the knife loosens a little.

“Don’t you get it?” For the first time all night, something like genuine anguish prods through Demetri’s voice. “I meant what I said. I never gave a rat’s ass about the karate wars, or the stupid dojo feuds. All I ever wanted was to be worth your fucking time again.”

All Hawk can do is stare.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any fucking sense.

“And sure,” Demetri concedes after a moment. “At first, I wanted to do right by Mr. LaRusso. By Sam. They were the ones who taught me. Toughened me up into something worthwhile. Worked with all the shit you thought was a lost cause. But it was always a means to an end to stay relevant to you. Then after what happened with Moon, I genuinely thought the Miyagi-Do philosophy would help you. But I learned soon enough that you were in too deep for appealing to the Old Eli to work. No, I had to speak to you in your own language.”

He licks his lips as the knife starts to slide up Hawk’s neck again, dancing over the bottom of his chin and onto the plump skin of his lips.

“Aggression. Violence. Dominance.” He chuckles. “Wasn’t my go-to, but if it got your attention, I could make it work. And I guess I did, huh? I riled you up enough that you couldn’t leave me alone.”

“You wanted to piss me off?”

“If that’s what it took to keep you coming back for more.” And there it is again—that wide, sadistic grin that feels so brutally wrong. “You can leave me, Eli. You can disown me. You can shit on everything we had and make my life a living hell. But you can’t bring yourself to just ignore me. Because you’re so weak that you can’t bear to refuse the bait when I press your buttons. Because as much as you claim to hate me, you can’t move on from me.”

“And now you ditch your team to…what? Fight me on your own?” Hawk matches Demetri’s grin with one of his own. “I’d wreck you. And deep down, you know it.”

“So presumptuous.” Demetri shakes his head, tutting. “Frankly, I came here tonight because I’m sick of fighting you.”

“Says the one with a knife to my throat.”

“That’s because you don’t fucking listen without me having to resort to extreme measures,” Demetri hisses. “I think we’re a lot closer to being on the same page than you think. And maybe if you dropped this whole tribalism bullshit, you’d see that.”

So Demetri wants a truce. Hawk should have known.

He’s not surprised. But the way they arrived here?

Now that’s a twist.

It’s still an insane concept. Like he’s supposed to let his greatest enemy off the hook. Let Demetri get away with all the ways he’s undermined him and humiliated him and put the Old Eli—the weak, pathetic nerd Eli—on blast for all the world to see.

But if Demetri really left Miyagi Do…

Hawk finds himself wondering how much of his rage against the Miyagi Dos is his own, and how much is Sensei Kreese’s. And if Demetri’s truly deserted “the enemy,” does Hawk still have to hate him?

Does he even want to?

Demetri isn’t that pathetic, sniveling dweeb anymore. He’s crushed his old self as brutally as Hawk has.

Because the Demetri Hawk has known all his life could scarcely bring himself to cook with sharp knives, let alone use one to threaten another human being’s life.

Or take one.

But despite everything, something still doesn’t add up.

“I heard about your little rousing speech,” Hawk says. “About how important it was for Miyagi Do and Eagle Fang to unite against the ‘biggest assholes in the Valley.’ And now you’ve abandoned both of them. Was that all just a load of crap, then?”

Demetri is unfazed.

“Call me naïve, but I thought if Miguel and I were on the same team, you’d finally see some damn sense. You’d hurt me, sure. I’ve known that for a while. But I never thought you’d touch the kid you went on a vengeance quest for.” He shrugs. “Color me surprised when you wrote him off as just another enemy.”

“I told you.” Hawk works his fingers against the wall again, uneasiness trickling over his skin. “Miguel chose his side.”

“Be that as it may. I figured if you were so far gone that you were ready to wail on literally every person you used to be friends with, I needed to adjust my strategy.”

“For what?”

“For getting through to you. For getting you to tell the truth.”

And Hawk doesn’t want to think for too long about what truth Demetri has in mind.

“So you pull out a fucking knife.”

“Mhm.” Demetri snickers. “That’s how you communicate, yeah? Threats and intimidation?”

Hawk clenches his jaw. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Is that so.” The arm suddenly lifts from squeezing Hawk’s chest, long fingers seizing his wrist. He’s too surprised to pry them away.

He really should be expecting this kind of insane bullshit by now.

“Your pulse is going haywire, Eli,” Demetri murmurs. “Either you’re a liar, or something else has you energized. I wonder what that could be?”

It’s then Hawk’s mind fully catches up to its surroundings.

He rips his wrist away, pivoting away from the knife and sending a knee into Demetri’s ribs. The knife tip slices his cheek, but so be it. He’s endured worse.

Demetri gasps, stumbling back. Hawk makes a grab for the knife.

The taller boy is still too quick. He holds the weapon out of reach, using his other arm to thrust Hawk’s body back.

Before Demetri can do anything else, Hawk squats down and sweeps his leg. With a grunt, his opponent stumbles to the floor.

Something seizes Hawk’s ankles as he stands. He cries out as he’s yanked backward with surprising force, landing on the floor next to Demetri.

Hawk scrambles for the bed, trying to writhe out of Demetri’s grip and hoist himself up by the covers.

It’ll be over when I have the high ground.

What a stupid reference to think about.

It reminds him of the kind of game he and Demetri might have once played. Whoever made it onto the bed would get to be Obi-Wan, and whoever stayed on the floor would have to be Anakin, drowning in lava.

The idea leaves him feeling strange.

Demetri doesn’t let go, snarling like a hyena as he tries to tug Hawk back. The knife teases his skin, an imminent threat if he makes any moves too sudden.

He’d kick the annoying asshole away from him, but he doesn’t want the sole of his foot sliced open. If he can’t walk, he can’t fight.

Suddenly, Demetri cries out, grip loosening. In Hawk’s struggles, he must’ve rammed into a sensitive spot. He yanks himself free, scrambling onto the bed and frantically trying to plan his next move.

He realizes his mistake a half-second too late.

Demetri, gleefully bluffing, rises to his full height. Smirking, he pounces like a jaguar.

He lands heavily on Hawk’s stomach, slamming him against the bed. The back of his head smacks against the headboard, filling his vision with stars.

He barely has time to let out a pained gasp before Demetri’s knees are digging into his quadriceps, pinning him again. Growling, he aims a punch at Demetri’s throat.

His fist meets its target, pulling a strangled gasp. Hawk clasps his arms around Demetri’s torso, trying to thrust him off the bed.

For a moment they struggle, yanking and shoving wildly in an attempt to gain an advantage. Then Hawk feels long arms wrap around his back, bony fingers clutching at his throat.

The tingling pain of blade against skin, and Hawk realizes Demetri kept hold of his knife.

Whenever I think he’s finally going to drop that damned thing…

The knife jabs into him, strengthening its grip until he’s pressed flat on his back. At last Demetri loosens his grip, sizing up his victim with a satisfied beam.

Hawk squirms, bed creaking as he does his best to jostle Demetri off. The other boy holds fast, gazing down at him with a pitying look.

The blade digs in again, and Hawk’s struggles weaken.

“Come now. How many times do we have to go over this?”

“Let. Me. Go.”

“I don’t believe I was finished.”

Demetri tilts his head to the side, breaking into another crazed grin that sends dread trickling straight down to Hawk’s bones.

“Shut up Demetri.”

“I see you staring at me. All this time, and all these girls you tried so hard to fuck, and everything always comes back to your stupid middle school infatuation.”

“SHUT UP!”

Hawk squeezes his eyes shut, trying to bleach Demetri’s cold, smug expression from his mind.

“Right after you had your Bar Mitzvah, you asked me to kiss you. You figured since I already had mine, we were both adults now. And adults do grown-up things like kissing.”

“STOP IT!”

And suddenly Hawk is screaming at the top of his lungs because he knows where this is going. Because they were just stupid kids, and that can’t mean anything.

“I said of course I would, because I’d always liked you, Eli.” Demetri’s voice only grows louder—more insistent. “And I go in to give you a peck, and you grab my arms and stick your entire tongue in my mouth.”

“Shut the fuck up, Demetri!”

He feels something wet dribbling down his face, and wonders if the cut on his cheek got stretched wider in his and Demetri’s scuffle. It’s certainly stinging enough for it.

Unless…

Hawk wishes he could dissolve.

“I told you I’d kiss you a thousand more times if you wanted.” Demetri’s voice has grown sharper than his blade. “And I would have. And for a long while, I thought there might be the most infinitesimal possibility that you felt something, too. Now I know I was right.”

He laughs, the sound acrid and bitter and full of flint.

“Because even after everything, you’re still obsessed with me. You watch me across the lunchroom and pretend you’re ‘monitoring the enemy,’ but I know you miss me. You miss when I made you laugh, and you miss when I talked to people so you didn’t have to. You chase me around in every battle, but when it comes right down to it, you can’t hurt me in any significant way until you’re bullied into it. You pick fights with me so you can put your hands all over my body and not have anyone look at you askance for it.”

“FUCK YOU!”

Maybe if he screams loud enough, Demetri won’t pay too much attention to the wet trails smearing the blood from his cuts.

Caustic breath is hovering inches above Hawk, misting onto his lips. Still, he refuses to open his eyes.

“It must be exhausting, you know,” Demetri whispers. “Living your life in denial like that. Wearing your entire personality like some cheap Halloween costume and convincing yourself that’s a fulfilling existence. Don’t you want to be free?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Hawk growls. “I do whatever I like. It’s not my fault you don’t like who I really am.”

“Who you really are, hmmm?” Demetri’s lips brush his earlobe, voice a barely-audible murmur. “So tell me the truth then, Eli. Do you still want me?”

The bluntness of the question almost blows a hole in his composure.

“Of course I don’t.”

“Stop fucking lying!”

All at once, Demetri’s voice is a deafening, furious scream again. The knife slices Hawk’s jaw.

Not enough to do any real harm, but enough to really hurt. Hawk freezes, held prisoner by the burst of sharp, sudden pain.

“It’s always lies, lies, lies with you,” Demetri snarls. “Fake name. Fake hair color. Fake personality. Fake interests. Fake friends who only kiss the ground you walk on because they’ve never seen you at your weakest. Fake relationships with girls you barely let know you—to the point you think they’d leave you for liking to code. And the absolute drivel you feed yourself that this goddamn farce is what you want to live in forever. You think you’re starring in some martial arts epic, and you’re so wrapped up in your stupid method acting that you never want to step offscreen. Like everyone’s on the edge of their seat about your pitiful life like it’s the fucking Truman Show. And at the end of the day? You’re still too much of a pussy to tell me the truth.”

Hawk’s skin tingles, shivers rippling through him. If his heart was pounding before, it’s thundering now.

Somehow it doesn’t feel like fear. He’s used to this new version of Demetri enough not to cower from him.

No, it’s something far worse. And Demetri knows it.

“You can’t hide from me.” The other boy’s tone drips with haughtiness, savoring the ability to confirm Hawk’s worst fears. “I see right through your bullshit. I always have. So I’ll ask you one more time. Do you want me?”

The knife slides down to Hawk’s throat again, pressing firmly.

“Lie and I’ll kill you.”

He’s probably bluffing. Maybe. Surely.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter anymore. Sprawled out on his childhood bed, underneath the only other person he frequently shared it with.

The person he used to watch sleep, wondering wistfully if the freak with the lip scar ever made it into his best friend’s dreams.

He opens his eyes and finally meets Demetri’s gaze, in all of its searing, insurmountable beauty.

“Yeah.”

He breathes it out quiet and fragile—a soft promise. A rare moment of openness that he lets free of his unbreakable shell.

Demetri drops the knife. It falls behind the bed, thumping onto the carpet below.

He swoops down, seizing Hawk’s neck and yanking him up. When their mouths meet, Hawk is nearly thrown back with the force of it.

Demetri kisses like a starved animal, lapping and nipping in a crazed frenzy. The weight of his muscle-toned body is crushing, locking Hawk firmly against the mattress.

He tastes like blood and cold steel and cruelty. Hawk shudders.

This time, he’s certain it isn’t fear. It’s a rush he only thought he could get from smashing his fists against plastic or skin, or feeling another person’s body go limp and lifeless underneath his.

And it’s ironic. The more Demetri tries to devour Hawk, the more Hawk wants to let it happen.

There’s an odd satisfaction to it, he thinks. Being completely at someone else’s mercy.

And Demetri isn’t fighting with any.

***

OKAY, time for some #authorrants because I feel like some of the choices I made in this fic are. Controversial, to say the least. Lmao.

So something that has bugged the crap out of me for a while now is people in this fandom acting like there is any world where Demetri would choose Robby over Miguel. I remember after S3 dropped, there was a lot of "dId tHeY fOrGeT tHe dEmEtRi-rObBy FrIeNdShIp" type sentiment floating around irt why Demetri didn't stay in contact with Robby the way Sam and the LaRussos did. Maybe it's because, I don't know, Robby threw the guy Demetri never actually stopped being close friends with over a balcony and almost killed him???

Like. Not that these showrunners don't ever forget things, but this absolutely is not one of them. Robby paralyzing Miguel is a BEYOND valid reason to sever ties with him, especially when you were just casual dojo bros for a couple months tops. When push came to shove, Demetri pretty unequivocally CHOSE MIGUEL. He brought him a comic book in the hospital! He was thrilled to see him back at school and picked up their friendship right where it left off! He DOES NOT VISIBLY FORGIVE ROBBY UNTIL MIGUEL DOES! Idk idk it just really riles me when people do not take Demetri and Miguel's friendship into account when discussing the Demetri-Robby relationship and why they stopped being friends when they did. Tbh I don't think it's that hot of a take to assume Demetri would have more loyalty to the guy who befriended him when he was a nobody and proceeded to be one of his closest ride-or-die friends for a whole-ass year over the guy he was casual buds with because they happened to share a karate instructor -_____- I could go on about this for several more paragraphs, but that's a rant for another day.

(As far as the LaRussos go, they were all closer to Robby and were basically his adoptive family, which is why they--particularly Sam--were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and say the Miguel thing was an accident. Demetri didn't know Robby well enough to make that call, and had no actual proof it WAS an accident except for maybe Sam's word.)

Some other things to ramble about:

I remember in some interview a while back (I think with Martin Kove?) someone asked about Hawk and Marty or whoever was being interviewed said he was "on his way to being a serial killer" or smth. And Jacob's talked a little bit about the kind of escalating delinquent shit Hawk would get up to if he was never redeemed, etc. So going with that: Bold of y'all to assume the kid simping for Hawk since episode 1 wouldn't renounce his morals and join him on the path to villainy. Sorry but I truly believe Demetri's horniness for Hawk can and would win out over any ethical qualms in the end. Also Demetri is horny for violence and evil this is canon otherwise he would in fact not have simped for S3 Hawk so PAINFULLY BADLY god bless

Also this was partly inspired by those post-S3 jokes that were like "lol what happened to Brucks??? Did Hawk kill him???"...well, what if he did, tho? O_____O

Disclaimer that I promise I do not endorse the Tory slut-shaming!!! Tbh I didn't really wanna write it, but...I think given the circumstances, Hawk WOULD be pretty furious at her for getting chummy with Robby and "betraying" Miguel. And unfortunately, since he's a teenage boy with (canonical!) misogynistic tendencies...I do think that would most likely come across as slut-shaming D: But y'all have brains y'all know I don't condone everything I write about aknhdksuyhf (Murder is probably not something you should try at home either btw)

Hopefully I didn't make Hawk too weaksauce in this ^^; My excuses are a) I suck at writing fight scenes and tend to just want to get to the psychosexual dialogue and knife-teasing, so. If I rushed anything to get there I apologize. b) Going by the school fight, Hawk is indeed thrown off when Demetri takes the offensive (especially in a super dramatic kind of way) and his confused pause is in fact enough time for Demetri to get an advantage and c) The man is thrown off his game!!! Thrown off his groove, even!!! His sissy pussy nerd ex-friend shows up acting like a disturbed maniac and he is so O_____o about it that his moves are off!!! He's sucking a little but it's not his fault 💔It's Demetri's for subverting expectations 💔

I also feel like if Demetri started McFucking Losing It and was generally less grounded in the physical and rational world, physical pain wouldn't register quite as much. Like he's in his head enough now that he's kinda lost his grip on reality and things happening in the physical world don't seem as relevant or immediate, if that makes any sense? Also idk. Maybe after the arm break his pain tolerance just went up :O Anyways that's why he recovers pretty fast when Hawk DOES land a hit. Demetri is nuts now 💙

I will die on my hill that Demetri like. Really REALLY isn't as morally upstanding as people like to think XD Like I say this with love but from the top he's been a self-interested little shit who just happens to be extremely loyal to the very small handful of people he actually likes. My dudes, he didn't join Miyagi Do because he liked their philosophy better--he joined because they were less on board with punching him in particular in the face XD This dude saw Cobra Kai being fucks and playing dirty at the AVT and he STILL up and says "I wanna come back because I like the 'safety in numbers' aspect of joining a gang" XD I always got the vibe the "well at least I'm not an asshole LIKE YOU" he throws at Eli later is more because he likes to feel self-righteous. I say all of this as his biggest fan btw. I think more people should embrace the self-interested king he is and write about him and Eli being absolute dicks together instead of to each other 💖

I guess that's what I'm here for!!!

Anyways I think Demetri and Eli have the same potential to be absolutely horrific people, and I think we're all very lucky that Demetri was too lazy to challenge his comfort zone and stick with Cobra Kai XD We're very fortunate he happened to end up using his speed and his brains to help his friends who happened to be on the Good Guy Side rather than his friends who happened to be on the Bad Guy Side.

I also think people put WAY too much stock in Demetri's ability to staunchly stick with the good guys and have enough of a moral backbone to just keep opposing Eli's douchebaggery indefinitely. My mans is NOT that much of a saint, trust. From how quickly he forgave Eli for a HUGE number of atrocities, he seemed to be like. Waiting on his ass for Eli to come back to him. And if Eli never did???

I mean. Bruh. Someone you've been deeply in love with for years throws you out like last night's trash and just progressively starts being more and more awful to you??? You think it's feasible for my boy Demetri to stay strong and sane and reasonable forever, and just keep on fighting the good fight??? HELL NO. This dude is either a) quitting karate and moving schools so he doesn't have to deal with constantly being pummeled by the dude he's in love with or b) going completely fucking insane from the cognitive dissonance of being in love with a dude who constantly beats his ass.

Listen. I have been in love. If my friend who I was in love with turned evil and joined an evil karate school and started wailing on me all the time, I would either pull an Aisha and haul ass out of there or I would simply lose my mind and become evil. Go full Jinx from Arcane. Sorry if you're a hater who doesn't think Demetri Alexopoulos has it in him to go apeshit, but you're wrong and also boring. The funny kooky comic relief guys are always one thread away from losing their shit because everyone assumes because they're funny and kooky they have no depth and no end to their bullshit tolerance. I would know because I am one of these Guys in real life. Put some respecc on my boy's name and also give him another knife 🔪

For anyone looking at me askance like "Demetri doesn't have it in him to kill!" Yes he does. I'm sending him over to your house to stab you right now 🩵

No fr tho, like there was MURDER in this man's eyes when Kyler was bullying Eli in the library. There was MURDER in this man's eyes fighting Robby at the AVT in S4. I have full confidence that if he could get away with stabbing his enemies, he would. So would Eli but I feel like this is a less contested opinion.

Also this is interesting so it's something I might go into detail about in another post, but one thing I noticed while kinda brainstorming how Demetri would snap is that Demetri is loyal to people, while Eli is loyal to concepts and ideas.

Demetri I don't think is actually that married to or slavish about MD principles tbh. Demetri isn't really averse to violence conceptually (even back in S1 it's only ever about him disliking BEING hit, not disliking hitting people!!) and doesn't actually do the defense-only thing that often. Several times we see him instigate with Hawk, or help Sam instigate with CK in general. The times we see him stick his neck out to really help Miyagi Do, he seems like he's doing so more out of loyalty to his friends (namely Sam, Chris, and Nate--also Miguel irt the dojo team-up at the end of S3) than loyalty to Miyagi Do as a dojo.

Eli, meanwhile, is way more loyal to concepts he puts a lot of stock in than the people in his life who challenge this. He sees Cobra Kai as this almighty saving grace that is for LIFE, and he doesn't think twice about ditching Demetri and Miguel when they turn their backs on it. He stays in this dojo even as his friends leave and it fills up with people he hates, and his sensei dismisses and ignores his concerns. Because this dojo saved him from his horrible, bullied life, and now he feels like he owes everything to the Cobra Kai name, despite who's actually behind the name. Also why I think Demetri uses "my karate dojo needs your help!" as the selling point to get Eli to join MD in S4. HIS motivation is probably much more that he just wants him and Eli to stay together, but he knows Eli values dojo loyalty above everything, so Dem kinda makes it more about that than friendship.

Anyways! That's all for now! The whole fic should be up on my AO3 sometime in December :3

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turnupswritessometimes · 2 months

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Butterflies - Ch4 - Lies of P/Alice Madness Returns

Relationship: P/Alice Liddell

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53898544/chapters/136426825

Next | Previous | First

Summary: “But why go looking for other realities, when there’s no guarantee you’ll pass through to them?” “Because it’s an experiment, and I jolly well won’t learn anything more about all this unless I try,” Alice replied.

Having figured out how to slip in and out of Wonderland entirely, Alice Liddell sets off on a journey to find more realities around her own. When she follows a blue butterfly to Hotel Krat, she meets P. The more time they spend together, the more they feel as though there’s someone else out there, just like them.

Chapter Four: In Which Alice and P Spar Against Each Other

Alice had enjoyed talking with Eugenie; with someone who knew how to handle weapons, and who’d admired her own. And then she’d met P again. And though her heart had been behaving erratically, she'd liked it. She'd liked meeting someone who was like her – because he was, she thought. There was something about him that was like her.

Now they stood in the courtyard of the hotel, in the weak morning sunlight, facing each other. Ready to spar. Alice held her knife in her hand, and realised that she knew nothing about fighting. Not really. She only knew how to fight for her life. Not practice, like this.

There was a half puppet mounted on a stick in the courtyard, which fruitlessly waved its fists like a boxer. They were both pointedly ignoring it.

P looked back at her, his eyes catching the lights from the hotel. “Are you sure about this?”

“Of course I am.”

He nodded. “Alright.”

Yet, neither of them moved. They stared at each other, fingers clenching on their weapons. Alice took a breath.

“On three?”

P nodded again.

And that was what they did. On three P darted forward, swift as a cat and light on his feet. Alice raised her blade, just in time.

There was the fantastic clatter of metal on metal. P’s sword pressed against Alice’s dagger with enough force to send her sliding back a half-step. She suspected he was holding back on her.

She sidestepped. Slashed out with the vorpal blade and it was caught by P. Caught again, when she tried a different slice. And again, as she lunged, her weight behind it. P shifted his weight backward, catching it on his own. He didn’t hold her parry for longer than a moment; just a glancing blow against each other.

Alice retreated. P let her. Watched her, as she circled him, slowly, but he met her at every step, his sword outstretched. And, the moment she paused to catch her breath, to think, he was there. His blows were rapid, and she fumbled to catch them on her own.

She was good at fighting. In Wonderland, she was good. She’d taken down opponents bigger and more powerful than this. And yet, she felt clumsy. Her boots stumbled and her spare arm felt heavy. She was barely holding her own, and P didn’t even seem winded.

P stopped, for a moment, his blade diagonal over his chest, like a shield. “You’re good.”

“Are you lying?” she asked, swapping the hand her knife was in; her palm was sweaty.

P shook his head. He frowned, as though the thought offended him.

“Try again,” he said. “You won’t hurt me.”

Not because he was too good, because she couldn’t. She physically couldn’t hurt him, only break him. So, Alice redoubled her efforts, trying to recapture the desperate fight for her life that she felt in Wonderland. She slashed and blocked and ducked and swayed, trying not to pay attention to her footwork or her posture; she never had before. It was easier if she acted on instinct.

The problem was, P’s sword was much longer than her dagger. He had a range that she didn’t have; she had to get close if she wanted her attacks to land at all.

But getting close had its advantages, Alice reasoned. She waited, until their blades were locked, before she hooked her boot around P’s, just as she’d learnt from the street boys back in London.

It did unbalance P, too. But as he fell, he twisted his sword deftly, so it caught the front of Alice’s blade. She lost her grip on the vorpal blade; it spun out of her hand; she fell too; staring at her knife and P’s sword spinning in silver arcs through the air.

A judder went through her body, as she landed.

Not on the floor.

She’d landed on top of P, her palms on his chest, and their legs tangled together on the cobblestones. For a moment, she was winded; he was so solid underneath her. Alice started to pull herself up, but she froze when she was halfway, her hair falling down in a dark wave.

P’s eyes were wide, staring up at her, and very blue. This close, she could see the freckles across his nose and cheekbones. See there were more on his temple. The pattern was so natural; it was strange to think he must have been designed that way. Someone had painted his freckles.

But what made her stop was his smile. A small, stunned smile as he stared.

“I’m so sorry – I cannot apologise enough,” she murmured, still trying to get herself in order.

P blinked. “You’re apologising for winning?”

“I have no weapon.” She needed to move. Why hadn’t she moved? She couldn’t lay sprawled on a boy, like this. “I think we can call this a draw.”

P hadn’t moved at all; his hands were at his sides. “You could strangle me.”

Could she? His chest felt hard and unmoving under her palms. She shook her head. “I doubt it. You could easily overpower me. It would be you strangling me, sir.”

And then she thought about that; about the two of them rolling around on the floor, grappling for power, and how thoroughly improper that was. She felt herself flush with heat, and yet, still couldn’t bring herself to get off this boy.

“I won’t do that.” P got onto his elbows, as though he was trying to reassure her. Did he think she had gone red because she thought he would? It would be impossible to explain that wasn’t the case.

“I didn’t think—” Her hands had shifted, with P’s movement, and she stopped. She’d felt something, under her right palm. She pressed, more firmly, against his chest, and felt it again.

A heartbeat. A solid heartbeat. Slightly fast.

P sat, properly, and she shifted with him, only dimly aware she was on his lap, now. (If she was truly aware, she’d be mortified, but she was distracted now.) His hand covered hers, keeping it pressed against the heartbeat. The hand that looked like hers, not his weapon-arm.

“It’s called a P-organ,” he said.

Alice barely breathed. She felt as though she was under a spell; enchanted by the feeling of his heart underneath her hand. A steady heartbeat from a puppet’s chest. Eventually, she became aware of those too-blue eyes watching her. Her own heart thudded, as she met P’s eyes. They practically shone.

“It feels…” She tried to catch her breath, but it felt difficult. “The same.”

“The same?”

“The same.” She took his wrist – the one that wasn’t mechanical – and brought it to her own chest. (The impropriety hardly seemed to matter, anymore – seemed easier to forget about it, entirely.) She pressed his palm against her own racing heartbeat.

P stared at their hands. His fingers twitched, and his palm pressed against her breastbone. Alice was very aware of how fast it was beating. She watched P’s expression of awe.

“Like butterfly wings,” he murmured, with his soft voice.

Alice nodded.

Neither of them moved. They stayed in the courtyard, in the weak morning light.

Until it began to drizzle.

Alice was not repulsed by P. She’d been fascinated by his P-organ; fascinated by him. She didn’t pull away when they touched; didn’t scramble away in horror. She’d stayed. She’d showed him her own heartbeat.

It had felt magical.

When it had began raining, they had moved. Slowly, as though in a dream, picking up their respective weapons and heading to the safety of the hotel. They stood, just in the doorway, watching the rain pitter onto the cobblestones.

P stood next to a human, who didn’t care he was a puppet. Who treated him, he thought, as if he was just as human as her. He liked that feeling.

Alice’s cheeks weren’t crimson anymore. They weren’t deathly pale, either, but pink. As pink as carnations. P liked seeing her blush. He fiddled with the hilt of his sword, flexing the fingers of his legion arm.

"I think we can both admit you are the more capable fighter," Alice said. She didn't look at him. That was fine. His mind was still full of her very green eyes. Eyes like he imagined the grass would be. Eyes like the tree leaves in summer.

"I was taught to fence," he said. That made it sound like it was something he'd learnt, and not something ingrained within him. As if he was built for a purpose other than to fight. "That's all. I can teach you."

Alice fingered the blade of her dagger. Her hair fell forward, shielding her face from view. She didn’t reply.

He continued, "If you teach me the moves you used on me."

"That's how we fought in the streets," she replied. "It isn't fair fighting."

He thought about that. He thought about how it felt to fight puppets, when they were only under orders to fight. He thought about how he would use any weapon in his arsenal to win against them, including pipes and chains. He thought about how he didn’t want to fight sometimes. He hadn’t wanted to fight some of the humans he’d faced; they’d only fought him because he was a puppet. He wasn’t like them; he didn’t bleed, and he didn’t tire.

"Is any fighting fair?"

She brushed her hair back then, and examined him with cat-like eyes, like she had before. Like he surprised her; like she was intrigued by him. "Are all puppets so philosophical?"

When anyone said something like that, it reminded P of what he was. (How could he forget, even for a moment?) He felt very aware of his springs, ticking inside him, instead of a real heart. He looked back towards the courtyard, letting his own hair fall forward. His father had cut it back, when it had grown, and he wished he hadn’t. Wished he could hide behind it too.

"I'm not like other puppets."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alice let go of her hair, and clench her fist. As though she was aware she'd hurt his feelings, and felt bad about it.

"I can teach you how to fight like a street urchin," she said. "If you teach me how to fence. Is that a fair deal?"

P turned back to her; her hair was messy from the rain and half-frizzy – beautiful – and it sounded like that was her apology, and he liked that better than the word 'sorry.' He nodded. Smiled a little.

Alice smiled back. She held out her hand again, for him to shake. He took it, and felt Gemini's vibrate against his hip. He'd kept mercifully quiet all morning.

P hesitated. Then, with the same push he felt when he went into battle, brought Alice's hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips against the back of her fingers, his eyes on hers. Her cheeks had turned back to red, and her eyes were wide. But she still smiled. A small, shocked smile.

"I'll find you a foil," he murmured.

Alice nodded. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

P found himself turning jerkily, turning and heading back through the foyer.

His arm was caught, as he passed, and he stopped himself just in time from powering his legion arm and attacking. It was only Vegnini. Grinning at him like a Cheshire Cat.

"Very smoothly done, my friend," he said. "You're more of a Casanova than I expected."

P raised an eyebrow at him. It was easier to be impassive with Vegnini – he suspected it amused him. He was the only one not intimated by P's silence. It was strangely refreshing.

"You know I have had many partners in my three decades, don't you? Gentlemen, ladies, a few puppets, so you know I have plenty of advice." Vegnini leant closer. "For starters, you look much too nervous. Ladies notice that, you know."

P looked over his shoulder, wondering how he could look anything. Vegnini's voice carried, and Alice had no doubt heard. She was brushing down her apron and seemed to be politely ignoring the conversation about her. Because she was a lady.

"Thank you," P said. "I'm alright."

"Suit yourself, my friend." Vegnini let his shoulder go, though not without giving him another sharp elbow.

P didn't reply. He gave a single, sharp nod, and continued on. How was it that Vegnini could read how he felt so easily? (If that even was how he felt?) And he didn't find the idea of a puppet in love impossible?

Love was a powerful word. He didn't know anything about love. Love was for humans, surely.

P wouldn't think about it. That was simpler.

They fought alongside each other. Alice followed P onto the streets of Krat, in the drizzly afternoon. He taught her footwork; taught her how to hold a foil and how to parry. They practised on quiet streets, before facing the puppets that still walked the streets. The factory was shut down, and yet, they still seemed to keep appearing, as relentlessly as the monsters in the outer parts of the city.

P had not told Alice about the monsters. Not yet.

She was a quick study. She moved fast; she was determined to be perfect. Her eyes gleamed in the soft afternoon light like a cat’s when she did. In return, she taught him the opposite; to fight with whatever he could. Small, underhanded tricks which were nothing like fencing, and often didn’t require a weapon.

“The heel of your palm,” she said. “Against the bridge of someone’s nose. It should break it, and get them off of you.”

They were stood very close, in one of the many alleyways of Rosa Isabelle Street. She’d shown him with her own hand, moving slowly, and she’d let him. Her skin just nudged his own, and he felt – something. Like sparks. Like he was breaking.

“Have you ever had to do that?” he asked, looking between her fingers to her face.

Alice bit her lip. She pulled her hand back, and held it against her chest. “London can be dangerous, if you’re a girl.”

He didn’t like the sound of that; he clenched his legion arm, and released his fist, slowly. Alice had proven that she could take care of herself – she had gotten the better of him – but he still didn’t like the idea of her having to defend herself like that.

She leant against the alley wall, glancing out onto the street. It was as deserted as Krat could be, meaning it was piled high with puppet parts and there was a leg poking out from underneath a carriage.

“I suppose Krat is a dangerous place for you, too,” she murmured.

P paused. He took a moment, then joined her against the wall, brushing dirt and oil from his legion arm.

“Yes,” he said, finally. “Almost everyone attacks me.”

Puppets, monsters, humans. They didn’t even give him a chance to speak, most of the time.

“Almost?”

“There’s the fox and the cat,” P said. “They’re – friends. And the hotel guests. And – you.”

“And me.” Alice ducked her chin, tucking her hair behind her ear. It was pale as bone compared to ink of her hair. “It’s certainly a surprise for me too. Normally, I’m besieged by monsters the moment I go to Wonderland.”

Monsters? She fought monsters too. It made sense; how she was so fearless about Krat, and so accepting of what he was. He wanted to know more – he wanted to know about London and Wonderland and how it was that Alice could travel through all of these places. He wanted to know about those places: places other than Krat; the world.

“What’s Wonderland like?”

“Impossible,” she replied.

But she did explain more, that evening. They sat at the edge of the gold coin tree, the courtyard painted gold in the setting sun. P admired the way that Alice leant her elbows on her knees, her boots slightly pigeon-toed, her striped tights disappearing into her petticoats. It was decidedly unladylike. And yet, elegant. He liked looking at her.

If she noticed, she didn’t admonish him for it. She talked about Wonderland, toying with the edge of her blade. She spoke about smiling cats and shrinking down to the size of a mouse. She talked about great, steampunk factories where the Hatter worked, just beyond a village made of teapots and plates. Of underwater worlds, worlds full of paper ants and wasps and castles manned by card-soldiers.

Wonderland sounded like a patchwork of strangeness. Strange, and fascinating.

P felt entranced. Felt as though he could never dream up anything like it, even if he was able to dream. He listened, his chin on his fist, and felt like a small child being read fairy tales. Felt as though he did like fairy tales, though he didn’t know where that came from.

“I would like to go there,” he said.

Alice looked at him from under her lashes. She seemed more comfortable now, sitting so close to him that their arms brushed against each other. “It’s dangerous.”

“I don’t mind.”

She smiled, with her eyes more than her mouth. “Maybe I’ll find a way to take you there. I’m still trying to figure out how all of this works.”

He smiled back. And there was another one of those pauses, where he could feel those butterflies in his chest. Where it felt like there was something, and he didn’t know what it was. Didn’t know he could feel at all, let alone feel like this.

Alice looked away first, slipping her blade back away. “Can I ask about your arm?”

P tilted his head. “My arm?”

“Your left arm.”

“It’s a legion arm.” P held it in front of him. It was his puppet string model; the others seemed too likely to hurt Alice in battle by accident. This one, he felt he had control over. “My Father created this one and gave it to me.”

“But didn’t give you another arm,” she said.

P blinked. He’d never thought about it, like that. It made him very aware of where his own arm ended, and how he could lose some of it. How it moved just like his own, but it wasn’t really his. Not to keep.

“He gave me a weapon,” he said. “To protect the city.”

To save his father. To save everyone.

Alice didn’t seem to understand. She looked at him, with her bright eyes. “He gave you a weapon, instead of another arm.”

She wasn’t wrong, but it left him confused. Because Geppetto cared about him, he’d said that so many times – that he was sorry to send P into battle. His arm – this arm – was a work of art. Eugenie had said that. An incredible gift. Surely, a weapon like this was better than another arm.

But Alice said weapon like it was a bad thing. Like there was something more he was made for, other than fighting.

Was there something more?

If there was, then what would that be? What did he want it to be?

How could he want anything more, when he was Geppetto’s puppet?

#alice x p #alice x pinocchio #alice in wonderland #american mcgees alice #alice madness returns #alice liddell #lies of p #lies of p player character #pinocchio #turnupswrites #best way to follow is to follow my writing tag #or on ao3 #because im not always great at linking next and previous chaps #fanfiction #fanfic #crossover fic

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hawkins-losers · 2 years

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Talk nerdy to me | Eddie Munson x Reader

Summery: It's Halloween, everyone's entitled to one good scare..and some fun

Word count: 1.k

A/N: Since I was struggling with writer block, I decided to go back to what I love and write about horror movies. Enjoy the horror references sprinkled throughout the fic!!

Eddie hadn’t gone out for Halloween since he stopped collecting candies at ten years old, so you dragged him to Tina’s Halloween bash. Parties weren’t his thing, but you insisted he had to experience it at least once.

It was a last minute decision, which didn’t leave you a lot of time to find a costume. All of your friends were going as rom-coms movie characters, but you decided to pull up in a light blue button up and jeans, turning yourself into Laurie Strode.

As you were wandering around Tina’s house, most people weren’t getting your costume. You get that not everyone is a fan of horror movies, but it’s their loss for being cinematically uncultured. Laurie Strode is an iconic character and deserves just as much recognition as Andie Walsh or Baby.

You got yourself a drink and found your friends, dancing with them for a bit. Familiar tunes filled the house as you swayed your hips and laughed, having a good time. You hadn’t gone to a party in so long.

‘’I’m gonna get myself another drink,’’ you told your friend, then disappeared down the hallway leading to the kitchen.

There were so many people at Tina’s that you had to snake through the mass of people.

Once you made it, you poured yourself some liquor and a mixing liquid, following your older brother’s advice to never get punch - or any drink presented in a bowl - at parties. They get spiked with drugs the easiest.

You took a sip before leaving, tasting your mix, and smiled. Good enough.

Taking a glance at the clock in the room, you frowned, wondering why Eddie hadn't showed up yet. He told you he had an errand to run and that he’ll join you at Tina’s, but you were starting to think he had blown you off.

You were about to go back to your friends when a guy in a Michael Myers mask grabbed you from the back and forced you to a secluded spot, holding a - fake - knife to your throat. You should’ve felt threatened and scared, you should’ve screamed for help, but the hand on your hip, holding you against your attacker’s body, felt safe.

Chin up, you faked distress. ‘’Please don’t kill me Mr. Myers, I want to be in the sequel.’’

A throaty laugh came from under the mask, not expecting that kind of reaction from you.

You turned around in your attacker’s hold and removed the mask, revealing the man you had been waiting after. He had on his work coveralls, but his name tag had been taken off for the night to not reveal his identity. You could bet your next paycheck that Eddie had planned this little stunt.

‘’You know Michael is a silent killer, right? You totally blew your cover,’’ you pointed out, still holding the rubber mask in your hand. ‘’Besides, I'm not scared of the boogeyman.’’

‘’And you’re showing a little too much cleavage to be Laurie. No parents would’ve hired her to babysit their kids if she showed her rack like that.’’

You looked down and saw a button on your shirt had popped off. ‘’Shit.’’ You gave Eddie his mask back along with your drink so you could fix your shirt. You were already getting called names from dating the school's highest outcast, you didn't need to be called a slut on top of it. ‘’How are you liking the party so far?’’

Eddie took a sip of your drink and grimaced at the sweetness. He was a beer guy. ‘’It’s crowded and sweaty. Oh, and the music is terrible. My ears are gonna need an exorcism after we leave,’’ he joked as another radio hit came on.

‘’Too bad I didn’t dress as Father Damien.’’ You took your drink back and laughed around the rim of your cup while Eddie grinned amusely.

‘’Let’s bounce. Halloween parties suck.’’

You nodded. ‘’Is it too late to get movies at Family Video?’’

‘’Already secured,’’ Eddie said, a proud smile on his lips. ‘’I got us the best of the best. And a lot of candies.’’

You grabbed Eddie’s face and kissed him hard. ‘’Did I ever tell you how much I love you?’’

At the trailer, you and Eddie brought blankets to the living room and settled on the couch in front of the tv. His uncle was at work, so the volume of the tv and your laughs won't be bothering him if you end up staying there all night.

Once the first movie was in, Eddie dumped an assortment of pop rocks, pixie sticks, razzles, cherry laffy taffys and more on the table. There was so much candy. There’s no way you’ll go through all that tonight without having a sugar rush or breaking a tooth.

‘’Did you rob a candy store?’’ you asked with a laugh, taking a box of razzles and a laffy taffy and peeling the wrapper.

Still in his coveralls, Eddie flopped down on the couch and opened a green lollipop, popping it in his mouth. ‘’No. I put my mask on to scare some trick-or-treaters and stole their candies. They almost shit their pants.‘’

Your jaw dropped. ‘’Oh my god. You’re a terrible person.’’

He grinned toothly, totally bluffing.

You shook your head and tossed a razzle at him, hitting him square in the chest. ‘’I hate you.’’

You started the movie marathon with the original Halloween - you had to -, then followed with Christine.

‘’Did you know that Jamie Lee Curtis’s mother is also an iconic scream queen? She plays Marion in Psycho. Pretty cool, uh?’’ you said as Jamie Lee came on the screen, spilling tons of little facts and anecdotes about the movies.

Most would’ve found you annoying and told you to shut up, but Eddie didn't mind. It was one of your little quirks.

‘’I love when you talk nerdy to me.’’

He seemed to not have been lying. The nerdy talk had turned him on for real.

The fiery fury scene from Christine played in the background as your back collided with the hallway wall, your legs secured around Eddie’s waist as he skillfully kissed your neck. Your shirt was unbuttoned, exposing your black bra.

‘’Should I put my mask back on of would that be too much?‘’

Taglist: @broadway-or-noway @violetsleftfist @thelaststraw3 @cursedandromedablack @Slashersimpfor @savagejane1 @wh0reforbucknasty @eddiemunson-slut @slvdsjjk @hehehehannahthings @dreamdancers-world @grace-loux @iamharrystyleslover @matildavol6 @Original_babababoo @eddiemunsonbby @notbeforelong @lexi-2004 @violetrainbow412-blog @tatespillows @alwayslexii @lilygreennn @milkiane @imahomeslice @bunnygrl16 @cwritesforfun @marauders3rawh0re @your-mom21 @parkersmyth @voguesir @milkiane @andrewgarfields-girlfriend @lilygreennn @alexxavicry @charlie-chick @wandamaximoffs-deadchild @horrorstreet @rmeddar123 @Pastel-abyss-x @lil-tracys @lanalanabanana @Sinclairlust @luvmybbies @chloepricesgrafitimarker @inluvweddiemunson @i-like-trains

Eddie Munson taglist: @nighttwingg @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @heizenka @eddiemvunsongf @Eddie_munsons_girlfriend @magicalchocolatecheesecake @eddiemunsonistheloveofmylife @avril-reblog-cave @Fandomfaeryreads @harrys-tittie @straycatarang @fourlokiss @eddiemattress @ghoulishlygrey @paola-carter @bubsonnobx @pauldanoswifereal @ofherscarlettwitchways @kiszkathecook @truewdw1 @bubsonnobx @ohhrexella @Dreamtiara @pastelbabygirl19 @steves-robin @eddiemunsonbby @jenlouvre @bonked-beyond-belief2 @tvserie-s-world @bootlegmothman420 @courtmr @chrisxevans-seb @satinselenite @thikkiesixx @jennilynn63 @nia-um @welcometohellfirw @strangermarvelgirl @sugar-simz @fandomloversvaries @miakatharinaa @julsss321 @m1rkw00dpr1ncess @Minksblog @soph69420world @ameliakf13 @nancewheelersworld @parasadic-blog @nluvwitheddiemunson @veniceb1tch88 @ali-r3n @Luv.eddie @stephylovesmayahawke

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #stranger things imagine #eddie stranger things

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bobmckenzie · 6 months

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Let Me Help ⇢ selfshipvember day 3

word count: ~2000 (I swear this was supposed to be like 1k max idk how this happened LOL) blurb: Bob hurts himself getting a snack, and Caitie helps patch him up when she learns about his dizziness around blood. tw: blood/scar/general wound talk, (almost) fainting

Hockey just wasn’t the same without a snack, but the McKenzie house was low on anything good. The crackers Bob’d been eating were stale and boring, and needed something—he hated to leave his spot on the couch next to Caitie, but remembered there was a block of cheese in the fridge that might still be good and headed off to the kitchen to slice some, hoping he wouldn’t miss any goals.

He should’ve waited for a commercial break, since he was still trying to poke his head around the corner and catch a glimpse of the TV as he worked—Bob winced when the blade caught his thumb, a little groan of pain escaping him as the knife in his left hand clattered to the floor, gaze shooting to his other hand as he mentally scolded himself. He was preparing what was probably the world's simplest snack, and yet he’d managed to screw it up.

Beads of blood were already blooming on the wound, and Bob’s breath caught in his throat at the sight. He could handle pain well enough, but blood…

He tore his gaze away, turning to reach for the nearby roll of paper towels, but his vision was getting fuzzy, darkness looming around the edges. The roll slipped out of his grasp, knocking a mug into the sink, dishes clanging.

Doug called out sarcastically from the living room, though he sounded much farther away. “Who knew someone could be so loud getting cheese, eh?”

In the other room, Caitie smiled but rolled her eyes at Doug’s remark and stood up from the couch to see what Bob was up to, or if maybe he needed some help. Truthfully, she was there more to hang out with him than to watch hockey—and maybe was hoping to stay late enough that he’d nod off and fall asleep on her shoulder like he had just last week.

She was so into the thought that she barely noticed as Doug said something about a commercial break and stood up to rush to the bathroom. But the hopeful little daydream she was having was cut short as soon as she stepped into the kitchen—Bob was leaning against the counter, white as paper as blood trailed down from his thumb to his palm.

“Oh my god–!” She started heading to grab a chair from the little table by the window so he could sit, but saw him sway and rushed over to put her arms around him instead. She wasn’t strong enough to hold him up when his body was dead weight like this, but her support helped lead him down to the floor a little more gently.

“Bob?” She asked, eyes scanning from his injury to his face, which she quickly took in her hands, trying to get those glazed eyes to look at her. The cut didn’t seem too bad—she could tell the bleeding was slowing to a stop already. Everything else was worrying her far more, her heart pounding at the sight of him, and not for the usual reasons. “Doug!” she called, but got no response.

“‘Mm'okay…” Bob mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. He meant it, too—something about his arm slinged over her shoulder, and her hands on his face, was making everything come back into focus. “Jus’... gimmie a minute…”

“Can you look at me?” She was pretty sure that was one of the things you were supposed to ask in a situation like this. In her fainting spells in the past, anyway, once she closed her eyes it was usually lights out. “Maybe you should lie down.”

“No, really, I’m okay.” He blinked his eyes open, looking at her like she asked—hey, if he had to look anywhere, he liked this view most of all. And it wasn’t every day he had an excuse to be this close to her. “It’s just… bleedin’ makes me kinda…” He shrugged, heat crawling up his neck at the admission. “I never been good with it, s’all.”

She gave him a soft smile, glad to see some of his color returning. “I think it’s stopping, if that makes you feel any better. Let me help you get it clean and everything—Do you have a first-aid kit?”

He snorted a little, shrugging, trying to play it off like it was a silly question—the truth was with her looking at him all doe-eyed, holding him that gently, he just couldn’t think straight enough to be sure if there was one in the house or not. “I don’t think so, eh.”

She laughed a little, relieved to see him acting more and more like himself. “I have some band-aids in my bag—lemee grab a couple, and then I’ll clean it.”

His smile faltered, brow furrowing a little, stomach twisting with guilt—she was being too nice to him, and he was ruining her night because he was a klutz who couldn’t handle the sight of blood. “Caitie, y’know, you don’t gotta do all that. I’ll be fine—”

“I’m getting the band-aids.” She took his face a little more firmly in her hands, looking at him pleadingly. “Don’t try to get up yet, okay? Please?”

He was too tired to come up with some sort of quip, though he wished he could think of something to stop her from taking her hands off his face, to have her sit there with him just a little longer. “Okay.”

She gave him a gentle little pat on the cheek before picking his arm up off her shoulders and standing up, heading back to the living room. He kept his eyes trained on the table at the other end of the room, not wanting to risk another glance at his thumb. He didn’t want her to have to worry about him again if she came back and found him all woozy, or worse, out cold.

She was back in just a few seconds, two individually wrapped plasters in her hand. Hosehead trailed in behind her, pausing for a second to look at Bob before heading over to his foodbowl, clearly not too concerned.

“How’re you feeling now? Less faint?” Caitie asked as she tucked the bandages into her pocket, standing beside him to use the sink.

He squirmed a little at the questions, her voice so genuine and caring. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had fussed over him like this. He nodded, looking up to see her washing her hands. “Lots better, eh.”

“I’m not sure how to… Oh! I have an idea.” Reaching for one of the cabinets, she pulled out a bowl. The next thing he knew she was handing the pull-out faucet from the sink down to him. “Hold this for me?”

He took it, understanding dawning on him as she reached for the soap and finally sat next to him again, setting everything on the floor beside them—she didn’t want him standing yet, so she was bringing the sink to him to wash the cut.

“Can I take your hand?” She met his eyes, continuing as he nodded, “It might sting a little.”

“‘S’okay.” If there was anyone he trusted to be gentle, it was her. For good reason, obviously—she took his hand softly in both of hers, her touch careful and slow. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, butterflies blooming in his stomach at the sensation. “Guess you must think I’m like, a total wuss now, eh?” he joked to distract himself from how tender she was being with him, how close she was, the softness of her skin and the fact that he could smell the scent of her perfume—she was wearing the one that always reminded him of apples.

She smiled, briefly meeting his eyes over the frames of her glasses before her attention returned to his hand. “I know you better than that.” She rolled up the sleeve of his flannel so it wasn’t in the way. “And lots of people get unsteady around blood.”

“S’usually just when it’s me who’s bleedin’,” he explained, feeling her gently spread soap over the wound. “I do okay when like, the other guys on the team get a nosebleed or somethin’. But when it’s me, and it happens out of the blue like that…” He shrugged, flushing again, wondering why he was even saying any of this when it sounded so lame. “I dunno. It started when I was a kid—Doug and I was fightin’ one day in the living room, and I ended up fallin’ on the coffee table. I had this big gash on my shoulder and had t’go get stitches, but Doug was still mad at me and kept tellin’ me all these lies on the ride to the hospital about how much blood there was, and that he could like, see my bones coming out—‘cause I couldn’t really see back there, y’know?”

“Sounds like Doug.” Her tone was light, though the story made her heart clench a little. She shook her head, understanding perfectly well why that might’ve messed with his head. “He’s lucky I don’t go and barricade him in the bathroom.”

Bob laughed, still not looking at his thumb even as she took the faucet from his other hand to rinse the soap off over the bowl. He kept his gaze on her face, finding distractions in the way she looked so focused, so careful. “He said he was sorry, so.” He shrugged a shoulder. “‘S’not his fault it freaked me out so bad. Or that I was too stupid to know he was lyin’.”

He was so forgiving, she thought, gently drying the wound with a paper towel. And way too hard on himself. “You were a kid.”

“Hmm.” Bob hummed noncommittally. He stayed quiet as she took out the band-aids and finished up, overlapping them in a crisscross that made them feel extra secure on his finger. Finally he looked down, wiggling his thumb a little, all traces of blood gone. “Good as new, eh? Thanks, Caitie.” The word didn’t seem like enough, but was all he could think to say. If he tried to say something else, something more, he’d probably just make an even bigger hose of himself.

“No problem—it feels okay and everything?” When he nodded, she bumped her knee against his. “You never finished your story—was your shoulder okay?”

His face lit up, eyebrows raising. “See for yourself, eh,” he said, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his flannel so he could push the collar down far enough to show his shoulder.

It was silly, she knew, but she couldn't stop herself from blushing at the sight of the exposed skin, the hair on his chest and a few little freckles on his upper arm she'd never gotten the chance to notice before. He turned so she could see the three inch scar right above his shoulder blade, raised and pale from time.

“Looks like it hurt.” Her hand moved, wanting to touch, to run her fingertips over the skin, but she pulled it back before she could fall victim to the whim. “Did the stitches hurt? I’ve never had any.”

“Well…” He smiled as he adjusted his shirt back onto his shoulder, but it was a sheepish, embarrassed smile that almost looked more like a grimace. “I don’t really know. Turns out that sorta thing makes me pass out too. Thought maybe I grew out of that one, but…” He hesitated, but lifted a hand to brush his hair back from his forehead with an embarrassed chuckle, exposing the little scar at his hairline. “Got this one during a game two seasons ago and found out pretty fast that I didn’t. I was all stitched up ‘fore I even came to.”

“Well, you handle band-aids pretty well,” she joked.

He laughed, moving to stand. “C’mon. Let's go before we miss the whole game, eh.”

“Oh—” She stood up, quickly wrapping an arm around him. “Not too fast.”

“Caitie—” He was about to tell her it wasn’t necessary, that he wasn’t feeling lightheaded at all anymore—then wondered why on earth he’d do that when she was up against his side again, holding onto him and letting him rest his head against her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

He smiled up at her. “Thanks.”

#this prompt list has a lot of stuff that inspired me for fics so 👀 in my posting my writing era PERHAPSE...#anyways heres another installment of 'I LOVE WRITING BOB'S DIALECT/ACCENT/SPEECH PATTERNS'#kits selfshipvember #selfshipvember #self shipping #self ship community #caitiewrites #peanut butter and jelly donut

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acourtofthought · 10 months

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Inspired by a conversation with @acourtdelaluna (I love chatting ACOTAR with this girl ❤️) -

Sure. The Night Court could be Elain's permanent home by the end of the series. Even now she could strongly believe it's where she's happiest.

Funny thing about that though......

There are three options here.

Elain truly feels happy in the Night Court and knows it's where she belongs.

Elain has convinced herself she's happy in the Night Court and she's refusing to admit otherwise, not allowing herself to consider anything else.

Elain knows she's not truly satisfied in the Night but she's not ready to delve deep into those emotions because the alternatives are too scary for her to deal with and she doesn't want to disappoint her sister so she's trying to fake it until she makes it.

You know why those are all crossed out? Because none of the possibilities matter. It doesn't matter if what Elain spoke in the Hewn City is the whole truth or some variation of the truth because Feyre, with her whole heart, believed Spring Court and Tamlin were her home in ACOTAR. She was willing to die for Tamlin and was desperate to help it's people rebuild after UTM. But that didn't matter in the long run because he wasn't her destiny and was instead a stepping stone towards Feyre ending up with Rhys as High Lady of the Night Court. She was never meant to end up with Tamlin and there are multiple hints of that sprinkled throughout ACOTAR:

the crackling flames I’d painted around Nesta’s, and the night sky—whorls of yellow stars standing in for white—around mine.

Standing before me was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

stay with the High Lord, and live to see everything righted.”

Up and up, building to a palace in the sky, a hall of alabaster and moonstone, where all that was lovely and kind and fantastic dwelled in peace. I wept—wept to be so close to that palace, wept from the need to be there. Everything I wanted was there—the one I loved was there—

Even as Feyre chose Tamlin, the author was hinting that Feyre's current choice wasn't going to matter but we didn't really know anything was foreshadowing Feysand until we got to book 2. At that point we were able to look back and confirm that those hints were leading to something.

If what Feyre wanted or what Feyre believed was never allowed to change, if we had to respect Feyre's wishes, than she should have ended up with Tamlin since she called Spring Court her home. She (like Elain) was willing to do whatever was necessary for the Spring Court (even sacrificing her life). Her love for Tamlin was canon.... until it wasn't.

Just because Elain claims the Night Court is her home now, doesn't mean the following lines can't possibly be hinting at another future for her:

the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it.

“What can I get you, Elain?” Only with Elain did she use that voice. But Elain shook her head once more. “Sunshine.”

The only bridge of connection … that knife.

The gates to her mind … Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers—or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns.

Nesta and I climbed inside one of the supply caravan’s covered wagons to change into Illyrian fighting leathers. Elain … She’d taken one look at us in the swaying grasses outside that wagon, the legs and assets on display, and turned crimson. Viviane stepped in, offering a Winter Court fashion that was far less scandalous: leather pants, but paired with a thigh-length blue surcoat, white fur trimming the collar. In the heat, it’d be miserable, but Elain was thankful enough that she didn’t complain.

“She gave it back,” I amended, failing to block out the image of the black blade piercing through the King of Hybern’s throat. But Elain had given it back—had pressed it into Azriel’s hands after the battle, just as he had pressed it into hers before. And then walked away without looking back.

But Elain … The Spring Court had been made for someone like her.

Nesta would have told Elain to visit this place.

But that was all the western edge of it. Beyond that, the continent was vast. And to the south, another continent sprawled. Would she have gone?

And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her.

but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court … It sucked the life from her.

As Elucien's, we don't have to respect Elain's "current choice" (which we can't even confirm to be what she truly wants until her POV and the end of her story) because SJM has shown us that even as a character makes one choice, she as the author could be laying the groundwork for a different future. SJM is basically the metaphorical parent to these three sisters, who are metaphorical teenagers convinced they know what's best at that point in their lives and no one can tell them otherwise. But sometimes those initial choices aren't the best choices, they're not choices being made with a clear head or they're not really choices at all but something they're trying to convince themselves of. But as the story unfolds, SJM is the guiding hand that, along with their growth and development, leads them to the future they were always meant to have.

#elucien #pro elucien #anti e/riel #elain archeron

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liloinkoink · 1 year

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I SAID ID HAVE MORE LAMPLIGHT TODAY AND I MEANT IT. woe another middle-of-the-plot traveling scene be upon ye

The thing about Martyn is he’s never quite been sure when to call it quits.

He and his partner are passing through yet another town Martyn didn’t catch the name of, a seedy in-between where the brightest light on the street at night is Martyn’s own lantern. If he had a better option, he’d pass the place right by, but he’s barely slept at all over the last week and he’s ready to take just about any inn that he can find to lie down a while. This is his first mistake.

The second is stopping at the Sleeping Hound to ask for directions.

It’s almost darker inside the cramped old bar than it is outside on the street, low ceilings sloping onto too-short support pillars, with half boarded windows blocking what little light could have otherwise made it from outside. There are a few dingy lamps and loose candles strewn around the room, but none are particularly powerful. Martyn and his lantern are an unwelcome brightness, but it’s not like he intends to intrude for long.

Where he chooses to sit at the bar is his third mistake, though the seat may not have mattered overmuch in light of the first two. As it happens, the man he sits next to is observant, or at least observant enough to notice Martyn’s armor. It’s not exactly subtle, a distinct shine two shades too purple to be natural, especially under his lantern’s orange-white light.

Martyn leans his staff against the bar beside him, the lantern shrieking as momentum swings it over the wooden surface. When the lantern stops swaying, the man on the other side is staring at him.

“Sorry about the creaking,” Martyn says, rapping two knuckles on the wooden staff, his voice not entirely apologetic, “I know it needs oil and all that, but I just haven’t got around to it.”

Engaging is Martyn’s fourth mistake. This is the definitive point of no return, the exact moment he locks in the evening to be more trouble than it’s worth.

“I’m not too worried about the lantern,” the man says. He gestures one hand to the bracer on Martyn’s nearest armor, “That armor of yours is pretty, though. Why’s it glow like that?”

Enchanting is rare, but not unheard of. There are very few gods able to offer such blessings, and none as free with them as Martyn’s. Even a stole tool, once enchanted, can heft a heavy price if sold to the right person. Martyn’s own armor—a pair of forearm bracers and a chain mail vest—might not be particularly spectacular or expensive without magic, but with it… well, suffice to say, if Martyn weren’t quite so sentimental, he’d probably be rich.

So it’s not exactly a surprise when there’s a knife to Martyn’s neck within the next ten minutes.

“So here’s how we’re going to do this,” the man says. He’s close, far too close for Martyn’s liking. The blessings from his god are great, but enchanted armor doesn’t do a thing when the blade of a knife is already pressed against flesh of Martyn’s throat, “You’re going to take your armor off, and then you’re going to lie out all your tools, one at a time, and if you try anything at all, it’ll be the last thing you do. Understand?”

“Absolutely,” Martyn says, hands up by his face in surrender. His back is pressed against the counter, his sword pinned behind him. His axe is loose at his belt, but there’s no way he draws it before the knife at his neck makes it through his windpipe.

To his left, the lantern goes brilliant white, bright enough that Martyn’s raised arm cuts a distinct shadow across his own face. The fire inside crackles loudly, embers popping rapidly, like a lit match dropped into a box of firecrackers. It sounds, to Martyn, like desperate fists, pounding against a window.

Martyn can only imagine what his god must be thinking. Martyn knows he’s certainly regretting the sturdy latch on the lantern’s door—sure, he can carry his god into inns with significantly less trouble now, able to convince most innkeepers he won’t burn the place down in his sleep, but Martyn knows what his god can do when loose. Even now, Martyn hasn’t forgotten their escape the day they met. White-hot flames that were once Watchers, lit up like molten metal, are still burnt into the back of Martyn’s eyelids when he closes his eyes.

Martyn could really use that sort of fire right about now.

Behind Martyn’s assailant, half a dozen other patrons circle closer. Martyn has no idea if they know the man or just want to watch the show, but regardless of intent, they stand between Martyn and the door, and Martyn doesn’t see them letting him leave either way.

The smartest thing Martyn could do right now would be to cut his losses and let the man take his things. His god would certainly bless another set of armor and tools if he asked (and, Martyn suspects, even if he didn’t) and, honestly, what he has isn’t that good anyway. The axe is chipped, the sword is super old, the armor doesn’t even cover his upper arm, and he doesn’t even have anything on his legs. Really, Martyn had been meaning to buy a new set of supplies even before getting taken by the Watchers months ago, so this would be a great excuse for some big spending to get a decent set of upgrades.

But, well. Martyn’s always been so sentimental, and he’s never known when to call it quits.

Martyn could really use some firepower right about now.

“Alright,” Martyn says. He lowers his hands, slowly. His palms are open and his fingers are splayed wide. He makes a show of the careful, deliberate movement, watching the man’s eyes. His gaze moves from one of Martyn’s hands to another, vigilant for any sudden movements from either one.

Martyn knees him in the gut.

A kick follows, pushing the man away before he can kill Martyn for for the rebellion. His blade nicks Martyn’s neck, but a bit of bleeding won’t kill him. Martyn reaches to his sides with both hands. His right hand closes around a drink, the left closes around nothing, knocking into his staff.

Martyn throws the drink in his face at the same moment the staff topples over. His god’s lantern crashes to the floor, skidding out of reach. The door pops open as the lantern clatters across the wood, the sound of it all ringing against his attacker’s indignant shout.

Martyn draws the back of his hand across his neck to clear away the new blood. At the same time, his attacker wipes alcohol from his eyes with his free hand. Martyn glances down, at the red stain smeared across the back of his glove.

There’s a beat of silence, filled only by the crackling of fire.

“The hell was that supposed to do?” someone asks.

“Knocked his stick over,” says another voice from the crowd. The man follows his gaze, then pales, just a bit.

“You were reaching for—“ the man splutters, “You we’re going to set me on fire!”

“What? No,” Martyn says, unconvincing, as he once more raises his hands in mock surrender, “I would never do that.”

“You little shit!” the man says, “You should have drawn your sword when you had the chance!”

If asked, after the fact, to recount the ensuing scuffle that ended with the Sleeping Hound burning to the ground, Martyn would tell any listener about how he valiantly held out against a group of attackers with only his fists and his wits.

The truth is that there is only one attacker, an angry man with a short, busted knife. The truth is that Martyn’s back is against the bar, his sword stuck with nowhere to run. The truth is that Martyn raises his arms to block himself, and is simply lucky that the man decides to aim for that instead of Martyn’s jugular.

The man grabs Martyn’s shirt with his left hand, holding Martyn in place as he drives his knife into Martyn’s left arm, as close has he can manage to the joint connecting it to his shoulder. Martyn hisses in pain, but the noise is lost to the sound of crackling wood.

The truth about the burning of the Sleeping Hound is that Martyn struggles for all of thirty seconds before his god, free and furious, skates across the wooden floor and reaches the crowd ensnaring Martyn.

The effect is immediate. Martyn isn’t looking at the man unlucky enough to be nearest along his god’s path, but the sound of his god hitting his mark is impossible to miss. A flash in Martyn’s peripheral becomes a scream of pain, swallowed just as quickly by the roar of flame.

The man holding Martyn whips his head around to look, and Martyn takes the moment of inattention to shove away. With nowhere to run, Martyn simply drops to the floor, pushing himself beneath the bar.

The man doesn’t follow, too focused on the column of fire that was once a person. It latches onto the sleeve of the nearest stranger and he, too, is consumed whole before he can even think.

Shock wears off about then. Any onlooker within reach shakes off his horror and turns tail. Unluckily for the lot of them, Martyn’s god doesn’t need to be close to move—not when the whole building is made of wood.

A ring of fire explodes, swift and raging, outward from the crumpling masses that had been living men a moment before. His god moves not toward the fleeing crowd but past them, quickly devouring the door, the doorframe, and all the wood around it. The windows are still boarded, and so the one and only entrance vanishes in a haze of heat and smoke.

The man stands above Martyn, watching the fire with wild eyes rapidly filling with rage. He turns his gaze down to Martyn, squeezed between two barstools, his back against the wooden bar.

“You,” he snarls, “How are you doing this?”

“I’m not,” Martyn says, a tad too chipper for a man with a knife still in his shoulder.

“Bullshit!” The man drops down, leaning over Martyn. He’s unarmed, but that doesn’t stop him from grabbing Martyn’s neck with both hands. The fire hisses around them, but again, the man ignores it.

“Whatever it is you’re doing,” the man says, “Stop now, or I’ll make sure it kills us both.”

This is his last mistake.

There hadn’t been much left in the way of information on Martyn’s god, back when Martyn had first started looking. His search for something powerful enough to aid his escape from the Watchers had only turned up a few old books, most of which were badly damaged, most having been burnt or mangled beyond recognition. Despite weeks of searching for long-buried secrets, Martyn hadn’t been able to find even the name of the god he would one day pledge his life to.

There had, however, been a few titles.

As the man holding onto Martyn goes up in flames, Martyn can see why his god had once been known as the Blood-Crowned King.

The man howls in Martyn’s face, expression contorting into one of horrible pain. Martyn snaps his eyes closed—whatever comes next, he won’t want to see it.

The light against his eyes turns his eyelids red, searing brightness trying to break through, and then abruptly stops. The hands on Martyn’s throat disappear. The screaming cuts out. Warm ash dusts Martyn’s nose.

Martyn’s heart pounds. Somewhere around his left ear is a series of short pops, quiet but insistent. Martyn opens his eyes, leaning his head toward the sound.

He knows he should leave, in a distant, abstract sort of way, but the urgency and the immediacy of his danger is gone. Even as flames lick the floor around him and the roof disappears under a layer of smoke, Martyn can’t muster up any true fear.

Because even as flames rage within a breath of Martyn, Martyn doesn’t feel any warmer than if he’d simply taken a nap in midday sun.

The simple fact is that Martyn’s god would never hurt him. None of this would be happening if there was a chance Martyn would be in real danger. Even in a blazing building, Martyn is perfectly safe.

Somewhere else in the building, the last of the once-patrons wails. A table and a chair collapse into cinders. A stretch of the wall caves in. Martyn surveys it a moment, then turns his attention to the flames around him.

He sticks his good arm into a fire just to feel the flames tickle his hands. It flicks between his fingers, comfortably warm, like breathing on his hands to warm them on a cold winter morning.

Fire consumes one of the support pillars, and for a moment, Martyn sees him.

His god is tall, almost as tall as Martyn, with hair to his shoulders. He’s got a sturdy build, strong shoulders and stocky arms. A crown sits on his head, but dancing flame makes its true peaks uncertain. There’s a cape strewn over one of his shoulders, though it dissipates into flame long before it reaches the end, his whole body disappearing into fire around the upper thigh.

Most of the finer details of his form are lost to Martyn—something that might be jewelry on his wrist, or a pattern that might be buttons running down his chest—but Martyn doesn’t linger long on any of it.

Martyn’s god is looking at him. Martyn is looking at his god, and his god is looking back.

When Martyn’s eyes meet his own, his god smiles. The shape is undefined, every line and edge on his god dancing in and out of recognizable form. Even without consistency, the grin of Martyn’s god is as warm as every night Martyn has spent sleeping at his hearth.

Martyn smiles back, and his god is gone, cleared away by the fickle flicker of fire and a whirl of thick smoke. He reappears closer, consuming a barstool to kneel at Martyn’s side.

He may not have vocal chords, but he doesn’t need them to fret. There’s a crease in his eyebrows and a frown across his face. His head disappears, and when it returns, he’s looking at Martyn’s injury. He reaches across Martyn’s chest for the knife, but the flame can’t support his arm long enough for him to investigate it.

“I’ll be alright,” Martyn tells him. His face flickers out, and when it returns, he’s meeting Martyn’s eyes. He looks unconvinced. Martyn laughs, both at the expression, and because it delights him to know what such a thing looks like on his god’s face.

“Really. This won’t kill me. You haven’t seen it, but I’ve had worse.”

His god vanishes. A chair on the other side of the room spontaneously vaporizes. Martyn laughs.

“You worry far too much. I had it all under control,” Martyn scolds. The barstool on his other side catches, and his god is once again at his side, frowning at him, his ears flat on his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

If possible, his god manages to look even less impressed. Before Martyn can double down, the ceiling above them buckles. His god’s head snaps up, less a defined motion and more a brush of the wind. They hear the break more than they see it, with the wooden paneling completely carpeted with thick smoke.

When Martyn’s god looks at him again, it’s with an urgent sort of panic that Martyn can’t find it within him to match.

His god looks to the doorway, and when Martyn follows his gaze, the door turns to ash. There’s a path straight to the door that’s completely clear of fire, but it’s more cosmetic than anything—his god is telling him in no uncertain terms that he needs to leave.

There’s fire on Martyn’s cheek. As soon as he realizes it’s his god’s hand, it vanishes, unable to stay without something to burn. Martyn knows a send-off when he sees one, especially as his god wisps out of form. He grabs at his cheek for the hand that isn’t there, as if it’ll keep his god from shapelessness.

“Wait,” Martyn says. His god reappears beside him, visibly worried, but obliging nonetheless. “It’s good to see you.”

His god huffs, a sizzling noise emanating from the wood behind Martyn’s head. Shimmering heat warps his face into a fond smile.

“We shouldn’t make a habit of it,” Martyn continues, reaching out with his good arm, just short of touching his god’s face in return, “But I could get used to this.”

His god laughs, and the whole building crackles with it. The smoke in the air thins, just a bit. He mouths something, but it’s hard to make out with the shape of his mouth so uncertain. Martyn thinks it might be ‘me too.’

Not for the first time, Martyn wonders what his voice sounded like.

Somewhere off to the side, a piece of the ceiling collapses, and his god sobers instantly. The fires at the edges of the room dim as his god reigns his blaze under control, but it’s far too late to stop the structural damage. Martyn may not be in danger of burning, but his god won’t be able to do much if he chokes on smoke, or if he’s impaled by an iron beam because he decided to stay and chat.

His god disappears again. This time, Martyn knows he won’t be able to sway him to come back. Crawling out from under the bar, Martyn pushes to his knees. The fire around the building is already dimming, his god corralling himself back into something manageable. Martyn looks to the center of the blaze and sees his staff, the wood still in one piece. The lantern is a bit more dinged up, but still in tact.

When the meager town’s impromptu fire brigade finally gathers on the scene, there will be no fire at the Sleeping Hound. It will look for all the world like the building simply extinguished itself halfway through a burning blaze, half scorched black charcoal and half pristine wood. Word of the strange fire spreads through the whole town by sunrise the next morning, with most of its residents stopping by the old bar to see the strange scene.

Martyn will not hear anything of the local mystery. He spends his night by the light of a campfire, bandaging his arm by the side of a crackling flame.

#lew writes #lamplight au #THIS ENDED UP 3K WORDS #this whole oneshot was me going ‘you know what would be a really cool visual?’ and then setting up a scene to allow it to happen #and then. not writing that visual. and writing a completely different one #lew library #renchanting

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joseopher · 1 year

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GUYS, IT'S TIME FOR ATLAS SIX LIGHTNING HEADCANNONS

Lightning is a magical version of a mortal social media app!

To quote:

"It had been Tristan himself who’d advised the Wessex board to consider investing in Lightning, the magical version of a mortal social media app."

Reina

Running a social media account sounds like a lot of work

She really doesn't care

(secretly runs an account that trash talks different plants)

(her followers think she's joking)

(she's not)

Parisa

Definitely posts pictures of her amazing outfits

Gets a lot of comments from people asking her to step on them

Thinks social media is a great way to find people to amuse her or find those she can sway to give her money

Every once in and while she'll post something really smart and intellectual (this confuses 90% of her followers) (the 10% of followers make fun of their shock)

Has a side account where she reviews mystery novels

Libby

Posts inspirational quotes

Posts self-care check-ins

But the real reason people follow her is that she gets into drama with Nico on a daily basis

Nico

Exists on Lightning to bother Libby

Made a group chat for the Atlas Six, everyone was very resistant to the idea but eventually gave in because he was like 🥺

Posts pictures of himself with captions of how great he is, Gideon always comments on them agreeing, Libby and Max always comment on them disagreeing (Libby being genuinely outraged that he would brag like that and Max just fucking around)

Gets into drama with Libby constantly

(they don't know they're in a murder cult yet)

(Don't worry Callum is here to make everything worse /affec)

Tristan

Has an official professional account where he posts boring stuff, like what he ate for breakfast or something, no one follows him

Has a secret anonymous account where he RANTS endlessly about his rage and sadness etc. (mostly he trashes people he knows, referring to them by the first letter of their name or an emoji)

MILLIONS OF PEOPLE FOLLOW HIM ON HIS ANONYMOUS ACCOUNT BECAUSE HIS LIFE IS SO DRAMATIC

They got to witness him ranting about how his "best friend" was cheating on him with his fiancee

They heard him talking about how his father was horrible to him

Then he was like "I joined a secret society" and refused to elaborate

There are ship wars on if AA (Tristan) should date L (Libby), P (Parisa) or C (Callum)

Those that ship him with R (Reina) or N (Nico) don't engage in the ship wars and are chill, they hang out with the poly/mutishippers

Callum found Tristan's anonymous account and recognized it instantly as Tristan, he decided not to say anything and follows him on an alt account

Callum

99% of the time he posts thirst traps to boost his own ego (post-knife scene Tristan comments on them (with his main boring account) pointing out that not only is Callum's body illusioned but also photoshopped)

1% of the time Callum posts concerning things that scare everyone (ex. "There is no fate so final as betrayal. Trust, once dead, cannot be resurrected" or the selfie he took with the hostage Nico and Tristan kidnapped) (how he manages to escape being suspended is beyond anyone)

All of Callum's followers are very confused when he randomly posts something ominous, though some of his fans have started theorizing that based on when Callum posts his concerning shit and when Academic Anonymous complains about "C" that Callum is "C" (especially since his name starts with a C) (especially since Callum's account matches with the personality AA described).

Callum also decides to be a problem on purpose and bothers all of the Atlas Six on social media, they are very close to blocking him

Atlas

Has 70 alternative accounts he uses to subtly manipulate the Atlas Six into doing what he wants

(Has a AA fan account)

(Gushes about AA daily on every account)

(Will cancel you if you ship AA x C)

(Has "C Anti" in his bio)

(He has "AA apologist" in his bio too)

#the atlas six #the atlas paradox #the atlas series #tristan caine #callum nova #libby rhodes

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 2 years

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Kinktober Day 21

Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Gurney Halleck x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting with ANY of these Kinktober prompts will be blocked.

Notes: This can kinda be read as a companion piece to The Warmaster's Wife

Warnings: Masturbation; oral sex; fingering; breeding

He’s thought of it every night since he’s been away.

Gurney has imagined you in your bed, at the kitchen counter, in his training room. He’s imagined you in your own clothes; in one of his shirts; completely bare. He’s imagined you any way he could in the months that he’s been on maneuvers. He misses you terribly. He’s savored every single one of your letters that he’s received. He’s written to you as often as he can. There has not been a single moment in the last few months that he hasn’t wanted to be with you.

Gurney has taken himself in hand in the darkness of his bunk. He’s bitten down on his lip, pressed into his slickened fist and hardly dared breathe your name. Make no mistake—Gurney cares for his fellow soldiers, but that can hardly rival the love that he has for his wife.

You have just a half-second or warning—the slamming thud of your front door. You whirl around, dropping the dish that you’re cleaning into the basin and swiping your hands against your apron half-heartedly to dry them before you reach for a paring knife.

Well, you’ve been months without your husband, and the rising concern of the Harkonnen threat has you on tenterhooks. You don’t get a good look at the person right away. You just feel them grip your wrist, twisting the knife from your grip. You suck in a panicked breath, but before you can make a sound, their mouth is covering yours.

It takes you just a seconnd to realize that it’s your husband. You sway into him, loosing a pleased groan as you loop your arms around his shoulders. Your knife clatters to the ground as he curls his arms around your middle, drawing you into his chest. You groan softly as he steers you toward the counter, nudging you back onto it and pressing your thighs wide. You lean back from him as your kiss cools, and grin as he rests your forehead against yours, nuzzling tenderly against your nose.

“Were you going to stab me, sweet girl?” He teases.

“I hardly had a moment to prepare.”

“Your back was to the door.”

“As is yours now. Don’t you take that smart tone with me, Gurney Halleck. I won't stand for it, Warmaster or no.”

Gurney grins, darting in, snatching two, then three kisses before he leans away. The sight of him so overjoyed melts you. You slide your hands around, cupping his cheeks and sweeping your thumbs along the apples of his cheeks.

“I have missed you,” You murmur. Gurney lowers his lips to yours, giving you a sweet, slow, toe-curling kiss.

“I’ve missed you, too,” He murmurs. He leans away just a touch, sliding his hand down and taking hold of yours. You arch your brows, glancing back toward the dishes.

“Gurney, I’m not done here,” You nod back toward the basin, “And the knife is still on the floor.”

“Damn the dishes and damn the knife.”

Gurney has a heat to him that you haven’t felt in quite a while. Oh, there’s nothing wrong with your love life, of course. Gurney is a generous, kind man. But now, your typically calm and tender lover draws you in with nearly frantic energy. You allow him to control the pace—he tugs off his clothing, and quickly rids you of yours. You find yourself nudged back onto the bed, and make to reach for him. But Gurney ducks out of the way, crawling onto bed over you. You open your mouth to speak, but again, Gurney shuts you up before you can. It’s not with a kiss.

Well.

Not a kiss on the lips, anyway.

Gurney’s hands curl around your hips as he muscles between your thighs, spreading them wide. You shiver, head tipping back as Gurney’s lips brush across your mound. He teases his tongue out, lapping over your cunt. Your skin prickles where his neatly trimmed beard brushes your skin, making you tingle. You whimper as his tongue teases out, laving over your lips before he spreads them with his fingers. His tongue slips along your clit, flicking and swiping the bundle of nerves. Your thighs quiver around his shoulders as you pull in a shaky breath. You slide a hand down, smoothing it through his short hair and grasping at the strands.

Gurney lets out a pleased grumble against your cunt, opening his mouth wide and leveling a sucking kiss to your lips as he presses two fingers into you. You hiss at the intrusion, the twin throbbing of pain and pleasure as he eases them in and out of you. You reach down, stroking your fingers over your husband’s scarred cheek gently. He hums against you, tipping this gaze up to yours. You’re shaken by the dark, hungry look in your husband’s eyes. You press your hips down against him, and he lets out a low, grumbling growl, fingers pressing harshly into your skin.

Your cunt throbs around his pumping fingers, sighing as he twists his wrist and curls his fingers.

“Fuck,” You hiss, fingers flexing in his hair. He draws away, peering down at your cunt sliding his tongue along his lips, catching the slick there. “Come here,” You ply, sliding your hands to cup his cheeks, “Please?”

Gurney draws his fingers from you and kneels up. You eye where his hard cock bobs between his thighs before he settles over you. You bend your knees, cradling his hips as he lowers his mouth to yours. You reach between the two of you, gripping the base of his cock and drawing him in. You tease the head over your slit, canting your hips up pleadingly. He slides his hand down over your thigh, leaning back just a touch to watch his cock sink into you.

You blink hazily up at Gurney, your body adjusting to the feeling of him. It’s been so long without him, but his body still fits so perfectly against yours. You curl your arms around his shoulders, nails pricking in his skin as he begins to roll his hips against yours. You shiver, arching up against him. You expect him to pick up his pace, to fuck you with the same intense energy that he’d undressed you with, but his thrusts are slow and deep in a way that you haven’t experienced since you were newlyweds.

You give his hips another pleading squeeze, but Gurney reaches down, grasping your thigh.

“I dreamt of you while I was away, sweet girl.” The words are pushed against your neck, his words punctuated by each press of his hips. “I dreamt of you here, waiting for me—I dreamt of you round with child.”

The admission makes your entire body flood with heat. Your mouth falls open, a shaky, shuddering breath pushing out of you. Sure, the two of you have both expressed an interest in having children some day, but never like this.

“It warmed me at night,” He admits, “It pushed me even harder to come home to you.”

“Gurney—”

“Tell me, love,” He urges. You can feel the pull of his muscles, the way he restrains himself from thrusting into you as roughly as he’d like. “Tell me that you want this as I do.”

You nod hurriedly, fingers pressing into his skin and urging him on.

“Gurney, I—Yes, please. Please,” You whimper. Gurney’s groan sounds punched out of him as he raises a hand, bracing it against the headboard. You look up at him as he straightens a touch, using the headboard for leverage. You run your hands over the taut muscles of his arms, taking a long, covetous look at his body. He bites his lip, curling over you. You cup his cheeks, focusing him on you.

“Do it, Gurney,” You murmur, “Give me a child—Give us a child.”

Your strong, capable Warmaster bows over you, a heady, stunned groan leaving him. You lean up, catching his lips with yours and giving his lower lip a tug. He hisses, lowering a hand to your nape and giving it a squeeze. You slip your tongue along his, whining as he begins to shove his hips more forcefully. You smooth your hands over his back, down to grasp his ass as you curl your legs around his calves. He plants his knees more firmly against the mattress, giving harsher thrusts and panting against your lips.

The feeling curls in your gut slowly, urging you to push Gurney over, to press him into the mattress and take—but you lay beneath him, and your cunt throbs around your husband as he falls apart above you. His fingers slip between the two of you, swiping against your clit. He grins as the curl becomes a surge, as your hips bound against his.

Gurney lowers himself down against you, nuzzling into your neck, breath panting hot against your neck. You curl your arms more softly around him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He smooths his rough hands over your thighs, sighing as he settles.

“...A child, hmm?” You murmur.

“...Or two…Three…”

“Are you angling for your own little army, Halleck?”

He chuckles softly, tipping up his head and nipping at your jaw.

“We'll start with one.”

Tag list: @leaveinthelurk ; @missredherring ; @fangirlfreakingout ; @stevie25 ; @jvalentinesworld-cokes-hyna ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @karie-me-home ; @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly ; @guyfieriii (tried to tag and it won’t let me D: ) ; @moonlightburned ; @amneris21 ; @shiftingsands14 ; @cloudohell ; @blueeyesatnight ; @inlovewithhisblueeyes ; @reaperofmen ; @winchestershiresauce

#Gurney Halleck x Reader #Gurney Halleck x You #Gurney Halleck/Reader #Gurney Halleck/You #Gurney Halleck fic #Gurney Halleck imagine #Kinktober #Kinktober 2022 #Youvebeenlivingfictional Kinktober 2022

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piakae · 2 years

Text

erase me. ミ yj 🌪

synopsis: yeonjun finally finds y/n a year after she pushed him away. she doesn’t want to risk her life anymore, but he’s convinced he can protect her.

pairing: yeonjun x reader

word count: 5.3k

warnings: swearing, gangs, mentions of alcohol, drugs and injuries, sexy yeonjun, barely edited

a/n: first fic ehe. i think this can be read as any gender?? tell me if it cant be <3

pt.2 →

Listen Now!

why am i awake? i look down at my dangling feet and notice there’s loose nails on the floor and the strange taste of rum and soot on my tongue. the floor creaks under my feet as i approach my mirror. it’s dirty, and all i see is skin, underwear, a stained shirt and slippers. my day will go silent with nobody to think about but myself. people knew me, but they don’t know me. and i hope nobody who did comes back.

at least the apartments clean. i took all of sunday scrubbing each and every nook and cranny to make it sparkling. i knew how to hide or clean my own traces too well, and as i poor the cold caffeine into the tin sink i shake the thoughts away. another drug to get addicted to. everyday i felt myself fading but felt the scars worsening. literally. after showers and getting changed there was always the long vertical scar haunting my peripheral vision and more on my arms and legs as well, probably plenty in my lungs and stomach as well. glancing at the dimly light clock i’m surprised that i’ve been able to wake up and stay up at 12:14. why am i awake? suddenly, a creep of suspicion erupts in the depths of myself and i stay still. the curtains in the living room sway in the midnight breeze, but it’s not quiet enough. slowly, i turn around a grab the biggest knife from the knife block and wait.

"here's your coffee, m'lady," kai winked at me as I accepted the warm caffeine. only a second ago, kai and beomgyu were hitting and grunting at the old coffee machine, before cheering when it finally spurt out the brown liquid. just as i took my first sip, yeonjun emerged from the steam filled bathroom, aggresively drying his hair with a blue towel. he was wearing a white tank top and red sweat pants, a regular outfit for the man. at this point, yeonjun and i were just friends, atleast to the others. but the unspoken likeness, the glances, the nearly telepathic connection, jokes and touches that went between us spoke otherwise. he smiled at me as i peered at him over my mug. "ew, can you guys like stop," kai commented, bringing me out of the staring contest. my cheeks go rose tinted before i down the last gulp, stomach aching in the motion. the machine worked, but only for so long. "this stupid thing." "having trouble again?” i watched him and his muscles smack the machine, and in only one hit it was working. that was his specialty, making things work out when it doesn't. he glanced at me, probably picking up that i was in pain again, before heading to his and taehyun, my brother's, room. my brother and my secret lover were roomed for all of our teenage years and it sucked. everything sucked. my stomach ached and scarred every other week, my ribs felt like they were knifing at my lungs every breath in. but it was expected seeing as what my 'job' was. everyone hurt. "i wish i could fix your injuries like i fix everything." "you can kiss them better, if you'd like?"

there’s a knock and a rip of dread topples down onto me and my shoulders. i can’t let that effect me too much if i’m about to send away the person i loved the most. slowly i creep up to the door and peer through the peephole. in all of his glory, yeonjun is tirelessly waiting for my arrival. his hairs barely blue now, his natural dark brown over taking the dye perfectly. there’s a new scar on his nose, and his skin still seems rough. he’s in a white tank top and red sweatpants. he still looks good.

“go away.” i warn through the door, his eyes light up in desperation and he suddenly attaches himself to the door.

“y/n? is that you?” i can’t see much now that he’s blocking a majority of the peep hole, but i can hear uncut nails grasping at the doorknob. it felt wrong only being a door away from him. i look at the knife in my hands and twist it in my grasp. “i said go away.”

“y/n, we need to talk- everything’s going wrong. please.” he plants his forehead just above the peep hole. there’s bags under his eyes, and his lips are chapped. i know i’ll regret it, but i sigh and open the door, but only enough so the dim illumination from the hallway creates a sliver of light in my entryway. he looks at me immediately and smiles, before i shove it open completely and hastily. i seemed to have gotten angry at myself, and him, so i advance forward.

yeonjun stumbles and backs away immediately, holding his hands up with a shocked expression, a hint of relief in his eyes. he’s pinned against the wall now and the knife in my hand is dangerously close to his throat, his adam’s apple scraps it in a gulp. i’m sure i don’t look the best as it’s the middle of the night and the only thing i have on is a baggy shirt and slippers, but his eyes wander over me anyways. i beg we don’t wake up my neighbours.

“y/n. it’s you.”

it was another drinking night and the boys had decided to play 7 minutes of truth. a spin off to 7 minutes in heaven and truth or dare. and yeonjun was the only one i hadn’t done it with, so obviously i chose him to spend 7 minutes with spilling our truths. we retreated to my room while the rest drank and laughed waiting for us. i sat on my bed and smiled at him, the dim light in the middle of the ceiling lighting us was just enough to see each other. he sits beside me, both of our legs hanging off the side of the single bed. “so. spill.”

“really? no foreplay or anything?” he chuckled making me smile. whenever he was happy i was happy.

“foreplay? come on choi. i think we both know i don’t do that.” he laughed again.

“but there’s nothing you don’t know about me… except one thing.” he smirked and i inched closer as if he was going to tell me a life changing secret. he was going to, but i didn’t know it at the time. “i like someone.” i was taken aback, nearly laughing. i liked him then, a lot, but acting clueless and innocent was better than showing jealousy. he tilted his head and the odd action made me ‘cluelessly’ ask who it is. “are you being serious? y/n. it’s you.”

“how did you find me?” i practically wipe the smile off his face when i press the knife onto his neck with increasing pressure.

“well i’ve known that you live here for a while but i was scared that this would happen-“

“you knew?? how??”

“uh- i posed as an officer and asked every landlord in the area who the tenants were-“

“but how did you know i was here”

“you can’t be the only one angry okay? it’s the first time i’ve seen you in a year and you’ve got a knife to my neck.” he complains through gritted teeth, but lets out a sigh when i place the knife back at my side. “thank you.”

to be honest, it was relieving. someone had finally found me and it wasn’t a nobody, but him. every night since i started working for my brother and his gang, i had nightmares. and every night after i told yeonjun about them, he helped me fall asleep. every injury i had to endure was only as half as bad as they were when he was around. but after i left, my nights were fuelled with terrors and pain. and seeing him again made me pain free yet paralysed. he put me in danger and fixed it after. that’s what hyuka told me. but i would never tell yeonjun that he said that to me, or that i believed it.

“leave.” i warn once more, backing away to retreat back to my apartment. a small wave of tears creep up into my eyes before yeonjun grabs my wrist and pulls me back. immediately i wrench it back and give him a glare that he’s probably all too familiar with, my hair falls into one of my eyes. “i said leave. i don’t need you.”

“don’t you? look at your apartment.” he nodded over your shoulder, rubbing the front of his neck. i know what he means. the floorboards are lifting and sinking, there’s little to no furniture and none of the doors inside the apartment have locks, just a hole in place of where a doorknob would be. the ceilings are dripping into some buckets i’ve placed down, and i realise no matter how hard i scrub this place will always be a shithole. i take a moment to collect myself before i start crying, yelling, or even worse, start saying i’m sorry. only now do i notice the messiness of his hair and red red of his eyes. he scrunches his nose only for a second and i can only assume it’s because of his stressed posture mixing with an injury. i don’t feel bad.

“why couldn’t you leave me alone to live my life?” i sigh, lowering my voice and shrugging as much anxiety as i could off my shoulder. “the one i’m living right now is much better than gang wars, drinking every night and risking my life for drugs and money. i don’t know if you’ve noticed,” i point at his obviously wrapped stomach under his tank, “but it’s too dangerous to consider it for a living.”

he sighs, thinking about what to say. “because i can’t live without you. y/n, you were my whole life. the reason i did what we did. and i can confidently say that you felt the same. or at least i thought you did, before you left all of us to rot.”

his harsh words trigger me enough for one tear to fall, but it wasn’t for sadness, but for anger.

“why couldn’t you just forget me? why couldn’t you just erase me?”

“because you’re you! you’re not a memory, y/n. i can’t just get rid of you like that. that’s the case for everyone. beomgyu, hyuka, even soobin misses you. not to mention your brother.”

taehyun. the day i left, yeonjun and taehyun were the last to see me. blazes of fire taller than a house crashed around us as they tried to catch up to me. i was always faster than them, but they were nearly catching up to me then. my name was echoed, yeonjuns scream filled with wet anger, taehyuns flat and dry. yeonjun thought i would come back, but taehyun knew. he knew i was finally scared enough to wake up.

“why should i care what he feels. he let me run. you did to.”

“you let yourself run! you ran with no reason—“

“no reason!? you know damn well that i had finally woken up to myself, that i finally knew that if i stayed i would die. i was already in the ER every other month.”

he tries to advance forward and past me, as if inviting himself into my apartment but i cut him short and push him further away, he nearly slams again the hallway wall and he winces. i can see the outline of bandages around his waist under his tight tank, but the usual guilt, pity or empathy that would’ve shown a year ago disappears. yeonjun looks at me as if i’m a monster, like he was surprised.

“i felt in danger every second i was with you guys. i was afraid the times i went to visit my sister that it would be the last. that i could be taking my last steps, thoughts, actions and breaths at any moment. yes, yeonjun, you made me feel alive but that doesn’t change the fact i could’ve died at any given moment. cleaning up after your dirty jobs was sickening and shameful and every time i have a nightmare about soobin or beomgyu getting kidnapped again i feel dirty. i wake up and take hour long showers just to try and forget. to try and forget everything! you included.”

he’s silent for a moment before my neighbour emerges, shushing us with a smoke in his mouth.

reluctantly i pull him into the apartment. but just because the location has changed doesn’t mean my anger has, neither my tears.

i doubt myself, “i’ve said to much-“ and yeonjun doesn’t even let me lock my door before he starts arguing with me again.

“so you never even thought of coming back? never thought of wanting us, again?”

“i knew i’d crash i didn’t let you go. i loved you yeonjun,” he winces at my words, “i never loved what we did.”

and he’s silent.

he seems to finally understand me just like he used to. he’s now sat on my couch as i stand in front of him with my arms crossed. the curtains are still dancing and the floors still creak, the ceiling still drips. the only difference is that my present has now crossed paths with my past. he’s biting on the inside of his cheek as he stays lost in thought, before quickly leaning on his knees and rubbing his eyes. i don’t let my vision leave him, and not because of what he’s wearing but because i’m afraid he’ll pull some shit out of his ass and call it an apology.

“you’re still beautiful.” the compliment is sudden but real, i can hear it in his voice but i don’t reply straight away. “i mean it.”

“i know you do. and trust me when i say i mean this as well, you sitting on my couch is not an invitation for an apology or conversation. you’ll leave after the smell of smoke is gone from the vents. i’m not talking to you anymore.”

he stares up at me. disappointment, sadness, love. too many emotions mix with his irises to count.

“then i’ll talk to you. just so you know, taehyun is drinking 24/7, kai’s locked himself in his room, soobin has gotten us into trouble which has led to beomgyu going missing, again. to be honest, i’ve been thinking he’s come to you seeing as you were close. but now i know he hasn’t. maybe he was smarter than me and knew you wanted nothing to do with us.” i nod and he bits his lip, “and we’ve gotten threats. blackmail. and… the people threatening us don’t seem to know you’ve been gone for a year. they know shit about you as well. i came here to see you but also to protect you, warn you. but also, to ask you to come back. now i know that’s stupid but you’re the only one who could bring us back seeing as you’re the one who broke us apart. i’ll protect you. if i can. huening kai’s still depressed, keeps saying he’s the reason you left, so i’ll probably have to take his jobs. but you don’t have to fight, you can just clean up after us or- we could keep you at home and you could talk to us through the ear pieces instead of beomgyu since he’s missing or-… basically what i’m saying is that, we… i, need your help.” his eyes plead, he stands up and comes close to me, and his words seem desperate, truthful. he’s warm and nervous. his hands twitch to hold me.

and suddenly, i feel bad.

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