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infinite-orangepeel · 1 year

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kas!eddie/monstefucker!steve: pt. 2

read pt. 1 here !!

steve never thought he’d see eddie munson again. but there was nothing in this world or any other that could have stopped him from venturing back down to the depths of hell to save him once he realized he was alive.

after dragging him out of the upside down two weeks ago, they’d kissed, touched, fucked, told secrets, cuddled, and cried together. it was absolute bliss.

steve felt like he’d been transported to wonderland. so he didn’t hesitate to move eddie into his house in order to help him recover and heal. everything seemed fine and strangely normal.

eddie was still eddie. a bit different on the outside, but on the inside—his wicked sense of humor, selfless heart, nerdy interests—all remained the same.

except for the fact that he was kind of oddly possessive over steve.

which steve didn’t really mind because he was so used to dating people that couldn’t give less of a shit about his well being. the amount of times he’d shown up to a date with obvious marks or bruises on his arms after fighting supernatural creatures and had them ignored was off the charts.

by stark contrast; eddie watched his every move, protected him from harm (including from mundane things like hot stoves and rainy weather), called him ‘beloved’ ‘perfect’ and ‘mate.’

but if there was one thing steve was learning that eddie hated—it was the thought of anyone else laying a finger on steve. especially in a romantic or sexual sense.

which was how they ended up here.

steve fucked up. he fucked up badly.

of course, steve doesn’t realize how badly until eddie—or; this new super strong, muscular, bloodthirsty killer, undead in a way that still doesn’t quite compute version of eddie—is pinning him to the bed within seconds of him walking in the door post-work. name badge still attached to his polo.

“holy fuck! jesus, eds! i literally just got home. give a guy a minute to decompress!” steve’s words are vastly ineffective and get muffled into the pillow as eddie makes quick work of his clothes.

“shut up. be quiet. face down. my turn.”

he strips steve down to his gray briefs with little ceremony. steve groans as he listens to the seams of his family video uniform rip—sharp claws grazing his skin as the fabric falls to the wayside in tattered shreds.

how many times can he tell keith his dog ate his uniform before he gets fired?

doomed to be fired or not, it doesn’t matter, because steve’s so gone for eddie munson that he’d give up his job, dignity, and livelihood just to keep him happy.

he wags his ass back and forth to taunt, play, and entice. not that he needs to with how eddie’s acting, but because he wants to. he wants to rile eddie up even more.

“someone missed me, hm? can’t stay away from my pussy, can you? such a perv, munson,” steve jokes, but his laughter’s cut off when he receives a sharp slap to his ass. it’s certain to bruise.

“who the fuck touched you? who thought they were good enough to get so close, huh? where are they? i’ll kill them,” eddie’s voice is dark, deep, dripping otherworldly ichor and heat.

“n-no one! no one touched me, eddie! i swear! you can trust me!” steve always finds it alarming how easily his cock starts throbbing when eddie threatens to kill someone on his behalf.

but that’s neither here nor there. right now all he can think about is cumming and surviving, but mostly cumming.

eddie’s fully naked. steve has no idea when that happened or how, but suddenly his briefs—his brand new calvin klein’s—are being bitten off and discarded along with the rest of his clothes while the thick, leaking, barbed dick of his ‘friend’s’ is rubbing between his ass cheeks. it slips and slides and makes noises that would have definitely embarrassed the hell out of steve prior to this. squelching obscenely.

“who is she? why did she touch you? smells like girl. you smell like girl. don’t like it. hate it. hate her,” eddie’s crying which breaks steve’s heart, but he’s grown used to this too.

“it’s okay. you’re okay, eds. you have me. we’re safe. we’re in our nest,” steve says as calmly as possible, “no one’s going to hurt me and if they tried—you’d protect me, wouldn’t you?”

“always protect you, stevie. always,” he cries into steve’s skin, breathing hot and heavy. steve twists to grab his hand and squeezes three consecutive times.

“i know. i’m so proud of you. i’m so lucky,” he adds.

all of ‘new eddie’s’ emotions are insanely heightened in this way. he’s volatile, temperamental, and loves harder than anyone steve’s ever known. it’s terrifying and beautiful.

something clicks in steve’s head. a very vague, seemingly inconsequential moment from earlier that day. he needs to be more careful.

“baby, listen—it’s not what you think. this girl i used to go out with—years ago,” he stresses that part to dilute the importance, “came into family video today and she hugged me to say hi. we caught up for a minute. that’s all! and then she left.”

“don’t want to share, stevie. mine. you’re mine,” he’s nuzzling into the side of steve’s neck and licking at his throat, “mine. mine. mine.”

“yours. all yours. always yours.”

steve breathes a sigh of relief as eddie starts purring—that’s the closest thing he can compare it to—against him and rocks his hips back to let him know everything’s going to be okay. he still wants to be fucked, bred, filled.

“need to get rid of her scent. make you clean. make you mine again,” eddie grunts and lines himself up with steve’s hole. his hole, which, is still dripping and gaping from the events of that morning.

“good. that’s real good, baby. that’s what i’m here for. take what you need.”

eddie likes to cum inside him before he goes to work as a way of marking his territory since he can’t follow steve out into the world outside of this house (for now).

most days, steve wakes up with that huge cock buried in his ass. usually already pumped full with three or four loads and somehow eddie will still be rock hard and insatiably horny. nothing quells his constant arousal.

steve jumps when eddie’s tongue dips past his rim and begins lapping at his inner walls. eddie grips him by the waist, hands encompassing him with ease, and holds him in place. he finds his spot quickly and presses up into it with the tip of his tongue.

“taste like mine,” eddie slurps and then gathers a mouthful of saliva to spit directly into steve’s ass. it tickles, makes everything sloppier just as eddie likes it, “put babies in you this morning. going to put more babies in you now.”

it’s not exactly the truth but the possibility of pregnancy—specifically of eddie getting him pregnant—makes his dick ache for release and hang heavy between his legs.

“yes, sir. please, sir.”

“good human. good stevie,” eddie praises.

steve shivers from head to toe and whines into the pillow. his back arches to give eddie a better angle and he reaches around to spread his ass as far apart as possible so eddie can eat him out properly.

as he licks into him, steve gets a funny idea in the back of his mind. it’s risky given eddie’s physical prowess and unhinged state, but he’s feeling bratty.

“there is one other thing—she did tell me i looked hot in my uniform, but don’t worry i don’t think she meant anything serious by it,” steve bites his lip and smirks to himself.

he likes when eddie’s rough. he wants eddie to be rough with him.

the reality of the situation plays out so much better than it ever could have in steve’s imagination.

eddie flips him onto his back in one swift motion. kicks out his legs from underneath him and growls deep in the back of his throat.

steve sees his face finally and mewls. he’s fucking gorgeous. his eyes are blown out—pupils the size of the full moon. his sharp, elongated incisors are visible and bared. he’s snarling, panting, and his dick is swollen to the point that it’s slapping against his stomach with every move and barely fits between his thighs. it’s going to hurt like hell and steve wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything. he’s ready for eddie to break him.

“stay,” eddie orders him as he pushes steve’s knees into his chest and holds him by the ankles.

he’s drooling which should be gross, but steve opens his mouth to catch the droplets like they’re snowflakes. he moans on each swallow and eddie licks over his mouth in a sloppy half-kiss to express his pride.

and when eddie enters him in one forceful stroke, steve screams bloody murder. he sobs, whites out as eddie thrusts without pause. as he renters consciousness, he finds a puddle of his own cum pooling in his belly button.

a second orgasm building while eddie dips down to lap at his milky release. gathers it all in his mouth and feeds it to steve from the fat part of his tongue.

“thank you,” steve moans, as his body gets moved up and down the bed by sheer force and strength, “thank you for making me cum. thank you for making me yours. please breed me. please get me pregnant so girls won’t flirt with me anymore.”

eddie pins him down further, bending him past the point of comfort. steve’s a human pretzel, contorted in ways he didn’t think possible. eddie’s hips snap into him and steve knows it’s only a matter of time before his barbs will lock into place.

“my stevie,” he punctuates his words with bites to steve’s nipples, suckles on them and drags the sharps of his teeth over the buds to tease, “keep you safe. protect you. give you my babies.”

eddie’s trembling. tears back in his eyes. this is emotional for him. steve’s surprised to find that he’s welling up too despite the filth and pleasure.

“come on, eddie. cum in me. get rid of her. make me forget she exists. i’ll never think about her again,” steve whines, desperate to feel the spread of warmth in his sore hole. it purifies him every time. heals him.

the barbs take hold, lock in, and eddie cums with a violent cry. he chokes steve out while he does it, drags his talons down his chest and marks him up. and steve cums moments later, watching eddie’s gruesome lust turn into a soft smile of satisfaction and adoration.

he’s purring and rutting into steve ceaselessly. hips rolling in circles as he bends to lick steve clean. drags his tongue from top to bottom as his cock pumps seemingly endless spend into steve’s body.

by the end, his stomach is fuller and more rounded. be it from a baby or otherwise, they’ll have to wait to find out.

taglist (message me to be added or removed at any time <3): @estrellami-1, @disastardly, @ilovecupcakesandtea, @the-redthread, @asbealthgn, @bestofbucky, @vampireinthesun, @carlyv, @shrimply-a-menace, @lordrrascal, @jjoesjonas, @malachitedevil, @anxiouseds, @feraleddiekinninghours, @gay-little-bitch, @jhrc666, @pinkdaisies1998, @mcneen, @perseus-notjackson, @eiddets, @corroded-coffin-groupie, @three-possums-playing-human, @stevesbipanic, @plutoshelm, @arkenstoned, @indiearr, @they-reap-what-we-sow, @gleek4twd

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writing-for-life · 6 months

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Give me your head-canons:

How do you solve the Orpheus problem?

[And as always: Send me asks about everything Sandman-related!]

As in: It’s the elephant in the room in so many canon-compliant or -adjacent fanfics I read (we obviously don’t need to talk about coffee shop AUs) and Orpheus either keeps on existing somehow (and no one cares, because Dream and whatever love interest just literally fuck off into the sunset and pretend everything’s okay), or he gets killed by someone else who quite strictly wouldn’t be able to kill him.

Is it a solvable problem?

If he keeps existing as a severed head, it’s honestly a bit shite for him, isn’t it? So these are the fics where we keep on visiting severed heads. I don’t know, I find that… dissatisfying.

If Dream kills him, it’s over. Unless he stays in the Dreaming and lets the storm blow over. Will it though? I mean yeah, he could sit there for all eternity (groan), not take Death’s hand and make sure he doesn’t conveniently leave so the Kindly Ones get in and start ripping the Dreaming to shreds. But that doesn’t really sound like a solution to me either, because the problem won’t go away. Also: Probably no meetings in the waking world with you-know-who ever again. Plot hole, people, it doesn’t work that way.

If someone else kills him: Who? Please don’t say Hob, I know he’s immortal (so was Murphy), but the very idea is that no one can kill the poor kid because he made a deal with Death, which she apparently can’t revoke. Is there an entity who could? Which links in to the question: Why could Dream (somewhat rhetorical question)? Could any similar entity do it if they also had to grant him a boon? But don’t forget: Can’t be one of the Endless, they’re all family. Unless one sacrifices themselves. I mean, I think I’ve seen Death doing that in a fic somewhere, I think the assumption was she’s okay with dying a mortal death, but I also felt that’s not quite right, since it’s just not the same (also: in her mortal form, she wouldn’t have those powers). Does it have to be The Presence/Glory? Why would they care?

Yeah, he could use the Saeculum I guess, but really? If the problem never existed, it would also feel… wrong? Plus, we all know that changing the past always has implications on the future that go far beyond the thing we want to change. Plus plus: I honestly think it would be a bit OOC for him because he’d feel there’s not enough at stake (like a whole universe imploding) to ever justify that. So no, that’s, IMHO, making him into someone he really isn’t (can of course be an option in fanfic I guess).

Same goes for the Dream of a Thousand Cats Spiel. Someone who is so wrapped up in his duty just wouldn’t do that for his own personal gain, and not even for one loved one (he also wouldn’t be allowed to kick it off by telling anyone, and what 1,000 dreamers would dream that? I mean, WE all would, but that’s a bit… meta?😂). I said what I said.

Or is it some sort of magic? Like, he’s still a severed head, but we make him *think* he isn’t, give him back a body (in his own mind, or maybe even for real)? But that’s also… not great and feels like gaslighting him. Really not keen.

So what say you?

Is this just a case of: Unsolvable problem, hence we might as well pretend we solve it in some ridiculous way or pretend it doesn’t exist in the first place?

#the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #orpheus #sandman meta #<<<sort of but not really #the sandman spoilers #sandman spoilers #sandman headcanons #how do you solve a problem like orpheus #<<<that’s a sound of music reference #just in case-you never know these days

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crazy-final-girls · 1 year

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my insides are red, and yours are too.

ethan landry x fem!reader

warnings: quite a bit of plot oopsies, daddy issues, a little bit of violence, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, not beta read so its literal shit writing 💀💀

a/n: i cannot believe i have actually done this. use this as evidence for me to be sent to a psych ward. also he whimpers BYE

he’s got you.

you’re in the police station, with sam and tara and he knows that while he might not be able to have tara, he’ll be able to have you.

you’re so naive, so easily manipulated. sam and tara couldn’t be twisted as easily - not with sam’s strong values of not to trust, not to forget and certainly not to give up, installed in her from her paternal blood.

but you don’t have that. you’re more shy, more afraid, more scared to rock the boat and created waves because what if you’re wrong? so in the new york police department, while mindy is getting stitched up and sam is pointing fingers at anyone who dare look at tara the wrong way, he feigns confusion and earnestness as sam reads out the list of evidence she created on notes app the moment she put two and two together.

after all, who are they going to believe? the young girl who’s the daughter of california’s most famous serial killer, who has a tendency to take joy in her self-defence kills and who never got checked out for PTSD after ripping her boyfriend to shreds? or him, the intelligent, nerdy son of the trustworthy detective?

sam’s seething by the time detective bailey steps in, and you make yourself small. he can tell you feel stupid, so stupid, and guilt is so thick he can cut it with his knife. while sam is being cooled down by tara and told there’s nothing they can do now, he walks up to you.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, and cast a begging glance to tara and sam. they don’t return it - and that’s their first and final mistake. you need validation, you need someone to soothe your doubts and quell your worries. you need someone to tell you that it’s not your fault, it’s alright, you’re going to be okay.

and he’d gladly step in for that role if it means he can finally have you.

“it’s okay. it’s over now,” he says. he’s gotten good at playing the victim, with a pale face and sad, betrayed puppy eyes. he holds your hands that shake and tremble and he can tell that you’re conflicted between the fast, exhilarating life that comes with being friends with sam and tara versus the safe comfort that comes with being friends with him. nerdy, shy, studies-economics ethan. “you’re good.”

you breathe shakily and wince when sam and tara are escorted out; sam sending dark glares to ethan that mirror her father’s look so much it’s disturbing.

“well,” detective bailey says. “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. seems being a psychotic manipulator runs in the family.”

you know that isn’t true. that sam is a genius and god knows that maybe her farcical accusation is right.

but you also know that the evidence is strung together poorly and mostly relies on lack of alibis, and you also know sam has almost driven herself mad in her attempt to keep tara safe and distance herself from her father's legacy.

and so you let yourself drown in ignorance and trust ethan. you let him hug you despite the fact you know you don’t deserve forgiveness and you let him tell you that it’s okay, everyone makes mistakes, she tricked you. you let yourself smile at him; that smile that charms everyone and earns his understanding. he offers you a ride back to your apartment and you accept.

if you trust him enough to be in a car with him, he wonders what else he can manipulate you into doing.

it all goes to shit pretty fucking quickly when kirby shows up and suggest they check out the theatre again, considering last time they were interrupted by mindy being stabbed. he hurries into his long ebony cloak and slides on that stupid ghost mask, before hurrying off, blending in with the halloween crowd.

his dad looks him in the eye, a certain glare he’d seen all throughout his childhood - don’t fuck this up. in a way, he knew he was kind of bound to - nevermind that he was the gifted kid, the intelligent kid, the only kid to make a life for himself. he’d always be a disappointment in his father’s eyes - never the firstborn son or sole daughter. just the in-between kid, born for his older siblings to have a playmate.

and this time, he wants to make his dad proud. he admits it; there’s something that runs thick in their blood, something seriously fucked up that makes them love to kill and kill for love. he loves the adrenaline rush and feeds off the fear of those he’s squeezing the life out of. it makes him feel in control in a life where he’s had very little control.

and yet, he doesn’t want to take it this far. he doesn’t want to end an entire bloodline because some illegitimate daughter of a psycho killed his brother (and maybe even rightfully so). and he certainly doesn’t want to kill you - not when you’re the only one who wholeheartedly believes he’s innocent.

you’re fighting in the rafters and he’s got you, now. he lifts the knife above his head like so many before him, but, like the coward he is, he hesitates when he sees the fear in your eyes. this time, it doesn’t make him feel powerful or in control. it just makes him feel like shit; like the older brother he swore to overshadow one day.

you take the moment of hesitation to land a solid punch, knocking him off you. you bless your high-school theatre days - you know a layout of a theatre pretty well, and take off, away from the rafters. you run, too tired to check if sam or tara or kirby are okay. you know they’ll be okay, anyways. they have years of experience and the DNA of the original killer himself on their side.

you run out into an alley, but your blood turns to ice when two hooded figures stand in your way to safety. they don’t notice you at first - you hide behind a dumpster that reeks of october in new york, and watch as the two of them discuss fight plans.

“you let her get away?! what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“i’m sorry, okay?” ethan seethes, rolling his eyes underneath his mask. he knew that his dad only saw his older brother and his older brother’s talents, but jesus, his dad here is acting like ethan never received any manipulator genes at all. “i didn’t mean to.”

“you never mean anything.” his father spat is response. “you’re a disappointment.”

“well, i’m sorry i’m not enough like richie for you. sam was right. he made his side piece do all the work and that got his throat slit by girlfriend.”

“you take that back.”

“no,” he shrugged. “i’m sick and tired of doing this for you.”

his father gripped his knife harder.

“ethan, you can be a part of this, or you won’t. this is your last chance.”

there’s no denying he likes the kills. he likes the chase, likes the screams. but there’s no way they’re going to be able to take down everyone. he needs to get out of this unscathed, and he’s willing to throw his father (who never gave a shit about him until he was convenient, anyways) under the bus to escape an innocent man.

“i want out.” ethan responds, composed and certain.

he doesn’t notice his father’s knife twisting in his hands until it’s too late.

“you were always a disappointment. you never stood a chance in taking down the carpenter girls. leave this job for the real baileys; your sister and i.”

he prepares himself for the stab and thinks he deserves it; but it never arrives. there’s the sound of sliced flesh and then a squelching sound. maybe he’s been stabbed and doesn’t realise it.

his father collapses, spluttering, and there you stand; bloody knife in hand and pretty little red blots on your face.

“ethan.” you say, voice hoarse from all your screaming. instinctively, he pulls his mask off, and instantly kicks himself for doing so.

shit.

“i-“ he begins to construct a story in his head. he was manipulated. he never killed anyone. he didn’t know what was going on. he was grieving. he was under duress. whatever legal excuse he’s overheard the law students chat about, and whatever emotional response he can extract, he’ll take. he has no time to die anymore.

“it’s over now.” you speak so softly that the autumn gust of wind and honking off cars in the busy city will whisk the words away. your words are reminiscent of what he said to you in the police department, and you step closer - eyes illuminated by the bright lights that shine.

he freezes, feels himself stiffen and his skin prickle with a sudden chill. you jut your chin out and you smile. you smile that same charming smile that inebriates anyone. he runs over his encounters with you like a broken record, because he swears, he swears he had you wrapped under his finger and in his clutches.

and then he realizes. oh, how he realizes.

you’re smarter than you look, and far more cunning than he’ll ever be. you’re the one who’s been in control. you’re the one who’s been the mastermind in this game of chess, who played the twisted game and won.

he swallows thickly.

you hold his leather-gloved hands, and your face that shines pink in the night from the city, it grows grim as you stare at him for what feels like hours. finally, you say “i don’t want to know” in a way that makes him think you know everything. he begins to panic - this is his last card to play, because if you don’t believe him, then sam and tara won’t believe him, and then nobody will. “whatever lie you’re spinning, save it for the police.”

well, that sounds better than “i hate you and i’m going to tell everyone you’re the killer!”. and sure, maybe you’re the mass manipulator he thought he was. maybe you’re the one in control now. but you’re still holding his hand, fingers at his pulse, standing close to him and blinking slowly, eyes glazed over with dullness. it hits him that he doesn’t truly know you - he doesn’t know how much you know, what you truly think of him and how much you trust him. he doesn’t know if he’s the player or the played. he doesn’t know if his excuse will bag him a get-out-of-jail-free card.

but he knows there was a twinkle in your eye when you stabbed his dad. and he knows that you offer him that conniving smile that twinkles with a secret knowledge, a shared affinity. he knows that American Psycho and Pearl are your favourite movies and he knows that maybe you’re as twisted and bloodthirsty as he is, and just weren’t brave enough to take action.

either way, you’re here with him, and that’s all that matters.

the police take his statement. they believe him when he pins the blame on his fucked-up family.

who wouldn’t? he’s a shy kid that’s been in the shadow of his siblings for years and probably been neglected by his workaholic father who never even liked him in the first place. he lost his brother, and when you’re grieving nothing makes sense except for the love you had for that person. he can barely vote, let alone be mature enough to not be manipulated by his father he’s always craved validation from.

the lawyers use some fancy defence that gets him only a community service sentence and a government-assigned therapist. within months, he’s back at his university in the heart of NYC and back to his economics major.

people whisper in the halls sometimes, but in new york, he’s not the craziest thing there. of course, sam’s friend group are both skeptical and sympathetic - they know all too well the pain of a father, and yet, they also know that grooming isn’t an excuse for going on an attempted murder spree and enjoying those kills.

he doesn’t care anymore what most people think of him. like you said, it’s over now.

but you aren’t most people. you’re different.

because you aren’t supposed to know. you know what he did and what he lied about, and you know he’s still lying now. you know and you don’t care. you don’t care at all, he thinks - you spend your weekends with him, watching bad horror movies to ignore that horror movie he created in your life.

he should be concerned about your lack of care and worry about this. you aren’t supposed to have the upper hand and be in complete control of the situation. he’s supposed to be the one making you blush and making words tumble out of your mouth pathetically. and yet, the complete opposite is true. he finds himself fall into a routine - sleep, eat, do economics and business class and then see you. for you to be absent in his life would cause the biggest stab wound of all - if his life was once sink or swim, all he’d wanna do is drown in you.

he isn’t like most men you’ve had. he isn’t fast and demanding and loud and obnoxious. he isn’t an idiot who will forget your name by the end of the week. he isn’t an asshole who puts their own wants and needs first when it comes to love. no, he’s the complete opposite of that.

most memories of him post-october stay clear. fridays in december at some frat party, getting drunk and high off dollar-store tequila and weed. walking back to your dorm, a feverish heat clinging to the two of you like your ugly christmas sweater and fuzzing your mind.

but there were other aspects, more physical and sensual. a more murky part of that winter memory, obscured by a promiscuous haze. you don’t remember much after the clock strikes ten on a friday night after exams and you both become pretty drunk, but you know he was special.

he was slow and begging and quiet and shy. he would plead with those doe-brown eyes to give you everything he could offer - body, mind, soul; whatever you asked for. if you said to run, he’d ask how far? and if you said to jump, he’d ask how high?

in your dorm, with the door locked, he’d kiss you, and he tasted red - red like cherry cola chapstick, red like deep passion and red like blood, the metallic taste still lingering after october. but you didn’t care. you relished that taste, and the way he’d kiss you on your jawline, the curve of your neck, sucking and biting softly. you loved how he’d give rather than receive. how he wanted to give.

“like this?” he whispered, flexing his fingers as you’d ask. your brow furrows and you rest against his shoulder, nodding against his skin. he’s best at pleasing you like this, making you come undone with the touch of his fingers and shape of his mouth. he brushes a bit of hair from your face and presses deeper, harder, and feels that control surge back when you gasp, covering your mouth with your palm.

“yeah,” you moan, biting your lip. he’d twist his head and kiss your neck and this desire for him would yank so hard in your chest it became physically painful. you wanted more. and good fucking thing ethan loved giving you more.

“okay,” you pause, holding his wrist, and he immediately stops. you look at him, and he gets the memo; making a pitiful noise that would’ve been embarrassing a year ago but he doesn’t think twice of now as he sinks to his knees - like a beggar, begging for you to let him deliver you this. praying towards you, resting his chin against your abdomen and looking at you with his dark, intoxicating eyes, half-lidded and hidden by the curtain of his brunette bangs.

he slowly creeps his soft, gentle hands; always careful, always slow, up your thighs like vines and hold onto your hips.

you’re selfish. you bite down on your lip, and taste a copper flavour in your mouth, when he’d press his lips against your inner thigh, revering every inch of your being. you’re already wet; he’s been fingering you for god knows how long, but he would’ve kept going until his fingers ached if you asked him to do so.

stupidly, embarrassingly, you used to say he’d eat you out like he was starved for it. perhaps he is. he feels as though his craving for blood has been replaced with a taste for you as he licks at you, your thighs locking him in place and your hand pulling ever-so-slightly where it is buried in his curly hair. maybe your plan all along was to get him addicted to it in the hopes that he wouldn't kill again. if it was, then it's working.

the only person he’ll kill for now is you.

he hears you exhale, "just like that," and your hips rise for just the smallest bit of friction, the smallest zap of heat that sends shivers down your spine. he closes his eyes and angles himself in a way that he knows will make you twist the sheets in your fists, will make you slam your head into the pillows, will make you cry out. his own hips try searching for friction, but it’s useless; he knows he can't come until you touch him, and you still haven't. nevertheless, he doesn’t find himself to be frustrated or annoyed; not when you’re letting him do this. not when he can hear you gasping above him. that thought alone makes him moan, and the hum of his whimper forces your back to arch.

he’s done this enough times that he knows when you’re about to climax. your hand in his hair gets so tight it stings as you clutch the sheets. your thighs and legs are tensing up, and he can feel it. the small, punched-out moans that are torn out of your mouth, which are so loud they almost sound like sobs, are what really give it away.

you come hard, arching your back and almost tearing the sheets in your grasp. he smiles; the same way you smile, all-knowing and sly. your fingers reach down to caress his cheekbones and bring his face up; there's tear-tracks down your cheeks and a grin blossoming on your face. you graze one hand against his jawline; your other hand in his hair, a reminder that you're in control, and he likes that. if he'd known this was what it took to convince you that he's trustworthy, that he's yours, he would've done it much, much earlier.

and when he kisses you; it tastes dangerous. fierce. passionate. but that doesn't scare you anymore - it never did, and it never will; because you're the one in control, you're the one who knows, you're the one he's hopelessly devoted to; you've got him.

jesus fucking CHRIST i can't believe i wrote this. send help girlies xoxo

#ethan landry #scream 6 #scream vi #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry smut #i aint seeing the pearly gates anymore 🤣🤣

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bella-rose29 · 9 months

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Arranged Marriages Chapter 2 - The Banquet Nikolai Lantsov x f!reader

Still working on the titles and will probably get something imaginative in 5 years, but this one is exactly what it says on the tin! I might have made up some of the stuff to do with the Tidemaker abilities.

Warnings: Slight mention of past trauma (it’s literally one line but please be aware of it :) ) If anyone notices any others that I haven’t picked up on please let me know!

This one is from Y/N’s perspective.

Translations (might be slightly wrong so sorry if they are):

Zdorov’ya nam - To us

Za novobrachnykh - For the newlyweds

Davayte vyp’yem za to - Let’s drink to that

Word count: 3.2k

Tag list: @kentucky-criedfricken, @polli05927, @kateswone, @historianthesecond

Y/N couldn’t breathe.

Her dress was far too tight and restrictive and not at all like the keftas she was used to wearing, and it itched and scratched and she wanted to burn it. Or rip it to shreds.

She’d been terrified before the service; nobody had told her anything about the new king of Ravka (she’d been in hiding while the civil war went on, protecting her family and a few neighbours with her gifts, so she’d never actually met him), and the rumours she had heard about him being the King of Scars were less than favourable. She had been pacing back and forth around the room she was in, Zoya Nazyalensky draped over a sofa in the middle of the floor watching her with amusement, when an urgent knock on the door sounded. The two women had looked at each other, confusion passing over both of their faces, before Zoya had stood up and answered it. Whoever was outside the door was clearly anxious, but Zoya had stood in just the right place so that Y/N couldn’t actually see who it was, and could barely make out the whispers. She did catch a few words, most notably “The King... disappeared.”

Well. That didn’t help her nerves.

She’d spent the next twenty minutes worried that he knew who she was and what she looked like and found her repulsive because of her features or her status as Grisha or her low birth, or was with another woman (or man), getting his last taste of freedom before this forced marriage. She’d also been concerned that he would be horrible, especially since nobody would tell her anything about his personality.

But then she’d walked into the hall and had seen him standing there and had decided that maybe they would be alright together after all. At least he didn’t look like a monster. No, he looked more like a saint to her.

He had seemed nice enough, offering her a hand to help her up onto the platform and giving her a smile, and she’d smiled back (not that he would see through the veil). When he’d been asked to remove her veil, his hands had been shaking, and she was nervous all over again, worried that he would run away like he had earlier. But he stayed where he was, and they got through the rest of the service, repeating vows and placing rings on each others’ fingers (although why he had to keep the gloves on she wasn’t sure), and then they were walking arm in arm back down the aisle and through the double doors.

She’d felt quite light then, able to breathe and happy with the knowledge that he wasn’t initially coming across as someone to be afraid of marrying, and hopeful that the two of them could make this arranged marriage work.

But then she’d sat down to eat, on the left of her new husband and at the head of the table, and she couldn’t breathe.

Everyone was watching her - everyone - and this time instead of having her back to them she could see each one of their faces. It was putting her off of her food, and the tightness of her dress wasn’t helping. She was hungry: she hadn’t eaten a thing all day apart from a few slices of bread that morning, having been far too nauseous to eat anything else.

Saints, she thought. It’s far too warm in here.

She’d had a few lessons from a noble woman before coming here once the engagement was decided, as she hadn’t been raised noble or for this kind of lifestyle. Y/N had grown up in a small village, not too far from Os Alta, with her small family in her small house. They were farmers, and she often used her abilities to help the village’s crops grow in the height of summer and protect them from frost in the winter. When she had been tested, she’d asked if she could commute from her home to the Little Palace, given it was only a forty minute ride, and she had impressed the Darkling so much within her first week of training that he had allowed it. She looked after her village, using her training to help grow her power and make her stronger, protecting the crops and the people that lived there. Y/N wasn’t sure why she’d been picked to marry the new king, only that once the war was over and she and her family and friends had come out of hiding, she was approached by her old friend. Zoya had told her that Y/N was to marry the king, and her mother was so happy it seemed too mean to refuse in front of her after all the horrors they had experienced.

So she said yes.

After that, her life was a whirlwind. Dresses were measured and made, jewellery bought, and she had temporarily lived on a fancy estate not far from where she had grown up. When she asked why she was the one that had to marry the king, Zoya had simply said “Because you were chosen.” Y/N had assumed that that meant the king had chosen her to be his queen, but him running away and hiding the morning of their wedding wasn’t backing up that thought. The estate she had lived on for the months before the marriage belonged to a widowed noblewoman, Lady Lebedev. She had been tutoring Y/N on how to be a noblewoman herself, since she had grown up on a farm, and that wasn’t acceptable for the soon-to-be Queen of Ravka.

One of the lessons she’d been given was in prejudices against Grisha (although she hardly thought she needed a three hour lecture on the topic, she had a whole life of experiencing prejudice against her people), and Lady Lebedev had said “Whatever you do, do not use your power. Most of the people at court will be like me, otkazat’sya, but they will be far more unhappy about having a Grisha on the throne than I am. Do not give them reason to get rid of you.”

Now Y/N glanced around the room at the people gathered and noted that roughly half were Grisha, and promptly decided that the noblewoman was wrong. She tucked her hands under the table and drew some water out of a jug behind her, forming a mist that settled on her skin and cooled her within seconds.

There, now I can breathe a bit better. Looking left and right she hoped that nobody had noticed, but when she locked eyes with her new husband, she knew that he had seen. He was blinking in slight shock, and when he leaned closer she worried he would tell her off, but instead he just whispered “I don’t suppose you could share some of that with me, could you? I feel like I’m roasting alive in these clothes.” Y/N was surprised at the twinkle of amusement in his eyes, but repeated her earlier actions, drawing a cool mist over his skin. He seemed to relax instantly, but the flush on his cheeks stayed.

Perhaps he’s still too warm, she thought. His clothes look far more stifling than mine.

“How are you doing? With the whole...” he paused as he waved his hands around the room, “being forced to marry a stranger thing?”

He was the first person to ask her how she was feeling since she had found out that she was to be Queen, and it took her a moment to stop being surprised and collect her thoughts. He was still speaking in a quiet voice, and the conversation felt like a secret that was kept between the two of them. Y/N decided that she liked that.

“It’s... alright, I suppose. I’m not... I wasn’t...” She gave up on trying to get full sentences out and slumped slightly in her chair, before catching the eye of an unimpressed noble and sitting up so straight it was as though she had a broom for a spine. Nikolai laughed, clearly finding this all hilarious, and she couldn’t help but frown a little. How was he taking it all so well? She knew that he’d been born into this life, but still, he could make being forced into a marriage look a bit less easy to go along with. “I wasn’t born for this, and I didn’t think I would ever find someone to marry, let alone be Queen. It’s difficult, trying to be something I’m not, but I’m doing my best and I’ll try to be a good wife.”

Then he was the one frowning, confusion crossing his face and his brows drawing together. His tone was gentle when he spoke. “I’m not asking you to be a good wife. I know that all of this is difficult, and definitely not what I wanted and probably not what you wanted either, and I’m aware that it won’t be easy for you to step into this role, both as Queen or as my wife, and if it helps then it’s not going to be easy for me either, the role of King or the role of husband. I didn’t think I would have to be either of those, not like this, anyway. But I’m asking how you are feeling, not what you think I want to hear about how you’re feeling.”

She slumped again, not looking up to see if the noble was watching her. “I guess...” she sighed and lowered her voice. “My dress is too tight and it itches and I’m so hungry I could eat a horse but I can’t eat because I don’t think there’s room for me to fit anything but myself in this dress, and I’m hot and I’m tired and all I really want is to find a large body of water and lie in it.”

He blinked in shock again, then let out a loud laugh. A few people turned their heads to look at the couple, smiling when they realised that she was the reason for his happiness.

“I’m sure nobody would mind if we snuck off early to go find a large body of water for you to lie down in,” he said with a smile and a wink. Y/N found herself returning it, then realised what he’d said.

“We can’t leave early, people will talk! And I absolutely refuse to miss dessert. I don’t care if I have to cut this dress open to fit it in.”

So they stayed, Y/N managing to get a few mouthfuls of the meal down (she did try and stretch the dress out a bit though, it was far too like a second skin), and the two of them finding out simple things about each other, the things they would have known had they met under normal circumstances. Then when the main meals were taken away and the dessert came out, her eyes lit up, taking in every inch of the sweet treat with her eyes in seconds, then taking it all in with her cutlery in just as much time. Nikolai’s eyes widened, before a huge grin broke out over his face and he tucked in to his own dessert. When most people had finished, he picked up his fork and tapped it against his glass, a soft clink clink clink echoing around the room. The chatter died down as he stood up, glass in hand, and said “A toast. To Ravka, and all of her people, and to a better, united future. To us,” - he gestured around the room, then looked down at Y/N - “and to my wife. Zdorov’ya nam!”

She didn’t miss the way that he had emphasised the “all” when he was speaking about Ravka’s people, knowing that he was including Grisha in his sentiment. A chorus of responses filled the room, from “Za novobrachnykh!” to “Davatye vyp’yem za to!”, and the clinking of glasses all over came after. Nikolai sat back down, holding his glass out for her to clink, and she did so with a smile on her face.

“Nobody would notice if we went to find that large body of water now,” he whispered.

She pretended to think for a moment, tapping a finger on her chin, then replied “We can always just say they were drunk if they did.” It wouldn’t be difficult, most people had been drinking for hours, many empty bottles of kvas taken out already. He offered his hand out to her for the second time that day, and she took it for the second time that day, both getting up and sneaking out behind the people stood cheering and drinking.

They were laughing, half running through corridors, and she decided that perhaps her life with him wouldn’t be so bad after all. Then they were outside, by a lake, and she took her shoes off and struggled with the laces on her dress for a while until she gave up and just jumped in. She could hear him laughing through the water; he must be close to the bank. Down here, she was free. Down here she didn’t have to be anyone but herself.

Down here, she could breathe.

She surfaced after a minute or so when she thought he’d start to worry, only to see that he wasn’t there. The moon gave enough light for her to see by, and the stars were bright enough that she could navigate by the constellations, but her new husband was nowhere to be found. She reached out with her power, trying to sense the water in his body, but he wasn’t within the closest 50 metres to her. She panicked, thinking he’d either gone to get help because he thought she was drowning (but he knew she was a Tidemaker, so unless he was monumentally stupid he wouldn’t have done that), or he’d run away again like he had before the ceremony, deciding he couldn’t stay married to her and had gone to get an annulment. She had been left in the dark by a man she thought she could trust before, back when she couldn’t defend herself, but Saints be damned if she was going to let that happen again.

She hauled herself out of the water, taking the damp out of her clothes and drying her hair, then headed back to the palace. At some point, the water must have loosened the fabric of her dress, because it didn’t feel quite so close to her body anymore.

“If he didn’t want to be near me, he could have just said so,” she huffed. She found her way back to her rooms that she had been shown to earlier, letting herself in and closing the door behind her. Y/N redressed into her bedclothes, and then she sat in her bed under the covers and waited. She knew she was expected to wait until he came to her on their wedding night, that she shouldn’t go to him, but as the time passed and it got later, it was soon nearing midnight, and she was still alone.

Not long after, she fell asleep, tired from the stress of the day and the amount of food she had somehow eaten in her tight dress at the banquet. She was woken in the morning by the sound of her door opening, instincts from when she was in training kicking in and making her alert, and she hoped for a moment that it was Nikolai.

When she saw that it was only servants, she deflated, then refused to let them help her when she got washed and dressed. It was still too strange to have people wait on her hand and foot. She did allow them to sort out her hair, which she hadn’t brushed after her time in the lake and was now incredibly knotty after her restless sleep.

Y/N was escorted to the same hall they had had the banquet in last night, and stopped at the door when she saw Nikolai sat in his seat at the head of the table, smiling and talking to his Triumvirate as if nothing had happened.

I suppose nothing did happen, she thought, a frown finding its way onto her face. He still hadn’t said anything about why he hadn’t kissed her during the ceremony, and that combined with him leaving her and then not visiting her chambers left her wondering what it was about her that he didn’t want to be around. She stopped lingering on the threshold and walked into the room, head held high but avoiding eye contact with the king. When she was sat down next to him, she instead spoke to Zoya on her left, saying what a lovely morning it was. She could feel him watching her, and when he cleared his throat and touched a hand to her shoulder to get her attention she turned to face him, keeping her expression as blank as she could.

He was wary, his expression clearly showing it. “Good morning... did you sleep alright?” Even his tone was wary, cautious, and she tried to keep her eyes from rolling.

“I slept just fine, thank you. Although perhaps I would have slept better if my husband hadn’t disappeared,” she replied, her smile sweet and her voice even sweeter. Nikolai looked taken aback, then embarrassed, but he offered no reason as to why he had left or not turned up. His mouth opened and closed like a fish a few times, and she raised a brow when he still couldn’t come up with anything. “It’s alright, you know, I didn’t want this marriage either, but an explanation would be nice. I told you I wanted to lie in a large body of water, and I’m a Tidemaker, so it’s not like I was going to drown. All I want to know is why you left me in the lake. I don’t want some big declaration of love, that’s not what our relationship is, and it probably never will be. I just want to know what was so important you had to leave me in the lake on my own, at night. Think on it for a while if you must, but I want an answer. I suppose I’ll see you during meetings, events and the like, to keep up the ruse that we’re happily married, but if you would rather just keep to yourself then that’s fine. Just tell me what needs to be done as Queen, and I’ll do it. But do not come to me as a husband until you have a reason for leaving.”

He stared at her, cheeks flushed, still gaping. Y/N smiled again, making it seem as though the newlyweds were just having a deep discussion about something interesting, then turned back to Zoya, already asking questions about the position of Grisha in the court and how people in the more rural areas were coping after the war.

If he wasn’t going to do his duty as her husband, that was fine. But she wouldn’t let it stop her from doing her duty as the Queen.

Chapter 3

#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lanstov x reader #nikolai lanstov x y/n #nikolai x reader #nikolai x you #grishaverse #king of scars #netflix shadow and bone

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obsidiancreates · 3 months

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One Undead To Another (Chapter 12)

(Warnings for attempted kidnapping, attempted murder, blood drinking, and Henry being an asshole even when Shawn isn't around)

Noise-canceling headphones aren’t nearly as helpful as Shawn had hoped. They dull the sounds of chatter, seagulls, shoes clacking and thudding on pavement, but they don’t dull them enough. The sounds of Life claw at his ears, digging into his brain, trying to sweep him away in a flood of everything like they did before.

And if the headphones barely help with the sounds of the beachfront in general, they do nothing whatsoever for the heartbeats.

It’s barely sounds. Shawn feels the pulse of every passerby thudding in his own chest, in his bones, his teeth throbbing with equal parts dull and sharp pains as his dry, destroyed throat closes up on itself and his guts twist and writhe and tie themselves into knots and rip themselves apart and beg for blood–

The client walks in without Shawn even noticing, because they’re indiscernible from the sheer overwhelming flood of everything else. The smells, the sights, the sounds, the sensations– he’d intended to research as much about vampires as possible, and gave up after half an hour. The sun is setting now, and he’d moved to lay under his desk with the headphones on, his jacket tied around his head to keep them tight and to cover his eyes, a pineapple candle stuck right up to his nose to drown out any other scents.

That’s how the client finds him, his legs sticking out from under his desk as he lays face-down and tries to focus on his own unnecessary breathing, still as a cadaver.

“Um… are you still open?”

Shawn pulls himself out from under the desk, sitting up without removing the jacket or headphones. “Do we look open?”

“... Um…”

Shawn catches the scent of blood, and an image flashes in his vision of dozens of nicks from a sloppy shaving job on a distressed, tear-stained face. He holds his breath– it feels more natural than the breathing does. “What uh- what can I help you with?” His voice sounds like it shouldn’t even be working.

He feels the shift in the air as the man steps back from the sound, hears the swallow as the man prepares to speak, feels the vibration in the floor as he shakes his leg nervously. “I–I need help, fast. My wife– ex, ex wife, she– she lost custody yesterday and today when I went to pick up my daughter she wasn’t–”

His heart is racing. Shawn’s throat and mouth are still dry. His insides scream. He swallows nothing but air and says, “So you need a psychic to track her down?”

“Yes, I–I went to the police but I don’t– I looked you up and your track record is perfect, please.”

“I um, I don’t know if I can.” He wants to. Of course he wants to! But he’s hanging on by the barest shred, clinging to sanity with every scrap of self-control he has, and no matter much he tightens it it’s slipping away–

“I’ll pay you anything you want! I will give you the shirt off my back, I–I will give you the blood from my veins if you wanted!”

Shawn perks up. “You would?”

“... What?”

“Blood, you’d–you’d give your blood? As payment?”

“I– well, yes, I would.”

“Great, I’ll take the case!” Shawn springs to his feet, an almost manic energy suddenly possessing him. He crosses over to the man in, quite literally, a single heartbeat. He leaves the jacket and headphones on still, because the jacket is covering his face and he’s about 98% sure he stopped being able to upkeep his disgui–

…

That his eyes and fangs are back to how they were when he woke up.

“Um, o-okay? But I don’t know how I’ll–”

“How much do blood drives usually take? Half a gallon?”

“Wha–! No, it’s a pint at most, I think!”

“Great! I’ll take that! You go get that drawn, I’ll get started on your case!”

“Like–like this?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You um. You can’t see.”

“Sir, I am a psychic. I have a third eye, right here–” Shawn pokes himself in the forehead harder than he means to. Will that bruise? Bruising requires blood. Living, life-giving blood that’s his own. It probably won’t bruise. “–that will guide me as needed. Such as my need for your blood is demanded by the psychic universe, so is this test of metaphysical senses. How else do you think I know what you’re saying with these headphones on?”

“You have– oh, wow. Okay, um, yes! Yes, go find my daughter, I’ll– maybe the local med school will have someone willing to–”

“Great! Just, bring it back here and put it in the fridge if I’m not back before you!” Shawn sprints out of the office without another word.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry looks over the crime scene photos and reports, rubbing his head and drumming his fingers on his scalp. His shift ended hours ago– the sun is dipping below the horizon now, and most of the day staff have cycled out. He should be at home, watching re-runs of his favorite shows, enjoying a cold beer.

Instead he’s scanning for evidence of his son at the scene of one of the most singularly destructive crimes he’s seen in a long while. Granted, that’s largely because he retired early and stayed retired up until a few weeks ago, but still. Whole place burnt to a crisp, six bodies. Five of them are just piles of bones, one a more clearly laid-out skeleton. There was a literal treasure trove of strange occult-like artifacts in the basement where the fire originated, including several daggers that the coroner confirms match the slices make on the necks of the victims, as well as a necklace one of the victim’s was known to wear often that hadn’t been found on their body or in their home.

Five of the skulls had unusually long and sharp canines, which in the report are suggested to be recent, artificial, and surgically installed given the lack of any clear regular usage wear-and-tear present on them. Several items that were mostly intact after the fire had bloodstains on them, and it’s expected for testing to come back showing the blood of the victims. There’s mountains, mountains of evidence that Shawn was completely right about these people being bad news.

Evidence also suggests that the sixth body is the latest victim. It’s hard to say for sure given most of the MO’s of the other victims were visible purely from their flesh wounds, but the sixth body had no surgical fang implants and was positioned next to what’s suspected to be the origin of the fire– right now it looks like their latest victim got lucky, and made sure the groop went out at the same time they did.

What there isn’t evidence of yet is Shawn, but Henry can’t shake his gut feeling. Shawn suspected these people, and was refused any chance to investigate officially. Knowing his son Henry can easily imagine Shawn taking it on himself to do unapproved and unofficial reconnaissance. Maybe he saw the group take in the latest victim and was there where everything caught fire– he’s probably saving that as a ‘big psychic reveal’ for when the smoke damage isn’t bothering his throat anymore.

“Henry.” He looks up to see Karen standing over his desk, her arms crossed. “You don’t get overtime for this, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just bothering me.”

“It seems pretty open and shut, in my opinion. Your son was right, again. And unfortunately it looks like my, detectives, didn’t even check this basement when they went to search the house, nor did they ever put in a request for a warrant to check it later.”

“I’m sure they had their reasons, Karen.”

“Well whatever those reasons are, because we didn’t find any of this sooner we have not only another victim, but no-one to arrest. Not exactly how I prefer to wrap up a high-profile case like this.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a shame.”

“It is. Which leads me to what I came over to talk about. Do I have it right that McNab overheard you telling Lassiter and O’Hara that Shawn’s hunch in this case was ‘unfounded’ and ‘leading them on a wild goose chase’?”

“Well, uh… yes, Chief, but I only said that because your Detectives had strong leads on other suspects.”

“Really? Because I went over the case file more than once throughout all this and, I don’t remember a single suspect who stood out more than this group.”

“Now hang on–”

“I’m starting to notice a pattern here, Henry. Now it wasn’t a big deal at first, to be quite frank you’ve saved this department a lot of money by cutting back on our outside consultant hires. But your reasoning has had a distinctly personal element to it, and this time, it actually hindered our investigation.”

“Chief–”

“It is not your job, to tell my, detectives or, consultants, which leads are viable and which are not. It’s also not your job to discredit or devalue the input of consultants when their work is actually helpful. Now I appreciate you keeping your son in line, when it’s required. But if this continues I’m going to begin to think you don’t know the difference between when you’re required to step in and when you just want to try and parent your son in the middle of a case.”

“That’s not fair, Chief.”

“Oh, I think it is.” She uncrosses her arms and sighs. “You know I respect you, Henry. I wouldn’t have created this position and offered you the job otherwise. But you’re only human, and I don’t think you can honestly look me in the eye and say you have never once allowed personal feelings to influence your professional behavior.”

Henry leans back in his chair, crossing his own arms now. “I haven’t. Shawn’s been sloppy lately.”

“He is also only human, Henry. To be frank I don’t care how he solves our cases, as long as he does it quickly, without bringing hell on this department.”

“Well, I can’t accept that.”

“I noticed. Which is why you can consider this a friendly warning before I have to give you an official reprimand.” Her posture loosens, and now instead of The Chief looking Henry in the eyes, it’s just Karen Vick. “He’s a good man, Henry, and a good detective. He’s been doing great work for this department since long before we hired you. Just… lighten up on your son, when he’s not actually making any major mistakes.”

“... Now you’re getting personal, Chief.”

“This is coming from Karen the mom, not Karen the Chief. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to have Iris working a job like this, especially… especially her getting into some of the danger Shawn does. Make sure that he doesn’t leave this bullpen with resentment every time, Henry. There might be a day he won’t come back. … Good night.”

She leaves. Henry stays sitting.

“He’s sloppy,” Henry mutters to himself as he goes back to scanning the photos. “I’ve got to call him out on his screw-ups, Karen. Even if he hates me for it.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shawn finds the mom’s laptop in her apartment (he’d gone there and then realized he’d never actually asked where it was– he just Knew. Which is normal for him, but now he’s a little too aware it’s not normal for anyone else) and her password is printed on a sticker on the bottom. He finds google searches for maps and quickest routes out of Santa Barbara, and on a group picture on the wall he sees that she drives a bright red off-road-worthy jeep.She’ll probably take one of the smaller, less crowded roads, and given the kind of car it’s safe to assume she’ll try for a dirt road.

That narrows it down a good amount, three of the most likely options highlighting in his vision. He slams the laptop shut and rushes out of the apartment, keeping his hands firmly pressing on his ears until he practically falls down the stairwell and stumbles out to his motorcycle. He jams his helmet on and zips out of the parking garage without a single thought to the rules of the road, weaving in and out of cars at higher speeds than he usually dares, which is saying something.

He feels like he downed every energy drink he’s ever hated and a thousand shots of espresso all on an empty stomach. He’s hollow and buzzing. In lieu of blood his veins carry just adrenaline and anticipation, and he’s felt something like this plenty of times before but it’s just… different, now.

Even the things that are the same are different.

He isn’t evan pay attention to the road he takes– he’s too busy focusing on not letting Everything overwhelm him. Autopilot takes him down a dirt road, and another, and another, so far out that the stars actually become visible in the sky.

And he sees the car.

Bright red, barrelling down the road, two heartbeats, one racing and one slow. He pushes his bike to it’s limit, speeding in front of the car. The brakes slam!

He stops his bike and hops off, pulling off his helmet. The woman fumbles out of the car, squinting into the distance, her headlights pointing in a different direction than Shawn is standing. For a second he’s not sure why that matters. He can see perfectly fine. It sinks in a second later that of course he can– but there’s no lights out here except for the ones on that car.

No people, either. No anything.

Just him, this woman, and the car with the sleeping kid.

“What the hell was that?!”

“Awesomely stopping a kidnapping,” Shawn fires back. The unbearable grating rasp of his voice makes the impact a little more horrifying than he was going for. The woman’s heartrate speeds up even more as she stumbles back.

“I have a gun!”

“Man, do you know how many guns I’ve had waved at me over the years? Look, I’m just here because you need to return your daughter to her dad.”

“So that’s it? He hired a thug to chase me down?”

“A thu– I am a psychic detective, Jack!” And a starving vampire, and he’s glad she’s slowly backing away because if he didn’t know he’d get some cruelty-free blood after this he might lose control entirely right now.

“My name isn’t Jack!”

“It’s not–! Just, get back in the car and take her home!”

“Never! She belongs in the pageant circuit, not wasting away in some school for poor kids!”

“Wow. I really didn’t think a mom kidnapping her own kid could get any scummier.”

“She’s a star, my star! I won’t have her wasting her potential like he would!”

“Listen, as someone who wasn’t allowed to waste his potential as a kid, she’ll just go nuts with it as an adult, okay? … Why am I trying to reason with the pageant mom kidnapper?”

“I’ll pay you double what he’s paying if you leave me be.”

“First of all, he’s paying me in blood, so unless you have an at-home blood drawing kit in your trunk I don’t think you will! Second of all, you suck, so I wouldn’t accept it anyway.”

“Blo- what?”

“Get in your car, turn back around, and give her back!”

“... Fine. You want me back in the car? Fine!”

“... She’s going to try to run me over, isn’t she?”

The door slams. The engine revs. Shawn nods to himself. He should’ve seen that one coming. Literally, even if common sense hadn’t kicked in the whole ‘psychic’ thing really should’ve.

The car goes from 0 to 60 remarkably fast. He’s a decent distance from it, and just has time to dive out of the way before it slams into him! It goes another few feet and breaks hard, he hears the clutch move, presumably into Reverse–

And then he’s opening the door. He doesn’t remember getting up or moving, and the clutch is only just clicking into place when he yanks the door open, grabs her hand, and shoves the car park into Park.

“How did you–!” She looks him in the eyes, and freezes. Her heart might explode out of her chest. The little girl is still asleep in the backseat.

“Know your doors weren’t locked? Because you’re literally the worst kidnapper-attempted murderer I’ve ever seen.” His mouth hurts. The word feels as hollow as his insides, but he has to. If he stops being sarcastic, and stupid, and silly, something else will take over and he doesn’t want it to.

“Wh-what–”

“Look, like I’m said, I’m just here to make sure she gets back home. So turn around, take her back, and let me take you to the police station.”

Indescribable, uncontrollable, his words grip her like a snake and she just nods and does what he said without arguing.

It leaves him a little dizzy– he steps back from the car as she turns around and almost falls on his back. As he stumbles back to his bike she’s far ahead, but he knows where she is, what she’s doing, and it’s not psychically. He doesn’t know how he knows that, because he’s still figuring both of these things out, he just does. It’s some else, something tying them together until she’s done doing what he told her–

No, compelled her, to do.

He didn’t even mean to.

He better get a handle on that. Soon.

But for now, he follows.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lassiter wakes up with a start. “Oh, mother–”

He throws on a shirt, pants, and his holster, dashing out the door.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jules is picking at a late-night snack, finally feeling like eating again, when she straightens up.

“Oh my god, we left him unsupervised.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gus has just placed his order for bible-themed wallpaper (he and Father Wesley agreed that ripping one up would be sacrilege, even for the sake of protection) when he suddenly realizes something.

“He’s been alone all day!”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The reunion is touching, it really is– in a quiet, “Dad gratefully carries his sleepy and unaware daughter back to bed” kind of way, but Shawn can’t appreciate it. He can literally feel the thread he’s hanging on by fraying second by second, and he must look like it, because the client– he never even got the man’s name– quickly tells him he already left the blood in the Psych fridge like Shawn asked before quickly closing the door and locking it.

When they get to the station Shawn doesn’t even go inside with the mother– he just calls the front desk, tells the situation as quickly as possible, and sits on his bike. The moment the mom is taken inside, he takes off.

He cracks the Psych office door when he flings it open– doesn’t shatter it, though, so that’s a win. The fridge practically topples over with how forcefully he yanks it open, and–

There.

He grabs the bag. He doesn’t even have time to think about how he’ll do this before he’s biting into the thick rubber. Like before it coats his throat, soothes, and this time it is cold so it’s even more like a smoothie. It’s thick, and it’s not sweet in flavor but in relief, untwisting his insides and calming the assault of everything on his senses and easing the bone-gripping ache–

Ch-chck.

He opens his eyes as two guns cock in unison.

“Shawn, put the blood bag down.” Jules’s voice is only shaky to anyone who knows her well, and Shawn does.

It’s empty now anyway– he holds his hands up and faces them. Gus is running outside to puke, and Lassie and Jules both have their guns trained on him.

“Okay. I know how this looks,” Shawn starts. “But I promise it’s not nearly as bad as you think!”

“We leave you alone for one day and you rob a blood bank,” Lassie growls.

“I didn’t!”

“Why should we believe you?”

“Look, Lassie, I promise on your sweet sweet stern bush, I didn’t do anything illegal tonight.” Gus comes in just in time to look at Shawn with intense doubt.

“I’m serious! Not only that, but I totally found a solution to the whole blood thing!”

“Shawn, that doesn’t reassure us of anything!” Jules looks almost desperate.

“Guys, calm down.”

He didn’t mean to again. He didn’t mean to. But it happened, and they lower their guns, and Gus looks less inclined to run away screaming. And that’s good, right? It’s… good.

So Shawn grins. “Gus, we’re going to start taking a new kind of payment for private cases.”

#psych #psychusa #psych usa #psych 2006 #fanfic #my attempts at fanfic

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midnight-moth · 11 months

Note

Can we get some of your favorite head canons for Dew and Rain :3

Awww okayyy. Oddly I have never had to describe this before so I hope this is okayyyy.

I sometimes write about Rain and Dew with the same general canons as everyone else. But the Rain and Dew in waffles are more my HC.

Dew didn’t transition. He is a hybrid. However that comes with it’s own world of hurt. I don’t see him as angry, bratty demanding. I see him as insecure, unsure of his place in this world or the world that he came from. Because of that, not knowing where he belongs, he feels like he doesn’t know himself aside from a few things he’s sure he likes. Or what he wants. And until someone opens him up, he’d rather not know. Because he’s been torn apart for whatever is already on the surface. He’s very gentle. He valued his alone time, until he met Rain. He loves plants and music and poetry. He is SOFT.

Rain I see as very naive. For better or worse. He doesn’t understand the pain Dew feels. He tries to help. And even though he isn’t, Dew considers him flawless. As did those he grew up around. He wasn’t conceited, but he also can’t really understand what it’s like to hate yourself. Until it all goes wrong. He almost isn’t sure if what he likes. He was barely around enough to find out. Dew is a willing guide.

I think a lot of my HCs are about ghouls in general. I don’t see them quite as animalistic as some do. I think they’re born, have families, aren’t summoned but go willingly. The pit isn’t a terrible place where they’re all ripping each other to shreds. That kind of falls in line with literal satanism not being what people think it is.

Of course they all have diff characteristics. Horn shapes, types of tails etc are diff depending on what kind of ghoul you are. I also think there are more than just elemental ghouls but I am not getting into that here… for reasons.

Also, size difference thingzzz. Rain is 6’8” and Dew is 5”6’.

#nameless ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #rain ghoul #the band ghost fanfic #midnight moth answers #midnight moth asks #midnight moth writes

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thedo0zyslider · 9 months

Text

The Fleeting Gill - 2k Words

There's three people left down below, and it's gonna be one hell of an ending with one hell of an after party to go with it.

A03 Link

Martyn stood there, listening to Scott and Impulse talk further. Well, listening wasn’t really the right term, their words were falling on deaf ears at the moment. They wanted to have a cheeky little fight to the death or something along those lines. And Martyn didn’t kill his way this far just for it to end in a fair fight , of all things. This game had never been fair, and he didn’t know why it had to be now.

Some would say Martyn didn’t know what he was doing, that They were getting to his head again, but that was a lie. He knew what he was doing the minute his fingers brushed his lava bucket. He wasn’t loyal like people thought, never had been. It was always going to come down to this in the end.

“Nah, I don’t wanna play this game.” Before any of them really knew what was happening, Martyn was letting himself run on red life bloodlust at the moment, and he was pouring lava on the closest person to him. It was truly unfortunate that person had to be his ally. Scott let out a blood curdling scream, one Martyn would for sure be replaying in his mind later, but for now the blonde watched as his (former) allies' fishy flesh was seared by the hot liquid. He didn’t feel bad in the moment, just a little apathetic really.

“Oh!” Impulse exclaimed, backing away in shock. Scott was dead quickly, and it was a little gruesome to watch his flesh melt. So Martyn didn’t, just unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards Impulse.

“I wanna do it this way!” He exclaimed, watching as Impulse, still basically defenseless, started running the opposite direction. Martyn wasn’t sure what face he was making, but it was probably a little twisted.

“Doesn’t matter if you're a Mean Gill or a Bad Boy, or a Neighbor or a Clocker!” The words were just falling out of his mouth at this point, a rant the blonde would only vaguely be aware of later. Adrenaline was one hell of a drug, something like that. “You’re all going down! None of these niceties, this is a deathmatch for a reason!” Impulse screamed as Martyn caught up with him. He put up a good fight before the victor's sword went through his chest, kicking and fighting like a madman. It was useless though. Useless, but a good attempt, a praise worthy one even.

When both of them are dead Martyn feels himself laughing, it sounds maniacal, even to his own ears. “Ooh that feels good, Time is delicious!” He stands there, quite literally a madman, his clothes splattered with the blood of his friends and sword dripping with it. It’s gross and sticky, and Martyn doesn’t even realize until he’s wondering why he isn’t dead yet.

To his utter disbelief, the gods do not strike their winner down immediately. He’s left alone to wander the world, for just a little over an hour. Martyn wishes they’d killed him, he really does. Because now he has to process what he just did, who he just killed, and the way the two men’s blood won’t leave him, how it’s always under his nails. No matter how hard he washes it away

He’s sitting in his broken hourglass when it happened, red sand spilling onto the ground. He’d broken it at some point, doesn’t remember how. The blonde just remembers how the guilt’s been tearing his insides to shreds for the last hour of his life.

It’s Jimmy's voice he hears first, and the sound takes his breath away for a good moment.

“ Ten. ”

They’re counting down to his demise, his last ten seconds alive in this world. Martyn figures it out, scrambling to catch a glance at his timer, just as Skizz’s voice joins the canary’s.

“ Nine. ”

Voices started pooling in after that with every number, laying until he could no longer hear the first ones anymore. Every number more voices screamed in his head, they didn’t mix together, they clashed. They clashed so horribly it made Martyn want to rip his ears off.

“ Eight .” Chimed in Joel

“ Seven .” Said Bdubs, and Tango joined him quickly afterwards.

“ Six. ”

Scar’s voice was next, and by that point Martyn’s head was swimming; in a bad way. “ Five .”

“ Four .” Cleo said. Martyn was frozen by now, his limbs rigid as the voices spoke and his timer kept counting down and down and down-

Two came at once, BigB and Grian, and Martyn moved to cover his ears with his hands. “ Three .”

“ Two .” Etho and Pearl joined in and Martyn closed his eyes, the sound ripping through his eardrums.

“ One .” Scott and Impulse’s voices were the clearest, and the loudest and the last ones he ever heard. Martyn felt his throat begin to close up, eyes begin to prick with the beginnings of tears at the sound of the former’s voice, as his timer finally reached zero.

Scott gasped for air, scrambling up from the grass frantically. He wasn’t panicking because he was dead, he was panicking because he still felt like he was on fire . He knew that was impossible, that he was dead and ghosts physically could not catch fire, but logic never stopped emotions from doing whatever they pleased. It took about a minute of panicked breathing for the burning sensation to fade, which was frustrating because he didn’t need to breathe and acting like he still could was stupid .

There was a small crowd around him, and though the shapes were blurry Scott knew it was his fellow players, because who else would it be. He didn’t see Martyn's distinct blonde hair, so he hadn’t died yet. Part of him wondered why he was looking for Martyn, the very small betrayed part, but the rest of him was panicking a little more at his allies' absence. It seemed half of his head was still down there, in the living world, and he was worried about Martyn being out of sight for too long even though he could handle himself. Part of his brain was still worried about the blonde getting ambushed and dying and losing time and oh god what if he dies first-

A hand came to clutch his arm, muttering something too quiet for anyone but Scott to hear. “Breathe, petal.” He hadn’t even realized he was starting to hyperventilate before those words processed in his head.

The old nickname helped to ground him, and made Scott aware of Jimmy’s familiar warmth huddled beside him. He knew it was Jimmy without looking, because A) He knew what Jimmy’s presence felt like better than anything; B) No one else radiated so much warmth and compassion and goodness that it was sickening ; and C) No one else called him “petal” or still had the scent of their flower valley lingering around them. The last part of that might’ve been in Scott's imagination, but that didn’t matter, because those three points helped his vision become just a little less fuzzy. It also cleared the ringing from his ears, which he hadn’t even known was happening until now.

He was now grounded enough to feel the other ghosts' presence around him, and felt another warmth on the side Jimmy wasn’t hogging. It took a few minutes of searching, but he eventually recognized the calm sort of compassion that was so uniquely Impulse . Scott didn’t let his mind focus on the fact that Impulse was dead and second place, or that Martyn won. He just let himself sink into his friend’s comforting presence, vision clearing just enough to make out the other people around them.

The first thing he saw was Cleo’s familiar and bright auburn red hair, her decayed face looking down at him with the most concern he’d ever seen. It was weird, because Cleo didn’t show concern that easily here, because concern was a weakness you couldn;t afford in a deathmatch (a weakness both of them still clung to anyways, damn them. And dammit his head was still down there!), and it was unsettling . He wanted that look off his bestie's face as soon as possible, which could be done easily, because he wasn’t panicking anymore. He was fine now.

He quickly stopped leaning on Jimmy and Impulse after that, propping himself up still he sat cross legged next to them. Pearl and Scar were hovering next to Cleo, both giving him undisguised looks of worry. Out of his peripheral vision he saw the bright green streak of Joel’s hair, and it was the only thing he saw of him.

“Sorry,” Scott muttered, wiping away wetness that was starting to form on the corners of his vision.

“It’s fine dude.” BigB’s voice came from somewhere on the right, and Scott felt bad for not turning to look at him. His vision, very frustratingly, was still a bit blurred.

“You’re not the first person to spawn having a panic attack.” Jimmy reassured, moving his hand into Scott’s and squeezing. He felt suddenly bad for how many things the blonde probably had to help people through since he died first everytime, because this was not the first pre-game panic attack Jimmy had helped him through.

“It wasn’t even the worst one, either.” Scar said with a lopsided smile. “Mine went on for like, five minutes.”

“That is not something to brag about dude,” A gentle scolding from Tango could be heard, a low thunk sound following as the blazeborn smacked Scar with his tail. And dear jesus, where were all these people coming from?

Scott watched, still a little out of it, as Scar giggled and Grian appeared out of nowhere to punch him lightly in the arm. Tango was right, a five minute panic attack was not funny and made Scott seriously concerned for Scar’s current mental health, but the way it had been presented was reassuring. It had made Scott feel less ashamed, less guilty of his own panic, and he could only assume Scar had done it on purpose. The man was occasionally scatterbrained, but that never interfered with his scarily good emotional intelligence.

Pearl rolled her eyes at the scuffle in front of them, no longer giving a worried look at her former soulmate. Everyone had stopped outwardly worrying about him, which was better, Scott wasn’t in the mood for that sort of concern right now. Joel gave a slightly amused huff, which reminded him that the smaller was even there, before reaching out a hand for Scott to grab onto.

He smiled, easing his hand out of Jimmy’s and grabbing onto Joel’s forearm, their in game rivalry forgotten. Joel smiled back, one that looked cocky unless you knew him, and helped heave Scott to his feet. They always did this after the games, always fell back into a familiar sense of long term friendship. They were just that after all, long time friends who just couldn’t remember it in this world.

“Good game, mate!” Joel complimented, giving him a friendly clap on the back.

“You too,” Scott returned the kind words, enjoying how the smaller laughed into the side hug he was given. It wasn’t quite as crushing as a Skizzleman embrace, but it was close enough. Joel also wasn’t a hugger, but he didn’t squirm this time, so that was progress! They’d make a hugger out of him yet!

He and Grian dragged Jimmy off to get into god knows what shenanigans, the rest of the group dispersing as well. Everyone but Scott that was, who stood there noticing that Mr. Second Place himself was still sitting in the grass, looking a little dumbfounded about something Scott couldn’t quite understand.

“Imp?” Scott asked, the nickname coming to him in the moment. “You good?” He asked, reaching downwards like Joel had done to him just a moment ago.

Impulse’s voice came out a little shaky, causing the man above him to frown slightly. “Y-Yeah I’m good,” He did take Scott’s hand, albeit slowly, and the latter did more of the work of heaving Impulse to his feet than Joel had done with him.

“Are you sure?” Scott asked, hands being placed on his hips.

“I’m sure, I’m sure!” Impulse reassured him frantically. “Just a little shaken up from, ya know, dying like that.”

“Ah,” Was Scott’s eloquent reply.

“You having a panic attack kinda helped though,” The brunette said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly

“I’m sorry but how???” Scott damn near gaped at him in confusion. These death games gave you some weird ass coping mechanisms and stuff, but that was probably at the top of the list for sure .

“It was like, oh how do I phrase this,” Impulse began, taking a few moments to consider his words. “I kinda got focused on wanting to help you calm down, and everyone crowding around us helped ground me and stop my own panic before it got too bad, I think.”

It took a moment to wrap his mind around it, but Scott started to nod understandingly. “Speaking of dying, where’s our beloved little murder?” He asked, curiosity and an increasingly large amount of worry buzzing inside him. He and Martyn needed to have a talk, like right now . A talk more for the other’s sake than his, because Martyn was definitely going to feel understandably horrible about the last few minutes of Scott’s life.

“I…I think his timer had to run out.” Scott’s heart dropped to his stomach at those words. Martyn had to be down there for what? An hour and a half? By himself, living with what he just did to them, to Scott , to their allyship . He knew that was gonna go terribly, Martyn full on guilt tripping himself terribly. And he did not want to face the outcome of that when the blonde did finally join them. Oh, and Scott so was not mentioning that panic attack, and he’d strangle anyone who tried. Martyn would blame himself for that, when the betrayal hadn’t even caused that reaction. Scott was fine with, happy even, that his ally had been the one to land the final blow on him. It was actually the feeling of burning alive that had made him fall apart, not being betrayed. He didn’t know why though, probably some old death in a past game he couldn’t pinpoint at the moment.

“Are you gonna wait?” Impulse asked, breaking the moment of silence stretching between them as Scott thought.

“Yeah,” He muttered. “You go on ahead though,” He motioned behind them in Skizz’s general direction, practically being able to feel the latter’s eagerness to talk to Impulse from here. “You clearly have someone waiting already.” If he turned his head to look, Scott would see Tango beside Skizzle, with Etho hovering off to the side slightly.

Impulse just waved, saying nothing as Scott placed himself back down onto the grass again. He was preparing mentally to have the longest hour of his life, and then some.

The first thing he sees once spawning in is darkness, because his eyes are closed. Martyn does sense that he’s sitting down though, able to feel the grass between his fingers if he flexes them. He doesn’t open his eyes instantly, taking it all in for a moment. The fact that he was dead, and that this was an afterlife, and that he’d have to see a certain someone again. He tries to breathe, then remembers that ghosts really don’t need to do that, do they?

"Martyn!" A familiar voice exclaimed suddenly, and Martyn felt his heart do somersaults in his chest at the sound.

He opened his eyes to Scott's face staring at him, and was surprised at how happy the other man was to see him. They were sitting in plush grass, and if Martyn looked in any other direction he would see more of his fallen friends just a ways away, waiting to come and greet him. They seemed to be holding off though, waiting for the two of them to have a moment or something. Even more puzzling to the blonde, Scott drew him into a tight hug. He didn't deserve a hug, he'd betrayed Scott for goodness sake. Martyn had stabbed the other man in the back and was getting hugged for it.

He didn't deserve to be hugged, but he wanted the contact, the comfort desperately. And so Martyn gave in and hugged Scott back even tighter, burying his face in the crook of the other's neck. Scott still smelled like the salty ocean of their little isle, and the scent made his heart ache a little. The blonde was sure he still smelled like blood, no matter how hard he'd washed it away. He didn't think the smell of the liquid would ever leave him. The smell of Impulse's blood, Scott's blood.

Scott pulled away suddenly when his now light blue jacket began to dampen. Martyn had tried to stop the waterworks, he really had, but he hadn’t been strong enough this time. He'd held it in for an hour, alone in an empty world, of course he couldn't hold it in now; when he was actually around people. Great .

"Martyn, what is it?" His friend muttered, going to hold his face and thumb away tears. Why was Scott being so gentle? He didn't bloody deserve this! Not from him, out of everyone!

"Sorry, sorry," He began, trying not to choke on…whatever mix of emotions were building up inside him. "It's just…I don't deserve this."

"What do you mean you don't deserve this?" Scott asked in a gentle voice. Martyn’s gut twisted into something ugly at that. He didn’t deserve gentleness, He deserved to be whacked upside the head for what he'd done. Because that’s exactly what he’d want to be doing if the roles were reversed (even if it was a little hypocritical), and he knew Scott would be fine with that. So why? Why comfort him?

"This…this comfort! I betrayed you, Scott! I killed you…" He stopped speaking, holding back a sob. "You shouldn't be hugging me!" Martyn’s voice was small now, the smallest he’d ever heard it.

"I don't care Martyn! We're dead, it doesn't matter!" Scott hissed gently, now gripping his shoulders, no longer having claws to dig into the fabric.

In a quieter tone, Scott adds, "I'd rather it have been you than Impulse." Martyn just blinks at him, staring back at eyes he's become so familiar with over the past few weeks. They're blue now, instead of red or green or yellow, and they're worried over him. No, Martyn can still not grasp why anyone would be so considered with their murderer .

Eventually, after a good minute of just doing nothing, Martyn moves to hug Scott again. His friend does nothing but return it, and he can imagine the other’s tail wrapping around his waist. If he still had a tail, that was. All of Scott’s fish features seemed to be gone, and that's what makes Martyn realize he's no longer in his pirate outfit. It was a nice one, one of his best, but it was stained with dry blood and bad memories by the time he died.

The world around them was so silent, Martyn had forgotten other people were there. That was until there was a shuffling sound, and someone sitting on the grass next to them.

Martyn, having basically been laying on Scott, removed his head from the other's shoulder. Cleo was next to them, a smile playing on their lips.

"Hi Martyn." She said, and the blonde just huffed in response. "You two done having a moment?"

"Yeah, I think so." Scott hummed, glancing at the man on top of him. When Martyn didn’t protest, he nodded in confirmation.

"Well then, congratulations!" Suddenly Martyn was being pulled into another hug by the zombie, and he let out a yell of alarm as he was suddenly lifted into their grasp.

“Hey!” He protested, yet did nothing as Cleo gave him like, the only hug they’d given him. Ever.

“You were brutal down there dude.” The zombie said, releasing him from her hold. Martyn just groaned in response. “Don’t remind me!”

After that everyone else crowds around them as well, a series of congratulations and hugs and other forms of physical affection. Martyn isn’t very used to so much praise, long accustomed to his afterlife’s being a little sad if anything. But if Jimmy and Grian want to tackle him into a hug, if Impulse wants to assure him that he’s fine and those lost moments mean nothing, then who is he to stop them.

Eventually the group thins out, back to doing their own things, and Scott stands slowly. He takes a second to stretch, then offers a hand out to his fellow Mean Gill.

"You aren't… fishy anymore." Martyn says, looking at Scott’s hand as he takes it, only stumbling a little as he stands.

“I kinda miss the tail..” Scott’s admission is a little sad, and Martyn can’t help but giggle and pat his shoulder sympathetically.

The blonde watches, in mild confusion, as everyone makes their way to the cliff's edge. Jimmy and Joel were already sitting there, and now everyone’s joined them. Martyn apparently had missed the memo that that’s the designated gathering spot, but he gets it pretty quickly. Still he stood there after realizing, not feeling worthy to sit with those people.

His teammate’s words hadn’t fully fought off his guilt, but he would be the one to make Martyn stay with them for just a moment longer.

Scott patted the ground next to him with a smile. “Join us?” He poses it as a question, but really it's a command. To sit with them or else he’d get up and drag Martyn over himself. The blonde just smiles, and moves to join the other thirteen members on the cliff. The first thing he says to Scott is a little sad, but he can’t ignore the missing puzzle piece.

"I wish Ren were here." He muttered quietly. Scott just hummed in response. There was nothing for him to respond too, and nothing for Martyn to say. The Dogwarts banner that had been tied around his waist had made it very clear how much he missed the dog hybrid. He missed Ren, missed the comfort the man gave him, and wished he was here to see if victory, even if it was a gorey one.

The group of them sat in silence after that. Well almost silence, most of them having conversations that only the person next to them could hear. It was nice, really it was, to relax and just listen to his friend's soft voices for a while; all of them sitting on the edge of a cliff together. That was until it had to end.

"They're here." Martyn whispered. He doesn't know if anyone heard him. Scott’s grip on his hand tightened, so maybe he did. The blonde doesn't know which is better, if the whole world heard or if those two little words fell on deaf ears.

It doesn’t matter in the end really, because They're here, and none of them will remember this next time they see each other again.

Martyn doesn't know where his friends go in between these games, but he does know that he himself falls into an endless void. Though this time, as he starts to lose consciousness, there flashes of purple mixed in there as well. He wonders what all that's about as his world goes dark, still clinging onto the slipping feeling of Scott’s hand in his.

#ron.fic #ron.writing #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #inthelittlewood #limited life #mean gills #impulsesv #trafficblr #silence after death

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ew-headyhearts · 11 months

Text

Body Headcanons

No one asked but here you go. I’m putting this one under the cut because it’s really long.

Characters: Edd, Tom, Matt, Tord, Eduardo, Jon, Mark

TW: I talk about booties and thighs

Edd: 6'1. Man's is chugging cola throughout the day it is no surprise he's heavy set. Not much for personal grooming. He maintains his cleanliness but the most hair he'd let grow out is a light stubble. Really dark leg and arm hair. Has cellulite and stretch marks but doesn't seem to mind. Actually, has a hand full of tattoos! Nothing crazy, they're mostly patchwork tattoos. Although, when Edd and the other three were all in high school they all gave themselves matching stick and poke tattoos. It’s a smiley face that looks uncannily like the ASDF Movie face. Granted none of them had experience doing tattoos so they made Edd do it for all of them. They all have it on the inside of the right wrist and they're all equally pretty wonky. Although Matt ended up doing Edd's making his look the absolute worst.

Matt: 6'4 A God damn string bean. Most definitely the palest of them all, like you could see the color of his veins pale. He is the definition of a pretty boy. Long legs and surprisingly strong calves. Also has the nicest butt of them all. Don't tell him though, it'll only inflate his ego. Will make sure everyone knows you think his butt is nice and the others will get annoyed. Still has acne scars from high school because he was a chronic skin picker. He also still had fangs from the time he was turned into a vampire. Is he still one? He won't tell~ Covered in freckles from head to toe. He shaves, though it’s mostly because he did it once and now he hates the feeling of the stubble growing back. Although he's not the greatest at it so he still gets nicks and cuts. After the experience with the stick and poke tattoo, he never got another. There's a part of him that regrets it, but he'd never think to cover it up or get rid of it. When he's feeling low, he likes to admire it and think about all of his memories with his buddies.

Tom: 5'8 and fucking smug about it. He is BIPOC. He’s a bit anemic so it makes his skin appear paler than he actually is. His height spawns constant arguments with Tord over who's taller. And yes, there was one point where Tom and Tord tried to see who could make their hair taller than the other. Definitely has a beer gut. Also did I mention the happy trail~ ugh- I'm so weak. No ass to speak of tho. Back is built like a board, sadly. If you ask him to sit in your lap it will hurt, he's got a boney ass. However, he does have really nice thighs. Can we talk about his body modifications now? Okay thank God because- ugh! First of all, he had his tongue split, and he loves showing it off. Used to have his tongue pierced but he hated the feeling after a while. All of his other piercings? He has gauges, two other piercings along the shell of his ear, and snake bites. Actually, has a couple of tattoos as well as the old stick and poke one. He’s always down to go get a new one.

Tord: 5'6 and a half, 5'8 and a half with the haircut. Doesn't go out that often so he's pasty. Nowhere near Matt levels of pale, but it's noticeable. Before leaving the crew, he was actually pretty heavy set. Mans looked like the textbook definition of a weeb. However, when he returned, he was surprisingly lean. You can almost see a hint of muscles too. He’s got a gap between his two front teeth. Quite a bit harrier than Tom. Does not trim whatsoever. Never has never will. Nasty stinky man. Probably has ridiculously noticeable pit hair. Likely to get really cringy tattoos like anime girls from hentai. But it's okay pookie I forgive you. After the events of "The End" Tord's arm was ripped to shreds. So, he actually gets another tattoo done professionally on his opposite wrist. He quite literally just got a replica of their matching tattoo. Why you ask? I’m sentimental, okay?

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Eduardo: 5'10 and a half. The most likely to lie about his height and say is 6ft. He’s kind of a manlet and will make it your problem. His parents are Puerto Rican and he’s dark-skinned. Chubby, though he surprisingly doesn't have as much sugar in his diet. Unsurprisingly, Eduardo is actually rather hairy. No one knows why he's so damn hairy and can't grow a proper mustache. Has a little bit of an ass, though he does have really strong thighs. Probably the type to be able to crush a watermelon with them. Not much into body modifications, although he does have his mother's name tattooed on his shoulder blade. He’s high key a total momma’s boy. Used to have his ears pierced but they closed up long after high school.

Jon: 5'3. Doesn't actually care about his height. He surprisingly pretty built, despite his massive sweet tooth. Him and Mark actually go to the gym together. Though he's more into training his legs. Has the highest stamina of anyone. Mans could be a whole track star if he wanted to. Another member of the cute butt squad. I'd almost call it a bubble butt. Also, this guy doesn't know how to dress. Mother fucker would either wear cargo shorts and a polo top or maybe one if those obnoxious Hawaiian t-shirts. Someone please step in and help the guy, I am begging.

Mark: 6'3 and a half. Another frequent gym goer. Can bench press around 230 pounds easily. Although, he prefers to hide how ripped he is with turtlenecks. His hair is so blonde that it can be a little difficult to notice how hairy he is. For that reason, he surprisingly doesn't do much in the grooming department. Except for his eyebrows, he gets them threaded. Had a phase where he was really into vampires in high school, so he has a neck tattoo of a vampire bite. That's why he always wears the damn turtleneck. He has a love hate relationship with that damn tattoo. Absolutely mocks Jon's fashion choice as he always dresses up. Except at the gym, that's the only time he lets himself dress down when leaving the house.

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#hcs #ew edd #ew mat #ew tom #ew tord #ew eduardo #ew jon #ew mark #ew-headyhearts #ew headyhearts #ew headcanons #ew imagines

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sentinelpri · 1 year

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Sapphire & Gold

The moon sings a song of pale light and soft wind as Itachi Uchiha and Kisame Hoshigaki walk through the outskirts of Kirigakure, their sandals plip-plopping against the puddles that litter the grassland they’re trekking through. Kisame has the incapacitated body of their target on his back; some sort of Kirigakure politician that was getting in the way of Tobi’s work. They’re trying to get to a safe place to dispose of the body with Itachi’s crows where no one will stumble across them.

Eventually, they get to part of the forest where they’re surrounded by enough trees and fog that Itachi feels secure to do the disposal. So, they do, and as their target is ripped to shreds and consumed by the birds, he glances over at Kisame.

The older man is covered in blood from head to toe and doesn’t seem to mind it. The rusty grime mats in his indigo locks and crusts over his sapphire skin, tainting him, but his golden eyes seem to glow against the dull night with the adrenaline and dopamine that rushes through his veins.

And oddly enough, he looks more beautiful than ever; in his element, covered in rain and in blood, his hands scraped to shreds and his cloak torn and stained from the fight against their target’s bodyguards.

Itachi doesn’t blush, and he doesn’t fawn, because he knows Kisame is smart enough to pick up on those things if he dares to let his composure slip. So, Itachi commits the image to memory and looks away instead, even as anger dares to consume him- yes, that’s the emotion that he feels when he and Kisame are alone like this; anger. Itachi is angry. He’s angry that, were he partnered with literally anyone else in the Akatsuki, he could have stayed to himself and refused to fall for anyone before his inevitable death, angry that after a life of shoving everything and everyone away, he allowed Kisame to melt his icy composure so easily.

He remembers the first day they met. He was sitting on the edge of a dock overlooking the ocean when Kisame approached and introduced himself.

“I’ll be teaming up with you starting today. I’m Kisame Hoshigaki, formerly of the Hidden Mist; one of the seven ninja swordsmen,” A basic introduction, but nothing special. Itachi didn’t bother turning around at the time, too entranced by the shadows of the sharks that swam in the water below. They danced around each other so gracefully back then. “So pleased to make your acquaintance… And you are Itachi Uchiha, formerly of the Hidden Leaf. I’ve heard the rumors that you slaughtered all of your fellow Uchiha clansmen. I think that we’re alike, you and I. That’s the reason I wanted to be teamed with you in the Akatsuki. It’s really indescribable, isn’t it? Killing your comrades is quite the sensation, wouldn’t you say so, Itachi?”

Itachi had been offended at the time by both the implication that he was a stonecold killer who delighted in murdering his comrades and by the way Kisame so easily talked about killing people. At the same time, though, he’d been utterly entranced.

“You talk a lot. You don’t understand me; you don’t even understand yourself,” Itachi spat, looking over his shoulder. He remembers not being able to control that urge to blush at the mere sight of Kisame back then; his cheeks had burned bright red, so he’d been forced to face the water again even though all he wanted was to stare into Kisame’s golden eyes. Fearful and fresh off of what he’d done to his clan, Itachi resorted to insults. “You’re just a thug who got lost in the mist and ended up here. You can’t even control where you’re going. Am I wrong?”

“Do you want to know something interesting? Most sharks are ovoviviparous, which means that the eggs hatch inside the female’s body before the young are born. However, with some kinds of sharks, the number of eggs that hatch will differ from the number of young that emerge from the mother’s belly. Do you know why that is?” Kisame asked, but Itachi said nothing because no, he hadn’t known; sharks were never seen back in Konohagakure. Kisame answered the question for him after a few minutes. “Because of cannibalism. Right from the moment they hatch, they start eating each other inside their mother’s uterus. The fratricidal warfare begins as soon as they’re born. To each shark, all the others are just food to be eaten. Starting today, you are an Akatsuki member and my companion, so be wary… Of me.”

Itachi activated his Sharingan, not to fight or to intimidate, but to lock the moment in his memory for eternity; something he now regrets. He only did it because he was so terribly entranced by the way his heart started to skip beats like never before, so he could encapsulate the fear and the curiosity and the obsession.

“Same goes for you.”

“Now, let’s be friends and have some fun, alright?” Kisame had put a hand on his shoulder, so cold and firm. “And hope that we will not end up as each other’s final opponents.”

“No one who dares to raise a hand against a comrade ever dies a decent death,” Itachi stood, trying to avoid Kisame’s gaze. Perhaps he assumed that he would run the risk of Kisame seeing through him if their eyes met. He still tries to avoid eye contact with the man to this day for that very reason. “Remember that.”

“Well, that means our fates are sealed; you and I are depraved and worthless.”

“Not true. We’re both human- not fish,” Itachi murmured, sounding much more sure of himself than he actually was that day. He wanted to convince himself that Kisame was more human than monster. He still tries to. “No matter who you are, you do not truly know what kind of man you’ve become until you reach the very end. One realizes one’s true nature at the moment of death. Don’t you think that’s what death is about?”

With that, he’d left, unable to shake the feeling of Kisame’s hand on his shoulder.

Even though his feet knew the path he should’ve taken back then, he has since walked alongside Kisame in the dark without giving a single thought as to where it might lead.

And all the empty rooms- the homes of the Jinchuriki they’ve captured, the hotels they’ve stayed in, the little tea shops they’ve lingered in for too long for some sense of normalcy- they- Itachi- could have left the Akatsuki at any time and chosen to go anywhere else. Instead, Itachi made a bed with his apathy and followed the orders of his village to get intel from the S-Rank organization, and Kisame continued on his path of darkness with Itachi by his side.

Clearing his head of the painful memories, Itachi peers down at the body before them. He dispels the crows and watches Kisame scatter what’s left of the teeth and bones deep underneath the earth. It’s a disturbing sight, even after everything they’ve done. The death never seems to become any easier to witness- or to cause. Itachi averts his eyes and continues to walk down the dark path they’ve grown used to.

Kisame follows behind. The lull of their usual silence, however, is broken by Kisame, whose voice is barely audible over the rain that begins to pour over them.

“Itachi… You’ve been off lately,” Kisame starts, and Itachi thinks that might be it- a simple voicing of Kisame’s concern that he can brush off like the rest, which has been a frequent occurrence since his illness has gotten worse. Much to his surprise, Kisame continues. “I think we need to talk about it.”

“I think we’re fine,” Itachi says. Even he can’t deny how his voice shakes despite how he tries to remain calm. As he gets closer and closer to his death, his emotions get more and more potent. “Let’s move on, yes?”

At this point, Kisame tends to drop the subject, but this time, he grabs Itachi by the wrist.

“No,” Kisame insists. His fingers, cold and firm like they were the day they met, squeeze around Itachi’s wrist, which is much thinner than it was back then. Itachi doesn’t dare turn to face him. He’s scared that, if he does, he’ll finally break after so many years of keeping himself together for the sake of not pushing this thing that they have until it breaks. “I’m serious. I’m sick of always moving on from the things we need to talk about. You know I’m not one to dampen the mood like this, but neither of us should pretend that things haven’t changed lately. Do you seriously expect me to ignore what’s been going on between us?”

Itachi’s heart knows the weight of continuing to ignore his feelings, but that’s what he’s grown used to. Ever since he was little, he was forced to shove down everything he felt and keep a straight, calm face- for the sake of the clan, for the sake of Sasuke, for the sake of the village, and now, for the sake of Kisame and for the sake of the Akatsuki. After over ten years worth of dust and neglect, his heart is beyond trying to explore the depths of.

Why not just keep shoving everything down until he dies? That’s all he knows, anyway.

Itachi tries to pull away, but Kisame holds him firm. He debates on using his Sharingan before deciding against it. He needs it for his inevitable fight with Sasuke, and the more he uses it, the less time he has left. So he turns to look at Kisame and attempt to convince him to let go, but when he does, Kisame is staring at him like they’re human. Not monsters, not murderers, just two human men; two true comrades.

“Don’t you dare look at me that way,” He commands, too overpowered by his emotions to think better of it. “Not after everything we’ve done.”

At one point, perhaps even just before Kisame decided to open this Pandora’s box, Itachi thought he’d made peace with his weariness and let it be. Now, flames of raw emotion feel like they’re licking up his body and melting his icy exterior before their very eyes. He despises how Kisame has made him feel all of these things so suddenly- it’s almost as if he has been hoarding parts of Itachi that the Uchiha himself didn’t know existed before now.

“Why? Are you going to stop me, Itachi? You can’t deny the tension that’s been boiling between us,” Kisame smiles. His sharp teeth shine a brilliant white underneath the beams of moonlight that peek through the storm clouds. Itachi’s heart skips a beat, just like it did back then. He hates himself for it. “I’ll stop if you tell me what the problem is. We’re comrades, remember?”

He loves Kisame like the sun- he has since the start, boring the shadows that the older man always seemed to make with no light of his own. Aside from Sasuke, Kisame has been the only thing to keep him going through illness, violence, and trauma.

“The problem is that you make me want things I can’t have,” Itachi confesses, his composure finally faltering.

Itachi thinks of all the things they could have had- anything else, any other life, with peace and love. If it were another life, they could have been normal people who met under normal circumstances and fell in love. He sees how Kisame looks at him; he knows that the very tension Kisame mentioned is very much there, so thick between them that he could cut through it with a kunai if he were to acknowledge his presence.

“Like what?”

“If you must know,” Itachi clears his throat and trains his eyes on the muddy ground. He doesn’t even pause to consider it. He’s going to die soon, so why not do this? Why not ruin everything in his wake? Kisame is practically begging for him to do so. “Love and trust and all of those other meaningless things we left behind when we abandoned our villages so long ago- when they abandoned us.”

“Abandoned? I like to think of it as freed,” Kisame quips, his grin growing. He’s braver than Itachi in how he reaches forward with his spare hand to rest it on Itachi’s cheek. This man, this killer, caresses his face like it’s fragile glass. Sweet. Gentle. Words that no one else would use to describe Kisame or his actions. They’re the only ones who know each other like this. “And you can have those things alongside our lifestyle, whether you believe it or not.”

“Don’t you think that’s cruel?” Itachi asks. The rain that streams down his face allows him to cry. The tears blend in with the water seamlessly. “We both know I’m going to die soon.”

“Life has been cruel to the both of us regardless, why not let this be the cherry on top? It’s as they say, it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.”

“I can’t say I agree with that sentiment,” Itachi replies with a frown.

He snatches his hand away. This time, Kisame lets him. It seems as if he’s gotten what he wanted from Itachi; an admission of guilt.

The two men continue to walk in the rain. Itachi hopes that will be enough, but within minutes, Kisame is talking again.

“So, Itachi… Why me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re attractive. So, out of everyone, why would you love a monster like me?”

Itachi pauses. Then, he answers.

“Because I, too, am a monster.”

“Then wouldn’t you say we belong together?”

“No, Kisame, I’m more monstrous than you could ever dream of being. Unlike me, you still have a shred of humanity left,” Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not. Itachi isn’t sure. Neither of them are quite monsters, but neither of them are quite human either. They’re somewhere in between, in a state of limbo that only the two of them could ever understand. “We don’t belong together. We never have.”

“Are you saying our partnership never should’ve happened?”

“Precisely. We both… We both would’ve been better off that way.”

The rain seems to settle into a light sprinkle as the two approach a stream. Wordlessly, they undress, knowing that they should wash their light wounds and get the blood off of their bodies before anything gets infected. Neither of them bat an eye at each other. It’s practically a post-battle routine now.

“Well, we can’t go back in time, and if you really do feel the same way, I’m not going to give up on you,” Kisame sinks into the water. For the first time, Itachi dares to look at him; dewy sapphire skin, soft gills, hard and defined muscle. Kisame is big and brawny, the exact opposite of Itachi, who feels small in comparison. The ravenette knows he’s slowly wasting away into nothing but pale, cracked skin coiled around increasingly visible and fragile bone. He’s not just small in comparison- no, he’s nothing in comparison to this man. “I want to feel the fire that you’ve kept from me, Itachi.”

The words stab through Itachi like swords to the pit of his belly. Kisame looks back at Itachi, who is awkwardly holding his Akatsuki robes in front of himself instead of getting into the lukewarm Kirigakure water.

“I won’t let you feel it. I’d burn you, after all,” Itachi finally responds after remaining silent for far too long. He tries to disregard Kisame’s prying golden eyes as he drops his robes and gets into the water a couple feet away from him. He manages to find some comfort on a smooth rock. The current is soft and clear. “As many threats as I’ve made over the years, the last thing I want to do is hurt you, Kisame.”

“Look at you, being a coward. What’s new? You’re always running away; running from your village, from your remaining family, from the enemies we face. You always err on the side of caution even though you chose this path just as I chose mine,” Kisame criticizes, criticizes, criticizes. Something he’s always been good at. Itachi doesn’t even dignify it, just lets it roll off of him in tangent with the stream’s water. “Name your courage now and take a risk for once, will you? I’m getting tired of how predictable you’re becoming.”

He manages to swallow his doubt, if only for tonight. He knows it’ll be one of the last before he has to face Sasuke.

“How’s this for predictable?” Itachi asks and moves through the water so he can sit closer to Kisame. Kisame stares over at him. This time, Kisame’s the one who’s blushing. His cheeks are dusted purple and he looks at Itachi with measured curiosity. Itachi revels in the way Kisame’s body tenses with anticipation when he reaches forward, only to drag water over his muscles to wash off the blood. “Not what you were expecting, was it? If you’re so insistent, I’ll cease my running away for now, Kisame.”

“Then come,” Kisame grabs Itachi by the hips and pulls him closer. Itachi offers the biggest smile he can muster and continues to wash the blood off of his partner. Their bodies, worn and rough, seem to mold together within the flow of the stream. Golden eyes burn into charcoal ones. “Come and burn me to ashes, Itachi.”

“If that’s what you want, I suppose I have no choice but to indulge you for now.”

Itachi acquiesces against his better judgment and, within seconds, Kisame is grabbing him by the face and locking their lips together in a silent promise.

#itakisa #kisaita #kisame hoshigaki #itachi uchiha #naruto #naruto shippuden #naruto fanfiction #naruto shippuden fanfiction #tw corpse #tw corpse mention #angst #fanfiction #oneshot #oneshots #songfic #song: the moon will sing (the crane wives)

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tonopahfallshq · 1 year

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Name: Javier Inciarte Age: 31 Occupation: Barber at Benny’s Barbershop Time living in Tonopah: 22 years Neighborhood: Downtown Gang Affiliation: Sicario with Los Bandoleros Face Claim: Alejandro Speitzer

Biography:

Javier Mateo Inciarte Mendoza was born in Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico, in the summer of 1991 to Emilio Inciarte and Juana Mendoza, two people who really had no business being parents but lacked the self awareness to realize it. Emilio was deep into the criminal underground, particularly whenever it came to smuggling drugs, and Juana loved the dangerous thrill of that perhaps more than she ever loved Emilio. Together, they were a match made in hell– Juana was kerosene and Emilio was the open flame. There was no way Javi was ever going to walk through life with them without leaving a trail of ashes in his wake.

As predicted, his childhood was unstable. There were very few things in Javi’s life that held any sort of permanence– even where he would eventually rest his head each night was often a toss up, with the three of them bouncing from place to place in tandem with Emilio’s work. The faces surrounding him day in and day out held little to no consistency too, save for his parents. But one of the few pieces of Javier’s childhood that stood the test of time and survived every turbulent year-- other than utter chaos-- was music. No matter where the boy went, he carried a small, portable keyboard with him. Juana had suggested it as a means to keep Javi occupied and therefore out of Emilio’s way, but neither of his parents could have ever predicted the love affair Javi would develop with piano, or his knack for it. For the young boy, it was more than just a passion, it was an escape.

Tragedy struck early, as it often does in a story like Javi’s. One morning, Juana and Javier had borrowed one of Emilio’s cars and had gone into the city to shop around. Juana had been looking for a new summer dress and an eight year old Javi had been on the prowl for fresh sheet music to learn. Needless to say, Juana never got her dress and Javi never got his copy of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. On the way into town, countless clips were unloaded into the side of their car in an assault clearly meant for Emilio. But as the story would go, the bullets meant for her husband ripped Juana to shreds and one managed to catch Javi in the back as well.

It was there in the hospital, while planning his wife’s funeral and watching a chest tube get jammed into his son’s side that Emilio decided it was time for a change. A little late, sure, but late was better than never. They had to get out of Mexico, no matter the cost. But with no legitimate trade skills in his arsenal, Emilio’s options were limited. All he’d ever known was this outlaw way of living, but he couldn’t keep living it in Culiacán. Luckily, one of Juana’s sisters hadn’t quite escaped it either and was living in Tonopah Falls, Nevada, building a life and a name within Los Bandoleros. Emilio saw that as his opportunity and once Javier was well enough to travel, the duo left for the United States and never looked back.

Once landing in Nevada, Emilio hit the ground running, quickly proving himself within Los Bandoleros. Javi, only nine years old at the time, stuck to his piano– for as long as he could, anyway. Inevitably, the cartel’s pull caught up with him and he began to hang around a little more– learning, but always on the outside of it…just the way he preferred it. After nearly losing his life to gang violence, he wasn’t so keen on throwing himself at it. Instead, he focused on his music and eventually started hanging around the barbershop, learning the craft so that he could earn money of his own. When he wasn’t learning Chopin or Debussy on piano, or learning how to perfect the latest hairstyle, Javi was often left to his own devices, and in the desert, his amusement could take any sort of shape. For him, he’d learned to love to play with fire– quite literally. The flames never did frighten him the way they should have. Quite the opposite, really. They were starving for oxygen the same way he was and that both fascinated and devastated him all at once.

When he was seventeen, he met Rio Romero, who happened to be his cousin– the son of the very woman who’d brought Javi and Emilio to Tonopah. Little did he know at the time that this man, not that much older than him, would become his rock and the family he’d always longed for. Rio was a cousin, an older brother, and a father all in one. Somehow, in no time at all, he made up for everything Emilio and Juana both hadn’t been able to give Javi and for the first time in his life, he felt genuinely wanted– and safe.

Two years later, when Javi was nineteen, Emilio was revealed as the scumbag his son had always believed him to be. Accused and convicted of stealing profits from Los Bandoleros, Emilio Inciarte was sentenced to death– and rather quickly. A scandal like that couldn’t be given too much daylight. Once the dust settled, all eyes looked to Javi. Had Emilio’s flesh and blood been in on the plot? Had he aided him? History would show that Javi was completely innocent, but that hardly mattered when there was an opportunity to make an example of him. Shortly after his father’s execution, he was forced into cartel life– the one thing Javier never wanted. But someone had to pay Emilio’s debt, and who better than the son who was suspected of helping him?

The next few years were hard on Javi. Every move he made was looked at with scrutiny and he felt like an outsider, no matter how many times he proved he wasn’t. During that time, Rio talked him off a literal edge more than once, somehow convincing him that his life was worth more than what his father’s scandal had reduced it to. Little by little, Javi picked up the pieces with Rio’s help and over time, he carved out his own name in Los Bandoleros– apart from the one Emilio had made for him. He’d always been resourceful and wise, he just needed a chance to show it.

And show it, Javi did. Eventually earning the rank of a sicario, he finally reached a point where he felt like he stood on his own two feet and most of the suspicious looks and doubts were cast aside. Sure, some remained, but the reputation he’d built for himself outlasted them.

When he was twenty-six, he met Harper Jones. Having recently been discovered as Chase McCoy’s half sister, naturally Javi and Rio had signed on to keep an eye on her while Chase was away. And that’s exactly what it was— his duty…at least, it was at first. Over the next year, he developed a real, genuine friendship with Harper. They bonded over anything and everything, and what had started as a favor to Chase slowly but surely turned into something so much more. But whatever he felt had to take a backseat once Harper’s past reared its ugly head and she found herself in too deep with a local thug. When his idle threats suddenly weren’t so idle anymore, Javi knew he had to intervene— not just because of his own feelings for the woman, but because of the promise he’d made her brother. And so despite assuring Harper he’d stay out of it, Javi didn’t.

Instead, he set fire to the man’s home— burned it to the fucking ground with the hope of catching him in the blaze in the process. But it didn’t play out quite the way Javi had hoped. The flames spared the thug and Javi was arrested. Convicted on a first degree arson charge, he was sentenced to four years in the Nevada State Penitentiary.

It didn’t take him long to realize he’d burned down a hell of a lot more than a home— he’d torched his freedom too, and whatever he’d been looking to build with Harper. Despite her relentless support and countless visits, Javi couldn’t stand the thought of her tying herself to him and holding her back, and so he cut it off about two years into his sentence. What was meant to spare her ended up nearly destroying him. During the next two years, Javi spiraled without her steady presence to lean on, but in the end, he still believed he’d made the right call in breaking off contact.

Now, he’s rapidly approaching the end of his sentence, and Javi is far from the same man who went in four years ago, but he’s eager to rebuild his life and see what pieces are left for him to pick up.

Headcannons:

Nickname from those closest to him is “Sweeney,” as in Sweeney Todd, because he will quite literally demon barber your ass if the cartel needs him to.

The bullet that struck him when he was eight is still in his body, just below his heart, because the surgeons thought it too dangerous to remove. (thanks to britt for the inspo <3)

Taught himself how to read music and play piano, though he mostly plays by ear.

#javier inciarte.#los bandoleros.#male.#tfhq.characters

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44lh · 2 years

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Honestly the more I hear about his life and some of the disgusting things people did, the more I wish I had a machete.

You know what I was going to talk about how Alonso said he deserved the racist abuse he got in 2008 or how then-F1 boss Bernie Ecclestone said the insults people hurled at him was a joke and racism shouldn’t even be talked about WITHIN the sport or Spanish fans traveling ALL THE WAY TO CHINA JUST TO BE RACIST or the narratives that were peddled when he joined Mercedes with how Nico would beat him comprehensively because Nico was more “cerebral” and “calculating” and Lewis was just “talent” without the mental capacity to back it up. And I literally hate the fact that the only defense to booing Lewis is “people hate dominant athletes” bc it happens regardless of when he’s winning or losing bc ppl don’t hate HIM, they hate the basis of his entire existence lmfao. That’s the thing that people don’t get. You literally do not have to like Lewis. No one is saying that. “Forcing” people to like him is weird and it is frankly very obvious when you only “like” him just to get wokens (woke tokens). But it is literally so easy for people to vehemently DESPISE him, and multiple times I’ve seen people list reasons that they dislike Lewis that apply to the very same driver that they would defend until their dying breath. People don’t like him bc he’s “fake” but whenever he slightly missteps ppl rip him to shreds. If he doesn’t say anything he’s ungrateful, if he does say anything he’s a PR machine. Don’t even get me started on the geriatric ex-F1 drivers who would unplug their own oxygen tanks to charge their phone so they can log onto Twitter to talk shit, not even on Lewis’ driving, but on his FASHION CHOICES? It is literally so hysterical that the day Lewis comes out to say booing against him has never been worse and HAS been impacting him mentally and it HAS gotten worse since he started openly advocating for BLM is thee VERY same day that the troglodyte F1 marketing team that shares a single wilted cabbage for a brain co-opt a phrase from a poem about black resilience and apply it a palm colored man with 1a hair from ze Netherlands. Last year, in the big year 2020, was the year that Lewis said it was the FIRST TIME he didn’t feel alone. He’d been in the sport for THIRTEEN YEARS at that point. Think about that! And the booing didn’t start this year or last year or a few years before that. This has quite literally been following him around his entire life. It doesn’t matter if he’s arrogant or humble or whatever, people will always find a reason to absolutely despise him bc they literally cannot stand to see a black man win. Whenever I now think of how Red Bull conducted themselves after Silverstone by saying that the way he celebrated was “arrogant” and “unsportsmanlike,” I think of young Lewis who felt that he couldn’t even celebrate a KARTING CHAMPIONSHIP in front of anyone other than his father.

But yeah he just gets in the car and drives or whatever they say to justify it

#anon #ask #halfway through I just stopped responding to what you originally said #forgive me. I needed to ramble sorry if this is incoherent

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ptergwen · 3 years

Text

web of lies

take a leap. if you start to fall, the net will appear to catch you.

photographer!peter x journalist!reader || masterlist

w/c: 7.1k

warnings: swearing, one drinking mention, descriptions of anxiety, and angst if ya squint

summary: peter can’t stop holding your hands, betty and ned are the modern day bonnie and clyde, ned is a terrible guy in the chair, the osborn’s are up to something, and mj hates you all

a/n: y’all i’m super excited about this series like i haven’t had an idea i’ve really loved in months? so it’s good to be back !!! there are tons of things i have planned and i can’t wait to share them with all of you hehe i really hope you enjoy part one <3 happy reading

to be honest, which is what you do best, you’ve had a thing for peter parker your whole time at the daily bugle. you actually almost told him once.

a couple months ago, peter walked you home on a night you worked overtime. he’d came in last minute to leave some pictures on your boss’s desk. no one else but you was there, hunched at your computer in the dim office lighting. peter was pleasantly surprised to see you, yet concerned for your well-being. you had to put your finishing touches on a story.

he didn’t feel comfortable letting you travel alone at that hour. so, he went with you when you were ready. his company was more than welcomed. you told peter about your article while you two sat on the subway. he’d listened intently, your head resting on his shoulder and his arm around you. he made sure you got to your apartment building alright as well.

“hey, peter?” you’d asked, halfway up the steps. he was waiting until you were inside and safe to leave. “hm? you good?” he’d smiled sort of expectantly. “yeah. i... i wanted to say...”

your words got caught in your throat when he gave you the softest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. you couldn’t do it. for some reason, you were too scared to confess how you felt. “thanks again for walking me home,” you’d settled on. he’d seemed disappointed that was what you wanted to tell him. nevertheless, he said not to worry about it before taking off.

that one moment perfectly captures it all; how yours and peter’s narrative plays itself out.

—

“we’ve got an update on hydra v. the people!”

“those freaky giraffes escaped the zoo... again.”

“shoot one more spitball and it’ll be your last.”

“does anyone have an aspirin?”

welcome to the daily bugle, where the chaos never ends and the calm never starts. you’ll find new york’s finest writers, publishers, and creatives of all kind right here. that would include you. you’re one of the top journalists in the whole building, according to mr. norman osborn. he’s the brilliant and slightly insane man who runs this place.

although it’s rare for someone in your field, you were hired straight out of college. norman read a few pieces you’d written and loved them so much that he offered you a job. full time, full benefits, no questions asked. there was something special about the way you wove your words together. your writing had its own voice. a strong voice, one the paper was severely lacking.

you’ve been with the bugle for just over a year now. it’s not the quiet, nine to five gig you were initially expecting it to be. you’re each very unique individuals in your office, and there’s never a dull moment because of it. your coworkers can be found hosting debates on the riskiest topics or tackling each other for blueberry muffins, and that’s just a regular tuesday. the place is stranger than strange. but, it’s become home.

thanks to mr. osborn being so accommodating, you actually settled in rather quickly. another big help has been the friends you’ve made. your first was michelle jones, who prefers to be called mj. she’s a fellow journalist with a wickedly dark humor that trickles into her writing. if you had to describe her in one word, it would be blunt. mj is as real as it gets, and also eternally loyal. she keeps her circle small, so you’re honored you get to be in it.

mj sits right next to you, which means you’re always talking through your days. that’s due in part to the way your office is set up. there aren’t any cubicles, tables and swirly chairs taking up their space instead. norman heard it was more progressive, probably from his son harry.

harry is about your age, only a couple of years older. he hangs around quite a lot, but doesn’t do much with his time besides that. according to norman, he’s still seeking out his passion. he’s banking on him finding a suitable career at the bugle. he’d like to pass this all on to harry some day, hopefully sooner than later. either way, you don’t mind having harry here. he’s super funny and friendly with everyone.

there’s also ned leeds, who’s an editor and reviews most of your pieces. he’s sweeter than candy, even when he’s ripping your grammar to shreds. on the rare occasions you’re not discussing breaking news, you two talk about movies. ned is a film buff and gives you the best recommendations. you’re convinced he was a critic in his past life.

last but so from least is peter parker. he only works for the bugle part time, since he’s still in school. you both graduated from your respective colleges the same year. peter wants to get his masters degree, though. he’s a photographer who’s aspiring to be a cinematographer. him and ned have their passion for the industry in common, and that’s what makes them such great friends.

you learned this and more from the times you and peter have partnered up on stories. he’s one of your best friends not only at the bugle, but in your entire life. the many long nights you’ve spent collaborating have brought you close to each other. they consist of drinking and deep talks, along with some actual work. he takes the pictures, you do the writing. you’ve been told you make a lovely pair.

peter says it himself, too. you’d like to believe he means it as more than coworkers. he’s so caring, and smart, and pure, and peter. yeah, you like him an awful lot. you can hardly stand the feeling of it sometimes.

the fact that you you haven’t come clean already is ridiculous.

“goddamn. not again,” you mutter out. “em, you better come look at this. it’s bad.” mj wheels over to you in her chair with a puzzled look. her eyes follow yours, landing on your computer. “leeds just sent this? to everyone?” she questions, your reply a short hum. you’re both staring daggers at the email your screen displays.

ned is responsible for assigning each journalist their own topics to cover. he’s been lacking a bit recently, having you write up think pieces on fluffy things. in other words, stuff that no one cares about. he asked you to compare oat milk and almond milk just last week. you’d hoped this week would be better, but here you are.

“this is ass. who does he think we are, buzzfeed?” mj scoffs at her own words. the daily bugle prides itself on being a reliable news source, on paper and tv. you’re starting to stoop down to the low level of your competitors. “he assigned me some tiktok dance trend. i’m not writing a single word about that app.” she sets her elbows down on the table, head in her hands.

“aw, why not? grandma mj isn’t down with the kids?” you tease and click out of the upsetting email. “i don’t write for kids,” mj deadpans. she pushes her glasses up on her nose. “what’d you get?” “the evolution of memes,” you gloomily reply. you’re surprised norman has been approving these topics. then again, ned is the head editor. he can do whatever he wants regardless of approval.

mj glares over at the kitchen, where betty brant currently resides. she’s making two hot chocolates instead of her usual one. “i blame her,” mj mumbles to you. your eyebrows furrow. “dude, what? betty is an angel. she doesn’t even work in editing.” betty is the bugle’s highest rated anchorwoman. her and her news team are on people’s televisions every night.

“no, but she has been spending a generous amount of time with leeds,” mj grumbles. she’s admittedly very nosy. the upside is that she tells you any juicy office drama there is. “my theory is betty’s making him give us crap stories so she can report the good ones.” she glances over at you to see what you think. “no way. that can’t be allowed... or legal,” you laugh back.

as if on cue, ned appears next to betty in the kitchen. he takes the extra hot coco that’s piled high with whipped cream. betty tucks a sheet of paper into his suit pocket and kisses his cheek, then he’s gone. you can only gasp as you watch this unfold. what has she done to poor, clueless ned?

“not such an angel anymore, huh?” mj smirks in satisfaction. “suddenly, she has red horns and a pitchfork,” you bitterly agree with your tongue in your cheek. betty waves to you two on her way back to broadcasting. mj gives her a fake nice finger wave, you ignoring her. “we can’t sit back and let this happen, em. we have to do something,” you decide. “let’s tell norman.”

uninterested, mj takes off her glasses and starts to clean them. “like he’ll believe us. yeah, golden girl betty brant is sabotaging the writer’s room,” she rewords her previous statement to put its stupidity in perspective. you throw your hands up. “she is, though! we literally watched it happen!” mj puts her freshly wiped glasses back on and sighs.

“i doubt norman would care, y/n. every newspaper to ever exist is corrupt somehow.” your pessimistic old pal has a point. however, you’re not so willing to accept it. “why can’t we be the first one that isn’t?” you offer a small smile. mj snickers, wheeling back to her own computer. “those are words of the innocent.” she’s already tapping her fingers across the keyboard.

“i thought you weren’t doing the tiktok piece,” you say under your breath. you’re slightly pissed mj turned you down, since she’s the reason you know about betty’s meddling. “i’m not,” mj answers sharply. “i’m gonna email quentin and ask if we can change our topics. happy?” quentin beck is another editor in the building. he’s not bad, but he is intimidating. no one typically goes to him as their first option.

“i’m thrilled,” you confirm and grin at mj to emphasize it. “thanks for stepping up. you’re forgiven.” “i didn’t realize i had to be sorry,” mj notes, this time in a playful manor. she shakes her head as she begins writing. “you and your morals.”

what you value most in your career is honesty, under any circumstances. of course, the other daily bugle writers are the same. norman strictly prohibits clickbait and crazy headlines because that isn’t real news. you leave that to companies like buzzfeed. you’re honest in the sense that you say whatever has to be said, what everyone else is too afraid to. you’ll speak your truth no matter who tries to stop you.

it didn’t used to be that way. there’s some childhood trauma that remains deep in the back of your mind. you’ve left that behind you now, having over a decade to cope with it. hey, they say the past is in the past. what’s important is your takeaway, that you would never let yourself or anyone else be silenced from there on out. never again.

quentin ends up giving you the okay to write different stories. he lets you and mj choose choose your own because he’s got “better things to do” and you’re “big girls.” what a peach he is. mj goes with how capitalism is continuing to provoke global warming. she has something to say about every major world issue, and you admire the hell out of her for it.

you’re a bit stuck when it’s time to write your article. it’s terribly ironic because you pushed for this. you aren’t too worried, though. the city is crawling with material, so you’ll find what you’re looking for eventually. lucky for you, some much needed inspiration comes skipping out of the elevator.

“morning, peter,” you hear liz greet him at the front desk. she’s your floor’s receptionist. her wisdom and patience keep this place going. “hi, liz. how’s it going?” he asks. “things have been quiet... mostly. can i do anything for you?” liz peers up at him. peter sports a shy smile. “uh, yeah. mr. osborn wanted to see me?” “right. hang on.” she nods, dialing his office phone number.

it’s endearing how peter calls him mr. osborn, seeing as the rest of you go with norman. he’s probably the politest guy you’ve ever met.

grinning, liz puts down the phone. “you can go in whenever you’re ready. good luck!” peter laughs nervously and turns to leave. “thanks, you too.” his face falls when he realizes his mistake. “wait, i- i didn’t mean to say that. that was stupid. you’re not-“ “it’s fine, peter,” liz reassures him. his anxiety makes him trip over his words sometimes. that, and he’s a bit dorky in general. you find it rather adorable.

you also wonder what exactly he needs good luck for. he’s not even supposed to be working today, so your curiosity as to what’s going on has been piqued.

“um, i’m gonna go now. bye!” peter rushes off, his face tinted pink from the embarrassing encounter. you’re hoping he’ll stop and talk with you for a little while, but he heads straight to norman’s office. your whole body deflates at that. mj notices from her peripherals.

“what’s the matter? missing your hubby?” she coos, her words dripping in sarcasm. “no,” you lie. “i’m... i don’t know what to write about.” ok, there’s some truth. mj gives you a couple pats on the shoulder. “ask parker for help. you two work... well together. don’t you?” this must be the zillionth time you’ve heard that.

“we do,” you murmur and glance at norman’s closed door. peter is hidden behind it. “i just don’t wanna bug him. he has finals soon, and whatever norman is putting him up to. it’s my job, anyway.” mj pokes your arm. “those sound like excuses to me,” she concludes, still jabbing at you childishly. “you really just don’t wanna tell him you like-“

“can you keep it down?” you hiss, yanking your arm back. “he’s literally right over there.” peter stands up and shakes norman’s hand. you catch it through the blinds on his window. “y/n, you were drooling over his mere presence only minutes ago,” mj prefaces, a smile pulling at her lips. “you can handle three little words. i like you, that’s it. spit it out already.”

you’ll never admit this to mj, but she’s right. you lost your momentum after your first failed attempt to say the three little words. you’re still not sure what stopped you. you’d shared the details of that faithful night with her, and she’s been pushing you to try again since.

the door to norman’s office opens, and out walks peter. he’s beaming after their conversation, which seems like a good sign. harry passes peter on his way in to pay his dad a visit. he claps him on the shoulder, peter happily accepting before continuing his stride back into the main office. it takes a moment to register that he’s coming towards you.

you quickly set your focus back on your computer so he doesn’t think you’ve been watching him. even though, you definitely have.

“y/n!” peter calls your name. he’s on the opposite side of your table, in front of you. “peter!” you match his tone. “i was just dropping by. i thought i’d say hey while i’m here.” he’s still grinning. “what’re you doing?” he looks cute as ever in an oversized and cream colored sweater. his curls are slicked back with a tad too much product, cheeks rosy. you gaze up at him when he rests his arms on the table.

“pretending to be productive,” mj answers for you, pressing her lips together. peter cocks his head to the side. “pretending?” “ignore her. she’s being a shit stirrer today,” you explain. “like every other day,” he jokes, earning a laugh from you. mj just tuts and keeps writing. “talk about me like i’m not here,” she mumbles to herself, then gets back into her article.

“anyways, i thought you didn’t work today?” you ask to take the attention off yourself. also, because you’re curious. “oh! get this.” peter perks up even more, if that’s possible. he has energy like no other. “you know alex in broadcasting? betty’s camera guy?” “what about him?” you wonder. “he called in sick earlier this morning, with the flu or something.” he’s oddly excited to announce this. that prompts you to make a funny face.

biting back another smile, peter elaborates. “mr. osborn needed someone to fill in for him, so he picked me. i’ll be here all week.” it makes sense, since peter knows how to work a camera and does so wonderfully. you give him a celebratory push at his chest. “peter, that’s amazing! this is the perfect way to transition from pictures to film, right?” he’s nearing his finals at school, which consist of more movie-like projects. the news will be great practice.

then, he’s off to hollywood. you’ll put that out of your mind for now.

“exactly! i think it’ll be a good place to start. the pay isn’t bad either.” peter wiggles his eyebrows at you, you giggling once again. you do a lot of that when he’s around. that’s going to be more often now. “plus, i get to see you. everyone wins.” he squeezes your hand that was just on him. your heart begins to thump. “except alex,” you challenge, playing with his fingers. “but, for real. i’m happy you get to do this and that we’ll be spending more time together.”

“thanks, y/n/n. me too.” peter grins and leans over, taking a peek at your computer screen. there’s a blank word document on it. “you never told me what you’re up to,” he chuckles. “guess mj was right... nothing.” “i’m always right,” she chimes in from next to you. you look between the two of them with a scowl. “i haven’t found my story yet. i don’t know, this never happens.” peter nods as you share your dilemma. “no good ideas are coming to me,” you murmur.

“they will. you have a way of attracting things.” he licks his lower lip, your heart completely stopping this time. “well, i gotta go set up for rise and shine with betty brant.” he waves his hand like he’s presenting his words. that’s what betty calls her morning news segment. “be careful with her. she’s being really sketchy these days,” you warn peter, mj grunting in agreement.

confused, peter purses his lips. “really? ned says she’s a sweetheart. they’ve been going out for a while.” mj pops her head up and adjusts her glasses. “did ned also tell you she’s bribing him to give her all of our scoops?” she’s asking rhetorically because she already knows the answer. of course he didn’t. “it’s one thing to not like her. you’re just making things up now,” peter huffs.

mj kicks your foot under the table. “i told you no one would believe us. not even peter gullible parker.” “it’s benjamin,” he corrects her. “whatever,” she brushes it off, resuming her work.

peter does tend to be sort of naive, to only see the good in things when there’s plenty of bad. you’re the same in that way, unless you hang around mj for too long.

“is that true? betty’s stealing your stories?” peter turns to you and asks. you gesture to your screen. “i don’t have one, so you do the math.” he hums sympathetically. he’ll listen to you, never mj. “i’m sorry. thanks for telling me, y/n. i’ll watch out for her.” he bends his fingers to look like goggles, putting them around his eyes. you sigh lightheartedly.

“are you twenty two years old or twelve?” mj remarks, but not without a comeback from peter. “you’re, like, eighty five. worry about that.” they’ve had this type of banter for as long as you’ve known them. it’s equal parts amusing and exhausting. “don’t be late on your first day.” you snap peter out of it with a knowing smile. he returns it.

“i hope something crazy happens so you can write about it.” he’s walking backwards now, towards the elevator. “see you later, pete,” is all you say back, yet another laugh threatening to escape you. “see you. bye, michelle,” peter says just to bug her. “it’s mj,” she groans without looking up. he shrugs. “not so fun, is it?”

after peter is gone, you try to get back into work. or rather, you try to start your work. what he said about you having a way of attracting things keeps ringing in your head. was he flirting? no, he couldn’t have been. peter parker doesn’t flirt. words aren’t his strong suit, and you have countless memories that prove this to be true. earlier with liz, for example.

you’re probably reading way into this. peter was simply doing what any good friend would do and gave you advice.

it’s late in the afternoon when anything worth mentioning happens again. peter is still with betty, as far as you know. they’re probably preparing for the nighttime news now. all you’ve done since seeing him is nibble on snacks and bug mj, who’s almost done with her story despite your distractions. this is really bad, considering your deadline to submit is at the end of today.

you’ve never missed a deadline.

mj emails her work to quentin while you repeatedly bang your head on the table. she hits send before deciding to entertain you. “whatcha doing over there?” she cautiously prompts, powering off her computer. “trying to get an idea. i’m desperate, if you couldn’t tell.” your voice is muffled. “i could.” mj grabs your shoulders and pulls you back so you’re sitting up. you childishly pout.

“y/n, the only thing that’s gonna give you is brain damage,” mj says sternly, then softens her tone. “why don’t you ask for an extension? norman gives me them all the time.” whining, you slump down in your chair again. “yeah, but you’re you! we do things differently, have different expectations put on us.” she’s back to cold mj after you say that. “alright. at least i did something today besides pine over that little-“

mj’s insult for peter is interrupted by harry. “ladies, what’s shaking?” he comes up to you two with a the hint of smirk on his face. you manage a nod to acknowledge him. “oh, hey... harry,” mj unenthusiastically replies. she’s the one person who isn’t really a fan of him. “not much. y/n was just having a tantrum.” “she was not,” you dismiss her. “it’s work stuff. you know your dad.”

harry clicks his tongue in a teasing way. “yep, the grind never stops in this joint. boss man is...” he does the sign for cuckoo with his finger. you laugh a little at that. “in a good way,” you add on. mj only watches you two, blinking blankly. harry gives you a definitive pat on the back. “before i forget, he wants to see you.” that gets mj talking. “norman?” she questions. “your dad?” you choke out at the same time.

“who else? he said you two have to talk.” harry flashes you a weary smile. “have fun in there, old sport.” you’re too busy biting the skin off your bottom lip to respond. “mhm... she will,” mj speaks on your behalf. even she sounds worried. saluting you both, harry leaves to go pester your other colleagues. you’re completely and totally fucked.

“that’s it for me!” you grin sarcastically, freaked out by harry. “i’m fired, aren’t i? i’m definitely about to get fired, and it’s all because-“ “relax!” mj cuts off your rambling. she reaches down and grasps at your wrists. “get it together, y/l/n. you’re the best we have, okay? you aren’t going anywhere.” your grin becomes a frown. “then why does norman wanna talk to me? and, why don’t i have a story?”

mj always has the answers, but this time is the execption. she lets out a breath. “i don’t know. you’ll go find out and tell me what happens.” there’s no use protesting. you’re going to have to face whatever you’re about to at some point. “ok,” you give in, defeated. “i’ll be back soon, i hope.”

the walk to norman’s office feels like a walk of shame. mj can do nothing but sit back and observe it. if this ends the way you think it will, you’ll be collecting your things and won’t ever return. norman is a kind man, and he’s usually pretty understanding. he doesn’t mind the workplace shenanigans as long as you get your job done. unfortunately, you haven’t today.

you hear your boss’s booming voice when you approach his door. inhaling deep, you knock on it, and the room goes silent. “come in,” norman responds after a few seconds. mustering up a smile, you open the door to be met with your doom. “hi, am i interrupting something?” you check. “not at all! you’re just the person i wanted to see. sit, sit,” he beckons you over. he’s not using his angry voice, so maybe you’re in the clear. you enter the room as told.

you’re shocked to see a terrified peter is already in one of the chairs. he visibly relaxes a bit now that you’re here. what the hell is happening? whatever you were expecting, this was the last thing.

taking the armchair next to peter, you sit facing norman’s desk. you nudge his arm to get his attention. his big brown eyes lock with yours. “what’s going on?” you whisper. “no idea,” peter whispers back. the two of you turn to norman again when he claps his hands. he’s plopped down into his cushy leather seat.

“so,” he begins, gaze flicking from peter to you. “you kids know why you’re here?” “is it because i missed my deadline?” you blurt out. you’re once again a nervous wreck. peter doesn’t speak, just winces. “not that. although, i did hear from ned that you turned down his assignment.” norman flicks at a post-it on his desk. “i asked quentin for one instead. me and mj,” you explain, peter’s eyes going wide.

“you talked to quentin? that guy’s bad news,” he murmurs to you. “how so?” norman questions, since it’s his employee. “he- he, um,” peter clears his throat before answering, “he’s super critical, you know? hates all my pictures.” “i love your pictures,” you assure him, the corners of his lips turning up. “your style is so cool. yeah, though. quentin’s pretty bitter.”

considering this, norman drums his fingers on the desk. “i’ll look into that. but, that isn’t why you’re here. i’m letting you off the hook this time.” your whole demeanor changes and a huge weight lifts off of you. “really? you are?” “i have a scoop of my own that i want you to cover,” he continues, peter bumping your knee happily. a toothy grin takes over your face.

“since peter will be sticking around for a while, i want him to join you.” norman waits a beat in case you have any questions. it’s been a minute since you last worked together. peter laughs in disbelief. “you want me to take over for alex and do this?” norman nods proudly. “y/n will need the extra hands, if you have them.” “yes, sir. i do,” peter immediately confirms. “my last class is next thursday, so i have the time.”

“wait, so you’re almost done? that’s awesome!” you bump peter’s knee this time. “yup, all that’s left is finals... and studying.” he mindlessly takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. you’re enjoying his gentle touches. “thank you so much, norman. seriously, i appreciate this a lot,” you tell him and mean it. “hey, no problem,” he chuckles at your eagerness. you grip peter’s hand tighter.

“what’s the story?” “ah, yes. the most important part,” norman starts, peter sharing an excited look with you. “how familiar are you two with spider-man?” his excitement fades at the question posed. it’s unbeknownst to you, caught up in the moment. “uh, same as everyone else, i guess,” you casually reply. “how come?” “he’s your subject.” norman points at you both. “you’re gonna study him over these next few months.”

peter’s hand goes limp in yours, and he gulps hard, throat feeling dry. “you mean, like, an exposé?” “no, no. there will be no exposing,” norman clarifies. “i’m sure he wears the mask for a reason.” that settles peter only slightly. you’re not sure why he’s so tense all of a sudden. “what’s our aim here, then?” you steer the conversation.

“see what new york’s favorite hero gets up to every day, how his life is beyond the crime fighting,” norman further describes your task. peter exhales a shaky breath, shifting away from you in his seat. the golden sun hits his face and reveals a bead of sweat dripping down it. you stare at his figure in worry. “you okay, peter?” “fine. i’m just... hot,” he murmurs back. his sweater does look pretty heavy, so you concede.

getting back to norman’s story, you grimace at the idea. “do you really think people will want to read that? for lack of a better term, it sounds kind of...” you pause. “basic.” “i thought the same thing at first,” he surprisingly agrees with you. “harry pitched the idea to me this morning. you won’t believe it! the other night, he caught spider-man hanging outside his window.”

“harry... harry saw him?” peter squeaks out. he uses the wool material that feels like it’s swallowing him to dab at his forehead. “he stopped on his balcony. must have been pretty late, the kid’s a night owl,” norman says about his son. your face lights up as you listen to him. “he took some shots of spidey in action, when he swung off. i saw a few. they were pretty great.” he’s grinning at his son’s success.

“maybe he’ll get into photography with you, pete,” norman suggests. peter gives him a weak smile in return. “we’d be happy to have him.” he usually has a lot more to say about his career than that. his behavior is starting to genuinely concern you. “anyway,” norman gets back on topic, “it got me thinking. how much do we really know about this guy? we’re supposed to blindly put our trust in him?”

you’re beginning to see the appeal now. you’ve written your share of pieces on the avengers and their methods, tackling the same questions norman just asked you. spider-man shouldn’t be overlooked, especially when he operates so close to your home. this could be another revolutionary superhero story in the making. and, you get to bring peter along for the ride.

“you know what? this has a lot of potential,” you smile at norman, then peter. he has his phone in his lap, fingers flying across the screen. it must be something important. you’ll discuss with norman while he takes care of that. “we could make it a weekly thing, about spider-man’s adventures. find out what we can about the man behind the mask...” peter shoots up in his seat. “without taking it off,” you finish, putting his mind at ease.

“see, i knew you were gonna love it! it was a blessing in disguise, you missing that deadline.” norman bangs his fist on the table with a hearty laugh. “what do you say, peter? you still in?” peter slips his phone back in his pocket. his tongue pokes out to wet his lips. “oh, of course. i can’t wait to work with you, y/n/n,” he speaks in a monotone voice, adding on, “again.”

something is definitely bothering him, and it isn’t the weather.

“i gotta go. betty needs me upstairs, so,” peter moves to get up, his body stiff. you assume that’s who he was texting. “thank you again, mr. osborn.” he’s rushing out of the room just like that, until you call after him. “um, don’t you wanna set a time to meet up? so we can get started?” you reasonably ask. “i... i really gotta go. find me later,” peter tells you, giving you both a tight lipped smile and running off.

“the dynamic duo is back!” norman announces to you. you’re disappointed you can’t share that sentiment with peter.

he’s absolutely booking it down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the next elevator. this is bad. this is a nightmare.

peter went from having one of his best days in a while to the worst in not even a full round of work. today started off fine, and got better when norman promoted him. it got way better when you came along. he saw your smile that makes his insides tingle, heard your laugh that’s the prettiest sound to grace his ears, held your hand that he never wants let go.

things went a bit downhill after that. betty was pushy and yelled at him a lot, demanding he only film her good angles for the segment. you and mj weren’t wrong when you told him to be careful.

later on when he saw you again, everything was okay. he was physically shaking as brad told him mr. osborn requested to see him. brad is mr. osborn’s assistant. a try-hard for sure, but good at his job. why did mr. osborn call him in? did betty complain already?

they’d been sitting in mostly silence, save for small talk until you came knocking on the door. simply being next to you was enough to ground peter and his racing thoughts. it was enough, then it wasn’t.

the whole day had gone to shit after he found out you were going to be writing stories about his alter ego. not only that, but he was helping. during the pitch, he’d texted ned to meet him in the bathroom. he was really anxious and needed a friend who understood why.

ned accidentally found out peter is spider-man last year. it’s a long story that involves peter hiding from some bad guys in the building and ned shrieking so loud the lights flickered. they’re cool now that peter talked things through with him. his secret has been kept, from what he knows.

pushing open the men’s bathroom door, peter is a mixture of sweat and ragged breaths. he’s panting from his fast descent down the staircase. he takes in his disheveled appearance using one of the mirrors. his styled hair is now damp and undone, hands trembling and palms sweaty, chest heaving. here’s his daily reminder that anxiety is not cute. as if he didn’t know.

his stupid, gigantic freaking sweater is only making things worse. it’s suffocating him. no one else is in here, so peter pulls it over his head and tosses it to the ground. he’s got a t-shirt on underneath that happens to be black. what a convenient day for him to wear the hottest material there is.

peter splashes his face with some cold water next to try and cool himself down. that doesn’t do much for him. his face still feels like it’s on fire, but now it’s wet. he takes his hands through his mop of curls, backing away from the sink.

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck,” peter repeats to himself. he’s silent for a moment, then rage overcomes him. he kicks open a bathroom stall. “shit! i can’t do this. what am i supposed to-“

the door creeks open, so peter shuts up in case it isn’t ned. it thankfully is, and he wears a deep frown at the sight of his best friend. “dude, what happened? you look...” “terrible. i know,” peter finishes for him. he tugs at his locks in another attempt to tame them. ned approaches him carefully. “you’re not, like, dying... are you? because betty was telling me you have to-“ “of course you were with betty,” peter exhales in frustration. “no, ned. i’m not dying.”

in ned’s defense, the text he received was very alarming. all peter wrote was, ‘EMERGENCY. SOS.’

“i mean, yeah. it was my break.” ned sits on the ledge by the window, close to peter. “you do the same with y/n.” the mention of your name upsets peter all over again. he hides his face in his hands as ned watches. “if you’re not dying, then what’s the problem?” ned finally asks. “me and y/n...” peter removes his hands from his face, meeting ned’s worried eyes. “mr. osborn wants us to do a project together.”

“uh, peter? you’ve been saying how much you miss her forever, dude! you’re not excited?” ned snorts at him. he means well, but he has no clue what he’s talking about. “no. it’s supposed to be about spider-man,” peter answers angrily. this isn’t the support he was hoping for. realizing the severity of the situation, ned gets serious.

“oh... but, you’re still doing it?” he questions. “i didn’t have a choice,” peter scoffs out. “i can’t let either of them down.” “you’ll expose yourself!” ned escalates things further. “it’s not like that. we’re gonna follow spider-man around and post updates on him,” peter says, technically in the third person. he’s given an are you insane? look from ned.

“you are spider-man! and, no offense, but you’re not so good at hiding it,” ned refers to himself finding out. “how are you gonna be in two places at once?” damnit, peter hadn’t thought about that yet. he can’t be taking pictures of spider-man and swinging from building to building simultaneously. “i- i’ll figure it out,” peter stammers, unconvincingly.

ned looks him over in a disapproving way. “jeez. you’re really putting your life on the line for this girl-“ “woman,” peter interjects, not loving ned’s attitude towards you. “have some respect.” unfazed, ned gets up from the windowsill. “speaking of women, remember betty? you’re still on the clock,” he changes the subject. peter nearly forgot he has to go film her segment.

“i’ll head up to her now,” peter gives in. he scoops up his discarded sweater, not bothering to check his appearance again. ned follows behind him to the door. “we wrote her script together, you know,” he gladly informs peter, who already knows from you. “not really a flex,” peter mumbles his response. “peter, lighten up.” ned hits at his shoulder. the two of them exit the bathroom.

“you’ll figure this out later. i can always help.” he shoots him a sugary sweet smile. “thanks, ned. for talking with me and everything.” peter doesn’t smile back. they do a quick bro handshake, then they’re going their separate ways. “have a good show, dude!” ned yells back, to which he doesn’t get a response. peter doesn’t have it in him.

he allows himself to take the elevator back up to broadcasting. he’s so drained from the several anxiety attacks he endured. while peter waists for the elevator, he contemplates all the issues he’d better solve. it’s a relief to hear it ding because it brings him back to earth. that doesn’t last long because both you and betty are there when the door opens.

you’d each had the same idea, to find peter. unlike betty, your intentions were good. you asked liz if she saw peter leave. she told you he went downstairs, so you did also. betty was already in the elevator when it got to your stop. she was looking for him because, you guessed it, he had to record the news. the small space was filled with tension as you and betty occupied it.

“perfect. we’re going right back up,” betty beams, motioning for peter with her index finger. “hop in!” “coming,” peter does as told, going to stand between you and betty. she presses the button for your floor and theirs. the doors close. “pete?” you speak up, voice soft. “you kinda ran off earlier. i thought you were with betty.” “clearly, he wasn’t,” betty sneers.

you’re less concerned with her and more with peter. the sweater he looked so huggable in is now folded in his arms, his face splotchy and jaw clenched. he must have gotten triggered by something back in norman’s office.

“are you sure you’re okay? you... you can talk to me about it.” you take a step closer to peter, your doe eyes searching for his. he meets them with a tiny smile. at least, it’s real this time. “i’ll be fine, y/n/n. ‘s nice that you came to check on me, though.” “don’t mention it.” your arms loop around his neck and bring him into a hug. peter hugs you back by your middle, chin resting on your shoulder, breathing out in relief.

you keep your hands on his shoulders when you pull back. his stay on your sides, a lopsided grin now crossing his features. “spider-man...” you quirk an eyebrow. “how are you feeling about that?” “should be cool,” peter somehow maintains himself. “i’m mostly looking forward to doing it with you.”

listening in, betty joins the conversation. “what’s happening with spider-man? anything i should know?” her hand reaches into her bag and emerges with a notepad. does she ever think of her own content? “she’s nothing if not persistent,” you grumble to peter. chuckling, he pulls you into his chest. if he didn’t hold you back, you would’ve pounced on her.

“we’re gonna do a piece on him,” peter tells her. “you can’t copy or steal this one because it’s already been approved,” you contribute, smiling smugly as peter holds you tighter. betty is taken aback. “are you accusing me of stealing? who said i-“ “ned ratted on you... sorry,” peter says in a sing song voice. squealing, you jump away from him. “he did? we were right?”

“mj’s never wrong,” he reiterates. “mj knew about this? oh my god, i can’t believe her!” betty stomps her foot. “we got you on candid camera.” you make a clicking noise with your mouth. peter mimes taking a picture to back you up. “alright, alright. i won’t do it again,” betty mumbles, turning away from you two in annoyance.

“finally!” you hold up your hand for a high five, which peter gives you. “we really do make the best team,” he hums. your fingers intertwine with peter’s, and he lays his palm flat against yours. he prays extremely hard you don’t notice that it’s sweaty. you do, but you couldn’t care less.

“i was wondering when you’d wanna start our... research?” peter asks you, his lip between his teeth. “you were saying something earlier. maybe we could make a schedule.” “how elaborate of us that would be,” you tease. that earns a breathy laugh from peter. with a knowing smile, you put your free hand back on his shoulder.

“what are you doing tonight?”

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ladyartemesia · 4 years

Text

The Terms

◐ PART III of THE ALPHA ◐

◐ Part I ◐ Part II ◐ Series Masterlist ◐

Pairing: Alpha Werewolf Jimin x Omega Reader

Rating: Mature (for this installment)

Warnings: ABO sexual dynamics including discussion of scenting, marking, mating, and claiming. Violence and discussion of violence relating to ritual combat. Jin’s pheromones need their own warning. Yoonji and Yunli are not the same person.

Word Count: 2300

Author’s Note: As promised, this chapter is twice as long as the previous two and a lot of what people have been speculating about in the asks is discussed in this chapter... along with a few surprises...

“Luna rex provocatione means ‘the moon king’s challenge.’ It is never invoked lightly as its consequences are grave indeed... If an alpha believes that he is the true Alpha and the goddess has placed another in his path as a test of worthiness and dedication to the pack, then he will acknowledge his acceptance of this test by declaring luna rex provocatione. Once the challenge has been set forth only the death of the Luna’s first mate or the total surrender of the challenger can satisfy it...”

Text of the traditional speech given by a chief elder to begin a luna rex provocatione ritual [7th century]

“I know you won’t understand, but this isn’t personal-”

Jimin offered his rival an overtly feigned smile.

“You plan to kill me and claim my mate. Which part of that could I possibly take personally?”

Tae snorted somewhere in the background and Yoongi elbowed him hard.

Tradition dictated that both alphas meet with their second-in-commands in the chief elder’s chambers to discuss the terms of combat.

Namjoon brought Min Yoongi and Jimin had somehow ended up with Taehyung.

He didn’t remember actually agreeing to make Tae his second...

It just sort of happened somewhere between calming his hysterical mother and quickly reading up on archaic pack law.

The chief elder coughed uncomfortably. Goddess, this ascension was supposed to be easy. He never in a million moons thought he’d be in this position.

The last chief elder who oversaw a luna rex provocatione ritual had immortalized it in his journal as “the single most horrific moment of my life,” describing in detail the Luna howling in torment at the loss of her mate and the victor collapsing over the corpse of his foe in misery and guilt.

As in the past, the outcome of this conflict was already decided by fate...

Pain and regret weighed heavily on the older man as he considered the younger of the two alphas.

Park Jimin was going to die violently and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Because Kim Namjoon issued the challenge, his opponent will decide combat form. Your choices are human form, half-shifted, and wolf-form. After your choice is declared, Namjoon may add a minor alteration if he so desires. Park Jimin, please declare form.”

“Human,” he answered softly - and every single occupant of the room recoiled in response.

It was bad enough to witness a fight in wolf form or half-shifted... but to engage in ritual combat as a human-

It would be brutal - even psychologically disturbing - without the benefit of a wolf’s hide to mask the savagery.

Namjoon’s eyes widened in shock, but he recovered quickly.

“I request teeth and claws.”

Not quite a half-shift. Teeth and claws allowed for attacks using lengthened canines and claws.

It could make a kill slightly more... humane.

Jimin nodded and the elder pressed his seal over the first of the terms.

The were no windows in the small, stuffy chamber and between the heavy ceremonial garb and the nearly twenty braided praesidium bracelets wrapped around his wrists, Jimin felt as if the blood in his veins was literally coming to a boil.

Though he dared not remove them to relieve his discomfort.

Each bracelet represented a prayer to the goddess. They were given as protection to a loved one before a great trial.

His mother had not stopped making them since the ascension. She’d torn apart her most expensive dress and spent hours twisting the fabric strips into intricate traditional braids while she prayed...

Jimin’s fingers sought them out for comfort as the miserable parade of ritual legalities marched past the two hour mark.

Many agreements (like Jimin’s insistence that his mother not be allowed to attend the fight and Namjoon’s pledge to financially support the Park family in the event of their alpha’s death) were settled quickly, however the sheer number of details to be solidified was overwhelming.

“I think it best if we adjourn for a short recess,” the chief elder sighed wearily and Taehyung nearly ran Yoongi over in his desperate scramble to finally use a restroom.

Jimin turned to leave, but a hand on his elbow drew him back.

“I want you to know, I did this for you as much as for the rest of them.”

His tone was low and carefully respectful, but Jimin’s wolf snapped irritably at the elder alpha’s presumption.

“What an... interesting statement to make.”

He pointedly removed Namjoon’s hand from his arm with calculated nonchalance.

“No one expected you to be chosen... Jungkook, or even Hoseok, would have been an understandable alternative, but you’ve never taken being an alpha seriously-”

“According to you,” Jimin fired back, finally allowing his voice to harden in cold fury. “I have always known and valued what I am. I simply never felt called to your version of it.”

Namjoon tilted his head in acknowledgement.

Park Jimin might not look particularly dangerous ... but for the first time, the Kim alpha considered that he may have underestimated his opponent.

“Either way - the pack does not trust you. They are not confident in your ability to lead them,”his hands fisted reflexively at his side as he considered the weight of his next words, “...but if you beat me, they will never question your strength.”

Jimin’s hands tightened into fists.

Namjoon might be an overconfident windbag, but he had a point.

He faced an uphill battle to subdue a restless pack as well as increased threats from rival clans looking to expand their own power and territory.

The challenge was a chance to establish his claim.

Or die trying.

“You think rather highly of yourself,” he chuckled and Namjoon bristled indignantly.

“I have devoted my life to the pack. I have never questioned my duty to them.” He leaned forward a bit, holding the younger alpha’s gaze with purpose. “That is why I will not hesitate to kill you.”

“And what of the Luna?” Jimin wondered in mock contemplation. “Do you think she will take kindly to the loss of her mate if you win?”

Namjoon’s jaw clenched. The Luna was clearly a sore subject.

“If I win, then you were never really her mate were you? Your entire existence boils down to nothing more than a sacred test in my destined path.”

Silence stretched heavily as the two alphas regarded one another with open hostility.

“I will fight you till the last shred of life is ripped from my body,” Jimin snarled.

A shiver ran down Namjoon’s spine, though he was far from intimidated.

“At least now you sound like an alpha,” he scoffed.

Then he was gone.

Jimin waited till the sound of the older man’s footsteps faded before slamming his fist into the table.

He needed air and to be alone with his thoughts for moment before he could civilly resume the endless negotiations.

Unfortunately, the only place offering both of those things was a cluttered balcony near the back of the building.

The room traditionally designated for luna rex provocatione proceedings had been used as a storage closet for at least the last hundred years (and therefore needed to be hastily cleared after Namjoon’s inconvenient declaration). Consequently, the room’s former contents (piles of toys from this season’s charity drive) were now strewn haphazardly across the narrow outdoor space like debris from a brightly colored bomb.

Jimin carefully navigated his way to the balcony’s wooden rail and lifted his eyes to the moon.

“Please,” he begged softly “... send me a sign.”

“If he did not hate me before, he surely does now,” you sighed, staring morosely at the lights flickering in the old chamber building. Somewhere within the bowels of that archaic fire hazard, your mate of less than twenty-four hours was negotiating a nightmare.

“This is not your fault, Luna-“

“Isn’t it?” you snapped. “That’s who I am. I’m the Luna, if I could just accept another mate without someone getting their throat ripped out, then none of this would be necessary.”

Jin sqeezed your hand sympathetically.

The council placed you under guard in a small cottage across from the elder’s chambers in order to prevent the alphas from having any contact with you. Since then you kept a constant vigil from its rickety porch, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young man whose life you had ruined.

“Would you do it then - if you could?... Would you accept another mate to spare the Park alpha?”

Bitter tears burned at the corner of your eyes.

“Yes,” you whispered, “...I think I’d do almost anything to save him.”

Comfortable silence settled between you for several minutes - until a small flutter of movement drew your gaze to the chamber balcony.

Then he walked out.

And just the sight of him was enough to slam your heart up into your throat.

Jimin...

Jin quickly turned to your guard and unleashed a wave of pheromones that would have knocked out a grizzly bear. The guard whined and abandoned her post to follow him inside without a second thought, leaving you conveniently alone.

Male omegas are a rare and dangerous breed, you observed wryly, before retuning your attention to the man across the path.

A painful ache twisted hungrily in your gut as you watched him tilt his face to the sky. Somehow the relentless beauty of his features was even more captivating in the moonlight...

Suddenly a strong breeze braided though the air around you, playing with the loose strands of your hair and carrying your scent away from the small cottage and up to the balcony where the young alpha sought solace.

Jimin’s eyes shot open as the rich, unforgettable essence of you exploded over his senses. His gaze immediately locked with yours, cutting through the distance and darkness with an intensity that left you reeling.

You could not see his face at the ascension - instead the blindfold left you burning with curiosity as your mind conjured a thousand variations of how he might have looked on you in that moment...

Yet every last one of them fell short.

You could never have imagined the naked longing - the fierce desire - that burned boldly in his regard.

A strange, desperate frustration overtook you.

He was too far away - and Namjoon was going to take him from you before you could touch him again - before you could breathe him in again-

The cruel wind continued to pull your fragrance toward Jimin like an erotic incense, yet it offered you no such gift in return. You could not discern his scent and you wanted to - needed to - with a voracity that was almost blinding.

Please...

A mournful whimper tore from your lips and Jimin’s body reacted instantly to your distress.

Suddenly he was digging through the piles of mismatched trinkets and toys on the balcony, tossing aside all manner of discarded treasures till he finally found what he was searching for.

“Jimin-hyung! Where are you? Chief elder wishes to resume-”

Jimin glanced toward door as his fingers worked frantically over the object his hands.

“I’m on my way!”

His eyes found yours one last time, then he drew back-

A muted thwack echoed a few inches from your shoulder as whatever Jimin threw embedded itself into one of the porch beams.

Your fingers trembled with anticipation as you reached forward to retrieve (what appeared to be) a pointed metal dart - probably from a wall-mounted Darts game someone donated...

A length of braided cloth was tied tightly to the shaft and you recognized it immediately as a praesidium bracelet.

Soothing waves of Jimin’s scent drifted up from the fabric where it had rubbed repeatedly against the glands in his wrist.

Your body calmed instantly. Cold desperation gave way to the soft warmth of tenderness.

He knew.

He knew what you needed and he found a way to send it to you.

Your hand closed tightly over the bracelet as you crumpled to your knees and sobbed.

A gentle knock sounded at Namjoon’s door and a familiar figure slipped inside.

“...Yunli?”

Namjoon blinked for several moments in confusion before closing his evening read to approach her.

“Yunli... why - what are you doing here? It’s late - the ritual set to begin at sunrise.” He glanced at the door behind her, “Is Yoongi with you?”

She shook her head.

“My brother doesn’t know I’m here.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened as he considered all the ways his best friend’s younger sister sneaking into his house (in the middle of the night no less) could go horribly wrong.

“Ah. Well... that’s ...not good,” he mumbled, running his hand over his face. “Are-um - are you here to wish me luck for tomorrow?”

He reached for a glass of water to soothe his suddenly dry throat.

“No. Frankly I hope Park Jimin beats you to a bloody pulp.”

Water sprayed comically out of Namjoon’s mouth as he began to cough violently.

“What?!” *wheeze* “Why?!”

She offered him a sad smile.

“You know why, Kim Namjoon.”

He did know why.

Yunli had loved him (or believed she loved him) since she was a little girl.

He sighed heavily.

“Yunli, we’ve been over this-”

“One week. The change comes to me in one week-”

“You’re Yoongi’s sister-”

“I’ll be twenty years old, and for the last time I’m not your sister-”

“Goddess above, Yunli!” he shouted, “You’re just a child!”

Yunli’s hands gripped the collar of his shirt and yanked him down to her level.

“I am not a child!” she growled.

Then her mouth was on his and every single thought he ever had disappeared.

There was only her.

Heat poured through him like heavy syrup as his senses surrendered one by one. His arms wrapped around her without the slightest hesitation, as if their sole purpose was draw her in.

Sweet... Oh goddess, she’s sweet.

Yunli whined needily and a possessive growl rumbled from his chest in response.

Then she was pulling back - wrenching herself away from him with an anguished sob.

Bitter tears flowed freely down her impossibly beautiful face and Namjoon - who spent the majority of his life barely acknowledging his heart - suddenly felt it shatter.

“You should have waited for me,” she whispered.

“Yunli-I-” he tried calling out to her, but it was no use.

She was already gone.

“Are you sure you have everything you need?”

Jimin offered his second a distracted smile and nodded. His room looked the same as it did the morning of the ascension, yet his entire life was different...

“You were great today, Taehyung. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Tae felt his chest swell with pride. He didn’t want to think about what sunrise might bring, but he was determined to serve his old friend well.

For as long as he could.

“I don’t know about that,” he chuckled, recalling that he fell asleep on his feet for three entire terms before anyone noticed. “You’re a surprisingly ruthless negotiator. I barely contributed.”

“I wasn’t alone though...” Jimin whispered, “and when Namjoon first issued the challenge... I thought I might be.”

Taehyung gulped, pushing back the oppressive sorrow settling in his gut in favor of some levity.

“You - uh - you actually missed the wildest part of the whole day.”

“...I did?”

“Yeah it was bizarre. Did you notice the table was different after our break?”

Jimin shrugged. His thoughts had been... elsewhere at that point.

“We couldn’t find you at first, so you missed the whole ordeal but - when we all came back to the room, that big oak table was split in half.”

Hello my precious readers! If you would like to be added to the taglist, let me know in the comments.

(If you are already on the taglist, I will automatically tag you in all future chapters, you do not need to ask to be tagged again.)

Please please please PLEASE let me know what you think! This chapter was HARD and I genuinely aganized over it. Your feedback and support are what kept me pushing though. Truly. I would love to hear from you! I treasure every word of feedback like diamonds.

End Note: Yoonji was mentioned earlier in the story. She is Yoongi and Yunli’s cousin. Yunli and Yoonji are separate characters.

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love-toxin · 3 years

Text

king of the castle - kaeya

a/n: i had some other fics in progress but this concept had me in a chokehold the entire day. enjoy

warnings: female reader, dom/sub, hard dom kaeya, sadism, degradation, dirty talk, roleplay, spanking, whipping, impact/temperature play, choking/belt choking, bruises, unprotected sex, threats, jealousy, possessiveness, sibling rivalry, i guess you can call it a cuckholding kink, praise, pet names, aftercare

word count: 4.3k

"So you're gonna whore yourself out to my brother, huh?"

Kaeya slapped his open palm with the belt. The sound alone made you flinch, and he just seemed to revel in it rather than shy away.

"Answer me. You love Diluc? You want him instead of me?"

"K-Kaeya-"

He brought it down even harder this time, the leather leaving a harsh-looking splotch against his toned skin. Your punishment was growing closer with each one, but he didn't seem at all fazed. He seemed excited.

"Just tell me, sweetheart. I don't want to hurt you."

Liar. You could see it in his eyes--he had a lust for pain that overwhelmed all other warning signs in his brain. Kaeya was the definition of a sadist, his pleasure derived entirely from seeing you suffer, and he seemed to constantly be coming up with new ways to do so that would humiliate you even more than the last. He slid the leather down the raised flesh of his hand, and ripped a yelp from you when he smacked you on the inside of the thigh with it.

"Clamming up, are we? I think that's enough of an answer."

Finally, he climbed up on the bed he'd shoved you into, his stance predatory as he crawled towards you slowly and nudged your legs apart. Not once did his grip loosen on his weapon of choice, though his pants slid just slightly down his lean hips from the lack of support, revealing even more of his stomach that sloped down into an illustrious 'v'. With a gloved hand, he reached up to grab a handful of your arm and yanked you over on to your stomach, his strength just an afterthought for him but a terrifying obstacle for you. Kaeya could throw you around however he wanted to, if he wanted to, and you were just a delicate little toy that would break once he decided to play a little too rough.

"Tell me all the things you like about him. One for each swat."

Kaeya grabbed your hips to hike them up, your knees lifting up to prop you into a face-down position. He liked you the most like this. Vulnerable.

Even better was when he yanked your bottoms down, flimsy as they were, and in his haste tore through the middle and tossed the shredded remnants aside. He spoke and you listened, he gave his orders and you obeyed--but this was something you couldn't do. Kaeya made you swear that you would never lie to him and you had kept to that, as much as he used it to manipulate you into doing whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it.

"I-I don't...I don't-"

The words just barely spilled over your lips even as you tried to push them out. It was just too hard, but Kaeya didn't care. You earned an even harder spank for that, right on the inside of your bare thigh where he knew you'd be the most sensitive.

"Speak up. Or else I'll mess up that pretty face of yours instead."

As if to hammer that point home, you felt the dig of his fingers into the back of your skull as he grabbed a fistful of your hair, and shoved your face deeper into the sheets of the bed. They were soft, fortunately, but it was so degrading that you just wanted to melt into the bed and disappear. You even felt the dark chuckle rumbling in his chest as he ground his hips up against you from behind, your top sliding up your back far enough that he could drag the expensive leather down your skin, from the top of your spine all the way to your cheeks that trembled when he landed a smack on one of them.

"You're pretty stubborn, aren't you? Is it really Diluc, then? It's not someone else, is it?"

With the belt gripped tight he swatted you again in the same place, the skin there already growing so hot you could feel it radiating off of you. But while your attention was drawn to the stinging pain that you knew was only going to get worse, the hand that had tangled itself in your hair had started trailing downwards, fingertips light and cool as he left little splotches of frost in his wake that melted just as quickly. Once he found that little spot between your legs, however, he didn't reserve the same gentleness and pressed the pad of a freezing cold thumb firmly against your clit. You cried out, squirmed, struggled to vocalize anything more than a gasp--but Kaeya held you in place, and his smirk burned into you from behind like a brand.

"Tell me, doll. You can't keep your little secrets from me anyways, so you may as well fess up."

He ground his thumb in harder the longer you went without speaking, but soon enough he switched to an easier method to have you talk--he pinched your clit between two of his fingers and squeezed, the tips even colder than before to the point that it made your mind blank for a moment or two. Just to add to the humiliation, he forced you up with his other hand and ordered you to take off your shirt, your chest on full display for him to watch your nipples pebble and your skin prickle at the cold chill that he was responsible for.

"Mondstadt? Liyue? Give me some clues. You're not trying to get in with the Fatui, are you?"

He laughed but not from joy, rather in a mocking way that mimicked a childhood bully or an egotistical villain. If you could see him from your position, you had no doubts that he was grinning in that devilish way when he had something he wanted in his grasp, but with a slight twist to your tingling little bud your thoughts snapped right back to the present. A soft groan slipped from you, and unbeknownst to you, it made his cock stir into an even harder arousal than he already had going. At this point he was in danger of popping a button off those tight pants.

"You just can't keep your legs closed, can you? I think they'd like you, actually. That redhead seemed to love watching you walk away, huh?"

Evidently his attention waned for the moment and he released his stifling grip on your clit, only so that he could drag his fingers up your slit and part your lips just enough to feel for the soft flesh beneath, his fingers quickly growing sticky as your juices leaked all down his hand and towards his wrist. Kaeya's most precious desire was his affinity for abusing the softest, most sensitive parts of you, and so you knew for certain that this uncharacteristic gentleness would soon make way for pain that you wouldn't recover easily from, both physically and emotionally.

"...No? Then what about the bard? You want him to write some love poems for you, princess?"

No matter how you answered it would be used against you--either Kaeya would take it the wrong way or he wouldn't believe you at all. So you kept your mouth shut and tried to bury your noises into the sheets below, his fingers lithe and skilled enough that he had the power to draw some rather unsavoury sounds from you if he really wanted to. And when he plunged two of them inside despite how tightly you squeezed around him, he exercised that power quite easily to the point that the shame burned your face all the way to the tips of your ears.

"How about this? You tell me exactly who it is you're trying to run away with, and I won't drop you naked into the nearest hillichurl camp."

The threat rolled off his tongue so easily as to be criminal. The icy chill that surrounded him already made you shiver, but the thought of him throwing you to the wolves both literally and figuratively turned your thoughts to panic. Perhaps he wouldn't really do something so horrific, but the way he talked you through the scenario with a smugness lacing his words certainly made it feel so, each sentence punctuated with a curl of those dastardly fingers into your sweet spots.

"No vision, no weapons, no defenses...how long do you think your precious little body will hold up? Five minutes? My bet's on five seconds."

To prove his point, he spread his digits inside you without warning and listened for the muffled keen that erupted from your throat, his efforts rewarded with a gush of slick, syrupy arousal that clung to your skin as he pulled away and left a trail behind. You expected him to wipe it off with little regard, but instead you heard a strange noise from behind, and turned your head out of curiosity to see him sucking your mess off of every finger. With his half-gloves thoroughly ruined he yanked those off too, and like a true sadist, he took the chance to savour your pathetic expressions and beat your ass again with the thickest part of his belt, a welt surely already rising to your skin as you cried out in pain.

"You think the Dark Knight Hero would save you then? Or would he take advantage of a shivering little crybaby who owes him her life in exchange?"

Another smack, and then another still, and you were certain that you wouldn't be able to sit properly for the next few days. Kaeya dragged you deeper and deeper into his fantasy, and it was only then that you truly worried that Diluc might somehow hear the two of you and come to investigate. Your thoughts even drifted to the scenario Kaeya proposed, about the possibility of Diluc taking what he was owed from you...about taking you away from Kaeya, who you should've known by now owned every piece of you. Even your thoughts, which he always seemed privy to--and now was no exception, his nails teasing down your spine so you'd have no choice but to pay attention.

"Why don't I just carve that into your skin for him, hm? 'Diluc's loyal whore', you want that on your back? What about your legs, where everyone can see?"

The moment his fingers crested over the hill of your poor, beaten behind, he whipped you again with the belt hard enough that you were already starting to bruise, and this time the tears finally spilled out when you'd been trying to hold them in. He rubbed one of his palms over the sore, swollen globes of your ass, the skin-to-skin contact soothing your aches with the chill and causing you to push back against his touch--and he just snickered and made a passing comment about your neediness, to which you responded by whimpering his name under your breath with a plea for mercy.

The wrong name. The name that didn't belong in your mouth, that caused your eyes to widen and a fresh set of tears to plummet down your cheeks as you hurried to try and backtrack. 'Diluc' this and 'Diluc' that, it wasn't your fault for stumbling over your words--but did he care?

Of course he didn't.

"...I knew it."

Kaeya's grip became hot and painful once again, a handprint stung into your skin as he slapped you with an open palm across the cheeks. It didn't look like he needed his tool anymore--because he leaned over to wrap it around your neck, the leather sliding hotly over your skin as he tightened the buckle to keep it in place. To keep you in place, exactly where he decided you should be.

"Does it hurt?"

With words failing you, you nodded your head as much as you could--the leather dug into your skin and you already felt as though you were going to suffocate, and your tears were a clear giveaway that the cocktail of both pain and pleasure was starting to overwhelm you.

"Good, you deserve to suffer a little bit for being a slut. Especially if it amuses me."

As he spoke he fiddled with the makeshift collar, the peg loosening two holes more until it sat more comfortably--and once he was finished you felt his lips against the back of your neck, his grip on the belt growing taut only when he felt you take a deep breath against his touch. Kaeya straightened back up and fiddled with something else this time, his pants sliding easily down his legs to free the beast he'd been restraining within, and with a sigh on his lips you jolted against something stiff prodding at your vulnerable little opening. He took his time in making a move, maybe to tease you or maybe for his own enjoyment, but he made sure to wet the tip generously with your slick, before sliding himself up your slit one last time and slowly spreading you open on his cock that was cool to the touch. Only about halfway in did he release the breath he'd sucked in through his teeth, and by then he had tugged on your leash hard enough for your head to tip back and your lips to part enough for him to steal a kiss from you.

"Filthy little cocktease...you don't have the right to be so tight. You'd think all your little boyfriends would've loosened you up-!"

He cut himself off with an unexpected gasp, his legs shaking almost unnoticed as he halted himself to steady his breathing. But once he had collected himself he was right back on top, your cheeks flush with new tears as he yanked on the belt hard enough to drag you back further on his cock. With one hand grasping at the sheets you brought the other up on instinct to grab at the collar, but even getting a finger underneath it was impossible as he started rocking his hips into you from behind and choking you with his belt in harmony with each thrust.

"I can't wait for him to see you when I'm finished. You think he'll give you a bath and clean your wounds, babydoll?"

All at once the air escaped from your lungs, but all you got to replace it were desperate coughs and foolish attempts to try and catch a breath. Meanwhile Kaeya pummeled you from behind regardless, his wicked glee only rising the longer he watched you struggle for air as he ripped every breath from your lungs with his thrusts. At the very least his preparation ensured a smooth drag of your walls around him, but the fact that your stomach churned as he reached depths further than he should didn't help in the least--especially when he moaned out his humiliating comments about how your body needed him so much it was sucking him in even deeper.

"Nah. He'll use you just the same as I will. He'll take advantage of you the second he gets the chance."

Somehow he seemed to have regained his composure, and returned to taunting you with a hand resting threateningly just above your hip, daring you to say something back so he could spank you again. But you clung to the spare moments of reprieve when his grip loosened on the belt, and you were afforded a quick breath of air before he pulled it taut again and yanked you back to meet his punishing thrusts. Slowly you were growing dizzier, and Kaeya's voice floated about your head like he was speaking right next to your ear.

"You wanna be Diluc's little slut? You want him to cum all over your cute face like I do?"

No, you wanted to say. You wanted to speak but he made it impossible, all you could do was take his hips bruising your behind and his feverish tugging as he choked you, your mind filled with nothing but the feeling of Kaeya making you his.

"He's nothing like me. He'll never satisfy you like I can."

With his voice reduced to a growl in his chest he yanked on your impromptu leash again, but this time it was to tip your head back far enough to kiss you again, and so he could taste your tongue on his before breaking off so messily he left a string of spit connecting your lips.

"Settle for your second best, then. As long as I get to fuck you, I don't care--he can have my sloppy seconds all he wants."

The force was unneeded at this point, your body to the point of collapsing on its own--but with the heel of his hand on the small of your back he shoved your hips down to the bed, using his own as leverage to keep you there while his thrusts grew even more erratic. Whatever else he had to say got jumbled up with whines and groans peppered in, and just when you felt your own consciousness start to slip away from you, he shoved a hand beneath your hip and searched until he found what he was looking for. With the pads of two of his fingers Kaeya rubbed up against your clit again, though this time was with skin cold enough that it shocked your system into an orgasm you weren't ready for.

Your mind whited out within moments, the heat in your belly swirling into a cool feeling that rose all the way up into your chest, and your fingers twitched and curled to bite into your palms with your nails while the rest of your body shuddered underneath him. Kaeya himself seemed to be reaping the rewards on his own end, your cunt spasming wildly around him and clenching him like a vice until he felt that same warmth wash over his body. Leaving himself to bask in the feeling until the very end, he pulled out just before it was too late and released his hold on the belt, instead replacing it around his cock to aim where he wanted. His cum jetted out in thin ropes as you anticipated, yet you still flinched weakly at every spurt that landed against your back, the cold chill of it still unusual enough to take you a bit by surprise.

Your focus continued to waver as you lay there prone, your body so worn out that he could do as he pleased without hassle. But a rush of warm shivers raced up and down your spine as Kaeya laved his tongue against your sweat-soaked flesh, each sticky glob of his love either licked up or sucked off of you until you were as you were before, mostly. Afterwards he unbuckled the belt from your neck, and it was then that the mood finally turned and he flipped you over on your back so you could catch his smile as he leaned over you.

"Nice to see you again, princess."

He dipped down to take another kiss, though this one was a hundred times softer and not liable to leave a bruise this time, his lips like the petals of a mist flower as he slowly broke away.

"C'mere, come cuddle with Kaeya, baby...you want some water? Your throat probably hurts after all that.."

His tone had come down too, so much gentler and with an obvious tinge of sympathy just above a whisper. As he settled back in bed and tucked you into his side, he brushed his fingers over the bruises already blooming across your throat, taking great care only to use the most sensitive touch as he cooled your skin down just enough to take some of the pain away.

"You made me feel so special, little one--you're such a precious little treasure, aren't you?"

The love in his voice and in the way he looked at you was a complete turnaround from a few minutes ago, but you were glad to cling to the change in your Kaeya--though your body was still working a little faster than your mind, and a few words fell from your lips before you could think twice about them.

"I-I don't...I don't like Diluc, Kaeya...I promise.."

You finally croaked out your reply and Kaeya was on you in seconds, his fingers running through your hair as he kissed the corner of your mouth, just where he could reach without straining you too hard in your vulnerable state. Under normal circumstances he liked to coddle you on occasion, and right now was no exception.

"I know you don't, honey. I know. You're such a good girl. You're my good little girl."

He brought his hand back up to rub the top of your head, and had you lift it up just enough for him to lay his arm underneath so you could use it as a pillow. And while you caught your breath and came down from such a shaky high, he took your chin into his hand and swiped his thumb over your bottom lip, his mouth parted in awe shifting into a genuine, toothy smile. He kissed you again, and this time you swore the world paused for just a moment.

"I love you more than the whole world. You're the little shooting star in my heart--you're my everything."

Kaeya touched you like you were glass, like you were a precious piece that he feared breaking, unlike the façade he'd put up just a while ago. This was your favourite part of the experience...Kaeya doting on you as he loved to do, and never wanting to let you out of arm's reach.

"You're Kaeya's little princess, understand? And since you were such a good girl, I'm gonna get you a present. Whatever you ask for."

Such an offer wasn't something you came by often, and at once your mind wandered to what you might ask of your lover as a reward for being his. But there was only one thing you wanted at the moment, and you murmured it just loud enough for him to hear and have a little chuckle about it.

"Wine? Well of course you can, but we won't count that as your gift. I'll go fetch us a nice, big bottle--you just wait right there for me."

As loathe as he was to leave you, and as much as you didn't want to watch him go, he heaved himself up off the bed and reached for his clothes, the uniform out of sorts and messy in a way that he didn't really care about at the moment. Leaving his coat be as it would only be a brisk walk, he buttoned his shirt up halfway and stepped into his boots, before turning and leaning over you one last time with a kiss to your forehead.

"I love you, my princess. Be right back."

With that you bid him a brief goodbye, and while you rested your weary bones he sauntered out the corridor and down the steps into the night air, a warm haze settled over Mondstadt in the late evening when most had gone to bed.

But there were few places that were still open and Angel's Share was one of them, the tavern so close that he pulled on the door within minutes and took a step into the soft chatter of the tavern. Only a spare few patrons still milled about, all having spent more than enough to be too inebriated to pay attention--and at the counter was an all-too-familiar redhead, washing a glass with little purpose while he caught his gaze as he walked in. Diluc said nothing even as he approached the counter, and just turned away with a soft grunt when he picked out the perfect wine to take back to you. No small talk needed. Neither of them wanted it anyways.

"While I'm here, I'll give this back."

As Diluc set the bottle on the counter, Kaeya couldn't miss the sudden flash of emotion in his eyes at what he'd set down in front of him. The letter with a very familiar seal stared back at the bartender, and he just couldn't help himself from digging it in just a bit more while he had the chance.

"Shame she didn't see it in time."

He would've had to be an idiot not to know exactly what it was when he found it tucked inside your coat pocket, the well-placed gift going totally unbeknownst to you as Kaeya snatched it up when the opportunity presented itself. He hadn't really planned on telling you his own feelings until later--but love always managed to find a way, didn't it?

"Don't worry. I'm sure she would've let you down gently."

"...I think you have somewhere to be, Kaeya."

Heat radiated off of Diluc, and it wasn't the normal aftereffect of his vision that most who possessed them experienced. He knew well enough when his brother was furious, if the way he turned his grimace towards the floor wasn't proof enough.

"I do, in fact. Have a splendid night."

With the bottle in hand, he spun on his heels and strolled right back out where he came, the open door making way for another breeze of pleasantly warm air through the stale musk of the tavern.

"...Oh, and before you go, there's something else."

He only just found the energy to lazily turn his head back over his shoulder, and was met with one of the most fiery glares he'd ever seen in his life, Diluc's hand that had come down on the counter setting the letter ablaze and reducing it to ash in his fist.

"Never come into my bar again."

With one last smirk, Kaeya let the door shut behind him as he stepped back out into a lovely Mondstadt evening, the sounds of glass shattering echoing his footsteps as he wandered back to the one he always knew he deserved.

#yandere kaeya alberich #yandere kaeya x reader #yandere kaeya alberich x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere lemon #love-toxin #4k

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dothwrites · 3 years

Text

15.19--freedom

“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose/Nothing, don’t mean nothing if it ain’t free, no, no”--Janis Joplin

---

Freedom.

Dean rolls the word around on the tip of his tongue and tastes how it feels. Freedom.

It’s a strange concept, especially since he always assumed that he was. Ever since Apocalypse Version 1.0 was averted, Michael and Lucifer locked in the cage, thanks very much, he’s always assumed that he was the one calling the shots. No matter how badly he fucked up (and he fucked up a lot), he could at least take comfort in the fact that those were his choices. No one’s hand up Dean Winchester’s ass, no siree.

And then Chuck came and ripped that certainty away from him in one quick motion and then...everything was suspect. Sam, Mom, Jack...Cas. Every word, every action, every emotion... He couldn’t trust anything, so he trusted nothing.

He still wakes up from nightmares with those words echoing in his head: You’re dead to me. He bolts upright, almost puking, because he can’t believe his past self, he can’t believe that those words came out of his mouth, to Cas, to Cas of all people--

He splashes water on his face and notices that his hand is shaking. His stomach churns in warning, but he doesn’t think he’s going to puke. However, he also doesn’t think he’s going back to sleep tonight.

He and Sam are in the bunker, but he knows they won’t stay. It’s too empty now, their voices echoing through the halls and rooms. Maybe once, he would have been all right with that, would have even enjoyed it, but now, he can’t bear it. He remembers all too well how it felt to have Jack’s voice bouncing through the kitchen as he talked about the latest movie they had watched, or how it felt to just feel Cas behind him as he moved through the kitchen.

Every time he makes his breakfast, he’s reminded of what he lost. Every time he and Sam come back to the bunker, there’s the sinking disappointment to find themselves alone once more. Dean ends up spending most of his days in his room because anywhere else freaks him out. He can’t stop whipping his head to look over his shoulder, halfway convinced that he’ll find someone standing behind him. He’s always disappointed when he finds himself alone.

He and Sam are going to leave the bunker behind. He doesn’t know when and he doesn’t know what for, but he knows that it’s going to happen.

He asks Sam one afternoon why he hasn’t left yet. Eileen is waiting for him, biding her time a hell of a lot more patiently than Dean would, and Sam still isn’t going to her and starting the American dream life. And one afternoon, Dean either runs out of fucks and gathers up his last little shreds of courage, and asks him.

“So when are you going to move in with Eileen? I can’t imagine that she’s going to wait for your gigantor ass forever.”

Sam looks at him from across the table. There’s a book open in front of him, but Dean doesn’t think that he’s read a word. He knows that he’s been stuck on the same screen on his phone for several minutes. Without the pressing urgency of saving the world, things just seem so...pointless. Which is not necessarily bad. But it means that he and Sam spend a lot of slow, lingering afternoons like this, with just the two of them wandering through the bunker and occasionally bouncing off of each other like two very faulty pinballs stuck in a malfunctioning machine.

“She’s fine,” Sam says, which isn’t an answer. “She understands what’s happening.”

Dean’s glad that someone understands because he surely has no fucking clue.

---

His life falls into a kind of routine. Wake up, make breakfast. Find pointless chores to do around the bunker. Make lunch. Watch some bullshit shows on TV. Make dinner. Have a beer. Fall asleep.

He feels like the worst kind of retiree, devoid of purpose.

Sure, there are occasional hunts, but he doesn’t feel the need to go on them. The world is turning, same as it always did, and there are other hunters in the world. If that’s one thing that he learned through these past years, it’s that he doesn’t have to do everything.

(Plus, he and Sam literally defeated God, so he thinks they deserve some time off.)

The forced retirement doesn’t make him happy. The bunker is the cleanest that it’s ever been and he doesn’t feel happy about it. There’s a gaping hole in his chest that’s shaped like the rest of his family, and he can’t sleep at night. He makes dinner and all he can think about are the empty places at the table.

Sam sticks his head into Dean’s room. It’s a regular day, though Dean doesn’t bother to note either the actual date or the day of the week anymore. Time blends together in an endless cycle of waking, chores, and sleeping, because without a purpose to hold him together, he’s slowly falling apart.

“I’m going to head out,” Sam says. Dean notices that he doesn’t put a timeline on his departure. “You should get out too.”

Dean raises his eyebrows but doesn’t ask the obvious question: Where would he go? Sam, slightly chagrined, scuffs his feet against the floor. “Maybe go see Jody, Donna, and the girls? See if Charlie and Stevie want a third on their hunt? Bobby said something about building up his library here.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, with absolutely no intention of following through on any of those suggestions. He’s not quite wallowing in his own grief and filth (every time he tries to crawl back into a bottle, he just remembers the pinched look at the corners of Cas’ eyes whenever he would find Dean halfway through a bender, and that memory effectively nixes any desire he might have had to crawl into the nearest bottle), but he’s not exactly the poster boy for healthy coping strategies either.

“Dean.”

Dean hates that note in Sam’s voice, the oh-so-soft and sensitive tone that could soothe widows and lull children. He hates even more that it’s being turned on him, hates most of all that he derives comfort from it.

“I don’t get it,” Dean finally says, because if Sam is leaving then he might be losing his chance to ask his question aloud. “I don’t get...I mean, Jack could have brought him back. He could have done it. I could have asked him. I was right fucking there, and I didn’t ask.”

He’s dissected those moments in his head until there’s nothing left, and he’s forced to cobble them back together like some Frankenstein of memories just so he can take them apart all over again. Why didn’t he ask Jack to bring Cas back? Why didn’t Jack do it of his own free will? Jack knew how he much he needed Cas; hell, Jack brought him back once before when he wasn’t God. So why couldn’t he do it then, when Dean needed him the most?

“I don’t know,” Sam says, still in that same soft voice. “Maybe...maybe it was like Mom? I mean, Cas made his choice. For better or worse, he made it, and maybe Jack thinks that we need to respect it?”

A thick lump rises in his throat. Cas’ face replays in his nightmares, tear-stricken and yet smiling, peace and grief shining in his eyes. I love you. Like it was the easiest thing in the world to say at that moment. Like it was all he’d ever wanted to say.

“I never...” Dean swallows, but he doesn’t manage to chase away the horrid feeling rising in his chest. “I never said it back to him, Sam. I never...all those times he said it to us, and I never...he died, thinking that no one loved him. The one thing I want, I know I can’t have, is what he said to me.”

Dean doesn’t necessarily have a list of his regrets (there are too many to really list), but if he did, then he knows this would be at the top of it. Cas sacrificed himself, Cas let himself get taken, Cas died, and all to save someone who he believed didn’t love him back.

How could he not know?

Dean knows he’s not necessarily Mr. Subtle; he knows Sam knows. Their enemies damn sure have seemed to figure out through the years exactly where Dean’s heart lies. How could Cas, as brilliant as he was, as insightful, as compassionate as he was, not understand that Dean’s been lost on him, quite possible since the first time he walked through those barn doors?

Sam’s face goes on a journey and it ends up at about the same place that Dean feels. Maybe now Sam understands why it’s so much effort for him to just make it out of his room.

“He thought it was worth it,” Sam finally says. “Even if he thought...At the end, it was still worth it to him.”

You were still worth it, is left unsaid, but Dean hears the echo nonetheless. There’s an accusation there which he doesn’t want to confront, but he has to nonetheless.

“I can’t stay here anymore,” Sam finally says. “I can’t...” When he looks at Dean, his eyes are glistening. There’s a plea for understanding in his face. “There’s a whole world out there that I haven’t gotten to see since...since Stanford really. Since ever. I can finally go out there and walk around and not worry that something’s going to come after me. I can finally...” Sam rubs a corner of his shirt between his fingers. “You always said that I wanted a normal life, and I did, for a while. Then, when I figured that it was never going to happen, I stopped myself from wanting it, because what was the point? When everything we had got ripped away from us, what was the point of anything? But now...”

“If you start now, then you can probably make Des Moines by night,” Dean offers. It’s all he can say, but it’s enough.

Sam smiles, his eyes glassy. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

It’s not a goodbye, but it is. It’s the bonds of desperation and codependency snapping and shattering and reforming into something else. Dean doesn’t know how to love his brother in this new world. All he knows is that Sam deserves to live the life he’s deserved.

Dean closes his eyes.

When he opens them, Sam is gone.

---

That night, he goes up on the roof of the bunker. It’s cold, but not unbearable. There’s a light drizzle falling which strengthens to a gentle shower the longer he stays outside.

Dean closes his eyes and looks up at the sky. Out here, the stars shine clearer than ever before, visible even through the rainclouds.

He can’t help but think of Jack. His son. He can say those words now, acknowledge that Jack gave him everything he really wanted; the chance at a family, the chance to erase some of his father’s sins. Jack was gentle, he was kind, he was loving, he was theirs. And then he was gone.

Cas, Jack, Sam...

“What am I supposed to do?” Dean asks the rain, the same wild pain rising up in his throat. “What am I supposed to do now?”

---

He makes it back inside, damp and cold, and strips himself. He should shower, but he can’t be bothered, so he falls into bed naked and shivering. Not like it matters; no one is around to see him anyway. He falls into a fitful doze and is only awakened hours later by the soft sounds of someone moving around his room.

He bolts upright, snatching his gun out from underneath his pillow, because old habits die never. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes as his heartbeat catches up with his adrenaline. “Sam?” he asks, and then, more tentatively, “Jack?”

His desk lamp blazes into the life with a soft snap. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat.

Cas smiles at him, the same as always, sadness always lurking in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. Dean finally understands why he looks that way.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says. The sound of his voice sends shivers down Dean’s spine, but the hair on his arms doesn’t rise. Dean understands then.

“This is a dream.” He lowers the gun. His heart slows to normal and disappointment is bitter in his mouth. “You’re not really here.”

Cas’ mouth lifts in a lopsided smile. “It’s as real as you make it.”

“Don’t fucking Dumbledore me,” Dean mutters. He rubs at his temples. Somehow, even lucid dreaming has lost its appeal. Talking to Cas isn’t appealing when he knows that he’s just talking to his own subconscious.

“I fail to see what a fictional wizard of questionable sexuality has to do with this.”

“Good to know that my subconscious has your sense of humor down.” Dean glares at Cas. “Why the fuck are you here, anyway? It’s a dick move, even for my brain.”

“Maybe because I’m the person you want to see? I don’t know. It’s your head, not mine.”

“Yeah. No offense, but I think I’m just going to go back to sleep. Or wake up. I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t need to see you anymore. It’s just...It really hurts, all right?”

“I’m not real, so you’re not really hurting my feelings.”

“Good. Well, now that we have that sorted out.” Dean punches his pillow as a punishment for betraying him, before he turns back to Cas. “I miss you,” he says, because he’s weak and always has been.

“Dean.” The sound of Cas’ voice always manages to make Dean stop and now is no different. He turns around and looks at Cas.

Somehow, Cas looks more solid around the edges. The lines around his eyes are more pronounced, and if Dean turns his head at just the right angle, he thinks he can see grey silvering at Cas’ temple.

“Sam was right,” Cas says. “I made a choice. That’s what this was all about, ever since the beginning. Making choices, running our own course, picking our own path.”

“Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in,” Dean mutters. The last thing he needs is his subconscious reminding him that once again, Cas decided that he wasn’t good enough to stay with.

“But that doesn’t mean that you can’t make a choice as well,” Cas continues, ignoring him. “There’s nothing to stop you. You can make whatever choices you want and take the consequences that come with them. And if you make the right choices, then maybe...” Cas bites his lip, looking almost nervous. “Then maybe I can make some choices too.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue--Cas is dead, the time for making decisions has come and gone--but his subconscious is a dick, and before he can say anything, his dream fades away in a wash of black.

---

Dean wakes up energized. His eyes open into the same room, but it’s different somehow. It’s ridiculous, because the bunker is underground, but it’s almost like he sees the sun shining through his windows. Even the air tastes different. For the first time in weeks, he gets out of bed without dreading every step away from his mattress.

He glances at his phone. There’s a message from Sam along with a picture. In it, Eileen and Sam smile at the camera, their heads pressed together at the temple. There’s still a shadow of sadness in their eyes--they’ve all lost too much to be truly carefree ever again--but they look good. Happy. Whole.

Cas’ words echo back at him, both from the dream and from those last, horrible, terrifying moments.

Everything you did, you did for love.

You can make a choice.

Dean starts towards the library.

---

It takes him three weeks of almost non-stop research to cobble together enough spells to make something that has the potential to work. This isn’t his strength; Sam is much more suited for this type of work, but he won’t bring Sam in on this. If this thing goes really damn badly, then it has the potential to wipe him off the face of the earth, goodbye Dean Winchester. If this thing does what he’s halfway expecting it to, which is nothing, then he’ll have gotten Sam’s hopes up for nothing. He’s not going to expose Sam to either danger or disappointment, not when Sam’s finally managed to get to some kind of happiness.

If everything goes well...

Dean won’t let himself think about that.

He spends two days smoothing out the kinks in the spell, double and triple checking his translations. He gathers his ingredients, and then spends another hour pacing around the library. His stomach is roiling, and his nerves are jittery. He can’t bear to stop, but he can’t bear to move forward.

The memory of Cas’ smile spurs him into action. Cas went to his death a willing martyr for a man who he believed didn’t love him back. He can’t let that stand. If anything else, Cas has to know.

The drive to Pontiac, Illinois takes him the better part of a day. The impala springs forward across the asphalt, almost like she’s eager to eat up the miles after her forced retirement. Dean pushes hard down on the gas pedal, urging her forward. One way or another, this is going to come to an end tonight.

It takes him a while to find the barn. The last time he was here, he wasn’t in his right mind, still reeling from the horrors of Hell and the confusion of finding himself alive. He’d been scared and angry, lost and so very alone. And then an angel had walked through the door and told him that good things happened, that he deserved to be saved. The last little bit might have been a line fed to Cas by a bunch of dickhead superiors, but the sentiment behind it had stayed long after those superiors were all dead.

They replaced the doors which Cas shattered and painted over the walls which Dean and Bobby covered with sigils, but if Dean looks carefully, he can see the shadows of them behind the new coat of whitewash. He touches them gently for a second, remembering Bobby and all of the years which led him back to this place. Then he pulls out his can of spray paint and proceeds to deface the barn all over again.

When he’s done, he sets up the ingredients on the table. The table is where it was all those years ago, facing the doors to the barn. He doesn’t quite believe that Cas is going to pull the same trick, storming through the doors in a shower of sparks, but he can always hope.

“God...Jack,” Dean corrects himself with a wry twist of his mouth, “I really hope this works. Cas, wherever you are, I really hope you have your ears on.”

Dean looks at his translations and begins to speak. He’s hoping that intention counts for something as his tongue stumbles over the unfamiliar words. His heart beats an uncertain pulse in his chest. This has to work. It has to work.

He puts every ounce of belief into his voice, every bit of the faith Cas once accused him of not having. I have faith, he thinks, putting force behind his voice, sending his words rocketing into the dimensions. I believe in us.

What’s real?

We are.

The last syllables roll over his tongue, followed immediately by a peal of thunder. The barn shivers, a ripple rolling through the air to settle over Dean’s skin. Electricity crackles in the air, filling him with potential.

“Castiel?” he calls to the darkness. “Cas?”

There’s no answer, but the spells and research had been unclear on whether or not there should be an answer. He would prefer knowing that Cas was listening, but in absence of certainty, he’ll have to have faith.

“Cas, I really hope you can hear me,” he says. The words bring back the memories of Purgatory and a time when he and Cas could barely look at each other. He pushes those memories away and concentrates on the truth he can feel in his heart, the same truth which has guided him through the years and all the way from Lebanon, Kansas to the small barn where it all began all those years ago.

“I know you made your choice. I know you were happy. But...it’s not the same without you. I’m not the same without you. I wake up and think about you, and you’re the last thing I think about before I go to sleep at night. Every moment, you’re there because you’re not there. I look at all the places you’re missing and I can’t help but think that everything would be better if you were there.”

Dean swallows. “I miss you,” he confesses to the night. “Cas, I miss you so much. And I want you to come back. Not because I need you or because there’s something to fight against, but just because I miss you and life is better when you’re around.” He thinks of what Sam told him before he went. “There’s a new world out there, and I can’t think of who I would rather explore it with than you, but in order to do that, you’ve got to make a choice, all right?”

His heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might explode out of his chest. “I want to share my life with you. I want to figure out this world together. I want to be able to look at you and hold you and experience everything with you. Cas, I want to tell you what I should have told you every single day for years. I’m sorry that I never told you while you were with me. And I’m sorry that the first time I say it, I’m not going to be looking at you, but it wouldn’t be our lives if something about this wasn’t shitty, right?”

Dean takes a deep breath. “I love you, Cas. Not because of what you can do or how useful you are. I love you because of who you are and how hard you try. And I want to say it to you, every single day, for years to come. I’ve made my choice, Cas. Now you just need to make yours.”

Silence overtakes the barn. The only sound is the faint whistling of the wind through the slats of the barn and the quick rasp of his breathing. There’s no flap of wings, no deep voice growling in his ears, no pop of electricity.

“Please, Cas,” Dean whispers, closing his eyes to try and stop the burning behind them. “Please.”

Thunder rolls through the barn, shaking through the wood down to the dirt floor. Dean’s head jerks upright as he scans the barn. “Cas?” he calls, hardly daring to hope. “Castiel?”

A thin, golden thread rips open in the air before him. It looks almost exactly like the rifts between worlds which Jack used to create, but that’s not possible.

It’s not possible, but Dean dares to hope anyway.

“Castiel? Cas?”

A single hand reaches out through the golden tear, and then Dean is moving, he’s practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach the rift. “Cas, Cas, please,” he’s saying, not quite aware of the words which are tumbling from his mouth. “Please.”

Until his fingers grip the hand, he’s not sure that it’s real, but that’s solid flesh and bone underneath his palm. Dean pulls, feeling resistance on the other end. “No,” he grunts, reaching into the rift. His hand touches skin, and his resolve grows. He didn’t come this far only to lose. They haven’t come this far only to fall apart.

“I want you,” he says, as though the force of his words can rip through the veil. “Cas, please, come home, Cas, please--”

With an almighty heave, he pulls once more and then he’s falling backward, another body tumbling against his in an ungainly pile of limbs and bodies. There’s skin and there’s warm, and there’s weight. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees the rift close up, as neatly as if it were never there at all.

He doesn’t care about that. He can’t, not now.

Dean looks down at the body sprawled across his lap. There are miles upon miles of naked skin for him to peruse, and he hopes that he’ll be able to do so later at his leisure, but for now, all he can concentrate on are those two luminous eyes blinking up at him.

“Cas?” Dean asks, hardly daring to believe. His hands cup Castiel’s face, fingers sweeping a few locks of dark hair off of his forehead.

Castiel blinks at him, his dark eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. A slow smile creeps across his face, like the dawn spreading across the horizon. “Dean,” he says, his voice the same as it always was, but this time it’s better, because it’s a voice that Dean never thought he’d hear again.

“Cas.” It’s the only word Dean seems capable of saying, but words don’t seem important anymore, not when he can lean forward and press his lips to Cas’, not when he can taste the small sigh of surprise on Cas’ lips. “Cas, I missed you so much, oh god, Cas, there’s so much I want to tell you, there’s so much I want to do--”

Cas interrupts him with another kiss, his arms threading around Dean’s shoulders to pull him closer. Gentle fingers tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, and Dean thinks that he could live in this moment forever.

But before he does that, there’s something else which needs to happen first. Dean pulls away, ignoring the small whine of protest from Cas.

“Cas, there’s something I need to tell you,” he starts, only to be interrupted.

“I know,” Cas says, his face splitting into a wide, gummy smile. No shadow lurks behind his eyes, no hint of tears glisten in his eyes. There’s just happiness, radiant and absolute, gleaming from his face.

“I heard your prayer.”

Maybe once upon a time, Dean would have been satisfied with that answer, but not anymore.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, pressing the words into Cas’ skin with gentle kisses over his temple and cheeks. “I love you, I love you, I love you, and I’m going to tell you every day until you get sick of it.”

“You’ll have to try for a very long time,” Castiel answers, his fingers tracing along Dean’s jaw. “I like hearing those words very much.”

Dean can’t help but kiss him again. As he does so, he feels the lost and scattered pieces of his heart knitting back together until he can finally breathe for the first time in months. “Come on,” he says, once he surfaces for air. “Let’s go.”

It only hits him then that Cas is naked. Apparently rebirth and snagging people out of alternate dimensions results in a distinct lack of clothing. Dean’s eyes want to travel over the skin revealed to him, but he waits. There will be time, he realizes with a tiny thrill of delight. He and Cas have all the time in the world.

He manages to find a blanket to wrap around Cas’ shoulders. It will do until they get out to the car where he has a spare set of clothes. For now, he helps Cas to his feet. Cas looks around him, his eyes wide and huge, as though he’s overwhelmed with the world around him.

“Where are we headed?” Cas asks as they head towards the door. The Impala waits outside, beckoning them forward once more.

Dean grins as the cool night air washes over them. It’s gentle and soft, eternity held in the breeze. There’s a world held within the palm of tonight, a world held within the rest of their lives.

“Wherever we want,” he answers, stepping out of the shadow of the barn and into the world.

As they walk towards the Impala, a light rain begins to fall.

---

“Before, I wanted to say: "I found love!" But now, I want to say: "I found a person. And he belongs to me and I belong to him.”― C. JoyBell C.

#spn spoilers #supernatural #spn15 #15.19 coda #coda fic #destiel #destiel fic #destiel fanfic #deancas #deancas fic #dean winchester #castiel #15x19 inherit the earth #fare thee well spn #dothwrites #not beta'd we die like men here

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