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demetriandelibinaryboyfriends · 4 years ago

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Hello! So, something that always intrigued me is the concept of “reverse aus,” and I’ve been thinking about that in the context of Cobra Kai for a while now. How do you think it would go down if Demetri was the one to get roped into Cobra Kai? Obviously, I don’t think he would be as into as Eli canonically was (probably due to it becoming a special interest for him), but I’d be curious to hear your take on it. Would Eli end up going to Miyagi-Do like canon Demetri did, or would Demetri and Eli sort of become the new Evil Karate Husbands™️? And possibly, how do you think Demetri and Johnny’s dynamic would go? (I’m just going to awkwardly add that this is cc-tinslebee, coming to you live from my main blog because I don’t think Tumblr let’s sideblogs send asks-)

So this is actually the SECOND ask I’ve gotten about this scenario--Cherry sent in another one!--so I figured I’d give it a stab. Took me a while to work out how I think it would go and how everything would play out different if Demetri and Eli’s roles were reversed, but I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. I tried to make it more interesting than just “Demetri does all the stuff Eli does and Eli does all the stuff Demetri does.”

Also I lowkey LOVE the idea of Evil Karate Husbands and even though that isn’t the direction this particular AU goes in, I might do a divergent spin-off AU to explore that too??? Because man...the thought of Miguel desperately trying to save his two best friends who have fallen to the dark side...*cries*

Fair warning that this AU is gonna get dark as shit--I fully belive things would’ve gotten equally fucked up between them in a role reverse AU, just, ah...in slightly different ways. A lot of this will not be Happy Times later on, much like their canon relationship XD

OKAY TIME FOR PAIN, LET’S GOOOO

Longboi post so be warned!!!

Season 1

After getting his ass handed to him--for trying to stick up for Eli, no less--Demetri was pissed. Why the hell was he paying some guy to beat him up for daining to have a problem with him bullying his best friend? Going home in a rage, he nearly texted Miguel to tell him he was quitting--but something stopped him just before he hit Send.

He remembered the look on Eli’s face just after Kyler shoved him away. He remembered seeing Eli stiffen when Kyler grabbed him by the chin, practically feeling the terror emanate from his friend’s body. He remembered how completely and infuriatingly helpless he felt.

It certainly wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. But maybe if Miguel was onto something--maybe if karate really could protect him and Eli from the bullies--it could be the last.

Mr. Lawrence (or Sensei Lawrence, as he obnoxiously insisted on being called) hardly let up on bullying Eli. Even at Eli’s request not to call him “Lip” and the pleading of his star student Miguel Diaz himself, the man only seemed to crack down harder--in some sort of twisted effort to “toughen Eli up,” Demetri guessed. Demetri defended Eli every single time, not mincing any words mouthing off at Sensei Lawrence. It got Demetri punched in the face, flipped on the mat, saddled with much harder drills than the rest of the class, but he didn’t give a shit. He wasn’t about to let anyone treat Eli like that, no matter what pain he had to endure for it.

Johnny, meanwhile, is immensely annoyed by this obnoxious, sarcastic kid who just can’t stop running his mouth--but working him twice as hard as the rest of the class is proving to be fruitless in shutting him up. But, Johnny’s finding, Demetri constantly antagonizing him doesn’t have to be a hindrance. Anger like that can be weaponized--the more he provokes Demetri, the more he insults and belittles that Eli kid he’s so attached to, the harder Demetri punches. The quicker he moves when he fights. The stronger he kicks. Johnny sometimes comes home after training covered in nasty bruises, almost entirely from sparring Demetri--they’re enough to make Carmen and Rosa Diaz worry he’s getting jumped on the way home.

One day Johnny takes his ribbing of Eli just a little too far, hoping to get an especially vicious reaction out of Demetri. Eli, pushed to the end of his rope, runs out of the dojo, barely holding back tears. Demetri starts to go after him, but Miguel puts a hand on his arm and stops him, saying they can both check up on him later.

When Demetri finds Eli after practice, Eli’s sobbing. “I can’t do this anymore, Deme. No matter what you say to him, he just keeps picking on me. It never stops.” Demetri winces, because Eli isn’t wrong--Sensei Lawrence really hasn’t stopped bullying Eli at all, and while Demetri was busy letting himself get riled up by it, he didn’t actually think to see how it was affecting Eli. “Well, I know it sucks now, and Mr. Lawrence is a huge asshole, but we’re learning to be tough,” Demetri reasons. “We’re learning to be intimidating. A few more months here, and the bullies will never touch us again! Just like Miguel!” And Eli just scowls, uncharacteristically angry for his timid self, and says “Well, it’s not worth it if I have to feel like shit the whole time! If every time I step in here I get everything about me picked apart, over and over again! I’m done with this, Demetri.”

And just like that, Eli is out of the dojo. Demetri can’t help but be disappointed--he’d looked forward to them training together, and seeing Eli become a badass, fearless fighter who could hand Kyler’s ass to him after all those fucked up things he said to Eli. And to make matters worse, Sensei Lawrence doesn’t stop using Eli as fuel to rip out Demetri’s rage long after Eli’s gone. “Oooh, Loudmouth, feeling sad today? Missing Lip the Quitter?” “You keep throwing punches like that, and you could get beat up by that loser with the fucked lip you were so enamored with. Although knowing you, you’d let him win anyways.” And Demetri can’t help but hate the man, but damn, if it doesn’t feel good to land an especially good hit on him, or jab him in the thigh with a powerful kick.

But things aren’t bad--Demetri still has Miguel, and their new friend Aisha. Eli still hangs out with them outside of practice, and indulges Demetri in his ever-increasing ramblings about martial arts, no matter how nervous and uncomfortable karate tends to make Eli. If Demetri likes it that much, maybe he should make an effort to show interest in it. The four of them crash Yasmine’s birthday party, and Demetri even finds himself smooth-talking them into getting alcohol with his newfound confidence. After all, if he can land punches faster than a snake can strike, how difficult can it be to weasel his way into getting a little beer?

Meanwhile Moon, feeling understandably unfulfilled in her popular clique, takes an interest in the Cool New Karate Gang in town, and after apologizing to Aisha at the beach rager, the two strike up a friendship. She comes to hang out with their group more and more, and Eli finds her surprisingly easy to talk to. Moon constantly makes an effort to include him when the others get to wrapped up talking about karate, and he appreciates her kindness and sincerity. It’s odd, really, how easy it is to have a conversation with her, considering how nervous he tends to get around her. But Eli doesn’t think too much about it.

When it comes time for the tournament, Moon and Eli go together to support their friends. Eli finds his gaze flickering back and forth between Moon and Demetri, lingering on each of them longer than he would care to admit--and he can’t quite explain why. Something about Moon’s wide, excited smile, the smell of cherry shampoo in her hair...but also Demetri’s smug, triumphant smirk when he pulls off an especially impressive move, the way his wiry arm muscles ripple when he fights. They’re both just so...captivating.

Demetri, for his part, is ruthless. Much more so than Eli has ever seen him be. He’s always been sarcastic and cynical, but resigned to his fate--at the tournament, Demetri lashes out in vicious ways the old Demetri would never have had the courage to pull off. He talks shit to the other contestants far beyond what’s considered “sportsmanlike”--and Eli can tell he’s not holding back, with the theatrical body language channeling every awful thing he’s saying.

Demetri fights like lightning--he weaves and maneuvers and strikes at breakneck speed, a limber, flashing form hitting all across his opponent’s bodies before they have any idea what’s happening. He dodges hits and jumps aside like he has some cosmic sense of when and where they’re coming. And it scares Eli, seeing a viciousness and relentlessness in Demetri that he’s never encountered before--but somehow, he finds, he just can’t look away.

Season 2

After the tournament, Demetri’s life has never been better. At the summer’s start, he’s still riding the high of the Cobra Kai tournament win. He didn’t take home the trophy, but suffice to say he got much farther than anyone believed a scrawny, lanky nerd ever would, and he is incredibly smug about it. He realizes, at the end of the day, he’s gotten what he always wanted after all--the bullies don’t come near him and Eli at all, and he can rest easy, knowing Eli is finally safe. However, he’s so busy embracing his new skills that at times, he almost forgets that was ever even an issue. His newfound fighting prowess has caught the attention of Yasmine, of all people--maybe someone who can throw kicks that good isn’t as much of a loser as she originally thought.

She finds out after her family’s plans to go to France for the summer fall through, and she finally patches things up with Moon after their fallout at the beach party. Moon can’t stop gushing about how amazing Demetri was at the tournament--both she and her new friend Eli (who Yasmine definitely thinks seems like a weirdo, but hey--maybe if Moon thinks he’s worth her time, he can’t be that much of a loser) were so impressed with him. Interest piqued, Yasmine joins their little but ever-growing group. She finds herself quickly drawn in by Demetri’s ever-growing confidence, intelligence, and surprisingly enjoyable (if somewhat annoying) sense of humor, and before long, the two are dating.

Yasmine and Aisha are...cool. Kind of. Yasmine doesn’t quite apologize, and the two aren’t friends by any stretch of imagination, but they tolerate each other, and Yasmine refrains from making awful comments and picking on Aisha in front of their friends. Aisha, for her part, does her best not to lash out or be mean to Yasmine either, keeping the peace mainly for Demetri’s and Moon’s sakes.

Meanwhile, it would take an idiot not to notice the rather starstruck looks Eli’s been shooting in Moon’s direction. Moon, for her part, is either entirely oblivious or simply doesn’t even think to consider a shy, timid, nerdy kid as a romantic option, even if she does consider him a friend.

Oddly, Demetri finds himself extremely bothered by Eli’s doe-eyed crush on Moon. He really can’t place why--he has a girlfriend already, so it really shouldn’t bug him so much that Eli is finally growing noticably interested in girls too, now that they tend to be in closer proximity. And it’s not even like Moon seems to be at all interested in reciprocating. Maybe, he figures, it’s the fact that Moon never would have even looked their way if it weren’t for the fact that he and Miguel and Aisha were the “Cool Karate Gang.” The same karate gang, of course, that Eli quit. That Eli didn’t have it in him to fully be a part of. And yet here he is, reaping the benefits still.

Interestingly, Yasmine also seems bothered by Eli’s affections for her friend. Demetri feels her stiffen beside him and sees her shooting disapproving looks whenever she catches Eli staring at Moon. Demetri isn’t sure why she seems to take issue with this too--perhaps she thinks Moon is too good for Eli, and her friend deserves better than a shy, awkward nerd.

Something about this mindset very much rubs Demetri the wrong way, but he pushes the feeling aside. Maybe he should count his blessings instead of being so inwardly critical of his girlfriend. After all, not everyone gets to date the hottest girl in school.

The day of Valley Fest arrives, and Yasmine goes to support her boyfriend. Moon and Eli tag along, eager to support their friends as well. Caught up in the thrill of the blaring music, the bright, flashing lights, the audience cheering, Demetri feels a wave of pride as he looks at his little group of friends that came for him, yelling and whooping and jumping up and down. For some reason, he finds his gaze drawn specifically to Eli, wearing a grin bigger than Demetri’s seen in months and eyes absolutely glowing.

Suddenly Demetri feels an overpowering urge to wrap Eli up in this world he’s fallen in love with, immerse him entirely in the karate that’s made Demetri feel so much more happy and free in the past several months. Grinning, he strides forward and reaches down, using the absurd upper body strength he’s built up since he’s started karate to yank Eli up onto the stage. He hands his best friend a wooden board and steps back, racing forward and snapping it in half with a jumping roundhouse kick. For a few seconds, Eli can do nothing but stare at the broken board, something shifting inside of him.

After that, Eli decides maybe it’s time to give karate another go. Something about the way Demetri positively shone onstage--how genuinely happy all of it seemed to make him--makes him thing it can’t be so bad, even if he does get taunted for his lip again.

He stops by the dojo the following week, gathering up every ounce of courage he has to ask that mean blonde man how he goes about joining the dojo again. He’s hoping against hope that maybe, after all these months of teaching students and a tournament win under his belt, the edge of his pathetic cruelty will at least have been taken off.

No such luck. Upon seeing Eli walk into the dojo, Johnny greets him with “Hey, Lip is back! Real world not treat you as nicely as you thought?” The two are, regrettably, completely alone in the dojo. Eli sucks in his breath--Demetri isn’t around, so if anyone is going to defend him, it’ll have to be him himself.

“Could you please not call me that?” His voice shakes as he says it, but nonetheless, he finishes the statement. It occurs to him that not once in his (admittedly brief) stay in Cobra Kai did he simply...request that Sensei Lawrence not call him Lip. Demetri’s approach was always to get angry about it, go off on the sensei about how wrong it was to mock someone’s appearance, but Eli himself had never been the one to make a case for Sensei Lawrence to treat him better.

It hardly helped. Sensei Lawrence just claimed that if he didn’t want him to call him Lip, he shouldn’t have a freaky lip, and then went on to claim whoever did his cleft lip surgery must have done an awful job. Eli attempted to move away from the topic, but Sensei Lawrence didn’t let up. “It’s hard to when it’s right in front of me. Hard to believe Demetri was so willing to defend you like some knight in shining armor or some shit. You’re pathetic.” Having heard enough, Eli storms out, anger overtaking him. How could he have been so stupid, to think this was going to go any better? Why did he think that just because this man had been willing to help Miguel and Demetri (who were normal) become badass meant he would extend the same treatment to the freak with the lip scar?

Eli calls Demetri in tears. “I don’t know how you can train with someone like him,” Eli spits out. “He’s a shit person, Demetri. I--I don’t know what you and Miguel are thinking. It’s like he gets some kind of...I don’t know, sadistic pleasure out of bullying people. He’s not any better than the people he claims he’s trying to help you fight.”

Demetri, to his horror, reacts only with scorn, scoffing and rolling his eyes. “God, all this drama because he was mean about your lip again? Jesus christ, grow a backbone, Eli. I hate to say it, but I think Mr. Lawrence was right--if you can’t even handle someone making some insensitive comments about your scar, how are you going to handle an elbow to the teeth? Or any training more intensive than a slap on the wrist, anyway?”

Eli can do nothing but just stare at him through the screen. Demetri, the one person who he has always been able to count on to not comment on his scar, the one person who has always comforted him or talked him through it when he cried, is brushing him completely off--being an asshole about the one thing Eli was certain he never would be. Why is Demetri, of all people, not taking his side on this?

All Eli knows for sure is that he doesn’t like this new version of Demetri one bit. What happened to the best friend who was always willing to fight for him, no matter what it took? Now, he seems more concerned with looking cool and tough and upkeeping some kind of ridiculous reputation than Eli’s own well-being.

Over the next few days, a rage he didn’t know he even had in him bubbles up inside Eli. He decides if Demetri’s going to play dirty, so is he. And maybe, if Eli plays his cards right, the old Demetri will come back.

Despite his long-standing frustration with the way adults treat him--delicately, condescendingly, like a Thing of Pity--Eli figures he can get some use out of it for once. If this is the only way they’re going to see him regardless, he might as well use it to his advantage. And so he goes crying to his mom, who he knows for a fact other adults talk about being a “valued member of the community” and probably has some influence and some strings she can pull. He bawls to her about how his best friend has turned into an unrecognizable jerk, all because he’s training with a middle-aged man with the mindset of a high school bully who has no issue verbally abusing his students. Sure enough, discussions are had with the Neighborhood Committee, phone calls are placed, and Eli overhears his mother vowing to shut down that degenerate karate place if it’s the last thing she ever does.

Meanwhile, back at the dojo, Kreese makes an announcement. The elderly, intimidating man has recently teamed up with Johnny to teach--and he gives Demetri the creeps, if he’s honest, but he seems to know his stuff when it comes to karate, so Demetri goes along with this new addition to the sensei roster. However, when Johnny goes off to visit his high school friends and leaves the kids alone with the new Sensei, Demetri can’t help but feel uneasy.

“Now, the dojo’s been getting some concerned phone calls,” Kreese says, arms crossed and expression difficult to read. He doesn’t seem to be angry--if anything, he looks faintly amused. “Parents of the local teenagers are worried. They think Cobra Kai is full of bullies. Think our methods are...abusive, even. They want to shut us down.” Worried murmurs start to echo around the room, but Kreese silences them as he goes on. “Oh, don’t worry. It won’t be a problem. I have my ways of talking people down. We know better, anyhow. They’re just...intimidated by us, because we’ve honed skills here they couldn’t even dream of having. But nonetheless...” Kreese smirks in a way that makes Demetri feels ever-so-slightly unnerved. “If you run into one of your little peers whining to your parents about getting rid of us, well...show them Cobra Kai can’t be messed with so easily.”

And suddenly Demetri’s seething, because he knows exactly who made sure those phone calls got made.

Eli, for all his timidness, is notoriously smart. Demetri knows this intimately. He’d hardly put it past Eli to be this cunning, to manipulate the pitying adults around him to get what he wants.

When the Cobra Kai kids take a trip to the mall later that day, Demetri knows exactly where Eli will be. Every Wednesday, a new issue of Dungeon Lord comes out--they used to go get it together, but since getting into karate, Demetri hasn’t been keeping up. Demetri would figure someone like Eli wouldn’t have the balls to go out in public alone, if not for the fact that he knew how invested Eli was in the current plot.

And so Demetri heads to the comic book store, a group of reluctant Cobra Kai “pledges” in tow. Maybe it’s a bit sadistic, but he likes having someone to be able to boss around--it feels nice to be at the top of the food chain for once. Lord knows it’s the first time that’s happened. And if he isn’t going to milk that tournament win for all it’s worth, then what even is the point?

When Demetri arrives, Eli turns to look at him in confusion. “What are you doing here?” he says, lip curling slightly. “I figured you were too tough for this kind of stuff now.”

Demetri just scoffs and crosses his arms. “Well, Mr. Kreese said the dojo’s been getting some calls from weepy parents concerned we’re bullying their poor kids. Saying our Senseis must be some evil, abusive monsters twisting and corrupting the neighborhood teenagers. So I think you know exactly why I’m here.”

Eli just looks at him with a doe-eyed innocence that makes his blood boil. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Demetri advances on him, eyes flashing. “Don’t bullshit me, Eli. I know you’ve been meddling.”

To his surprise, Eli looks up to meet his gaze evenly, pretense of naiveté completely gone. “And what if I have? I don’t like the influence they’re having on you.”

Well, Demetri doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but he doesn’t like it. “What is it about Cobra Kai that’s got you in such a tiffy, huh? You’re jealous I found a way to fight back and actually protect us? You don’t like that I’m not a pathetic loser you can look down your nose at anymore?”

Eli just looks at him in bewilderment. “Jesus, no, that’s not it at all, dude. Just...do you even hear yourself? You’ve turned into such an asshole since you started all that karate shit. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. You walk around thinking you’re hot shit and everyone has to bow down to you all because your dojo won some stupid tournament. Well, news flash, Demetri--nobody cares.”

The callous way Eli, of all people, says it can’t help but throw him off. Is that really what his best friend thinks about him now--that he’s just some arrogant prick strutting around flaunting his success?

And then Demetri remembers how he got here--what it was that pushed him to be such a hard-assed fighter in the first place--and he feels a wave of venom coarse through him so powerful that he nearly chokes on it. Before he knows it he’s grabbing Eli by the shoulders and shoving him up against the wall.

“You fucking ungrateful brat,” he spits out, his words poison. “I did it all for you, you know. Everything I did was so that I could finally protect you. And this is how you thank me? After I’ve been getting my ass kicked over and over again so you wouldn’t have to worry about bullies anymore?”

Eli is surprisingly unfazed. “And where was I when you were learning to be such a good protector, Demetri? Getting shit on as a tool to motivate you? Nobody bothering to check how I felt about that? A real good bodyguard you turned out to be.”

“And yet Kyler and his little posse haven’t bothered you once. Who do you think that’s thanks to?”

“Miguel too. You don’t get all the credit. And anyhow, not like it matters when your Senseis would just as soon take the same cheap shots.”

Demetri just curls his lip. “Don’t get mad at me because you were too weak to survive Cobra Kai. Because...what, a middle-aged karate teacher hurt your feelings? I’d like to see how you go about taking a real fist to the jaw.”

Demetri raises a fist as if to demonstrate. Eli flinches, anger and defiance suddenly completely gone as his eyes widen in horror.

“You’d actually hurt me?” he asks softly.

Demetri slowly lowers his fist, realizing the answer as soon as he sees the terrified look in his friend’s eyes.

“Consider this your warning, Eli,” he spits out, with as much venom as he can manage. “Don’t mess around with Cobra Kai, or things are going to get ugly.” He smirks--a little sadistically, he has to admit. “You saw the tournament. Well...you’d better believe that’s the least of what I can do.”

When a downtrodden Eli shows up at Daniel LaRusso’s front door, timidly requesting to learn karate, far be it from Daniel to turn away a new student. Eli’s sob story about how he’s being bullied and threatened by his best friend only makes the new sensei more determined to take him under his wing--Daniel is no stranger to bullying, after all.

The next time Cobra Kai goes on an outing to the mall, Demetri catches Eli in the food court, eating with Samantha LaRusso and that kid whose ass he kicked at the tournament--Robby Keene, was his name? Mr. Lawrence’s kid. This seems...odd. How would Eli have met them?

An unexpected wave of jealousy rips through him. How did shy little Eli manage to make other friends? Let alone with an ex popular girl, of all people. Nonetheless, he figures this might be a good time to make sure his ex-friend isn’t trying to start any more shit with Cobra Kai.

He catches Eli in the deli line, sliding up behind him and purring, “Oh, I hope you haven’t been poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, have you, Eli?”

Eli turns and glares at him with a venom Demetri didn’t know the other boy had in him. “Why, Demetri? Scared your precious Cobra Kai is going to lose all its coolness cred if it gets out how shitty you all are?”

Demetri seethes with anger again, and before he knows it, he’s shoving Eli out of the line and ramming him up against one of the pillars on the edge of the food court. The crowd of eaters around them “Oooooh”s, but Demetri ignores them. He raises a fist again, fully prepared to follow through this time. “I’d watch your mouth, if I were you.”

Eli just curls his lip, more defiant than Demetri’s ever seen him. “You don’t scare me, Demetri. I know who you really are.”

The Cobra Kai pledges start to loom behind them, ready to provide Demetri with backup if needed. Eli notices and scoffs. “Wow, siccing your goons on me too? Way to set up a fair fight, Demetri. You’re so badass.”

Struck by a sudden desire to prove him wrong, Demetri socks Eli in the jaw before he can think better of it. He pauses afterwards, momentarily shaken by what he’s done.

To his dismay, Eli’s horrified shock is short lived before he laughs darkly. “Well, you’re not the only one who knows karate now. I joined Miyagi-Do.”

Demetri just scoffs. Ah yes, a little karate training and Eli, of all people, is going to kick some major ass. “All right then. Let’s see what you got.” He takes a step back, allowing Eli to try and get a hit in.

When the fight breaks out in full force, it’s vicious. Eli throws the first hit, but it’s weak--he’s out of practice since abandoning Cobra Kai. Demetri has him on the ground in seconds, throwing punches and kicks with a speed and rage he had no idea he had. Eli barely has time to get up before he’s getting his ass handed to him.

What Demetri doesn’t count on is Eli’s new dojomates coming to his rescue, getting the smaller boy behind them and executing a near-perfect synchronized fighting routine. Even with his lackeys helping him, Demetri is completely annihilated--nearly unconscious on the food court floor within minutes. The last thing he sees before he passes out is Eli staring down at him, blue eyes wide with horror.

When word of the incident at the mall gets back to Moon, shit hits the fan--to put it lightly. Yasmine is with Moon when she confronts Demetri, but she doesn’t say anything--just stands glaring with her arms crossed while Moon goes off at him. “How could you treat Eli like that? He’s your friend!”

“Not anymore.” Demetri curls his lip. “He joined Miyagi-Do. He’s made it pretty clear where his loyalties lie now, and it’s not with me.”

“Who cares about Miyagi-Do?” She retorts. “He’s still your friend! Our friend! And I don’t like the way you’re bullying him.”

Demetri scoffs. “Don’t you get it? He’s just a pathetic nerd who can’t handle the fact that I’m cooler than him now. All he wants to do is drag me down to his level again, I guarantee it.”

Moon’s gaze is more poisonous than he’s ever seen it. She turns to Yasmine. “Tell him, Yas,” she says, her tone dangerously quiet.

Yasmine sighs. She says--with notable hesitation, Demetri notices--“If you don’t stop bullying Eli, we’re through.”

Thrown off, Demetri laughs harshly. “What do you care? You don’t even like Eli! I see those...disgusted looks you shoot in his direction, when you think we won’t notice.”

Yasmine bites her lip. “That doesn’t matter. Moon is my best friend. If she’s not okay with this whole...thing, then neither am I.”

“You’re not fucking serious. You’re dumping me because your bleeding-hearted friend told you I wasn’t being nice enough to a guy you can’t stand?”

Yasmine pauses, but ultimately stands her ground. “I’m sorry, but if it’s between you and Moon, it’s going to be Moon. So her word goes. So either stop with this whole stupid feud with Eli, or we’re finished.”

“I...” Demetri can only stare at her, shocked. He never could have imagined getting this ultimatum...and yet here he is.

He must have hesitated a second too long, because Moon grabs Yasmine’s arm and starts to pull her away. “I think that’s all the answer we need,” Moon hisses.

“Wait!” he called helplessly after them. Yasmine turns around once as she walks away, but only to spit “It’s over!” over her shoulder. As if for good measure.

Kreese finds Demetri circling a punching bag in the back of the dojo, spinning around it and throwing kicks and punches faster than cobra strikes. Seizing his opportunity, he advances. “What’s wrong, son?”

Demetri turns, tensing. He’s still wary of the man, but to hell with it--it’s not like he has anyone else to talk to. “Fight broke out with Miyagi-Do, and we lost. Pathetic, I know. Please don’t rub it in.”

“Cheer up.” Kreese smirks. “The fight isn’t over until you say it is.”

Demetri just sighs. “No use going in for a rematch. They’re strong. I couldn’t take them again on my own.”

Kreese’s smirk widens. “You’re a smart kid. There are other ways to fight back, you know. You don’t always have to beat them into the ground.”

As he leaves, Demetri lets that sink in.

Well, Demetri is nothing if not tech-savvy. May as well make some use of that Yelp Elite status. He spends hours setting up dozens of sock puppet accounts, programming them to post terrible review after terrible review blasting everything he can think of about Miyagi-Do. The encouragement of violence in youth (Eli had technically punched first, hadn’t he?). The weak, subpar fighting style that broke down as soon as it was challenged by serious fighters. The pretentious, culture-appropriating sensei. Daniel LaRacist indeed.

During the Coyote Creek excursion, Demetri finds himself pitted against Miguel, fighting in the world’s most intense game of what essentially boils down to Capture the Flag. Demetri, about to get the better of Miguel, finds that he can’t help but gloat about his little online attack. Can’t be long before a one-star dojo goes out of business.

When Miguel seems to take issue with it, saying the whole thing is mean-spirited and over the top, Demetri can’t help but scoff. Miyagi-Do has been plenty clear in declaring war--their little battalion at the mall proved that. Demetri wishes Miguel wasn’t still too caught up in pining over Sam LaRusso to realize that.

Miguel, meanwhile, decides this dojo war of sorts is getting out of hand. It turns out Demetri isn’t the only tech-savvy student in Cobra Kai--Miguel designed their website, after all. With a little bit of basic internet coding and some rudimentary hacking, he manages to access the sock puppet accounts Demetri made and take the bad reviews down. He even goes so far as to go over to the Miyagi-Do dojo and personally apologize for how Cobra Kai has been acting, telling Robby Keene that he found out who blasted the bad reviews and took them all down. “We’re not all assholes.”

Come Moon’s end-of-summer party, Demetri is surprised to get an invitation. He hasn’t seen her or Yasmine since they both chewed him out, and Yasmine ended things. But perhaps this is a show of good faith. Maybe Moon wants to be friends again--and maybe that means Yasmine’s come to her senses too, and might be willing to talk things out.

Moon welcomes him when he arrives, previous animosity gone for the moment. “Hey, thank you for inviting me. I’m...sorry,” he starts. “Of how we left things off. I was an ass to you and Yas.” “It’s alright,” Moon replies cheerily. “I invited you because...well, I’m hoping that before school starts, we can stop all the fighting and be friends again.”

His heart sinks as he sees Sam LaRusso lead a stream of kids through the door, Eli trailing at the end, and he realizes exactly what she means. The Miyagi-Dos are here.

He sits forlornly on a couch with Mitch and Aisha, thinking about how much worse this night just got. He brightens, however, when he sees a shock of blonde hair at the door not long after. So Yasmine came after all.

Moon grins in delight, calling over to her. Taking a breath, Demetri stands up and approaches the two girls, determined to smooth things over with them both.

He’s not surprised to see Yasmine make a beeline for Moon, not noticing him for the moment. What he isn’t expecting is for Moon to sweep Yasmine into her arms, kissing her full on the mouth.

Demetri stops in his tracks. The girls turn to him a few seconds later, seeming to notice him for the first time. They look at him expectantly, as though waiting for him to finish walking over to them. Or say something, and not just stand there gawking stupidly.

“Uh...are you two...um...like...uh...” All he can do is shuffle closer and gesture abstractly, not able to find words. Yasmine blushes and looks away, while Moon tucks a hair behind her ear, her smile strained.

“Yeah. It’s new,” she admits, laughing nervously. “We’re, um...”

“Girlfriends?” Yasmine offers, looking up and smiling at Moon with uncharacteristic shyness. Demetri can’t help but bristle--shyness she never showed him.

Well, far be it from him to be judgmental. Even if Yasmine broke his damn heart just now, Moon is still his friend. He gives them a strained smile. “That’s...that’s great! Happy for you two. No shame in uh...trying out something like that.”

Demetri excuses himself and sulks back to the now-empty couch, mind racing as he sits down. Is that why Moon was trying to encourage Yasmine to break up with him? Was it even about Eli at all? Did Moon just want Yasmine for herself? It seemed unlike Moon, but who could say?

And Yasmine...had she always wanted Moon, too? Is that why she seethed every time she saw Eli shooting lovestruck glances at her friend?

...had she even ever liked Demetri at all, or was he just a cover-up for the fact that she was...lesbian? How was someone as feminine and fashionable as Yasmine a lesbian, anyways? All the lesbians Demetri saw on tv cut their hair boyishly short and had about 5 nose rings and walked around in leather jackets and combat boots.

His thoughts are interrupted by the last sweatered boy he wants to see taking a seat at the other side of the couch, glancing nervously at him with darting eyes. What did Eli want? And why was he so nervous? He’d been unduly bold as of late.

“You seen the new Doctor Who trailer?” Eli mutters.

Something about the nonchalant way he says it--like this is the olden days, when Demetri always felt like shit about himself and had no one who tolerated him but Eli--makes Demetri’s blood boil. He scoffs. “I have better things to do than watch nerd crap like that.”

A short silence. “Capaldi regenerated,” Eli offers finally. “I know you weren’t big on 12.”

No more Capaldi? Demetri turns to look at Eli, interest suddenly piqued.

“What’s the new doctor like?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Eli grins. “She’s a badass.”

“She?” Demetri finds himself grinning back. “How progressive of them. Welcome to the 21st century, Doctor Who.”

A sudden giggling catches his attention, and Demetri looks to where Yasmine and Moon are sharing a chair across the room, tangled up in each other’s arms and trading soft kisses like they don’t have a care in the world. He tenses.

Eli seems to sense his discomfort, and sighs. “Hey, I’m sorry, man. If it helps at all, I liked Moon a lot, too.”

Demetri just scoffs. “Yeah, but I guess it doesn’t matter now. They just have to be gay, right?”

Eli gives him a strange look. Demetri shuffles uncomfortably, realizing what he’s probably thinking about. The...incident, 4 years ago. Demetri glares at him, hoping to banish the thought before it arrives. None of that meant anything--they were just dumb kids. Dumb kids doing dumb shit that didn’t matter.

“I don’t know, I mean...if they’re happy together, shouldn’t we just be happy for them?”

Eli reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, and Demetri hesitates. Their special touch. Eli still remembers, even after everything that’s happened.

For a moment he’s overcome with longing, wishing things with Eli could just go back to how they used to be. Back when he knew no matter what hell he went through at school, Eli would always be there to pick him back up again. But then it sinks in what Eli’s really trying to say.

Be happy for them. What a bunch of Miyagi-Do bullshit. Just accept his sad little lot in life, just like he used to do. Go back to nerdy little Eli at the bottom of the food chain, doomed to spend the rest of his youth admiring pretty girls from a vast distance.

He never wants that to be him again.

“Oh, fuck you, Eli,” he spits, grabbing Eli’s hand and yanking it off of his shoulder. Eli freezes, looking like he’s just been slapped.

“What, so I’m supposed to do like you, moping and pining and hoping a pretty girl will look my way if I wish hard enough and just sucking it up when she doesn’t? Well, I’ve had plenty enough of that--I’ve been on the top. And I’m going to be on the top again. But you? You’ll always be pathetic--you and your entire sorry excuse for a dojo.”

He gets up and walks away, bristling with an anger he can’t even fully place anymore.

As Eli watches Demetri go, he realizes he’s finally had enough. Demetri doesn’t want to patch things up? He just wants to keep being an arrogant shithead? Fine. But Eli’s not about to take his prodding and insults anymore.

Eli makes his way over to Moon--still his friend, despite the unreciprocated feelings--and Yasmine, strikes up a conversation with them. Yasmine, he notices, is being notably nicer to him--probably at Moon’s request. They get to talking about sexualities, and Eli accidentally lets a little something slip about Demetri.

When they were 12 years old, they had kissed. It was Eli who suggested they practiced kissing, to get ready for all the girls they would inevitably date. However, a bit of choice wording and it sounded like Demetri had planted one on Eli out of nowhere...and Eli, of course, hadn’t liked it one bit, because he was totally straight. “You can’t tell anyone, though,” he pleaded the girls, big sad eyes every bit as convincing as he had hoped. “Demetri doesn’t want it to get out that he’s...you know. Gay. He’s worried it’ll ruin his reputation.”

Moon nods sincerely, but Eli can tell from the almost imperceptible smirk on Yasmine’s face that she has other plans. If there’s one thing he’s learned about Demetri’s ex over the last few months, it’s that even trying to be a better person, she can’t resist a good bit of juicy gossip.

And from what Eli gathers...two girls dating? No problem, as long as they’re hot and popular. At least creepy guys can fetishize it. But guys liking other guys? Now that...Eli has a feeling that won’t go over well.

As soon as Eli excuses himself, Yasmine gets to work. A few whispers at the snack table when Moon isn’t looking, and news of Demetri’s supposed orientation spread like wildfire.

Demetri, meanwhile, is determined to prove Eli wrong. So what if Yas doesn’t want him anymore (or never did, the mean voice in his head keeps prodding)? He’ll find another hot girl to have on his arm. He’s a top Cobra Kai fighter, after all--it’s not like it’ll be difficult.

He saunters over to a group of girls, leaning up against the wall in what he thinks has to be a very suave way. “Hey ladies,” he says. “Name’s Demetri. I’m sure you’ve heard about me--seasoned Cobra Kai fighter, finalist in the All-Valley tournament. But no need to be intimidated--if any of you beautiful ladies ever need a hand with anything, I’ll--”

“Take it off of the nearest dick to help us out?” one of the girls cuts him off. They all break out in snickers. “No thanks.”

Demetri freezes. Why would they think...?

Then he realizes there’s only one person who could have made them think he was into that sort of thing.

He tenses. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but--”

“We’ve heard all we need to,” another girl says, eyeing him up in disgust. “Not interested in getting it on with someone who’s probably had his cock up another guy’s ass, to be blunt. Gross.” Before Demetri can say another word, the girls are gone, turning and slinking hurriedly off into the crowd.

Every time Demetri tries his luck with another girl, he gets similar rebuffs. And every time, he seethes a little more. Fucking figured--timid little Eli couldn’t take the fact that Demetri had worked up the confidence to win over a girl and he hadn’t, so he had to ruin Demetri’s chances with every other girl so he’d feel better.

Besides, Demetri remembers that day from 4 years ago. He remembers that Eli was just as into...all the stuff they did.

Unfortunately, before Demetri has a chance to go over and confront Eli about the whole business, the cops show up. He’ll just have to wait until school, he figures.

Meanwhile, word gets back to Sam that Miguel showed up at her door, apologizing and promising he took all the bad reviews down--apparently Robby didn’t relay any of this to her. When Miguel admits to Demetri about the drunken kiss, Demetri chuckles, slapping him on the back. “My man! Trying to build up a whole harem here, are we?”

Miguel sighs, looking sullen. “I cheated, dude. That’s shitty.”

And then comes the PA announcement. Tory Nichols is starting shit, and Demetri can’t pretend he’s not intrigued to see where this goes.

As soon as the fight breaks out, Demetri is overcome with adrenaline. He whips through the crowd, spinning and throwing kicks and punches like explosive flashes. All he can think of is Eli, Eli, little Eli...oh, when he finds him, there’s going to be hell to pay.

And it doesn’t take long--of course Eli is the one who tries to pull a teacher in to stop the fight. The fucking wimp.

When Eli makes a run for it, Demetri can’t help but smirk when he leads him straight to the computer lab. How very typical, for someone whose hero is Steve Jobs. He grins, something frighteningly sadistic bubbling up inside of him.

For a second it almost scares him, how badly he wants to drive his foot into Eli’s chest.

“Little Eli Moskowitz!” he taunts, before he can stop himself. “Cowering away in the computer lab, just like the little nerd he is. Can’t hide forever, outer. I know damn well what you told them about me.”

He tries door after door, continuing in a singsong voice as he goes. “Oh dear me, what would they say if they knew you enjoyed it too, Eli? Well, I guess they won’t believe me now. But I know. I know you’re no better than me.”

Ever since they were kids, Demetri has been the speedier one. They used to race across the playground at recess, pretending to be Quicksilver and the Flash, but Demetri always came out ahead. Long, gangly legs tended to do that. So when Eli turns to see Demetri in the doorway, and he makes a run for it, he doesn’t get far.

Demetri grabs Eli around the waist and throws him against the wall, whipping kicks and hits into his stomach and thighs faster than he can block. Demetri hardly notices the bruises forming, or the bleeding cuts.

It’s then that Eli does something Demetri doesn’t expect--flips the script, as it were. As Demetri reaches out to strike again, Eli surges forward and grabs him by the shoulders, flipping him around and pinning him against the wall. Maybe Miyagi-Do specializes in defense, but they still taught him how to throw a good hit or two. He throws defense to the wayside and starts raining punches down on Demetri--sloppy, uncoordinated, but something the “Strike First” Cobra Kai student is entirely unprepared to defend.

When his chest is stinging and his head throbbing, Demetri can’t take anymore. Eli was a lot more...well, powerful than he expected. At his first opportunity, he turns and books it. Maybe this isn’t a fight he can win after all.

Eli doesn’t chase. As angry as he still is at Demetri, he can’t stop thinking about the mars and bruises and cuts that appeared across Demetri’s face and skin as he punched him, mirroring his own, and he feels sick. He can’t hurt Demetri anymore, no matter what Demetri thinks of him now.

Demetri just makes it to the staircase when he sees Miguel motionless on the floor, Robby Keene looking over the railing. Sam LaRusson hovering over him. He runs to Miguel’s side, world crumbling around him.

Turns out he showed mercy, just like Mr. Lawrence always said to. And look where it got him. When John Kreese offers him a place in a new Cobra Kai, determined to make the Miyagi-Dos pay for hurting Miguel, Demetri isn’t about to say no.

In his grief, it seems like the only option.

Season 3

On the first day back at school, Mitch is quick to remind Demetri that there are other girls in the world besides Yasmine. Surely it won’t be too hard to work his charms on some of the freshmen--after all, word about that little incident with Eli when they were 12 can’t have gotten across the entire school, can it?

“Well, hello, ladies!” he purrs to a passing group, leaning against the wall in the most nonchalant way possible. “Welcome to West Valley High. I know freshman year can be intimidating, high school classes and new people and all, but if you ever need help with anything, I’m--”

“--the scrawny little gay kid who ran his pussy ass away from the world’s easiest fight?” one of the girls finishes scornfully. “Yeah, we know.”

As they walk away, he notices one shoot a flirty smile at a passing Eli, surrounded by his squad of Miyagi-Do losers. “Ooooh, you’re famous now, E!” he hears Chris say, and his blood boils all over again.

Ah. So everyone knew about Eli’s little triumph.

Mitch saunters over, and Demetri follows his lead. “Got something to say?!” he snaps.

Demetri’s eyes lock with Eli’s, and he glowers down at him. Eli’s face is tight, expression almost...sad.

Not like he’d expect anything less from that little crybaby.

“Oh, little Eli,” he chides. “I’d like to see you try and hide behind security.”

“I don’t need to,” Eli mutters, not breaking eye contact.

“Everything all right here?”

At the sound of the counselor’s voice, Eli does something unexpectedly bold. He sidles up to Demetri’s side and presses into it, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “No, Counselor Blatt, we’re all friends here!” he says, offering that shy little Eli smile that made every adult in a nearby vicinity go mad with protectiveness.

Eli’s arm is tight around his neck--like a chokehold. But, Demetri notices after a few moments, it’s shaking--the grip almost frantic. Like he’s scared of when he’ll have to let go.

Odd.

Demetri turns, and his and Eli’s eyes lock. He tries to give the shorter boy the most intense, seething glare he can under his forced smile, but Eli returns the look with equal intensity. Demetri jostles his backpack his backpack and thumps him on the chest, feeling an odd compulsion to touch his old friend right back.

Maybe he missed feeling Eli’s body underneath him. But that wasn’t a thought he could afford to spend a lot of brainpower on right now. “Yeah!” he says. Of course we’re still friends! Of course you didn’t fuck up my love life and humiliate me to the entire school because you couldn’t handle the fact that I was getting some and you weren’t!

When the counselor chides them about having somewhere to be, Eli just nods, murmuring, “Yeah, of course, Counselor Blatt. Sorry.”

As Eli pulls away, he pats Demetri’s shoulder a couple times. Small, almost imperceptible, but there.

Demetri can’t tell if it’s serious--if Eli still cares--or if it’s just a cruel mockery of their old touch. He’s not sure he wants to know.

When Demetri runs into Samantha LaRusso in the hospital and she insists she wants to help, he hardly expects a whole fucking fundraiser gleefully using Miguel as their poster child. As though the Miyagi-Dos weren’t the ones who put him in the hospital in the first place. When he catches a glimpse of the carwash while driving Mitch to practice, he decides he’s going to do something about it.

Beating up the kid is an easy fight, getting the money with Mitch and the others a sinch. Maybe at some point he would’ve felt bad for this--pummeling some short kid and then taking his charity money. But all he can think of is Miguel, his best friend, lying in a white gown and hooked up to wires. Because of this kid and his stupid “peaceful” dojo.

Peaceful, Demetri’s ass.

When Demetri walks into the cafeteria the following Monday, he’s not sure what he expects to see at Yasmine and Moon’s table, the place where he would be sitting, under different circumstances--but it definitely is not Eli Moskowitz with his hair dyed bright blue and spiked up. Miyagi-Do blue. Apparently all that coolness cred he felt he got from “scaring” Demetri off in the school brawl has gotten to his head, and he’s playing out his new “badassery” up to 11. He’s showing something to Yasmine and Moon, and they’re smiling and giggling. Yasmine, of all people, is smiling at nerdy little Eli’s antics.

Demetri squints, and sees that Eli’s showing the two girls a comic book--he recognizes the copy. It’s Eli’s limited edition Captain Marvel comic book, signed by Kelly Sue DeConnick herself. Demetri remembers standing in line with him at a con to get it a few years back--he’s pretty protective of the thing.

And now he’s using it to impress girls? Because apparently Yasmine and Moon are into that kind of thing? Oh, but of course Yasmine couldn’t be into nerd shit when DEMETRI was dating her, could she?

And those gooey eyes Moon is giving Eli, her little giggles--Demetri doesn’t like them one bit. What, now Eli’s worth her affections--now that his “nerdiness” is cool? Aren’t she and Yasmine a stupid item, anyways?

Deciding he’s going to put a stop to this, Demetri saunters over, lunch tray clutched so hard his knuckles are turning white. Before the group can react to his presence, Demetri picks up his chocolate milk carton and dumps it all over Eli’s stupid blue hair, making sure to get plenty on the rare comic book in front of him.

“Oh, I hope that wasn’t important, was it Eli?” he taunts, voice thick with mock sympathy. “That sure would be a shame.”

Eli turns to look at him, eyes wide with heartbroken shock. For a moment, the anger doesn’t set in.

“I had to wait in line 5 hours to get that,” he says quietly. “You know that.”

“Sure do.” Demetri smirks. “And it took all of 5 seconds to completely ruin. How tragic.”

Eli tenses, eyes darting around for a couple seconds. Demetri starts to walk away, his point made, when he feels an iron grip on his wrist. He turns to see Eli smirking at him, clutching his arm with more force than he ever thought possible from the once-timid boy.

“Careful there, Demetri,” Eli sneers. “Coming all the way across the cafeteria to bother me when you’ve got your cool Cobra Kai friends to hang out with? People might think you’re a little...obsessed with me.” Yasmine and Moon snicker, and Demetri bristles as he realizes the implication.

“Although I shouldn’t be surprised since you love obsessing over other boys, don’t you?” Eli goes on, like his point isn’t clear enough. “Y’know, I feel bad for Yasmine. I mean, any idiot could tell she used you as a beard, but I had no idea it was a mutual thing.”

Demetri tenses, willing himself not to lose his cool. “Really letting that little victory get to your head, aren’t you, Eli? Honestly, I was going easy on you. Now I know not to next time.”

It’s at that moment that Sam LaRusso decides to show up, sliding up next to Eli and glowering up at Demetri. “There won’t be a next time if I have anything to say about it,” she retorts.

Demetri can’t help but scoff. Of course Sam LaRusso would be all too eager to defend her little pet nerd now, even though she was all too happy to laugh at him with her mean girl friends a year ago. “I’m not scared of you,” he says. “Like you’d start any fight daddy couldn’t bail you out of. Or that doesn’t end with your ex boyfriend getting thrown over a railing because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

It’s a low blow, but Demetri doesn’t care. It’s hard not to look at this girl and see part of the reason Miguel might never be able to walk again.

Sam LaRusso shoves him just as the godawful counselor is sauntering over, but to hell with it--maybe Demetri could spin this to his advantage.

“She hit me, Counselor Blatt!” he cries out, pointing at Sam. “Attacked and physically assaulted me, completely unprovoked!”

“That’s not true,” Eli mumbles, eyes darting. Flawlessly slipping back into the poor little Eli role in a way that never fails to make Demetri seethe. “It wasn’t unprovoked. He started all this by destroying my limited-edition comic book for no reason.”

Demetri puts on his most convincing remorseful face and sighs. “Look, that was an accident. I just tripped while I was walking and my milk spilled. Anyhow, if your book’s that valuable, you probably shouldn’t bring it into a school cafeteria where people are more than likely going to spill food on it.”

He’d like to see the dumb counselor argue with that.

“Look, I don’t want excuses. I just want you all to respect each other.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Demetri turns to give Eli a forced smile. “Nothing but 100% respect in this environment going forward, I assure you. Sorry if we caused any problems.”

Please, just anything to make her leave.

With one last warning to Sam LaRusso, the counselor is gone. Demetri turns to the two Miyagi-Dos and smirks.

“To hell with respect,” he sneers. “Your lot hardly deserve it.”

It doesn’t surprise Demetri when Eli and his little gang of Miyagi-Do losers decide to start shit in gym class. What he isn’t expecting is for Eli and his stupid blue hair to start running next to him--right after he’s tried and failed to catch Yasmine’s attention after scoring a goal.

He’s been thinking about her all morning--was Eli right about her? Did she only use him as a cover-up?

...would no one ever want to date him for him?

Well, maybe if he won Yasmine back, he could disprove that. If Moon was going to be hanging off of Eli’s arm before too long, chances were her and Yasmine’s relationship’s days were numbered.

Whatever Eli is about to say, Demetri can already tell it’s not going to help.

And it doesn’t. “Wow, Demetri. Few guys are so bad in a relationship that they manage to turn their girlfriend gay. I hope you feel accomplished.”

Demetri balls his fists. “Say that again. I dare you.”

“You really did have a good thing going with her,” Eli sighed, voice laced with condescending pity. “It’s a shame she decided she could do better than some belligerent Cobra Kai douchebag.”

And then suddenly Eli lunges for him and tackles him, knocking him to the ground just as easily as Demetri once did to Eli at the mall.

Not that it ended up mattering all that much--Demetri was able to talk the Cobra Kai’s way out of trouble in the principal’s office, just as he so often could. Nonetheless, it seemed Eli was hardly turning out to be as much of a pushover as he thought.

When Mitch and the guys invited Demetri to go to Golf N Stuff--fuck around for a bit, cause some mayhem--he wasn’t about to say no. The thrill took over, running around, snatching tickets and prizes away, throwing them in the trash--he almost felt as powerful as Kyler must have, all those months ago when he tossed the lesser kids’ backpacks in the garbage. Is this how it felt, to be on top? To have everyone else too scared to mess with you?

Because Demetri loved it.

What he wasn’t counting on was Sam LaRusso and her little posse arriving to confront them in the laser tag arena--including Eli, face hardened and ready to fight.

Things seemed to be going pretty poorly--that was, until Tory Nichols and the backup arrived. That reduced Sam LaRusso to a sniveling mess, and finally it looked like this would be an easy finish.

Demetri found himself only stalling for a second when the way cleared for him to go at Eli. Something about the sudden terror on the other boy’s face made him hesitate, but not for long. Eli threw a weak punch, and Demetri quickly flipped him onto the ground, pulling his arm up behind him.

“No, please, stop, Deme, stop! It’s me!”

Deme...

Eli’s old nickname for him.

Demetri pauses, and suddenly he feels sick. Deme...Eli’s nickname. Eli.

Wasn’t all of this for Eli? To protect Eli?

And now here he was, about to hurt him. The one thing he swore he was going to stop everyone else from doing.

And then comes the goading cries from Tory, Mitch, and the others. Do it! Finish him! He deserves it!

He deserves it.

And then Demetri remembers what happened to Miguel when he didn’t take his chance to finish the fight with Robby Keene. Suddenly Demetri’s running out of the end of a hallway again, seeing Miguel’s motionless body lying on the stairs, and the rage and horror and mind-numbing devastation hit him all over again.

“Demetri, finish him!”

In a split second, Demetri makes his decision. Eli’s arm snaps in half.

All it takes is one terrible, pained scream from Eli for Demetri’s entire world to come crashing down on him. What the fuck did he just do?

He can’t even hear the other Cobras, gleefully congratulating him and sneering at the “pussy” on the floor. All he can hear are Eli’s pained sobs.

He’d seen Eli cry before, but never like this. Never thanks to him.

When everyone congratulates him next practice, Demetri barely hears. He’s just numb. All he can see is Eli, curled up and crying on the dirty cement floor. When Tory tells him she didn’t think he was going to do it, all he can manage out is that Miyagi-Do had it coming for hurting Miguel.

And as if his week can’t get any worse, here come Kyler and his goons sauntering into the dojo like they own the damn place. Demetri does his best to convince Mr. Kreese this is by no means a wise idea, but the sensei will not hear of it.

When Kyler and Brucks realize who he is, it only makes Demetri more livid. “Oh shit, it’s the yogurt backpack kid! Lip’s little friend! I thought he moved away!” When a fighting ring is formed, giving the new recruits a chance to “earn their spot,” Demetri is all too ready for combat.

He’s horrified at how quickly Brucks takes down Mitch, how quickly his friend is ushered out the door. It was bad enough to see Bert go, but this...this is different.

He can’t remember the last time he’s felt more alone.

When Kyler steps forward, looking for an opponent, Demetri volunteers before anyone else can. Mr. Kreese shoots him a surprised look, but he doesn’t care. This fucko has been making his life hell for years--he can already tell this is going to be therapeutic.

Demetri doesn’t hold back. The fight has barely started before Kyler’s had enough. A few fast hits and his lip’s already bloody, and he’s backing away. “No...please stop...”

And suddenly Demetri’s back in the library, on that afternoon that seems like an eternity ago, watching Kyler grip Eli by the throat. Hearing him sneer “who would ever want to kiss THAT shit?” like Eli was the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen. Feeling absolutely powerless, hand clutching the back of a chair as he burned with rage that had nowhere to go.

Well, he wasn’t powerless now.

And before he knows it Demetri has Kyler pinned to the ground, landing punch after punch to his face. Because, he realizes, at the end of the day, who gives a fuck if Eli’s on the other side?

That’s still his Eli, even after everything. The same Eli he stood by for over 10 years, the same Eli who he wished so long that he could protect from everything, the same Eli who felt like he had to constantly hide a tiny red line on his face because his peers collectively decided--for no good reason at all--that it was ugly.

And maybe he couldn’t make those people hurt the way he wanted to then, but right now...well, he could hurt at least one. And that was enough.

He doesn’t stop until Kyler is practically pulverized and his hands are drenched in blood. After throwing his last punch, he smirks, leaning down to whisper into Kyler’s ear.

“Now who’d want to kiss THAT shit? That’s right, asshole--I remember.”

Demetri kicks Kyler’s limp form as he walks away. He shoots Brucks a glare as he falls back in line--just for good measure.

When Miguel comes back to school, Demetri’s one of the first to greet him at the door. “Cobra Kai’s still going strong! It’s going to be great to have you back!” He’s a little confused as to why Miguel seems so hesitant, but he doesn’t worry too much about it--they can sort through all that later.

Miguel’s certainly taken aback by the clunky cast he sees on Eli’s arm when he runs into him in the hall--but perhaps even moreso by the fact that he has both shamelessly dyed his hair blue and spiked it up in a mohawk and is currently walking the school hallways with Moon on his (unbroken) arm. As it turns out, once word got back to Moon that Yasmine was the one who had shamelessly whispered around the school about Demetri being gay, she had broken things off with her. And, with his new “coolness” upgrade, she’d taken quite a liking to Eli.

Not like she had any way of knowing he’d been planning on Yasmine’s cruel gossip, after all.

But the cast, Miguel quickly learns, has a much darker backstory than anything he could have expected.

He wastes no time confronting Demetri about it in the lunchroom. “I heard what happened with Eli. How could you do that?”

Demetri’s stomach clutches. He scowls, determined not to show his discomfort.

“Wow!” He scoffs. “We go to all the trouble of getting payback on those assholes for getting you thrown over that railing, and this is the thanks we get?”

Miguel shakes his head, horrified. “Dude, who cares what dojo Eli’s in? He’s our friend! And in any case, it’s not his fault what happened to me. What the hell were you thinking?”

I don’t know. I don’t know. Demetri’s face hardens. He can only imagine how angry Mr. Kreese would be with him if he caught him showing any kind of weakness. Any kind of second-guessing.

But he can’t help it. Glimpsing Eli in that cast for the first time...

“Look, the Miyagi-Dos were the ones who picked a fight with us,” Demetri retorts. “We just had to do what we had to so they’d back off and leave us alone. We had to finish the fight.”

Miguel pauses, looking pained. “This isn’t...this isn’t you, Demetri. You’re letting Kreese get in your head. He’s trying to manipulate you, get you to...obsess over revenge so you’ll hurt people. But I know you, and I know you don’t want to. Eli, or anyone else.”

Demetri clenches his fists. “What would you know about how I feel about Eli?”

“Look, I can’t claim I know what’s going on between you two,” Miguel amends. “But you have to believe me--Kreese is dangerous. He’s using you. He doesn’t care about you, Demetri. Just...come to Sensei Lawrence’s new dojo. Please. Things can be like they used to. You don’t have to be in this...this war.”

This gives Demetri pause. “He...made a new dojo?”

Okay, so he’s still not Mr. Lawrence’s biggest fan--the man is an asshole at the best of times. But to be able to train with Miguel again...to be able to be badass without being expected to be some soldier...

He can’t finish speaking before Brucks’s voice rings out through the cafeteria. “Look everyone, Lip’s got a dick in his hand!”

Demetri looks up to see Eli being held by the cast, eyes darting around as the entire cafeteria bursts into laughter. Involuntarily, Demetri bristles.

And there it is again, that feeling of being the helpless kid in the library as Eli’s taunted. And even after all this time...he still hates it.

Miguel turns to him, shaking his head. “So these are your friends now? I thought you were better than that.”

And just like that, Miguel’s gone. Gone from the Cobra Kai table, gone from Demetri’s life.

It makes him wonder if he’s making a huge mistake. But he knows he can’t back out now--not when he’s this far in. Who would even want to take him back? Probably not Miguel and Mr. Lawrence--despite what Miguel said, Demetri knows there’s no way he’s going to forgive him so easily for hurting their other friend. And certainly not Eli.

What makes it even worse is seeing Eli later that day, curled up against some lockers with Moon. Moon is tracing over his cast in colored sharpie, slowly transforming the dick pic into a beautiful landscape and night sky. Eli is bragging about how the arm-breaking didn’t hurt that bad.

Demetri remembers when that soft little smile was reserved only for him, and a pit starts to form in his stomach.

Well, no use bitching. You did this to yourself.

It seems like the world is out to just make Demetri’s existence in Cobra Kai as shitty as possible these days. Mitch and Bert are gone, Miguel isn’t coming back, Brucks is being a royal douchebag like always, and perhaps worst of all, Robby Keene shows up at the dojo. Demetri tries his damndest to appeal to Mr. Kreese about how outrageous this is--this is the kid who paralyzed Miguel in the fucking first place, what’s the point of dojo-wide revenge if they just take in the main culprit like an old buddy? But of course Mr. Kreese spouts some nonsense about how they need all the help they can get for the All-Valley, and sometimes you have to be allies with people you aren’t the biggest fans of, blah blah blah. To make matters worse, Tory--not a friend exactly, but probably the closest thing Demetri’s got to one left--is getting far too chummy with Robby for Demetri’s taste.

Maybe Demetri’s insane, but it seems like more and more ridiculous shit is being handwaved in the name of...what? Winning a karate tournament? Getting revenge for a kid who’s already recovered, and doesn’t even seem to want it?

When word gets back to Cobra Kai that Miyagi-Do and Eagle Fang are teaming up, Kreese sends the students on a special mission: Show the other dojos that even with their combined forces, they’re no match for Cobra Kai. It seems like a waste of time to Demetri--why antagonize other dojos just minding their business? It’s not like there was anything worth fighting for in this dumb war anymore, considering Miguel was on his feet again (literally AND figuratively). Nonetheless, Demetri finds he’s itching for a good fight--it’s been way too long since he’s charged into a full-fledged battle.

Maybe this will help him get it out of his system, if nothing else.

When the fight breaks out at the LaRussos, it doesn’t take long for Demetri to be overtaken by the thrill of it. Just like he was at the school fight. Just like he was at the tournament. He’s zipping through the house, landing kicks and punches left and right. And it feels good. With everything having been so awful lately, he can’t remember the last time he’s felt more alive.

And then he lands a fierce kick, and Brucks chest-bumps him. “Hell yeah! kick some ass! Dumb losers never had a chance.”

Brucks. The same kid who laughed when he saw Eli starting to cry about the comments he made on his lip. The same kid claiming Kyler tossing his backpack into a yogurt-filled trash can was “brute.” And now here he was trying to be buddy-buddy with him.

Everything comes crashing down on Demetri at once.

Miguel’s speech, saying Kreese is manipulating him. Saying Kreese doesn’t care about him. Kreese cherry-picking what does and doesn’t count as vengeance--hurting Eli, someone who had nothing to do with Miguel’s fall, does, but teaming up with the kid responsible for said fall apparently does not. Demetri’s friends being booted from Cobra Kai one by one, just for not being strong enough.

The sound of Eli’s screams and sobs in a dark laser tag room.

Miguel was right, wasn’t he? Kreese never cared about getting payback for him. He only cared about starting a war for his own sadistic pleasures.

Demetri hears grunting and whimpering, and he looks up to see two of the other Cobras kneeing Eli in the chest over and over. Pinning him into an arm bar.

“Yo, ‘Mete!” one calls out. “Free shot!”

Eli looks up, gaze full of fear and pain. Bright blue irises glinting with welling tears.

Once upon a time, Demetri made a promise to himself that he would stick with karate, aggravating as it may be, so he would never have to see that look on Eli’s face again. It’s time, he figures, that he finally made good on that.

His face contorts into a snarl, and he runs to Eli. Eli closes his eyes and scrunches his face, bracing for a pain that never comes.

Demetri kicks one Cobra to the wayside and smashes the other into a glass table with perhaps more force and adrenaline than he’s used all night.

When he turns to Eli, the other boy backs away, eyes still wide with terror. Demetri feels sick to his stomach, and the tears come before he can stop them.

“God, Eli, I’m so sorry,” he splutters. “I’m so fucking sorry, for everything. I don’t know what I was thinking, and it was all so fucked up, and--”

“Demetri.”

“--I’ll never hurt you like that again, but if you don’t want anything to do with me now, I totally understand, and--”

“Demetri.”

“--I was so awful to you, and I didn’t listen to you, and I should’ve been there for you, and I’m such a piece of shit friend and--”

“DEMETRI!”

Finally Eli raises his voice enough that Demetri pauses. “...yeah, Eli?”

“Please stop talking. I forgive you. Now are you going to shut up and help me finish this?” He raises a hand, as if to initiate their old handshake. An olive branch.

Demetri grins so wide he thinks his face is going to break, and he grips Eli’s hand like a lifeline. Something to finally pull him out of the darkness. “Yeah.”

They’re a lethal fighting team. Between Demetri landing speedy hits and Eli protecting him and shielding them both with his bulked-up form (where did he get all that muscle? Demetri wonders), they dispatch half the Cobras in minutes. Whatever rush Demetri was feeling fighting when he first got here is nothing compared to fighting with Eli.

When they stop the fight between Tory and Sam, Tory wastes no time voicing her disdain for the ex-Cobras. “You’d better watch your back,” she spits at Demetri, and he feels a chill run through him. Turns out this girl is terrifying when she’s not fighting on your side.

Eli intercepts her as she leaves, staring her down defiantly in a very un-Eli-like manner. “You’d better watch yours,” he growls. “Touch him, and I’ll end you.”

Demetri glances over in surprise. When did Eli get so bold?

Well...he thinks he could grow to like it.

Season 4 (because fuck it)

Demetri is hardly expecting Mr. LaRusso and Mr. Lawrence to forgive him, never mind let him into their new dojo. But life has a lot of pleasant surprises in store for him, it seems, after the shitshow it recently put him through. It’s also possible Eli (and maybe Miguel too) but in a good word for him.

Demetri can’t stop apologizing to Eli. Seemingly every day, he finds a new thing to apologize for. Eli gets aggravated with it before long, having to reassure Demetri at least 50 separate times that he forgives him for everything. Nonetheless, Demetri refuses to stop--because he’ll never stop being sorry.

Or trying to find new ways to make it up to Eli. Going easy on him during sparring. Buying him lunch after practice. Helping him perfect some of the most badass Cobra moves.

Things end between Eli and Moon. Eli can’t fully elaborate on why--he just tells Demetri something didn’t feel quite right. The spark died out, like Demetri’s adrenaline rush slowly seeping away toward the end of a fight. That, and, Demetri gathers, something seems to have been distracting Eli from his girlfriend as of late.

Most likely the approaching, high stakes All-Valley. Karate is Serious Business, as they’ve both embraced now.

Rumor has it Yasmine and Moon are trying again, Yasmine realizing for seemingly the first time how awful she’s really been and making an effort to be better. Moon makes her want to be better--more than Demetri ever did, he realizes. And maybe that’s okay--he and Yasmine probably just weren’t right for each other.

Then one day, after yet another one of Demetri’s long-winded apologies, Eli offers something other than an exasperated. “It’s okay. Seriously.” There’s a pause before Eli quietly says “I’m sorry too.”

“For what?” Demetri blurts out, baffled. Everything Eli’s done has paled in comparison to his own atrocities.

“For outing you,” Eli says simply. “That was fucked. And it wasn’t my place, even if I was mad at you.”

“It’s all right.” Demetri shrugs. “You were right, anyways.”

Eli gives him a strange look. “I was?”

“Yeah, I mean...” Demetri laughs dryly. “I don’t...like girls. I pretended I did, because I felt like I was supposed to. That’s what people expect you to do when you’re a top athlete and all that. But dating Yasmine, chasing other girls, it always felt...empty. Like I was just acting out a role in a play or something. And at the end of the day, I think...” He pauses. “I think I was always looking at you.”

Because the last few months have made him realize something. Training with Eli, teaching Eli how to protect himself, watching Eli step up and defend him from the mistrusting stares and the scornful whispers...

Just how much of the person he’s become is thanks to wanting to protect Eli. The fact that that was always how all this started.

“I love you,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself. “I know I did a shitty job of showing it, and I know you were with Moon and you’re not like that, but I need you to know, and I understand if you don’t feel--”

Eli cuts him off with a fierce kiss, pinning him up against the dojo wall with unexpected aggressiveness.

When Eli pulls away, he’s smiling softly. The same smile he gave Moon in the hall as she drew on his cast--the smile that’s once again all Demetri’s.

“I love you too,” he murmurs. “Why do you think I broke up with Moon? Every time I was with her...I couldn’t stop wishing it was you. She’ll never know me like you do.”

And Kreese had better look out because Miyagi Fang’s next big power couple is a force to be reckoned with--the snarky, frighteningly fast-attacking ex-Cobra, and the buff, blue-mohawked Miyagi-Do with more inner peace than anyone would expect.

SOME RANDOM SIDENOTES ABOUT THIS BECAUSE I DIDN’T FEEL LIKE PUTTING THIS ALL IN THE TAGS

~I’m sorry if anyone is OOC in this--I know Johnny is kind of a fuck, but he genuinely WAS pretty crappy to Eli at first and who knows if he would’ve treated him any better if he didn’t “flip the script”??? ~Dark/Evil Demetri is so fun but also so awful to write--I hope you like him being an absolute fuck because the Corruption Arc is REAL ~Yes, I DO in fact fully believe Demetri would go on a crazed revenge quest just like Eli/Hawk did out of his grief for Miguel--the boy absolutely loves Miguel and arguably would want vengeance as much as Eli if their roles were swapped!!! Because Demetri cares about Miguel SO FUCKING MUCH even if it’s not as obvious as it is with Eli but that’s a rant for another post ~I included YasMoon because fuck it, I thought it’d be interesting. That and, unlike the Cobra Kai writers, I am not at all afraid of what conservative audiences will say, so I am not afraid to make things as gay as possible. ~There’s a good chance I swapped Kyler and Brucks’ places near the end solely so I could have Demetri beat the fuck out of Kyler because I just really need that ~Yes, even without formally becoming “Hawk,” Eli could learn how to be a conniving manipulative little shit if he wanted to be. Look at some of the shit he pulls with the counselor in canon Season 3!!! Boy sure as hell knows how to play the victim. ~Honestly not sure if being outed as gay is better or worse than being outed as a bed-wetter, but I had to think of something that would pack the same kind of emotional punch. In Eli’s feeble defense, the West Valley High kids don’t seem like the types to be like...especially violent against queer kids (otherwise NO WAY would Moon and Piper have been able to be that open about their relationship), they’d just be assholes about it. So Eli wasn’t putting Demetri in legit danger here so much as just opening him up to a lot of ridicule. Which is still fucked, but hey, I DID warn you this would be kind of fucked up XD ~Maybe short, concise apologies work for Eli, bUT NOT FOR DEMETRI THE RAMBLER ~Dark Demetri chasing Eli through the school like a goddamn serial killer = 10/10 gave myself a big Spook writing ~Yes, Eli does still have (and always had) his “Hawk” traits, even without the formal “transformation.” I just think his “Hawk” side would be a little more subtle and subdued if he were in Miyagi-Do, but it’s still there for sure.

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usaonetwothree · 3 years ago

Note

First of all thank you thank you thank you so much for the johnny whump!!!

Also wondering if there's any chance you will be writing any johnny whump featuring more johnny/Carmen? Maybe an extension of that part of The Agreement where she's examining his injuries? The thought just gives me total whumperflies!

Thank you so much for the message, Anon!! And you're most welcome! The show is just teeing it up so nicely. I'm really just continuing what they started :)

I hadn't thought about an interlude to The Agreement, but now my plot bunnies are going. Give me a few weeks to see what I come up with! I'll post it here for sure, and if it's long enough, I'll copy it over to ao3 as a second chapter.

In the interim, I have the start of a whumpy two-chapter fic that I don't know if I'm going to finish. Working summary is "Johnny doesn't have time to get sick. Besides, it's just food poisoning... right?" I'll post the completed first chapter below, and the plan for chapter two would be from Carmen's point-of-view from the ambulance ride through surgery and Johnny finally waking up. I wrote a lot of the ideas I had for her part into Conflict, which is why I think I'm stalled on it here in coming up with something different. I don't know how long it'll take me to figure that out (if ever) but at least you'll have the first chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Thank you again for the kind message!

Pain exploded in his side, worse than he’d ever felt before. He had reference for this: he’d torn, strained, bruised, strained, dislocated and broken many things in the past. This pain blew them all away. It was he’d been stabbed with a hot knife up to the hilt, and someone was twisting it around in his guts.

His hand went to the area, came away warm, but he wasn’t bleeding. Felt like it. Felt oozing and wet and raw.

Somehow, above the nausea, above the stabbing ache in his head, he knew this was serious. And he needed help.

He couldn’t remember where his phone was. Didn’t have time to stop and think.

With every inch of his skin on fire, he leveraged himself off the couch and almost screamed as utter agony raced up his side. His knees buckled but he didn’t let himself fall. If he did, he knew he wouldn’t get back up.

Partially hunched over, he stumbled forward, careful not to jar his torso. He caught the door before the handle, barely cracking it open before he almost fell through. He jabbed his right elbow into the stucco wall, used that as a guide.

Elbow on the wall, left hand on his abdomen, trying to hold whatever was wrong in. One foot in front of the other.

It was the only thing going through his head.

Left.

Right.

Left.

A chill tore up his spine. His brain went fuzzy for a second and his elbow came away from the wall.

He almost went down again, caught himself at the last second. Leaned so far right he almost bashed his head into the stucco.

But he was vertical again.

He kept going until he hit another door.

The door that could help him.

Everything hurt now. He was sweating, burning up. His eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head, and his limbs were trembling.

He tried to knock, lost his balance. Went down in a heap of limbs.

His side crashed into the ground and fire tore through his abdomen, pain so sharp and intense he couldn’t speak—couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think.

He thought he smelled something familiar. Heard something close. Felt something against his forehead.

But it was lost in a wave of blackness.

A * A

Twelve hours earlier…

Daniel LaRusso walked into Miyagi-Fang to hear a sound he was uncomfortably familiar with. As his own stomach churned in sympathy, he stepped closer to the small wood door leading to the bathroom and rapped on it.

“Everything okay?” he asked, scrunching up his nose as the stench filtered out into the dojo.

“Fine,” a thin voice gasped.

“Johnny?” Daniel rapped harder on the door. “Let me in.”

“‘m fine.”

Daniel then heard the toilet flush and someone heave themself upright, before the faucet was turned on.

“Johnny, what’s wrong?” The worst-case scenarios were flashing through Daniel’s head: Johnny had gone after Kreese and gotten his ass kicked, he was drunk and trying to sober up before class…

But when the door slid open and a pale-faced and miserable Johnny stepped out, Daniel knew both were wrong.

“Are you sick?”

Johnny shook his head, then winced. “Don’t think so,” he said as he shuffled to the inlaid bench and sat down, propping his head against his hands with his elbows braced against his knees. “Bologna might have turned."

“I told you you should stop buying that stuff,” Daniel said as he fetched a water bottle from the small fridge and sat down beside Johnny, sliding it between his side and forearms.

“Then what am I going to have for breakfast?” he groaned, ignoring the bottle of water.

Daniel lightly wiggled it so it tapped Johnny’s arm and side. Groaning, the other man straightened up so his head was leaning against the paneling and took the water. “Cereal.”

Johnny took a small sip of the water and grimaced. “Milk goes bad,” he said faster but in a much steadier tone.

“Drink it faster. Or have eggs and bacon.”

Johnny groaned and clenched his jaw as his chest heaved painfully. “No more… food talk,” he ground out.

“Duly noted.” Daniel stood again and grabbed a towel, wetting it in the sink and laying it over Johnny’s forehead as he sat back down.

At first, Johnny pulled back in surprise, the towel slipping, but then he caught it and visibly relaxed.

“Thanks,” he muttered, closing his eyes and resituating the towel.

“How are you going to teach like this?”

“It’ll pass.”

“Uh huh.”

“Weren’t supposed to... be here this early,” Johnny mumbled as he shifted in his seat. He winced again then slowly lowered himself so he was lying on the bench, bringing his socked feet to rest on the wood as well. Daniel, who had originally been in the way, just shifted so Johnny could lie down unimpeded.

“That’s not making me feel a whole lot better.”

“’ll be fine by four,” Johnny replied. “Got like... an hour right?”

“Thirty minutes at best, and you know Miguel is always early.”

“’ll be fine by then,” Johnny repeated, somehow sounding so sure that Daniel found himself believing him.

He stood, then lowered the singular shade over the window. “I’ll come get you before class starts.”

Johnny just shook his head, though Daniel had yet to see his posture actually relax.

And yet, twenty minutes later, Johnny was standing in the backyard, dressed in his gi, looking… surprisingly normal. He was still a little paler than usual, but had clearly tried to push some color back into his face, judging by a few fading streaks on his cheeks.

“How?” was all Daniel could ask. The last time he’d had food poisoning, it had taken him four days and a trip to urgent care before he could leave his bedroom without puking.

“Mind over matter,” Johnny mumbled, straightening up as the kids began to stream in through the door.

That was… bullshit? Unbelievable? Incredible? But at the core of it, so very Johnny.

The kids were so caught up in the latest non-karate drama at the high school that none of them shot Johnny another glance. He did look at Daniel, grinning genuinely, and mouthed, “Thanks.”

Daniel just nodded, then set out doing the last bit of preparations for class.

A * A

If Johnny was being honest with himself, he should have known something else was wrong. His stomach had been hurting all day, even though he’d barely eaten anything since dinner yesterday: fried bologna, ketchup and some leftover rice Carmen had brought a few days ago.

But there was too much going on for him to be sick. There was getting the kids ready for the All-Valley, so they could once and for all remove Kreese from Cobra Kai—not that Johnny would be reinstating that name anytime soon anyway; his budding relationship with Carmen—which Miguel still did not know about; and the knowledge that Robby and a handful of his other students were doing who-knew-what under Kreese’s command.

There wasn’t any time for his problems.

So he’d taken a Tums last night, not really understanding how that had shown up in his medicine cabinet, and tried to sleep it off.

He’d shot awake somewhere around two, tangled in a thin sheet, sweating so badly it felt like he’d just come in from a run. But something else was wrong. His face felt too hot, the skin too tight, and his stomach continued to flip lazily, despite him begging it to stay where it was.

He’d cranked up the fan, and sipped some water, which was a mistake.

His stomach had rolled and he was puking up his meager dinner not long after. He sat there for a long time, head leaning against the cool seat, until he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken again when his forehead slid off the toilet and thudded into the vanity.

He was cool this time, freezing, and shit, that was signs of a fever. That much he knew.

He did not have time for this.

Still on his knees, he managed to reach the shower dial and turn it on. Then he crawled into the tub, clothes still on, and sat there, letting the cool water beat on him while he shivered uncontrollably.

He could not get sick. This had to be a twenty-four hour thing. The kids all came in with their runny noses, who knew what they got into at school. Maybe it was time he caved to LaRusso wanting hand sanitizer stations on the way out for those germ-minded kids.

Eventually the freezing water had become unbearable and he barely managed to reach back high enough to turn it off. Then came the more difficult task of stripping off his wet clothes, which he ended up doing still sitting in the tub, because the act of fighting with his clothes while standing seemed rather exhausting.

But then, he did have to get up, and it took everything he had to stay that way. His head swam and his stomach lurched.

That was when he felt a stabbing pain in his stomach around his navel.

No way this was some sort of flu.

He was reminded of Miguel pulling the package of bologna out of the fridge and frowning at the date. “This is over a week old, Sensei.”

“It’s fine,” Johnny had said.

Miguel had looked a split second away from pitching it, but had put it back in the fridge and chosen the bag of pretzels on the counter instead.

So this was food poisoning. It had to be.

He’d be in for a rough night, but it should be over by tomorrow, when he needed to be at the dojo, when he needed to be on.

The knowledge didn’t make his illness any easier, but it had made it manageable. He’d thrown up a few more times; felt his stomach cramp so severely, it doubled him over; and had eventually fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, ankles bracing the toilet, head leaning back against the far wall.

He didn’t feel better, per say, when he woke, but good enough to haul himself out of the bathroom, change into a loose shirt and sweats, and into the kitchen where he sipped at some OJ, literally the only thing in his entire kitchen that didn’t send his stomach rolling again.

At some point, he’d passed out on the couch watching TV and had jarred awake two hours before class.

He had to be there.

So he’d dry swallowed some aspirin and chewed another Tums, begged whoever was up there to keep them down, and headed out with the OJ tucked under his arm.

He’d barely made it to the dojo when his stomach began to cramp again, induced by the shifting horizons while he was driving. LaRusso found him and his once-nemesis had been surprisingly gentle. When he was better, Johnny owed him more than just a quick thanks for being decent about it, instead of leaving him to suffer on his own.

He’d had to pull over on the way home to puke again. Though he didn’t know what he was bringing up at this point. It was all acid and gunk from what he could see.

He was less than a mile from his apartment complex and he sure as hell wasn’t walking, so he slid back into the car, focused with all his remaining energy and went approximately ten miles an hour in the righthand lane the remaining way.

His fever was kicking up again as he parked, and his stomach began to ache with new intensity. He barely made it to the couch before he was retching again into the bowl he’d so left there earlier for just that purpose.

His head was pounding, his ears ringing, and the pain in his stomach had shifted so it was on his lower right side. He’d bruised a kidney before and it’d hurt in its own way, but it had been nothing like this. He hadn’t even fought anyone since Kreese. Couldn’t risk injuring himself and getting benched. Not with everything that was at stake.

It felt like he was getting the massage from hell, but inside, down in his guts. They were churning, dancing, twisting, oblivious to the pain they were causing. His actual organs hurt, however that was possible.

He sipped at the water, and immediately retched it back up.

Somewhere deep down he knew that was bad. Knew he needed to stay hydrated. Knew he hadn’t drunk enough the past eighteen hours. Knew he could replenish some of it from the shower, but it was so far away.

He just leaned his head against the arm rest, shifting until he found an angle that didn’t make him violently nauseous, and must have passed out.

It was only when he woke up that he knew something was seriously wrong, and that he had to get some help, and ended up passing out again in front of Carmen’s door.

Only it hadn’t been Carmen who answered.

“Sensei!” Miguel shouted, trying and failing to catch the older man. “Mama! Yaya!” he shouted as he dropped to his knees beside his Sensei, whose face was red and flushed but otherwise seemed uninjured.

“Sensei, please.” Miguel begged, tapping Sensei’s face and feeling the heat radiating off it. “MAMA!” he yelled again as he jabbed his fingers into Sensei’s neck, finding a thin pulse.

Then arms were on his shoulders, pulling him away, as his mom replaced him.

“¡Llame una ambulancia!”

Yaya was telling him to back up, was shoving her phone into his hands.

He didn’t remember making the call, but he must have. His mom was trying to rouse Sensei, had unbuttoned his shirt, and was swearing.

“Qué pasa?” Miguel demanded, but she didn’t answer.

“Ice, Miguel,” his mom was ordering, still bent over Sensei. “Quick!”

His feet were moving, grabbing whatever frozen vegetables they had in the freezer and handing them to his mom, who was placing them around Sensei’s neck, under his arms, around his groin.

Sensei groaned, flinched, but didn’t rouse.

“What’s wrong?” Miguel heard himself ask, but his mom was telling Yaya to take him in the apartment instead of responding.

“No!” he shouted, planting his feet. “I'm not leaving.”

His mom turned to look at him, a bit of panic in her eyes before she could hide it. “Go inside, Miggy. Please,” she said very carefully.

As much as Miguel didn’t want to, he did. Until he heard the sirens. Then he was outside the door again, watching as the paramedics swarmed Sensei.

They were asking his mom a bunch of questions and she was rattling off the answers. Then Sensei was on a gurney and they were rolling away and his mother was climbing into the ambulance with him, and then they were gone.

Miguel felt Yaya’s arm wrap around his upper back, not tall enough to reach his shoulders, and he turned and buried her head into her shoulder, letting the tears fall.

#johnny lawrence #carmen diaz #daniel larusso #cobra kai #cobra kai fanfiction #asks #answered #THANK YOU

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kurokoros · 5 years ago

Text

appetence (part 1) | bakugou katsuki

Rated: M

Words: 4.8K

Pairing: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader

Summary: Appetence: longing or desire. A mission to track down a villain leaves you and Bakugou in a rather… compromising situation. It’s going to be a long twenty-four hours.

AN: I have zero explanations for this one either. I just felt like writing a smutty fic with Bakugou and the reader locked in a building for twenty four hours. Queue the kinky smut. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for future chapters! I’ll try to update once a week, but it depends on how long the chapters get! I’m aiming for 4-5 chapters, but again, we’ll see!

Warnings: smut, language, aphrodisiacs, marathon!sex (future chapters)

XXX

As a Pro Hero, you’re no stranger to potentially hazardous situations. Tracking an A rank criminal isn’t exactly a new experience. In fact, most of these missions go exactly the same way. Mind-numbingly boring stakeouts that can last for hours until you can verify the presence of your target. A sixty second window between verifying the presence of said target and all hell breaking loose. And, of course, the part where all hell breaks loose because no one can understand the concept of a stealth mission. Stakeouts you can handle, for the most part. While boring, at least you aren’t actively being punched, stabbed, or shot at, so you consider it a minor win most of the time. The conversation is never great, but you can deal with that. And, really, you can’t complain about having a six feet wall of solid muscle to back you up.

But why the hell did you have to get stuck with Ground Zero?

You cast a glance at the other Pro out of the corner of your eye, your mouth twisting into a frown when you see his agitated expression. He looks halfway to blowing a gasket already, and you’ve hardly been here for an hour. At this rate, the two of you aren’t going to last until the target slips up.

It’s not that you dislike Bakugou. That’s not it at all. Frankly, you usually enjoy working with the brash, temperamental man. He’s a good Hero: smart, strong, capable. He always watches your back when you need him to—and you can’t deny that he’s some pretty great eye-candy, considering your situation. But he’s also incredibly impatient. And watching him pace around like a caged animal isn’t exactly helping your own irritation at being stuck in a cramped, ram-shackled building, in the rain, waiting to catch a glimpse of a villain that might not even be here.

It’s going to be a very long night.

“Would you sit down?” you snap at him, tearing your eyes from the compound you’re supposed to be staking out once again. He shoots you an irritated look, and you sigh, shifting in your seat. “Please? You’re making me claustrophobic.” It’s like he’s trying to make you antsy. Usually, stakeouts aren’t this bad, but something about the shitty location and the shitty weather--and the fact that he’s close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off him--have you a little on edge.

Something in Bakugou’s eyes shifts, his glare losing it’s bite, but then he snorts. Shuffling back to where you’re sitting near the small window of the hideout, he does as you ask, though he doesn’t look happy about it. Whatever. You’re just glad he doesn’t seem to be in an arguing mood right now.

“This is fucking stupid,” he grumbles under his breath. You probably wouldn’t have heard him if there wasn’t exactly two inches of space between you. His shoulder brushes against yours as he crosses his arms, firm muscle flexing beneath his costume.

You ignore your little flicker of disappointment over the fact that he’s wearing his winter costume.

Figuring he’s complaining about the waiting, you say, “Regardless, we can’t just go charging in there, Ground Zero.” This time, you keep your gaze locked on the building Cobra is supposed to be in, watching for any signs of movement at all. Nothing. Either Cobra’s being especially careful--something he’s never been before--or you were given faulty Intel. “We don’t even know if Cobra is inside,” you remind your partner. “Dammit, if Omen sent us on a bust mission…” You trail off with a heavy sigh.

Bakugou follows your gaze to the building, regarding it carefully. It’s not particularly large or heavily fortified, but that’s the point. It’s the perfect place for a group of villains to hide and lay low for a while. His jaw clenches and he turns back to you. “What do we know about him?”

You sigh, shooting him another look. “Did you seriously not do any briefing at all?” You shake your head. “Why they put you on this mission instead of Deku is beyond me.” Before he can start bickering, you continue. “Cobra’s quirk allows him to secrete and manipulate toxic fluids created from his body. Gasses too, according to a few sources.”

It’s not too different from Bakugou’s quirk, if you think about it, but you’d take the explosive sweat over toxins rivaling that of a Box Jellyfish any day.

He scoffs. “That all?”

“Reportedly, these toxins can be corrosive enough to burn straight through human tissue and bone in a matter of minutes.” Bakugou doesn’t look the slightest bit impressed by the new information, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. “If he manages a direct hit on either of us, we’ll have an hour tops to get help before the damage is irreversible. And we don’t have backup,” you remind him.

“Whatever,” he grumbles. Despite his blasé reaction, you’ve known him long enough to recognize the slight furrow of his brow. Clearly, he’s about as enthused as you are about dealing with Cobra. “Any idea how to take him down?”

Pursing your lips, you turn back to the building across the street, scanning the windows for any kind of movement as you contemplate your response. “We’ll have to be careful,” you tell him. He snorts at the obvious advice. “Cobra is fast, and we only have one shot at this. He tends to go underground for long periods of time after a spree like this week.” Two bank robberies and a successful museum heist. He’s getting bolder, smarter--running with a crew now. You need to take him out now or things are only going to continue to escalate. “If we time it right, we should be able to incapacitate him fairly easily if we stick together. He has a strong quirk, but he’s not much of a fighter.”

Bakugou hums in thought, his brows furrowing as he surveys the building as well. “Got a plan, babe?” he asks. There’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there just a moment ago, and you can tell he’s just itching for a fight. Clearly, you should have told him about the corrosive, flesh-dissolving poison earlier.

Bakugou catches your gaze and smirks in a way that does dangerous things to your heart. And then--fuck--he actually licks his lips and a large part of your brain short-circuits for about half a second before you catch yourself. Shit, you need to confirm the target and get some sleep. Obviously, you aren’t thinking straight.

You swallow thickly, mouth a little dry. “Apparently, he’s a talker,” you say, opting not to comment on the pet-name. “If we time it right, I can keep him distracted long enough for you to blast his ass from behind.”

His expression goes from pleased to petulant in a second. “You wanna play bait?” he grinds out from between his teeth. The question comes out akin to a low growl, and you quirk a brow at his apprehension, bristling. A quip burns on your tongue, but any thought of snapping at him for doubting you disappears as soon as you glance at him. There’s a slight grimace on his face, like he’s uncomfortable with the thought of you playing distraction for an occasionally homicidal art thief with a quirk that can eat through flesh like paper. As soon as he realizes you’re watching him, Bakugou’s lips curl back in a sneering grin. “Sure you can handle that?”

“One of us has to,” you say, deciding to ignore whatever just happened. You can worry about that later. You glance at him again, grinning. “And I’m faster.” He still doesn’t look very reassured, so you try a different tactic. “Though, like I said, that’s only if he’s here.”

Of course, that’s when a small explosion goes off in the building across from you.

Bakugou swears under his breath, lunging to his feet. “That proof enough for ya, sweetheart?” he asks, straightening his gauntlets. He flexes his fingers before curling his hands into fists. His roguish grin is back.

“Dammit,” you hiss, scrambling up as well. The explosion might not be big, but it is noticeable. Criminals don’t draw attention to themselves like this unless they don’t plan on sticking around much longer. “Let’s go.”

You practically throw yourself out the window, Bakugou right on your heels as the two of you fall two stories to the ground. Hitting the ground, you roll to your feet. The impact jostles you, but it’s not the biggest fall you’ve had before, and Bakugou’s firm hand on your lower back urges you forward silently.

The two of you run silently across the street, smoke from the explosion offering you cover, so thick you almost can’t see. “Stay close and stick to the plan,” you call towards Bakugou, not waiting for a response as you dash towards the entrance on the side of the building, close to where the explosion came from. If you can cut Cobra off as he’s trying to run, you might be able to end this fight before it really starts.

Things go wrong the moment you step into the building.

The smoke is thick and noxious. The smell burns your nose and chokes your throat; your eyes water, stinging, your mask doing little to protect you. Something about it doesn’t feel right, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, goosebumps prickling across your bare arms and legs. The smoke and the smell are disorienting, and you know immediately that you need to get rid of it, but neither of your quirks are practical for this. Bakugou’s would only spread it around. Shit, this isn’t good at all.

Movement to your left draws your attention. Your gaze snaps to the hazy outline of a person racing past you and disappearing around a corner. Bakugou. Swearing under your breath, you take off after him. Of course he would ignore the plan--as vague and half-assed as it was--and run headlong into things like this. You should have expected as much coming from Ground Zero. Hopefully you can catch him before he runs into Cobra.

Careful not to make a sound, you race after him, throwing yourself around the same corner he did. The hallway is empty already, but you can hear faint footsteps coming from the other end. The smoke isn’t as thick here either. You round the corner at the other end of the hallway in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of Bakugou turning another corner. Huffing, you give chase again, picking up the pace now that you can see again.

It’s like a game of cat and mouse. Each time you think you’ve caught up, he manages to stay just out of your reach, much to your frustration. You don’t know what the hell he’s playing at, but when you catch him you’re going to throttle him. Damn stubborn bastard.

You round another corner.

A hand lashes out, purple gas bubbling against a calloused palm.

The reflexes you’ve gained from being a Pro are the only thing that saves you from having your face melted away. “Shit,” you hiss, throwing yourself back against the nearest wall as the blast blows past you. Some of that purple gas brushes the tips of your hair, dangerously close to your nose, and you watch the strands dissolve in front of you.

“Ooh, you’re fast,” the man in front of you compliments. His grin is wide, revealing dangerously sharp canines. He stares at you from behind spiky hair, impressed. “Not many people are able to dodge a point blank hit like that.” His head cocks to one side, his expression smug. “The commission really sent in the pros this time, huh? I’m so flattered.” The toxin he secretes with his quirk liquefies and drips down his fingers. The ground smokes where the droplets land.

“Cobra,” you respond, voice even. Shit. It definitely wasn’t Bakugou earlier. Cobra must have noticed you were there, somehow, and used the smoke to get you separated. Fuck, you’re going to kill Omen later. Tensing, you keep your eyes on Cobra as the man takes a step towards you, relaxed despite his escape being compromised.

Maybe this is what he was waiting for.

You clench your jaw, back straightening as you edge away from the wall--you can’t let him pin you down.

His smile widens. “I see my reputation precedes me.” He looks particularly pleased with himself at your recognition, violet eyes darkening as he looks you over. His fingers flex, purple smoke billowing around his palms. He doesn’t strike at you though, not yet.

If you can keep him distracted for a little longer, maybe Bakugou will be able to find you. You can still make this work. You can fend him off for that long. “How did you know we were here?” you ask, wetting your lips.

If he finds the conversation suspicious, he certainly doesn’t act like it. “Just a hunch,” he tells you, shrugging. “Things were a little too quiet. I figured the commission had to be sending someone.” The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “Didn’t think it would be you and Ground Zero though. They must be getting desperate, huh?” His drawling tone makes your jaw clench in irritation. When you take too long to respond, Cobra sighs, his mouth curving down in a disappointed sneer. “Well, as much as I’d love to stay and chat, I really don’t feel like going to jail today. So why don’t you make this easy for me and step aside?”

Your hand curls into a fist that doesn’t go unnoticed by the villain in front of you. Channeling your quirk into your feet, you prepare yourself for his next strike.

“No?” Any lingering friendliness disappears in an instant at your silent refusal. “All right, sweetheart, we’ll do things your way.” He throws his arm forward, poisonous gas hurtling towards you.

You’re already moving, springing from your spot as pale blue electricity crackles around you. The impact of your feet against the opposite wall sends a shock-wave through your legs, and you whirl around, keeping your eyes on your target. There’s a hole in the wall where you were just standing, and a jolt of fear strikes you between your ribs.

The next blast comes just as suddenly as the first, and you dive out of the way again. It sets up another game of cat and mouse, but this time you’re the one running, and there’s nowhere for you to hide. You don’t know the building like he does, and Cobra is proving to be nearly as fast as you are, throwing poison gas at you just as quickly as you can dodge it.

He doesn’t let you get close enough to strike at him, and you silently curse your quirk for being ill-suited for long range combat. You’d need to land a direct hit, and in these cramped hallways you can’t surprise him from behind.

Where the hell is Bakugou?

Poison nearly scorches your arm, and you hiss as it burns your skin despite not touching you directly. With your jaw clenched, you throw yourself against the wall to your right. In the split second before he can aim his quirk at you, you change your angle and lunge for him. Cobra’s eyes widen in surprise. Caught off guard, he doesn’t have the time to deflect the electrically charged fist aimed towards his head.

Cobra smirks.

Panic wells in your chest, and you pull your fist back just as Cobra dissolves in front of you. Your knuckles brush against the cloud of violet dust before it disappears. Fire races through your veins.

“Too slow,” a teasing voice calls from behind you. You whirl around on your heel, prepared to strike again, but Cobra is faster. As soon as you catch a glimpse of him, his hand lashes out. Coral colored dust explodes in front of your face, blinding you. The powder sticks to your skin and chokes you, rushing down your nose and throat until you feel like you can’t breathe.

It knocks the breath out of you, throwing off your balance, and suddenly you’re falling to your knees and coughing. Panic swells in your chest, but you’re quick to shove it down. It’ll only make the poison spread faster. You can already feel it burning through your veins, an uncomfortable heat tingling from your fingertips to your abdomen.

As if he can hear your thoughts, Cobra smirks, all teeth. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s not poison,” he coos, crouching down in front of you. “I couldn’t do that to a face this pretty.” He grasps your chin between his fingers, tilting your head so that you’re forced to look at him. The desire to lash out rushes through you, but your limbs are heavy and you still can’t breathe. Cobra wets his lips. “Though, you might wish I did.”

A hiss escapes through your teeth as you double over, the heat intensifying. “What the hell did you--” You cut off abruptly, crying out as a full-body shiver wracks your frame.

“Such a strong reaction already,” he muses, squeezing your chin a little tighter. “You’d be a fun one to play with. Damn shame I can’t stay to watch the results.” There must be a puzzled expression on your face, because Cobra leans in a little closer, lips hovering an inch away from yours. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, sweetheart. I like to mix a little pleasure with my pain.”

It clicks. “An aphrodisiac,” you gasp.

He taps your cheek with one finger, and the feather-like touch makes your breath hitch. “Smart girl. Poison works fast, but sometimes it’s fun to watch people squirm a little--until they’re just begging to get fucked.” Cobra’s head cocks to the side. “Bet you can feel it now, right? Heard it’s a bit like liquid fire. And let me tell ya, that itch isn’t just gonna go away by itself.” He chuckles. “I’d give you a hand, but I don’t think your partner would like that very much.”

Cobra releases your chin and lunges to his feet, swinging his arm just in time to send a fistful of that pink powder directly into Bakugou’s face.

“Ground Zero!” you cry out, voice shrill.

A small explosion bursts in front of Bakugou, dissipating most of Cobra’s quirk before it can hit him. He winces as the dust burns his throat.

“Perfect timing,” Cobra murmurs, throwing himself backwards as Bakugou drives his fist into the ground in front of you.

The floor explodes. You throw your arms up to cover your face, and when you lower them again, Bakugou is standing in front of you, one arm thrown out defensively as he glares at Cobra, sneering. His shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, and in your dazed state you can’t help but appreciate how broad they are.

“Stay the fuck away from her!” Bakugou growls, his fingers sparking. You can feel the tension rolling from him, the hallway sweltering with the heat from his quirk and the drug burning through your veins.

Cobra glances between the two of you, a slow smirk overtaking him. “As you wish,” he says, taking a step back. “You two have fun.” And then he turns around and runs.

Instead of giving chase, Bakugou whirls around and drops to his knees in front of you. His gloved hands cradle your jaw carefully, and you whimper as he touches you. Heat bursts across your skin. Fuck, he needs to stop touching you. “Ground Zero,” you gasp, “you have to--”

“Shut up,” he snaps at you, tilting your chin to the side. His ruby eyes look over you carefully. “That bastard hurt you?” he demands, jaw clenched. The pad of his thumb brushes against your bottom lip.

“I’m fine,” you hiss through your teeth. “He said it wasn’t poison.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s so close that you can smell the caramel scent of his quirk. It curls around you, making you press your thighs together tightly. You shiver as he moves your head to the side again, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop another soft noise from slipping from your mouth.

Bakugou’s eyes narrow. “And you think he was telling the truth?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes. Now you need to go after him, I’ll be fine.”

He continues to stare at you, then makes a displeased sound in the back of his throat. “You better be right fucking here when I get back,” he snaps, lurching to his feet and taking off after Cobra.

XXX

Outside of the building, a hooded figure glances up as Cobra comes strolling out of the building, his arms crossed behind his head lazily. “You took too long, Cobra,” he says, voice eerily blank. Blue eyes narrow behind his hood, glowing in the darkness.

“What can I say?” Cobra grins, winking at his partner. “Good things take time, Diamondback.”

Diamondback's gaze slides to the building curiously. “Did you finish them off?”

Cobra’s smile widens. “Not quite,” he says, waving off the other man’s concern, “but they won’t be following us anytime soon.”

“You sure about that, bastard?” someone snarls behind them.

Both men look up, Cobra glancing over his shoulder to see Ground Zero racing towards them, small explosions lighting up the darkness. Cobra’s expression sours, his smile waning. “Seal the exits,” he demands.

Diamondback is quick to comply. Clear fluid springs from his hands and snakes across the ground to the open doorway. The substance covers the door and hardens just before Ground Zero can reach it, and the Hero slams into the shield feet first. Bakugou grunts at the impact, the glass like structure holding firm beneath his weight. His eyes narrow on the men on the other side, a feral grin spreading across his face as his feet slide back to the floor. “Think that’ll stop me?” he taunts, pressing his palm to the clear wall between them. An explosion rips from his palm, bright light and smoke clouding the room.

When the smoke clears, Bakugou’s eyes widen.

There isn’t a scratch on the shield.

“Nice try,” Cobra commends him. “Unfortunately, even your power won’t be enough to get you out of there. Diamondback’s shield is stronger than any other substance on this planet.” He steps towards the building and raps his knuckles against the glassy surface. “And I wouldn’t try blasting your way through the walls either. Enhanced, quirk resistant steel walls, and such. All you’re going to do is make that pretty friend of yours inhale more smoke.” When Bakugou bares his teeth, Cobra laughs. “Really, you should be thanking me,” he tells the Hero. “Enjoy the next twenty four hours!” Still laughing, he walks backward, offering Bakugou a salute as Diamondback starts to follow.

Bakugou throws his fist against the surface. “Dammit!”

XXX

Honestly, you didn’t think tonight could get much worse, but seeing Bakugou stomp back into the hallway with Cobra nowhere in sight proved you very wrong.

“Shit,” you groan, head lolling back against the wall as Bakugou inspects your injured knuckles. They don’t hurt much anymore, just sting in a slow, irritating way, but he insisted on looking them over as he explained what happened with Cobra. “Diamondback wasn’t supposed to be here. We aren’t going to be able to bust through.”

Bakugou’s eyes rise to meet yours. “So what the fuck are we supposed to do?”

“Well, the good news is that Diamondback’s shields can only maintain their solidified form for a maximum of twenty four hours. After that, they’ll return to a liquid state and disappear.” He nods in understanding, finally releasing you in favor of helping you to your feet. His hand is hot against your waist, and you swallow down a pleased sound as his touch lingers. Cobra must not have gotten a good shot on him. Or maybe the aphrodisiac isn’t as strong because he’s so much bigger than you are. You quiver at the thought. “Until then, I guess we just… make ourselves at home.” You shrug, glancing around the empty hallway. “They were camped out here for a while, so there should be some place to sleep.”

Sleep would be good. The heat that consumed you before has only spread in the short time Bakugou was gone, and with him so close the feeling has only doubled in intensity. It spreads like water beneath your suit, which suddenly feels almost too tight.

Bakugou nods, but doesn’t say anything as he helps you back to the main room where you came in. The silence would be comfortable, if you couldn’t feel the way your face flushes, your nipples stiff beneath your bra and suit. Each step makes you wince as the fabric scraps across your skin.

“You good?” he asks as you drop down on the couch situated in the main room. A quick glance around the room tells you that your suspicions were correct. There is indeed a bedroom. Singular. Fuck, Cobra was right, you definitely would have preferred flesh melting poison over the steady pulse of heat growing between your legs.

There’s no way you’re going to be able to sleep in the same bed as Bakugou tonight--not without doing something you might regret. Already, the urge to reach down and touch yourself is almost unbearable, and it’s hardly been more than twenty minutes since Cobra hit you with his quirk. You can’t imagine that having Bakugou’s tall, muscular frame pressed up against your back would do you any good. Especially when it would be so easy for him to pin you down and rip off your--

“I’m fine,” you lie, struggling to keep your breathing even. If you sound breathier than usual, he doesn’t notice. “You should get some rest. Aren’t you usually asleep by now?” you try teasing him, grinning. Your thighs rub together subtly, arousal pooling low in your belly as you reach into the secret pocket in your thigh-high boots.

He doesn’t take the bait. “What about you?” he asks, crossing his arms skeptically. His eyes rake down your body slowly, and you feel it like a physical touch.

Your mouth is painfully dry.. “I’m going to stay out here for a while,” you tell him, holding up your phone with a hand that trembles just the slightest. “Someone has to report back to Deku and Red Riot and let them know that Cobra got away. And that Diamondback is with him.” You can see the argument in his eyes before he even opens his mouth, and you hurry to continue. “I can’t sleep in strange places anyway.” You really fucking hope your smile is reassuring and not something closer to a needy wince.

Bakugou stares for a little longer before shrugging. “Your loss,” he says, tossing off his gauntlets and gloves. They land on the other end of the couch. Your fingers dig into your palms as you look at them. “See ya in the mornin’, sweetheart.” Your head snaps up just in time for you to see him strip off his shirt and toss it onto the couch as well. The dark fabric peels from his sweat-slicked skin, and your pussy clenches as you get an eyeful of lean muscle and a soft trail of blond hair that disappears beneath his low slung pants. “Fuck, it’s hot in here,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he strolls toward the bedroom.

The door shuts behind him with a loud click.

Phone forgotten on the table, you aren’t sure how long you sit there in silence before your hand moves down between your thighs without your permission, pressing against the seam of your suit. The fabric is thin, and you have to swallow down a moan as your fingers brush over your clit. The light touch has your legs quivering, and your free hand clamps over your mouth. Fuck, you shouldn’t do this.

Your eyes close, exhaling slowly, and tip your head back against the couch cushions. This is enough. You’re definitely not going to start thinking about the man in the bedroom less than a dozen feet away from you. You will not slip the crotch of your suit to the side, letting your fingers drag through the slick already dripping from your slit.

A shudder rips through you as your hips buck against your hand, two of your fingers slipping inside of you easily.

Cobra’s voice echoes in your head. That itch isn’t just gonna go away by itself.

Fuck, it’s going to be a long twenty-four hours.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bnhabookclub #mha smut #bnha smut #mha #bnha #fic: appetence

668 notes · View notes

johnnys-coors · 4 years ago

Note

Could you do one we’re tommy has a crush on the reader and so Johnny helps tommy by giving the reader 10 leaders (1 a day) and he like saying in the letter like how much they like the reader and some stuff abt them so facts etc. so when the last lettter came he tells the reader to meet him at the beach and soooo he standing there and stuff soooo then tommy asks the read out to like a diner and they end up going to a diner just of them and then they end up dating

Letters Made of Hand

Castles Made of Sand -Jimi Hendrix

Characters: Tommy, Johnny, and Y/N

Contains: fluff, kissing, and feelings

Y/N speeds up her walking, she is going to be late to Geometry. Passing by a row of lockers, she narrows her eyes to see '047D'. She rushes to her gray locker, hurriedly calculating her combination. “Ah, shit!” The lock has stopped moving, it's jammed. A few passerby's stares are felt on Y/N's back. The frustrated teenager’s cheeks grow red from the sudden attention. She glances at the clock right above a classroom next to her. Y/N has two minutes.

A raspy voice asks, "Do you need help?" Y/N whips her head to the right in surprise. Fluffy platinum hair reflects the fluorescent school lights hanging from above. The corners of his light blue eyes crinkle in a laugh, as Johnny finds Y/N’s distress hilarious. “Oh, shut up.” Y/N scoffs, frustrated with combination of her lock and the clock quickly running her out of time.

“Say less.” Johnny ushers Y/N out of the way and pulls down on the stuck lock. The shiny metal unlatches with a snap. The boy grins, proud of his accomplishment. “Wow, you’re better than any janitor!” Y/N faux swoons, receiving a snort from her friend. She faces the locker and swings open its thin metal door. A white piece of paper floats down onto the beige tiling. Muttering a ‘What the..’, Y/N leans down to grab the note. Johnny notices this occurrence, becoming intrigued. “Is it a secret admirer?”

Opening the folded material, the letter is a page long. Y/N wouldn’t have enough time to read it now. She folds up the paper while grabbing her math supplies. Shoving two Anatomy books into her unorganized shelf, she slams her locker shut. “I gotta get to class, I’ll let you know what it’s about,” Johnny goes to protest, stating she has plenty of time. “See ya!” Y/N shouts over her shoulder, running to her Geometry class, leaving the tall boy behind.

As soon as Y/N is inside the math class’ doorway, the bell rings. Sighing in relief, Y/N made it! The teacher looks over in disapproval, always expecting her students to be early and ready to learn. Ignoring the glare, Y/N bounces over to her seat, getting a few laughs from her classmates. Elated, and also flattered from a potential love interest, she giggles. Dutch, an aggressive blonde, elbows his desk neighbor. His bushy eyebrows furrow as he tries to keep his voice down. “Don’t tell me Johnny gave you my stash.”

Jimmy grabs a hold of the broken lock at Y/N’s locker. “What’s this?” His tanned hands cradle the metal as he's kneeled on the ground. “Let’s just say I saved the day, Jim,” Johnny gloats, puffing out his chest. A familiar cocky smirk plays on the boy’s face while everyone rolls their eyes. Y/N lightly shoves the teenager, barely budging from his heroic stance. Bobby and Tommy smile playfully at their group of friends. “Let’s get some lunch.”

Cobra Kai saunters into the loud cafeteria. The typical cliques are in their usual spots. The Cheerleaders and Jocks in the center, the Goths in a corner near a large bulletin, the Nerds by the lunch line, and Cobra Kai next to the water fountains. Now don’t get the group wrong, they’re still studs even if they don’t mingle with the Jocks. Tommy just had to get one swing at the football team’s quarterback.

Johnny leads them to the lunch line, reaching forward to snatch a plastic tray for himself. Y/N grabs one along with a shiny spoon and fork. The smell of pizza meets Y/N’s nose. Her stomach grumbles, a hunger rippling through her. “Pizza or salad?” The lunch man grumbles, he'd rather be doing anything else than serving food to rude high schoolers. “Uh, pizza, please.” Y/N requests, waiting for the oven-hot rectangular flatbread to slide onto her tray. And it does, nearly staining the fabric of her white shirt.

Moving her tray to the end of the line, Y/N takes a cup of mandarin oranges and sets it down on her tray. She starts to walk to her seat while her friends pass by her on both sides. The white and gray tiles stick to her shoes as God knows what's been on the floor. Placing down her food, she opens her water bottle she snagged from her locker. The Cobras talk among themselves, laughing about a prank they pulled. Y/N twists her left wrist to open the blue bottle cap. She leans back and begins to take a sip. Cool water hits her parched mouth.

"Y/N, why don't you show us what you found in your locker today?" Johnny questions, more demanding than suggestive. She nearly chokes on her water in excitement. Placing the plastic cap back on, she sets the bottle back down onto the red table. "Sure thing." Y/N reaches her index and middle fingers into her front jean pocket. Her eyes flick up to watch her friend's reactions.

Johnny's eyes glow in anticipation, seemingly more blue then before. Bobby nods her on, his long wispy hair framing his olive complexion. Jimmy leans on Dutch, who could care less, while a small smile is in the making. Tommy fixates on his food, sawing off his pizza with a metal knife. The utensil shines as it reflects the school’s overhead lights. He seems off, really off. Squinting, Y/N makes out a slight hue of pink on the loudmouth's cheeks. He's blushing?

"Are you gonna let us see?" Dutch quips, impatient as ever. Finally pulling out the folded paper, it crinkles as Y/N smoothes it out with her palm. Clearing her throat, she begins to read the letter aloud. "'Dear Y/N, I hope I don't come across as a stalker when I write this. Here goes nothing: You may be surprised when you figure out the person behind this handwriting, maybe even shocked. But let me just say that you are the only person that makes me feel like doing a roundhouse kick to the moon and back'," Tommy laughs, saying how bad ass the scenario sounds. This earns a shove from Bobby to quiet him down.

Y/N continues, "'Yes, I'm that thrilled about you. I guess your smile adds to the feeling. No, I think it's your laugh. I remember when we were at the same showing for a movie and hearing your giggle. What I would do to hear it again! Signing off, Hendrix.'" Silence carries through the group, letting the love letter sink into their minds. Bobby breaks the quietness. "What do they mean by 'Hendrix'?" His forehead creases in thought. "I think it's code." Jimmy pipes, the only Cobra with a decent GPA.

"Well, Jimi Hendrix was a rock artist." Tommy suggests, after being quiet for so long. "Right, but who listens to him anymore? I only have cassettes of Boston and Motley Crue." Johnny's hand comes up to comb through his floppy hair. His mouth full of pizza, Dutch grumbles, "MJ is all the rage now." He imitates Michael Jackson, singing an off key 'Billie Jean'. "Okay, I think we get it," Y/N laughs, as an idea pops into her head. "Does anyone have the last name 'Hendrix' in our school?"

In the library for study hall, Jimmy and Bobby help Y/N flip through yearbooks. A stack of them lay off to the right of the wooden table's edge, about to crash to ground. Her eyes scan the names of people, as her eyes become tired from staring. She closes the book's black cover from 1982, giving up. "I found him!" Jimmy exclaims, as Bobby and Y/N crane their necks to see. The librarian hushes the teenagers, adjusting her glasses that sat on her nose. The fuzzy black and white picture showed an attractive Matthew Hendrix. The glossy page reflected dark hair and a white smile.

"I know this kid! He's by my locker." Y/N pieces together, the puzzle falling into place. Bobby glances up at her yearbook in her hands. "Is he in our grade?" He asks. The teenager doesn't want a guy older than the Cobras, he'll just mess around with them. "No Hendrix is in our grade, he does football." At the mention of the ill-fated sport, Jimmy quickly inquires, "Wait, it's not the guy Tommy punched, right?" Y/N shook her head in confusion. Everyone was either too drunk or high to remember who was in the party's fight.

The next day's events were rather quite interesting. Y/N got another letter from this 'Hendrix'. She opened the note hurriedly. It would be embarrassing for her if any of her friends found out. This second paper gave more details about how much they liked Y/N, but they also gave a reference she picked up on. It mentioned going to a summer camp in '83. Y/N went with the Cobra Kais, but other guys tagged along too.

So far, none of her friends had waltzed up to her, pressing more about the topic. Dutch definitely wouldn't, he scoffs at the slightest mention of romance. It's a wonder that he even dated, let alone lost his virginity. Johnny and Tommy have been far too quiet about these occurrences. Jimmy and Bobby have been the only ones willing to help Y/N find more about this secret lover.

The note only fueled a desire for Y/N to ask Matthew if he was writing her letters. She waits, leaning on her locker, awaiting the moment the said boy would roll around. The beginning of the school hours always dragged slow, as if in mud. Y/N hopes this event would bring her some newfound excitement. The first bell rang, signaling to students they had five minutes till class. A breeze blew on her shoulders as a tall figure slowed down their pace. Matthew slung a dark bag over his right bicep, shoving it into his locker.

"Hey, Matthew, is it?" Y/N's voice inquires, raising in pitch with giddiness. The teenager’s brown hazel eyes sweep over her figure, deciding if he should pick up the conversation. With a light sigh, Matthew nods his head. “Yeah, whatcha want?” Y/N holds up the notes that were slipped into her locker from the past two days. “Have you been writing these to me?” She extends the papers for Matthew to take. A look of curiosity takes over the boy as he accepts the letters. His eyes move back and forth as he scanned the writings.

“I didn’t write these,” Y/N’s heart sank as this encounter did not go as planned. “But the handwriting looks familiar.” Matthew swears he saw this specific printing before, maybe written on his car in red spray paint? Reliving the memory, the red warning scribbled out a ‘NO MERCY’ on his beloved Dodge Turbo’s side. The faraway look in Matthew’s eyes causes Y/N to wave her hand in front of his line of vision. Coming back to his senses, Matthew shakes his head in disbelief.

“Here are your papers.” Matthew presses the letters back to Y/N. She's positive that she nibbled onto the bait of this fishhook. She goes to ask him more questions, but he slammed his locker abruptly. Grumbling something about getting payback, Matthew heads down the hallway, turning the corner. He deserts Y/N, who's left with more questions than answers.

For the next few days, each note gave more and more hints about the writer. So far, with the help of Jimmy and Bobby, she figured out that they like soccer and enjoy running on the beach. It’s not a grand discovery, but Jimmy assured her that every clue counted. Besides, the final note would be delivered today. Y/N is thrilled, she hopes the anonymous lover would reveal who they are.

The Cobra Kai boys have been drifting in and out the letter drama, scrapping up details here and there. She walks into the lunch line by herself, as she chooses a salad today. Y/N decides to walk alone, she's packed with a lot of tests and doesn't have time to wait for the others. “Heya, Y/N.” Johnny greets, changing out his cassette tape in his Walkman. Tommy’s bruised hand covers one of the cassettes nearest to him, its taped title unable to be seen.

“What’re you doing?” Y/N asks, as the boy seems to be moving the tape closer to himself. Caught in the act, Tommy stops moving the cassette. He lifts his head to meet his friend’s eyes. A nasty shiner around his right eye stands out against his smooth skin. The boy mentioned he fell down a flight of stairs at a party and tried to catch himself. Hence his purple knuckles.

“Oh, I was just helping Johnny change out his Walkman.” Tommy comes up with, flipping the cassette so it was standing upright, the tape side away from Y/N. Her narrowed eyes dart between Johnny, who fakes a shit eating smile, and Tommy, who doesn't dare move until Y/N lets go of the subject. She sits down, letting the topic dissipate on its own. Her brain's tired enough as is.

“Do you have the final note?” Bobby leans in, his long hair tickling Y/N’s cheek as he questions her. Y/N reaches into her trapper keeper, laying the letter between her and Bobby, reading silently. ‘Meet me at the beach after school, around eight. Bring your swimsuit!’ She almost jumped out of her seat at the butterflies overtaking her stomach. Bobby pats the back of Y/N, lightly laughing. “Well, there you have it. You’ll meet them after all!”

The purr of the Firebird rumbles Y/N’s passenger side seat. The smell of the seawater fills her nose with her window cracked open. Johnny’s bright headlights gives way that they're traveling down the dark road. The whistle of the wind and the thumping of REO Speedwagon hum her ears. It's surprising that she didn’t bribe Johnny to take her, he usually would grumble about it for a while. This time he acted almost glad to take Y/N.

Johnny pulls the car forward and parks it in the beach’s parking lot. She scans her surroundings ahead of her through the glass. The silhouette of a figure is down in the sand, facing the waves. “I think that’s my person. Thanks, Johnny.” Y/N unbuckles her seatbelt, ready to open the door and greet her writer. A tan arm swung out in front of her, holding a piece of paper. This stops her from continuing her motions. “What’s this?” Grabbing the note, she opens it.

The infamous handwriting is there but another one is visible. A more hurried, scratchy one. ‘You weren’t expecting another letter? Calm your tits, it’s just a note from your letter carrier: Make sure kick ass when you meet ‘Hendrix’. He’s really an amazing dude.’ Johnny laughs, slapping his large hands together in amusement. Y/N mouth drops, the charade coming to a close in front of her eyes.

“Wait, so you were the one dropping off the letters in my locker?” Y/N asked, her eyes shining in amusement. Johnny nods frantically, his hair reflecting the moonlight coming in on the dashboard. “Hey, it wasn’t hard to put superglue on the lock. It was pretty sick!” Laughing, she opens the car door, leaving the paper on her seat. “You jerk!” Y/N slams the door shut, leaving an emphasis on her words.

The grainy white sand slows her walking as she approaches the figure. “Hello?” She calls, anticipating rising. Everything has came to this moment, it better be worth it. Brunette hair gently moves in the breeze, as goosebumps rise on her arms. No answer is given. The person’s ears are covered by a certain black foam, connected with wire. Sighing, she nears even closer.

As if expecting the visitor, or listening intensely, an index finger presses pause on their Walkman. Turning their head, Y/N’s eyes widen and she covers her mouth in surprise. A set of brown eyes watch her reaction while they remove their Walkman, setting it down on their blue towel. A smile forms the longer the person watches Y/N. “It’s me.” The voice was bubbly and unapologetically loud.

“Tommy? Oh my god.” Y/N’s face pales as she sets herself down next to the writer. The male leans over to the left and makes a show of taking out his cassette tape. ‘Jimi Hendrix- Electric Ladyland’ is written on the brown Scotch tape. “I’m ‘Hendrix’, Y/N.” She blushes, her face turning a shade of pink. “I figured that out by now, doofus.” Tommy quietly laughs, turning towards her. Silence commences.

Y/N’s heartbeat bangs loudly against her ribcage as she leans in. She pauses, just short of kissing him. Y/N wants to make sure he is okay with going further. Fortunately, hesitation is not in Tommy’s vocabulary. Her eyes close once she feels his lips on her own. His warm hand cusps her face, gently stroking his thumb on her cheek. His abs contract as he rests his back on his towel, his left arm propping up his head.

She lays to left of him, her face creating contact with his. Her hair falls over to the side, moving slightly with the ocean wind. Tommy’s hand rests on the small of Y/N’s back, as the warmth of his body pulls her in further. Running her hands through his hair, she gently pulls. A small groan is released from Tommy throat, rumbling Y/N’s chest. An innocent gesture but not so innocent reaction.

Tommy smiles warmly when the kisses end, fireworks going off in his stomach. Y/N pulls herself up and sits facing the black waves, turning shy with the shared intimate moment. “Come on, let’s go for a swim.” Tommy proposes, rising to his feet and pulling off his gray sweatshirt. His toned stomach pales in moonlight, his crucifix necklace dangling down over his chest. His orange swim trunks are loosely draped over his prominent hip bones.

“Like what you see?” Tommy teases, flexing his biceps. “As if, loverboy.” Y/N retorts with faux annoyance. She grips the bottom hem of her black top as she reveals her swimsuit, shedding her pants. It’s now Tommy’s turn to gawk. He stands like a little kid, with his hands relaxed at his side, his jaw slack. Y/N takes this as an opportunity to rush into the waves, splashing Tommy with the lukewarm water.

“Hey! Come here!” Y/N giggles as he rushes over to lift her up off the ground. He spins her around once, laughing. Her eyes widen in thrill as he lifts her up even higher, getting ready to toss her into the water. Her legs kick in excitement as she grips onto his shoulders. “Ah, Tommy!” She giggles, not wanting him to let go of her. Her eyes lock with his own once again.

Her laughter fades as they gaze at each other. Tommy’s adam apple bobs when he swallows thickly. He’s nervous. She feels herself being let down by the taller. Y/N stands now confused by the change in mood. “Y/N,” Tommy calls, more declarative than interrogative. “Can you be mine?” The water around her ankles feel colder than before.

She nods, gradually getting faster with her confidence. “Yes, yes, yes,” Wrapping her hands around Tommy’s waist she pulls him in for a quick peck. “A thousand times yes.” She turns to exit the water and put her clothes back on. Her boyfriend follows, now noticing the Firebird that’s been there for over an hour. “Are you kidding me? Johnny’s here?” He whines, falling to his knees, his fists pounding the soft sand.

Y/N giggles, amused by his dramatic ways. “Hey, let’s get some fries downtown? Johnny can take us.” Tommy gets up off the ground, grabbing his towel and Walkman. “Fine, it’s a deal. Race you to the car!”

#fanfic #tommy karate kid #johnny lawrence #cobra kai

26 notes · View notes

skullrock · 5 years ago

Text

the campers, chapter two - Steve x Reader

gif by @harringtown

chapter two: the trainee

series summary:Steve gets a job as a camp counselor at Camp Know Where, intending on using the summer to discover himself. When things start to go wrong at camp, the only people that can help him are the Party, Hopper, and his mortal enemy - you. [Enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort]

chapter summary: Steve gets in the swing of things quickly, much to your dismay.

warnings: swearing!

word count: 2.7k

a/n: you can catch up on the series here! hope you enjoy this chapter!

===

Dustin and Steve are luckily paired into the same cabin, but they have different rooms. Steve’s roommate isn’t in when he goes to drop off his things, but Dustin assures that the man, Nico, is a cool dude.

“Not as cool as you though, Steve,” Dustin says, giving him a firm pat on the back. Steve smiles slightly and nods, appreciating the sentiment. Especially after being blasted by you.

“Are you going to tell me what’s up with you and Y/N?”

“No,” Steve says curtly, shutting and locking his room.

Dustin waits a few moments to see if Steve will fess up, but he doesn’t. Actually, Steve sets his jaw tightly, making Dustin even more curious. “I guess you guys don’t like each other, huh?”

“No,” Steve says again. He runs a hand through his hair. “Well - she doesn’t like me.”

“She knew you as Asshole Steve?”

Steve sighs heavily. “Yeah. She knew me as Asshole Steve.”

Dustin shrugs as they start to make their way to their orientations. “You’ll just have to show her how you changed, that’s all.”

Steve scoffs and shakes his head. “It doesn’t even matter.”

Dustin knows he doesn’t mean that, but he stops prodding for answers.

They continue their walk down from the cabins to the activity center, filled with classrooms, the cafeteria, and research labs. Steve enjoys the area already, happy to see the sun glistening off of the lake and the large hemlocks and oaks. The wind smells like pine and juniper, even in the summer, relaxing Steve’s mind. The woods do scare him now, there’s no denying that. But these aren’t the sinister woods behind his house in Hawkins. These woods are welcoming and cheery, bright and charming. Steve loves the open fields for archery and tag, the courts for basketball and tennis. He decides he’d really like to help out with the intramurals, giving up on the science aspect before even getting the chance to explore it.

Steve’s train of thought is derailed when he hears a sweet voice call out, “Dusty-bun?”

Dustin turns on his heel, a smile spreading widely across his face. He runs to meet her halfway, picking her up and twirling her. The girl laughs happily, and they kiss for a moment before Steve clears his throat. “Is this Suzie?”

“It’s Suzie,” Dustin says, sighly happily. “Suzie, this is Steve.”

She extends her hand and Steve takes it, surprised by how firm her grip is. She’s alright, Steve thinks. She’s got this Mormon vibe going on, but her smile is bright and her personality is welcoming. Steve’s happy to find out that Suzie is an actual person, and while she has no Phoebe Cates in her at all, she’s a perfect match for Dustin.

Steve third wheels as they continue to walk towards the activity center, again being pulled back to his thoughts. His mind falls on what you’d said earlier.

It feels like a rock sits in his gut when he thinks about camp when he was younger. He knows he was an asshole, he can feel it in his bones. He knows he hung out with Tommy H. and some other dickheads, and he has glimpses of memories of tripping, pushing, and pranking. But he really doesn’t remember a lot. He’s not sure if he’s from the concussions or because he willed those thoughts out of his memory - but they aren’t there. Only insignificant ones remain. Like how his bedsheets in his cabin were blue and red plaid; how he would wake up at 7:15 to take a walk before Tommy would wake up; he even remembers the bitter taste of the orange juice hitting his tongue at breakfast. It’s like his mind zeroed in on the insignificant things so that the hurtful memories stay in the back of his mind, sitting like a cobra, waiting to strike.

The trio arrives at the activity center.

“I’ll see you tonight, Steve,” Dustin says. “Don’t worry - you’ll do great.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Steve mumbles, anxiety twisting in his gut. “Nice to meet you, Suzie.”

She smiles brightly and starts off, but Dustin stays behind. “Hotter than Phoebe Cates, right?”

Steve forces a smile and nods, giving him a thumbs up. “You really did it, man.”

Dustin winks and walks away, leaving Steve alone and sweating bullets. He hates being alone - he can’t stand being by himself anymore. Especially now that he knows you’re on the loose here, probably plotting some sick pranks. But he forces himself to move his feet up to the orientation check in.

“Name?” a man with the nametag Josh asks.

“Uh, It’s Steve. Harrington.”

He gets his bundle - a nametag, a hat just like Dustin’s, a few lime green and yellow Camp Know Where shirts (reading LEADER on the back), a drawstring bag, some pens, and a notebook. Steve forces himself to not make a face at the shirt - it’s disgusting and it will certainly ruin his chances with the ladies. He’ll wear it - he’s just not happy about it. And, besides, the first girl he interacted with at camp nearly bit his head off, so maybe he shouldn’t be so worried about his chances. Maybe he should be worried about not fucking up this time.

He takes a seat in one of the large lecture halls, sitting as far away from everyone as possible. Nearly everyone who walks in waves at him and sits close, making Steve clench his fists and bounce his legs. He literally does not remember how to be social - it’s like a second language that he forgot. It pains him that he can’t strike up conversations like he used to, but those around him help.

“Hi, I’m Kara,” a girl his age says, sitting down right next to him. “Who are you?”

Steve blinks. “Oh - I’m Steve.”

She reaches out and shakes his hand, smiling. “You’re new, right?”

“Is it that easy to tell?”

Kara laughs. “Don’t worry, Steve - you’ll get the hang of the flow soon enough.”

Okay, maybe he does have a chance with some ladies.

You come into the room, eyes searching for Steve. You see your buddy Kara talking to him and you curse under your breath. She’s not supposed to be friends with him - she’s probably going to try to bone him in the next week, too, and you don’t want that either. You march up to Josh, the leader of leaders, and pull him down to your level. “You cannot - you will not - pair me with Steve Harrington.”

Josh’s brows furrow and he looks up at Steve, remembering him from earlier. “What, you scared of that dork?”

You groan and roll your eyes. “He was such an asshole to me - we used to go to camp together. He made my summers hell, Josh. I can’t be around him.”

Josh pauses and shrugs. “Okay, no problem, I’ll pair him with someone else.”

You sigh in relief and take a seat at the front, where a panel of veteran counselors sit. You try to be social, but the bile keeps rising from your stomach to your throat. You feel sick. You feel like this summer is going to be an absolute nightmare. And while you’re so far beyond who you used to be - that kid who couldn’t even look people in the eye - you’re scared that his presence will revert you back into that little girl. And it’s the last thing you want.

Josh claps his hands a while later, signalling the start of orientation. Steve shifts in his seat and pulls out his notebook and a pen. He doesn’t know shit about note taking, but he reckons he should try. You grab your notebook too, excited to learn and meet with the new folks.

“Welcome to Camp Know Where!” Josh says.

The room erupts in cheers and Steve can feel his old self creeping back in, the insult of dorks running through his head - as if he isn’t clearly one himself. But he composes himself, clapping lightly along with everyone else.

“Here at Camp Know Where, we want to create a welcoming, safe environment for our kids to explore the world through science, math, engineering, and technology.” Steve writes it down quickly, forming the acronym “SMET”, and giggling to himself.

“It’s our job as counselors to facilitate learning in a fun, positive, and energetic way. Through orientation, you’re going to meet your fellow counselors, learn some things, and find a designation at camp. We work with you! If you think you’d be better at doing science, we’ll help you find your place in the classroom. But if you’d like to work with intramurals, we can place you out in nature. However, we still want to make sure everyone has a good grasp at all activities, so you’ll be cycled through everything we have to offer at Camp Know Where.”

Steve writes down “science - intramurals - whatever - know it all.”

“Today, though, we’ll be doing some icebreakers, and then some brainstorming.”

The room erupts in groans, Steve’s perhaps being the loudest.

“Relax, they’re fun.” Josh beams and holds up a clipboard. “I’m going to split everyone off with a partner now. This will be your partner all through camp. You’ll do something with everyone, but your partner is like your mentor. The newer folks will be paired with someone who’s been here a while to help you get in the swing of things.”

You shift in your seat. Maybe you’ll make a new friend - maybe you’ll get along famously - it was an exciting concept.

Or, it is, until Josh calls out, “Y/N and Steve.”

The shit eating grin on his face is unimaginable. He looks down at you, smiling, eyes shining, as if to say, get over it. If you had a bat, you would have hit him with it. Your stomach sinks, it rolls, it twists. Your palms sweat, your head races, but it stays forward, eyes trained on the podium in front of you.

Steve feels the exact same, except his legs are telling him to get the hell out of there. He knows his protests will fall on deaf ears, and who would accommodate him, anyway? He rests his head in his hands as Josh continues to read off names.

“Alright, get with your partner. We’re going to play two truths and a lie!”

Phenomenal, you think. The worst icebreaker of all time, and it’s with Steve Harrington.

You push yourself up out of your seat and force your legs to move towards him, sitting down next to him but a chair away, keeping a distance. Steve’s okay with it - it actually helps him breathe.

The rest of the room fills with laughs and chatter, but you both stare in silence for a long while. Finally, Steve says, “So -”

“We aren’t friends,” you interrupt. “We aren’t friends now, we weren’t friends then, and in the future, we won’t be friends. Got it?”

Steve swallows hard and nods. Despite the dryness in his throat, he tries to apologize. “Look, I know I wasn’t nice when he were kids -”

You scoff. He continues. “But I swear to God, or whatever, I’ve changed. I’m not like that anymore. I - I don’t even hang out with Tommy. I just hang out with Dustin and this girl called Robin, you don’t know her - she’s pretty cool -”

“Save it,” you say harshly. “We can talk since it’s our job, but I don’t care about your life now, and I know you don’t care about mine.”

No icebreakers are played between you - the only thing played is an intense staring contest, which makes you angry and Steve horrified. Finally, Josh claps again, and then the real orientation begins. Josh hands out papers with scenarios on them, the goal being to brainstorm ways to demonstrate good leadership. Things like, a camper is obviously intoxicated - what do you do? and what’s the best way to improve a camper who isn’t doing well?

“Wait,” Steve says as Josh places the paper down. “Are we sw- switching partners?”

“Nope!” Josh says, popping the ‘p’. “Not yet.”

Steve wants to die.

To your surprise, Steve has some pretty phenomenal ideas for how to be a good leader. He even delves into how he would bond with the campers - he’d play sports with them, facilitate idea generating, become someone they can come to and confide in. He wouldn’t shut down their ideas, but rather help them expand on them. You think that he actually has some really good concepts.

“I just want them to trust me, you know?” he says quietly. “I want them to feel like they have a chance and that they can come to me for anything.”

You furrow your brows. “How’d you get these good ideas?”

“Dustin,” he admits, a bit sheepishly. “And some of his friends, too. They’ve helped me understand how to be better at listening and helping and understanding.”

You nod stiffly, not wanting to become too impressed with him. “Well, you have some solid ideas.”

Steve’s eyes widen and brighten. “You think?”

You shrug. “They’re not bad.”

And just like that, Steve feels like he has a purpose.

The room forms back together to go over their responses, and for the first time in his life, Steve offers his perspective in a public setting without being condescending or rude. The feeling of raising his hand was awkward and unknown, but he kept doing it, in love with the nods of support from the other counselors. Someone said he must have a knack for being a leader, and Steve beamed brighter than he had in months.

You, of course, hated it, but you had no authority to tell him to shut up. To you, it seemed fake and, frankly, out of nowhere. But you couldn’t help to agree with some of his points and ideas. You hated it.

You all break for the day at five. You practically run out of the room, gasping in the fresh air outside quickly. Josh walks past you and slaps your back, turning around to smile at you. “Have fun?”

“I will kill you.”

“Can’t wait!”

You’d lost your appetite after the hours spent with Steve, so you stay outside, sitting on a picnic bench and contemplating. You wonder if Steve is right when he says he’s changed. Past Steve would never say such things, would never even bother to put in an effort. But he was giving more of an effort than most people in that room, and it genuinely shocked you. Maybe Dustin had something to do with it - but that seemed improbable, too. The whole thing was so bizarre that it made your head spin and your knees weak.

You see Dustin heading inside and call out for him, beckoning him over. His brows furrow tightly but he walks over, sitting down across from you. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“What’s Steve’s deal?”

“Look, I hated him too,” Dustin says. “I mean, I really hated him. Like, I wanted to punch him -”

“I get it.”

“Right. But he’s changed. He got sober really fast a few years back and he hasn’t been the same since.” Dustin pauses, choosing his words carefully. “A lot of stuff has happened to him… and I think it’s changed him for the better. He’s been through a lot. He’s just trying to find himself now. That’s why he’s here.”

You sigh heavily. “You think he’s better?”

“I know he’s better.” Dustin smiles. “And that’s why I think you should give him a chance.”

“No way,” you scoff. “He never gave me a chance.”

“Shouldn’t stoop to past Steve’s level.” Dustin’s smile widens. “You’ll hurt your back.”

You roll your eyes. You don’t want this kid to be right, but you know he is.

“Just - give him a chance, please? He really deserves one. He’s my best friend… he deserves a shot.”

You sigh again. “Fine.”

===

taglist (join here!): @troop-scoop @therealestdookie @jasontoddisfantastical @mybestfriendthedingus @anonymousonion23 @darth-el @unknownherelm @random-thoughts-003 @metuel18 @dark-academics-and-florals @magicstrengthandcourage @mathchampagne @magnitude101999 @yall-wildin-like-siriusly @sunshine-and-riverwater @dark-academics-and-florals @scooprtroopr @heart-eye-harrington @sourapplebaby @comedy-witch

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington au #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things au #my fics #the campers

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one-very-angry-hufflepunk · 4 years ago

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HPHL Character Concept

Fffs, wouldn’t you know, I hardly have time to write for my HPHM boy who I love to death but hey, I’ll take the inspiration where I can get it. Even if it’s 4:30 am on a weekday. That being said, the whole character idea challenge for Hogwarts Legacy (not really a challenge) was inspired by @hogwartsmysterystory (love this little shit to death).

At the moment, I only have a single character idea but I am super in love with him already. While everything here is just a rough draft and is likely going to change as more information comes out about the game I desperately wanted a fresh concept so here he is...

𝙇𝙐𝘾𝘼 𝙆𝙃𝙐𝙀𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙋𝙐 𝙇𝙐𝙋𝙀𝙄

Birth Name: Luca Khueninpu Lupei. “Sacred wood” — “(he) whom Anubis protects” — “wolf”. Gender: Cismale. DoB & Zodiac: August 11th & Leo. Blood Status: Pureblood. Ethnicity/Nationality: Egyptian & Romanian. House: Slytherin.

❝ 𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙚𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙨. ❞

Patronus: Runespoor. Abilities: Luca has always been drawn to ancient magic, a side effect of being born from two deeply intertwined and intense bloodlines that hold dark secrets in their veins. Aside from this near suffocating desire, Luca also happens to be a parseltongue which is rooted in his mother’s side, notably as a result of certain Ancient Egyptian customs that encourage the worship of cobras and Wadjet who was the patron goddess of Upper Egypt (one of the oldest Egyptian deities within the overall pantheon and also presented as being a cobra-headed woman). Theme Song: Runs in the Family by Amanda Palmer. Appearance: Luca is a small, petite boy who wears his ethnicity with little care of how he may be perceived. Thick dark waves of black locks shape around his bronze complexion, and a long strand of hair cascades down at the side of his face at all times. Luca’s eyes tend to be the first thing people notice when they look at him; they are pools of crystallized honey speckled with flecks of red, focused especially around the inner portions of his irises (they signify his mixed blood and the ancient whims that swim within). That aside, Luca tends to wear clothing notable to his heritage or at least does his best at styling his clothes to appear in said manner; along with his clothing, he tends to wear golden jewelry which holds cultural significance to him.

❝ 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙗𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧. ❞

Info: Born to an Egyptian woman and a Romanian man, both of whom came from cult like practices, Luca was blessed with the family sickness of dark history. Due to the strenuous at home birth gone terribly wrong, Luca’s mother, died during childbirth and left her legacy with her only child who was drawn under the protection of her lover. While Luca grew up within the Hoia-Baciu Forest (also known as the Bermuda Triangle of Romania) with his father’s cult that indulged in Zalmoxianism, he never strayed from trying to discover more about his mother’s heritage which led him to the Egyptian pantheon. This mixture of worship between pantheons caused him a great deal of turmoil but also self-discovery. While he’d never admit to it, Luca misses his mother more than anything which has led him on a wild goose chase in trying to find methods of necromancy throughout varying magic practices. That being said, while he stowed away to study at Hogwarts in hopes of finding a Eurocentric method, he never stopped seeking out the dark aligned version of The Book of the Dead whom his ancestor just so happened to write. Regarding heritage, Luca comes from two very old lines, both of which have origins in their customs; his mother’s side was responsible for the sharing of dark magic and knowledge within the Egyptian sphere, as well as writing many of the occult texts throughout the ages of Egypt. As for Luca’s father, his bloodline flows back to the Dacian people who fall back around the Bronze Age and practice a type of martial magic rooted in physical pleasure and violence that held rooted in the idea of the Romanian and Ukrainian significance of wolves and their dynamic among nature and men.

❝ 𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙩 𝙣𝙤 𝙨𝙞𝙣 𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙙, 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚. ❞

Personality: Luca is quite the complex young man. Vindictive and cunning at the core of his nature, he is also ambitious regarding any and all personal vendettas he has. Street-smart thanks to playing the bait far too many times for his father’s cult, Luca can work almost anyone to a degree, notably without them knowing. While he comes off as harmless due to his appearance and initial mask, Luca has every intention of twisting others around his finger in order to satisfy his own whims and needs. In order to get away with this sort of behavior, Luca plays the system by victimizing himself under those who seek to call him out, getting away with emotional murder typically. While he is composed in public, Luca is quite different in private and tends to be irritable, develop emotional outbursts and can even become eccentric. Lacking empathy most time, this stems from the fact that he was never shown relief or mercy as a child and was taught to accept pain and death early on, especially considering his relationship to druidic concepts.

❝ 𝘼𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙖𝙢 𝙫𝙞𝙖𝙢 𝙖𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙢. ❞

Just gonna stress this one more time but I’ll likely be changing, removing and adding things to this character as time goes on if I stick with him (which I likely will), so keep that in mind! I hope you enjoy him as much as I do.

#harry potter hogwarts legacy #hphl #hogwarts legacy #harry potter #luca khueninpu lupei #luca

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outroshooky · 5 years ago

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whatever in heaven | knj

⇢ genre: series; part three (mafia!au) (angst, fluff, smut)

⇢ pairing: kim namjoon x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢ warnings: smut (soft d/s dynamics. grinding, oral [m receiving], brief use of the word daddy, marking, gentler dirty talk [praise]) angst (implied usage and mention of knives, nightmare), some fluff. this fic is a bit of a mind-fuck; there are darker themes here, so please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: i’m so excited for you guys to read the next installment of verses & vibes! a huge, huge thank you to my beta readers @sunkoos (go check out nas’s work!) and @hobiswitch; an even bigger thank you to @guksheart for not only beta reading this fic but posting this for me because of laptop difficulties!

...which leads me into, unfortunately, some bad news. my laptop crashed permanently over the weekend and i may have lost all of my files. i’m working to get them back, but this also means i have to buy a new laptop. thus, verses and vibes (and my writing in general) may go on hiatus until i can figure out a way to keep writing and posting new content. more updates forthcoming— for now, enjoy whatever in heaven!

“i know not if i could have borne

to see thy beauties fade;

the night that follow’d such a morn

had worn a deeper shade:

thy day without a cloud hath pass’d,

and thou wert lovely to the last,

extinguish’d, not decay’d;

as stars that shoot along the sky

shine brightest as they fall from high.”

⤷ and thou art dead, as young and fair; lord byron (george gordon)

It is always the same in the beginning.

He is kneeling on a concrete floor that goes on as far as he can see, cold and callous against the skin that peeks from the stringy rips in his pajama pants. A single light flickers above his head, murky cream, faded with age. His arms are bound behind his back with braided rope, biting vengeance into his tender wrists. His exhalations wisp pale smoke, rushing from his lips to touch the folded legs of a woman sitting just out of the ring of wired lamplight.

The supports of the chair are metal; he momentarily ponders how her skin isn’t dotted with gooseflesh through the thin fabric of her dress, but her cherry-red heels catch the light in a way that has his breath hitching. Something in him presses to reach out to her but he can’t, straining against his bonds like a feral cat caged. He snarls, a gritting sound in the silence of the warehouse, and she hums something seductive in return.

It is a dark heat that kindles in the pit of Namjoon’s stomach when he realizes he is staring at temptation herself, clothed in cherry pumps and scarlet lipstick. She is the antithesis of everything he should have and yet, yet—

He craves her more and more with every second that goes past. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she is hauntingly beautiful, a devil crafted from memory, sent from hell to tempt him in all the ways she knew how. The blooming lust in his veins climbs with viney fingers straight to his brain, his head spinning, flying high; he barely knows what to believe. Somehow, she’s pulling on the strings of his thoughts, a marionette and his master dancing on the brink. One wrong string and the puppet collapses in a heap of cloth and kindling.

He groans, the sound of frustration and need echoing on and on in the dim room. She laughs velvet rich, sickeningly sweet. He wishes he could rend the binds from his arms, crawl to her, worship her the way she deserves; he shuffles forward an inch, two—

A plain black combat knife skitters to a stop in front of him, twirling once before coming to rest, just grazing his left kneecap. Resting potential against the crook of his leg, and he sucks in a breath when he feels the chilled edge level against the puckered scar on his knee.

She doesn’t speak, but Namjoon knows exactly what she means to say.

Thoughts clamor at the base of his skull, hissing seduction like a writhing mass of coiled snakes snapping for attention. They strike at one another, seeking dominion, and he’s nearly consumed by the din. A choice, cut out for him by the hands of fate, burned in the ashes of every decision he’s ever made. It boils down to this, to him and her and everything in between.

At one pellucid flicker of insanity, his hands are freed.

The ropes fall frayed to the floor and he straightens, rubbing at the burn in his forearms, rolling his neck to loosen the strain. His eyes flicker to her mass in the darkness, the shape of her just touched by the faintest tendrils of light. She is just out of reach, but so close, so far when her head tilts, a hint of fascination. He is mortal, she is eternal— a man reduced at the end of the day, stripped of money and power and the demons that lick at his heels. Greed is his master, but she is his, coveted in the secrecy of this cushioned nightmare.

He knows though, in the deepest reaches of his twisted soul, that only one of them will leave the warehouse alive.

In this horrible, shattered husk of reality, only one of them is destined to live.

And somehow, the choice has fallen to him.

Pick up the knife. Pick it up, feel it in your hands, smooth and weighted, perfectly balanced. Everything you’ve ever wanted is in the palm of your hands. Make the right choice. Do it for me, baby. For me.

Namjoon is pitted against his own self-preservation, warped desires clamoring for attention, needy yet sick. Needy, he is so fucking needy, but for what? Anticipation itches the back of his neck; he can barely think when the handle melds into the curve of his palm with such a sinful fit. The metal glints promise of things yet to come, but when he tilts the blade towards himself, he sees only the industrial struts that crosshatch the ceiling, the dust that hovers thick in the clogged, choking air. Emptiness and fulfillment, hand in hand, only a breath away.

You know what the answer is, Kim Namjoon. Do it. Do it for me.

Does he know? He must know, deep in the recesses of his bones. Deep inside the fucked-up mind of his, playing tricks on him; a trickster, what trickster? The last of his sanity is threatening to drip, melting like liquid wax onto the cool, callous cement. It’s bubbling in his hands, pouring through the gaps between his fingers, but when he shakes his head, a mad dog, it solidifies molten silver, black titanium.

Do it for me.

Do it for her.

He must.

Namjoon’s eyes flicker to her calf, following the silk of her skin to the hem of her saccharine dress; it flutters scarlet just out of reach. He’s on his knees now; there’s something pulling at him, some indeterminable force dragging him through the floor. The blade slips; the knife twists in his hands as he falls forward, and—

The air rushes out of Namjoon’s lungs as he writhes himself awake, mouth agape in an silent scream. He’s wheezing with the first rush of oxygen into his lungs, his lips swollen with gnashing of teeth as he twists away from the warmth settled next to him in the sea of rippling sheets, curling in on himself.

“Namjoon, are you alright?”

The broken man lifts his head, taking in the naked form upright in bed beside him, hair awry, concern bleeding every word.

It’s you.

He’s safe.

Indeed, Namjoon has had many dreams, but none quite like this one.

It is as if the very breath was sucked from Namjoon’s lungs when he first wrested himself awake in a cold sweat. Control is something he craves, something he owns save the late night hours when it is ripped from his hands by the sick desires of his own brain, playing tricks on him. He exercises his grip on every minutiae of his life, but when his eyes flutter shut and his conscience takes hold, it wraps a silken tie around his thoughts and begs him to pay attention.

You’re calling his name in a voice burdened by drowsiness. He knows you were awoken because of him but he can’t seem to think, to do anything else but sit here in this bed, in these rippling creamy sheets, and feel his lungs fill, empty. Fill, empty.

“Namjoon, love, breathe with me, okay?”

Breathing. Breathing is all he has been reduced to, a creature of the night with oxygen in his lungs and demons in his head.

You take his hand in your own, feels the slim digits trembling against your skin. You rub gentle circles into his knuckles and it somehow grounds him in the midst of the chaos, the overwhelming flood conjured from his worst nightmares. He watches as you carefully trace every crooked angle of his fingers with your own.

It is this simple motion that produces new thoughts, a mental clamor not of his own demise but for his own safety, the protection that he seeks. You are so much more than the sum of your parts: you are safety in the midst of a den of ruby-eyed cobras simply begging for a chance to strike. He’s never thought of anybody the way he thinks of you; there is no one else who comes close to you, and that’s saying a lot when it comes to his line of work.

“Namjoon, you’re safe, okay? You’re safe with me. We’re in our bedroom. You’re still the head of the most feared crime ring in the country. Nothing has changed. Yoongi is just outside the door; I’m right here. Nothing has changed, baby. You’re safe.”

Your words are warm against his skin, dotted with the press of lips to his temple, his cheek. You’re burning up against him, sweat beading at the roots of his hair, the silver strands falling low into his eyes. Somehow, the heat only serves to make him cooler, and he’s nestling into your arms before his mind catches up to his body. He’s safe. Somehow, in the roaring din of his mind, he is safe. His demons won’t follow him here, locked outside the door, palms scrabbling at the windows. The windows. Namjoon’s eyes flick to the glass and find the shades drawn, blocking out the ambient light that hovers thick on the other side. Bulletproof, he insisted, and for good reason. But Yoongi would have called if there was a problem, and he’s got Seokjin at the front gate, and it begins to seep in, sweet relief, that he truly is safe.

He is cradled to you like a child, a position compromising for a man of his stature, but he knows you won’t judge. Your hand trails from his thigh to his hip, his ribs to his shoulders, and your fingers nest in his hair, gently scratching his scalp. Lord knows he won’t be able to close his eyes until daylight breaks over the dark oak floor of your shared bedroom, but he hums and noses at your neck. You smell like sage and lavender with a touch of his own cologne, a memory of last night, and he inhales deeply, tries to savor the muskiness.

“You’re okay baby, I promise.” A kiss to his temple, another grounding touch. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you’re safe right here with me. Just let me love you, okay baby?”

Love. Love, a concept Namjoon knew better by verbal parry than by any real, tangible memory. It was wielded by a father he barely knew, an absent mother who preferred the company of socialites to the company of her own son. It was really a wonder he found it in him to love at all, really; he’d assumed he’d leave such an emotion to those who built a life out of a 9-5 day and mediocre sex. He’d been proven wrong, however, when you came along— you, once a high-profile escort in the dirty underworld he’d built for himself, proved yourself a worthy companion when you stayed beyond his guttural moans and dirty secrets. It was in fact, a moment like this when he realized he quite enjoyed your company, and there was something more to it than just a good fuck, an easy pussy.

You were the closest thing to real love he’d ever experienced, a home to come back to that wasn’t a prowling security team and a clean gun barrel. He’d exposed the grittiest parts of himself to you, the most private secrets and still you came back for more. You were just as fucked up as he was, really, and that was his favorite thing about you. You’d killed for him and he knew you’d kill again, and that was, very plainly, the matter of things.

Plus, that mouth made him see the stars more times than he’d willingly brag about at the poker table.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, exposed through the lip of your shirt (his shirt, actually). It’s a careful kiss, chaste for him. Your fingers rub comfort into the base of his skull and he swears he could purr, an alley cat sleek and pleasured.

“You doing okay, Joonie?” Your eyes tell him everything he needs to know and he nods, unsure if he trusts himself to speak. Fear still gnaws at his bones, muted terror of a red-heeled succubus and a silver blade that gleams in the lamplight. Somehow though, you know, scraping the blunt of your fingernails against his roots. “You don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to. I’m here regardless of that, you know me.”

Namjoon noses the column of your neck in reply, folding his sizeable frame until it molds against yours. Some things he’d never let the boys know about, but some things, he thinks, they knew about already. He is hard and cold and calculated yet soft and warm and comforting, a living contradiction unto himself; you’d never believe it if you hadn’t seen it yourself. A complexity of men who prefers to live by the simplest of rules, but you’d learned long ago not to try to understand something that was fucked-up from the start. Some things in this world were just fucked up, and that was the way they were meant to be.

Neither of you know how long you sit there, adrift in messy sheets, dry eyes gritty with the lateness of the hour. Your hand weaves through Namjoon’s hair as the vines around his heart flex, their thorny stems unraveling. He stopped shaking minutes before, but if you know anything about him, the internal tremors never cease, not outside of the safety of this bedroom, impossible with the life he lives.

He stirs a little, murmurs your name against your neck, his lips brushing bare skin and the small freckle that dots just above your collarbone. There’s something so intimate, so human about it, screaming vulnerability that hangs open and aching in the silence. His hands slide smooth across the breadth of your back, your waist, palms settling atop your thighs as he draws back slowly, slowly.

There’s a question in his eyes, one you meet with your own.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He hesitates.

“Namjoon…”

He swallows, tilts his head, steals a kiss. “I’m sorry.” Then another.

With the third you’re pulling away, chest steady, finger to his lips. “Namjoon, you’re not thinking clearly. We can’t do this right now—”

“Says who?” He is breathless with the thought. “I wanna make you feel good, baby. You deserve that.”

The sweetest words wrap themselves around the breadth of your bones, melting between the gaps. He’s always been so good with his tongue.

“Namjoon, I wanna make you feel good too, but not when you’re like this.” You shake your head. “Not when you’re waking up screaming about death and knives and all sorts of horrible things.”

His hands brush your curves. “If this bed is an ocean, I wanna drown in you.”

“Joonie…”

It’s so easy to work at you, the sharper edges that he can dissect piece by piece. He knows exactly how far to push, what little to say to reel you in hook, line, and sinker. “Just go with it baby, alright? Just trust me.”

It’s easy to fall into Namjoon, collapsing every time as he folds around you. His head tilts to the side as he leans in, his nose brushing your own. He tastes like mint toothpaste and something uniquely him, an element you can never place but when he’s exposing the most vulnerable parts of himself to you like this. His mouth moves easy against yours, just tender lips, warm kisses. His hand smoothes up your spine to cradle your neck, thumb brushing at the nape, the soft hairs that tickle the back of his hand. “Just relax baby, relax.”

Once more. “Joonie, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He nods. “I want this.”

He’s never been one for kissing but tonight he craves it, the simplicity of two mouths and hands that fit themselves perfectly against the curves and the edges. Musk curls under your nose as your eyelids flutter shut, dusting the apples of your cheeks a pinkish hue. Your hands meet his chest, burning with heat through the oversized Grateful Dead shirt he wears to bed with you, and they slide to his shoulders when he slips an arm underneath you to tug you closer.

You settle atop the apexes of his thighs, legs folding around him as he gazes up at you. The utmost adoration he has for you, written in the stars and in two hearts that beat as one, rattling against their cages with a need for closer, closer, closer. Fear melts underneath practiced fingertips and patience; he’ll be damned if he doesn’t return the favor. His eyes, usually tawny and mellow, burn blacker than charcoal but sweeter than syrup, running with emotion. It’s evident in every brush of his hands against your bare skin when his fingertips edge under the hem of your shorts, the gleam in his eye that warns of everything that is about to come. One hand supports your back as the other squeezes your thigh, and you can’t help but smirk down at him with the easy smile that tugs at his own kiss-bitten lips.

You aren’t smirking, however, when he leans in and nips a bite at your neck, teasing with his teeth, making you whimper and whine atop him. His tongue pokes between his lips, assuaging the pain, and your own mouth falls open as your fingers clench at his shoulders, nails sliding a lazy path along his spine. He licks once at the bite, then once more until he’s satisfied with the petaled violet that blossoms across the breadth of your throat. He nibbles a matching purple rose on the other side; you can feel the smile on his lips when your mouth shamelessly tips open and you stutter out his name.

“Hm, what is it?” When he draws back, you moan a singular complaint. “What do you want, love? I’ll give you anything you want.”

“W-Wanna make you feel good,” you pant, eyes fluttering. “Wanna make you feel so good.”

“I wanna make you feel good too, baby. Let’s just focus on the now, yeah?” Namjoon’s hand squeezes your thigh but you’re already pressing your body flush to his, kneeling over him. You cup his face and he strokes your wrist lightly, the most tentative of touches, thanking god that somehow, in the midst of the lion’s den, you’d found him. He had you and he knew he could trust you, trust the smell of your shampoo and the heat of your skin. “Focus on me.”

You lean down to kiss him, brushing his cheekbones, tangling your hands in his hair, but apparently, Namjoon had other plans. His lips graze your own, trailing the edge of your jaw to pepper the lightest kisses at your ear and move lower, lower. When his mouth lavishes the column of your neck with the utmost pleasure, you can’t help but feel your core ache, the purest whines permeating the thick air as you beg. He’s definitely hard now, weight against the inside of your thigh, and the temptation— no, the need to grind down on him sparked the fuzziest pleasures in your mind, the most sinful ideas.

“Please Joonie, please feels so good, please, w-wanna—”

When Namjoon mouths wet at the shell of your ear you writhe, losing control with each second that slips between your fingers like sand. His lips burn fire against your already heated skin, sizzling and crackling like a live wire under his touch. You hiss and he growls deep in the back of his throat, continues his ministrations.

“I forgot how much you liked that,” he breathes shakily.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you gasp, releasing your iron grasp on his roots. Luckily he’s unfazed; damn lucky you to be with someone who actually enjoyed their fair share of kinkiness. “So fucking hot and you’re so thick, I can feel it—”

When you grind down on him, pressing yourself onto the growing bulge in his slacks and swiveling your hips with practiced ease, he groans feverishly. With every brush of the head of his cock, he’s harder than before, memory weighty in the palm of his hand. He chokes on the breath in his lungs, his nails blunt on your back, and he moans once in content. Feels so fucking good.

“God, baby, you’re gonna ruin me like this,” Namjoon chuckles.

“Maybe that’s the intention,” you trill.

“Fuck.” The word lies heavy in the air, heavy on his bated breath.

You smirk, sinful seduction in his ear. “And what if I did this?”

As his eyebrows furrow, you ease yourself onto his thighs, so strong and sinewy. Your fingertips slip down his shoulders, trace every muscle that strains under his loose sleep shirt. Beneath the fabric is the coiled power of a lethal creature, a tiger poised to devour his prey. And he is utterly wrapped around your finger, letting his head tip back against the headboard with a sigh. He’s lost in your touches, an angel fallen from heaven, no idea which way is up or down.

You rub circles into his hip bones; he twists under you. Practically begging with his gasps, knowing what awaits him. Your fingers toy with the hem of his boxers and he’s hissing between his teeth. “Baby…”

You hum a response, press a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Please…”

“Oh Namjoon,” you coo. “You’re a mess, baby.”

He is. Hair sticking to his forehead, sweat gleaming at his temple; he’s a model for destruction, the dirtiest of kinds. Hips arching underneath you, and there’s a wet spot that stains the fabric. He smiles somehow, teeth flashing in the low light. “All for you.”

You withdraw, spit into your palm. “Then you get all of me.”

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, finds his cock, thick and hard. At the first stroke, lazy and full, he can’t stop the raspy grunt that leaves his throat. “Shit, baby. Feels so good.” When you lower your head to mouth at him over his sweats he practically writhes, begging, needy. So unlike him, but a welcome change to see him falling apart, falling apart over you. The fabric is soaked with saliva and dotted with a pearl of cum, a carnal work of art.

You rub slowly down his length, thumbing the swollen head leaking his seed. It’s messy and wet and he’s moaning and it’s all worth it, worth it to see him wrecked like this. His balls are heavy in your palm; when your eyes flutter up to meet his, wide and expectant, Namjoon hisses. That sound enough jolts burning heat between your thighs, twisting devilishly in your stomach. “B-Babygirl?”

There’s question in the word, question that makes you pause. You moan against his clothed cock; he chokes on his words.

“Can I make you feel good too?”

A sloppy kiss pressed to his member. “Later, okay? I wanna focus on you right now, Joonie.”

His hand strokes through your hair, flyaway, disheveled. “You’re so good to me. So fucking good—” He chokes on the downstroke, fingers tightening out of reflex. “Want you so bad.”

You press. “How bad? Bad enough to want my mouth?”

“Shit, your mouth,” he whines. “Want your mouth, want you—”

“Joonie,” you murmur.

His heartbeat resounds like gunfire in the ringing silence.

“Lift.”

He lifts his hips as you tug, pulling his sweats down to his thighs, the fabric ridged underneath your perch. His cock falls free, standing slightly crooked against his still-clothed abdomen, rippling with tension. It twitches under the heat of your gaze, steadily seeping liquid bliss, and your mouth waters at the thought. It’s been so long since you took him like this; when it’ll happen again, who’s to say.

You pepper kisses along his thighs just to hear him whimper, feel the predator writhe in his own constraints. His hands burn their own trails along the curves of your body, spreading heat in their wake as you cave to your own desire, slipping a hand between your thighs when you take him in your mouth with practiced ease. He’s firm under your fingertips, lithe and sleek and powerful in all the right ways, but he falls apart when it comes to you, crumbles like rock under the breath of the tidal wave. He grunts sin from between gritted teeth but whines complaint when you pull back to tease, to draw things out. He’s gentle in his touches but firm in his demands, even through the cottony billows of his neediness.

“I-I’m close,” Namjoon stutters, skin crimson from lavished attention. There’s saliva smeared down your chin and tears twinkle liquid starlight on your lashes, but you’ve never felt more electrified, burning up at the seams for him. From the heated confines of your throat you withdraw his cock with a firm touch at the base, his fingers running through your mussed locks.

“Where do you want to cum, baby?”

He squirms. “Fuck. Wherever you’ll take m-me—” He shudders, ribs heaving. Your fallen angel, shattering under your touch. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum for you, babygirl.”

“Cum for me, angel. Cum for me...” you murmur, gaze level with his own as you wrap your lips around his member.

“Gonna cum for you, fuck—”

“Daddy.”

The cavernous heat of your mouth is a slick warmth, so wet and warm and utterly divine. He loses himself in it, lets himself go, pushing towards that edge of no return, riding the crest of the wave as it rolls faster, harder, heavier. “‘M gonna fucking cum. Oh god, fuck, shit, babygirl, I’m cumming, I’m—”

A drawn out groan fills the air, raspy and thick and throaty as he thrusts into your mouth once, twice, spills over. He’s bitter on your tongue, acrid but you take it, swallow it all. It’s worth it to see the pleasure overtake him, to see him let go of every capacity and capability to fall drowning, dizzy. Whatever in heaven, above or below, he’s tumbling headlong into it, collapsing into himself like a burning star falling from the cosmos.

He’s the first to break the silence that falls, withdrawing himself and tucking his softening cock back in his sweats with a remarkable amount of composition for a man who’d just seen the very sparks of the universe behind closed eyelids. He chuckles breathless, bated. “Fucking hell, angel.”

You try to speak but merely croak at first, throat grating dry. He hushes you soothingly, easing you back on the pillows now soaked with sweat. “Let me get you some water, yeah? Just stay here for now.”

You whine a complaint— shouldn’t you be taking care of him?— but he’s insistent and already on his feet, legs shaky as he heads towards the bathroom. There’s a pang in your chest watching him go, the reality of the situation settling in, and vulnerability flowers in your heart.

The tap squeaks; the faucet runs. Room temperature water, not too hot but not too cold to soothe the burn in your esophagus. He knows you better than anyone, knows how to take care of you when you fail to take care of yourself, life spent always on the run. You’re the one holding him when his nightmares consume him, the steel that he draws from his belt to wield before him, the ultimate weapon. Yin and yang, black and white, blooming nebula and neutron star. The water turns off, a grating complaint.

It’s been too long; you’ve delayed too much. Play to his fantasy; he has no idea what’s coming.

“If the water’s not enough, I can send Yoongi for some tea— oh.”

Oh.

You are no longer prostrate, the limp rag doll exhausted from her play. No, you are stretched out on the bed, ass up on your hands and knees, silver glinting between your teeth as a pair of handcuffs dangles in the air. You are looking at him with fire smouldering deep in your eyes, blazing a burning glare straight through him.

The predator has become the prey.

“Daddy,” you purr, right on cue. “Come here.”

It’s automatic, the way Namjoon moves towards you, glass forgotten on the nearby dresser. He’s completely transfixed, fascinated by the possibilities, and when he reaches the end of the bed, you stop him with one outstretched foot, bare with the lateness of the hour. “Turn around.”

He’s so submissive, so compliant simply by the force of his own surprise. It’s hard to keep going, hard to push through the adrenaline thrumming through your blood, the underlying current that threatens to sweep you away, too. But you mustn’t listen, mustn’t feel.

“Hands behind your back, Joonie, baby.”

He’s perfect, perfectly whole in the way he follows each command that falls from your lips like silk spun thread. He surrenders himself so willingly to you, it stings raw.

You rise to your feet, level with the back of him. Your fingers make quick work of the cuffs and with a firm click, the deed is done.

With a tender motion that surprises even you considering the brevity of the situation, you wrap your arms around your torso, bury your face in his skin, inhale his scent. Amber and citrus. Musk and spice. Whole contradictions that somehow manage to summarize him perfectly. You whisper against his spine like it’s a secret. “I’m so sorry.”

“What, baby?”

You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, thudding rapid with excitement, wonder at what lies ahead of him. Guilt roars its ugly head and you beat it back with double the force.

You stiffen, step away from him. Four years you’d waited to formulate these words, to hear them drop from your lips, plummeting on high. Four years and now the moment is here, and you swallow past the lump in your sore throat.

“Kim Namjoon, you are under arrest for charges of extortion, murder, murder-for-hire, drug possession, and arms trafficking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…”

“...Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

You’re sitting in the open door of a police cruiser, more specifically a SWAT cruiser, an aluminum blanket wrapped around your bare shoulders. The air is warm, but you can’t stop shivering.

Seokjin paces fifteen feet away from you, ever more handsome in his suit and tie. Hoseok is finishing his interview of the conclusion, anticlimactic for the better. Yoongi’s legs dangle from the open doors of one of the ambulances called when your colleagues expected the worst. Thankfully, no casualties had occurred but a sprained ankle, a fight between one of your fellow law enforcement officers and that guy that manned the back gate. Everyone can go home, rest easy.

After Seokjin’s interview is yours, and you realize by the time Hoseok is asking the last question that you don’t remember a single word of what you’ve said. Elite agents taking down the biggest crime boss in the country are not supposed to feel so empathetic, so broken. Guilty. Regretful.

Four years, the longest and most dramatic chase of your career. Justice fell, a swift hammer; you’d saved the day once again, added another face to the chalkboard in your sterile office a thousand miles away. You’d won. Hadn’t you?

There’s a faraway look in your eyes that Hoseok somehow understands, a glimmer of something more than success. He straddles the age gap between the members of the team, incorporating Jeongguk’s youthfulness with his elders’ experience, the glue of it all handed the most important task. He calls your name. “You’ve been out of it the entire time I’ve been interviewing you. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

But there’s no bite to the words, no whet of passion. They fall flat below the crackle of radios, the mist that reflects red and blue through the evergreen trees scraping the stars winking high above.

Hoseok puts his pen and clipboard aside. “Hey,” he says. The kindness in his tone pierces daggers through your heart. You somehow would’ve been more comfortable if he had yelled at you. “You did the right thing. He hurt a lot of people. Killed many more, and did so without remorse.”

That’s what you think, you want to scream. Because to you, he is some foreign criminal, far removed from any last dregs of humanity. He is a monster and a crook and a fiend, twisted into something unrecognizable, but you didn’t see what I saw. Did you see the warmth in his eyes when he rolled over and buried himself in my arms all those mornings in bed? Did you see the way he saved those dogs about to be euthanized in a shelter, because those pups reminded him of how he used to feel, staring death in the eyes every day? Did you see the way he loved me?

Hoseok pats your shoulder. “I’ll put in a month and a half of vacation time for you when we get home. Lord knows you’ve earned it. And we can rest tonight, rest for the first time in a while. We’ve got a nice hotel an hour away from here, top floor. We’re not done flushing out the rest of his boys, but that can wait for now. We can handle that on our own; they’re scattered all over the continent anyways. It’ll take time.” He picks up his supplies, turns to move on to Yoongi. The look in the elder man’s eyes, the special ops agent thinks, is exactly the same as your own. What had you two seen in that hellhole?

You tuck the blanket tighter around yourself and nod once. It’s the most you can do.

Hoseok smiles, but it’s not quite the beaming, sunshine-filled glow he usually carries about himself. “You did good work and I’m proud of you. Get some sleep, agent.”

Sleep does not come for a long, long time.

When it does, it eats away behind your eyelids, filling your mind with visions of a man adrift in an ocean of bedsheets, rocking on the waves of an endless concrete floor that goes for miles and miles, whispering promises of things to come that never would be.

Kim Namjoon is sentenced to life in prison for six counts of murder, fifteen counts of extortion, three counts of murder-for-hire, six counts of drug trafficking, three counts of arms trafficking, and two counts of drug possession.

He never makes it to see his twenty-sixth birthday.

#bts #bts smut #bts fluff #kpop fluff #namjoon smut #namjoon angst #kpop fanfiction #bts au #verses and vibes #outroshooky

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southernpeach13 · 4 years ago

Text

Their Princess all grown up Chapter 5

Duke moaned as she slowly came to. She rubbed the tiredness from her eyes when she realized that her hands were not only tied behind her back but to someone. She scrunched up her nose when she was hit with the smell of a very pissed-off Alpha. Well, two actually but the one tied to her was absolutely livid. Duke looked up and saw a young man maybe her age, a couple of years older at most smiling like a mad man at them.

Duke groaned as she remembered how they ended up in their current position.

A few hours earlier

The small group landed in an underground subway of all things and soon learned that the ninja was mute. As the group continued to walk down the subway they ran into what looked like a modern version of a mad scientist lab. Duke and Tunnel Rat were about to keep exploring when Roadblock grabbed the two and hid them behind a large barrier with the rest of the group.

Tunnelrat was glaring daggers at the large Alpha but Snakeeyes pressed a finger to his mouth making a small shush motion as he pointed to the flooring above them.

Duke looked up from their hiding spot and saw a young man talking to someone on a large screen. She sniffed the air and soon realized the man in the lab coat was a beta.

He was telling the person on the screen to never interrupt him in the middle of work and something about making the person's replacement? What did he mean by that? Duke ducked as she saw the beta, turn around, and walk to the railing. She could feel the wheels in her head turning trying to place where she had heard that voice before.

“I know,” he whispered.

“I know the teeming masses will call you unnatural, immoral.” he purred. Duke covered her mouth hoping to stop her heavy breathing. She had barely been in the room with him for a solid three minutes but everything about him.

Just screamed wrong.

“Even evil.”

Her heart was pounding so loud she didn't even notice that Scarlet had already pulled up information on the man. She barely heard her say his name.

“Brian Bender. Goes by Mindbender.”

Duke looked back up at the man. Why did that name sound so familiar?

“He’s wanted by the feds for multiple crimes against nature. Very intelligent. Also has the same less than popular thoughts on Alphas and Omegas.

But you’ll always be my babies.” he said with contentment. As he stood up a wave of pheromones hit his nose that smelled a little familiar.

Duke shook her head, quickly pushing that feeling aside.

“Okay, so we take him to the feds.” She said.

“No,” Scarlet said, waving the recording. “I got what I need, let's head out.” Duke shot the woman a dirty look before she vaulted over their hiding place with her gun and snuck on the floor that Mindbender was on. Weems, Tunnel Rat, and Roadblock following her lead.

Mindbender typed away on his computer and saw the reflection of a young woman with blonde hair and bright blue eyes holding a gun to his head.

He glared at her and soon realized that the scent he had caught a whiff of earlier.

He rolled his eyes as he realized where he had seen her before.

She was some random teenager at the time in high school that the Commander had taken an interest in at the time.

He took note of the Alpha and Beta behind her. She had obviously taken the lead.

“Brian Bender, you’re under arrest.” She said with strong authority in her tone.

It was honestly kind of hilarious. He couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the trio.

The blonde looked shocked and lowered her weapon for a brief second before baring her fangs and raising it again glaring daggers at him.

Mindbender continued to laugh. After a minute he wiped away the tears and leaned closer to the keyboard behind him and smiled

“Doubt it.” He said smugly as he pressed a button.

As Duke glanced at the other members of her team sneaking up behind the deranged doctor a look of confusion in her eyes but her face determined but before she could give another order electricity coursed through her body.

Duke screamed.

She could hear the other members of her team crying out as well but she could barely process it. Duke colloped to the floor, her breath shaking as her vision went in and out.

She saw the scientist walk up to her but stepped over her. Duke weakly turned around trying to process what was happening but just as her vision went black she saw him press a button and a dark blue goop spewed from something in the ceiling that seemed to be trying to take a form but failed.

Mindbender smirked as he turned to the group of soldiers on the floor. The Omega, the only one still semi-conscious. He walked up to the blonde grasping her chin, tilting her face up, turning her face side to side examining her before letting go of her face letting her fall to the ground, Duke letting out a small grunt of pain.

“Maybe you grunts have some use after all,” he said in a chirpy tone. That was the last thing she heard as her vision blurred and slowly faded to black.

Now

Duke's face scrunched up in disgust as she felt the strange blue goop pour into the humanoid shape hole she and Scarlet were tied up in. It landed with a gooey splat as it filled up just enough to where the two women could keep their heads up. It felt slimy and unnatural against her skin.

She could hear Roadblock yelling at the crazed Beta about how he couldn't do this while Weems made a joke/plea to the ninja to Houdini them out of their current predicament.

Mindbender cackled and smiled at the soldiers.

"You see grunts. I can do whatever I want because Cobra lets me.” He continued to walk, letting his hand slide against the railing as he continued.

“Once you five are recycled in my biomatrix, you will be reborn as the first group super soldiers for Cobra.” He said excitedly. Leaning over the railing a mad glint in his eye.

He turned on his heel and threw his hands in the air.

“No more pesky Omega heats for blondie. Nor ruts for Mr. Ninja, muscles and red!” He let out an excited laugh as he clasped his hands.

“You'll actually have a purpose besides to breed!” He turned around and leaned over the railing once more, resting his chin in his palm.

“How amazing is that. You will be the first unit in Cobra’s first Bioviper army!” Mindbender turned back around and began to fiddle with the machines to get it ready when he heard a screen flicker on behind him. He turned around and saw the familiar face of an older Omega woman.

Her hair was deep black, almost purple cut into a bob that was a beautiful contrast to her pale skin, her lips painted red. Her dark brown eyes practically glared daggers into his soul as she adjusted her rectangular glass on her button nose.

Mindbender huffed in annoyance at her.

Anastasia, Better known as The Baroness, was the Commander's, right-hand woman.

“Doctor, I heard there was a security breach at the lab” She purred in a deep Russian accent. She was calm on the outside but he knew just how dangerous she actually was.

She was the only Omega that he was truly afraid of. But given her history, it was wonder why the woman was so cold and calculating.

Mindbender smiled and waved his hand nonchalantly.

“Handled it. Just a group of green shirts busted in and tried to arrest me. Go figure.” He chuckled.

Baroness cut her eyes at him. “Then I expect to have a full report when you're done.” She said calmly before her screen flickered off.

Nicky “Tunnel Rat” Lee was not having a good day.

The small Omega crawled through the fabric pipework and looked for his team.

He had been lied to by a superior, dragged into something he wanted no part in. Shot at. And now he was crawling through a literal mad scientist lab.

Go figure.

Tunnelrat almost let out a loud whoop as he finally spotted his team. He took out a small pocket knife and cut the thick fabric open and crawled out.

“I know I disobeyed orders, didn't want to.” He said with a laugh as he cut the rope that held Duke and Scarlet.

Duke rubbed her wrist and smirked at him as she got herself up out of the slimy blue goop. “Expect yourself to be a court-martialed soldier.” She said with a laugh

Scarlet soon followed, elbowing the blonde as she chimed in. “I outrank her. You’re pardoned.” He was about to help Mr. Ninjaman and Weems but the Snakeeyes had already gotten out and was uniting Weems binds.

Just as they were going to make a break for it a large gooey thing landed in front of them. Duke watched in horror as it sprung in the air twisting and turning until it took a very large humanoid form and roared at them.

DUke grabbed a grenade that had been on TunnelRats belt and threw it at the thing once it lunged at them and it exploded with a loud boom.

Her ears were ringing, but she couldn't worry about that now. She looked back up at the railing and saw the crazed Scientist run.

Duke let out a growl and jumped on a dangling wire and climbed up it quickly.

Mindbender saw the Omega coming up to him and fast.

Her bright blue eyes were cold and icy as she glared at him.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen that exact same expression just moments ago.

Duke made it to the railing and threw herself over it with a firm grunt. She spotted Mindbender running away from a computer and she could somewhat hear a monstrous roar through her still ringing ears.

She turned to see her team fighting more of the blue slime things, but when she turned back around the madman was gone.

Duke snarled “Where's Mindbender!” She snapped.

She saw Snakeeyes bolt after a figure in a lab coat that ran into an underground train that quickly sped off.

And just like that Mindbender was gone.

Duke saw electricity spark into the vat that she and the other had been in and more of the monsters came out of it.

“We need to shut off the power!” She hollered

“It’s locked!” Tunnelrat screamed.

Roadblock's eyes lit up as he got an idea.

“How about we light up this factory-like the fourth of July!” He asked.

“How?” Scarlett questioned.

Moments later everyone had grabbed a piece of tech whether it be an actual weapon or a cable that someone *Duke* had ripped off one of the machines and fought back while Scarlett and Weems dealt with the generator.

As Duke stabbed another Bioviper and saw therest of her team begin to head for the exit.

She heard Weems swear and saw him jump off the railing and head back to the machine he and Scareltt had rigged to blow.

It had gotten unplugged in the scuffle.

She saw him heading up the stairwell so she continued to head to the exit as well.

He has only a few steps behind her.

She heard him let a startled yelp.

She turned around and saw him yanked back by another Bioviper.

She ran back, she had to get him out.

Electricity was flying everywhere. She was on the stairwell now.

But he only smirked and looked ot the Bioviperes holding him back.

SHe didn't hear what he said to them.

And then.

There was the boom.

“No!” She screamed.

Duke felt herself be blown back in the explosion.

Shards of metal bursting apart hitting and cutting into her arms.

She felt a large hand yank her by the collar of her shirt and thrown over a shoulder. She watched in horror as the machines around them were blown to pieces.

At that moment all Duke could see was the fire.

Roadblock ducked and rolled as they were hit with the last blast of the explosion in the air. He rolled on his back holding Duke tightly until the explosions ceased.

A wave of pheromones quickly hit his nose but he couldn't process that now as he saw doors open and people scrambling to get out, he picked up the Sargent and bolted for it with the others.

They were headed for the helicopter they had arrived but it was soon nothing but worthless hunks of metal as debris from the building hit it.

Snake Eyes quickly “commerderd” a vehicle and Scarlett threw the doors open. Roadblock set Duke down carefully and went for the driver's seat as Snakeeys left it to check on the others before disappearing altogether once more.

Scarlett looked at the blonde Omega. She was shaking. Scarlett felt guilt as she looked over the Sargent.

Anyone could tell she was in distress.

They all were.

But Duke.

They didn't know what was happening until it was too late.

The flood of distressed and frightened omegas hormones quickly flooded the van.

TunnelRat bolted to Duke who had begun to rock herself back and forth. Her head between her hands. Scarlett got up but Tunnel Rat snapped at her.

“Back off!” He demanded.

“She’s going into a stress-induced heat. We don’t need to make decisions that's going to do more damage to her in the long run cause you can’t keep your knot in check!”

Tunnel Rat carefully pried Duke’s hands from her hair. Her tight bun now in disarray, her cheeks stained with tears.

“Sarge can you hear me.” Tunnel Rat asked her.

Duke nodded.

“Okay, that's good. I need you to focus on your breathing okay.” He continued. Duke let out a shaky breath a choked sob finally leaving her throat.

Tunnel Rat pulled the taller Omega in a hug. Duke buried her face in the crook of her fellow Omega’s neck inhaling his scent.

Tunnel Rat continued to take care of Duke shooting dirty looks in Scarlett’s direction until Duke managed to pass out.

“Will she be alri-” “Not. A. Word.” Scarlett paused as Tunnel Rat turned to her.

“You have lied to us and to who knows how many people.” He snarled.

“We lost a man in the field cause of your secrets!” Tunnel Rat pointed at the sleeping blonde. “She’s most likely about to go into a stress-induced heat cause of this.” Tunnel Rat let out a hollow laugh.

“And if she does she’s going to have to go through by herself cause her mate isn't here! And I am sure as hell not letting you guys- No offense Roadblock.” Tunnel Rat quickly added. The large Alpha had been nothing but kind and respectful to all of them. So it didn't seem fair to lu,p him in with Scarlett.

“None taken.” He chimed. “I get what you're trying to say and you're right.” Roadblock glanced at the three in the back. He reached in his pocket and felt Weems dog tags against his palm.

They had been pulled off in the skirmish. Roadblock was lucky and managed to catch them before everything went so, so wrong.

Duke let out a small whimper and the three silenced themselves. They could figure it out once they got back to base. Right now everyone just needed to rest.

Anastasia walked up to the now-destroyed building taking in the damage.

Under Control. Yeah right.

Anastasia says Mindbender rummaging through the rubble. She would ignore him for now. RIght in this instant, she needed to salvage any footage she could find and maybe figure out who the group of soldiers were.

She slid down the crater that had once been a lab with ease and took in her surroundings, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath.

Her eyes snapped open. There once a mix of scents of course. Alphas, betas, and omega. But one, in particular, caught her attention.

One she hadn't smelled in over twenty years outside of the tiny pink baby blanket that the cub had been placed in. That scent in particular going stale after all these years. But she wouldn't forget it.

She couldn't.

After all. How could any mother ever forget the scent of her own cub?

#my post #mypost #my writing #gi joe renegades #duke #conrad hauser #a/b/o #omega duke #fem Duke #their princess all grown up #chapter 5

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scabopolis · 5 years ago

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emma x killian au: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic

Holy moly! This (really needs to be edited one more time, but we’ll save that for AO3, shall we?) monstrosity is my gift to @hollyethecurious for the @cssecretsanta2k19 (thank you for your tireless work on this!), and is my first attempt at Emma x Killian fic (eek!).

Hollye, what a joy to chat with you over the past month. I present to you a wordy as all getout friends to lovers fic that takes place over six holidays (five holidays with a bit of disaster, and one with a bit of magic), a soupçon of Captain Cobra, and brief appearances by older brother Liam, as well as (one hopes!) romance and a whole host of other good things. Hope it brings some joy to your season. And I’m thrilled to be able to start following you on Tumblr now and send messages without fear!

And I swear -- post-road trip, a more edited version will also appear on AO3. Happy holidays!

---------- title: a bit of disaster, a bit of magic fandom: once upon a time pairing: emma x killian word count: 12,400 | AO3 link: here ----------

summary: When Killian and Emma first meet on Thanksgiving she has some rather unsavory words for him. But then they somehow manage to navigate a series of holiday disasters together. In so doing they also stumble upon a bit of holiday magic.

Thanksgiving Or, the holiday where Emma calls Killian a pervert

As far as holidays go, Killian finds this Thanksgiving to be relatively textbook. Liam and Kate both made far too much food, took utter delight in teasing him for his lack of love life, and then he went home laden with abundant leftovers.

Only for things to rapidly become significantly less than textbook. It all started when he poured himself a glass of wine at home.

Home: the place wherein he poured himself the aforementioned glass of wine as he began to wind down for the evening, and then somehow proceeded to spill all but a single gulp on his bedding. Bedding: the freshly laundered, high thread-count duvet and sheets, put on the bed this morning, now soaked with Malbec.

With one set of sheets in the hamper and the second set wine soaked, Killian tossed back the remaining gulp of wine and resigned himself to an evening of doing laundry. On Thanksgiving.

In retrospect, Killian knows he should have just taken his brother and sister-in-law up on their kind offer to stay the night, but he’d found himself emotionally overwhelmed by the end of the night. Over dessert and coffee Liam and Kate informed him they were likely going to start trying for their first kiddo in the new year. And as excited as Killian is at the prospect of having a little nephew or niece to dote on next Christmas, it also served as a reminder of how close he’d gotten to having it all once. And how it doesn’t seem at all likely he’ll ever get that close again.

These kinds of maudlin thoughts are exactly why Killian poured himself that glass of wine. Wine that, as Killian holds the clean sheets up to the light in the laundry room, quite remarkably seems to have not stained. He does the complicated hand twisting and folding technique his mum once showed him and sets aside the fitted sheet, reaching for the flat sheet.

Killian hears the door to the shared laundry room open behind him as one of his neighbors enters. He slides his stacks of laundry together to make room on the folding table and is about to greet whoever walked in, commiserate over their fate of doing laundry on a —

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving, you sick pervert?”

Okay. Maybe not.

He turns around slowly to meet the steely gaze of one of his neighbors whom he’s seen from time to time in the mail room and hallways (and once in a rather lurid dream he still feels guilty about). “Do I normally do laundry on Thanksgiving? I wouldn’t consider it a tradition as such, but —”

“No. I mean steal women’s underwear.”

“Pardon?”

She steps closer only to swipe a pair of his briefs off the table. The pair of underwear is, admittedly, a little absurd, but nothing quite warranting such a vitriolic reaction. They’re the rare white elephant gift he actually opted to keep. Aside from being the most comfortable pair he owns, he quite enjoys the whimsical print of yetis sledding and decorating Christmas trees. He takes a step towards her and she backs up.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks.

“I’m not certain what is happening here.”

“What’s happening is, you’re a sick fuck.”

He frowns. That seems, to put it mildly, uncalled for. “Okay, hold on now —” he takes another step towards her

“You stay there,” she demands, pointing a finger at him.

He holds his hands up in a placating gesture. He has so lost the thread of this conversation. And he really should have just stayed at Liam’s house for the night. “I won’t come near you, lass, but if you could return my trunks I would —”

The indignation on her face makes her appear incandescent. “Yours?!”

“Yes, mine.”

His neighbor starts sputtering and then she goes silent, her jaw clenching in a way that is, if he were to be honest, rather intimidating. Still, Killian does (for some unknown reason that would likely require a good amount of therapy), what he so often finds himself doing whenever he meets his match: he smiles.

His smile only makes the frown lines on her face deepen.

“Look,” he says, in his most sensible tone of voice. “Do you really believe I would be daft enough to steal your undergarments and then remain in the laundry folding them knowing any moment you might return?”

It’s only for a split second, but her features relax as she considers his words. Then she full on glares at him, clutching the briefs in her fist. But then her eyes dart to one of the dryers on the wall.

“Have a look,” he says, gesturing with his head to the dryer.

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

She remains true to her word, keeping one eye on him as she opens the dryer and roots around inside. He knows she’s found what she’s looking for when he hears her groan. “Fuck me,” she mutters to herself, and then pulls out a pair of briefs identical to his own.

She groans again. “This isn’t possible.”

“Yet here we are.”

She shuffles over and hands him back his briefs. Killian has to actively work to keep in his laugh as he watches her remove her clothing from the dryer and start another load. From the way the pink in her cheeks burns brighter, she’s aware of his gaze.

“So, is this a normal thing you do on Thanksgiving?” he asks. And there’s that rather becoming jaw clench of hers. “Accuse men of stealing your underwear, I mean?”

She remains silent and Killian decides to show mercy, finishing up his folding and stacking the clothes in his basket. His neighbor gives him a wide berth as she carries her laundry basket on her hip and leaves - no, flees - the room. But not before she mutters an apology. “Sorry if I, uh, said — you know?”

“Now, what could you have possibly said?” he asks, all faux innocence.

If possible, her blush gets even brighter. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Once back in his flat he texts Liam the whole story. As he putters around, remaking his bed and pouring himself another glass of wine, he bursts out into little chuckles of laughter replaying the scenario. Laughter which Liam echoes in emoji form once he responds. Frankly, this woman is Killian’s hero (Liam's too, as he offered to buy her a gift basket for helping keep Killian's ego in check). Maybe he’ll see her in the mail room and can assure her of her place of honor in Jones family lore.

He’s settling into the couch with a book when there’s a knock. Killian frowns, his eyes darting to his wall clock. It’s somehow only half-eight, but he isn’t expecting anyone. He looks out his peephole and smiles at the sight of one his young neighbors holding a platter of baked goods. They’ve only chatted in the elevator and occasionally in the halls but Henry is a warm and charming young man, and Killian always looks forward to their interactions. Which doesn’t explain why he —

“Mom, get your butt over here.”

“You knocked, he didn’t answer. He’s probably asleep.” And then the woman from the laundry room comes into view and it all makes a little more sense.

“When you mess up, you apologize. Those are the rules.”

“The rules for what?” she asks.

“For life.”

“Who taught you these rules?”

“You did.”

She huffs out an exasperated laugh, but wraps an arm around Henry’s shoulder and pulls him close. “God, why couldn’t I suck more as a parent?”

Killian decides to put her out of her misery and answer the door. Young Henry looks delighted at his appearance, and his mom appears miserable. Like she wants nothing more than to sprint in the other direction.

“Mr. Jones! Happy Thanksgiving! This is my mom, Emma.”

“Sir Henry, Happy Thanksgiving to you.” He looks to Henry’s mom. “And to your lovely mum.”

Henry shoves the platter of treats at him and Killian bobbles it before holding it steady. “These are for you!” Henry needlessly explains. It’s a platter teeming with pumpkin pie, cookies, and some sort of toffee almond concoction that looks delightful. “My Aunt Mary-Margaret is the world’s best cook,” Henry says.

“Well, thank you, Henry. And please give my thanks to your aunt.”

“I will. Now my mom has something she wants to say to you.” Emma looks ready to protest but then Henry smiles up at her, his grin wide and toothy and she shakes her head, affection for her son apparent. “Goodnight, Mr. Jones.”

Emma watches as Henry walks down to the end of the hallway, unlocks the door, gives his mom a thumbs up, and walks inside. Once inside, Emma turns to him and mumbles something barely audible.

“I’m sorry. What was that, love?”

She huffs out a breath, fluttering a strand of her hair in the process. “I said, I’m sorry for calling you a pervert.”

“And?”

“And for trying to steal your underwear?”

“What about for calling me a sick fuck?”

“I did not!” she protests, but at his look her brow furrows in concentration. “Oh my god. I did, didn’t I?” She shifts her weight from side to side and he’s pretty certain he hears her mutter another curse word under her breath. She looks up and locks eyes with him. For a moment all he can think is wow, green, but she starts talking again. “Look, Henry and I had a really great day at my sister’s house but then I got this message from my ex, Henry’s dad, and to be honest it sent me into a bit of a tailspin. So then I go grab my laundry and there you are with a very peculiar pair of underwear and all I could think was ‘not today, asshole’ and then — well, you were there. I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven, Emma.” Then it’s his turn to frown, gesturing towards the direction Henry walked as he leans against his doorway. “How did you know who I am?”

“Oh, I mentioned what happened to Henry and he asked me to describe the neighbor.”

“Smart kid.”

“Yeah.” She fidgets again, kind of shaking the tension out of her hands as she rocks back on her heels. “Well, I…that’s all, I wanted to say, so…”

“Nice to meet you, Emma. And Happy Thanksgiving.” She backs away from the door giving him a perfunctory little wave. For some reason, after he closes and locks the door, he finds himself looking through the peephole to watch Emma’s retreat. She lingers outside the door for a second before smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand and then does an entirely unbecoming and yet endearing full body shake and flail, tossing her head back and groaning. She appears to catch herself, and Killian watches as she looks to his door. Her eyes close in resignation. “You saw that didn’t you?”

“Every single second.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Killian.”

Christmas Eve Or, the holiday where Killian almost freezes

It’s a working theory of hers, but Emma is willing to argue with anyone who cares that Christmas Eve is far superior to Christmas. The whole day is filled with baking, and listening to Christmas music, and lighting every baked good themed candle she owns. Plus! she doesn’t have to wake up to an overeager eight year old shaking her at dawn. It’s wonderful.

As she stores the vacuum in the hall closet (one last round of pre-festivity cleaning), her phone vibrates. She pulls it out of her pocket, smiling when she sees it’s a text from Killian.

Texts from Killian: another thing that is wonderful these days, if not unexpected.

11:12 AM - Killian to Emma My oven is on the fritz. Can I use yours for a bit?

11:13 AM - Emma to Killian Define ‘a bit’…

11:14 AM - Killian to Emma Ok. Less ‘a bit’ and more ‘a while.’

11:15 AM - Killian to Emma And by 'a while' I mean the rest of the day.

Emma snorts at that one.

11:17 AM - Emma to Killian It’s all yours. Though, I thought your fruit cake would be in door stop mode by now?

11:19 AM - Killian to Emma For the last time, woman, it’s not a bloody fruit cake.

When Killian proudly told her and Henry over Saturday morning pancakes he was preparing a classic Christmas cake for their Christmas Eve celebration, and then proceeded to explain the weeks long process behind making the cake, Henry frowned. “I think that’s a fruit cake.”

Which was the first, but certainly not the last time, Killian insisted: “It certainly is not!” And then Killian proceeded to explain, again, what a Christmas cake was.

From Killian’s explanation of how to prepare it, though, there shouldn’t be any baking required today. Which begs the question as to exactly what Killian is doing. As the host of the event, Emma is only responsible for appetizers (thank you Trader Joe’s), and booze with the rest of the guests bringing the meal.

A meal which apparently includes a British man she met a month ago, bringing a fruit cake to the Christmas Eve celebration with her family and closest friends. What is her life?

Dare she say it, life is pretty great these days. And Killian is definitely part of why that is.

After their ignominious beginning, she and Killian found themselves bumping into one another constantly. If they didn’t cross paths in the mail room, hallway, or elevator, it was Henry - her kid who would find a way to make friends with a paper bag if given the opportunity - who started inviting Killian to join them everywhere. While on their way to the movies it was a “hey, Killian, wanna come?” More than a few times Henry went to check the mail as Emma cooked dinner and when he returned Killian was with him. “I told him all about your chicken and dumplings, mom!”

Somehow Killian joining them for chicken and dumplings turned into the two of them texting throughout the day — Killian in between clients at the physical therapy clinic, and Emma whenever she needed a break from real estate contracts — and then a second glass of wine once Henry went to bed. Apparently, unbeknownst to Emma, this was all leading to Killian celebrating Christmas Eve with her family and friends. Oh, and coming over the next day for Christmas morning pancakes.

Despite what her sister and brother-in-law would like people to believe, Killian is only spending the holidays with them because his brother left for his in-laws earlier in the week and Henry didn’t want him to spend the holiday alone. That’s it! If it was more than that, would she be okay with Killian coming over while she was in her cleaning clothes? Obviously not. So, suck it universe.

Killian shows up ten minutes later looking fine and not at all biteable in a truly horrendous Christmas sweater that no one has a right to look as…completely adequate…in as he does. His arms are laden with grocery bags.

“All this for a fruitcake?”

“Christmas cake. And no. That has been done for some time, as you well know. I told Mary-Margaret I’d make Yorkshire puddings to go with the prime rib. And Liam would disown me if I didn’t make mince pies.”

“How British of you.”

“Well, I am British.”

“You know what I mean.” Emma grabs him an apron so he doesn’t mess up his Christmas sweater and as he makes himself at home, she buzzes around getting the apartment ready - pulling the folding chairs and table out of the closet, making sure Henry has enough clean clothes to wear for dinner, etc. Henry spends the day floating in and out of the kitchen to bug Killian. He plays his video games for a little bit and then is back to the kitchen and gets annoyed because there’s not enough room for him to make a sandwich. He is only appeased when Killian reveals he brought over leftover Chinese.

“Why did you bring so much extra food?” she asks, ignoring Killian’s disapproving stare as she bites into a cold eggroll. She’s pretty sure he also brought over a gallon of milk and what looks like leftover roasted vegetables. Weird.

“Do you know what the two of you are like when you’re not fed?” Killian shudders in horror, and Emma smacks him in the back of the head. She also pinches mince pie filling to be a brat.

When she comes out in her loungewear, after having showered, there is the most wonderful smell of cinnamon in the air. Before she even asks Killian hands her a mug of mulled wine. How did she even get this and what does she have to do to keep it forever? Emma freezes at the thought. By this she means his friendship. Obviously.

Once Mary-Margaret and David, then Ruby and Mulan arrive, the evening, dare she even thinks it, is borderline perfect. Continuing the British Christmas theme, Killian brought Christmas crackers from World Market. Henry got so excited at the hat and little joke in his that he hug bombed Killian and the poor man spilled his hot chocolate down the front of his sweater. Henry apologizes profusely, but Killian assures him it’s okay, losing the sweater for just a black tee underneath. Which, again, is fine and makes Killian look fine and Emma really needs the commentary in her head to quiet down.

“Hate to see a Christmas casualty,” David muses as Killian tosses the sweater aside.

“True, but good things tend to happen to me when I do laundry on a holiday,” he replies.

And Mary-Margaret gets this wide knowing grin, which Emma does not care for at all, but her heart is currently beating fast enough that she lets it pass.

The high-point of the night might be when Mary-Margaret serves slices of Killian’s Christmas cake alongside her caramel apple pie. Ruby holds up her plate, sniffs Killian’s cake, and with a perfectly cocked eyebrow simply asks “Fruit cake?” Henry almost falls out of his chair laughing.

Mulan and Ruby are the first to leave, needing to get to Granny’s where they’re staying the night. Killian offers to stay and help clean up but Emma refuses. The man spent all day cooking in her kitchen – she’s not going to make him clean, too. But when Henry hugs him goodnight and tells him they’ll see him for pancakes, Emma has to admit she’s a little sad to see him shuffle down the hallway back to his own apartment.

Henry proceeds to line up his mom, his aunt, and his uncle, debating as to who deserves to read to him that night. David wins the privilege outright when, upon Henry asking each of them to share their Percy Jackson voice, he actually recites from memory an excerpt from the book Henry is currently reading. Fucking show-off.

Mary-Margaret doesn’t even wait for them to leave the kitchen before she looks at Emma like she must say something or she’ll burst. As Emma is want to do, she ignores it. No wonder David lobbied so hard to get the bedtime story invitation. The two were in cahoots. As they do dishes, Mary-Margaret keeps dropping conversational breadcrumbs =, waiting for Emma to take one up. Which Emma steadfastly fails to do. So Mary-Margaret stops being subtle.

“So, Killian was here all day, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” Mary-Margaret says, drying a wine glass and setting it aside. “Interesting.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“Do I?”

“God, you’re annoying,” Emma says, smacking her shoulder with the back of her hand.

Mary-Maragret frowns and does it right back. “I like Killian.”

“He’ll be thrilled to hear it.”

“And I think you like Killian, too.”

Emma glares at her. “Well, he’s my friend.”

“Who you very much would like to be a naked friend.”

“Mary-Margaret!”

“What?”

She steals the towel away from Mary-Margaret and snaps her with it. “Can we be done with this conversation?”

“No. Because I have something important to say to you.” Emma groans and Mary-Margaret takes a step forward, placing a hand on either side of Emma’s face. “I know you think you’ve got this bruised and battered heart. But that’s not true, Emma. You have the most open heart of anyone I’ve ever known. And I don’t know how you do it, but as someone you let see that big beautiful heart, I just need you to know how lucky I am to have you in my life. Anyone would be so lucky to have you. So be brave.”

Emma feels her eyes go glassy and seriously! Mary-Margaret has been in her life for more than twenty-years. How does she always do this to her? She reaches forward and hugs Mary-Margaret tight, blinking the tears back.

“I love you,” Mary-Margaret says.

“Shut up.” Emma holds her even tighter. “I love you, too.”

After Mary-Margaret and David leave she gives Henry a final tuck into bed then takes a moment to look around the apartment. The space feels emptier than when the day started. It must be the come down from an almost perfect night. Right? Not like she’s feeling morose because there’s a person down the hall who she very much wishes was still currently in her apartment. Someone to perhaps share leftover pie and a glass of wine with. That would be absurd. It’s just that the whole night felt a little magic, and now it’s over.

Emma blows out the living room candles and that’s when she sees it — Killian’s ugly Christmas sweater draped over the back of the couch. Which Emma immediately decides she should return to Killian. It’s urgent. That sweater could mean a lot to him. Or, something.

She locks up the apartment door and heads to Killian’s. Knocking on the door triggers a feeling of panic and she’s tempted to drop the sweater and run. But then he opens the door and his already bright eyes somehow get brighter. This was the right decision.

“Emma! What are you —”

“You forgot your sweater.”

“Thanks, love.”

She immediately notices that his apartment is very dark. Was he already getting ready for bed? This early? She stands up on her tiptoes to peek, and his smile falls. Killian wedges himself into the doorframe, closing the door behind him and obstructing her view. Emma narrows her eyes.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Do you have someone over?”

“No. I’m just —”

“Why are all your lights off?”

“Being energy efficient. Climate change.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Huh. Fine, then. You should probably stain treat this,” she says, and hands him the sweater.

“Thank you.” He reaches for it and the moment he does Emma pushes him aside to crash into his apartment. All the lights are off. He's lit a few candles, and oh fuck. Does he have someone over?

“Killian, your lights are off.”

“What do you call those?” he asks, pointing to the three-wick sugar cookie candle Mary-Margaret got him.

“Killian.” It’s a tone that usually convinces Henry he in fact does need to wear socks with his shoes but simply causes Killian to smirk at her.

“Maybe I want to romance myself, Swan.”

“Gross. All your lights are off," she repeats. "Even the light on your microwave.”

He looks like he wants to protest but must sense she is in a particularly stubborn mood because he stops himself. If she weren’t trying to get him to fess up Emma would take a moment to gloat that the look always works.

“I was working on a project this afternoon and think I crossed some wires,” he says, running a hand through his hair in, she presumes, some mild embarrassment.

“More than your oven is on the fritz," she realizes, making sense of why there is currently milk in her fridge. "Isn’t it?”

“Seems that way.”

“Well did you —?”

“Aye, I tried, but it didn’t work, and with the holiday the electrician isn’t able to come until Thursday..”

“Well, why not call —?”

“How do you think Leroy is going to feel about me doing an undisclosed wiring project and killing the —?”

“—yeah, I get it. Look, I need to get back to Henry, but pack a bag and I’ll see you soon.”

“Do what now?”

“It’s going to be 12 degrees tonight, Killian. You are not staying in this apartment without power.”

Emma watches as he mulls over her words, considering whether or not he should abide by them. “I could sleep on your couch and then away to my flat in the morning.”

She shrugs. “Or, you could pack a bag.” A little voice inside her head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Mary-Margaret is cheering her on. Telling her to press a little more. That it’s worth it. “Come on, Killian. You can’t freeze to death on Christmas Eve. Imagine how that would play on the evening news.”

He laughs, shaking his head in that way he does. If she isn’t mistaken, it's tinged with a little more affectionate every time. “Depressingly, I imagine.” He breaks eye contact long enough to look down at his slippered feet. For all the times he’s made her blush in their month of friendship, it is ridiculously rewarding to see the tinge of red on his cheeks as he looks up at her. “I’d love to join you and Henry for Christmas.”

Emma dashes home and checks on Henry. He is, predictably, still fast asleep in that way he most frequently is — legs akimbo and sticking out of the blankets like he’s preparing to start running the moment he wakes up.

As she waits for Killian she changes into her pajamas and makes two hot chocolates, adding an extra large dollop of leftover whipped cream to the top pf each.

Killian’s knock is borderline inaudible and it makes her smile, how she knows he’s being careful for Henry’s sake. She takes his bag and invites him to get comfortable on the couch — “it will soon be your bed, after all” — and, as has become the habit, they face each other as they sit there. There’s a lot she loves about their friendship, but high on the list is the way their conversations always start in the middle rather than at the start. She loathes small talk.

“Your family and friends are lovely, Swan.”

“Eh,” she says, scrunching her nose in consideration, “they’re alright.”

“You and your sister appear rather close in age.”

She nods. “We’re only a year and a half apart.” Killian smiles, like he is happy to accept that as a complete answer if she so chooses. And maybe it’s that she’s listening to her sister, or maybe it’s Christmas, or maybe it’s that Killian faintly smells of his sugar cookie candle, but she takes a deep breath and sets her mug on the coffee table. “I’m adopted, actually.”

He hesitates, uncertain. “Emma, I didn’t mean to —” She doesn't want him to be uncertain.

“I was with a family for three years and they couldn’t keep me. I was so young that my social worker really didn’t want to put me in a group home, so they opted for short-term care while they searched for a permanent solution. But at the end of the two weeks, when they got ready to move me to a new home, Mary-Margaret had an utter fit. Refused to let anyone near me when she found out they wanted to take me away. And then she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into her room, barricaded the door, and we hid under her bed. She was five.”

“You remember all that?”

“I remember her grabbing my hand and us hiding. Mary-Margaret remembers some and my parents filled in the rest.”

“So after that?”

“They decided to adopt me.”

“That’s quite the story.” Killian gently places his mug beside hers and he inches closer. His hand hovers over hers for only a moment before he settles, giving her fingers a little squeeze. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Please don’t let this go to your head,” she says, and rotates her palm to squeeze his hand right back, “but you’re really easy to talk to.”

“Well, don’t let this go to your head, but I can see why Mary-Margaret did what she did.”

There’s a teeny part of her that doesn’t want to inquire further, but she blames her damn sister and her damn hope speeches for asking, “And why is that?”

“Because I think you’re the type of person it would be impossible to say goodbye to.”

Emma doesn’t know about that — a whole host of boyfriends might say otherwise — but she believes he believes it. Sitting across from him on the couch, his lack of electricity, and the two of them in their pajamas, Emma feels almost a glimmer of magic come back into the room.

Christmas Or, the holiday where Emma almost accidentally murders Killian

Killian wakes up to the sound of giggling and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The gas fireplace is already switched on, as are the Christmas lights, and he’ll have to ask Emma later how she managed to prevent Henry from crashing into the tree in his excitement to get at his presents.

“I’m going to set the table, so go ahead and gently wake Killian —” And that should prepare him, but he doesn’t hear the rest of Emma’s prompt as a hurling mass of eight year old runs into the living room and jumps on top of him. “Oof,” Killian groans. “Merry Christmas, Sir Henry.”

Henry leans his face down and grins. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

“Henry, I said gentle!”

“Yeah, but you kinda winked when you said it.”

Killian manages to sit up just enough to watch Emma try and deny that she did in fact encourage the barbarism of her child. He raises an eyebrow in question and she responds in the first true “harumph” he’s ever heard in real life.

“Breakfast is ready,” she says.

Killian sits at the table and apparently the Swans take their Christmas breakfast seriously. Fresh fruit, and coffee and — shit, he forgot to mention something, didn't he? he thought she knew?— breakfast burritos smothered in avocado and tomatillo salsa.

“So, what’s the plan for the day” Killian asks, and then takes a sip of his coffee. Emma passes him the bowl of fruit, and — of fucking course — there’s bananas in it. He pours a little on his plate and hopes he can get away with just coffee for breakfast.

Henry explains that they always eat breakfast first because his mom thinks delayed gratification is good for him — “I stand by that,” Emma says — and then he and his mom exchange presents, and then they play boardgames, and then have Christmas Eve lunch leftovers, and then they go to a movie and have popcorn and milk duds for dinner.

“Milk duds play what part in delayed gratification?” Killian asks, pushing his plate, he hopes discretely, aside.

“I’m not a monster,” she says.

“Why aren’t you eating your burrito? Aren’t you hungry?” Henry asks.

“I’m not a big breakfast person.” At that precise moment, Killian’s stomach growls louder than it’s every growled before. Liar, it seems to proclaim. He sighs. “I’m actually allergic.”

“You are?” Emma asks. If her wide eyes are anything to go by, she is horrified.

“To burritos? That sucks,” Henry says.

“No, not to burritos, but the avocado on top.”

“No you’re not.”

He laughs, because of course Emma would argue with him about his food allergies. “I assure you I am.”

“But when we got lunch last week, you ordered that sandwich with avocado on it.”

He doesn’t think he should be as flattered as he is that Emma remembers that. “I took that one to go. For Liam.”

“But…but…” and then she drops her fork to her plate and covers her mouth with her palm. “Oh my god I could have killed you!”

“Emma…”

“I almost murdered you on Christmas.”

“I can assure you…”

“That I almost murdered you? Because, yeah, figured that one out.”

“It’s not nice to murder people, mom,” Henry helpfully comments then reaches for Killian’s plate. “Can I have this?”

“It’s all yours.”

“What else are you allergic to?” Emma asks.

“Nothing.” She doesn’t seem to believe him as she sits with her arms across her chest, challenging him. “Seriously. Just the avocados.” And then quietly adds, “And kiwis and bananas.”

“So the fruit is also poison,” she says. “Anything else?”

“Latex.” The instant he says the word he regrets it. It’s true, completely, but with the way Emma is looking at him it feels a little…inappropriate to say.

“Latex,” she repeats. She doesn’t break eye contact as she takes a sip of coffee and sets her mug aside. “Interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?” Henry asks.

Emma maintains eye contact, but her cheeks go a little rosy. "Well, um, see the thing is…" she trails off.

Killian cuts in. “Because when I go to the doctor, sometimes the doctor or nurses wear gloves with latex in them.”

“That’s not interesting,” Henry says.

Emma makes him an omelette and then proceeds to apologize all morning. After they open presents (Killian will remember the look of delight on Henry’s face for all his days), she also makes a quick batch of chocolate chip muffins and insists he eat several. The rest of the day unfolds just how Henry said it would. Except Henry didn’t mention he’d only make it two-thirds of the way through the movie before falling asleep on his mom’s shoulder, curled up in the seat. As he snoozes he kicks his feet out into Killian’s lap and Emma rolls her eyes and helps herself to the rest of Henry’s popcorn.

“No personal space boundaries,” she whispers.

When they make it back to Emma’s, Henry wakes up just enough to shuffle to his room. And much like the night before, they find themselves on Emma’s couch talking over the day when she reveals she has a present for him.

“We said we weren’t buying presents, Emma.” He completely bought her a present but was planning to bend the rules by giving it to her on New Year’s Day. Surely New Year's Day presents are a thing somewhere. Right?

“It’s just a little something,” she says.

As Killian opens the gift he registers the novelty print first, and he is almost certain he knows what she got him. It’s three pairs of underwear in rather absurd prints and patterns. The same exact brand and style she tried to steal from him on Thanksgiving.

She grins as he laughs tossing the paper aside. “Did you know you can get them personalized?”

“Excuse me?” he asks.

She takes one of the pairs out of his hands and shows him the inner waistband. There it declares in embroidered thread "Property of Killian Jones."

“Just in case someone else tries to steal your underwear.”

“Nonsense, Swan. That’s our thing.”

The silence stretches between them as Emma rests her head on the back of the couch, her face turned towards him. Over the course of the night they’ve moved close enough to one another that their knees are touching. How did that happen?

“Killian, I want to tell you something.”

He swallows. “You can tell me anything you want, Emma.”

“I —” she begins, and then cuts herself off. “I —” she begins again before stopping, letting out a frustrated groan. She offers him a tentative smile. “I want to thank you for doing everything you did for us today. It meant a lot to Henry.” She pauses, and it looks like she's going to say more, but she simply adds, “And to me.”

“Of course, love.”

“And I’m sorry for almost killing you.”

“I fully intend to use your guilt to my advantage in our relationship for years to come.”

She smiles. “The electrician is coming tomorrow?”

“He said he’d arrive somewhere between 7am and 3pm.”

“Nice he could narrow it down for you.” She looks away and fiddles with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Do you want to stay here again tonight?”

“Aye,” he says. “If you'll have me.”

"I'll have you," she whispers, her lips tinged with a smile.

And he knows he shouldn’t be disappointed. Staying the night on her couch is wonderful and generous and it means another day of getting to wake up with the Swans. But there was a little part of him that thought she was going to say — he’s not entirely sure what. Strangely enough it’s the feeling of disappointment that confirms for him a long held suspicion of his. That with Emma the more she gives him, the more he wants. Every smile she gives makes him want 1,000 more. Every story she shares makes him want to share 1,000 of his own. He’d do anything for her to know he understands her. And he’d never intentionally hurt her. And that this Christmas was one of the best of his life, and is there any way she’d be willing to give him her New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day, and perhaps Flag Day, too?

Boxing Day Or, the holiday where Emma breaks herself

For as relatively calm and almost perfect as Christmas was, the day after is completely different.

Henry comes running into Emma's room at 8:00 AM insisting they don’t have enough batteries. When she calmly reminds him about the extra supply in the hall closet, he runs off without a thank you. A little later she’s pouring herself coffee and Henry runs into the kitchen, grabs the poptart package out of her hand and runs out again. “I’m putting together my legos!” he shouts.

“We are leaving in one hour, Henry.” Silence answers her from his bedroom. “That means shoes, scarf, coat and gloves.” More silence. “Henry!”

“Got it mom! One hour!” Door slam.

She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Killian barely stifles a laugh as he watches the sequence of events from the coach.

“How much for you to take him off my hands for the next two to three years?” she asks, trying to ignore how cute he looks waking up in her apartment, sleep rumpled with hair sticking up every which way.

“You want me to bring him back as a pre-teen?”

“Good point. What about one of those boarding schools in Switzerland rich step-mothers always want to send their kids to? You know those ones in movies with the Olsen twins?”

“You’re truly trying to cast yourself as the stepmother in this situation?”

“Shut up and come get your coffee.”

She can see why Killian and Henry get along so well. Much like her son, Killian can’t simply stand up and walk into the kitchen. No. He bounds off the couch — she has no doubt he was tempted to hurdle it simply to prove he could — and then swaggers towards her. Does he always lead with his pelvis? God, why is she thinking about his pelvis? Once he’s in front of her, his mess of hair appears even more riotous and her fingers actually twitch with the urge to smooth it down. Instead she hands him a cup of coffee and picks hers up again. If her hands are busy maybe she’ll keep them to herself. And why did she think having him sleepover again was a good idea? What was she thinking?

Well, to be honest, she knew what she was thinking originally. But then late last night he shared why it is that Christmas is usually a hard season for him — a reminder of losing his mom as a child and his fiancé just two years ago — and all she could think about was how lucky she was to have walked into their laundry room that night.

Killian is a big one for eye contact — she knew that the day they met in the laundry room and it’s been confirmed a million times since — and it has a very squirm inducing impact on her insides. His heavy lidded eyes make everything twist up, and flutter, and race in a way that is almost painful. But like a good kind of painful.

“What’s your plan for today?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Betray your kindness for a bit longer and wait for the electrician to arrive. Yours?”

“Henry is going ice skating with a few of his friends. I’m going to go for a run after I walk him to Avery’s, but no plans after that.” She clears her throat as her pesky thoughts urge her to ask him to spend the day together. Naked, a part of her brain unhelpfully suggests.

“You’re going to walk in this weather? And then run in this weather?”

“I snagged a parking spot right in front and Avery’s family only lives a few blocks away. There is no way I am sacrificing my parking spot.” She turns away from Killian to top up her coffee. “And running is good for me. Helps me make sense of my thoughts when they’re all muddled.”

“What is making your thoughts muddled?” he asks.

She freezes for a second, the question taking her by surprise, and then turns around slowly. And holy fuck why do his eyes have to be so focused on her and so damn blue?! It’s oppressive, his eye color. “I didn’t say —”

“You kind of implied.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

She bites her lip to stifle a laugh, shaking her head. “You know it’s moments like these that remind me you’re the baby brother.”

He laughs, nodding his head in concession. “True. But in this case my persistence is motivated by my own selfish curiosity."

“What makes you curious?”

“I’m curious about all sorts of things. But I have to admit that my thoughts have also been rather muddled these days.” ” He taps his lips, thinking, and that is not fair. “For instance, I’m curious about what you wanted to say to me last night. Before you stopped yourself from continuing.”

How did he —?

“I’m curious about why you’re taking such shallow breaths right now,” he continues, sidling closer to her.

“They’re not —”

“But really, Emma, I find myself wondering if you would be interested in knowing what has my thoughts muddled these days?” He moves even closer as he reaches behind her to set his mug on the counter-top.

She takes a shaky breath. “I might be.”

“Then ask me.”

Okay. So, last night she chickened out. Sitting on the couch with Killian — the fire going, and Henry asleep, and Killian sharing his life with her — Emma had every intention of doing herself, and Mary-Margaret, and every human being who finds men attractive proud by telling Killian that she thinks about kissing him. Thinks about it a lot. So, she's smart enough to see this moment for what it is: a second chance. Another opportunity to get it right. Because Killian wouldn’t be leading her like this simply to reveal his thoughts were muddled with — fuck, she doesn’t know — whether or not he should finally bump Russian Doll to the top of his Netflix queue.

(He should, by the way, but that isn’t the point. The point is, he’s trying to lead her somewhere and she has to decide if she’s going to follow.)

She sets her mug down and takes a deep breath. “Tell me?” She doesn't mean for it to come out like a question.

“Emma,” he says, leaning in and resting a hand on her hip. “It’s you.”

Now, here’s the thing. Nothing in Emma’s life has��ever resembled the plot of a romantic comedy. Every time she let herself think — secretly and only in her head and only like three times — “maybe this is my big romance!” it crashes and burns and turns out the guy only looked at her with stars in his eyes because she kinda reminded him of his ex. Until she met Killian. Because no sooner does he whisper the words “it’s you” — and holy shit that is some Mr. Darcy level stuff — her son comes crashing into the room, dressed for ice skating and holding his jacket. Then he’s tugging on Killian’s sleeve and telling him he has to play Smash Brothers with him because he’s been practicing and he’s finally going to beat him but he’s only got fifteen minutes left to prove it.

Killian looks at her, a little helplessly as Henry drags him away. She smiles to reassure him it’s okay. They’ll get to talk soon. Right? At least that’s what she keeps telling herself as she gets into her running clothes and laces her sneakers.

“Henry,” she says, walking out of her room. “Time to go kiddo. I told Avery’s mom we’d be there in 10 minutes.” Henry must be losing to Killian. It’s the only explanation for why he so readily sets the controller aside.

“See ya later, Killian,” he says, and tackle side hugs Killian before sprinting for the door.

Emma grabs him by the hood of his jacket and pulls him back before he can bolt for the door. “Henry. Gloves.” She gestures to the coffee table where they’re waiting for him.

“Oh, right.”

As they walk out of the building, Emma is trying so hard to listen to Henry’s enthusiastic play by play of the game he just played with Killian but all she can think of is the fact that Killian is in her apartment. Waiting there for the electrician (and her?). Sitting there on her couch. Unless the electrician arrives while she’s on her run he’ll be there when she returns. What is she going to say? How do they even pickup that conversation?

It’s this state of distraction that she blames for missing the patch of ice on the sidewalk outside their apartment. She slips and lands hard not even certain of what happened.

“Mom!” Henry shouts, immediately at her side.

“I’m okay, sweetie,” she grits out, trying to catch her breath. “I just slipped.” Except for when Henry tries to help her up her knee buckles and pain shoots up her leg. Shit. She sits on the sidewalk and takes a deep breath, not wanting to scare Henry.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Can you do me a favor, bud?” She pulls out her phone, scrolling through the contacts. “Talk to Killian and ask him to come down, okay?” Maybe she should be the one to call but she kind of feels like crying and needs a second to gather herself. To focus on not bursting into tears from shock and pain.

After Henry hangs up — “Killian come quick! Mom fell!” — Emma steels herself and calls Avery’s mom to explains what happened. Thankfully she tells Emma they’ll just swing by and pick Henry up, no problem.

Killian comes running outside, not even wearing a jacket the idiot, as she hangs up with Avery’s mom. Emma has to stop him from picking her up and bringing her inside immediately.

Her whole body shivers; the sidewalk absolutely icy and freezing. “We need to wait with Henry,” she tells him.

Once Henry leaves, Emma reassuring everyone she’ll be just fine, Killian helps her up. He wraps her arm around his shoulder and she leans into him as he takes her weight and walks her inside. It’s amazing how being in pain can zap all sexual tension from an encounter because Emma isn’t thinking about Killian with his hand on her hip in the kitchen. Not at all. All she's thinking about is how nice he is, and how thankful she was that he was there to help and, okay, fine, maybe being in pain can only zap 80% of the sexual tension. Still. That’s a lot less sexual tension.

Once back in her apartment Killian settles her in the armchair and props her leg up on the ottoman. He buzzes around, bringing her water and ibuprofen, and then asks to see her ankle. She supposes this is kind of his area, so she nods and does her best to hold in a wince as he removes her shoe and sock. He moves her ankle gently from side to side and she braces herself for the pain but it actually isn’t that bad. Until he presses on a spot at the top of her foot and —

“Holy shit that hurts!,” she exclaims.

“Good news is it’s not broken.”

“Feels broken to me.”

“Probably just a really bad sprain but I can take you to get an x-ray if you want.”

“Or?”

“Or I collect some supplies from my apartment and I’ll wrap it myself.”

“That option is free?” she asks. Killian nods. “I choose that.”

“Keep this elevated.” Before he leaves for his apartment, he notices her struggle to get her other shoe off. He sighs affectionately, unlacing her shoe and setting it aside. Without asking he reaches for a blanket on the sofa, one he used the night before, and lays it over her lap. “Back in five minutes.��

The moment the door closes behind Killian tears spring to the corner of her eyes. Yes, Emma’s in pain, the ibuprofen not quite kicking in yet as she feels her ankle throb. And, yes, her butt is a little cold, but that doesn’t really explain why she starts to cry. These past couple of days have just been a lot. In a really great way, but it’s still a lot.

The tears must be something Killian notices when he gets back because in a flash he crouches in front of her, resting a hand on her uninjured ankle. “Hey now, what’s this?”

She shakes her head, not really sure how to explain. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

His raised eyebrow and tightly drawn mouth indicate he doesn’t believe her, but as she dabs her eyes with her sleeve, he takes to unpacking the supplies he brought over. The truth is that it’s not nothing; more like it's everything. It’s that his apartment is down the hall and when she demanded he come stay with her and Henry he could have refused, or used his spare key to stay at his brother’s, but he didn’t. And that while she has yet to hear an explanation concerning his “it’s you” statement, she has a feeling it’s something good. It’s everything to her — the ways both big and small he chooses her and Henry. And it’s only been five-weeks but she wants more. She want more weeks.

He wraps her ankle up then fits her to the pair of crutches he brought over. As he helps her stand, she stumbles and accidentally puts pressure on her ankle. She hisses at the sudden pain, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Careful, Emma,” he says, running a hand up and down her back in comfort. She looks up at him; his eyes are all soft and concerned. “You okay?”

It’s you, too, she wants to say. I don’t know how or why, or even what it means, but it’s you. She nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

New Year’s Eve Or, the holiday where Killian meets the ex

“So tell me about this party, Sir Henry.”

Killian’s noticed that when Henry has a lot to say, he has a habit of taking a deep breath and then clenching his fists at his side. It's like Henry’s little body is bracing itself for an onslaught of enthusiasm. “Well,” Henry says, fists clenched, “Aunt Mary-Margaret and Uncle David have this big farmhouse that is so cool and my friend Roland and his dad, and my other friend Violet and her dad, and my other friend Gideon and his mom, are all coming over too and we’re having a big party. And then after we eat so much food, we’re going to play sardines inside with all the lights off, and then after that we’re having a campfire out back, and then after that…”

Killian does his best to listen — really, he does — Henry’s enthusiasm is genuinely delightful so it isn’t hard to be interested. Usually. It’s just that as Henry is talking Emma walks out of her room dressed for the evening in a tight black dress and he kind of loses his head a bit. Actually finds himself staring at her, which he only realizes when she catches his gaze and smiles.

“Breathe, kid,” she says, breaking their stare. “Your aunt texted and said they’ll be here in five minutes. Got all your stuff?”

“Yup!”

“Go get your shoes on, then.” Henry runs off and Killian watches as Emma inspects Henry’s pile of belongings, confirming to her own satisfaction that Henry won’t be without a change of clothes or toothbrush.

“This party sounds fun, Swan. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spend time with your friends and boy there?”

“Nope. We’re going to Ruby and Mulan’s, and we’re dancing until at least 1:00 AM because that’s when they bring out the dancing snacks.”

“Dancing snacks?”

“Donuts and coffee for the drive home. It’s the best.” He’s about to point out that there exists these wonderful things called donut shops that allows one to purchase a donut and coffee at a time that is not 1:00 AM, but her phone rings.

Emma halts her process of shutting off lights in the kitchen to answer.

“Hey Rubes.” As Ruby talks, Emma refreshes her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She pauses the action, groaning in aggravation at something Ruby says. “Seriously?! Can’t you be total dicks and tell them to leave? Since when? Fine! Be good people! Yeah, we’ll be there in about thirty.”

Emma hangs up and Killian tries not to laugh at Emma’s quietly muttered, “Well, shit.” She told him a few weeks ago her resolve to never swear in front of Henry gets a little weaker with each passing year.

“What was that, love?”

“Apparently the sister of one of Ruby’s co-workers invited herself to the party — much to everyone’s annoyance because Zelena is apparently awful — and then proceeded to be even more awful by bringing along her new boyfriend who, pause for dramatic effect, happens to be my ex.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she says, finishing her lipstick and dropping the tube into her purse. “And Walsh being Walsh, he’s too much of a —” Emma trails off, her eyes darting down the hallway to see if Henry is coming — “fucking narcissistic dickhole to leave once he realized whose house he was at. I know he’s only staying to drink booze and leer at me when I show up alone. Sure, he’s the one who got drunk one night and cheated on me, but I’m the one who is going to have to deal with him.”

“But you’re not showing up alone.”

“Yeah, but you’re my friend date. Not my date date.”

Killian’s heart clenches a little at that entirely accurate explanation.

Hard to believe it was only five days prior that he and Emma were seemingly on the emotional precipice of — well, something. He’s not entirely sure what, because first Henry interrupted their conversation, then Emma sprained her ankle, and then, as he was in the midst of applying his physical therapy degree in perhaps the most important context of his entire life, the electrician called to say he arrived. The man spent several hours trying to undo what Killian did, and then Emma called and asked him to pick up Thai takeout for a late lunch, and before he knew it, Henry was back from ice skating, and Emma was asleep on the couch with a bowl of Phad Thai balanced on her chest.

So, her assessment is correct. Right now they are friends and this is not a date date. Though he wishes it was, and he is certain all it would take is an uninterrupted moment for him and Emma to find that bit of magic again. He’s also convinced that Emma in her dress — black, and short, and lacy, with long sleeves and a neckline that is both wonderful and tempting — is a bit of magic in and of itself.

David texts Emma that they’ve arrived, and Emma and Henry both get bundled up to meet them outside. Killian grabs Henry’s piles of belongings and they’re out the door.

Emma has this whole theory that with surge pricing likely in effect all night, it would be wildly irresponsible to take an Uber to and from Ruby and Mulan’s house. Killian vetoes her theory with his medical opinion that as her PT, it would be wildly irresponsible to allow someone who sprained their ankle a week ago to walk a mile in high heeled boots. She scowls but he requests the Uber anyway. Fuck, he must be far gone because even her scowl is starting to feel like a kind of magic.

As the night goes on, Killian discovers that the problem isn’t if he should confess his feelings but rather what feeling he should confess to first. He watches Emma run in and hug Ruby and Mulan and thinks “I should confess how her smile makes everything better.” When he discovers one of his co-workers is also at the party, apparently a regular at the diner Ruby owns, Emma is kind, and warm, and eager to get to know the man, and Killian thinks “I should confess that my days don’t quite feel real until I am able to talk them over with her.” And then there’s the confession he’s been concealing for well over a month: that he wants to kiss Emma, and he wants to kiss her a lot.

Turns out Emma has a confession of her own to make. Well, not so much a confession as a bald-faced lie.

Killian and Emma are in the middle of a rather heated debate with a couple they’ve just met about the best claymation Christmas movie when a supercilious voice interrupts their conversation, seemingly not caring about a lack of courtesy.

“Isn’t this a festive coincidence? Us being at the same party?” Emma clenches her jaw at the voice and plasters on the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen. It screams false, false, false. She turns around to greet the man.

“Walsh,” she says, and then extends her hand to the woman who must be Zelana. “I’m Emma.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she responds, ignoring the hand. Zelena looks at Walsh, the two of them laughing at some shared joke.

“Seriously, Ems, what are the odds?” he asks.

“Well, seeing as Ruby and Mulan are my friends, the chances of me being here were pretty high. I don’t even know how to calculate the odds of you showing up. Nor do I really care to,” she shrugs.

Killian chuckles at that, bumping Emma with his hip in what he hopes is a dual gesture of both affection and camaraderie. I’m here for you, he wants the gesture to mean. It also has the effect of catching the attention of both Walsh and Zelena.

“Emma,” Walsh says condescendingly. “You didn’t introduce us to your friend.” The emphasis on the word friend is mocking. Like, “look at me with my girlfriend, and here you are with just your regular old friend.” Killian hates this guy.

But, because he likes to think himself a gentleman, he extends a hand in greeting. “Killian Jones,” he says. “Emma’s —”

“Fiancé,” she cuts in almost immediately. Emma wraps her hands around his arm, snuggling into his side. “This is my fiancé.”

“Oh,” says Walsh, glaring. Killian doubts he’s jealous as much as he’s mad Emma’s potentially happy.

“But where is your riiiing?” Zelena simpers. Killian didn’t know the word ‘ring’ had quite that many syllables. “Could you not afford one?” He's decided he hates her, too.

“Oh,” Emma says, voice quiet. “Well —”

Fine. If they’re going to do this… “It’s at the jewelers. Being resized. It was my mum’s ring, and a little large for Emma I’m afraid.”

“Right,” Walsh frowns. “How did the two of you meet?”

“Neighbors,” Emma practically shouts. “We are neighbors. And that’s how we met.”

“Rather ordinary,” Zelena says, sounding bored.

“Well, the sex is great, so…” Emma trails off and Killian almost chokes. Her expression makes him want to laugh — she apparently took herself by surprise with that one. It’s like she can hear herself saying the words and would like to be able to stop saying them, but can’t.

He would never want Emma to think she caused him any distress. They’ll surely talk about the whole fiancé thing, but he’s been hoping all night for a magic opportunity to appear and maybe, he thinks, it’s time to make some magic of his own.

“Truth is,” he says, “I knew Emma was the one for me months before we actually met.” He looks down at her. “I know you’re sick of this story, love, but mind if I tell it once more?” She shakes her head, eyes wide and questioning, and he turns back to Zelena and Walsh. Walsh, who it must be said, looks like he’s sucked on something sour. Killian wasn't sure he'd ever confess this to Emma, but here they are.

“My first glimpse of Emma was in our apartment lobby. Henry must have been at a sleepover of some sort, because Emma was coming home at the early hours of the morning with her sister and friend, stumbling into the lobby clearly drunk and laughing. Then Emma shouted 'we should race!' and someone else said the loser had to make breakfast and no sooner did the words ‘ready’ come out of her sister’s mouth, than Emma took off her shoes and sprinted for the stairs.” He looks down at Emma and notices a rather stunned expression on her face. He hopes it's a good kind of stunned. Might as well keep going. “I think someone called her a cheater and Emma called them sore losers and she was up the staircase, and certainly to her apartment before the two of them even managed to stumble to the elevator. And I remember thinking to myself ‘this woman is amazing.’ We met officially in the laundry room a couple months later and she’s confirmed that thought every day hence.”

He feels that sizzle in the air, of hope and possibility and one of Emma’s hands leaves his arm to slide around his back, squeezing his waist gently. She turns into him further, away from Walsh and Zelena. When he looks down, she leans up and kisses him, soft and delicate on the corner of his mouth.

Walsh coughs, and Zelena says something he immediately opts to ignore. Magic.

“Killian,” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Emma, you have to come take shots with us!” And man, Killian likes Ruby a lot but her timing is on par with Henry’s. Ruby is wearing heels that must be at least four inches high and as she approaches their little circle, wedging herself in close to Walsh, she stumbles. It feels like it starts to happen in slow motion but then all of sudden it's over: the bright red cocktail in Ruby's hand sloshes over the edge of the glass and douses Walsh in what Killian hopes is something both sticky and impossible to get out.

“Fuck,” he shouts, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. “This is Tom Ford.”

Ruby holds her hands up and shrugs. “Oops.” She crouches down to be at eye level with the stain. “Sorry, Mr. Ford,” she says, slurring the words.

Walsh storms off and Zelena follows. They furiously grab their coats from the hook and leave, silencing the crowd with their ire. As soon as the door slams the strained silence in the room breaks, and Ruby turns to him and Emma with a big smile. “Happy New Year, guys!” Miraculously sober once more.

“Ruby,” Emma scolds, not sounding the least bit upset. “You are ridiculous!”

“Excuse you, I tripped.”

“Why didn't you 'trip' two hours ago when Walsh first showed up?”

“I could have,” Ruby says, "but it was so satisfying to watch it happen, wasn’t it?”

Emma looks like she wants to maintain her indignation, but then Killian bursts into laughter, and Ruby grins with unfiltered pride at her accomplishment.

Just as Killian is plotting as to how he and Emma can escape next — (she only kissed him about two minutes ago but it feels like it’s been a lifetime; why is it the second he manages to make a little magic the universe appears dead set upon stealing the moment from him and Emma?) — Ruby tells them “Ems, I wasn’t joking about shots. I need you.”

She looks over to Killian, her brow furrowed. “Actually, Ruby, I need to —”

“Go on, Swan,” he reassures, “I’ll be here.”

Ruby pulls Emma away, no further conversation, Mulan whooping loudly as they get closer. Was that a mistake? Or should he have followed them? What is he even doing? He has no strategy when it comes to Emma. He has no plan; only an intended end goal. Which is her in his life for as long as possible. Ideally with more kissing. Why has he been wasting all this time? He should have asked her out the second she and Henry brought him toffee almond bark.

He pours himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cart in the living room and then escapes to the back porch, sipping on the drink, cheersing the smokers out there as they all make small talk. Ruby slides the door open a few minutes later. “Come inside future emphysemiacs of the world, the countdown is starting in one minute.”

At Ruby’s commanding tone, everyone tamps out their cigarettes or ceases vaping and moves inside. But Killian stays where he is. He’s too much of a romantic for a New Year’s Eve countdown. The strike of midnight without a kiss from Emma just might break his heart.

The door to the patio opens again, noise swelling as he hears a few people start the countdown with a loud “60! 59! 58!”

“Ruby, I’ll be right in.”

The door closes. “Not Ruby.”

At the sound of Emma’s voice, every nerve ending in his body starts firing. Heart beating wildly. Palms sweating. And he’s either halfway to being in love with this woman or he’s about to throw up.

He looks at her, and her smile is open and warm. He can’t help but smile back. “Emma.”

“Some party, huh?” she asks, standing beside him, forearms resting on the banister. Neither one of them are wearing jackets, and her sleeves might be long but they’re all lace. There’s no way they’ll last out here long.

“Yeah.”

She looks at him. “I feel like I should apologize for the whole fiancé thing. But —” she trails off.

“But?” he asks.

“I’m actually a little more interested in that story you told Walsh.”

His heart isn’t possibly beating loud enough for her to hear. Right? That noise is all in his head?

“What about it?”

“Was it true?”

Somewhere distantly he hears the group inside continue their countdown, now hitting “34! 33! 32!” and getting louder with each number.

“Yeah. The first time I saw you was in the lobby of the building.”

She immediately shakes her head, appearing almost angry at him. “No. Not that part. I remember that night with Mary-Margaret and Elsa. The other part. The part about me. About knowing —” A shiver runs through her. He can see the goosebumps on her skin, and yet she persists. “About me, and knowing that —”

“Of course it’s true, Emma. I wouldn’t make that up.”

Then Emma does the last thing he expects and punches him in the shoulder. Not hard enough to injure him but it’s surprising enough that it hurts. “Ouch!” he says, rubbing the spot she hit. “What was that?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Are you saying I should have?”

“Well, obviously.” She clenches her fists, and huffs out an aggravated breath. “I don’t make eyes, Killian. Okay?” She doesn’t punch him, but she does sort of push his shoulder. “I am not a make eyes person.” And she pushes him again. “Got it?”

“God, woman, would you stop shoving me?”

“No, because you are an idiot.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. And are you listening to me? I DON’T MAKE EYES.”

“Okay, fine!” They’re almost shouting now, but he can still make out the “10! 9! 8!” from inside the apartment. “You don’t make eyes! I read you!”

“I don’t make eyes,” she says, for the fourth time, a little quieter but no less emphatic. “Except I do make eyes at you. Pretty much from the first moment I met you.”

What? Her words take a moment to register, and then all he manages to say is, “Oh.”

Emma is having a harder time keeping in her shivers now. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest and there’s something about seeing that which springs him into action. He steps closer and runs his hands over her arms, hoping to bring some warmth to her skin.

The group inside bursts into a jubilant shout of “Happy New Year!” and he has apparently been making eyes at him. This whole time.

“Oh,” he says again.

“Yeah.”

New Year’s Day Or, the holiday where Emma and Killian make magic

Emma is tempted to go inside for two reasons: one, to get out of the cold because sheesh, and two to text Mary-Margaret to inform her “I did the brave thing and all he did was say ‘oh.’ Twice!”

But something about the way Killian said ‘oh’ the second time and the way he looks at her now has her rooted in place. He’s running his hands up and down her arms to help warm her up. It feels better than anything has the right to.

“Happy new year, Emma,” he says. She hears the slight shake in his voice. Is he nervous, too? She kind of hopes so.

“Killian,” she says, and takes a small step closer. And, shit, she really hopes she’s not misreading his signals here. “Kiss me.”

For a fraction of a second Killian’s hands still entirely and then his brain seems to take over. One hand snakes around to her waist and he grabs her, bringing their bodies flush, and the other goes up to the nape of her neck. Killian’s thumb and forefinger are doing this massage thing which is utterly divine, and — Oh, she thinks, we’re kissing now.

It isn’t something she’s actively thought about — the logistics of kissing Killian — but that seems to be okay because her body is charged and humming in a way she’s never experienced before. She is suddenly struck by the sensation that she does not have enough hands. She tangles a hand in his hair, grabbing a fistful and earning her a grunt from Killian, which makes her want to do it again. But if her hand is in his hair then she can’t run it up and down the planes of his back and that’s a shame. So, she does that. But, she finds, if both hands are feeling the corded muscles of his back, then she can’t feel the firmness of his arms, which is a crime against the world. And if she’s gripping his biceps, then she can’t get a handful of what she has always suspected, and has now been able to confirm, is a phenomenal ass. It’s a problem scientists should dedicate the rest of their lifetimes to solving — too much Killian and not enough hands.

Killian runs his tongue along the seam of her lips and the sensation is so overwhelming she has to take a second, pulling away with a gasp. Only now they're too far away from on another so she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead to his. She keeps her eyes closed, wanting to savor the everything of the moment for another second.

“Emma,” he says.

She smiles, and opens her eyes only long enough to kiss him again, sweetly on the lips before nuzzling into his the space between his neck and shoulder. Either she's aggravated her ankle or something about Killian is affecting her because she's having trouble standing.

He laughs, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her once more, and yes! This is significantly warmer than the rubbing of arms things. They should have been doing this the whole time. The kissing is so much warmer.

“Emma,” he repeats.

“Hmm?” she doesn’t feel like she can actually say full words. Maybe it’s the not saying of full words that’s allowing her to feel this warm (also, made her something called a snowball shot and it was minty and wonderful and that might also be contributing to the warm feeling).

“How committed are you to this hanging around for donuts and coffee thing?”

“Why? You have a better offer?”

“I could make you hot chocolate,” he says.

“And?”

“That’s not enough?”

She smiles, opens her eyes and shakes her head at him. “Coffee and donuts. That is a beverage and a snack. You offered only a beverage.”

“Counteroffer: I steal a box of donuts from Ruby and Mulan’s kitchen and we bring them back to your place.”

“Now you’re talking.” Their plan is to get bundled up in their outerwear, say their goodbyes and then grab the donuts, but it all goes to hell when Ruby asks Emma why she’s being weird and in response she shouts “I kissed Killian and I’m stealing your donuts!” She grabs a box and runs. As they try to make their getaway Ruby’s shouts at them from the front door. “I’m sending you a request on Venmo! Donuts are for non-horny guests who stay for dancing!”

Safely tucked into their Uber (she asked about the true horror of surge pricing and Killian refused to answer), Emma finds herself fixated on the red glint of Killian’s stubble under the passing glow of streetlights. He swallows a few times as she runs her finger along the line of his jaw.

“Killian? Has your heater been working okay?”

He nods. “Right as rain.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “Well, if it ever stopped working, you could stay at my place again.”

The corners of his mouth twitch as he holds in a smile, and she really wants to bite his neck but she also doesn’t want to negatively impact Killian’s Uber rating. “Is that so?”

“Just being neighborly.”

“Obviously.”

The rest of the ride to their apartment complex is wonderful, with the touching, and the smiling, and the knowing that she has a box of contraband donuts, but she wants more.

As soon as they get out of the car, Killian takes Emma’s hand but she stays where she is and pulls him back to her.

“I changed my mind,” she says. He looks uncertain, and she rushes to explain. “You should stay at my apartment even if your heat is working.”

“Well that sounds grand,” Killian says, his voice low.

“Well good,” she says, and that’s when inspiration strikes. Once in the lobby, she unzips her ankle boots and holds them out for Killian to take. “Trade you boots for donuts?”

“Deal,” he says.

“So.”

“Who would have thought, huh?”

“What?” he asks.

“I mean, who would have though that me calling you a sick fuck on Thanksgiving would lead to us fucking on New Year’s Day? Crazy, right?” She asks the rather audacious question in as casual a tone as possible. Killian looks a little dazed and Emma leans up to kiss him again, smiling as their lips meet.

“I —” he sputters.

“Killian?”

“Yeah?”

“Loser makes breakfast in the morning,” she says, and then she’s running through the lobby, clutching the donuts to her chest.

Killian’s laughter chasing her up the stairs is magic.

#cssecretsanta2k19 #captain swan #cs fanfic #captain swan ff #emma x killian #p: emma x killian #c: emma swan #c: killian jones #hollyethecurious #never stories

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