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toyybox · 9 months ago

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Spiderwebs #32: Redmond

Masterlist

content: past starvation

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The truck stop had a store beside it. It was a warm morning, considering they were in the middle of winter. There were still not many people around. He was hungry.

The hunger came on with a violent force and speed, waking him up before the sunshine or Heather ever could. Now that Jackie had access to soup and tea and such luxuries, it seemed that his appetite had returned. His head ached, his limbs ached, his chest ached, and his guts shredded themselves into knots. It was a desire that drowned out all other wants, suffocated all thoughts, as sudden and intrusive as a bullet wound.

It was a wonder, really, how he survived this long without any proper sustenance. He could believe in gouged eyes, severed limbs, and charred skin, but surviving extreme starvation was a little ridiculous. As an esteemed biochemist once said: was he a fucking plant? That wouldn’t make any sense, either. There was no sunlight in the basement. Those pages of Oliver Twist he gnawed on couldn’t have possibly been enough. But his biology didn’t care for such intricacies. He needed to deal with it immediately, and he would suffer immensely until these demands were met.

“Heather.”

“Yes, Jackie?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d be digging my own grave. I feel like I’m gonna keel over. Or puke.” He put his head against her shoulder. “I’m starving. Can I get—I don’t know, whatever this truck stop sells. I could eat a horse right now.”

“I’ll get you something. Don't be so dramatic.” She unlocked her door. “Do you think you can walk?”

“I can walk. A little.”

“Then you’re coming with me.” Heather cleared her throat. “Listen carefully. If anybody asks, your name is Elijah Smith. You’re my boyfriend, and we’re here on holiday. Don’t talk to anybody unless prompted. Try not to look so… I don’t know, inexplicably exhausted? Try to act natural.”

“Your boyfriend?” He cocked his head to one side, grinning.

“Funny you should mention that. I actually spent a lot of time thinking about this. You could pretend to be my brother, but the problem is that I’m an only child. Any investigator with half their wits could read my files and find out we’re lying. I’m not married, either, and I’ve never been divorced, so you can’t take my hypothetical husband’s name. You could be my friend, obviously, but that would sound suspicious. We will be sleeping in the same room, after all. People think romantic relationships are more important, and I’d rather not elicit any strange looks if we check into a hotel together. Any attention is bad attention. That about covers it, I think. Oh, and I don’t think you could ever pretend to be my dad. No offense, but you barely look twenty.”

"...Oh. Okay."

“By the way, if you’re planning to yell for help, don’t bother. I’ve got a pistol in my bag.” She opened the car door. There were sounds of seagulls—were they near water?—and the distant murmur of wind, as well as the dull roar of trucks above all that. “Come on. We don’t have all day.”

He left the car as well, and managed to stand up despite the debilitating sensation in his stomach. The air was rich with the scent of lake scum and dead fish, and quite a bit warmer than the biting breeze he’d felt the night before. There were a few trucks around, and one or two cars. A stray candy wrapper crashed and stumbled across the concrete. The yellow plastic was so vivid to him. Brilliant as a sheaf of gold, catching the sunlight like a newly cut jewel. It was lovely to be outside again.

Heather took his hand, a little too tightly, and they walked into the store. A bell rang above the doorway. It was not very big, but not crowded either. Its stock was similar to a convenience store, except they also sold pastries and coffee. No tea. He hadn’t seen this much food since… well. There were no polite euphemisms for kidnapping. It was hard for Jackie to take his eyes off the strudels and croissants, even as Heather spoke to him.

“I don’t know if they have soup,” she said in a low tone. “Do you think you can eat something else?”

He nodded. “I want a muffin. Can I have a muffin?”

“Alright, I’ll buy a muffin. Go look at some hunting knives or something. Don’t leave the store, though. I’ll come over when I’m done.”

He glanced over to the aisle of hunting knives. “Why do they have so many?”

“Lord knows.” She let go of his hand.

He was left standing there, feeling rather lost in such a public space.

He could have screamed. He could have run outside and kept running until his lungs went raw, or until the police found him. But to risk losing Heather’s trust would be suicide—no, a kamikaze, considering how much was at stake for her. And he would never get that muffin. Besides, he did sympathize with her situation. It wasn’t easy being on the run. He didn’t have to make things difficult for her.

Either way, the cost of failure was too high. It was hard to forget the scars along his chest, or the burns on his skin. Escape was a pipe dream best left to rot.

The hunting knives were not particularly interesting, but they were something new, and he was always craving something new lately. They were small, curved on the edges. Used for skinning animals, he assumed. He didn’t think such a tiny knife could kill anything. But they were probably meant to be souvenirs, rather than actual tools. Some of them had little designs on the handles. There was one with the words Redmond, Washington on it, under the city’s pine tree symbol.

Redmond? We aren’t in Seattle anymore? Did Heather even live in Seattle? He had always assumed so. His old apartment was in Seattle. But it wasn’t a stretch to assume she’d gone hunting out of town, so to speak. She could have driven across the state in order to abduct her newest organ donor, even across the country. They couldn’t have reached a new state so quickly, though, so she probably still lived somewhere in Washington. Also, didn’t she have an address? Obviously. Everyone did. Why didn’t he check the address above her garage? There had to be one, but it had completely slipped his mind. I’m such an idiot. That’s why I got into this mess in the first place.

“Here’s your muffin.”

He jumped. “Shit, Heather, you could have said hello first. How do you walk so quietly?”

“You’re just zoned out half the time. You wouldn’t notice me if I came in with a tuba and a clown nose.” She gave him the muffin. In her other hand was another coffee, in a cup made out of green paper. “We can eat in the car. Come on.”

He followed her to the door. The bell rang above their heads, one last time. The birds continued to screech, somewhere unseen in the bright blue sky.

The smell of stagnant water returned, but only until they entered the car again, where it was quickly replaced by the smell of leather seats. Jackie shifted to get as comfortable as he could, while Heather tapped her fingers on the wheel.

He studied his muffin. It had chocolate chips. He hadn’t eaten chocolate in… he wasn’t sure, actually. There had been a chocolate cake, at some point. So many shiny, new things. He was a magpie in a jeweler’s house, so fascinated by all these wonders of life. Another shiny, new thing to pass the time.

He liked muffins. He wanted to eat it. Of course. Obviously. Why wouldn’t he? He was so hungry, God. He couldn’t imagine going on a strike now. He would faint first. The craving was so strong that he didn’t know how to even start. He hadn’t eaten in so long.

“What’s wrong with the food?” she asked.

“Sorry.” He kept his stare down. Didn’t Heather have a thing against apologies? Too late now, anyway. He just needed to eat. He needed to get it over with. It made him sick, rising with a feeling like nausea in his stomach. His vision came unfocused, like rows of tilting mirrors, like the world was tilting on its axis. But he couldn’t look away, or stay still any longer.

“You know what, I think I forgot something in there.” Abruptly, Heather opened the car door and stepped outside. “Don’t wait for me. Bye.”

He turned towards her, but she was already gone, and he was by himself.

He let out a short, shaky exhale. She definitely didn’t forget anything. It was surely a lie. Besides, it wasn’t like Heather to leave him unattended. She was probably watching from somewhere remote, where he couldn’t see her. But that was what mattered: he couldn’t see her, couldn’t feel her stare.

She’d done it for his sake, to give him that thin veneer of privacy. Was it guilt, or apathy? Disgust at his weakness? Or maybe even kindness, despite his better judgment.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl @lthrboy @whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation @creppersfunpalooza

@vidawhump

#whump #whump writing #my writing #Spiderwebs toyybox #carewhumper #Truck stops are great #No road trip is complete without the chance to finally leave the car and eat a donut or something

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another-whump-sideblog · 1 year ago

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Hello!! This is the forsaken princess, aka Wisteria. You reblogged my thing about barbed wire and I saw you take writing prompts, how would you feel about writing something involving barbed wire? I'm using anon because it'll only let me ask as my main blog, which I try to keep separate from my whump stuff.

Ooh of course!!!

Rescuer was expecting to find Whumpee in a bad position, but this… they could never have expected this.

Whumpee is wrapped in barbed wire, from the soles of their feet to the top of their head. There’s some in their mouth, in their ears, in their nose, under their nails, even some bent so that it sits just above their eyes and any movement will risk the barbs blinding them.

Fuck, Rescuer wasn’t expecting this at all. They can’t get Whumpee out of the barbed wire right now, they don’t have time, they need to get Whumpee out of here as soon as possible because Whumper could be back any minute-

Focus. They brought bolt cutters, those will be able to cut the barbed wire, so they can get some off. They prioritize the wire above Whumpee’s eyes so that carrying them to safety won’t accidentally gouge their eyes out, then psych themself up to carry Whumpee.

It’ll hurt both of them, badly, but obviously Whumpee will have it worse. They can’t afford to risk Whumpee screaming, and Whumpee seems far too out of it to be able to hold back a scream, so rescuer rips off a piece of their shirt and stuffs it in Whumpee’s mouth, along with the barbs. Whumpee whines, but it’s muffled by the makeshift gag.

Okay. They can do this. They scoop Whumpee up into a bridal carry.

The barbs immediately dig into Rescuer’s skin, but they push the feeling aside. They just have to get Whumpee out. They sprint out of Whumper’s house and to Caretaker’s car, ignoring Whumpee’s muffled screams the whole time.

They pass Whumpee to Caretaker in the back seat, then jump into the driver’s seat and peel out.

“WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK.” Caretaker brought all sorts of medical supplies, thinking they were prepared for anything, but nothing could’ve prepared them for this.

The nearest hospital is three hours away. They knew that, knew that they couldn’t plan on calling on ambulance if they wanted Whumpee to get treated as fast as possible, but… where do they even start with this? How can they possibly do this without help?

“Stop freaking out.” Rescuer says. “We don’t have time for that. You brought rubber gloves, right? Use those to protect your hands and start getting that shit off them. Oh-“ they hand the bolt cutters back to Caretaker. “You can use this too, if it’s easier.”

“Right, right- oh Whumpee, it’s going to be okay, I’ve got you.” First, they inject some painkillers into Whumpee’s arm. Then they put on the rubber gloves and get to work, using the bolt cutters to cut the various knots of wire that Caretaker wouldn’t be able to untie safely. They remove Rescuer’s makeshift gag and let Whumpee scream before starting with the wire around Whumpee’s head and work their way down.

“Breathe, you’ll be okay, I’ve got you. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out-“

Whumpee barely responds at first, but eventually they start to breathe along with the rhythm Caretaker sets. Good, that’s good. They can’t talk, but they’re at least a little aware of their surroundings and can hear, both very good things.

It’s very slow going. Caretaker could go faster, but they’re worried about doing more damage, so they slowly ease each barb out one at a time. The painkiller seems to be helping, at least. Caretaker only just barely gets the last of the wire off by the time they get to the hospital.

“There we go. That’s the hardest part over. You’ll be okay, I promise.”

The doctors are kind. They clean out every one of Whumpee’s wounds and bandage them up like a mummy. They help Whumpee eat and drink and set several broken bones Caretaker hadn’t even noticed in their panic.

For the first time in years, Whumpee feels some hope that things will get better.

#whump #whump writing #ask #thank you so much for the ask!#nail whump #eye whump mention

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rivetgoth · 2 years ago

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Skuppy Concert Spoilers

VX Gas Attack. “What is the difference in religious suffering?” An inhuman creature emerges from the shadows—literally. An angel? A demon? How many limbs does it have? Matters of perspective. I’mmortal. “Just looking for something…” The creature shows himself, sort of. He’s hidden, a silhouette of dark robes, curious. Seeking something? He discovers a world plagued by war and conflict, factions, petty infighting, conspiracy and violence. Rodent. “Don’t get too close. Don’t get too close.” The creature is discovered by some sort of militaristic futurecop and immediately treated with suspicion, despite his coverings still obscuring him entirely. Watched from afar. Wornin’. “I’ve been out, so out of it. I’ve been hiding out.” The futurecop becomes the tormentor. The creature is greeted instantly with hostility despite the fact that he has at no point done anything deserving of such presumption. There is no attempt to understand, no attempt at connection. Tormentor. “Mental shock … Make it stop.” The tormentor attacks the creature with a taser, merciless as the creature tries feebly to fight him off. He can stop the tormentor only briefly by placing a hand to his head, stunning him to the floor, but it wears off. The creature is helpless to the violence. Love in Vein. “The needle is warm in the arm … pain, pain, pain.” The experiments begin. The tormentor procures a large syringe and injects the creature all across his body. He draws up liquid from the mouth of a skinned dog and injects the creature with it. Blood transfusion? Human Disease (S.K.U.M.M.). “All is a disease / Biped walk so straight.” The creature reaches a breaking point and finally shows his face from beneath the coverings, revealing a green alien-like being with massive glowing eyes. The creature peophesizes on the state of the world and decries humanity’s cruelty. An Angel or a demon? A warning or a curse? The tormentor studies the creature, taking down notes, inspecting him.

Hardset Head. “No excuses.” The creature fights back against him, angered, eyes glowing a menacing red. Maybe the fear was justified? Pedafly. “After all is said and done we live to shit, to kill, to cum.” The tormentor brings out a baton and brutally attacks the creature. The creature fights back. The creature and the tormentor engage in a sort of dance as both attempt to subdue the other. The creature decries humanity’s depravity. Morpheus Laughing. “Resistance should be used / Civil disobedience.” The fight continues on as the creature speaks on resistance and uprising. The tormentor has the upper hand. The creature is not a fighter. He just wants to live. The Choke. “No conscience, such confidence.” The tormentor clubs the creature mercilessly into submission and straps him to a chair. Wheeled into medical quarters, the creature continues to endure horrific brutalization and experimentation. Worlock. “Hurting… hurting… hurting…” The creature re-emerges, horribly injured, head split open and gouged out, a mutilated, disfigured version of what he once was. Scared and afraid, dazed and delirious, the creature limps and stumbles and tries to understand. Inquisition. “The wicked words of the torturer / Abusing and controlling anyone that’s useful to him / Wicked waiting of the torturer.” The reprieve is short lived. The tormentor returns, and with him is the creature’s dissected brain, scooped from his skull for sick experimentation. The tormentor persists. He electrocutes the brain and watches the reaction of the creature. If you cut off my head would I say me and my head or me and my body? The creature tries to fight back but is weakened and helpless. The tormentor, the torturer, forcefeeds the creature-"force-fed lies of the wicked"-watching him puke on himself, a shell of his former self, helpless. Dig It. “Love cannot attach itself to binding ugliness.” The creature commands the rest of his strength and fights back, subduing the tormentor. Once and for all? The creature stumbles to his own removed brain. From it bursts red confetti. The tormentor collapses, blown backwards by the eruption. The world is filled with red from the creature’s brain. The tormentor crawls away. Hope, for a moment. The tormentor returns, strength regained, reaching his breaking point—Angry, insulted, afraid? Perhaps primarily afraid—with a noose. Grabbing the creature, he ties the rope around his neck. The creature holds up a peace sign with his fingers. The rope is pulled and the tormentor drags the creature’s body offstage.

#wrote this on the plane. couldn’t stop thinking about it.#(sorry if you notice some edits I’ve been gradualling picking away at this lol)

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genlosscharliie · 3 months ago

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quick one-shot with syria & iraq. same under cut.

You sit on the dirt by the river, breathe in the midnight air. It is cold despite the season, you are alongside it.

You cannot run forever, you know this. The Great War is over but yours is not. You will have to put yourself to sleep soon if you want to fight come morning.

You roll your sleeves over, bend over the dirt, feel gravel and stick dig into the skin of your palms before you dip your hands into the water. It is not the cleanest you’ve had, but it is the Euphrates and you won’t take it for granted.

When you pull back, sand and grime staining where the fabric of your uniform had been dug into the ground, there is someone you don’t recognise on the other side of the river.

They do not look up at you immediately, do not notice you, but you’re rather sure your heart stops for a moment.

A French soldier, is your first thought, but that hardly makes sense. Why would they be so far away from their unit? (Why are you so far away from your group?)

You get up, realise you don’t have anything that could make you a proper threat, curse yourself for thinking it’d be safe to come out here, then you decide just your talons are enough. They’re sharp, the other person looks unarmed too (notably: nothing inhuman on them).

“Hey!” you bark out at them with your hands cupped around your mouth to raise your volume, they startle and promptly scramble to their feet.

“I’m not English!” is their hurried response, which is strange, but they put their hands up in surrender so you don’t care that much.

Having these… features had the disadvantage of constantly being compared to birds, but hey, the wings are useful when it came to getting across the water without having to tread through it.

More dirt and gravel kick up where you land and almost stumble back into the water before regaining your footing and the stranger is much more clear on this side of it.

“Who are you?” you ask first and glare at them.

“Mesopotamia— Iraq,” he says and oh, that makes some amount of sense. “And you?"

Except, no, not really, this isn’t his land and isn’t he meant to be dealing with the British, or something? (Belatedly, you recognise that that’s probably why he specified his lack of being an anglo).

Scrutinising him under the minimal lighting that the moon provides only lends you to tell that his skin bears some flag, unnaturally coloured, and so you believe him.

He stretches out a hand to you like a peace offering. You are distrusting, but you clasp it.

“The Arab Kingdom of Syria,” you answer without hesitance, firm. You have not spoken your name (names) so confidently before. That is you, you are Syria. It is your, your people’s, choice, not some Frenchman’s.

“Syria, cool, okay,” he—Iraq—says. Then, after a second of what appeared to be contemplation, “Am I… not in my land?”

“No. This is my part of the Euphrates. Why are you here?”

“ Shit ,” he responds. Very intelligently.

You stand awkwardly a handful of steps away from him. You’d been planning on gouging his eyes out, or something similar enough, if he had been French, but he wasn’t.

What do you do now? You fidget with the ends of your sleeves

“Your land’s that way,” you point behind him.

“I know that.”

He sounds exasperated, you glare harder at him. Quick to anger, you note silently. Annoying, you tack on equally silently.

He glances in the direction of where he probably came from, you just watch. It’s almost pitiful, but you’ve been trying to break the habit of acting the better to people worse than you.

“Do you need company before you go back?” you ask after yet another handful of seconds in silence pass.

“Do you?” Iraq responds, yet still plops down right where he stands to instead sit on the ground. You follow suit.

In the end, neither of you know each other as much more than the guy who’s been my neighbour for a few centuries that I never really talked to .

Silence, then Iraq starts a topic, complains about the British, and you add on a complaint on the French. It rolls off into another, then another, and another, and then the two of you are just talking casually.

The most calm you’ve had in the past few months, you think. If nothing else, he’s good for conversation.

Because good things do not last, it comes to a close soon enough.

You wave him off as he leaves and then make the leap-flap to get back to the other side of the river. You wonder when you’ll see him again, if ever.

When you return the next night, Iraq is nowhere to be found. You sigh and get back to work.

—

Britain stands next to you, France next to him. Like overbearing parents or older siblings watching the younger ones on a playdate.

Irately, you push the image down, because you are not a child and you’re pretty sure both of these men are younger than you and him by centuries.

It’s been a while, there’s notable differences in him, you think. He looks tense, looks at the floor instead of at anyone present. France’s hand is on his shoulder, it looks unwelcome. He has his hands behind his back but you can imagine they clench when France pats him on the shoulder and says something in French to him.

His eye is missing.

You don’t stare, he wouldn’t know if you did but you don’t anyway.

France is much touchier than Britain, who stands half off to the side and acts like putting his—gloved, might you add—hands anywhere near you will get him diseased.

Suddenly, maybe that isn’t so bad.

You don’t pay attention to what the two colonisers say, only make note of the sternly-worded warning not to speak Arabic here. They leave you two to your devices and speak in a further corner.

He looks up at you only when France is several feet away, you can’t tell if he recognises you or not (maybe you also changed a lot, you didn’t know).

You approach first and raise a hand for him to shake.

“Nice to meet you. I’m the Kingdom of Iraq,” you introduce.

He takes your hand, hesitant, but he does and that’s what you care for in the end.

“...State of Syria,” he says. Still the same Syria you’d met and probably only talked to maybe five times in your time coexisting. But rendered completely stripped of the confidence he had before.

You think Syria sounds like he’d almost wanted to say something else. Maybe your imagination, though.

The sight of him like this makes you pity him in a way. He fails to make conversation with you this time around and in frustration, you shut your mouth and wait for time to pass.

He looks more like a soldier than any kind of diplomat—the opposite of you, then—when his owner comes back to fetch him before they leave.

None of you say goodbye. You wonder when you’ll meet again.

#chposting #midas writes #countryhumans #countryhumans syria #countryhumans iraq #ch: syria & iraq

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skulgore · 2 years ago

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Best to Let Go

just a small angst idk, imposter sagau, gold blood... see this post for the concept. traveler isn't specified.

FIRST FIC!

When the people of Teyvat pointed their fingers at you and called you a fraud, where was their sympathy? When you cried for help, when you begged for help- why did they not hesitate? All you wanted to do was go home, but those vile creatures wanted your head on a stick from the oh-so Almighty Creator's orders.

You expected someone to have a bit of mercy on you, but nobody helped. Getting chased down by the characters you loved. The firing of arrows from Barbatos yelling something about being a disgrace to Teyvat, while the Knights of Favonious would try their best to shield you from the angry anemo archon. Even though some couldn't recognize you- the way Master Jean was so persistent on you having the golden blood while clearly you had bright red. Everyone was very confused to say the least, Kaeya and Lisa told you of how they contacted the Traveler to come help guide you safely to Liyue.

However, when facing several gods? Traveler doesn't stand a chance, and they know this- so they had to make a tough decision and turn you in. It was all a gory blur after that. Now, here you were being dragged by rope on a public stage. When you hesitated to walk on the hard wood, the guards just shoved you- and that was the gentlest touch you had since you entered this world.

Everyone was cheering, the scrapes and scars clearly bleeding gold. Well, mostly everyone. The Kamisato Clan just held their heads low, the Liyue Qixing were quite literally shaking, Knights of Favonious frowned, them all getting their own front row seat. You get to see the characters you love watch you die, how depressing is that? Anyone who tried to oppose this would join in the execution, how cruel.

Your body was tense but also shivering- not from the cold, but you can't quite stop it. You were pushed down to your knees by Morax and Beelzebub, the wood digging into your skin, giving you splinters while you fought against the binds. The archons sat on podiums beside the fake. No matter how much you cried out- everyone would just scoff, nobody dared question the Almighty Creator.

When the exact lookalike of you took the first step towards you, you couldn't help but feel the need to run away. Just as you were about to move, fire surrounded around you- causing you to freeze in fear. Looking up to meet the eyes of the pyro archon, instead you were met with those identical to yours. The supposed creator stood in front of you, flames quite literally engulfing you two.

“You put shame on my name and face; therefore, you will meet your demise with my blade.” The creator glared daggers into you, which you stared back. The heat making it feel like it'll gouge your eyes out. With a mixture of blood and saliva, you spat onto the shoes of your twin.

“Kill me already.” You mumbled weakly, causing them to grab your chin gently and give a pathetic smile.

“Okay.”

Then just like that, with a sharp feeling along your back, like a glass shard went through your body. You let out a scream that was cut short by a cheer drowning it out. Suddenly, the heat was gone, and the spear that went through your spine was gone. Your identical stepping on the wound and letting you bleed out on stage.

The crowd had plenty of different reactions, some were stunned and some were overjoyed- but what they saw next made them furious.

And soon enough, you were gone, limp, lifeless. To the crowd, watching the red blood slowly fade to gold. It was as if Teyvat gone silent. The panic setting into the fake. They didn't expect this. They didn't know where to go from here. Shit. They ran.

The archons took the initiative when everyone else was frozen in their place, going in for the kill. Your dead body just stayed there, everyone expecting you to magically come back to life, but nothing.

Chaos quickly ensued on the land of Teyvat, wars started quickly over how some archons didn't show up knowing the Almighty Creator was a fraud in the first place. Teyvat went into total havoc immediately after you died.

Meanwhile, you were back to the real world. Scared. You've never been so thankful to be in the comfort of your sheets again. You took a break from everything online and decided to focus on your future, having a new motivation after experiencing how quickly things could change.

They could no longer feel your presence. You held them close for years, is this what they get for betraying you? They'll never forgive themselves for the crimes they've committed. You keep on getting notifications from that stupid game that quite literally traumatized you. You decided you had enough and took the first initiative to getting over it. Deleting the app.

It wasn't long enough til the people of Teyvat were told that they've been abandoned and the Creator gave up on them. Very soon the world will start over and be given to a new. Oh how they wish they committed anarchy soon enough.

As the world faded to black, they held their loved ones close and accepted their fate. You couldn't help but smile.

#sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin angst #skulgore

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seijorhi · 4 years ago

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Finders Keepers

the long awaited (sorry!) zombie au. hope y’all enjoy

Seijoh 4 x female reader & Miya twins x female reader

TW Blood, gore, angst, um... toxic relationships?

“Let me see.”

It’s little more than a murmur, but in the quiet stillness of the night your voice carries. It hardly matters; Oikawa has you close, tucked under his arm with his injured leg stretched out between the two of you. He could stop you if he really wanted, but he only watches, those tired, wary eyes fixed on your face as you reach for his pants.

“It’s fine,” he grunts out, yet he can barely get the words out before he’s hissing through his teeth – a knee jerk reaction to the scrape of rough fabric against his wound. His fingers are digging painfully into your arm, and it doesn’t make a difference how gentle you try to be, how many stammered apologies fall from your lips, your fingers are stiff and clumsy and his pants are caked with dried blood and grime, hindering the process.

Pursing your lips, you glance up. “This would go easier if you took these off, you know.”

He cracks a smile at that, strained and tense, but your chest still flutters at the sight of it. “If you wanna get my pants off so badly, cutie, all you had to do was ask.”

“Tooru,” you begin, but he sighs heavily and that brief flicker of mirth glimmering in his eyes fades. Reaching over he picks up his hunting knife, pressing the handle into your palm and letting his fingers slowly curl around yours. The weight of it feels unwieldy and foreign in your hand, and you can’t quite say for sure if the way your breath picks up and hitches is due to your nerves or the way Oikawa’s watching you, his warm hand still wrapped around yours.

“Cut it, then.”

The knife helps, shearing through his pants like butter, but the wound itself is messy – torn threads plastered to congealed blood and dirt – and blunt fingernails sink into your skin and Oikawa grits out a curse when you try to gently ease them free.

It’s worse than you’d thought. A lot worse. Raked over his right knee, five gouges, jagged and gruesome, raw flesh and muscle exposed beneath. Your stomach roils at the sight of it, bile creeping up your throat, and for a moment you’re astounded by how calm he is, sitting there beside you.

If it were you, you’re fairly sure you’d be rolling on the ground howling by now, but the only hint of pain Oikawa’s face betrays is the tightness of his jaw, teeth clenched even as he looses a shuddering breath.

“I-I’ll go see if I can find something to…” to what? Clean the wound? Stitch it? You’re not an idiot, unless this little cottage has an incredibly well stocked first aid kit, you know you’re in trouble. And even if it does, beyond the very basics of clean, disinfect and bandage, you don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to fix this.

Iwaizumi was always the one to stitch up their wounds, muttering obscenities under his breath and glaring at them the whole time. It was their own idiot faults for putting themselves in a position where they could get hurt in the first place, he’d say, they could deal with a little pain while he fixed them up. But as you stare at the grisly mess of Oikawa’s knee, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that this might be beyond even Iwa’s level of expertise.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Iwa isn’t here.

Makki and Mattsun aren’t either.

And strangely enough, it’s not the fear of the creatures lurking in the woods that’s gnawing at your gut. It’s Oikawa’s injury, the blood and mangled mess that you can’t even begin to fix, the thought of the trap that’s awaiting the others back at the sanctuary. It’s that feeling of helplessness that’s tightening around your neck like a noose.

“Hey,” Oikawa calls, snagging at your wrist when you try to pull away. “They’ll find us, have a little faith.”

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you nod. “I know.”

You don’t have the guts to tell him that that’s only half the problem.

Making do with vodka and some old bandages you’d scrounged up from a first aid kit under the sink, you do what you can for Tooru’s knee. Working by the light of a few flickering candles, your hands shaking like a leaf, it's a job easier said than done, and you can’t help but wince at every pained hiss and grunt that escapes him.

It’s a hack job, a bandaid over a gaping wound, but he thanks you for it anyway, pressing an affectionate kiss to your temple as he drags you closer once more. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he murmurs, and the words hang heavy over the both of you; a promise and a sobering reminder in one.

Tucked up in his embrace, you shut your eyes and will yourself to fall asleep.

Yet the moment you do, you’re right back there again: the hallway doors bursting open and the undead pouring through. Rotting and snarling, the sound of panicked shrieks tearing through the sanctuary in their wake.

Tooru’s hand in yours, yanking you along as he ran. Your heartbeat, pounding in your ears as you gasped for breath, your chest burning. And the fear, the horror that threatened to choke you as the others fell behind, their frantic pleas turning into agonised screams.

Everybody else first. The words spoken before any one of them left the safety of the sanctuary; you’d always assumed it was a grim kind of joke between the boys, a good luck charm. How many times had you heard Mattsun laugh it, clapping Iwa on the shoulder, or Makki for that matter, or Oikawa?

‘Come home safe’, you’d thought it meant, not ‘rip the guns out of other survivors’ hands and throw them back into the path of the oncoming undead’.

And then you’d stumbled, tripping over your own two feet. You remember Oikawa cursing, the pain that radiated up your knees and the palms of your hands as you hit the floor hard, and the absolute, bone chilling terror that surged through you when you looked up and saw one of the undead creatures lunge for you; jaw hanging loose, more ripped flesh and gristle than an actual mouth–

Oikawa was too far away, too slow, and even if he wasn’t, you’d just witnessed the lengths he’d go to for self preservation. You’d screamed for him anyway, squeezing your eyes shut and praying you’d go quickly when those fingers and yellowing teeth dug into your flesh and ripped you apart.

And in the space of a single petrified heartbeat, three shots had rung through the air, a warm wetness splattering against your cheek. Tooru was there, kicking the rotting corpse away from you and hauling you back to your feet, back safely against his side.

But the next one was quicker, leaping over the husk of its fallen friend, snarling and bloody and savage, and then it was Tooru who was screaming, undead fingers sinking into the flesh of his leg, ripping as it tried to claw him back.

Heart pounding viciously, your eyes shoot open in the darkness.

Even with the reassurance of Oikawa’s frame pressed up behind you, his breath warm against your skin, sleep doesn’t come easy, and the dawn brings little reprieve.

Stupidly, you’d hoped – prayed – that somehow through the night he might’ve gotten better. It was early in the morning when you’d felt him start to shiver against you. You’d tried to roll away, to give him space so you wouldn’t accidentally knock his leg, but Tooru was having none of it, burrowing in closer, his grip tightening.

And when you’d felt him start to sweat, his arms becoming sticky and clammy, his shirt dampening at your back, that slow, cloying sense of dread took root inside of your stomach.

Under the first rays of morning light, the true extent of Oikawa’s condition is unignorable. Without the luxury of being able to properly close the wound, blood’s seeped through the bandages overnight, leaving them a mottled, macabre red. His face is pale, a thin sheen of sweat dotting at his brow and with every shallow, rattling breath he takes, his body trembles.

It’s more than just simple blood loss.

You think for a moment that he’s unconscious, long lashes fanned out over flushed cheekbones, but the moment you reach for the bandages, his eyes snap open. “Don’t,” he rasps.

You frown, “Tooru–”

“No,” he says. “It’s fine. Leave it alone.”

Between him and Iwaizumi, and to a certain extent, Makki and Mattsun, you’ve never had much of a say in how things are run. You’ve never questioned that they’re the ones in charge, Oikawa most of all. They’re the ones who’ve kept you safe, kept you alive all this time, and all they’ve ever asked of you is that you do what they say.

And you have. Always. Because without them, you’d be dead. You don’t have to pick up a gun and fight, because they do it for you. You don’t have to go on supply runs because they take care of it, they take care of you. And it’s never mattered whether it’s just been the five of you out there alone, or if you were banding together with other survivors; that’s never changed – no matter how many dirty looks it earned you from the others.

You are their responsibility, but in return, you do what they tell you without question.

But this–

This isn’t like that. This isn’t you begging Iwaizumi to take you with him on perimeter patrol because you’ve been cooped up for what feels like weeks, or pouting because they’re deliberately keeping things from you again.

And maybe they have kept you in the dark, but you’re not blind and you’re not stupid. The reality of this situation hasn’t escaped you.

The sanctuary’s overrun, and if – when – Iwa, Makki and Mattsun make it back, they’ll be walking into an ambush. Even if by some miracle they do manage to all make it out unscathed and somehow figure out a way to pick up your trail, there’s no telling how long it’ll take for them to find their way back to you.

(You can’t bear to think about the possibility of them not coming home; you won’t.)

Right now, it’s just you and Oikawa, stuck in some abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a rifle and a baseball bat between you. You have no food, no supplies and he’s getting weaker by the minute.

You’re terrified.

And you don’t have the luxury of sitting back and letting somebody else take care of you anymore. You don’t stand a chance of survival without Oikawa, and right now he doesn’t stand a chance without you.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shake your head. “Okay, I won’t touch it, but I’m not just going to sit here and watch you get worse.” Smoothing your palms over your lap, you take a deep breath in through your nose. “There’s a prison–”

“No.”

“Tooru–”

“I said no,” he snaps.

Biting back a sigh, you try again, “Tooru, there might be supplies there,” you plead. “Painkillers, antibiotics, something that might help–”

“I don’t need antibiotics and you’re not leaving. We need to stay here where it’s safe until the others find us,” he grits out, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Normally, this would be the point that you’d back off, running off to lick your wounds before he decided to get mean, but even as some part of you cowers at the mere thought of upsetting him, this time you don’t back down.

He watches warily as you lean over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, gently smoothing damp brown locks back from his sweat slicked forehead. “I don’t know when Iwa’s coming back,” you murmur. “But until he does, the prison’s our best chance, if I can just–”

“No!” he snarls, cutting you off once again.

His eyes are manic now, blown wide and glazed over, he’s shivering, his breath a faint rattle – but his grip is iron, long fingers clutching at you desperately when you jerk back with a gasp.

“You don’t leave me.”

You don’t want to.

It’d be easy not to, to sit and stay with him and pretend that your world isn’t falling apart and he isn’t dying. You’ve never been a fighter, always too soft, too weak, too naive to survive out there on your own. The thought of setting one foot outside of that door without him by your side fills you with absolute terror, but what other options do you have?

He might not like it, but you’re out of time – this decision isn’t his to make anymore.

“Tooru, I-I have to, you know–”

“No!” he snaps, dragging you closer. “You’re not leaving me, I won’t fucking let you!”

Your hand trembles when you reach up to take his, easing it from your shirt and bringing it to your lips. Tears spill from your lashes, falling in heavy droplets against the back of his hand as Oikawa makes a pained sound.

“Please don’t go.”

You both know he can’t stop you.

“Keep the gun,” you tell him, mustering up a tight, watery smile. “Anything but Iwa and our boys comes through that door, shoot it.”

—

It seems a cruel, twisted joke that you find a perfectly good truck sitting a little ways up the driveway, just begging to be used – with no way of getting it started.

Mattsun always made hot wiring look so easy, tossing you a wink when the engine rumbled to life, as if it was a neat little party trick he’d pulled out just to impress you. He did it so quickly, so smoothly, ripping the wires out and sparking them like it was second nature, but he’d never bothered to actually explain what he was doing to you.

And why would he? Between the four of them, there’d always be somebody else to take care of it for you. It’s the same reason they never taught you how to shoot, never taught you how to fight beyond the very basics of self defence.

Now, trudging along the side of the barren road with nothing but your baseball bat and a canteen of water slung over your hip, you find yourself wishing you’d paid a little more attention. Ten miles hadn’t seemed that far on paper – it was less than the trek back into town and you’d figured a safer bet, but walking around in broad daylight without any kind of real protection feels like you’re begging to be preyed upon. Yet by some stroke of luck (and despite that persistent nagging sense that you’re being watched) you manage to make it to the perimeter gates without coming across another soul, dead or alive.

The towering brick walls topped with spirals of barbed wire that line the prison complex are as imposing as they are unbreachable, and for a moment, standing there staring up at them, you feel a crushing sense of disappointment. You’ve walked over two hours, left Tooru in pain and alone for nothing. There’s no way in hell you’re gonna be able to scale those walls, and without any kind of bolt cutters or firepower, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to get past the front gates.

Iwa would’ve known that. Iwa would’ve been better prepared.

But as you draw closer to the guardhouse, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that it’s not a problem. The heavy wrought iron gate’s already unlocked and open, creaking in the breeze. And really, that should have been the first warning sign, but you’re too busy thanking your lucky stars as you slide on through to pay attention to things like that.

The courtyard is just as deserted. The crunch of gravel underfoot echoes too loud, setting your nerves on edge as you make your way towards the imposing structure. It’s quiet, eerily so – even the birds seem to have disappeared. Is this how all raids feel, you wonder as you climb the steps towards the door. This sense of foreboding dread that settles in your stomach, the goosebumps that prickle down your arms?

Your grip tightens around the handle of your bat and you press gingerly against the door – just like the guardhouse gate, it gives under your touch, swinging open wide. It’s dark inside; you hadn’t thought to bring a torch and with the absence of any windows lining the corridor it’s near pitch black. Your heart hammers inside your chest, every cell in your body screaming at you to turn around and run back to Tooru, but you’ve come this far already.

The undead flock to fresh, living meat. It’s been months since the outbreak began; anyone unfortunate enough to have found themselves trapped inside when it happened is probably long dead, and any of the undead likely long gone.

It’s just a little darkness.

Steeling your nerves you creep through the black, clutching tightly at your bat, toeing your way down the corridor waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dim. Every breath you draw in feels too loud, every step too obnoxious. Deserted or not, the sooner you can find the med-bay, get what you need for Oikawa and get out, the better.

The layout’s simple enough – five looming multi-storied wings breaking off like fingers from the central watch-tower, but you don’t have a clue which one holds what you’re seeking. Your only option is to search them one by one and hope for the best.

You’d expected steel bars and heavy locks, but the prison reminds you strangely of a school instead; long hallways lined with doors, each with a tiny window to peek through. They’re all open now of course, whatever locking mechanism keeping them shut having failed when the generators ran out. The first few are empty, barren and stripped of everything but soiled mattresses – it should be a relief.

There’s nothing waiting for you in the darkness but empty halls and emptier rooms. If the others were here, they’d be teasing you for sure. Or Makki and Mattsun would, at least. You always were such a scared little baby – their scared little baby – you’d jump at your own shadow if you didn’t have them around.

And it’s easier to keep going imagining them there by your side, the jokes they’d crack, the warmth of Iwa’s hand in yours, or Makki’s arm slung over your shoulder. You’d feel safe with them. You wouldn’t need to feel afraid.

But no amount of pretend comfort is enough to allay the heavy sense of dread that’s sitting in your stomach, growing harder and harder to ignore with every passing minute. And the problem, you realise, with the prison being so deadly quiet is that every noise, no matter how quiet, echoes.

Climbing the stairs in the dark, you don’t notice the slickness on the walls either side of you, the red handprints smeared messily over white paint. You don’t see the broken, bloody fingernails littering the steps beneath you.

You hear it though, when you reach the landing. It’s soft. A quiet, wet squelching, ripping–

There’s no screams accompanying it like there were back when the sanctuary was overrun, but it’s not a sound you’re gonna be able to forget any time soon. In the dark you freeze, not daring to so much as breathe as you peer down the endless corridor, trying to pinpoint which of the cells it’s coming from.

In the end, you decide that it doesn’t matter.

They’re quicker when they’ve fed, stronger too, and there’s not a chance in hell that you’re going to be able to fumble past in the dark without drawing that thing’s attention. The wooden bat in your hands feels heavy, your palms already slick with sweat. You weren’t quick enough back at the sanctuary; without Tooru, that thing would’ve eaten you. And suddenly it seems laughable that you came out here, that you genuinely thought you could handle this – fight one of them off if it came down to it.

Tooru needs those meds, you know that, and you might be useless and weak and absolutely paralysed with fear, but you’re not stupid. You can’t help him at all if you’re torn apart by one of those creatures.

Your pulse racing, a potent mix of adrenaline and sheer, unrelenting terror coursing through your veins, you draw in a quiet breath, slowly lifting your foot to back away. It hasn’t heard you yet, and so long as it’s distracted–

“Oi, hurry up! I know what I saw, she came in this way.”

“Jesus, just shut up for a sec, wouldja! Ya don’t need to keep yellin’ at me, I’m comin’!”

Through the grate at your feet, you see two beams of light break through the darkness, the sound of loud, heavy footsteps echoing down the wing. Icy claws tighten like a vice around your heart and you still once more, squeezing your eyes shut as you listen, praying…

The squelching’s stopped.

Grip tight around the handle of your bat, your entire body quaking with fear, you watch with wide, stricken eyes as one of the doors halfway down the block slowly creaks outwards.

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing, and you try and convince yourself it’s just the wind, that you’re imagining things and your mind is playing mean tricks on you–

A feral snarl rips through the air, and before you can so much as scream it’s crashing through the open doorway, head swivelling as it searches for the source of the disturbance. In the dark you can’t make out much, only that it’s huge, half its flesh torn and decaying, smeared with blood and filth – but you see it when those white, cloudy eyes fix on you, its rotting mouth bared and salivating.

And this time you do scream. You scream for Oikawa, for Iwa, for Makki and Mattsun and the faceless strangers on the floor below as you cast your bat aside and run. You don’t dare look over your shoulder as you take the stairs two, three at a time, slipping and slamming into the stairwell wall, a sharp burst of pain radiating down your shoulder – you can hear it giving chase, the rabid growls and snarls too close for comfort.

Tears flood your eyes, your chest heaving with every desperate breath as your feet hit solid ground once more and you take off.

“Please!” you sob as you run, blinded by the brightness of the torch beam as it’s shone in your direction. “PLEASE HELP ME!”

You can’t outrun it forever. Even now, you hear it gaining on you, its hot, foul breath puffing against your back – it’s just like back at the sanctuary. It’s gonna catch you, rip into you and feast while you choke to death on your own blood and screams, and this time you won’t have Oikawa here to save you. You’re going to die in agony, torn apart and devoured, and it’s all your own stupid fault.

Your throat tightens, more tears springing free. You can’t see anything beyond those two blinding lights, moving now, dancing across the field of your vision. “PLEASE!” you shriek, desperate and hoarse as the undead creature behind you readies itself to pounce.

Please don’t leave me here to die.

And for one heart wrenching second, you think back to your boys, and the words they’d said before kissing you goodbye. Everybody else first. Maybe this is some kind of divine retribution, you think. Maybe when the world went to hell people became cold and selfish and you deserve this for sitting back and letting others die in your place.

“Get down!” the voice yells, and you don’t even stop to think before you drop, sliding across the floor. There’s another blinding flash, a shot fired into the dark and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and hug your knees to your chest as the creature snarls in anger and jerks backwards, a gruesome spurt of blood spraying over you.

“Ya fucking missed! How could ya fucking miss?!”

The gun cocks and reloads, another deafening shot ringing out above you and you flinch, your nails biting into the soft skin of your palm–

But this time the bullet hits its mark. The creature crashes to the floor with a loud thump and doesn’t move again.

You don’t waste a second scrambling to your feet, launching yourself into the arms of your saviour. You don’t care that you’re crying, that you’re covered in blood and filth and god knows what else, you cling to him like he’s a lifeline, sobbing into his shoulder. And instead of pushing you away like he probably should, he lets out a short huff that sounds almost like a laugh, his arm curling around your waist.

“I’m the one who shot the damn thing,” the other mutters sourly.

The man holding you snorts, “Nah, yer the idiot who missed.” Belatedly, you realise that he’s still gripping his gun, the brightness you’d assumed to have come from a torch actually from a light mounted to the barrel. He slings the rifle carelessly over his shoulder, drawing back slightly to appraise you. “Now, wanna tell me what a sweet thing like you’s doin’ all alone in a place like this?”

With your eyes now adjusting to the light, you can see that the two of them can’t be much older than you. They’re both tall, broad shouldered and handsome, the same jawline, the same slope to their nose, nearly identical hooded eyes – brothers you decide, maybe even twins. And they’re both smirking at you, not with the relief of just barely escaping a brush with a particularly gruesome death, but with an odd sort of lackadaisical amusement, as if this – skulking through dark, abandoned places, killing the undead – is nothing out of the ordinary for them.

And from the ease with which they carry their weapons, maybe it isn’t.

Oikawa warned you about men like them. Men in general, really. Even the ones who smiled at you back at the sanctuary, the ones who offered to help you move heavy supplies when they saw you struggling – at least, until Iwa or one of the others stepped in with a poisonous glare. Anyone who wasn’t them was dangerous, a threat, just waiting in the wings to take advantage of a pretty, dumb little thing like you.

And maybe he’s right, but when the one holding you instead drags you closer, wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins to lead you back towards the guard tower as his brother falls into step on your other side, you don’t shrug him off.

Oikawa isn’t here, and they have just saved your life. That has to count for something, right?

“I-I thought it’d be safe,” you confess breathlessly, trying not to focus on the thumb sweeping over the curve of your shoulder. “Well, empty at least. I didn’t have a choice.” And they listen, sharing glances in the dark as you tell them about what’d happened at the sanctuary, about Oikawa and the desperation that’d led you to leave him and walk miles alone to try and find some kind of medicine–

Until a snicker interrupts you. “Sorry,” the blonde mutters, though he doesn’t look all that sincere when your eyes flash to his. “It’s just…”

“Anythin’ worth taking woulda been snatched up months ago,” the darker haired one interjects.

“There ain’t nothin’ here but the occasional idiot tryna set up camp an’… Well, ya saw how well that turned out.”

It hits you like a gut punch, forcing the air from your lungs in a harsh, gasping breath. There was never anything here, everything… all of it was a waste. You came all this way, left him feverish and screaming himself hoarse for you, risked your life, almost died and–

It was all for nothing.

Fresh tears sting at your eyes, they’re still talking but it’s just white noise washing over you. You don’t even realise they’re leading you back outside until you’re walking through the doors, the sudden burst of sunlight making you flinch. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

You’re an idiot.

A naive, dumb little girl who was stupid enough to think this half cocked plan was gonna work. That you would make it back to Tooru in one piece, medicine in hand to save the day and prove you weren’t the helpless damsel they’d pegged you for.

You’ve wasted so much time, for nothing.

There’s no drugs, no food, nothing that’s gonna help either one of you make it through the next few days and suddenly you’re drowning under a wave of hopelessness and bitter disappointment. You fall to your knees in the dirt, taking both your saviours by surprise, and let out a painful, heart wrenching sob. And once you start, you can’t seem to stop. It’s overwhelming, every emotion you’ve bottled up and shoved aside over the last two days suddenly forced into the light. You cry for yourself, for Tooru – for Iwa and Makki and Mattsun. You cry until it feels like you can’t breathe anymore, and then there’s rough calloused fingers brushing your tears away.

You look up through wet lashes to find the dark-haired man crouching before you, his expression sober. “Ya don’t need to cry, sweetheart, we’re not monsters y’know.”

His brother chuckles behind you, “We’re not about to leave some pretty little thing all alone out here to starve to death.” His hand’s resting atop your head now, smoothing down the hair at your crown. It’s soft and soothing, and you’re so attuned to seeking comfort that you can’t help but lean into it, eyes momentarily fluttering shut. “We’ve got some friends nearby, a nice little hideaway stocked full of all kinds of shit. Everything ya could possibly need.”

“Y-you mean it?” you ask, wide eyes flickering to the dark haired one, who smiles at last. “You’ll share them with me?”

“‘Course we do. Meds, food, weapons. Whatever ya want, it’s yours.”

You take the hand he offers to help you stand, your limbs trembling once more – but this time it’s not from fear or exhaustion, but the overwhelming rush of sheer relief. You could kiss him, kiss them both, but you don’t.

Instead you settle for throwing your arms around them once more, breathless thanks falling from your lips faster than they can catch as you hug them tight. They don’t seem to mind though, sharing almost identical smirks as the three of you head out to an old, beat up camaro parked out by the entrance to the prison. While the blonde slides in the driver’s seat and his brother takes the passenger’s side, you climb up into the back seat.

“Is it far?” you ask as he kicks the car into gear and peels out onto the deserted road. Hopefully it’s not, the sooner you can get back to help Tooru the better.

“Nah, not too far. We’ll be home before ya know it.”

Of course, they’re driving you to their friends, but they haven’t promised anything about driving you back to the cottage and Oikawa–

Which is perfectly fine! You’re not going to push your luck, they’re already doing plenty for you. More than they really have to. You don’t even need that much – just some medicine for Tooru and enough food for the two of you to get through the next few days, and you’ll be fine. Whatever you can carry, which, admittedly isn’t much. There’s still a few hours of daylight left, if you’re lucky you’ll be able to make it back to him before nightfall.

Things are gonna be fine. You’ll bring the medicine and once he’s better, the two you can head out to find the others. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll be better when you’re all back together, the way things were meant to be.

You need them, if anything this little venture’s proven that much at least.

They’d promised that it wasn’t far, and maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the last few days creeping in, or the gentle hum of the engine as the car drives along the long, narrow stretch of road, but your eyelids start to droop, your breath evening out as sleep beckons.

And you’re just dancing on the edge of consciousness when a hushed voice breaks through the comfortable silence, dark eyes flickering up to watch your slumbering form in the rearview mirror. “Ya think Kita’ll be pissed?”

There’s a snort, “Nah. He’s always had a soft spot for strays, ‘specially the pretty ones.” He’s quiet for a moment, almost contemplative before he opens his mouth to add, “‘Sides, we’re gonna take real good care of her, ain’t we, Samu?”

The only reply he gives is a soft grunt of acknowledgement.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere atsumu x reader #yandere osamu x reader #yandere iwaizumi x reader #yandere matsukawa x reader #yandere hanamaki x reader #tw blood #tw gore #angst #toxic relationships #i honestly do not know how to tag this #at this point it's practically sfw #if you ignore all the blood and injuries and zombie stuff

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queensoybean0724 · 3 years ago

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Succession Chapter 18 (Karl Heisenberg/female reader) Resident Evil Village fanfic

Title: Succession Chapter 18

Characters: Karl Heisenberg, female reader

Rating: NC-17 for sex and language (soft sex, P in V, unprotected sex *wrap it up, kids*)

Summary: you discover a long lost relative has died and made you his sole beneficiary. While flying to collect your inheritance, you crash in a village in Romania.

Author’s Note: I do not own the characters from Resident Evil Village. This is a work of fiction. Anything remotely similar to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter 18

Heisenberg laid on his stomach with his arms pushed underneath his pillow. He closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly, his face turned towards you. The crackling of the fire sounded from the hearth. The sheets sat over his body from the waist down.

He smiled at the feel of your fingertips skating along his back. You laid on your side, your head resting on your arm. A heavy blanket covered you from the waist down. You weren’t as used to the cold as Heisenberg. Your gaze took in his back, his biceps, his mussed hair falling around his face, and the peaceful expression on his features.

“Your fingers on my skin are so relaxing…” Heisenberg murmured. You smiled at his words. The man probably didn’t know much peace in a place like this. His constant work in the factory, hours and hours working on his army in order to carry out revenge on the woman who took him from his family...you wondered how much sleep he allowed himself before you came along.

“Are all of your scars from years of working in the factory?” you asked, trailing your index and middle finger down the thick scar tissue on his bicep. Heisenberg opened his eyes and looked at you. You were focused on his skin, your touches light and soft.

The question brought back memories...memories of a day that felt long ago but also seemed so recent.

“Some of them are,” he replied, “working with metal, tools, jagged scrap metal. But most of them are from something else…”

You sensed the unease of his answer and how he was careful with how it was worded. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s personal or too difficult,” you said, your hand moving up to pull the hair away from his face.

Heisenberg’s gaze looked over your features. You smiled softly and it was like a rusted knife in his heart. Your eyes on his made him want to look elsewhere or turn his face away. He felt happy with you, happy for the first time in years...for the first time since…

“About thirty years ago, I fell in love with a girl who lived in the village. She and her family had fled from Bosnia before the conflict started in 1992. They settled here. Her father was a painter...her mother a schoolteacher. I was walking through the village and saw her gathering eggs from her family’s chickens...I fell in love with her the moment I saw her…”

You listened intently, intrigued by the way he described the girl. He looked as if it was the first time he had thought of or spoken of her in a long while.

“...I didn’t speak of her to Miranda or the others, but they started to become suspicious of my absence. We kept it a secret from her family as well. She would sneak away, come here to be with me…”

He didn’t say the words, but the silence spoke volumes. A sliver of jealousy pricked at your heart knowing that he probably fucked her in this same room as he did with you. But you pushed your feelings aside. It was naive to think that he never had a lover in all of the years he had been alive.

“...when Miranda’s experiments began to increase and she took more and more of the villagers, I begged the girl to hide here with me, but she wouldn’t leave her family. She tried to warn them, but their faith in Miranda was unwavering…”

You knew that this story wouldn’t have a happy ending. The village was now desolate and empty. Lycans ran wild. Aside from Heisenberg, Miranda, and his siblings, there wasn’t anyone left. Anxiety slowly rose in your stomach as you continued to listen.

“...Miranda took her family one by one...saved her for last. I ran to her house to bring her back here, but the place was empty. By the time I got to the ceremony site, Miranda had infected her with the Cadou…”

You released the breath you didn’t know you had been holding. Your fingers held his bicep, gripping tighter and tighter as the story continued. “What did it do to her?” you asked.

“She laid there unconscious,” Heisenberg answered, “I thought she was dead. She was cold to the touch and her skin was pale...but then she opened her eyes. Those beautiful eyes of hers...there was no trace of her left. The Cadou...it turned her into a lycan. She changed so fast. Her teeth and claws cut through my clothes and into my skin. I pushed her away, but she jumped on me and continued to attack me. She swiped at my face, cut across my nose...she almost gouged my eye out. Miranda and the others simply stood back and watched. The more I tried to subdue her and press her to the ground, the more violent she became. She was gone...and I didn’t have a choice…”

Tears threatened your eyes. “You killed her…”

“Yeah. I snapped her neck...she went limp instantly. All I could do was hold her, rock her in my arms...tell her I was sorry. Miranda looked defeated, not because the girl had died, but because the Cadou failed. I looked to Miranda and she simply shook her head and walked away…”

Your heart broke for Heisenberg. “I’m so sorry, Karl,” you whispered.

Heisenberg rolled onto his side and faced you. “Moreau followed me back here and patched me up. Sowed the deep cuts and dressed my wounds. When he was done, all I did was tell him to get the fuck out...I didn’t even thank him…”

You moved closer, pressing your body to his, and softly kissed his cheek. “So that is the real reason why you didn’t want me to leave...if Miranda finds me, she’ll experiment on me, too…”

“Yes,” he replied gruffly, “I won’t put you through that. You mean too much to me…”

You looked into Heisenberg’s eyes, your lips parting slightly. “I mean something to you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He lifted his hand and softly caressed your cheek, his gaze fused to yours. “Yes. Y/N...I’m falling in love with you…”

Your breath was lodged in your chest. Time seemed to stop. The cold wasn’t as intense anymore. The sentiment you felt towards him had just slipped past his lips. You smiled softly.

“Karl...I’m falling in love with you, too…”

The edges of his mouth curled into a sincere smile. His amber eyes were warm and tender. This moment must have been the first time in a long time, perhaps the first time in thirty years, that he felt love. His stubbornness and rigid manner when it came to you and keeping you in the factory were clear. He wanted to keep you safe. He wanted to right the wrong he made all those years ago.

Heisenberg’s lips pressed to yours softly. His arm wrapped around your body, his hand pressing to your back, pulling you against him. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you rolled to your back, pulling him on top of you.

He moaned as he felt your legs part. His body molded to yours perfectly. You released a shaky breath as his lips trailed across your cheek and down your jaw.

Solitude was something you had become accustomed to over the years. It had become so common that you forgot just how painful loneliness felt. That pain had dulled and transformed into something familiar and regular with each passing day, month, and year. You had long forgotten that it wasn’t normal to feel that way.

Heisenberg knew solitude just as much as you.

“Karl…” you moaned, arching into his body. His lips trailed down your neck and to your breasts. His mouth worshipped your soft flesh. You felt his cock slowly harden between your legs and it made you wet.

“I need you, Y/N,” he growled between your breasts. You spread your legs wider and rolled your hips.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He reached for his dick and slowly pushed inside of you.

Heisenberg’s mouth went to your ear and he grunted softly with every thrust. Your arms held him close to your body, his skin pressed to yours. His body rocked with yours, his touches and kisses soft and intimate. Your head pushed back into the pillow, feeling his cock pulsing inside of you.

“Y/N...oh fuck...yes…” he moaned into your neck, his arms holding you tight. His hips began to thrust faster, the soft and sweet movements becoming hurried and passionate. You lifted your legs higher and circled them around his waist. His teeth nibbled at your skin and his tongue licked along the marks they left behind.

“Karl...Karl...please make me cum…” you begged, your fingers digging into his back. The bed creaked as he thrusted harder. His right hand moved to your lower back, pulling you closer, making you arch upwards into his body. Tears slid from the corners of your eyes, his mouth and hands worshipping you in ways you only dreamed of.

“I love you, Y/N…” he whispered gruffly into your ear, “...cum for me...cum for me…”

His words pulled your orgasm to the forefront. You held onto his bucking body tightly, feeling the skin of his groin rubbing back and forth along your clit. Tossing your head back, you screamed his name again and again as you came. Heisenberg was desperately barreling his length into you as you yelled for him. With a guttural growl, burying his face into your neck, he emptied his cum inside of you.

In a tangle of arms and legs, the both of you continued to slide against one another, your orgasms subsiding. You smiled as you felt Heisenberg’s full lips kiss along your shoulder and collarbone. The tickle of his beard and the soft aftershocks made you quiver underneath him. His tongue licked from your chest, up your neck, and to your waiting mouth. The kiss was soft, deep, and probing. He kissed you in a way that could only be described as heavenly.

“I won’t let her take you from me,” Heisenberg whispered against your lips, “I’ll die before that bitch lays one hand on you…”

#resident evil village #resident evil village fanfic #resident evil heisenberg #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenburg x reader #karl heisenberg fanfic #daddy heisenberg #heisenberg #house heisenberg #succession fanfic #succession heisenberg fanfic

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narumi-gens · 4 years ago

Note

How did Naoya and his blue ball Queen meet 👁 👄 👁

note: Naoya’s Blue Ball Queen. Thank you, anon. That’s what I’m officially dubbing her 👑 also know that we know Naoya has a Kansai accent, I’m going wild. warning: smut words: 1.7k (I’m trash) related drabbles

When Naoya is assigned a mission in Osaka to investigate and eliminate a group of curse users who are rumored to have gotten their hands on a Special Grade cursed object, he thinks nothing of it. As a Special Grade 1 sorcerer and heir to the Zen’in Clan, he considers it more of an annoyance than anything else.

The thing that does catch his attention and raises his ire is that the higher-ups have decided to assign him a partner for this mission under the apparent logic that the growing strength of these curse users warrants sparing two Grade 1 sorcerers.

And when he finds out that this partner is just some woman without a cursed technique, he’s furious.

Throughout the entire duration of the mission, he finds himself bitterly fuming over your presence, his role as your babysitter, and your mistaken belief that the two of you are equals. When the mission is complete and the curse users are dead, he refuses to acknowledge the role you played in recovering the cursed object.

He’s not quite sure what happens next.

One moment he has you caged in against the wall in some seedy alley near the curse users’ base of operations, looming over you with a smirk as he tells you that your only value comes from how well you know how to serve a man and how many kids you can manage to pop out for whatever poor bastard ends up stuck with you.

The next moment, he’s underneath you in some Osaka love hotel watching through half-lidded, hungry eyes as you ride him to your heart’s content with nothing on your mind but your own pleasure.

He doesn’t know what did it. If it was the way you were looking at him like he wasn’t worth your time. Or maybe it was how every command he tried to give you went in one ear and out the other. It could have been how little respect you seemed to hold for him and his position.

All he knows is that he wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk from your lips, teach you your place, and put out that fire that he saw burning in your eyes.

But things aren’t going to plan. Because every time he attempts to take control as you bounce on his cock, slamming his hips up into yours from below at his desired pace or trying to flip you over so that he’s the one drilling into you, your grip on his throat grows tighter in warning.

He can feel your nails digging into the skin of his throat and his chest until you’re drawing blood and leaving behind crescent-shaped gouges that will last for days -- and serve as a reminder that he lowered himself to your level.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow. The only thing that matters now is chasing his own orgasm. Because, even though he hasn’t even known you for a full day, he knows with 100% certainty that if you come first then you’ll leave him still hard and aching for a release without a second thought.

And with the way you’re moaning with your head dropped back as the pace of your hips begins to grow a bit sloppier, he can tell that you’re getting closer. But he’s not far behind, his own end is in sight as tension continues to build in the base of his spine.

He begins to run his mouth despite your grip on his throat as he digs his fingers into your hips, determined to leave behind bruises that you’ll feel under your clothes for days.

“This is all yer fuckin’ good for,” he spits over the wet sound your pussy makes every single time you sink down on his cock. “Yer nothin’ more than a warm hole for me to dump my cum in.”

Before he can continue to rattle off insults and remind you of how little you’re worth, you release his throat only to slap a hand over his mouth that you then use to support your entire weight. Your fingers dig into his sharp jawline and the fury in his eyes as he glares up at you goes unnoticed.

“Shut the fuck up,” you pant, never once breaking your rhythm. Your eyes squeeze even tighter shut as you try to block him out. “I can’t, fuck, come if I have to, ah!, listen to your whining.”

He winces when you lift your hand from his chest, the nail marks you leave behind stinging. But it’s quickly forgotten when he turns absolutely feral as you begin to furiously rub your clit.

That seems to be all you need before you’re crying out and tensing above him as your pussy clamps down around his cock, the sensation making him groan into your hand.

But Naoya knows how to seize an opportunity when one presents itself and he knows that if he doesn’t act now then he’ll be left with only his hand to finish getting himself off. Taking advantage of how caught up you are in your orgasm, he uses his strength to flip your positions so that you’re sprawled out beneath him and surprise cuts through the pleasure on your face.

Only, he doesn’t want to see that fucking face or that fucking smirk or that fucking look in your eyes -- that look that makes him want to break you.

So, he pulls out and roughly flips you over onto your knees. He tightly grabs onto your hips before plunging his cock back into your still-spasming cunt until he’s buried balls deep inside of you. You toss him an outraged look over your shoulder and he sees your mouth opening to let out some sharp-tongued remark.

He cuts you off with a hand to the back of your neck that he uses to pin your head face-down into the mattress. You immediately begin to buck underneath him in protest but when he resumes fucking you hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping against skin each time his hips meet your ass loud in his ears, you suddenly become slightly more pliant.

“That’s right,” he grunts, panting heavily as he takes in the sight of you on your knees in front of him -- ass up, head down. “Fuckin’ take it like the whore ya are.”

His words seem to reignite that spark in you because you begin trying to writhe away from him again. But his hold only grows tighter and his thrusts only become more brutal as he he keeps you in place. When he hears you trying to say something into the sheets, he pushes your face down harder.

“Fuck,” he groans as he watches you struggle beneath him. “This is right where ya belong. On yer fuckin’ knees.”

He sees one of your hands move from where it had been clutching the sheets to slip under your body and when he feels you clench down around his cock, his eyes turn wild.

“What makes ya think ya get to come again?” he seethes, now fucking into you with so much force that the headboard is hitting the wall with each thrust. “Ya ain’t earned the right to come twice. Fuckin’ bitch.”

But apparently, you’re presumptuous enough to think you have earned the right to come again because you’re suddenly tensing beneath him as your walls begin to spasm again, somehow even harder than the first time.

It’s enough to make him loudly moan and he has just enough foresight to pull out of your sweet, sweet cunt just in time for him to spill his cum in warm streaks along your back. The last thing he wants is to end up with you carrying some bastard kid of his.

As a sudden wave of exhaustion follows his orgasm, he collapses into bed next to you, absently running a hand through his sweaty hair and trying to catch his breath. He feels the bed moving beneath him and opens an eye to see that you’re already getting out of it before he closes it again.

Good. He doesn’t want to have to be around you any longer than he already has.

He can hear you moving throughout the room and the sound of you picking up your discarded clothing.

“I’ll let you report back and turn over the cursed object,” you finally break the silence to tell him and he looks at you to see that your back -- now wiped clean of his cum -- is turned to him as you pull on your jeans.

He clenches his jaw at your phrasing. You’ll let him. As if you have any right to let him do anything.

But before he can spit any of this out of you, you’ve already slipped your shirt over your head and are making your way to the door, giving no care to how your sweaty hair gives away how throughly you’ve just been fucked.

“By the way, Zen’in-sama,” you pause to say, your hand on the doorknob as you look at him over your shoulder. That infuriating smirk is back on your lips and he hates how his cock is already stirring again at your mocking tone. “It seems like it’s your value that’s dependent on your ability to serve.”

Naoya sees red and shoots up to prop himself up on his elbows, but before he can put you in your place, you’re already gone, the door slamming shut behind you and your laughter ringing loudly through the hallway of the hotel.

He’s left to seethe on his own and it only fuels his anger. The next time he sees you, you’re going to regret ever having dared to cross him. He’ll remind you where exactly you belong -- on your knees and serving him.

He focuses on this as he gets up out of the bed and pointedly tries not to think about how he let you get the last word.

It’s only after he’s showered and is getting dressed that he realizes with a blinding hot rage that you used his shirt to wipe his cum off of your back.

“Fuckin’ bitch.”

#Anonymous #IM TRASH OK???????#zenin naoya #zen'in naoya #zenin naoya x reader #zen'in naoya x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jjk hc #jjk spoilers #mine #trash man #hate fuck!naoya

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vvideonasties · 4 years ago

Text

clear-cut

"Good morning," Jon says.

"Um," Martin replies.

Jon then realises that him holding a pair of scissors so close to his eyes not long after ranting about gouging them out would be rather concerning at first glance.

word count: 2k

pairing: jonmartin

warnings: discussion of canon related trauma, thoughts about body autonomy

While rifling through the kitchen drawers, Jon is unsurprised by the plethora of blades Daisy owns. There’s every kind of knife you could fathom and, thankfully, a few pairs of scissors. Grabbing what appears to be the sharpest pair (though they all look pretty damn sharp), he heads to the bathroom. He clutches the white of the porcelain sink and stares into the mirror impassively.

He used to actually quite like his long hair. He’d play with it while he was working, twirling the thick locks around his fingers and untangling knots absentmindedly. When he’d get frustrated he’d pull it out of its tie and tug at it. It was a strange way to ground himself.

Now, though. It’s been used too much for other people’s gain, has been in too many people’s hands for it to truly belong to him. The gravity it provided began to dissipate when Daisy attacked him - she’d grabbed a chunk of it and used it to yank back his head to expose the vulnerable expanse of his neck. As he’d stood there under the mercy of her blade, shaking and pleading, the stinging in his scalp lingered the entire time. It only got worse from there - the awful attempt at tenderness displayed by the Stranger as Nikola brushed aside a few strands to gain access to more flesh, to paste moisturiser onto it with her stiff fingers. The dirt he couldn’t quite scrub out of it after he left the Buried, even when he sat in the tub for hours on end. Even when the water began to run clear, he could still feel the clumps weighing him down, making his head loll to the side with it.

After all that, it wasn’t much to him. He’d wash it, dry it, tie it up. Try not to think of it.

Jon stares down at the gleaming scissors in the sink determinedly. Cutting it off won’t solve much, if anything at all, but it would make him feel a little more comfortable. It’s one of the only things he can control about himself at the moment. If he doesn’t like the way it looks, then fine. It’ll grow back.

His hand flexes and clenches into a fist. Tighten, relax, tighten, relax.

He reaches for the scissors and holds a piece of hair in front of his face, the blades open, hungry, ready to receive.

Then there comes a short, polite cough. He turns to see Martin standing just outside the bathroom, eyes a little wider than normal.

"Good morning," Jon says.

"Um," Martin replies.

Jon then realises that him holding a pair of scissors so close to his eyes not long after ranting about gouging them out would be rather concerning at first glance.

“I’m cutting my hair,” he clarifies, and Martin seems to relax at that.

“Okay.” A pause. “Why?”

He puts down the scissors and shrugs, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“Just felt like it,” he says, which is kind of true. “Not particularly attached to it anymore.”

Martin hums, taking him at his word. He walks over on socked feet, close enough that Jon can feel the heat radiating from him. There’s a brief moment where his hands pass over the scissors.

“I could help?”

Jon turns to face him completely, brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, it’s just that I have experience? Kind of? I cut my own, and I used to cut my mum’s as well...” Martin’s mouth twists downwards at that, and Jon just frowns harder. “I won’t give you my mum’s style, I promise!” He jokes weakly. It falls flat, and the whole atmosphere feels stilted.

“Okay. Why not.”

“...Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt your whole-”

“It’s fine. I could use some help reaching the back anyway.” As much as he just wants to lop all of it off, he doesn’t want it to look messy.

Martin seems to brighten, probably at the relief of having something to focus on, and he walks off to grab a chair from the small dining table as Jon hovers awkwardly. He positions it in the living room, close to the small TV they’ve been using sporadically. They’ve been steadily working their way through the small cabinet full of DVDs underneath it. However, Jon isn’t exactly sure how long they’re going to be staying, so they might have to...ration them. The week they’ve been here hasn’t exactly been the most vibrant when it comes to entertainment. Maybe one day they’ll relent and open up the dusty box of Monopoly. That could very well be a major test of their relationship, though.

At least, Jon thinks this is a relationship. They haven’t talked about it all that much. All that mattered in the beginning was escaping the Lonely, leaving London, then getting settled here. They’re fumbling around blindly in the dark, and all Jon knows is he wants to hold onto Martin as tightly as possible.

That little train of thought is interrupted by the small clink of Martin taking the scissors off of the sink and grabbing a towel from the rack. He gestures to the chair, inviting Jon to sit, and when he does so he feels the towel being gently wrapped around his shoulders.

There’s the brief sensation of Jon’s hair being pulled at, only slightly, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Okay?” Martin whispers. He understands without knowing, somehow, and Jon is glad that he can’t see the way his face is taut with apprehension, tinged with pain.

“Okay,” he whispers back, trying to emulate Martin’s tone.

“Can I use your tie?” His voice is still soft, and Jon should feel patronised, but he mostly feels soothed. “Just so it’s easier to cut through.”

Jon wordlessly removes the tie from his wrist and hands it over. He tries to hide the little shiver that passes over him when their fingers brush. Martin begins to hum a tune as he gathers the hair up into one handful (not like they did, he would never, it’s Martin, always so good to him), then creates a loose ponytail that falls to his shoulders.

“Fine so far?” Jon nods tentatively. “Alright then.”

There’s the distinct sound of the blades opening, and in one fluid motion Jon feels the weight he’d been carrying leave him.

“There.” Martin comes into view, holding the thick, dark ponytail aloft, smiling crookedly.

“Oh,” he croaks. “That’s...a lot.” His hand comes up to brush his the side of his head, then travels down and grasps at thin air where hair was a second ago. The cut seems to stop at his jaw, the small strands remaining ghosting over his skin.

“It is. Can I keep going?”

Jon, hand still close to his head, makes a noise of assent. Martin takes a second to throw away what’s been cut then returns. He sinks his hands into Jon's scalp, massaging the tension out of it, and Jon makes an unbidden noise of satisfaction that causes his motions to still.

"God, sorry, did I hurt-"

"No! No, it's okay. It felt nice." It felt really nice.

Martin clicks his tongue and continues for a while longer, fingers digging into Jon’s scalp over and over in a wonderful, rhythmic motion until Jon is practically boneless and falling asleep in the chair. He wonders if there’s a not-weird way to ask for this again outside of a hair cutting context.

“So how short are we going here? You kind of have a bob right now,” Martin laughs.

Jon hadn’t really thought about that. He just wanted it off, away, binned and out of his face. He shrugs. “I don’t know, short? Whatever you think will suit me.”

“Any hairstyle would suit you,” Martin points out, like it’s nothing. Jon smiles. “But I’ll do my best.”

A few moments of Martin muttering to himself and circling around the chair is followed by the coolness of the dual blades against the curve of Jon’s ear, the shhk of them pressing together giving him goosebumps. He clearly has done this many times before, given the confident way he navigates the scissors. Jon certainly couldn’t have done this alone, at least not without making a fool out of himself. Martin brushes some hair away from the nape of his neck. His hands are very warm.

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with short hair.”

Jon turns to him, puzzled. “Really?”

The thing with Jon is, when he cares about someone a lot, he tends to insert them in all of his memories, assuming that they’ve always been around (he also has the memory of a goldfish, but he’s sure that’s a whole other thing). Martin has become such an integral part of his life, standing neatly by his side like it’s nothing. Like he was meant to be there and always has.

“It has been quite a few years now, I suppose. Last I remember it was this short I was still in research.” When he goes to touch his head again he notes that he can feel for his ears without having to move a mountain of hair aside.

“Better late than never, I guess! I’m gonna move to the front now.”

Martin has to position himself at an awkward angle to use the scissors properly, his back practically curved into a C shape. His gaze is focused and intense, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Hair falls on Jon’s face as he snips, making him wrinkle his nose and grimace.

“Sorry. You can wash it off soon.”

Jon nods minutely. Then he sneezes. Martin just smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, then continues.

He remembers why he rarely went to get a professional haircut now. That strange intimacy that comes with someone being so close to you - a stranger - it always disturbed him. The idle chatter that made him grit his teeth, how they’d act like they knew him. Then he didn’t have the time or energy to cut it himself after...everything.

Now he’s looking at Martin, though. It’s odd, yes. Intimate? Definitely. He doesn’t know whether to close his eyes or keep them open. But he’s always found it very hard to turn his gaze away from Martin regardless.

His eyes are a lovely shade of deep blue, and he has far too many scars alongside the smattering of freckles on his face. He looks tired. Very much so. There’s crows feet at the corners of his eyes and lines on his forehead. He notes absently that he actually has a thick beard, too. Of course he noticed it beforehand - he’s felt it scratching the back of his neck when he wakes in the morning with Martin’s arms around him - but it’s worth pointing out. It makes him look much older, especially since the grey in it seems to be overtaking the red.

Martin stands up straight and runs his hands through Jon’s hair a few times before standing back, head tilted to the side.

“I think we’re done. It’s not amazing, but.”

Jon is already shrugging off the towel and heading to the bathroom mirror, feeling weirdly nervous.

He certainly looks different. Unfortunately, though he searched high and low for them, Daisy doesn’t own any clippers. Martin did the best he could with what he had - he’s kept it a bit longer towards the front, some strands grazing his forehead, but the rest is cropped closely to his scalp. Jon tentatively touches it and leans forward. He tries to grasp a chunk of it, see if it’s long enough to pull. He fails.

“It’s perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Jon says firmly. “It’s just what I needed.” He walks back over to Martin and wraps his arms around him instinctively, sighing with contentment when he responds in kind.

“Thank you,” he mumbles into Martin’s t-shirt.

“Of course.” Martin is stroking the back of his neck gently. “You look very handsome.”

Jon’s face burns at the compliment, and he chooses to hide it further rather than reply. They stand there for a while, hair scattered around the floor like autumn leaves, and it feels like a new beginning.

#lil writes #jonmartin #ive been thinking a lot about hair and people's relationship to their hair recently. like. why it means so much to some of us #and it morphed into this #hair is one of the few things we can control since its physical and mostly our own #idk i just feel like its a good way for jon to reclaim some part of himself. it certainly feels that way for me so maybe i am Projecting #anyways! take it!#i was actually gonna write a sequel about martin and his hair but focusing on the hc i have that he grows a beard in s4 so he doesnt have-#to see his own face as much. but lets see how this one is received first!#tumblr is such a bad place to post fic because feedback is so sparse. god.#ILL SHUT UP NOW BYE #oh wait i need to tag #the magnus archives

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hope-to-hell · 4 years ago

Text

The Gentlemen’s Agreement. Helmut Zemo x Bucky Barnes. Smut, angst, dubcon, oral, biting, minor bloodplay. They are complicated messes of men, perhaps more alike than they wish. There’s no excuse for any of this, and yet it happens.

Here’s the thing. He sees the struggle and the hurt of you, and he doesn’t care. He’s Zemo, yeah? He takes and takes and thinks that maybe someday it’ll all add up to equal the gaping hole inside him. He’s wrong, but who cares. Neither of you are likely to live long enough to see the outcome. But that’s further down the road and beside the point; the point is that it’s been a long while since you dipped a toe in the nascent kink scene of the 40’s, sweetheart, and you never would’ve thought this was even possible.

You, Bucky. The big tough, the muscle, the ray of sunshine who could smile and melt hearts from across the room. Yeah. You. Who’d’ve thought you would find yourself on your knees for a man like this? Who’d’ve thought you’d be so goddamned hard for it?

Do you trust me?

No.

Good. Open your mouth.

This is Helmut Zemo’s thumb stroking your lips, assessing, warm, more callused than you thought it would be. He could be feeling lust or nothing at all, and does it matter? Either way you’re here on your knees and you can feel every chip in the concrete and every shameful breath that shudders through you. Oh, Bucky. Listen. You are so fucked.

It’s so easy to let yourself fall beneath his hand, to feel those fingers trail up your cheek and into your hair; doesn’t matter if you’ve cut it short, there’s still plenty left to grab. And he grabs because he knows the way it fires all through you and the way you try to hide it; no teeth because there’s wrong and then there’s wrong; it’s part of the gentlemen’s agreement that you probably won’t kill each other here and you’ll absolutely, definitely keep your teeth off his cock. Anywhere else, though, is fair game.

Bite me, go on. I dare you— ah. Again. Again. Harder. When you taste blood you can stop. You filthy fuck, you love this. On your knees, aching, so fucking hard and I’m not touching you this time. You’re going to make yourself come so there’s no doubt in your mind how much you need this from me.

Zemo’s thighs are blooming red and purple and he is absurdly, preposterously hard; precome slicks him and why don’t you have a taste, you nasty boy? He tastes like salt and sweat and all the shame you feel because freedom is wonderful, isn’t it, but what you want is an order to follow. What you crave is his words in your ear, uncoiling along your spine, freeing you from decision and thought and all the spiraling grief that leaves you shaking in the dark. Shouldn’t have undone it, little man. You’re trapped with your own mind now and it’s so hard; decades of the winter soldier and the good man tangling around each other left you cold and broken and you need this, need it like air. Boy, you’d give anything for a blank mind but you can never tell a soul.

But I know. I know what you need, even if you hate it. Hate me. It’s alright, you’re neither the first nor the last. I’ll use you and you’ll let yourself be used, and in this way we both get something of what we need. He says he needs the win, the last of the serum crushed beneath his heel and all these fucking super soldiers bleeding in the dust (and that means you, friend; you’re a fool and a sucker and if you think he wouldn’t kill you the minute something better came along—)

But what does Helmut Zemo really want? You’ve guessed, haven’t you, in those moments when he comes and he is briefly unguarded; in the depths of his eyes are reflected little moments: firelight, droning insects in summer, silhouettes in the doorway and he is never, ever going to get them back.

Like calls to like. You and I are irreparably broken; I will push and you will fall and we will curve our bodies like the spray from severed arteries. This whole thing is untenable, Bucky-boy; sooner or later the next meeting will be the last and if you’re not in prison for aiding and abetting you’ll probably be burying him. But wouldn’t it be nice— wouldn’t it be nice— if he could grasp hold of your mind again and empty you out completely even as he fills you up? You’re a filthy disheveled wreck with your right hand on your cock and your left digging gouges in the floor; it was either that or crush his femur with the autonomic clench of shining fingers. He sees, and he knows, because he sees right to the heart of you. Doesn’t he?

Of course he does. He’s fucking Zemo and you should know by now that he is keen-eyed and poisonous. And he sees the way you keep your hands aside; he sees it and he doesn’t smile but there is a new sharpness to him. Oh, sweetheart. He’s in your throat and he is thick, isn’t he; when he moves he steals your air and your tears and the ropy thick spit that comes from him fucking in deep. He doesn’t last; he can’t, not when the smell of blood is sharp in his nose and you’re working his cock like your life depends on it.

Come with me, he doesn’t say. And he doesn’t say if your eyes slide shut then you can’t see my face. Can’t see me. Because this isn’t nice and it isn’t right but there’s that little spark of something there. It could be the spark to light your campfire or to burn the forest down, and would you notice? Would you care? When all you want is his gloved hand tight around your mind, what does it matter if you fall to ruin? And when you think about crushing his devious fingers underneath your heel when you’re pulling at your cock deep in the night, why does your mind drift to him breaching you and filling every hole?

Bucky, oh you wicked thing. You straight-spined, filthy little fuck. You’re gonna taste this for days, bitter come in your throat and that salty musk of his skin, and when you lick your lips distractedly it’s because you’re chasing the ghosts of those last dregs. You’re lost, whether you can admit it or not. You’re lost and he sees it, but here’s the thing. You see him too. After all, like calls to like.

And when you come it’s shame and glory; it’s little pearly spatters on the floor and the tensing of your shoulders. It’s his softening cock slipping free, and the way his hand cards through your hair for just a moment. And he was right, you know. He was right although it hurts you and you hate it. You want it. Want this. Want him. And it burns, it burns; the spark falls, and fire blazes up.

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