#if character A makes a tiny mistake and thinks things will crash and burn and the world will explode....like ik hes not supposed to think | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkykeiji · 4 years ago

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break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

✰ ✰ ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

✰ ✰ ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

✰ ✰ ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

✰ ✰ ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

✰ ✰ ✰

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

✰ ✰ ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

✰ ✰ ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.

#zenin naoya x reader #zenin naoya smut #jjk smut #zenin naoya #zen'in naoya #tw:incest #tw death #tw toxic relationship #tw abuse #tw physical abuse #WAAAAAAH FINALLY HE IS DONE HEHEHE YAAAAY #whew okay

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moonctzeny · 4 years ago

Text

get to you again

pairing: friends to lovers! hendery x fem!reader

genre: smut, just a tiny teeny bit angsty I guess but with a happy ending, fluff

word count: 3k

warnings: raw sex, creampie, a little corruption kink?

summary: “You wanted to lurch forward at him, tackle him onto the dusty road, and thank him by kissing every inch of his face. Hold him under the stars until you were covered with his smell, and the necklace wouldn’t be needed anymore; you could cling onto that memory instead. The urge was so strong that it made your heart physically hurt, knowing that you fell for the one person you shouldn’t have. But the heart wants what it wants, right?”

inspiration: get to you again - mac ayres

tagging the lovely: @markresonates

It had been too long since you last saw Hendery.

You two had met so unexpectedly, both trapped in a small coffee shop a couple years ago, drenched to the bone and trying to find cover from the sudden rainfall.

“I was going to ask you if you were willing to share your umbrella, but I’m guessing you forgot it on the wrong day like me”, he joked, so you decided to share a table instead. After the fourth time he had you clench your stomach in laughter, out of the sheer willingness to make a stranger like you cheer up, you decided to exchange phone numbers, thus starting what would become a beautiful friendship.

It wasn’t easy being an idol. Two promotions in Korea, then a reality show in China, then another comeback. You counted the days, one by one until he’d get to you again. Until you’d finally re-watch his favorite movie with him for the millionth time, just to get to watch him laugh over the same stupid lines.

You weren’t sure when you realized you had fallen for him. Maybe it was last winter, almost exactly a year ago when he handed you your Christmas present. He had driven you on a hill on the outskirts of Seoul, the only place he knew with some privacy from prying eyes, and the breathtaking view of the tiny city lights made the freezing cold worth it. You were both sitting against the hood of his car, admiring the big city that seemed to unravel at your feet when you opened the small velvet box.

It revealed a silver necklace of two wings hanging from a dainty chain, with his initials carved on the back of the charm. As you stared at it long enough to make sure you weren’t making things up, you couldn’t decide which one was more beautiful- the pendant or the stars in Hendery’s eyes as he waited for your reaction.

“It’s symbolic”, he started explaining, a little embarrassed with how much effort he had put into the gift, “I know I’m not around a lot to take care of you, but just know that I’m always there if you need me. Like your guardian angel”.

He sounded so wholesome while saying it, long bangs covering his eyes that bashfully avoided yours. You wanted to lurch forward at him, tackle him onto the dusty road, and thank him by kissing every inch of his face. Hold him under the stars until you were covered with his smell, and the necklace wouldn’t be needed anymore; you could cling onto that memory instead. The urge was so strong that it made your heart physically hurt, knowing that you fell for the one person you shouldn’t have. But the heart wants what it wants, right?

Tonight, it was beating as fast as the rhythm of the blinking Christmas lights decorating your living room. How could it not, with Hendery sitting only a few inches away, sharing a blanket with you? He was a few minutes late due to a last-minute photoshoot, but he arrived at your door bare faced and dressed in his favourite flannel shirt. He was just how you liked him, raw and soft and beautiful.

Unlike what you had predicted, he suggested checking out a new romantic comedy on Netflix. It was one of those that come out every Christmas season, all with the same low budget and cheesy acting that ended with some festive spirit that magically solves every plot hole. Two childhood friends, falling in love with each other, yet the girl thinks that the guy is way out of her league so she does nothing about it. The pure irony convinced you that the universe must be surely playing some sick joke on you, forcing you to look at a Hollywood version of yourself getting a happy ending for the next two hours.

“I don’t understand”, Hendery huffs in frustration, midway into the film by now, “why doesn’t the girl just tell him she likes him? What guy doesn’t want to hear that?”

“Maybe she’s scared of the rejection, or ruining everything-“ you start defending the character with a raised voice, realizing that maybe you’re invested in the movie a little too much, “sometimes there is this line between two people, and it’s comfortable to stay behind it because you don’t want to lose them in case something goes wrong”. You draw an invisible line with your index finger between your bodies, and Hendery focuses his stare on it as if it was real. He looks lost in his thoughts, still frozen in place before shaking his head and murmuring: “I guess you’re right”.

Your comment, his response, the sex scene playing on the screen. It all made you so painfully alert with his presence that your whole body tensed up and your mouth dried up like it was filled with cotton. You both chuckle in the midst of all the steaminess, as the actor fails to drag his former best friend at the edge of the bed by tagging on her ankle.

“What a loser”, Hendery scoffs mockingly at the character’s mistake, and you turn around to give him a side eyed glare.

“Relax, muscle man. Like you would do it better”

He mocks offense by opening his mouth dramatically, and you giggle at the distortion of his face that still somehow managed to look pretty. It was so cute, how he always wanted to look ‘strong’ in the eyes of others, reliable and macho. You didn’t care about any of that, you thought his resolutions were stupid. He was perfect in your eyes.

“Of course I would! I’m strong, look-“

The disaster played out in front of you like a filmstrip. His hands on your ankle, then his own ankle tripping over the blanket on the floor, and finally the feeling of his chest weighing down over your own. With him pressed so close against you, you were sure he must feel the way your heart is thumping, filled with so many emotions that it’s ready to jump out of your body.

The room was cold, but with Hendery’s sudden body heat coating you, you felt like you were on fire. The fleeting thought of you taking off your clothes, to relieve yourself of the suffocating feeling made your cheeks burn even more. Hendery’s neck was exposed just inches in front of you in it’s full glory, and you thought about where those veins on the side of it, visible through his pale skin, ended. You’d gladly kiss along the path they drew, let your teeth leave little violet blossoms on the way, while you’d make mental notes of what kisses made him react the loudest.

It’s his bangs tickling your temples that made you realize that he is still on top of you. You look up into his eyes, expecting a frantic look, maybe a string of apologies leaving his mouth. He was strangely serene, staring at your own lips instead, and for a second you thought he’d finally mercy you and give you what you daydream about every time he comes around. You’d kill for the sight of him with puffy red lips and blown out pupils, messy just for you. You’d kill for the feeling of his tongue against your own.

When he plants a kiss on your right cheek, right over the corner of your mouth, you think it tastes bittersweet. You were still high on the intimacy when he finally apologizes and rips his body away from yours, your crash back down to reality brutal. The movie was still playing on a high volume, yet all you heard was a deafening silence after his trip. You don’t object when he tells you he has to go before you get to see what happens to the couple behind the screen. They were eating you away, all the things you wanted to say to him as you sent him off, so much more than just a ‘drive safe, text me when you get home’.

Those thirty minutes after you close your front door felt like a lifetime. You replayed the accident over and over again in your head, the skin burning where he kissed you. The thoughts of calling him, telling him to turn around and finish what he started, were so loud that you felt like a crazy person.

You certainly thought you went insane when you heard a knock against your door. Peeking through the peephole, you’re surprised to see that, as if you’d unlocked the secret of manifestation, Hendery was standing once again in your hallway.

“Guanheng? Did you forget anything?”

He looked restless and fidgety as he walked back inside your apartment, like he couldn’t wait to let out whatever was on the tip of his tongue. His shoulders were coated in a light layer of snow that had managed to flush his face, and dampen his hair and eyelashes as well.

“No- well- yes, I-“. He stopped himself mid sentence and sighed, and you let him collect his thoughts. He looked serious, the expression foreign on his usually bright features, yet the way he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration made butterflies fly in your stomach. “What did you say about that line between two friends again? When we were watching the movie?”

You blinked back at him in confusion, waiting for him to tell you that he’s joking, he just forgot his charger, and he’ll see you again when his company allows him to. But he doesn’t, so you start to roll the pendant he gifted you between your thumb and index, trying to calm yourself down.

“It keeps two people that are meant to be together apart, but there is too much at stake to cross it”.

You start drawing that invisible line again, the one that separates the miserable comfort of denying your feelings for him and everything you wish you were brave enough to pursue.

He would be brave for the both of you.

Hendery grabs your lifted hand, bringing it on the side of his neck before he crashes his lips against yours. You don’t hesitate in kissing him back, hungry for his lips that taste as sweet as you imagined them to. He hasn’t realized how impossibly close to his body he has brought you, not until his embrace gets so tight that your necklace pokes uncomfortably against his chest.

You suck on his bottom lip and he welcomes you with his tongue, the kiss getting so heated now that you can’t help but tug on his hair to keep you grounded. Shivering from your action, his hands are now sliding from your hips to your waist, following the curves of your body until he reaches the underside of your breasts. You mewl against his lips as his thumbs dig into their softness, discreetly trying to cop a feel through your cotton shirt.

A moan leaves your mouth, lewd and desperate as he swallows it with a kiss, and he rips himself off of you when it seems to reach his stomach. He looks disheveled, as if he woke up from an intense, lucid dream; panting, sweating, staring at you with those big puppy eyes.

“We- we shouldn’t. We are going too fast, right?” You nod in agreement at his question but you’re not really listening. You had your fingertips placed on his moving lips, and he identifies the metallic smell as the remnants of you fidgeting with your jewelry earlier. “I should take you to dinner first, to that one place you like so much”. Losing interest in what he is saying, the words being too distant and grey when he stood so deliciously in front of you, you mindlessly start to unbutton his shirt, fascinated with that mole over his collarbone and wanting to see more.

The fire your fingers spread against his skin, in the midst of the chilliness of your living room has him groaning under his breath, with a voice as low and sexy as in his good morning calls. You can practically see him throw all his inhibitions out the window when he kisses you again, pushing you with his body until your back finds the nearest wall. Hendery’s hands are far from gentle now, leaving bruises behind all the soft spots he kneads with his fingers.

“I want you”, you confess with a whisper as you rid him off his flannel for good, and you can’t stop yourself from tracing all the lines of his toned abdomen. You can feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest, its fast rhythm matching yours. You grab his hand to lead him to the carpet next to the Christmas tree that is blinking along with the lights that adorn it- you’re too impatient in your arousal to take him to your bedroom and he doesn’t protest.

Hendery lays you on your back, finding his place between your legs as you wrap them around his waist to bring him closer. You remove your hoodie and the sports bra you had on, his lips immediately latching onto one of your nipples. He circles his tongue around the bud, licking and sucking on it interchangeably until you’re a begging mess underneath him.

Tugging on the elastic band of his sweats, you urge him to get naked for you completely, and he removes the extra garments with a strong pull. His sex bouces out of its cotton constraint, red and throbbing and aching for you. It makes the heat that’s pooling on your lower stomach spread even further, and you wiggle your hips to remove your sweatpants as well.

There’s something about the frilly pink panties you’re wearing- the innocent design on your shapely body that ignites a carnal instinct in him. He wants to ruin you, mark you, make you his. The sound of fabric getting ripped has your eyes bulge out in shock. You’ve never seen Hendery so determined.

He falls on top of you again, leaving urgent kisses on your jawline as he rubs his hard member against your heat. It’s driving you insane, how he’s so close to where you want him but not quite there yet, and you tug his hair again to make him look at you.

“I wanna feel you raw”

And raw was how he’d give it to you. You feel his warm hand over your stomach, keeping you in place as he aligns himself with your entrance, and the pressure his tip’s already feeling has him cursing out.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this”

He dips himself slowly into your pussy, careful not to stretch you uncomfortably much. His worried eyes are glued to your wide ones, reading your expressions to ensure they’re those of pleasure. And indeed they are, your eyes rolling to the back of your head when he bottoms out fully, a symphony of both your moans filling the room.

He starts out with a steady rhythm, your pussy adjusting to his size with every calculated thrust. You’re getting drunk with the intimacy, with his smell that sticks to your skin and the sweet nothings he whispers in your ear. You feel addicted to it already, to the feeling of having him be a part of you, and as his growing desperation has him picking up his pace, yours makes you wish you could live in that moment forever.

“I don’t think I’ll last much longer”

”Neither do I”

He can tell how close you are, your heaving chest and guttural sounds giving you away. His cold fingers find your clit then, rubbing your sensitivity in messy circles and pumping more blood to the area.

“Yes, baby. Let go for me”

Little stars of various colors dance around in your vision, framing the sight of Hendery fucking into you so beautifully. You enjoy the hypersensitivity that the continuing motion of his hips gives you, locking your legs around his waist as his thrusts turn sloppy.

“Come inside me”

Just those simple words, slipping out of your pretty mouth are enough to send him over the edge, grunting as he paints your walls in ropes of white. You feel him twitching inside you for a good while, your belly bulging in fullness. It drips out of you slowly when he finally gets off of you, his hands spreading your thighs apart so that he can admire his creation.

He chuckles in disbelief of what you two just did, removing a piece of fake snow that somehow landed on your hair. You can only admire the way his Adam's apple bobs up and down, all the little curves and shadows on his neck, his smile that gives you tunnel vision.

“All this time…”, he whispers softly, “you liked me too?”

You silently winced at the naiveness of his words, knowing damn well your feelings ran way deeper than a simple attraction. Nodding affirmatively, you avoid looking at his eyes by pretending to play with his fingers. You can’t let him see the way they have glossed up, yet the numbing feeling of disappointment is getting hard to ignore.

He doesn’t let you distance yourself from him further, lifting your chin up so you can make eye contact with him again. To your surprise, he looks way more nervous than you, subconsciously nibbling on his lower lip. He takes a deep breath, mustering up some courage before verbally letting his thoughts out of his chest.

“What if I told you I am in love with you?”

You were shocked at the confession, so much so that this reality seemed like a figment of your subconscious mind. You expected to wake up at any moment, to find yourself asleep on your couch, two feet away from him and still stuck in the sucky friendzone. But that moment never came, no matter how long you held your breath to trigger your awakening, and you let it go with a sigh and a blurb of your own thoughts.

“I’d ask you to be mine”

#hendery #wayv #neosmutcollective #neowritingsnet #hendery smut #wayv smut #nct smut #wayv scenarios #hendery scenarios #hendery imagines #hendery fanfic #wayv fanfic #hendery fluff #hendery angst #wayv hendery #hendery x reader #wong kunhang #huang guanheng

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seijorhi · 4 years ago

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The Fall

Somebody said Devil Kuroo and I have not recovered since. Anyway, enjoy my first offering for the Spooktober event!

Kuroo Tetsurou x Female Reader

TW Dub/non-con, blood, gore, minor character death, religious themes, nsfw, mild smut

It’s subtle, the shift in the air as two polished black shoes cross the threshold. The candles on the altar spit and sputter, and a shiver trickles down your spine.

You wonder if the humans scattered along the pews can sense it too, if they can taste the bitter, metallic tang in the air, feel the same prickling sensation at the nape of their necks as tiny hairs stand on end. The woman seated two rows in front of you stiffens, her breath catching between her sobbed prayers, but she doesn’t turn and neither do you.

Do they have any idea the evil that’s trespassing on holy ground? The danger that they’re all in - the danger that you’ve inadvertently brought upon them?

This is all your fault.

His footsteps, slow and measured echo mockingly throughout the nave, but you’re rooted in place. It’s instinctual, you think; the fear that sinks its claws into your heart, seeping into your veins like ice.

There is nowhere left for you to run.

You have no more aces hidden up your sleeves.

The wards that protected you, kept you safe and hidden for years are broken, and your friends-

Blood slicked floors, body parts strewn across your apartment. A howling scream pierces the air around you, and it takes a moment to realise that it belongs to you. You fall to your knees, bile rising in your throat as you stare in wide eyed horror at the grisly mess he’d left in his wake.

He could have killed them with a snap of his fingers, but he’d taken his time, hurt them, ripped the spines from their bodies slowly, keeping them alive as they screamed and begged through tears and snot and blood and vomit…

He’d left them for you to find like a gruesome homecoming gift. Punishment, you think, for daring to hide you from him.

It’s late, well past midnight. The only people in the crumbling, dilapidated church at this hour are those with nowhere else to go. Vagrants, the helpless, those lost to grief and addiction seeking the barest semblance of comfort amongst the burning incense, high ceilings and grimy, stained glass windows.

And you.

Though you suppose you fit into the former. Where else could hope to hide now that your sanctuary has been torn to pieces? This is the last place you’d choose to go, even now the long healed scars on your shoulder blades sting and burn, a painful and persistent reminder that you no longer belong amongst these hallowed halls.

Foolishly, you’d still come. Consecrated ground was supposed to protect you, however temporarily.

He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here, it’s not possible, but-

Dressed in a crisp black suit with a blood red tie, the handsome figure settles himself down on the pew beside you. A smirk curls at his lips as he stretches long legs, crossing his ankles and leisurely fixing the sleeves of his jacket as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

You don’t dare draw breath. Sitting stiff and ramrod straight, you stare at your trembling hands curled into fists on your lap, the ancient golden pendant lying broken in your palm. There’s dried blood smeared across the back of your hands, flecks and splatters hidden among the dark fabric of your skirt. The sight of it makes your stomach churn.

His chin tilts, golden, cat-like pupils settling on you. You fight the urge to fidget, to flee, fingernails biting into the soft, delicate skin of your palm as he studies you.

“Hey, angel,” he purrs, his voice like warm honey. “It’s been a while.”

Finally you tear your eyes away from your lap, meeting his smirk with an icy glare. “Don’t call me that,” you snap bitterly.

He laughs, stretching back to drape his arm over the wooden backrest of the pew, his fingers just barely grazing your shoulders. “But I like calling you angel, and I’ve missed you.” The last part is growled, a low and rumbling timbre, too deep, too rich to be mistaken for anything close to human. It makes your hackles rise and your stomach clench uneasily. Unbidden, memories flash to your mind- his teeth at your neck, his sweat slicked body moving atop yours. Unbearable, searing heat flooding your core, large hands encircling yours to hold you down as his hips eagerly rut up against your ass, “Give into me, angel, you know you want to.”

His grin widens, and you know that it’s deliberate.

You don’t have the luxury of anger, not when the fear so visceral it threatens to choke you demands attention. He’s smiling amiably, but you’re not so naive as to believe that he’s not furious with you, that there won’t be punishments that await you for your escape.

One hundred and twenty years might pass in the blink of an eye for him, but it wouldn’t make a difference if it were only one, or even a single month, a day. You ran from him, and for every moment you were not at his side he would make you suffer - excruciating pain inflicted with pleasure until your mind broke and you couldn’t distinguish the two, until you were a babbling, beautiful mess begging for mercy.

Until you regretted ever even considering leaving his side after all that he’d done to keep you there.

He’d promised you as much a long time ago, hissing the threat into your ear as he forced you to ride his cock.

You’d fled anyway. And now, you’re trapped with nowhere left to run, and he knows it just as well as you do. But it’s not yourself that you’re scared for.

There will be plenty of time for that later.

Six innocent, oblivious humans dot the derelict pews, and the Father you’d watched tend to the burning candles and incense at the altar, meeting your stricken gaze for just a moment before returning to the task at hand.

It is for their sakes that you are afraid.

“A church, angel?” he sounds amused. “You know, I expected you to run after you found the dead witch and her partner, but here?” he tuts, shaking his head with a sigh. Pain, raw and visceral stabs at your heart and your shoulders shake with barely concealed anger, hands clenched so tight that blood seeps from the crescent shaped cuts in your palm. He eyes the gold pendant flecked with crimson in your grip, and for the first moment since he arrived, you watch that cavalier facade slip - a flicker of something dark and jealous twisting at his features. “They were the ones who kicked you out, don’t you remember? They ripped those lovely wings-”

“You tricked me, Kuroo! You lied!” the words spill from your tongue before you can hope to stop them. His golden eyes widen for a split second, surprised by your outburst, but it only lasts a moment before he’s smirking indulgently at you once more. Too late you realise your slip. The devil has a thousand names, but Kuroo was the one he gave when he first came to you.

You haven’t uttered that name in almost two hundred years.

“Did you think that the grace of God would protect you here, angel?” He slides closer, long, nimble fingers plucking the cross from your hands only to cast it aside. The faint metallic clinking as it falls and clatters across the marble floors makes you flinch, but he pays it no mind. “Did you truly believe that there is an ounce of anything holy left in this crumbling, decrepit shithole? And even if there were,” he pauses, leaning down to whisper in your ear as a warm palm slides up your thigh, “did you really think that would be enough to keep me from you?”

“K-Kuroo,” you gasp as he leans down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, his mouth laving wet, hot, open mouthed kisses against the delicate skin there. His fingers delve under the hem of your skirt and it’s pure, unadulterated fear that hits you like a tidal wave, compelling you against your better instincts to claw at his wrist, halting him in his tracks.

He stills, warm breath fanning across your skin as he exhales sharply, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The flames from the candles on the altar sputter once more before they swell with frightening intensity, surging as the temperature in the chapel spikes.

“Angel,” he purrs lowly, the barest hint of an underlying threat lacing the endearment, and it feels as though there’s an invisible hand inside of your chest, clenching around your frantically beating heart. It’s a mistake, you know that even as his other hand reaches for your chin, gripping it tightly as he forces you to meet his molten gaze. “If you keep denying me what I want, I will raze this fucking church to the ground and let them all burn.”

This time you don’t so much as flinch when he tugs your panties to the side, rough fingertips brushing teasingly along your slit. “You’re going to let me defile you, sweet thing. You’re going to remember why you fell for me.”

His eyes are blown wide, dark pupils almost swallowing the gilded irises. Gone is the perfectly crafted human facade - this is the beast that lurks beneath, and you have run from him for long enough. Your heart hammers against your ribs, your tongue darting out to wet your lips, fighting back a shiver as he tracks the movement with predatory focus. You know as well as he does that the games are over, and you have lost.

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to run, but you cannot move.

His breath is ragged, a flush of pink dusting at his cheek as he stares at you, an unholy desire burning in those bottomless depths.

One beat passes, and then another-

He closes the gap between you two, crashing his lips against yours. The kiss isn’t sweet. It isn’t tender, but it sets you alight nonetheless. Without warning his fingers plunge into your plush, velvet walls and you gasp for him, clutching at his jacket sleeve.

“And when I take you, fuck you on these floors until you sing for me, angel, you’re going to love every second of it,” he snarls.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere kuroo #yandere kuroo x reader #yandere kuroo tetsurou #yandere kuroo tetsuro x reader #Devil!Kuroo #supernatural AU #spooktober #tw non con #tw dub con #tw blood #tw gore #tw minor character death #religious themes #sacreligious #just a little #religious symbolism #slight smut #pls don't let this flop or i'll cry :)

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hughjidiot · 3 years ago

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Under Your Scars, an Amphibia Fanfiction

(TW for panic attacks. Takes place post-canon with aged-up characters.)

Marcy has been together with Anne for one year now and wants to make their anniversary special, but memories of what happened in Amphibia all those years ago threaten to bring everything crashing down.

Thankfully for Marcy, Sasha is there to hold her together while she falls apart.

AO3 Link

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The shower knob squeaked as it was turned to the right, cutting off the steady stream of warm water. Steam filled the tiny apartment bathroom as Marcy Wu stepped out of the shower, water dripping down her in rivets, eyes shut tight. Quick as a flash the nineteen-year-old STEM major whipped the fluffy green towel off the bar beside the sink, wrapping it tightly around her torso.

It was only when she was fully covered that Marcy dared open her eyes.

She wiped the condensation away from the mirror, brushing her wet hair away from her eyes. She popped open the medicine cabinet above the sink, removing her toothbrush and toothpaste before gently closing the door. As she cleaned her teeth, the mint of the toothpaste tingling against her tongue, Marcy ran though her to-do list in her head. A paradoxical mix of anticipation and apprehension roiled in her gut.

Today was hers and Anne’s anniversary.

Marcy still couldn’t believe it had been a full year since she and Anne Boonchuy had officially started dating. A full year since Anne had first taken Marcy’s hands in her own, blushing and stuttering, asking if Marcy wanted to have dinner together that weekend. Not with Sasha as they usually did; just the two of them. Marcy had been stunned into silence, a silence that Anne had initially taken for a rejection that had her stammering out an apology looking close to tears.

Marcy’s senses had returned to her just in time, and she’d practically screamed yes, of course she’d go out with Anne.

In hindsight it seemed natural that the two girls would end up together. They’d been friends since kindergarten, complimenting each other perfectly. Anne would be the one to look out for Marcy and keep her safe, while Marcy would be the one to help Anne with the schoolwork she always struggled with. Along with their mutual friend Sasha Waybright, they completed each other, made each other whole.

Granted there had been some… complications in their adolescence. Complications that were exacerbated by circumstances that most teenagers couldn’t imagine dealing with. But in the end the three had worked through everything, coming out with a stronger friendship, a genuine friendship. A friendship that had naturally segued into romance for Anne and Marcy, with Sasha fully supportive of her oldest friends getting together.

Now it was time to celebrate one year of their relationship.

The day had gotten off to a great start already, Marcy waking up to find that Anne had already gotten up and prepared a full breakfast of all their favorite foods. They laughed and joked as they ate, finding simple joy in each other’s presence. They talked about Anne’s work and Marcy’s schooling, and how much they were looking forward to the reservation they’d made at that new Italian restaurant for dinner tonight.

Marcy felt her face heat up as she finished brushing, spitting the foamy mixture into the sink. Their dinner date wasn’t until eight in the evening, it was a little after eleven now, and Anne would be back from working the lunch shift at her parent’s restaurant around two. Meaning they’d have almost the entire day all to themselves. And Marcy wanted it to be special.

After a year together, after a year of going no further than heavy make-out sessions, she’d decided it was finally time to take things with Anne to the next level.

Feeling that her hair was dry enough, Marcy retrieved the hair dryer from the cabinet. She closed the door again, and froze at the sight of her reflection.

Her towel had slipped ever-so-slightly, exposing a triangular patch of pale-pink skin just below her collarbone, extending to underneath the fabric.

Marcy felt her breath hitch as the memories came flooding back to her.

Memories of her arguing with her parents on that autumn day.

Running from her house in tears, screaming that they were ruining her life.

Finding the Calamity Box in the pawn shop.

Remembering the book from the library, thinking it had to be a coincidence, that there’s no way it would actually work.

Then, the fateful decision: what’s the harm in trying?

Marcy felt her hands start to tremble. The memories came faster.

Standing outside the pawn shop with Sasha while Anne stole the music box.

Seeing a blinding flash when Anne opened the box at the park.

Landing in a city straight out of one of her video games.

Meeting him. The “good king” who took in a confused and frightened visitor from another world. The man who housed, studied with her, gave her a crossbow as a gift and taught her how to shoot. An adult who actually listened to what she had to say, who encouraged her to embrace her own interests rather than force his ideals on her.

Being made the head of an entire military branch. Going on thrilling missions and daring adventures, just like her favorite fantasy novels.

Then, meeting Anne again after so many months apart.

Marcy’s eyes started to burn, welling up with tears. More memories, slamming into her like a physical force.

Feeling such hope and joy as she was reunited with her oldest friend.

Showing her the city. Introducing her to King Andrias.

Doing research on the music box so that the girls could finally get home. Just like Anne wanted.

Letting her go so she could spend just a little more time with her surrogate frog family.

Watching Anne dash through the streets, leaving Marcy alone.

Then, seven words from King Andrias that would again change the course of her life: “I have a proposition for you, Marcy… ”

Marcy’s legs trembled, and she dropped the hairdryer and gripped the counter to steady herself as she tried desperately to get her breathing under control. Not helping was that the motion had caused her towel to drop further, exposing even more of that damned scar. The memories wouldn’t stop.

Travelling across Amphibia with Anne and the Plantars on a quest to charge the stones of the Calamity Box.

Meeting Sasha again after so much time apart, who seemed to have truly grown and turned over a new leaf.

Lying to both of them about going home.

Returning to Newtopia with the fully-charged box in tow.

Watching in shock as Sasha and Grime stabbed them in the back and launched a full-blown toad rebellion.

Watching in horror as Anne exploded at Sasha, ending their friendship right then and there.

Thinking that it was fine, this was fine, they’d had their spats before, Marcy could fix this like she always did.

Working with Anne, the Plantars, Yunan and Olivia to free King Andrias and crush the rebellion.

Then, the moment everything came crashing down.

Keep it together, Marcy thought to herself in the bathroom, shutting her eyes tight. She bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as her mind was assaulted with sounds and images. Not today. Not today…

Listening in stunned shock to Andrias’s delusional ranting.

Watching the Calamity Box light up the castle, feeling the entire structure rise into the sky as a small army of robots seemed to show up out of nowhere.

Pleading with Andrias that this wasn’t supposed to happen, this wasn’t part of the plan.

Standing there helpless as Andrias coldly revealed the truth in front of everyone.

Desperately trying to explain things to Anne and Sasha. Sasha backing away in anger and disgust. Anne looking at Marcy with such hurt, such betrayal.

You did that to them, a voice whispered in the back of Marcy’s brain. You tore them from their homes, their lives, put them through hell. It was all you, Marcy.

Fighting Andrias’ robots alongside everyone.

Staring in horror as Andrias cruelly dropped Sprig to his death.

Diving out the window after them, whistling for Joe Sparrow to fly in and save them both. It was the least she could do. He was Anne’s best friend, after all.

Returning to the castle with Sprig in tow, watching in awe as Anne laid the hurt down on Andrias, using powers that none of the girls understood at the time.

Grabbing the music box, using it to open a portal home. Anne and the Plantars rushing through while Sasha and Grime held off Andrias.

And then.

Pain.

Pain unlike anything Marcy had ever felt.

Looking down to see the glowing tip of Andrias’s sword protruding from her chest.

Hearing the stone-cold voice of the man she thought she could trust: “Now look what you made me do.”

Pain.

Using her last breath to apologize as her body went numb.

Pain.

Hearing Anne’s anguished cry as the world around Marcy faded away.

Pain pain pain such horrible pain-

Marcy practically ripped the medicine cabinet open, grabbing her anti-panic attack medication. She untwisted the cap and, despite her shaking, managed to get a single pill out and popped it into her mouth. She slammed the cabinet door shut and turned on the faucet, collecting water in her cupped hands and taking a huge gulp.

Unfortunately, her rapid movements sent the towel tumbling to the floor, leaving that goddamned scar on full display.

An ugly, thick, jagged line of pale-pink, starting below her collarbone, crossing down over her heart and ending just below her right breast.

A permanent reminder of the biggest mistake of Marcy’s life. A mistake that had nearly gotten her killed. Almost got her friends killed. Could have killed them at several points, if things had gone just a little bit differently.

Aside from the doctors she’d seen when their adventure in Amphibia was over, she’d never shown anyone the full scar. Not her parents, not Sasha, not even Anne.

In her mind’s eye she saw Anne staring at her bare chest, recoiling in shock and horror from the sight of the scar. A reminder of the one who uprooted Anne from everything she knew on her thirteenth birthday and dropped her into a hostile new world that had almost killed her multiple times.

She heard Anne’s words from all those years ago echo in her ears: “How could you?! I’ve been missing my family, my life!”

Marcy tore out of the bathroom, eyes shut against the sting of her tears. She sprinted to the bedroom and threw herself onto the bed, not daring to open her eyes until she had pulled the comforter over her still-damp form and covered her scar. Her breathing was heavy and ragged, her vision was blurry, her heart slammed against her ribcage, and a sensation of pins and needles settled in her hands and feet.

Marcy curled herself tight into a ball on the bed she shared with Anne. Sweet, kind, wonderful Anne who was hard at work right now, who would walk through the front door in just a few hours expecting to spend a magical anniversary with her girlfriend.

That thought did little to calm Marcy down.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand. It wasn’t easy with her hands trembling the way they were, but she managed to pull up Sasha’s name and hit the call button. Marcy waited for what felt like an eternity as the phone rang until, mercifully, it was answered on the second ring.

“What’s up girlfriend?” Sasha Waybright asked casually.

“S-sasha?” Marcy choked out.

“Marcy?!” Sasha’s tone changed in a heartbeat. “What’s the matter? Where are you?”

“Apartment. Anxiety attack. It’s r-really bad this time…”

“Hang on, I’m on my way!”

Sasha hung up. Marcy let the phone slip from her hand and she curled up tighter, trying to focus on her breathing.

Several minutes later, Marcy heard the front door unlock and Sasha’s voice call out: “Marcy?!”

“In here,” Marcy managed to reply.

Sasha came rushing into the bedroom. The blond woman took one look at the scene on the bed and gasped, hand going to her mouth.

“S-sorry to bother you,” Marcy said with a forced smile, craning her neck to look. “I-I didn’t have anyone else to call…”

“Marcy it’s okay,” Sasha said right away. She crossed the room and laid down on the bed, wrapping her arms around Marcy and pulling her close. One hand went to Marcy’s wet black hair, stroking gently. “It’s okay, just breathe with me. Breathe, Marcy. In and out. In…”

Marcy took a shaky breath, holding it in.

“And out.”

She forced herself to exhale slowly, the tears still falling.

“In… and out…”

---

It took several minutes, but the combination of Sasha’s comforting presence and the medication managed to calm Marcy down. After making sure Marcy was okay, Sasha laid out a t-shirt and some sweatpants for her before heading out to the kitchen to fix her something to eat. It took every ounce of Marcy’s energy to pull herself out of bed, quickly putting the shirt on first to get that scar covered. She pulled on her pants and shuffled out of the bedroom, moving at a slow and steady pace.

“Hey Mar-Mar,” Sasha said gently. She was sitting on the living room couch, two bowls of mint chocolate-chip ice cream placed on the coffee table in front of her. “Hope you don’t mind but I raided your freezer.”

“It’s fine,” Marcy said with a small smile. She grabbed one of the bowls and shoveled a huge spoonful into her mouth. The pleasant taste of mint spread across her tongue as she crunched chocolate chunks between her teeth. “Sasha I’m so sorry for dragging you over here-”

“Uh-uh-uh!” Sasha said firmly. “I don’t wanna hear any of that junk. You know I’m always here for you and Anne, no matter what.” She paused to eat some of her own ice cream. “So… it was really bad this time, huh?”

Marcy shuddered as she thought back to her panic attack in the bathroom. “Yeah. I haven’t had an attack that bad in a long time.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, do you know what triggered it?”

An image of Anne recoiling at the sight of Marcy’s scar tried to force its way into Marcy’s brain, but she derailed that train of thought.

“Well… do you know what today is?” Marcy asked.

“Your’s and Anne’s anniversary,” Sasha answered instantly. She furrowed her brow. “What, did you guys have a fight or something?” Sasha’s eyes widened. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

“No no no!” Marcy said quickly, waving her hands. “No, everything’s fine between us. And it’s been going great so far: we had a nice breakfast this morning and have a reservation at the new Italian place tonight.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Marcy paused, a blush settling over her cheeks. “Well… Anne gets home from work in a few hours, and then we have a few hours before dinner. I wanted the two of us to have a… special time together. If you know what I mean.”

Sasha pursed her lips in thought, then her eyes widened and she smirked. “Oh I get you,” she said teasingly. “Finally gonna kick things up a notch, huh? Marcy you dog.”

Marcy gave a small smile and blushed deeper at Sasha’s playful ribbing.

“So what are you worried about? Do you need anything ‘special’ to spice things up? ‘Cause there’s a shop like three blocks from here, I can tag along if you’re nervous about going by your-”

“No, that’s not the issue,” Marcy said quickly before her face could burst into flames. She gave a heavy sigh. “I’m just worried about… this.”

She grabbed her shirt collar and pulled it down just enough to expose the top part of her scar.

Sasha furrowed her brow. “Your scar? What’s the big deal about that?” Her eyes widened and she winced. “Er not to say your scar isn't important, I mean! I know that it’s from a major time in our lives a-and I’m not trying to downplay the crazy shit you went through, I just-”

“It’s okay, I get what you mean,” Marcy said. She sighed heavily. “But that’s… kind of my problem.”

“Uh, I’m not following you.”

Marcy sighed heavily. “It’s just… when you get down to it, everything we went through in Amphibia was because of me. I was the one who found the Calamity Box. I was the one who knew exactly what it would do. I helped you pressure Anne into stealing it, all because I couldn’t face being alone.”

Marcy felt her eyes start to burn as the tears welled up again, and she quickly wiped them away. “I didn’t wanna be alone, and I ripped you guys away from your lives and families! I dropped you into a dangerous world, a place that could’ve gotten you guys killed!” The tears welled up again and Marcy’s voice hitched as she went on. “And then I lied to you both about going home! I-I just assumed you guys would want to keep going on adventures with me forever, I never even considered your feelings! I was so blinded by my desires that I didn’t even realize a power-hungry tyrant was playing me like a fiddle! And he… h-he...”

Sasha’s arms shot out, pulling Marcy into a tight hug. “It’s okay, Marcy,” she said softly. “Everything’s okay. Just breathe.”

Marcy took several deep, shuddering breaths. She could feel another attack welling up inside her, but the medication kept it in check. Sasha held her for a few more minutes until Marcy felt calm enough to continue.

“This scar is a permanent reminder of everything I put us through,” Marcy said when she pulled away. She subconsciously traced her hand across the scar over her shirt. “It’s something I’ll be living with for the rest of my life. Most of the time I can’t even look at it without triggering an attack. And I guess I’m just… afraid of Anne seeing it, okay? What if she sees it and remembers that everything she went through was my fault? What if…”

Marcy paused for a long while, looking down. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. “What if she realizes just how horrible I am?”

Sasha reached out to put a comforting hand on Marcy’s shoulder.

“Oh Mar-Mar…” she said gently, a soft smile gracing her features. “You’re such an idiot.”

Marcy looked up sharply. “Huh?”

“You really think Anne’s gonna leave you over something like that?” Sasha chuckled and shook her head. “For someone so smart, you can be pretty damn stupid sometimes. Anne is crazy about you Marcy. You should hear the way she goes on about you during our girls’ nights. There’s no way in hell she’d leave you over everything that happened all those years ago.”

“But I was the one who-”

“And that’s another thing! You’re putting way too much blame on yourself for that mess. Sure you might have found the box but I was the one who convinced Anne to swipe it. And you’re not the only one who made some big mistakes in Amphibia.” She chuckled. “I mean at least Andrias tricked you. I willingly tried to start a violent uprising to overthrow the government.”

Marcy rolled her eyes. “And look what happened when we stopped you.”

Sasha shrugged. “Yeah, but hindsight is a bitch like that.” She gently grabbed Marcy’s chin to turn her head towards Sasha, looking Marcy in the eye as she continued.

“Look, I’m not trying to downplay your mistakes. Because you made some big ones, I’m not denying that. We all made mistakes, but we all owned up to them. We learned from them so we could become better people. And you’re forgetting the important thing of all: we forgave you. Anne and I both forgave you a long, long time ago. Okay?”

Marcy felt a pang in her chest. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard those words, not by a long shot. But it didn’t lessen the impact one bit. She could feel the storm clouds of anxiety that had been roiling inside her begin to dissipate. “... Really?”

Sasha smiled sweetly. “Really.”

She yelped as Marcy shot forward to wrap Sasha in a hug, but quickly returned the embrace.

“Thank you Sasha,” Marcy said, “I really needed this, you have no idea.”

“No problem, Marcy,” Sasha said, patting her friend on the back. “You gonna be okay?”

Marcy pulled back and nodded. “Yeah. I… I think I’ll be alright.”

“Good. Now before I take off, are you sure there’s nothing you need help with before Anne comes home?”

Marcy opened her mouth but paused, the gears turning in her brain. She slowly smiled as an idea began to take shape.

“Actually… I think there is. I’m gonna need some rose petals.”

---

The apartment was dark when Anne arrived after work.

This fact didn’t surprise her too much; Marcy had a habit of gaming with the lights off, much to Anne’s charaign. But when she fished the key out of her pocket and let herself in, she was surprised to see the living room TV dark and the couch Marcy-free.

“Honey, I’m home!” Anne called out her usual greeting as she stepped across the threshold, gently shutting the door behind her.

No response.

Anne frowned as she shrugged her coat off her shoulders. Was Marcy taking a nap or something?

She was about to call out again when she saw them: rose petals on the floor. They started just beyond the front door and led down the hall towards the bedroom. The door was open just a crack, soft light coming from inside.

“Well well well, what have we here?” Anne asked herself with a chuckle as she kicked off her shoes. “Marcy Wu, you charmer.”

Anne made her way down the hall, gently opening the bedroom door.

Her heart skipped a beat.

The lights in the bedroom were all off and the curtains had been drawn; the only illumination came from the candles burning on the nightstand. The trail of rose petals continued across the carpet to the bed itself.

Marcy Wu laid back on the bed, her upper body propped up on pillows with her arms spread out casually. The blanket covered her up to her chest, clinging to the contours of her body, the creamy skin of her bare shoulders tantalizing peeking out from where the blanket ended. Marcy smiled warmly at her girlfriend, giving Anne the sultriest gaze she could muster.

“Hey Anna-Bananna,” she said in a breathy voice. “How was work?”

Fire blossomed in Anne’s face as she opened and closed her mouth, which was suddenly very dry. “Uh… guh…”

Marcy felt her confidence ebb at Anne’s stammering and she chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, was this too much?”

“Oh no no, it’s more than fine!” Anne said quickly. “I mean I was thinking you’d have something waiting for me when I got home, but this…” Anne made a show of tugging at her shirt collar. “This is beyond anything I could’ve imagined.”

Marcy perked up, smiling shyly as she brushed some of her hair behind her ear. “So you like it then?”

Anne crossed the space between them in a fraction of a second, joining Marcy on the bed. She cupped Marcy’s chin and leaned in for a long, deep kiss. Marcy returned the kiss with gusto, reaching up with one hand to thread her fingers through Anne’s hair while the other held the blanket in place.

“I love it,” Anne said when she pulled away, fixing Marcy with a fiery gaze that had her trembling in anticipation. As much as Marcy wanted to start tearing Anne’s clothes off right then and there, she took a deep breath and held herself back.

She had to do this right.

“Anne,” Marcy said as she sat up, still holding the blanket up over her chest as she looked into her girlfriend’s eyes, “this last year has been the happiest of my entire life. When I’m with you, everything just feels right. You complete me in ways no one else ever has. You give me strength and confidence, inspire me to be a better person. I love that you’re the last thing I see before I go to sleep each night and the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning. I love you, Anne Boonchuy.”

Anne placed a hand over her mouth, eyes twinkling. “Marcy…”

Marcy took another deep breath. “I know we’ve gotten pretty… familiar with each other over these last several months. And if you’re ready to take things to the next level…”

She let the blanket fall. “Then so am I.”

Anne’s blush deepened as her eyes traveled downward. Marcy kept her face steady, but some dark corner of her brain was still expecting Anne to pull back at the sight of her scar, reminded that everything that happened in Amphibia - all of her hardships and brushes with death - was all because of Marcy.

But there was no revulsion, no anger. There was lust and desire in her gaze to be sure. But there was also passion and love. The same spark Marcy saw when she and Anne would get lost in each other’s eyes while eating dinner, or walking in the park, or just cuddling on the couch.

Anne looked back up at Marcy, then leaned in for a second kiss. Tender and gentle but with a hunger and passion bubbling just below the surface. Marcy melted into the kiss, allowing herself to be pushed back onto the pillows as Anne crawled further onto the bed, climbing on top of her girlfriend. Anne pulled away after several long seconds, both girls breathing heavily, staring at each other with smoldering eyes.

“I’ve been ready for a long, long time,” Anne said. “I love you Marcy Wu.”

Marcy felt her heart soar.

She wrapped her arms around Anne and pulled her close for yet another kiss. The third of many, many more.

#amphibia #marcanne #anne boonchuy #marcy wu #sasha waybright #fanfic

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m4st4rd · 4 years ago

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a near-fatal mistake

a/n: hey guys i’m back from the void! i finally finished this little Anakin & Obi-Wan request. i’ve never written pre existing characters as tiny before, so this was a fun challenge! thank you @special-agent-sea-turtle for requesting this!

i was originally gonna write Anakin as the tiny, but i can only think of tiny Vader for so long before losing it so :)! tiny Obi-Wan it is. and one more thing! i name-dropped a couple things from my upcoming oc story! stay tuned for that!

reblogs appreciated!

warning: blood mention, injury

IT’S QUIET FOR only a moment as Obi-Wan catches his breath, a breath that invites dust and dirt and blood into his lungs. After that, the world crashes back into him.

The battle on Shakua still rages around him, but his fall seems to have gone unnoticed in the fray. Many voices shout, but none of them shout his name: to his left is Cody, leading the 212th; to his right, General Berand, ushering their men forward. His mistake is nothing compared to the true fight.

He wonders how much time has passed.

His hands go to his side, where an angry red burn twists up his ribcage. He had sensed it coming, yet he was not fast enough: one B1 who was a little smarter than the rest. One little blip in the programming nearly cost him his life. And aside from the wound, his eyes are heavy, his head is pounding, his limbs feel weak—

He tries to stand and shout, but fails. There’s too many footsteps shaking the ground around him. He stumbles, plants his face in the dirt, clutching his wounded side. Well, there goes my dignity. Luckily, no one had seemed to notice. If he could find his lightsaber, he could get back up, get back into the battle…

He’s fine. Obi-Wan is fine.

“Master Obi-Wan!”

His ears ring. The world goes silent again, save for muffled, pounding footsteps. He turns himself onto his back, and tries to look up, but his vision is blurry. He sees nothing through the dust in his eyes… until a huge, panicked face breaks through.

He has no time to protest as a hand scoops him up, although a little roughly, and he’s cupped against a chest. Whoever has him is running, swinging his saber around, deflecting blaster bolts with ease. And whoever has him is scared: Obi-Wan can tell from the emotion radiating off of them, and the racing heart that fills his senses.

He takes the time to clear his eyes, instinctively gripping the robe of his rescuer for balance. But it’s not long before he’s pulled away, looking up, up, up, into the worried face of his Padawan.

Anakin hides in the brush, not too far from the battle. If Obi-Wan peers over his curled fingers, he can see the fight just a ways away. Everything starts to click: he had pulled him from the ground, weaving through the blaster bolts and the brawling soldiers to get to a safe spot. A considerate move, certainly, but one that could’ve gotten his Padawan seriously injured…

“Anakin!” he exclaims, his voice hoarse from disuse. For a second, he forgets the pain that riddles his body: he’s annoyed. “You should’ve left me! I’m perfectly fine, you must focus on the battle—”

But he gets no response. All of his awareness comes rushing back to him at once: the hands that hold him shake, and the face that stares from above is turning… angry. Angry eyes filled with angry tears that track through the dirt on Anakin’s face. More than anything, Obi-Wan is surprised, but he can feel fear creeping back into his heart. It’s a feeling he hasn’t experienced around him— not in many years.

“Anakin…”

“Are you out of your mind?” the boy whispers, oblivious to the battle that crashes over their heads. “Pulling a stunt like that, it— it could’ve killed you!”

Obi-Wan leans against his fingers for support, wincing through his aches, and puts on the bravest, sternest face he can manage. “Anakin, need I remind you that I am a Jedi Knight?” he retorts, coughing as he takes in another lungful of dust. “I’m more tha—”

But he’s cut off with another scowl. “You’re a Jedi Knight the size of my fingers.” His voice is agitated, yet harsh. “What if I hadn’t spotted you? What if Cody, or one of General Berand’s men— what if they stepped on you? And look at you— you’re seriously hurt, master!”

“It’s—”

“It’s irresponsible, that’s what it is! You were being irresponsible.”

As if Anakin could talk about being irresponsible. “It’s nothing,” he mutters. “I’ve suffered worse wounds. You have more important things to worry about. Where is General Berand? Have they breached the blockade?”

“Does it matter?” Anakin snaps. “Listen to me! You could’ve died! For once, stop fighting so hard. It’s gonna be the death of you.” The hands beneath him tremble as Anakin grows desperate; desperate for what, he’s not quite sure. “I know you’re trying to be brave, but you don’t need to be.”

Obi-Wan sighs, taking in another fluttering breath. No matter how hard he tries to hide his pain, it’s ever apparent to the boy holding him. “Anakin,” he says, “you mustn’t be afraid to lose me. I know it’s overwhelming, but you must let go of attachments like these.”

“I don’t want to let go!” he cries out, and Obi-Wan is stunned, pushing away from the face that moves closer. “It’s so stupid, how they expect us to be prepared for something like that. Something like this. How can they command Master and Padawan to stay together, to become family, and expect us not to grieve if we lose each other?”

He finally catches his breath. It’s a shaky one, filled with emotion.

Anger and worry fight for control within the boy’s mind. Obi-Wan ponders about his Padawan’s outburst, trying to ignore the growing pang in his heart. Above all else, Anakin is concerned. He only made such a decision to get him out of danger. His hands are the safest place he could be at the moment.

When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper, but it’s cracked with anguish. “I’m not ready to lose you. Not yet, master.”

Funny. Such an emotional move should be frowned upon by both Obi-Wan and his Jedi way, but when he says that, he feels warm.

“I’m… sorry, Anakin,” he says softly. So soft that his voice is almost unheard over the mess. But he hears him. His fingers curl over him protectively. “I’m not going anywhere, not now. You were very brave for rescuing me. And I thank you for that.”

Anakin wipes his tears with the back of his free hand. “Well,” he mutters, “I couldn’t just leave you there.”

Obi-Wan laughs, despite his aching body. “And I’m glad you didn’t.” He can feel himself growing weaker. Imagine where you’d be without him.

Before he finishes, though, he rests his hand on the thumb beside him. “But please don’t make a decision like that again, however concerned you may be,” he says, smiling up at the huge face in front of him. “I don’t need you getting hurt, too.”

He’s only half joking, but it’s true: he doesn’t want Anakin hurt. He’s not sure if he could recover from a wound like that.

A new emotion pierces through the veil of anger and despair surrounding him: pride. “I’m gonna bring you to the medical tent,” he says, turning away to hide the flush of his cheeks. But Kenobi senses it nonetheless. “General Berand can handle it for now. I’ve gotta get you some help.” And as he stands, Obi-Wan feels a rush of determination. A rush of hope. “I’m not leaving you, Obi-Wan.”

“I appreciate that,” he murmurs in reply. He lets the tension in his limbs go. His eyes grow heavy as he leans back against his Padawan’s fingers. He’s brought back to the chest as Anakin starts to run, focusing on that familiar heartbeat. It’s the last thing he hears before he slips back into unconsciousness, wounds forgotten for the moment.

He’s safe with him.

#star wars g/t #anakin #obi wan kenobi #this one's kinda clunky but it was fun to write #i believe in tiny jedi supremacy #mustard writes

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the-darklings · 4 years ago

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coa one year later & self-reflection

(*drags out a creaky metal chair and plops down on it heavily*)

Hi. It’s me, ya boi skinny--

Wait, wrong one. Do over.

Hi, it’s me, Kat, and I’m not dead. Clearly. Today being one year anniversary of COA has kinda put me in a reflective mood, so I guess I decided to sit down and just...talk about some things, thoughts and feelings I’ve been bottling inside for a hot sec. Especially given how radio silent I have gone on here and people deserve a bit of perspective.

And before anyone starts worrying, it’s all good, and I’m still around and currently in good health for the most part.

So, let’s take it back to the start. Regardless of how dramatic it may sound, we need to go back a year for that.

By technicality alone, COA actually turned one year old on October 12th. That’s when the first part was posted. However, the reason I’m treating today as the aforementioned birthday is simple: I had no intention of this story ever being more than a short two-parter. I told this to the discord gang already but COA was only going to have two parts. V was going to die in Tokyo and the rest of the story follows glimpses of John throughout the movies and it’s her ghost that haunts him. Skipping ahead, it was going to have a bittersweet ending of John eventually dying, having completed his task, only to be greeted by V, Daisy and Helen in the afterlife. A peace of sorts. Then, I realised that, well, no. I have more to say on this world and intrigue about this placeholder character V kept growing.

November 1st happened and I made a very last minute call to continue COA but with the added pressure of doing it during NaNoWriMo 2019. And boy did I. Most of the story was figured out during that very intense month. I posted Part 2 on this day a year ago because I was so eager to share it. Perhaps, in retrospect, a bit too eager.

For those of you who may not know this, I work as a writer full time for my actual every day job. I’m the main writer for an original webcomic called In the Bleak Midwinter on Webtoon.com and have been for almost two years now. Getting what is essentially your dream job is amazing. I’m very lucky on that front but it also taught me stark realities of having your job and only hobby overlap. It’s a dangerous creative mix. Especially because I was not used to being constraint in what I create or the feeling like I have to please anyone else. Writing as a job is a whole other avenue of creative exhaustion. I love my job a lot and am very, very lucky to have it but it doesn’t change the fact that those initial stages made me fall back on COA a lot for creative freedom that I craved so desperately. To an unhealthy degree looking back on it now.

But going back to November last year. NaNo time. I did it. Finished on the 24/25th I believe. A juicy final count of 52k+. All while maintaining a weekly update schedule for a fic that usually hit around 10k per update, if not more, even during those early days. Add writing an original story on top of that. Writing every day for hours on end (we are talking 10-12hr days) without any time for other hobbies or time for myself in general. I kept pushing and pushing and pushing. Losing weight and sleep in the process. I think the thing that convinced me that I should continue doing so is the fact that the outpour of support for COA ended up surpassing anything I ever expected or even dared to hope for. I’m not a huge numbers person but the outpour of love and just sheer investment in the story and characters blew me away. John Wick fandom is on the smaller side and has been going through downtime when I posted COA so my expectations were...well, small tbh. I like keeping expectations low to avoid any disappointments in general. But I’ve also always had an issue of being a massive 0 or 100 kind of person. If I love something, it consumes me. In this case, it brought me as much joy and freedom as much as it was steadily pushing me towards the ultimate crash.

That being said, I can’t thank you all enough for every comment, like, reblog and message and fanart. You’re the reason I got this far. With your support. It brightened some really dark days for me.

But.

To be frank, it’s never been about you guys. I never wrote or pushed because I felt like I had to appease anyone. That creative mindset is pure poison and I long since learned to let go of it. I kept pushing and kept working myself to the bone because I liked it. I liked how reading peoples’ responses made me feel. I liked the addictive nature of reading all the comments and theories after an update. I loved the idea of brightening peoples’ days and giving them something to cheer them up after what might have been a shitty day. Even if that was at expense of my own time/well being. But for a long time, it wasn’t. I love writing a lot but facts remain facts.

It was beyond unhealthy and burnout wasn’t a question of if but when and that when was approaching at neck-breaking speed.

So we come to the end of November. Part 4 has just come out. People were invested and I was invested alongside them. I was just finishing up Part 5 which (back then) was the biggest single chapter I’ve ever written and god I still recall my sheer dread because that was the beginning of Santino being established as a LI. Looking back on that now, it’s downright hilarious how worried I was about the reception of him and V together after John.

So honestly, I hit burnout at around Part 8. Because that’s the first time I recall struggling with writing a chapter. Part 8 came out on December 28th. I had a brief break for holidays. But my mistake was not taking longer back then. Because I continued writing with a barely healed burnout. Followed by almost a year of struggling and continuously creating through that state. It wasn’t like I eased off the pressure, either. Oh, no. The chapters grew in size, the world and the characters with it. AUs amassed quickly and while I adore every single one - again, I didn’t know how to pace myself well enough.

I’m spiteful though. The more the chapters struggled the more I pushed against the burnout. By the time Chicago arrived, however, I knew I was in trouble. I ended up writing 43k+ in a span of 2 months, I believe. And while to some it may not seem like a lot given the time frame, it’s a lot when you’re burnout to a crisp & writing an original story for work + deadlines. Which I was burned out and then some. Chicago was something I was looking forward to writing for months. I have built it up since Part 4. It was a long time coming. So while I’m still proud of it, I would be lying if I said that some scenes were not sacrificed for the sake of keeping to my invisible schedule that no one but me actually cared about. You guys have always been patient. I never felt pushed into anything. It’s always only ever been me doing the harm.

Chicago was the downwards spiral for me mentally. I felt like I was failing to live up to my own expectations. That people were drifting away from it. I was plagued by the thought that the story I poured so much into was falling apart and growing weaker. Which this has always been an issue with me: I am my own harshest critic. Always have been. In fact, I’m a downright mean little fucker when it comes to just tearing at myself. I know writing is for fun - and it is - but I still like the idea of being proud of my work which only made everything worse despite the love each update received.

This takes us to the beginning of June. Specifically, June the 2nd. Or, as I like to call it: Kat Makes Another Impulsive Decision but This One Actually Works Out For the Better. On this day, I created the COA Discord server. And damn, I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting when I did ngl. I did it for fun and as an escape more so than anything. But somehow it ended up being the best decision I made in a long while. I know some of you are reading this. So love you lots, dorks. It’s such a privilege to be able to call so many of you my friends even outside of COA now. That little community has given me some of the best memories from this year and helped me to crawl out of my own metaphorical pit I was stuck in. Mentally, I’m doing much better than I did beginning of this summer. Which could be summed up as a constant self-hatred cycle and a feeling of inadequacy.

That, however, does not mean my burnout magically disappeared. If anything Chapter 17 just put a nail in the coffin so to speak. 2020 has been a shitty year just across the board for obvious reasons I don’t need to go into here but that can only partially be attributed to my mental state. Chapter 17 was...exhaustive. To say the least. But I was determined to stick with my vision and not split it up. I was also starting to be a bit more forgiving towards myself in terms of how long I may take to write it thanks to guys on discord though the feeling of failure and worry never quite faded fully. I’m proud of Part 17. Truly. But that was also when I hit rock bottom creatively on COA. It drained me completely.

I tried writing Part 18 for weeks after, day in and day out, not getting past the first scene and hating every word I wrote. So I took a deep breath and stopped. Figured I let it marinate and wait instead of trying to piece one of the most crucial chapters in this story like some Frankenstein monster two sentences at the time.

So my solution was simple: give myself some distance from it and write other things. Get my spark back. Of course that’s always a good idea. Having multiple creative escapes is the best thing you can do for yourself creatively. There was just one tiny little problem.

I was still burned out. Still am. The problem went deeper than just being burned out over COA. I was burned out over writing itself.

Which is an issue for a person who only has writing as a creative outlet.

I don’t have any other way to express myself. So I was stuck in a runt, trying to write because it’s the only thing that makes me genuinely happy even when I really shouldn’t have. And let me tell you. It’s a shitty fucking feeling. My burnout worsened. I had a thousand ideas but every time I tried to get them down it felt forced, fragmented, and weak. Repetitive and dry. Now, this is also in part because English isn’t my native language, so my vocab is limited as a result, but I hit that sweet rock bottom in that regard, too.

So, I worked on V (but in her OC form Clara), Lucien and The Elites. All those characters have grown so much since you last read about them. I have multiple original projects planned down the line that will feature all of them existing in their own world, with their own stories and no longer constrained by JW canon.

Which, finally, takes us to the end of October and beginning of November 2020.

I was convinced that the best course of action was to do NaNo again but with an original story this time (involving V). Suffice to say, it took a grand total of maybe 5-6 days and hating every second of writing it while also feeling like this project I’m so passionate and excited to write (still am) is just...going down the toilet to be blunt, to realise I may have made the wrong call.

Still, the stubborn ass that I am, I pushed through. Convinced I can get into it if I just keep going. The realizations that I am sharing with you right now won’t have been possible if it hadn’t been for a rather curious turn of events about a week and a half ago.

I recently bought a gaming laptop, all in preparation for Cyberpunk 2077 dropping ofc. But, in the meantime, I kept recommending a game to a friend on the COA server. That game? Far Cry 5. (It’s a blast to play btw, just a side note.) And playing it brought back all the feelings of nostalgia from the days when I used to write for that fandom. So I revisited some old work. Checked the stuff I never published and that has been sitting ducks in my docs for months and hoo boy. Let me tell you it was a vibe check of the worst kind.

The stark difference in the prose and the ease with which it flowed was...startling. It made me remember why I love writing so much and how proud I used to be of what I wrote back in the day. Which is not to say I’m not proud now, but it was just such a sharp dip in quality it was impossible to ignore.

So I didn’t.

I paused NaNo, moving it to another month. I paused writing for everything but work, which with our season coming to an end I will also get a rest from soon, too. I kinda paused in general. For the first time in a while, I finally forced myself to switch off. Rest.

The reason why I haven’t been on here is simple: guilt and not having energy to be on here. I like making my blog a safe space for everyone. Similar to escape it has become for me. I couldn’t pretend I was fine when I wasn’t. I felt obliged to perform and being here became exhausting. I haven’t been checking my inbox. Haven’t done much of anything except occasionally dropping by and reblogging a random post so people know I’m alive.

And that’s that, folks. That’s where I am currently. Resting. Completely exhausted mentally but resting. Getting my energy back.

So where does that leave us, huh? If you read this far, dunno what to tell you. Thanks, I suppose. It’s still odd to think people actually care about my existence sometimes.

I know what you’re likely thinking, too. So does this mean COA is never gonna be finished? What is gonna happen to it? Are you abandoning it?

The answer: no. 17 out of 25 chapters and 250k+ in, I’m too far in not to give it a proper conclusion. Not because I owe it to anyone other than myself. I want this story to be a stepping stone for my future as a writer. I want to prove to myself that I can get this done and finish it. As of right now (as you can no doubt tell with how long it’s been since last update) it’s on a soft hiatus while I rest. This rest? Not sure how long it may last. Right now, my plan is till mid December at which point I will reevaluate. Ideally, I finish the year with an update. But my New Year’s resolution is to finish COA. That timeline has become a little more murky now but, again, ideally it’s within the first quarter of 2021. Will that happen? I don’t know. And I don’t want to make false promises, either.

All I’m saying is that it will be done. I’m just no longer sure how long, exactly, it may take me to reach that Epilogue. I don’t expect many people to stick around for however long it may take me, but if you do, thank you. Truly. I really and deeply mean that.

So what’s on the cards for this blog in the meantime? Well, CP77 is coming out in under a month (if it doesn’t get moved again lmao rip) and I expect that to be my soft return to posting my writing on here again. We will see where the muse takes me, if at all. Regardless though, I’m excited.

One doctorate thesis later, here we are at the end of this really long rambling session. I hope that this has given you some perspective on things going on behind the scenes. I spared you some of the gorier details but I think this post has been long overdue. I suppose I, myself, was just too unwilling to face these things despite knowing about them deep down for a while now. I’m too self-critical not to notice but acting on correcting this behavior has been a whole other matter clearly.

Thank you for reading this post, my writing in general, and supporting me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m still around. More is on the way in the future. I’ll be seeing you all real soon. And all my love to all of you.

Love,

- Kat.

#kat speaks #blog psa #i suppose

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

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Whumptober Day 28: Hunting Grounds

CW: Vampirism, blood, whumpee whumping the whumper, implied eventual character death, veeeeeeery vague mild gore

TIMELINE: Post-Bad Arc

Nothing matters, for the moment, except the hunger.

It stretches them thin, empties their skin of anything but the press forward, the constant walk. They ran, at first, and so did she. Now, she tires, but Ora doesn't. They walk, endlessly walk, bare feet moving over the grass without leaving a print behind. They are tired, but their nerves spark with the knowledge that soon, she will be too tired to keep going, and they will still be here.

This is how you hunt - you keep them moving until they make a mistake, until they tire out, until they can’t move any longer. Meanwhile, you wait - with arrow or spear or sharp teeth - to devour.

Ora will take from Ashley Denner the life she has already stolen from them.

She crashes heedlessly, and they move behind her. They stopped running long before she did, settling into the hunter’s walk. Steady, the ground is swallowed by the pace they could keep up for days and days. They might have done just that - they don’t know.

The sun might have risen and set while they follow her, but the only thing they know is the hunger, the scrape of bark under their fingertips, the lives of the people who live nearby pulsing and throbbing, but they aren’t important.

None of them matter.

Nothing matters but finding her.

Ora Collins, a spectre in a tank top and shorts with green hair clumped around their face, is spotted once or twice by hikers who think they have seen a ghost, or a monster. They catch blurry photographs that are smear of green, or brown. One or two makes the mistake of calling out.

Ora pauses and looks at them, and they regret the sound they mad.

Ora keeps moving.

Smeared with dried blood long since gone brown and flaked from their skin, with it still dried around their mouth, the sight of them sends the animals who see them running in terror. They know what Ora is, now, even as Ora is only barely aware. They know Ora is a creature of the hunt, strong and sharp-teethed.

Ora smells like the rainy season in a dry land, they feel like a buzzing threat that slips underneath the netting to spread terrible wasting death. They hear the softest sounds, footfalls from far away. Sometimes they are a tiny thing of flickering light, sometimes they walk.

They are aware of Ryan, who made them, and know where to go to find him again. They are aware of the beat of his heart, echoing their own, as the police and first responders arrive, far too late to change anything, to find the fire, the two blood-soaked men, the dying man on the ground.

All of this awareness is in the back of Ora’s mind, a soft velvet certainty. But it’s not what matters now.

They’re hungry.

So, so hungry.

When they find her, she has fallen down a hill she didn’t see until it was too late, and she was stopped long enough for them to catch up to her. When they find her, they don’t speak to her. They don’t ask her to apologize or beg for forgiveness. They don’t tell her to think about Penny, dead and decaying in a shallow grave outside a ramshackle house in Tennessee.

Penny is theirs, not hers. She tried to ruin Penny in their mind but Ora sees, now, more clearly than they have seen in a year and more. Penny is still theirs, even though Ashley’s hand killed her. Penny’s blood cries out from the ground, and Ora was not her keeper, then. But they keep her memory now.

When they fall upon Ashley, mouth open, rows of sharp teeth like a shark’s on moonlit display, hands forcing Ashley’s head back against the ground with unnatural strength, Ashley starts to laugh.

The high-pitched shattered-glass sound echoed around the valley she has been chased into, and she laughs and laughs and laughs as Ora tears her throat out, sprays her ancient blood across the ground, to soak into it and join Penny’s, to join all the blood Danny and Ryan lost in a year, to join her own brother.

Ashley’s laugh breaks on the branches of trees, rustles leaves, sends the tiny animals running or flying from them, even as it grows thick with the blood in her throat, bubbles as her lungs fill with it, and Ora’s teeth have torn her open but she’s been torn open before, and risen again.

Not this time.

Ora fills themself with the thick blood, sparks of an old magic, and still Ashley is laughing, her dirty fingernails digging into Ora’s bare shoulders, back arched, in a mockery of an embrace. Her laughter grates in Ora’s ears, pulses in their own veins. They have heard this laughter so many times, in so many places, Ashley’s delight at causing so many deaths.

Delighted, even, by causing her own.

When the laughter fades, cracks apart to nothing, Ora still isn’t done. They rip her throat to unrecognizable emptiness, bloody nothing, nearly separating her head from the rest of her. But even that isn’t enough.

Ora’s stomach is full, their mouth is smeared black-red from ear to ear, their hands are covered in the brackish old blood nearly to their wrists, and it is still not enough.

Ashley lays with her eyes wide at the sky, and she is still smiling, caught mid-laughter, frozen there in death. But it’s not a death that will last. Left here, Ashley will not decay or fade or change, and one day, sooner or later… she might wake back up and start it all again.

Ora won’t let anyone else be broken the way Ashley broke them.

So Ora lowers their eyes, stares at the place where her heart should be, and licks at their lips, feeling their teeth shift, lengthening to match what they need to do. They are death itself, stealing in on silent footsteps to the rooms where men, women, and children sleep. They are a wasting sickness, they are fever and chills, they are an explanation for those who die without warning.

They don’t know what any of that means. They just… know it.

Somewhere, they can feel the one who made them. Ryan sits in a hard chair, holding his brother’s cold hand against his own forehead, begging him to come back, to keep going, to please, God, don’t die now after we did everything to save you. The shadow of blood clings to him, Ora’s life lives in Ryan, but they have a whole new life, and the old one doesn’t matter now that Penny’s death has been returned, given back to Ashley, tenfold.

Ora lowers their head to the cold, lifeless chest of Ashley Denner, and they brace themself to feast on her heart.

Only after the heart is gone do they push themself to their feet, feel the breeze in their hair, and slowly turn to start walking east. The hospital where Ryan sits in a room next to his dying brother is to the west, but they don’t go back to him.

Not yet.

First, Ora needs to go to Tennessee, to a house there they need to burn down, a body that needs a better grave. Nothing matters until they have given Penny back her rest.

Nothing matters but their hunger.

----

@slytherynjolras, @whump-it, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp, @whumpywhumper, @18-toe-beans, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @swordkallya, @astrobly, @slaintetowhump, @moose-teeth, @untilthepainstarts, @whumpiary, @lave-whump @raigash @cupcakes-and-pain

#whumptober2020 #no. 28 #hunting grounds #whumpee turned whumper #whumper turned whumpee #vampire whump #vampire whumper #vampire whumpee #daniel michaelson's story #blood tw #bloody teeth #mild gore #really vague and implied but still #whumpee revenge #ora collins is always nervous #this is not their final piece

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valdarian · 4 years ago

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Invader Zim- Infinite Pink: Prologue (1)

WARNING/DISCLAIMER: This fic is intended for a mature audience and will be covering some traumatic topics that could be triggering. Please be advised!

Read with caution!

-Major Character death is temporary and only used in prologue.

-This fic is likely to make some uncomfortable or potentially be triggering. -It is intended for mature audiences, as it will be exploring dark and mature themes and situations. Such as violence, implied/attempted sexual assault and abuse. Non-con/dub-con warnings apply. I will try not to go into too much graphical details, however be warned it will be implied or referenced. -The events in this story are entirely fictional and merely done for dramatic effect. However, they are not intended to poke fun or downplay the real-life seriousness of these issues in anyway.

-I always try to include additional warnings in my author notes before each chapter.

WARNINGS OVER.

Stay safe!

===============================

SUMMARY: Zim’s trial was a victory for Irken society, their biggest thorn finally defeated for good. Zim’s soul reflects on his life and actions from the great beyond.

When a second chance presents itself; Will he achieve his happy ending or wind up like he did before? Fighting against impossible odds, unraveling mysteries and discovering what lies beneath. Secrets will be revealed. What truth awaits?

===============================

NOTES:

-Prazr is supposed to be slow burn endgame pairing.

-No Dib/mission to invade Earth (I don’t plan on exploring it) in this fic, besides small past references.

-Instead it will be focused more on Irk and her history/society. Like Zim’s Academy/elite days.

-It’s been years since I’ve wrote a proper story, so please don’t mind the writing if it’s a bit weird in some places. I’ve had this plot stuck in my head for about a year. Inspired by my obsessed with Isekai/reincarnation/do-over manga and fics.

-If others want to use this as a base for their own story or art, that’s fine. Just tag me, I’d love to see what you do!

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(The Abyss: Undetermined time after The Trial)

Zim floated endlessly in darkness, surrounded only by a feeling of a bygone age.

His body, the only thing visible as far as the eye could see. Was as bare as the day he was born, not even a PAK attached.

Any Irken caught like this would be ridiculed for such degeneracy. Yet, he could not muster much shame. Only hugging his knees tighter to his chest.

He had nothing to show the passage of time. Only a half remembered feeling of what it was to be alive. Left alone in the Abyss with only his own thoughts and distant memories as company.

How long had he been here? Minutes, cycles...Eons?

Was this what death truly felt like? All alone and tormented by his life on replay.

Forever wondering what had went wrong.

He had been angry at first. Enraged at the thoughts of his trial and execution.

How dare they do this to him, to ZIM! He hadn't done anything to deserve this!

The pain of PAK removal was one of the few things still fresh in his mind.

He had cursed the hoomans and their filthy planet, the dib-beast for always interfering in his plans. As well as a long list of others for his fate. Just about anyone and everyone he could remember. No matter how insignificant they had played a role in his life.

His rage had burned without an end in sight. Who had he angered to endure such disgrace! Who did they think they were to put him through such humiliation?

The names had slipped past his lips before he could stop them.

The Almighty Tallest.

His tirade had halted immediately. Appalled at his renegade of a mouth.

What traitorous thoughts!

The propaganda and teachings of the Empire still deeply ingrained within his mind.

Yet, the more he had thought about them, the more his rage started to burn again. Turning into a blaze of discontent and resentment.

The Tallest had used him!

They were no more innocent then he!

Just as the Empire had designed them to. Zim had only been doing what any Irken soldier would've done...right? They were taught to love destruction and mayhem. How could he ever be the one in the wrong? Was not that, the purpose the Control Brains gave them?

He was only doing his duty.

What right did they have to punish him then!

Was not it the Tallest who had forced him to pilot during Operation Impending Doom?

They hadn’t even asked what had caused the disaster. Why he had done what he did. Not that he could’ve answered them. Even now, that time is nothing but a distant haze at best.

Still, they had never tried to find out what had went wrong. Only sending him to suffer on Foodcourtia under the sadistic Sizz-Lorr.

Did they like seeing him in pain? Did they enjoy seeing him unable to fight against them, even when they continued to ridicule him. Pushing him ever closer to his breaking point?

Like when they had sent him to that treacherous death-world known as Urth.

No! His body had shook in anger.

No, no.

The truth was that they had sent him into the deep recess of space, hoping he would die.

He had turned a blind eye to all their misdeeds against him.

For so long...too long, he realizes now.

Letting his feelings blind him. Everything had just felt so...so right with them. He had clung to a smeethood friendship. To long buried feelings that he swore they shared, but could not speak of.

Had he really been that delusional?

They had been friends once, close ones. It had been an instant connection. One he thought would last the test of time. Since their days in the Academy, they had spent practically every waking moment by each other’s sides. Years spent studying, training and completing assignments together. Even graduated as elites with one another.

He had cared about them, more than he could ever put into words. He had thought they had cared about him too.

Maybe they had one point...Until their love of status won out.

Zim had always known about their dreams of grandeur. But, had ignored it. Convincing himself, that no matter what, they would never abandon him. That they still cared for him...even if only a little.

Yet, time and time again he was proven wrong.

Unwilling to accept the truth. His own delusions gladly filling in the blanks. They were ultimately the same as him, obviously. Only doing what the Empire wanted. What the Control Brains wanted.

This was all an...act...There was no way they actually hated him. It was...a test! A test of his faith, of his will...of his love. No matter what, he couldn’t fail. He needed to prove himself to them. Maybe then...

What a pitiful creature he had been.

So much so, he had even done something as primitive as pray to the ancient Gods. Hoping that one day...

He really was delusional. The crazed mess everyone believed him to be.

After all, what Irken in their right mind, would ever want to be seen with such a tiny smaller?

Yet, in the end he had still loved them. Even now his cardiac-spooch aches for them.

They had hurt him, but he had hurt them too. He hates them, he loves them, he hates them, he loves them...

He doesn’t know what to think about them anymore.

After some time, his anger had eventually moved on.

To the only ones left.

The Control Brains.

The machines who claimed to control everything. If they were truly such omnipotent beings, then surely they had to have known his PAK was defective! They dictated everything about Irken lives after all, from what they wore, to their careers and everything in-between.

Then why was only he to blame!

Were not they the ones that programed him this way!

If he had been such a threat to the empire, if his PAK had so many errors, then why didn't they fix it!

Why had he been the only one to be punished!

If he was so broken, then why couldn't they have just fixed him!

…and just like that, the flames had been snuffed out. He had been quiet for a few minutes...hours...or maybe even days. Dwelling only on that single thought alone.

A sob had left him as the realization came crashing down.

Only then had he finally blame himself. A deep well of shame had quickly bubbling within him.

Over two hundred cycles, years devoted to serving the Armada. Bowing to the strict rules of the Empire and whims of his Tallest. Placing his loyalty to Irk above all else. Rejecting his natural inclinations. Forever trying to hid his perceived weaknesses.

It all amounted to what exactly?

He was defective. A mistake. A problem to be remedied and swept under a rug to be forgotten.

He was only capable of needlessly destroying everything in his path, even himself.

Forever trying to be something he wasn't.

While Silently pleading, hoping beyond hope someone would give him the attention...the love that he so desired. His peers would recognize him and appreciate him.

Irk was sure to celebrate his death for cycles to come.

It's not that he hadn't tried to control his urges. He had tried, he really did. To be the perfect soldier, to be the prime Irken example.

But, at his core, that not who he was. Despite how much he had tried to make himself to be so.

Luck was as much his friend as it was his enemy.

In a society were one was not to step out of line, not to break any mold, to do only what they were told. Someone like him, could only double down. Hoping that maybe this time something would go right. If only he kept trying it wouldn't be considered failure. Something would have to work eventually, right? He hadn't been kicked out of the collective yet. So that meant there was still hope.

What a fool he had been.

Chaos incarnate many called him. The name Zim was synonymous with destruction and failure. He had no glory, no honor. He was nothing but a devil to his own people, an omen of their death.

By the Gods, if he could just go back!

His hands clench at the thought.

Would things be different? Could he make different choices.

Even if his loyalty came into question? If he walked a different road then that of the perfect little Irken.

Would he even be capable of such a thing?

He doesn’t know.

If only he had tried a little hard to control himself. If he could just be given another chance to prove himself. If to no one else, but to him. If he could just have a chance to live life how he truly wanted.

If only he could start over. If only...

A humorless laugh leaves him. Who would even give him the time of day? To him of all Irken?

As if.

His Empire had denounced him. His people had forsaken him. He had nothing left.

Magenta eyes stare blankly into the expansive darkness. They close as he buries his face into his knees, lamenting his fate.

Truly this couldn't have been a more fitting punishment for someone as despicable as him.

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Cover Art: https://valdarian.tumblr.com/post/643477875611271168/cover-art-for-my-invader-zim-fanfic-infinite

OC ART:https://valdarian.tumblr.com/post/643603226310148096/just-a-few-of-my-oc-that-appear-in-infinite-pink

MAP of IRK: https://valdarian.tumblr.com/post/644055524128735232/guess-who-found-a-world-map-maker-its

Next chapter:

https://valdarian.tumblr.com/post/640238150925598720/invader-zim-infinite-pink-ch1

#PRaZr #zim razr #pazr #almighty tallest #tallest purple #Tallest Red #invader zim #Infinite pink AU #Zim

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maria-scribbles · 4 years ago

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glitter + crimson (let’s start a riot)//part one

“and that’s sailor, our resident mermaid, shell collector, surfer chick, and all-around ray of sunshine. she’s always down for a kegger at the boneyard so she can show off her dance moves; they’re not the best but she doesn’t let that stop her from getting down. her mom owns the surf shop on the beach, that’s how jj and i met her when we bought our first boards when we were ten. she’s been part of the crew ever since.” ~john b routledge

pogue sailor flynn just wants to have a great time with her friends this summer and try to ignore the fact that her flight-risk dad took off again to gamble his life (and her family's savings) away in atlantic city, leaving her with a mom who doesn't know how to cope. between surfing at the beach and cruising around on the hms pogue for hours, it's easy to keep her mind off her shitty home life. what isn't so easy though, is trying to deny her feelings for her best friend, jj.

summary: the pogues hit the beach for a day of sand, surf, and shells. sailor commandeers a hat, willingly participates in cardio, makes bank, and has a heart-to-heart with jj.

word count: 4k+

ship: jj maybank x oc (sailor flynn)

warnings: mentions of abuse/neglect/parental abandonment, swearing, fluff, a lot of flirting

a/n: hi there! i’ve had this little plot bunny in my head for a few weeks now and it wouldn’t leave me alone so here we are! this is the first piece of writing i’ve posted in a very long time so i apologize in advance if it’s terrible. i’m planning on this whole thing being at least eight to ten parts so get ready for the long haul! i actually split this into two parts cause my word count was insane and way too long for one post lmao. let me know what you guys think! title comes from “glitter & crimson” by all time low. also this is unbetaed, so i apologize for any mistakes.

another quick thing: i tried writing this with sailor as an unnamed or y/n reader but it just wasn’t the best. i adore fleshing out characters and i had so many good ideas for her backstory and personality that she kind of just wrote herself and i went with it. i hope you all enjoy reading about sailor as much as i enjoyed writing her!

~Masterlist~

part two | part three | part four | playlist

gif credit goes to @heapass

part one: catching waves

The beach has always been special to Sailor; the soothing crash of waves against the shore, the warmth of sand under her feet, the comforting feeling of salt drying on her skin. It’s where her mother taught her to surf, where her father taught her to dive, where her friends taught her that family didn’t always mean having shared blood. It’s her home, her place, her safe haven. Nothing is more perfect than a day at the beach with the pogues, her board, and a bucket for shells.

Today is shaping up to be one of those days. The weather’s balmy, the water’s clear, and most importantly, she hasn’t seen these many perfect shells in quite awhile. Sailor reaches out and grabs the delicate golden scotch bonnet from the ocean floor, inspecting it closely for any cracks or holes. When she finds none, she smiles and runs her fingers over its smooth surface, marveling at the way the sun’s rays filter through the water and make the entire shell shine brilliantly. Although she sells most of the shells she finds at her mom’s surf shop (or gifts them to her friends), this one’s going to be proudly displayed on the shelf in her room.

She scans the sand for her next target before pushing off from the floor and heading to the surface where Kiara floats on her board, legs dangling in the water as she watches the rest of their group surf.

“Kie, check this out! It’s a scotch bonnet!” She exclaims, placing the shell beside the half full bucket in front of her friend. Resting both arms on the board, she lets herself take a quick breather as the other girl gently picks up her treasure and turns it over in her hands.

“Holy shit, how do you always find the good ones?” She asks, gently putting it into the bucket with the others as Sailor shrugs, tucking a wet strand of red hair behind her ear.

“You guys always say I’m part mermaid, so...” Kiara rolls her eyes and splashes her friend, who just laughs. “Are you done now? We can’t let the guys have all the fun.”

“Almost, there’s a gorgeous whelk down there that I have to have. Be right back!”

She dives before the dark haired girl can reply, swimming down twenty feet to where she spotted the shell. When she was younger, she used to find the pressure on her ears a bit painful but now she hardly notices, instead focusing on the muffled sound of the waves above. Down here it’s just her and the water: peaceful, quiet, and oh so beautiful, infinitely stretching out in front of her. It used to scare her, the vastness of the deep ocean, the secrets lurking in its depths, the unknown. Now, it brings her comfort. Inspiration. Hope.

She plucks the shell from the sand and heads back the the surface, where three more boards have joined Kiara’s. She swims straight under Pope’s, knowing he’s the most ticklish of the group, and runs the tip of the whelk along the sole of his foot. His yell is so loud she can hear it clear as day under the water and she laughs bubbles as his board wobbles before he topples over with a splash. The other three are still laughing as she surfaces beside her fallen friend and feigns shock.

“What happened? Did he touch a fish again?”

“Oh ha fucking ha. So funny.” Pope deadpans but he’s smiling as Sailor holds his board steady so he can climb back on. “I’m surprised you actually touched my foot, Miss Feet Are Disgusting.”

“First off, smelly, dirty feet are gross. And second, I didn’t,” She replies, pulling herself onto JJ’s board without warning and laughing as he nearly falls off just as Pope had. She sticks her tongue out at him as he shoots her a mock glare and shifts closer to he for balance, their knees knocking together.

“This did, here.” She holds the shell out to Pope, who inspects it like Kiara had done earlier and nods in approval before passing it off to John B.

“It’s...nice, right? It’s a good one?” He asks as he hands it over to Kiara. She meets Sailor’s eyes and shakes her head, mouthing ‘boys’ while carefully placing the whelk in the bucket.

“Seriously, JB-”

“Whoa, wait! I don’t get to see it?” JJ pouts, crossing his arms over his chest and Sailor fixes him with a flat look.

“I seem to remember that you, like a damn child, dropped and broke the last one I let you hold.”

John B laughs so hard he nearly falls off his board while Pope and Kiara glance at each other and hide matching snickers behind their hands. JJ has the decency to look embarrassed as he pleads with her and she tells herself that the slight flush creeping up the back of his neck is just from too much time in the sun, nothing more.

“Hey, I said I was sorry for that and I meant it! I swear I’ll be more careful, please, Sail?”

Trying her best to ignore the little thrill she feels at the sound of her nickname coming from his mouth, she relents with a sigh, “Fine, on one condition.”

He looks at her expectantly as she holds up one finger and points at the black hat turned backwards on his head.

“Gimme that, I can feel my scalp burning as we speak.”

“Holy shit, you’re such a fucking ginger,” He laughs but pulls the cap off anyway, running a hand through his blond hair before fixing it on her head properly, the bill facing forward and giving her eyes a much needed break from the bright summer sun. She only hopes her face feels hot as he lays one hand on her knee and holds the other out to Kiara, palm up. “Fork it over, Kie.”

Kiara hands it to him with a roll of her eyes and then fixes Sailor with a pointed look that the redhead pretends not to see; instead, she watches JJ carefully turn the shell over in his hand before holding it aloft, like Rafiki held Simba in The Lion King.

“Listen up, class- especially you,” He says, the hand resting against her leg pointing at John B, who looks affronted at being called out, much to the amusement of the rest of the group, “This here is a lightning whelk and yes, JB, as a matter of fact, it’s a great one. No holes, minimal damage, and defined markings. Ten out of ten would recommend.”

He passes the shell to Kiara with a satisfied grin as everyone sits in stunned silence, just bobbing up and down with the waves until Pope finally says, “Damn. Better watch out, Sailor! We’ve got a new shell expert in town.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m not giving up the crown that easily.” As the others burst into laughter, she turns to JJ and pokes him in the side, asking, “Since when you know so much?”

The look he gives her is all mock offense, but his blue eyes are soft as he says, “I always listen when you talk, you know.”

His answer catches her so off-guard that she tries and fails to form a coherent reply as her face flushes before settling on giving him a sweet smile, which he returns with a playful tug on one of the tiny braids in her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Kiara staring at them with a devious smirk on her face and she knows she’ll be hearing about this later.

“Enough shell talk- no offense, Sail,” John B says, steering his board toward the waves. “We’ve got surfing to do.”

Sailor waves her hand dismissively then reaches over and grabs the bucket from Kiara. “None taken, I’m just gonna drop these off at the shop real quick and I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll go with,” JJ says, popping up onto his knees and turning his board toward the shore. “After all,” He yells toward the rest of the pogues over his shoulder, “you guys need all the practice you can get!” He winks at Sailor and she laughs as she turns to face forward, pulling her legs onto the board and placing the bucket in her lap while the other three flip him off in perfect unison.

The two teenagers paddle toward the beach together and catch a small wave that shoots them straight to shore. JJ holds the board steady as she hops off and then touches his shoulder in thanks before they walk toward where Sailor’s own board is propped in the warm sand with their things. She puts the bucket down and kneels beside it, carefully digging through the haul to find the scotch bonnet.

“There you are, gorgeous.”

“I didn’t go anywhere, babe.”

She snorts at JJ’s quip but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up from wrapping the shell in a small towel and placing it in her backpack (she does blush though, and hopes he doesn’t notice.). As she stands to pull on her shorts, the redhead can’t help but glance at the lightning whelk, sitting pretty in the sand where she put it while looking for the bonnet. It really is beautiful, a ten out of ten as JJ put it, and damn it, she just can’t let it go to some touron who won’t appreciate it. So before she can change her mind, she kneels again to wrap it in another towel and gently nestles it alongside the other shell.

“Chop chop, time’s a wastin.’“ He says, grabbing the bucket with one hand and holding the other out to her; she rolls her eyes but takes it anyway and lets him pull her to her feet, muttering, “Jesus, you’re impatient.”

“It’s all part of the charm. Come on, race ya!” After a quick squeeze to her hand, he drops it and takes off running toward the shop without warning, leaving Sailor scrambling to catch up as she yells, “If you break those shells you’re buying them, Maybank!”

The duo weaves through the crowd of tourons and natives alike, ignoring the dirty looks thrown their way as they run by, kicking sand up in their wake. Fifty feet ahead stands The Sandbar Surf Shop in all its salt-weathered, sun-bleached glory, all but two of the rental boards gone from the stand out front. Alison sits on a stool with one of them on her lap as she waxes it, the boom box resting on the floor beside her blasting The Beach Boys as usual. She looks up in surprise as Sailor bounds onto the deck and slaps her hand against the shop’s door a few seconds before JJ does, both teenagers out of breath.

“Sweet victory!” The redhead shouts, sending a quick wave toward Alison, who returns it with an amused smile and watches the blond roll his eyes, holding the shell bucket close to his chest like a football.

“Victory my ass! I saw you jump over that cooler and that’s cheating.”

“Oh, I cheated? Who gave himself a head start? Oh yeah, you!”

Alison returns the now waxed board to the rack and wipes her hands on a spare rag. “Sounds like you both cheated, so no one wins.” She says with a shrug, chuckling to herself as they both stutter excuses and follow the older redheaded girl into the shop, empty sans for a young boy browsing the display of shells.

“I’ll get your mom.” She says to Sailor before heading through the beaded curtain to the back room and she’s grateful. She doesn’t think she has the strength to go back there anymore.

“I was carrying extra weight,” JJ says, placing the bucket onto the old surfboard-turned-counter and then leaning his back against it, “so I think the head start was justified.”

Sailor props her chin in her hand and drums her fingers along the board’s worn surface, her eyebrow raised. “And I think my jump was justified considering I had some ground to make up from that head start so...”

“Agree to disagree.” They say together, sharing a quick smile before he picks a pair of heart shaped glasses from the stand and puts them on, looking at her over the neon pink frames as he asks in a high-pitched British accent, “What do you think, darling? Too much?”

“No, I think they’re quite dashing!” She bursts out laughing as he strikes a vogue pose, then spins and dramatically leans back against the counter. “Rock that pink.”

“Hell yeah, fuck gender norms!” He says loudly, both middle fingers raised toward the roof.

“In this house, we stan non-toxic masculinity-” she starts, but she’s interrupted by a stern voice from behind the counter that says, “If you’re not going to buy those, put ‘em back, kid.”

Sailor’s mother sweeps into view and stares pointedly at JJ, who hastily stands up straight and returns the glasses to their place on the display as Alison silently heads back outside, shooting both teens a small, awkward smile.

“Sorry, Mrs. Flynn.”

Sailor wants to tell him there’s nothing to apologize for, that he did nothing wrong, but she knows he already knows that, so instead she just scoots a little closer and presses her hip against his. His hand moves to rest on her lower back in thanks and her whole body feels the sparks from his touch.

“I-I found some good ones today, Mom.” She says, pulling shells from the bucket one by one and lining them up on the counter. “A few coquinas, some scallops, a whelk or two...”

She trails off when Carmen doesn’t respond and looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers together anxiously as her mother inspects each shell. her face blank. JJ’s thumb starts to run tiny circles on her back and she concentrates on the feel of his ring, warm and soothing against her bare skin, instead of the fact that her mother hasn’t even glanced her way yet. She hasn’t looked her in the eye in almost three months.

The silence is thick in the air until Carmen finishes her evaluation and gives a small nod in her daughter’s direction. “Good job.” She says, heading to the register and pulling out some cash before counting out five twenties and holding them out to Sailor, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere over the teenager’s shoulder. She swallows thickly and takes the money with a near inaudible thank you, slipping it into her back pocket before grabbing the now empty bucket and nudging JJ toward the door with her hip.

As she’s about to cross the threshold she pauses with one hand on the door frame and turns back, asking, “Hey, Mom? Are...are you gonna come home tonight?”

Carmen’s brown eyes only meet her green ones for a split second before she looks away to fiddle with the register and Sailor can’t help feeling the dull stab of disappointment as she says, “Oh, um, I don’t think so. I’m pretty busy here with, uh, inventory, bookkeeping...”

(That stab used to be sharp as a knife, cutting her to the bone, but she’s almost gotten used to the pain.)

“Oh, right. Just...text me if you do, okay?” She takes one last look at her mother, bathed in the cool shadows of the shop that’s tearing her apart before turning and stepping back into the bright sunlight without another word, her throat tight. She’s not sure Carmen was even listening anymore.

“See ya later, brat.” Alison calls to her as she lets the screen door swing shut behind her with a slight bang. The older girl may not be related to her by blood but she’s most definitely Sailor’s honorary big sister, having babysat her for years in addition to working at the shop, so she waves to her with a small smile and a “bye, ho” before joining JJ on the beach.

The duo slowly starts walking along the water together, a stark contrast from their earlier mad dash and Sailor’s mind races with a million thoughts, most of them her hating herself for foolishly putting a scrap of faith in her mom once again.

“Whoa, you okay? That bucket’s not going anywhere, promise.” He says, pulling them to a stop with a gentle tug on her elbow and reaching down to take it from her clenched hand. She doesn’t even realize she was holding it that hard until she sees the little half moons pressed into her palm from her nails and she sighs, rubbing them away with her thumb.

Opening up has always been something Sailor struggles with, even with a friend group as close as the pogues. She’s the one who’s all sunshine and good vibes, the one everyone goes to for cheering up, the one that’s always...happy. She’s the friend who listens, the open ear, the trusted confidante. She knows all her friends struggles: John B’s fear of being abandoned that often keeps him up at night, Kiara’s terrible guilt over leaving her friends behind during her kook year, Pope’s feeling of drowning under his dad’s impossible expectations, JJ’s abusive household that has him convinced he’s not worthy of love. Every secret she holds close to her heart, guarding them with impenetrable walls that no one can break through.

The walls protecting her own secrets, though? They may be strong around the others but they crumble like sand when she’s alone with the boy standing beside her, his hand still holding her elbow as he starts drawing circles on her skin once again. Talking to JJ has always come easy to her, almost infuriatingly so, and she has no qualms about calling him her best friend. While the other pogues know she’s been having some problems at home with her flight-risk dad and indifferent mom, none of them know almost the full story like he does, just as none of them know exactly how horrible his father really is.

(She knows. She’s seen the aftermath far too often and has been there each time, cleaning cuts, soothing bruises, holding him in her arms and never wanting to let him go.)

“I just...don’t know what to do anymore.” She can feel him watching her as she talks and she avoids his gaze like her mother avoided hers, instead staring out at the ocean. In the distance, she sees one of their friends -Kiara, she thinks- drop in on a wave while the other two look on a little further away. “She won’t even look at me and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Hey, it’s not you, got it? God, you’re...perfect, Sail.” JJ says softly, so soft that the crashing surf nearly drowns the sound of his voice as the water washes over their bare feet. Sailor curses the fact that she blushes so easily because her whole face is on fire at his words, and she’s so distracted that she almost misses what he says next.

“Your mom’s always, uh, weird when your dad dips. It’ll be better when he comes back.”

Her heart clenches in her chest. If only it were that simple. She turns to face him and meets his eyes, blue as the ocean, open and honest, and sends him a smile that lacks its usual brightness. “I think you might be right, J. For once.”

His thumb stills on the crook of her elbow and she knows he knows she’s not telling him everything. She feels like she should say something, anything- apologize, explain herself, just tell him the damn truth- but before she can even open her mouth he says, “Listen, I get it.”

She can feel the hand on her arm start to slip away and she grabs it between both of hers, her voice tight as she says, “No, you listen. Today’s been...so perfect and I don’t wanna bring everyone down with my problems.”

“You know they won’t mind.”

(She does, but that’s beside the point.)

“I know they won’t, but I do.”

It’s her turn to run her thumb in circles on the back of his hand now as she continues, “I’ll tell you everything later, okay?”

“You don’t have to-” He starts but she smiles, genuine and bright this time, and cuts him off.

“I want to, J. And I will, promise.” Like a child, she holds her pinky out expectantly. He quickly glances down at her hand and then meets her eyes again before finally returning her smile, showing off that dimple that makes her heart skip a beat, and hooking his finger around hers.

“Come on, we’ve got waves to catch and friends to show up.” He says and just like that they’re back to normal. Sailor’s hyper aware of the fact that her pinky is still linked with JJ’s, but he doesn’t pull away as they start walking back to their things again and she can’t help but hold on a little tighter. She doesn’t think he notices until he walks a little closer, his shoulder brushing hers; out of the corner of her eye, she sees him smile and feels herself mirroring him without a thought, her cheeks turning as red as her hair.

Talking with him may be the easiest thing to do for her, but flirting comes in a close second. It’s natural: the teasing, the casual touches, and especially the clothes stealing (a good fifth of her sweatshirts probably actually belong to him). He’s the biggest flirt she knows, with that bad boy swagger and killer smile that make all the giggling touron girls fall over themselves to get to him. She tells herself it’s fine, that she’s so not jealous, when he dances with them at keggers on the beach, whispering things in their ears that make them blush, taking their hands and leading them away to dark corners or the spare room at the Chateau. After all, there’s the one golden rule of their group: no pogue on pogue macking, so friends is all they’ll ever be, all they can be.

She tells herself she’s fine with it, really. Being his friend is better than being nothing at all, and she wouldn’t trade his friendship for the world. Deep down though, she’d give anything to kiss him again -the first time was when she was eleven and JJ had just turned twelve, awkward yet sweet, the day she first saw the full extent of his dad’s abuse- but she holds herself back, unwilling to ruin the relationship that means so much to her. And sometimes, like now, she thinks (hopes) that he’s holding back, too.

Their pinkies linger together when they come to a stop at their things, both holding on just a bit longer than what’s considered friendly before their hands drop away. Sailor feels his eyes on her as she pulls off her shorts, money still in the back pocket, and stuffs them in her bag.

(So she just might’ve taken them off a little bit -okay, a lot- slower because he was watching, sue her.)

“I hope you know this is mine, now.” She points to his hat before freeing her board from the sand and waiting for him to do the same, hand on her hip.

“It looks better on you, anyway. Here,” He says, taking a step closer and reaching up with one hand to turn the cap backwards. “Don’t want you to lose it.” His finger brushes along her jaw when he drops his arm and she feels her breath catch as she replies, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

JJ smiles at that, then nods toward the waves. “Race ya? I’ll play fair this time.”

“Nah, but I’m glad you can admit that you cheated!” She says, pausing for a second to laugh at the way his jaw drops before she takes off running and leaves him hurrying to catch up. “I’m proud of you!”

“I changed my mind, I want my hat back now, Flynn!” He yells after her and she just laughs harder as they splash into the ocean.

tagging some of my fave writers ❤: @pogue-writings @o-b-x @jjbabyouterbanks @heywards @obxsummer @jjmaybanky

let me know what you think!

#outer banks #jj maybank #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x oc #jj maybank fic #jj fanfic #jj x oc #obx fic #my fics #outer banks fanfiction #jj x reader #jj maybank x reader #obx imagine

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astraeagreengrass · 5 years ago

Text

Blue

The Blue Henley™ and that’s it.

Word Count: 1.567

Warnings: Short and sweet. Mentions of sexy times (no actual sexy times though). English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

A/N: Did I just write something inspired by The Blue Henley™? You bet I did! This is my submission to @jalapenobarnes writing challenge. My prompt was “Basorexia - the overwhelming desire to kiss”. Thank you Saran for hosting this challenge and allowing me to participate!

Disclaimer: I don’t own Bucky Barnes. Unfortunately he is a fictional character and therefore is property of Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. Sebastian Stan’s face belongs to himself. The plot is my own creation.

My masterlist

He is greeted at the threshold by the voices of John, Paul, George and Ringo.

The Beatles were new to him - like online shopping and Nespresso machines. Maybe, if he’d gone home after ‘45, he’d have dragged Steve to one of their concerts or seen them at Ed Sullivan’s show. And his grandchildren would gawk at him and tell him how lucky he was to have seen the Beatles together.

Maybe.

He couldn’t help it sometimes - how his mind involuntarily drew intricate scenarios of “what ifs” and possibilities. Bucky supposed it was his curse for having lived so long and so hard. His atonement was the constant back and forth of then and now, dealing with the aftermath of everything he missed.

But at least he didn’t kill John Lennon.

The record player was a gift for his 102nd birthday. It resembled very little the one he had back home - his 1940s home. It was sleek, light and state-of-the-art, with that classic vintage look that people liked their electronics to have even if they were far from vintage.

You’d been so nervous when you gave it to him you couldn’t even wait for the sun to be high in the sky and your lover to be out of the bed. Nervous hands twisted the duvet as Bucky opened the package, careful not to ruin the glitter wrapping paper. He loved it, even if it took him a while to learn how to use the record player. But, once he did, it made way for your favorite tradition: spring saturdays at the flea market, the one in DUMBO or maybe in Williamsburg, looking for old records.

The Beatles, the Stones, Led Zeppelin, Elvis Presley, The Doors, Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Marvin Gaye and Queen to more recent acts: Nirvana, Guns and Roses, Pearl Jam, the pop groups from the early 2000’s and performers like Bruno Mars and Beyoncé.

Any decade, any rhythm - Bucky Barnes liked music. And you indulged him in his new-found passion, adding soundtrack to the most unexpected moments of his day and being his partner whenever he fancied a dance.

Like now. He found you in the kitchen counter, hips moving slowly as you chopped carrots for dinner.

“Hold me tight / And tell me I’m the only one / And then I might / Never be theAAAAAH” you yelled, half a scream, half a laugh when Bucky surprised you by tickling your sides.

“Holy shit, Barnes! I have a knife on my hands. I could’ve cut myself!” you exclaimed while Bucky doubled over with laughter.

You threw the knife on the sink, fake pouting, as Bucky came over to you, laugh forgotten. He was all saunter and swagger now, hands reaching out to hold you hips.

“That would teach you not to make dinner while shaking this ass” as to qualify his point, he landed a sharp smack on your left butt cheek, causing you to jump.

You narrowed your eyes, snark remark at the tip of your tongue when you noticed it.

Blue.

Light blue. Almost teal, but not quite, evenly spread across the expanse of his chest and arms. Blue like his eyes, like the sky on a summer day, like a perfect Caribbean sea.

Beautiful blue.

“Is that… new?” was all you could muster while your gaze roamed the cotton. Your hands left their resting place on the nape of his neck and slid down, as if they could grasp the magnificent color and cradle it.

“Yeah” Bucky said, confused by your reaction. “I bought it last week.”

Such a simple explanation for such a magnificent happenstance. You could picture him: self-conscious and a little overwhelmed as he browsed some fast-fashion looking for simple pieces that didn’t stand out much. Bucky stuck to the classic blacks, whites and grays. Their simplicity made him feel safe and your boyfriend’s comfort would always come before any fashion trend.

Oftentimes a navy color would make an appearance and the way it complimented his eyes made your heart speed up. But this blue... This blue was different. You couldn’t place what was so special about it – was it the shade? An almost exact match to his irises? Was it the contrast of índigo fabric and golden-black forearms?

Bucky watched with raised eyebrows and a confused frown as the tips of your fingers carefully roamed the expanse of his torso, as if you were touching a valuable art piece instead of a US$ 9.99 henley from H&M.

“You okay, doll?” he asked.

“Yeah” you gawked. “I’m perfect, actually.”

Bucky liked to think he knew you better than he knew himself – your spontaneity, creativity and enthusiasm over the smallest things. Life with you was never dull: it was a collection of happy moments that pieced his broken soul back together. Bucky believed he was used to the spur-of-the-moment midnight walks or the impromptu dance offs in the kitchen, but apparently he wasn’t.

Not when you grabbed him by the collar of the blue henley and kissed him.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss, like the sweet pecks you usually showered him with when he arrived home. And it wasn’t a violent kiss, like the ones he usually took from you, breath out of breath, in the sacred intimacy of your bedroom.

This kiss was urgent and needy, yet full of the same love he felt every time your mouth reached for his. It tasted like honey on his tongue and sounded like a symphony made of the tiny moans that escaped you when he pulled on your bottom lip with his teeth.

The hand on Bucky's collar moved to his hair. The silky soft brown strands were much shorter, but still long enough to grab them, making him to groan. You felt light-headed, your lungs burning for air and your calves worn out from the effort of standing on your tiptoes, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. The only thing that mattered was him and that blue shirt.

“What was that for?” Bucky whispered when you manage to disentangle yourself from him. Your breath was coming in short, uneven gasps that teased him to no end. His gaze involuntarily lowered from your flushed cheeks to your chest, and the rapid way it rose and fell made him uncomfortable in his pants.

“Nothing" you replied. “You just look really good.”

Bucky laughed - a deep, delicious sound deep from his stomach, echoing at the walls of your heart. You swore you could live in the crinkles of his eyes because Heaven couldn’t compare to this world whenever Bucky Barnes laughed.

Especially if he was wearing that blue henley.

Bucky’s laugh turned into a smirk when he tightened his hold on your hips - one hand was warm and the other a little colder, just the way you liked it and how you wanted it to be forever. Swiftly, he rose you on the counter and moved to stand between your legs. The familiarity and domesticity of it didn’t make it any less thrilling. On the contrary, knowing this love was a constant rather than a possibility caused the butterflies to flutter harder in the pit of your belly.

His vibranium hand squeezed you thigh before hooking your leg around his waist. The friction of your sweatpants with his jeans was the torturous prelude before the chorus. Bucky grunted in your ear, low and deep and warm as his breath hit the shell of your ear, right before he sucked it.

Oh.

Your hand was twisted in the blue fabric, unsure if you wanted to rip if off him or be it - to hug him and envelop him so perfectly and never let him go. Your embrace was suffocating. A tangle of arms, legs and lips dancing to their own song, writing notes on your skin. It was so easy to get lost in him. To drown in the blissful feel of Bucky’s touch and ignore the revolving world around you

A loud noise startled you, pulling you both apart. Bucky quickly turned to the crash, shielding your body with his. There, in the corner of the living room, the record player - now silent - was on the floor. Standing above the wreckage, nonchalantly licking a white paw, was Alpine.

You sighed.

“Did you say hello to her when you arrived?"

“Nope” Bucky said, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. He chuckled.

You absentmindedly dragged your nails across the nape of his neck and he purred, much like his feline counterpart when he greeted her favorite human.

“That record player was so expensive” you grumbled, face tucked in the blissful blue henley. Damn Alpine for ruining the plans you had for that shirt.

“I know. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“It’s yours, actually.”

“You know what else is mine?”

“Huh?”

“You are.”

You looked up to find him grinning, mischief on the corner of his lips and a twinkle in his gaze. You barely had time to squeal when Bucky lifted you from the counter and over his shoulder and moved to the bedroom, making sure to shut the door.

“What about Alpine? She’ll destroy the apartment” you asked, body bouncing on the mattress.

Bucky shrugged then tugged on his henley, tossing the blue to the floor.

Yeah. He looked much better without it.

“It’ll be worth it.”

General taglist: @ivoryhazlewood @youclickedthislink

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #my writing #cornelia barnes #bucky's blue henley #the blue henley of death #god bless the blue henley

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trashyswitch · 4 years ago

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The Fate of the Fazbear’s Fright

Michael Afton investigates a rundown, abandoned haunted house by the name of Fazbear's Fright. What he actually finds will end up answering a huge missing piece about his family history...

This story takes place in a slightly altered aftermath of FNAF 3. The Fazbear Fright building has not yet burned down, but the building is severely flooded and mostly abandoned for unknown reasons.

Disclaimer: This story has a few swear words in it, and manages to get a bit graphic at certain points.

Further Disclaimer: This fanfic holds implications of an emotionally rocky relationship between William Afton and his son Michael. This relationship stems back to the FNAF 2 game. Please keep this in mind as you read the fanfiction.

I hope you enjoy.

Michael kicked the rusty and broken door to the old Fazbear Fright building right onto the entrance ground. He waved his hand around to clear the dust from his face, and turned on his black plastic flashlight. The dust particles that surrounded the entrance was still there, but not nearly as much as it was when the door first fell. He stepped himself onto the door, dusted off his black work pants and slowly walked himself inside.

Upon walking into the entrance, all there appeared to be was a hallway with half a fazbear suit laying on the ground, and a greyish black door that led to something. He ignored the door for now, and instead chose to continue on to explore the place. It was very dark and dusty, and the walls looked to be a grimy greenish color. The walls looked like it was covered in decorative fake grime that was used to make the Fazbear’s fright more icky. Or maybe, it was actual grime that took over the place from being abandoned. Which one it could’ve been, Michael couldn’t tell you.

Michael walked and followed the hall further, before turning to the right to see windows on the right side of the next hallway. The green, worn-down look to the place was disgustingly decorated with piles of dust on every tiny surface of the Fright house. The windows seemed to be covered in dust as well. Michael blew onto one of the windows, before immediately regretting it once the dust clogged up his lungs. Michael bent himself over and let out multiple strong and heavy coughs to get the dusty particles and grime out of his 20 year old lungs. He felt like he was choking on piles of dust alone, probably mixed with other secret bacteria from decaying building or from withering animatronics. Finally, after a good few dozen strong coughs, he got enough of the dust out of his lungs to somewhat breath properly.

‘Dammit...’ He thought, ‘I should’ve bought myself a dust mask before exploring this old place’ Michael thought to himself.

Michael looked through the semi-covered windows of the room, and noticed the metal desk and the old Animatronic masks laying around in a bin on the side. Was...was this an office? Only one way to find out: Michael grabbed a broken light fixture on the left hall, and threw it through the window. The window glass crashed upon impact, and bits of the window glass crumbled to the floor. With a quick swipe of his sleeve to rid the bottom of the window of the broken glass, Michael hopped himself into the room and landed somewhat smoothly onto the metal green desk.

Michael looked around the room for a second. It was in much worse condition than the hallways were. The metal desk was moldy green, there was a black netted garbage bin with a few kleenexes in it, and a wet cardboard box filled with animatronic heads, a Bonnie guitar, a Foxy hook and a few drawings of the Fazbear Entertainment characters hung up on the walls. The desk also had tiny animatronic bobble heads of Freddy, Bonnie and Chica decorating the desk, as well as...Well…Michael couldn’t tell what that was beside Bonnie…Michael also took note of the fan that was sitting on the desk. With the lights completely out in the old building, Michael assumed the fan was powerless and thus: useless against the dust in the whole building.

Michael hopped out of the window again, and yelped as he landed wrong on his ankle on the hallway floor. Michael took a moment to roll out his ankle and get it working again, before continuing to explore. He walked down the hall further, noting the patchy wires that hung down the walls. He looked around at the roof and noticed that there were roof leaks lining the ceiling panels. It looked like someone had completely flooded this place by mistake and caused some irreversible damage on the ceiling. Michael turned the flashlight around to see the ceilings he had passed. It looked like all of the ceilings down the hallway and onwards were severely leaky. No wonder the place was abandoned.

Michael turned left and started walking down the hallway. Upon the sight of a shadow, Michael jumped and stepped back, thinking he was gonna die. But, Michael gasped as he realized what it really was: an animatronic! Michael looked in disbelief at the look of the animatronic fox. It was Foxy, but all fallen apart and missing skin covers on certain spots. Michael looked at foxy carefully, and sighed upon seeing his run down appearance. It was almost scary how rundown the fox animatronic had gotten. The fox had 2 sets of teeth. What haunted house decoration has 2 SETS OF TEETH?! Down the hall, there were more run down and grimy looking animatronics. Chica was covered in blackish greenish lines that contrasted with his yellow appearance. The eyes were missing as well and there were only white lights indicating where Chica’s eyes were located. The Freddy Fazbear animatronic wasn’t any better. It was covered in black lines as well, and was holding a microphone in his right hand. Poor Freddy Fazbear was missing an ear as well. They looked like they deserved to be thrown into a landfill and either forgotten or destroyed till they were no more.

Michael walked by Freddy, before turning to the left again and encountering Balloon Boy. And GOOD GOD HE WAS CREEPY. He was quite discoloured from infrequent cleaning and was missing both his eyes as well. The only sight of eyes that slightly filled the gigantic eye sockets, was the white little lights that Balloon Boy seemed to share with the rest of the animatronics. The balloon boy looked like he wanted to possess anyone that walked into the room. Could he? Could Balloon Boy possess his body? God, Michael hoped not. Mangle was a creepy, spider-looking mess of a bot. Michael gulped upon seeing Mangle like that. Who would choose to make Mangle into a spider lookin’ abomination like this?! What was Henry thinking?! Was this even Henry? Or was it the Fazbear Fright staff that did this to her? If it was a staff member of the Fazbear Frights, WHY?!

Suddenly, a whiff of this strange, disgusting smell filled the room. And before you say anything, yes. The building smelled bad beforehand. But that was nothing compared to this; It smelled like a moldy, partly decayed animal carcass. But the smell almost carried through half the haunted house. It smelled like a huge cow died in the Fazbear Fright building. Michael walked down the hallway more, and quickly found the source of the smell: it appeared to be an animatronic bunny with greenish gold animatronic skin partly covering the Endo-skeleton. But...it looked like there was also red tubes covering up some of the Endo-skeleton. Were they cords? They looked like they could’ve been cords, but they were...a dull red. And they were wider than the cords dangling on the walls back at the beginning. Michael, not knowing what else to do, lifted his hand up and poked a cord on the right side of the neck with his finger. Michael immediately regretted it when he felt the cord sink in, in an abnormally soft motion. It felt wet, soggy and...almost rubbery. Michael pulled his finger back, and just about physically gagged at the phantom feeling of the large, soft cord.

“Eew.” Michael muttered out loud to himself.

He decided to explore the rest of the animatronic further. The holes between the moldy skin seemed to help him a little. The endo-skeleton seemed to have super narrow red and blue cords running down the suit and sticking out between the suit joints. In the chest area, there was a huge knot of large, thick cords that was surrounded by tiny bright red cords, and the greenish suit fabric. What could’ve been fur skin, looked all sizzled down to just leather looking fabric and any sign of fur had decayed from decades of existence. Michael looked down the legs as well, and couldn’t wrap his head around such a complicated and confusing endo-skeleton design. The missing fabric from the legs seemed to show Michael everything: It looked like someone took a darker endo-skeleton, and designed an endo-skeleton on top of the endo-skeleton. But...why? Why would they do that? Was it extra skeletal parts to make sure the animatronic can walk properly?

Another thing Michael noticed about the suit was how the pelvis area was filled in. There were multiple knots of thick, faded red cords in the pelvis, and the hip bones looked like something right out of a hip replacement surgery: abnormally dark steel surrounded by muscles- ...Wait: the thick cords on the left side of the pelvis look like they’re a different shade of red compared to the faded red shade chosen for the rest of the endo-skeleton. And why do the knots in the abdomen look like they’re different shades of red knotted together? And on that note: Why does it look like Springtrap has a human heart?! Michael moved the fabric covering the red thing in the top middle of the chest. Michael widened his eyes and just about yelped at the horrifying realization:

IT WAS A HUMAN HEART!

Michael looked at it closer. It...wasn’t beating. How did- WHEN DID ANIMATRONICS HAVE HUMAN HEARTS?! Unless…

Michael lifted up his flashlight to look at the head. It looked all grimy, leather textured and seemed to have caved in patches with orange, blue and red tiny cords sticking out of them. To make things even stranger, this was the only animatronic to have their eyes still! Except… these eyes were...clouded? And there were blue lines surrounding the iris. But why?! Why did this animatronic keep their eyes? And why were these eyes behaving differently?

Finally, Michael opened the mouth. This was where the worst of the smell was coming from. Michael covered his nose and mouth, and looked away in disbelief and pure disgust. Michael took a breath in, held it, and looked inside the mouth to see what was inside:

Michael’s jaw dropped in HORROR: THERE WAS A HUMAN CORPSE IN THIS ANIMATRONIC!

Michael couldn’t believe it! And when Michael looked closer at the human head, Michael realized the skull had thin, steel bars impaled into its jaw, mouth and eyes! HOLY SHIT! SOMEONE ACTUALLY DIED IN THIS SUIT! AND THE CORPSE WAS ROTTING INSIDE THE SUIT! Michael let go of the animatronic mouth and stumbled backwards in paralyzed shock. As soon as he came to his senses, he realized something even worse: HE DIDN’T TOUCH SOME CORD: HE TOUCHED CORPSE MUSCLE! Michael gagged in utter revulsion as a slight clash, and his flashlight fell onto the ground as Michael covered his mouth with his left hand. Michael, disgusted, wiped his soiled right finger onto his pants and picked up the flashlight again. Worried he may have broken it, he tested it a couple times.

On, off.

On-

SOMETHINGMOVED!

Michael lifted the flashlight up at the look of something moving. It was an arm. The animatronic bunny with the corpse inside it, was moving its arm back and forth. Michael’s breathing began to quicken as more joints and body parts started to move on its own. Michael took a few steps backwards in anxious disbelief at the movements. Finally, the animatronic lifted its bunny jaw open and revealed the purple skull to him.

The corpse’s white, rotted dead eyes stared right at Michael, and a devilish smirk grew onto their face. “Run.” the skull spoke.

Michael didn’t have to be told twice! He took off sprinting and screaming up the hall and to the exit. As he ran by, Michael grabbed the door handle, and tried opening the door desperately. But it was locked! Completely locked! In a repeated attempt to escape, Michael kicked the door. But this door wasn’t budging. This door’s hatch must’ve been fixed before it closed down! Or it was just jammed shut. Michael pulled and pulled as much as he could, but just couldn’t get the door open!

So, Michael took off sprinting and screaming down the long way in an attempt to escape through the entrance. Michael was ready to zip right past the animatronics that were taking up half the hallway. But Foxy’s arm had shot up and just about clotheslined Michael! Michael stumbled back and observed the blocked path quickly before ducking under the arm. “Sorry buddy! Sorry.” Michael muttered quickly as he grabbed the arm and ducked under the hook. With a huge rotten corpse bunny speed walking itself towards the former night guard, Michael took off running again as soon as he possibly could. As Michael ran, sounds of deafening clashes of animatronic parts could be heard behind him. He looked behind him, and just screamed louder at the sight: the bunny was DESTROYING THE ANIMATRONICS AS IT CAUGHT UP TO HIM! Covering his ears, Michael kept on screaming and sprinting down the hallways.

Michael turned to the right, sprinted down the hallway, and turned a quick right again to reach the door at the end of the hallway. He practically tackled himself into every grimy wall in the hallway, just to make sure he could get there without wasting any time. But as he ran, Michael slipped on the broken glass that was spilled earlier! He came tumbling onto his back and right onto the glass pieces. He yelped at the slight pains in his hands as glass pushed against the softer palms and the boney fingers. But despite how painful it was, Michael lifted himself back up and resumed sprinting. Finally, Michael tripped over the knocked down door frame and flopped the rest of his body onto the door. Michael yelped in pain and discomfort as he looked at his ankle. Just from the look of it, Michael theorized his ankle was either dislocated or sprained. He couldn’t tell the difference. Michael turned onto his back and sat himself up with his slightly cut hands. He carefully poked his ankle for any broken bone bumps: None. He gripped his foot and slightly moved it. No bone collision: just soreness in the muscles. The ankle wasn’t sprained, fractured or dislocated: It was just overturned a little bit. So, Michael stood back up.

But a pair of arms wrapped around him! “AAAAAAAH! NO! NONONONONONONO NOOOOOOOO!” Michael shouted as loud as he could. Michael wiggled, kicked, screamed and punched everywhere he possibly could. Michael reached out and helplessly watched in horror as he was pulled away from his one chance at freedom from this cruel nightmare. Michael shouted, bashed his limbs against the bunny and coughed heavily as the piles of dust in the haunted house re-entered his lungs from being pulled up by the bunny’s deep footsteps. Michael continued to kick and shout, but lessened his shouts a little as he watched where he was going. The bunny’s grip on Michael increased a little. This caused Michael to yelp and kick his legs again. “LET GO OF ME YOU STUPID FUCKING BUNNY!” Michael shouted at the bunny. In an attempt to get it to let go, Michael elbowed into the bunny’s jaw and tried pulling the fingers free from the animatronic. Michael pulled and pulled on the index finger, but it wouldn’t loosen, let alone fall off! So, he tried digging into the arms of the animatronic and pulled on any wires. But he yelped in pain suddenly when he felt his pinky finger get jammed between the endo-skeleton pieces. “OW! AAAAH! OH GOD- FUUUCK! I-” Michael finally gave his pinky a pull and somehow, managed to pull his pinky out in one full piece! “OHTHANKGOD…” He muttered before turning himself around to see the animatronic face.

“HEY! WHO ARE YOU?! ARE YOU THE PERSON WHO DIED IN HERE?!” Michael asked loudly to the purple skull in the mouth. The bunny didn’t answer him whatsoever, and just closed its jaw and kept on walking. As the bunny turned to the left the second time, Michael growled. “CAN YOU EVEN HEAR ME?!” Michael yelled to the animatronic eyes. He grabbed onto the ears in anger. “HEEEEELLOOOOOOO!!” Michael shouted into the left ear. The bunny had had quite enough of the adult. The bunny stretched out its arms and moved Michael away from its left ear and out in front. Michael yelped in surprise and froze as he looked at the green wall with wide eyes. When Michael finally came to his senses, he finally started breathing heavily and started kicking and shouting again. “LET GO OF ME! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?! AM I- AM I JUST A TOY TO YOU?! THIS IS NOT HOW YOU DEAL WITH ADULTS!” Michael cried.

Michael stopped screaming and moving when he suddenly heard a mumbling sound. “...........Huh?” Michael muttered, looking down the hallway. Did someone say something to him? Or was Michael hearing things?

The mumbling sound occurred again but this time, it sounded like it was coming from behind the bunny! Michael fought with the bunny’s grip a little and turned himself around to see if anyone was there. “Hello?” Michael called quietly. His voice echoed in the hollow hallway as he stared at the hallway for any signs of life.

“Sh-- u-.” The mumbling spoke again. Michael listened carefully. It...sounded like words, but...he couldn’t make out what was being said. But what he COULD make out, was that it was close to him! Who was hiding there?

“What?” Michael asked. “I...I can’t hear you. What did you say?” Michael asked down the hallway.

Suddenly, the bunny’s jaw opened and an angry expression appeared on the purple skull. It moved its mouth. “I said SHUT UP!”

Michael shouted in surprise and closed the bunny's jaw quickly. “NOPE! YOU’RE NOT PULLING ANOTHER BITE OF 1987 ON ME! FUCK THAT SHIT!” Michael shouted. Then, it occurred to him: “Wait...How are you-” Michael opened the jaw slightly and looked at the skull in the jaw. It...had a monotone facial expression with only a couple teeth left. “How are you talking?” Michael asked.

The mouth opened and closed in an attempt to give itself more mouth room to talk properly. The steel pieces that were impaled into the face, appeared to have loosened a bit from the jaw moving. It was disgusting, disturbing and almost gagging to watch. The skull breathed in, and…

“I’m still alive.” The deep voice spoke.

Michael’s jaw dropped and a horrified, cracking shout left his somewhat hoarse voice. Michael resumed his wiggling and wrestling, doing all he possibly can to wiggle himself out of the bunny’s grip.

“For the love of- THAT’S IT!” the skull yelled before pulling the adult into the bunny’s chest and wrapping its arms around him further.

“WHAT THE- AAAAH! NO! LETMEGO! DON’T YOU EVEN DARE TRY TO KILL ME! I HAVE A LIFE TO LIVE! A FAMILY HISTORY TO UNFOLD! A-” Michael shouted before interrupting himself with his own burst of laughter. Michael immediately started kicking and could feel a wobbly smile showing up on his lips. He could feel a pair of fingers tickling his side, and he couldn’t reach down and stop it thanks to the bunny’s bulgy arms! “HAHA! WAIT, WHAHAT?! NAHAHAHOHOHOHOHO!” Michael yelled, curling to his left to get his side away from the tickly, steel fingers. But the fingers only moved closer to the side and tickled it further, and there was only so far Michael could curl away from the touch. “HAHAhahahahahaha! Wahait! HEHEHE! YOHOHOU’RE TIHIHICKLIHING MEHEHEHEHEHE!” Michael laughed, shaking his head as he squirmed back and forth and bounced around.

Now, the fingers were moving down his side and started scratching the outside of his hip. Michael let out a surprised squeal and jolted upwards. Michael’s wobbly smile dropped in horror as he quickly tried using his arm muscles to pull his entire body up, to get away from the large tickly fingers. But the fingers followed his hip up and continued to scratch towards the inner hollow of his hip. This caused Michael to just drop his body and throw his head back with laughter. “BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” He bursted out, shaking his body back and forth helplessly.

It was right around here that the bunny decided to drill into not just the one, but BOTH hips at once! “JEEEEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! CUHUHUHUT IHIHIT OHOHOHUHUHUT!” Michael shouted.

The bunny suddenly stopped due to the reaction, and decided to change the man’s positioning. Michael was transferred to the left hand while the right hand started to explore the backside of him. The bunny’s index finger landed on Michael’s head first. The curious bunny grabbed the bill of the hat that was on his head, and lifted it up carefully.

“What are you- Give that back!” Michael ordered, reaching up for it. But the bunny was quick! Everytime Michael tried reaching for the hat, the bunny would tickle his armpits! “Give it back rihihight- Stop it! I need- EEEEK! That...ihis- Mihihihihihine! Cohohohome ohohohohon!” Michael laughed and giggled, dropping his arms and giving up after a few more attempts. With the hat now off his head, the bunny hung the hat onto its right broken ear and started messing with Michael’s hair. Everytime the hand would explore a new spot, Michael would flinch in surprise before just focusing on the big hand’s movements. Michael’s body was facing the hallway, so he couldn’t see where the moldy bunny’s hand was gonna go even if he tried. All he could hope for, is that the bunny would lose interest soon and drop him.

Michael was suddenly pulled out of his thoughts by a shivery, tickly long finger going right up his spine. “-aaAaAAH!” Michael yelped, straightening his back and pulling his arms into his chest. Then, as if the bunny actually knew this information, it brought its finger up the back and started scratching, before moving down and tickling the small of Michael’s back. “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAIT!” Michael bursted out loudly. He started bouncing around and squealing like a little kid, which sounded unbelievably similar to Michael’s squeals as a little kid when his back was touched. “HOHOHOW DID YOHOHOU KNOHOHOHOHOW?!” Michael asked, reaching behind his shoulder in an attempt to stop the bunny. To make matters worse, the bunny had added a second finger to the tickling and started scratching and massaging the many muscles surrounding the man’s spine. This led to cackles, intense squirming and fist-pounding against the bunny’s hand.

Finally, Michael pulled a quick body turn and grabbed onto the bunny’s fingers to stop the animatronic. Even as he held the bunny’s hand, Michael was still stuck in a giggle fit for a good 5 minutes or so. “Whahahat pahart of stahahahap dohohon’t yohohou uhuhunderstahahahahand?” Michael asked, slightly moving his back around as the phantom tickles still plagued him. “Hohohohow...hohohow...how-” Michael stuttered, trying to properly put his thoughts together. “How did you know my back was so ticklish?! The only people that know about that, is Uncle Henry and my family-” Michael’s confused face quickly turned to shock as theories started to click into his brain.

“...Wait-”

Michael opened up the jaw and looked at the purple skull once more. He tried to look for any facial resemblance to his family members. He tried matching up each family member’s face to the skull shape first. But the skull could have belonged to anyone in his family! Skulls were hard to use for identification without some clay and peg markers, and Michael would’ve known about the death sooner if it were one of his family members that died in the suit.

Unless...one of your family members had gone missing…

Michael’s eyes widened as he soon started putting small puzzle pieces together on what might’ve happened to his father. “...D-Dad?!” Michael muttered in disbelief. Is this him?! Is this really his Father? Trapped inside a suit with a metal endo-skeleton holding him together?! Now that he looked at the skull further, Michael could see the facial resemblance between his father and this undead corpse.

The corpse’s mouth gave Michael a slight toothy smile. “Hello Michael.” The corpse spoke to him.

Michael could feel tears welling up in his eyes. It sounded almost just like him. It was deep and soothing like his voice had always been, yet it was somewhat hoarse. It reminded him of the slight change in his voice whenever he would get sick with laryngitis. Maybe it was because his voice got messed up in the suit? Or maybe it was because of underuse? Michael couldn’t say. But all he understood now, was that this corpse sitting in a bunny suit might’ve belonged to his father.

“What...HAPPENED TO YOU?!” Michael asked loudly, unable to fathom how he got into the suit, let alone died in it.

“The spirits. They did this to me.” William explained. Wait...what?

“What spirits?” Michael asked, suspiciously.

“The spirits of the children began haunting me. I tried to hide in the suit, but the spring locks crushed me to death.” William explained in a grumpy voice.

Michael’s fear began to morph into bits of anger. He knew what William meant by ‘spirits of the children’. He looked at William with a hurt, yet angry expression. “The spirits of the children you killed.” Michael concluded through his teeth. It sounded like the ghosts of the kids he had killed, had finally cornered him into his much-needed death. If he’s going to steal the lives of 5 innocent children, he deserves to lose his own life too.

And yet, here he was: tickling him as if nothing had happened.

“Let me go.” Michael ordered.

William’s smile fell and his facial expression turned into anger. “No.”

Michael reached into his pocket and pulled a big piece of glass out of his pocket. “Let. Me. Go. Or I shove this glass right into your eyes.” Michael warned.

William and the bunny’s face got closer to Michael. He narrowed his eyes at Michael. “I liked you much better when you were laughing.” William shot back in a quieter, strict voice.

Michael’s frown grew deeper. “And I liked you much better when you were missing.” Michael shot back in a similar strict, angry tone.

Michael, sick of hearing his voice, shoved the glass shard right into his father’s larynx. William made a crackling shouting sound, as the shard cut and severed his vocal cords. Upon the sudden damage, William dropped Michael and felt his throat with his big steel hands.

“You BASTARD!” William shouted in his deep, broken voice. Michael began hyperventilating upon hearing that broken voice, and took off running down the hallway as soon as he could. He sprinted as quick as he could, similarly to his first attempted escape: body checking the hallway walls and not caring about any dangers he may run into. Right as Michael reached the glass floor again, Michael decided to try jumping over the glass and landing on the door. Michael ran for it, took a manly leap over the glass, and actually reached the door! But his landing was not exactly smooth. Though he experienced no pain from the adrenaline rush, Michael ended up stumbling and further ruining his ankle upon landing. Quickly, Michael ignored the pain and speed limped himself right out of the building and towards the car. He opened the door to his car, and quickly closed the door and locked it. He reached in his usual pocket for his keys, and widened his eyes when he realized they weren’t there! He checked his other pockets, quickly growing more and more anxious. They were missing! Michael looked at the Fazbear Fright building and let out an angered growl:

He dropped the freaking car keys in the building!

Michael gripped the steering wheel in frustration and leaned his head against the top of the steering wheel. He had no choice. If he wants to get home and forget all about this...

He’ll have to face his crooked father again.

I apologize for the rather abrupt ending to this fanfiction. Though it seems like Michael would be doomed to face his disgusting and apathetic father, he does end up getting his keys successfully before driving away from the abandoned building.

And P.S; Michael was the one who burned the building down.

#ticklefic #fluff and horror #Hurt no comfort #emotional hurt #implied character death #lee!michael #ler!springtrap #referenced child murder

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zombiejoepino · 4 years ago

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The Scavenger. CH: 2 (Cobb Vanth x OC fanfic)

CH 2: The Bounty

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Cobb Vanth x OC!Female (in her late 20´s if you wondered)

Word count: 2923

Summary: A dangerous man is trying to keep a bounty in secret. He is waiting news from his missing hunters. Back in Mos Pelgo, The Marshal guards at night.

Warnings: angst

A/N: English is not my first language so i apologize in advance if i butchered your language. If you want to read the first part is right here. Thanks for stopping by and I hope you enjoy it

FULL STORY HERE :

UPDATE. CHAPTER 3 IS UP!

CHAP 2: THE BOUNTY

Another night in the crowded bar.

A light smoke covered the atmosphere, live music was banging in the walls as the blue-skinned singer charmed the audience with her smooth voice.

Hunters, travelers, or anyone looking for passage was that night. Some of them just enjoyed a drink while talking business, others just gambled from time to time the sound of a blaster roared and another body dropped dead. Didn’t pull fast enough, others thought.

Just a regular night at Mos Espa.

The smoky drink traveled its way around the joint, crossing around colorful and loud characters. All of them must have a good story about the Old Republic or the Empire. They would exchange facts and anecdotes but there was always someone taking credit for things that didn’t happen. That would end up in a whole fight.

The drink finally made its way to the lone booth, stopping right in front of this man. Dark hair, a dark eye, and a pale one that followed the X shape scar across his left side. A strong clean shaved jaw and a heavy frown. Captain Qod was his name.

There were rumors about him, no one could tell for sure if he was a rebel pilot that went rogue or an imperial pilot turned into a bounty hunter. All that everyone knew was that he was good at stealing and hunting.

He and his gang, the Shadows, got quite a reputation for pulling out heists on New Republic cargo. They were smart enough to stay low for a time before going all over again. The last job was easy on terms, things went sideways in a matter of seconds. He lost two crew members, one betrayed them, the rest flee to the closest location.

His fingers drummed patiently, then stopped to take the smoky drink. He took a small sip and made a face.

Between the crowd, a skinny pale man flashed his yellowish smile at him and waved nervously. Wan Plog was a slippery one that always shifted between alliances. Our lone man didn’t make any expression while looking at him but just followed his clumsy actions with his eyes.

The nervous pale man reached the lone booth and waited before he was allowed to sit down. He rubbed his hands together and took the cloak from his head.

“They haven’t come back, boss.” Plog smiled nervously. “But maybe that’s not all bad. Probably found her and are just waiting to bring her. You know how the desert is. Raiders and other creatures.” He chuckled.

Max Qod, just gave him a long stare and sipped the smoky drink again. He didn’t blink even once.

“But if they don’t find her, I made this.” The pale man looked through his pockets and dropped a rounded dark object. He picked it up quickly, cleaned it up a bit, and slid it through the table.

Qod put down his drink and rose a brow looking at the puck. He pressed it and the blueish hologram displayed the young redhead image and last name; Roznev. Charges: Theft.

“I know It’s a high price, boss, but maybe the best of the best can find her. Maybe if we send this to the Guild. After all, what she took is wh-” Plog's words were cut when the Captain's large hand-pulled him by the hood and made him bang his head in the table.

There was a small moment of silence but the crowd just decided to ignore it as they do with other conflicts or shootouts.

Qod press his head down on the table and moved close enough to his ears and whisper. “You know if you spit any word of what she has, others will come for it. I dunno who told you to make that, but you better destroy it.” He squeezed the head down, poor Plog let out a squeak.

“Better find those idiots, I don’t care if you have to track them down personally. Cant trust bounty hunters.”

Qod shoved him away from the booth and looked down at the pale man. His expression was severe. He left 3 rounded chips on the table and walked away. The folks around just stepped aside to clear the Captain's way.

No one wanted to mess with The Shadows' leader.

…

Nighttime was the quietest at Mos Pelgo; kids were at the house getting ready to sleep. The local business closed when the sunset down. Only the old Weequay kept the light up as he cleaned up his pub, sweeping quietly. Even Banthas were mooing from time to time, almost like they were singing at night.

There was no much action after earlier events. The stranger crashing a speeder close to the town and the Marshal taking down two of them. The third one wounded, probably a victim, or just trouble. That was the two ideas that bounced on The Marshal's head.

He fought so hard for this community to have a moment of peace and he wouldn’t allow strangers to bring trouble to them. No more Key Raiders, Mining Collective, or the Sand people, he would face them all if it was necessary.

Of course, he would stand for his town, he knows that bounty hunters can be ruthless like any enemy and they would try to hit on his weaknesses just to get the worst of him, just enough to make a mistake.

But what were Cobb Vanth´s weaknesses? He wasn’t sure, so far he grew a soft spot for the young stranger.

Her behavior towards him was amusing for him. It was a normal reaction not to trust each other, and yet he felt her long stares, quick looking aways followed by a frown and a tiny blush. He chuckled thinking about it.

He was aware of his appearance, he noticed when women stared at him a little longer, followed by flirty smiles or nervous giggles but it didn’t bother him. Cobb barely had time to flirt back or give them too much attention. There was a lot in his mind, responsibilities, and more. He kept those ideas away and tried to focus on the facts around the accident.

Two bounty hunters were after a young girl. He found a trashed puck but the bounty in the hologram was not her. There was a bag with different pieces that reminded him of Jawas. So, that made her a scavenger, stole from them by mistake and they followed.

The Marshal didn’t have much time to ask her anything about those two cause she passed out in his arms. He was quite surprised how long she endured after the crash and the beat up. That last part made him angry. He would get more intel if he let one of them alive but there was no reason to spare a woman beater's life.

The bruises on the redhead were not severe; puffy cheeks, a black eye, small scratches but the wounded knee worried him the most. It would take her a couple of days to walk and maybe keep up on the road or wherever she is going.

He needed to decide how long he would let the girl stay and not make the villagers anxious about her cause they didn’t like strangers at all. These are hard times and you can’t trust everybody you meet.

That cold night, he was guarding outside the town, keeping an eye in the dark desert, hoping no man or creature would dare to step a foot in his town; A long watch.

He didn’t mind staying there in the cold, after all, he couldn’t patch his eyes at home. All those nightmares kept him awake and just rolling around. He didn’t want to remember all over again when the red-hot steel was burning his skin. He kept his mind on the moment and not in the past. Besides, the new guest/prisoner needed a place to rest.

Was she a prisoner? She didn’t resist the arrest, it was like she had no other choice. It was hard to believe that such a fragile and delicate figure would be dangerous. He didn’t find any weapons in her belongings, there was a bag with random items and pieces to improve a small speeder.

Maybe she stole from the wrong people, the bounty hunters, but they didn’t kill her right away so, there must be something else.

His mind shook off all the ideas and focused on a moving shape. He rose the rifle and waited for a moment.

The old Dewback made a few grunts while stomping his way on the sand. His steps slowed down before it collapsed, breathing heavily. At any time, scavengers would come out to eat the agonizing old beast.

He thought about putting it down to ease its pain, but the noise would bring out something big and mean.

The Marshal observed another food chain example.

…

Screams heard in the darkness.

Her feet felt heavy but didn’t dare to stop. Blasters and explosions just felt closer. Space was getting smaller each time and all the bodies squeezed together trying to breathe when the water reached them. The cage was closed, no one else was allowed to come out, they were left behind. They begged for help, for mercy but the faceless shooters couldn’t tell the difference. Extermination was everything in their program. She backed off to escape until she felt the heavy hand around her throat.

She gasped. The heartbeats pounding in her ears, trying to scream but she couldn’t open her mouth, unable to utter a sound and unable to move.

What seemed an eternity was probably no more than a few minutes when she found herself able to move again. A violent reaction followed by the struck of reality. There was no cage, no water, or hand around her throat. She couldn’t place her thoughts properly.

Her first move was to kick the bedsheets away. Her leg was burning and the other one was not enough to hold her weight. She groaned in pain but stop when the footsteps approached the room.

Nath did her best to sat up and reached the first object to cause enough damage to her captor; a bottle. It was still pretty dark so it was hard to tell. The adrenaline kept pumping in her veins.

The large shadow walked in and, she let out a mighty roar and jumped over it to smash a bottle on its head. The shadow stumbled with her, both crashing the ground. He struggled to keep her hands away from him as she swung her fists furiously.

“Hey! It's me!” He yelled while dodging the fists.

She was lost in her thoughts and kept fighting. He quickly wrapped his legs around her waist to shift the position to overpower her.

“Stop it, Nathsca!” His hands pinned her down on the floor. She wiggled trying to set herself free from his grip.

She fought for a few moments, then huffed and looked back at her captor. It was hard to tell. Both of them were panting and not moving in the darkness, the heartbeat was drumming in her ears, her breath was warm just like his. Her eyes widen when she realized how small was the space between them, feeling each other´s heat and shaking. She didn’t dare to move or saying anything.

“It´s the Marshal,” He spoke softly to break the tension “You had an accident and I brought you here, remember?” Trying to read her expression in the dark.

Nath focused on his words when the memories jumped back. The chase, her speeder crashing and her face buried in sand, the burning slap across her face and then thuds. Two dead hunters and the armored man. She took a deep breath.

“I'm letting you go, alright?” Cobb said.

She was not sure to reply or make any sound, she nodded lightly. Cobb drops the grip on her wrists and moved back slowly. He sat back and kept his distance before checking on her. Nath rested her back against the wall and winced when she tried to stretch her leg.

Cobb studied her body language and sighed. Maybe he went hard on her but she was being erratic and needed to calm down. Pretty strong for a little lady, he thought.

“Where am I exactly?” She asked.

“Mos Pelgo, my place.” He cleared his throat after feeling her murderous glare. “This is a small community, the folks didn’t feel comfortable having you around and, I offered my place, so you could rest. And dont worry, I just arrived, we are not that kind of place.”

“Which kind of place then?”

“Just a town trying to survive, not letting trouble bite our asses again.” He stood up and offered his hand. The woman looked at him for a moment and took it.

She hopped her way back in bed to sit down. Cobb stood right in front of her and folded his arms getting pretty serious. There was a long silence before he spoke up.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, are you bringing trouble to the town?”

“I'm not planning on staying.” Nath glared him.

“That´s not what I am asking. I mean, two bounty hunters right after you, you must have quite a story for that, miss.”

“None of your business.” She snapped.

“Is my business if you are a guest in my town.” He kept a serious expression.

Nath just rolled her eyes and drummed her feet on the floor while thinking what to say and what not to say. She didn’t want to get into so many details and share her matters.

“I stole from them.”

“That´s pretty obvious but what did you steal exactly? Cause I don’t think two bounty hunters took so much trouble to chase you just for missing parts.”

Her eyes darted him and frowned. She just decided that she didn’t like this man. He was asking too much like he was a real law figure, which was rare around this planet.

“I don't know. I just took off. Look, mister, if we are gonna have a problem cause I'm staying in your dead town is fine. Just give me back my belongings and I'm out.”

“And walk by yourself in the desert and risk to fall in a sarlac pit cause you don’t know the area?”

“I´ll take my chances.”

Cobb huffed and rubbed his temples to keep his cool. This woman is stubborn, he thought.

“I'm sorry, I can’t let you go by yourself.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, is not like you are my father.” She folded her arms and frowned.

“No, but I'm in charge of this town.” He moved close enough to look right into her eyes.

“What is that suppose to mean?” She did her best to keep it with the stare.

“That I'm responsible for everyone in here, and that includes you. So, this is what’s gonna happen. You will stay a day or two until that leg gets better but I need to know what’s coming after you.” He had an intense stare, probably the same one he had while shooting down those hunters.

“Cause whatever comes, will find you and take you down easily and, if he pleases, he will stop by the town. I can’t let that happen. So, if it's necessary, I will make you the first prisoner in Mos Pelgo.”

“Are you putting me in a cage?”

“Or a box, your choice.”

“And you expect me to trust you after saying you are gonna put me in a box? Wow.”

He sighed quite exasperated and shook his head. He was just arguing with a stubborn brat that had no interest or respect for the town.

“Listen, I'm just trying to find a solution so no one gets harmed. You are just a kid.”

“I'm not a kid, I can look after myself and always have.” She snapped again. She hated it when people underestimate her or call her kid.

“So, here’s your solution. I'm leaving. I'm not gonna follow your orders just cause you wear a stupid armor and think you can control everyone.”

Cobb sighed in frustration and took a deep breath, he was too tired to keep arguing with her.

“Fine. You are free to go whenever you want.” He was about to exit the room and stopped for a moment.

“Just don’t do something that would harm the town. These are good people if that means something for you. I suppose thieves don’t know much about loyalty.”

Her words sank when he exited the room. She would argue with him or anyone for hours but, that last one did hurt. She was loyal to those she cared or loved, but right now, she was uneasy about everyone after her crew betrayed her.

He betrayed her for what? Crystals? Beskar? She didn’t even want to open that canister again to know her answer.

Nath just curled back in bed, lost in her thoughts, studying the rounded walls in the small room.

She even felt guilty staying there, in his bed, wondered where he might sleep now. Her temper, that stupid temper always got her in trouble. Being rude towards people that are nice to her, like the Marshal.

He saved her from the hunters, patched her up, gave up his bed, and still, she backlashed at him like she was arguing with someone else.

What was this thing about the Marshal that made her angry?

She didn’t even ask for his name.

#Cobb Vanth #cobb vanth x reader #cobb vanth fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #cobb vanth x oc

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yoongi-sugaglider · 4 years ago

Text

Daegu Quarantine

Jungkook x reader

Gang/ zombie apocalypse au

Warnings:

Gore, violence, zombies, mention of drugs and drug dealing, weapons discharge in self defense, main character death, zombies, course language, zombies, drinking, did I mention zombies?

Summary:

They were the top of their game, known throughout the city as the smartest and most dangerous crew to ever hit the Daegu streets. But what’s going to happen when this group of young men encounter something right out of a horror film?

Word count:2325

Part 12===Part 13===Part 14

The moment we pushed into the hotel hallway it was all gunfire and falling bodies. Seokjin made quick work of the men, pushing ever forward in a hail of bullets that pierce the walls and floor with a merciless bite.

Room doors opened with a crash but the bodies only appeared for a moment before crashing backwards into more darkly clad bodies. I couldn’t help but be impressed, the forward push of Seokjin’s wide shoulders a reassuring reminder why we’d kept him around for so long despite the epic cringe that was his dad jokes.

The one moment there was a break in the gun fire Hoseok and I began scouting out the rooms, reassuring ourselves that nobody was hiding in the shadows for our eventual retreat back to the stairwell.

The first few rooms were empty thankfully but the third we tried was a different story. A dark shadowed blur dashed out of the dark bathroom, catching me off guard and slamming me into the wall so hard it knocked the wind out of me and almost caused me to lose my grip on my weapon.

Hoseok acted quickly though, wrapping his arm around the man’s throat and pinning his arm up in the air in a choke hold so fierce it caused his grip to loosen on me instantly. The two fell backwards, fighting for control as I recovered enough to smash the butt of my gun into my former assailant’s temple so hard he went limp in Hoseok’s arms instantly.

We gave each other a nod of thanks, both glad to have the other as backup in this life or death situation.

Out in the hall Jungkook was in a fight of his own, two men having made the mistake of trying to take him on at once. Jungkook’s leg darted out, taking one man out at the knee by snapping it painfully backwards. The fool landed with a scream, clutching his leg as his partner came at Jungkook with an ill placed fist towards Jungkook’s temple. Kook’s reflexes were far too quick though, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it sharply in the opposite direction. The man screamed out, high pitched and aching as Kook wrenched his arm behind his back and kicked the back of his knee so that he dropped down to the floor. Jungkook pulled upwards hard, dislocating his opponent’s shoulder with another well placed kick.

A single gunshot rang out, ending the man’s suffering instantly. Jungkook glanced back at me, a manic grin lighting up his face as he watched me eject my clip and slam another home.

“That’s my girl.” He cheered and I couldn’t help but swell a bit with pride as the three of us turned to race down the hall to Seokjin and Yoongi.

The two had already cleared the rooms ahead of us and now stood side by side with Rose. Seokjin was arguing with her as Yoongi glared with a mix of displeasure and what I could only describe as awe at the strange machine she had wrapped in her arms.

“There is no fucking way I’m leaving it behind.” She whined, clutching it tighter and almost seeming to want to stamp her foot like a petulant child.

“We can’t possibly make it all the way back home with you carrying that monstrosity and be expected to protect you AND stay alive.” Seokjin turned to me, his eyes filled with pleading for me to try and talk some sense into her.

“I take it that’s the machine Tae made for you?” I asked. I couldn’t help but stare at the thing, wondering what had possessed her to think to even grab it in the chaos of escaping her room.

“It is. It’s the most important thing in my life besides what’s in my bag. You can’t possibly ask me to leave it behind.” She pouted, fluttering her lashes at me in an attempt to garner a bit of sympathy.

“I’m sorry. But it’s just too much. I mean, yeah you could try….but by the time you got half way down the street you’d be forced to drop it and make a run for it. Those….things won’t care that you’re carrying precious cargo, they’re more interested in your insides anyway.”

She stared down at it, heaving a sigh before turning and gently leaning it on the ground against the elevator doors. “One day...I’ll come back for you…” She stroked the gleaming metal and I could swear she shed a tear.

Turning back to us she hitched up her bag, glancing warily down at the pistol Jungkook was offering her.

“You really don’t expect me to take that do you?” She asked, her voice filled with doubt at the situation.

Yoongi sighed, grabbing the gun and forcing it into her hands. “Listen sweetheart. It’s kill or be killed. We risked our asses to come out here and get you for Taehyung’s sake, the least you can do is cover us.”

She winced and sighed as her fingers wrapped around the cold steel. “Alright...yeah no that’s fair.”

“You’ve got 15 rounds, one in the chamber. Make them count.” Jungkook turned to each of us, eyeing us up and down to check for injuries before glancing down the hall.

“There’s gonna be more in the stairwell, we can’t count on our way in to get back down which means clearing the lobby before we’re out the back way. Tae you still with us?”

“On it boss, back alley is clear for the moment, no activity on the streets. I’ll lose you in the stairwell for a moment but once you’re back to ground floor I’ll be sure to update you if anything changes.”

“Easiest way to the back door?”

Rose chirped up at this. “There’s a hall directly outside of the stairwell, leads to the front lobby. Head straight down the middle towards the back. There’s a kitchen that should be pretty easy to get through. It’s basically a straight shot to the alley from there.”

Jungkook nodded, checking the chamber on his gun to make sure it was clear before nodding once again. “Alright. Head out. Keep your heads down as best you can and your eyes open.”

We each signed off in agreement and began making our way down the hall.

There was an unnerving silence once we were back in the stairwell, each of us trying our best to keep our footsteps quiet as we followed behind Seokjin who once again led the press onward. The silence was shattered quickly though by the sound of gunfire echoing up the center shaft of the stairwell.

I pressed my back as best I could into the wall, arms pulled into my chest and my weapon at the ready as bullets flew by before me. At a break in the firing Seokjin leaned over the railing, spraying a hail of gunfire of his own into the landings below as the rest of us pressed on in an attempt to gain ground on those beneath us.

“Get down!”

My eyes widened when I spotted Hoseok, tiny metal pin in hand as he lobbed a black object into the abyss below. I grabbed Rose who’d been pressed in close behind me, ducking both our heads down as a massive explosion rocked the stairwell and caused all matter of dust and debris to rain down on our heads.

My ears rang, a screaming high pitch tone filling my head with an ache unlike anything I’d ever felt as Yoongi tugged Rose and I to our feet and shoved us down the stairs.

“Christ Hoseok, really?” I muttered, smacking my palm several times into the side of my head as my hearing slowly returned. He only glanced back to me with a grin, fingers deftly rezipping Seokjin’s bag and throwing it over his shoulders.

We made it two more landings down before the gunfire began again, this time aimed far more sporadically and far less in number than before. Our next landing saw the effects of Hoseok’s grenade, bodies hanging limp over the railing and blasted out into the corridor beyond. We stepped over them with zero remorse and continued to dodge the gunfire as we moved on.

Seokjin leaned over the railing once more as the firing slowed, allowing his AK to do the talking as the firing slowed and then ceased all together. We managed to make it down to the ground floor, arms and legs burning from the mad dash down the stairs and ears ringing in the silence following our assailants’ last shots.

Rose leaned against the wall, breath heavy as she clutched at her chest and coughed around her lungs’ desperate attempt at re oxygenating her body. “Fucking hell...being a computer nerd does NOT come in handy in the apocalypse.” She shook her head, knees bent as she coughed a few more times before straightening with a grimace. “Remind me to take up some cardio if we make it out of this alive.”

“We will. And I will don’t worry.” I smiled, patting her on the shoulder and turning to Seokjin who’d taken his bag from Hoseok.

“She’s been a good girl, not gonna lie. But there’s only so much ammo I brought for her.” He sighed sadly, tucking the pink monster away and pulling out two of his favorite pistols.

“Alright boys, final push. Down the hall and through the lobby. Get to that kitchen and push for home. Tae’ll have eyes on us so no worries alright?” Jungkook waited as we all whispered our affirmatives.

On a three count we were out the door and into the thankfully empty hallway. Yoongi covered our rear, steps clipped and sure as he moved backwards with a guiding hand from Hoseok gripping his shoulder. Jungkook had point, weapon moving ever watchful with his eyesight as we made our way to the corner that turned into the lobby.

I could see rubble littering the ground from the explosion that’d taken out the large glass front doors and a massive portion of the cinder block of the ceiling. Bodies were scattered throughout, probably from the chatterers that’d been milling the lobby and had been caught in the blast.

I couldn’t help but wince at the sight of one dragging itself across the floor. There was no lower body to speak of, just a trail of viscera leading from it back to a pile of rubble that it’d surely dragged itself from.

“Fucking gross dude…” Hoseok muttered from behind me, attempting to stave off a gag as we moved into the rays of light cast from the holes in the rubble outside. Our movements were quick after that, rushing past the chattering mass on the ground and into the dark hall that would hopefully lead us to open air and a path out.

***

The kitchen was just as dark as everything else. Thankfully we’d reached it without incident but this cesspool of darkness could very well be our undoing if we weren’t careful.

I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight and opening them to blink rapidly in an attempt to adjust my eyes to the gloom beyond but it wasn’t much help. The murky darkness was basically impenetrable beyond the dim light cast by the hallway door that Yoongi held open for the moment.

My eyes glanced back to the dark silhouette that was Jungkook and his outstretched fist indicating us to hold our positions. He motioned to Seokjin who reached into his bag and after digging around for a moment he tossed a large black mass to Jungkook. The mass was caught with ease and I barely managed to suppress my impressed snort in time as Jungkook pulled what were clearly a pair of night vision goggles over his head.

Seokin really thought of everything, I have to say I was pretty damn impressed.

We all linked up, fingers entwined in the tails of the shirt of the person who walked before us as Yoongi slowly closed the door behind us. The room plunged into darkness and I could feel Hoseok tense up behind me before all thought was on Rose who walked before me being led by Seokjin.

I strained my ears, listening for Jungkook’s footsteps in the lead and trying to match my steps with his.

“Get down!” Jungkook’s voice rang out at the same time as a muzzle flash blinded me from further in the room.

I dragged Rose down with me as gunshots rang through the air, straining to keep her body covered with my own as Hoseok cursed on the ground behind me.

All went silent after a dozen or more shots had gone off and I sighed in relief as Jungkook’s dusky voice muttered out the all clear. But the relief came all too soon.

As I stood, arm wrapped in Rose’s elbow, one more shot rang out, instantly followed by another as I shouted out in pain.

A piercing white hot pain burned through me. Jungkook roared with rage at the front of the line as I went down, dropping to my knees with a whimper as stars exploded before my eyes.

There was no escaping the screaming in my head as bright light flooded the kitchen, illuminating the horror on Jungkook’s face as I reached for him. But it was just too much.

I’d been shot. In some stupid fucking hotel in the middle of a goddamn apocalypse.

I caught the sight of Yoongi, wrapping me in his arms and lifting me from the floor as chaos erupted around me.

The light began to fade as my eyelids grew heavier and heavier. The last thing I could hear as my mind shut down from the pain was Taehyung’s voice in my ear, filled with regret and fear, and one last bellow of anger from Jungkook before I lost consciousness and said goodnight to the world.

#bts boulangerie #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bts gang au #bts zombie au #bts fluff #bts angst #bts fanfic #bts imagine #bts x reader insert #my writing

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