#my stomach is like. a lot thinner than i thought it was | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sweetbbarnes · 10 months

Text

Perfect

Bucky Barnes x Chubby!Reader

Summary: You get insecure about your body. Bucky’s not having that.

Warnings: insecure!reader; body shame; reader is mean to herself (but it’s okay ‘cause our boy makes sure to let her know that her mean thoughts are just bullshit); a tiny bit of angst; Bucky’s just a sweetheart; slightly suggestive at the and (you have to squint though); nothing special just a whole lot of fluff; lmk if I forgot something.

MY BLOG IS +18. MINORS DNI.

WC: 2k

I do not consent to have my fics translated, copied or posted to any other sites/apps. Don’t steal my work.

A/N: this is my first request and I absolutely loved the idea! I hope you like it @chocolateeclairsmoralbackbone <3

If you like my story, please consider reblogging and/or leaving feedback.

Everything started with a simple picture.

Your girlfriends wanted to know about the mysterious guy you’ve been dating for the past year and a half, and you also wanted to tell them, so you all met up for coffee. You didn’t mention the details about who he really is or his past, as he asked you not to, but you told them everything they wanted to know about the relationship – how’d you two met? Is he handsome? How did he ask you out? Are you guys serious? – and the conversation was great.

At some point, one of them suggested you take a picture, since the four of you almost never see each other. You weren’t feeling particularly pretty that day, but you also didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, so you posed for the damn phone.

As you were about to hit the “send” button to show Bucky the picture – ‘cause you two shared photos of everything you did during the day – you hesitated. You couldn’t help but notice how all your other friends looked so much thinner next to you.

I’ll just send the picture later, you thought. Later turned into never.

When Bucky stopped by to pick you up, he instantly noticed your mood, but when he asked, you just shrugged it off.

You’ve never been the “skinny girl,” even when you first met Bucky. But since you started dating him, you did notice a few extra pounds on your body. It became evident as your favorite jeans started feeling snug and some of your old shirts went to the bottom of your wardrobe since they no longer hid the belly that was now more pronounced.

But that picture lingered in the back of your mind, gnawing at your self-esteem and fueling your insecurities. It became a constant reminder of the fact that Bucky, that walking Greek god of a man, could very easily find someone prettier than you.

Your doubts and insecurities grew more and more everyday, causing you to withdraw. You became distant, avoiding Bucky’s touch, covering your body with oversized clothes, never sending him pictures anymore, calling it a night before your kisses and caresses could escalate to a situation where you’d have to be completely exposed to him. None of this went unnoticed by the soldier, but everytime he asked you’d shrug it off as if he was overthinking things.

The breaking point arrived on a particular evening in Louisiana. Sam invited both of you to join his family for lunch, which eventually led to everyone deciding to go for a swim. As you went upstairs to change into your bikini, you found yourself standing in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection for God knows how long. Your eyes trailed up and down your body, those doubts coming to the surface every time you looked at how your thighs glued together, almost like if they were competing for space, or how your stomach was accentuated by the lack of more clothes, or how the fabric of the bikini was so stretched around your curves that it could easily rip. You didn’t even notice the tears streaming down your face until Bucky opened the door, calling for you.

He had noticed something was off a long time ago, but today was even harder for him to let it go. He thought this trip would be good for you, you loved every time he brought you here, but when you barely touched your food and didn’t go play with Sam’s nephews like you always do, he started to worry even more. You, obviously, denied every time he asked if something was wrong. But when you took more than twenty minutes to change into your bikinis, he couldn't take it anymore.

As soon as Bucky opens the door and sees you quickly cover yourself with the beach robe as tears streamed down your face, his heart breaks a little. Coming closer, he asks once again what’s wrong.

“Everything’s fine,” you evade the question one more time, and the way you hunch your shoulders, as if trying to make yourself smaller, makes his chest ache.

His thumbs graze above your cheeks, touching you softly to not startle you. He brushes your tears away, though your eyes remain glossy. Then his fingers trail down your arms until he’s squeezing your elbows, gently coaxing you to let go of the robe and reveal yourself. But you only clutch your fingers tightly to the fabric, denying his silent request.

“You won’t let me see you, doll?” He asks, his voice soft, though you can notice the hurt in his words. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” You reply instantly, biting your lower lip.

He calls your name softly, but you don’t answer. You know you and Bucky promised to always tell each other things, but what if you tell him about your insecurities and he agrees with them? What if finally verbalizing your doubts about your body made him realize all of them are true and then he leaves you?

With a mix of uncertainty and concern, he continues. "Is it me? Am I the problem?"

"What?" Your head snaps towards him, surprise evident in your eyes. "No, you're not– what makes you think that?"

"You've been acting distant lately. You won't let me touch you, or see you. You're always sad," he explains, his words pouring out in a rush. "You've barely looked at me or touched your food today. I know you, I can see something's wrong, but every time I ask you don’t tell me anything." His voice quivers with a mix of frustration and hurt. "Do I not make you happy anymore? Do you want to break up with me? Please, tell me something."

His last words strike a chord within you, awakening a pang of guilt and realization. You’re not sure if it is the sadness in his beautiful blue eyes, the pain in his voice or the raw vulnerability he’s displaying, but something tugs at your heartstrings.

"Bucky, you're not the problem, okay?" you assure him, your voice laced with sincerity and frustration. "It's just... hard to explain."

"Then what is it?" he pleads, desperation seeping into his tone as his hold on your elbow becomes a little stronger, like he’s unconsciously clinging to you. "What's wrong, doll? You're my... you're my everything. Just tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."

“You can’t fix it,” you whisper.

"Try me," he replies without hesitation, you don’t know if it’s out of his natural stubbornness or just his current desperation to make you happy again. Maybe both.

You stop for a moment. How do you even begin?

"It's just... my thighs," you finally managed to utter. You huff, frustrated with your struggle to articulate your feelings.

"Your... thighs?" he repeated, confusion clouding his face for a moment. "Is there something wrong with them?"

"Yes, there is, Bucky! There's something wrong with all of me! I’m fat!" you exclaim, in a lack of words to describe your insecurities. You step away from him and squeeze your eyes shut, wishing you could disappear. "And my thighs are so gross, and my stomach, and... ugh!"

His brows furrow, a mix of concern and confusion etched on his face. Is he really hearing what he thinks he's hearing?

Each word escapes your lips with a tinge of sadness and defeat. "You're so handsome, and your body... I just don't understand why you're with me."

For a moment, Bucky stands there, processing your words. Then, without hesitation, he steps closer to you, his touch once again finding its way to your skin, trailing up and down your arms. "Look at me," he pleads gently, his tone laced with kindness. When you don’t comply, he insists, “baby doll, look at me.”

Reluctantly, you open your eyes, meeting his gaze.

His voice is filled with affection as he whispers, “I love you, all of you.”

A wave of memories floods your mind. You remember the countless times you whispered those exact same words to Bucky, showering him with reassurance when he was still self-conscious about his arm and scars and his past. You remember how you whispered sweet nothings into his ear, slowly crushing his insecurities until he began to believe you. And he remembers it all too, now’s his turn to remind you of his love. He places a tender kiss on your forehead, his lips trailing down to your temple and then your cheek, where he kisses the remaining tears away.

"You want to know why I'm with you?" he asks, a serious undertone in his voice, his eyes sparkling with genuine adoration. "Among other things, because you make me happy. Even when I thought there was no more happiness left for me in this world." Then, a playful smirk tugs at his lips. “And because you're hot."

"Don't lie–" you start to protest, but he interrupts you, pointing out the obvious.

"I'm not lying," his grip on your arms is firm but gentle as he forces them away from your body, allowing the beach robe to open slightly. You open your mouth to protest, but he’s quick to silence you. "Shh. Let me appreciate my girl," he scolds playfully, his eyes roaming all over your body with admiration. "So beautiful. So fucking sexy. Look at you."

A warm flush spreads across your cheeks as Bucky's words sink in.

“I mean, you seriously believe all those mean things you just said about yourself?” He sighs, shaking his head, and then surprises you by dropping to his knees before you.

Bucky Barnes, on his knees, for you.

His hands find their place on your hips, giving them a gentle squeeze. "You mean this belly right here and those thighs, they're the problem?" he teases, emphasizing his words by holding and squeezing the areas he mentioned.

A mischievous smirk finds its way to his lips. Then, with a mixture of tenderness and playfulness, he starts placing kisses and little bites on your stomach and thighs, eliciting a weak giggle from you. The touch of his lips awakens a warmth within your chest, and for the first time in weeks you feel genuinely loved.

“I think I’ve been doing a poor job as your boyfriend if you think you are anything but the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He says between kisses. “But in case you haven’t noticed,” he squeezes your hips firmly, but not enough to hurt, “these thick thighs, your perfect belly? Those are the best fucking things about you, baby. You have no idea how much I love them,” he affirms, his voice laced with conviction.

You bite your lower lip, finding it hard to completely believe his words.

Getting back on his feet, he cups your face between his hands, demanding your attention, and asks seriously, "you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah. I hear you," you respond, your voice tinged with the tiniest bit of hope.

"You're perfect. My perfect, beautiful, sexy doll. Alright?" he asserts, his tone gentle yet firm.

You nod, the sadness and the doubts no longer clouding your eyes.

Without any warning, he smacks your ass, and you yelp, your widen eyes snapping at him just to see that mischievous grin playing on his lips.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to show you how sexy you are later. But right now we have a party to go back to, yeah?” He lifts one eyebrow.

You smile at the promise and nod again. Satisfied, Bucky steps behind you, removing your robe. When he’s done, he lightly taps your thigh three times, silently asking you to move. “C’mon, baby, they’re waiting for us.”

As you walk back to your friends, Bucky’s body glued to your back, those insecurities slowly fade away. Maybe you’re not the skinniest of girls, but you know now that the same way you love Bucky’s scars, he adores and cheriches every single curve of yours. And, honestly, that’s what matters to you.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fluff #bucky fic #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n

829 notes · View notes

exhaslo · 4 months

Note

I love your work so muchhhh <333

Can you do one where it's like you and Miguel are dating and it's only been like a couple weeks and he finds out you have an eating disorder and he is really supportive :)

(Also can't wait for more of puzzle pieces I love it <<<333)

Awe thank you!!! Also, sorry this was so late, holiday season got me working like crazy!

Also, not sure which eating disorder you want me to write, so I'll write this one based off a personal one.

Warning: Mentions of eating disorder, fluff

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Am I pretty enough for him?

Am I thin enough?

Am I even good enough?

A shudder escaped your lips as you stared at yourself in the mirror. Yet another day went by as these raging thoughts consumed your mind. No matter how perfect your life was. No matter how perfect of a boyfriend you had. You always worried that you were still not good enough.

Your stomach rumbled, causing you to groan lowly. You had skipped breakfast and were now planning on skipping lunch. You needed to get thinner. You wanted to be perfect for Miguel. You wanted people to believe that you were good enough for him.

You glanced at yourself once more in the mirror. You looked fine. As long as you looked the part, it was fine. Checking the time once more, you hurried. Miguel was going to pick you up and take you out on a date.

Hopefully there won't be a dinner option.

--------

There was a dinner option.

You kept your smile towards your loving boyfriend as Miguel walked you into a nice restaurant. You were so happy to find someone like him. Miguel was tall, strong, handsome and so kind to you. No one had ever checked all of those boxes.

"Wow, this place is beautiful. How'd you find this place, Miguel?" You asked, staring in awe at the architeceture.

"Well, I get a lot of recommendations from my coworkers that I usually tune out," He told you.

You chuckled lowly, finding his dull humor cute and funny. Miguel worked at Alchemax, one of the largest companies in the world. He was a great scientist, honestly an actual genius for his age. All the more reason why you had to be perfect for him.

All eyes were on Miguel. He was well known for what he did at Alchemax, that and he was the CEO's son; something that he did not like to admit. So money was also not an issue for him. Another secret box you had to check off.

"Order whatever you want. I was told the food here is amazing," Miguel said as he started with a drink. You hesitated,

"Oh, I'm not really hungry. Maybe just an appetizer." You lied. Miguel watched you order a water,

"Are you sure?"

"Yep!"

--------

Miguel kept staring at you as you scanned the menu. He furrowed his brows, observing your every movement. Miguel did not want to say anything yet, especially not in public. Instead, Miguel decided to order a bunch of food for himself.

"All of that?" You nearly gasped. Miguel resisted a chuckle,

"I had a long morning. Need to refuel, you can help yourself to try any of it." He offered.

Miguel saw your hesitated smile before you refused his offer. Once the table side bread came in, Miguel watched as you nearly drooled for them. He swore there were tears forming as you held back from eating. As concerned as he was, Miguel knew better than to ask you here.

He didn't want you to cry in public. Miguel didn't want to hurt you in anyway. There had to be a reason why you were holding back. Miguel was understanding. He wanted to know what you were thinking. What you were feeling.

"Wow, everything smells so good," You whispered as the waiter placed the mountain of food in front of the two of you.

"Enjoy," Miguel hummed as he stared at your salad, "Hm, looking at it now, I don't think I can eat all of this alone."

"B-But why did you order so much?!"

"It looked and sounded good," Miguel chuckled towards your reaction.

You looked so cute when you were eager to try something new. You were just perfect to Miguel. The smile on your face as you did anything new with him was enough. Just your touch alone was enough for Miguel.

You were the best thing that had ever happened to him.

And Miguel wanted to make sure that he was being a good boyfriend to you.

----------

Dinner was both amazing, yet horrible. Your stomach was hurting so much because you were starving. All of that food just made you want to cry. It looked so good, but if you even took a bite, you knew that you would gain so much weight.

"(Y/N), now that we're alone, may I ask you something?" Miguel asked softly as you sat in his car.

"Sure,"

"Why are you forcing yourself to starve?" His voice was low as he turned to face you, "You look exhausted, baby, and pale. I'm worried for your health."

"Ah-"

You were at a loss for words. Before you could even process a response in your mind, your tears rolled down like a broken dam. Your chest tighten and burned as you tried to control yourself. Your breathing shallow as you whimpered those sad sobs you've been holding back.

"Baby, don't cry. Come here," Miguel pulled you into his embrace, rubbing your back, "How long have you been holding this in?"

"I-I just...I'm not good enough for you. I need to lose weight. I'm too fat." You sobbed into his chest. Miguel stroked your hair,

"You're perfect," Miguel sighed softly, thinking about his words very carefully, "Starving yourself isn't the way to lose weight. You're just hurting yourself."

"It's the only way I can. I...I can't eat anything or..."

"(Y/N), eating a healthy meal won't make you gain weight. No matter what you look like, I will always love you."

"I...But-"

"How about this, for every meal I eat...You eat." Miguel offered, wiping your tears away with his thumb.

Your heart raced with fear as you looked at Miguel. You couldn't eat. You just couldn't. You were convinced that everything was going to make you gain weight. You had to eat less. You needed to lose weight for him.

"You're perfect, (Y/N). My perfect girl," Miguel whispered as he pecked your lips, "It hurts seeing you in pain."

"You say that now...But when I'm overweight-"

"I'll love you just the same." Miguel said firmly, "We'll start slow. Easy and simple foods then we can move on to bigger meals, okay?"

"...Small...right?"

"Yes, small."

You fiddled with your thumbs as Miguel kept comforting you. You could still feel how hot your cheeks were from crying. Your eyes stung and you were parched. Sniffling lowly, you glanced at your wonderful boyfriend,

"...I am...a little hungry..." You whispered. Miguel smiled as he put his seatbelt on,

"Is soup a good small start for you?"

"I'd like that,"

--------

From then on, Miguel helped you eat more little by little. With each meal he praised you and comforted your looks. Miguel helped your self esteem every day. His loving comments and actions helped you finally eat normally.

Eventually, you were finally able to look in the mirror without shame.

Sometimes you still had those thoughts of starving yourself, but you had Miguel to wash them away.

You were fine, just the way you are.

Always will be.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you enjoyed it! Like mentioned, I just used a personal issue of mine since I wasn't sure what disorder you wanted to me write about since everyone has something different.

But to those of you out there struggling, I know it hard. I still sometimes starve myself, but you're not alone! Please eat something! Start small! When in doubt, soup is my always go too!

Especially Pho. I will eat the shit out of Pho.

Anyway, stay safe and healthy out there!!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderman #atsv miguel #across the spiderverse #miguel x y/n #miguel x you

387 notes · View notes

rogueddie · 1 year

Text

Finally being invited on one of his parents trips is... well, Steve tries to be normal about it, but he's excited. He's only been invited on two. Three if he's counting the one to Chicago for a big family get-together, which he doesn't.

The only problem comes up when they sit him down and ask about all the scars he has. They want the trip to be a fun time, a nice family get-away where they can give their little boy a little peace from the chaos of Hawkins.

When he struggled to think of an excuse, his mother softly asked if he did them himself.

Reluctantly, he ducked his head in feigned shame, nodding.

His mother hurried to her feet, almost sitting on him in her effort to squeeze onto the one-man seat with him, wrapping him up tight in her arms. She whispered promises of love and safety.

His father had a look like he'd swallowed a lemon, but he too promised to provide the support than Steve needs to get through... whatever he's going through.

Steve swears to them that he's dealt with it, he's over it. He's just trying to move on now.

"Fucking hell," Eddie hisses when Steve finishes telling them about it all. "You can't be real. They think you did that shit to yourself?" He gestures to Steves stomach.

"I don't think they know about those. The older ones do look, uh... suspicious."

He rubs the thin ones on his left wrist, where a demogorgons claws had caught him in that last, big fight. Eddies hand is gentle when he pulls said wrist closer, thumb brushing over the scars.

"You do make a good point."

"I'm gonna miss you," Steve mumbles.

"It's just a week."

"Yeah, tell me about."

And he's right- he's barely stepped off the plane, a short 5 hour flight, and he's already homesick. He wishes he could've thought of a way to convince his parents to let him invite a friend.

Once they're settled in, though, it's alright. There's a lot of activities, a lot of places to visit and a lot of things to try.

On their second day, they try to start the routine of spending most of midday at the beach. His parents sunbathe, whilst he swims in the sea. The water is cool, a relief from the heat.

They always make him put jeans on after.

It doesn't matter how many times he points out that it's more than uncomfortable- not only in the heat, but with the lingering water. They insist that he puts jeans on.

They'd gotten him the new jeans special. They're supposed to be thinner, better for heat.

"It just seems unnecessary," Steve had said when they'd first presented them to him. "I have so many shorts!"

"Sweetheart, your scars," his mother had pointed out. "People will look. You don't want to make us look bad, do you?"

For three days, he went along with it. He tried to ignore the discomfort. But the heat was too much. The water making the material rub uncomfortably against his skin.

On the fourth day, as he's drying himself, he hesitates. He stares at the jeans his mother holds out for a moment.

"What if... I don't wear them, right now? It's so hot and my legs are still wet. Just until we get back to the hotel."

"Steve, no, that's not a-"

"Please. Just until we get back to the hotel. Just today."

"You've already made up your mind, haven't you?" His mother sighs, shaking her head when he gives her a sheepish smile. "Fine. Get your things."

He's so happy, comfortable in his swim shorts, that he walks with a bounce in his step. The breeze on his legs is almost soothing.

He's tempted to skip as he starts up the street.

There's a bright little drinks shop up ahead that he spots. The advertisement signs have pictures of ice creams and smoothies, things that look tasty and cold.

He turns to ask his mother if she'd like to stop there for a drink, to cool down after sunbathing. But she's not behind him.

There not far behind him, so he stops. He grins when they look to him, waving... his hand slowly dropping when he realizes that they stopped walking, as soon as he stopped.

But they're looking to the map. Maybe they're lost.

When he starts walking to them, they turn, walking a few steps that match his own. The only thing in that direction is the beach.

They don't want to be seen with me, he realizes.

He turns back around, slowly walking to that little drink shop. Although, he's not sure he needs to buy anything to cool him down. His insides feel numb enough now.

He sits at one of the tables outside, wondering if his parents will even try to sit with him or just... abandon him.

They do sit with him, pretending like nothing happened. It's the same attitude they have when they get in the taxi, after distancing themselves on the walk there too. The promised trip to the mall abandoned without word.

Steve spends the rest of the little vacation in his room. He lies about being tired, not feeling too well, whenever they try to invite him out with them.

They buy him the top he'd been eyeing. They seem to think that the little gift, and bragging about it being expensive, will make him feel better. He's sure that it's not an apology though.

On the plane ride home, it's odd to think about how excited he'd been. How hopeful.

The only comfort is Eddie. He goes straight to him, immediately after dumping his suitcase in his room, not even bothering to unpack.

He's furious when Steve explains what happened.

"I've never liked your parents," he announces. He points to Wayne, who looks just as angry. "Wayne gets it. Assholes, right?"

"Assholes," Wayne grunts, nodding stiffly. "You deserve better than that, son."

"So much better," Eddie agrees, pulling him closer so he can kiss his cheek. He keeps littering his face with kisses, until Steve laughs. "You deserve the world, big boy."

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #ficlet #stevecentric #what if I told you that this is kind of a true story asdfghgfds

675 notes · View notes

honey-milk-depresso · 1 year

Note

Alright so I really like your writing and I was wondering if I could request smt ?? Can I request some fluff With Malleus , Floyd and Azul from Twisted Wonderland with a (S/O) who is more on the chubby side and gets easily flustered about it .

Hey, so I've been really busy with schoolwork recently and so I'm not around on Tumblr so often anymore. Sorry for any troubles!

**TW: Mentions of the chest- cuz- titty soft and warm let's be real (not explicit), A bit of insecurity (but trust me your loved, by me also <3)

TWST Chubby s/o who gets easily flustered about it

Azul Ashengrotto

He has the same experience when he was younger: he was a chubby octopus when he was much younger, Azul was a lot shyer about it. Maybe because he was insecure? He can't remember, but he does feel some sympathy towards you.

Azul adores you, and he thinks you're just, well, cute. Body type doesn't really matter to him, so long as he knows you're taking care of your health is already the best.

Your darling octopus loves to just bury his face into your stomach or chest, and just sigh in satisfaction. You just provide him a warm and soft comfort after a long day, and the security and love he needs.

He hides his amusement whenever he does this, you're blushing and stuttering never cease to be endearing to him.

If you're ever insecure about being chubby, he's always there for you, and he feels disheartened to hear you feel such about your body when he feels you're beautiful, adorable and just... perfect.

"My dear pearl... I love you for who you are, and you're perfect the way you are." <3

Floyd Leech

For Floyd, he feels like he's hit jackpot. Aren't you the most adorable shrimpy there is~

Floyd loves your body; it's soft to lay his head on and you're his personal warm cuddly shrimp he wants to affectionately hug all the time when he's tired, in a bad mood or just out of randomness because he loves that feeling.

Personally for Floyd, he loves that you're chubby. It makes you adorable to him and he loves that you're very easy to fluster whenever he lies on your chest.

He loves squishing and pinching your cheeks lightly since they're just so soft. Sometimes he lightly pinches your stomach from behind to surprise you and no matter how many times you whine about it, he'll do it anyways (unless you really don't like it).

Floyd doesn't get it whenever you feel insecure about your body. Not that he's indifferent, but to him, he thought that your chubbiness should be something you're proud of. He loves it, so why don't you?

"Shrimpy, I think you're alright, so don't be so sulky about it. You're the cutest shrimpy no matter what hehe~" <3 and he cuddles you more-

Malleus Draconia

He finds you rather charming, a loveable child of man. Like Azul, Malleus doesn't care what type of body you have. So long as you're taking care of yourself, he's happy.

Besides, he finds your chubbiness adorable. Malleus, like the two other Octavinelle boys mentioned, likes to lay his head on your chest. All for the same reason: titty warm and soft because he feels secure and peaceful this way.

The dragon fae smiles fondly whenever he surprises you by randomly lying on your chest, his horns in a way encages your neck closer to him. He finds it endearing when you blush. It makes you even more cute than you already are~

He doesn't understand when you feel insecure about your body. He frowns with a pout after hearing about how you feel that people judge you for it, or that you wish you were thinner. Malleus already loves you for who you are, and he doesn't care what you look like. You're his source of happiness and he could never imagine life without you.

Besides, he thinks your chubbiness is the highlight about you. He loves it. Seriously.

"Child of man, your appearance is only a mere fraction of what truly makes you beautiful. Lilia told me before that true beauty lies in the heart, and I've come to understand it when I met you. Your "chubbiness" is something I love about you, don't you know? Regardless, you're the most beautiful person in the land, Child of man." <3

Reblogs help! ^^

601 notes · View notes

the-lonelybarricade · 4 months

Text

if you ever think you got it wrong - Feysand Oneshot

Summary: Feyre returns to her home town and is forced to confront a drunken night that's gone unaddressed for four years.

@shallyne ho, ho, hello there!

I'm not the secret santa you were originally assigned for the @acotargiftexchange, but I did go back and check your previous asks to see what you might be interested in! I saw you mention you like the friends to lovers trope and that you'd happy with a slight touch of angst and maybe some Feyre/Cassian/Mor friendship moments? I tried my best to add a pinch of all that goodness in this modern AU oneshot and I really hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3

Illyria hadn’t changed since the last time Feyre left it.

Four years made a lot of difference on a person, but not so much an isolated mountain town, so reserved that if its residents needed something outside of the one dedicated grocery store and smattering of local mom-and-pop businesses, they would need to drive two hours through the mountain pass to find the nearest outlet shopping center.

She never minded the quiet, but there was something unnerving about returning to a place that hadn’t changed. Those four years away had weathered her edges, and now she was a rounded shape being pushed through a square hole. She fit, but not the way that she used to.

Mountain air was fresher—thinner. And it was no wonder that she always felt out of breath, always caught off guard as she ran into old classmates and teachers and people who she recognized, but whose lives were now foreign to her. She’d forgotten that in Illyria, you couldn’t step outside the house without running into a familiar face.

The inability to run to the store without being caught ill-composed for being perceived by the public was excruciating enough. For Feyre, it was worsened by the constant, exaggerated surprise that she hadn’t disappeared off the face of the Earth, despite what her radio-silent social media might have conveyed. And that always meant questions—unbearable, irritating questions.

“How’s your husband?”

Feyre stared pathetically at her carton of oat milk, wondering if averting any stomach issues from using her father’s whole milk was worth explaining to her freshman English teacher that she was now a divorcee.

With no other tool of escape in her arsenal, she forced a bland smile and opted out of the conversation as quickly as possible by offering a flat, “He’s great!”

Because did it really matter? She was only here for a short time, and she could let the town speculate in her absence. Maybe that absence would last another four years. Maybe she would never come back.

“Are you enjoying city life?”

“It’s wonderful,” she said, shifting weight from one foot to the other as she glanced at the single cashier working the registers and the full conveyor belt he was working through. “Everything you need is at your doorstep.”

Including a grocery store with a self-checkout aisle. Things were always excruciatingly slow to change here. Across the street was a 50s-themed diner that had actually been built in the 50s and had resisted change long enough for its interior to become nostalgic.

“I’m sure you miss the mountains, though,” her old teacher said, pressing a hand to her chest in heartfelt emotion. “I know your father misses you girls.”

Sure he did. They had been the ones to take care of him growing up, meanwhile parenting themselves and each other. Her sisters, Nesta and Elain, decided not to come this Christmas, and Feyre certainly couldn’t blame them. They had families now, and the only reason she’d decided to come was because Tamin—

It was better than staying in her empty apartment.

“Well, it was great catching up with you, Feyre,” her teacher said pleasantly, gathering bags of groceries into her arms.

Feyre thought she was sincere, though she doubted that there’d be rumors any time soon that Feyre Archeron was back as an excellent conversationalist. Then again, the goal was that she appeared so dull there was no cause for rumor at all.

“Likewise,” Feyre said, handing the teenage cashier her single carton of oat milk.

Then she was shuffling out the front doors, grimacing against the whipping sting of winter that the insulated skyscrapers of the Hewn City kept largely at bay. Once, she’d been hardened to the winter and the endless heaps of snow that dominated six months of the year at this altitude. Now, she shoved the carton into her elbow and stuffed her hands into her coat pockets, willing warmth back into her fingertips.

She’d forgotten so many things—like the importance of wearing shoes with traction. And how to spot black ice. Her foot slipped under her, and the next thing she knew, she was facing the crystal blue sky. A pair of steady hands grasped her beneath the shoulders before she could slam into the unforgiving concrete.

They were strong hands, warm and broad.

“Careful,” warned a deep, sensual male voice that shivered awake every hair on her arms. He raised her upright and added with a soft laugh, “I never thought I’d see the day Feyre Archeron fell for me.”

“Rhys.” She turned, and there he was. The thin air made her breathless again. “I didn’t…” she blinked. “I thought you’d be in Velaris.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, and her chest ached at the familiar gesture. In four years, he hadn’t changed much. His violet stare was just as piercing as it’d been the last time she’d seen it, when she’d hugged him goodbye and offered a lingering kiss on his cheek. She’d been engaged to Tamlin then. And she thought Rhys might have begged her not to go, but he hadn’t said anything.

The following summer, she’d gotten married. Rhys had been invited, though he hadn’t responded to her invitation or spoken to her since.

“I always come here for Christmas,” he said. “To be with my family.”

Right—Mor, Cassian, and Azriel. She thought they would have all gone to Velaris now that he’d announced his engagement to a pretty redheaded woman who looked like she’d never seen a suburb in her life. Besides, Rhys didn’t have the same roots here that she did. His parents owned a vacation home in Illyria, a pretty log cabin where his family had stayed during every winter holiday growing up. Not quite a local, not quite a rich tourist, but something in between.

An old wound was tugging loose. Feyre crossed her arms like that would do anything to stop the bleeding. “It’s nice,” she said. “That you all still do that.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here, though,” Rhys said, shoulders straightening more than was casual. “I thought your fiance didn’t enjoy winter. What was his name again—Tarquin?”

“Tamlin,” she said, a little too sharp.

He smirked, the insufferable prick. “Ah, that was it.”

“I’m here to spend Christmas with my dad.”

Rhysand’s expression softened a bit. “How is he?”

“Fine.”

“I missed our one-worded conversations,” he said with a mocking purr that made Feyre want to hurl the carton of oat milk at his head. “Why don’t you come by the cabin? It’d be great to catch up with you—I’m sure Mor would be pleased to know you’re still alive.”

She weighed the implications on her heart. It would be nice to see Mor. It would be earth-shattering to spend an evening with Rhys’s family. Each new story would be a splinter in her heart, four years of moments she’d missed, tales of how Rhys had met the mystery red-haired woman from the Instagram she’d tried, and failed, not to stalk. God, his fiance would probably be there, integrated into his family like a piece they’d never known was missing.

Rhys knew her too well, could see she was hesitating. He said, voice strained, “You can bring Tamlin along.”

All he’d done was add another layer of embarrassment to the would-be evening. Explaining to him, to all of them, that her relationship with Tamlin had collapsed sounded almost as painful as meeting Rhysand’s fiancé.

“I should spend time with my dad,” she said. “Have a good Christmas, Rhys.”

“Wait.” Rhys drew a hand from his pocket to reach into the space between them.

Feyre stared at that hand, recalling how it had held her hair back four winters ago when she’d been hunched over a toilet, hurling her guts out. He’d stayed with her for hours, curled together on the bathroom floor, practically in his lap while he raked her fingers across her scalp and down her spine, insisting he stay no matter how many times she told him he should go. Cassian found them the next morning, still clinging to each other.

And then she’d left on a plane and never saw him again.

“I’m sorry for forgetting his name,” he said, as if either of them believed it was an accident. “I still think you should come. Mor’s making her famous eggnog.”

Feyre didn’t think she’d be able to stomach that eggnog ever again after she’d spent a night puking it up. Rhys would know that as a witness to that disastrous evening, but maybe… maybe he was deliberately trying to remind her of that night and all the unsaid things they’d left in its wake.

She sucked in a short breath, the air sharp against her teeth and tongue. Even just being in this town was suffocating her.

Rhysand’s hand dropped. So did his shoulders, already sensing her answer but keeping any emotion from showing on his face as she said, “I’ll think about it, Rhys.”

Thinking about it became much more difficult when Mor and Cassian arrived at her father’s house the following evening.

“I’d hug you, but I’m afraid those bones are going to stab me,” Cassian said.

Mor, of course, had no reservations in hurling herself at Feyre, who nearly tumbled backward through the doorway as she gripped her friend in turn.

“Oh, I missed you!” Mor retreated just enough for her ringed-adorned fingers to dig into Feyre’s shoulders. “Ignore Cassian, you look amazing.”

Cassian was right, though. Feyre knew she’d lost weight, and from the frown on Mor’s red lips as she studied Feyre’s face, she knew her friend was thinking the same, even if she was too polite to say so.

Yes, she was a little more frail, was still healing in ways more than physical, but it didn’t leave her fragile.

She raised her brows at Cassian. “From all those knives you like to play with, I didn’t think you’d be so scared of a sharp elbow.”

“Scared of crushing you, more like,” Cassian said. He opened his arms all the same, and Mor stepped aside so he could sweep Feyre into a hug that was indeed bone-crushing. Feyre wheezed, but was grateful that he didn’t hold back.

“Rhys told us we’re to abduct you for the night,” Mor said, arching onto her toes to meet Feyre’s eyes over Cassian’s hulking shoulder.

Of course Rhys had sent them, the meddling prick.

Feyre said lightly, “I’m pretty sure that’s a felony.”

She could feel the words rumble through Cassian’s chest before he said, “That’s never stopped the bastard before. Now, should I set you down so you can grab your things and come with us, or do I actually need to carry you into the car?”

Feyre knew there was no getting out of this without hurting Mor and Cassian’s feelings, so she heaved a sigh that was defeated enough for Cassian to set her back down, a triumphant grin spreading over his face.

A few minutes later, she sat in the backseat of a familiar jeep, staring out at the serene winter forest as their vehicle climbed higher and higher into the mountains.

“It’s freezing,” she complained, watching her breath cloud in front of her face. “Could you put the heat on?”

“You and Rhys are the same,” Cassian said, reaching for the dashboard to adjust the temperature. “Living at sea level has changed you.”

“I take it you’re still living as a ski bum, then,” Feyre teased.

Mor angled herself so that she was facing Feyre from the passenger seat. “You wouldn’t believe it, but Rhys actually managed to coax Cassian out of the Illyrian Mountains. He has to wear a tie to work now.”

“A tie?” Feyre repeated, feigning scandal. In the years she’d known Cassian, she rarely saw him outside of a jacket and snowboard boots. She met his hazel eyes in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t think you knew what that was. Does Rhysie have to tie it for you in the mornings?”

“Of course not,” Cassian said with a scoff. “Azriel is way better at tying them than Rhys.”

She grinned at the mental image of stoic Azriel devotedly adjusting his best friend’s tie every morning, likely with the same methodical precision he exacted on all things. Soon that grin split into a laugh, and Cassian’s eyes creased with a warmth she could feel spreading into her chest.

Cresting on that feeling, Feyre joked, “I find I’m much better at untying them, myself.”

There was a stagnant beat in which Cassian and Mor glanced at each other, and Feyre wondered if she’d said something wrong.

Then Mor said, gaze flicking to Feyre’s hand. “I’m sure Tamlin is delighted by that skillset.”

Oh. At the current altitude, there wasn’t enough air to replenish the breath that rushed out of her. Feyre followed Mor’s stare, dread cracking through her like compromised glass, moments from shattering, as she confronted the faint pale line on her ring finger. The only evidence that a ring had ever sat there.

“I didn’t see him at your dad’s house,” Cassian said, keeping his voice a little too casual. “Did he stay in the Hewn City?”

Feyre didn’t see any reason to prolong the truth. Might as well rip the bandage off as quickly as possible. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. Swallowed. “We’re not together anymore.”

Every second that stretched over the resulting silence tempted Feyre to pry open the car door and risk tumbling down the mountainside.

“I’m sorry,” Mor said. “We didn’t… we had no idea.”

“It’s okay.” But a dark, aching pit was yawning open in Feyre’s chest. She began uselessly chucking words into it, desperate to bridge herself back to the Feyre from a moment ago, who’d laughed without needing to force it. “We separated at the beginning of the year, and it all became official last month. He—it was a mistake to begin with.”

He’s wrong for you, Mor had said four years ago, a hard crease forming between her brows as she’d stared absently into her eggnog, thinking far more than she was saying—even drunk.

Is there even such a thing as someone who’s ‘right’? I don’t think there’s anyone who’s ever going to be perfect for me.

That was where things always got a little more blurry in Feyre’s memory, but she thought that Mor might have glanced over their shoulders on the sofa, to where the boys were playing a festive game of reinbeer pong, and said quietly, I think someone like that does exist for you.

If Mor recalled the same thing, there was no I-told-you-so’s—no triumph. There was genuine sadness in her eyes as she reached behind to squeeze Feyre on the knee. “We wanted it to work out for you.”

Feyre considered touching Mor’s hand, squeezing it back. But they might have been trembling, and it was easier to shrug her shoulders than make up a pathetic excuse about the cold. “Maybe it still could,” she said, grasping at a cheer that wasn’t yet tangible. But they’d all pretend it was, for her sake. “My story isn’t over, and this might just be the right step towards something better.”

Cassian put the car in park and turned to beam at her. “Exactly!”

He wasn’t making any effort to sound upset at her divorce, and she couldn’t say she blamed him.

“Come on,” Mor said. “I think a bottle of wine is in order.”

“One of the nice ones,” Cass added with a savage grin towards Feyre.

They used to sneak into the cellar and grab as many of the old bottles as they could get away with, to Rhysand’s chagrin.

Speaking of—

“Oh, good,” Rhys crooned from where he leaned in the doorway of the log cabin. He was dressed casually, in a cable sweater and a familiar knit scarf—one that stopped Feyre dead in their tracks. “I was worried they wouldn’t be able to convince you to come.”

“There might have been some threats of physical force,” Feyre said, resisting the urge to wrap her arms protectively around herself as Rhys assessed her, again and again. “That can be fairly persuasive.”

“I was a perfect gentleman,” Cassian protested.

“You poor thing,” Rhys said to Feyre, clicking his tongue. “The last time Cassian said that, he was banned from the entire city of Adriata.”

Cassian sidled up to Feyre and offered his elbow. “Would you like me to escort you past the prick?”

Rhys raised his brows, and Feyre wasted no time looping her elbow through Cassian’s, purring, “That would be very kind of you.”

The aforementioned prick didn’t bother to move out of the way as Feyre and Cassian squeezed past, forcing Feyre to endure the brush of Rhysand’s chest against her shoulder. An ordinary person felt butterflies from that sort of grazing touch, but Feyre had never felt that way touching Rhys. It was something far more brutal, more demanding, like a swarm of wasps digging their stingers beneath her skin. She clenched her teeth not to hiss. It was always mortifying how viscerally her body reacted to him—worse that he held her stare the entire time, watching her grow flustered until she whipped her head and practically begged Cassian to take her into the cellar.

Usually Rhys would protest, but he didn’t say a word as they made a b-line towards the stairs. There was no sign of Azriel or Rhysand’s fiance, and she hoped the cellar would give her time to prepare for that mortal blow.

“Rhys,” Mor called, running to catch up after locking the jeep. Whatever she needed to share with her cousin was lost to the shutting door and the creaking stairs.

Cold, stagnant air coiled over her ankles as Feyre and Cassian sunk into the old stone cellar. Cassian, more diplomatic than she gave him credit for, didn’t comment on her red cheeks or how she wrapped her arms around her body to ward off more than the chill. He took his time assessing each bottle, paying their labels far more attention than she knew he ordinarily would have.

He was giving her time to reign herself in. She didn’t know how to thank him for that kindness besides making the most of it. Feyre took a deep breath. Another.

Then she steeled her nerves just enough to broach the topic. “Is she nice?”

Cassian didn’t look up from the bottle of red vintage he was holding. “Who?”

Feyre shut her eyes. That way, she could pretend Cassian was still reading the wine label, disinterested and oblivious, even as her voice wavered. “Rhys’s fiancé.”

She had no right to say it that way, like she hated the taste of those words. Not when she had walked away first, gotten married, left this town and their friendship behind.

A sharp noise rang through the too-small space, glass rapping against metal, and she opened her eyes while the sound reverberated through the hollow void in her chest. Cassian had set the wine down a touch too forcefully. She had never known him to be careless with his strength.

His head was bent—a necessity if he didn’t want to smack his head against the low ceiling—and his face was angled toward her, brows drawn tight. Like her words held some hidden meaning he was trying to puzzle together.

Feyre couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, always a touch too-perceptive. He had a gift for disarming people. A few sharp grins and light-hearted jokes and those clever eyes could dress someone down right to their bones. Her body tensed beneath his assessment, unprepared for what he might uncover. Feyre took a step back unintentionally. Started opening her mouth to blurt something stupid, and Cassian was already shaking his head, realizing he’d stumbled over something too raw—

“I hope you two aren’t stealing all my best wine.”

They both snapped their heads to Rhys standing on the top step. He also needed to duck his head, and there was something so endearing about the way a piece of his hair spilled onto his forehead that she thought she might very well try her chances at hurling down the mountain.

Feyre knew she must have looked like a caged animal, her eyes too wide, cheeks too flushed. So much for taking a moment to reign herself in.

“All okay?” Rhys said, weighing her expression before he flicked his eyes to Cassian—narrowed, like he thought his friend might be responsible for making her uncomfortable.

“We’re fine.” She grabbed blindly at a bottle of wine, producing it with more enthusiasm than she could muster in her smile. “Let’s go drink—I’m excited to find out if Azriel is still the prettiest of you three.”

Rhys clutched his chest in mock hurt as he led them out of the cellar. “I hate to disappoint you, Feyre darling, but I think this might be one such occasion.”

She was relieved that much hadn’t changed about him—his refusal to pressure her, humoring the deflection though she knew her performance was less than convincing. Rhys placed a hand at her back to guide her towards the kitchen. A casual touch to him, but to Feyre, every inch of contact felt scalding. She swore that when she took off her sweater later, she’d find a red handprint branded into her skin.

“Don’t worry,” she said to him as they stepped into the kitchen, where they found Mor, wine glass limply in hand, perched on the counter beside Azriel. “I haven’t been disappointed in the least.”

Azriel looked up from the large, steaming pot he was stirring and offered a reserved smile in greeting. Feyre offered one back, bold and just suggestive enough for Rhys to nudge her with his elbow.

“You wound me,” he whispered.

“Oh good! You brought more wine!” In a deft motion, Mor lept from the counter and breezed up to Feyre, easing the bottle from her hands. “A great choice, too. You always did have good taste.”

It was a bald lie, one that the group might have contested four years ago when they used to make a game of volleying good-natured teasing back and forth. Maybe they were more careful with her now, not quite sure where she fit in after all this time. After hurting Rhys.

Though, out of everyone, he seemed the most comfortable having her here again. He dropped his hand from her back in pursuit of fetching more wine glasses, and once he was finished, he carried a full glass to Feyre with a carefree smile. As if no time separated them at all.

Feyre wished she could summon some of that ease. Everything felt mechanic, from curling her fingers over the chilled glass, to raising the rim to her lips and taking a controlled sip. All she’d been doing in the last year was wading through the wreckage of her life, struggling to piece together what she had left while making sense of where it had all gone so horribly wrong.

The pieces always led her back to this cabin. Silver-rimmed violet eyes and tingling lips. That night he’d told her, I think you could be happy here. With me. For years, she wondered how differently her life would have turned out if she’d been brave enough to leave it all behind and see if he was right.

All this time, she’d assumed the silence between them was angry, or at least a little bit wounded, that she’d left him behind and went through with her engagement. Now, it occurred to her that it might have been something infinitely worse—apathy. That Rhys had simply moved on, and she was the only one still stuck on that moment she’d kissed him goodbye.

It was better than resentment, she told herself. That didn’t stop her from finishing her wine glass too quickly.

“Careful,” Rhys chided when she set it down, empty. “As much as I love tradition, it’d be a shame for you to spend the night curled over a toilet.”

She glared at him, but Cassian added, “Don’t forget it goes to your head faster at this altitude.”

“Only because of Mor’s generous pour,” Feyre deflected, sending a wink towards Mor, who snagged Feyre’s glass with a conspiratorial smirk.

“Oh, lighten up, you two!” Mor smacked Rhysand’s chest with the empty glass. “If Feyre gets sick again, then I promise to be the one looking after her this time.”

Then, with that, Mor sashayed back to the wine bottle to refill Feyre’s glass. The alcohol must have loosened some of her restraint because Feyre let her gaze drift back to Rhys. Who’s to say what he was remembering when their eyes met, but Feyre… she remembered how, between bouts of hurling her guts out, he’d pulled her into his lap and laid her head against his chest, claiming that his heartbeat soothed her. Somehow, she doubted Mor’s heartbeat would have the same effect.

Mor snapped Feyre away from the memory by handing her another full glass. Feyre promised herself that she’d take her time on the second drink, only because she didn’t think she’d be able to survive another earth-shattering night like that one.

“Tell us how you’ve been,” Mor said. “What’s life like in the infamous Hewn City?”

“It’s…”

Lonely. Crowded. Expensive.

“It’s great.” Feyre forced herself to nod like she meant it. “But I’d much rather hear about how you have been—all of you.”

“Well,” Mor intoned in a way that suggested she was about to unveil drama. “Wouldn’t you believe it, but Rhysand has found himself centered in quite the business scandal.”

Cassian groaned. “Not this again.”

“Mor.” Rhys sent his cousin a warning glance.

She only grinned, continuing, “He recently backed out of a conglomerate merger with Hybern and caused quite the uproar when he publicly accused them of fraud.”

He raised his brows. “Accused implies it wasn’t later proven when Amarantha—”

“Amarantha?” Feyre repeated, blinking as she realized she recognized that name. “Your fiance?”

Cassian sputtered his wine across the counter. Azriel turned away from the stove to slap him firmly on the back as he coughed. Feyre wasn’t certain if Mor’s laugh was at her expense or Cassian’s, but either way, she deserted the conversation to grab a roll of paper towels and begin cleaning up the spilled wine.

“No,” Rhys said, ignoring the chaos at his back. His face was tight. “Definitely not my fiance.”

Feyre shook her head. She was certain Amarantha was the name of the girl she’d been stalking for… an embarrassingly long time. From the moment Rhys announced their proposal.

“She was a prospective business partner,” Rhys clarified, studying her with a discomfiting level of scrutiny. “Never—” he actually looked a little disgusted. “Never anything romantic.”

She said slowly, “You’re not engaged.”

Rhysand’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No.”

Oh my god. Her hands began to tremble, and she set down the wine glass so he wouldn’t hear the sploshing liquid. “You had an Instagram post,” she said, mortified. “It said something about announcing a proposal. That there was going to be a marriage—”

“Between our business firms,” he said. “Before I backed out.”

“Oh my god.” She didn’t mean to say it out loud. Feyre knew this wasn’t a normal reaction. This was just a small misunderstanding—totally minor, if not a little humorous. “I need to… I just need a moment.”

Then she rushed for the bathroom, locking the door as if that would do anything to keep out the embarrassment flooding over her wave after impenetrable wave. Feyre cringed when she glimpsed her reflection. Red blotches were blooming over her chest and up her throat. She was shaking so violently she barely had the necessary motor skills to turn the tap. Once it was running, she let the cold water pool in her cupped hands before she splashed it against her heated skin.

“Feyre,” called a velvet voice at the door, followed by a soft knock.

“I just need a moment, Rhys.”

Silence. She knew better than to think he returned to the kitchen, but he was at least giving her that moment. She counted to ten, forwards and backwards and forwards again, trying to remember her grounding lessons.

Find something green—the plastic toothbrush sitting upright in its ceramic holder.

Find something blue—the towels, lovingly folded and hanging elegantly over the heated drying rack.

Find something red—her eyes drifted toward the mirror. No. Not her cheeks, not her skin. It had to be something external from this meltdown. Feyre turned, searching the small space until she found a glint of red hidden in the folds of the white shower curtain.

She froze.

Something to remember me by, she’d slurred to him four years ago, after proudly removing her ruby earring and piercing it into the curtain.

Rhys had laughed. I could never forget you, Feyre. Not until my dying breath.

I want you to remember me every time you come in here. Even while you’re taking a shit.

Not exactly romantic. But four years later, it was still there. That stupid piece of plastic costume jewelry, which she’d worn only in a half-hearted attempt to be festive. She knew that curtain had to have been cleaned in the years since, and wondered if that silly earring had been removed and repinned each time. Why hadn’t he thrown it away?

“Feyre,” Rhys called again through the door. Softer now.

She unlocked it.

A moment later, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“Hi,” she said, knowing there were tears in her eyes and that, from his perspective, she must have looked hysterical.

He was searching her face. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice cracked a little. “Everything.”

“Tell me.”

Feyre raised her hands to cover her face as she started somewhere inane. “You’re wearing the scarf I knitted for you.”

Even concerned, his voice possessed a dry humor as he asked, “Do you not want me to wear it?”

“I don’t understand why you’re wearing it.”

“It’s winter,” he said plainly. “This scarf is warm. And soft.”

A sob was working its way up her throat. He gently wrapped his fingers over her wrists and lowered her hands from her face.

His voice dropped lower, a secret shared between them: “Most importantly, it reminds me of you.”

“I thought you hated me,” she croaked, flinching inwardly at how pathetic it sounded.

With no barrier to deter him, Rhys pressed his palm to her cheek and chased away one of her tears. “I could never hate you, Feyre.”

“We haven’t talked to each other in years,” she said. “You’ve ignored all of my calls and messages.”

“Because I blocked your number.” Feyre flinched. She suspected as much when her calls started going immediately to voicemail. But now there was no mask on Rhysand’s face, nothing to hide the hurt in his expression as he swallowed thickly and added, “Like you asked me to.”

“I—” Feyre felt like she was in a high-speed vehicle that had suddenly slammed on its brakes. “What? I didn’t ask you to…”

Oh no.

A fresh wave of tears stung the backs of her eyes. Feyre blinked them away as she begged, “Tell me what happened.”

“You left.” The words creaked out of him like shifting weight on an old wooden floorboard. She felt the accusation groan through her chest. “You were going to get married to him, and I knew I couldn’t let you without at least telling you how I felt. You know what happened from there.”

“Tell me anyway,” she said, barely holding back her horror.

Rhys took a deep breath. “I got rip-roaring drunk with Cassian, and I sent you a stupid, poorly thought-out message. And you told me off, as I deserved.”

“What did your message say?” She asked a tad too sharply.

Now, it was his turn to flinch. “I begged you not to marry him. I offered to pay for everything to help you leave your life with him behind. I told you…” Rhys looked away, staring at the shower curtain as he said, “I told you that I love you.”

The world slipped out from beneath her feet. Feyre’s lips wobbled, and she pressed them together in an attempt to contain her sob, but it burst out of her along with a warbled, “You loved me?”

He shut his eyes. “I love you,” he corrected.

Her delight was eclipsed by the pain on his face and her realization of what must have happened, at what she’d inadvertently put him through over the last four years. Her voice shook as she rasped, barely more than a whisper, “What did I say back?”

Rhys opened his eyes, and she could see tears shimmering over the violet as he said, “You told me to block your number and never speak to you again.”

Of all the times Tamlin had been cruel to her, this was undoubtedly the worst of his deeds.

“That wasn’t me.” Feyre grabbed for his collar, uncertain how to untangle years of misunderstanding. “Rhys, please believe me. I didn’t write that—I didn’t know. I would have…”

And here it was, the most brutal part. She felt like she was swallowing knives as she admitted, “I would have left him if I’d seen that message.”

Feyre wasn’t sure which of them crumpled first. They might have fallen together, neither of their bodies quite ready to hold the weight of lost time. The bathroom tiles leached cold through her clothes, but Rhys was there, pulling her against him, fighting back the chill with his inherent warmth.

There they were again, curled together on the bathroom floor.

Maybe they could start here and pretend the last four years hadn’t existed.

“I know it’s probably too late, but I left him. I was a coward back then, but I’m ready now. To leave it all behind.”

His fingers lifted her chin, drawing her eyes back to that beautiful, heartbreaking face.

“I love you, too,” she said. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it.”

Rhys leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Don’t be. Four years is nothing. I would have waited a thousand years for you.”

“Four was enough for me,” she said lightly.

Four was far too much, actually. And because she couldn’t stand wasting any second longer, Feyre slid her fingers into his hair. Rhys went still as she leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a soft kiss. One she used to cleanse the years of heartache and longing, until there was only that bright, shimmering love that had always been quietly there, beneath it all.

And for the first time since coming back to Illyria, Feyre felt like she was home.

#Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #acotar gift exchange

80 notes · View notes

chvnnie · 9 months

Text

Letter Two: Nightmares

Love Letters Series Page

wc: 4.7k

genre: angst

warnings: apocalypse au, creature feature, use of weapons, HEAVY MENTIONS OF PTSD AND DESCRIPTIONS OF ANXIETY ATTACKS. this chapter is heavy and sad as it dives somewhat into the backstory of one of the members. please keep these warnings in mind. if i missed anything, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

summary: when the world's a nightmare, it's hard to deal with your own.

this is a work of fiction. this fic in no way represents the stray kids members as people or as a whole. you are responsible for the media you consume. please read responsibly.

series taglist: @straystayvlive, @fawnpeaks, @strayingawayy, @almighty-obsession, @ershyni, @chai-papa, @moon0fthenight, @djeniryuu, @boomfrogg, @everglowdaisies — comment to be added

Hey, you.

You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?

The day the world went to shit.

I know a lot of people consider the day of the lab breakout the turning point, but I don’t. That was to be expected; we knew nothing about Nots. Keeping them in those glass chambers, studying their habits and transforms didn’t help much. A domesticated animal always acts differently than a wild one.

The day that I consider the end, we didn’t even know about Nots. You and I were in bed for the evening, the television playing softly while you read. I was in the bathroom shaving, hardly paying attention to the cheesy sitcom joke and recorded laughing.

I remember the razor nicking my jaw, tongue between teeth as I hissed. Fuck, the sting of it was awful. The razor fell in the sink, taking your attention from your book.

“You okay?” You ask, leaning in the bed to get a look in the bathroom. You laughed when you saw the little toilet paper square stuck to my face.

“It’s not funny.”

Though, I was smiling. I like hearing you laugh. God, I can’t wait to be with you again.

I remember washing my hands before I started to clean the wound, the show cutting to commercial break.

If you or your loved one have ever taken the drug by the name Nottingal, you may be entitled to financial compensation.

You asked what that medication was for. I said I wasn’t sure, but texted Seungmin to ask. He responded within seconds: A blood thinner. That’s all it was, just a simple pill taken once daily to reduce the risk of blood clots. A lot of people take it. Nothing out of the ordinary.

It still gives me the chills how easily we forgot about the medication, going to bed without a second thought. We moved past it, went to work the next day. The world kept turning, and the name faded from our memory.

Just a common, everyday drug. Why would we give it more thought?

An oddly cold weekend in March. You walked the dog, I went to the gym with Changbin. Our lives crossed over around lunchtime, stuffed in the tiny apartment kitchen as we tried to make our meals.

“We need a new apartment.” You complained. “I can hardly move in here.”

“What, you don’t want to be pressed up against me all the time?”

You scoffed at my joke, taking your sandwich and chips over to the couch. I was steps behind you, leaning close to my bowl of cereal so I didn’t spill any as I walked and ate. I sit, and you turn the tv on, left on the news channel for some reason.

“Ah.” I said through a mouth full of cheerios. “Turn this shit—“

And then, we saw it. The early stages of a Not. A woman in her 40s, hospitalized for an adverse reaction to Nottingal. She reported having chills with extreme nausea, nothing holding in her stomach. Admitted overnight just for observation, her symptoms got worse. At first it was just a fever — but then it kept climbing and climbing and climbing, to the point where the woman was almost boiling. She would claw at her hospital robe, screeching from the intense heat. Doctors eventually had to secure her to the bed.

Then, it started to get weird. They called it mania, at first. She wouldn’t speak, only responding with this terrible screeching sound, comparable to metal doors scraping against concrete. Her nails started to grow (both hands and toes) at a rapid pace, which was odd enough on its own.

Only made worse by the way they started to fuse into the skin, the color darker than the night sky. Claws. A nurse checked on patient zero one day and reported hearing something that sounded like the snapping of bones. After further examination, she saw that the woman’s back was starting to arch, spine taking a new shape—

The claws scratched the nurse across the forearm. The nurse said it didn’t feel like anything more than a deep cat scratch, bandaged up and went about her day. Just to end up at her workplace that night, stumbling into the emergency room. Chills. Nausea. A fever that’s a little too high for comfort.

That’s how we found out that it’s not only the pills that could cause a transformation. If the claws scratch you, the tip comes in contact with your bloodstream. That’s what it all comes down to; blood.

Two months. That’s all it took. From that commercial to the fall of humanity. Two months, and the world went to shit.

I’m not really sure why I wrote all of that. You experienced it too; the fear, doubt. Really, does anyone see the end of the world coming? I don’t think I’ve fully grasped that this is my reality now, that it’s not some kind of fucked up dream an edible gave me.

I so badly wish it was. Because even if this is the demise of mankind, not having you by my side is greater than my worst nightmare.

Speaking of nightmares, Jisung’s are back. I was sure that after we settled at our new base (right next to the mail stall, conveniently) that they would settle more. It’s been a while since he’s had one, especially this extreme.

We found an abandoned house. It’s not very big, but it fits all of us comfortably. Two floors, four bedrooms. The bathroom is still functioning, which is a treasure we’re not taking for granted. It’s funny how we still have running water, yet most places we hide out are missing that feature. The first shower I took in there almost made me cry; it was freezing, but it was a shower. Little things really do make the apocalypse easier.

Jisung’s in one of the upstairs rooms. It looks like it belonged to a child — bunk beds decorated with floral sheets and stuffed animals. The walls have drawings tacked on them, a bulletin board with movie tickets and notes from friends. It’s hard to look at. Wherever that child is, I hope she is safe. She was well loved.

Nobody wanted to stay in that room. It’s difficult to swallow, to be surrounded by the reminders of such an innocent life. But it has the best view of the front of the house, the boarded up windows have enough space for the barrel of Jisung’s sniper to fit through. He dropped his duffel by the closet, setting up his gun.

“Are you sure?” I had asked Jisung, an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It still happens now whenever I walk in there. “There’s space on the office—“

“I’ll be fine.” He looked through the scope, positioning the gun accordingly. “It has the best view.”

“I can stay in here, too—“ Hyunjin started to say, but was quickly cut off.

“I said I’m fine.” Jisung doesn’t spare us a look. “Don’t worry about it.”

It was weird how he snapped at him. Honestly, ever since we left midtown, Jisung has been a little rougher than usual. Especially with Hyunjin. Remember how long it took to convince him that picking him up was the right thing to do? I feel like every letter I wrote you after we found Hyunjin was about his distaste for him. But I thought we had turned a corner — in fact, they were literally inseparable in midtown. Then we left, and…

Jisung is hiding something.

There was no reason to push the issue. You know Jisung, once his mind is made up, it’s almost impossible to change. Hyunjin is bunking with me in the master bedroom. He’s a cold sleeper, I’ve learned, often waking up with him huddled by my back. It’s made me miss you even more; how many mornings have I woken up with you attached to my back like a koala? Face buried in my shoulder blade, snores vibrating against it.

I can’t wait to wake up to that again. To you again.

The nightmare came a night when I wasn't on guard. I had been sleeping pretty soundly, actually. Hyunjin’s fluffy hair was right in my face, the cotton sheets nice and cool against my bare chest. It had been a while since I slept so well.

Earth shattering screams tore me from that peaceful sleep. Both Hyunjin and I practically jumped from the bed, weapons easily accessible and in hand. Did something get in? Were one of our men hurt?

Hyunjin’s face went pale when we heard the scream again. He dropped his knife, mumbling the younger man's name before sprinting from the room.

Jisung was on the bottom bunk, comforter low on his hips. He wasn’t dressed in anything other than sweatpants, the scar on his left rib cage looking more red than usual. Almost irritated, raised. The perfect circle as angry as the cries coming from its owner.

His nails were scratching at his neck, thrashing in the bed as he cried. Round tears rolling down his cheeks in earnest, voice cracking and turning raw. Whatever was happening behind his eyelids was devastating, all of his fears brightly burning for him.

“Jisung.” Hyunjin had said, climbing into the tiny bunk with him. His body jerked, trying to resist the hold he was put in. Head cradled to his friend’s chest, he starts to rock. “It’s not real. It’s not real.”

Jeongin came over the walkie. It’s his night on guard. “No breaches at the back. Bin?”

“Front is clear.” Changbin responds quickly, the unasked question obvious to all of us.

“Clear up top.” I responded, keeping my voice as low as possible. “It’s Jisung.”

No response. None needed. Everyone will keep their post, or try to go back to sleep. Too many hands and it only makes things worse for him.

Hyunjin is good at soothing him, bringing him out of the nightmare with minimal damage. Softly, he brushes the fluffy hair from his face, keeping a firm rocking motion. Gentle reminders whispered to him; he’s safe, it’s just a dream, it’s not real. I watched him rock my friend for at least five minutes, the screams coming to an end as he started to twitch awake. With a string of fearful whimpers, Jisung’s eyes finally opened and found Hyunjin’s.

The moment felt like years. Their eyes locked, the tears finding an end as they stared at each other, seemingly lost in the gaze. Hyunjin smiled softly at him, and it looked like Jisung was melting. An immediate peace washing over him, the nightmare so far out of grasp it’s forgettable.

Then he’s shoving himself out of his arms, cursing and mumbling under his breath to “let him the fuck go”. It was hard to miss the way Hyunjin’s face crumbled, though he quickly composed himself.

“You had another nightmare.” Hyunjin’s voice is so gentle, though it cracks with an emotion he’s trying to suppress.

“I know.” Jisung snapped, bringing his knees to his chest as he huddled into the corner. Body pressed against the wall, avoiding his gaze.

“Do you want to—“

“Can you fucking leave?” He asked, though it didn’t sound convincing. “I want to talk to hyung.”

Hyunjin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. With a nod, he climbed out of the bunk bed, patting my shoulder as he walked past me. When the door shut, I heard him release a shaky gasp.

I stayed by the door, wanting to give Jisung as much room as I could. He kept his head facing the wall, breaths starting to even out as he worked on grounding himself. In and out, like you taught him. Think of happy thoughts, remind yourself that the world is more than the darkness that consumes you. I watched as his shoulders relaxed, body starting to slump as he found the peace he was looking for.

“Sit with me?” It was hard to hear, the question whispered into the foundation of the house. I crossed the tiny room, sitting by the ladder leading up to the top bunk. Giving him as much physical space as I could.

It was silent between us. Our breaths filling the dark room—

Wait. It’s completely dark. When I stood, I could hear his lips part, the start of protests rolling from his tongue. I didn’t walk far, only to the closet. Flicking on the light, I pulled the door open, letting just a sliver of it spill out.

“Why didn’t you turn this on?” I asked softly, trying to keep my tone steady. I didn’t want him to think I was accusing him, or blaming him for the nightmare.

Jisung shrugged. “I wanted to try.” He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, rubbing tight circles. “Obviously it didn’t work.”

I returned to my seat. With the light on, it was easy to see what Jisung was doing before he fell asleep. His journal face down on the floor, an uncapped pen right beside it. His favorite book, worn out and damn near falling apart, was tabbed open with a photo of the two of you (remember that beach trip we took last year? When he was home on leave? It’s from when the two of you were building that sandcastle, the polaroid still as clear as the day I took it. It’s one of my favorites) and a sketch of what looked like daisies. Yellow and pink, they cover the page, only broken up by a little signature in the bottom. One we all know too well at this point.

There was something missing from his pile, something that the picture reminded me of. “Where are your dogtags?”

He seemed tense at that question, sighing as he brought his hands down. “I think I lost them in midtown.”

It didn’t feel like the truth, but there wasn’t any need to press it. I simply nodded, taking the lie for what it was.

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

I huffed a laugh. “Don’t apologize for that shit.”

“Sleep is so precious now, I hate taking it from you—“

“Seriously, Sung.” I looked at my friend, who I was surprised was looking at me. When our eyes met, I gave a reassuring smile. “You know we don’t mind.”

Jisung didn’t believe me. He never does when I tell him that. Yet, he nodded, knowing that doubt will never leave him. “It was bad.”

“Sounded like it.” Never push him. That’s what I’ve learned. If he wants to open up, he will. But when it’s so fresh, so heavy in his mind, focusing on the details could drive him mad—

“The Nots.” He said softly, resting his chin on his knees. Not once did his gaze stray from me, wide eyes filling with fresh tears. “They came. Here.”

I will admit, it confused me as to why this upset him so badly. We had seen at least five groups of them by this point, a few even crossing the front gate. They never stayed, always distracted by something in the distance. He had even shot a few.

Staying in this room was a bad idea. I knew it from the moment we arrived, even though he was insistent. I should have forced him into a different room, made him sleep anywhere else but here. It’s no surprise that the previous owner appeared in his dream, her small body twisted into the horror that we’re too familiar with.

“It got me thinking.” Jisung started to cry again. “Nots like to stay close to home—“

“No.” I cut the thought off before he could finish it. “You can’t go there, Jisung.”

He knew I was right. But you know him; stubborn as can fucking be, clinging to things with an annoyingly tight grip. As soon as it crossed his mind, there was no way he was letting it go. Instead of arguing, he just nodded. Mumbles something in agreement. It wasn’t going to escape him, and it would be silly for us to pretend it would.

“Will you sleep in here with me?” He asked.

I couldn’t help but wince. It didn’t feel right, the idea of resting here. “Why don’t you come to the master bedroom with me? There’s enough room for you, me, and Hyunjin—“

As soon as I mentioned his name, Jisung’s eyes went dark. “No.” He said simply. “I would rather stay here.”

I wanted to tell him no. To go back to the comfortable bed where I could sleep easily, not worrying about being haunted by a life not fully lived.

“I just don’t want to leave my gun.” Jisung said. “That’s it.”

Another lie. I had no choice but to take it as is. Nodding as I climbed the ladder.

As far as I know, Jisung didn’t talk about the nightmare with anyone else. The day following was spent with Minho, organizing the weapons in the living room. He sat on the ground, wiping the blood and dirt from barrels of guns. Sweat beaded his forehead, glasses low on his nose. But he laughed, joking with everyone who walked past.

Except Hyunjin.

I cleaned out the old pantry with Seungmin, still keeping the good food while disposing of the others. “They left in a hurry.” He said as he chunked another fruit cup in the trash. “Something must have happened here.”

They must have recently gone grocery shopping. A lot of snack boxes were untouched, the expiration date still a month or two away. “Can’t blame them.”

“No.” He threw a can of expired condensed milk at the trash can, shooting it like a basketball. Somehow, it made it. “You really can’t.”

That night, Jisung and I took every precaution to avoid a nightmare. The closest door was cracked open, yellow light filling the room. His old radio was tuned to some station that hasn’t been manned since the fall, playing the same jazz songs on repeat. The loop starts again every three hours, but even in the annoyance, it’s enough noise to help him sleep.

I had barely fallen asleep when he had another nightmare. To the bottom bunk I went, holding my friend and rocking him until he woke up. We did it again the next night, and the next, and the next. Nightmare after nightmare, though the details were always the same. A group of Nots, the smaller one in the back of the group. Vicious and hungry.

It was the room. It had to be, baby. I’ve been racking my brain for an explaination, because if it isn’t the fucking room, then I don’t know. And not knowing is the scariest part; all of this is so…predictable.

But these nightmares. They were anything but.

Jisung couldn’t sleep one night, the impending nightmare driving him mad. He sat by the gun, rereading his book with his feet propped up on the window sill. Or, it looked like he was reading. When I got closer, I saw him tracing the painted flowers with his finger.

“I’m going to bed.” He snapped the book shut when he realized I was there. “You should, too.”

Jisung pushes his glasses up, nodding as he rubs his eyes. “I’ll try in a bit.” He gave me a weary smile. “Sleep well, okay?”

I didn’t. My eyes didn’t even shut, focused on counting the bumps on the ceiling. I couldn’t allow myself to, not until I knew Jisung was on the bed beneath me, trying to rest despite his fears. You made me promise I would take care of him, and it was an easy one to make. I’m trying my love, even if his stubborn ass makes it incredibly difficult.

He was mostly quiet in his corner, humming a song or two before falling silent. Every time I glanced at him, his back was to me. Same position as before, thumbing through the book this time. Actually reading.

My eyes had started to shut when I heard the walkie click.

“Min.” Hyunjin’s voice cut through. “How’s the back?”

A beat. “Meh.” Seungmin responded. “Per us—ah, fuck.”

“Don’t say it like that.” A whine came from the older man.

“You’ll see them soon. Mid sized pack, moving quickly.” The walkie cut off, familiar squawks of Nots heard even from my bed upstairs. “Must be hungry.”

The book snapped shut, chair squeaking as Jisung pushed it out. I watched him stand, lean over the scope as he focused outside.

“Look at those ugly fuckers.” Hyunjin says with a sigh. “There are so—Jesus!”

Click. Hyunjin is gone, his exclamation is enough to make me sit up in bed. Jisung fumbled for the walkie, his hand shaking as he pressed the button. “Stop messing around, Jin.”

“Sung—“ He clicks back immediately, shock heavy in his tone. Is it from hearing Jisung’s voice, or what he saw? “Sorry, that pack just took out a stray.”

I listen to Jisung curse under his breath, annoyed at how the older man frightened him. Made him think we were under siege. He puts his eye back to the scope, and the walkie falls from his hand.

Then screams. Earth shattering screams.

Jisung is on the ground, sitting beneath the window with his hands over his ears. Back and forth he rocks, sobbing loudly with his eyes shut. “No, no.” He cries out. “No, no, no, no—“

I don’t have to ask. I don’t even have to look through the scope, but I do anyway. In the back of the pack is a smaller Not. Brown hair, waves breaking the straight pattern.

The worst thing about Nots is if you know who they were, they won’t be hard to spot after the transformation. There goes the little girl whose room we’ve slept in, tailing behind what looks like her parents.

“Jisung?” Hyunjin cuts through the walkie again. “What’s going on? Answer me.”

He responds with another scream, kicking the walkie as far from him as he can. The weight of it is weighing down on him, crushing his already fragile being into nothing but dust. His back is hitting the wall, nails in his throat. My friend, almost unrecognizable on the ground next to me.

“I’m coming up.” Hyunjin says, and I snatch the walkie from the ground.

“Keep your post.” I said. “I’m with him. If they get close, shoot.”

I don’t hear what Hyunjin said to me. Dropping to a squat in front of my friend, I gently remove his hands from his neck. “Jisung, talk to me.”

“I t-told you.” He says in a broken sob. “I told y-you, I told you—“

“Shh, I know.” I tried my best, really. I think you would be proud of me; everything you taught me about him, how to be the friend he needs in big moments. Though I’m convinced no one could ever be as good as you at this, I think I’m a pretty good third. Or like, fourth or fifth option. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen better.”

He shook his head, hiccuping through his tears. I kept a firm grasp on his wrists, letting him rock as much as he needed to. Tears stung my eyes; it’s kind of a given that watching your friend experience something like this is hard. But rarely do we talk about just how gut wrenching it is. My brave friend, nothing but a shell in my hands.

“Jisung.” I said his name softly. “We have to do it.”

“No!” He shouted loud enough to make the earth vibrate. “H-hyung, can’t. I c-can’t—“

“Hey, hey.” I grab him, pulling him into a hug. He fought it for a second, pushing at my chest to try to escape, though he eventually caved. The tears were warm against my shoulder, violent sobs muffled. “You don’t have to. I will.”

That’s when his eyes shot open, the fight returning to him. “D-don’t do that to her.” He cried. “She’s just a k-kid—“

Baby. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how I can pretend that this didn’t hurt me. Her pictures were everywhere; in the living room, across the hallways. The bulletin boards held strips of her and her friends. No more than nine or ten. A life barely lived, forced into an existence that she can never escape.

I cried. Sniffling in Jisung’s ear and swallowing dryly. “It isn’t fair to leave her like this.” I told him, though it was more for myself. Trying to convince both of us it’s the humane thing to do in a society that’s anything but.

Jisung was limp. Sobbing into my shoulder, mumbling weak pleas. Reconsider. Let her go—

“Seungmin.” Hyunjin’s voice cut through. “How’s the back?”

“Clear. You?”

“Not. They’re approaching.”

It had to be done. I had to let Jisung go, to let him curl into a ball as he covered his ears, awaiting the inevitable. Picking up the walkie, I clicked through. “Changbin, are you awake?”

He didn’t even wait a second. “Yeah.”

“Relieve Hyunjin. Take Minho with you.”

No questions were asked. There was no protest from the ball at my feet, shaking as he quietly sobbed. I waited, the sound of footsteps rushing past the door until the ones I needed found their way inside.

Hyunjin’s hair was a mess. A headband kept the frizzy locks out of his face. But that isn’t what caught my eye. The tags resting in the center of his chest, the ones we know all too well.

He moved to Jisung, the younger man letting him pull him close. Carefully, he sat him in his lap, rocking him. Back and forth, back and forth. Whispers of comfort heard even through the hands that clasped his ears.

When it comes to Jisung’s comfort, you are first. But there’s no doubt that Hyunjin is second.

Through watery eyes, I look through the scope. The gun is lightweight, easy to maneuver. Bodies of Nots litter the front yard, the ones who haven’t taken a bullet yet clawing at their own. I watched as another was it, terrible squeals released into the night as it twitched to its death. It took me a moment to find her. Behind the gate, lost in the body of an unrecognizable animal.

After I aimed, I shut my eyes. I don’t know how she died, my love, but I know I’ll never forget how painfully human her cries were. Freshly turned, returning to her home. Nots don’t like to wander far.

I boarded that room up today. Lock the door and hid the key somewhere no one will ever find it — within our group, or others who seek refuge here. She deserves to rest, and I’ll be damned if anyone disturbs her.

Jisung requested the sniper be moved to the office. Minho and I worked on it for him. He refused to touch it. It’s been a few days, but I’m the only one who has used it. I don’t know how long it will take him to be comfortable with it again.

At least he’s finally sleeping. The master bed was big enough for all three of us, though now Hyunjin seems to cling to Jisung. When he wakes, the younger man will shove him away. Though, I’ve caught him pretending to sleep. Enjoying the hold the artist has on him.

It’s a good home. I think we’ll be here for a while. The guys seem to like it a lot, and the normalcy that’s felt here — well, you don’t need me to explain how valued that is.

I’m glad to hear all has been going somewhat well for you guys. Felix has been asking nonstop about you. I think he’s a little obsessed with the idea of a ranch. You’ll have to teach him about the horses; he’s been reading up about them since his injury (which has gotten better, by the way. He’s off crutches as of yesterday according to Dr. Kim. Don’t tell him I called him that). The idea of getting to ride one has kept him going.

We’ve been mapping a route out there, but still have some things to finalize. I don’t want to get your hopes up, so I’ll tell you more when I know more.

I love you, you know? If it’s possible, this shit has made me love you even more. In the nightmare of this world, you’re like a guiding light. I hope I don’t have to wander much longer to find you.

Stay safe, my love. I’ll be upset if I have to cuddle Hyunjin forever.

Forever yours,

Chan

93 notes · View notes

jessenitrogen · 11 months

Text

cybertronian anatomy ?? (headcanons)

FAIR WARNING, I STILL DONT KNOW THE MOST ABT TRANSFORMERS, I KNOW THERES A TCOG AND A SPARK BUT THATS IT AND ALSO WHILE I DID TAKE ANATOMY CLASS I FORGOT A BIT OF IT BUT and doesnt help I know next to nothing abt mechanics stuff

and another fair warning, the headcanons are canon to ME when I put them in the context of my continuity and exist bcuz I thought of it to fit in my continuity/my designs bcuz fuck it we ball

DENTA/TEETH/DIGESTIVE SYSTEM?

I think the purpose of their denta would not to chew but to bite into energon. Theyre metal beings, that are BIG in most cases, I believe they have a bite force strong enough enough to bite into energon in its mineral state.

For denta appearance, (while I dont know the best shape there is to cut into rock) would be sharp teeth, yknow pointed teeth. Some cybertronians have sharp pointed teeth and then there are some who dont. Well heres the kicker since these guys can also transform, I feel like they can alter their denta shape as well. highly compacted plates that can loosen and move when need be or something. Their sharp teeth can pop out like that HTTYD scene with Toothless popping out his teeth

They dont have tongues, cuz they dont taste, or use it to swallow, or use it to talk. They just kinda. Lean their helms back to get energon into their throats, like birds!!

And they dont need a tongue to formulate their speech, for their voice box is like, a literal box that generates sound waves that is the cybertronians voice. A cybertronian moves their mouth as to not muffle their voice.

While their denta is not designed to chew, in order to get energon into a shape/size that can get to their version of stomachs, their throats grind the energon into smaller bits so it can travel easier through their esophagus. or whatever the cybertronian equivalent is.

Once the energon gets to their stomachs, its melted down into a liquid state so it can flow to the spark where it is essentially "charged" and then can flow throughout tubes and circuits and power their bodies/frames and systems. And I believe, the cybertronians were created in such a way that they can utilize every component of energon so nothing goes to waste.

Cybertronians were created before the technology was made that could convert energon into a liquid state. That tech was made as to cut down digestive time and save energy that could be used for other things.

SKIN/INTEGUMENTARY SYSTEM

idk what cybertronian skin is called and I barely remember what the integumentary system is other than its skin it helps regulate body temp and helps fight infection?

ANYWAYS their skin is like a very flexible metal, its thinner in parts where the frame has more armor, but thicker in places that dont have armor to compensate for the lack of armor.

Here in this thin layer of metal are receptors that can sense touch and pain, and like idk abt this part but wanna say there is a thin layer of wire net/mesh that can either warm up or cool down as a way to assist the cybertronians ventilation system (ventilation system does most of the work when cooling down the frame)

This layer can repair itself over time. It can also be replaced with external metal if the layer is too damaged. During the early times of the War for Cybertron injuries were repaired with external metal. This external metal did not include touch/pain receptors or the wire net/mesh that assists with temp regulation. Those who were frequently repaired with this external metal have some resistance to pain but have the tendency to overheat, in severe cases need an external source to cool down their frames. ie, dipping in water

Cybertronians need to stay at a constant temp, normally a LOT warmer than we do, in order to keep the energon in a liquid state and stay warm during the nights on Cybertron. If they get too cold the energon can solidify again and cause blockage in circuits and tubing. But if their frames get too hot, the processor can fry, circuits can melt, etc

EXTRA/HALFBAKED HEADCANONS

these I dont have detailed thought on atleast yet, but

They wouldnt have noses. they dont breathe, or smell, so.

They dont have ANY reproductive organs, internal or external. They cannot reproduce with eachother or by themselves. their numbers only increase bcuz of the Allspark

AND THATS ALL I HAVE rn I'd like to state here and now that these headcanons definitely apply to all of my characters and my continuity versions of canon characters. and like, no one has to agree with them or use them but it's also cool if someone does

#transformers #maccadam #tf #tf mythos #fan continuity #headcanon #speculative anatomy #anatomy #cybertronian anatomy #transformers oc #tf ocs #transformers prime #tfp #au #transformers au #rambling

73 notes · View notes

mane--attraction · 6 months

Text

It's that time of year again when haunted houses are in full swing, and despite your best efforts, you are going alone to have some fun getting spooked. Might you get more than you bargained for, however?

Word Count: 5015. Yeah. This one kinda got away from me lol. Fun fact, this is now my longest fic ever. This was also supposed to be done for last year, but I clearly vastly underestimated how long this was going to be.

Mild knifeplay, "kidnapping," gender neutral but afab reader. Murdock x reader. Potentially inaccurate haunted house depiction.

MINORS DNI!

~~~

Dusk dapples the sky while you stand in line, waiting for the local haunted house event to open its doors, rubbing your arms to ward off the beginnings of a chill in the air. Despite living here a while, this is your first time you've built up the nerve to go. It takes up the entire fairgrounds, with multiple houses under one event. You had extended an invitation to Murdock, because you were sure it was right up his alley, but he declined, citing work. He's been away an awful lot this month, despite his best efforts, and you were hoping to spend more time with him out and about instead of just within your four walls and between the sheets. But alas, it seems like it's not to be, and you had reassured him it was alright, even as you tried to mask your disappointment.

You mostly relegate all that to the back of your mind, your excitement more prominent now that you're here. You hesitated to attend in the years prior because some of the houses were interactive, where the actors could grab you. It was one of the selling points you had used to appeal to Murdock, animatedly mimicking it in the air, although you wonder now that you think about it if that was a deal breaker for him; after all, thanks to his…line of work, would he have reacted negatively? The last thing either of you need, especially him, is legal action.

Regardless, you're not sure now why it was such a problem for you that you didn't even try the normal houses; and after all, it's not like the ones where they can touch you have free reign. Although you do have to fill out a liability form, so maybe that's why you over-thought it in the past.

You're at the front of the line before you realize it, handing over your money—extra for the specialty houses—and signing the necessary forms. The woman in the booth puts on your wristband and gives you a map and a spiel that she's already had to recite multiple times, but you are eating up every word, grinning excitedly.

"Welcome to our little town of horrors, where the streets and fields are home to a great many spooky things, where the veil between the supernatural and our world grows thinner by the day. But beware: it's not just the ghost and ghouls that are out to get you… Good luck."

And with that, you're free to start exploring. You wander around for a little bit, gaining your bearings on the area, but it isn’t long before impatience overtakes you and you head towards the first haunted house. The smell of food is enticing, as are the Halloween-themed carnival games, but that all can wait. The best way to tackle this is head-on, even if you're sure these beginning houses are going to be pretty okay. This is, after all, just a local event, even if it does pull in quite the crowd. Plus, you’re starting at the tamest one, with plenty of kids out front, so you’ll be fine.

Let the spookening begin.

Your first house was actually a little underwhelming because of being geared so young, but you worked your way through the other two houses you wanted to try before getting to the “final boss” of the haunted houses tonight. You were sufficiently spooked, both through corridors and a corn maze, but the goal wasn’t “sufficient.” With slightly overpriced pizza sitting in your stomach, you start towards your final destination.

Excitement and nervousness, stronger than before, bubble together the closer you get, the previous scares coming to your mind’s eye, but you force yourself through it rather than chicken out. You didn’t come all this way just to back out. You do wish Murdock was here, though; you’d feel a lot better if he was. Things seem less scary with a man like him by your side. The screams from within startle you from your thoughts. You swear they're louder here.

The attendant checks your wristband to make sure you're allowed in, then waves you along into the corral with the next batch of "victims." You fidget with your hands and glance around at the rest of the event. It's only now you realize how physically isolated this house is from the others.

"First time?"

You turn to see a guy around your age with a group of a few others, probably his friends. You chuckle, your nervousness evident. "Yeah. I went through some of the others already, just this one left."

The guy grins, while the two girls resume some quiet discussion. "It'll be fine. They'll just push you and tug on your clothing a bit, maybe grab your hand, but nothing too bad."

"As if you don't scream every time," one of the girls pipes up from her conversation.

He huffs, only half insulted, and you can't help but giggle in tandem with the girls. "I do not—"

“Do too.” The girl who spoke grins. “I bet you’d scream real loud if we went to one of those newer places where they can drag you off somewhere”

“They actually allow that?” you interject, eyes rounding in surprise.

“Yeah, I heard a couple of the big popular places are adding that as a feature.” The girl pulls her coat around her, the wind kicking at everyone’s legs. “It’ll probably never happen here, though. Not with everything that’s happened recently.”

While it does genuinely take you a moment, you nod and go “ah” as if you aren’t in flagrante delicto with the culprit of crimes a few towns over. A culprit whom you were originally planning on bringing here— Thankfully, you’re almost to the door of the house, so the group’s focus is more on getting in than on you, and nobody seems to notice your smile growing a bit taut.

“Hey, why don’t you stick with us?” The other girl you haven’t spoken with yet bounces on her feet.

“Yeah, it’s more fun as a group,” the guy says. His buddy nods.

“Sure,” you say, the twisty feeling in your stomach loosening. “The more the merrier, right?”

Everyone in the group gives some form of acknowledgement, and then the attendant cuts in with their spiel about the theming—a mansion, run down with time after the owner and his staff’s mysterious disappearances…if that’s really what happened. Rumor has it that something terrible befell everyone inside—and they might think you’re to blame, if you’re not careful. They also bring up reminders about protocol while in the house. You've heard all of it at the other haunted houses here, and not much changes with the addition of physicality; as always, if it gets too overwhelming, there are ways out that all the performers know.

The buddy turns to you once the speech is done. “What’s your name, by the way?”

You introduce yourself, and he repeats your name. “Nice to meet you.” He gives his own name and sounds off everyone else’s. You try and commit it all to memory, even if you’re not sure how well it will stay.

“Nice to meet all of you.”

And with that, you step over the threshold, and the door slams shut behind you. You jump higher than you think is warranted, but the scaredy cat in the group does in fact let out a yelp, which sets everyone off laughing. You collectively take a moment to consider the path in front of you: a narrow corridor, flickering with sickly yellow lighting, the remnants of pumped-in fog curling at the floor.

You’re not entirely certain who steps forward first, but it definitely isn’t you. Despite knowing this is all fake and having already gone through other hallways similar to this one, it still has enough of a thrall to induce a silence that grows more tense the further you all get. The walls are eerily similar to how you would imagine a decrepit mansion to be, wallpaper peeling off in sheets, and you find yourself suspicious of every dark spot in the wall. Even the mirrors in the supposed foyer, cracked and broken, are suspect. The sounds of a creaking house and muffled howling winds are piped in; quiet enough to make you second guess where you are, but loud enough that it almost feels too loud in the enclosed space.

One of the girls lets out a shriek, pulling away suddenly from the wall, and you practically jump out of your skin. She giggles nervously. “It got me!”

Everyone else follows suit, letting out a laugh that normally would release tension. You can only speak for yourself when you think about how it didn’t much help.

“Get out! The master is gone: Get out while you still can!”

The warning, shouted at a frightening pitch, kicks your group forward, everyone pressing together as the hall narrows more, then widens again, a bend ahead of you all. You feel a hand against your sleeve, and you jank it back quickly with a surprised curse. A cold breeze tickles your neck, and it takes all your willpower not to shriek, even though that is perfectly in spirit with a haunted house (pun not intended). “Please tell me someone else felt that cold air?” you squeak.

“Yeah, I did,” says the guy in front of you. You already can’t tell which one he is.

The wood beneath your feet groan as you all continue forward, the sconces flickering with the yellow light your eyes have gotten used to. You shove your hands into your pockets; the closer you keep your limbs, the less likely they are to be grabbed. The door handle beside your group rattles. It’s not fake. You all move a little quicker.

The floorboards creak behind you, and you feel like you turn as if in slow motion to see a man standing in the middle of the hallway in a mask, human-like but definitely not human. Every feature is exaggerated just enough to be unnatural, and in this place, it works a little too well. With his frame, he seems to take up the entire hallway; and if not physically, then with his presence. Your eyes lock onto him, and you stop walking, as if he’s frozen you in place. Everything else disappears: no sound, no sight except for this man. And there’s something about him…

The man lets out a guttural growl, the kind that sends genuine fear into the pit of your stomach. You’re the first to scramble to run the moment he shifts to pursue, pushing through the rest of your group, the spell broken, but everyone else soon follows suit, screams echoing in the tiny corridor. You're not sure where theirs end and yours begins. You whip your head around just long enough to confirm where the man is before you round the corner, and your line of sight is perfect to see him between everyone’s heads, the unsettling lighting warping the mask more. You swear you see a knife in his hand.

Finally, after a few minutes of running, one of the girls must have glanced back, because you hear her call out behind you, "He's gone!" Your feet don't quite get the memo, and you find yourself out ahead of the group as you slow and catch your breath.

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter to yourself. Why did that scare you so much?

“Are you okay?” one of the guys asks. You nod.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It’s half a lie, and you laugh nervously. “Just part of the experience, right?”

“Right.”

“We should probably keep moving though. Who knows when the next person’s gonna jump out at us.” Despite not being fully ready, you lead the group forward, trying to figure out what it was this time. It’s probably not that deep, but it feels important to figure out.

However. Something occurs to you.

That mask didn't look like it belonged in this house

Teeth bared in a snarl too wide to be natural, prominent eyebrows casting shadows over the eyes, more creature than human, despite being human-like. Surely it's just a mistake, but all the other houses have been meticulous with what they had to work with, so for a slip-up to happen now seems odd. Although, it could still fit, since it had been said nobody knew what happened to the occupants of the mansion. That doesn't quite explain, however, why his outfit—including an almost knee-length modern coat with pants—wasn't that of a servant, nor the head of the mansion…

“That was a pretty good scare,” says one of the girls behind you.

“Yeah, that felt so visceral,” says the other. "Wild."

“I have the heebie jeebies.” It’s that guy, the scared one.

“You always get the ‘heebie jeebies.’”

He huffs. “Shut up—”

You slow down, falling to the back of the group. You swear you hear something that isn’t just the sound system, but maybe it's just your overactive imagination. After all, anyone would be on high alert after being chased. The guy you haven’t spoken to gives you a look that you almost miss, but you don't explain yourself. No point.

“I thought this was supposed to be more grabby.”

“Maybe we just haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“I know this place is big, but it’s not that big.”

“They probably just want to build up the spookiness,” you interject, even if you’re not fully convinced, yourself.

“Ah, that would make sense.”

You stop in front of another destroyed mirror, pieces scattered on the table under it. Your own face is almost unrecognizable, horridly lit and fractured in the reflection, concern and fear staring back at you.

“YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”

It comes from up ahead, and it snaps you from your trance, but instead of seeing your new acquaintances, you see…nobody. Everyone is gone. Even the voice you heard isn’t visible to you.

You swear you see a bit of the one girl's hair trailing behind her at the bend ahead, but you're much too far away already, and you're not sure they noticed you're not with them yet. It stings a little, even if you know they didn’t mean anything by it, but your nervousness overpowers that, the uncertainty of what lies ahead gnawing at you. You jog forward, just fast enough to hopefully catch up with the rest of the group—

You hear a loud THUMP somewhere behind you, startling you enough to jump. With the way the ground vaguely vibrates, whatever hit the floor must have done so pretty hard. You swallow thickly. “Guys?” you call out. No answer. You jog with more urgency now, your footfalls and heartbeat equal tempo in your ears. More than likely, they didn’t hear you because of ambience, but you fear they’ve gotten too far away in such a short span of time. You pick up speed—

—but there’s another noise behind you, a shuffling, that has you stop again, head whipping around to try and find the source. With the corners so dark, it’s impossible to tell if someone is there or if it was just an animal that found its way in. You stand there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring into the darkness. Something is up, and the lack of anything actually happening is making this so much worse than being physically pushed and pulled in different directions. You’re not a haunted house expert by any means, but this place has been far too quiet. Slowly, you continue to move forward, the faux fog growing thicker with less bodies to disturb it. The floor creaks uncomfortably loud. You don’t remember any mention about multiple pathways, so where the hell is everyone?

There's a tug on your hair, and you barely suppress a yelp, but you suppose it was an accident…although it was rather close to your scalp; how did someone get that close without you realizing after all this time…

Suddenly, there's a hand clamped around your wrist, jolting you, and you'd think it a coincidence if it wasn't for the one wrapping around your mouth, dragging you to someone and into the shadows. You scream, but it's muffled, drowned out by the suddenly overly loud sound system, and your efforts to struggle out of your assailant's grip are futile, holding you tightly against their body as they maneuver you with much more ease than you'd expect. It's honestly kind of scary how little you're affecting them. Their hands are oddly cool against your skin, and then you realize it's not their skin, but some material.

Leather.

A door slams open behind you, and you're dragged into a room. The outside noises are muffled, then dampened once the door shuts again, trapping you in the dim space with whoever has kidnapped you. You're still yelling, trying to stomp on their feet and throw your head back against their chin, but their shoes are too solid and they're too tall to headbutt. Your hands twist around to pinch or scratch, but all you get is fabric.

"Sweet thing," a man's voice growls into your ear, "you better cooperate, or else this will be a lot more difficult for you."

The person's hands shift, and hope surges that you'll get an opening, but before you can get very far in acting through it, you're forced to the ground face down, hips suddenly pressed up against you, and you freeze. He's rock hard.

"Or you can struggle all you like. Doesn't much matter to me." Somehow, you can tell there's a grin to his voice. "It just encourages me to try harder."

It takes you a moment too long to try and buck him off, gnashing your teeth. "Get off of me! You'll be sorry!"

You feel the man throb, and he laughs lowly. "Sorry how, sweetheart? A pretty thing like you, at my mercy…"

The chill of metal against your skin startles you into freezing again, and something about it seems…familiar. The cogs take a moment to turn, but then they click into place. You know that voice. "Murdock?"

He's quiet for a moment, then chuckles. "Well, well. Smart cookie. Not that I expected anything less from my kitten.”

Considering the shock of it all prevented you from thinking straight, he's lucky you didn't panic more. "Wh— What are you doing here? I had thought—"

"I couldn't resist the opportunity." Murdock tosses something to the ground—a mask he was apparently wearing. "And work…ended much sooner than I thought."

The lighting is terrible, but your eyes focus on the mask, which stares back at you with a bared grin, more bestial than you realized, and a memory flashes: Being pursued down the hall, sickly yellow light flashing across its exaggerated features— "But how—"

He shushes you, hands trailing across your neck to expose it to him. "I have my ways, sweetling. Not everyone is as careful as they could be." He starts pressing startlingly soft kisses to your neck, although it isn't long before they become more insistent, and you bite your lip and shiver. "Yourself included."

His dangerous tone sets off a nervousness in the pit of your stomach: it’s the type of tone he uses when you’ve been misbehaving. “L-listen, Murdock, I carry that pepper spray with me, you know I’ll be okay—”

“Do I? After all, look at how easily I stole you away…”

Shit. He’s not wrong. "You—you’re just abnormally strong.” You swear you hear a light chuckle, but you ignore it and squirm in one more attempt to get free. “The others, they're— they're waiting for me—"

"Are they?" He can't hide the hint of possessiveness that creeps into his voice, and one of his hands presses into your back to stop you. "They can wait, sweetheart. We haven't had our fun yet."

The sharp tip of something presses against your center, and you yip, jolting forward. “Don’t you dare! I’m not about to replace these—”

“Alright, I won’t. Help me get you out of them, then."

His hands push their way under your coat to find the band of your jeans, and a half second after he starts, your brain jumpstarts again and you scramble to assist him, finding the waistband before he does and pushing it down your body. Murdock takes over when it rounds your ass, shoving the material to your knees with impatience. You try and kick them off, although it is very difficult in this position; he helps a little bit, but once you’ve gotten it off one leg, he grips your thighs, forcing you to stay still. Slowly, the cold metal of the flat of his blade trails over your skin: along your thigh, pressing against the underside of your ass, across and down to the other thigh…then it’s pressing against your core again, and with nothing but your underwear left to protect you, you can’t help but whimper.

“These are easily replaceable, though. Aren’t they, kitten?”

His knife pushes a little firmer against you, and your breathing shudders. It takes everything within you not to press back. “...Yes, sir.”

His grin is as clear as day in his voice this time. “Perfect.”

It’s the only warning you get before a gloved finger hooks between your skin and the cotton, pulling it away just enough to allow the knife to slip through and slice. Your underwear offers no resistance, cut through like butter and exposing you in an instant. The cold only chills you for a moment, his groin back against yours and grinding roughly, and all you can do is fail to hold back your moan. He only does this for a few seconds before pulling back. His jingling belt gives away his intentions, and your blood pumps faster in anticipation.

“Do you think you’re ready? Hm?” There’s a soft sound and fabric going flump, and his bare hand is on your clit, rubbing intensely. You gasp wildly, nodding without actually knowing if you are or not. Murdock’s fingers dip into you, checking for himself. You don’t resist lifting your hips towards them, trying to guide them further in with a desperate whine. He just teases you, sliding back and forth and occasionally thumbing your sensitive nub.

“Please,” you whisper without thinking.

“What’s that?” Fuck, he sounds so smug, and you’d love to snap back at him for it, but him slowing to a snail’s pace is too distracting. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Please, Murdock!”

His fingers leave you, and you pout and whine quietly. However, his zipper popping open has you changing your tune. “One more try.”

There’s little hesitation from you. “Pleasefuckme!”

“Mm.” His head slides through your folds, and you gasp again. This time, his gloved hand stills you before you can move. “Music to my ears.”

That’s all the warning you get before he slowly slides into you, gripping your hips. You squeak, lashes fluttering as your breaths come out in puffs, adjusting to how almost easily he stretches you. He rubs at you a little more, and he sinks in the rest of the way. A low moan is his reward, followed by one of his own. Murdock hardly moves at first, simply grinding within you and rocking his hips in shallow movements. Then, suddenly, he draws back all the way and snaps his hips against yours, and you yelp in surprise. You aren’t given much of a reprieve before he does it again. And again. And again. And each time, you let out a shout, although you try to muffle yourself, thinking you hear footsteps in the hall. At any moment, someone from the staff could come in here. Does he know this?

Better question is, does he care? You’re not sure if you want to admit that it kind of turns you on.

Murdock starts a steady pace, not so intense as before but just as overwhelming. You’re panting already, struggling to keep quiet. He notices and chuckles. "Go ahead and scream." His command is uncannily punctuated by muffled screams from within the haunted house proper. "Do you really think they can hear you over everyone else’s, let alone the sounds from the haunted house itself?" His breath is hot by your ear. "Nobody's going to investigate, sweet thing. I have you all to myself, now."

That shouldn’t excite you as much as it does, holding back a whimper, yet you can’t hold back the way you tighten around him. He slows, as if making sure of something, then growls. “Oh, naughty thing. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You clamp your mouth shut, hoping that if you don’t answer, he’ll leave it alone. But alas, your body betrays you once more, and Murdock stops, a certain something sharp that you forgot about dragging against your neck just enough for you to be aware of it, your breath catching. “Answer me, kitten.”

“Yes, sir.” The reply rushes from your lips with more neediness than you thought it would have.

“First you let your ‘kidnapper’ fuck you, now this?” he teases, clicking his tongue with mock disappointment. “Seems I need to learn more about my kitten.”

Your face flushes intensely. It’s no different than when he’s chased you out in the woods, and he knows this. He just can’t help himself…but also he’s more than willing to play into the role of pursuer. This you know well.

“Maybe I should be making you beg more for me to fuck you.” His gloved hand trails along your thigh. “But I’m much too impatient for that.”

His grip grows tight enough to bruise, his thrusts growing intense to match, and you let out a sound unlike any you’ve made thus far, wild and raw and overwhelmed with pleasure. Murdock laughs, triumphant and deep like his thrusts, and more than tinged with lust. It almost seems to settle into your bones.

“God. What a rush you give me.”

His pace is technically slower now, but that doesn’t matter with the way your eyes roll with every impact. You feel him lean over, but don’t know what’s happening until his lips reach your neck, kissing and sucking the skin he can find. Your moan is so whorish that it would embarrass you under different circumstances. His lips curl against your neck, although you barely comprehend that’s what’s happening. You try and reach your hand to your clit, but he beats you to it, only to rub so harshly that you practically sob out a cry. “FUCK!”

“If you insist,” he says, his strained voice giving away how much you’re affecting him. That hand travels back up to hold your hip in a vice grip. He lets out that same guttural growl from earlier, this time low and long, and with it directly in your ear, you nearly lose your mind, fluttering madly around him. You're so close—

"There it is. There we are." Murdock growls again, shorter but nowhere less effective. "Do it. Cum. Scream for me."

Despite being so tightly wound, you’re almost not sure if you can obey…until he groans and slams once more into you—and with a shriek, you are undone, clenching wildly around him and thighs trembling with an orgasm more intense than you expected. Murdock grunts in surprise, trying to continue fucking you through it. Your mind fractures with every attempted stroke, whimpering and babbling curses.

“Oh fuck—”

Murdock grunts once, twice, then he’s spilling inside you, cock pulsing harshly, the heat of him and his skin flush against yours driving you mad. He gasps and huffs and puffs, hand blinding finding you and rubbing again just enough to feel you clench around him harder. You keen loudly, practically a shriek in and of itself, legs threatening to give out as your body is kept on that intense plateau.

Eventually, the rush of cum slows, as does his throbbing inside you, and your own body is, mercifully, allowed to relax, still fluttering but not actively climaxing. The both of you pant heavily, catching your breaths as the two of you recover. His hands slide over your body, the strange dichotomy of skin and leather over and under your clothes. Murdock slips from you, and you’re too tired yet to be disappointed by it. He guides you in rolling you onto your back, and you don’t resist, grateful to give your legs a break from supporting you.

You blink almost blearily at where he ought to be, your eyes needing to adjust again to the lighting. You find your legs spread wide, almost folded in half, and his cockhead against your entrance once more. He doesn’t do anything at first, probably just taking you in. It’s a welcome, true reprieve. His bare hand brushes against your cheek, and you lean into it on instinct.

While maybe the break ought to last longer, Murdock is true to his word and impatient to have you. As he slides into you again with an unabashed moan that’s matched with your own, it strikes you as always that he’s already—still?—half hard again. If there’s one guarantee about Murdock among the other guarantees, it’s that he doesn’t stay soft for long.

Now, you can see him, face closer to yours. Even in the dimness, there's no mistaking that hunter's glint in his eyes. "Hello, sweetheart," he says, a wicked grin on his lips. "Miss me?"

He's devouring your mouth before you can respond, head spinning while he takes over your senses. His thrust scrambles what few thoughts you had left, eyes rolling into your head with a loud moan swallowed by him. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and he groans into your mouth. Your mind tumbles again.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Murdock pants against your lips, watching your unfocused expression as he resumes pounding into you. All you can manage is a long whine. “How much more, hm? How much more can you take while I show you just how much I missed you?”

You don’t know. You can’t even think enough to be able to consider how much more.

But you’re certainly about to find out.

#lemon #x reader #Murdock x reader #minors dni #gender neutral reader #afab reader #gn reader #cw knife #a year in the making folks #happy halloween~~#murderplier x reader

34 notes · View notes

thana-topsy · 9 months

Text

SNIPPET SOMEDAY

Tagged by @dirty-bosmer @mareenavee @archangelsunited and @throughtrialbyfire -- Thanks so much you guys! My focus has been a little scattered, so it's been tough to keep up with tumblr. Mostly due to my terminal case of ENTHIR BRAINROT.

So I'll share a snippet from the new new Enthir one-off I just started, since the one of him and Urag is very close to finishing up.

I tag @kookaburra1701 @argisthebulwark @viss-and-pinegar @greyborn2 @caliblorn @skyrim-forever and @paraparadigm

---

“Karliah?”

It was like seeing a ghost. She looked thinner than he remembered, half-hidden in the shadows beneath the dark cowl of her cloak, face gaunt, eyes unmistakable.

“It’s been a while, Enthir,” she said softly.

Any response was lodged half-formed in his throat. Rumor raged against reason, his hands tightening into fists to keep them steady. Was it really you who killed him? The question lingered on the tip of his tongue. But if the answer was even remotely close to ‘yes’, Enthir knew only one of them would be walking away alive. And the odds were in Karliah’s favor.

The strange Nord looked between them wearing a stupid expression. “This guy?” he said, gesturing with his thumb.

“Yes,” Karliah confirmed whatever question was really being asked.

Enthir took a moment to give the Nord more than a sweeping once-over, and a memory clicked into place. He let out an unkind bark of a laugh. “Oh, I remember you. You left quite the knuckle imprint on my jaw.”

“And I’ll do it again if you try any funny business,” the Nord spat.

“Might I remind you that you joined the Thieves Guild, you oaf. If you were looking for honest work, I might suggest the Companions.”

“Little rat.”

“Please,” Karliah cut in, stepping between them. “Bjoryn, he’s a friend.”

Enthir’s lip twisted at the comment. “Friend?” He gave Karliah a skeptical look. “I wouldn’t be so quick to claim that.”

“Enthir, you have to know it’s not true.” She lowered her hood, her large amethyst eyes cutting through the gloom of the Frozen Hearth's basement. “I loved him. As much as y–”

“Then who did it?” Enthir hissed, heat gathering in his face and fists.

“Mercer. I witnessed it. Which is why he tried to get rid of me.”

Enthir tongued along the row of his upper teeth, brow drawn tight. Yes, Mercer would make a whole hell of a lot more sense than Karliah. But he couldn’t be sure. “He succeeded, I’d say.”

“We’re here because he tried to do the same to Bjoryn,” she explained. “We’re going to put a stop to his tyranny. Restore the guild to its rightful glory. Regain the favor of Nocturnal.”

Enthir’s eyes slid to the Nord. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his unkempt brown hair pulled back into a haphazard braid. Darker complexion than most Nords, though his eyes still held that ghostly, Draugr quality—blue like ice, his sclera a shock of white in his features. He wondered if they were fucking.

“So, you survived, then?” Enthir asked. The question was acidic. What makes you so special?

“Barely,” Bjoryn ceded with a wince, running a hand along a jagged scar beneath his stubbled jaw—a hastily healed wound, thick with scarring.

Was that how Mercer had offed Gallus? Slit his throat like livestock set for slaughter? Left him to bleed out on the cold floor of an ancient tomb? The thought settled like a rock in his stomach, leaving him feeling helpless and sick.

“Why do you need me?” Enthir pressed, eyes unfocused.

“Because we need help translating this.” Karliah pulled a journal from the satchel hanging from her shoulder and handed it to Enthir.

He brushed his hand over the cover reverently, already knowing what it was. “You finally found it…” he murmured, more to himself than anything. He’d wondered after the journal himself. Gallus was rarely seen without it. Shadows of memory flitted through his mind, like dapples of sunlight shifting through a thick canopy—Gallus hunched over Enthir’s desk, scribbling away, half undressed, half asleep, his hair sticking up at an odd angle from the way he buried his head beneath Enthir’s pillows.

“Is it really so important?” Enthir asked from the bed, arching into a stretch.

“If I don’t write it down, it’ll leave my mind forever…”

“Well get back over here when you’re done.”

It felt wrong to pry into its contents. Gallus was a private man—something Enthir respected. And something they had in common. The pressure of Karliah and Bjoryn’s presence got the better of him, and he flipped the journal open. Then paused, squinting down at the page. A warm fondness unfurled behind his breastbone.

“Hah! Figures…”

“Can you make sense of it?” Bjoryn asked.

“Nope.” Enthir snapped the journal closed, offering a thin, unkind smile. “Looks like he was using the ancient Falmer alphabet as his cipher, the clever bastard.”

“Do you know where we might find a key?” Karliah ased. “He and you had a shared interest in the Falmer, so I thought…” She trailed off, waiting for Enthir to respond.

“You thought wrong.” He handed her the journal. “Though I could send you in the same direction I sent him all those years ago: Markarth.”

“Markarth?” Bjoryn repeated, wrinkling his nose. “Why?”

“To consult the Altmer court wizard, Calcelmo. Be warned, though. He’s a fiercely guarded researcher, but he had whatever resources Gallus needed to write like that.” He nodded towards the journal in Karliah’s hands.

“Will you help us translate it?” Karliah pressed. “If we get the proper materials to decode it?” She paused as Enthir let the silent stretch between them. “You knew him well, Enthir. Better than me, in some ways.”

It was a nice play. Enthir fixed her with a calculated stare, then shrugged with casual indifference. “I could be persuaded.” He crossed his arms and shifted to prop himself up against the wall. “If you’re heading to Markarth anyway, there is something I’ve been trying to get my hands on.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Bjoryn spat. “Come on, Karliah.” He placed a firm (but noticeably gentle) hand on her shoulder. “We can manage on our own.”

“What is it?” Karliah asked, refusing to move, eyes locked with Enthir.

Enthir smiled conspiratorially. “Please, step into my office.”

#topsy writes #enthir #enthir/gallus #karliah #thieves guild #skyrim fanfiction #snippet someday #Enthis is my new babygirl and everyone's gonna have to deal with this for a while

46 notes · View notes

lilsuccubunnie · 1 year

Note

Don't take this the wrong way. But I prefered you when you were thinner. You gained a lot of weight recently...always thought you were hot, but over the past year? Not so much...sorry. I hope to see you thinner soon though.

Fuck you. I absolutely don’t want trash like you jacking off to my content anyway. I was dying, my heart and stomach are permanently damaged because of it. So you want me dead just so you can get off?

I’m more than my body. I’m creative, kind, intelligent, and will absolutely put garbage like you in your place. You need to realize adding “don’t take this the wrong way.” Doesn’t give you an excuse to comment on someone’s body. I feel bad for you, since you are so pathetic, going out of your way to state unnecessary facts. Yeah I gained weight, I also spent thousands in therapy bills to get to this point.

That being said!! Recovery is and will always be worth it. Taking care of your body and brain is so so important! I feel way healthier and happier, I can actually workout now, I can go on hikes and go shopping with my friends. I lost so many years of my life trying to be thin. I’ll never go back.

Anon I hope you have the day you deserve.

#anonymous asks #asks

117 notes · View notes

giffenprep · 23 days

Text

From Red Iron Buttocks (deact)

Greg

Yes mum?

Since I became your stepmother, I've often warned you, haven't I?

Yes, mum

Do you think your behaviour has improved?

No, Mum

That's right. Therefore, from now on, your white bottom will be whipped with a belt every day, and hard!

No, please, Mum, I will improve, no

Too late, boy! Panties down! Now!

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

I think I got these from Red Iron Buttocks before it was deactivated. Stuffed them in my drafts and forgot about them.

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

You're coming back too late young man! You were supposed to be home an hour ago!

- Sorry auntie

There will be time for an apology later! Now march up to your room, lower your panties and get your bottom well up on the chair! You'll get a long spanking with a belt, and if you don't sit on your bottom for a week, you'll remember it well....

Since you are pretending to be ill, I will try to get you to actually lie in bed, except that you will only be able to lie on your stomach and you will cry. Well a sick bottom must hurt a lot....

'On the bare bottom,' said M, standing in front of G with the rod in her hand.

Her glasses made her look resolute and the buttons of her blouse revealed her cleavage. Her hips were hugged by a skirt emphasising her alluring curves, and on her feet were shoes with a light heel. Yes, his wife was a very beautiful woman. As many times as he looked at her, he had to admit that he was lucky to have met her on his path. Now, walking in the direction she was pointing, he thought about that too, but pulling down his panties he already felt a slight sting of fear and excitement at the same time. A flogging awaited him, perhaps not too hard and long, but his bottom would be suitably red and sore. Obediently, he lay down on the back of the sofa.

- Stick your bottom out, do I have to remind you of that every time! - the stern tone of voice made him immediately assume the correct position.

- Well, it's been too long a break, time to get back to regular meetings! Are you ready!

- Yes Ms.

The rod began to fall on his raised buttocks leaving tiny red welts. M had two methods. Short, quick strokes again and again, not too hard but with a high frequency they quickly became very painful, or slower ones with more sweep, immediately leaving a clear mark. Today she picked up a thinner rod, for which the first method was more suitable. She used the second with a thick bamboo or rattan stick in her hand, although she often swapped these methods or alternated them at the end of a spanking.

Smack...smack...smack....

Smack...smack...smack...smack....

For a few minutes the light swishing and slapping of the buttocks merged into one sound, and the bottom began to turn noticeably red and increasingly sore.

- Get up! - she put down the rod and pulled out a wooden spoon from IKEA from the drawer. Oh, that already meant serious trouble.

- Today we're going to try a slightly different position. Turn over, but the other way, head to the floor!

She surprised him. He liked it when she did that. Her shapely thighs encircled his head, he didn't know how she would react, but he gripped her legs with his hands.

M squeezed them tighter making him feel trapped. She had complete control over him and the freedom to spank him. The spoon fell with a clatter and he jerked slightly. Yes, that piece of wood in her hands was turning M into a harsh punisher and his bottom was turning maroon in the blink of an eye. Trapped between his legs, all he could do was moan and clamp his hands on them. He jerked with each thrust, and M clearly enjoyed the situation. She was reading his 'body language' accurately, probably even more so than when he was lying on her lap.

Pac...pac...pac...pac...pac....

Pac...pac...pac...pac...pac...pac....

Yes, a spanking after a long break always hurt a lot more, but he had no control over that. Here it was his beautiful Wife who decided, and as she was a perfectionist in everything she did, so the colour of his buttocks had to be perfectly as she had planned.

Pac...pac...pac...pac...pac....

pac...pac...pac...pac...pac...pac....

- Well, now I like it, get up!

- Thank you my lady - he kissed her hand, then took her hand and started kissing her neck.

- And get ready, we're back to regularity - she said patting him lightly on the bottom once they were on their way to the bedroom.

#captions #redironbuttocks

10 notes · View notes

marielle-heller · 2 months

Text

GTA V Gender Bent Headcanons

I don't know why but I have been thinking SO much about fem Michael and Trevor recently. they are so beautiful and amazing to me, so I thought I'd share my thoughts on all three of the main characters as women and what they're like cause they're so <3

Michael/Michelle

goes more by M/Em than anything else

she is 🏳️‍⚧️

dark hair a bit past her shoulders, slightly wavy. she ties it back into buns and ponytails when working but she likes it down for a more casual look

I think in North Yankton she would've worn a lot of jeans and button ups, open with a tanktop underneath. you get to see some breast without it being too showy. also works as more casual wear in Los Santos

when she gets her breasts done, she goes for a c-cup

always felt like something was off with her body, but it took her a while to fully process that she wanted to look like the women she liked almost as much as she wanted to fuck them

the biological parent of both Jimmy & Tracey. she never gets bottom surgery, and hasn't started estrogen yet when she starts seeing Amanda

in Los Santos she tends to wear a similar version of Michael's default outfit, but lose the jacket. just grey pants and a white button up, with diamond earrings and a bracelet as a quiet show of wealth

radiates MILF energy!

is socially transitioning when she meets T, still working to earn enough for better clothes and breast implants. their shared identity throws them even closer as friends

simple makeup, usually just mascara and pink lipstick. wine red lipstick if she's feeling fancy

kids call her M too, short for mom and helps to distinguish from Amanda

a bit more insecure when she first meets Amanda, but she and T still go to strip clubs and when a beautiful woman offers her a dance, how can she resist?

incredibly relieved when Amanda shrugs and says M's nothing she hasn't seen before, and she still wants her

starts estrogen a bit after Jimmy's born when she starts to worry more about how she looks to people outside their family

on special occasions, she wears a long, blue dress with a deep neckline that hugs her curves and emphasizes her stomach

T comments on how stuffed into it she looks, but she secretly likes it quite a bit

T still calls her Sugar Tits and comments that the best part about M's weight gain is that they've gotten even bigger

T also definitely comments on how between M and Amanda, it’s shocking Amanda’s the one who gave birth to two kids when M’s the one who looks it

just the whole the whole “you used to be fatter, nice new tits by the way” and then instead of focusing on Jimmy it’s straight to M like “and you used to be a lot thinner… at least your tits look amazing”

the only time she's taller than T is in heels and she does try to wear them a fair bit

Trevor/Trisha

might go by Trisha but honestly likes being called Trevor too, just do not fuck up her pronouns and any name is really fine

also 🏳️‍⚧️

a lot of people refer to her solely as T Philips which leads to a lot of people making a lot of very incorrect assumptions about the gender of the person behind all these drugs

doesn't get any sort of breast implants, preferring to stick with the flat chested look

her hair isn't receding quite as badly but it is forming a definite widow's peak. it just brushes her shoulders because anything beyond that starts to annoy her

unsure about her preference on bottom surgery... she probably just skips it altogether, and she definitely refers to having a dick as a way to make straight men uncomfortable

lived in denial of her feelings for a long time, though she always enjoyed playing with her mother's dresses as a kid. finally she realizes that while her body itself isn't so bad, she needs new gender presentation

definitely jealous of Amanda because M if you're going to be a lesbian, T is right here!!!

T herself is definitely some variant of bi/pan/unlabeled

her daily wear is fairly similar to Trevor's in game. a stained, white t and jeans with combat boots are an easy go-to. she likes tanks and cut-offs when it's really hot out

dresses are obviously a huge yes but typically only for certain moods. she has a red, knee-length body hugging dress for her fancier moments

some of her boots do have the slightest heel (thinking of how Doc Martens are) but she could never walk in high heels like M does

Wade and Ron are definitely both in awe of her beauty but too scared of her to really do anything

probably awakens a lot of people to a lot of feelings with a combination of fear and horniness

Trevor already cuffs his jeans and wears combat boots in the game but I just need to point out how queer that is!!!

her ears are pierced--including a DIY helix she's lucky isn't infected--and she wears little kitschy things she picks up from wherever

when she can be fucked to, I think she’d enjoy doing eyeshadow and lipstick. it’s usually incredibly messy cause she often fucks it up in her daily tasks, and she usually gives up on doing a very good job when it starts taking longer than a few minutes

technically Auntie T now but I think she kinda likes Mama T? she especially calls herself that to F after deciding she and M are her new moms

Franklin/Frankie

doesn't mind being called Frank for short, but real ones do call her Frankie

do I even need to say it? 🏳️‍⚧️

and I mean… M, T, F… it was right there

she has a very short afro

has probably physically transitioned the most

her breasts are on the smaller side and she often hides them under her outfits

never wears dresses. very tomboy-ish

has an affinity for suits, and loves a full three-piece in bright colours or fabrics. definitely her biggest splurge when she starts getting money

also a fairly big sneaker head, matches them to her outfits

her casual wear tends to be oversized tops and jeans, though there's a clear sense of fashion there, rather than just trying to hide

that green letterman Franklin has.... she throws that over a lot of tops

when she does wear more tanks or short sleeves, her arms are incredibly well-muscled

wears a simple gold chain and gold hoops

Lamar supports her through her transition. he hypes her UP but ultimately they’re just friends

realizes her identity after meeting some butches towards the end of high school and feeling a sort of draw to them that she's never felt in anything. the more she understands being masculine in a feminine sort of way rather than just being masculine as a man, the more right it feels

chapstick queen

sometimes paints her nails green. Lamar helps

idk I think Lamar probably still roasts her out of annoyance at not getting invited in, but I think her pure butch swag helps her to avoid the yee-yee ass haircut comment. call her what you want but her hair is already perfect, leave her be

is trying to get some bitches on her and trust me there are women in the neighbourhood lusting, but the stars have not yet aligned

while T and M are her queer moms and offer some wisdom, I think she's actually the most up-to-date on like... current queer lingo and goings on in the community? there's a 95% chance one or both of the others kinda lost the plot after transsexual and just use that

#don't mind me #gta v #grand theft auto five #michael de santa #trevor philips #franklin clinton #wish i had more #feel like franklin's just ends but that's kinda it

7 notes · View notes

spontaneousglitterbees · 1 year

Note

🔪For Kokichi??

[For this ask meme]

🔪 A headcanon relating to fighting/violence

Kokichi isn't afraid to fight. We know this from canon; he's punched Kaito at least twice. I do think, though, that those were very likely the only two swings he took in the killing game, each exclusively as theater: to make a point to the other people watching (the class post-Ch. 4, Maki). Outside desperate circumstances, in my mind Kokichi will bend over backwards to avoid physical confrontation and make an active effort to never initiate.

That does not, however, put him beyond posturing. He threatens Shuichi even with a massive crush on him during FTEs, and drops them so casually it reeks of time spent desensitizing himself to the idea of cruelty and injury. Something he hates, possibly couldn't even stomach the thought of at one point, and decided to seek out (in a book-learning sense) to make sure he would never be caught fully off-guard. If not for his own sake, then certainly for DICE. He will 200% throw himself into harm’s way before willfully drawing (someone else's) blood.

I think on one occasion he's bitten Kaito, only because he'd needed to blow off steam and fully expected Kaito to move out of the way before they'd actually make contact. He was totally fine, more confused than anything, but the looks between them were incredibly awkward. So were each of their respective realizations that "he really left his guard down around me?" and "wait, did I genuinely catch him by surprise?"

TAPP!Kokichi prefers a good mind game to conflict, but has much thinner patience post-game. His default coping tactic of "just leave" isn't always viable, forcing him to try and mask his frustration for longer until he's out of sight. It's a challenge, especially on jacket days. Though Class 79 knows (to varying degrees, only the survivors and Kaito initially aware of DICE's stances but all of them knowing Ouma is Ouma) what's up, the other classes have a much more aggressive impression of him than he could ever uphold; before really interacting with him, a lot of them anticipate he's a purple Fuyuhiko.

Kokichi does not go out of his way to correct them. (It always was easier to push people away. He can tell everyone else how to talk to one another and get what they want, it's what he's good at, but putting any of it into practice personally? Well....)

Then there's this comic, which, besides being the first one I did, seems a little incongruent with "not escalating to violence," but it isn't. In my mind Kokichi just chased him around for a bit with his lockpicks until he had to stop and breathe.

Kokichi feels like he has to make a demonstration every once in a while to discourage the other classes from seeing him as an easy target. It's a sort of pre-emptive strike. He picked Komaeda so he could blame his luck cycle for always failing to hurt him, rather than revealing he never actually wants to hurt him in the first place. I think Nagito's figured it out and lets him.

#answers #Anonymous #danganronpa #dr #new danganronpa v3 #ndrv3 #danganronpa v3 #drv3 #kokichi ouma #ouma kokichi #kokichi oma #oma kokichi #glitz dr comics #TAPP AU #TAPP AU adjacent #kaito momota #nagito komaeda #ask games

54 notes · View notes

thetomorrowshow · 1 year

Text

what to keep

Trust AU Masterlist - Previous

i couldn’t leave yall on a cliffhanger for too long :) here’s the next part of the trust au!

cw: blood, violence, vomiting, vertigo

They blindfold him first.

He’s not sure why—he’s seen the portal before, and he knows exactly where they are. It isn’t like spinning him around is going to make him lose his sense of direction in this instance. They spin him anyways. Too much. All it does is make him nearly throw up. He manages to hold it back, even if his stomach sloshes rebelliously.

At some point during his repeated swallowing, rough hands tear off his elytra. He doesn’t know who. He doesn’t know why they literally pulled through the leather harness instead of unbuckling it from around his chest. All he knows is that with a snap, the light wings are brushing against the backs of his legs and crumpling to the floor at his heels.

“Ready to go to the End, Jimmy?” Sausage crows, stripping off Jimmy’s long gloves and using them to tie his wrists together. They’d torn his veil to use for the blindfold, so he isn’t exactly surprised that no one thought to bring rope. He flexes his wrists at first, hoping to relax them later and slip out of the binds, but Sausage pinches his hands until he stops.

He supposes they really want him to stay out of the way while they fight the dragon rumored to be on the other side—otherwise, they wouldn’t bother to go through all this trouble when every person in this room has beaten Jimmy in a fight and could easily take him down if he were to try to escape.

The End is also supposed to have a lot of Endermen, isn’t it? Maybe the blindfold is because they don’t want him looking in the eyes of a stray Enderman, bringing it upon them and causing chaos.

Which would actually be a decent plan, and Jimmy’s kind of ashamed that they clearly thought of it before he did.

He doesn’t answer Sausage, aiming for an enigmatic and proud presence. Even if his pride is currently in pieces on the floor, he’s not the angry fry he once acted like. He’s a hero to his people, a cod of great importance. He can at least pretend to be worthy of that.

“Gosh, whatever Scott did to him made him so boring,” drawls Joey, close enough behind Jimmy that he can feel his breath on his neck. “He’d usually still be fighting right now. I miss that.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have that kind of time, honestly,” fWhip says. He sounds distracted, and Jimmy wonders for a brief second what on earth fWhip could be focused on that’s more important than this. “We can go beat the crap out of Smajor after this if you want a fight, okay?”

A sigh. “Fine. Let’s go, then! Can’t keep my XorXor waiting!”

Jimmy doesn’t have a chance to share his thoughts (most of which consist of utter refusal and demands for freedom) before he’s shoved forward, feet finding nothing before him.

He falls, and falls, and falls—the air is thin, so much thinner than anything he’s used to—his heart drops into his stomach and he thinks he screams—

Then he hits solid ground.

He finally loses the battle to his stomach and vomits on hands and knees, barely able to catch himself. He reaches blindly forward and meets nothing, nothing but the edge of a platform and what could be a short drop or an endless void. He doesn’t know.

He spits a couple of times, clearing out any last chunks, then rocks back onto his heels, feeling all around with his bound hands together to see if there’s another drop-off.

Once he feels secure, he reaches up, intending to tear off the blindfold, but before he can do anything there’s a thud beside him and the sound of someone retching.

At least he’s not the only one.

Two more thuds come in quick succession, but nobody else throws up, which is probably for the best but would’ve felt like a small victory, if Jimmy’s honest with himself.

“Oh, wow,” fWhip murmurs, closer than Jimmy expected. “Look at her.”

I can’t, I’m blindfolded, Jimmy wants to snark back, but he restrains himself. He wonders, briefly, who it is that fWhip’s looking at.

Then he hears the heavy beating of wings in the distance and he knows.

“Sausage, bridge out,” commands fWhip. “Joey, when you’re done puking, help me with him.”

Jimmy only has a minute’s peace before he’s being grabbed under both arms, two people (ostensibly fWhip and Joey) dragging him to his feet. In the process, whatever knot Sausage had used to tie his gloves pulls apart, the binds falling to the ground.

Perfect. The first step to escape!

Like there’s anywhere to escape to, at this point. And he doesn’t get the chance to try, Joey pinning his arm to his body on one side and fWhip doing the same on the other. He’s well and truly stuck between them, no choice but to follow along with them.

They frogmarch him away from wherever it is that they’d landed, across what feels like cobblestone until they hit unfamiliar ground, ground that’s uneven in an unrecognizable way. He stumbles over it with almost every other step, toes getting caught in holes and ankles rolling over mounds. His companions do nothing to help him.

He can hear Endermen nearby. He doesn’t usually fight Endermen, preferring to let them mind their own business, so as long as those vwoops stay far away from him, everything will be fine. He’s blindfolded, anyway. He shouldn’t be able to anger them.

“Sausage, you take him,” Joey says suddenly, next to Jimmy’s right ear. His shoulders hunch at the unexpected noise. “I’m going to go start the summoning.”

There’s a roar overhead, and Jimmy ducks, turning his head this way and that, as if he’ll catch a glimpse of the dragon. fWhip chuckles, continues to pull him along. Joey drops away, a sturdier body taking his place.

Then, suddenly, they stop. With a smile in his voice, Sausage pronounces, “Jimmy, welcome to the End!”

The blindfold is pulled loose.

Before Jimmy is an endless void.

He gapes at it, at the little flecks of color floating in the blackness. It’s—well, it’s pretty, but not what he’d expected. He’d expected to actually see . . . something.

He looks down. The ground beneath him is made up of some sort of yellowish, holey, coral-like thing. It’s kind of gross-looking, honestly. And beyond is just—nothing.

“I don’t understand,” he says, voice oddly suppressed for such an open space. Sure, he’s never seen anything like this before—but where is the dragon? The Endermen? The rumored towers and pyres, the cities and creatures unknown?

This is just—nothing.

“How about we show you,” fWhip snickers, before shoving him hard in the back.

He very nearly falls. He stumbles, arms flailing, and he very nearly pitches headfirst into the abyss before him, but one of the odd holes in the ground catches his heel and helps him regain his balance, if a couple steps closer to the edge.

Just because he doesn’t fall doesn’t mean he didn’t come very close, and Jimmy’s suddenly sweating all over, stomach flip-flopping as adrenaline pumps through.

fWhip pushed him. fWhip meant to send him careening over the edge, into nothingness.

fWhip just tried to kill him.

And Jimmy isn’t inclined to believe it was a joke.

“This is it?” he whispers, horror gnawing at his insides. Forget that he gave away the location, forget that he lost the Codfather head, this is the end!

This is the End.

“This is the End? Death is the End?” he manages, glancing back toward fWhip and Sausage.

Sausage shrugs. “That’s one interpretation.”

fWhip feints forward, arms out to push him again, and Jimmy ducks away, left foot catching on the edge and throwing off his balance entirely. He windmills for a moment before properly regaining his footing, one eye on the void behind him and one eye on his captors.

Behind them, he can see a tower of obsidian. Several Endermen loiter around it. The End is otherwise unpopulated.

The only witnesses of his death will be his enemies.

His family isn’t here. Lizzie and Joel are probably fast asleep somewhere, not even aware that the jig is up and their brother is about to die. He won’t ever see them again, he won’t get to make up for his mistakes, he won’t ever get to hug them and let them know how much he cares about them ever again.

He’d never even told Scott he loves him.

It seems silly, now, how he’d danced around it. How he’d never outright confessed. There’d been so many perfect times, so many opportunities to share his feelings, but he’d been too scared of rejection to take the chance. And here he is, moments from his death, and Scott will never know how he feels.

He’ll never know that he was one of the greatest loves of Jimmy’s life. His savior. The first spot of light in an endless void.

“Why?” he asks, and he’s never felt more detached from a word.

“Like I said, you’ve become an issue,” fWhip says, punctuating his words by stepping closer. “You had to go talk, get Scott in your little alliance and let him spread all those vicious lies about how cruel we are. Now Gem barely trusts me!”

“And Katherine doesn’t trust us at all!” Sausage pipes up. fWhip nods.

“See, Jimmy, you’ve got a good heart. And that makes people like you, and trust you, even if you are a bit hotheaded. You’re someone they care about. Taking you out will drop their morale real fast.” fWhip shrugs, then adds, “And you’ve just been really annoying lately. I kinda just want you dead.”

Jimmy swallows. His eyes and ears dart back and forth between Sausage and fWhip. He can maybe take one of them, but certainly not both. That had been proven in the woods back home.

And even if he did manage to squirm free, he has no clue how to get home. Joey and the demon would grab him before he could do more than get back to where they had started—wherever that was.

This is it. This is . . . this . . . this is the end.

fWhip pushes him.

It’s almost in slow-motion. His foot slips, his arms stretch out (as if to grab something and pull himself back up, but there’s nothing there, of course there’s nothing) and he’s falling, he’s falling, he’s falling into the void.

They laugh as he falls. There’s no regret in either of their expressions. They just watch, and they laugh.

He’s a swimmer by nature, and though the void’s air is a bit thinner than earth’s, when Jimmy falls, his back arcs gracefully, his fins and arms outstretched to provide whatever resistance they can.

Air rushes past him, battering his earfins and whistling in his ears, but he just closes his eyes

And doesn’t think

And falls.

And Jimmy ceases to exist in his mind.

The only sound is the wind. The pervading silence of the void presses in, becoming more and more invasive.

And it’s beautiful, in its own sightless way. Utterly incomparable, when this is all that has been and all that will be and the silence and the wind are the only reference points in history. The wind is still, constant, a low roaring that will never end even as time unravels. The silence isn’t still, but ever-moving, fluid, pushing and pulling and taking without giving.

It’s not too long before the void starts to hurt.

The pressure of the silence weighs down harder and harder, pulling away with a vengeance to strip him of what he used to be. It hurts, it burns with the blazing fire of nothing he’s ever known, and yet there’s nothing he can do. He has no voice with which to scream, stolen away by the silence. No control over what occurs. He falls, and all he knows is pain.

It’s not too long before he feels a fin on his arm pull away, the skin and scales on his neck and hands starting to flake off as his clothing pulls apart as well.

He forces open his eyes, even as it feels as though needles are pricking through the lids. The world above is a very small blink of light.

And that light illuminates something.

Something that’s quite quickly coming closer.

And then there are arms around him and shouting in his ear and the sound of wings and blue hair and—

“Hold on!” Scott yells, cracking through the silence, and it still hurts, it hurts badly to even think (and it’s affecting Scott too, his nose is bleeding and a patch of his face is bright red with new, scabbing skin), but what’s left of Jimmy does his best to pull the pieces of himself back together and desperately hold onto Scott.

It’s slow, of course, Scott’s wings stutter a few times but he manages to find the strength to carry Jimmy’s deadweight and lift him higher, until the light above becomes a more-defined place rather than just a pinprick in a sea of nothing.

Jimmy sucks in a breath that he hadn’t realized was in his chest. He hasn’t been breathing, he registers vaguely; it’s easier to not breathe, it’s easier to let the darkness claim him.

“I’ve got you, okay?” Scott gasps, voice cracking, and Jimmy just hangs there, limp, trying to remember how to breathe.

How much time has passed? How long has he been falling?

“You’re okay. You’ve got to be okay, all right? I. . . .” Scott trails off, his chest heaving as his wings work to support both their weight.

Jimmy doesn’t doubt for a moment that he’ll save them.

And after several long minutes of flying straight up, Scott collapses onto holey, coral-like ground, still clutching Jimmy to him.

It’s as if, suddenly, a bubble has popped. No longer is Jimmy’s world just the oppressive silence of the void and Scott’s breathing. Now there’s screaming, shouts of directions, the roaring of a dragon, explosions, and it’s so much noise—

Scott pushes away from him and sits up, and Jimmy sees tears streaking down his face, delicate hands coming up to frame Jimmy’s face. “You’re alive,” he whispers. “I got you. You’re gonna be okay.”

His whole body aches, stinging in patches where he’d begun to—disintegrate? Fall apart? He’s not sure. He’s not sure all that happened in the void, can barely comprehend some of it, so he pushes it to the side and places his hands over Scott’s, looking up at him from where he lies on the ground.

Scott’s hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, blood dripping from his nose down his lips, his chest is rising and falling rapidly with every frantic breath, his eyes are wild and terrified and so very bright.

The beauty of the void’s silence pales in comparison.

“I’m alive,” he croaks, and he’s really—he’s alive.

Scott saved him.

As if struck by impulse, Scott leans forward and presses a kiss to Jimmy’s forehead, small and sweet and full of so many emotions.

And Jimmy didn’t die.

“I love you,” he blurts out, the rasp of his voice putting a strain on his vocal cords. He doesn’t care. He didn’t die. “I love you. I love you.”

There’s so much more he wants to say. He wants to explain that he had been about to die without ever confessing his feelings. He wants to tell him that it’s okay if the feeling isn’t mutual, because he nearly died and somehow that makes everything that once seemed important fall away.

He wants to tell him how he’s looked at him every day and fallen a little deeper into love, even as his heart breaks again and again.

He doesn’t, though. He can’t find the words.

“I love you,” Jimmy says again, even as his voice collapses on itself. “I’m in love with you.”

And Scott, to his credit, only looks utterly shocked for a moment before he bends down and kisses Jimmy on the lips.

It’s quick, and Scott’s lips are chapped but soft and warm, and it’s a lot to feel for someone who had been convinced he’d never feel anything again as he fell into a comfortless void, but it’s got so much love behind it, and when Scott pulls back, Jimmy sees stars in his eyes.

“I love you,” Scott tells him, his fingers digging into Jimmy’s cheeks in a way that’s almost painful but mostly grounding. “We’re talking more about this later. I have to—Xornoth—”

Scott shifts as if to leave, but his hands don’t let go of Jimmy’s face. Jimmy squeezes his hands briefly, pushes him away. “I’m fine. Go,” he rasps, using Scott’s hands to pull himself up into a sitting position.

Scott nods, brushes Jimmy’s knuckles against his lips, then runs, feet pounding against the uneven ground.

There’s a battle beyond Scott. The dragon twisting furiously through the air while figures throw potions at it. People running to and fro, destroying strange floating crystals or replacing them. A dark presence atop one of the obsidian towers. So much shouting and screaming.

And Scott loves him.

There are black spots on his vision when he stands, and his legs and arms don’t feel quite like they’re where they belong, but at least he can stand. At least he’s alive.

One step at a time, he heads toward the battle, until the steps become easier and easier and he doesn’t feel as though the ground is going to collapse beneath him, sending him once again into that peacefully horrible void.

He’s exhausted. He’s bleeding all over, patches where his skin had disintegrated now raw and painful. The air of the End, again, is thinner than the Overworld, making it hard to get a good breath in and leaving him a little lightheaded. His limbs are still shaking from the trauma of falling to his death just moments ago, adrenaline and despair still crowding his brain.

But he has his people to think of. And his family. And Scott.

Jimmy dives headfirst into Sausage, knocking him away from Shubble, who had been facing away, easing a strange floating bundle of crystals to life.

They both hit the ground hard, and what little breath Jimmy had gained is knocked out of him, making his vision fuzz as he rolls on top of Sausage, pinning his arms to his side with his legs.

Sausage’s eyes widen when he sees Jimmy, face going from determined to complete shock in a matter of milliseconds. “I—but you—fWhip—”

Jimmy runs a hand under his nose, wiping away a trickle of blood, and does his best to grin, despite the way he feels his lip split with the motion. “Think twice before trying to kill me next time, yeah?”

There are a lot of things in life that Jimmy finds satisfying—squishing and molding slime with his fingers, running a hand over burlap sacks full to bursting of grain, skimming along the surface of the ocean with a pack of dolphins—but none of them even come close to punching Sausage square in the nose.

Sausage howls, trying to wriggle out from under him. Jimmy would’ve hit him again—he really wants to, after all—but before he gets the chance, there’s a bone-rattling roar from behind him and the force of it sends him and Sausage flying meters apart, both scrambling for purchase on the holey ground.

It’s enough to start his head spinning, but Jimmy starts to get back up, a bad taste in the back of his mouth.

There’s a rush of wind and a figure lands beside him, pulling him into a hug before he can even register what’s happening.

“Don’t you dare do that again!” Joel practically screams, gripping him so tight Jimmy can’t breathe. “Lucky Scott was awake—you could’ve died, you idiot—”

Joel cuts off his rambling when Jimmy buries his face in his chest, weak hands gripping him as tight as he can.

“Hey—it’s all right,” Joel says awkwardly, though he makes no move to detach himself from Jimmy.

Jimmy can’t bring himself to speak, just does his best to not cry. He’s alive, but it had been so close. He’d been mere moments from never seeing his family again, and now Joel is here and real and—

“You look terrible, Jim—why don’t you stay out of the way, yeah, and when we’re done here—”

“Sorry,” Jimmy chokes out, but he doesn’t let go. “I didn’t mean—it was—”

Joel shushes him, pats his shoulder lightly. “I’ve got to get back to it, but—stay here, yeah? We can talk later.”

And then Joel’s gone, and Sausage has run off too, and there’s so much going on that Jimmy doesn’t even know where to look.

And suddenly, it all explodes.

Not all of it, certainly, but the dragon does, rising into the air and bursting apart into little pops of light, creating a rather morbid fireworks show.

Across the battlefield, Jimmy sees Scott fall to his knees. Katherine shields her eyes to look up at the dragon. Pix lets his sword hang at his side.

And past the sounds of the dying dragon, Jimmy can hear a horrible, echoing laugh.

He may be alive, but they’ve lost.

None of the other emperors blame him. When he tries to apologize, they wave him off, say that it would have been found eventually.

He can see the disappointment in their eyes, though. Whatever his intentions, Jimmy has caused the rule of the demon.

It’s Pix who carries Jimmy to the Ocean Kingdom infirmary, who sits by his side through all the hustle and bustle and impromptu meetings of rulers, gathered in the infirmary both for Jimmy’s convenience and for treatment of various small wounds.

It’s a solemn gathering, bereft of the three on the other side, with Gem hovering awkwardly near the door as if she shouldn’t be here.

“It’s my fault as much as it is anyone’s,” she admits when Jimmy first tries to own up. “I knew they had the Codfather head, I’m so sorry, Jimmy—they told me they wanted to put it in the End, so I helped look for the portal. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“They shouldn’t have taken it in the first place,” Joel points out. Lizzie is beside him, radiating such powerful levels of anger that no one has been brave enough to meet her eyes, for fear that her ire will fall on them. “That was a violation of the House Blossom Alliance, and probably like, a declaration of war, honestly.”

“Jimmy—why didn’t you tell us that they took it?” asks Katherine, face twisted in a grimace as she applies pressure to a small but deep cut on her arm. “That seems like a very important piece of information. We could’ve helped!”

Jimmy avoids looking at Scott. “Political reasons,” he mutters. That doesn’t satisfy Katherine, though, so he amends to say, “To save face, mostly. Admitting that one of the most precious treasures of the Cod Empire had been stolen? Terrible for PR, and makes us look like a target.”

Gem knows something, Jimmy realizes with a sinking feeling as she shoots him a look, then glances away. Sausage must’ve shared with the rest of the Wither Rose Alliance the importance of the Codfather head.

Katherine, on the other hand, gasps. “Wait—your engagement, though! Was that just a cover-up, to make your empire appear stronger than ever? You guys tricked me?”

Right on the money. Jimmy opens his mouth, about to concede, but Scott interrupts.

“No,” Scott says firmly. Everyone looks toward him—leaning against the wall, hair messy, the permanent bags under his eyes heavy and dark. His eyes are fixed on Jimmy, who can’t seem to look away.

Scott loves him.

“The betrothal was rushed, for certain reasons, but I still intend to marry Jimmy,” Scott continues, and the way Jimmy’s stomach flips—

“Our betrothal may be put on hold to deal with recent developments. That does not mean we are not fully committed to each other, nor is it indicative of the legitimacy of our relationship. I will not be saying any more on the matter.”

Shubble changes the subject pretty quickly after that, but Jimmy can’t keep hold of the conversation. He just . . . gazes at Scott, Scott who loves him. Scott who just risked his life to save Jimmy, who held him and kissed him and said that he loved him.

He can only bask in the wonder of it for so long before it’s just too tiring to think of. His eyelids start drooping, and someone must notice, because at some point he blinks and the infirmary is nearly empty, just him and an attending nurse.

He should probably be involved in whatever discussion is going on without him, but he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to even get up, let alone walk to a meeting and stay awake for the entirety of it.

Instead, he leans back and lets his eyes flutter shut, happy to sleep. He can deal with the nagging guilt later. He needs rest right now.

He’s not sure how long he’s asleep, only that the lights are low when he wakes again, no sun shining through the windows.

That doesn’t tell him anything—when they’d returned from the fight, it had still been in the early hours of the morning. Has he been asleep for an entire day, then, and it’s night again, or has it been maybe an hour, the sun not yet risen?

There’s a creak beside him, and Jimmy starts, turns to look.

“Sorry,” Lizzie whispers, in a chair at Jimmy’s bedside. “I was on my way out, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

It’s Lizzie. It’s his sister, and he almost died and never saw her again and somehow he’s been so lucky as to have a second chance.

He struggles to sit up, his body so stiff it feels as though he’s been sleeping for a thousand years.

“Don't hurt yourself—” Lizzie moves to help him, hands steadying Jimmy’s shoulders. Jimmy, however, doesn’t lie back down—instead, he wraps his arms around Lizzie, holding her as tightly as his unforgiving muscles will allow.

Lizzie doesn’t react for a moment, but when she does, she sits on the bed beside him, hefting him partly into her lap and enveloping him in her arms.

And there, in the hold of his sister, Jimmy finally cries.

He’s alive, and his sister is alive, and they’re here together.

He’s not sure how long he quietly cries into Lizzie’s shirt, but when he raises his head at a sound, cheek sticking to her briefly, the room is still empty, door clicking shut. It’s just him, crying, and Lizzie, rubbing his arm comfortingly in a way that only family knows how.

“Sorry,” he croaks, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Lizzie hushes. “You just survived certain death. Scott said—” her voice breaks— “Scott said it was really close. That must have been traumatic.”

Jimmy nods. It was traumatic. And if what he’s been saying to Scott lately is true, then it’s okay to not be okay after such an ordeal. It’s okay to take time to get back to normal.

“And you know what?” Lizzie continues, squeezing his arm. “We may not admit it, but we all would have done the same. Scott showed us the messages he sent you. We all would have fallen for it.”

Jimmy doesn't want to think about that. He doesn’t want to consider how he’s caused many deaths and years of darkness.

He just grips Lizzie a little tighter, numb fingers curling in the fabric of her shirt.

“Sleep, please. You look exhausted.”

He needs to talk to Scott still. They need to figure out exactly what they are now, what that means for them in the future.

But not right now. Right now he can feel sleep pulling at him, allowing him to relax in the safe embrace of his sister.

Jimmy falls asleep, alive, and his family watches over him.

64 notes · View notes