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starlightkun · 6 months ago

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flopstar ⏯ teaser [kun]

⏯ teaser word count: 1259 | full fic: 18.3k ⏯ genre: band au, retired floprockstar/venue manager!kun, rookie/keyboardist!reader, age gap (kun is older), fluff, v v suggestive (lol it’s a kun fic written by me this gets so unhinged im sorry), ft. jungwoo/mark/chenle/jisung as reader’s bandmates, wayv as kun’s coworkers & some special guest appearances maybe?? ⏯ warnings: uhm there’s some maybe weird power dynamics going on here? reader is a former fan of kun’s but like his band flopped and they never met back then so 🤷‍♀️ read at your own peril ig, not necessarily a warning but since i do avoid describing the reader’s appearance in my fics, i wanted to give a heads up—reader is in a punk/alternative band and is mentioned and/or implied to have some tattoos and piercings (other than earlobes). i don’t get super detailed, but since it’s there, i wanted to make sure y’all weren’t caught off-guard ⏯ extra info: set in the same universe as filler episodes & sugarcoated brain, but u don’t need to read those in order to understand this one at all i prommy ⏯ estimated release: saturday, december 14, 2024 3:00 p.m. eastern time

“Uh, you can settle in,” Yangyang waved his hands around vaguely. “We’re going to go see if the old man finally keeled over or something.”

“I heard that.” A stern voice resounded from just outside the green room, making the two employees jump and turn around.

A third man had joined you all, focusing an unamused gaze on Yangyang and Kunhang. He was dressed in black from head to toe, a black leather jacket over black button-up shirt and black jewelry glinting from his neck, ears, and knuckles. He wore dark pants and big black work boots too, so you were doubly surprised at how quietly he could move. While you could tell he was older than the rest of you, you definitely wouldn’t call him old. As soon as his sharp eyes flicked over to you from under a curtain of jet-black hair, a jolt of recognition zapped through you, and you grabbed Jisung’s arm at the same time that you bit down on your tongue to avoid making a sound. Your friend’s arm tensed in surprise, but he thankfully stayed quiet too. The newcomer’s gaze went back to his employees as quick as it had flitted over your band.

“Go find something to do,” he shooed them away with one swift hand movement.

“On it!” They replied in unison, shoes squeaking on the concrete floor as they quite literally ran away.

He turned back to you all, taking a few steps in to fully enter the green room. The annoyance drained from his face, and his features became beautifully neutral as he greeted you all politely. “Sorry, I was on a call, it took much longer than I thought it would. If they didn’t already tell you, my assistant manager is out, so it’s a bit hectic around here right now. Normally our weekly act is her responsibility.”

“Is she okay?” Jungwoo asked.

“Yes, she’s fine,” the manager replied. “She’s assisting our usual weekly with their mini-tour. Which is why you all are here, of course. We appreciate you agreeing to fill in for RFE on this temporary basis.”

“Thanks for the opportunity,” Mark replied automatically.

“If you all do well, it might not have to be temporary, hm?” He said, and though his words were kind, his expression didn’t change. You were beginning to taste blood. “I’m Kun, manager of Venue:Hell. Please let me know if you have any issues while you’re here. I’ve delayed your soundcheck already, so I’ll let you go ahead.”

With that, Kun stepped out as briskly as he had arrived, leaving no room for further conversation or introductions.

As soon as he left, Jisung yanked his arm from your grip and looked at you incredulously. “Christ, Y/N, what the fuck—”

“He played the keys in Vizions!” You hissed, anxiously looking over at the hallway as if he might reappear.

“Wait, like that band that only released one album like a decade ago that you’re obsessed with?” Chenle questioned doubtfully. “How can you be sure?”

“She went to like every gig they had,” Mark recounted. “Got us grounded, and then would insist on sneaking out while we were grounded to go to even more. If anybody is gonna recognize a member of that band, it’s her.”

“You should see if he’ll sign your album,” Jungwoo suggested with a grin, nudging you with his elbow.

“Or fuck him,” Chenle deadpanned abruptly, dropping onto the well-used couch, stretching his legs out. “You’re in a band now too, not just a fan.”

“You guys don’t get it, I didn’t just think he was hot—”

“That was definitely part of it,” Mark snorted.

“—He was awesome on the keys! And he wrote all of their songs, and produced their entire album by himself!” You defended yourself. “He made me realize I didn’t just have to do piano recitals and that I could do something like this.”

“Alright, sorry, Y/N,” Chenle said softly. “We were just messin’ with you.”

“Do you think he recognized you? Since you apparently went to so many of their shows?” Jisung asked.

You shook your head. “No way. I never had the courage to talk to them. And that was like ten years ago anyway.”

“I still think you should see if he’ll sign your CD.” Jungwoo patted your shoulder. “It’d probably make his day.”

“I don’t know, clearly the band thing didn’t work out for him,” Chenle added. “He might want to just forget it all.”

You bit the inside of your cheek nervously, then let out a dejected sigh. “Nah, it’s not like I carry the CD with me everywhere…”

Your set at Venue:Hell that night was a hit, if you did say so yourself. It wasn’t nearly as big of a turnout as the Valentine’s event you’d played at, but that was to be expected for a random Thursday night. The crowd was surprisingly engaged, especially since you were careful to incorporate a couple covers of popular songs into your set.

Running off the stage, the five of you immediately tackled each other in a group hug that was all yelling, elbows, sweat, laughing, and chaos.

“One down, three to go!” You cheered, ruffling up Jisung’s matted hair.

“Oh my god, we’re doing this again!” Mark added breathlessly.

“Boo!” You all immediately jeered at the corny joke he made every chance he got. “Tomato! Tomato!”

He laughed loudly as you and Chenle pushed and jostled him, but not enough for him to fully leave your circle. Jungwoo tugged him back in.

“Good job, guys,” Dejun, a stage tech, congratulated you as he passed by, starting to break down some of the equipment on stage.

Your band broke apart to help the staff shut down the stage for the night as other music played over the speakers of the venue and patrons chatted and danced on the floor. A few came up to the stage to talk with you as you worked, interested both in you all as the new weekly, and what had happened to the old weekly. They seemed relieved to hear that Roses for Eyes wasn’t gone for good, and were really enthused in the feedback they had for you.

After putting your equipment that you would be taking home in the green room, you all decided to stay and mingle for a little while more. If this was only going to be for four nights, you wanted to make them count and do as much as you could to get your band’s name out there. You ordered a drink from Sicheng the bartender, at which time you found out that the 50% employee discount applied to you too for the time being. Turning back to the crowd, you strained to spot any of your bandmates among the bodies.

“Hey,” Kun had appeared next to you at the bar, and you jumped out of your skin.

“Fuckin’ Christ, dude,” you coughed, trying to catch your breath. “Can you teleport or something?”

“Sorry.” He seemed more amused than apologetic. “Good set.”

“Thanks.” You took a sip of your drink to avoid looking him in the eye.

“Who did the arrangement for that first cover?”

“I did. Uhm, it obviously wasn’t for a rock band, so I had to do some tweaking…”

He nodded, looking actually impressed. “You compose?”

“Me and Mark for the most part, yeah. The other guys pitch in on songwriting sometimes, too. Chenle’s adlibs are crazy good.”

“Cool. See you next week.” Kun pushed off the bar, disappearing into the crowd.

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rallentando1011 · 1 year ago

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empathetic (emphasis on pathetic)

Hamato Donatello did not frequently feel fondness. Nor attraction. Nor much of anything, for that matter.

Feelings were like syrup: superficially sweet yet so easy to boil over, develop a sludgy, sticky mess of. Texturally, they were a resounding no.

And so he avoided them, ignored them at all costs, swept them under the rug then proceeded to incinerate said proverbial rug.

It worked like a charm, time and time and time again without fail.

Until it didn’t.

Somehow, this weird, warm, fuzzy sensation managed to infiltrate his nigh impenetrable defenses and make a muddle of things and his mind, i.e. he was struck by the L-word, i.e. he met you.

So quickly had the almighty fortress of his emotional front crumbled upon your arrival, so quickly had his resolve instinctively melted, so quickly had he caved.

It was terrifying.

He’d never quite seen the appeal in confiding in others. Sure, he had his brothers, father, April, but they were different, steadfast, reliable, family.

Letting new people into your life and mind and feelings was too vulnerable, too complicated, too messy.

Emotions: fickle, fleeting, forlorn, unlike the reliable cogs and circuits and familiarity of his lab and normal life. An anomaly in themselves.

It certainly was not intentional, letting you into his life, his lab, his affection; it was more of you simply waltzing in and staking claim and refusing not to occupy his thoughts at each and every waking hour.

The realization of the existence of his ill-fated infatuation dawned upon him nary a few months following your introduction as he recognized the textbook signs of it.

Feeling comfortable, at ease with you, longing to message and text and talk to you, experiencing restlessness nightly at the thought of you - he was certifiably done for.

If his fancies were unrequited, it may have been easier; just confess to the hopeless romanticism, get utterly rejected, accept the futility of love and how it was doomed from the start, go back to being your companion.

But no, you just had to complicate things further.

Your reciprocated affections, your incessant presence at his side, an accidental I love you or two - it was unbearable.

So he ditched it. Ditched you. Poured himself into his work and holed himself up in the lab.

Was it the coward’s way out: leaning into the easiest option without consideration for the alternative of not being an emotional recluse? Certainly.

Would that hinder him from doing so in the slightest?

Negatory.

He would rather get the situation dealt with earlier on than encourage the muck of emotions between you two to grow, fester, rot.

No chance he’d ever given for a relationship resulted in anything but failure, pain, anger - giving it another shot could only end in a repeat.

So maybe it was for the best that he pushed you away; better to focus on something sturdy, tangible, real rather than whatever blend of oxytocin and endorphins and serotonin and dopamine was convincing your mind that you loved him.

Those hormones, and consequently those feelings, would fade with time.

You’d get over it.

And he would too.

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mierins · 3 days ago

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it's hot, and we rot in this oven // nanami x reader; chapter i

Welcome to the Night Parade.

x Masterlist x

next chapter >

Rating: M Word Count: 6.4k Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, blood, gore, JJK 0 Arc/Shibuya Arc focused Notes: Back at it again playing fast and loose with the lore so I can shoehorn in Wheel of Time References (your CT is literally just Balefire)

At 11 PM on December 24th, 2017, I finally reach Special-Grade potential after years of gruelling training, missions, cursed tools, and the internalization of uselessness.

By the time I’m 24, I’ve long accepted the indignity of being a lifelong Grade Three, with decent cursed energy reserves but scant little in the way of a cursed technique, though I consider myself lucky enough in other ways-- out of the five in my graduation class, by the time we’re six years out of school, there’s two of us still standing: Nitta Akari, and I. A Grade Three, and an auxiliary manager-- a far cry from the prodigies that populated the prior years of alumni at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

(Blessed be the meek, and all that, considering our ever-powerful upperclassmen don’t exactly have happy statistics on their side either, with one of them dead, one of them retired, and one of them evil.)

It begins like this: Geto Suguru descends upon Tokyo Jujutsu Tech, announcing his intention to declare war on all of Jujutsu society, and to unleash curses upon Shinjuku, the crucible of curses, and Kyoto, the cradle of Jujutsu.

The call goes out for all hands-- clan sorcerers, Jujutsu High Students, the Ainu shamans, retired exorcists coming back for one last battle, and even auxiliary managers-- a level of collaboration and muster unprecedented since the exorcism of Kamo Noritoshi back in the Meiji period.

We’re gearing up in one of the weapons rooms at Kyoto Jujutsu High, Akari-chan and I, and the air sits heavy with tension. This wasn’t going to be an ordinary, controlled mission-- patrols, exorcism of petty curses, support for stronger sorcerers-- it was all out, no-holds-barred war. What had Geto said as a parting phrase?

Let’s curse each other to our hearts’ content!

“Are you nervous?” she’d asked me on the train ride over.

Way too much so. I’d barely managed a nod, gripping onto my crossbow until my knuckles turn white.

A cursed tool pouch is located for me that can hold all my crossbow bolts-- I’d counted out a hundred of them (granted, I don’t think Geto literally means he’s unleashing a hundred curses, he probably had thousands, but still) painstakingly once, then again as I deposit them into the quiver, too nervous to do much else but ensure my weapons were in working order.

Akari-chan had left to make a phone call to her parents and little brother, and so I’m alone in the weapons room on bolt sixty-eight when a knock resounds from the doorframe.

“Come in,” I’d muttered, continuing to count under my breath and barely looking up-- and suddenly, polished shoes edge their way into in my periphery, attached to tan suit pants.

I look up, and my mouth goes a bit dry, and I lose complete count of where I was in my process.

Broad shoulders, fitted in a teal blue shirt, a harness holding his cursed weapon, bright hazel eyes behind a pair of tactical goggles and a jaw so sharp it could be used as a blade.

Hey, at least if I die tonight, I can die knowing I’ve seen a beautiful man.

“Are you looking for anything--” I realize I’m staring a bit long, and scramble to stand up, holding out my hand in introduction.

I track the motion of his eyebrows scrunching together in slight confusion-- “Nanami Kento,” he says. “We went to Jujutsu High together?”

Oh.

Well, I hadn’t seen Nanami Kento since he graduated and nearly immediately noped out of the sorcerer life into becoming some salaryman somewhere-- so the last recollection I have of him was as a lanky, dour upperclassman with a baby face and long, side swept bangs. Throughout the years, I’d heard through the grapevine that he came back, part-time, at least, though until now, our paths had yet to cross again.

No-nonsense, but dutiful, Nanami Kento, which made it nearly as surprising that he decided to pursue the civilian path, as when Geto decided to defect to become a curse user.

Two years my senior, he’d been out of Tokyo Jujutsu High by the time I was a sophomore, and it’s been nearly ten years since then as well.

I tell him as much-- “It’s been a long time, but I’m glad you have our backs here.”

I’m not sure if my sincerity lands or not-- he just nods quietly, taking up a post by another rack of cursed tools while I turn back to my bolts-- unsure which number I’m on, and debating whether or not I should just bite the proverbial bullet and start the count over.

“Seventy-one,” he says, watching me, arms crossed over his chest

“Hm?” I’d peeked up at him again-- and then realize within the split second after-- “Oh, thank you.”

Seventy two, seventy three, seventy four…

We are dispatched in units around Kyoto-- I managed to hug Akari-chan tightly before she’s sent off earlier in the day, with promises of going out for drinks afterwards (holding onto that oath as a lifeline, even knowing the absolute calamity that was about to fall down upon our heads)-- the auxiliary managers are being deployed to the borders of Kyoto’s main population centers to manage the evacuation and then maintain barriers, in hopes of decreasing the human toll of the burgeoning attack, which leaves me with Nanami-- a relief, considering Kyoto’s non-student vanguard consisted mostly of clan sorcerers, and I would have been less than enthused to deal with both a Zen’in and a wave of cursed spirits on the same day.

The waiting feels like the worst part, somehow-- the sun rapidly descending beyond the mountains, the streetlights flickering on one by one, the December chill biting at my cheeks.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask him-- he remained in the same blue dress shirt and slacks as earlier, seemingly impervious to the conditions. I seem to remember him saying something once, back in high school-- one of his grandparents being some kind of Scandinavian, hence the hair-- maybe also the resistance to winter weather?

He shrugs-- “The fighting will start soon anyways.”

Puffs of mist dissipate into the air as we speak.

How soon is soon? I wonder-- we keep at our patrol, coordinating locations through a small in-ear with a group of third year Kyoto students located three blocks away, and it makes me feel like someone waiting for their execution, with the way that time drags on and on, till every ticking second from his watch feels like something to flinch at.

But he’s right, and it doesn’t take long. True to form, just ahead of us, a shadowy puddle flickers, oozes, and from it comes a knobbly hand, followed by a grotesque, gaping mouth, then a segmented, buglike body the size of a small car.

I load up one of my arrows, aim, fire. With the hiss of a deflating balloon, it rears back its head before it explodes into a shower of viscous ichor. “Grade Four sighted, Kawaramachi-dori,” Nanami’s reporting over the earpiece.

More reports begin to buzz in right after.

And so, it begins.

I barely have the time go retrieve my bolt before another curse lumbers out of the shadows-- Nanami turns, strikes it once, twice-- hewing off its arm, then its head, and I load up my bolt again-- no use throwing away my weaponry right now, when I might have to worry about finding more later on.

“Grade Three, Kawaramachi-dori,” I say over my earpiece.

I get some garbled reply back that higher-grade curses were converging closer to the city center, and then the Zen’ins replied that they were coming onto the scene for backup-- I glance over at Nanami, seeming unfazed, and reply back that we would keep coordinating with the student groups for any assists.

At the perimeter, the fighting is a lot less intense-- to the credit of the auxiliary managers, most of the civilians have long since evacuated the city limits, so the only sounds in the streets of Kyoto were us, the curses, and the war between us. Explosions of cursed energy light up the night sky, along with the sound of shattering glass or the extraneous alarm, as the sorcerers fight back.

But the curses keep coming-- on and on, some slow, with ponderously heavy steps that I can feel beneath my boots like an earthquake, others being sly, quick on their feet. I keep my crossbow loaded as we continue our patrols-- and eventually, picking the bolts back up becomes more inefficient, more dangerous, than just leaving them behind with the swarm of curses that pour forth from the shadows like an infestation.

“Grade One incoming, southbound onto Kawaramachi,” someone manages to say over the earpiece, before their voice ends in a choked gasp of a breath leaving the body for good, and the line goes dead.

I am not naive enough to assume this is the first casualty of the night. I wonder how many we’ve suffered already, who weren’t able to throw out one last warning of stronger curses coming through.

Of course, in our line of duty, our destiny is to die.

Spiderlike, covered in eyes, and taller than the lamposts, it skitters down the street towards us.

I aim up, loosing a bolt at its carapace that bounces off its hard shell.

It draws closer, its pincers dripping in red-- blood, I realize. The blood of a compatriot-- perhaps the one who had called out a warning towards us.

“Fuck,” I mutter, fumbling for an additional bolt, an unsteadiness in my abdomen translating to a a shaking in my hands, and finding my store becoming close to being depleted.

I place a hand-sigil over the reload, trying to imbue the arrow with some of my cursed energy-- nock, aim, and fire as the curse finally gets close enough for Nanami to dive underneath it, hack at its legs, and its head bursts into the blue flame of cursed energy.

With a shriek, it’s exorcised, and Nanami turns around, looking surprisingly unruffled despite the Grade One we’d just faced down, but then a scream rings out, and he takes off running down a side street.

“Nanami!” I shouted, sprinting after him, still keeping my crossbow loaded just in case-- his broad frame holding steady in the distance ahead of me, the wrapped blunt cleaver strapped to his back once more.

We skirt around a building, and there’s an eyeless beast looming over the entire street, certainly the size of a department store, and I swallow down a hint of bile in my throat as I see the prone, headless figure lying just before it, in an expanding pool of crimson that shone with the near-iridescence of oil in the lamplight.

The Kyoto Jujutsu High uniform is all too obvious despite the grisly scene, and I turn to his classmates. Kids, really, no older than 16. Two separate cohorts’ worth, likely pushed together into this bottleneck by the curse. The girl in front of the gaggle stares at her classmate’s body with a trembling lip, and I think to myself, poor kid, as I herd them back.

“Out of the way,” I breathe, more out of breath from urgency than from the sprint, something roiling in my core from it all.

Nanami has loosened his tie, unsheathed his cleaver, and run at the beast, unfearful of its open maw that drips with blood, and I can almost pause to admire the scene, before I send one arrow, and another, flying into the jaws of the curse.

It shrieks in pain as the arrows aim true, and then, roars, as Nanami’s blade strikes true, slicing a brutal line down its long neck and soft belly.

The telltale flame of cursed energy flickers in the back of its mouth as it rears its head, only for Nanami to slice open its tendons next, and we barely have time to celebrate taking down that, only for numerous more skittering, buglike curses to burst forth from the streetside stores, glass shattering as they swarm.

“Go,” he’s turning to me, half a block away, panting. Despite this, I somehow know what he’s saying, perfectly, in the moment before impact. “Get the kids to safety.”

I have no choice but to comply. “Weapons out and at the ready,” I bark, “You two, lead the way, and you,” and I point to the bespectacled boy, “Help me watch our six.”

We scramble down a back alleyway whilst Nanami wraps his tie around his knuckles, and leaps out of the way of the curses swarming him, hits one with the cleaver, winds his fist back-- and then there’s the curious sensation of atmospheric decompression all around us and then--

BOOM!

-- As sparks fly out from the impact of his blow, black and red like glowing embers.

Black Flash.

The millionth of a second after impact, in theory-- when a Jujutsu user supercharges their blow with cursed energy, the resulting backlash more than doubles the output of the hit.

Even so, this was rare, and instinctual, and none could grasp onto the motion at-will, not even Gojo Satoru-- and so it remained one of those enduring mysteries of Jujutsu abilities.

And Nanami Kento is hitting once, twice, thrice, four times, cleaver, fist both, showering the street around him in both cursed blood and the telltale shockwaves and scintillations.

“Four times!” the boy gasps in awe as we turn another corner, “That’s supposed to be some kind of record!”

“Shut up, nerd, we’re all about to die!” snaps the shaggy-haired boy in front, as all of our earpieces crackle at the same time.

“Special Grade incoming on Shijo-dori!” calls the voice over the radio, before the line fizzles back out into static.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck.

All three of them collectively let out whimpers, and I feel half-inclined to join them before I realize that in this situation, I am now the responsible adult in question-- I can’t just wait for Nanami to catch up to me, especially not when he might still be held up by the other beetle curses, not when he specifically asked me to take care of the kids while he covered our escape.

“Stay behind me,” I tell them all as we duck behind a van in order to regroup and strategize. “Cover each other, okay?”

The three all nod at me, and there’s this feeling blooming in my chest at that-- not necessarily warmth, given our circumstances and the weather, but-- goddamnit, I’d die defending these kids if need be.

(Which I probably will, given the power disparity between me and the beast that was about to descend upon us-- of which I didn’t know what the nature of was.)

Then, the streetlights go out one-by-one, a cruel chill running through the air, and the kids huddle even lower to the ground, practically clinging to each other by this point.

“I’m going to go give it all I’ve got,” I tell them. “If it looks like the fight isn’t going well- I want you to request backup and evacuation.”

With that, I step into the street, only for a sickly green, clawed arm, to swing at me immediately from the shadows-- palm nearly the size of a pothole, connected from the elbow with a string of red sinew.

I jump back as the full form of the beast crawls out of the darkness-- a grimacing visage that resembles a kabuki mask, a humanoid form, but gaunt, spindly, hunched, with one arm severed and connected only through ligament to the rest of his arm.

It swings the arm like a morningstar above his head, white foam around its mouth, before casting it at me again, a decisive clank sounding as it hits a nearly lightpole, bending its shape.

I loose my arrow, immediately try to reload, only to find the quiver empty.

Fuck!

The beast lets out a roar, the arrow having flown true, lodged itself into the sinew of his arm-- but it seemed to only serve to enrage him-- and I barely have time to raise up by crossbow to block its next blow as it swings its arm back at me, and I can feel the reverberation down my forearms despite my reinforcement with cursed energy as my crossbow splinters.

I spring back, trying to lead it away from the kids-- and trying to conserve my own cursed energy, using its attacks as momentum to push further away.

It pants, a vicious grin spreading across its ghastly face, and it’s swinging at me again for the third time with its severed arm, like a particularly disturbing imitation of a sticky hand toy.

I don’t wait for its blow to hit-- I run at it, jump, aiming for its eyes with my splintered fragments of the crossbow-- connecting with its shoulder instead when it dodges out of the way, and I thud to the ground, letting out a bitten-off groan when I land badly on my side.

A giant webbed foot looms over me, and I manage to muster up enough force of will just to roll aside, a tatter of my jacket catching and tearing on its giant nails. I’m down to nothing but my hands now, I realize-- half-crawling for safety in the form of the open road-- and my earpiece has fallen somewhere during the fight-- not sure exactly where, or when.

I hope the kids are calling to be evacuated, I think to myself, picking up a fist-sized piece of asphalt that had dislodged itself from the road. I skitter back, skating on my butt as it pounces towards me again-- looking for all the world like some botched acupuncture diagram with an arrow in its severed tendons, and two splintered haves of the crossbow bolt in its shoulder.

It’s moving a lot slower now, too, I realize-- and given its motion, it needed all three of its attached limbs for full speed, with the severed arm naturally throwing off its center of gravity.

But it was durable, and equally dangerous long-range and short as a result.

I have a rock in my hand, a giant menacing me, and the observation almost sparks a hysterical laughing fit. Like a reenactment of David and Goliath, but I’m so sure that in this world, David is about to be eaten.

I think I can hear the kids screaming from behind the van.

Fuck, look away, be quiet, I think, desperately wishing I could yell at them, as the curse turns its head-- and, dragging its arm behind it, lunges towards the vehicle, its severed arm reaching out to slap it over, crushing the kids--

No!

I was asked to look after them-- I was once their age myself, surrounded by friends who left me behind with the brilliance of their abilities, only to be left behind by them when they go to their early graves in this everlasting war against curses.

I think of the empty classrooms of their grade level, I think of the yearly reunions that get sparser and sparser for my own graduating class.

And in my last, desperate rage, I wind my arm back, let the cursed energy flood through my body with all I have, and throw the rock at it.

The projectile doesn’t connect.

But something else does, instead.

Out with a bang, they’re calling it-- or at least, Tsukumo Yuki does-- and I’m under the impression that something must be very wrong indeed, if she of all people, renegade Special Grade and Star Plasma Vessel reject, were willing to work with the higher-ups to… study me, of all people.

Along with Gojo Satoru as well, bless his soul.

“It’s possible that since you had no cursed technique, but average-to-excellent reserves of cursed energy, that at a moment of high stress, you managed to essentially, blast the curse with pure energy,” she informs me.

“And what about the deaths of the students?” Gojo asks, looking more somber than I’ve ever really seen him.

Geto Suguru had been executed in Tokyo after the Night Parade, apparently-- which would be reason enough for his mood.

“It could be a collective stress-induced hallucination from it being a near-death encounter instead,” Tsukumo-san says, “but I’ll reserve my judgements until I can see it up-close and personal for myself instead.”

“Any theories?” Gojo asks.

“I’m right here,” I snap, slightly peeved.

I’d survived the Night Parade relatively unscathed, with a cracked rib and a bruised arm, but otherwise, I’d seemed fine. More than fine, really-- though I wasn’t quite sure how to explain the Special Grade fight to any of the reinforcements that’d shown up, really.

Neither were the students able to give any kind of consistent report, because all three of them clearly remembered the van being pushed over, the moment before impact, the way they were all being crushed under the weight, the last few feeble heartbeats, and then suddenly the curse was gone, the van was standing, and they had no injuries except those from earlier curses.

“Wouldn’t it be something like Nanami’s four Black Flashes?” I asked. “It didn’t feel like anything particularly big, to me. Just… that the kids needed to be protected, and I guess in that moment, I transcended the limitations of having no cursed technique. I just, acted, I suppose.”

Nanami had been first on the scene, given his proximity, since one of the kids did in fact call for backup-- sometime when I’d fallen after my failed assault with the remnants of my crossbow, for which Yaga did reprimand me for after returning to Tokyo.

Stunned after the-- blast-- I hadn’t come back to myself fully until he had been in front of me, hands in a firm grasp around my arms, goggles off, hair tousled, peering into my face, a thumb coming up to carefully wipe away the droplets of blood that was trickling down my nose.

Despite myself, I could feel my face heat up, along with the points of contact, and then I nodded, muttering some confirmation of my status. By that point, the sky was becoming tinged with pink again, and as the night faded back into day, the number of spirits decreased. I’d fashioned myself some kind of makeshift bat out of some snapped length of rebar, and the group of us-- Nanami, the three students, and I, continued making our rounds, and it wasn’t until the sun was dawning, and the barriers were lowered, that it was said that the Night Parade was truly over.

Stock was taken of the property damage, the amount of curses exorcised, the casualties. And the sorcerers that could be expecting a promotion in the timeframe after. The clans had their own candidates for such-- on a wholly different system, this concerned me little.

But names, familiar and unfamiliar were also being touted around. Several of the students, some approved for leveling up immediately, others under review due to politics, like Zen’in Maki to Grade Three, or Grade Two, or Kamo Noritoshi to Grade One.

And me… to… something.

Much was made of what happened there on Shijo-dori. The idea of a Grade Three exorcising a Special Grade curse single handedly without a technique. The vivid memories of the students’ collective deaths. The disappearance of the curse beyond exorcism, with not even residuals remaining. The erratic cursed energy reserves I’d possessed in the aftermath.

For the time being, I was being kept under observation for answers.

“Perhaps her biology is wired in such a way, that with the analogy of cursed energy being electricity, and a cursed technique being the appliances that channel it--” Tsukumo-san trails off.

“Are you saying that essentially, she managed to naturally decrease the circuit resistance to allow for more electricity to be generated, and to flow through her?” I feel like I can sense Gojo raising a brow, even under his blindfold.

“If we were to run some tests, we can get a bit further with the hypothesis,” Tsukumo-san tells me.

“Fine,” I breathe. “Whatever it is you need to do.”

Whatever it is, turned out to be, unfortunately, training with Gojo.

I can’t land a hit on him, even using cursed energy, and I’m gritting my teeth as any attempt at sparring simply ends in me barrelling down to the ground and biting back swear words as he stands, the impervious fucker, hands tucked into his pants pockets and a smug grin on his face.

His students are ogling our training too, and I wish desperately that Akari-chan were here, only she’s in Kyoto to help with recovery efforts since her family’s there. I’d even take Nanami, though our only camaraderie seemed to be forged through battle rather than anything else--

He’d kind of melted back into the woodwork after the Night Parade, though apparently there were rumours floating around the staff room that Gojo was trying to get him to come out of his partial retirement, and ditch civilian life completely for being a Jujutsu Sorcerer once more.

I scowl, glaring at Gojo as he stooped down slightly. “Giving up?” he asks in his usual teasing lilt.

Something about it pisses me off enough that I grit my teeth, raise my right hand, and try very hard to channel the rage I felt in Kyoto, gritting my teeth.

It does nothing, and he guffaws at me again.

To her credit, Tsukumo-san is a lot more accommodating of me, and a lot less annoying, too.

“Come on,” she says, peeking out from over the strike pad. “Put all your cursed energy reserves into punching this.”

I nodded, bouncing on my feet, back and forth, trying to develop the momentum, until she tsks at me.

“Nope! Don’t treat it as a sparring match. I want all your energy output, right here,” she gestures to the center of the mat.

I nod, try to gather up all the nervousness that was roiling in my stomach, and wind back, and punch, pushing as much of my cursed energy into the strike as possible, feeling my ears actually pop from the exertion.

I fall to my knees in time to see Tsukumo-san stagger back a few steps, and I feel somewhat inordinately proud of that-- given that she’s the most experienced of all the Special Grades currently. Of course, being a Special Grade, she can practically tank everything thrown at her, hence why she’s now training me given that Gojo was both swamped with his actual students (including another new Special Grade), and seemed more likely to fuck around during observational sessions.

“Okay. Good.” she nods in approval at me. “Very good.”

I’m not wholly sure what it means, but I do hope it’s acceptable to some degree.

She hauls me back to my feet. ��Again.”

Maximum Output: Bang.

At least, that’s what Tsukumo-san decides to call it. What cursed technique is it attached to? None, really-- just a blast of pure energy that vaporizes any object or entity with cursed energy, and, essentially, unmakes the previous ten seconds of their actions and impact. She shows me a hand signal to channel it better-- just a finger gun, and I vaguely suspect that it’s for the rule of cool factor when, for the first time, we’re out on a mission, and she directs me at a Grade Two cursed spirit.

Bang!

Gone in a flash, and the car it had just dented up now looks practically brand-new.

“Congratulations,” she tells me afterwards, back at the school, handing me a copy of her research notes. “You have Special Grade Potential.”

“Potential?” I ask her.

“In terms of your raw strength, and the fact that your body simply doesn’t need to charge up on cursed energy-- it just continues to naturally produce its own. Potential, in that as far as I’m aware, you’ll pretty much be a one-trick, one-strength pony. It’s like instead of being able to light a small candle, you’ll always be igniting a forest fire no matter what, because that’s the only output setting you have, in a sense. We don’t know your upper limits, yet, or how consecutively you can use your abilities.”

“But we can try,” I reply. “Right?”

“Given that you may also have an instinctual grasp of Reverse Curse Technique, that’s possible too,” she noted. “There’s a section about how you’re able to consistently power your hits with maximum cursed energy possible, without burning out your energy reserves. Page 7.”

“Or, if the Maximum Output is pure energy,” I say, reading on, “It might mean that I’ve taken both cursed energy, and reverse cursed energy, and combined it together into something else, right?”

“Possible as well, though that’s also a potential area of testing,” she concedes. “I’ll need to compare notes, though-- have you use Maximum Bang, and Gojo use his Hollow Purple, and measure the residuals from those techniques, as well as your cursed energy levels in the direct aftermath.”

“You think I can try to lob Maximum Bang at him and see if he can tank it with Infinity?” I ask.

“I’d rather you not.”

The Jujutsu Headquarters are eerie, to say the very least of it-- there’s a building it’s housed in, an ancient temple, but the space itself feels downright liminal within anyways-- timeless and placeless.

I hadn’t been exactly briefed on the procedures here, not exactly-- just the generally cavalier way that both Tsukumo-san and Gojo spoke of them, old geezers who were more concerned with status and tradition than developing Jujutsu to ever-higher levels.

I, having been only potentially all-powerful for the last quarter-year, have no such nerve.

So as I’m led by a veiled attendant into the dark audience chamber, and the sliver of light vanishes as they slide the door shut behind me, I suddenly am aware of the lanterns from the ceiling that illuminate, starting from where I stood in the center of the room, and expanding outward.

Well, I had to give them their points for drama, I guess-- I think to myself, as shrouded figures behind shoji screens advance upon me, forming a ring.

I cannot see any of their features, or faces-- I don’t know where to really even turn, just that these faceless men (and perhaps, women?) were the movers and shakers of Jujutsu society, for all that not even their names were known. Even Gojo and Tsukumo-san, for all their Special-Grade bravado, still, if not deferring to them, had to collaborate with them.

“You come here with the purpose of petitioning for promotion as a Special Grade, up from a Grade Three Sorcerer, citing your use of a unique Maximum Output technique?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” I had nodded-- not even sure if I could actually be seen by then anyways, turning to face the source of the disembodied voice.

“According to incident reports, you first demonstrated this ability during the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons?” asks another.

I shifted to face it as well. “Yes, it was a Special Grade with the appearance of the Rashomon-no-Oni.”

I hear some shuffling behind the screens, some murmuring. “And you have been training under the guidance of former Star Plasma Vessel, Tsukumo Yuki, in order to identify and hone this ability?”

“Yes,” I replied-- wondering, didn’t you guys tell her to find out what I was? I declined to further keep turning myself around in a circle to face each new inquisitor. “And her findings were that this Maximum Output seems to involve a mix of cursed energy and reversed cursed energy, combined together to form a blast of pure energy-- and due to the nature of its fusion, it can erase not just the physical traces of something-- anything, so long as it possesses cursed energy-- but also the spiritual and temporal traces as well.”

“You say this cursed technique reverses events?” asks yet another higher-up. Something was brewing under the surface of his voice-- and I realize suddenly, that these men think I am dangerous.

“No-- not really,” I shake my head. “Maximum Bang can only unwind up to ten seconds from the moment at which it is cast. It’s not an undo button on everything, or some kind of time-travel paradox. It's not infinite, and it's not something I can use lightly. There’s a physical strain.”

Tsukumo-san had written down the exact words in her recommendation for me-- one trick, one strength pony. Like asking an inferno to light a candle. Strength, but an inability to hone into precision. Use only for Special-Grade missions, if applicable. Further research may be necessary. Ability only usable on items with cursed energy (refer to research findings, page 12).

“And what happens when you use it on something without cursed energy?” a voice to my left.

“Nothing,” I reply. “There’s no risk of collateral damage in regards to that.”

The murmuring behind the screens intensifies, soft whispers, low rasps, the sharp flicker of pages flipping.

Then:

“Your petition will be deferred,” a voice says. “No current classification upgrade will be issued.”

It continues on: “Your technique is newly developed, and not yet fully understood. You have no clan connections to vouch for your abilities, your allegiance to Jujutsu, or your ethics. Therefore, until further notice, you will be placed under probationary missions, in order to determine your suitability for a classification upgrade.”

I didn’t expect too much from this, but still having the stamp of Grade Three all over me after I vaporized a Special Grade and undid its last ten seconds of damage and unlife, felt like an insult of some kind. Why the hell did they ask Tsukumo-san to train me, if they were gonna just give me this response anyways?

“This meeting is now adjourned.”

I stand there a moment longer, biting back the protest on the tip of my tongue. They don’t want me to have the title, because I have no one to recommend me, except for Tsukumo-san, who they’re already on bad terms with. Because I don’t come with the backing of a clan. Because I’m someone who might as well have just sprouted a world-changing ability out of thin air one day.

But more than that, I know they’re afraid. Of me, and of the one thing that none of them can control-- time, and the wheel of fate.

I bow stiffly and turn on my heel to leave, the shoji screen sliding shut behind me with a clang.

I’m considering a London Fog to take my mind off the current bullshittery from the higher-ups (see, who says I’m not Special Grade? I already have the mindset down) when I hear my name from behind me-- and there he is in the flesh, Nanami Kento himself, in the closest he’d possibly get to civvies-- goggles off, watch still on, trousers, polo shirt. “I thought it was you.”

“Hi,” I wiggle my fingers in an approximation of a wave, one hand laden with a tray of sweets, and the other with my purse.

“Hi yourself.” He sidles right up next to me, shoulder-to-shoulder, peering at the drink menu. In his hand is a pineapple bread roll.

“Are you taking it to-go, or staying at the bakery?” I ask him, slightly unprompted.

“Hm?” He glances down at me, and I am suddenly struck by how tall he is.

The thought makes my face feel hot for whatever reason. “Oh, since I was planning on eating on the patio outside-- it’s such a nice day, and I kind of need a bit of a pick-me up.”

I am sure I spoke quite quickly and with a bit of forced breeziness, but to his credit, he doesn’t call me out on it. “It is nice today,” he agrees.

We get to the front of the line-- and before I can swipe my card for all my purchases (bread for the week, a pastry for the patio, and some macarons so Gojo doesn’t whine my ear off)-- he’s reaching across to cover the card reader.

“Allow me,” he’d said.

“What a gentleman,” I tease in return, though I’m suddenly wondering if the bakery’s AC unit broke or something, because I am sweating under my collar.

Afterwards, we’re sitting outside, Nanami with a green tea, me with my London Fog, watching the pedestrians mill about the city.

“What brings you around?” he asks.

I tap my fingers idly against the lid of my cup. “Interview with the higher-ups.” I make a face so he knows exactly what I think of said interview.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “My condolences.”

I giggle slightly at that, feeling a bit giddy. All of us underclassmen, back during their time at Jujutsu Tech, were kind of mere shadows compared to the rising stars that our seniors were. And now I was a potential Special Grade, and here he was, deigning to have a conversation with me, of all people.

(Don’t get it wrong, I did not have a crush on him in high school. That dubious honor was reserved for Geto Suguru, because sue me, the bad boy thing was, in fact, hot. And I was just an insignificant small fry in the grand scheme of things, so I was able to just blend in well enough into the background to admire his pretty hair and basketball skills.)

“I hear that Gojo’s trying to cajole you into coming back full-time?” I ask.

He presses his lips together, poking at his pineapple bun. “Yeah,” he sighs.

“My condolences,” I parrot back at him with a wry smile.

He rewards me with a chuckle, and I feel something downright botanical start winding its way through my chest at that. “I can’t say I miss being a full-time civilian either.”

“Really?” I ask, having never experienced what he did, exactly, with working in Jujutsu, and working as a civilian. “What made you go back to sorcery?”

Nanami’s quiet for a while-- enough so that I’m almost worried that he’ll elect to ignore the question altogether. I’m about to rack my brain for topic changes, when he says, “There used to be a bakery I’d go to all the time. There was a girl working the counter, she always carried around this little curse around her shoulders-- it grew larger and larger over time, and she would complain about how much her neck hurt.

“I was working as a salaryman at the time, but I felt like… watching her go on day by day like that, it felt like more of a sacrifice of my morals than even the slog of the corporate machine.

“So I exorcised the curse. Barely a Grade Four, but even then, it burdens the ordinary people. And as soon as I left the bakery, I called Gojo, and let him know I wanted to come back as a part-time sorcerer.”

“It’s that itch, I guess. To use your abilities. To protect the weak. To change the world.”

#fic: we rot in this oven #fics by mierin #jjk fics #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk fic #jjk #kento nanami x reader #nanami #kento nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader

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the-name-is-z · 1 month ago

Text

Hey! Remember me? Me either. I'm back though! And so is Skeletons! And boy, what a brutal place for me to disappear at. And a gruesome return. Here's to Season 7!

SKELETONS | ch. 82

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: Negan makes an introduction, and leaves quite the wake. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; extortion, manipulation, threats via guns, fire, hostages, mind games, murder, someone being hanged, hunting people like animals, taunting, insults, assault, non-sexual bondage, Negan, GORE, vomit, canon character death, threatening to force amputation

Chapter 82 - Day One

Iris flinched, then everything was numb. Every nerve in her body pricked and shrouded by empty space. She stopped hearing with the first wet thud of the bat, her ears ringing instead. She would not close her eyes, but she would not dare move, not a millimetre, to look. Each thud resounded in the earth beneath them, vibrations Iris would not feel.

She couldn’t feel the blood and flesh spattered across her neck, eyes, mouth. She didn’t taste it on her tongue. It was easier this way, to completely lose yourself into time and space and not witness any of it. She couldn’t hear Negan’s taunts to her family, their pants and cries as they remained kneeling in line. She didn’t shake like the rest of them. It would be wrong to say she didn’t feel fear, because in that moment, it was all she felt. Gut-wrenching, mind-numbing, conscious-splitting terror.

They had all cried out as Abraham sat up on shaking knees, a Lucille-shaped dent bleeding profusely above his left eye. He swore at Negan then, his last words in defence of himself and his family. He had taken it like he knew it would be him, standing taller when Negan faced him like he had accepted it was time. Negan kept hitting, even as they sobbed and he was long dead. His head was a bloody pulp on the ground, and it took everything in them not to cry out as Negan flicked the bat, flinging Abraham’s blood around, on all of them.

“Sweetheart.” Negan murmured, holding the bat up to Iris’ face. “Take a look at that.” She shuddered through an inhale and he blinked. “Oh damn. That sucks. Well, you should know, there was a reason for all this. Red— and hell, he was, is, and will ever be red— He just took one or six or seven for the team! So take… a damn… look. Take a damn look!” He shoved the dripping bat in her face and she made no movements, but Daryl was angry. Beyond angry. He cried out as he shoved himself to his feet, half alive and bleeding, and punched Negan squarely across the jaw with his bloody fist.

He grunted as Negan’s men grabbed him, tackling him to the ground and making him bleed more. They kicked and punched at him as he curled to protect his bullet wound, Negan wiping his face. Iris was wide awake now, her eyes lined with tears as Negan’s smile had been wiped off his face. He pointed Lucille at Daryl, gritting his teeth.

“No!” He yelled. Negan took a breath, replacing his smile. “No. That? Oh, my. That is a no-no. The whole thing. Not one bit of that shit flies here.” He crouched down next to Daryl as they pinned him to the ground, pressing Lucille close enough that Daryl could taste it. He was forced into an unnatural position, grunts of pain spat from his mouth as he was held down. Dwight replaced one of the men as he pointed Daryl’s own crossbow down between his eyes. Iris was seconds from emptying her stomach across the gravel and blood in front of her.

“Do you want me to do it?” Dwight panted, his own hands shaking. “Right here…”

“No. No, you don’t kill them.” Negan tutted. “Not until you try a little.” Dwight’s rigidity faltered, lowering the crossbow before he and the other two raked Daryl across the gravel, back to his place in line. Negan pushed back to his feet, sighing. “And anyway,” he called loudly, “that’s not how it works. Now, I already told you people. First one’s free, then what’d I say? I said I would shut that shit down! No exceptions. Now I don’t know what kind of lying assholes you’ve been dealing with, but I’m a man of my word. First impressions are important. I need you to know me. So… let’s get back to it.”

Iris sucked in a sharp breath as he whipped around, bringing Lucille down on the top of Glenn’s head, right beside her. She froze again, all of them gasping, wheezing, sobbing as Glenn slumped to the ground, hearing thud after thud, more gore spattered across their clothes, hands, faces. Glenn groaned, blubbering, attempting to speak through the blood dripping down his face. His forehead was gone, skull splintered with pieces littering the ground. His left eye was moments from popping out and rolling to the gravel.

“Buddy, are you still there?” Negan asked, amused. He leaned over, looking at Glenn and admiring his handiwork. “I don’t know, it seems like you’re trying to speak, but you just took a hell of a hit. I just popped your skull so hard, your eyeball just popped out and it is gross as shit!”

“Maggie, I’ll find you.” Glenn said, garbled and almost inaudible, but they all heard it. He choked, wheezing, coughing.

“Oh…” Negan feigned sympathy. “Oh, hell. I can see this is hard on you guys. I am sorry. I truly am. But I did say it. No exceptions!” He swung around again with a grunt, striking Glenn across the face. He was no longer recognizable.

Iris felt bile fill her mouth as she watched Maggie’s face, contorted in such horror. Every nerve was alight with fear and she wrestled with her own body, trying not to violently shiver or scramble away. She winced as Glenn’s hand grasped for hers on the ground, simply holding tight to it. He squeezed hard, his body violently twitching.

With each blow, each squelch and responding sob from Maggie, they broke. They all cried hard, lips cracked and bleeding, eyes bloodshot. “You bunch of pussies.” Negan panted in between swings. “I’m just getting started.”

There wasn’t much left of Glenn’s head when Negan was done. The chunks of bloody pulp no longer attached, simply in an unceremonious pile on the ground near where his body sagged. His hand still twitched in Iris’, and she let the tears fall as she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, her mouth filling with copper.

“Lucille is thirsty!” Negan said as he stood back, laughing. Something akin to skin or muscle hung in a strip off of the barbed wire. “She is a vampire bat!” All Iris could think about was how Glenn’s hand was still so warm, gripping hers tightly. Whether it was warm from the blood or his body, she couldn’t tell. But she was extremely aware of the cool piece of metal and glass that was Hershel’s pocket watch sandwiched in between their palms.

Familiarity settled in Iris. A familiarity with death, with loss, with suffering. Negan’s face, his voice, it ricocheted across her mind. After this, there was no way she could ever forget it. It would haunt her until her dying day. Maybe only a few minutes more. It was a face Iris felt like she had seen before. A generically handsome man with an anger problem and a loud voice. It all suited him nicely. As did the blood that flecked across his skin.

“What? Was the joke that bad?” Negan asked as he flicked the blood and minuscule bits of flesh off of Lucille. Rick looked up at him, blinking through his tears.

“I’m gonna kill you.” He whispered. He made the mistake of glancing sideward, witnessing everything. His eyes were fuzzy, pupils blown. Negan knelt down in front of him, Lucille still dripping, onto Rick’s jeans.

“What?” He asked, barely above a whisper, bringing Rick’s gaze to his face. “I didn’t quite catch that, you’re gonna have to speak up.” Rick gathered himself then, already numbed, it seemed, to any horror Negan might inflict. He swallowed, sniffing as he looked Negan in the eye.

“Not today… not tomorrow… but I’m gonna kill you.” He repeated. Negan blinked, sucking on a tooth as his attention faded to somewhere in the back of his mind. His face was still set in his charming grin, though it had faltered in the spirit of retaliation.

“Jesus.” He murmured. His voice got louder as he addressed the cheerful man. “Simon… what did he have, a knife?”

“Uh, he had a hatchet.” Simon replied quietly, respectfully. Negan blinked as his persona settled back into place, looking over at Simon as his grin spread wide.

“A hatchet?” He mused.

“He had an axe.” Simon nodded.

“Ha.” Negan breathed. He looked at Rick then, holding his gaze intimately, almost tenderly. “Simon’s my right hand man,” He explained, “having one of those is important. I mean, what do you have left without them? A whole lot of work. Do you have one? Maybe one of these fine people still breathing? Oh… or did I…” He clicked his tongue as he gently bopped Lucille into his hand. Rick was shaking now, with rage. Negan sighed, smiling. “Sure, yeah. Give me his axe.”

Negan didn’t break eye contact as Simon walked over, gently depositing Rick’s hatchet in his outstretched palm. He waited for any sort of reaction, the silence stretching across the night, accompanied only by crickets. He stood suddenly, slipping the hatchet into his belt and grabbing the collar of Rick’s jacket, throwing him forward.

“Be right back. Maybe Rick will be with me. And if not, well, we can just turn these people inside out, won’t we? I mean… the ones that are left.” Negan called to his men, dragging a flailing Rick with him as he took methodical steps back to the RV, slamming the door shut behind them.

When Iris blinked again, she hadn’t registered Glenn’s blood seeping through her pants, staining her knees. No one dared move as the dawn began to break over the horizon, a thick mist or layer of smoke, Iris couldn’t tell, settling in the coming daylight. The RV moved, Negan driving them off somewhere, perhaps to torture Rick a little more.

Memories of Glenn flooded through Iris. Every second she’d known him. When she’d looked up from the bag of guns in the middle of the street in Atlanta, seeing the shocked expression on his face. When they’d officially met, over a man wheezing with asthma, and he almost didn’t shake her hand. Every moment she looked down from the RV on guard duty, seeing Dale and Glenn elbow deep underneath the hood.

When she’d been loopy after a series of intense blood transfusions, and he held her up. His facial expression when Iris was hauled out of that well, barely alive, and she grinned at him. Sarcastically saying the prison was ‘home sweet home’ before they made a true home of it. When Daryl caught him and Maggie in the guard tower, and a few months later they walked around with wedding bands. He assured the group they had to stick together to survive, so they could stay together, after Terminus.

Giving Carl a camera so he could capture a cute moment of Iris and Daryl sleeping against one another. The sound of his fist crushing Aiden’s nose when he stepped over the line. When Carl revealed everyone had been betting on Iris and Daryl’s relationship, only for Glenn to have been continuously betting and now in debt because they took too damn long. His smile when Abraham revealed that Maggie was pregnant. And the hug he gave Iris, the very last one, when she was scared of losing Daryl and he ensured that she knew she would be supported no matter what.

He was one of the only ones Iris was absolutely sure of, that was far too good for this world, and they would be at so much more than a loss now that he wasn’t in it.

When Negan parked the RV in the same place it had been when they left, the sun had already risen. The RV was covered in blood stains, having mowed down more than a few walkers on the way to wherever they’d been. Negan shoved Rick, who was considerably bloodier than he had been before, back out the door and dragged him across the space like he had when they left. No one had dared move, not their group, not Negan’s men, they barely even uttered a word, only Simon and Dwight exchanging a few hushed ramblings.

Iris had stayed put, only leaning back, pulling her hand from Glenn’s to slip the pocket watch into her own pocket before someone noticed. Daryl was getting paler by the second, his clothes dark and sopping with his own blood. They all had deep circles under their eyes, gaunt with the trauma they had witnessed. Maggie was barely sitting, every breeze seeming like it would send her to the floor.

Negan threw Rick to the ground in front of them. Rick stayed on his hands and knees as Negan paced behind him, all of them waiting to see what he would do.

“Here we are.” Negan said, seeming only the slightest bit exerted. “Let me ask you something, Rick, do you even know what that little trip was about?” He sighed when Rick didn’t answer. “Speak when you’re spoken to.”

“Okay. Okay.” Rick murmured, his eyes searching for something in his mind, flickering blankly across the empty space in front of him.

“That trip was about the way that you looked at me.” Negan explained. “I wanted to change that. I wanted you to understand. But you’re still looking at me the same damn way. Like I shit in your scrambled eggs, and that’s not gonna work. So… do I give you another chance?” He knelt down, making sure Rick could see Lucille out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” Rick panted, his voice shaking, “Yes.” Negan pat him on the back, standing straight.

“Alright.” He said, satisfied. “And here it is— the grand prize game. What you do next will decide whether your crap day becomes everyone’s last crap day, or just another crap day.” He waved a hand at his men. “Get some guns to the back of their heads.”

The men did as they were bid without question, handguns and rifles cocking as footsteps sounded behind each of them. Iris felt the cool metal press into the back of her skull, not for the first time and perhaps the last, and breathed deep, inhaling the smoke and mist of the morning.

“Good, now, level with their noses, so if you have to fire,” Negan mimicked an explosion, making a noise from the back of his throat as his hand motioned outward, “it’ll be a real mess.” He turned and surveyed the group, his eyes landing on Carl. He did a gentle ‘come here’ motion with his index finger, beckoning as he undid one of three belts he was wearing. “Kid… right here.” Carl didn’t move right away. “Kid… now. Are you a southpaw?”

“Am I a what?” Carl asked, doing nothing to hide the venom in his voice.

“Are you a lefty?” Negan asked again, grinning ear to ear.

“No.” Carl replied sharply.

“Good.” Negan replied simply as he wrapped the belt around Carl’s left arm, tightening it like a tourniquet. “That hurt?” Iris felt her mouth fill with bile again.

“No.” Carl answered.

“Should.” Negan smiled. “It’s supposed to. Alright, get down on the ground, kid, next to Daddy. Spread them wings.” He grabbed Carl’s hat, tossing it over his shoulder as his other hand guided Carl to lie face down on the ground with his arms out. “Simon.” Negan called. “You got a pen?” Simon blinked, before nodding incredulously. Not as if he could not believe the question, but as if he could not believe that Negan would think he didn’t have a pen.

“Yeah.” He said, in the tone of ‘of course.’ He pulled one from his pockets, tossing the sharpie across. Negan caught it easily, using his teeth to pull the cap off and kneeling on the ground.

“Sorry, kid.” He muttered through the pen cap. He started pulling up Carl’s shirtsleeves, helping himself to the flesh canvas beneath. “This is gonna be as cold as a warlock’s ballsack, just like he was hanging his ballsack above you and dragging it right across the forearm. There you go, gives you a little leverage.” He pulled the marker away, a thick black line drawn across Carl’s arm.

“Please.” Rick whispered. “Please. Please don’t. Please don’t.” Negan smiled, finally pleased with the reactions he was receiving.

“Me?” He asked earnestly, chuckling. “I ain’t doing shit.” He stood, sighing. “Rick, I want you to take your axe, cut your son’s left arm off, right on that line. Now I know, you’re gonna have to process that for a second. That makes sense. Still, though, I’m gonna need you to do it, or all these people are gonna die. Then Carl dies, then the people back home die, and then you… eventually. I am gonna keep you breathing for a few years so you can stew on it.”

“Y-you don’t have to do this. We understand.” Michonne pleaded. Iris turned her head to look at her, feeling pain in her neck as she did so. How many hours had she sat still? “We understand—“

“You understand.” Negan corrected. “Yeah. I’m not sure that Rick does. I’m gonna need a clean cut, right there on that line. Now, I know this is a screwed-up thing to ask, but it’s gonna have to be like, a… salami slice. Nothing messy, clean, forty-five degrees, give us something to fold over. We got a great doctor. The kid’ll be fine. Probably.” Rick was shaking furiously, though he made no move to reach for his axe. “Rick, this needs to happen now. Chop, chop, or I will crush the little fella’s skull myself.”

“It can— It can… It can be me. It can be me.” Rick stammered. “W-w— you can do it to me. I can go with— with you.”

“No.” Negan sighed, standing up again. “This is the only way. Rick, pick up the axe. Not making a decision is a big decision. You really want to see all these people die? You will. You will see every ugly thing.” Rick groaned and Negan huffed. “Oh my god. Are you gonna make me count? Okay, Rick. You win. I am counting. Three—“

“Please!” Rick wailed. “Please! It can be me! Please!”

“Two!”

“Please!” Rick blubbered. “Don’t do—“ Negan slapped him across the face, gripping his jaw.

“This is it.” Negan hissed. Rick cried out, wailing. “One!” Rick sobbed.

“Dad… just do it. Just do it.” Carl whispered to him. Rick’s fingers extended, moving outward, searching for grip on the axe but failing. One hand gently cradled Carl’s, the other lifting the axe up as he cried out. He lifted the axe above his head, sobbing, when Negan knelt beside him and Rick looked at him like he was the second coming of Christ.

“Rick.” He whispered tenderly. “You answer to me. You provide for me. You belong to me. Right?” Rick was panting, nodding frantically, putting his head down while he sputtered for breath. “Speak when you’re spoken to!” Negan demanded, grabbing his jaw again. “You answer to me. You provide for me.”

“P-provide for you.” Rick sputtered.

“You belong to me, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” Negan echoed. He pointed a finger at Rick as he let go of his jaw, settling back on his heels. “That… is the look I wanted to see.” He stood, grabbing the axe and looking around at all of them, utterly cheerful. “We did it. All of us, together… even the dead guys on the ground. Hell, they get the spirit award, for sure. Today was a productive damn day! Now I hope, for all your sake, that you get it now. That you understand how things work. Things have changed. Whatever you had going for you? That is over now. Ah, Dwight?” He asked, pointing Lucille toward the man. “Load him up.”

Iris opened her mouth to protest when Dwight grabbed Daryl underneath the arms, but nothing came out, her jaw trembling. Daryl wrestled weakly, stumbling as Dwight shoved him back into the dark van they’d been shoved into before. He pushed up onto his hands and knees as Dwight drew his crossbow, shifting back and forth like an animal trapped in a cage.

There was rage written in his face, fear. His eyes moved over to her over Dwight’s shoulder. There was a thousand words exchanged in just one look, and then he mouthed something. But then the doors shut, and Iris couldn’t see him anymore. She felt dizzy, nauseated. She felt like if she tried to vomit, her organs would come out one by one and she might be rid of the terrible feeling that caused her trembling, her sickness.

“He’s got guts.” Negan praised quietly. “Not a little bitch like someone I know. I like him. He’s mine now. But you still want to try something? ‘Not today, not tomorrow, not today, not tomorrow—‘ I will cut pieces off of—“ He stops, frowning, looking up at Simon. “Hell’s his name?”

“Uh… Daryl.” Simon answers. Negan blinks.

“Wow. That actually sounds right. I will cut pieces off of Daryl and put them on your doorstep— or better yet, I will bring him to you and have you do it for me.” He pats Rick on the back as he stands again, chuckling to himself.

“Welcome to a brand new beginning, you sorry shits! I’m gonna leave you a truck. Keep it. Use it to cart all the crap you’re gonna find me. We’ll be back for our first offering in one week. Until then…” He pauses, turns around toward one of their cars and throws the axe over his shoulder carelessly. It clangs as it hits the gravel in between Rick and Carl. “Ta-ta.”

They sat there in relative silence for a long time. Maggie cried, still barely able to hold herself up, unable to look at Abraham’s body beside her, or Glenn’s a few feet away. But she was the first to stand, Sasha faltering slightly as she raised a hand, ready to catch her if she fell.

“Maggie. Maggie.” Rick murmured quietly, urging her to sit down. She sucked in a sharp breath as she limped over, now looking directly at Glenn. “Maggie, you need to sit down.”

“No.” She bit out. Aaron stood up, along with Rick, in case they needed to catch and carry her. They would have one less man to carry the stretcher to the Hilltop.

“We need to get you to the Hilltop.”

“You need to go get ready.” She corrected. Which was true. Negan wanted half their shit, in one week’s time, and if they wanted to have enough to feed themselves, they sure as hell needed a lot more than they had now. The Hilltop. What would happen to them, now that Alexandria was under the Saviours’ control as well?

“For what?” Rick asked.

“To fight them.” Maggie replied. She looked exhausted. Carl turned to look at her, a defiant expression on his face. Eugene simply sobbed into his hands.

“They have Daryl. They have an army.” He muttered. “We would die, all of us.”

“Go home.” Maggie said, louder, even though it pained her to speak. It pained her to stand. She was hunched over, her body naturally cradling the part of her that ached. “Take everybody with you. I can get there by myself.”

“You can barely stand up.”

“I need to go.” She sobbed. “You need to go to Alexandria. You were out— out here for me.”

“We still are.” Rick assured. Maggie shuddered as she sobbed.

“I can make it now. I need you to go back.” She pleaded. “I can’t have you out here. I can’t have you all out here anymore. I need you to go back.”

“Maggie…” Michonne murmured. She had stood up at one point, Iris didn’t notice. “We’re not letting you go, okay?”

“You have to.”

“It’s not gonna happen.” Rick replied. Sasha pushed to her feet, approaching slowly.

“I’m taking her.” She decided. “I’m gonna get her there. I’m gonna keep her safe.” Iris thought, for a fleeting moment, she sounded like Abraham. “I’m not giving you a choice.”

“I’m taking him with me.” Maggie replied. She shuddered through a few sharp breaths as she knelt in front of her husband. Aaron knelt down to help her, but she shook her head. “I need to do this. Please.”

Iris had not yet moved from her place beside Glenn, at the end of the row, clutching Glenn’s watch like it was keeping her tethered to that point in space and time. Carl knelt down in front of her, carefully reaching out to brush her hand. Iris flinched hard anyways, her eyes darting from their thousand-yard stare to his worried little face. Her hand still shook as she held out the watch, bloody as it was, toward Maggie. She let out another heart-wrenching sob as she took it into her hands, clutching it to her chest.

“I need to do this. Please.” Maggie pleaded.

“We need to help you.” Aaron replied softly.

“No… no.” She murmured.

“Pl-please let us.” Rick insisted. “He’s… he’s our family too.” Maggie stood, accepting a short hug from Carl as Aaron and Rick lifted Glenn’s body as neatly and as gently as they could. Eugene and Sasha struggled at Abraham’s side, and Iris stood to help them. “Iris…” Rick called, but she brushed past him wordlessly, instead standing at Sasha’s side and nodding, taking one half of Abraham’s body as Sasha took the other, Eugene holding his legs.

They carried the bodies as quick as they could to the pickup truck Negan had left them. Negan’s words echoed in their minds. Iris got into the driver's seat as they loaded onto the truck. Rick walked over to the RV, sitting himself down and turning it around the gravel lot. Iris followed in the truck, and they were on their way to the Hilltop.

“Bet you thought you were all gonna grow old together, sitting around the table at Sunday dinner and the happily ever after. No. Doesn’t work like that, Rick. Not anymore.”

TAGLIST:

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#thenameisz #daryl dixon #the walking dead #skeletons #the walking dead daryl dixon #twd daryl #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x original character #daryl dixon x fem! oc

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stratus-and-the-theoi · 2 years ago

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Deity Letter Writing

Deity letters are, in my opinion anyways, a wonderful alternative to traditional prayer if praying is something you struggle with for whatever reason! Sometimes praying can be uncomfortable for me-for personal reasons, and also formality kind of squiks me out-but writing is something I’m very confident about! And it tends to come much easier to me than praying. I started writing letters about 3 years ago on a whim because I was just frustrated with praying not always working for me. And it’s worked wonderfully ever since! It’s a great way for me to be able to get whatever thoughts or feelings I’m having off my chest! It’s really no different than say if you were writing to a pen pal, or a friend, or whatever. It follows the same format and generally includes the same content (with some differences of course).

When it comes to formatting I keep it to, like I said, like a traditional letter. I start it with ‘Lord/Lady [insert deity name here]’ sometimes I’ll precede that with ‘dear’ but that’s totally up to you! (Which is another amazing thing about this, you can tailor it to your and your relationship with the deity you’re writing too!).

Then I follow it with a quick ‘introduction’ paragraph, I just say hello, tell Them how I’m doing, tell Them that I hope They’re doing well, little things like that. And again- you can tailor this to you and your deity! You can completely omit this section or add to it. Whatever you want.

I don’t always write to Them when I need something from Them but if you do I usually include it in the second paragraph. If I don’t I usually just tell Them what I’m up to, or that I saw something that made me think of Them, etc.

In the last paragraph I thank Them for well…anything really. Maybe for being in my life, or like with Zeus I may thank Him for any rain we’ve had, etc. to me this is the most important part as it kind of builds this certain…reciprocity (idk if that’s the right word but it’s the best way I can describe it) and also it’s just kind to do! I may also ask if There’s anything in particular they want from me or anything like that. But again- you can omit or include this as you please. It’s not a must.

I don’t always do a like…’sincerely Mars’ part but if you wanted to you totally could! Sometimes I’ll just do a little doodle or maybe a funny joke that I think They’d like, or a book quote that made me think of Them, etc. whatever you want really!

Now I know a major concern is ‘do They receive these?’ And my response is a resounding yes, at least in my experience. If you talk while you write you could totally treat it as a prayer! But I usually don’t and just like…’hear’ the words in my head as I write which is good enough! I usually just call whichever deity it id I’m writing to beforehand in the same way you would before praying or giving an offering! I usually just say ‘Hear [insert deity name] as I write this letter to you’ then go for it! And of course, you can alter this to whatever works best for you. I also may light (or turn on, I use electric candles) their candle and bring it over to wherever I’m writing or listen to Their deity playlist. Just whatever I need to do to ‘get in the zone’.

As far as ‘disposal’ goes, I have a little wooden locked box that I have that they go into! Then when my aunt and uncle do a bonfire I just take it over and toss the letters into the fire. But this part totally depends on you and your situation. You could rip it up, or shred it. Or set it on their altar. If you wanted to you could just write them in a notebook and keep them in there. Or you could do it on your phone! In your notesapp or whoever else.

#mars speaks #hope this was coherent enough! but if you have any questions don’t hesitate to ask!#hellenic polytheism #helpol #hellenic pagan #hellenic pantheon #hellenic paganism

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thatsmzbitchtoyou · 11 months ago

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Emerald Hallow Chapter 5

Summary: Steve Rogers wants to move on. He wants to forget Peggy, and dive into the 21st century. But this man of the past doesn’t know how to navigate being an Alpha in a modern world of skittish Omegas. He prides himself on his self control, never wanting to harm or scare them, until something just smells too damn good…and he’s not the only one who notices.

**plus size reader

Warnings: abo!dynamics, smutty smut smut, name calling, eventual threesome, voyeurism, rough sex

Previous chapter Next chapter

This was the first time Bucky was going to see Y/N perform at the club. It was Thanksgiving weekend, the Fall decorations already being put away and the Christmas decor going up seemingly overnight. Steve and Bucky sat at a small table near the front of the stage off to the right, listening to the band warm up as the bar bustled with people. Every Saturday night was packed whenever Y/N sang, and Bucky looked around in amazement.

“Wow, she’s really made a name for herself, hasn’t she?” Bucky mused quietly, watching the couples in their vintage outfits get settled at their tables, looking excitedly at the stage.

“You have no idea,” Steve replied, throwing Bucky a cocked eyebrow.

Just then the lights dimmed and the spotlight came on, the band counting themselves in and playing a small introduction. The drag queen host came out and the audience cheered, making her smile wide as she gave a dramatic bow. “Good evening everybody! I’m your host Dirty Peaches, but you can call me Peaches ‘cuz I get nasty,” the crowd “oo-ed.” “That’s a ‘Yonce' reference for those of you who are uncultured. Wow, what a turnout! Y’all been missing somebody?” The audience cheered again, and a chant started amongst the crowd.

“Emerald Hallow!”

“Okay okay, shit, I know when I’m not wanted,” Peaches said, looking put out. “Without further ado, please give a warm welcome to the one, the only, Emerald Hallow!”

The crowd cheered louder as Peaches stepped back and the curtain behind her opened to reveal Y/N. Bucky’s mouth dropped open, his eyes going comically wide as she stepped out and hugged Peaches and greeted her bandmates. She was dressed in a floor length satin gown. This one was much more modest than the one Steve had first met her in, with only her arms showing from the elbow down, displaying her tattoos. The dress was voluminous, hugging around her waist and chest snuggly while the rest flowed around her. It was a bright, crimson red color, her green hair complimenting it and making her look like a Christmas herald. Her hair was finger-waved again, the curls cascading down her back with her bangs curled and pinned back. She wore blood red lipstick that matched the dress and her sharp cat-eye eyeliner again.

“Holy fuck,” Bucky moaned, shifting himself so his erection wasn’t too obvious. Steve moved as well, his eyebrows hung low as he watched her.

“Hello, my pretties,” Y/N greeted everyone, her voice low and seductive. The audience whooped and hollered. “I hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving, and even if you didn’t, maybe we can have a little fun together tonight,” she winked. “Lovies?” she gestured to the band, and they counted themselves into an introduction. “I’m feeling very…sexy lately,” Y/N sighed. More whoops resounded through the room. “You feeling sexy?” she smiled. “Well then…come here big boy.”

The music started, the trumpet playing a slow and dirty melody. More cheers were heard as couples moved to the small dance floor, the dancing much sexier than Steve had seen last time.

“You’ve been a bad, bad boy, I’m gonna take my time, so enjoy.”

Y/N’s eyes closed, her hands running down her hips as she swayed to the beat.

“There’s no need to feel no shame, Relax and sip upon my champagne. ‘Cause I wanna give you a little taste Of the sugar below my waist, You nasty boy.”

Her eyes were fixated on Steve as her hands went back up and over her stomach and slightly down the area between her legs but quickly back up to her chest, skimming across her breasts.

“I’ll give you some ooh-la-la Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? I got you breaking into a sweat Got you hot, bothered and wet You nasty boy.”

Her eyes were now on Bucky, raking over his figure. She reached toward him, her fingers swirling in “come hither” motion then moving her body so her back was facing them, tilting her hips towards him. Bucky twitched, having to stop himself from moving.

“Oh, baby for all it’s worth I swear I’ll be the first to blow Your…mind! Now if you’re ready, come and get me I’ll give you that hot, sweet, sexy, loving…”

The song continued and Steve and Bucky were both squirming. She looked too good, sounded too good, mixed with the ambience of the club around them and her scent seeming to pool around them and the audience it was like sweet torture.

“...now you better give me a little taste Put your icing on my cake You nasty boy. Oh no, ooh there I go again I need a spanking, ‘cause I’ve been bad! So let my body do the talkin’ I’ll slip you that hot, sweet, sexy lovin’.”

Y/N started to move more to the beat, throwing her head back and riffing through the bridge, singing phrases like, “Come on sugar!” and whiny “oohs” that made Steve shut his eyes tight and Bucky’s metal arm creak under the pressure of the fist he put it in. She sang to them, then to others, and at one point as the song started to end she scratched her long nails against her bond mark, making her pheromones burst through the enclosed space. She was causing the crowd to get more rowdy, the dancing couples nearly undressing and pawing at each other. She finished on a deep, whiny note and jiggled her body to the final drum. Steve felt territorial and murderous seeing the effect she had on everyone around her, and felt sorry for Bucky who was seriously struggling in the seat next to him.

The songs never stopped, one sexy number after another. By the time her set was ending Bucky was sweating and Steve’s jaw ached from how hard he was biting down.

“Thank you my pretties! I’ll see you next week. Good night, and have fun!” Y/N winked and licked her lower lip. She bowed deeply then acknowledged her band, then swayed her hips as she disappeared into the curtain behind her.

Steve turned to Bucky, who was gnawing at his lip and wiping his brow. “She really does play dirty,” Bucky growled.

“Little tease,” Steve grunted. He stood quickly. “Come on.”

“What? Where are we going?” Bucky asked, quickly standing with him.

Steve walked towards the backstage area. He went through the curtain, looking around for Y/N. When she was nowhere to be seen he gestured to one of the techies. “Where’d Emerald go?”

“Oh, she left already,” she said.

“Fuck,” Steve grunted. The techie stared at him. “Sorry. Thank you.” She walked away and he turned to Bucky. “Her place.”

“She hasn’t moved in with you?” Bucky asked, following Steve out to the car they came in.

“No, she likes having her own space. But that’s going to change very soon,” Steve said threateningly.

“Look, punk, I know you’re mad but she has every right to be upset with us. Tonight was payback, that’s all. As frustrated and horny as I am, we can’t let our emotions get the better of us,” Bucky reasoned, trying to give off a calming scent in the car as Steve drove too fast to Y/N’s apartment.

Once they parked Steve hopped out and barreled through the front door of her building, Bucky following not far behind. She was on the first floor so he quickly went to her door that was on a secluded part of the hallway. He knocked hard on the door.

“Omega, open the door,” Steve commanded, trying to breathe normally.

“Fuck off, Alpha,” Y/N called back through the door.

“Don’t think I won’t break down this door,” Steve threatened, his scent getting stronger.

Y/N opened the door just a fraction, glaring up at him. “What’s wrong, Steve? Feeling a little…frustrated?” her eyes narrowed and she looked down at his groin where his cock was straining against his pants.

Steve carefully but forcefully pushed the door open, making her step back. Bucky watched carefully, staying a step back but entering and closing the door behind him. Steve groaned at her outfit, a night teddie that matched the red gown she wore earlier. Her hair was tied up now, but the red lipstick was still on. “What do you think you were doing up there tonight, huh, Emerald?” he growled. “You just love being a fucking tease, don’t you? You sent Buck into an early rut.”

“What? I…” Bucky started to disagree but then felt a deep tug in his groin and slightly doubled over. “Shit.”

“I smelled it on him the moment you stepped out from the curtain,” Steve said, not once looking away from her. “I’m sorry we didn’t include you this morning. We should have talked about all of that before, but we didn’t, and we overstepped what is obviously a boundary for you. It was something that we needed to get over the initial hurdle in our relationship together. But for you to go up there, and nearly send everyone in that room into heat or rut, is inexcusable.”

Y/N’s gaze never wavered. She was not sorry, and from what he could tell, she was far from done. “It’s hard to not get what you want. The frustration feels stifling, doesn’t it?” She slowly approached him, getting close only to swerve around him and head towards Bucky. She walked up to Bucky, who was grimacing in pain, and pulled his head down into a passionate kiss. His hands gripped her face and held her close to him, moving his face down and scenting her neck hungrily. She pushed him back into the couch he was standing next to, making him sit, then pulling his clothes off one at a time, glancing at Steve periodically. “Overwhelming,” she muttered once she got Bucky fully naked. She turned and sat on his lap, leaning back against him. As she sat Steve saw she wasn’t wearing any underwear, Bucky’s cock slipping between her lower lips as she gyrated on him. Bucky’s hands immediately went to her breasts, pulling them out of the teddie and kneading them in his large hands. He was lost to his rut, not noticing or caring that Steve was there watching. His lips licked and sucked at her neck, making his scent and hers mix in heady perfume that made Steve’s mouth water. “How unfair,” Y/N said through gritted teeth.

Steve’s eyes blinked rapidly and his hand started moving towards his belt. “Don’t you dare,” Y/N growled. “You don’t get to join. It’s my turn with Bucky now.” She reached down and started flicking her clit, her hips jerking and making Bucky whine behind her. His hips started moving faster, his cock peeking through her legs repeatedly. “You don’t get to touch yourself,” she instructed Steve. He grunted and sank to his knees. “I want Bucky’s knot. Do you think he’ll breed me before you, Alpha?” She suddenly stiffened and came hard, a gush of her slick coating Bucky’s cock and her legs.

Bucky moaned and tried to aim his hips to get his cock up into her. He slipped his flesh arm down between her legs and dipped a finger inside her, his teeth biting gently into her shoulder. “Should he mark me, Alpha?” Y/N asked Steve, her hips shaking as Bucky’s finger moved faster in and out of her, then adding another finger. “Then you’ll both be my mates. How does that sound, Stevie baby?”

“So good, fuck Mama,” Steve groaned, his hands shaking as he restrained from touching himself.

“Mama? Huh…I like it,” Y/N laughed lightly. She moved off of Bucky’s lap, making Bucky whimper at the loss of her, but she moved him over so she could lay down on the couch, and he quickly moved to hover over her. She spread her legs wide, inviting Bucky to settle in between as he stroked his throbbing cock and ran the tip through her lower lips, getting himself wet with her slick. He slowly started to push into her, pulling a long keen from her. “He feels so good, Steve. No wonder you couldn’t wait for me this morning.”

“Mama please,” Steve begged, crawling towards the two of them. “I can’t take this, please, love.”

Bucky pushed fully into her and she arched her back, focusing back on him. Y/N ran her hands up and along Bucky’s stomach, chest, shoulders, neck and into his hair. She gripped the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled, making Bucky’s head wrench back and a loud growl rumble from his chest. “Look Bucky, look how horny our Stevie is,” she moaned. Bucky’s eyes finally found Steve’s and he growled again, trying to stake a claim. Steve growled back in warning. “You’re both so fucking hot, God,” Y/N shivered then pulled Bucky’s face back to her, focusing him back to the task at hand. He quickly lowered himself over her chest, licking, sucking and nipping at her breasts as his thrusts picked up. Steve felt small again, tears starting to prick at the sides of his eyes as the pleasure in his body had nowhere to go.

Y/N sensed his change and looked over at him and reached a hand out. “Give me your cock, Alpha.”

Steve moved so fast he nearly tripped himself. He pulled his belt and pants and underwear off, standing next to Y/N and Bucky. She took his large cock in her small hand and started pumping him steadily. She lifted her head to lick him and he stepped closer to help her reach. She licked him from tip to base, lathering him in her spit. Bucky looked up from her breasts and watched her suck on Steve. He whimpered at the sight. Y/N opened her mouth wide and tilted her head back. Steve understood and positioned himself above her head and slid his cock into her mouth and then deep down into her throat. She slightly gagged but breathed through her nose steadily to take him in all the way. Steve fucked her throat as Bucky fucked her pussy. The whole thing was so erotic that he knew he was going to bust any second.

Bucky started moving even faster as he licked her throat where the outline of Steve’s cock was moving. As his thrusts became even more frenzied he started nuzzling the opposite side from where Steve had bit and claimed her, his teeth scraping against her gland. “Claim her, Buck,” Steve grunted as he felt his balls tighten. “Then she’ll be ours.”

Bucky inhaled her again, then just as his hips snapped harshly and his knot inflated fully he locked himself to her and bit down on her neck, filling her pussy up with his seed. Y/N shrieked as her own orgasm washed over her, the vibration in her throat setting Steve off into cumming and he gasped and shivered, spilling himself down into her throat where she swallowed him greedily. As they all breathed heavily Steve started to pull himself out slowly, making sure not to hurt Y/N as her throat relaxed. She wetly coughed once he retreated and Bucky kissed her, tasting Steve on her tongue and moaning again. He pulled away from the kiss and lifted his head to lick Steve’s cock, giving his tip a small suck then laying his head back into the crook of Y/N’s neck, his bite mark leaving her skin red and sore, which he licked heavily to soothe.

“Mine,” Bucky whispered as he kissed his mark. “Ours.”

“So good, Omega,” Steve praised her, making her smile lazily up at him. He leaned down and kissed her. “Please tell me the war is over.”

“You wish,” Y/N smirked.

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digitalrevolutions · 1 year ago

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Quasi-Objects And Background Noise

Key (or New) Terms

Quasi-object— an object of examination that has a temporary sense of stability, boundedness, but only because it’s interacting with things that speed up or slow down its natural dynamic movement into something we can perceive (Hawk “Introduction” 6).

Resounding— a process of circulation, transduction, and resonance that evokes the “re-sounding” of rhetoric, in which sound leaves the domain of the oral and enters the digital—a process that can only move forward (“Introduction” 15).

Byron Hawk breaks with tradition; rather than opening his book with a definition of rhetoric, he chooses to define the rhetorical as “an ongoing series of actions that continually modulates and modifies—a series of suasive vibrations that speed up, slow down, rearticulate, and invigorate ecologies of composition and their futurities… at stake in every circulation of energy, every material encounter, and every unfolding future (“Introduction” 15).” Frankly, I struggle to understand where this framing of rhetoric departs from convention—it seems to me that the entire point of the rhetorical ecologies model that’s become dominant in RhetComp is to imagine a continually evolving, moderating and moderated rhetoric.

Hawk offers quasi-objects as a solution to the field’s warring desires to expand our objects of study to encompass the myriad composing forms of the digital age and to maintain an object of study that is focused enough to allow us some kind of disciplinary integrity. If we were to turn our attention to the composing of quasi-objects, he argues, our object of study would then be “any process of being put together, from the smallest circumference to the broadest scale (“Chapter 1” 21).” I have no qualms with this idea, as such, but it again seems to me like a nifty label for a way we were already thinking.

Things start to get interesting when Hawk turns his new framework on the analysis of sound. When understood as a quasi-object, he argues, sound is fundamentally ontological—concerned with the nature of being (“Chapter 1” 35). I find myself wondering if thinking in terms of quasi-objects means that most objects of study are fundamentally ontological, since the processes that they are composing and being composed by are ongoing and to some extent subjective. For sound, at any rate, it solves the debate around whether sound is an energy that travels/circulates or an event that is experienced in a particular place. Hawk tells us

“As an entangled material process, the transduction of sound waves into electrical brain signals forms the basis of knowledge and folds back to contextualize and coproduce further transductions (“Chapter 1” 35).”

As best as I can understand, this means “Perceiving the circulating energy and translating it into meaning in the brain is itself an event, so the energy and the event of sound coproduce one another.” This makes sense to me; sound can be both deeply rooted in a given moment or memory and a kind of “wallpaper for the mind” that follows us through life, and arguably the former occurs when something happens to give background music/sounds a special meaning, which can then fade back into the background as a circulating energy.

In this sense, Hawk argues, ambient rhetoric models and networked rhetoric models can coexist, because networks are always being produced, transformed by, and transforming ambient rhetorics. Actor-networks, he argues, aren’t strong or permanent links between things, but traces of encounters between and among quasi-objects (and quasi-subjects, or are the two the same thing?) in the act of composing. The idea that networks were composed out of ambient rhetorics seemed intuitive to me, but the idea that networks contributed to the establishment and maintenance of ambient rhetorics felt more novel. I really struggled with Hawk’s work; perhaps because it calls attention to the “background noise” of assumptions I took for granted, much like I do the music I have almost constantly playing in my downtime.

#week 5 #hawk #introduction: resounding #composition as quasi-object

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rock-and-roll-hell · 11 months ago

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July 25, 1980

Unmasked Tour

Palladium - New York City, NY

Eric Carr’s live debut with KIϟϟ wearing the first version of his “Fox” makeup. While heavily featuring the 1979 and 1980 studio albums, it is somewhat strange to consider that the set included three covers: “2,000 Man,” originally recorded by the Rolling Stones; “New York Groove,” originally recorded by Hello; and “King of the Night Time World,” originally performed by the Hollywood Stars (though never commercially released). “Is That You?” while not written by the band had also not been commercially released by the writer or other artists. The only United States “Unmasked” era concert and contemporary performance of material from that album. This show marked the live debut of three songs from “Unmasked” including “Is That You?,” “Talk To Me,” and “You’re All That I Want.”The Palladium was the renamed Academy of Music, where KIϟϟ had made their industry debut in December 1973. KIϟϟ spun their appearance at a smaller venue: “It was a night of nostalgia for Ace, Paul and Gene. And a dream come true for Eric Carr. KIϟϟ planned a special performance at the Palladium in New York to introduce Eric to its staunchest home town fans. There was very little publicity. The one-night-only show was mostly a word of mouth affair. Although small for KIϟϟ today, the hall was chosen for sentimental reasons. Most of the fans, as well as the band, were remembering the historic night KIϟϟ played its first important New York performance on that very stage… the show was a resounding success”.

From local press: “KIϟϟ performed at the Palladium on Friday night, which was unusual; the group usually plays venues the size of Madison Square Garden. Slipping popularity may account for the Palladium date to some extent, but KIϟϟ could certainly have filled the theater several nights running and chose not to do so. The show’s primary purpose seems to have been the introduction of Eric Carr, the new drummer, to the band’s hard-core fans. A few diehards yelled for the departed Peter Criss, but not for long. This listener kept trying to remember what Mr. Criss used to sound like, but the effort proved fruitless. Before long, he became accustomed to Mr. Carr, who played a somewhat elaborate drum kit and was sometimes a little floppy but kicked the music along nicely. The band had installed its flashy stage set and resorted to a number of its tried and true visual gimmicks, but with the scale of the event reduced, one tended to focus more on the music. It wasn’t bad. It was heavy-handed, macho to an almost comical degree, rife with bombast and excess, everything one expects heavy metal to be, but the playing was tight – much tighter than the last time the reviewer heard KIϟϟ, at the Garden – and most of the songs weren’t padded with unnecessary solo noodling. Whether KIϟϟ fans will take to Mr. Carr remains to be seen; one would think they’d be satisfied with Gene Simmons’s tongue-wagging and fire-breathing and Ace Frehley’s flaming guitar. In any event, and for what it’s worth, Mr. Carr’s addition to the band seems to have been a positive step, though it isn’t likely to make KIϟϟ’ music ‘genuinely important to life’” (New York Times, 7/27/80).

Another: “Carr proved to be a capable drummer but no Peter Criss. The show wasn’t quite the visual extravaganza I’d anticipated, nor was it the Sodom and Gomorrah meets 'The Night of the Living Dead’ I’d feared. Instead, it seemed like the 'Wizard of Oz’ gone awry” (Aquarian).

From a mainstream review: “It was apparent from the appearance and playing of Carr that KIϟϟ one of the most successful rock acts of all times, was not taking any chances with the music or the formula now that original drummer Peter Criss has departed for a solo career… So it was almost the typical KIϟϟ show. But with the new drummer now more in the background, the focus was more on the front three… And although performing on a smaller stage than usual, the show was basically the same” (Billboard, 8/9/80).

From a regional review: “KIϟϟ concerts are a little like Christmas. The anticipation is half the fun, and everyone was up for this one… KIϟϟ crashed through their 20-song set with the delicacy of a chain gang” (London, CT, The Day, 8/1/80).

#kisstory #kiss #1980 #unmasked #eric carr #ace frehley #paul stanley #gene simmons #kiss band #kiss army #the fox #the spaceman #the starchild #the demon

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sovlstr · 9 days ago

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✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐋 ✦

• An interactive fanfict storyline where YOU, y/n, will choose what you will do next in the World of Ciren City.

[You x Don Walker Calloway]

|| All characters/world credited to @zesketches . All paths align loosely to stated/inferred canon. This is a route for Don Walker Calloway, heavily inspired by the Stress Relief comic, not entirely canon to the Agents and Kings storyline. Please support the artist/creator by visiting them and reading their webtoon here.

|| INTRODUCTION. ||

⸻

You weren’t supposed to end up here.

Not in this city, in this concrete sprawl of velvet crime and gold- toothed devils. Not working clubs where every stage creaked under the weight of eyes hungry for something they can’t name. Brushing against monsters in silk suits, whose smiles don’t always reach their eyes.

But you did. And here you are.

A blind performer. The dancer who sees with your hands, your feet, your skin. You don’t need eyes to read a room when you feel it. The resounding tension. The way the pulsing music hummed through your bones. The way footsteps echo’d and voices hushed when someone dangerous walked into the room.

The way he feels whenever he watches you.

Don Walker Calloway.

They say he’s the king of Ciren’s underworld. Old money. New blood. A gentleman with a temper like a lit fuse. You’ve heard the whispers. Felt them wrap around your arched spine when he enters the room.

He never speaks when you perform. Never claps.

But he always stays.

Because there’s something different about the way he sees you. Not as a showpiece. Not as a weakness. As a puzzle.

When you pass by his corner booth and your skin prickles with something like fear- curiosity.

⸻

|| WHO ARE YOU. ||

You’re you- really, whoever you want to be. Just doing it with the hand your given.

You’re a performer. A dancer. A siren in silk and satin. You live by rhythm, texture, and instinct. You read the world through fingertips, footsteps, scents, and sound. You laugh when you’re nervous. You taste things you shouldn’t. You feel everything.

A person with a past you keep wrapped like the bandages lining your wrists and calves. Blind from birth- or was it something else? An accident? A punishment? All the city knows is that when you move, you own the room. And when you speak, even the monsters listen.

You don’t beg for safety. You earn it.

⸻

|| THE RULES OF THE STORY. ||

Choices will be offered. You’ll pick what you do next.

Some choices lead to trust.

Some lead to danger.

Some lead to love.

Eventually, you may become his.

But be warned. Dons don’t fall easily. And when they do, they don’t fall gently.

⸻

|| YOUR STORY BEGINS. ||

Ciren City isn’t kind to soft things.

Not that you’re soft.

You learned long ago that being blind didn’t mean being helpless. It just meant listening harder. Feeling deeper. Moving smarter.

And you move beautifully.

People talk about you like a rumor-

“… Hands like poetry,”

“Don’t make the mistake of guiding them- they’ll guide you.”

“Dances like they got ghosts in their skin.”

They call you the blind starlet, the velvet flame, the one with eyes in her hands. But you don’t need their names. You live in rhythm, in breath, in the shape of music and air against your skin. You perform in lounges and backrooms and velvet clubs tucked beneath the ribs of the city. Some nights, your audience is made of aching hearts and strangers with whiskey on their breath. Other nights, the crowd feels too quiet. Too controlled. Like it’s watching you closely. Measuring.

You feel him before you ever meet him. That recognizably large overbearing presence in the darkened corner. Still, but warm. Eyes like heat. Hands that haven’t touched you, but you swear you could trace them anyway.

A man who never applauds.

A man who always returns.

You’re backstage when you take your leave just after midnight. The thick black makeup clings to your lashes. Your robe is too warm. The manager’s yelling about broken sound wires but you’ve already slipped out of the side door.

You need air.

The city greets you like it always does- humid, gritty, alive. A thousand heartbeats layered over one another. And somewhere in the mess of neon and footsteps and static jazz, you can make out a car engine idle. Smooth. Rich.

Maybe you know it’s him. You don’t need eyes to know as you feel it. His warm voice calls your name. Not harsh. Not commanding. Simple patience with the softness of his words.

“Can I take you somewhere safe?”

He never rushes you.

But he never asks twice, either.

⸻

✦ FIRST CHOICE ✦

Your first real decision. What kind of story is this going to be?

OPTION A- Get in.

You don’t know what you’re walking into, but you’ve danced at the edge of danger long enough to crave the leap. Perhaps it’s time to see what’s behind the voice.

OPTION B- Refuse.

Safety in Ciren City usually comes with a price. And you’re not ready to pay it- not yet. You’ll find your own way back.

OPTION C- Negotiate.

You’re not a doll to be scooped up and stashed away. If he wants your company, he can earn it. Ask him what he wants- and why.

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aritamargarita · 1 year ago

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ATTITUDE || 001

IT'S YOUR FIRST introduction to the World Wrestling Federation and you’re surprised at the fan reaction. It makes you giddy, but now people (including those in the back) are going to be expecting much of you. Your two best friends, Torrie Wilson and Stacy Keibler, return back to the hotel room and you guys chat before heading to sleep.

The adrenaline rush is still coursing through your veins as Shane McMahon helps you back over the barricade. You had just shown up to interfere in a match between Matt Hardy and the Big Show.

Shane told you that you needed to focus your attention on the redhead, Lita, and deal with the other, Trish Stratus, if necessary.

At one point in the match, Lita yanks Trish off of the apron and her shirt went along with it. Yikes.

Shane figured that this was a wonderful opportunity for you to get in there. He lightly pushes you forward and that was your cue to get the hell in there.

Lita was so busy with trying to beat on Trish that she hadn’t even noticed you jumped over the barricade. You can see her scream at Trish to “get up” as you approach. Her back is toward you. Perfect!

At first, the crowd was confused, but once realizing that you weren’t a fan, they holler and cheers at your appearance, quickly recognizing you from WCW.

“Is that—my god!” JR yells. “That’s [Name], from WCW!”

The crowd seems to get even louder when you yank Lita‘s shoulder and turn her toward you to smash your forearm right in her face.

Trish is looking on in awe, covering herself and scooting backward from the scene. Whoever you were, you kind of saved her?!

“She’s not taking too kindly to Lita right now!” Paul exclaims with laughter in his voice. “Fight, fight, fight!”

Lita doesn’t even get a chance to fight back, you’re moving way too fast.

It’s a little strange to hear the crowd so excited, but you try not to let it distract you as much.

Before you had gotten out of there, you made sure to give Lita a final parting gift. A swift DDT. You throw your arm around her neck and sweep your leg back, before pulling both of you down to the floor. Lita’s head slams into the concrete and you hop up from your spot.

The crowd gives a resound “ooooh” in response. If your DDT was in a box, it’d be wrapped with the prettiest bow anyone has ever seen.

Meanwhile, Trish wants to be thankful to you, this stranger that beat the hell out of Lita. Yet, she’s not sure if she should be feeling so grateful.

Covering herself with her coat, she slowly starts to make her way to the other side of the ring. She doesn’t want any problems with you!

And luckily for Trish, you didn’t have enough time to handle her, so you’ll save it for next show. Just disrupting the match equilibrium is enough.

No one was expecting you at all. You’re following behind the footsteps of people like Lance Storm, Hugh Morrus, and Booker T…..you are officially the fourth star to appear from WCW.

These random occurrences were no coincidence. To the WWF, it just meant man or woman, anyone could get it at any time.

Let it be known that the forbidden door is completely blown off its hinges. There was no longer any boundaries.

You had quickly made your way out before security could retrieve you and Shane had been waiting for you by the barricade. You two made a swift exit, with him encouragingly patting your side as he holds onto you.

Right now, he’s still guiding you out to the limousine with a camera trailing behind you two. The crowd cheers don’t end despite you two getting the hell out of there. You can still hear the noise from the arena.

“Great job, [Name]!” He exclaims. “Bet my father wasn’t expecting that! Now both divisions have something to look out for!” Shane quickly opens the door for you. “Get in!”

You quickly hop into the limo, shuffling in. Shane follows you and closes the door afterwards.

And just like that, it was the start of your WWF journey. You had always wondered if it’ll be like WCW. The backstage environment was sure to be different than this ones.

You suppose there was only one way to find out.

You’re splayed out in the seat of the limo, and though Shane had squished in there with you, he finds it to be a better idea to go sit across from you.

“I haven’t heard people cheer like that for a woman in years!” A but of an exaggeration, but it still holds true. People made a lot of noise for you.

Your attention is on the ceiling. It still hasn’t set in that the crowd might actually like you. You’re more focused on the fact that you’re actually here in the WWF.

You wouldn’t have ever guessed it. WCW was the place you wanted to be when you started. Years before you debuted, all you did was practice.

Really. Practice, practice, practice. Until you couldn’t move anymore. Your old mentor, Madusa, ensured that you were conditioned enough to be in the ring.

She kept you there for a while. You’d jokingly say that she was holding you hostage, but it ended up being for your benefit. You learned that they would pull the women from the school too early.

Madusa did not want them to make that mistake. She made sure you knew what you were doing before you could go anywhere!

You have to admit though, the training at the power-plant facility wasn’t the best. There were other woman who didn’t exactly know what they were doing. It was easy for them to mess up.

And it’s actually where you met your two close friends, Stacy and Torrie. You were nervous, they were nervous, it’s only inevitable you three would mutter things to one another.

You were more than happy to give them tips on what you knew. From you, they were more than happy to learn. Eventually it grew from only talking in the school to completely hanging out with each other.

It was really nice to finally make some genuine friends.

Shane takes you out of your daydream by holding out a bottle of champagne. “A performance like that deserves some reward! Want some?”

“No, I’m okay.” You shake your head. “But hey, I’m just glad I could get in there!”

Shane thinks you’re downplaying yourself. “Seriously, that was amazing.” He says. “I couldn’t believe it. WWF should know by now there’s one hell of a storm brewing.”

You didn’t realize it at first, but maybe you like this so called “invasion” more than you thought you would.

“You mind if we head to Times Square? I’m due to speak WWF New York.”

Your reply is sluggish. “Yeah, yeah, sure. What is that?”

“It’s mainly a restaurant, but we do some live events there too.” He summarized.

That quickly reminds you of the WCW Grill in Vegas. You’ve been there many times, whether it to be signing things or just hanging out with other coworkers.

You lean up from your seat. “WCW had something like that in Vegas! They closed last year though. Bummer, I kinda liked their food. And I think I had a menu item once!”

“Really? Well, I’m sure the WWF’s will be better.” Shane pauses for a second. “I mean, for once. Besides, we’ll be bigger and better. Then you can really get your name on the menu.”

You let out a chuckle. He slipped up a little. “Right.”

”I’m gonna need you for Smackdown too.” Shane says. “You don’t have to worry that much about transportation since we’re staying here for it.”

Oh joy! Seriously! No worrying about catching a flight tonight, that’s less stress on your shoulders.

“Then I’ll be there.” It’s not like you wouldn’t be anyway.

”While you’re at it, mind asking Torrie if she could attend as well?” He requests you. “I’ve got a great idea for the both of you.”

A great idea, he says. Not like you’ve heard that before. “Color me intrigued, what’s the plan?”

“I want you ladies to go undercover in the WWF. Somehow, someway. Get as much information as you can from anyone you run into.” He explains. “If anything goes wrong, WCW will protect you. You’ve got my word on that.”

“I believe you. But how should I do that? Just waltz up in there and proclaim I’m one of them now? I just attacked Lita!” You throw your arms out for extra emphasis.

“Relax. Just act like you were misguided. And when you learned that I wasn’t in the right, you want to change your ways. If I were you, I’d apologize to Lita first.”

It was only a six minute drive from MSG to WWF New York. When the limo pulls up, you can hear the sound of the crowd on the outside of it.

The only thing you could do was nod at Shane. It’s go-time.

Leaning up from your spot, you take a second to fix yourself up, fixing your shirt and adjusting your hair so that it’s presentable. Wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea…

Rumors still can circulate, even if you were seen in the ring earlier! The last thing you wanted was for dirt sheets to grasp at straws, with your boss of all people.

Shane gets out first, then takes a second to open the door. He then pulls it open and you are greeted with the crowd on both sides of the sidewalk.

When they turn their heads to see who else was in the vehicle, they cheer over at you. All you can really do is wave with a smile.

Do they really know who you are?

Photographers are at the ready, their bright white lights flashing at you. It makes you squint every time a camera would go off. You just hoped those photos won’t come out bad.

Shane waits for you, offering his arm for you to take while you get out of the car. You happily take it and he ushers you to go inside.

It’s like walking the red carpet, albeit shorter and quicker. You two go in, and you try to look at what they’ve got on display as you walk.

Lots and lots of action figures. You can only look over there for a few seconds, but you do catch a Lita figure on one of the holders.

There’s a lot of others, but you’re not quite sure who they are. Stone Cold Steve Austin? Triple H? Edge? None of those people ring a bell.

As you two approach the steps, there’s only one thing pops into your mind.

…You can’t believe that this place has two floors! So far, it was beating that WCW Grill by a long shot. Upstairs was for merchandise, and as you two go down you assume that the restaurant was around here.

You’re greeted by another large crowd of people and the both of you make your way over toward the stage.

The camera nearby moves over to the both of you.

Shane lets go of your arm and goes to grab a mic from a stagehand. You wait for him by the center of the stage.

Before he says anything, he reaches down toward the crowd to give them high fives. Shane comes back toward you.

“Surprise,” He says. “Well obviously, I’m not Perry Saturn, and she’s not Terri Runnels. But dad, I know you can hear me. It’s your son Shane, how’re you doing?”

The crowd cheers his name and you keep the smile on your face. This place was WWF New York, but before anyone knew it, it could easily become WCW New York.

“You know, the one that owns WCW. The very organization that has you a little heated under the collar. Because WCW continues to infiltrate your WWF.” Shane motions over toward you.

“[Name] made an example out of two women on your roster, and believe me, that won’t be the end of it.”

You nod your head. You’re eager to take these women down, one at a time. You definitely need to make a mental checklist.

Shane continues on. “You see dad, that is done out of necessity. Because in order to build a brand like WCW, we need television exposure. But I’ve gotta give you credit on this because I didn’t think it was possible, through all of your connections you have been able to block WCW from airing on any television network period.”

When he pauses again for a split second, the crowd cheers him.

“Here’s how it’s gonna go down.” He says. “I may not be able to compete with your checkbook but I can compete with your brains. Since you have prevented WCW from airing on any network, it’s now time for WCW to invade the WWF.”

You clap your hands toward him, then try to signal for the crowd to make some noise. They do and you smile. “Thank you!” Although your words were drowned out by the crowd.

“One of the people to lead the charge in one division stands here next to me,” Shane turns to you. “I reckon that she’ll become the next Women’s Champion in no time..”

You hope so. That’s a big step in your career. You were one year too late in getting the WCW Women’s Championship, despite Madusa’s efforts to revive it.

To your surprise, Shane holds out the mic toward you. He must’ve expected you to say something.

You try not to look like a deer in headlights as you take the mic and speak up.

“All I want is to lead WCW to victory. Whatever it takes, I will do…so let this be a warning to the entire women’s division. What I did to Lita was a demonstration of what’s to come. Trust me when I say that no one can stop me, but feel free to try if you want to…that is if you don’t want to end your career early!”

Shane laughs at your words. Hopefully the women (and men if they so dared,) would take heed. You pass the mic back to him.

“Oh, but that’s not all,” He points a finger up. “Might I introduce the second person to lead the charge, I’m sure that you and Stone Cold Steve Austin know this man very well. Ladies and Gentlemen, the WCW Champion, give it up for Booker T!”

As Booker makes his way from behind the curtain with a mic, he throws up his arms.

You watch as he reaches down to high five the fans. After of which, you reach out your own hand for him to shake. He grabs your hand and shakes firmly.

Shane mimics you, shaking his hand as well.

“Last night, at King of the Ring, it was just too easy, no, it was just too damn easy to take you outta the game!” Booker says.

There are mixed reactions at his words, with more cheering than booing from the antsy crowd.

“—And you call yourself the WWF Champion? I respect that, but ask me what I call you. I’m calling you out to let you know that if you want some you can come and get some, because I’m gonna be here at WWF New York, kicking it all night long!”

Shane brought back up his own mic. “I’d like to call this my dream team. These two are going to lead my brand new company to victory. Dad, this is a warning to you. I’m just here to say that you’re on borrowed time..”

That’s all that was needed to say.

Shane was 100% sure that his father was watching. He’s also sure that he was boiling in anger. It’s exactly what he wanted.

The camera makes sure to get all three of you into frame. It’s up to you, as that’s left was for you and Booker T to apply pressure on the WWF..

After the segment at WWF New York, Shane fortunately allowed you to return to your hotel, but told you to watch the remainder of Raw when you could on the television.

You’re not exactly sure what his plan was, but now you’re curious to see. All you knew is that Booker T was asked to stay and they went off somewhere else while you just left through the back this time.

Just what in the world were they up to?

Shane was nice enough to send you your own limousine after bidding you a good night. Most of your energy had fizzed out and you could tell that his had too.

All you were excited for was to flop onto your bed. You don’t even move the comforters, all you do is just lie down for a few minutes. You’re sure you can move a little later.

There’s a lot of big changes going on in your life right now. You think the first biggest one was Shane McMahon’s entry to WCW and how quickly everyone went on his side.

It’s only fair. It’s the competition, hell, it’s the son OF the competition. Who specifically came in saying that he was against his father.

But what made him so trustworthy anyway? A lot of your coworkers were immediately on his side. You knew WCW was declining, but you never thought everyone else would stoop low enough to side with competition.

At least, not that quickly. The way things were going in the company, it made you feel like you had no choice but to trust him. So far, no betrayals, so everything is going okay so far.

You do get enough energy to at least turn on the television to Raw. You figure it’s only right to honor Shane’s request.

Immediately, you’re greeted by the sight of Shane McMahon heading down the ramp with a pep in his step. His father is not happy to see him at all.

Seeing the brand new WCW logo projected onto the ramp makes you feel…

Well, you don’t know how it makes you feel. You can safely say it makes you feel weird though.

You’re so used to it having an obnoxiously large watermark behind it, with the barely visible text of “World Championship Wrestling”.

Now it’s all small, jagged with the points on each letter. You have to tilt your head slightly in order to see it better.

Eventually, the camera moves away from the ramp and decided to follow Shane who was circling around the ring.

With you being able to hear the commentators properly, you wonder what they had to say about your prior run-in. You should’ve asked someone back at home to tape it!

“WCW does NOT belong in Madison Square Garden!” Paul is almost standing out of his seat by now with all of his screaming.

“You may be right about that, but—“ Unfortunately, JR isn’t allowed to get one single word out thanks to his partner.

“You’re damn right I’m right! I grew up here, I know these things, I see these things!”

You roll your eyes. Shouldn’t Paul Heyman be worried about his own company instead of everyone else’s?

Oh, wait…

You chuckle to yourself. Thank god no one could hear your thoughts or that you were backstage. That wouldn’t have been good.

Vince is beckoning Shane into the ring, but unbeknownst to him, Booker had hopped right up into the ring, ripping his jacket off in the process.

It’s so over for him! You can’t help but smile. You watch as Booker lays in punches onto him, causing him to stagger backwards.

Booker takes advantage of this and runs toward the ropes, bounces off of them, then lifting one of his legs to give him a scissor kick.

Just to add salt in the wound, he hits a spinaroonie to get off the canvas.

How amazing is this?! You can see the entire WWF locker room run down the ramp but Shane and Booker are way too fast, making their exit.

This obviously must’ve been what Shane wanted you to see. Maybe this means that the ball is back in your court now.

You wonder how you can upstage Booker this time. It’ll definitely be hard since he literally knocked the hell out of the literal CEO of the WWF! Vince McMahon!!

Although, Shane offhandedly mentioned he has a sister who also happens to be in the business. You could always find something to do with her if he allows it.

Are you still buzzing from earlier? You had thought your energy was all gone, but it seemed like there was still bits of adrenaline in your veins.

You had only a few seconds to make your appearance count and from what you can think back on, you did a pretty damn good job.

The sound of the door unlocking makes you snap your head to your right.

“Helloooo!” Torrie sings from the doorway. “[Naaame], are you here? I’ve got Stacy with meee!”

Ah yes, your unofficial roommate for this trip. Torrie Wilson. And Stacy, who insisted that she room with you guys this time.

You think she’s just scared of being alone, which is understandable. But there was no need for her to try and sneak into your bed when she could use the pull out couch!

“I saw you on TV,” Stacy exclaims. “You were great! You really kicked….what’s her name? Ah, who cares?! The crowd was really loud too!”

“Yeah.” Is all you can really say to that. And then you fall back onto your bed, turning away from them and putting your head onto the cold pillow.

The both of them share a look, but Torrie’s the first to question you. She takes a seat next to you on the bed. “What’s your problem tonight? I’m surprised you haven’t called us on that dying Nokia you’ve got. Normally you’d be the one to drag us out after a show.”

Torrie teasing you about your phone was nothing new, but you still take offense anyway!

“I’m holding onto it!” Your words are muffled. “My 1999 phone is getting me places, okay?!”

Stacy takes a seat on the opposite side of you. “Aren’t they making a new one in like November?”

“Are they?” You turn your head so that they can hear you better. “I hope they have other colors. But honestly, I’m tired. Kinda.”

“Kind of?” Stacy repeated. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

You hold up five fingers. “Five, so just enough to me. I had a flight to catch to get here, so five was really pushing it. I can’t really tell if this schedule’s gonna be worse than our old one.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Torrie exclaimed, rubbing her hand on your back. “You’re right, but with Shane McMahon being our boss, I’ve gotten more sleep than I would normally! But that’s pretty bad to say, huh?”

“Yes,” You mumble. “Yes it is.” She just haaad to rub it in your face.

“Listen, I don’t think we have to be at the next show—“ You quickly interrupt Torrie. “About that, Shane wanted me to ask you to be at Smackdown. He didn’t say anything about Stacy this time.”

It makes Stacy cheer. “Yay! I get to relax aallll day tomorrow. You know what? [Name], I saw this really cute top at Delia’s earlier today. Now I can go back and buy it for you!”

“Was it that crop top with all those safety pins on the side?” Torrie turns over to Stacy. “If it was, that one totally screamed [Name].”

”YES!” She exclaimed. “That’s exactly the one I’m talking about!”

”From the sound of it, it sounds like I’m gonna have to have a lot of trust in that top.” You say. “And when did you guys go shopping??”

”Earlier. See, they said they needed us.” Torrie removes her hand from your back. “Then I guess they changed their minds since they had you?” It’s the only logical explanation she comes up with.

Whatever, it’s really no big deal. ”Well, you’re gonna be needed tomorrow anyway. And Stacy, I’m sure they’re gonna ask you to show up again. People went crazy! It would be bad if we just left you two in New York.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all!” Stacy finally decides to take a seat too. “Times Square is beautiful! If I could, I’d totally live here.”

“I saw a rat walking down the street with pizza.” You comment. “And you’d stay here. Crazy, crazy, girl.”

Stacy definitely rethinks it. “…Well, now that you say that, shopping only!”

“Hold on a second, it had pizza?!” Torrie exclaims.

It’s gonna be a long, long night, that’s for sure.

*painfully gives a thumbs up.* I SWEAR THIS WAS LONGER WHEN I LOOKED AT THIS OMG. but, yeah. Here we go again, please strap in for the ride

[NEXT CHAPTER]

#LET ME COOK.#wwe x reader #wwe Imagine #wwe various x reader #trish stratus x reader #trish stratus imagine #lita x reader #lita imagine #matt hardy imagine #matt hardy x reader #shane mcmahon imagine #shane mcmahon x reader #WWF ATTITUDE SERIES #wwf x reader #wwf imagines #wwf imagine

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jiubilant · 1 year ago

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4.E. 170

They unload the young Ervine at the Vetring docks along with twelve tuns of wine—which she counts as they bob down the wharf on the dockers’ backs, two by two—and four thin, shivering pigs. She’s not sure where to go. She’s standing dazed with sunlight on the loading-plank, flanked by squealing livestock and the rank, seasick steam of their breath, when two youths hurrying down the boardwalk smile and wave: a lanky young mage, his cloak dyed adept’s blue, and a boy her age with a skeletal face.

“For the Kynesdag feast in town,” says the mage in breathless introduction, divesting her of books and bundles both. He means the pigs, she realizes. He darts a look over his shoulder, another at the ship, then gives her a gentle shake: half-friendly, half-impatient. “We were told to meet you. What’s your name?”

She frowns at him, suspecting a joke at her expense, then recalls how far she is from Betony and her father’s rotting lands. He’s never cursed an Ervine, this mage with busy eyes.

“Mirabelle,” she says, her voice salt-hoarse. She’s eaten nothing but hardtack for two months.

He doesn’t even ask for the rest of it—just glances behind him again and marches her down the frost-chewed wharf. Wizards, of course, always have somewhere else to be.

“Falion of Conjuration,” he replies with a hasty grin, pulling her out of the way of some rickety gibbet for fish. The cod dangling from it like gallows-fruit watch her pass with baleful eyes, as does the woman stringing them up. “That’s Phinis, also of Conjuration. Phin,” he says to the boy, who’s casting nervous looks about him like wards, “you’ll have to get used to it.”

Phinis pulls a death’s-head face. “I don’t want to get used to it—”

One of the pigs blunders with a shriek into their path. The biggest of the men dragging it down the docks stumbles, swearing in some Nordic tongue—then, with a snarling glance at Mirabelle and her companions, spits at them.

“Happy Kynesdag,” croaks Phinis, cringing sideways. Falion, with an inscrutable look, lays a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll have to get used to it, too,” he says to Mirabelle, who stares at him. He clears his throat and, with a playful flourish of his cloak, raises his voice like a mummer on the stage. “Pay the ignorant masses no mind. You are now a student of Mystery”—he grips her shoulder with jovial force, steering her away—“a novitiate of the Secret Fire!”

“A witch,” says Mirabelle, her voice steady and soft.

Falion’s grin, swift as a warning, bounds again across his face. “A scholar!”

Mirabelle glances behind her. The man with the pig, staring after them, shivers and looks away.

* * *

“They hate us in the village,” Phinis confides in her over supper: a bowl of pale and wobbly fish, glistening like glue in the sheen of the wandering lights. “Falion says they’re afraid of what they don’t understand, and that we should be”—he makes a grim little face at his bowl—“understanding.”

“Oh,” says Mirabelle through a mouthful of fishpaste. It tastes like jellied steam. She’s discovered, in her ravenous journey to the bottom of the bowl, that she can swallow it without chewing. “Why?”

Phinis scowls. “That’s what I want to know—”

“No.” Mirabelle, in the spirit of scholarly inquiry, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. No one snaps at her for it. She dares a quick, gleeful lick at the back of her spoon. “Why are they afraid?”

“Falion says—” A pallid light kindles in Phinis’s eyes. “No. I’ll show you.”

They slip out of the refectory, accompanied by a bobbing light and a few incurious looks from the adepts’ table. Their footsteps echo in the corridor like cracking ice. Mirabelle, in her scratchy new College robes that smell of mothballs and musty spells, resists an unthinkable urge to dance up and down the hall until it resounds with noise. It would be unscholarly, she thinks. She hugs herself hard instead.

“If you think this is cold,” says Phinis sagely, misunderstanding her, “wait until end-of-term. Falion says we’ll have to crack the ice in our basins every morning.”

The giddiness, despite her best efforts to restrain it, wriggles up from her toes to her face. “What else does Falion say?”

Phinis gives her a wounded look. “You’re making fun.”

The rush of warmth she feels for the little cadaver—and for the supper-sludge, the itchy clothes, Falion who knows so much—threatens to knock her over. “I’m not.”

“It’s all right,” he says, his face funereal. She has to bite down on a laugh. “I’m used to it. We’ll go up those stairs to the ramparts.”

They wrestle with the door at the stairtop, which is frozen or rusted shut; it bangs open at last, and they tumble out into a blast of wind that nearly blows them over the parapet. Mirabelle, with a delighted shriek, grabs Phinis—poor bag of bones, he all but rattles—and staggers with him away from the crenellated wall.

The wind whips his scandalized yell past her ears. “Are you laughing?”

She is. Something in her has come unstuck. “Have you ever been up here before, or did Falion tell you about it?”

“You’re making fun!” He stomps ineffectually on her foot. “The wind comes and goes, you’ll see—”

“I’m not making fun!”

By the time they struggle arm-in-arm to the far parapet, the wind’s died down. They sag against the wall. Phinis, breathing hard, glowers so peevishly at Mirabelle that she bursts into laughter again—which makes his lips twitch, and his eyes gleam, and something almost like life flush in his face.

“What are you so happy about?” he demands, fighting a smile. Mirabelle can tell by the way he’s twisting his mouth. “Here we are at the frozen edge of the world—”

“I didn’t think they’d let me come,” Mirabelle gasps, rubbing her eyes. The tears in them sting like grains of salt. “What—what’d you want to show me?”

“Oh.” Phinis tugs her up, then points over the parapet. “Out there.”

What he had wanted to show her, Mirabelle realizes after a long, staring moment, is the sea. Gulls circle and cry over the gray mirror of the water. Glaciers—smaller, now, than they’ll be in midwinter—slouch in the shallows. The sun on the horizon breaks the surface like a drowned face.

It’s nothing that she hadn’t seen from the deck of the ship. She looks sidelong at Phinis.

“It wasn’t always a village,” he says.

A gull dips in the sky. The water shimmers, changeless and cold, over the roofs of the city of the dead.

#thank you @zurin for your help researching this one <3 #skyrim #college of winterhold #microfic #mirabelle ervine #phinis gestor #falion

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rxxltzu · 11 months ago

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Two Worlds Apart

ִֶָ࣪☾. Jihyo x Fem! Reader

☘︎ Genre: Angst

☘︎ Summary: Feelings for someone you can never call yours.

☘︎ W.C: 1.7k

☘︎ A/n: Hi everyone! This is my first one-shot here:) You can call me Rixl! I’ll do a more formal introduction later on, for now I hope you enjoy reading!

Minatozoki Y/n, that’s who you were, you were Sana’s younger sister. You were simply accompanying her since she wanted you to meet her friends. Twice, that’s what she said their group name was. You were a famous guitarist, having been invited to countless concerts and shows as the star guest. Having to play an electric guitar was your dream since you were a little kid, well it was a dream come true, wasn’t it?

Back to the present, Sana was introducing you to everyone. Having to know them from Eldest to youngest, not that you mind of course. You met Nayeon, Momo, Dahyun, Chaeyoung and Tzuyu. Sana explained that you’ll meet Jeongyeon and Jihyo later on as they went out to buy some drinks and snacks. You didn’t mind of course as Dahyun started to compliment how you look so similar to Sana.

“You look so much like Sana-Unnie!” Dahyun said as you shyly rubbed your nape as you felt flustered, smiling softly as you thanked her. You immediately connected with the members as you sat down with your sister.

“Y/n-Unnie, how old are you?” The youngest asked, you know of as Tzuyu, you chuckled before stating that you recently turned 25, everyone was shocked of how much younger you were from Sana, stating that you looked much older than your age. You laughed at this before shaking your head lightly.

“Sana-Chan is old” You teased as Sana feigned a gasp, the other members laughing as you joined in the laughter along with them. As everyone laughed, the door softly opened, resounding the room with a soft creaked, indicating someone has entered the room. Nayeon greeted whoever was at the door as everyone turned to look at who had arrived. Everyone greeted Jeongyeon and Jihyo, but you were in awe.

You already knew who Jeongyeon was due to your sister bringing her over a couple of times over at your shared apartment, but you never knew Jihyo was the one you caught your breath on your throat. Dahyun snapped you out of your trance as you greeted your elders, Jeongyeon patting your head softly. “It’s good to see you again, Y/n” Jeongyeon said as her and Jihyo placed the drinks and snacks in the middle before finding their spot to sit, Jeongyeon sitting beside Jihyo as Jihyo sat down beside you. You felt butterflies swarming your stomach as she sat so closely to you.

“You must be Sana’s sister, right?” Jihyo asked, you only nodded, not trusting your voice at the moment. She looked so perfect, so beautiful. Sana offered you some food which you gratefully accepted as you were now getting hungry. “If I remember, Your name is Y/n. You’re that famous guitarist everyone is head over heels for.” You looked over at Jihyo, she knew you. You almost screamed out of excitement but held back. You nodded as you chuckled softly.

“Indeed I am, I’m surprised you were able to recognize who I am” You said softly, Jihyo chuckled. You were falling in love as you spent time with her. “Of course I know, I’m not that old, unlike Nayeon-Unnie over here” Jihyo teased as Nayeon gasped at her “Excuse me?? I am not that old!” Nayeon exclaimed as you laughed.

You laid in your bed with a smile on your face as you recall your memories with the group, Sana smirked at you and your goofy smile “What’s got you smilin, little sister?” She asked teasingly, your smile only grew wider as you recall your memories with her “Unnie.. She’s so pretty..” You say in a daze, Sana only chuckled at this “Who’s pretty?” She asked, you sigh as you sat up and faced her “Jihyo-Unnie, she made me feel things I never felt before! It’s like—” You explained but got cut off by Sana “Like butterflies in your stomach? Like fireworks exploding inside your chest?” She asked and you nodded as your eyes shone “Exactly! It’s so new to me.. That I’m scared.” You admitted, looking away.

Sana smiled softly as she pushed herself off your door frame and sat beside you on your bed, she held your hand and caressed it softly “It is huh? But my advice for you, is that you step forward, despite being scared. But don’t lose yourself in the process. I don’t want to lose my little sister due to love.” Sana said softly as she continued “This is also what I felt with Tzuyu, before we dated. But I took the risk and now I’m spending my life with her. It’s crazy how love changes you.” She explained, she looked at you and kissed your forehead softly “Head to sleep now, and think about it, alright?” You nodded as you finally laid down and sighed.

That was 8 months ago, 8 months ago you met the person who made your heart jump every single time you were with her, your feelings still lingered as you sat down near Jihyo, enjoying their conversation. You had the urge to confess, to show her how much she means to you. How every little thing she does makes your heart jump. Only a few people knew about your feelings, aside from Sana. Jeongyeon, Dahyun and Tzuyu also know about your crush on their leader. You smiled softly as you listened to her rant. She looked so pretty as she explained random things to you, you never minded. Lost track of time dozens, countless times you were with her.

“What do you feel about love, Y/n?” Jihyo asked out of the blue as she smiled dreamily, you were taken aback but quickly composed yourself. This is it, you thought. If this turns out the right way, you might finally call Jihyo yours. “I feel like love is something that is complicated to figure out but beautiful if treated right. Love is an emotion where you feel at peace with someone, feel comfortable and content.. And you just wish to stay there forever.” You said softly as Jihyo listened before opening her phone “Well, I haven’t said this to the members yet, but that’s how I feel.. With my new boyfriend ” She said as she showed you a pic of her and her boyfriend, you felt your heart shatter as you silently squealed at her and whispered congratulations, Jihyo had a cheeky grin as she thanked you. That wasn’t supposed to happen. You thought as you decided to excuse yourself to go to the washroom and then left the room.

You splashed water onto your face as you looked at yourself in the mirror before you felt a rush of emotions you thought you’d never feel again. You leaned onto the sink as your lips quivered, you wanted to leave, to deal with your emotions, but you couldn’t. You sighed as you rolled up your sleeves before washing your hands, fixing yourself as if you never had broken down in the restroom. Sighing, you opened the door to face reality once more.

You went back to the room before sitting down beside Jihyo as she continued to ramble with the rest of the group. The world fell silent to your ears, the noise in the practice room drowning out as you zoned out into your mind, your thoughts. Sana noticed this before she regained composure and acted as if there was nothing going on, but you knew she was gonna ask for this later on when you two arrive home. You opened your phone as you mindlessly scrolled through your socials. Jihyo snapped you out of your trance and asked if you were okay.

Her hazel brown eyes swirled with concern as the other members started to ask if you were okay too, you smiled softly before nodding and just stating you were bored hence why you were zoning out into your phone. Sana knew better, you were good at lying she’ll admit that, but she knew there was more than just being bored. You zoned out once more as you decided to close your eyes and just forget reality.

That was two months ago

You became distant, making up excuses that you were busy with schedules and upcoming concerts. You were though, you kept yourself busy and busy to drown out what you felt. You distracted yourself from the pain that you seemed to only have gotten worse day by day. You told Sana the moment you two got home as you knew won’t drop the topic until you told her what was happening with you. Life suddenly became dull, you zone out more, you were distant, even to Sana.

You were sitting on your couch as Sana came home from practice, you greeted her before going back to whatever you were doing. Sana sighed before walking over to you “Jihyo.. She said she wants you to come tomorrow, even for a short while. Saying she has a surprise for everyone and she wants you to be there.” Sana explained softly, you look at her with knowing eyes that she’s going to bring her boyfriend over to meet everyone “Can I not go? Please..?” You asked softly but Sana only sighed “I’m sorry, Y/n-chan, but she wants you to be there..” Sana said softly, you lean back onto the couch before mumbling a soft ‘Fine’.

Sana sighed as she hugged you, muttering a sorry before heading to her room to change. You closed your eyes as you prayed your emotions aren’t going to get the best of you.

Finally, the next day came, you sighed as you mentally prepared yourself to enter their practice room. From the outside, you can already hear the girls’ noise, Sana smiled at you before entering the room, you followed behind, everyone greeting you. You greeted everyone back as you sat beside Sana, your eyes landed at Jihyo and… her new boyfriend. He looks sweet, nice and caring.. You felt your heart shatter as you zoned out onto the floor, Sana noticing before diverting everyone’s attention away from you. You excused yourself from everyone as you decided to leave, you whispered to Sana that your emotions are starting to get the better of you. You just can’t help seeing her with someone else, you just can’t.

Maybe in another life, you can hold her, comfort her, love her. But in this one, you just have to move on from the pain she left on you.

#jihyo x reader #twice x reader #angst #midnights #☾⭒rixl writes

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