kaaafkaesque
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[ originally written as fanfic for left 4 dead, if you're familiar.
but even if you're not it's pretty accessible? the only context is the zombie apocalypse. (;
for those unfamiliar - zoey's a college dropout horror movie buff, francis is a pessimistic inked-up biker. who's 6-foot-5. i feel like that's relevant. i feel like that's always relevant...
without further ado, copious swears ahoyyyy]
- - - - - -
she commanded him not to take off his shoes as a metal detector joke. then he walked the fuck through a live one with a hulking belt buckle and an auto-shotgun. beeped the thing so loud every zombie in a mile came sprinting. they're in a barricaded saferoom now and she says it again. zoey's distinctly not joking.
"uh, i've been standing up for like sixteen hours." francis defends when she audibly scoffs the second his fingers hit bootlace. "i'm not goddamn sleeping with my shoes on, shit."
"okay," she says, but in a suspicious sing-song voice. zoey waits until he's done, flat on his stomach on a torn-up couch, to even finish her sentence.
"you asked for it," she says.
there's a hundred and thirty pounds on his ankles.
"zo..." he breathes for preemptive mercy, but she's already shoving fingers inside the band of a sock.
"you coulda killed us today." her voice is atypically icy.
"that... was my bad, i didn't mean to --"
"yeah," zoey trails one finger against the base of his heel, "yeah, it's cool. i get it. you like involuntary high-pitched noises. i'm just trying to play to your interests here."
francis squirms with his breath held. he could buck her off easy but he doesn't want to hurt her or whatever. zoey's... small. zoey's hands are small. zoey's about to give him a fucking aneurysm and he's only halfway out of one sock. she reaches the arch with her nails and it's toast, toast, toast. she coaxes a sound out of him like he's been stabbed.
"aw, shit." her voice wears a smile, a lilty smug one, "are you ticklish?"
francis bites his arm as though his dignity isn't already a melting ice cube. the first sock hits the floor and she goes from heel to toe, tenderly scribbling. he falls apart with no gradual grace, just fucking jenga. his laugh spills out faster than the sofa cushions can catch. zoey's fingertips are hellishly soft.
"oh my god," francis chokes out, a little ironically.
the problem is no longer trying not to kick her but keeping his legs from turning gelatinous. she keeps dipping, exploratory, back into the arch, straying from the spot and abruptly returning until he can't even minimize how breathless it makes him. zoey holds his toes back and settles four fingers in his arch's curve, fluttering them contently.
"please - please - " francis keeps starting, but it's already way beyond stuff like mercy or speech.
"if you insist," she sings, peeling the other sock away before he can say no zoey please wait zoey holy shit.
the first arch was so bad he forgot he fucking had another one. she runs her nails briskly up from both heels over and over and tells him to stop squirming or she'll run for the hairbrush she saw on the airport bathroom counter.
"no," he tries protesting, but it's everything she promised, involuntary, high-pitched. zoey's laugh blankets lightly over his.
"you don't like being tickled?" she coos, scratching ten fingernails a million different rapid directions.
it takes a while for francis to eke a gaspy "i can't take it" out but only cuz it's four whole syllables and oxygen's all scarce now.
"that," zoey grins without even a hint of slowing her pace, "is totally not the same thing."
somewhere in a dusty throw pillow, francis's face goes a little redder.
"you already know that, though, huh." she smirks.
zoey strokes little circles in both of his arches at once because she's already pinpointed that that's the shit that puts his brain on a whole other frequency. francis stammers and begs with not-quite-words.
"i just hope you know that every cute desperate thing you do starts the clock aaaaall over." zoey says in that deep, slicing tone from before, but it's during a merciful break. she only relinquished when the lack of breath knocked him totally silent. francis gasps for air, pulsating with his own heartbeat.
"you're gonna fuckin' murder me," he manages hoarsely.
"mm, i'm aiming, like, near-death experience. y'know, like you treated us all to this afternoon."
"that - canNOT still be what this is about." francis pants disbelievingly, coughing a goddamn lung now they finally have a second to expand.
zoey shifts around on top of him. when he twists his neck to see, she's retying a new ponytail, taming her hair fist over fist. the moment they make eye contact she lays into him like punishment for looking, flitting but thorough scratches with both hands that collapse him instantly.
"you're right," she says. "i've been thinking about stuff like this for... a while. tonight i've got all the right shit in place. you owe us big time. we can't leave til morning." zoey snakes her index finger around the perimeter of his toes. "louis should be back in like an hour."
francis whines before he can bite it back. according to the wall clock this whole past eon of torture has been, like, less than ten minutes.
"i gotta go eeeasy on you til then," she smiles, already spidering along the ball of his foot with three fingers.
"that - this - that was - it's - this is not - easy..." he complains until he can't speak for giggling.
"oh, it will be. by comparison."
she keeps digging in unexpectedly, white-hot scrapes that wrench a yelp out of him every time.
"ohhh, i think i found another spot..." zoey trills.
francis writhes. she hasn't touched anything that isn't a spot. zoey holds his toes in place with one hand again and brushes her nails in quick strokes. motherfucking curtains. francis isn't sure if he's laughing or yelling but he's definitely starting to cry.
"does that tickle?" says zoey.
francis says FUCK YOU before he can even process. processing is gone. words are fucking tenuous and he figures if she keeps this shit up he'll starting losing memories in a goddamn second.
"i am so telling louis you said that." her voice is still deadly but zoey's hugely, clearly delighted. "i am so telling louis you said that and to bring that hairbrush back here with him."
francis objects with a slew of helpless sounds.
but even if you're not it's pretty accessible? the only context is the zombie apocalypse. (;
for those unfamiliar - zoey's a college dropout horror movie buff, francis is a pessimistic inked-up biker. who's 6-foot-5. i feel like that's relevant. i feel like that's always relevant...
without further ado, copious swears ahoyyyy]
- - - - - -
she commanded him not to take off his shoes as a metal detector joke. then he walked the fuck through a live one with a hulking belt buckle and an auto-shotgun. beeped the thing so loud every zombie in a mile came sprinting. they're in a barricaded saferoom now and she says it again. zoey's distinctly not joking.
"uh, i've been standing up for like sixteen hours." francis defends when she audibly scoffs the second his fingers hit bootlace. "i'm not goddamn sleeping with my shoes on, shit."
"okay," she says, but in a suspicious sing-song voice. zoey waits until he's done, flat on his stomach on a torn-up couch, to even finish her sentence.
"you asked for it," she says.
there's a hundred and thirty pounds on his ankles.
"zo..." he breathes for preemptive mercy, but she's already shoving fingers inside the band of a sock.
"you coulda killed us today." her voice is atypically icy.
"that... was my bad, i didn't mean to --"
"yeah," zoey trails one finger against the base of his heel, "yeah, it's cool. i get it. you like involuntary high-pitched noises. i'm just trying to play to your interests here."
francis squirms with his breath held. he could buck her off easy but he doesn't want to hurt her or whatever. zoey's... small. zoey's hands are small. zoey's about to give him a fucking aneurysm and he's only halfway out of one sock. she reaches the arch with her nails and it's toast, toast, toast. she coaxes a sound out of him like he's been stabbed.
"aw, shit." her voice wears a smile, a lilty smug one, "are you ticklish?"
francis bites his arm as though his dignity isn't already a melting ice cube. the first sock hits the floor and she goes from heel to toe, tenderly scribbling. he falls apart with no gradual grace, just fucking jenga. his laugh spills out faster than the sofa cushions can catch. zoey's fingertips are hellishly soft.
"oh my god," francis chokes out, a little ironically.
the problem is no longer trying not to kick her but keeping his legs from turning gelatinous. she keeps dipping, exploratory, back into the arch, straying from the spot and abruptly returning until he can't even minimize how breathless it makes him. zoey holds his toes back and settles four fingers in his arch's curve, fluttering them contently.
"please - please - " francis keeps starting, but it's already way beyond stuff like mercy or speech.
"if you insist," she sings, peeling the other sock away before he can say no zoey please wait zoey holy shit.
the first arch was so bad he forgot he fucking had another one. she runs her nails briskly up from both heels over and over and tells him to stop squirming or she'll run for the hairbrush she saw on the airport bathroom counter.
"no," he tries protesting, but it's everything she promised, involuntary, high-pitched. zoey's laugh blankets lightly over his.
"you don't like being tickled?" she coos, scratching ten fingernails a million different rapid directions.
it takes a while for francis to eke a gaspy "i can't take it" out but only cuz it's four whole syllables and oxygen's all scarce now.
"that," zoey grins without even a hint of slowing her pace, "is totally not the same thing."
somewhere in a dusty throw pillow, francis's face goes a little redder.
"you already know that, though, huh." she smirks.
zoey strokes little circles in both of his arches at once because she's already pinpointed that that's the shit that puts his brain on a whole other frequency. francis stammers and begs with not-quite-words.
"i just hope you know that every cute desperate thing you do starts the clock aaaaall over." zoey says in that deep, slicing tone from before, but it's during a merciful break. she only relinquished when the lack of breath knocked him totally silent. francis gasps for air, pulsating with his own heartbeat.
"you're gonna fuckin' murder me," he manages hoarsely.
"mm, i'm aiming, like, near-death experience. y'know, like you treated us all to this afternoon."
"that - canNOT still be what this is about." francis pants disbelievingly, coughing a goddamn lung now they finally have a second to expand.
zoey shifts around on top of him. when he twists his neck to see, she's retying a new ponytail, taming her hair fist over fist. the moment they make eye contact she lays into him like punishment for looking, flitting but thorough scratches with both hands that collapse him instantly.
"you're right," she says. "i've been thinking about stuff like this for... a while. tonight i've got all the right shit in place. you owe us big time. we can't leave til morning." zoey snakes her index finger around the perimeter of his toes. "louis should be back in like an hour."
francis whines before he can bite it back. according to the wall clock this whole past eon of torture has been, like, less than ten minutes.
"i gotta go eeeasy on you til then," she smiles, already spidering along the ball of his foot with three fingers.
"that - this - that was - it's - this is not - easy..." he complains until he can't speak for giggling.
"oh, it will be. by comparison."
she keeps digging in unexpectedly, white-hot scrapes that wrench a yelp out of him every time.
"ohhh, i think i found another spot..." zoey trills.
francis writhes. she hasn't touched anything that isn't a spot. zoey holds his toes in place with one hand again and brushes her nails in quick strokes. motherfucking curtains. francis isn't sure if he's laughing or yelling but he's definitely starting to cry.
"does that tickle?" says zoey.
francis says FUCK YOU before he can even process. processing is gone. words are fucking tenuous and he figures if she keeps this shit up he'll starting losing memories in a goddamn second.
"i am so telling louis you said that." her voice is still deadly but zoey's hugely, clearly delighted. "i am so telling louis you said that and to bring that hairbrush back here with him."
francis objects with a slew of helpless sounds.
