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the-kr8tor · 4 months

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In The Badlands

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), CW guns, TW death mention, CW blood, CW food mentions, CW violence mention.

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CHAPTER 1 >>> CHAPTER 2

Amidst the tar blackened smoke, a tall stranger appears, puffs of smoke parting way for his leather clad form. His spurs clinks as he moves past the doorway of the homestead, ashes floating by, coating his long coat and steel toed boots. The leather vest is perfectly tapered on his waist, pierced lips curled around a slim cigarette, as if the heated smoke entering his lungs wasn't enough. The dark hat he wears obscures half of his face, shadows dancing on his jade eyes. Fire light flickers on his skin that glistened with sweat. Flames lick at his feet, the roof collapses just behind him.

As he leaves the ashes of the former home, blood coating his thick leather gloves, crimson mixing in with the gray ashes. Knuckles hurting and jaw aching, the still warm barrel of his gun weighs heavy on his waist. His horse, Buckeye, neighs, as if he was calling him over.

Shifting his weight on the last step of the burning porch, he spots someone waiting for him, clad in leather, an armour perfectly tailored for his broad shoulders. Golden gun strapped to his waist, rifle on his back, the man's hazel eyes reflect the flaming chaos that the stranger left. The dappled horse huffs behind him, hooves trotting in fear, ready to leave his owner in the dust.

Death is visited by an old friend.

The hazel eyed man dips the brim of his hat in greeting, it's enough for the flame kissed stranger to scoff. “Fine evening ain't it, Hobie?”

“It was, then you came along.” He says gruffly, voice hoarse from the smoke clinging to his throat. “What do you want, Miguel?” Through narrowed eyes, thumb pressed closely to his gun belt, Hobie's body says it all, ‘not in a good mood for a conversation.’

Yet, Miguel still stays on the now ashen field, nose itching at the stench. “I have a proposition—”

“‘m retired,” Hobie interrupts, now standing beside his horse, he calms Bucky down with a pat on his snout. His loyal steed knows Miguel well, and Miguel has the right idea to steer clear of his behind lest he gets kicked to an early grave.

“This doesn't look like retirement to me. I keep telling you you're too young for retirement.”

“This was just a favour, prick deserved it.” His eyes grow darker at the mere mention of the newly departed soul that is now having an impromptu cremation.

“This one is also a favor,” Hobie narrows his eyes further, he taps impatiently on the scorpion etched on his belt buckle. Miguel can tell that he's close to shooting him right on the spot. “from me.”

Hobie groans, “can't, busy.”

“Tending to your dirt farm ain't being busy.” Miguel tethers on the gallows at his pointed words. Still, he pokes and prods at the reaper in front of him. “Told you that the land you bought was a dud.”

Hobie gets on his horse swiftly, more than ready to leave his former associate behind. “Can you get on with it, Miguel?”

“Just like I said, I've got a proposition, the reward could really help out your farm. ‘sides, early retirement doesn't suit a man of your talents.” Miguel flicks his eyes over to the house when a large cracking sound almost startles him. Proving his point. The porch collapses, embers and ashes floating away like snowflakes.

“I don't do bounties anymore.” Hobie doesn't spare the destruction a glance, green eyes staring intensely at the man before him.

“This isn't a bounty, it's a find and transport.”

“Since when do you accept those kinds of jobs?” Hobie raises a pierced brow, sweat coating the back of his neck irritably. “Sounds like the gang have fallen on hard times.”

“Since they offered me five k.” Hobie's intrigued, just like how Miguel predicted. “Also, I heard from the informant that your target seems to be sailing from your old country. I'm sure you'll get along well, with your teas and shit. But knowing you, you won't.”

Hobie ghosts his hand over the large scar on his neck, like it still bleeds, like the blood he shed still drips on his calloused hands. “‘m listenin’” Sounds like an easy job, he thought. He's not exactly a novice, so he already considers it done.

Miguel gets on his horse with a groan, he can tell that Hobie is biting his tongue from making an old man joke. “You have to do it alone though, I'd take it but I've got another job lined up.”

“You already had me at five k, stop tryin’ to convince me. But ‘m guessing you have a cut in that five k?”

Miguel chortles, “’course I do, why don't we have a drink and we'll negotiate. I'm sure Riri would appreciate my patronage.” Hobie nods curtly. “First of all you need to take care of your wounds, you're covered in blood.”

Hobie rides ahead. “Not my blood.”

Almost two years of being ‘retired’, Hobie hasn't changed one bit. Miguel smirks victoriously, this'll be an easy job for a man like Hobie and an easy fifteen percent for him.

—

You're hungry, incredibly hungry. Stomach growling angrily, you feel like you're about to pass out from starvation. Two days of not being able to eat a single crumb, and almost a day of not having a sip of water, you're ready to dig your own grave. But you refuse to fall without reaching your goals.

You can't fail.

You already hate it here, the air stinks of horse shit, the roads are covered in mud and horse shit, and now the smell of horse shit has made a home in your nostrils. A week in the west and you're already at your lowest, money gone from a quick handed street child, clothes all ratty because you traded off your silk dress and remaining jewels except for the simple gold band around your middle finger. Hair greasy, and skin sweaty and from the sweltering sun, you're more than ready to leave. But you can't let her win, you cannot let her have the last laugh or your life would end before you could actually live it.

Licking your dried lips, eyes glued to the window of the general store, you take your bandana and wrap it around your face, making it a makeshift mask just like how bandits do. Armed with a six shooter that has no bullets left in its chamber, you find courage to rob the place when no one else is inside, or at least get some canned peaches.

Storming the shop, shouldering the door, the bells chimes as you enter. The man behind the counter yelps at the intrusion, wide eyes staring at you in fear. His hands raise next to his head in surrender, mouth stuttering to stitch together a sentence.

“T-take anythin’ from the register! P-please just spare me! I have children to feed!” The man shakes, mustache damp with sweat.

You're equally terrified. “I–I just need food and water. Please,” you almost chuckle at yourself. “I don't want to hurt you—!”

The bells chime again, heavy boots thud against the wooden floorboards, a breeze entering as the slim stranger wanders through the store. The air in your lungs is sapped away, something in the stranger makes goosebumps rise on your skin.

You and the shop owner stare at the masked man curiously, blinking, you watch as he casually takes two cans of peas. Taking the cans to the counter, he doesn't even spare you a look or cower in fear at the sight of your gun.

“How much do I owe you?” He asks the terrified man. His accent reminds you of the land you ran from, the familiar tone would bring you calm but his mere presence exudes danger.

“W-what?” The mustachioed man trembles. You just stare, arm aching from how you hold the heavy gun.

“Y’know, sweetheart,” your breath stops when he finally acknowledges you. “When you rob a place, you don't tell ‘em that you have no intention of hurtin’ ‘em. You just lost your advantage, fear is your main weapon, not your gun.” His jade eyes bore into your skull, you swear you feel the heat of it like you're stranded in the desert. “Which doesn't have any bullets by the way.”

The moment he says it, the shopkeeper cranes his neck quickly to a fumbling you. Quickly taking his rifle behind him, you run before he could even aim at you. A shot rings out in the small building, the bullet lodged in the back doorway where you fled.

“Grab her and I'll reward you!” The man yells at the stranger.

“How much?” He stays in place, casually leaning on the counter, watching your form get smaller and smaller as you run with all your might.

“Ten bucks!”

The stranger cracks his neck, groaning at the relief. “Fine.” Running after you, with his longer strides and full stomach, he's already behind you. “Stop runnin’!” It doesn't sound like a warning but he intended it to be. The sun bares at his back, quick drawing his gun out, the silver barrel shines as he aims at the ground.

The bullet whizzes past you, nicking your ankle, warm blood soaking your shoes. Yet, you still do your best to run. You can't be caught, you can't go back. You cannot go back to the life she planned for you. Limping, trailing crimson on the dusty ground, you feel his heavy presence right behind you.

“You gonna make this harder for me?”

“Yes! Leave me the fuck alone!” You continue to bolt away, but the man casually catches up to you with only a few strides. You smelled him before you felt his hand on your shoulder. Sweat, leather, and tobacco, a scent you've gotten all too familiar with in this new world you've fallen into. But there's a whiff of something you're familiar with. Something you've almost forgotten.

He grabs your shoulder back, but you're still too fast, taking advantage of your adrenaline. Bolting away, he takes his lasso from his belt, with a practiced hand, he swings it and the rope hits its mark, your legs, hemp wrapping around your knees with a slap.

You hit the ground face first, dust on your face, and sand in your eyes. The stinging pain on your chin and nose makes you groan, tears welling up, and blood trickling down from your nose.

The almost silent footsteps getting nearer has you scrambling away. The stranger takes your shoulder, trying and failing to bind you.

Fighting back with a swift kick on his chest that doesn't even faze him, you slap him away in futile. “Stop–! Fuckin-!” You two wrestle on the ground, dust flying all over, nose itching at the particles. You bite his arm, he flinches before he wraps his gloved hand around your wrist, pinning you down. The rough leather is hot against your skin. “Ow! You– stop! ‘m not gonna hurt you!”

“You fucking stop!” Your free hand grip the bandana hiding his face. His legs trap you in between them in retaliation. “What did you say back at the store? Fear is your main weapon, not your gun?!”

“You're bloody butchering it—!” With one strong tug, you take his black bandana off, revealing a familiar face.

You gasp breathlessly, frozen in place. His name falls on your lips, a name you've only whispered before you fall asleep like a prayer murmured to whoever was listening.

“Hobie?”

Hobie's heart stops, now he notices your eyes, those eyes he once loved to stare at endlessly. Eyes that he's fond of, eyes that still hold his promise. With trepidation in his chest, and the ghost of pain around his scar, he gingerly takes your bandana off. Your face greets him, he imagines a scowl on your pretty lips, but instead of hate, he sees relief. A beaming smile on the lips he's all too familiar with, the same lips he'd kiss everyday for two years.

Death's carefully plastered façade falls.

You're his target, the same person he told those three words to a thousand times before when everyone told him it's not meant to be. You proved them all otherwise. The same person he once loved all those years ago, before he faced death himself.

“Y/N?” His voice breaks with the mere utterance of your name. A name that has been tattooed in his mind ever since everything came crashing down. Ever since you two tempted fate too much, and he alone faced the consequences. The scar around his neck proves it all.

Your grin gets wider, and you feel like the luckiest girl alive. Hobie feels like he lost a thousand dollars in poker.

“Hi.” You could only muster, the hands that slapped him away now hold his face carefully, fingers tracing all the new scars and marks on his skin. “I finally found you.”

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distastefullydelightful · 1 year

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It's a Saturday night. You're dressed like a cheap bimbo fuckdoll, as instructed. Knowing how adventurous we are, you assumed I might take you to a fancy club to parade you around. We've been driving for a while now, however, and as we depart the city, it begins to dawn on you - I've got something else in store for you tonight. Eventually, we pull off the tarred road onto some gravel. As it crunches beneath the tyres you see a dimly-lit structure ahead. You notice the dull red glow of a number of breaklights in the dark. I hand your "cumdump" collar to you.

"Put this on", I say. I then fasten a leash to it, and lead you inside. Your heart is pounding. You're thrilled and you're nervous. You're overwhelmed and you're wet. And you have questions, none of which I answer.

And here we are. In this derelict public bathroom off the side of some underused road in the middle of nowhere.

"It's time to get on your knees, slut", I command. I then proceed to take a couple small video recorders out my pocket, placing them on surfaces around the bathroom, all pointing towards where you're kneeling. Your pussy is throbbing by now. You have a sense of what's coming, but the fact that I won't answer your questions also has you a bit unnerved. I switch the cameras on, walk behind you, and start unbuckling my belt.

"You're my filthy fucking whore, aren't you?"

"Yes daddy, I'm your filthy fucking whore."

"Well then, it's time you got treated as such. And it's time the world saw you for the fuckmeat you truly are."

As you whimper, I lift your skirt up, pull your skimpy thong to the side and slide my hard dick into your slippery cunt.

You notice footsteps and murmuring outside, and you make your nervousness known to me. But I put my hand around your throat and hold you down as I start to pound away, faster and faster. A man walks into the room, and immediately motions for the other five to follow. As I pound away at your slippery pussy, I hold your head to make you look them in the eyes.

"Tell them what you are, slut!"

As you bite your lip and whimper, you manage to explain that you're a slutty little cum bucket. They grin excitedly. You're a pretty girl and you look like a street hooker. This is going to be fun. As they unbuckle their belts and start to approach us, I unload deep inside of you. You feel the familiar feeling of my cum flooding out your cunt.

"Clean up your mess, you filthy fucking whore".

You turn around to lick up the cum. But just as you're about to, I tug the leash to look up at me.

"Ask them for permission" I say, motioning toward the group of strange men amassed from advertising your cumdump holes on the internet. They're here to use you as fuckmeat, and you know you have no choice but to give them all kinds of power over you.

The thought of it, on some level, disgusts you. How has it come to this? Are you really going to ask strange old men for permission to lick up the cum which has just dripped from your pussy on some dirty bathroom floor? And yet, you crave this. You're deeply depraved, and it's moments like this when you're forced to confront it.

"Can I eat the tasty cum please, sirs?" you ask. You can't even imagine if anyone you knew saw you like this. You'd be mortified. But right now, it feels so fucking right. You want it so badly and reason has long departed.

Turns out, they're a tough crowd. "Why should we let you? Tell us what you are and why you need it, you pathetic fucking slut" a particularly confident one barks. You know he has no right to speak to you that way but your pussy is aching as a result. You're fuckmeat to him. He doesn't respect you and he doesn't even see you as a real person. And as much as that should revolt you, you want him to show you your place.

You look onto the floor to see this small puddle of cum slowly starting to spread into the cracks between the tiles. You feel humiliated and pathetic. But you just fucking want it. Your pussy is taking over your mind, and you're aware of it happening but incapable of doing anything about it, even if you wanted to.

I answer the man before you even can. "Because she's a good whore and she'll take you all tonight. But she needs to prove to all of you that she can. Eat the fucking cum, slut."

And you do. You feel the cold tiles on your tongue. The reality of your behavior dawns on you, but the more disgusted you are in yourself, the more turned on you become. As you eagerly lick the floor cleaner than its been in months, you feel another dick enter you. It's the confident one. He's thick and raw inside of you, and he's not looking to take it easy. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair, and verbally degrades you. Part of you wants me to come to your defence when he treats you like a cheap disposable slut, but the fact that I join him in the degradation sends you over the edge into mindless whore bliss. As you cum, you feel him emptying himself inside of you. He dismounts you with a few more condescending words and forcefully shoves his dick into your mouth to clean it.

You can feel his cum start to stream from your pussy too. It's overflowing. "You're making a mess again. You know what to do." After polishing his cock with your tongue you move back a few paces until you can lick the new cum puddle up. Shortly after beginning, you feel a new dick slide inside your cum-lubricated pussy.

And so the night unfolds...you're there on this dirty floor, looking like a cheap whore, licking the cum off the floor as it floods from your pussy. After each load is deposited into you, you move back a meter or so, to lick up the cum that dripped from your pussy as the next guy mounts you and fills you up.

Over the next two hours, each of the 7 men in the room have deposited their deed into your fertile young pussy at least twice. Your thighs are glistening with it and you're a sticky mess.

As the men start to depart and you finally stand up again, you notice me switching the video cameras off. You'd forgotten they were even there. "I'm proud of my whore", I say. "I can't wait to show everyone what a depraved fucking slut you truly are."

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golden-----hour · 1 month

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149

8/26/24

I like that Piscataway bleeds into South Bound Brook partitioned by the Raritan River, which traces the Raritan Valley to Bridgewater, where Cris (with no H, which is evil) works at Abercrombie. I can see Cris stumbling through long nothing hours not caring that I love him and that I have made him feel like the opposite of retail by letting him sit on my face and be unfungible. I could taste who he was becoming from under there and he did not like that which is why he unadded me the morning after. That morning the light transfixed gray and odd, the wind stiffly blew and coughed humidity into my nothing neighborhood. Cris's body left a body sized void only I could see, that Abercrombie air was trying to destroy.

But I am someone perplexed and rattled by cartology. I like how a line makes a vein through the Earth and represents a real connection. I like grasping through the dark. I like my palm on the fresh pavement of Rose street imagining pushing my consciousness through the tar all the way to North Plainfield, where Cris resides. I can feel the black and white stars of that name: North, its sinking coldness, and Plainfield, like stars spangle long languid grasses and what shines down on them is us. As a child, I would draw train maps in notebooks and have a central station and make sure the whole paper was connected and made sure that line 23 and line 5 could get to work at line 9. I liked suffixes and express trains, the order of a thing, I liked all of the syllables next to each other. I liked that each Nj transit line hosts its own color. I could rub my face into that. The Northeast Corridor, for example, feels regally red. It's just correct.

But the black and white stars were escaping the Raritan Valley. Where the hills begin tells you you've made it. Unlike my stretch of suburbs, low and minimally hilly, branching northward into Somerset and Union counties brings higher elevations and rising hills. You can see you've crossed into that line by the raised trackage of the Raritan Valley line, track 5 at Newark Penn Station. Hills are not the architecture of my upbringing, except for the Roosevelt Park old people's home, or Beacon Hill where all of the popular kids grew up, or Cliffwood. But Cris came from beyond the trackage eventually bringing me to Route 22, the carotid artery of the Raritan Valley. But those chains were not my chains and those dusk laden trees shook with the wrong darkness. I had different lines, simply.

I like how Ananya once walked to the edge of South Bound Brook, I love Bound Brook, the alliteration and how it feels like suffocating: a creek bound, pinched by land, thirsty Americans stealing its rain water. I imagine the ache of my best friends knees and the imperceptible difference between Bound Brook and Piscataway soil. We gummed the distance of Bound Brook like old people on dentures. She got far, like a Kuiper Belt object. She saw the white and black stars clambering and tumbling and jamming and enjambing past the water. Drum sounds, cymbals falling, loud whoops, a shrill metallic jab- the black and white stars rattled the landscape up there. She knew to turn around.

Piscataway, which bleeds into Edison and Highland Park, is demarcated by garish yellow signs that feverishly display its towns name across it, delimiting the city boundaries. Ananya and I used to walk the self similar roads of her complex to the 4 lane highway, empty as Pluto in Winter in night, and traipse our wondrous way to the Piscataway sign, feeling like we traversed insurmountable distances. Our jackets felt like super suits and our breath spiraled into abyssal dark, jilted exhales, our dreams wet on our breath, a kiss's memory, in almost. In almost.

Ananya and I would follow the long curves over white concrete, the complex rising all around us like an infinitely tessellating plane of sheet rock, wide hungry windows, and pavement. Everything was car sized near Yosko Drive- distances swollen uncontrollably. How it took nearly 35 minutes to walk to the train station, and it was a barren walk. Wide open lots thronged by dingy buildings housing professionals and businesses that could only ever be relevant to a few people, and string together a few lives. Opposite her house, the vocational school baseball field loomed under those Raritan Valley hills. In summer, evening was fiery over the farness. Clouds looked almost like insurmountable peaks. Anything to house the destitution of our loneliness and untapped dreams and which could make the black and white stars lessen their strange parade violence. We could hear echos of their collusion in the Dismal Swamp, it carried on the screams of the Livingston Foxes and the Highland Park albino buck once was fleeing near the Raritan as a strange bright light rose over the wine water. It was an angel trapped inside an animal.

We know, for example, that the Deer Stratagem, the four chosen deer who sit in a square near Yosko are discussing methods for dealing with the carnage: it's getting harder to rest with the stars venturing increasingly further from the Raritan Valley, which came from Essex Country in the first place, Morris-Essex rumblings, big huge deliveries of sound from New York City: a dam of dreams aching the throat of night. Even vowels felt nervously. The deer knew the 24 hour restaurant that must never be entered would be a great waypoint for other deer. Ananya and I discovered where the deer would exchange information, where they would sell secrets and badges, and where the spying deer would log their info. Usually professional lots host fields of regular nothing grass which made for good secrets. Highland Deer kept the best ones: his wisdom was inimitable. Being albino endows you with a certain je ne sais quoi.

And foxes used to steal car tires and people's voices to seek to the Black and White Stars, and some people would wake breathless and afraid, not realizing that something awful had this transpired. Ananya and I got in good with the foxes because we knew to tell them good information, but not we were going. And we kept special lock boxes in our hearts for our real voices, which we mustn't use when the foxes ask us where to next. We say Blueberry Village and then collide with the surly geese of Strawberry Village. Those geese groups do not like reach other. The hissing is really laughter. The geese warn us at twilight about the stars and rumors of where they'd be tonight. They said to walk back over the creek to Blueberry Village since the foxes have left, trying to lure some unlucky novice deer towards Bound Brook, where the feasting is happening. The feasting, that's what is must be.

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shinebox · 2 years

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"Shine your shoes, kid?"

Charlie had no idea what struck them about him. Maybe it was the faint smell of cinnamon, maybe it was the way he looked at them like they just insulted the guy, maybe it was just an itch, a feeling, a click. Regardless, Charlie nearly shivered with anticipation.

"Take a seat, bud. First time? Hey, I know that feeling, first time, you never forget it; tell you what, for you, new guy, pay what you want. You tell me how good I do, see for yourself, don't take my word for it. What do I call you?"

Bradley. Not Brad - he was insistent - but Bradley. Middle aged, probably just straight human by the look of him, hints of gray showing at his temples, crow's feet, and a wrinkle in his brow. Charlie nodded along, humming as they removed the laces of Bradley's shoes, some faux leather jobbers, and placed them in a bag with a cleaning solution, before shaking them vigorously. They'd sit for a while, to be replaced in the end.

"You a talker, Bradley? You like to jabber? My hairdresser, bless her, she can gossip for hours if you let her, I tell ya, you can hardly get a word in around her. I love the gal, but take a look at me and tell me I look like I went to the hairdresser lately, you know what I mean? Haha. But hey, c'mon, I know folks don't come here to listen to me. Relax, kid, you're gonna walk away feeling like a million bucks. Or at least ten, right?"

Punctuated by a friendly soft elbowing to the shin that got a huff of a laugh and a smile, at least, Bradley adjusted in his seat and leaned back as Charlie got to work. A little saddle soap - a sharp pine tar scent - to clean the grime, working the brush in smooth, quick circles. A little cream polish, a little wax, rubbed in with similar practiced movements, and buffed with a horsehair brush. Can't forget the edge dressing, Charlie, gotta get every detail. Turn that pleather into a mirror. Both Charlie and Bradley were quiet - one transfixed with focus, and the other by the almost magical process, the humming and the almost rhythmic motion of fingers trapping the eye in something otherwise so very mundane. Before either of them knew it, twenty minutes had come and gone. True to Charlie's word, Bradley's shoes had never looked better. True to their suggestion, it was worth a ten-spot. At least.

"Hey, hey, look at you, high roller. Glad you're satisfied, and if you ever need the hardest working part of your wardrobe to look like it isn't - or if you got friends that do - tell 'em about me, will ya? Old cats like me gotta eat somehow and I'm not much of a rat fella; ratfolks don't like that line of joking, haha."

Wherever Bradley went after, pausing just before he left the view of the shop window to admire Charlie's work once more, was irrelevant if it wasn't home. The easy-going grin dropped like a lead weight from Charlie's lips as they slipped into a back room, and a room beyond and below that one. They drew a dagger, set it aside, and dug out from a filing cabinet a stone bowl so old and cracked, it was a small miracle the thing hadn't fallen to pieces. Placing the money in the bowl and repeating a divination with a quiet, slow, almost cooing tongue, the ten dollar bill burst into intense heat at the strike of a dagger point. It burned only briefly, but in the ashes that resulted there swirled colors that coalesced into a perfectly clear view of Bradley and his surroundings.

Charlie watched in silence, attention rapt, as they memorized every step home that Bradley took. Three blocks past the bank, a left onto River Street, four blocks down, right onto Old Willow. A quaint little place, far as city houses go, and sky blue with white window trimmings. Across from the movie rental place. Charlie let out a shuddering, excited breath before returning the scrying bowl back to its secret place and tucking the dagger back into their belt sheath.

"Yeah, that's the ticket. Every move you make, kid, it's gonna be mine."

Charlie closed early for the night. They had much to see.

#kill feed

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espinosaurusrexex · 2 years

Text

Bucky finding Alpine

a/n: soft bucky all the wayyyy

word count: ~600

warnings: pure fluff

Banner by @maysdigitalarts

･ﾟ✫* 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ｡✭･ﾟ

meow

A faint wail traveled through the back alley Bucky just passed. He stopped in his tracks, the wet tar under his boots crunching when he turned to the source.

Then, the clatter of metal bins and another small noise. His stealth mode was activated, back pressed to the brick wall to his right. Only the noise of his jacket scraping the stones hushed over the cars speeding through puddles on the road.

His hand traveled to his belt, his mind rattling with all the ways he could utilize his clothes as weapons, since he wasn't wearing any actual ones.

The rustling of plastic bags echoed in his ears. Bucky was tense, but before he knew it, a white, agile ball of fur sprung to his feet.

Bucky flinched, he would never tell anyone that, but he did.

"What are you doing here, buddy?" The brunette's voice was unusually soft, but the big blue eyes staring up at him through the streetlight hues did that to him.

He crouched down to scratch the feline animal, who willingly wound around his hands with a satisfied purr. It also eased the tension in his shoulders - strange, no, actually... nice.

"You really startled me there…" He spoke softly. His flesh fingers felt for a collar, the cat still purring in his warm touch.

"What's your name, huh?" He checked one more time, but there was nothing. It was a stray.

After a little while, Bucky got up from the floor to make his way home again. He felt sad, though, and the meowing in his ears didn’t make it easier. It almost felt broken, as if it was actually telling him something.

He didn't get really far. The white cat had found its way back to his legs, circling his feet and brushing up to him, playing with his laces and purring again. His heart grew heavy when he took her and sat her aside again, feeling how thin the animal was beneath the fur.

He kept walking, and the cat stayed put this time. But it meowed again, and Bucky stopped - again, looking back with a sigh.

"Okay. You can come with me." As if the cat could actually understand him, it began moving and walked up to him, following him through the streets of Brooklyn. Bucky looked down every few steps for the first two minutes of walking - a warm smile etching in the corners of his lips, but when he turned the corner to his apartment, the cat was gone. He couldn't deny that he was a little disappointed, though it was probably better that way.

He shook his head, chuckling. What a silly thought that had been. The keys rattled in his hand when he turned them in the lock, and then he felt the small weight against his shins again.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispered down to his feet. A little excitement spread in his chest as his smile returned.

"Let's get you something to eat." He picked up the cat, and it snuggled against his cheek, meowing and purring delightedly. Bucky’s heart picked up in pace at the immediate trust of the animal. It was nice to have something not be scared of him for a change.

Not even five minutes later, the animal was placed on his kitchen counter, happily eating a piece of ham. Bucky bit his lip as his hand stroked the soft white fur on her back.

"I think I'm gonna call you Alpine." The cat looked up, her eyes big and another meow sounding in response.

"Welcome home, pretty girl."

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #the winter soldier imagine #bucky barnes drabble #soft!bucky #james bucky barnes #the winter soldier #bucky and alpine #marvel au #m shorts

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katsumox · 3 years

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southern bnha boys: rodeo<3

it's what it says in the title, sweets,, just bnha boys as rodeo boys. i miss watching rodeo invitationals and parties :(

note: a buckle bunny is a person who hangs around rodeo guys because they’re hot and they win a lot :)

warnings: cussing, one (1) mention of beer, general southern headassery.

including: katsuki, izuku, hitoshi, and eijirou<3

KATSUKI BAKUGOU— the south’s biggest rodeo brat.

hell of a bull rider. it’s his claim to fame, really. disrespectfully respectful?? he’s the type to roll his eyes at elders yet still say “yes ma’am” and “no sir” to them, but he slurs his words so it’s more like “yes’m”. he also says that when you’re super mad at him, that’s how you know he’s sorry. also opens doors for old ladies and limits his extensive cursing in front of them, except for the word “damn”,,, that’s a permanent word in his lexicon.

has a big ass drawl in his speech, and it’s really hot. all phrases like, “ that’s my girl,” or “there we are, good girl” also calls you “sweets” and other shit when you do something correctly with him. thinks hell will freeze over before he wears shirts in summer. the best your getting out of him is an open flannel rolled up to his forearms. he works on souping up trucks for the ranch occasionally,, is really mean about the fact that you eat honeysuckle off the ranch grounds because it’s “dirty”,,,bitch,,, it’s nectar?? tf??

hell of a handshake,, the kind that makes fathers smirk and go “that’s a good man” when he’s done. has a small amount of buckle bunnies,,, it’s not because he sucks at rodeo shit, he’s just mean as hell. thinks of you as his lucky charm. you gotta kiss him hard before he saddles up or else he literally will not compete. he’s literally dropped out of a competition because you didn’t kiss him. also likes ranch parties so he can put his hands on your hips as you show him to line dance. pulls you by your belt loop when he wants to go somewhere.

IZUKU MIDORIYA— stable boy at the local ranch during summers.

the sweetest boy you’d ever meet, but he’ll go to war for his mama. very much a mama’s boy; still calls her ma/mama and everything. beat the actual tar out of a cowhand when he heard him say something disrespectful about his mother. lake swimmer. do i need to explain? bc,,, ew. also has a huge habit of saying yes ma’am to ya when you ask for something. known for wearing a wifebeater and some wrangler jeans to work every day throughout the summer.

your mother thinks he'd make a good husband, and she's right. he's sweet, and considerate; he knows his way around a ranch and how to do chores at home. the perfect househusband material in all honesty. quite fond of sneaking sweets to you while he's supposed to be tending to the dogs, yet never seems to get caught. he suspects it's because hitoshi ain't a snitch. also says "i reckon" far to often for my liking, but oh well. that's country boy language.

handshake is kinda weak, tbh. he’s not confident in it, and you can tell, but he grows into it eventually. he’s a huge help around the ranch because he’s fast and the dogs listen to him very well. is a calf roper in rodeo events, one of the best, but wants to start bull or bronco riding. he’d have more buckle bunnies if he were more popular around the ranch, but he just kinda does his job and then hangs around you or the rodeo legacy kids (todoroki and denki)

HITOSHI SHINSOU— the buckle bunnies’ favorite.

like katsuki, a rodeo boy. he’s good at it too. has way more groupies because he’s a bit nicer than kat. known as the playboy around town, but is generally a sweet kid. has a habit of calling you “little girl” no matter if you’re older than him or not. he’s a bronco rider, one of the best around, and wears his winning belt buckles around all the time. not to gloat, it just he genuinely only has prize belt buckles jakskdld. pull him by it and he’ll lose his damn mind.

got you a promise ring with his prize money so that "it'll keep your finger ready for the real one". he's dead set on marrying you. he likes seeing you steal his belts because everyone knows it's his, and by proxy, you're his. makes fun of the way that you don't really care for farm animals, save for the dogs and a few horses. lets you take one out on his break, his large hand up on your lower hip, guiding you and the horse on a slow walk.

also fond of only flannels in the summer, and honestly year round. he’s not very fond is shirts in general. doesn’t like sweet tea, and also isn’t very fond of any jeans that aren’t cavender jeans. he swears up and down that they aren’t as good quality as levi’s or wranglers. takes you night driving on dirt roads and lets you put your feet on his dash. he doesn't do that for everyone.

EIJIROU KIRISHIMA— the south’s knight in shinin’ armor.

chucks your chin a lot, and lets you wear his hat. herding dogs listen to him more than izuku, but only by a little bit. and goes shirtless while working,, almost always, unless he’s fixing a truck with katsuki. then he’ll wear an oil stained white wifebeater. he’s a steer wrestler. it makes sense because he’s so tall and bulky, like a damned brick wall. mothers also consider him marriage material; he's good around the house, he's practical and very respectful.

he has a pretty drawl, like katsuki, when he talks. he isn’t much of a fighter but he will gladly kick ass if someone’s speaking on your name unkindly. nickname around town is "big red" for obvious reasons, and he makes sure to live up to the name. also very adamant on only wearing levi’s to work?? he’s very particular about his work clothes.

has a fixation on calling you his little lady. every time he wins he takes you out to a diner to celebrate, and once, he saved up money to buy you a bracelet with his prize money. also fond of ranch parties where he can drink apple cider and dance with you. he also got permission to drink one (1) coors light with the rest of boys when he's 19 and he takes advantage of that opportunity whenever he can, because parties aren’t often.

taglist:

@smexy-goose @angiebug101 @vanteyves @quincywrites @katsumiiii @mypimpademia @1-800-s1mping @koishiguro @tododekukisses @sobaluvr @silkylious

#bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x black reader #bakugou x you #bakugou headcanons #izuku x poc!reader #deku x reader #deku x you #shinsou x you #shinsou x reader #hitoshi x reader #kirishima headcanon #kirishima x you #kirishima x gender neutral reader #kirishima x black reader

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headcans-oneshots-and-stuff · 4 years

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Overworked

Fandom: DC Pairing: Batsis!reader x Batfamily Word count: 3k Summay: Your on your way to be the next C.E.O. of Wayne Enterprises, but the road is filled with challenges and a lack of self-care that your family can’t help but worry about (based on this) Warning: Slight angst and unconciousness, near death experience Requested by a pretty great Anon: Can you do a one shot of future ceo batsis overworking herself with long days and vigilante nights and she’s basically not sleeping or taking care of herself and batfams gotta step in and make her listen to reason.

The cup of coffee had already grown cold, the liquid inside it stale and surely undrinkable, when you reached for it. Hardly the first few drops of the liquid had ran down your throat when you realized the horrible transition it had gone through from the nectar of productivity to the lovechild of tar and sulfur, your face distorting into an expression of utmost disgust as you quickly put it back down and besides the other six paper-cups that were all half-filled at most. You sighed when you realized that it must have already been an hour since you had made - and after completely forgot about - the coffee. It really was a cursed circle that you had been going through for the last eight hours. You made a cup, brought it to your office, drank a bit, forgot about it and realized how horrible it now tasted half an hour or so later and then you took at least another twenty minutes before deciding to head for your next cup. Was it already time for the next one? No, it could wait a bit longer. You turned your attention back to the screen in front of you - or rather the three screens - and let your eyes fly over all the data and graphs and numbers that you had to have in a presentable form by next morning for the monthly debriefing. This time would be your first time without Bruce on the sidelines and overlooking your work, a fact that made you feel proud at your accomplishment while simultaneously scaring you to the core. You knew that logically it wouldn’t be different than the last two - which you had also done basically solo with Bruce only sitting beside you silently observing - but there was still that internal voice that told you that without your father by your side the board would rip you apart until nothing was left over. You didn’t know what exactly caused it but suddenly you felt dizzy and the letters and numbers in front of you started swimming around, turning into absolute gibberish, the neon-lights of the screen hurting your eyes. No, not the screens themselves, it was the contrast between the brightly lit screens and the darkness that spread out behind them. It was only then that you let your gaze move behind the confines of your office and through the glass doors to the rest of the office space that was completely engulfed in darkness. Now you realized that it wasn’t only that, it was more, there was no soul wandering the floor and no sound beside the ever-so-steady growling of the computer fan and the clicking of your keyboard. “Fuck,” you couldn’t help but mutter when you looked at the clock beside you which already read half past nine. Which meant that you only had half an hour at most before your patrol started. Ignoring the pounding that built up in your head you tried to remember how it was possible for the time to surprise you like that. You had come to work at eight that morning and had spent two hours calling around, checking on contracts and meeting with potential clients, then you had your daily briefing with the department heads - which had extended into almost an hour because Brad from PR really couldn’t get his shit together - then you had to talk to HR about finding a possible replacement for Brad from PR and after you had started working on the numbers. And now you were standing in the elevator on your way to the car park. Did you have Lunch today? No, you had to skip Lunch break for Brad. What about Breakfast? No, wait, you forgot about that too. You rubbed your eyes and felt the need to curse rise again when you realized that you’d have to get right back to the numbers as soon as you had finished patrol which meant that you wouldn’t be able to sleep yet again. What was that? The fourth night in a row? Your only solace was the possibility that you’d maybe finish quickly and get a good one to two hours before you had to be back in the office, but deep inside you knew that it was unlikely. It hadn’t worked the last four nights either. But you’d pull through. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. After tomorrow’s meeting you’d go home at a normal time and indulge yourself in that full meal your stomach had been begging you for, sleep for a full eight hours and maybe even watch a movie if you felt especially crazy. Just for one night you’d really let yourself go. But for that to be possible you had to bite your teeth together and stay on your path.

The elevator arrived at the car park and you quickly rushed to your car and made your way to your apartment which - for maximum efficiency - was only a five minute drive away from the Wayne Ent. Tower, where you quickly rushed into the hidden side room to change into your gear. As you checked the time you realized that you still had a good five minutes before you had to check in with your father and you had to very quickly decide between your two options: quickly eat something or make and drink another coffee. You decided for the second one, but as you made your way to the kitchen counter where your coffee machine stood you caught a glimpse of the unopened stack of mail on the kitchen island and with a sigh decided to just get that over with, effectively ignoring both your previous options. The letters were rather quickly sorted through and before you knew you were standing on a nearby ceiling and activated your comm. “Y/H/N reporting from area 7.4 in central Gotham.” “Good evening Y/H/N, it’s Oracle, I’ll be your voice in the background tonight,” Barbara’s voice echoed through your ears and after exchanging the usual greetings she quickly gave you the location of a robbery in progress. With quick, experienced movements you jumped over the roofs until you stood on the ceiling of a jewelry which was - luckily for you - made out of glass. There was only a single man in the darkness of the store below you, using a flashlight to clean out the display cases, and he wasn’t especially silent so you used the noise to your advantage as you opened one of the few ceiling windows that were openable and let yourself glide down with a hook. “I think you have to pay for that,” you interrupted the robber who quickly turned around, his face hidden by a black, knitted hat with badly cut out holes for the eyes. He was definitely no professional. The man - obviously panicked - got out a gun with shaky hands and pointed it at you, but before he could even think of shooting you had thrown a batarang and the piece of weaponry landed on the floor too far from him that he could reach it before you. Seemingly not seeing another option the man started charging at you and you just sighed and said: “I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” but by the end of the sentence his fist tried to make contact with your masked face, but you caught his hand expertly and used the momentum to twist it behind his back, grabbing the other one too and with quick movements you had used a pair of handcuffs that you had in your bat-belt™ to chain him to one of the displays before letting him go. “If you’ll excuse me for a second,” you mumbled before walking a few feet away where you told Barbara to contact the police and tell him they didn’t need to hurry. You had just finished the conversation and muted your mic again when the same dizziness as earlier in the office hit you but this time tenfold. It was like the ground was swaying below you and you had to take ahole of a countertop so that you didn’t fall. “Hey, are you okay, you look kinda sick,” the robber asked in an actual concerned voice, but you didn’t answer, instead you quickly used the hook you had attached earlier to let yourself swing out of the window again. “Y/H/N?” Barbara contacted you and you tried your best to swallow down the weakness in your muscles that suddenly seemed to grow over you. “Yeah?” “Bats asks you to meet him on the roof of the Jefferson building down in third.” “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

You gave yourself another few seconds to collect yourself before you did as you were told and made your way over to the roof of the builduing Babs’ had told you to go to, the dark silhouette of your father’s persona already expecting you there. Like you had done so often before, you started to run towards the edge of the building next to it - the one you were currently on - and made yourself ready to jump, only for your muscles to suddenly give up on you and the only thing you felt next was the rushing of air as you were falling and then the sudden stop and pain in your wrist as something caught you. Bruce quickly pulled you up and even with the cowl you could see the concern. “You okay?” he asked, his voice worried which definitely sounded uncanny in connection with what he was wearing. “Uhm yeah, my legs just kind of gave up on me there,” you tried to wave it off with a chuckle, not wanting him to see that you were frightened to your core. “Y/H/N?” he asked again in that voice he had always used when you tried to sneak out at night and lied when he had caught you. He hadn’t used that voice in so long. “I’m serious Batman, everything is okay, it’s no big deal,” you huffed - now defensive - and stood up with your arms crossed in front of your chest. “It is when you suddenly fall from a roof. What would have been if I hadn’t been there to catch you?” he asked, now slight anger edging through the worry, but you couldn’t blame him. “I’m sorry, okay, it won’t happen again,” you sighed and hoped he would just let it go, especially considering that the dizziness started to return. Along with it came the heaviness of your eyelids that you had gotten used to that somehow now seemed to actively pull you down. You raised your hand to rub your eyes - hoping it would put some more live back into you - but even that slight movement seemed to be too much as the world started swaying again and you felt gravity getting the best of you. Something black started moving in front of you and you weren’t quite sure if you were falling unconscious or if it was Bruce who came towards you to catch your falling form, but it turned out to be latter when you found yourself being lowered to the ground and propped against the end of one of the vantilator shafts of the building with Bruce kneeling beside you. “You’re definitely not okay,” he muttered as he held your face in his hands to get you to look at him. “I’m just a little bit tired is all,” you tried to argue, but your voice was weak and almost started lulling. “When was the last time you slept? Or ate?” You shut your eyes in concentration as you tried to remember. “Wait I know the answer to that one,” you muttered but almost fell asleep, only being kept away when your head started falling downwards, “What did you ask again?” “When was the last time you slept an entire night?” he tried again, this time more specific. “What day is it today?” “Friday.” “Then I think it was Monday,” you whispered since suddenly the loud noise of your voice seemed to pierce your skull apart. “You were on Patrol from nine to two a.m. on Monday,” Bruce disagreed and you almost chuckled. “Yes, and after I went to bed and got a full five hours. That’s pretty good isn’t it,” you couldn’t help but smile almost proudly, your mind starting to fog up with bubblegum coloured smoke that made it impossible to think straight. “And when did you last eat?” Bruce sighed, worry and recognition crossed his face. He himself must have known too well what you were going through. You averted your eyes and looked down at your lap where you played with your hands like an embarrassed child. “Also Monday,” you mumbled and Bruce immediately shook his head. “That’s not okay, you have to take care of yourself Y/H/N, you’re no good for anyone when you don’t.” You weren’t sure if it was only tired paranoia that made you see only disappointment on your fathers face - that ignored all the worry - but suddenly the prospect of having disappointed him, the one thing that you were trying to avoid ever since you could remember, made tears well up in your eyes and your lip quiver, “‘M sorry,” you could just press out before the tears started rolling. Bruce immediately regretted his tone of voice, but he knew nothing he would say now would be remembered by you so he just pulled you up from the roof and started carrying your already passing out form towards the batmobil. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow…”

The feeling of waking up rested was foreign to you, especially since it wasn’t one of your four separate alarms that woke you, and caused you to immediately sit up, only to be pulled back into the mattress. Your eyes flew open and explored your surroundings. The chandelier above you, with rainbow-coloured glass-pendants and the dark blue dealing with the painted stars immediately calmed you again. This room was your childhood bedroom which meant that you were in the manor, which in turn meant that you were safe. For a moment the calm was pretty nice, but then you remembered your case of immovability and looked down at where your wrists came out from under the cover. They were bound by silky bands and a move of your feet told you that the same was the case for them. While you were contemplating ways to get out of the unbelievably good, but still comfortable restraints, the door started to open and you turned as well as you could towards where you smallest (figuratively and literally) brother entered. “Your awake?” he asked in his usual stern voice, but you had known him for long enough to recognize the hidden worry. “Yeah, mind telling me why I’m strapped to my bed?” “Forced self-care,” he stated matter-of-factly and you couldn't help but narrow your eyes. “What?” “You fainted on Patrol, father says you haven’t eaten or slept since last Monday so we took measures to make sure you wouldn’t kill yourself with how careless you are.” You wanted to reply with something snarky, but you were well aware that what he said was probably right. “I’m sorry okay, I just had a lot on my plate, but you’re right and I feel a lot better now that I had some sleep, so you can let me go again,” you tried to smooth your way out of there, but you had the slight suspicion that it was hopeless. “I respect your try but you will not be let go until father is certain that you’re better.”

“But I am better!” you whined and tried yet again to wiggle yourself out of the restraints. Damian just raised his eyebrows unimpressed. He walked over to a chair that was standing beside your bed and as you followed him with your eyes you noticed the shutted curtains and the small gap of light between them. “What time is it anyways?” you sighed and felt surprise when you had to hold back a yawn. “It’s about 8 a.m.” Your eyes widened. That meant you had enough time to get to the office! “Please Dami, you gotta let me go, I have to get to the board meeting,” you begged, starting to wiggle more and more, but to no avail. “But Ukthi, you-” “No you don’t understand! This is my first time alone, I can’t let dad down, I have to be able to pull through with this if I ever want to make it as the next C.E.O. Dad wasn’t allowed a break either.” “Ukthi-” “Damian please, please, I promise I’ll come back right after and take care of myself, but I have to do this if I-” “Ukthi! The board meeting was yesterday. You slept for over 24 hours!” Damian shouted to get you to stop interrupting him and when you realized the weight of his words you sunk back down into the pillow. “What? But I was supposed to…” “Father just postponed it, he didn’t leave room to argue, he also gave you the week off from patrol and work.” If your hands weren’t bound you’d probably sunken your face into them in shame. You tried to hold tears back as you looked away from Damian. “Y/N?” he asked and came closer. “I’m sorry, It’s just- how am I supposed to handle being the C.E.O. of Wayne Enterprise if I can’t even handle little things like board meetings? How am I supposed to take after dad?” “Y/N, you keep on saying how father managed to lead the business on his own, and how you should be able too, but you’re not alone. You’re not supposed to be either. You have all of us by your side for a reason and we won’t leave you alone with this. We’re here for you and you shouldn’t be ashamed to ask for help. We’re family, we love you and we want to support you with all we can. “For now, how about you rest a little bit more and then I’ll let you out of bed to get a proper meal, Alfred made your favorite. After that I’m afraid Father will want to have a word with you.” “Oh shucks….”

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nursegracecreates · 2 years

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𝓢𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝓔𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓞𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓭𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓼:: 𝓣𝔀𝓮𝓷𝓽𝔂 𝓢𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓷

💖You can find previous chapters here💖

It was hot, too hot, and I don't get hot easily. I was running through a field, panicked and searching frantically. Wind was whipping through my clothes and hair as I ran. I turned my head one way, then the other, squinting against the wind that was assaulting everything in its path. Where was Millie?!

A scream sounded in the near distance. It was Millie, I was certain of it. Something was wrong. Why did we come here? Where was Toby?

I shook off my questions. They wouldn't help me right now. I changed my direction, following the scream as it echoed around me. I was running as fast as I could now and I breached a hill. At the bottom was a small, tar papered building, a shack if anything.

I studied the shack for a moment. It was at the edge of a forest. But the forest had burned, all that remained were the crisped and scorched corpses of trees, stumps, and ash. The sky had been normal just moments ago, an overcast gray. Now, it was blood red, the sun, a black hole in the sky. The wind howled down the hill, sounding to me like men keening. As the wind blew past me, I felt it hot against my skin, like dragons breath. Another scream was carried to me on the wind, followed by Millie crying out for help. There was a loud popping sound, like someone being whipped with a belt. Then I heard a man, angrily screaming, mixed in with an older woman, crying in desperation and despair.

"Ș̴̺͖͉̖̗͍͒̚͠o̴̦͔͑͒͆̂̈́̆͝ȍ̴͎̝̾̈́̆͜͜n̸̡̡̼̘̦͎̭͔̟̐̏" a voice, the one I'd started associating as Zalgo's, deep and gravely, rode the wind.

And then everything went black.

The next thing I knew was coolness. Considering I had been very close to overheating in that wasteland, I was extremely thankful for the chill that was draping over my body. Where was I now, though? Too cool to be in bed and besides, I couldn't feel Toby.

I had a niggling feeling I wasn't alone, however. And I had another niggling feeling that whoever was near me was watching me.

Ever the type to face my problems head on, I decided to open my eyes rather than feign being in a coma for the indefinite future. Yes, lying here was nice after all that heat. And whatever I was lying on was the most comfortable thing I'd ever felt against my spine. But I needed answers. So I opened my eyes...

And found Kate sitting on a stool next to me. She was wearing a dress, something I'd never seen on her, and honestly I'd never expected to. I could tell exactly how excited she was about it by the scowl on her face.

I opened my mouth to make a comment, but Kate cut me off, "She got you too, so don't laugh. We match."

I looked down at my body. I seemed to be floating just a couple of feet off the ground. That comfortable mattress felt like I was lying on air because it was air. And Kate was right. We were both wearing dresses that were identical, in pale, pale lavender.

I sat up, kind of shakily because my mind couldn't accept that I wasn't falling now that I knew there was nothing under me. I swung my legs to the side like I was getting out of bed and stood.

The dresses Kate and I wore reminded me of the 1950's. Knee length swing dresses with Queen Anne necklines and off the shoulder straps. Our shoes were Mary Jane style white pumps with a low heel.

"And who exactly is she?" I asked, "Where are we?"

"We're at Mothers" Kate told me, "She likes to do this sometimes. I think she enjoys having females like her around. You'll get used to it, come on." Kate waited for me catch up and said quietly, "let's get this over with.

I walked with Kate through the void where Mother liked to spend her time. I wish I could say we saw interesting things, or something fantastical, but then it wouldn't be a void.

Suddenly, as it if had just materialized when I blinked, a white wrought iron table, complete with matching chairs, was in our path just ahead.

A diminutive figure, dressed in a hooded, tattered white floor length robe, was seated in one of the three spindly chairs at the table. The figure was completely still as we approached it, chest not even moving with breath. It was Mother, looking exactly as I had seen her that first time in the void.

Once Kate and I reached the table, movement shivered over Mother's form, animating her. Her chest rose and fell, and she smoothed tiny pale hands over her bone white dress.

"Good evening, my girls" Mother said and my ears actually heard her voice. It wasn't being transmitted into my head via Eldritch powers. "Katherine, the paleness of the dress makes you skin look even darker, like rich caramel." Mother's hood turned towards me, "And Grace, the light purple compliments the translucence of your skin as well. How unexpected that such a dress could suit two women of different complexions so well! Please, sit, and we can discuss why I've brought you here."

Kate and I pulled our chairs out and joined Mother at the table. Just as I sat, the table was filled with food and drink that appeared just as suddenly as the table itself. The china at mine and Kate's place settings held pastries, finger sandwiches, and other delicacies. Our glasses contained a vibrant blue liquid that faded to violet at the bottom. Upon tasting, I found that it was butterfly pea flower tea, sweetened just to my liking, though Toby was the only one who knew the perfect amount of sugar for me.

Kate unceremoniously tore into a scone that had little dark red spots throughout and moaned through a full mouth. She took a huge drink of her tea to help wash it down.

"You have to try yours, Grace! It's delicious" she dipped a finger into a gray cream substance and closed her eyes with a smile as she sucked it from her fingertip. Then she opened them again and found the tray of scones amongst all the food, placing three fat ones on her plate.

I picked up the scone on my plate and took a smaller bite than Kate. I wasn't particularly hungry, as usual, and decided I would eat enough to be polite, but no more than that.

Flavor burst on my tongue, sweet and tart cranberries paired with sweet and fragrant blood orange zest. I found my eyes closing so I could concentrate on the taste and when I was done, I said, "You were right, Kate! I wish I had the recipe, Toby would probably like these. In moderation."

And then suddenly I did, every step from dehydrating the cranberries to only barely combining the ingredients to avoid dryness. I looked up from my scone to Mother, shocked. Even though her face was completely obscured by the depths of her hood, something told me that she was smiling, the proverbial cat who ate the canary. I stammered a thank you, which Mother waved off, "It is but a trifle, child, trust me. But we do need to start our discussion of more important matters. You both will awaken soon. Grace, Kate, you two are Tobias' closest confidants. I worry for him in the near future."

My stomach did a flip and I couldn't get what I had seen before, in that field, out of my head. A blood red sky. Millie screaming... What did it mean? Did it have any connection to Mother's worries?

"Grace?" I heard Kate say, concern in her voice and I forced myself back to attention.

"I'm sorry" I apologized, shaking my head to clear my thoughts.

"What horrors just finished playing in your mind, child?" Mother asked me, concern radiating from her entire being, "I saw the fear in your eyes, but even more so, I felt it in your heart. What have you seen, Grace?"

I paused, wondering why Mother didn't just look into my mind to find out. But ultimately I decided I would tell her in my own words. This way, Kate wouldn't be out of the loop.

"I was dreaming I was running through a field" I said, "But I wasn't being chased. I was trying to find Millie, Toby's sister. The wind was blowing so hard, like it was physically trying to stop me or slow me down. I heard a scream and it sounded like Millie, so I ran untiI I came to the top of a hill. Below was a tar papered shack, and beyond that, a forest that had burned completely. The wind was hot all of a sudden, too hot, making me feel like I was overheating. Millie screamed again, and I could hear other voices too. A man was screaming angrily and I could hear a sound like a leather belt meeting flesh. A woman, not Millie because she sounded older, was crying so loud, desperately. And over it all, a deep, growling voice that said 'Soon.' And then everything went black. And I 'woke up' here." I made air quotes around 'woke up', since Mother had told Kate and me that we were still sleeping. "Floating on a bed of air and happy for the coolness."

Mother went still as the air around us went cold, frigid, almost.

"What?" I asked Mother and Kate, who was paying very close attention to the hooded being. "Does it mean something?"

Mother nodded her head once with a heavy sigh, "It would seem that my youngest son is attempting to wage war upon Tobias', and by extension, your psyche."

I blinked, still processing, "But why send me a dream about Millie screaming? How could Zalgo use her against us? She's already dead."

A pale tendril, so much like Slenderman's, except in color, wrapped itself around my hand, trying to comfort, or maybe lessen a blow. I traced the tendril all the way back to Mother's robes and noticed two other things. First, the first time I had seen Mother, dainty white Victorian style boots beneath the hem of her dress. But today, Mother had no feet. She had gotten up from her chair and was "standing" beside me, between my chair and hers. I don't know where her boots had gone, gone, but they certainly didn't exist right now. She simply floated just a few inches off the ground.

Secondly, and this made the no feet thing even more confounding, from under Mother's robes and dress, a bright white light shone. The light pulsed a little brighter as another of Mother's tendrils found my cheek. I felt like I was a child again, being comforted by my mother before learning some bad news.

Kate spoke up, "You know Brian's dead, right?"

I swung my head to look at Kate, alarmed, "What? No. Toby and I just had breakfast with him and Tim yesterday."

Kate shook her head, "No, I mean, Brian is dead. He has been for years. Before Tim came to us, he and Jay were trying to get answers about Slenderman. They started studying videos, and Brian tried to distract them. Anyway Tim was chasing Hoodie and ended up pushing him from the balcony at a nearby university in Tuscaloosa. It broke Brian's back, killed him instantly. But when Slendy arrived, he worked his magic and presto! Brian and Hoodie walk among the living again!"

I'm not sure why I looked to Mother for confirmation, but she bobbed her head again and said, "The boys were always particularly proficient at reviving the dead in this realm." She laughed, a delicate sound like bells, "Zalgo once had an Ussuri brown bear for, I believe, three centuries. There came a point when he could no longer revive it. I found him in the bear's cave, crying and pushing on its chest, trying to restart its breath again and again, all of his other options spent. I mention this because you were of the opinion that dead means useless to Zalgo. But my youngest son is crafty and intelligent in the ways of war, just like his father. A corpse merely means another body to fill his ranks. This dream that you described might be Zalgo accidentally revealing plans to you, or it could have been purposefully planted. The next part of his plan will involve the walking dead, carrying out his bidding. Your Toby has a lot of dead."

"You think Zalgo would really use Millie, and Toby's parents like that? That has be the other voices I heard. Frank and Evelyn."

"It's a tactic straight from his father's strategy book" Mother said, remorse clear in her tone.

"Shit" Kate muttered, "this could get bad."

I agreed. With the information Mother had just given us, I pieced together the dream. Millie, alive again, but stuck with Frank, the angry man voice, and Evelyn, the desperate mother who failed completely at keeping her kids safe. We would see them soon. Zalgo had confirmed that.

"What can we do?" I asked Mother, accepting another one of her tendrils as it wrapped around my fingers to stroke the back of my hand.

"I believe I have something..." Mother went statue still again, like she had been when Kate and I arrived. Her body remained here, but Mother herself was somewhere else. Kate and I looked at each other and I was pretty sure we wore the same expression: a mixture of 'what the hell is going on' and 'ah hell, shit is about to hit the fan', with a tinge of worry mixed in for good measure.

Mother sighed back to life, her body relaxing, and once she settled, a silver tray popped into existence a few feet above my plate. I scrambled to move my plate as it fell to the table with a thunk.

On the tray sat two pieces of metal, presumably cold iron, as the metal looked like the same metal my knives were made from. The iron pieces were rough hewn amulets, the familiar circle with an X crossing it. However an inverted triangle was laid over the top.

"These amulets purify the wearer of dark influence, such as Zalgo's and other beings like his father" Mother told us. Two tendrils appeared, looking like they'd been carved from ivory, and picked up the amulets. Mother handed one to me and the other to Kate, "Use them carefully, as I would have to reimbue them once used, they will only work once. If Zalgo raises Toby's dead from their eternal slumber, hold them down with all your might, and press the amulet over their heart. They will struggle, the amulet purifies by burning. Once the purification is complete, they will weak. But as Brian is, both dead and alive, but free of Zalgo's influence."

'Toby could have Millie back!' my mind exclaimed happily as I turned the amulet in my hand. It was just small enough that I could conceal it in my palm, and probably only Toby would know about it. Maybe I could get Millie back without telling Toby? Like a surprise? I needed to talk with Brian.

"But why give us two?" Kate asked, "Millie would be the best only member of his family that Toby would want back. He hated Frank, and Evelyn hurt him so badly with her words."

"I know that Tobias spends the majority of his time with Grace now. But before, you were Tobias' closest confidant amongst the proxies. If I could gift one to Jack without it purifying him, I would. Having a backup amulet will prove useful in the event that Grace and Tobias are seperated, or if one of the amulets is damaged, lost, or destroyed." I had a feeling that Mother had shed her serious expression and was smiling when she spoke again, "My girls, this war will be difficult. Katherine, you are ready for this, already war hardened and an expert in your craft. My certainty in you is limitless, both of you." Mother's attention shifted to me and she took my hands in hers, her tendrils retreating back under her robes. "Grace, I am certain that you are every bit as strong as Katherine. You just haven't witnessed it yet. My son, who you call 'Slendy' sees it." Two of her tendrils appeared just to make air quotes, then were gone again. Toby was right, Mother was funny, in her own way. "That's why he has decided to claim you as a proxy."

I gasped, I couldn't help it. Toby had said nothing about me being a proxy.

"Katherine, Elsie is about to sleep through her alarm. She will be late for class if you do not wake her. And Grace, Tobias is considering waking you by searching once again for a part of your body that is ticklish- "

"I see that this is a surprise to you, and that my son will certainly have words with me for ruining his surprise, but yes. Your training as proxy will, unfortunately, be a trial by fire as we all fight this war. But even more importantly, you will be strong for Tobias, and he can see it was well as I or either of my sons. I have known Tobias since he was aged seventeen and eleven months of your human years. Throughout the time he's been with us, his aura has reflected many things. The contentedness, joy, and security Tobias' aura reflects now are emotions I have never seen from him before. Your aura reflects the same." Mother's voice took on a little sadness, but I could still hear happiness too. A bittersweet tone, "I have felt what you are feeling now. The almost instant closeness and fierce love for one another? It is a soul bond, it cannot be undone." Mother's head cocked, she was listening.

My eyes snapped open, finally actually awake. Indeed, Toby was kneeling over me in his boxers, hands reaching for my ribcage on both sides. His eyes were wide in surprise at my sudden waking.

But I could feel the iron of the amulet pressing into the palm of my hand.

#creepypasta #creepypasta au #creepypasta oc #sound effects and overdramatics #ticci toby #toby adams #tobias adams #tobias andrew adams #ticci toby self ship #tobias adams self ship #toby adams self ship #toby adams x nurse grace #tobias andrew adams self ship #tobias adams x nurse grace #kate the chaser #kate milens #slenderverse #slenderverse mother au

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highladyluck · 4 years

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Mat Gets A Lot of Knives in Book 4 Because He Is Compensating For Something :(

I’m sorry, but the conclusion is inescapable. These are Mat's original weapons, which I’m defining as what he had trained in and had access to before leaving the Two Rivers:

a bow

a quarterstaff

a belt knife

a complete disregard for fireworks safety

Yet over the course of the series, he picks up all of these weapons:

one (1) cursed ruby dagger

a quarterstaff

a minimum of 10 knives

fireworks

a polearm (which, fyi, is essentially a quarterstaff with a knife on it)

a magic anti-magic amulet

a longbow (nostalgic)

cannon

He had a belt knife and pocketknife prior to the dagger; we see it when he's going through his pocketses in Tar Valon after being separated from and healed of his connection to the deeply cursed ruby dagger, which is now safely hidden away from him so it can’t continue to fuck him up. Throughout his flight from the Tower and voyage to Caemlyn, and then Tear, he only uses his quarterstaff to fight. And the thing is, he gets in a truly alarming number of knife fights in this sequence. Almost every Mat POV from the moment he leaves the Tower up through his opening POV in The Shadow Rising has a knife fight or two in it. In The Dragon Reborn, the universe is reminding Mat, over and over again, that he has brought a quarterstaff to a knife fight.

I have to assume that Mat helped himself to the Stone of Tear's armory between the end of TDR and the beginning of TSR, because our first Mat POV in TSR finds him with at least one dagger in each sleeve and at least 3 daggers in his coat. How do we know this? Mat's in another knife fight, of course. Thom has apparently been telling him that you can never have enough knives, and Thom's the closest thing to a mentor Mat has these days.

Ok, so Mat’s stocking up. But by the time we get to the Aiel Waste he's got at least 10 knives!!! Probably more, because only some of the knives are explicitly counted (the belt knife, the back-of-the-neck knife, the two from his boots) and the rest are just referenced as multiple knives from the sleeves and coat, so I only counted the ones we saw in the Stone of Tear knife fight, plus his pocketknife. It's a funny scene, as Mat whips out knife after knife, “fashioning a pile that seemed to impress even the Aiel women” and 'remembering' the boot knives at the last minute.

But like many Mat scenes that RJ plays for laughs, it's hiding something really kind of tragic. You know why Mat really has so many knives? OUR BOY MISSES HIS EVIL KNIFE. OUR BOY MISSES HIS EVIL KNIFE SO MUCH HE GOT LIKE 10 MORE KNIVES TO TRY TO FILL THE HOLE IN HIS HEART. Mat has a fucking addiction to knives because he has lost his Knife True Love, the deeply cursed ruby dagger from Shadar Logoth, and they can never be reunited.

Also, we don't see how he gets the knives. I actually think this is important. We have an origin story for literally every other weapon Mat has ever had. The belt knife he brought from home. The dagger is from Shadar Logoth. The quarterstaff is from beating Galad and Gawyn. The fireworks were from rescuing Aludra. The asharandai and the foxhead medallion are from wheeling and dealing with the Fair Folk. He made the longbow from wood he bought while shopping for Tuon's zebra*. (*I know this is not correct, but it is a zebra in our hearts.) He commissions cannon from Aludra over the course of multiple books. And while it's logical to conclude that Mat just filched an enormous number of small edged weapons from the world's largest fort that his best friend just conquered, Mat himself is completely mum on the subject of where his knives come from. Is Mat ashamed of his knife addiction? Is he deliberately not thinking about it, and that's why we don't know how he got them?

I actually think it's very healing that he eventually makes himself a longbow (nostalgic) and learns how to safely weaponize fireworks; he's returning to the ranged weapons that come most naturally to him and that symbolize his fervent desire for self-preservation. Ok, yes, throwing knives are ranged weapons too, but at least some of his knives are explicitly described as daggers- which itself is interesting- and while he's throwing them all the time, at least some of them are not specifically designed for that. Mat is still doing close combat with knives; they're handy, and I guess it's nice to have such an intimate weapon to draw on when your love language is assassinating your wife's enemies. But he's moved on from his single-minded obsession with them. Or, more accurately, his single-minded obsession with THE knife.

#wheel of time #mat cauthon #wheel of time meta #I love Mat but I worry about him sometimes #ok all the time #wheel of time spoilers #meta #mat/dagger

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typinggently · 3 years

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AlfieTommy Modern AU x LdR — Off to the Races

The early morning is drenched with the scent of chlorine and rhododendron, promise of another hot day. Tommy takes his time, feeling the resistance, the cool weightlessness of the water. For the time being, he’s lost in this, the blue above and beyond, the sound of the waves, his own laboured breathing.

“What’s this, then?”

The world swirls and comes to a halt. Tommy’s hand finds the slippery-hard edge of the pool, blinks chlorine out of his eyes. Alfie stands beneath the sunshade, between the lounger and the delicate metal table where a tumbler of whiskey glitters in the morning sun, ice melting. The sight of him is so unexpected Tommy almost thinks he’s dreamed him up, yet he’s still there after he smoothed his hair back, slick strands cool against his palm.

“Didn’t think I’d see you before four.”

“You called, didn’t you?”

“And you didn’t answer.” Tommy hadn’t really meant to. Dawn had crept into his bedroom, grey and cool, and panic had made his hands shake. Kühne’s voice had still rung in his ear, tinny yet familiar, sharp accent made sharper still by cool-cruel amusement, hissing victory. The sound had turned his blood to lead, thick and cold in his veins.

So no, Tommy hadn’t meant to call Alfie, but he’d been shaking, heart in his throat, and he’d found himself in his big bed, hand fisted into the sheets pooling around his hips, listening to the dialling tone of his phone. He’d ended the call three rings in, but now he suspects that that’s precisely why Alfie is here now, cigar between his fingertips and eyes on Tommy, calculating.

“Well, here I am. But don’t — no, Love, get back down. Don’t mind me, finish your splashing. I’ll pass the time.” With that, Alfie sits on the lounger, picks up the glass of whiskey to give it a considering sniff. His voice is light, easy, but his eyes never leave Tommy.

And he needn’t have come, but of course he did. Because Tommy called him at dawn and hung up right away. He wouldn’t have to sit around and watch him finish his laps, either, but of course he does. Because he knows Tommy can’t talk about Kühne yet.

(And, of course, because the garden is rich with the warm-sweet scent of rhododendron and the pool is an obscene shade of blue. Because Tommy’s swimming trunks are dark blue and his skin is milk-pale, his hair gleaming and dark.)

So when Tommy gets out, he takes his time with it. Shoulders, arms, chest, knee, thighs, well-defined and adorned with glittering drops of water. The grass is ticklish-cool against the soles of his feet, recently cut and fragrant. Three steps and he’s with him, standing just outside the shade. Showing off, a little. Subconsciously. Hell, not like he can help it with Alfie’s eyes on him. He shifts a little, let’s his knee brush Alfie’s knuckles where his hand rests on the armrest of the lounger. “Kühne called this morning.”

Alfie’s hand is warm, his thumb curled possessively around Tommy’s kneecap. He’s wearing a light linen shirt, dark trousers. A mess of gold around his neck, on his knuckles, catching the light as he reaches for the glass of whiskey with his cigar held between two fingers. The summer approaching Margate has him looking a tad tanner already, his hair interwoven with copper-gold. He hums, looks up at him, the bad eye squinting a bit. Forgot his sunglasses, then, must’ve left in a hurry, and Tommy swallows thickly with how fond it makes him feel, how afraid he was before Alfie came. Another hum. “That’s shit news, Poppet.”

“I know.” Tommy feels the sun on his shoulders and his heartbeat in his chest. He watches as Alfie leans back in his chair, takes a sip from the whiskey.

“When are you two set to meet up?” He licks his lips, squints up at Tommy and holds the glass out for him.

Tommy takes it, fingers brushing, and makes sure to rest his lip where the glass is slick already. The whiskey is cool and sharp-sweet, Alfie-flavoured. “Brunch. Eleven thirty.”

“Brunch? Who the fuck meets up for brunch?” Alfie shakes his head, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Better get ready, then.” Good point.

Alfie follows him inside, of course he does. Marble under his feet, the cool air of the hall fragrant with roses, then his rooms. Carpets on wooden floors, past the bed and into the bathroom. Shell-shaped tiles, dark blue with gold fillings to match the gold of the shower fittings and his pale skin. A mirror like an open fan, sectioned off with hidden doors for razors, combs, lotions and scrubs.

He drops the robe, steps out of his trunks. Leaves Alfie to take his seat on the chair by the towels rack, voice raised a little over the spray of the water. When Tommy gets out, Alfie doesn’t make a move to hand him one of the heavy, monogrammed towels, keeping his eyes on him as he walks over and his stream of consciousness steady. “—two in the car, I say. Not three, you hear me, Tommy? Two, that’s it. Don’t get scared, silly boy, it’s too late for that, and don’t wear a fucking tie, yeah?”

No, Tommy tells him, he’s not going to wear a tie. He lets Alfie put his hand on his leg again, a tad above the knee this time. Warm and dry, giving him a light squeeze while Tommy towels his hair. He doesn’t bother to step back before he’s sufficiently dry, dropping the towel into Alfie’s lap. And Alfie’s right, of course. It’s too late to be scared. But now that Alfie’s here, eyes on him as he shaves, second towel slung low on his hips, his hands are steady.

Because Alfie keeps talking, keeps his eyes on Tommy and follows him into the dressing room, your little boudoir, sweetheart, and put down that fucking shirt — A plush carpet and gleaming cherrywood. Rows of crisp white cotton, of silk and cashmere, gleaming leather. A floor-length mirror, glittering bottles, cufflinks. Ties, handkerchiefs, belts. The smoke of Alfie’s cigar curls and weaves through the leather-fragrant air, warming Tommy with its familiarity. He doesn’t look at Alfie while he’s selecting cotton/silk/leather, but he feels his presence in the plush chair, his eyes warm between his shoulder blades, on the dip of his spine.

It’s only when he’s done, when his outfit is resting on the gleaming table by the mirror, Chanel Égoïste on top, that he turns around to look at him. Not quite hesitating. Still undressed save for black briefs, Tom Ford in bold letters flat against his skin. The carpet under his feet, the scent of Alfie’s cigar in his nose. There are multiple light setting in the room, but he didn’t turn the overhead lights on, didn’t flood the intimate space with white to protect Alfie’s bad eye. So the lights are soft, melting the silhouettes into the dark. Tommy blinks, isn’t wearing his contacts, doesn’t have to to catch the gold and linen and warmth of Alfie, who looks at him through incense-white cigar smoke.

“You don’t wanna fucking rush, now. See, what you’re gonna do is, Poppet, you’re gonna pick up your little phone and call down, let them bring up some tea. Some fucking Russian Caravan, I’d say. You got that?” Of course they do. Tommy bought it himself, spotting the blue tin in the bustling-elegant shop, weighing it in his hand and remembering Alfie’s kitchen in Margate, his bedroom. “Russian Caravan and two scones, croissants, whatever, some light fucking carbs, warm with melting butter and some fucking Marmelade, some honey, whatever rots your teeth.” He waits for Tommy to give a slight nod, to step in.

Warm hand on his hip, his waist, pulling him in, down, curling Tommy up on his lap, cotton skin cigar gold Alfie wrapped around him, holding him, hand in his hair, the tickle-scratch of his beard on freshly shaved skin, his mouth, warm soft on his cheek, his voice soft, soft, soft. “And then we’re going to have breakfast in bed, yeah? Barely half past nine, Sweetheart, you can spare one hour.” Kiss on his cheek, his temple, warm arms and Tommy’s shaking again, pressing close, so relieved, warm, safe. “See? It’s alright, now. Nothing we can’t fix, Tommy.” And Tommy believes him.

My old man is a tough man, but

He got a soul as sweet as blood-red jam

And he shows me, he knows me

Every inch of my tar-black soul

#alfietommy #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #tofie #sholomons #drabble #thank you to Ishtar for letting me treat WhatsApp as my personal notes app because I. forgot notes app existed.#let’s treat this as a first drabble because MAN but I’ve wanted to write something like that FOREVER AND EVER #this is what I wanted to write for them from the get go basically. so I definitely want to polish it a little at some point & put it on AO3 #but until then — here it is!!! enjoy ✨✨✨✨

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handy-dandy-monster-candy · 4 years

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Magnolio, part One

Rating: SFW Length: 1583 Pairing: Cursed Male Werewolf x GN Reader

A commission for my dearest friend, Ana.

xxx

You don’t know what it is about the old mirror in the antique shop that calls to you. It’s squat and ugly, and its silver frame is so tarnished that the designs are all but unrecognisable. Still, you watch anxiously as the cashier wraps it in recycled newspaper, and you buckle its seat belt in the car beside you on the ride home. Once there, you break out the supplies you usually use to help your grandmother polish her silver cutlery, and with a bit of patience and a lot of elbow grease late into the evening, you manage to buff off the patina and reveal the intricate designs that had been lost to age.

Wolves and flowers. What a strange and beautiful combination.

You make yourself a sandwich for dinner and pick away at it as you admire the new polish of the mirror, but something shifting in the reflection makes you frown and turn around to inspect your surroundings. What had just moved? Finding nothing, you look back into the mirror, only to find the face of a man staring back at you. You scream and flinch hard enough to throw your sandwich into the ceiling fan above you, its contents flying around the room as it hits the blades.

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me,” you hear a trembling voice say, and you scream again when you realise that it’s coming from the mirror. “Stop screaming! It’s only me!”

“Who the hell is ‘me’?” you squeak, voice shrill from hysteria. You’re probably knocked out somewhere. Maybe you’ve fallen down the stairs and got a hard whack to your head. It is the only reasonable explanation for why there is suddenly a man testing the barrier of glass between you and the mirror.

The mirror.

The mirror itself is now reflecting a room that is completely unrecognisable to you, panelled with rich mahogany and decorated in a very austere style. The man in the mirror is possibly in his 30’s, with long, black hair and deep brown eyes. His light brown skin is exposed at the throat and collar by a white shirt that froths lace at the cuffs of the sleeves and cinches in at the waist with the high waistline of his dark breeches, but that is as far as you can see in the view of the mirror. The man in the mirror peers curiously around your living area, frowning his bemusement.

“Am I in your home?” he asks, and he doesn’t wait for you to reply before going on. “Thank God. I was so sick of looking at the back of a cloth. I’m Magnolio. You are?”

“Dreaming,” you murmur, watching Magnolio as though he were a sideshow attraction. “I’m dreaming. I must be.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on it,” Magnolio demurs. “I’m sure your dreams are more exciting than an old man in a mirror. What a charming carpet. Is it new?”

“Uh, thrifted,” you say, startling as a slice of tomato unsticks from the ceiling and plops down by your shoe. Now that you took in the scene, you had some cleaning up to do. There was mayo on the ceiling fan, and bread stuck to the window. Swearing, you begin to gather the remains of your poor sandwich. Even if this is a dream, you aren’t going to leave a future dream-you with a mess to clean up.

“You missed a bit of green,” says Magnolio, pointing out a piece of lettuce stuck to the leg of a chair.

“Thanks,” you mutter, eyeing the man as you add the leafy green to your sad little pile in your hands. Closer up, you can see a pale scar beneath one of his eyes, ragged and poorly healed at the time of injury. You have never been one for dreams, and this one is taking the cake. “Magnolio, you said?”

“Yes,” he sighs, sounding dejected. “Surname Alinari, if that means anything at all these days.”

It doesn’t. Not to you, anyway. Still, you sigh and sit down in front of the mirror after disposing of the sandwich and washing your hands, staring up into Magnolio’s face. “So, what are you?”

“How rude. I’m Italian!”

“No, you idiot. Why are you in the mirror?”

“Oh,” says Magnolio, the wind that had momentarily entered his sails disappearing. “Would you believe I was cursed?”

“I think I can make allowances for strange stories if they’re told to me by a ghost in a mirror.”

“I’m no ghost!” Magnolio scowls. “I’m very much alive. I’m just stuck in this… other world.”

“So this isn’t just a two way mirror? Like a walkie-talkie?”

“A walkie-whatie?”

“Never mind,” you say, shaking your head. “What I’m seeing behind you isn’t on earth?”

“I think it might be,” Magnolio replies, caught off guard by the question. “It certainly behaves the way the regular world does, except that something like a barrier won’t let me past the gardens.”

“Huh. That sucks.”

Magnolio nods uncertainly at your slang, frowning down at you. “I’m surprised that you’re taking this so well. Most people try to break the mirror by now.”

“How many people have you met?”

“A few. I’ve been trapped in here for over a hundred years. I lost track.”

“You don’t look like you’re over a hundred.”

“Well, it appears that I remain the age at which I was trapped, so far as I can tell. I can’t die while I’m here. I’ve tried.”

Silence falls between you. Both of you shift uncomfortably at Magnolio’s admission, until you finally sigh and decide enough is enough. “Do you want a tour? Even if this is a dream, it’s only polite.”

Magnolio laughs softly, nodding in a way that made his long hair fall into his eyes. “I’d like that, I think.”

After assuring you that the mirror can’t be broken, you heave Magnolio and his mirror all through your house, and what you plan on being a basic tour turns into an in-depth explanation of your indoor plumbing and electricity. You learn that he was from a small village in Sicily in the early 1800’s, so you figure you have your work cut out for you when it comes to catching him up on the times, but Magnolio stops you before you can get mired in the details.

“I’m caught up on history,” he tells you, and he shifts his own mirror to show you a wall of books in the panelled room. “He made sure to give me things to do, in case he didn’t get back in time to undo the spell.”

“Who?” you ask, and Magnolio’s face falls.

“My late husband,” he says, absently fiddling with a pendant at his chest. “He sealed me in this mirror when the villagers came for me. He was meant to free me before the night was out, but the villagers killed him. They couldn’t break the mirror or get to me, so they buried it with him instead. Then his grave was robbed and I was taken to France, and then to Austria, and finally I ended up here.”

“Jesus,” you mutter, ruffling your own hair. “That’s heavy. How do I get you out of this mirror, then?”

Magnolio perks up, hand stilling at his breast. “You would free me?”

You shrug. “I mean, I guess. It would be pretty shitty of me to buy your mirror, learn about you, and decide you’re someone else’s problem.”

“Oh,” Magnolio sighs, smiling brilliantly in a way that makes his eyes crinkle. “I would be forever indebted to you. You must kiss me under the light of the moon. Then I will be free.”

You heave a beleaguered breath. “I hope my neighbours don’t see this,” you grumble as you haul his mirror outside, looking around for strangers as though you were smuggling black tar over the border. When you confirm that you are, in fact, alone, you sigh and twitch towards Magnolio’s mirror. “Well. Pucker up, Mags.”

Magnolio frowns. “‘Mags’?”

“Just kiss me, man,” you plead, pressing your lips against the mirror’s surface.

Startled into movement, Magnolio closes the distance between you, planting his lips over yours through the mirror. For a moment, your lips feel warm, and your heart beats wildly in your chest at the thought of watching a man emerge from his centuries-long entrapment.

But nothing happens.

“Uh.”

“Oh,” says Magnolio, deflating like a sad-looking balloon after a child’s birthday party. “That was supposed to work.”

“Is it because it’s not ‘true love’s kiss’ or whatever?” you ask, using your sleeve to wipe away the smudge left behind by your lips.

“I don’t know,” Magnolio replies, and to your horror, his voice sounds thick with tears. As you watch, he sniffles and a tear slips free from his thick lashes, running down his face and onto his shirt. It is quickly followed by many more, and you realise that the mirror doesn’t have to be broken for this poor man to shatter.

“Hey, hey,” you say, breathless as you carry the mirror back inside. “Maybe it’s just because it’s not the full moon. We’ll try again in a week or two—whenever it is. Alright?”

“Alright,” Magnolio burbles, using his sleeves to wipe at his face even as more tears slide down his flushed cheeks. “We’ll try again. I have your word?”

“You have my word,” you say, and thank your lucky stars that you’ll be waking from this dream sooner rather than later.

#exophilia #exophilia fic #monster romance #monster boyfriend #werewolf #werewolves #werewolf boyfriend #Magnolio #My work

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jooneggs · 4 years

Text

MIDNIGHT MENAGERIE 1/3) - KNJ

❀ Word count: 8.7k

❀ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

❀ SUMMARY: Like water, cradling your fragile soul, Namjoon has held the lily of your heart all your life and you wish you could let him know just how much that means to you. Coincidentally, it just so happens you can: in a week's time when you're stuck in the holiday of your life at Namjoon's father's Botanical gardens. Will you finally get to repay him in a bed of roses or will he be the one to make the bouquet for you?

❀ Genre/AU: f2l, fluff, angst, smut

❀ Rating: 18+

❀ Warnings: Sexual tension (if you use a magnifying glass), Brief anxiety attack, Brief mention of past trauma/sexual assault (I’ve starred this bit between two ❀’s if you need to skip).

❀ A/N: I got back from my writing slump and i’m here with part one that took lots more time and effort than i expected haha! Writers block had me in its clutches but i’m here, and i really hope you enjoy the new chapter of this Joon Series! And a shout out to @jamaisjoons for letting me be a part of this project *blows kisses*

❀

They say that on the longest nights of spring you can see it. When the dark frames the stars in tenebrous black and the halo of the moon umbers the shallow of the sky. When the flowers bloom in a thicket down old country lanes and the ground softens for idle footsteps. Just beyond its fleecy hedges and dew-damp grass, framed by the large body of an antique greenhouse it can all be seen: two lovers in an embrace as beautiful and age-old as the wrinkled love-lines on their palms.

❀

It’s 7am.

And it’s a Sunday.

You find that during the times you need it most, comfort is in a suitcase and has taken the next flight south.

Feet strewn out from the duvet and palms placed flat to the bed, you find yourself with the sudden urge to breathe. Dormant around you, your room is dark and the distant sounds of birds can be heard outside. Thoughts are wild in your head, uncaged and hitting at your skull to escape. You find them moving to your windpipe and toying with your ability to take in the right amount of air you physically need to breathe right now. Whenever this happens, it’s like the cold of the outside has come indoors and made its bed in your chest. It’s like all the muscles in your body are working against you. This feeling has lasted for over three years now, or what feels like your whole life. It happens suddenly and unexpectedly, at times when you’re low or even when you're at your happiest. A gust of wind will fill the air and instantly, you're trapped again.

Reaching for the blinds, you pull yourself up against the headrest and attempt to let some sunlight and air into the room. You wrap your fingers around the beads of the pull and gently tug as light streams across the floor of your room and slowly climbs the walls. You ball your eyes shut as the exposure blinds you and almost hiss at the sudden change of atmosphere in the room. Although now incredibly bright, you still feel your hands shaking and lungs wheeze as you curl yourself further against the wall, commanding yourself to stay calm.

You feel your body reach this state whenever you consciously or unconsciously muster up thoughts of the past. Thoughts regarding negative experiences: failed friendships, attempted friendships, unrequited loves, unwanted advances from desperate, hungry, grease-slicked hands..

You don't want to have to go through this so often. To face the threat of feeling an inch of your being escape you each day. You want to be held, caressed and healed. You want to be bundled up into a blanket of another body only to disappear into them and their world and to never return again.

Sucking in another breath of air, you fish for the bottle of water on your side cabinet. With such restless, anxious hands, you find the task incredibly hard and end up having to get out of bed to reach for the bottle now face forward on the floor, dribbling onto the carpet.

Hands and feet now damp and jittery, you attempt to salvage the remaining drops of water in the bottle before draping the duvet back over you, right up to your shoulders, and nestling against the wall like a caterpillar to its cocoon.

You think about taking deep breaths, and rubbing your hands to conduct heat. You also think about all the terrible, horrible things that lay wake in your past. You don't want to think about these things, you want to find your way out of this panic. Negative thoughts as pungent as these don't tend to want to go away as quickly as the others do.

You've learnt to let the thoughts linger, accept their presence, acknowledge them and deal with them one by one. It isn’t an easy task and it’s not a quick one either. It’s like rationalizing your derationalized thoughts into specific moments of your life that really hurt to think about. It’s worth it when someone like your therapist is helping you out, but when it’s just you on your own, it feels impossible knowing where to start. One of the best things you’ve found recently, is morphing your fear into tiredness and letting your anxiousness send you to sleep. It sounds like the opposite of something that anxiety should do, but by the time you’ve exhausted your mental and physical capacity, you feel ready to sleep for a thousand years or more.

So with minimal effort, and the sudden feeling of aching bones and a sore throat, you tip yourself back into bed. And when you close your eyes, it takes all the effort in the world to push back all those thoughts telling you to stay up and worry and bleed yourself raw. But against the odds, you do it. You do it like clockwork because this is like a routine to you, one that means you can never fully relax in the wake of losing a part of yourself all over again.

❀

Sunlight is like the lighthouse that finds you stranded on the shore and wakes you from your sleep. It pulls you from the deep water and onto the warm speckles of sand. You’ve woken up.

In many ways, you feel like you’ve never been asleep. Your throat still stings and you haven’t forgotten the feeling of being unable to breathe. It’s like sleep is the short term solution to an everlasting problem that can take a backseat for your slumber but pop back up ten-fold as soon as you wake. And even then, it won’t be long before the problem starts to probe into your dreams. You feel like that’s already started to happen. A thin husk of memory tells you that your last dream definitely was a nightmare and that you’ve been haunted by monsters and dream figures chasing you for a while.

Things seem much better when you aren’t in the shell of your room or the realm of your sleep. Since your later teenage years, you found much more comfort staying in or near the outdoors, sometimes surrounded by your parents, sometimes calmed by your cats. It was a shame because your room to you was your haven, a slice of heaven covered in all the things that you loved. And you still love it, you just feel a slight weight in its presence, one that the outdoors helps brush away.

You stretch your feet and rub your chest, relieved to find yourself breathing normally again. Twisting in your bed, you wrestle a teddy off the side and move to head toward the door. Wetting your feet on the rug still damp from your spilled water, you trudge toward the end of the room and swing open the door from its hinges before walking across to the kitchen.

On a quiet 9am Sunday morning, you want nothing more than to bury your troubles in tea and a book. Your school week has once again ended, culminating in the beginning of a spring break. It has also meant your parents leaving on the next train they could out of your hometown and into the city.

Since the dawning of time - or rather the first waking moment you could remember - you had lived in the countryside. The air was a fresh lavender breeze, the sky at night blew out stars like blaring bulbs and the ground beneath always felt like it was rooting itself back to you. They say ‘the grass is always greener’, and many times you had almost fooled for it: believing that life in the city would bring you the freedom you really wanted from your parents, the joy from true love you lacked. You thought it would change the cycle of your life, like all those terrible moments that had happened to you could have been avoided if it weren’t for the sanctuary of suburbia. Like the knowledge you would have known there, would have protected you from all the devils of this world.

You sometimes felt you didn’t know enough, That Tolkien and Carroll weren’t enough to shape your knowledge into experiences otherwise faced by children of the city. That you were strange, the odd one out because you hadn’t had the life you felt a lot had been living. At 12 there were no first relationships, at 16 no proms, at 18 no parties, at 20 certainly no lovemaking. Had you been living falsely? Was your clone-self fulfilling your wishes out in the world without your knowledge?

These feelings were occurrences that hit you when you were down; crept up on you when you least expected it. But most times, you knew better. You knew your life was good and that the only feeling you were missing out on was feeling complete in regards to that. You could see it in the way your parents walked when they’d return from weekends in the city: shoulders slightly slumped, breath laboured, legs an entanglement of walking on thick tar or marble stairs. You could see it in the way the blare your box TV made you feel whenever you seldom switched it on or the way street cars or school kids made you feel whenever you stumbled to the edge of the green belt on the cusp of the town.

It was a feeling that reminded you that you loved the countryside. That whatever you had missed out on, you only had to gain by the joy you felt living in this little world of your own. That whatever you faced, were facing, or yet to face, would be outweighed by the positives that surrounded you each and every day.

With a lighter note to your step, you made your way to the kettle and took it to the tap. Filling it with water, you latch it back on to its base and switch it on. Today was a green tea day, the fresh scent of leaves and the warm yet bitter taste of vegetal flora. You pop a bag of it into a bottomless white mug and wait for the kettle to chime.

Every spring break since your early teenage years was one you had looked forward to. That, and the addition of any single break you got away from working and learning. You loved the time away to pursue what you really loved most and to feel as if you had all the time in the world.

Most of all, you loved being with your friends.

You couldn’t forget that what had made your experience in the country so beautiful and thriving was the people you had around you. Without them, you’d have no experiences at all, let alone the knowledge to make things like the cup of tea you were brewing right now. All of them had taught you different things and given you different opportunities and adventures. All seven of them being boys, you missed their brotherly presence and the feeling of really belonging when you were beside them. In fact, you hoped today, with feeling more solemn and tired, they’d magically sense your sadness and start the spring break with you.

Fishing the bag from your mug, you stir the tea and bring it out to the front garden. Closing the door gently behind you, you move onto the patio and sit against the wall of your house, brushing against a rose bush climbing its walls to the drain pipe of the roof. Setting your mug on the cold of the ground. You turn to your left and push at the floor of the patio, skimming your nails against the brick edge of one of the tiles. With quick effort, the brick slides to the side and you lean forward to peer into the shallow of ground dug out below. Under this small tile of your garden was a small collection of books you were currently reading. You prized your books, but never bought them new without their own wear-and-tear. Keeping them underground would only further the process of their weathering, so any books you bought were second hand from the local market or given as a gift from one of your friends who was a book-worm.

Reaching down, you close your eyes and pick a random book of the day. Sliding back the tile, you flick through the browning pages to the dog-eared bookmark of where you last were and start to read. It’s no fun just reading one book at once. You love to pursue multiple lives and experiences at one time as well as critique books on what one lacks and the other makes up for. If given the opportunity to do so, why not take the bull by the horns and charge into multiple universes with adventurous intentions?

With an open mind, you continue to read, your intention to fall into this book for at least a few hours before resurfacing back to reality. You find time slipping further with each crease of a new page. Your tea growing colder as you take small, yet thoughtful sips, popping the mug back onto the tile and rubbing your leg in reflection. What brings a story to an end? What is it that causes the binding to fold shut? Is it that a character can finally be content with the way things are; is it that their pain has finally ended and now the stage of their acceptance begins? You’ve always hoped that books would carve out your path for you, would give you the knowledge you needed to move on, or bring a charming fantasy character to you without you lifting a finger. You wanted to know what it was that you were searching for, that comfort that could just be right in front of you..

You turn a page.

“Y/N!”

“Namjoon?!”

You look up, and see him. Dropping your book back into your lap, you wrestle with your hands and move the hair from your eyes.

He’s staring back at you, intent on grabbing all of your attention. His umber eyes shine against the afternoon light and his flushed lips grin a lopsided smile. Sun-kissed, tawny skin and a button-nose - he is a vision - and you forget how hard it is to maintain eye contact with him for too long until your staring right back and squinting at his beauty.

His eyes drop down to your book and move back up, glowing with his usual sense of admiration and approval.

“Reading another one this time?”

“Yeah..” You mumbled “Well I've started this one already but i took a break from it and picked it out today in a random draw. But it’s pretty good so far so i’m not really fussed. I think I might even pursue this one fully to the end. No breaks..cool, right?”

“What one is it?” He responds, pulling the cover up into his eye line and taking it into his hands.

“You should know by the cover. Go on. Guess.”

“I’m not that good..”

“Hey! You were the one who lent me the book!”

“Probably because I've never gotten the chance to read it..”

“You recommended it to me!”

He squints and observes both sides of the book, careful to not peer at the binding with the title on. You watch with a strange enthusiasm as you yet again share a bonding moment with him over something you feel not many cherish anymore. It’s good to have common interests with others, yet the more you divulge in them, the deeper you fall into that person.

“It’s Doctor Zhivago by...Boris..Pasternak?” He smiles “But translated right? I can’t remember the man’s name..”

“You mean ‘name’s’. Hayward and Harari. Bit of a tongue twister. It’s so good.”

“That book was the most complicated thing.”

“But romantic.” You whisper.

“What was that?” He tilts his head.

“I said it..it’s romantic.”

“Oh..” He blushed “Yeah it’s very well written. Right..”

❀

Sometimes you guessed that ‘that’ was the thing you were missing. When you lay awake in bed at night, or felt yourself losing breath in the bundle of a blanket; in the morning, spilling a frozen mug of tea, or at night, clutching onto one of the books he had given you. Your friends had given you everything you needed, helped you in different ways, and sometimes you didn’t know how to repay them. You were reminded that you were enough, that what you did by just being you was enough to keep all of them smiling. Your friends had given you everything, but more than ever, right now, recently, one person had been taking over all of your thoughts, all of your friendships.

Here he was standing in front of you. And yet again you maintain normal conversation. You avert your eyes to intense stares, you keep from slipping on your tongue. Your hands stay in your lap, and your fingers ache to touch his. It was something you thought of often, yet something that remained at the back of your mind. Like a dirty secret, you didn’t want this longing to ruin the broken bridges you’d connected from your past that had taken you so long to build.

But moments like these, when he smiled too bright, or let his cheeks tinge pink in the presence of you without even trying to hide it..you knew you were so damn screwed.

❀

“y/n?”

You snapped from your thinking “Yeah, huh?!”

“Thinking again?”

“Yeah. Sorry..”

He smiled, exposing those beautiful dimples “It’s okay. I was wondering if you wanted to pop into mine and grab some more new books to read once you’ve finished that one?”

“That actually sounds great. I think the spring break will give me more time to read some of your favourites.”

“Awesome. C’mon then.” He reached out his hand to pull you up onto your feet and take you next door to his house. Like a burning crush, you touch his hand and feel a small fire come to life in your stomach. It was a common occurrence and one you still hadn’t managed to learn how to extinguish. Rather it had become a feeling you blamed on too much herbal tea or lack of sleep.

Deep down, the small fire was telling you that its existence was most likely due to ‘him’.

You follow Namjoon next door, across the small valley of your front garden and into his. He was tall, masking the view ahead of you, and his broad shoulders stretched the expanse of the garden gate as he idly swung it open. In a metaphor, he was a large, wise-old tree. You had envied him ever since your young teenage years and were unlikely to ever feel superior, let alone on the same level as him.

❀

As your neighbour, Namjoon moved in when you were 11. Living your whole life in the same house out in the country, bothered only by the rising sound of birds, you’d yet to have a neighbour that wasn’t five times the age of you. It was a new experience, and happened to come at the most confusing and inconvenient age of your life where you were like a magnet to anyone of the same age and opposite gender. Alongside your other six male school friends you had happened to befriend, moving up to secondary school, you found he was soon to become your 7th. Like your other friends, he was kind, charming and open from the moment you made your first greeting. You all found interest in the hobbies of adventure and play and reveled in the fact that your fantasy world was now one to share with many others.

Growing up as a human was weird enough at 11: weird bodily changes, voice-deepening, and a sudden strong romantic attraction to others. Your friends and you thought it was funny, speaking at lengths only to crack off tune or bopping Adam's apples like a game of tennis while you sat there and touched at the flat plain of your female neck. At times you’d play twister and fall apart at the sudden growth of each other's legs and how it would up the difficulty of the game without you even trying. Other times you’d stare at the faces across from you and wonder what the soft blades of their cheeks would feel like to touch.

You thought that was bad enough, but at 19 it had hit you like a brick and was only getting worse.

❀

“You had a bad night?”

You look up as he turns around by the door of his house and nod, “Yeah..something like that i guess..”

“You can tell me about it.” He pauses and brushes his fingers against the tips of yours - and there goes that fire in the pit of my stomach again..

“It’s okay. It was just a bit of an anxiety attack. It came on unprovoked, no reason, no big deal.”

“As long as you're sure.”

He stares into the pits of your soul with that intent and interest in his eyes again, and you simply nod and smile.

“Alright, let’s go find a new book to cheer us up. I’ve got this amazing one i found at last weeks market, you won’t believe the coloured edgism on it!”

❀

A few hours had passed and you and Namjoon had gone through dozens of his books, discussing why each and every one was a merit to read. You found his bookshelf harbored all sorts of genres, but favoured writers such as Murakami and Hesse. It truly was a sight to behold: a 16-shelf, 7-foot mahogany cupboard of prismatic-colour in the form of disjointed stack upon stack of novels. It was like a second home to you; one for the books, and two for the person who lived there.

“So you’ve chosen?..” Namjoon tilts his head, looking up from his spot kneeling on the floor.

“Ah..i’m really not sure.”

“Go on.” He sniggers, “I'll do a drum roll.”

“Okay. So. I’m choosing ‘A Wild Sheep Chase’..aaand, ‘The White Book’!”

“Those are amazing! Hold on, show me the covers again.”

You move from your position leaning against the bookshelf, and kneel next to him, arm brushing against the cotton of his. He seems to respond to this, and shuffles closer, knee knocking yours as he moves to see the covers of the books more clearly.

Although he’s silent, you feel his acknowledgement and study of the novels before him as he remembers their plots and summarizes his critiques against them. Knowing him for so long, you can almost feel the cogs in his brain working and you struggle to hold back a smile as you imagine him feeling the same way about you.

*ding, dong*

In a sudden halt, the door rings, and the two of you separate as quickly as you came together to head towards the entrance. A silent awareness slips between the two of you regarding the past few hours you’d spent scrolling through books together. This was something friends did, right?

“Hey, lovebirds!” You hear a deep voice chime and peer from the side of Namjoon to see the other six of your friends standing out on the patio in a huddle. Taehyung stands centre of the pack, beaming with his box-grin as if he’d just opened the gift of his life. You peel back behind Namjoon nervously and wave back to them, making yourself known, watching a smile deepen on all of their faces as they glance back and forth between the two of you.

You know what it must look like, but you’d hoped they’d be used to it by now. The older you got, the more time you divided towards Namjoon compared to the rest of the boys and you never gave an explanation for it, leaving an air of question between you and the others. At this point, you weren’t surprised by their assumptions. You simply went along with it, hoping one day their words would manifest themselves into tangible things.

“Hi guys. How’s the beginning of Spring Break treating you?” Namjoon smiles, fiddling with the books now in his hands.

“It’s going well. We were enjoying the sun and nearly forgot about you guys.” Jimin replies, a sly wink directed your way.

“C’mon now, what do you want?” You smile.

“Come to the hideout with us.” Jungkook chimes, scrunching his nose, “Let’s make some plans and get stuff done!”

❀

It was a mossy road, filled with scattered piles of leaves, hulking rocks and long, giant-like cutlasses of grass. Trees decorate the rim of the trail, large oaks and fuzzy maples. The flowers surrounding you crowd in, tickling your feet, shining a blistering yellow onto your chin. The sun above flares and your neck swelters as you trail behind the seven boys.

The path to your secret hideout was never an easy one to make. Beautiful but not easy. In the past eight years of being friends, the nature surrounding your home and further out had reared its wild and boisterous head, making its mark with swollen muddy ditches and overgrown thickets of grass. You frequented it often, making the trek in under half an hour with flimsy boots, often exhausted from the school day. Sometimes you’d visit in the mornings by yourself, shuffling around chairs and cleaning up crumb-riddled plates from the last visit there; other times you’d head over in the evening and nap on the ground with your head in one of the boys laps as you mumbled incoherently about some classmate or teacher.

Your hideout was a camper van, plastered white, now chalky flakes. Its interior was large and had been hollowed out into two large rooms of a dusty kitchen and bedroom/living area via the drivers door. As you approached it, a sense of nostalgia filled you, memories rushing in chromatic frames of adventures played out within the confines of those few feet. Although overgrown, the ground beneath you still felt as pliant and kind as the first day you set foot.

You come to a halt as Taehyung steps forward and swings the loose driver door open, bowing in a way too childlike not to smile

“Ladies and gentleman, your accommodation for the day. Step right up, step right up.”

Following the boys, you find Taehyung waiting with the door open and you nod in return, climbing up, sliding across the driver's seat and landing in the main space of the van. Grabbing the nearest seat, you press yourself up against the backrest and kick off your shoes, feeling a sting evolve then dissipate around the clutches of your ankles. It’s not long before Namjoon joins you to your right, and Yoongi sits idly to your left. Jungkook, Taehyung and Jimin form a small triangle in the centre of the room and Jin and Hoseok move over to the kitchen to presumably look for snacks. You wiggle your toes and smile at the boys around you. The past few hours had made the morning feel like a distant memory and you, yet again, made a note in your brain that reminded you how important these guys were to your mental stability.

“Jellied eels and gummy worms!” Hoseok cheers, bouncing into the room alongside Jin with two large packets in tow.

“Eels?..” Namjoon mouths next to you.

“Worms?” Yoongi resounds.

“They’re gummy sweets guys! Did you even have a childhood or did your life only just begin when you met me?” Jin smirks, throwing himself on an armchair opposite you and leaning over to grab a can of soda from the seat underneath him.

“My life began when I started eating these sweets.” Hoseok hums, a gummy worm dangling from the creases of his lips.

“Let’s have one!” Whines Jungkook, and pulls Hoseok down to share the sweets out with everyone in the room, nodding at Jin to join along and share his cans of soda too.

❀

You met the boys halfway through your Primary Education, age 11. Being a socially distant and independent child, you had struggled to befriend anyone the past few years and were blissfully ready to roll through yet another year alone. You hadn't known any different, and expected you were better off not having friends. There were certain days however, when an unfamiliar sense of loneliness would strike you and you’d struggle all the next week in school.

Moving up to the next grade required an induction into the class. It was inevitable that part of the induction would include ‘ice-breakers’. Playing hide-and-seek and musical-chairs didn’t seem productive or fairly educational, but it helped you spot your tribe from the rest. You had found that, moving into a different set in a different year had meant everyone in class was new to you. It was exciting, but it made you feel yet again like a tiny fish in a giant pond.

It wasn’t long before six boys, during a particularly boisterous game of dodge ball, had come to your side to make a wall around you and pellet balls back at the opposing team. You were lost for words, but stayed planted as you watched them continue to protect you and even smile back occasionally with ease. After the game, following onto lunch, they invited you to sit with them at their table. They individually introduced themselves, stretching out hands to shake with yours before moving back to demolishing their lunches. Although unfamiliar for you, you felt comfortable around these boys, and it wasn’t long before you felt secure to approach their table on rough days and simply slump straight down into your chair.

Jin, Jimin, Jungkook, Taehyung, Yoongi and Hoseok had met the first day of the grade you were starting. You’d almost known them as long as they had known each other; the boys meeting by coincidence at the local convenience store to buy evening snacks a few days before they had met you during the dodge ball game. A band of misfits, as disinterested in cliques and gossip as you were, it made sense that you stuck together for the rest of your primary and secondary education.

Jin was the first for you to have a full interaction with. On a late autumn finish from school, just after the ‘razzle-dazzle fair’, Jin had ran up to as you were exiting the school gates and offered to walk you home. You had been friends for a month now and Jin admitted that he lived quite close to you and would be more than happy to take you to your house. You had agreed, and in the short 20 minute walk home, you had been able to laugh and socialize more than you had ever done before. Jin was the eldest of the group and a social spark. Alongside Taehyung, he often led the group's conversations and was unapologetically unabashed regarding his strong looks and vibrant personality. It was refreshing to see and often annoyed the group at times where they all wanted silence, yet could still hear Jin nattering away behind them. After a few years knowing and maturing with Jin, you could see the layer underneath his visage that was insecure and ashamed. It was something you saw in yourself, yet you made no qualms regarding the way you held yourself in very low regards. As an only child, Jin was like an older brother to you; always the one to continue to walk you home when the others couldn’t. Even up to the age you were now.

You next spent time individually with Jimin, Jungkook and Taehyung. With Jin, Hoseok and Yoongi out on a school trip one day, the other three were desperate to get out and made a pact with you to go out nature foraging at the end of the school day. You all kept your promise, and on a foggy October, you made your way out into the stretch of hills where you lived only to discover the abandoned camper van you now sat in. Aside from an empty fridge, and musky air, the van’s interior was the same and you spent the whole evening dusting it out and running around, planning different ways in which you could now brand this vehicle as the groups own. The three of them were the most youthful and bonded to each other like glue. On future nights in the camper van, you’d sit outside to catch a breath, only to spot them swinging their legs off the roof, clanging the sides with their feet and giggling to each other. Other times you’d wake up in your sleeping bag and wriggle over to hear three soft snores as they practically piled atop one another like little caterpillars. Jungkook was the youngest of the group, and truly the sweetest. He enjoyed physical contact, and playing with your hair including the way you’d hug him back after he’d had a long day. Although close, the boys weren’t always around to protect each other, and you’d found yourself in many situations, standing up for him as he was bullied by older kids or others who simply envied his ability to be good at practically everything. Jimin, at times, had also found himself being picked on, but unlike Jungkook, could stand up for himself and sassily retort back. Jimin was a cuddle bug and enjoyed poking fun at your lack of ability to stay still during a shoulder massage without becoming ticklish. He loved showing you new routines he’d learnt taking ballet class in the city, and often shared his experience of the bright lights, making you fear them even more. Taehyung was the same in regards to his songwriting and desperate need to learn guitar or piano but never being able to pick between the two. Taehyung was soft-spoken and euphonious in tone, and was the first to help you study for your music test, age 16, in hopes your voice would be up to parr for the grades you wanted.

Soon after the other four boys- nearing Christmas - you had met up with Hoseok. He’d taken up a job as a newspaper boy and had started doing rounds on your street. When cycling past your door, he’d seen you reading on your patio out front and asked if you wanted to join him on his rounds by hopping on the back of his bike and holding on very tightly. Like a Ghibli character, you joined him, and felt the wind and his contagious laugh whip at your hair as you raced from street to street, paper in hand. Hoseok was the blistering, smiling sun of the group. He was the one to supply the snacks during group meetups and the hand to drag you towards your next adventure. As you got older, and your past had started to further distill itself into you, he had been there to listen and to give you that serotonin when you needed it.

Yoongi was the last to fully introduce himself. You’d bumped into him at the annual Christmas Market and shaken off the snow that was starting to pale on your cheeks and nose. He’d felt bad that you had attended the market alone, but you had assured him that your parents were just around the corner and had let you run loose. He’d taken your woolly mitten hand and pulled you around the stalls of warm chestnuts and wood-carved geese, gums and teeth gelled into a smile the whole time. Yoongi was never one to flaunt his emotions, or smile when he didn’t need to. You felt special because he reserved all his excitement and joy for the group, hiding that side of himself from his schoolmates as if he were a stoic block of pure ice. He didn’t like to admit it, but he was protective over you: watching you mature and watching boys ogle you, hitting back out at them, saying you were nobody's object but your own. He was one of the few who taught you how to own your pride and to stand up for yourself when you needed to.

It was the 5th of January the next year when Namjoon entered the class; four months into your friendship with the boys. Namjoon was a transfer student from the city nearby and had moved schools to better accommodate his parents, now fully divulged in the industry of agriculture. At 5 feet, he stood awkwardly, his lanky form swamped in a cardigan, tie and trousers, a small badge of a book crested to his right. He bowed as he introduced himself and shuffled toward the back window seat of the class, eyes to the floor the entire lesson and entire day until dismissed for the day with the rest of his raucous classmates. A week later, he had found himself paired in a science group project with the six of you and had struggled not to look up as Jin poured his packet of mentos into a bottle of coke and watched it stream over a miserable Yoongi. It wasn’t hard then to feel a part of the mischief as he banded to the rest of you in the principal's office and subsequently joined you on a walk over to your secret hideout, officially knighted a group member after witnessing and accepting Jin’s disorderly act in front of the entire class.

Namjoon became the group's glue: a peace-maker and divulger in clumsy behaviour, the middle man in acts of rebellion and acts of peace. He would settle any argument entailing stolen food and encourage any efforts to liven the mood. Around the rest of you, he made no secret of feeling like an outsider all his life and, as you grew older, you only found more and more stories of his you could relate yourself to. Namjoon made sense to you. He didn’t always tolerate the group's behaviour, or understand his peers, but he understood and accepted you and you often found that that was enough.

But you stumbled on your soda as you felt his presence beside you in the camper van. Something had been missing. A lingering need for his legs to reside an inch closer, or his forehead to skim the crest of yours. A want for his voice to your ear like an ungodly prayer or his lips to plant a halo on your own.

The way you had matured had only made it worse, not better. You had hoped you simply harbored a strong interest in his psyche, but the older you grew, the less you could ignore the fire that never left your stomach. Looking over at all the boys now, it was obvious that you’d never forget. In seven long years, they had all grown and the blaze in your gut was a whore to be sated.

Thick limbs in tight shorts and muscles rippling under skin, their physiques had swelled from boys into men and your eyes were traitors. No longer the deviants of school-youth, their gluttony was peaking, something that grew at lengths in their trousers and peaks on their chests. The testosterone was tangible and its thick air was making it impossible to ignore your attraction toward Namjoon.

But whether you could handle the possible rejection or sudden acceptance of love was another ordeal. Could your past ever be healed by the vines of attraction, or were you too scared to ever let another person in again?

❀

A few hours later and you were in the small kitchen, playing with dust bunnies and watching the sun sink down the hills. The boys were still in the main room, talking about their plans for the spring break. You could hear them discussing family vacations and trips to visit friends in the city. They were buzzing about expanding the camper van and joking about making it into a bachelor pad for their new-found love lifes. You listen in, but hear no noise from Namjoon in the conversation. It had felt like, as the years had passed, the boys were moving forward, finding new hobbies and friends and succeeding at becoming adults. You saw the joy in their eyes at their success and you were proud of them, but you knew Namjoon and you were lagging behind.

All these years, Namjoon hadn’t found any new friends, he hadn’t moved out to the city to discover something new, he’d just grown in height. Of course he’d matured, mind and body and become even more undeniably magnetic, but - like you - he also wondered where his life would go. It was a silent thing you seldom mentioned but knew you shared. It was during those nights when he’d tell you his fears and the little life he dreamed of, running a bookshop and flower garden with the one he loved that you knew you wanted to be that part of his story.

Turning from the window, you walk back into the other room to join the boys. Namjoon looks up and sidles over to make space for you to sit between him and Hoseok. You kneel against the soft burgundy rug of the floor and feel Namjoon move closer to you as he closes the circle, his hand nudging yours to check if you are okay. You look up, meet his soft eyes and smile, reassuring him that your thoughts and feelings are at least somewhat intact and he drops your gaze, turning back to the boys to listen in to their conversation.

“So..the bachelor pad would have a super king bed?” Yoongi questions.

“I think a super king is a bit too optimistic for this space, maybe just a double.” Taehyung chimes.

“Not if we add a conservatory extension to the end of the van.” Jimin mumbles.

“Listen, i think this conversation is getting a little bit too authentic. This is just an idea guys, don’t lose your heads.” Yoongi responds.

“Well..when i reap the benefits of my entrepreneurial enterprise, i’ll give you some cash for this little startup of ours.” Jin laughs, slapping the knees of Jimin and Taehyung who clearly seem to be the fuel to this idea.

You chuckle and gather your knees underneath you to cross your legs, “I love your ingenuity, but I want no part of this idea. I’m afraid, i’m out”

“Our startup’s doomed then.” Jimin wails “Every group needs a lady to orchestrate the rest of us, otherwise we’ll just run a riot.”

“He’s right you know.” Namjoon whispers, “I think you’d make a great CEO..”

His tone is easily distracting and you falter for a second before laughing off his words, “Thanks guys. In that case, give me 50% of the company and we have a deal!”

“Just shake her hand Jimin.” Yoongi whines and gets to his feet, “Alright guys, I’m beat. I’ll grab the sleeping bags; who put them away last?”

“The far left cupboard in the kitchen!” Jungkook says, and you turn to watch as Yoongi begins to draw out the long sleeping sacks from the cupboard and drag them through the room to where you’re seated. You tilt your head in question to Namjoon as Yoongi returns with the second lot of bags, unaware you were staying overnight with all of them.

He perks up and, making the connection to your thoughts, starts with a comment to the boys, “Hey, who let y/n know? Or did you all forget to tell her?”

“You know we’ve left all that kind of stuff to you nowadays.” Taehyung smirks, yet again sending a knowing wink your way.

Namjoon sighs, “So, while you were playing with dust-bunnies out there, we were planning to stay the night. I’m sorry i didn’t let you know, the conversation just drifted on and i got a bit distracted..”

“That’s okay..”

“Is it? Are you up for sleeping over with us?” Jungkook smiles.

You feel a sudden knot in your throat. ”Y-yeah, I..um..”

“It’s alright if you have plans, there’s no pressure to stay with us!”

The wedge in your throat tightens and you struggle to hide the tide of panic that you feel is approaching you. The boys seem to notice your sudden change in demeanour and they all stop, Yoongi dropping his bag and kneeling down with you to make sure you’re okay.

“Hey, hey. It’s alright, what’s going through your head?” He asks, Namjoon suddenly a rock beside you.

“I - “ Visions come swarming through your mind, too sudden and harsh to ignore.

*❀

You hadn’t slept over with the guys for a few years, not since your exams had ramped up their intensity and started to steal all of your time. Back then, you had less thoughts of your past, and lived life with more ease, thinking of the future and not dwelling on previous experiences that were desperate to hold you back. Yes, you were still nervous at times, falling asleep amongst a group of men and trusting them to guard you, but you were a lot less anxiety-riddled then you were now.

In the past two years, your childhood had come flooding back to you in thicker and more residual pieces than before. Moments you thought you’d forget, or that your friends would help heal were now naked shadows, following you around day and night. You were scared it was only going to get worse, the images of non-consensual acts filling your mind and your body, exposed to all of them.

It was hard because - sitting here now - you loved your friends, and you wanted to trust them, but the wall of trauma that had built itself around you seemed too impossible to break in just one go. Even though you knew they weren’t going to harm you, your mind couldn’t stop from seeing a man and a dark room and going, ‘No. I need to escape’.

You’d opened up to them in the past, and briefly told them a more closeted overview of what had happened to you. They had listened, and of course sheltered you in their concern and love. They wanted you to feel like you didn’t have to be afraid around them. And it took a while to even just let them hug you or squish beside you on a group movie night in. They’d give you all the time you needed, and you’d be patient as they understood and exercised the boundaries around you that they firmly respected.

*❀

“I’m sorry, I..I just had a moment.” You exhale, the fog now waning in your mind. The boys watch you steadily and you feel Yoongi and Namjoon have since moved back in distance to give you the physical space you need.

“We’d all really love you to join us! We’ve missed out on so much time since our exams have started and we really miss our sleepovers.” Jin smiles, and you nod back, breathing another shaky exhale and beginning to play with your hands.

Noticing your discomfort, Namjoon turns round and silently hushes the boys out of the room momentarily. They seem to pick up on his gestural hints and, one-by-one, move out of the room into the now pink half-light of the outdoors.

He shuffles to sit facing you and adjusts his eye-line to meet yours as you slowly look up from the floor. His tawny eyes shed all the colours of sunset and he frowns as he notices the panic knitted in your features.

“I know what this is about, and i want to let you know that you don’t have to be afraid. I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes or the fear you must be feeling right now, but the least i can do is let you know that here, with us, in my presence, we will cloak and protect you.”

He adjusts his position on the floor and leans over to clasp at your hand. Heart in your throat, you open up the love lines on your palm to him and lace your fingers with his. You suddenly feel a fire burn and a dread douse all at the same time in your stomach. He is the one that makes you truly feel safe, and now your head is swarming with the essence that is him.

You were never one to pick favourites, take one friend for granted, or to even have friends, but Namjoon had always been the exception to those rules. He would always stay a little longer, listen a little closer, and it just made you want him a little more.

He was the one who gave you your first romance novel, helped you grow your first ever rose, taught you how to Waltz on your tip-toes atop the highest hill of your village. Even when the past would rare its lethal mane and roar, you knew that Namjoon would be a pillar to fall back on.

“Okay, Joon.” You whisper, the seldom used nickname slipping from your lips and casting dimples all over his cheeks.

❀

An hour later and the boys had been summoned back. They were scattered in a circle around the main room floor, half of them balled into their sleeping bags like squirrels in hibernation. The air was cooler and the sky now a tenebrous brown, small stars floating in the sky like lost astronauts. You took a sharp breath and felt the cool of the twilight wind sweep through your body. Your eyelids felt heavy and you felt almost certain that now was the right time to fall asleep. The day, since the morning, had recovered itself, and everything seemed too tranquil and good to be true. Without wanting to ruin it, you were ready to say goodnight to the moon and reflect on what a good time you’d had before a new day.

“Mmh, goodnight moon. Sleep tight.” You mumble and lean back, pulling your body into the cocoon of your insulated bag. You adjust your sleep shorts, and turn onto your side, tucking strands of loose hair behind your ears before closing your eyes.

“Are you going now?” You hear a voice ask.

You slip one eye open to see Namjoon, now turned toward you, doe eyed and pouty. A lazy smile tugs at your lips, “Not if you don’t want me to..”

“It-it’s not that.” He blushes, “I just wanted to make sure you were feeling comfortable..”

“I am. Thank you for talking with me earlier.”

“You should be thanking yourself. You’re the one who’s so fearless all the time.”

“Am i really that good at hiding it?”

“You’re stronger than you know.”

“I’ll keep a note of that under the list of ‘compliments Namjoon has given me’.”

He smirks, “Want a few more to add to that list?” and you feel your cheeks stain pink.

“Maybe another day Joon.” You quickly switch the subject and twist around, “Goodnight.”

“Y/n, wait.”

You turn back to him, “What is it?”

“I. I didn’t have many plans for Spring Break but i'm visiting my father and i was wondering if..maybe you’d want to come with me?..”

“To visit your father?” You question, wondering how on earth you’d be able to contribute to conversation with Namjoon’s father, let alone not look like ‘the girlfriend’ to him.

“It’s not what you think. My dad has an amazing botanical garden outside his house that stretches acres across. I thought, if you didn’t have any plans, you’d want to study the flowers with me and spend some more time in nature.”

You're amazed with his thoughtfulness, a reminder that Namjoon’s split parents now owned a menagerie and a farm, the first belonging to his father. Aside from catching up with the group and reviving certain sparks that had faltered, you were more than open to spending all of your time in Namjoon’s presence. You imagined picking Azelia’s with him and brushing cobwebs from daffodils. You pictured long, warm evenings amongst a patch of lavender and early mornings, tilting buttercups under your chin until they shone a luminous yellow. It sounded too much fun to even fathom, and you had to bite your tongue from sounding to sudden or enthusiastic about the whole ordeal. You just resound -

“That sounds nice. I’d be happy to go.”

And with that, you feel another chapter of your life unravel underneath your feet.

❀

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