#carry me too boxy

[perplexi]

oh baby carry me hooooome~! ✨💚💜✨

[gyumazing]

Nishimura Riki

In which your mom gave you a pack of condoms during dinner

-

Pairings: Ni-ki × Reader

Genre: FLUFFY fluff (very suggestive ⚠️)

Word count: 1.8k

-

"Baby, I missed yo—" Ni-ki's greeting was cut short as he suddenly saw your painfully red face the moment he opened his door, preparing to engulf you in a hug. He bit his tongue back, looking like he was about to laugh, but was courteous enough to try and hold it in—which, obviously, failed miserably. His stupid face made your already red face even redder. "Babe..." he called out apologetically as you made your way inside his room, immediately plopping down on his bed, covering your face in embarrassment.

You felt gentle hands patting your head. "I don't think it's that bad," you heard him snicker a little, so you groaned.

You felt his weight shift the foam mattress as he sat down beside you. He combed your hair a little, just enough for him to keep sight of your closed eyes.

"It's perfectly normal... I think?" That was more like a question for himself rather than reassurance for your already ashamed and embarrassed self. Nonetheless, he plopped next to you now, kissing your closed eyes softly. "I mean, there's no way they won't know what we're doing when we're all alone together in he—" Ni-ki half-groaned, half-chuckled, not being able to finish his sentence as you rose up from his bed, wringing his neck.

You wailed.

"Have you seen the teasing looks on their faces earlier?!" You closed your eyes, shaking your head as you recalled the previous encounter with your family at the dinner table; your mom casually handing you a packet of condoms as you bit down on your last piece of toast; your brother Heeseung snickering at you with a knowing look; everyone watching you intently with a smug expression. It was the most horribly nerve-wracking experience you'd ever had. The shame, mortification, and shock brought upon you from that family dinner alone were probably enough to take at least 10 years off your lifespan.

You groaned. You cringed so bad that you found yourself dropping like a soulless sack down onto your boyfriend's bed again, hitting your head onto his laid-out biceps with a thud.

Ni-ki chuckled, which of course earned a death glare from you. He poked your nose.

"It's not that bad... They're looking out for you, and at least they didn't say anything, right?" Ni-ki's pathetic attempt at cheering you up involved playing with your hair as he nibbled on your jaw.

You pushed his head aside resentfully.

How dare he act so casually at your misery when he's the root of it all?

"I mean, it's not like they're wrong. I haven't bought new packs yet, and we could totally use those, you know, babe? That was so thoughtful of your m—"

"Shut up!" You covered your ears, rising up from his bed. He chuckled, his pretty boxy smile creeping onto his face.

He grabbed you by your waist and effortlessly pulled you back into bed. He rested his chin on the gap between your shoulder and neck, spooning you in his hold.

"Okay, okay, no teasing," he surrendered, biting your neck again, earning a gasp and a sharp cuss from you.

He chuckled at your reaction.

"I freaking hate you so much sometimes, Nishimura Riki..." You got up from his hold and flipped him off. But you suddenly let out an inhumane squeal as you found yourself lifted in the air, Ni-ki carrying you easily as if you weighed not more than a dime.

"That's mean. No flipping your boyfriend off..." He warned, ushering your frail and helpless figure next to the wall, pinning your back against it. He towered over you, dark eyes lingering a little too long on your quivering lips. "Do you want to take that back, princess? Hmmm?" he pressed against you, making your eyes widen.

"Let me go..." You tried to act tough.

He shook his head.

"Try that again."

"Let me go..." You started. "Please... baby..." You added in the quietest manner humanely possible, not wanting to have your pride and ego entirely crushed.

Ni-ki presses himself against you again, making you inhale sharply onto his chest. He wraps his hands on your waist.

"I can't hear you, baby." He lifts your chin up delicately, firming your gaze to meet his longing and hazy ones. "Louder."

You scoffed.

Absolutely not.

You kicked him off of you slightly, but it made matters even worse because now he held you even tighter, hands practically caging your waist.

"So bratty..." He whispered, kissing your jaw, pushing you back onto the bed on your back. You gasped, heartbeat racing so fast in anticipation.

Ni-ki looked at you with a smug grin on his face.

"Cat got your tongue, babe?" He tilted his head to the side with a coy grin. You immediately tried to open your mouth to spit out a comeback, a word, something that could make you appear less pathetic beneath his towering frame—anything—but it seemed as though your voice betrayed you. So, you lay there like a deer caught in headlights, gulping cautiously to disregard any bubbling feelings inside you.

Ni-ki giggled, his expression softening as he bit his lip affectionately—a habit of his whenever he found you cute or endearing.

To your surprise, he plopped down next to you again, pulling you into a cuddle. And you wanted to berate yourself for feeling disappointed that he had stopped somehow.

He kissed your forehead.

"Disappointed?" He asked as if he had read your mind. You gasped a little at the accusation, then rolled your eyes as he grinned like an idiot.

Damn him.

Ni-ki fixated his gaze on yours again, an intense look plastered on his face, as if he were studying every pore on your face, etching every speck of detail into his memory. And you couldn't help but sigh in fondness and safety having him so close like this.

"I love you..." He muttered, closing his eyes for so long you almost thought he had drifted off to dreamland. "I'm so happy you came into my life..." He added casually, completely unaware of how loudly your heart was thumping along with his warm, shallow breaths... completely unaware of what he was doing to you and your sanity.

You played with his hair gently, still processing and buffering at the sudden intimacy—not that it was anything new. Not that he didn't bombard you with his sappiness every freaking hour of the day.

"Okay, I was about to sulk that you didn't bother to return my 'I love you,' but I guess this is your way of saying it back." He said contentedly, mewling at the way your fingers scratched his scalp.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his comment, a smile tugging at your lips.

Riki... He was just so silly sometimes. He presented himself in the media as a "cool" and "nonchalant" guy when in fact, he was a loverboy through and through. A silly, sappy boy who craved affection 24/7.

A boyfriend who never got tired of your constant grunts whenever he professed his love to you, and whenever you shrugged his words off, too scared to actually admit that you were in love with him too—something your conscious mind would excuse as simple "puppy love." But days of dating turned into weeks, turned into months, and now you recently marked your fourth year together. You know, it's just shocking. You never saw yourself dating that troublesome kid from elementary school who always made his rich parents pay the school to move up to the next grade, let alone dating him for 4 whole years.

It's just... wow.

"Babe?" You muttered, still playing with Ni-ki's hair as he lay motionless beside you. If it weren't for his low "hmm?" and a sudden peck on your cheek, you'd think he had actually fallen asleep.

You brushed stray hairs out of his face.

This boy loves you.

You love this boy too.

So damn much.

"Ni-ki..." you bit your tongue back in haste. "I love you." You felt your stomach churn weirdly at the projection of Ni-ki's smug expression in your mind the moment those three words escaped your mouth. You waited for his reaction dreadfully—you waited for the familiar menacing grin to appear on his cold and intimidating face—but instead, he remained unmoving.

Then, sniffs.

Sniffs?

Crying?

"Hey, are you okay? Baby? Are you okay?" You got up off the bed in panic, scanning him entirely to check if anything was hurting him. He looked fine, except for his closed eyes that brought tears rolling down his pretty cheeks. "Ni-ki?" You shook him gently.

To your surprise, he pulled you into a cuddle again, chuckling a little.

"Are you... okay?" you asked, more concerned now.

"You said 'I love you' back to me..." He whispered into your neck. You couldn't help but sit up again with a look of disbelief on your face, but Ni-ki pulled you back into a cuddle faster than you could utter anything. Is he seriously crying now... because you said I love you? You rarely said it, yes. But this was definitely not the first time. "This is the 5th time you've said it after our 4 years of dating. Honestly, I had made peace with the fact that I'd only ever hear you say it during our anniversaries..." He said, groaning a little—probably due to his self-awareness of how love-stricken and smitten he sounded—which he obviously was, in fact.

"So it surprised you so much to the point that you... cried?" You said in disbelief.

Ni-ki pouted.

"Hey... don't make fun of me." He bit your neck gently.

You hissed at the feeling of his teeth digging into your skin.

Come to think of it, you were almost always the center of teasing and you never really had the chance to get back at him. Whenever you did try, you always ended up in the hole you dug. Like that one time when you sent him a "not so very appropriate" photo of you while they were touring Asia, trying to rile him up, but ended up being severely punished for it the moment he returned home.

Even if you did try teasing him about something, you knew he would have something to tease you back about.

You huffed.

"What are you thinking?" Ni-ki interrupted your thoughts.

"Oh nothing." You huffed again. "Well, for your sake, I won't make fun of you..." It was a lie. It was mostly for your sake.

Ni-ki raised his eyebrows.

"But?" He asked.

"What do you mean 'but'?" You feigned innocence.

"Don't pretend now." He said impatiently, biting your neck again. You pushed his head aside while giggling.

"But, I will use it in case of emergencies..." You grinned.

"Emergencies?"

"Oh you know... When you make fun of me, now I have something to tease you back with." You sang, hands creeping onto his. "So, don't go around teasing me every time, goddammit!" You warned.

But instead of being intimidated, Ni-ki's grin grew even bigger.

He nodded.

"Okay deal." He poked your side. "We don't talk about me crying and I won't ask what flavor of condom your mom bought you." He wiggled his brows.

You groaned.

___

[insomniac-dot-ink]

I can’t go home. There are only a few places open this late and I am walking. I leave a trail of footprints in the powdery snow. The music hall in the middle of town is playing a local band no one has heard of and a single popup store sits outside. I go to the window. The clerk is on her phone in the small cramped cart. Her screen goes dark and she looks up. Her hair is deep brown and tied back so neat and boxy you’d think it was a nun’s habit.

“Hot chocolate,” I say.

The clerk is nonplussed. She takes my money. Her habit-like-hair is stiff and doesn’t shift as she nods and counts my ones. She moves from one end of the little cart to the other with a Styrofoam cup. 

She carries the sugar-thick hot chocolate in one hand and it lets out a thick steam. I am sure she made it too hot. She stops. Her gaze draws up and over my shoulder. Her pupils expand and shoulders rise almost to her ears.

She glances at my face and then away again. Her lips are thin and uncolored. She mouths the words like an unskilled ventriloquist, “do you need me to call someone?”

I shake my head and take the cup and the texture is squeaky and flakes off in my grip. I walk. My footprints mark the powder-white snow and my city only has a few places open at this time of night. My legs are numb with cold and my eyes ache from lack of sleep. I am grateful for the street lights which are all a pale blue color that is supposed to help the birds. I am a bird person, I think, if I was going to be anything.

Cars pass and I am grateful for those too. I reach the street of little cramped stores, one after the next. A fabric store. A second-hand book store. Florists and boutique shoe shops. All too charming to be supportive. The Walmart is just outside our small town limits and I can’t go home.

Across the street, the pub has lowlights on and voices rumble like a thunderstorm from within. I don’t think the rest of the town likes the pub. The bar has one long window made up of colored glass in muted reds and blues and yellows. It reminds me of church windows and leaves the impression of making up for it. Making up for being what it is.

I square my shoulders and push my way in. The air is warm and floor a good type of dark wood. The tables are full enough to be considered a party–or, what I imagine a party to be like. I hadn’t noticed the dusting of snow on my hoodie, and shook it off like dandruff.

The man behind the counter gives me a cursory look. He is a big man with a large mouth and wears frowns like he’s making up for something too. “Mark isn’t here,” he says in a further cursory manner. I shake my head and make my way to the counter. I hadn’t finished my hot chocolate and clutch the Styrofoam cup in both hands.

“Warm up?” I ask but Steven Plyer, the barkeep, is looking over my shoulder. He mouths to himself silently like he’s working out a math problem under his breath.

Two men, big and strapping, move away from the bar’s church-like window. They take seats at the end of the bar and Steven Plyer, the barkeep, leans over the counter. His pupils are ink-dipped coins. I fiddle with the ends of my sleeves. He looks over my shoulder just as I push my hot chocolate closer over the counter.

“There’s a whole world out there,” he says.

I close my eyes. “I know.”

“You don’t have to go.”

I shake my head and Steven Plyer takes my hot chocolate and disappears behind the swinging doors to the back. The rest of the men have moved away from the window and sit on either side of me. They murmur in voices too low to hear.

The oldest of them, a man that smells like leather, stands. His voice has a vibrating quality, unsmooth, dragging out the “a’s” like a regal sheep. “Do your parents know?”

Steven Plyer returns with my hot chocolate steaming and passes it to me with both hands. I get up because the old man needs my seat, I think. The first two men huddle by the front door, coats on and heads bent together like prayer, and I leave without them. The snow is no longer powder but inch-thick fluff. I kick up the fluff with each step and the silver hangs about me like fairy lights, I imagine. I take a sip of hot chocolate and it is too hot and too sweet and you can be grateful for that too.

The sidewalk ends and I walk alongside the side of the road just on the edge of the white line. I think I can see the lights of the Walmart beyond the lights of the city. Trees gather on either side and I miss the blue glow of the street lights and the concerned gaze of the clerk in her tiny cart. I wish she had come with me. I wish Steven Plyer had called me by name.

A solitary car passes and its stark white headlights blare against the night, more violent than kind, and I have to shield my eyes. The car is red and large and pulls to stop on the other side of the road. The window rolls down and a curly-haired woman sticks her head out. Her face is small and elfish and mouth pinches together at the corners. She wears a tight shirt buttoned up all the way to her throat like it might hold her in.

The head beams glow perpendicular to me and I regard the woman as she regards me. She is slow to speak. Slower than the men at the bar had been.

“Get in,” she says, buttoned-up to the throat and with eyes more tired than sad.

“No,” I say and take a sip from the hot chocolate. It’s cold.

Her windshields wipe away the snow and she looks over her dashboard. Her voice is breathy in the way of a Hollywood actress from a bygone era. “I’m worried.”

I nod. They all are. “That can be enough.”

Her mouth zips together into an angry line. She sticks her head out the window, close to a snarl, looking past me, and honks her horn in one long blast. I shy away from the noise and the too-brightness of her head beams. She drives with her head out the window, honking her horn over and over again as loud as she can.

I walk and there are no more cars. The snow settles over my shoulders and I don’t bother to dust off my hood or warm my hands. I leave the white line and walk in the middle of the road. The lights of the Walmart warm the night just outside of town and I can make out the outline of parked cars in the distance. They’re aren’t that many places open this late at night. 

I slow to a stop and sway a bit, like I'm drunk, I think, if this is what that's like. A second pair of footprints mark the snow in front of me. When had that happened? I tilt my head all the way back. The clouds are bright like daylight and snow growing heavy. I think it will all be glittering when the morning comes.

FIN

My book! 🐈 Newsletter

[hoseoksluna]

THE FUN DAY, pt. I. | kth ft. pjm

pairing: idol!military!boyfriend!taehyung x f. reader (ft. best friend!jimin)

genre: fluff, angst — the sad kind

word count: 4.8k

summary: you've prepared a fun day for your boyfriend's military vacation. thank god he's here, right?

pin: f. / playlist: fun / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: suggestive but not described themes of sex and alcohol consumption.

note: i'm so EXCITED to bring you this fic that i can't wait until tomorrow to post this. everyone welcome TAEHYUNG and JIMIN to the hoseoksluna universe. i have to tell you a secret. taehyung was my first bias when i first became army. taehyungie was the first one to save me from the bunch—literally to resurrect me because in him i found all the things i used to love and fell out of. jazz, poetry, the aesthetics and arts. it is an honor to write about him and i think i will write another taehyung fic next week. if you have any ideas, drop them in my ask box and i will use them for inspiration. this fic is dedicated to my baby ruru @tkslovechild, my tatlim @jjk7k, and the beautiful anon that asked me for a tae fic while i was already working on this one. i love you all so much. enjoy this beautiful piece. <3 mwah.

𓂃 ౨ৎ .

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough to truly consecrate the hour. I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough to be to you just object and thing, dark and smart. I want my free will and want it accompanying the path which leads to action; and want during times that beg questions, where something is up, to be among those in the know, or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection, never be blind or too old to uphold your weighty wavering reflection. I want to unfold. Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent; for there I would be dishonest, untrue. I want my conscience to be true before you; want to describe myself like a picture I observed for a long time, one close up, like a new word I learned and embraced, like the everday jug, like my mother's face, like a ship that carried me along through the deadliest storm.

𓂃 ౨ৎ . — I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone by Rainer Maria Rilke

It was your love language, to dress up like your boyfriend. 

Dress pants, shirts and jackets. Linen, silk, leather. Pointed heels or oxford shoes. Grays, browns, beiges and whites. It was something that made you happy—and it was something that represented a vessel, made of unbreakable porcelain, for your love that you carried for Taehyung. 

He’s sitting in the corner of your bedroom, on a wooden stool he specifically placed at such a picturesque place. With the ivory curtains drifting along the nape of his neck, sheer enough to expose the small vase of tulips that stoop in a private longing for his touch. He fondles them often to preoccupy his mind when you take your usual long showers and he waits for the fashion shows you give him. He’s the one who says yes or no. These shoes, love. Look, they’re just like mine. And right at this moment, the wine-yellow petals are caught between his slender fingers when you come out and he doesn’t let go of them—because you’re not holding up the outfit for the day as you always are. 

For the fun day as you’ve called it. 

You’re dressed in it. Low-waisted gray dress pants with a little, tight, white shirt. Black stilettos, black shoulder purse. Your trench coat is waiting for you in the hall, hung up and lonely, but other than that you’re matching him fully. It feels as though you’re fading into him, becoming a singular being that has his DNA and his beauty, and when he beams up at you, boxy smile on full show, spine straight and tall on the stool, long fingers gripping its rim, Taehyung, with his gray suit and a white shirt, somehow validates that feeling. 

Somehow, in that peculiar Taehyung way of his. 

He extends his hands towards you, asking for your closeness. There’s a mist of murkiness that envelops him, with the saddened clouds beyond the window, standing in the place of the sun. It moves through you, this image of him reaching for you in this landscape, and you think he deserves to be painted like this. With black charcoal and a little bit of soft carmine to eternalize the blush of his cheeks—the only trace of color in the sketchbook. Your hands don’t know the art of drawing, but your heart does and while you take those necessary steps towards him, you feel the scratches of that dark pencil over that grainy flesh. 

His palms find your curves and you consider it unbelievable, the fact he’s still so big, despite the size of the stool and the height of your heels. No matter how much taller you grow, he’ll always be that tower that protects you from the blazing heat of the sun. 

He’s the epitome of autumn. No longer a boy, but a man, whose lungs are perfumed by apples, leaves, cinnamon, pumpkin spice and the slight iciness of the seasonal wind. Whose eyes witnessed the growth of your form since you were a little girl with two long braids. 

Childhood best friends turned to lovers, favored by the hanging, twinkling stars. 

You always saw him the most in autumn. Chasing you down during festivities that your mom couldn’t not be a part of, grabbing a hold of one of your braided pigtails with his already long fingers, then tickling you until you gave up. Ever so easy to catch because of the length of your hair. You knew, even as a little girl, that he was not just a part of your life, but your life itself. More than a companion, more than a friend. You dreamed about having his babies and that dream would come to life through your imagination whenever he would chase you down, years later, in the grand halls of the east wing of his grandiose family home, where nobody ever comes, just to steal a kiss or two. It was the moment you realized that you were no longer kids, even though you acted as such, but that you desired little legs to follow you in the fun of it all. 

And that kiss changed every autumn from that year on.

Stolen glances, the blush of cheeks, quivering fingers that no longer grabbed your braids. Not until many autumns later. You gave him your everything, every bit of your newly-bloomed femininity, your dream of having his babies and he folded it into the vinyls of his favorite jazz music that he would play every night whenever he needed inspiration or whenever he simply needed you. 

Newly. Not just yet as adults and no longer as kids. Somewhere in between. 

And then the duties of adulthood came. The natural process of drifting apart settled between your bodies and you no longer played in the stage between. Taehyung, the saxophone-playing jazz singer, moving foreign bodies into his personal, heart-sung rhythm. Not yours, never yours for a long time. You, working a day job that never paid enough, not for the dresses you yearned to wear at those clubs he would play at. 

But what you didn’t know was that drifting apart meant coming together eventually. 

He might have become your Turnip Head, silent and distant, but you were Sophie—and you found him. You found him while looking for something, or someone for the lack of better words, and he helped you. Over a cup of coffee he didn’t drink, at a jazz bar you always wanted to come to. Your date was a hit and miss and the guy never came, and your Turnip Head didn’t help you find your Howl. 

He helped you find himself. And from that moment on, you never drifted apart again. 

Who would’ve thought that seeking a relationship that did not resemble your dream nor your childhood would make you find him all over again. 

In autumn, too. 

Taehyung paid for your dresses, your female suits, paid for your drinks. Kissed you underneath those dimmed, brown lights before he went off to play songs that moved your body at last. Dancing alone to his songs was your dream come true until he set down his saxophone and joined you. Let his band mates play his favorite Etta James song as he took your hand and drifted upon the dance floor with you. Those who danced before this song sat down, let you have this opportunity for yourself, and Taehyung kissed you, after a long time, after many autumns had passed, right then and there. 

And both of you realized that you could never drift apart again. You could only drift together. 

You moved in together. He bought you tulips of every possible hue every week. Played you his new songs for you on the saxophone. Took you to art galleries. Took you sightseeing, sometimes alone with you, sometimes with Jimin joining you. Shared your dream about having babies with you and talked about it all the time. Tried it out, seized it many times, though the outcome both of you desired never came. Had a beautiful life with you until…

Until he thinned out into his Turnip Head form and skipped away to fulfill his country duties. 

But he’s here. Oh, he’s here. Buff and big, apples, cinnamon and pumpkin spice. Brown eyes that carry the memory of your growth, hands that clutch your hips and that hold the silky memory of your still long braids. Hands that edge around your slightly, barely puffy tummy and that don’t know that you are with a concoction of a small him and you, a divine magical realism, a dream that came true without his knowledge right after the last hours of his military vacation were up and he had to go back to serve the country. 

The reason behind this fun day. 

The day of his second vacation, the day you tell him. 

“You look just like me,” he breathes, the width of his smile never lessening, hands skipping over the space between your hips and your arms and grabbing your hands. It gets to you still, the way his eyes never look up at you, the way they never have, and you feel so sweetly small. Even more so when Taehyung stands to his feet and slides his suit jacket over your shoulders. You become even smaller, a fawn taken care of. A pregnant fawn. “And now you are me.” 

Oh, he doesn’t know just how much. Not yet. 

He sits back down and gently pushes you to take a step back. On wavering feet, like that freshly-born fawn, you waver on your feet, but Taehyung keeps you stable, leaning forward to make sure you’ve caught your balance. A wisp of his dark hair falls over his eye that he, at last, flicks up at you. And the sensation from it, it is nothing that you ever felt before. 

It is a step forward. 

It’s something that tells you: go ahead. 

You planned to tell him at the jazz bar where he kissed you for the first time as an adult and made you his. But now, now it feels more than right, amidst this strange newness that you don’t think you’ll ever experience again. 

You open your mouth, brace yourself, but Taehyung is faster. Ringing fills your ears, the atmosphere around you feels gooey—as if you’re walking through a limbo. 

“Jimin will meet us at the park.” 

Oh, yes. Walk in the park, a warm drink to go, then the jazz bar. Jimin is having his military break as well, about to sing in Taehyung’s honor, you already knew this, knew he would join you, but being in the presence of your boyfriend, the detail slipped out. 

The newness leaves. Taehyung straightens. Towers over you. The normalcy flattens over the chemistry between you and him, the atmosphere lessening to feathery lightness and when you move your arms to give back his jacket, your arms feel as though they’re not your own. 

Your smile falls. 

Jazz bar it is. 

“We should go,” you prompt, turning around, having all the balance in the world as you go fetch your purse and reapply your red lipstick. 

Taehyung watches you in the mirror, his boxy grin on eternal display, warming your heart. You think about how you can’t wait until his baby witnesses that smile for the first time—and wonder if God is molding, at this very hour, the same one upon their little face. It brings tears to your eyes, ones that you quickly blink away, and instead you focus on lining your lips with the tip of the lipstick with utmost precision. 

In your vast collection of lip liners, you don’t have a red one. Truth be told, you always feared this vibrant color. It represented a stigma you never liked—that only promiscuous women wear that color, but to you it was never that. 

It was a color that meant you lose your girlhood, your childhood upon wearing. 

And now, it is a color that announces the next era of your life: adulthood, but different, painted with motherly instincts that are of these vibrant hues. Womanhood. No longer fearful, but brave. 

Right. 

You want your baby to connect this color to you and know that you made it. You waited your whole life for their father and gave it to him in one of the autumns as a child. Without knowing, without realizing. 

That color is a legacy. 

As if he could hear your thoughts, Taehyung kisses the back of your head, halting your motions. Wraps his arms around you as he props his chin on the place he kissed—and right here, right now, you’re looking at a family portrait in the mirror. 

A living, breathing one. With lifting chests in tandem, growing smiles and a growing baby in your womb. 

Magical realism in full effect. 

And then Taehyung is off to fetch your trench coat, holding it up for your arms to slip inside its sleeves. Grabs your hand and revels in the autumn weather outside, boxy smile never faltering. Sings in the car on the way to the park, makes eye contact as he mouths the lyrics—kiss me once and kiss me twice, then kiss me once again, it’s been a long, long time—because he could never sing over that part. It’s too precious to his heart for him to do so. 

The wind accompanies you and grabs your other hand as you walk down the pathway lined with half-barren trees and a still pond. Taehyung hums the Bing Crosby song that seems to be playing on loop within his mind and it is the only greenery that spreads around through his husky voice. All else—the pond, the trees and the last of their leaves that dance around you, the shrubberies and the clouds up above—are smeared with sullen blues and grays, to which Taehyung is everlastingly immune. 

Jimin is standing by an antique coffee stand, dressed to the nines in an outfit he most definitely must be cold in. Black dress pants with a jacket that stuns you. A matching Hussar one, with golden braiding. A military piece of clothing from another time. You think it suits the fun day quite delightfully, but not as much as it suits him. The golden detail goes hand in hand with his golden hair and you think he needs his picture taken. 

“Jimin!” you call out, making his confused little face turn in your direction, and he swivels his body to face you altogether. He holds two cups of coffee in both of his hands, one for him and one for you. You melt at that and look up at Taehyung to see his boxy smile ever so frozen and beautiful, pointed at his best friend. 

When you reach him, he hugs you. His cold skin stings you and you quickly warm him up with rubbing motions against his back. Scrunch your brows in puzzlement when he doesn’t hug Taehyung nor even look at him. 

But all is swept away when Jimin exclaims in discomfort and takes a rapid sip of his boiling drink. 

“Jimin, where’s your coat?” you ask him in pity, watching him shake and moan in pain once he burns his tongue. He uses the cup to warm up both of his hands. 

“I didn’t think Paris would be so cold in October,” he explains in a hushed, livid tone, drawing the rim of the paper cup back to his lips as if he didn’t learn his lesson. Typical Jimin. “But this outfit is for Taehyung anyways, so I’ll survive.” 

He talks of him but he doesn’t look at him. Makes heart eyes at the misting coffee, instead. Like Taehyung isn’t here at all. 

Strange. 

You shake off the thought. 

“Go stand by the pond before you freeze. I want to take a picture of you,” you say, softly, pulling your phone out of your purse. Glancing up, you expect Jimin to be ready with his pose, but he’s looking at you as if you said the most outrageous thing in the world. Eyes wide, mouth downturned in horror. You laugh and place a hand on his arm. “Go, Jimin. This is a special day and special days ask for special pictures.” 

Jimin sighs and nods, despite the fact he doesn’t really look like he wants to do it. 

“Fine, but I’m keeping the coffee in my hand.” 

Your tender laughter prolongs. “Fair enough. Go pose with your little heat pack.” 

Gazing out at the pond, Taehyung is already standing there. With his brown coat over his gray suit, he coalesces with the autumnal scenery and you think he belongs there. That a statue should be made of him right where his feet are planted, for people to remember and appreciate his beauty. You snap a few pictures of him before Jimin makes his way towards the stone bannister and stops right in front of Taehyung, who towers over him. Jimin lifts his cup and smiles a little tight smile, the mist from his coffee eclipsing over him like a soft fog. Switching to portrait mode, Taehyung is gone by the time your screen clears out and shows Jimin by his lonesome self, setting his coffee cup down on the bannister and turning around for some dramatic, aesthetic shots. Taehyung laughs in your ear, catches your slipping purse and places it back on your shoulder, and what he says next gives your life a whole new meaning. 

“Jimin is cute, but he’s strong and sane enough to protect you while I’m gone.”

You pivot back, piercing your sight right through him, not believing those words were just flung out of him like that. Taehyung never mentioned you having a protector while being in the military and even the whole concept of it confuses you even deeper as Jimin is serving as well. He might not be in the special forces like your boyfriend is, but he’s serving nonetheless. The systems are the same, no matter the department. 

Before you can ask him what he meant by that, the sing-song tone of Jimin’s voice reaches you. He calls out your name with a bit of alarm. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You gaze back and meet his eyes in full motion—he’s already taking long steps towards you and grabbing your arm, taking your confusion to another level.  

“What happened?” he asks, his pupils thin dots that ripple through your skin with stiff, panicky electroshocks. You glance back at Taehyung to discover that he’s not standing behind you at all, but behind Jimin, clutching his shoulder. 

You blink. “Nothing.” 

Jimin lets go of your arm and inhales the autumnal air. The pond, suddenly, heaves. 

“Let’s go somewhere warm,” Jimin suggests and you agree with him with a nod of your head. Pinpricks of iciness kisses your fingertips, despite the fact you’re still holding your own cup of coffee that Jimin bought you. 

A strange feeling seizes you. 

The jazz bar is an embrace of snug heat that embraces your womb first before greeting the rest of your body. You can’t help but to touch your baby, say to her in your heart: this is your Daddy’s most favorite place in the whole wide world. And the feeling is so surreal that it washes away the strange sensation that clung to you so heavily. 

You’re the first customers to come. Jimin sighs in absolute relief and he’s standing in the middle of the dance floor, frozen in time, as he lets the warmth of the place defrost his bones. Your cup of coffee was long finished and discharged; Jimin’s drank his in long sips that took seconds to finish, too, and the whole ordeal was so funny to you that it’s given you a sense of lightness that you needed. 

Taehyung hasn’t spoken a word since you left your apartment. 

He sits at the bar stool like he sat in your shared bedroom. One leg propped on the footrest while the other is relaxed on the floor, one hand folded on the apex of his thigh, the other drumming on the bar while the band he doesn’t know is rehearsing their instruments. You take a seat right beside him and feel like the parents you’re about to become. Sophisticated, classical, sublime. 

The pretentious kind, but in a good way. 

That thought makes you smile softly until the bartender asks you if you’d like anything. You politely decline her, even though you’d love a glass of wine with the daddy to be beside you. You can’t drink, not for many months to come. You wait for her to ask Taehyung the same question, but she doesn’t even lift her eyes to his direction. She wipes down the wood of the bar and leaps away. 

Nobody fucking asks Taehyung anything. 

Amidst a hearty guitar strumming solo, Jimin notices the furrow of your brows, the downturned pout of your mouth that opens to ask Taehyung about the strangeness that keeps occurring today. But before you get the words out, Jimin calls out your name into the microphone, the vowels made sweet by the sound of his princely voice. He stands with the band behind his back, his Hussar jacket exquisitely fitting the dimmed background. He holds out his hand for you, a poignant glint perched on top of his irises, and he flattens his puffy, pink lips. 

“Don’t be sad. Tonight is for Taehyung and all sadness is prohibited,” he says with his feigned announcer articulations, the corners of his mouth rounding in a similar manner to yours, in sympathy. “We will have to kindly ask you to leave if you proceed in your sadness. Please, join me here.” 

You roll your eyes, but the smile gracing your features couldn’t be erased even with the force of the whole wide world. You stand to your feet and paddle your way to him, the heels of your stilettos clicking on the worn parquets. Jimin gives you a soft grin and places his microphone down, meeting you halfway on the dance floor and taking your hand. 

It is when he begins to sing, just for you, that you perceive that the instrumental song the guitarist played is one, which is contained in one of Taehyung’s vinyls. The ones he would play in the darkest of nights and sing the lyrics to your bare body. Tears prick your waterline when Jimin guides you into a gentle slow dance while maintaining the tones of the song with utmost perfection. 

And Taehyung is carried in every languid motion and in every vocal cord that is strained upon this hour in his honor. 

I’m in the mood for love, simply because you’re near me…

You gaze back at Taehyung, who sits still and smiles his boxy smile. Frozen and beautiful, but unbreathing. 

Still and unbreathing. 

Frozen. 

You halt your movements. 

Jimin stops the dance, ends the song with a deep hum that pulses through you along with the notion that something isn’t right, but very, very wrong. 

“I wish Taehyung were here,” Jimin says with a deep sigh, holding both of your hands, and an uncanny, perplexing feeling constricts your throat. 

Your breath shivers, vision blurry. “But he is here.” 

Jimin lets go of your hands and you lament his touch. You need to be touched because you feel yourself shrinking into a fawn most vulnerable that doesn’t know what’s real anymore. A fawn just born, pathetically ignorant of the world and of her loved ones.

“I know, but I wish he were here for real.” 

A cold sweat drips down your spine, paralyzing you. Your constricted throat dries up like a well and you can’t swallow. You can’t think, you can’t blink—your lungs can’t lift to inhale any air and they mirror Taehyung’s still ones, unbreathing. 

It is a surprise to you, the question that flows out of you. 

“Jimin, who is sitting at the bar?” 

A wrinkle forms between his brows as he sweeps his gaze over all those bar stools and doesn’t linger at the occupied space that you know is there. A perturbing energy thuds in his eyes once he returns them to yours, and that alarming potency in him rises once again. 

“Who do you see there?” he asks, carefully, leaving his mouth parted as he anticipates your answer. 

You peer back behind you and don’t find any bar stools occupied. Not single one. 

No Taehyung, smiling his boxy smile. 

No Taehyung behind Jimin. 

No Taehyung behind you. 

A sob rumbles out of you in unison with your realization that you were, indeed, very wrong. You catch your sob, covering your mouth with your fingers as your tears spurt down onto your cheeks. 

And then the memories arrive, the reality.

But Jimin ceases their flow with the warmth of his even more careful question. 

“Did you see him at the park, too?” 

You can only nod, but you can’t look at him. You stare at nothing in particular and it seems that what Jimin has ceased, he allows to stream through the pond of your thoughts, accompanied by his vocalized truth. 

“Taehyung isn’t here. He should’ve been here with us, but he had to go to North Korea. There was a conflict, remember? You know this.” 

Taehyung’s apologetic text message appears before your eyes. The letter that came first before his phone call, where he explained to you that he can’t have his vacation and visit you because he has to go and save his country. The real, known reason between the pair of you and Jimin behind this fun day. To honor Taehyung for what he’s doing. The day you wanted to share, as well, that you were pregnant. 

The aloneness has gotten to you, helped by your blessed state. Confused your mind to the point that you imagined him here when he’s not here at all. 

Jimin calls your name and you glance at him. Perhaps he can see the truth dawning on you by the way pity twists his features. He caresses your arm and leaves his hand there, his heat locking in the realization. 

“What has happened to you?” 

Another onrush of tears clouds your vision. Your spine bends. And you can’t. 

You can’t not tell him. You can’t keep it in. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

Jimin’s eyes widen and it merely takes him a second to envelop you in his embrace. He coos your name, rubs your back, a whimper resonates in his chest against yours as he holds back his tears. The music falls into nothingness—and nothing is said for a time that appears to be as long as the season of autumn. 

And then, somehow, you’re outside of the jazz club, sitting on Jimin’s Hussar jacket that he put down on the cold ground for you beside him. And the silence continues until it doesn’t. 

“Does he know?” he asks, and you feel his irises gliding across the side of your face that you cannot turn. 

It’s you who’s frozen this time. 

Still and unbreathing. 

With no smiling Taehyung at your hip. 

“I wanted to tell him tonight,” you say, quietly, with your hands helplessly in your lap. “On the day of his vacation that he looked forward to.” 

Jimin sighs, the sound full of that terrible pity. “How far along are you?” 

It’s a question that brings life to your numb hands and you take them to your belly. 

“Three months.” 

A beat of silence. 

You fondle your growing baby. Jimin seems to be watching you, considering his following words, but you fear to move your eyes. Lift them in expectation to see Taehyung only to meet the half-barren trees and the leaves on the ground that have absurdly regained their vivid colors. 

Lift them to look at Jimin and meet the outcome of your autumn-long aloneness. 

“He’ll be back in a month and I’ll talk to the Sergeant and offer my own vacation. I’ll give it up so you can see him and tell him.” 

A sob lodges itself in your throat and you tilt to the side, leaning your head on Jimin’s shoulder. He, in response, leans his against yours. 

“I don’t think your Sergeant will even hear you out,” you say, humorlessly, your personal pain still prickling the flesh of your heart. 

But then Taehyung’s words wash over you. 

Jimin is cute, but he’s strong and sane enough to protect you while I’m gone.

Jimin, Taehyung’s best friend, who’s been there for him through thick and thin, long before you came into the picture. Jimin, who stuck by your side when sightseeing, and took your pictures. Who devoured dinners with you and drank a whole bottle of liquor with you when Taehyung abstained. 

Jimin, your best friend, too. 

“Will you be here for me while he’s gone?” you ask, the sob in your throat enlarging, preventing you from speaking, but you push through. “So I won't get delusional again?” 

Jimin takes your hand in his, squeezing it firmly in your lap, his thumb brushing over your little, half-swollen belly. 

“It’s the least I can do. Let’s get you home.” 

And he does. 

He calls a cab. Walks with you up the stairs, lingers at the door, watches you take off your heels—watches the comprehension of this day being anything but fun take form on your face and posture, and he hugs you. Reassures you that he will be here the whole week until his vacation is over, and even long after that. 

And you nod. Thank him. Turn your head away when he clicks the door shut behind him. Walk over to the window and stifle your tears when you see him head over to the liquor store in front of your apartment and leave with a bottle of spirits hanging from his fingertips. 

And the tears rush out, despite your efforts, when your gaze cascades down onto the windowsill and onto the vase, where white wine-doused tulips stooped in yearning for Taehyung’s touch a few hours ago. 

They aren’t stooping. They’re flaccid, dead and withered. Like the fun day you prepared.

Because Taehyung hasn’t bought any newly blooming tulips in a long while. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

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BACK to masterlist | read part two

[moonsgemini]

dress - rafe cameron

summary: she’ll always wish she could enjoy the midsummer’s celebrations instead of working at it, but her secret moments with the kook prince make the bad tips worth it

warnings: rafe x pogue!reader, typical classist stuff but not from rafe, fluff, angst, mutual pining, alcohol, kissing

wc: 3.5k

an: this is based off of dress by taylor swift but my own interpretation of it I guess. If you guys want a pt. 2 with smut let me knoooow, I’m such a s!ut for rafe cameron pleaaaase

our secret moments in a crowded room, they got no idea about me and you

Midsummer was probably her least favorite day of summer. You’d think that being a bartender on the day that the whole figure eight came to the country club would bring in lots of tips right? Well wrong. During midsummer’s the drinks were complimentary and there was just a tip jar for cash tips. Kooks don’t usually carry around cash, or really tip for that matter. Also seeing all the kooks dressed in their pretty dresses and cute flower crowns made y/n go green with jealousy. She desperately wished she could attend as a guest and get to dress up and enjoy the food. Y/n would be dreading this shift if she didn’t have something to look forward to.

She had looked over herself in the mirror a million times, making sure her dress still looked as good on her as it did in the dressing room mirror yesterday. The tag was securely tucked into her side because she may have run up her credit card to be able to afford it so she had to return it after. Bartenders didn’t have as strict as a uniform as the waiters did. Her manager allowing them to wear black dresses for the night, and of course she was going to jump at the opportunity to wear something nicer than her boxy polo uniform and tennis skirt.

Her makeup and hair had been done to the best of her ability, without it seeming like she was trying too hard. Y/n would never admit to any of her friends or family that she was dressed up in order to impress a certain kook prince. The same kook prince she had spent months crushing on, and he never helped make the crush go away because he would shamelessly flirt with her every time he was at the country club. It was more like banter, she had a feeling he never really meant anything he said. But it felt so good to feel wanted.

When Rafe would see her around the outer banks he would smirk at her or give her a nod as to say hi. At parties sometimes he’d go up to her and make some small conversation. Teasing her about what drink she had or making sure that she didn’t give her number to that guy that was flirting with her. They’d be making conversation and she would take a step towards him wanting nothing more than to be wrapped in his arms and his scent. But then her friends would come and think they were saving her from the kook prince and pull her away, sending a glare Rafe’s way. She’s look back at him apologetically and he’d just give her a tight lipped smile and walk to the other side of the party.

Rafe really liked her, he liked making her laugh and smile. He wished he could make her quit her job and just come live with him, he’d take care of her. She’d never have to worry about bills or rent ever again. His friends always made fun of him for flirting with a pogue but he didn’t care. They’d say he was scraping the bottom of the barrel, that he had already gone through all the girls from figure eight so now he was entertaining a pogue. Rafe never let them get away with their jokes. He’d glare at them and punch them in the arm or kick them in the shin. He’d defend her honor saying she’s different and she’s a better friend than they’ll ever be.

All Rafe could do was think about her while he was getting ready. He knew she’d be there and he wanted to look extra nice. Tonight felt like the night he would actually ask her out. Y/n was a good listener, she was always there for him. At first he thought it was just because she was stuck behind the bar so she had to listen to him, but then he’d see her at parties and she still had that look in her eyes. That look that she was listening to him, actually listening to him. He felt like he was on a cloud with the way she looked at him like he was the most important thing in the world.

When she arrived to the country club she started getting all her things ready, the guests would start arriving in a few minutes. Stocking up on scotch and the best wines, she knew those would be the popular drinks tonight. As she worked diligently her mind wandered to Rafe, like it always did.

She wondered if he’d be the same as always despite his family being here. She wanted nothing more than to spend the night with him, but not while she served him drinks. She wanted to dance with him and drink with him, and then go home together at the end of the night.

Guests had started arriving, her eyes looking out for the dirty blonde. She was so excited and a bit anxious to see him all dressed up, knowing he’d look extra handsome. An hour had passed and she still hadn’t seen him. The country club was now filled with kooks and her tip jar only filled with about $20 when she’s certain she’s made twenty martinis and poured just as many scotch’s.

As she was handing Mrs.Weatherby her glass of merlot smiling at the older woman her eyes caught her favorite blue ones. Rafe stood across the room with Kelce and Topper. He wasn’t paying any attention to what Topper was saying as he watching y/n from across the room. When their eyes met a lopsided smile formed on his lips. Her cheeks felt hot as he looked her up and down, as much as he could despite the bar being in the way.

Y/n begged with her eyes for him to come over, to save her from the boring night. He knew her better than she thought as he started walking over, saying something to the guys that he’d be back. But as he was crossing the room his dad stepped in front of him.

Ward put a hand on his son’s shoulder, “Rafe please, don’t start drinking yet. This is supposed to be a nice night okay? Lets take it slow.” He turned him around to walk out toward the patio.

“Yeah sure dad.” He muttered not wanting to make a scene. He followed him out but looked behind him to catch the eyes of the girl he was infatuated with.

His heart sank a little as he saw her bright eyes dull a little with sadness. She tried her best to put on a smile and not show her disappointment but he knew her better than she thought. Ward had no idea of Rafe’s crush and even if he did he probably wouldn’t care. He’d probably be disappointed in his son for liking someone like her, then he’d tell him that she probably only wants him for his trust.

all of this silence & patience, pining & anticipating, my hands are shaking from holding back from you

The first few hours of the night their eyes just met, hers pleading him to come over and talk to her. Give her something to think about tonight before she went to bed. His eyes begged her to forgive him for not giving her the attention she deserved, especially in that dress. He hoped that she wore it just for him, it made her look ethereal. Rafe’s legs ached from trying to stop himself from walking over and kissing her with everything he had.

As the night went on she was always on his mind. He hated this stupid midsummer’s stuff, mostly because he couldn’t share it with the one person he wanted. It was filled with snobby people and teenager’s getting drunk on booze they had snuck in.

Rafe kept getting stuck in conversations with his dad’s colleagues, Ward wanting him to be more involved in the business. Or he’d be with Topper, Kelce, and some other guys having a meaningless conversation about lacrosse or surfing. Whenever he got the chance he’d look over at her and she’d have a smile on her face handing some old dude a drink. He knew it wasn’t her real smile, then her eyes would look over at him and that’s when her real smile would come out.

“Uh I’m gonna get a drink,” Rafe said trying to excuse himself from his friends. His dad would be fine with him having a drink now, it’s been three hours since the night started. Three hours of his fingers tingling with the want of tucking that hair that kept falling in her face behind her ear.

“I’ll go with you dude. I need a refill,” Topper said holding up his empty glass. Rafe held in the urge to roll his eyes, he wanted to go alone.

y/n was wiping down the bar when they approached. She looked up meeting eyes with her favorite boy, but then she looked over to his left and their Topper was

“What can I get you guys?” She asked looking between them, smiling at Rafe.

“Long island,” Topper said placing his empty glass down.

“Can I get a rum and coke please?” Rafe asked, resting his hands on the bar.

“Of course,” she nodded with a grin.

Rafe watched her as she prepared the drinks. Topper was trying to talk to him about who knows what, he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t pay attention even if he wanted to with that dress she had on. It fit her so perfectly, he wondered what it’d feel like under his hands. What it’d feel like to push it up as he touched the expanse of her thighs. Wondered what it’d feel like to hold her waist as he kissed her. If her skin was as soft as it looked.

“Bro you’re not even listening,” Topped said as he hit Rafe’s shoulder.

“Long island,” Y/n places the drink in front of him.

“You’re right I’m not.” Rafe rolled his eyes.

Topper took his drink without even thanking her, “Whatever dude I’m gonna find Sarah.” Finally Rafe was alone with his girl.

She placed his glass in front of him, “So where have you been all night?”

“Uh my dad didn’t want me to drink earlier,” He shrugged. He knew it was a half assed excuse.

“You don’t need to order a drink to come see me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, “I-I know but my dad thought that I was just coming over for a drink.”

She laughed bitterly not at Rafe but at the whole situation, “When I’m with you I forget I’m a uh pogue.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” He reached out to touch her lightly. She leaned into his touch slightly, yearning to feel anything from him.

Her manager walked in, “Y/n, take your fifteen.” Taking over he place behind the bar, Rafe pulled his hand away from her.

“Uh yeah,” She gave him a tight lipped smile before walking to the back room. Rafe sighed and walked back out to where his friends were.

if I get burned at least we were electrified, I’m spilling wine in the bath tub you kiss my face & we’re both drunk

Y/n stood in the back leaning against the wall. She hated this town. She hated the labels everyone put on each other, it made her life so much harder. It was so easy when she was around Rafe even if it was a few minutes at a time. But then there was always something that reminded her of who she was and where she came from. It was either Ward, her friends, Rafe’s friends, her bosses. Someone always had to remind her where she was and who she was.

She rolled her eyes at herself. She walked into the back, in search of a bottle of wine. She found one she thought she’d like, popping it open and pouring herself a glass. Y/n felt like she deserved it, especially after tonight. The night wasn’t going exactly as planned, so she might as well drink.

After three full glasses of red wine her break was over. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to drink while on the clock because now everything looked a little fuzzy.

“I’m back,” She slurred to her manager.

Lisa eyed her suspiciously, “Are you drunk?”

“No never,” She gave her a toothy grin trying to hide her tipsiness. The alcohol affecting her more and more as the seconds passed.

Lisa sighed, “Y/n you can’t be like this here right now. You know how bad this would look. If you get one of these jerk offs orders wrong and they smell that merlot on your breath they’ll have you banned.” Lisa tried her best to look out for the girl because she knew she didn’t have anyone that was looking out for her.

Her eyes watered at the thought of losing the only job she had been able to get on this whole island, “I-I can’t lose this job. I need this.”

Lisa sighed, “Go home. I’ll cover for you, and you can still keep the tips okay? Only because I care about you.”

Y/n sniffled bringing the older woman into a hug, “Thank you Lisa, I owe you.”

“Get home safe okay, call someone.” Lisa said rubbing her back. She walked (stumbled a bit) to the back to grab her bag.

even in my worst times you could see the best of me

Y/n didn’t know who to call, her friends were all at parties probably drinking as well. Her parents weren’t in her life. The one person who could help her had been watching her from across the room. Concern written all over his face. She looked at him with teary eyes and he was already taking long strides towards her. She met him halfway, the tag from her dress itching her side.

“Rafe,” Her voice was shaky as she hugged herself looking for some comfort. She knew this was all her fault, she shouldn’t have had that wine. She felt like she was always making mistakes like this.

Rafe’s hands held her face, “What happened? Did someone do something?” He asked with worry and a bit of anger. If one of these kooks made his girl cry they’d have him to deal with.

“No no I did something. I-I drank some wine on my break. I’m drunk Rafe and Lisa told me to go home. She um she said she’ll let me keep the tips today but uh can you take me h-home?” She asked barely taking a breath.

He brushed her hair back, “Hey breathe, I’ll take you home okay baby.”

“I’m sorry Rafe, I-I shouldn’t take you away. I feel so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. I’m glad I get to get away from this shit, especially if it’s with you.”

Ward had been watching the interaction from outside. He eyed as his son held the bar tender who he felt was trying to hard to look like she fit in with them, her dirty sneakers gave her away. In her defense you can’t really bartend in heels.

He walked over to them before they could leave, “Uh Rafe, what are you doing?” He didn’t spare a glance at the disheveled girl.

Rafe stood up straight, “I’m taking her home dad.”

“Who is this? The bartender? You can’t leave now. There’s still some guys I need to introduce you to.” He treated her like she was nothing.

“No dad I’m taking her home, this is more important.” Rafe wrapped his arm around her shoulders to lead her towards the exit.

Ward grabbed his arm as he tried to walk past him, “Don’t disappoint me son.”

He shrugged his shoulder to get him off, “You’ve made it clear plenty of times that it’s too late for that.”

They didn’t make a big scene but some people had been watching. They watched as the oldest Cameron led the girl outside, a pogue. Tomorrow word would spread all across the island just how cozy they were. Ward would berate Rafe about it but right now he didn’t care, he just wanted to get his girl away from everyone.

Y/n couldn’t believe Rafe had done that for her. He dropped everything for her, she really did feel like he was a prince.

only bought this dress so you could take it off

Rafe kept glancing over at her as he drove to her house. He was worried about her, she looked so sad and he hated seeing her sad. Her head was leaning agains the passenger window just looking out into the darkness.

“Sweetheart what’s wrong?” He finally asked breaking the silence.

She sighed looking over at him, “I feel like an idiot.”

“Why?”

“I put on this stupid dress that I can’t even afford and I got too drunk while I was working. I took you away from the party.” She shook her head at herself.

Rafe pulled into the driveway of her small house, her grandma had left it for her after she passed a few years ago. It was the perfect house for her but now she had to work overtime to keep up with bills.

“Lets talk once we get inside,” Rafe turned the car off and ran over to open her door.

They walked into her house, Rafe had never been there. This is the most time they’ve ever been able to spend alone, without anyone being able to interrupt them or pull them away from each other. He liked her house, it was very her. Warm lighting and pictures everywhere. She sat on the couch setting her bag onto the ground.

“You look amazing, this dress looks amazing on you.” He said as he sat next to her. She leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I wore this for you. I wanted to impress you, instead I embarrassed myself.” She closed her eyes thinking about the events of the night.

Rafe turned to her, “I would drop everything for you. I have been dying inside to spend this night with you.”

“Really?” She asked looking at him with stars in her eyes.

“Yes, baby. And this dress does look amazing on you. You look perfect. I’ve wanted you since the first day we met at the club.” He tucked her hair behind her ear.

Her face flushed at the compliments, “But why? I’m just me. I don’t have anything, I can’t even afford this dress. I’m just a bartender.”

He shook his head, “None of that shit matters to me. You actually listen to me and you care about me more than my shithead friends ever have. I only go to those stupid parties to see you.”

“Rafe, I care about you so much.”

He couldn’t take it anymore, he leaned forward and captured her lips with his. They were slightly swollen from the few tears she had shed earlier in the night. Her lips tasted like merlot she had downed. They moved in sync as if they had been doing this forever. He smelt like expensive cologne and she wanted to drown in it, she wanted to drown in him. His lips felt so good against hers, she had been dreaming about this moment for ages.

Her hands slid up his chest and into his hair. Pulling at the dirty blonde locks to encourage him. Rafe’s hands slid up and down her waist. Finally feeling the dress he had thought about all night. As the kiss grew more passionate he grabbed her hips and tugged her towards him. He pulled her to sit on his lap, her legs on either side of him. His fingers slowly slid up her thighs pushing her dress farther up, almost fully around her hips. Y/n’s thighs were just as soft as he imagined. His mind was racing with thoughts of everything he wanted to do to her.

The small whines that left her lips encouraged him to keep going. One hand moving behind her to give her ass a squeeze. He pulled away to press kisses against her neck making goosebumps rise on her skin. Her hands moving back and forth from tugging his hair to pulling at his blazer to get him impossibly closer.

“Baby,” He mumbled against her neck. She just hummed in return, too lost in the feeling of his lips on her. Tasting her like she’s always wanted him to.

“I want to keep going, but I know you’ve drank tonight. I want you to be be a hundred percent sober when I do everything I’ve always dreamed about doing to you,” He said looking up at her. He almost regretted his words and took her right then and there when he saw her swollen lips and hazy lust filled eyes.

She took a deep breath to get herself to focus. Her senses were overloaded on Rafe, “Okay, can you stay? Please?”

He leaned forward giving her another kiss, “Of course, I’ll always stay.”

[brattyfics]

Swampbound I

Adla had lived in Florida her whole life, yet the strange debris that washed ashore after storms still startled her. Broken tree limbs and splintered pieces of homes were expected, but today was different.

Tangled in seaweed, she spotted frantic turtle hatchlings, frogs, and crabs struggling to reclaim their place in the chaos. But nothing compared to the sight before her: a bloody, mangled deer carcass lying in the tall grass, torn flesh and fur clinging to shredded cloth.

Her instincts screamed at her to turn back, but curiosity pulled her closer. Kneeling down, she caught the metallic scent of blood, and a chill gripped her. Something violent had occurred.

A gator? No, they dragged their prey into the water. Maybe a hawk? But even a bird of prey wouldn’t leave this kind of mess. Could it be a bobcat? They prowled these swamps, opportunistic in their hunting. But as she examined the prints—large, wolf-like, and deeper than any she’d seen—her heart raced. Four parallel prints faded into something far stranger: two flatter, elongated impressions.

Like feet.

Human feet.

The footprints were far too big to be hers, and she knew she was alone out there. The air felt thick, the swamp unnaturally quiet, as if the world was holding its breath. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: “Never run from a person or an animal. Running makes you prey.”

She gripped her hunting knife, steadying her wrist, eyes scanning the brush for hidden dangers but there was nothing– no one hiding in the bushes, no animal stalking her. Just thick humidity, carrying the earthy scent of wet soil and decaying leaves. 

Time to head back.

As she treaded carefully over the spongy ground, the low rumble of an engine caught her attention. She hadn’t expected company—she rarely did. As a child, she’d hated the isolation of this place, but now it felt like a shield.

Rushing up the muddy incline, her boots kicked loose clumps of earth. At the porch of her old Cracker house, she leaned against the weathered wood, squinting down the overgrown path. A boxy, faded green Jeep Cherokee bounced along the uneven track.

Jesse Hampton. Of course.

He stepped out, scanning the trees before his gaze settled on her. His mahogany skin glistened under the humid sun, damp shirt clinging to his chest, hair wild from the moisture. Stubble covered his jaw—unusual for him but understandable after the chaos of the storm. Even so, he was as handsome as ever.

“Addy,” he called, voice steady but laced with urgency. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His gaze darted behind her, searching the shadows. “I know it seems all quiet and nice, but it ain’t safe.”

She rolled her eyes, not wanting to give him more reason to worry. “You’re soundin’ just like my father.”

Jesse’s expression tightened, something unspoken hanging between them. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Promise me you’ll be careful. You got a light in you that draws eyes—sometimes the wrong ones.”

His words hung heavy, and a flicker of fear flashed in her eyes. “You’re fussing over nothing. I’m just fine,” she shot back, but unease gnawed at her. Jesse knew something she didn’t.

“What you doing out here, anyway?” she asked, folding her arms.

“Do I need a reason?” he countered, flashing that charming smile of his.

“You always got a reason when you show up without warning. So, what’s the scoop this time?”

Jesse owned a busy convenience store in town but thrived on side hustles, always finding a way to get by. She admired his resourcefulness, but it was a reminder that he always had some angle he was working.

“Just wanted to check on you, see how you’re faring after the storm. But if I ain’t welcome…” He paused, putting on a mock-serious face. “I can just as easily turn right back around.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, turning away as she ascended the steps. “You say that every time, but you always wind up inside.” She shot him a teasing grin over her shoulder. “You don’t even bother asking to come in anymore.”

“After all the times I’ve been ‘round, why would I ask?” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a playful spark in his eye. “Sometimes late at night, if I remember right.”

Adla shook her head, heading toward the kitchen. “That ain’t the same thing, and you know it.”

She opened the fridge and grabbed a pitcher of cold water, pouring a glass and handing it to him. Their fingers brushed, igniting that familiar spark that always hung in the air between them.

“Why you gotta say it like that?” Jesse asked, his brow furrowing as he took a sip from his glass.

“‘Cause you gotta get it, Jesse,” Adla replied, picking her words with care. “I ain’t one for surprises. You should’ve let me know you were coming before just poppin’ up like this.” She forced a sweet smile, hoping to ease the sting. Before anything, he was her closest friend, and the last thing she wanted was to hurt him.

He leaned casually against the counter, a sly grin spreading across his face. Adla considered asking if he’d been snooping around her property—Jesse had a knack for being sneaky—but thought better of it. Questions would only lead to more questions.

“I thought I was special,” he inched closer, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Oh, really? Where’d you get that idea from?” She raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement.

“Just a hunch,” he said, tugging at a tight curl in her ponytail, the spiral bouncing back like a rubber band. He leaned in to whisper, “I figured if I play my cards right and keep doing that thing you like, I might get a little something in return.”

She fought to hold back a smile. “Like what exactly?”

“Ain’t askin’ for much. Just the freedom to come and go when I feel like it.” Jesse leaned in for a kiss, his lips hovering just shy of hers. Adla pushed against his broad chest, stopping him.

Jesse was fine as hell—fit, sharp, and always finding a way out of trouble. She liked being around him, sure, but no one—not even him—was about to think they had a hold on her. She ran her own life, and settling down wasn’t in the cards, especially when she knew other women were likely getting a taste of that same charm and quick thinking too.

“Nope, not a chance,” she said, playful but firm, shaking her head. “But since you’re already here, I could use your help with something.”

“Oh really?” he replied, his interest piqued. “What you need?”

“Help me set these traps and see what washed up after that storm,” she said, stealing a quick sip from his cup. She wanted to catch some crabs and fish to fill up her freezer, and the thought of going back into the woods alone made her uneasy.

“Aww, man,” he groaned dramatically. “I should’ve known coming over here meant I’d have to work. You’re a real slave driver, you know that?”

They settled into a rhythm, working side by side, their comfortable banter broken by the silence of the storm’s aftermath. They inspected her garden for damage while Jesse filled her in on town gossip—apparently, Mrs. Flowers had been caught in Mr. Jenkins’ house by Mr. Flowers. Uprooted mustard greens littered the ground as Adla pulled them up, but thankfully, the okra and sweet potatoes had weathered the storm. She just hoped the excess moisture wouldn’t lead to rot.

Moving on to the fishing nets and traps, they stumbled upon something concerning.

A mountain of fish heads littered the reeds where she usually set her traps, alongside crab shells stripped of their claws and backs. This wasn’t the typical damage—something worse lurked here, disturbingly messy and uncharacteristic of the area’s usual predators.

“What in the world?” Adla muttered, her heart racing as she scanned the ground for prints. “You think it was a gator?

“A gator wouldn’t leave pieces like this,” Jesse replied, his brow furrowing.

“Something else made this mess,” she finished, feeling her skin prickling as those unsettling feelings from earlier came rushing back. She described the strange prints and the shredded carcass she’d seen to Jesse, who listened closely, rubbing her shoulders to calm her down.

“You shouldn't be out here tonight, Addy. Why don’t you come stay with me?”

Apprehension settled in her gut about what the darkness might bring, but she couldn’t accept his offer. His grandmother’s old house might be just down the road, but it felt wrong to spend the night in another woman’s home—even if she had adored Adla.

Plus, sneaking around with Jesse where anyone could see was out of the question. She refused to give anyone the chance to stir up drama or question her independence. She couldn’t bear the thought of becoming the next Mrs. Flowers, her good name dragged through the mud for all who would listen.

“No one—and nothing—is going to run me out of my house,” she said, half to him, half to herself. This place was her sanctuary, the fruit of her struggles and her ancestors' labor. They had fought hard for this land, and she felt a fierce pride in maintaining it. Out in the wilderness, peace was something earned, not given. She would defend her home if it came to that.

“You don’t know what’s lurking out here, and you think it’s smart to be by yourself? That don’t make no sense, baby doll,” Jesse insisted, his usual persistence edged with urgency.

“Don't call me that. I’m not your ‘baby doll,’” she shot back, irritation flaring. She knew what was good for her better than anyone else ever could. Jesse had been testing her boundaries too much lately.

“I already told you—I’m staying. You should head out on out here before dark.”

“Don’t be like that—” he started, his voice smooth and sweet like molasses. Today, though, she wasn’t falling for it.

“Go on,” she said, stepping in close to block his path. “I’ll finish up and lock everything up tight, but I need you to leave now.”

Jesse met her eyes, noticing the resolve etched into her expression. Adla stood firm, arms crossed, one hip jutting out, her nose wrinkled just so. She had made up her mind, and he knew he’d already pushed her enough for one day.

“Alright, I’m on my way,” he agreed. “But you promise me you ain’t stepping outside tonight. Whatever you do, don’t go crossing that threshold.”

Adla frowned at his strange phrasing. “Why would I be out here? I ain’t foolish enough to roam around at night." His shoulders were knotted with tension. "What’s got you so riled up?”

“Just trust me on this,” he insisted, locking eyes with her, his expression serious. “You’ll be safe, no matter what, if you just stay inside tonight.”

Last she checked, danger didn’t give a damn about doors, windows, or any other barriers. But it was clear he wouldn’t leave until she agreed.

“Alright, fine,” she said, stretching out the words, “I’ll stay in tonight. Not like I was gonna be out and about anyway.”

“Good,” Jesse smiled, wrapping her up in his arms tight. “I’ll call you later, and you better pick up. If you don’t, I’ll be back, whether you want me to or not.” As he turned to leave, Adla couldn’t help but smile after him. Jesse could be a handful, but beneath his cool front, she knew he cared for her just as fiercely as she did for him. In the wild expanse of the Florida swamps, that bond meant everything.

He lingered in the driveway while she hurried to gather crab shells, tossing them into the compost bin—no sense letting them go to waste. He didn’t start his engine until she was safely inside with the door closed, waving goodbye from the street as she watched from the window.

After locking up, she sank into a well-deserved bubble bath, a sweet reward for a hard day’s work. The clawfoot tub, older than her but still in solid shape, had become a cherished fixture in her home. The bathroom, filled with the scent of incense and candles, wrapped around her like a familiar hug. After her father passed, her first goal had been to breathe life back into the old house, make it her own.

Reminders of him were everywhere—the doorframe where he marked her height on the first day of school, the cast-iron pans he used for dinner. But mostly, the house was hers now—weathered, yet undeniably new in its own way.

Her time in the city felt like a world away from the peace she found here. Juggling multiple jobs just to make ends meet, she was always surrounded by nosy neighbors and men who didn’t know how to take no for an answer. But the worst part was the stalker—a shadowy figure who slipped chilling notes under her apartment door. I know who you are. What you can do. It left her confused and drained, but she didn’t tuck tail and run back home until her father passed away.

The guilt of not being there at the end haunted her, so she kept busy. Her part-time job at the new bed-and-breakfast in town helped pay the bills, and on weekends, she sold her art—sculptures made from found objects—at a flea market a couple of towns over. Every spare moment was spent creating with her hands. Her life wasn’t glamorous, but the peace and was worth more than anything else.

“When You’re Young and in Love” by The Marvelettes played softly on the record player, one of her mother’s favorites. She couldn’t quite relate to the notion of being swept off her feet but it sounded good, romantic even. Her daddy had been left in pieces when her mama died, never even thinking about finding another. She yearned for a love that strong, but the idea also chilled her to the bone.

She had only a handful of pictures, but from those, Adla saw the resemblance. She inherited her father’s level-headed temperament, but her rich skin tone, flat nose, and wide, expressive eyes—all of that came from her mother. Those features made her feel close to the woman whose absence she felt deeply.

With a sigh, Adla rose from the cool water, wrapping a towel around her waist. Her earlier worries faded as she slathered on cocoa butter lotion and slipped into a floral-patterned cotton nightgown.

After her nighttime routine of checking the locks and lights, she settled in. The old wooden floors creaked softly underfoot—a comforting sound that added to the home’s charm.

Just as she was about to crawl into bed, faint sounds from outside caught her ear—rhythmic scraping and thumping carried on the wind. Strange noises weren’t rare out in the boonies, but this one sent a shiver down her spine. Something was different. She paused in the hallway, glancing toward the door.

A tug, almost physical, pulled her toward it, despite Jesse’s warnings. It was as if something—someone—was calling her, and the urge was too strong to ignore. 

The door creaked as she pushed it open. Through the screen, she squinted, trying to make sense of the dim shapes outside. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and in the cool moonlight, she saw it—something massive. A shadow loomed over the porch, too large to be any regular animal.

A knot twisted in her gut. It wasn’t a bobcat. This was more like a coyote—if coyotes were massive. No, this creature looked more like a wolf, except wolves didn’t roam Florida’s saltwater jungle.

Its amber eyes glowed like lanterns in the dark, locking onto hers with an intensity that left her feeling ice-cold. Jesse’s warnings echoed in her mind. Was this creature more than it seemed?

I know this fool ain’t lookin’ at me like I’m dinner. Adla squared her shoulders. “You don’t belong here,” she hollered, “Now, git! Get on outta here!”

The wolf growled low and deep, the frightening sound vibrating through the night air. It took a shaky step forward, and she noticed it was limping. A deep, ugly gash ran from its back down to its hind leg, blood darkening the wooden porch.

She didn’t move. Something about the creature—its pain, its presence—held her still. It was more than an injured beast. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt rooted to the spot.

A wave of instinct surged through her, a primal warning that clashed with her fear.

“Don’t you dare come any closer!” she warned, reaching for the shotgun above the door, her gaze locked on the approaching creature. She raised the gun, aiming through the screen, her finger on the trigger.

If it took just one more step forward—

The wolf paused at the door’s edge, held back by something unseen, something stronger than the flimsy screen. Her eyes flicked to the threshold, recalling Jesse’s cryptic words about things not crossing certain lines.

This was it. A choice. But Adla hesitated, her finger hovering over the trigger. She couldn’t pull it.

The wolf whined, collapsing in a heap at her feet, its strength giving out. Its amber eyes, still glowing, held no aggression—only a silent plea. The sight tugged at something deep inside her, stirring memories of her own struggles.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind: “Respect the creatures out here, just like you respect yourself. Life’s tough enough without us makin’ it harder on each other.”

Adla sighed, lowering the shotgun. The wolf’s blood was already drying on the porch. Tomorrow, she’d scrub it clean, but for tonight, she’d let the creature stay. She hoped it would make it through the night.

After triple-checking the locks, she placed the shotgun within arm’s reach and settled into bed, the creaking floorboards beneath her a familiar lullaby. Yet, the strange pull toward the wolf lingered in her mind. Maybe it wasn’t just an animal, but something deeper—a reflection of her own struggles, a sign from her father. Whatever it was, she’d reckon with it tomorrow. For now, she surrendered to sleep, trusting that both she and the wolf would survive the night.

Chapter Two.

@nayaesworld @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @sageispunk @megamindsecretlair @blowmymbackout @kindofaintrovert @avoidthings @zillasvilla @insidefeelingofanadult @theereina @slutsareteacherstoo @babybratzmaraj @senajaiaspeak @princessmakipala @writingsbytee @planetblaque @liquorlaughslove @judymfmoody @playgurlxoxo @theescorpiolovechile @keyaho @gg-trini i @vivaalenaa @li-da-savage @ash-ketchumzzz

[saturnhani]

saturn.

content: leehan x gender neutral reader. word count: 695 words naia's notes: hello... this is incredibly nerve wracking for some reason and I apologise if it's not great, this is just a little stream of consciousness I wrote when I was just feeling ... so much love for Leehan... it's short, but I hope it's good enough ><!!

Everyday feels the same. You wake up at 6:30 in the morning, willing yourself to get out of bed. To clean yourself up, to get dressed. To eat something just so you don’t pass out halfway through the day. To go to work. Everything feels the same. 

The sound of dead leaves crunching under the soles of your shoes as you walk your usual route has become white noise to you. You used to step around the piles of dead leaves that accumulated by the sidewalk, but now you just plunge your feet right into them, left after right, right after left. The beeping of bus cards being tapped in and out, people alighting and boarding the bus. The sound of the bus’ bell at every stop. Everything feels the same. 

What a moral, emotional dilemma it is. You’re not unhappy. You have a well paying job, a roof over your head, the means to splurge on yourself every now and then. You’re not unhappy. You’re just … bored. Everything feels the same, everyday feels the same.

Well… maybe not everything. 

“Darling,” Leehan’s voice, low and deep, familiar and warm, breaks you out of your bored daze. You can hear the smile in his tone of voice before you see it. The mental image of the way his eyes crinkle at the sides, his boxy smile making his whole face beam ⎯ it’s enough to pull a smile of your own as well. 

Your steps become lighter as you cross the road, like you’re physically stepping into a brighter, happier place. How could you not feel this way, when Leehan looks at you so gently and warmly, like you’re the most delicate lotus blooming in the dull, mundane waters. You meet him with a smile, your earlier exhaustion melting away the moment he wraps you in his arms, cocooning you in warmth and love. “Missed you, Hanie,” you mumble, wrapping your own arms around his neck. You hear and feel him chuckle, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly against yours. 

“You saw me yesterday, love,” he quips softly as he pulls away, letting his hand drop from the small of your back to your hand, lacing your fingers together. You look up at him with an incredulous giggle. You wonder if Leehan would ever understand your heart ⎯ and the way that it seems to beat just for him. 

“I know, I know… I just… you recharge me,” you tighten your grip on his hand, feeling his pulse thumping softly against yours from between your intertwined fingers. The taller boy seems to light up at your words, clearly enthused by how fondly you think of him. “You recharge me too, darling,” he smiles at you, and you feel like a star itself had dropped from the sky, kissing you so gently on the nose. 

Maybe Leehan would never understand it ⎯ your small heart, and the immense love it carries for him. But as you walk hand in hand, the weight of your shoes crunching so satisfyingly into the dead leaves piled up on the sidewalk, you think that it’s alright if he doesn’t. After all, how could you ever put it into words ⎯ the way he lights up your world, like a soothing balm to all the mundane routines and cycles you go through daily. 

Leehan animatedly tells you about some new decor he put in his fish tank, his hands moving in tandem with every particularly excitable detail of his story. You could never put it into words, how much you love this boy ⎯ even with how bleak and boring some days feel, you know that none of it matters when you’re with him. The sound of your alarm every morning, the dead leaves, the incessant beeping on the morning bus ride. All of it just melts away, with every boisterous laugh that leaves his plump lips, every kiss that he plants so lovingly on your knuckles. Everything feels the same, sometimes; other times, Leehan is there, in all his odd, shining glory, and you think that maybe, the bleak, boring days are worth going through if it means having bright, sparkling moments like this with him. 

[goldenraeofsun]

Day 4: Hallucinations

Damian stares down at his hands, caked with dried blood. The horribly familiar scent of iron tickles his nose and makes his stomach churn. His head pounds. 

“Robin?” 

Damian jerks his head up, and his vision swims. He struggles to focus on the newcomer, a middle aged man in a boxy brown suit. Wire-rimmed glasses sit low on his nose, and he pushes them back on his face twice in the time it takes to enter Damian’s cell and take a seat at the lone table across from his bare cot. The man carries a clipboard and wears an ID badge that takes too much concentration for Damian to read, so he doesn’t.

“Do you remember me?”

“No,” Damian says, his voice cracking on the single syllable. He coughs, holding back a wince as his dry throat protests. But he can’t show weakness, not when he has no idea where he is, what he is doing here, or where his family is.

“That’s alright,” the man says. He sets something tall and clear-colored on the table. “We had to sedate you for your … the staff. I’m Dr. Vanne, the … we met last … if you don’t remember, you were … distraught.”

Damian blinks at him, catching every third word he says. “I understand,” he says untruthfully.

The man – Dr. Vanne? – nods. “You’ve been through … with Batman … harrowing for … let alone a child.”

Damian shakes his head, trying to clear it to focus. It’s ineffectual, but he needs to stay as awake and alert as he can. Only bits and pieces of the night before come back to him, a swish of a cape, the crack of a door splintering open, flickering lights. “Batman?” he asks. “Where is Batman?”

Richard will be able to explain everything. He’ll tell Damian why he’s in this cell, why he has none of his usual weapons, why he’s only wearing a mask and a hospital gown. He just needs to contact Richard –

Dr. Vanne’s mouth falls open as his brows pinch together with concern. “Robin,” he says as his gaze settles on Damian with an unnerving intensity, “Batman is dead.”

Damian’s whole body instinctively clenches at the bald-faced lie. “Batman is not dead,” he says, his voice echoing uncomfortably loudly in the small cell.

Dr. Vanne winces. “That’s why you’re in here.” He gestures to confines around them. “You were unconsolable and dangerous after you killed Batman.” He pushes the object on the table – a water bottle – towards Damian.

“You’re lying,” Damian spits.

Dr. Vanne shakes his head sadly. “That’s his blood on your hands, Robin.”

Despite himself, Damian glances down. He rubs his fingers together, and some dried flakes drift down into his lap, brown and rusted against the crisp white of his flimsy hospital gown.

“No,” he says, his voice deadly quiet.

Richard can’t be dead.

Richard is too full of life to be dead.

Damian is being held hostage by this Dr. Vanne character. He has taken Damian for some reason he has yet to tell him. This is some elaborate pantomime, constructed for Damian to give up his family’s secrets. Richard is planning his rescue right now. 

“Batman is dead,” Dr. Vanne says in a horribly kind voice. “It was an accident; everyone knows. But the sooner you accept it –”

“Batman is not dead!” Damian roars. He launches himself at Dr. Vanne, but doesn’t make it all the way. He flails for those last few inches, landing heavily on the table. Breathing hard, he braces himself on one elbow to resume the offensive –

A syringe sinks into his arm. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” Dr. Vanne says sadly.

Everything goes dark.

* * *

Damian wakes up with a pounding head and dry mouth. He opens his eyes, squinting against his blurry vision. For an excruciatingly long moment, he has no idea where he is. But the familiar gray walls of his cell eventually solidify before him.

He pushes himself into a sitting position and gags as his stomach turns over. Bile rises to the back of his throat, and he swallows, grimacing. At the sound of footsteps outside his room, he  jerks his head around, wincing his head throbs all the harder. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes.

The doctor, Vanne, taps his card against a portion of the wall Damian cannot see. The door beeps, and he enters. “Hello, Robin,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Release me,” Damian orders, the command rolling off his tongue with ease despite his distinct unease at all the unanswered questions about his confinement.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Vanne says patiently. “You’re still a danger to yourself and others. Until I can determine your threat level, we can’t discharge you.”

“You cannot keep me here,” Damian says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We can certainly try,” Vanne says. “Now,” he says as he takes a seat and adjusts his glasses, “that night, when Batman died, what do you remember?”

Never give the enemy more information than you’re getting.  

When Damian remains quiet, Vanne presses on, undeterred. “Do you remember the fight?”

Damian glares.

“Do you remember who you were fighting?”

Damian’s frown deepens because he doesn’t remember anything about the night before he woke up here. But he’d rather pull out his own fingernails than admit his ignorance to this imposter.

“Do you remember how Batman died?”

Damian’s temper flares. “He is not dead.”

“Batman is dead,” Vanne says calmly. “Once you’re more stable, we can show you the proof.”

Damian levels him an unimpressed look. “Show me the proof now, and I’ll be slightly more inclined to answer your foolish questions.”

“You’re in a very delicate mental –”

“You will show me that proof now .”

Vanne shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Because you don’t have it!” Damian says triumphantly. “Because this is all part of your scheme to separate me from Batman.”

Vanne exhales a long sigh. He takes off his glasses – a tactical mistake – and pinches the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes. “I can’t show you the footage because it will retraumatize you. As a doctor, I took an oath to do no –”

Damian jumps the table and puts him into a headlock. Vanne’s glasses go clattering to the ground. “The proof. Now,” Damian growls in an acceptable facsimile of Dick’s facsimile of Father’s Batman’s voice. He kicks Vanne’s fallen chair out of the way so Vanne cannot use it against him.

“I can’t,” Vanne chokes out. 

“You will.” Damian tightens his hold “It will take you ten seconds to lose consciousness. Who do you think will last longer?”

“Please – let me – go,” Vanne forces between frantic gulps for air. 

“Not before you show me irrefutable proof,” Damian snarls in his ear, “that Batman is dead, and you aren’t a lying waste of –”

“Guards – Guar –”

The door slams open, and four guard stream in. They forcibly pry Damian off Vanne, and one brandishes a syringe. Damian howls like a banshee, scratching and biting every bit of flesh within reach. They may have taken away his man-made weapons, but Damian was trained to be a weapon, and he will fight until his last breath to see Richard again. The syringe sinks back into his bicep. Pathetically, Damian’s last shout comes out as more of a whimper.

* * *

Damian wakes up to the scent of boiled chicken. He pries his eyelids open, unsurprised to see Vanne accompanied by a security guard.

Good.

They are finally taking him seriously.

“You need to eat,” Vanne says gently. 

Damian eyes the plastic bowl of soup distrustfully. They are not idiots, so they did not give him access to any metal utensils, wooden chopsticks, or even animal bones. Nothing to stab a body with or pick a lock with.

“What is the point of all of this,” he says as he leans over the bowl to sniff it. It’s chicken noodle, judging by the scent and beige chunks of meat and pale orange carrot cubes barely floating in the thin broth.

“To keep your strength up,” Vanne says, deliberately misinterpreting Damian’s words.

Damian sits back on his cot without picking up the flimsy spoon they provided.

“Grief can be a powerful appetite suppressant,” Vanne says. “But you should eat something.”

“I am not grieving because Batman is not dead,” Daman says through gritted teeth. 

Perhaps they are not as smart as he initially credited them. They may have captured him, kept him away from his family, cut off most of his avenues of escape. But Damian will not believe something just because they keep repeating it, ad nauseam. If that worked, he would have stopped trying to kill Drake within a week of his arrival to Gotham.

“Batman is dead, Robin,” Vanne says, his tone aggravatingly patient. “Have any of your memories of his death come back? Trauma can do funny things with our recollections, but I expect they’re lurking in your subconscious, right underneath the surface.”

Damian stays silent, mulling over his options.

The door to his cell has no door knob or handle. Vanne uses a keycard to get in, but there is no similar pad on this side of the wall, so Damian cannot hack his way out. Barefoot and dressed in the hospital gown, he has no access to any Bat comms or lockpicks. 

“Once you accept the truth,” Vanne continues, “your memories will make themselves known to your fully conscious mind. We can start trying specific techniques next week, if we see no improvement.”

Most frustratingly, Damian still has too many questions. Why did they take him? What do they want from him? Why pursue this fiction that Batman is dead?

Damian has been kidnapped before and held hostage. Every single other time, without fail, his captors demanded information or money within twelve hours.

“First, we’ll start with a mild hypnosis,” Vanne goes on. “If that doesn’t take, we’ll put you in a state of deep hypnosis. That has worked with the majority of my patients in the past, and I have all confidence it will be a success for you too.”

By Damian’s admittedly less-than-reliable estimates, he has been under Dr. Vanne’s supervision for more than 48 hours. Vanne hasn’t asked for money nor information.

Damian hasn’t seen Richard in two full days. Richard must be going mad looking for his Robin. Damian swallows, dread and shame coiling in the pit of his stomach. This isn’t his job; he is supposed to make Batman’s life easier. That is Damian’s whole purpose.

“As a last resort,” Vanne continues, “there are a few pharmaceutical therapies we can try, but those are all high risk for pediatric patients, so we’d have to contact your next-of-kin for consent.”

That draws Damian up short. “You’re in contact with my family?”

“Of course,” Vanne says, looking vaguely offended. “It would be unethical to hold you here without their knowledge or consent.”

“Bring them to me,” Damian says at once. “If you’re really speaking to them.”

Vanne falters, and Damian barely suppresses his grin of victory. Vanne reaches out as if to lay a comforting hand on Damian’s arm, but Damian spears him with a baleful look, and the hand retreats. As he pulls his hand back, Vanne says slowly, “Robin, they don’t want to see you.”

Lies.

Lies on top of lies.

Damian barely holds back his smile. 

His family, his annoying, suffocating, loving family would never do such a thing.

“Then you’re obviously not telling the truth,” Damian retorts. “I know my family.”

“They don’t want to see you,” Vanne hesitates, “because you killed Batman.”

Damian jumps to his feet, as sheer injustice at the accusation courses through his veins. “I did not!”

“You did,” Vance says unflinchingly, a hint of steel and annoyance in his voice for the first time. “You killed Batman, and all your siblings trusted me to care for you because, despite your actions, they still want the best for you.”

But –

His family would never do that.

His family wouldn’t ship Damian off to some strange psychologist.

His family wouldn’t keep him caged, alone, like some sort of animal.

They wouldn’t abandon him even if, even if he –

Damian shakes his head. “I didn’t kill Batman,” he says, half to himself, half to Vanne. “I didn’t.”

“It was an accident,” Vanne says soothingly. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t do it at all!”

Vanne sighs. He gets to his feet. “Eat your soup,” he says, “or we’ll have to resort to less ideal methods to keep you fed.”

And for the first time, Damian watches him leave.

The bowl of soup mocks him for the rest of the day.

Damian doesn’t eat a drop.

* * *

That night, Damian inspects his cell, searching for any weakness. He runs his fingers along every corner and inch of wall he can reach. He tugs at the bars that make up his cot, but nothing comes loose, and he breaks several nails trying to untwist the screws and bolts holding it together.

He cedes defeat several hours later, fuming.

When the lights come back on, Damian turns over in bed, head aching, stomach cramping, chest thrumming with a nervous, anxious energy he can’t dispel in this tiny, windowless room.

Vance comes in about three hours later. “Good morning, Robin,” he greets as the door closes behind the guard.

Damian doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

“How did you sleep?”

Damian stares straight ahead.

“Did you have any dreams?” Vanne tries next. And some of Damian’s skepticism must show on his face, since Vanne presses, “Did any memories resurface?”

“I dreamed of my dog,” Damian lies. He didn’t dream at all. He just dozed between failed meditation sessions.

“Interesting,” Vanne says, not sounding interested at all in that answer. “Because all our sensors indicate that you barely entered a single REM cycle last night.” He sighs. “You won’t get better if you don’t tell me the truth, Robin.”

Damian stays silent.

“Now, grief has well-documented effects on sleep hygiene –”

“I am not grieving, you imbecile,” Damian interrupts acidly. “I did not sleep because I am being kept here against my will, ineptly interrogated, and lied to.”

“I’m not lying to you,” Vanne says, hurt. “I’m helping you.”

“You can actually help me by telling me why I am here.” Damian clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “What are you hoping to get? A ransom? Intelligence on the heroes that operate in Gotham? Leverage over my family?”

Vanne takes off his glasses. Without them, his eyes are quite small. Watery. A dishwater greenish color. “Robin, I will tell you this as many times as you need to hear it: You are here to get better. To process the trauma you went through when you killed Batman.”

“I did not kill him!”

“Are you sure?” Vanne presses, leaning in, his eyes never leaving Damian’s face. “Can you say with absolute certainty that you did not kill Batman two days ago in a raid on some drug runners gone wrong?”

Damian fights to keep his expression neutral.

The Cartel. Of course. 

They had been investigating a recent flush of crack cocaine into Coventry that was rapidly spilling into the Water District.

Richard suspected the drugs came from the Odessa Mob, as they took over drug smuggling in addition to their money laundering after the Gang War. But after months of fighting with the Triad, who were clawing out the seedier parts of the Upper West Side, the Mob was stretched thin.

Damian suspected that the Escabedo Cartel was responsible. They were the most powerful drug smugglers and sellers before the Gang War wiped them out, and from Damian’s extensive review of his father’s files, the Gotham gangs never stayed dead for long. And the Odessa Mob fighting with the Triad presented an ideal time to get a foothold in their old market.

“Are you starting to remember, Robin?” Vanne asks eagerly.

Damian glares.

“The raid? Fighting for the gun with Diego?” Vanne’s face falls. “Batman tried to help,” he says, his voice low but even. “The gun went off. He bled out in minutes.”

Damian shakes his head. Impossible. His father spent decades perfecting Batman’s armor, and Richard made his own improvements when he put on the cowl. “The armor is bulletproof.”

Vanne sighs. “It hit a weak spot.”

“Where?” Damian demands.

“The helmet’s integrity was weakened from earlier in the fight,” Vanne says, his voice pained. “It shattered on impact. You tried to help, to stem the blood flow. But he was too damaged.”

Damian’s empty stomach tightens painfully. “You’re lying.”

Vanne surveys him with a pitying look. He pulls out a sealed protein bar from his pocket and a water bottle. “Eat,” he says, “and drink. You’re a growing boy.”

“I am not a child,” Damian hisses.

Vanne sighs. “Medically and legally speaking, you are. And that is the only reason you’ve been entrusted into my care instead of being tried as an adult.” His glasses flash as he turns to face Damian head-on. “But if your condition does not improve and you do not show remorse for your actions, the courts may decide otherwise.”

* * *

The next day, Vanne comes in smiling. “Are you ready, Robin? This is the first step in your healing journey.”

Damian clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “You aren’t going to dangle a pocket watch in front of my face, are you?”

Vanne frowns. “That’s a quite outdated idea of hypnotherapy. It has been used successfully for a wide range of conditions like smoking cessation, anxiety management, and even weight loss. It would be more helpful if you come into this with an open mind.”

Damian rolls his eyes. 

“But before we start, have you remembered anything about that night?”

Damian levels him an unimpressed look.

Vanne holds up his hands. “Okay, Robin, I need you to take a deep breath and relax,” he says. “Lay down, if that’s more comfortable.”

Damian stays sitting up.

“Now, I’m going to count down from 100. With each count down, you will become more relaxed. 100, you can feel the muscles in your forehead relaxing. 99, the muscles around your eyes – ”

This is useless. Damian was trained on how to resist hypnosis and mind control from the age of five.

What is taking his family so long to find him? Damian has been stuck here for at least five days now. Even if Richard was grievously injured during their raid, others would have led the charge.

The last time Brown was taken, they found her after twelve hours.

Drake, six hours.

So why has it taken them upwards of one hundred and twenty hours to get him?

His family does not hate him. They had their difficulties when he first arrived in Gotham, of course, but they have come to accept him. 

Earlier this year, he jumped in an infantile moon bounce with Brown, and he didn’t use his ankle knife to stab her or deflate the whole pointless endeavor. Only two months ago, Drake unexpectedly appeared at Damian’s art show, even though Richard said he was the only one going. 

His family loves him.

They do.

“44, the muscles in your hips are relaxing. 43, the muscles in your thighs are relaxing.”

They’ve even rescued Todd, after all. Damian was all for letting the man rot after that whole fiasco with that Scarlet woman, but Richard insisted they help his younger brother, and made Damian, Brown, and Gordon track him down to Mr. Freeze’s latest frozen lair under the penguin enclosure at the zoo.

That took three days.

For Todd.

“17, the muscles in your calves are relaxing…”

But Richard led the charge during that particular case. And if Richard is – is not there, then the rest of the family might be more reluctant to realize the urgency of Damian’s plight.

Damian gets on well enough with Brown, and he has a begrudging respect for Drake. 

He has teamed up with Todd in the past, at Richard’s behest, with minimal grievous injuries.

“5, the muscles in the heel of your foot are relaxing. 4, the muscles in the arch of your foot are relaxing. 3, the muscles in the ball of your foot are relaxing. 2, the muscles in your toes are relaxing. 1, the muscles in your whole body are relaxed.”

They would never leave him here. Not as a prank. Not even as some sort of lesson.

Richard would never. But if Richard was –

“Now that you are fully relaxed, imagine yourself walking down a set of stairs. With each step –”

Damian balls his hands into fists in his lap. “This is beyond stupid,” he says loudly over Vanne’s inane hypno-babbling. 

Vanne stops speaking. He straightens in his chair, raising one hand to adjust his glasses. “You aren’t relaxed at all, are you?” he says, sounding almost childish in his disappointment.

Damian raises his eyebrows behind his mask. “What do you think?”

“I was afraid of this,” Vanne says, shaking his head. He gets up, nodding at the security guard by the door. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“You will get the same results as today,” Damian says in a carrying voice.

Vanne stops at the threshold, half-turned to Damian. “I will never give up on you, Robin.”

Damian’s heart clenches. Richard said something similar the last time Damian nearly killed someone. Drake and Brown wanted nothing to do with him, and even Pennyworth was disappointed. But Richard – Richard still believed in him.

The door shuts and the lock clicks in place, leaving Damian alone in his cell.

* * *

Damian wakes as his mouth opens in a silent shout, alert in an instant. 

Five security guards flood the room. He thrashes, but, weakened from lack of food and rusty from lack of exercise, they pin him down after a few minutes. 

Damian does knock one out, though.

The rest hold his arms and legs down. 

“Unhand me!” he shouts, the skin on his wrists and ankles burning from the friction as he twists and writhes under their grips. 

Undeterred, one of them pulls out a syringe.

Damian’s eyes go wide, and his pulse spikes with fear and adrenaline. He bucks harder, drawing on the rest of his strength to try to shake them off. “Don’t you dare come near me with that –”

The needle sinks in his arm, and Damian dislodges two of the guards, but it’s too late. His vision blurs, and coherent thoughts become difficult. He vaguely registers some of the guards limping out of his cell, leaving only two remaining to hold him down.

A second or an hour later, a new figure swims before Damian’s face. His eyes widen at the sight of his own masked reflection in the twin lenses of a familiar pair of glasses.

Vanne.

“Now,” Vanne says pleasantly as he takes his usual seat, ignoring the guards holding Damian down. “Where were we?”

* * *

Damian wakes up with a splitting headache. He opens his eyes, just holding back a groan as the overhead lights stab into his eyes. 

A wrapped sandwich and a water bottle sit on the table in front of his cot. Despite his mostly-empty stomach, he has no appetite. But he reaches for the sealed water bottle sitting innocently on the table without a second thought. 

He drinks half of it in one burst, savoring the cool water against his raw throat.

Raw? He swallows, wincing at the unexpected pain.

He glances around his cell for any clues, blinking rapidly against his watering eyes. When he raises his hand to press down on his mask, he finds the skin underneath puffy and swollen.

It’s an uncomfortably familiar feeling and embarrassment creeps up his neck as he tries to piece together what must’ve happened.

The sore throat, the swollen eyes – he’d been crying. From another nightmare?

Not unheard of, he’d been getting them with increasing frequency the longer he was here.

The door opens, and Vanne enters. Damian automatically tenses, but nothing about Vanne seems changed from the last time he saw Damian and uncomfortably echoed the most profound words Richard had ever said to him.

“How are we feeling this morning, Robin?” Vanne asks as he takes a seat. “First, have you remembered anything about the night you killed Batman?”

Damian opens his mouth to retort in the negative, but he can’t get the words out.

Because he does remember. The memory tugs and pulls, resists being analyzed, but it comes when Damian focuses on it.

The stakeout before the raid. Richard joking about how all Damian needed to improve his crappy mood was some grub; “ Do you want to get dumplings in Chinatown after this?” Gunfire interrupting Richard’s increasingly inane jokes.

The Odessa mobsters swarming out of nowhere.

Richard barking over the comms for Red Robin to get his ass over here, “We needed backup yesterday!”

Bursting into the warehouse through a large, west-facing window and subding as many gang members and mobsters as he could. 

Out of the corner of his eye, through the smoke bombs: a man who looked remarkably like a young Emanuel Escabedo fleeing through a side door. 

Shouting for Batman, not waiting for an acknowledgement before pursuing Escabedo until he disappeared through a backdoor. Slam. Yanking ineffectively on the handle. Bending down on one knee, cursing Escabedo to the depths of hell and back as he fiddled with the lock.

“I’ve got this, Robin,” coming from behind him. Scrambling out of the way. Richard’s boot coming down heavily on the door before it bursts open. “ Go rendez-vous with Red Robin.”

Rushing in after Escabedo before Richard could stop him. This was his win. The Escabedo Cartel was responsible; Damian was right!

A spew of gunfire. 

Leaping out of the way. Zig-zagging through the dimly lit hallway after his quarry.

Escabedo raising his gun.

A thrown birdarang. Escabedo stumbling back. Not dropping the gun.

A hand-to-hand fight.

“Robin!”

A gunshot.

Richard staggering out into the open, into a clearer line of fire. One of the ears of his cowl blown clean off. 

“Batman!” 

Letting Escabedo get away. 

Dropping to his knees by Richard. Trying to staunch the blood all but gushing from the open wound in Richard’s head. The white sliver of bone through the hole in the cowl. Richard’s pained grimace, the bare skin around his mouth and jaw pale, so pale.

“Da-Damian –”

Telling him no names in the field. Telling him he’s going to be fine. Telling him Drake will be here soon.

Ignoring his watering eyes and stinging nose. Trying to hide his sniffle from Richard and failing abysmally.

Such a failure.

“I love you. You’re going to be fine – I know it. My Robin. You’re so strong, Damian.”

But he isn’t – he killed Batman. With his pride. With his inattention. With his weakness.

Red staining his hands, his knee pads, the tops of his boots from the ever-growing puddle surrounding the pair of them. Bright red, fresh, straight from the only family who has ever loved him, apart from his mother.

Vanne asks, “So you remember?”

Damian raises his streaming eyes to his psychologist, the man supposed to make him better. 

With an inhuman snarl, he attacks.

Nobody can help Damian now. 

* * * 

They drug him again. Because of course they do. But they don’t kill him, for some unfathomable reason. He wakes up in the same cell, bruised, a little hungrier, a little thirstier.

They stop him when he breaks his knuckles against those cursed bare, white walls.

They stop him when he tries to claw his own face off.

They strap him down and stick an IV with a saline solution in his arm and a feeding tube in his throat. He still rubs his wrists raw trying to get them in his grasp to tug them out. 

They should let him die.

Vanne says that’s not an option.

They take the tubes out after a few hours. They put them back in three days later after he still refuses all food and drink. 

For the rest of his time spent awake, he lays on his cot. He lets time pass him by. He wallows, like he was never allowed at The League or at the Penthouse.

In The League, such self-indulgence was punished. He would have been put to menial task-based work because if he was going to let his mind wander, his hands might as well be useful. 

In the Penthouse, Richard had an uncanny ability to predict whenever Damian felt like retreating into himself. He’d drag Damian out to the park, forcing Titus’s leash into one hand and Damian’s sketchbook into the other. And if Damian really wasn’t up for an outing, Richard would sit with him. They’d meditate together, and somehow just having Richard there helped ground him.

No wonder his family hasn’t come to visit him. If any of them killed Richard, even accidentally, they wouldn’t have survived the next 48 hours. 

Hopefully none of them are vindictive enough to take their hatred for him out on his pets. Alfred and Titus are innocents, and the Bats value life over all else. 

Poor Titus, he’ll never understand why Damian can never come home.

On the fifteenth day after he killed Richard, Vanne asks him what will make him feel better. 

After a long stare-off, Damian says, “Nothing.”

“Now, I don’t think that’s true,” Vanne says kindly. “I think a distraction is what you need. You still aren’t sleeping well.”

He had thought his nightmares from his childhood in the League were terrifying. He was wrong. 

“I think you need a break from this place,” Vanne says as he gets to his feet. 

Damian stares blankly at him. “You’re transferring me?”

“No, you’re still under my supervision, but we’re going to leave this room. Come along.”

The door to his cell opens. 

And stays open. 

Damian takes a full minute to get to his feet. Vanne gives him an encouraging smile as he crosses the threshold and, for the first time, takes in the sterile hallway beyond. Two guards stand outside his door, and they follow as Vanne leads Damian to the set of elevator doors and casually pushes the down button. 

Damian gets in after Vanne.

The doors open to a gym, and Damian’s heart clenches at the sight of the mats and smell of sweat and worn plastic. 

Two burly men wearing sweatpants are boxing in a ring while two more in army green tac pants and plain white tee shirts egg them on. In the weights area, a half dozen men and women mill around, lifting barbells with grunts that echo across the gym. The five treadmills stand unoccupied, but one sweaty-faced woman with a towel slung around her shoulders is pedaling away at the stationary bicycle.

“Exercise has been proven to produce the same results as SSRIs in a third of patients,” Vanne says as he places a hand on Damian’s shoulder and steers him further into the gym, avoiding the crowded areas. “You must have a lot of pent up energy after being stuck inside for so long. It was for your own good at the time, but it’s undoubtedly detrimental in the long run for someone of your athletic ability.”

Damian just sighs. 

“Go on,” Vanne chides, giving him a little push. 

Damian doesn’t budge an inch. “I do not wish to.”

Vanne squats so he’s more on Damian’s level, and Damian nearly scoffs at the condescension. But he really doesn’t have the energy to do anything more about it, so he doesn’t. Vanne tries, “You must have a series of warm ups, yes? You don’t have to do anything more elaborate than that.”

Damian doesn’t react.

“Robin,” Vanne says, “You have the potential to do so much good.” As Damian turns his head to glance listlessly at the mats, Vanne nods encouragingly. “Don’t let one mistake keep you from the greatness you are destined to achieve.”

His mother used to tell him something similar in the League after he withstood their punishments for failure. She had no idea Damian’s destiny was to kill the only person who accepted him completely and loved him unconditionally. 

“You have a bright future ahead of you,” Vanne continues as Damian stares blankly ahead, “And our operation could use someone with your unique skill set.” He gives Damian another little push. “Go on, then. You’ll feel better once you’ve stretched your legs. Trust me.”

From his initial look around, Damian saw three doors. Presumably two locker rooms and a staircase in the event the elevators are nonfunctional. Judging the fitness of the others currently exercising in the gym, he could defeat them. He might need a week or two to regain his strength, but he could escape. He could be rid of his little cube full of white walls and pain and Vanne and his ridiculous glasses. He could be free. 

But where would he go? Drake, Brown, and Todd all despise him, and Damian has no loyalty to Gotham outside of his family. 

Damian goes to the mats.

He still only sleeps three and a half hours that night. He wakes up with Richard’s blood on his hands, Richard’s bloodless face swimming before his closed eyes.

* * *

Damian wakes to a series of incessant bangs on the door.

“Robin?” 

He goes cold all over at the familiar voice. Drake is outside? Has his family given up on Vanne? Have they finally come to take care of him themselves?

“Robin, are you in there?”

Bang, bang, bang.

Damian blinks, his throat going dry with dread. He swallows, and it feels like sandpaper.

“You goddamn menace, you’d better be in there, so help me –”

Damian scrambles back on his cot, tucking his legs underneath his chin and wrapping his arms around his shins. It’s hardly a defensive position, but he cannot fight his siblings, especially in this state, weak and out of practice. Moreover, he would never lift a hand against them or stop them from taking the vengeance they are more than entitled to. They are each owed their pound of flesh.

“Batgirl! Head to the next floor. This one’s a dud.”

Damian listens with bated breath as Drake’s footsteps fade. His ears strain in the nearly oppressive silence after Drake’s hamfisted entry attempt.

The access panel outside his door beeps, and Damian nearly jumps out of his skin. 

A dark shape enters the room, and Damian’s heart stops dead in his chest.

It can’t be.

“Robin?” 

Goosebumps rise along Damian’s arms at his name in that voice, every hair standing on end.

“Thank god we found you,” the hallucination says in a rush as it hurries forward.

Damian backs up until his elbows bump into the wall behind him. He can’t say a word, frozen to the spot. All he can do is cower. What does the wraith want? Does Richard’s ghost want its revenge too? Damian will let him have it. Damian will give it anything it wants.

It stops dead in its tracks, the cape swishing around its boots. 

Damian’s skin crawls as he gets the worst feeling the specter is eyeing him up and down, evaluating him, finding him wanting.

“Damian,” it says, and it sounds so like Richard, tears spring to Damian’s eyes, unbidden. “Hey, no it’s alright,” it says, its voice horribly soothing. It takes another step forward, its arms out, as if going for an embrace.

“Stop!” Damian barks, his voice too high, too breathy, too panicked.

It stops. “Damian?” it asks softly, “It’s me, Dick. You know me.” It pulls off the cowl, revealing Richard’s familiar face, the face Damian has been seeing in his nightmares for days. Its brows are furrowed, the corners of its mouth pulled down in an expression of concern. 

Damian shakes his head.

“Delirium?” the ghost murmurs to itself. “Memory loss?” It’s blue eyes zero in on Damian. “Do you know who I am?” it asks, its tone more business-like. If Damian didn’t know better, he would say Richard is just starting their TBI protocol.

As if Damian would ever forget the face of the most important person he ever killed. He nods.

“Out loud, please.”

The lump in Damian’s throat is enormous, but he forces out anyway, “Grayson,” because he knows what the wraith wants to hear.

The ghost’s shoulders slump in faux-relief. “We’ll get you checked out once we’re far, far away from here,” it says with a warm smile, and Damian shudders. “C’mon, let’s go.” It holds out its hand to help Damian up from the cot, but Damian scuttles around it and gets to his feet of his own volition. 

He doesn’t dare touch the hallucination. What if he does, and it crumbles, taking the very last vestiges of Richard with it? No, he will let the illusion be. And if Richard has truly come for him, then Damian will follow him to his grave. It’s only fair.

The specter casts him one lingering look of concern before it tugs the cowl back into place. 

It’s probably leading him to where Drake and Brown are waiting.

Damian silently tails Richard’s ghost out of his cell and into the familiar hallway. But instead of taking a right, Richard’s ghost takes a left, towards a half-open door that leads to a set of concrete stairs. He steps around the body of one of the security guards, slumped over, hands zip-tied behind his back.

“You’re oddly quiet,” Richard’s ghost says as they start to climb. “They must’ve really put you through the wringer. I’m so sorry we took so long to find you,” it continues, and Damian’s chest clenches at the words of contrition.

Richard has nothing to be contrite about, not to Damian.

Because Damian killed him. 

He bites his tongue against the useless apologies fighting to escape his lips. They won’t bring the real Richard back. All they would do is microscopically soothe Damian’s guilt, which he in no way deserves. 

“I was tempted to let Jason come along to burn this place to the ground,” Richard’s ghost continues, casting a strange look behind him. Is it concerned Damian isn’t obeying orders? Because Damian is following. He would follow Richard anywhere. “But we just got wind of a big arms shipment being delivered to the Odessa Mob, so he’s staking out the harbor while Tim and Steph make up the cavalry.”

Damian nods along, feeling sick. Two weeks ago, Todd shot Drake after he interfered in his Crime Alley business. A fickle ally in the best of times, Todd would never lift a finger to help the Bats as of late. But a hallucination would hardly listen to the rules of reason. Any version of Richard would want its family to get along.

They reach the ground floor, and Richard’s ghost leads him down another short hallway ending in a door illuminated red by the bright EXIT sign above it. A few more bodies litter the way out, all unconscious.

Feet from the door, it swings open of its own accord to reveal Drake.

“Damn,” he says, and Damian’s heart flies into his throat. His pulse roars in his ears, and he hardly hears Drake say, “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Let’s get going, twerp. We’ll take care of you on the plane.”

Damian follows with leaden footsteps. Naturally, they wouldn’t even give him the grace of killing him in the Batcave, Manor, or Penthouse. Why sully their home bases with Damian’s blood, when they could simply shove him out of the Batplane when they reach cruising altitude?

The ramp up to the plane’s entrance both takes forever and is gone in a blink.

“Damian!”

Damian freezes at the exuberance in Brown’s voice. He barely has time to analyze it before a cloud of frizzy blonde hair obscures his vision and dark purple arms wrap around him. 

Brown is flat on her back on the floor before he consciously registers throwing her.

“Geez,” she mutters, coughing from winded lungs, “this is the thanks I get for hauling ass all the way to Alaska for you, Boy Blunder.” She makes no move to get up of her own accord and resume her attack. Instead, she just lifts one arm, fingers wiggling in his direction expectantly.

Damian falters. 

Tentatively, warily, he reaches for her. But she doesn’t leverage his grip to throw him to the ground too; she uses him as a counterweight to get back to her feet.

“What a gentleman,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Drake snorts from his seat at the controls of the plane. “That’s Damian. Ever the little gentleman.”

Damian opens his mouth to retort that he is not little, he is growing, and he will be tall as Father was one day, before it crashes back down on him that no, he will not. He will likely be dead within the next few hours. Just like Father.

From behind them, Richard’s ghost peers down at him, concerned. It says, “He’s been acting off ever since I found him.”

Drake frowns. “How off? Are you sure that is Damian?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Damian sees Drake turn to get a good look at him, but all of Damian’s attention is locked on Richard’s ghost.

Drake replied to him.

That… can’t be.

“He’s not talking, for one,” Richard’s ghost says, stepping closer. 

The twin engines fire, and Damian uncharacteristically stumbles despite the smooth liftoff, right into Richard’s – 

“I see what you mean,” Brown says, amused, and it sounds like her voice is coming from far away as Damian focuses everything he has on the smooth, rock hard kevlar beneath his hands. It’s solid. Richard is… solid?

He wraps both arms around Richard’s torso, squeezing in death-grip. He has never felt something so miraculous, so comforting in his entire life. His breath hitches, and he buries his face between the armored plates 

“I didn’t know the kid knew how to hug,” Brown continues.

“Be nice,” Richard chastises above him as his hand comes up to rest on Damian’s head. “He’s clearly been through a lot.” 

“Oh my god, is he crying?” Drake says, and Damian stiffens at the shocked tone, his face flooding with heat. “Are you actually sure it’s really him?” Drake asks, deadly serious. “Robin didn’t cry when he was shot multiple times in the freakin’ spine. Did you make sure he’s not a clone? Or a shapeshifter? Or, I don’t know, possessed?”

Richard tugs at Damian’s arms, probably to get a better look at his face, but Damian just holds on harder, silent tears dripping down his chin in fat drops. “Oh, Dames,” Richard says, “talk to me, bud.”

Damian opens his mouth, but only an embarrassing hiccup comes out.

Richard more forcefully pries Damian off him, and Damian makes a little wordless sound at the loss, but he stamps down on his instincts to keep Richard as close as possible for as long as possible. Space, Richard is asking for space, so Damian will give it to him. Still, Richard keeps one hand resting lightly on Damian’s upper arm as the other pulls the cowl back. “Hey,” he says as his blue eyes flick down to Damian, raking over his face, searching. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Damian clears his clogged throat. “Not particularly.”

Brown lets out an obnoxious, “Ha!” before she disappears towards the back of the plane.

“But,” Damian doesn’t look at Brown or Drake, he keeps his gaze on Richard’s face, drinking him in, “I will tell you anyway.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Where does he start? Waking up in the cell? His first meeting with Vanne? The feeling of Richard’s lifeblood draining out between his fingers?

Drake snipes, “Not getting any younger here.”

“Tim,” Richard says, annoyed. “You’re not helping.”

Damian clears this throat. Stands a little straighter. Debrief. He’s debriefed Richard hundreds of times before, and even though he never thought he would have the chance to do so again – 

Richard’s face swims before his eyes as they water with a fresh wave of tears.

“Um,” Richard starts, alarmed, “I guess it can wait until we’re back in Gotham.”

“You’re being too easy on him,” Drake cuts in sharply. “We’re not getting to Gotham for another five hours. Just tell us what happened, Damian. Then you can take a nap or have a snack or whatever you need to be normal again –”

Damian turns to him, eyes flashing. How dare he. His hands ball into fists at his side.

“Tim –”

“I thought Richard was dead,” Damian explodes, “that I had killed him.” He can’t look at Richard’s face as he speaks, so he addresses Drake instead. His voice wavers, but he plows on, “And that it was my fault. I was being detained because my family couldn’t stand to be around me.”

Above him, Richard makes a sound Damian has never heard before, and the hand resting on his bicep twitches. “You didn’t believe it, though,” Richard says, his voice hushed but insistent. “You knew you’d never do such a thing.” His fingers grip Damian harder. “You knew we were coming for you.”

Damian can’t bring himself to respond.

“Holy shit,” Brown says as she steps back into the cockpit, two paper cups in her hand. “Here,” she says, thrusting one in Drake’s direction. “Coffee, even though you’re being a jackass. Or, you know, you could just take a nap, and finally catch up on that 100 hour sleep deficit.”

Drake sips at the coffee, the tense set to his mouth easing. “More like 56 hours, but I see your point. I’ll finish this and put the plane on autopilot.”

“Or let me pilot,” Brown says, rolling her eyes. She tugs him up from the chair. “Go to sleep.”

Drake goes, pausing on his way to the cots set up in the back. “Hey,” he says to Damian, “Sorry. It’s been a… stressful few weeks around here.”

Richard mutters, “Understatement of the century.” 

Drake ignores him. “I’m – I’m really glad you’re back with us,” he says hesitantly to Damian.

Damian searches his face for any hint of a falsehood, but Drake is apparently being sincere. “Thank you for participating in my retrieval.”

Drake smiles weakly. “Once we figured out who took you, it was just a matter of figuring out where .” He makes a face. “As it turns out, Alaska, of all places.”

Damian blinks. “Alaska?”

Richard nods once. “A military base outside of Juneau,” he says, his voice curt. “the most remote army outpost in North America.”

Drake stifles a yawn behind one hand. “You should be honored, gremlin. They only took me to Bludhaven to recruit me. Not even out of state.”

Damian’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “They did this to you too?”

And Drake did not see fit to warn Damian? Damian would hardly describe their relationship as especially close, but he thought Drake respected him enough to spare him this torturous ordeal – 

“And me,” Richard adds darkly, “back when I was Robin.”

Damian’s gaze bounces between them as Drake explains, “I recognized their seal on the door to the base. This special ops team led by the Veteran has been trying to get Robin to join their ranks for years.”

“Not me!” Brown says cheerfully.

Drake ignores her. “But Dick and I said no, obviously. They didn’t want Batman, and we were sticking with Bruce, if given the choice.” He closes his eyes, grimacing. “I never thought they’d go this far, though, to make sure Batman was out of the picture when they tried to get Robin to sign up.”

“They crossed a line,” Richard growls.

“We should send in Jason when he’s free to blow their operation sky high,” Brown calls, twisting around in her chair to grin at them. “You know how he gets when he thinks authority figures overstep. Kaboom.” She mimes an explosion with her hands.

“Quite,” Drake drawls as Brown just cackles. “Anyway, that’s the long and short of it. I’m gonna pass out now, now that everyone is accounted for.” He leaves.

“You two look like you could use a nap, yourself,” Brown says without looking up from the plane’s windshield. “I got everything covered over here.”

Richard smiles down at Damian, and, even under the Batplane’s dimmed stealth lights, he can see the deep circles beneath Richard’s eyes, the pallor in his face that make him look positively ghost-like. “How about it? We’ll have to share a bunk, if that’s OK with you.”

Damian nods once. “That is acceptable.” In a smaller voice, he admits, “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Richard lets out a weak chuckle as he leads them to the back of the plane. “Yeah, it’s been going around lately.”

“I keep dreaming about killing you,” Damian breathes as they stand in front of the free cot, his voice barely above a whisper, “so it would be… reassuring to have you nearby.”

Richard just sighs, “Oh, Dames,” the heartbreak clear on his face, as he starts unclasping his armor. “Let’s get some sleep, yeah?”

Damian hops onto the makeshift bed. As he lays down, Richard sweeps his cape over him. It’s heavy and a bit stiff, but it smells like Richard, and Damian can’t help burrowing deeper into it. 

“I’ll be right here, okay?” Richard murmurs as sleep starts to tug Damian under. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[sopebubbles]

Lone Wolf chapter 16 teaser

Chapter summary: getting closer with the pack means you'll have to learn to live with Kim Namjoon.

A/n: i applogize for taking so long and for this not being exactly what i want it to be. Honestly my health is making it really hard to write because im either in too much pain or have too little energy to write. But I don't want to put this story on haitus, so I'm going to try to modify my plans for this story to give you all a satisfying resolution before the end of the year. Thanks for sticking around and being so patient.

Chapter 16 coming Saturday October 28th!

Teaser below the cut

"Are you hurt?" Yoongi asked as Taehyung set you down at the edge of your nest. He shouldered the younger alpha out of the way to examine you. You were still too stunned to answer, but it didn't really matter; Yoongi was going to look over every available inch of you regardless. He gently tilted your face this way and that to make sure it was unscathed before he moved onto your arms, lifting and twisting each in turn to ensure your skin was unharmed. There was a small cut on your forearm and he frowned. It wasn't even from the incident that had unfolded moments before. It was from work earlier today, and the blood was already dry—you hadn't even felt it at the time.

"Jimin, go get the first aid kit from the bathroom," he instructed, holding your arms carefully.

Feeling Yoongi's steady hands on you helped to ground you and bring you back to your body, out of your shock and panic. You took in a deep breath and breathed out, "I'm okay."

Jimin shuffled back into the room carrying the first aid kit and handed it to Yoongi. The alpha plucked out an alcohol pad and ripped open the packet with his teeth, spitting out the torn piece.

"It's gonna sting," he whispered, but you didn't react as he swiped it over your skin. "It's dry." You looked down to the very minor wound he was tending to.

"That was from work. It's fine," you told him, but he didn't seem to hear you. He had already taken a bandage from the kit—neon pink—and gently but firmly pressed it over your cut. "Yoongi?" He looked up into your eyes and you could see his own were full of worry. He shrugged.

"It makes me feel better."

You cracked a genuine smile and it lifted some of the weight off his chest.

"Are you sure you're okay, sweet little?" Taehyung asked. His hands were still shaking from the course of adrenaline when he thought you were in danger.

You nodded. "I'm okay. I was just scared. I'm not hurt."

"You shouldn't be scared at home," he replied.

"Come sit with me," you said softly, patting the spot next to you. Your heart ached to see how distressed he was over you. Taehyung lowered his head and came to sit near you, not quite in your nest, but just outside of it. When he got close you realized something the rest of them hadn't. They'd been too worried about you to assess their own well-being.

"Tae, you're covered in beer."

He had been standing closest to where the bottle had hit the wall and, as a result, had gotten sprayed with the contents as well as some glass.

"You're bleeding," you added. "Yoongi, your patient is right here."

Your alpha smiled weakly at how brave you were trying to be. He could tell by the way you were still shaking that you weren't as calm as you pretended to be, but he would talk to you about it in a little while when things settled. For now he turned to Taehyung. Without a word, he began to clean the man's wound, and you held his hand while he winced through the burn on the alcohol. You pulled a neon pink bandage from the box beside you and handed it to Yoongi to apply.

"Now we match," you told him, and it brought a bright, boxy smile to Taehyung's face.

[film-in-my-soul]

Dirty Words | 10,207 | morningberries / @morningberriesao3

Summary: Steve gives Eddie a lesson on dirty talk, but things start to get carried away.

Cassiopeia, Orion, Bootes | 10,780 | AidaRonan / @aidaronan

Summary: When Steve finds the flyer for Bayou Bobby's midnight swamp tours, he's excited to finally get the opportunity to do something interesting on his work trip to New Orleans. Until he finds out he's human bait for something that lives in the swamp. Something with claws and scales and eyes that glow red in the moonlight.

if you wanna be my lover (you gotta be my friend) | 10,909 | hopewithfeathers

Summary: Eddie is so unused to being this fucking messed up over one specific person, and it’s driving him absolutely crazy. The fact that it’s Steve fucking Harrington doesn’t make it any better, and even though Eddie knows him now and he’s a good guy (the best guy, actually), it doesn’t help that Steve is probably, one hundred percent not interested.

Bad Timing | 11,071 | Anonymous

Summary: Steve's just trying to keep them all alive. He's stuck in the Upside Down, he's been attacked by flying demon bats and this is turning out to be a really terrible week. He's ignoring the aching in his body and the fever he seems to be developing because getting out of the hell dimension really seems like a more pressing matter. Except it's not just his injuries he's been ignoring. The stress has brought his heat on months early and being surrounded by Eddie Munson's scent is not making things better. Thanks to everything else going on, he doesn't notice until it's too late.

thirty days | 11,570 | Adure / @toburnup

Summary: "Okay, you should probably leave,” Eddie says quietly, hand slipping underneath the blanket. His other hand reaches for the remote and he pauses the movie. “Why?” “‘Cause I’m going to jerk off.” Steve's mouth is dry. His body is heavy. “I don’t want to go.” “Fine." Eddie leans his head back against the wall, reveals the column of his throat. "Stay.”

Please see below for more recommendations!

got a devil's haircut (in my mind) | 11,809 | harmonictechnicality / @harmonictechnicality

Summary: Models are beautiful people, that’s the goddamn gig. Makeup, no makeup. Photoshop, no photoshop. They just look better than the general population and society accepts that as a fact. But Eddie is a grubby little voice actor that burrows himself up in his boxy apartment for days. Very little sunlight, very little human interaction, and a shit ton of takeout. Long story short, he doesn’t get out much. So this? Seeing a biblically hot heartthrob in the flesh? With his own two eyes? It’s knocking him into deep space. Sending him into an astral projection without sticking a tablet on his tongue first.

the pre-show ritual | 12,062 | helix_stomper

Summary: Steve wasn’t really all that surprised to find himself here. He had never seen a gloryhole before. He’d chalked them up to a horny teenager’s pot at the end of the rainbow. Fantasy, and nothing else. A fat old man couldn’t squeeze down a chimney, and a guy couldn’t get his dick sucked in a public bathroom. But here it was, a small circular hole cut into the side of two adjacent stalls, as real and as terrifying as it could be. What surprised Steve about tonight was that he wasn't sticking his dick through the hole. Instead, he found himself sitting on his heels in front of it, hands wringing anxiously in his lap as he licked his lips and waited for someone to shuffle into the other stall.

In My Boxers, Half Stoned | 12,338 | Eddywow

Summary: "You can," Eddie said, almost sounding like he was nodding along to his words. The image was too pure for Steve. "You could say anything you want to me and I'd- I think I'd be into it. Because I saw your pics and like, I know your face isn't in them but- but I really like them. Is it okay that I liked them?"

An Accidental Flogging | 12,965 | ArtaxLivs / @artaxlivs

Summary: Steve is just staring at him, looking at Eddie over his shoulder. Eyes wide, mouth open in a perfect O. The ring of the smack Eddie just delivered on his perfect, beautiful ass still resonating in the empty kitchen.

Bone Mirror | 13,048 | Oonionchiver / @azrielgreen

Summary: Steve has never killed a human being before. It’s all he has. His life is oppressively quiet. Silent. Waiting for the day he’s brave enough to fill the pool again. Waiting for change. Waiting for the moon. It’s all he fucking has. Until Eddie Munson is accused of murder.

Swipe Right | 13,759 | aaliona / @bifuriouswaterbender

Summary: Eddie Munson knew how to take a profile picture, Steve decided right then. The angle was from straight on, but Eddie had his head tilted to the side, somehow managing to give big doe eyes at the viewer as his long hair fell around him. His sleeves were pushed up, showing off tattoos on both arms that he was subtly flexing. Steve had heard a lot about Eddie and didn’t even know which of it to believe. But hey, perhaps this was his chance to find out. At very least, Munson seemed like the kind of guy to know what he was doing. Taking a deep breath, Steve swiped right.

I’m on the Hunt (I’m After You) | 16,362 | OhlioOh

Summary: Odd is Eddie Munson’s thing, acquiring knowledge of the esoteric and strange a core tenet of his personality. Yet Hawkins National Park had been one big, beautiful blind spot. Plenty of people visit, plenty of people vanish, and yet not a soul is talking about it. Something is stalking these woods, and Eddie is going to be the one to find it. If only Park Ranger Steve Harrington wasn’t such a giant, unfairly attractive pain in his ass.

A Gem Beyond Counting | 13,728 | teddywesworl / @teddywesworl

Summary: The wrong feeling pitches and dives toward nausea again. Steve folds in half, eyes squeezed shut. The room spins, and his skin goes clammy. Behind the rush of white noise in his ears, he thinks he hears Eddie’s voice, calling to him, saying his name. There’s a soft pressure on his back that moves up to the back of his neck, and— Gone. Everything’s fine. He feels fine. He feels good, even. Eddie has a hand on the back of his neck and one clutching his forearm. Eddie looks frantic, eyes wide, a sheen of sweat on his face and stray damp curls stuck there. Steve’s gaze is drawn to his mouth, taut and worried and always in motion. He wants to lick into it.

fear is fading fast | 14,389 | amiparanoidmuch (p1013) / @p1013

Summary: Eddie is twenty years old. He lives in a small sprawl of suburbia that holds his heart in a vice grip. He only knows one gay man—himself—and he's never getting laid, ever.

Hard to Learn | 20,285 | DaaroMoltor

Summary: Steve pulls up to just outside the garage door, then cuts the engine. He turns in his seat. “Eddie.” He startles, a visibly painful jerk, and his eyes snap to Steve. Steve meets them steadily, trying to project calm. Eddie’s gaze do linger on him for a moment, before he looks around. The house towers above them, dark and empty. Eddie frowns, plainly confused, then glances to Steve and- Realization dawns, then it’s quickly followed by anger and… hurt? The first quickly eclipses the latter, and Eddie flings open the car door. “See you around, I guess, Harrington,” he spits, beginning to limp away. Steve is so startled that it takes him a moment to get his bearings. “Hey!” he calls, scrambling out of the car. “Hey! Where are you going?! You can barely even walk!” “Home,” Eddie snaps. “And I’m walking because apparently I’m the only one who doesn’t deserve a fucking ride.” “Oh, for the love of-,” Steve mutters, then runs the couple of hobbled steps that Eddie has managed to put between them, grabbing his arm to spin him around. “Your home is half portal, idiot,” Steve says. “You’re staying with me.”

The Adventures of Eddie Munson, Cheerleader | 26,082 | bookworm1805

Summary: Hawkins Indiana, January 1985 The moment the basketball players walked into the gym, all hell broke loose.  Curses were spat. Teenagers whispered in scandalized tones as their nikes squeaked over the polished wood floor. Prayers were chanted. Somewhere across town, a baby probably cried. Eddie Munson grinned. 

the affliction of the feeling | 27,203 | nondz (pinkjook)

Summary: “Hold on,” Robin interrupts. “Hold on, is this— are you, like. Do you know what masochism is?” “I know I act like it sometimes, Robin, but I’m not actually fucking twelve,” Steve says.

for your eyes only (i'll show you my heart) | 32,068 | strawberryspence / @strawberryspence

Summary: “Damn you, Harrington.” Eddie shakes his head, looking back at the box again. He can see Robin looking at him, but Eddie avoids looking at her. He didn’t want to answer questions about his damn crush on Steve freaking Harrington and how he keeps getting more perfect by the minute. Eddie needs him to stop, like literally right now. “Oh my god,” Dustin screams, making Eddie look at him from across the room. Eddie finds him staring at someone, so he follows his line of sight and finds one Steve Harrington, yeah, that one, the one he just asked a second ago to stop being perfect? Yeah, that guy is standing at the bottom of the stairs with a crumpled box in his hands and is wearing glasses. Steve Harrington just exceeded perfect.

off the beaten path | 34,208 | pukner

Summary: "I'm saying this," says Steve, loudly, cutting him off, "because someone I love is, uh, gay. And I love them, but like, platonically. And also me calling you a queer might've been a little hypocritical, in restrospect." There is a long, baffled pause. "What," says Jonathan, "Steve, are you--are you coming out to me?" Steve frowns, "Oh, yeah, I guess I am. Cool."

The Shire is NOT on Fire | 54,148 | kissesforcas

Summary: The kids convince Steve to take them all to a Renaissance Faire and LARP event. Steve has more fun than he admits. And then Steve has a LOT more fun than he admits.

Ahoy, Big Boy | 83,733 | ChronicRabbit

Summary: Scoops Ahoy. America’s favorite place to cool down, and quite possibly the lamest summer job under the blazing Indiana sun. Especially if you were former High School royalty, brutally rejected by each and every university you’d applied to and promptly cut off by your shitty parents in an effort to teach: “some goddamned responsibility.” Between accidentally intercepted secret Russian communications, a meddling preteen matchmaker with no collarbones, and increased proximity with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson, a measly $3 an hour plus tips is nowhere near enough to deal.

caught in the middle, helpless again | 131,425 | margosfairyeye (Skittery) / @margosfairyeye

Summary: Fuck, Eddie has been here before. The deja vu was bad enough but this is like, double, this is like deja deja vu or deja vu vu or something, this is unprecedented shit here. And Eddie knows what comes next, knows like the roiling ache in his stomach that they’re going to go in, go though the portal and into the Upside fucking Down and didn’t they already do this?

Master Reclist · Personal Masterlist · Blog Nav.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Best and Worst of Both Worlds (part 41)

Tw: not that i know of

Part 42

Vote below pls i will only consider first 21 votes

Yves effortlessly carried you out of the back seat and placed you onto the wheelchair.

You gaped at everything while Yves closed his car door.

It's a stylish and minimalistic house with two floors. You like its modern architecture with sharp edges and boxy shapes, the walls and roofs are painted with black or various shades of grey.

It's much smaller than his neighbors who boast their colossal mansions and manors. Even if each owned land is similar in size, Yves's vicinity appears larger by tenfold due to how little he built. You saw some lawns even have a helipad, all other houses had a swimming pool of some sort and a garage that was as big as a shopping mall's parking lot.

Yves had none of that. It was just a relatively boring, regular sized luxury house. And with a small garden and a garage that fits a maximum of two cars.

You think he wanted you to look around, that is why he parked outside instead. His home looked... out of place. Not because he appears poor due to his lack of excessiveness, but it almost seems like he's hiding something from his equally wealthy neighbors.

Because how else is he able to secure housing in a neighbourhood that appears to accommodate multi billionaires? Yves has to be rich, but he refuses to show it, going against the norm. Is that not social suicide for the wealthy?

He lifts the brakes off your chair and pushes you towards the entrance. It's just a plain, singular door with no grand carvings. There is a metal gate that he had to unlock before accessing the next barrier, though. But it felt bizarre how there isn't some complex security system. Just a surveillance camera and two keyholes.

"Welcome to the place I call home, my love." Said Yves as he wheeled you inside.

His home is breathtaking. A dramatic, gothic interior design complete with a giant chandelier emitting soft, golden light. Black, greys, burgundy, ecru and browns were all you could see. It is exactly like the ones you would see in high end magazines, the epitome of opulence.

He has a brick fireplace that isn't lit, but upon further inspection, it's more of a glass box- an electronic fireplace that replaced the need for gas, wood or an actual fire. It's obviously not lit at the moment due to the scorching weather.

The lighting is nothing like you imagined, illuminance came from slender, golden lamps that glowed pleasantly. It's never too bright or dim, it felt perfect.

The windows quadruple your height and the blinds block natural outside light so much that you thought they were part of the walls, it's ridiculously spacious for its exterior. It was as if Yves managed to stuff an entire plane hangar into a little room.

It's cool inside, but not freezing. You couldn't find the air conditioner anywhere, you wonder where the cold air is coming from. No visible vents nor openings in the walls.

You picked up a nice, citrusy and vaguely floral smell with a clear note of sandalwood. It's very mild, almost unnoticeable if one were to be absentminded. But the general fragrance of his home fits the theme, sophisticated and seductive, yet enigmatic. You have no idea where the smell is coming from, seeing that there isn't an air freshener nearby.

It's so surreal to exist in such magnificence, you're afraid to touch anything else because whatever your eyes landed on, you knew that it cost way more than your life.

You told Yves that his design is beautiful. He smiled at your compliment.

"I'm happy that you like my sense of style. As you will be living with me for a while."

You asked if the bedrooms are upstairs. To that, he said yes. Scratching the back of your head nervously, you asked if you could stay downstairs until your leg is healed instead. It would be tedious going up and down with a pair of crutches.

Yves pauses for a bit. He had to hold his tongue as he would have told you to rely on him completely for mobility. That wouldn't have sat well with you as someone who values their autonomy to a certain degree. However, he would have gladly carried you wherever and whenever you wanted.

"I do have a guest bedroom downstairs." Yves appeared disappointed. You ignored that and told him you would take that instead.

"Very well then." He uttered, moving you towards your new bedroom.

__

You're surprised to know Yves has already moved all your belongings into his home. So setting up your new bedroom only took an hour. It seems like he was under the assumption that you will be staying upstairs, as he had to bring boxes upon boxes down by himself.

You grinned and leaned back against your comfortable office chair, your wheels resting close by. The room is almost five times as large as your previous one, everything is new and maintained. The aesthetic is similar to that outside, but it's more impersonal and plain. You assume that Yves would want his guests to customize their temporary living space to an extent.

The bed is fluffy and king-sized and there is an ensuite bathroom.

Yves hung up the last of your posters before bringing his attention back to you.

"Use this if you need me." He handed you a key fob with one button. It's safe to assume that you simply press it to alert Yves.

"I have duties to attend to." He bent down and gave you a kiss on the forehead. "I will be in my office, is there anything else you would like me to do, before I leave?"

You shook your head.

"Then, I will meet you later, my dear." He caressed your cheek before giving you privacy.

As soon as the door closes, you open your laptop and turn it on. The sound of your dusty fans whirring filled the space, it was loud and unnerving. But what could you do, you're too stingy to use the $5000 allowance from Yves to buy a new one since it's still working. You're not going to ask Yves to get another laptop for you either.

You clicked a few icons and began typing.

Yves frowned at his screen that's mirroring yours. His emerald eyes watched you type "Room rentals for university students" in the search bar of your browser.

He adjusted his reading glasses as he flitted his eyes between what is shown on his monitor and the conditions in your room. It's slightly colder than what you're comfortable with, so he adjusted the thermostat in your room.

After a few minutes of scrolling through the listings, once the temperature hits a specific figure, down to the decimals, you immediately close the window just to open up your favourite computer game. Seemingly losing interest in putting your life back together and wanting to distract yourself instead.

Meanwhile, you thought about what you wanted to do as you level your character up. There is no doubt that living with others is much cheaper, but you really wanted to try living on your own. Especially when you probably have the means to pay two months of rent in advance already.

Living with Yves is great, but you noted the lack of bus stops around. The rich wouldn't need public transportation, they have their own private vehicles and maybe their own hidden highways. That means you couldn't move around as freely and you would have to rely on Yves to give you a ride.

You didn't feel comfortable with being that needy with your boyfriend yet. Fearing that he might grow tired and annoyed with your constant requests. He has work and other obligations, he couldn't be on your beck and call 24/7.

Unless he hires a chauffeur, which from your past experiences, it wasn't all that nice.

You remember seeing an opening for a studio apartment on that website. The price seems reasonable and it's a 25-minute walk to your university, so you could save on bus fares.

You wouldn't need to ask permission from anybody, well maybe your parents who are funding your education and living expenses. Maybe even Yves to supplement more money. But in the end, you're an adult that has the right to make their own decisions.

Then again... money. Well, you'll burn that bridge when you get there.

You thought about it, pondering what your next step should be.

[butchy-boything]

im having trouble finding straight leg jeans that make me feel butch. Mostly bc my hips are wider than my thighs and waist and so many jeans accentuate that and if they don’t then the waist is too big (and even with a belt it’s noticeably too big). Do you have recs for good butch jeans?

levi’s are ALWAYS my go-to. although i’d argue that a solid top can also help that for you - sometimes your shirt can play into how wide your hips looks as well, oddly enough. a good boxy t-shirt can work wonders. for specific recs, i’d look into transmasculine spaces - they tend to have a real good grasp on this stuff.

although, do remember that there is absolutely nothing less butch about having wide hips. when i think of some of my favorite butches, almost all of them have wider hips. i think there’s something really beautiful about it - im not sure how to articulate it though.

butch is also your spirit, the way you carry yourself, the way you treat other people… you are butch enough!!

just remember - heavy are the hips that wield the strap.

[sickonthedancefloor]

⭐

Director's Cut - All Hands on Deck!

Hi y'all, I got a star! ⭐ So I wanted to cut in on this series I started 2-3 years ago that is taking me forever and a day to write.

I spent weeks watching compilation videos of BTS and finding old blogs with their management and staff team and their two main managers that definitely were going to cameo the most in the series. The biggest issue is because they’re managers and behind the scenes staff, it’s always tricky trying t find a characterization that doesn’t seem too off-putting or bizarre.

Outside of that, watching the entire gang dissolve into madness with everyone catching some sort of weird plague is fun to write even though it’s quite difficult. I’ve always been in the habit of writing these long af fics, instead of shorter, easier to post/easier to digest stories. Part of what takes forever is trying to write such long af pieces, even if they’re unnecessary to be that long.

I do plan on continuing this, probably after screaming when Jin makes it back home.

So this fic is actually titled in my story folder as ‘3amchicken’–which was the original plan, just uncontrolled undercooked chicken disaster and hungry boys without restraint–but it ended up being, what? As

Here’s the original fic beginning:

Honestly, they should have done their research first. It had started as a craving for fried chicken after a night working at the studio, and a bleary-eyed Sejin dropped Jimin and Taehyung off at their dorms with fried chicken from the new-but-slightly-seedy restaurant down the street from the studio. Ever the foodies, the two night-owls were always down for trying new restaurants, especially ones within walking distance from their home or from the studio. “Don’t eat too much too quickly,” manager Sejin warned them. The poor man had been up far too long with them; Jimin felt bad having to wake him up from where he’d fallen asleep in the hall from the practice room, but they didn’t have much of a means home outside of walking, which wasn’t the best option at three in the morning. Sejin unlocked the doors to the dark SUV. “You don’t have heavy assignments tomorrow but I know you’re not going to sleep well if you eat all of that chicken tonight.” His eyes turned to the two large bags the boys held. “It’s not just for us!” Taehyung argued quickly, boxy grin in full force. “We’re gonna share… Most of it, yeah.” Jimin nodded quickly, although he knew he and Taehyung would probably eat a ton of this on their own. They hadn’t eaten since late lunch, and after dancing for even longer than Hoseok that night, they were positively famished. And given the heavy sigh, both boys knew their manager knew they weren’t going to listen. He bid them goodnight and waited for them to enter the building before driving off. Jimin snickered, bumping his shoulder against Taehyung’s as they hurried to the elevators. “Think anyone else is up?” “Suga-hyung definitely is,” answered Taehyung, already reaching into the bag for a biscuit. “I asked if he wanted anything, he just asked for wings.” Fishing his keys from his pocket, Jimin made a face. “Ugh, you buy wings for Suga-hyung but you won’t buy wings for me? What kind of best friend are you?” “The kind that buys chicken with you in the middle of the night. Jimin-ah, it smells so good, we gotta hurry and eat it.” With a laugh, Jimin unlocked the door and let Taehyung in first, slipping off his shoes as he locked the door. The kitchen light was still on, but only the tv shone from the living room. As they carried the bags into the area, Jungkook’s messy bun popped into view. “Chicken!” Yoongi chuckled and gently shoved Jungkook away as he rose, stretching his back. Jungkook, instead, climbed over the back of the couch to join the two 95-liners in the kitchen, helping them lay out the different packages. “Wow, this stuff is so greasy,” he remarked, staring at his hands after touching a box. “And we’re sure this place is credible?” Taehyung shrugged. “Seemed credible to me. I guess it’s just greasy.” “That’s going to hurt your stomach later if you eat too much.” But even with the warning, Yoongi walked over and pulled a potato wedge from one of the boxes, taking a bite. He nodded approvingly. “Tastes good though.”

[iztarshi]

Little Boxies and Biology

Who wants to see me put way way too much thought into how mutant turtles would work? Especially since if I could draw them I would probably throw half of this out the window to make them "look right".

But I have been looking at human skeletons, turtle skeletons, and people moving in full plate armour today, and this is how I imagine my turtles working.

Carapace

Arches out from the top of the shoulders and rounded shape all the way down

Sides bend forwards enough to touch the plastron for a short way above the waist

The spine is only fused with it for the length of the ribcage, below that there’s a short length of flexible spine arching in while the shell still arches out

The ribs are completely fused with it

The pelvis is completely free inside it, but still encased by it, allowing flexibility in the hips

It’s hard to sit up straight instead of lounging because they’re really sitting on round carapace more than butt

Plastron

A solid plate from just below the shoulders to the waist, covering the rib cage and allowing space for the arms to move

The width of the plastron between the shoulders does mean they’d have trouble with a two handed sword, for instance, since their arms have trouble moving close together right in front of them, and this is why the only two handed weapon among them is a bo which can be used with the hands at each end

The box turtle plastron hinge sits right on the waist, like the transition from breastplate to fauld in plate armour

There is another solid plate covering the pelvis below the waist

Bridge

The bridge is ligamentous, holding the plastron and carapace together as with strong elastic

The ligaments are longer and more flexible between the bottom plastron plate and the carapace, letting the hips move more easily

The turtles did need to do flexibility training to get their bodies able to bend for some moves, and they can sprain their bridge

It’s usually Leo (overdoes training) or Raph (wants to get training over with and doesn’t warm up) who end up with sprains

Organs

The lungs are high up in the curve of the shell

The guts usually sit in the pelvis like they would in a human, but they can be squished into the curve of the shell to make room for the legs when a turtle goes into their shell

Being inside a shell is kind of like being in the fetal position if you could push your organs out of the way and into a backpack you’re wearing

The cloaca is on the tail and with the hips enclosed they have to extend it (like real turtles) to excrete, they carry their tails tucked in otherwise

Between turtle omnivorousness and human omnivorousness they can digest almost anything

Limbs

Pretty much like human limbs

Their shoulder ligaments can stretch more than (most) humans to let them get their arms inside their shell, ie, they’re double-jointed

For some reason the front feet to hands mutation went a bit weird - they have the classic tmnt three fingers, but it’s because their feet didn’t separate into fingers properly, both fingers on their hand have two sets of bones inside

Same for the back feet to feet, although they only had four toes there to begin with so they don’t have a back thumb

People who know more than me about turtle biology are welcome to tell me why this wouldn't work, although I do know I'm pushing it with things like how much room the limbs would take up inside the shell. I'd like to know more, tbh, and should probably get an actual book about box turtles instead of wandering the internet.

[rowretro]

✧𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓✧

WARNINGS: Love n fluff~

✧tag list✧:@chlorinecake @nikisdubblchococake @enhypensccstarlight @strwberrydinosaur @sunghoonsbeautymark @strawbsj  (pls tell me if im missing any tags)

✧CHAPTER 14✧

The day finally came around. Riki and y/n’s wedding… The day they’ve all been looking forward to. The girl woke up beside him a while ago, smiling “Morning my soon to be hubby” the girl smiled, kissing his lips quickly. Riki smiled as he turned to her, staring, still lying down. He watched as she got off the bed, a towel wrapped around her body as she used another to completely dry her hair. “Rise and shine bride and groom~” Jay sang as he came with a tray of fancy breakfast, Sunoo following behind with baby Kyle. “Aww Jay you made us breakfast in bed?” Riki asked with a smile, appreciating his hyung’s kindness.

“Well it is your wedding. And it’s the least I can do since i just saw your fiance half naked-” Jay trailed off, his eyes on y/n who frowned at him “ay, eyes away from my woman, that views only for me to stare at-” Riki said narrowing his eyes at Jay who lifted his arms in defense. The male left while Sunoo stayed, bending to Riki’s level with Kyle in his arms. “Little Kyle got you a present~” Sunoo said as he made the baby hand Riki a little gift. “Awww thanks sweetheart~” Riki sang, kissing the baby’s forehead, then smiling at Sunoo.

Riki opened the gift to find a tie that matched what he got for the baby, specially picked out by his best friend Sunoo. “Awwww matchy ties with my baby, thanks sweetie… n thanks Sunoo” Riki smiled, hugging both, Y/n kissed Riki’s cheek smiling. Eat up pretty boy, we’re getting married in a few hours Y/n said as Riki ate w her. Sunoo left with the baby in hand.

“What do you mean the venue is ruined?! We’re meant to get married today!!!!” The man yelled through his phone, a sigh following shortly after. “What’s wrong? Did our venue get canceled?” y/n asked as Riki sighed “A thunderstorm wrecked it, but we’re lucky because a hall nearby was booked for a wedding but the bride had run away so we can get married there” Riki said as the girl smiled.

As if the day couldn’t even get worse, the most ridiculous thing happened. The bride who had supposedly ran away, returned hand in hand with the groom, which meant no venue. However Riki didn’t give up  “We can still do this baby… I mean our home is a big place right?” Riki asked as some workers moved the items to their home. “What the fuck?!” y/n said as she  examined the messy house. Someone must’ve broken in. But that was a problem for the 2 to sort out after they got married. At this point, it was practically impossible. It was like god was telling them that maybe this just wasn’t meant to happen. Then y/n got an idea.

“maybe we should get married where we first proposed… at our cafe…” the girl said as Riki thought for a second “You know what… maybe we should, I mean there’s so much space, guests can sit down, and we won’t need to spend too much money on food” Riki smiled. Hence that’s exactly where they went. The place looked more spacious, a bandstand, where Riki stood with Jay, who will marry the 2 together. Heeseung smiled as he walked his sister down the aisle, the beautiful white dress making her look oh so angelic.

As Jay did his part, and the 2 read their vows, tearing up at each others’ sweet, loving words. “Nishimura Riki, do you take Lee y/n as your lawfully wedded wife?” Jay asked as Riki stared at her, lovingly “I do” “And Lee y/n, do you take Nishimura Riki as your lawfully wedded husband?” Jay asked “I do” “You may now kiss the bride” He said as Riki pulled her into a loving kiss, his forehead resting against hers as his arms remained around her waist. “That’s our first kiss as husband and wife, wifey~” Riki sang.

“Nishimura Riki.” A familiar voice behind him called “mom? MOM YOU CAMEEE!” Riki said, a boxy smile painting his face as he saw his mother there, carrying Kyle “I had to sneak around my husband’s back to see you… and this little cutie, and the lucky woman marrying my son~” She smiled. Y/n smiled, hugging her, glad that she wasn’t mad at them for keeping the baby. 

Though things didn’t go as planned, the couple had a blast, Bestfriends who have and will stand by their side, Family members who treasured them, with all the love they had. The way they dealt with the issues peacefully. Sure they had their conflicts and small fights, but that only led them to be a strong couple, the unbreakable dream love only few people have when marrying their highschool sweetheart.

 Riki stared awestruck, the way the moonlight shone on the girl’s bright blue dress, her cleavage somewhat exposed due to the deep neck, the bright, design and long skirt, making her look more angelic “May I have this dance my wife?” Riki asked, as the girl smiled. He wasn’t the type to be so cheesy, other than those times they stay up at 3 am stressed out about something, he’d slow dance with her to the silence of the kitchen, lovingly. His arm around her waist, her hand in his while the other on his shoulder, eyes never leaving each other as they danced through the night. Heeseung smiled at the two “I’m still kinda upset he stole my babysitter from me… but I’m glad that it was him who did it” The male mumbled as Jay pat his back.

✧𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓✧

[cutwhipburn]

Mistake (Chapter One)

WARNINGS: Mental Fuckery, Dehumanization, WRU/Box-Boy Universe Themes, Medical Torture, Mental Torture, Human Expirementation, Dissociation, Alluding to Food Withholding, Fake News and the Spread of False Information, Illiteracy/Illiterate Whumpee

Mistake’s legs burned. It felt like millions of fire ants were biting into their legs-no, like a million fire ants were burrowing into their legs, biting and crawling through their skin and deep into their muscles. Into their bones, even. The latest of their mother’s inventions was proving to be a success, unfortunately for Mistake. 

It was a shot, one that Shannon planned to have used on boxies who failed escape attempts. Mistake could confirm that it would undoubtedly be very effective. Just two needles, one in each leg, and that boxie would likely never want to run again. Mistake didn’t think it would even be able to stand for at least a few hours afterwards, let alone walking or god forbid running.

Mistake winced, crying out in pain as her mother prodded them, writing notes in her inventions notebook. They wished it’s mother would let them be finished for the day, preferably sending them to their father so they could curl up in a ball and let him hug it until the pain passed. But they knew that was wishful thinking. They had been in pain for so long they’d cried out all the tears they had, had screamed themself near hoarse. 

Shannon would keep them through to the very end of the pain, and probably still have critiques on their reactions after. But Mistake didn’t know what else to do. They were hurting so much.

Time dragged on like molasses, until eventually the throbbing pain died down enough for them to stop silently crying, and they were able to curl up into a ball on the floor.

“Can I see papa now?” Mistake mumbled into their legs, their body shaking in exhausted pain. Their legs still occasionally jolted with aftershocks.

“If you can get up and walk there on your own.” Shannon allowed with a nod, turning to her assistant. “Lets get this to the lab. I need to test the effects on a few of the boxies, see if it differs based on age, weight, and gender. Pick out some troublemakers for me.” The assistant nodded, turning quickly on their heel and speeding from the room.

Mistake started to slowly drag their body across the floor, it’s body aching too much to even try standing. They supposed they would maybe feel embarrassed, if they weren’t so used to the humiliating feeling of needing to get out of the lab, now.

They found its father Norman, predictably as ever, standing in Shannon’s enormous kitchen, spaced out and distant. Mistake felt cold sweat down their back, leaning against the cool cabinet and tiles.

“Papa, I’m here,” Mistake said, childishly quiet. “Mama let me be done now.” They tuck their head behind their curls. “I'm tired.”

“Missy?” Norman snapped out of his daze, hurriedly bending down to lift them off the floor. “You’re shaking.”

“Mama tested a new shot,” Mistake mumbled, curling into their father’s chest. “Supposed to punish bad runaways.” They were careful with their words, softly methodical and clear. “Made my legs hurt for a while.”

He carried them into the living room, laying them down on the couch. “Want to watch cartoons, love? Do you want something to eat? I-I can make something as soon as I ask your mother if you’re allowed.”

“Not hungry,” Mistake said quietly, curling up in a ball and shaking their head. “Just wanted to be with you.” They latched onto him again like a small koala bear. “I feel better when I’m with you.”

Norman looked like he was about to be sick. “Oh-Okay, but I have to sit on the floor, remember. I’ll just sit by you, okay?”

Norman wasn’t allowed on the couch. 

Mistake whined softly, sliding themself onto the floor next to him and nestling into his side. “Wanna be with you,” they mumbled stubbornly. The carpet was plush at least. Mistake was used to sitting on it with their father, though even the plushest carpet starts to hurt when you’re ordered to kneel on it in complete stillness for half a day.

“Missy, please, the couch.” Norman begged, but his voice wavered, already used to loosing any argument he dared have. “I’m sure it feels a lot more comfortable, and you’re in pain.”

“I want you, not couch,” it insisted quietly.

Norman was silent for a moment. “Cartoons?” He asked again, his voice dulled. The only cartoons Shannon allowed them to watch were the ones with a silly little box-boy constantly getting into trouble, usually with the reminder at the end that staying indoors and with your owner was the only safe places to be. Or there would be the episodes where the box-boy’s owner would randomly shout out a command for the boxies watching, just to make sure that even when relaxing a boxie should be ready to obey their owner and listen to their authority.

“No thank you,” Mistake mumbled. “Too tired. Just wanna rest.” Norman wrapped his arms around them, gently playing with their hair. Mistake drifted asleep in his comforting arms, only awaking to the sound of Shannon’s return. It was not quiet or pleasant, but it rarely ever was.

“Norman, get dinner started!” Shannon called from the front door as she took off her coat. “We have company coming. Get Mistake upstairs and into a nice outfit when you’re done.” Mistake rubbed its’ eyes as Norman gently removed them from his lap, placing them back on the couch and hurriedly going to do as he was ordered.

Mistake could feel the pain subsiding more from their legs, lightly dangling them over the edge of the couch. It wasn’t so painless they could walk yet, pressure still sent an electric pain running up its’ legs, but they could tell it almost was the case. They fidgeted with its  hands, waiting patiently for their father to return and hoping their mother left it be for now.

Shannon, thankfully, didn’t even seem to notice them as she breezed past the living room, going upstairs to change herself, most likely. It was after a long time of silence before their father joined Mistake again, carefully lifting it back up and going upstairs to the attic.

Mistake had exactly two nice dresses. A black one and a dark blue one. Still, Norman rifled through the two in its’ small closet, pulling them out and holding them up as if it was a big decision. “Which one do you want tonight Missy?”

“Black, please,” Maddie said, reaching out to grab the dress themself. In truth, they rather wished they had more colors of clothes, and maybe even some nice outfit to wear that wasn’t a dress. But they couldn’t be ungrateful. These dresses were nice, a great privilege. “Thank you papa.”

“Remember not to talk at dinner unless anyone sitting at the table speaks directly to you. Ask if you want to speak otherwise. Eat what’s on your plate but don’t ask for seconds if you want them. If you do, find me afterwards and I can get them to you when no one's paying attention.” Norman prattled off, all the rules long memorized. Mistake nodded their head carefully to each one as they slipped the dress over their head, wriggling out of their dirty lab clothes. Norman gently finished it off with a bow in their hair, slightly shabby but not too noticeable,

“I understand, papa,” Mistake said softly and clearly. “I’ll do what you said, promise. I’ll be good.”

“And if Shannon tells you to go to bed, you have to come right up, brush your teeth and change, and go to sleep.” This one Norman seemed nervous, almost on edge about. He always did. He said it was the most important rule Mistake had to worry about. “I mean it Missy, right to sleep. No book. No window.”

Mistake pouted softly. They rather liked their book, staring at the pictures and the stories they’d made up to go along with them. Ignoring the black squiggles on the page that it would never be able to read. That they’d never be allowed to learn. They liked the window just as much. It was nice, a way to imagine a world where Mistake wasn’t a mistake, but a normal child with a normal life and two whole parents who loved them very much. But they knew how important this was to their father, so they still nodded.

“Okay, papa.” They folded its’ hands on their lap. “I will.”

“When whoever she’s expecting gets here, remember to say hello ma’am or sir and then-” Norman mimed zipping his lips. “I have to get the food out of the oven. Can you please set the table? Remember to ask your mother how many plates you need to set out.”

Mistake pushed off the bed, standing on unsteady, wobbling legs and nodded its  head. “Yes papa,” They brushed off the dust from their dress, walking unsteadily down the stairs and hesitantly hovering outside their mother’s office. “Mother? How many plates should I set out on the table?”

“Three on the table set out nicely, four in the center.” Shannon said, not even looking up to acknowledge Mistake’s presence. Mistake tried not to wilt at the lack of attention, nodding their head.

“Alright, mother. Thank you.” Mistake ducked their head and hurried down to the kitchen to grab the appropriate table settings.

They set the table with a clean precision their father had taught them well, not a thing angled or out of place, before sitting down.

On the floor.

The dining room floor was wood. It hurt their knees more, but Mistake had a little pillow to sit on while they ate. That helped a little bit, even if it was only for a little while.

Their father didn’t take long in the kitchen, carefully bringing out the food so none would drop on the floor, and arranging it nicely on the table. Mistake watched him closely, taking care to mind his actions. They were to learn from their father as much as possible, their mother had insisted.

They noticed him pause briefly, eyes moving over the table. He was counting the plates. His face fell at the number, uncomfortable and tense.

“What’s wrong, papa?” Mistake asked softly, careful not to speak too loudly and have their mother overhear.

“It’s just…I think it’s Evelyn coming over.” Norman admitted. “If there’s three plates out on the table and four that will go to the floor.”

Mistake felt themself cringe inward. They didn’t like Evelyn much. Her daughter, yes. Her daughter seemed kind, and curious, and interesting and Mistake  longed to speak with her as though they were equals. But Evelyn, Mistake hated.

Anytime Evelyn came over, Mistake got into extra trouble and was punished. And besides, Cyrus frightened them. He was rather big, rather scary, and not quite nice. Papa said that was his job, since he was a designated Guarddog boxie. He was the only one Mistake had ever met.

The doorbell rang, echoing throughout the house. Norman hurriedly helped Mistake to their feet, muttering his own rules under his breath as the two walked towards the door.

The idea behind a Box-Boy cartoon was inspired by: @ashintheairlikesnow Post here: