#Replaced Miracle au

[laynore-x]

--"Replaced Miracle AU"--🐆✨🕯️

An Encanto au where Antonio is now the protagonist without a gift, Mirabel is the outcast who left casita at the age of 15, and after Alma's death, Pepa was the new matriarch, but things didn't go well after that.

[lxvebun]

Highschool au brainrot with sukuna. Please hear me out-

╰┈ Not completely proofread. Sukuna x gender neutral reader<3 fluff! Let me know if you guys prefer small or big text for brainrots like this♡

꒰ა High school jock Sukuna! who had been failing his tests and was now facing the very real threat of being benched if he didn’t bring his grades up. His usual cocky grin faltering slightly as he carried himself around school with a nervous scowl.

The name Ryomen Sukuna stared back at you from the slip of paper the teacher handed to you, their eyes filled with a sense of pity, knowing Sukuna was not the easiest to get along with. The note simply read: “Please, tutor him for the upcoming tests.”

High school jock Sukuna! who was absolutely terrifying to approach. He towered over most, his sheer size enough to make anyone think twice before stepping into his space. With a permanent furrow in his eyebrows, making it look like he was always on the edge of starting a fight, and a sharp voice with an even sharper tongue. Intimidating already, he became even more so around his team—loud, confident, untouchable. Not wanting to deal with that many eyes on you, you decided to wait until after practice, when the hallways had fallen silent, and you wouldn't have the weight of other people’s eyes on you… just his.

High school jock Sukuna! who had lit up in a way you hadn’t been expecting when you explained that your teachers had assigned him to you for tutoring. The edge of confusion in his eyes cleared almost instantly, replaced by something more like relief. He was quick to exchange numbers with you, even quicker to ask if you had time that Friday after practice.

High school jock Sukuna! with whom you surprisingly found yourself in the midst of a blossoming friendship. Yeah, he was rough around the edges, with his jagged personality, sharp tongue, and lack of patience for anything he didn’t find interesting. But when it was just the two of you, tucked into a corner of the library, it was almost like he softened a little. He listened carefully when you explained things to him, followed your instructions on homework, albeit begrudgingly, doodled on the corner of your notebooks, overhauled his backpack to share his snacks, and what you thought would be a nerve-wracking few hours every week turned into something you actually looked forward to.

High school jock Sukuna! who’s crushing so incredibly hard on you, but you’re completely oblivious to it. Perceiving it more as him just being friendly. </3

And really, it’s so painfully obvious he likes you—he doesn’t even bother hiding the way he stares when you’re explaining something, and there’s a certain warmth in his gaze that makes your heart flutter, but you brush it off. </3

(Really, it's a miracle his pupils haven’t turned into little heart shapes yet.)

He’s just glad he’s keeping his grades up with your help so he can continue to play in his games. You convince yourself as he flashes a fanged smile and shoots you a wink as you pass each other in the hallways.

Sukuna just doesn’t want to deal with the hassle of having another tutor assigned to him. He doesn’t want to go through the exhausting process of explaining what he finds difficult in his subjects over and over again to a stranger. Your mind rationalizes as he offers to carry your bag, not giving you any time to respond before he slung the heavy thing over his shoulder with a casual grin. His arm now wrapped around your shoulder. The warmth of his touch lingering as you both walked to the library for your usual study session

It’s just Sukuna trying his best to be friendly and convince you to stay and tutor him. That’s all it is. You're sure! But then… that doesn’t explain why his team jersey, with the bold, bright lettering spelling out his name, is currently neatly folded up in your locker, adorned with a messy little note in familiar handwriting that reads:

“Wear this for me at the game?” ♡

Your fingers hover over the fabric, the weight of it suddenly feeling a lot heavier than it should...໒꒱ ⠀

[dokidokitsuna]

GameSwap!AU #2

Thank @earthykinous for this idea; I saw it in the tags of the first GameSwap and immediately knew I had to give it a try ^^

-Taranza seems like a very ‘devoted’ character, the kind who very easily latches on to personal influences…so as part of the HWC, I think he would be just as involved with the Mother Computer as Haltmann, maybe even more so, just to be able to share something with him. Just in general, he’d be agonized about his father not recognizing him anymore, and desperate to prove his worth despite it, trying to replace familial love with company loyalty in a VERY toxic-positive way. ^^ And besides, if he uses that control helmet often enough, maybe he’ll lose all his painful memories too… And in this scenario…maybe the reason Haltmann dies is because he sacrifices himself to Star Dream to save Taranza somehow, finally recognizing his son when he realizes he’s about to lose him again. OR, maybe he just feels like Taranza is too important to lose without knowing why, leaving only Taranza to bear the true emotional weight of that sacrifice.

-I think Susie is a more mature character than Taranza– despite her sad backstory, she seems to handle her situation well during the game, and doesn’t even seem that affected by Haltmann’s death post-game. If it’s not maturity, at the very least it’s a much lower level of emotional attachment.

So how would she go about dealing with her crush mutating into a tyrannical insect queen? I think she would actually just lose respect for her, and end up turning on her.

Despite staying by her side and aiding in her conquest, she would secretly be plotting her downfall: praising and obeying Sectonia to her face, while trying to undermine her in the background…keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as they say. Rather than mistakenly capturing the wrong ‘Hero of the Lower World’, Susie would’ve picked Dedede on purpose, knowing that Kirby was the ‘real’ hero who would come to save him AND defeat Sectonia. She’d then pretend to oppose him throughout the game, throwing challenging bosses his way to prepare him to face the Queen…and finally, she’d reveal her true motivations once Dedede has been freed.

But maybe, just to bring back the stakes and drama…maybe Sectonia overhears this reveal, and enters the scene. Through the ensuing argument, we could learn a bit about how Sectonia became evil in the actual game, and have Susie basically call her out, admitting to her treachery and daring her Queen to do something about it. To throw away the last shred of their former friendship, once and for all.

Which Sectonia does, of course, and from there the rest of the game could proceed like normal. Only, I think Susie’s characterization as a tough-yet-caring friend and a twist-hero would make her return with the Miracle Fruit a lot more satisfying. Rather than failing to see how evil Sectonia had become until it personally affected her, she knew exactly how far-gone she was, and put her life on the line to try and wake Sectonia up.  And despite losing that gamble, despite witnessing her friend choose to become a monster in more ways than one, she survived and came back to help us end the battle. ^^ I think that would be really heartwarming~

[forlix]

‧ ❆ ˚ 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝・h.j.

— stars flare brightest in the absence of light, and you see his clearer than day.

words・6.4k

pairing・han jisung x female reader

genres・college!au, friends with benefits to lovers, snowed in trope, smut, MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS THAT INTERACT WILL BE BLOCKED, angst, ANGST, you have been warned, hurt/comfort, i can't write normal fluff to save my life, happy ending!!!, semi-slow burn

warnings・depictions of insomnia, recurring nightmares, graphic violence, character death (in the nightmare), fears of abandonment and falling in love, alcohol consumption, humans helping each other heal. smut warnings under the cut

playlist・stay - acoustic by jonah baker・all of me by big gigantic・babydoll (speed) by ari abdul・oasis by exo・volcano by han

a/n・hi, here's my second installment of winter falls. writing this was immensely challenging and twice as meaningful, so feedback would be greatly appreciated. thank you to my may for being so fucking instrumental in piecing together this rollercoaster—this one is for you, i love you. thanks to my sahar for everything, always and forever. and thanks to all of you for being here. happy new year ♡

smut warnings・spitplay, unprotected piv, please practice safe sex!!!, car sex, dirty talk, jisung's dick game is kinda crazy, squirting, lots of aftercare

Every time Jisung closes his eyes, he sees somebody’s back.

It’s leaving. Traipsing somewhere he can’t follow. He tries to chase it—he always does, he never learns—but the premise doesn’t so much as surface before the ghosts circling around his ankles go for his throat instead. They snare him by the shoulders, force him to his knees, slam his forehead into the permafrost hard enough to break bone. They make sure the next time he tries to move will be the last.

So he remains, keeled over in the cold, until tearwater clings to his lower lashes in small icicles. Until bloodstained snow coats his lips like the manifestation of a curse. Until the back has disappeared.

Who does it belong to? He’s left to wonder. Where is it going?

Why can’t I follow?

Then he wakes up.

No longer does he lay awake for hours afterwards, scouring the dream’s every frame for his answers.

Now, he tosses and turns in clammy sheets until his exhaustion wins.

Now, he welcomes sleep like a miracle granted by some pitying god.

You see him.

Through a living room packed with red-faced partygoers and dissected by oscillating strobe lights, albeit, but you see him anyways. 

Jisung can barely make out the rest of your face—he blames the lighting, or the soju, or both—but your eyes alone turn him to glass. Not a fancy vase through which the world distorts, but a simple pane that puts him and his ghosts on full display.

He hopes you like horror movies.

Felix knows you, because of course he does, and Jisung has never been happier to call the extroverted Australian his friend than when you come over to say hi. You stumble out of the crowd all smudged makeup and sweaty skin, your figure hugged by a short black dress with two diamond-shaped openings just above your hips, your glossy lips curved in a drunken smile. Jisung immediately wants it against his mouth.

Instead, it disappears behind his friend as you pull him into a quick hug. A few wisps of your hair dust over Jisung’s arm, momentarily replacing the smells of grease and vodka with cherry blossoms and vanilla.

“Lix, hey!”

“Darling, it’s good to see you! Feels like it’s been ages.”

“I know, right? How are you? How is everything?”

“Good, thank you. Just happy the semester’s over.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Then you go to lift your drink and discover thin air in its place. “Or I won’t. Whoops.”

This prompts Jisung’s first contribution to the conversation—and his first effortless laugh in a long while.

“Eventful night, huh?”

He meets your gaze from all of two feet away this time, and his knees buckle under him. That gaze, fuck. So clear and true, like a prism of glass refracting light into a rainbow. He would let you refract him a thousand times over if he had any light to give.

“Maybe,” you giggle. “Seems I’m a little too happy the semester’s over.”

“Wanna not get a drink to celebrate?”

Your expression flickers. Not in a bad way, more like you hadn’t expected him to ask so soon—or for yourself to have your answer so quickly.

A strobe light catches right under your eye and refracts the color in your blushing face. A rainbow.

“I’d like that.”

He tilts his head towards the kitchen. You give Felix’s elbow a light squeeze before moving past him; he gives Felix a glimpse of his growing smile before falling into step behind you. The blonde shakes his head, throws back the rest of his beer, then swivels at the sound of someone calling his name from across the foyer.

Felix will get drunk enough to forget the sight of you leading Jisung up the stairs, two bottles of pink lemonade tucked under your arm. Nothing stronger, as promised.

Jisung asks his question an entire minute after he intends to. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Somewhere I can see your pretty face without having to squint,” you reply, and his stomach tumbles like a schoolboy with a valentine.

You don’t stop at the second floor. Instead, you nudge open a door Jisung swears just materialized to his left and emerge into the night air.

It’s warm for December, but he’s still met with chilly winds licking down the sides of his neck. That’s not the only reason he shudders, though. Below his feet, he finds a metal platform akin to that of a fire escape. Above his head, a staircase that looks one forceful step away from dropping off the side of the building.

You turn towards it. 

In a hurry, he sputters, “I’m, uh—I’m not sure about this.”

A beat passes. Your hold on his wrist loosens, not to let go, just to trace wordless reassurance down the back of his hand. Your fingers feel perfect sliding into the spaces between his, like drops of honey in the craters of soufflé pancakes.

“It’s safer than it looks, I promise.”

Jisung heaves a sigh. It seems saying no to you is an impossible task.

You’re right, though. The iron rungs are surprisingly rigid beneath his feet, and the two of you make it to the roof with no trouble. He does stumble when you pull him up onto the gravel, but it’s intentional, a purposeful blunder to have you closer. To snag another glimpse of that blush, another trace of that floral vanilla.

“Sorry,” he whispers almost directly upon your lips. And that earns him all three.

The next hour evades him for the most part, and Jisung is pissed about it. He’s with the woman of his dreams under a sky so clear it’s almost lustrous and he’s too shitfaced to recollect when he gave you his hoodie to wear; what you said that made his lungs capsize with how hard he laughed; how you ended up so close to each other, your legs strewn over his lap, his hands tracing over your thighs.

Thankfully, he remembers a few things. He remembers how frighteningly easy you are to talk to; he remembers your habit of smacking his stomach when you get flustered; he remembers you getting flustered a lot. He remembers the timbres of your different laughs and how your stunning features crinkle with each. He remembers feeling like a pane of glass in front of you, just like he had downstairs, and he remembers liking it, somehow. Liking the way you see through him, the way you allow him to just exist as he is. Liking the way you acknowledge his ghosts with such nonchalance, inviting them over for tea and biscuits.

He wants to remember everything about you.

It’s not often he wants to remember anything.

Eventually, your conversation comes to a natural close. In its absence, Jisung notices that the alcoholic sludge in his brain has largely diffused; with it, the rumbling bass of the party below. The full moon hangs at its highest point, blanketing the two of you with anticipatory silence, nudging you towards the only topic you’ve yet to breach.

He meets your gaze again, from all of two inches away this time, and his insides twist.

“You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

You blink at him, not following. Then he leans his forehead against yours, lets his eyes flicker to your mouth with such unbridled want that you’re instantly dizzy—and no longer confused.

Regret pools in your eyes moments before they close. “Yes, I think so.”

Your lips are so, so close that he can feel the air shift between you when they move, can feel the soft warmth emanating from them. Jisung pulls away before he does anything stupid.

You do the stupid thing for him.

You push his shoulders to the plaster behind him, push yourself onto his lap with a swing of your body and a slotting of your legs on either side of him. 

The plush of your thighs hugging his hips, the curves of your breasts pressed against his chest, Jisung tries to stare up at you, perplexed, aroused. But you’re so close that he can’t, so he settles with whispering upon the underside of your chin, “what are you—”

“Gimme your lemonade.”

The authoritative words come out in a slurred haze, and he all but hastens to oblige. 

You pluck the plastic bottle from his wavering grasp. His empty hand hovers as if uncertain where to go. But matters as trivial as hand placement drop off his mind’s precipice as he watches you unscrew the cap, the slope of your neck illuminated by spindly moonlight, and without thinking he pushes his hands beneath the hem of your—his—hoodie.

The skin of your waist is warm and smooth where his fingertips are cold and calloused, the juxtaposition unimportant in your reciprocal desires to touch and be touched.

“Open,” you murmur.

His jaw goes slack, firstly from pure disbelief. Then, obedience. The dark locks that obstruct his vision of you fall away as his head meets the brick half-wall behind him, as if the midnight breeze itself mandated their removal.

You pour some of the pink liquid past Jisung’s parted lips. Stray rivulets slip down his cheek and vanish beneath his neckline. You break eye contact to follow their path with dilated pupils and fluttering lashes. With unadulterated desire.

He swallows, gently, and feels the sweet substance surround his tonsils.

He swallows, forcefully, when you wrap your lips around the bottle, the plastic still slathered in his spit.

The swig you take is long, deep. Your throat bobs and your eyes close as if you’re savoring a finely-aged nectar. Then your lips are popping off the opening with a soft thwock, leaving a thick strand of saliva to suspend, suspend, suspend until the very second it’s about to drop, which is when you collect the residue with a deft swipe of your tongue.

“A placeholder,” you breathe, and Jisung’s head careens. A shared bottle. An indirect kiss.

“You’re a monster,” he croaks.

You giggle and lean down, curling a hand around his cheek, pressing a wet kiss to his Adam’s apple.

“Tomorrow, if we’re both sober…”

One, two, three pecks up the length of his jaw.

“...and you still remember my address…”

A suckle to the lobe of his ear.

“...you can kiss me, for real.”

A trembling breath.

“And then some.”

Jisung moans, loudly.

Thankfully, he remembers a few things.

He shows up at your place shortly after sunset the next day. You swing open the door, your face already alight with your world-ending smile.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

Then he’s kissing you like a man famished.

Jisung learns to love your back, that night. He loves its dips and curves, loves its rise and fall. Loves how it arches into him, how it looks drenched in his cum. It’s the back of his dreams.

The back in his dreams keeps walking.

Jisung has never liked winter.

He has never liked its winds, whispering woefully as if mourning something unnamed and unseen. He has never liked its palette, whitewashing the world as if refracting a rainbow in reverse.

He has never liked cracking open his eyes and seeing the scenery of his nightmare outside his window. Nor does he like trudging over the sleet as if weighed down by the same ghosts that break him time and time again in his dreamscape. They love winter. 

And this winter, he swears, is the bitterest yet. On the nights when he’s allowed to sleep, the nightmare comes in such sharp relief that he thinks he’d rather anything else, the ghosts meaner, the blood redder, the silhouette slower. It’s an act of mercy when he’s still awake by the time bleached sunlight perforates the curtains, resting upon his salted cheeks and balled fists.

This winter, it is not just dislike that he feels towards the gray winds—it’s hatred. A maelstrom of loathing so large and dark that Jisung no longer knows where it’s headed or what it’s directed to. Or who.

When winter break comes to an end, he’s probably the only person who’s happy about it.

His friends certainly aren’t, looking like a line of angry nutcrackers with their folded arms and thunderous faces standing outside Greem Cafe.

Jisung calls out a greeting as he jogs towards them, and cue the grumbling.

“What is there to smile about? Enlighten us.” That’s Hyunjin. “I have to deal with four finals and three essays in the next five days and this guy is smiling.”

“He’s accepted his fate, I reckon.” That’s Felix. “We should do the same, boys. Let ourselves down easy, y’know?”

“No, no, he’s smiling because he remembered to bring me his chem notes.” That’s Jeongin. “You did, right? Please say you did.”

Jisung is stunned into silence. “Can I not be happy to see my friends?”

“No,” Hyunjin and Felix reply in unison.

“My bad,” he sighs.

“My notes,” Jeongin repeats.

“I have them, dude. Let’s sit down first.”

The younger boy shouts an impassioned “THANK YOU” at the sky like the clouds just saved his GPA. Jisung reaches for the door to the café, then stops at the sound of Felix’s voice.

“We’re waiting on one more person.”

He turns towards the blonde with puzzled eyes. He’d been under the impression the study session would comprise just them four.

“Who?”

Felix’s response falters on his tongue when he catches sight of something in the distance, and his face changes in a way Jisung’s seen before.

“Look behind you.” Felix shuffles past him, raising his voice to shout, “yo!”

Jisung glances away from the newcomer as quickly as he sees her. It’s not until his eyes pivot to the fire hydrant across the street that he processes her identity.

In one second flat, his mind clutters full. He thinks back to that party, when all it took was the sight of your smile for him to theorize you were the most exquisite thing ever made. He thinks back to the next evening, when he kissed you and verified his hypothesis. He thinks back to what followed and would continue to follow in the few days that remained before break: entwined tongues and emblazoned hickeys, whitened knuckles and whiny praise, snapping hips and shaking bedframes.

This winter, Jisung swears, is the bitterest yet.

But seeing you, the scarf wound multiple times around your neck doing nothing to hide your gorgeous smile, feels like catching a fragment of summer in his frozen hands.

“Thank god,” Felix groans before embracing you. Collapsing on you, more like. “I’m saved.”

You reach around to pat the boy on the back, your eyes brimming with laughter. “Lower your expectations, please. I did well on one exam.”

“You aced the midterm. That automatically makes you a rocket scientist,” Felix corrects, his voice muffled into the shoulder of your coat. A few beats of silence pass. Then, “this is comfy.”

“Okay, okay, let’s go get some caffeine in you,” you giggle. “We have a lot of ground to cover today.”

Felix straightens up sleepily. And sadly. “Superb.”

Jisung hangs back as you introduce yourself to Hyunjin and Jeongin. He doesn’t even notice his growing smile until you’re standing directly in front of him and for the first time in three weeks there’s the smell of cherry blossoms in the air and a rainbow shining on his face again.

“Hi,” he offers.

“Hey,” you reply.

Hyunjin is the one to shatter the prolonged silence that follows. “Are you guys betrothed?”

Felix and Jeongin stalk into the café snickering. You and Jisung trail behind with flaming cheeks.

It takes Jisung two and a half hours to talk to you again. At that point in the afternoon, Felix is napping on the second practice test you’ve given him; Hyunjin has downed three shots of pure espresso and is currently viewing his screen with concerning intensity; Jeongin is at another table on a quiet Zoom call with his chemistry T.A., Jisung’s notes clutched to his chest like a life vest. And you’re leaning back against your seat opposite to him, scrolling through your phone in what he presumes to be a well-deserved study break. As good a time as any.

He opens up his texts with you. His fingers fly across the keyboard.

Jisung: do you have plans after this?

Your eyes stutter to the top of your screen, linger there for a moment, and lock onto Jisung’s from across the table.

He presses his lips into a thin line to suppress his smile. You let yours spill over in full form, and with it comes a soft giggle that would be worth getting his number fucking blocked just to hear one more time.

Three gray dots appear before elongating into a prompt response.

Y/N: I was gonna ask you the same thing…

He’s the one who laughs this time. Fuck, you’re cute. You’re so cute.

Jisung: can i take you to dinner? Y/N: Yes, I’d love that :) Y/N: When should we leave? Jisung: 9? Y/N: Sounds good~ Jisung: cool Jisung: it’s a date Y/N: It’s a date! Y/N: Excited 💛

With that, you put your phone face down and return to work, though your lips remain privately upturned. Jisung wants to kiss them again.

He also wants to turn you into a mess on his cock again.

Or both.

He doesn’t get much studying done after that thought surfaces.

Jisung: me too <3

When nine o’clock rolls around, you and Jisung begin cleaning up your work stations in near-perfect simultaneity. There’s confusion written all over Hyunjin’s and Jeongin’s faces as they watch you swing your backpacks over your shoulders—but Felix’s expression is a blank slate as he sips from his macchiato. Your ingenuity isn’t the only reason he invited you today.

As you make your way out of the café, your shoulders brush once, twice, and then Jisung drops his hand into the space between the two of you without uttering a word. You scoop it up in your own without missing a beat.

He steps into the freezing night feeling warm all over.

“You know what I realized?” You say as you walk towards his SUV.

“What did you realize?”

“We’ve never had a sober conversation before. Can we change that tonight?”

Jisung has broken hearts before.

There’s no euphemistic way to describe his tendency to abuse the sensitive organs, to wring them out and throw them away like irrelevant trash. To juggle and drop them with a sheepish laugh like they’re nothing more than props in a circus act.

He doesn’t do it to save himself or his partners from getting hurt or any self-ingratiating bullshit like that. It’s for himself, all for himself. All to unload his balls and his mind for fifteen blissful seconds. 

There’s blood on his hands. He never cared to wash it off.

Except you are the one asking for his heart this time around, a dash of hope in your smile as you do so, and he thinks it would be his life’s greatest honor to be discarded by you.

“Sure,” he answers.

He doesn’t even last until he’s inside the car.

Your back meets the door to the passenger’s seat, guided there by his hands on your hips. From millimeters away he watches your surprise morph into understanding, then darken into lust.

“I like when we don’t talk, though.”

It’s the most annoying thing in the world to remove so many layers in such a cramped space.

Combined, your clothing forms a tower high enough to block out the driver’s window completely. An unnecessary blockade.

The glass fogs up anyways.

“Fuck, Ji, yes, right there, oh my god.”

You have your legs spread open and the back of your neck digging into the cupholder on the door. It’s not comfortable. You’re too busy getting fucked open to care.

Jisung detaches his lips from your neck to ask, “here, baby?”

The head of his cock hits that gummy spot again, harder, sweeter. You convulse, your hand scrambling for purchase in his raven locks.

“Yes, yes, yes, don’t stop, please.”

Please. The word plays over in his fuzzy mind.

It seems saying no to you is an impossible task.

His cock slips out of you and you lament the loss of contact with a high wail.

“W-why’d—where’d you go?”

He can’t help but chuckle at how incoherent you’ve become. He cradles the back of your head with a tender hand and lowers your upper body onto the leather seat, adjusting himself to your new elevation.

“Right here, beautiful. Didn’t go anywhere—promise—” 

He expels the final word through gritted teeth as he slams into you again, and the new angle is glorious. Your bodies keen in flawless harmony. Profanities tumble from his lips in a steady stream before they turn back into syllables.

“Would never go anywhere. Would never leave without making this pretty pussy cream like it deserves—holy fucking shit, baby.”

You clench around him at his words and then he’s setting a new, relentless rhythm, rocking the whole vehicle with every hearty smack of his hips against yours, your wet walls squeezing him so dreamily he thinks he sees nirvana with every thrust.

You’re enjoying it just as much, if the bubbles of spit in the corner of your mouth are any indication, and Jisung is viciously proud to be the cause. Unbelievably lucky to feel your breasts jiggling under his chest and your nails digging into the back of his neck.

“Good?” He whispers, and you nod blissfully.

“So—good, Ji, so fucking good. Your cock is perfect, fuck, I can’t even—can’t even think.”

“You’re the perfect one. Can’t believe how well your cunt takes me, shit. It’s like it was fucking made for this.”

“It was,” you breathe, and he nearly shoots his load into you at this alone. “It was, it was—oh, god, I think—think I’m gonna come—”

“Do it,” he rasps. “Come for me. Come on this cock and it’s yours.”

“R-really?”

“Really.”

“Then, I will. I’ll come on your cock—make it mine. Need it so fucking bad, I’m so fucking close, oh—please—”

He anchors himself in place with a hand against the windowsill and the other travels down your body to rub fast, tight circles into your clit. You let out a wanton, prolonged moan, tilt your head back to expose him to your fluttering throat. And then you’re pulling his lips onto yours again, and the following kiss is sloppy beyond belief, the kind that can only antedate the happiest of endings.

“My cock,” you sigh into his mouth. “Mine.”

“Forever,” is the breathy response he doesn’t know if he means, the response he gives you anyways.

And then you curl your fingers in his hair. Clamp your teeth around his lower lip. Clench your thighs around his waist. There’s liquid everywhere. Tearwater spilling down the sides of your face. Release gushing all over his dick and pelvis and backseat.

He catches up the moment he realizes what’s just happened. Pulls out of you. Presses his head against the roof of his car. Spits on his hand. Pumps his pulsating cock. Sends himself over the edge you’ve just finished tripping over.

Eventually, he regains feeling in his limbs.

He opens his eyes, surveys the damage, and grins.

Your stomach is covered in ropes of white, your expression hidden behind your hands. You start shaking your head in profuse embarrassment the moment you feel his eyes on you.

“You squirted,” he says.

“I know,” you almost yell, and his grin erupts into a laugh.

He lowers himself back over you, takes your wrists, and removes them from your blushing face. He doesn’t think he’s seen you so flustered before and it has him palpitating in ways he never thought feasible.

Maybe he did mean the damn thing after all.

He pushes off the strands of hair clinging to your damp forehead and replaces them with a gentle kiss. “It was sexy as fuck and you’re everything.” 

There’s a certain softness in your eyes when he pulls away. He hopes, for your sake, it’s all in his head.

His car is in need of aftercare most of all. You shrug on your clothes with considerable effort and get to work, all while sharing comfortable chatter and easy laughter.

Those things persist during your dinner date at a nearby Chinese restaurant and the drive back to your place, which Jisung knows well enough to no longer need his GPS. Those things persist until he kisses you goodbye on your doorstep, because he would have to be fucking crazy not to after you gave him the best night he’s had in so long.

After you reminded him that he’s still capable of comfort and ease, in spite of it all.

Snow comes a few weeks into the new year. 

This winter, it falls late, and it falls hard, like a gust of breath expelled from drawn lungs at the very last minute. Held there as if lying in wait for something unnamed and unseen. 

The gust of breath is too quiet to be heard over the one Jisung lets out against the shell of your ear. “Wait here.”

He goes to roll off you. You don’t let him just yet, darting your hand around his wrist and bringing his face back within centimeters of yours.

Han Jisung is beautiful. You knew it for the first time at that houseparty and you’ve known it every hour of every day since. But it’s always clearest to you in the afterglow, when his bare skin is golden and sticky and his delicate lips bitten to bright fuchsia. 

When his irises have gone black and you see stars, flaring in the absence of light.

You close the distance that remains between you. Your lips part with a content sigh. Your hands drift over the slant of his neck; his find home in the dips above your waist.

He breaks away once you’re both out of breath, and the pad of his thumb wipes lightly at your lower lip.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes,” you reply shyly. “I couldn’t help myself.”

The smile this brings to his face reminds you of a candle’s flame. Soft on the eyes and scalding to the touch when he presses it back against your lips. Once, twice.

“Can you wipe your cum off me now?” You whisper, and he laughs straight into your mouth.

The mattress lifts. His footsteps grow quieter. You shiver in his absence.

Only then do you notice the blizzard.

You stumble off the bed to throw your curtains aside. Snow descends from the sky like spools of unraveling yarn. The streetlights have been reduced to foggy specks, the parked cars to blurry heaps. Every sidewalk and rooftop in sight has already been slathered in ivory.

Jisung announces his return with a disbelieving whistle.

“Am I dreaming?” You murmur.

“When did that happen?”

“I have no idea.”

You don’t even notice the wild smile on your face until you turn to him and catch his reaction to it. He looks like he’s asking himself the same question.

“C’mere,” he hums, and you oblige.

He laves the warm towel over your breasts and stomach, as well as the places his release has trickled since you flung yourself to your feet. All while supporting the small of your back with a touch fatally careful, an expression wholly adoring. All evidence of just how blurry the line between sexual escapade and lover has become in two short months.

Your ribcage fucking throbs.

“You don’t seem excited,” you say.

He finishes cleaning you off. You give him a distracted thank you, noticing the sudden shadow draped over his face like a netted veil.

“I’m not,” he answers, not unkindly.

“You don’t like snow?”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

He circles around the bed to get dressed. You bend to pick up the clothes tossed aside earlier and drop them into your hamper, then slip into a clean pair of underwear and sweatpants.

“It’s a long story.”

Just as you reach for a top, a bundle of cloth travels in an arc across your bedroom and hooks itself around the crook of your arm. His T-shirt. 

You glance at Jisung. He’s already looking elsewhere, but his private smile makes its way onto your face as you slip it on.

“Well, I have time.” You sink into your mattress, now surrounded by his muted musk, his papyrus and petrichor. “We’ll be stuck here a while, after all.”

“Stuck?” Jisung repeats, the lanyard of his car keys dangling from the pocket of his hoodie, his feet turned towards the door.

A pregnant pause commences. His intentions dawn, and you gape.

“You’re not driving right now.”

He breaks eye contact.

“Right?”

That was the plan, you read in his expression.

You know better than trying to reverse a river’s current by kicking up rocks. You know better than trying to curtail the flight of an albatross by clipping its wings.

You know better than asking someone who thinks he was made to leave to stay.

And you won’t.

“I have somewhere to be early tomorrow morning,” he stammers, the lines terribly rehearsed. “The snow’s not heavy, I’ll be—”

“Stay.”

You’re not asking.

Jisung looks at you, startled, as you glide across the bed. You place your feet on the hardwood and circle your arms around his waist. Lace your fingers upon the hollow of his back. His pulse goes uneven at your abrupt proximity.

Akin to the drag of a feather, you mouth at his cheek, then the side of his neck.

“You can stay, Jisung.”

He shudders at your words, and you’ve got him.

It’s oddly normal, the sight of him clambering into your bed in your clothing—a pair of old sweatpants and your favorite crewneck—like this isn’t the first time you’re sleeping together in your two months of sleeping together.

In fact, the only indication of anything unordinary is the floaty feeling in your stomach when your head hits the pillow and discover Jisung’s face only inches away. He drapes an arm over your waist, gathering you close. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck.

The inevitable question follows.

“Can I save the story for another time?”

“Sure,” you return, keeping your voice small. He doesn’t hear your disappointment this way. “Should we go to sleep, then?”

“We should.”

Your foreheads touch. Your noses bump together. Your eyes cross, watching the adoration pull at his. You dimly register your hand threading in his fluffy locks, his thumb running over your cheekbone. Your lashes narrowly miss the surface of his eyes, and then he tips your face up by millimeters.

You don’t remember when you fall asleep. You only recall the hour beforehand that you spend with Jisung’s lips traversing yours, like you are the ocean and he’s uncovering new waters with every bruise he prints against your throat, every suckle he leaves around your tongue.

In your dream, the roles reverse and you are the one exploring him, mapping out his constellations with wide-eyed wonder.

You wake to a black hole.

For the first five seconds, you see nothing. You hear nothing. You feel nothing. You only blink in the darkness, your mind kicking into groggy gear to ask the very good question of why you’re conscious again.

Instinct moves your hand across the mattress. Empty space greets you where Jisung should be. Unfounded dread shoves your back off the bed. You gasp, the sound seeming to echo in the cavernous silence.

Your eyes adjust enough to discern light in the crack beneath your door, and you’re wide awake.

The following events go by in a blur. You stumble out of bed and into your closet, fastening your fingers around the thickest piece of fabric you find. You fly into the living room, where the lamp by the couch is left on and the pair of worn black Converse on your doormat have gone missing.

The front door is cracked open, and through the narrow inches you spot someone hunched on the stairs outside, his dark hair dyed platinum by the awning light’s fluorescence.

Your heart stills in relief, then quickens with anxiety.

You’ve tried wearing this crewneck in January enough times to know you can’t. In fact, you suspect that it somehow soaks up the temperature, lets it seep in between its every seam until it becomes one with the bitter winds. 

But he isn’t shivering, you notice as you take a seat next to him, draping the puffer over both of your shoulders on your way down. He’s simply staring off into the bleak storm, snowflakes sitting atop his head like a coating of ash, their color matching that of his frozen skin. He’s becoming one with the bitter winds. 

At first, you don’t recognize the man in front of you.

You’re well familiar with those ring-laden hands and the whetted jawline thrown into shadow, those remnants of cologne clinging to his frame. But you have never seen that gaze before, bloodshot and bleak and belonging to somebody new. Somebody who isn’t completely here, straddling the partition between the realms of people and phantoms.

Then he lifts his eyes and you see stars, flaring in the absence of light. Your stars.

And you recognize him for the first time ever.

You drop your hand to your hip, and his fingers feel stiff and cold and perfect, sliding into the spaces between yours.

“Why don’t you like snow?” You ask.

Jisung’s eyes return to the swirling sleet, but he moves your interlocked hands to rest on his thigh, and you know that he’s with you.

He’s been having this nightmare.

It takes place in a small clearing. It’s winter, and everything is covered in snow. Not the gentle kind that you can catch on your tongue, but the unyielding kind that’s hard and dense and covered in cracks, like a lake newly frozen over.

Somebody is in front of him, walking away. He can only see their back. He wants to chase after them. He doesn’t want to be left behind. But there are ghosts nearby, and they’ll split his skull open on the permafrost and tie his windpipe into a pretty bow if he so much as dreams of pursuit. He always does. He doesn’t know how not to.

Normally, the back leaves, and he can do nothing but remain. He can direct his loathing only to the snow into which he bleeds. 

Normally, he waits for the dream to end with something bordering on boredom. He’s seen this movie too many times. He fucking hates how it ends.

This time, though, the snow tastes like something.

After the flavors deliquesce upon his tongue, his head shoots up, his eyes blowing wide as they latch onto the retreating figure. He knows who it is.

His feet scrabbles against the ice with his attempts to rise to them. He lunges forward with frenzied resolve, and that is when the ghosts snap his neck.

He wakes up.

“Cherry blossoms and vanilla.”

You blink, tearwater streaking from your eyes in silent, steaming trails.

“That’s—”

My shampoo.

A broken sob escapes you in lieu of the rest of your sentence, and Jisung laughs, a flimsy facade that crumbles when he lifts his hand to dab at your moistened cheeks and it’s trembling.

“Silly,” he murmurs. “I’m used to it now.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

“I don’t want you to cry for me.”

“You died.”

“And I would do it again.”

This response comes without an shred of hesitation.

You first realized you had something to confess, that night in the the back of Jisung’s SUV. You’ve kept it locked away for your sake and his, even moreso. You see how fear clings to him like an unshakeable wraith, and you refuse to feed the parasite.

Now, your confession explodes from its fortress in the center of your soul and rises up your larynx. You panic like an inept security guard letting their only prisoner bolt free. Is it really the right time? Do you know what to say? Have you really thought this through? 

Too late. It’s rushing to the point of your tongue already. You suppose you’ll find out.

He saves you the trouble.

“Honestly?”

Your confession stills. 

“I don’t know if I’m okay, and I won’t try to convince you otherwise. You’d call my bluff. You’re good at that.

“But everything feels okay when I’m with you. You see me. You allow me just to exist as I am. You make me feel human again—you make me want to feel human again. You empty my mind.”

You feel as if you’ve been ejected into space naked, griping for air where there is none.

“I never believed in having somebody to lose,” he utters, gently leaning his forehead against yours. “But I would rather disappear than watch you go.”

You cradle his jaw with shaking fingers, trying and failing to quell the violence of your emotion.

“Don’t go,” he exhales.

You kiss him.

It should feel the same as before. You reach for the slant of his neck, him the dips above your waist. You sigh into him, parting your lips, and he moves into you deeper, harder, dipping into your mouth with his tongue’s pliant swipe. But there’s something new in the way you hold each other, in the seal of your mouth against his.

The line between sexual escapade and lover vanishes as if swept off the sand and into the sea. His stars come out of hiding at last and they bathe you in their residue, light your heart aglow.

Your confession resurfaces. It wants to stargaze also.

“I love you too,” you breathe.

The night comes and goes.

The two of you spend it entangling, sweating, your lips glued the expanse of his neck and the arcs of his shoulders, writing over the ghosts’ injuries with bruises of your making.

Only when the winds have faltered outside do you attempt to rest again. You are curled up in balmy bliss, utterly depleted. Jisung’s arms around your middle and legs threaded among yours bring you that much closer to slumber’s cusp.

You attribute it to your exhaustion when he mumbles something against you, and you have no idea what it means: “Thank you for refracting me.” 

Your confusion is palpable in your silence. His laugh hits the nape of your neck with a gentle puff, and he kisses the spot just beneath your ear. “Never mind.”

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© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support!

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Here’s the next part of the Kendratello AU! I knew it was going to be very dialogue heavy, so I figured writing it out would be fast, but I’m so ready to be done with it that I’ve not really beta read it. So I apologize for any errors. But enjoy!

Splinter loves his sons, but these last few days have been eating away at his already shriveled and fraying nerves. Watching his children ambling around their home, for months, each in varying states of anxiety, fear, and distress, hasn’t been easy on his old heart.

They’ve been through so much, experienced more hardships than Splinter has ever wanted for them. But the latest crucible tearing his family apart was caused, not by some ancient demon, or world-ending threat—but a fiendishly smart, young woman.

One who’d kidnapped his son and replaced him with a stranger that Splinter hardly recognized.

The bitter tale is too familiar for the old movie star to painlessly swallow. It seems fate played such cruel tricks sometimes. Always seeming to strike harsher the second go around. With outcomes even more brutal and painful. His son was stolen by a hateful, sadistic woman, and kept locked away, until she was satisfied with the new toy that emerged from the shadows.

So it stands to reason how…relieved Splinter had been that one, early morning. When his three sons had pulled Purple into his bedroom, piling into his bed, nothing but wide eyes and panicked shouting; one over the other. Looking back now, he can recognize how short-sighted his quick relief had been. But in the moment, as a father, Splinter had only seen this new, strange development as a blessing.

Donatello might have been confused, and irritated with his brother’s manhandling, but Splinter could clearly see more life in those eyes than he’d witnessed in months. Splinter had shushed the rest, and spoken to Purple directly, finally getting a better grasp on what his sons were shouting about.

Amnesia.

So, of course, relief. Because how could forgetting all those horrible, tortuous weeks in that woman’s grasp, possibly be a bad thing? By some miracle, Splinter’s boy had been returned to him. Nowhere near that frail ghost of Donatello, which Splinter would sometimes find curled up on the floor of his own lab, screaming Kendra’s name and sobbing to be returned to her care.

He had been spared all of that, like it never happened. Their family had been handed a gift, and Splinter truthfully wasn't interested in the whys of it all…

Until Michelangelo chose to contact Draxum, and words like “brain damage” and “tumor” were thrown into the mix.

An entire day of testing yielded…varying results. They were able to rule out the scariest of options. No dark shadows were seen in the X-rays of his son’s beautifully brilliant brain, and no concerning squiggles were pointed out by the Hidden City doctors who studied the fast moving waves appearing on the EEG. It was all a bunch of nonsense to Splinter, but Donatello nodded like he agreed, when he was handed the papers over to inspect himself.

Everything was normal, physically.

That left the most difficult part of the day. Getting his son to speak to a psychiatrist—seriously, and without snarking back at every possible question he would eventually be asked.

Draxum had thankfully picked a good one. Briefing her beforehand on…everything. She seemed prepared for Purple’s special brand of cynicism. The sheep yokai was apparently at the top of her field.

A tentative diagnosis of “dissociative amnesia” had been given, along with a small number of pamphlets and printouts. The doctor had informed Splinter that certain treatments might improve Donatello’s situation, but no cure had been discovered for something like this.

They would just have to take things one day at a time. And they’d been doing so well. Almost like everything was back to normal.

Splinter had become very good at ignoring that pending feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He smiled at his sons every day onward, like nothing was wrong. And all of them, in return, began falling back into a more comfortable ease around each other. The stress had just been starting to loosen in Red’s shoulders and jaw. Orange was giving real, honest smiles again. And Blue was no longer a shadow around corners, hiding from Purple like a bomb he was scared to set off.

But the other shoe that had been the root of Splinter’s dread, finally dropped, and the rug was pulled from under their feet once more, violently, with no warning.

Even after they’d managed to calm Donatello down. There was no negotiating the terms of his reality, and he was stubbornly convinced that the world around him was fabricated. Without caring about the consequences, he refused to be civil towards any of them, treating them all like jesters in a play, where no one had the script.

The family’s usual process for dealing with Purple’s anger–letting him cool off alone in his lab until he collected his thoughts–was unfeasible this time around.

Splinter didn’t think he could ever forget the image of his son, turning the knife he held in his hands inwards, and threatening to end his own life.

No; leaving him alone was not an option.

Which led back to Splinter’s previously mentioned frayed nerves.

Four days into this new, stressful change, and his genius son was still managing to find creative ways to sneak past their watchful eyes. Six attempts, in total. Each time, caught with seconds to spare, and just as traumatic for everyone involved.

Raphael and Michelangelo at the moment, were going through their home, removing every sharp implement they could find. Anything that could possibly be used to “put an end to the loop” that Donatello was convinced he was stuck in.

While the two performed their important task, Blue and Splinter had the harder of the two jobs; watching Purple.

Splinter was currently sitting comfortably in his chair, but it was far from his usual level of relaxation. Despite plenty of bean bags to occupy, the twins were locked in a shoving match. For some reason, they were fighting over the single, smallest one they must’ve owned.

“If you don’t get out of my personal space, I swear to Oppenheimer you will regret it, Leonardo!”

“And I swear to Ryan Renolds, that I’ll shred all of your softest hoodies if you kick me in the nuts one more time!”

“That Barbenheimer joke doesn’t even make sense, you idiot, that was Ryan Gosling!”

“Who mentioned Barbie? I’m talking about Deadpool and Wolverine!”

“What does that movie have to do with anything?!”

“Fuck dude, what did I just say about nut shots!”

“Then get out of my kicking radius, and your non-existent nuts will be safe!”

“BOYS!”

Both his sons quickly pause their arguing, giving their father their undivided attention.

“Leonardo, go help your brothers.” Splinter demands. “I will watch Purple. He has not had a moment of free time from any of you in days, and it is clearly wearing on all of us.” Blue gives his father one of his patented unimpressed stare downs.

“No offense, Pops, but how is you watching him, any different than me?”

“Because I will sit in my chair, and Purple will scroll on his phone, and there will be quiet.” Splinter can’t stand the bickering any longer. He knows both his sons will benefit from this time apart. It’s just convincing Blue of that.

Donatello’s gaze is boring holes into the back of Leonardo’s head while his second oldest son matches Splinter’s scrutiny. The rat can see the need for some fresh air battling against Blue’s desire to stay close. But Leonardo is his sharpest son, and even he can admit that his constant presence has become too grating for his brother.

“You need to watch him like a hawk, Dad,” Leo glares at his twin out of the corner of his gaze, “sometimes you can get a little…distracted.”

The new projector, playing Splinter’s same old programs, flashes against the curtain hung on the wall. The volume is set to low, but Blue still looks pointedly between his father and the screen. Splinter doesn’t blame him for his concern, so he tries to put all the gravity he can into his tone, enough that when he does promise to stay vigilant, it seems to convince Blue to place his trust in him.

Purple stays quiet through the exchange, only breathing a sigh of relief once his brother is long past the threshold of the den. He looks ready to lean back into his hard won pillows, but Splinter realizes that Blue had something of a point. Donatello is positioned quite far from him, and he’s suddenly nervous about catching something in time.

“Purple, how about you come sit with me.” Splinter suggests it kindly but firmly, and with a smile– so his son can’t refuse. He pats the bit of cushion next to his legs, “I will honor my promise to leave you alone, but I would be much more relaxed if you were within my reach.”

His boy merely blinks at him, blank faced, and staring at the very spot that Splinter has just created for him.

It isn’t as though his recliner is small, even if Splinter himself is. Donatello had custom made it for him, after one too many complaints about his old brown one hurting his back. It practically swallows Splinter, but remains just stiff enough to provide plenty of support for his lower back. He could even lay sideways and still have some space to stretch.

Splinter recalls very clear memories of all his sons fighting for a spot by his side when they were younger. But it has been some time since those days…perhaps Donatello thinks he’s far too old for such a thing as sitting by his aging father. Yoshi remembers himself at eighteen, and shudders. He’s forever thankful that no matter how lacking his parenting skills might have been, that his boys are kinder to him than he ever was to his Jiji.

Donatello pulls at some invisible thread of his black leggings. Since this new alteration of his memories, Purple has taken to wearing more layers. It’s nearing fall, but not nearly cold enough for the large sweatshirt, black leggings AND socks that his son is currently donning.

Splinter just barely hears Purple murmur a jumbled, “Huh?”

Splinter catches some sort of emotion actively being suppressed behind the bewildered shock at his offer, but it’s hard to tell what it is. Over the years Splinter is ashamed to say, he has grown very bad at reading his own children. Especially Purple, who, if he was being honest, has always been very hard to decipher.

Splinter starts to think the offer will be rejected, when Purple finally climbs to his feet and ambles slowly over. The unknown emotion skittering at the edge of Donatello’s expression morphs into something closer to suspicion. This one easy to identify, especially when it practically drips from his next words.

“Trying to endear yourself to me won’t sway me into falling for your tricks.”

The barb is said just as unkindly as everything else Purple has thrown at his family these last few days. Splinter lets it slide off him like water. He knows his son would (probably) never speak to him like that if he wasn’t stuck in such a painfully clear mode of survival and uncertainty.

“Yes, yes.” He says, untroubled. “Come sit and I can finally lean my chair back.”

Donatello watches him the entire time as he cautiously settles into his spot. He yelps when Splinter grabs his ankles and pulls his son’s long (thin, still much too thin) legs across his lap. For an instant, Splinter freezes, growing worried he’s overstepped. The act had been done without a thought. It’s the way Purple has always liked to sit, finding it more comfortable than any other way. Donatello preferred to keep his distance. A deviation from his siblings, for sure.

Michelangelo would press as close as possible, two sides smushed together like a hug, only without the constricting limbs (though, if Orange were ever to fall asleep in Splinter’s chair, those too would eventually find their way to catching him in their hold).

Leonardo preferred to sit on the arm of his chair, never staying still for long enough to find a comfortable position. But when he slumbered, after a long night of binge watching Novela’s with Splinter–he would curl up, head in his father’s lap, limbs held tight to his body. Like he was afraid even that was asking for too much.

Raphael, his poor, eldest son, hadn’t sat with him in so long. Splinter could still remember a little turtle tot in red, climbing up and splaying out onto his lap when he needed a good cry–or just a moment of peace from his much too loud siblings. Sadly, it wasn’t long before his Red was too big, and his father too small to provide such a refuge. The last time Raphael needed consoling; after the Krang, Splinter had been forced to climb up onto his own son’s knees in order to reach and wipe away his tears.

In the few rare instances of Purple seeking out physical touch, this was all he would allow. Legs stretched over his father’s lap, but his upper body was always off limits. Pulled just far enough away from the threat of any sort of long term contact.

Splinter used to wonder if Purple was scared to ask for anything more, like Leonardo, or if he thought depriving himself of a comforting hug would make him seem stronger, like Raphael, or even the rare times when Michelangelo wished to appear more mature and refused to be comforted. Eventually, Splinter caught on to the truth. His son was asking for comfort, in his own unique way. He was content with the minimal amount of closeness, as long as he felt like he was able to dictate the terms.

But one thing Purple would always allow his father to do, was loop his fingers around his ankles. Trusting the grip would hold his legs in place and keep him stable. He once said the pressure was small enough that it wasn’t overwhelming, but strong enough that it could ground him when everything became too much.

Even now, the act of reaching out to pull his son’s long legs up had been so instinctive. When Splinter looks over and sees the uncertainty still on Purple’s face, he knows he’s pushed too far too quickly.

It’s a risky move, but he’s already pushed, and it’s something that never fails, not once since he’s discovered it.

Purple has always been the most ticklish of all his brothers. Another thing that never really helped his sensory issues. But Splinter long ago discovered that there was a particular spot, which could always earn him a giggle and a brighter smile.

Splinter grips the meat of Donatello’s right knee and jiggles it back and forth. The silly action seems to do the trick and knocks something loose in his son’s overwrought head. His gamble pays off spectacularly, and Splinter is overjoyed to see a small smile erase most of the uncertainty clouding Donatello’s face. It isn’t a full peal of laughter, but the wariness makes way for something softer, and the huff of air from his nose is just as rewarding as a full body laugh.

His boy rests his shoulder and head onto the cushioned back of the chair and Splinter presses the button that will lift up the leg rest, and recline them both into a more restful position.

After a few moments of quiet, Donatello slowly pulls his phone from the pocket of his hoodie. Even without looking directly at him, Splinter can feel his son watching and waiting for the reprimand he thinks will come. Instead, Splinter raises the volume of his show just loud enough for him to hear, but not enough to completely shatter their peace. He wants to make Purple feel more at ease; like he’s not being constantly surveilled–not providing more overstimulation.

They sit like that for some time. Splinter rubs a thumb back and forth across the meatier part of Donatello's calves. He’s learned that repetitive touch is the best kind of grounding technique for Purple. The patterned motion always worked to calm his nerves.

Even still, after only so long Splinter catches Purple lowering his phone.

He keeps his own gaze forward, locked on his commercials. Splinter can see, without looking, that his son is studying him, trying to take apart something in his mind that he doesn’t understand. Splinter allows him all the time he needs to gather his thoughts.

Finally Purple speaks, “Dad…?” It’s so quiet, if Splinter hadn't been waiting for it, he might’ve missed it.

He pauses the repetitive kneading for just a moment, squeezing his hold, and humming in order to prompt his son to continue his thought.

“Can I tell you something?” The inquiry is whispered to him so delicately. It takes everything in him to keep his face open and soft and his movements steady. It’s clear that Donatello is trying his best to remain aloof, but his gaze is locked on his hands that are settled in his lap, the fingers of one pulling on the digits from his other.

At some point he must’ve put his phone completely away. Splinter feels the pressure of having Donatello's complete focus aimed at him.

The tugging intensifies. Splinter wonders if he should reach out, but he’s not sure how well that would be received. It doesn’t look painful just yet.

“I don't know what Kendra is accomplishing by showing me this.” Donatello growls, suddenly digging his palms into his eyes like he can still feel the weight of the screen blocking his vision. “Trying to make me happy, only to rip it all away from me? Or attempting to make me feel, even more like a useless burden than I was?”

It’s the first crack in his armor that Purple has shown in days. A clear sign that he was not as unaffected by Kendra’s lies as he’d been trying to project. Donatello sighs, but as it dies out Splinter thinks it sounds closer to a sob.

“You can’t tell the others…” Donatello looks at him with wet, desperate eyes, and it’s unclear if his son still doubts who he’s speaking to, but Splinter works to ease his fears all the same.

“I swear, whatever you tell me will remain between us, alone.”

Donatello nods faintly, eyes trailing downwards once more. Splinter may have had trouble before, but now the many emotions jumping across his son’s face—fear, shame, frustration, all are easy to catch.

With a shaking breath he whispers his secret. “I lied.” He’s crying now, real tears that he doesn’t even bother to wipe away. The pulling at his skin grows more violent, and Splinter finally interferes to carefully pry Donatello’s hands apart before damage is done. In place he cradles his son’s hands like delicate porcelain and runs a thumb over Donatello’s palm.

“I told everyone that I could tell. That I wasn’t being fooled, but that’s not exactly true. The last few loops have…it’s been getting harder, and harder to remember things— how they really happened. Too much is…plausible.”

Splinter keeps silent. This confession has clearly been weighing on Donatello. He deserves to get it all out, and hopefully feel lighter for it. Even if Purple suspects the family, something is letting Donatello open up enough for him to share his fears.

“There was one loop…Mikey broke…he broke the remote…When I said I didn’t have time to fix it. He threw the pieces at my head. He would never do that, though…right?”

“No, of course not,” Splinter answers immediately, quick to banish the doubt from his son’s mind. Donatello only blinks at him, like his thoughts are moving too slow, and cannot comprehend such a simple, stark contradiction to what he experienced.

“It felt so real…it all feels so real. But…I could feel how one of the sharp, broken corners had cut through my mask and how the wet fabric stuck to my skin with blood.”

Donatello raises a hand and touches the spot where the phantom wound must’ve sat. The pain now gone, but the memory of it haunts his eyes and rattles the tremors building in his hands.

“I thought…I thought I was handling this—maybe not well…But I’d hoped I would be strong enough to last until you all came for me…And now Raph is saying it’s already over.”

It’s a simplified form of the truth which they had tried to get Purple to believe, but even that much clearly doesn’t sit well with him. “If it is over, why does my body feel like one massive bruise? How did you all find me? How long did I last? Was I in there long enough to…?”

He’s clearly scared to ask Splinter any more questions, so he trails off, curling in on himself and pulling his hands up to his chest, pressing there, as if checking to make sure he feels something still beating.

Splinter decides he’s waited long enough and slowly pulls Donatello out of his hunched ball and guides his head to his own chest, making sure his ear is aligned against his own pulsing heartbeat.

Donatello resists slightly at first, but the moment he’s close enough to catch the sound, his breath catches and he glues himself to the spot.

“I don’t want to be there anymore,” Purple murmurs. It sounds like sleep is catching up with his son, the exhaustion pulling him down and slurring his words.

Splinter cups the back of Donatello’s head and carefully tug his fur lined blanket down from where it’s been sitting on the back of his chair. The blanket slots over the both of them and Donatello curls even closer to his father, tucking himself into his warmth.

“Go to sleep, when you wake up, you will be right here.” He’s sure to say it softly but with as much reassurance as possible, and Donatello seems too tired at this point to hold onto his doubts.

“Okay…,” Donatello mutters. Then, practically hanging on to the waking world for one final query hesitantly asks, “…Dad?…Do you love me?”

Splinter doesn’t even think. “Of course, my son.”

Donatello’s breathing finally evens out, and Splinter feels a few tears finally escape.

He’s not sure what next steps they should take, or what kind of state his son will be in when he wakes, but Splinter can only hope this is progress. He prays it won’t be undone…but regardless, Donatello is home. Any steps back or forward will be taken together, and that is the most important part.

[kangaracha]

QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 27

---

pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

previous | masterlist | next

---

Christmas flies past you in such a hurry that you feel like you hardly get to hold onto the joy of it at all - and it is joyful, as bright and as happy as the first one you can remember.

There's the morning in your apartment, sipping coffee and scrolling mindlessly on an internet where, for once, you don't see a single word that twists inside your gut when you read it. Then there's the preparation at work, and the livestream, full of lighthearted games and gift exchanges and you laughing at Felix as he drops the packets of chicken in his box all over the ground, disbelief still painted across his face. And then there's dinner, all together as a family, and the more personal gifts that you didn't give on camera, and the lively talk that carries all of you into the evening without anyone noticing.

You've had good days and bad days in Korea. You're relieved to get to the end of the day and realise that this is one of the better ones.

Your gifts are small and few, but meaningful, different groups of boys pooling together to give you something they truly thought you could use. Headphones, an expensive dress you'd eyed once on a shopping trip, hats to hide under in the airport. Small things you needed but hadn't gotten around to buying, things you'd been doing without until you had the money to invest in them. Your gifts to them had been much smaller, just like your budget; your biggest gift was their dinner and the evening you'd spent cooking it alone. The favourite thing you received was their faces after they'd eaten.

Still, it flies by too fast. You blink, and the day is over, and suddenly you're sitting in the corner of their couch paying minimal attention to the movie playing on the TV and waiting for the clock to finish ticking its way down to midnight. In the other corner, Jisung sits enraptured by the plot, soaking in every moment of the dramatic romance, the Christmas disaster and the miracle you already know is coming right at the end. Even with most of your attention on the conversation happening at the table behind you, you can tell what's about to happen; but you're not here to ruin his night. You're just...soaking it in. Enjoying it.

You're happy.

"What are you watching?" a voice asks behind you, hands leaning heavy on the back of the couch despite the flapping and shushing of Han's hands. 

You turn to answer Chan in his stead, finding him leaning there comfortably while he eyes the scene playing out on the TV. "Rom coms," you tell him in a voice that is only just hushed to an acceptable level. "They're supposed to fall in love at some point."

"They are in love," Jisung argues, his eyes leaving the screen only to glare at you. You wonder if he's aware his cheeks puff out with indignation when he does that, completely ruining the effect. "They're just too dumb to realise."

"They're going to get together at the Christmas Ball," you tell Chan, and ignore the way Jisung grumbles about spoilers as he turns back to the movie. "It's so cheesy."

"You didn't want to watch Love Island," Jisung cuts in before Chan can reply.

"I said we should watch Home Alone."

"I told you, I wanted some drama."

"Home Alone is drama."

"Go away then, if you don't want to watch," he huffs in mock exasperation, the laugh that huffs from the back of his throat when you stick out your tongue at him betraying him. 

When he turns back to the screen, Chan's hand taps at your shoulder. "The others are walking home now," he says, leaning down as if to mutter conspiracies between you. "Do you want to come with us?"

"With us?" you repeat, though you're already lifting yourself off the couch, stretching out tight muscles as you stand. "Where are you walking to? You're already home?"

"I'm just walking," he answers. "It's a nice night."

You glance at the heavily curtained window. "It's snowing."

"And?" he says. "Snow's nice. We never see snow."

"You should try winter in Melbourne," you snort, amused by the light dancing in his eyes. "So cold it might as well be snowing. Worse than snow, actually."

"You'll be fine walking in the snow then."

A yawn interrupts your put-upon sigh, and all of the effect it would have had. "I just have to grab a coat on the way down," you acquiesce, watching the other boys pulling their coats on by the door.

"Just borrow one of mine." Without waiting for an answer, Chan turns on his heel and disappears into the hallway. You trai after him slowly, meeting him on the way back out his bedroom door, coat in hand. "Try this," he says, and thrusts in at you.

You don't know where your apprehension comes from. Maybe the intimacy of borrowing clothes from someone - maybe just from coming face-to-face with the abject kindness that drives him to offer it to you without a moment's hesitation. It clogs up in your throat anyway, whatever it is, threatening to turn your face red. 

You have to force yourself to take the jacket, pulling it on with robotic movements. It hangs loose on your frame, the shoulders drooping sadly down your arms, but it is soft and warm and long enough to cover your hands, disguising your lack of gloves.

"This too," Chan says, and pulls a beanie straight down over your head, covering your eyes. You squawk at the sudden blinding, fighting your sleeves. By the time you have it straight on your head, your hair flat again beneath it, he is dressed too - and still laughing at you, his smile too wide to be innocent. You slap his arm hard enough to bruise. He doesn't even do you the mercy of rubbing it.

"Cute,' he says as you walk back down the hall.

Only the chance of public ridicule stops you from hitting him again. "I nearly fell over."

"Never," he insists. "You would have been fine anyway. The jacket goes all the way up to your ears."

"Give me one of Han's next time," you grumble, even as you pull the coat closer around you.

Chan's smile is beatific. "You think Hannie ever does laundry?"

"Disgusting," you say, with a face to match, and then you walk right into the group gathering by the door before he can expand on that thought anymore.

"What's disgusting?" Seungmin asks.

You wave him away. "Han Jisung," you answer. "It's a long story."

He accepts it at face value, nodding it away. "What are you doing here?" he asks instead, head inclined towards your clothes. 

"Walking you home, apparently." You pause, glancing at Chan. "I was bullied."

"Are you saying goodbye to the others, or are you coming back?" Chan asks sweetly, ignoring every word you said. 

"I'm coming back," you sigh. "I have to see the end of the movie."

"But not the middle?" Seungmin snorts.

"It's a bad movie," Chan advises, and then follows him out the door. You walk with them, cramming into the elevator once the rest of them are in. It's snug, with six of you, and too warm for the thick coats you're dressed in - but just as you start to sweat, you step outside into the frigid night and forget all about the elevator and its false summer, instead hudding down into your collar for warmth.

"Do you miss home yet?" Felix asks behind you, watching you grabbing at the warmth still left in your body.

You slow a little to let him catch up, eyes on the backs of the boys walking in front of you. "Just the summers," you answer wryly. "Winter sucks."

Felix laughs, pushing his beanie further down with one hand. "I like it," he admits. "Snow on Christmas? Come on."

"What's the point when it's too cold to go out anyway?" you throw back. "At least in the summer you can go out for Christmas. Go swimming or something."

Felix's mouth twists thoughtfully, his eyes getting that faraway look that says he's thinking of some other place than the wide street you're walking down. "Now I want to go to the beach," he sighs. "Mum said it was so hot in Sydney today, it would have been perfect."

"It rained for a little while in Melbourne," you say, and he laughs. "I think it was nice though. My grandparents flew over for the first time this year."

Felix glances at you in surprise. "You have family in Korea?"

"They live in Busan," you explain. "I don't really know them very well. They came for the In Life concert, didn't you see them?"

"No?" He puts on a show of helplessness, his hands spreading wide. "You didn't come and introduce them?"

"No?" you answer. "They took me out to dinner, and then we had filming or something on the day after, so they went home."

Felix blows out a sigh, shaking his head again. "You could have invited us to dinner. I want to meet your family."

You wave him away. "It's not a big deal," you insist. "Seriously, I hardly talk to them. I saw them for like, the third time ever last Christmas, and they told me to go back to Australia and get a medical degree instead of trying to be an idol."

"I hope Christmas with us was better than that."

"Nearly as good as going home," you say, and grin wildly at the offended look on his face, his mouth curving into a perfect 'O'. "My mum taught me how to cook lamb over the phone in the middle of her day, you know. What did you do for me today?"

"I didn't try to help you with the lamb," Felix throws back, quick as a whip. "And I told you how nice it was, so many times."

"True," you admit, and listened to the sound of his laugh rising in the still air. Your eyes turn upwards, to the shadow of his building towering over you. "Are you saying this was better than going home to Sydney then?"

Felix's mouth twists. "No," he says, very slowly, as you join the others at their door. You try to bite back your smug grin, a thousand retorts springing to mind that you've run out of time to say. Not that Felix looks like he's won anyway, his face wry as he turns to the others' conversation rather than trying to continue this one.

"Lixie," Seungmin says as you complete their circle, saving him from crushing defeat. "Minho wants to go to Jeju in summer."

"Do we have holiday time in summer?" Felix asks.

"We'll just run away," Minho answers, and offers nothing more than a stone-cold poker face to indicate if he is joking or not.

"Or," Seungmin tacks onto the end. "If we're being serious, we'll just ask to film something."

The look Minho gives him would be withering, if you didn't know that it was only an empty threat. "I'm being serious," he insists, and only cracks a smile when Seungmin rolls his eyes and Chan places a hand on his shoulder, barely holding in a laugh.

"I would love to go to Jeju," Felix says wistfully, and then turns to you. "What about Y/N?"

"She doesn't get a choice," Seungmin says. "Forced vacation."

"Why am I being forced?" you ask. "I can choose to go on vacation."

"Vacation to the company doesn't count," I.N puts in, and enough of them snigger that you don't bother arguing with them. 

"Fine, okay," you sigh, ducking your head and waving a hand. "Merry Christmas, goodnight now. Nice to see you."

"Merry Christmas, Y/N," Seungmin says smugly, his hand ruffling your beanie before heading inside. The others follow; Minho with a smile, I.N a small comment where they can't hear. Felix hugs you, and then throws his arm around Chan's shoulders for a moment and gets dragged into hugging him too before he can disappear, I.N closing the door behind him with one last wave.

Suddenly, the street seems very wide and quiet, the night stretching out around you with nothing to break it apart.

"Can I walk you home?" a voice asks by your side, and you turn to see Chan standing beside you still, one hand outstretched in offering.

"Weren't you always walking me home?" you answer; though you take his hand anyway, savouring the close of his fingers around yours even through the sleeve of your jacket. 

"I wouldn't want to assume anything," he says, and bites back a grin. Your hand thumps his shoulder, just hard enough to make a sound. "Don't hit me, it's Christmas. I'm being polite."

"Mhm." You nod, your hand falling back by your side. He squeezes the fingers of your other hand, only enough to make you aware of his grip. "You're always polite, of course. Never making fun of me."

"Never," he agrees readily. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, his mouth turning upwards. "What other girls?" he questions, as innocent as anything. In the half-light between street lamps, you think you can see his ears turning red, and you struggle to hold back a laugh.

"What about all the ones you're going to see tomorrow?" you say; and maybe the others were right, when your thoughts turn immediately from Christmas back to work, to the looming performance and the fans that oversee it.

"Oh, them?" Chan looks off high into the distance, as if mulling over the thought. "I can be mean to them. It's totally different. You can be mean to them too, if you want."

"They only just started being nice to me like, this morning," you tell him. "Now isn't the time to start playing games."

"Really?" His eyes light up, the playfulness of his smile vanishing. 

You nod along, unable to stop the wry smile that is plastered to your face. "In the livestream comments," you say. "I mean, there was still the whole awards boycott thing going around, but...I don't know. People were actually acting like I'm a part of the group? It's like, a Christmas miracle or something."

He falls silent for several seconds, his eyes silently studying your face. You can't quite meet the intensity of his gaze, your own eyes dropping to your entwined hands, swinging between you as you walk. He's thinking hard about something; time passes, your footsteps crunching in the snow and the buzz of car engines on a nearby street the only noise that permeates the air between you, and still he doesn't speak. 

"What are you looking at?" you ask when you can't bear it anymore, your gaze creeping up to meet the corner of his and then focusing on the road ahead of you instead.

"Nothing." With a jolt, he suddenly realises he is staring and glances away, searching for anything else to look at. "You seem happy, that's all."

It takes you a moment to answer, carefully considering the emotion that wells up in your gut. "I am, today," you answer. "It...I don't know. The performances this month have been good, the fans were happy today. It feels like something might change now."

"Good," he says, and smiles - small, but more soft and genuine than the amusement that had shone loudly from his face earlier. "I've been worried about you."

A scoff chokes itself in your throat. "I know," you manage to say, around the stone that lodges itself there. "I've been worried about you worrying about me."

His feet stutter in their tracks, his grip tugging on your hand as he saves his balance. "What are you worried about me for? Don't do that."

"Someone has to, don't they?" you say. "I see you spending all that time looking out for me, I feel like I should at least try to give it back."

His head ducks, shy. "You don't have to do that. I like taking care of people."

"Didn't I tell you to stop worrying about me like, six months ago?"

"Something like that. I didn't listen."

"You shouldn't break your promises like that."

Chan squeezes your hand hard, his knuckles bumping against your hip. "You promised to stop practising so much too, you know."

The accusation stirs a memory of a conversation, much clearer than the one you'd been trying to dredge up. It's funny; you remember, just that short time ago, talking about things like debut and the company - and now you can't fathom feeling those same nerves anymore. The fear of being dropped from the company, the pressure from fans, the expectations set upon the group and therefore you as proxy...all of those are fears you're still familiar with, but a fear of Chan himself? When he lends you his jacket and walks hand-in-hand down the street, so slowly that it might take you all night to get home if you continue like this?

Never. Not again, not not that you know him properly. There's no one you would trust more in the world than him.

"I think we should forget about those promises," you announce. "I like my job. And I like you caring about me too."

"Really?" he asks, and you think, from the way that he eyes you, that you need to give the other boys a piece of your mind. Too many jokes about old age, one too many acts of pushing him away. Maybe you need to give him a piece of your mind too - for letting himself believe, even for the moment of doubt that flickers over his face, that you wouldn't really mean it.

"Yes, really," you reply, and try to refrain from the tiraded of emotion that threatens to spill out afterwards, all in the wrong tone of voice. "It's been really hard lately, you know, with everything - I mean, it's fine, but still. You're always there. I like that. The others are there too, but - even in the middle of the night, you're always there. It's nice."

As if on cue, your building appears in front of you as you finish speaking, looking out from between its neighbours. "How are we ever going to go to bed on time if we both like talking in the middle of the night?" Chan asks, pulling you to a stop before you can head for the door. 

You find yourself shrugging, eager to linger. "Do we have to fix it?" you ask. "We're doing it right now, you know."

His mouth quirks. "Maybe tomorrow, then," he proposes. "Or we can just spend the rest of our lives only talking at midnight."

"I don't mind," you say with a shrug. "Midnight is a good time. Two AM is even better."

"I'll think about it."

He looks around, searching for something else to comment on, some way to keep the conversation going even when it feels like you have run out of things to talk about (except that you haven't, because you never could, because talking to him is so easy no matter what). In the corner of your eye, your door looms, calling you back to the warmth of his apartment and the quiet dark of your own - but his hand doesn't leave yours and his feet don't move, and even though you know it is stupid to be standing around like this in the snow, you can't bring yourself to let it go and bring on the end of night so suddenly. It's been such a nice day, and the walk home so warm, that you don't want to let it go, not until every second has been squeezed out of it.

There's still the movie, you remind yourself, thinking of Han sitting up there above your head watching, but your mouth doesn't say that. Instead, it asks, "Do you want to walk down to the corner store?"

You only realise later that Chan doesn't ever stop to ask why, or to complain about walking even further in the snow. In the moment, his smile consumes you, his feet automatically turning towards the store; and then again, you are immersed in your own world, stealing five more minutes from a night that cannot go on forever.

But for just this one night, you are happy. For just one night, you have something that is all yours.

Him. 

TAGLIST

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@puppy-minnie @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @acker-night

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@keepswingin

[sillysiluriforme]

On the la terreur AU might I ask what's the situation regarding Multimouse, scarabella and Ladybug since it seems Mari is posing as both supers? Why Is she doing so and how? What does everyone else think on LB giving her miraculous to Scarabella? Thank you and sorry if this was too long or already answered! I'm just curious :)

Hi ! Since the hawkmoth situation is a little more serious than in the show ladybug’s miracle cure ability becomes absolutely mandatory. Marinette, being a major preper, anticipated that she might need a ladybug replacement one day. Who would it be ? Alya of course.

In short ladybug is training scarabella to take her place if something were to happen to her ! She starts out accompanying her as multimouse under the guise of also being trained by ladybug.

It works well for a time even if Marinette has some complicated feelings on the matter.

The rest of the team respect ladybug’s decision but they all have pretty high standards for scarabella. Except chat noir, who is a bitch. The entire time.

He’s not a big fan of the idea that his partner might get replaced. Or that he might get replaced !

[gatotricolor]

them but it's an alternative universe

more under the cut

for context I didn't watch the last 2 seasons completely, I watched half of the fourth and read what happened in the fifth, so if some stuffs had certain explanation in those seasons and it's explained differently here, it's because of that (but also this is a completely different story, I don't want it to look like the og).

adrien is disabled.

marinette isn't a stalker here, she still very anxious tho.

every teen chara is around 17-19 (except felix he is 21) because pre-teens fighting against a 40-something year old makes my skin crawl, this isn't percy jackson they're not demi-gods.

kwamis can have different appearances, the ones shown are just one way they can look.

adrien and felix are brothers here, felix is the oldest.

emilie wasn't from the UK royal family anymore bc wtf she is moroccan-french now.

master fu is replaced by an oc here.

the miraculous (or called miracles here too) have a chosen holder, if someone who isn't chosen uses it can have both physical and mental consequences in the person who's using it.

with that said, gabriel isn't a chosen holder, emilie wasn't too.

both emilie and adrien have spinal muscular atrophy.

adrien is a huge nerd that loves magical girl shows.

mari has a little sister who looks up to her and she is basically raising so yeah she is that girl.

ladybug's name is changed to scaralady just bc I wanted, the au is informally called scaralady au.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Five - On Trial

Apologies for the delay as there were a few speed bumps that my foggy brain just did not want to hump over. This chapter gave me some grief, but I'm still happy with how it turned out :)

Trigger Warnings: religious imagery, ptsd, angst, brief mentions of rape/incest/assault/drugging/coercion/miscarriage

Flat deadened eyes bore chasms through your own.

They peeled away the impregnable shroud of shame masking the abhorrent malefactions of those you’ve wronged.

In a split second of time, those eyes foisted judgment upon all your heinous sins with an executioner’s toll. Damning you to an endless oblivion amongst the cacophony of wailing souls eternally condemned to the River Styx.

Behold! The face of your adjudicator!

Blackened barbed wire constricts the fat of his gluttonous form. Exposed sickly ashen skin held together by threaded catgut, bursting at the seams with bone-white mold. Hellfire caged in little glass vials illuminates the agonized expression glued to a visage of perpetual torment, standing against a backdrop of towering decayed limbs, basking in the multitude of jewel toned offerings left by those who worship at the base of this miserable creature’s sacrificial altar.

…Of all the cheerful residents from the Hundred Acre Wood, who on god’s green earth decided that Eeyore of all things would be the poster boy for Christmas?

The melancholically predisposed cartoon character was a mess of tangled Christmas lights, having apparently failed in his endeavor to liven up the wilted excuse of a barren evergreen behind him and somehow succeeding in trapping his own pudgy form in the decorations instead – the ‘D’ in December knocked crooked in his fruitless struggles.

A paltry souvenir magnet from someplace sunny holds the calendar aloft, Winnie the Pooh designs posted on the side of your fridge with thick glossy sheets. A gift from your fathers; a new one included in their holiday care package every year. 

You’re sure the overstuffed box currently shoved beneath your kitchen table for lack of anywhere more reasonable to house it has its plastic-wrapped replacement buried amongst the other contents. Previous years involved such colorful settings as early 2000’s internet memes or a compilation of fun facts regarding the world’s different varieties of cheeses. Not for your own enjoyment, of course, but for the chagrined expression your family insisted on basking in come Christmas morn.

Not that you admitted to liking this past year's theme of childhood whimsey…

The curlicue numbers on the wintery grid mark the passage of time – crossed out with dry streaks of red ink. Christmas is naught but five days from now, the emphasized date stamped in the upper righthand corner with a glittery ribbon as if the holiday needed even more call for attention. It means almost nothing to you outside of a familial facetime over a microwaved breakfast of cheap eggo waffles. 

You’ll suffer congenially through the good natured poking and prodding. Chloe will send a text; Alex won’t. And the day will pass by in a whisper of silence – the magic of miracles stored back in their damp corporate box for cheapened rehashing the following year.

Holing away in the confines of your solitary habitat came with the added benefit of only exposing yourself to the overhyped celebration on a reasonable once-weekly basis, driving to and fro your therapist's office; painfully ignoring the garish spectacle of such yuletide enrichment as fuzzy wonky reindeer antlers wedged atop sticker splattered minivans, off-key fourth graders caterwauling carols in the backseat, tinsel and fiberglass grating on your teeth.

At least, your antisocialness normally would save you from such headaches. 

When the pharmacy didn’t bungle communications with your primary care physician and refill your prescription two weeks early. 

The voicemail left on your phone this morning was a little more than a minor annoyance. You’d only just finished chasing the taste of bile with citrusy mouthwash, leaning your leaded weight against the cold marble of the sink, stomach still spasming with painful braxton hicks-like contractions. Shaky hands splashed tepid water on your face, wicking away the evidence of exertion and clearing your chin of digested chicken noodle. 

You’d only half paid attention to the robotic voice droning over speakerphone, wiping off your face with a disgruntled glare at your reflection and muffling a groan into the pilled fabric of your hand towel at the automated message. This was not a day to be playing at adulthood. This was a day for warm chunky socks and Disney movie marathons. 

And now because some overworked new hire chugging Red Bulls probably keyed in the wrong refill date in an over-caffeinated zeal, you were once again paying for someone else's mistake. 

(A running theme for your life.)

You shook off the bitter thought with a weary sigh, hanging the damp towel from the plastic command hook on peeling wallpaper. The buzzing of the keypad rattled the counter as you’d cleared out your phone’s voicemail, scooping up the device and trudging back around the corner to begin what should’ve originally been an easy day. 

Now, a few hours of lounging had garnered you enough gumption to voyage out amongst proper society once more, rinsing your chubby dinosaur mug from earlier in the sink as your eyes flick up unwittingly to the calendar nearby. 

You know what you’re counting even as you abash yourself for it. 

The crumpled bag of mostly full coffee grounds has been sitting in your bin for the past two days, put there in an abstract protest to the blatant disregard of your feelings by a caustic alpha. The taste on your tongue has become as phantom as the scent that once clung to your coat rack, wafted away by a bottle of descenting spray the same way you wish to purge his lingering effervescence from where it's taken root in your spine.

The offending bag collects dust at the top of the pile, placed there in a huff at the start of every morning. When its existence mocks your suffering and the grief of a life you’ll never get to live is at the forefront of every painful heave into grimy porcelain, forced onto your knees like the flaccid servient creature that beast has morphed you into. 

Still, there’s no sign of refuse or food waste on the flimsy outside packaging. It never stays put long enough to accumulate filth or bury itself in neglected disuse. At the end of the night, when the wounds of before are wrapped in a somnolent layer of protective padding, it returns to its spot amongst the clutter of your countertop, a pitiful idol to the foolish part he’s allowed to fester against your better judgment.

God, you’ve tried so hard to ignore it – you really have. With what little there is to occupy your mind in this lackluster environment, the labor of staying detached is proving arduous. John’s memory agitating the stripped-bare axis of simple order your world rotates upon.

Distraction eludes you at every attempt to forget. The warmth of your nest is the comfort of his leather embrace, the Zofran on your tongue the calloused paw at your nape grounding you in tempered reality. Soft boar hair bristles are his fingers, the zest in your meal his vigor. His face is in the deep prussian sweater jailed to the back of your closet for the sole crime of coming too close to the cerulean shade that haunts your waking memory.

You thought you already knew what it meant to belong to another. To be branded with someone else’s signet like a bored kid in history class taking chunks out of his desk until it was too desecrated with graffiti to be regarded as anything other than his unofficial property. No one wanted to touch what the school bully had already sullied.

Until John.

It didn’t matter that the seat was already occupied. He just scratched out the nameplate with safety scissors and staked his claim with a wad of gum beneath the chair.

He was dark matter wedging its way to take up space between condensed molecules, bullying the other elements into submission until his chemical makeup twisted you to something there was no coming back from. Sweeping in with the strength of a category five and the persistence of the big bad wolf.

You despise John for the damage he’s incurred to your house made of straw – all of them really – but you detest yourself even more for the gnawing disappointment flooding your gut that he hasn’t shaken the foundations further.

The hiss of pain between your teeth as you adjust the abrasive scarf around your neck serves as a sobering reminder of the real cancer infecting your cells. Even if the claim was buried under layers, it didn’t mean your flesh didn’t still carry the scars from its etching. 

Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you take to the task of unlocking each of the bolts guarding you from the true terrors of an alpha’s altruistic attention. 

Please just let this be quick.

The sneer from the old crone in aisle two has you ducking the latter half of your face in the itchy fabric that hides the one thing you’re currently being judged for.

You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her outside the steps of your apartment enough with her hellspawn of a pomeranian to know she lives in your building. The grey curls of her poodle cut perm do nothing to hide the splotches of alopecia that come with age. Tissue paper skin dappled with sun spots begs for the youth of collagen, gaunt around her cheekbones and only highlighting her witchy exterior, a moth eaten shawl hanging loosely over the quasimodo hump keeping her from standing at a height taller than that of a twelve year old child.

The grouchy bat is clever, though, you’ll give her that. There’s a discerning eye behind those tortoiseshell frames that speak of a bygone prime filled with intrigue and gossip that’s followed her well into her twilight years. 

She’s honed her intellect well.

And she knows.

Your skin crawls with maggots under her heated glare, boring subdermal tunnels that reach beyond the capabilities of a simple itch. The writhing anomalies only add to the growing discomfort of waiting in the pharmacy queue for far longer than need be. Ten minutes you’ve been behind the same middle aged man – too diffident to interrupt the conversation going on ahead of you – as what should’ve been a simple snatch and grab of his blood pressure medication turns into three decades of catching up with a bygone acquaintance from primary school.

“–when Janine drank some weird concoction back at Jimmy’s place. Fucking health nut has his own carbonator in his kitchen and she got the bright idea on six shots of cuervo to run a glass of milk through the damn thing. Ended up spewing all over Crystal’s pants.”

To their credit, the pharmacist had at least been working on filling prescriptions as he prattled on with the bald spot beta in front of you, bustling between stocked aisles of jarred substances and counting out little white tablets with every ping from the database. He just didn’t seem to care about the goings on inside the store. “Adam mentioned that when I ran into him at the football match last June. Isn’t that O’Hara’s omega? The one who used to save her gum in a giant ball after she was done chewing it?”

Eww. Seriously?

“Nah, that’s Abigail. Crystal was Billy and Carter’s girl.”

That seemed to catch the other alpha in his tracks, a quizzical brow replacing one of mild interest as he paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Was? What happened to her?”

“Fucking up and left them, that’s what. And right after they supported her through that unfortunate miscarriage too. Came home one day to an empty nest and a note on the table telling them she was done. Poor guys never even saw it coming.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be one of them?”

“Yea,” the beta’s tone turned sour. “Unfaithful bitch.”

The Unfaithful. 

That’s what they call you now. 

Those who have forsaken their oaths and disgraced the name ‘omega’. The sanctity of packdom desecrated by egocentric bond breakers. Scheming harlots abandoning their worshipful protectors– denying them their designated rights and withholding the gift of eternal peace upon those alphas worthy enough to be chosen.

False omegas. Government apostates to how things are supposed to be run.

Doesn’t matter that those who claim to be victims before the courts are the same conniving bastards stripping us of our bodily autonomy. Nothing is impermissible. 

Rape. Incest. Assault. Drugging. Coercion. Words that carry weight become cotton candy deadlifts in the face of a mating bond. It has no undoing – no magic words or medical procedures. There is no running towards the arms of a better pack in hopes of a brighter future; no room for another in the tether of your soul. That anchor has taken root in the rock bed and cannot be claimed outside the mysticism of a scent match. 

Crueler parts of the world would hunt you down like the runaway slave they’re too cowardice to admit they perceive you as, a bounty placed upon your head and welts on your back for disobeying, brittle nails clawing at the dirt in a last attempt at freedom, dragged back to your master in an iron wrought collar displaying the shame of your sins. 

Suppose you should consider yourself lucky that here, amongst the dredges of refined society, your kind are merely shunned.

Bosom friends all turn their backs, work desks empty into a cardboard box under the guise of ‘performance issues’. The deli at the corner claims they’re closed, red blocky letters drawing blood by the gallons as the patrons inside regard you like you’re nothing more than a sopping wet stray begging for scraps in the rain.

There are no laws that protect from discrimination for people like you. The lease in your fathers’ names and the lie from their lips are the only things sheltering you from homelessness. Others are not so fortunate as to have the word of an alpha keeping them off the street. 

The forlorn promise of a better tomorrow is all that greets you now in the wake of devastation. There is no higher contract than the bite marks on your neck. 

The scathing look from the disgruntled woman would be warranted by those around you if they were privy to the same suspicions she carried. The signs were all there if they only knew where to look.

“Miss?”

You hardly notice when they end their interaction, the off-putting customer service smile from the alpha behind the counter making the pit of your stomach rumble with unease as you scurry to the front, quietly offering up your personal information as you place your ID on the counter.

If he only knew he had the power to blacklist you in his hands…

You fork over the cash in far shorter time than the previous customer did, spending less than two minutes to his twenty before you duck away from the substantial line that’s formed in the time since your subsequent arrival. 

It’s your luck the old hag is three guests behind you, averting your gaze to the task of stashing your meds to try and keep from further interaction. Too bad a half century’s worth of smoking comes out in the rasping slur she spits at you from underneath her breath.

“Fucking glitch.”

You’ve heard the words directed at you once before, only far more cutting and uttered from a far different mouth. That didn’t stop the insult from piercing through to bone, a deep ache in your ribs that slows your gait and gives you pause beside the basket drop-off. 

A quick glance around confirms a lack of disdain from your fellow shoppers. You’re surprisingly fortunate that her biting remark hadn’t been made any louder. You frequent this shop often enough to be recognizable to most of the staff – though not on any sort of conversational terms. Being blacklisted here wouldn’t just result in an inconvenient trek farther for medical service, but a mark that would deny usage no matter the location.

Every step out your front door is a chance for your past to catch up to you… in one form or another.

A shock of cold jolts you from your far-away stare, startling a yelp that draws brief attention as you jump back from the unwanted contact, hand retreating away at the abrupt offense. Cradling it to your chest, you’re met with cobalt eyes and sunshine hair, a bright eyed pupper beaming up at you from its spot perched at your feet.

“Sorry about him!” An apologetic voice squawks to the left of you, calling your attention to the hobbling beta woman at the other end of the leash. Her neon green marshmallow puffer greets you before her dark curls and round cheeks, a prosthetic hand keeping grip on her furry friend. “He’s a well behaved boy I promise! Ain’t gonna bite ya or anything.”

“Oh no, he’s fine!” The tremble in your words is more from social awkwardness than anything, having been caught off guard in a place far too crowded for your tastes, rolling your shoulders to halt the impulse to scratch. “Just wasn’t expecting a wet dog nose is all.”

The beta, on the other hand, has no problem running a knitted mitten over the back of her neck. “Yeaaaah, it’s not often he gets away from me like that. You see, he’s my service animal.” She calls attention to the black vest around his body, a litany of bright colored patches and big blocky words adorning the functioning harness that you hadn’t quite discerned upon first glance. “He uh… was just alerting to you.”

It takes you a moment to process the words, blinking down at the panting canine regarding you with eyes more keen than the pea-brained expression would suggest. 

Good to know even a dog can sense you’re nine different levels of fucked up.

“You can pet him if you want,” comes the gentle offer upon spying the embarrassment painting your features, taking her faithful companion’s inattention in stride. The quirk of her mouth gives you a green light even if her words already did. “Far be it for me to disagree with the boss here when he puts his mind to something.”

The words of declination rest limp on your tongue, a moment’s hesitation giving way beneath the understanding gaze of an impartial animal whose sole purpose is to provide the comfort of love. Crouching down to its level – uncaring of the salt trekked state of the tile – it's almost instinctual to wrap your arms around the retriever for an act that seems so much more dangerous coming from any other being. The muzzle that finds home in the junction of your shoulder roots you through the floor, going beyond solid concrete foundation and miles of serpentine pipeways, winding through terraceous cracks unyielding to the progress of man to find purchase in the damp soil unseen for thousands of years, unbowing to the anything but the turn of the earth.

Calm is not the word; the pounding pulse in your ears and the headrush of being out in public still ring through the chittering bustle of checkout lanes to keep you on your toes. Yet the ache in your soul feels less like a boulder and more like a handful of a pebbled shore.

Pulling away from the smell of damp fur, slobber greets your face in the form of affection, features pulling taut against the playful onslaught trying its best to intrude between the cracks of your mouth. 

“Easy does it, bud.” A soft yank on his harness serves as a gentle reminder, turning from loveable pup to esteemed gentleman panting in perfect submission. “No one wants to taste what you had for lunch earlier today.”

You flash her a grateful smile for the interference, fingers moving next to scritch around the bright red collar mostly hidden by dense hairs, a glinting dog bone with cursive scrawl clacking against the knuckles of your hand. “Rocky, huh?”

“Yea,” she chuckles. “Don’t judge, but he was actually my favorite power ranger as a kid.” Her mittened hand joins yours in the thick pelt of his neck, scratching at some secret spot that gets his tail thumping, the appendage a whirling propeller trying in vain to achieve liftoff. How long they must’ve been in each other’s company for such familiarity. “Figured since this little guy was gonna be my hero too, he deserved a name befitting the courage he inspires.”

Her sincerity sparks something in you as you reach back to your own childhood, the sizzling of pancakes on the griddle against a backdrop of Saturday morning shows. Your smile warms at the memory. “Hey, no judgment here. After all, mine was Tommy.”

The moment breaks with shattered glass somewhere off to the right, the both of you reacting with varying degrees of frazzled nerves. You don’t miss the way her hand strikes out with practiced swiftness towards her hip, something nonexistent bumped away from flexing fingers by a patience nudge. Wide eyes glance down at her stalwart companion, already staring back with all the surety of his namesake, pushing her palm further against the smoothness of his head, urging her to stay with him in the safety of the moment. You don’t know the ghosts that haunt her–doing your best to avert your gaze from the glimpse of carbon fiber–but you watch as they retreat with calming breaths back to the place where they were born.

She shoots you a look you know she rather wouldn’t, an unspoken apology wrapped in embarrassment as familiar to you as it is to her, understanding passing between mirrored irises. There’s a shuffling of feet as you both scurry on your respective ways, you towards the outside air while her path takes her further inward. A quick glance over your shoulder finds him pressed against her side, snout turned upwards with a lolling tongue and dopey smile, eyes on the caregiver staring back at him with fond devotion. To have something that loves you that much…

Your gaze softens along with your words. “Good boy, Rocky…”

Fire ants bite into your cheek as the sharp crack that accompanies them leaves an outline of lava, the slap mark on your face glowing red hot and searing with the weight behind their assault. It dulls as the molten rock cools, a beating heart on the surface kept in time with the now racing pulse in your neck. The shock of it is almost as painful as the protruding iron shelves getting knocked against your spine, blowback jostling the festive display contents some poor stocker worked so hard on as cardboard cubes of kleenex clatter like ornaments to the muck-stained floor.

The outcry from your lips is muffled in comparison to groaning metal shifting under your weight, hand instinctively flying up as a wall to protect from further onslaught. Heat blooms again even under your careful touch, hissing in a gasp as wide eyes filled with glistening saline catch up a moment before your nostrils take in a familiar decadence. 

Her omega scent of rich warm brownie, fresh out the oven – but swallowed from the edges by the beginnings of char. Too high a temp getting cooked for too long, potent in its fury as it cracks and concaves. A sickeningly sweet outer shell transmuting under pressure, turning perfect gooey fudge into bubbling tar.

The visage that greets you is tempered by dread; a mixture of refined beauty and smoldering hate.

White fluffy earmuffs contrast against long chocolate waves spilling like molasses over a matching pristine peacoat – as if not even fate itself dared to sully such purity. If the air of refinement somehow doesn’t outclass you than the designer handbag does. No pack could ask for a more exemplary omega.

You’ve seen those cheekbones on the cover of magazines, that glassy skin splashed clean in luxury skincare ads. Perfect porcelain as artistically rendered as fine chinaware. Every model you’ve ever envied taken shape as your worst nightmare. Dark bambi eyes red-ringed with acidic tears, button nose flaring with each heaving rise of her trembling shoulders. Full pouty lips quiver under the enormous weight of emotions that threaten to claw almond manicured nails through your skin like chainsaws.

There is anger, but there is also pain.

And you caused it.

You do not know which response consumes you more: panic, or shame. 

“You–” her voice breaks like her heart, delicate wind chimes in a spring downpour. “You s-stay away from them…” Her words come in a struggle, fighting for stability whilst she hangs onto her composure with a thread as thin as spider silk. “They’re not yours… so… so just– just leave us alone!”

Gone is the lighthearted vision spun in innocent etherealness from that day in the store. Sparkling doe eyes now filled with scorn don’t suit the unblemished being not a foot in front of you. There’s an ingrained sweetness in her now pitiful form that so easily calls to an alpha’s protectiveness, a creature that deserves to be cherished, adorned; royalty reincarnated to a modern day princess.

There are only traces of that now standing a few feet in front of the automatic sliding doors, a smashed box of tissues keeping the mechanism from closing and sending a chill over the entire conversation. 

You shrink in on yourself, lowering your gaze in a meek show of submission that speaks where your own voice fails. How could you continue to look her in the eye when you are the reason this woman is suffering? When you are the bad guy in every sense of the word?

Filth. Sullied. Poison. Suffocating her with your very presence as if your own tainted pheromones could overcast hers.

You expect more–deserve more–but she turns on her heels, the sensors allowing passage as she hurries back out the way you suspect she only just came.

You’re as stunned as the bystanders around you, blinking at her retreating form into the small parking lot beyond. You can’t help but watch as she races across the asphalt, thoughts of her own task left behind in a trail of her own tears. Badly muffled whispers start in earnest at the display. Chorused words of ‘wicked woman’ following you out onto the pavement. Tongues lashing into open wounds kept bleeding by your own shame. 

That pain is nothing in the wake of the familiar figure of a towering form.

He meets her halfway, hulking mass climbing out from the cab of a blackened range rover at the first sign of her obvious distress. From this far away you can only make out the sounds of heaving sobs, watch as dainty hands clutch the dark material of her protector, the furrow of his brow as he searches for answers to her suffering.

Whatever she responds, you find yourself once more snapped in place by the weight of his stare, looking no less worse for wear than the first time he did. 

Logic says the phantom tartness on your tongue is a hallucination ingrained from previous exposure, but the inner omega whining helplessly to be understood doesn’t comprehend the self inflicted wounds she scores with brittle claws at the first chance to taste. In many ways, designative instincts retain the innocence of youth: purely reactionary in their naive disregard. They’re doe-eyed five year olds holding up the mangled body of a broken baby bird and proclaiming ‘they can fix it’. To them, they don’t realize the damage that comes with wishing for a bite of lemon zest when they know that cupcake is theirs, deaf to the scolding of a parent who knows better. 

After all, what gives you the right to take what hasn’t been offered? For wishing for the comfort of an alpha’s scent that doesn’t belong to you? All it does is make you feel like the shameful thief the people in the shop think you are.

So you keep your distance from the alpha and his mate, once more stuck in a whirlwind of unintentional trouble. He’s too far away to make out the hues of his eyes, but his body language tells you exactly where he stands in all this. Fingers flexed in a possessive grip, the placement of his hand curled around her mid back, the subtle hunch he takes as he tucks her tearstained face beneath his covered chin.

A choice. 

Conceal. Protect. Intruder.

You once wondered at the outcome if you hadn’t run that night; if the call that beckoned you ‘wait’ had kept you rooted to the floor. How would this mammoth have reacted - the one who only watched in pure neutrality as your world crumbled apart? Would he have let his friend make the first move forward? Would there have been an altercation? Spoken words and awkward introductions such as with their Scottish brethren? Did they care about your cowardice? Did the alphas give you chase? Lose your scent in the produce aisle and catch their breaths in the crisp night air? 

At last you have your answer. 

The judgment he passes as he turns his back to you has far more gravitas than the mopey donkey on your fridge. The conjured images of morbidity that entertained you earlier this morning feels like a holiday in comparison to the way your arteries shrivel from necrosis; down another size and a half by Grinch standards.

(Would it ever grow again?)

Closing your eyes against the sight is all you can do to maintain your sanity.

“Lass!”

As if life hasn’t finished causing you torment enough, the rough brogue catching your ears has your eyes peeling back open, the depression gluttoning away at your insides taking note at the promise of further feast, cackling gleefully at the tousled mohawk rounding the the opposite side of the vehicle his companions are approaching. Concern sits heavy on his brow, footsteps sure of their path as the pair sidle up along the drivers side of their SUV, lemon shuffling his omega through the open door he holds and into the relative safety of the back seat. You expect John to join them – to fuss and coo over her the same way he did for you in the cafe. Your masochism soaks up the envy like a yorkshire pudding at Christmas dinner.

But he makes no move to join his mate, blazing a path that leads beyond.

It’s not her he’s calling out for. It’s you.

Something smothers in your chest at the meaty glove that yanks him backwards, the heft of his brawn outmatched by the iron grip stopping him from advancing any further, shoved back against the shiny black of the range rover. The suspension creaks from the sheer force of the impact, giving you a hint as to the momentum which was suddenly reversed and applied to the hull, vehicle tilting a few centimeters off its wheelbase before thudding back down to settle on its chassis.

Charged static fills the air as overwhelmingly as the growl ripped from their chest – from which alpha you aren’t sure. The palpable anger that must be flaring in their scent chokes those unfortunate few nearby into hurrying along, a group of teenagers giving wide berth as the old man a few cars over shoves something fragile into the boot with a telltale crunch, slamming the latch shut before climbing over his center console to the steering wheel from the opposite side. No one wants to get involved in pack business, much less find themselves collateral damage in a showdown between behemoths. 

Where lemon’s mouth is obscured, John’s isn’t, giving you unfiltered access to the snarl he spits up at the man a few inches taller than him. He makes his displeasure clear in a volume still too quiet for you to grasp, but his argument is apparent in the gesturing of his arms, the wildness matched by the heart he so clearly wears on his sleeve. His packmate stands in complete opposition to the outward show of aggression by the former, striking in his marble-like appearance, firm against the blunted chisel of whatever’s being discussed. The only sign that he’s participating comes in the form of the other’s interrupted pauses. 

Your thoughts turn to the omega inside overhearing all of this. The discontent she must feel down the bond from those she loves most has to be just as painful as the ability to hear the quarreling itself. What must she be going through–huddled alone in the shadows by herself–having to listen to what you assume is an argument over another woman… one that a mate is clearly defending?

What consumes her more? Is it rage? Betrayal? Anguish? Abandonment? Jealousy? Your heart goes out to her at this moment in a way you’re not sure her packmates are knowing or even empathetic to. 

You suddenly flinch as if being struck by the accusatory finger pointed in your direction by the up-until-now stoic alpha, nose to nose with a man he’s spent nights pressed even closer against. Whatever point he makes, there’s no rebuttal from the Scot this time – only a strained moment’s silence.

At last John shoves away the arm holding him, straightening his jacket with a look that says this isn’t over as his companion walks away to the driver’s side door. You don’t pay him further mind though as John huffs out his anger like a bull, raking a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze with far more softness. He sees it in your eyes the same way it reflects in his. Two pained apologies spoken without words.

Dark tint keeps you from seeing them as they enter the vehicle and drive off, peeling away with a nod to the discomfort inside but with enough self control to not endanger the ‘precious cargo’ in the back seat.

You knew the other day was too good to be true. It’s clear now the damage you’ve incurred in your foolish desire to forge a connection. The lies John told you to placate his unthinking selfishness. Why the radio silence has been deafening your apartment. 

Nothing is alright. Everything is broken. You’ve ruined god knows how many years of passion and devotion by the sole act of your own pathetic existence. 

You’ve robbed her of that–robbed them. Another reminder that they cannot give it to you. She has taken your place. They cannot claim another.

It’s your fault. Your fault.

Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault… 

You can’t breathe.

Something’s crawling up your throat. You can’t– 

As customers pass the threshold of the automatic glass doors, no one pays any mind to the sounds of retching in the dumpster.

<< ✿ Previous ✿ <<

[nemisuki]

Trick or Treat

Third Year AU | Halloween was known to be a free pass to dress up in costumes and live out your candy fantasies. But since when was the spooky factor replaced with romance? A girl interested in the notorious blonde is determined to beat the clock before they all go their separate ways at graduation. Maybe matching costumes will do the trick…. or will that earn you a treat?

᧔o᧓ || katsuki bakugo x f!reader, no manga spoilers, no nsfw, first kiss, confession scene, werewolf bakugo for the simps, kirishima best wingman, 3k word count

When they first entered UA as freshman, it wasn’t often they spoke despite always being in close proximity to one another. She was from another world then him. Soft spoken and friendly. It was only expected of her to avoid the angry blonde and his wrath. 

It stayed that way until they entered their second year at UA. Everyone was affected by the war both physically and mentally. But the most noticeable change in character was Bakugo.

He was already making progress before the incident but this pushed him further. He wasn’t that same hot head from the first day of school. Bakugo matured in a way that made herself want to know him all over again. 

To be frank she was a little scared of him at first. But seeing him interact with his classmates made her realize he’s more than just your hot headed guy. 

So in an attempt to build a friendship with him, she started speaking to him during class (with the help of Kirishima of course). Hoping to catch a glimpse of what he’s really like. Throughout the school year different opinions circulated around him, causing her curiosity to increase with every rumor.

She doesn't remember a time when the two had a one on one conversation with each other. Honestly she doesn't even think he knows her name. Which isn't so shocking, given that Bakugo calls everyone by random nicknames. She tends to blend into the background a lot, it's in her nature. 

But today she is feeling a bit bold. 

With that in mind she manages to gain the courage to ask Kirishima for help to which he happily agrees. If she were to approach him by herself, she would definitely freeze up. Good thing Kiri somehow managed to befriend their grumpy classmate. By some miracle. 

“Hey Bakubro! You know that Y/N plays that game too?!” the red haired says with a toothy grin. Attempting to push her to initiate some conversation with the blonde. 

Quite literally.

He physically nudges her in front of Bakugos desk. 

Gee real smooth Kiri. 

She stumbles a bit but thankfully catches her balance as soon as her eyes meet Bakugos. A wave of shyness comes over her whole body as he stares her down for a moment. It was a moment of awkward silence until he broke it first. 

“Hah? You play pvp games?” Bakugo huffs out while furrowing his eyebrows in her direction. Seemingly to not quite believe Kirishima's statement. 

“U-Uh yes! I do!” she manages to squeak out but that's all she can say due to her nerves. 

With a keen eye Kirishima senses her nervousness and decides to come to the rescue, “Hey Y/N! You should play with us when we get back to the dorms. What do you say?”

Kirishima you saint! 

“Ah sure! But is that okay with you guys?” she says hesitantly while glancing at Bakugo for any sign of disapproval at the suggestion. 

The blonde catches her stare almost immediately, causing her to avert her gaze just as quick. He ponders for a moment but then sighs. Speaking in a grumble as he looks to the side “tch it doesn't matter to me.” 

“Alright then!” Kirishima says cheerfully while giving a thumbs up to Y/N to which she gives a thankful smile back. 

Spending time with Bakugo was definitely not listed on her bingo card months ago, yet here she is. A year soon has gone by and they’ve gone from mere classmates to friends. Well… at least Y/N hopes Bakugo sees her as so. It's still difficult for her to understand what he's thinking. Has she truly earned his trust yet? 

It started off with admiration. 

She doesn’t know when it happened. When her heart started racing whenever he spoke a single word to her. When she felt her eyes constantly drift to him unknowingly during class. When her fingers subconsciously itched to touch his own. 

The way he vigorously trained to improve on whatever he was doing was captivating. His will of never giving up inspired her. She thought that he was amazing. And soon… even she believed he could be number one hero in the near future. 

This feeling only grew into a small crush when she started realizing how much he’s changed in a mere few months. More patient and understanding. Though he may act distant, he was an active listener to whoever was speaking. It was cute. 

Of course his personality growth wasn't the only thing worth mentioning. He grew taller and put on more muscle in all the right areas. It was especially noticeable whenever he wore those tank tops around the dorm, she couldn't stop herself from staring. Bakugo was beautifully sculpted in every way. He was stunning to look at. 

As time passed she came to the realization that now is the best time if anything. In a few months they’ll graduate and be off working in agencies as hero trainees. They'll no longer be able to talk everyday like now. 

She didn't want to let this relationship fade back to nothing. To mere strangers again. 

So she decided that today she'll confess to him. 

Class 3A will be hosting a party tonight in celebration of Halloween. A gathering with all the third year classes given that it’s their last few months here at UA. They’re running on limited time now.

Y/N spends the majority of her time trying to look her best before it's time to head down to the common area. Given that it’s a Halloween party, she’ll be dressing up. But not just any costume. 

Thanks to Kirishima (her savior) she already knows what Bakugo will show up as. To no surprise he was completely against the idea of dressing up. But Kiri took it upon himself to buy the blonde a costume without Bakugos knowledge. 

A werewolf costume.

She doesn't know how exactly Kirishima will convince Bakugo to wear it but she’ll just have to trust him. Y/N took it upon herself to match his future look. I mean she didn't have anything else in mind anyways. Or maybe.. just maybe… this will send some sort of sign to Bakugo. 

Once she gets all dolled up, putting on extra perfume for good luck, she takes a deep breath and walks out of her room. Her hands slightly shake with nerves as she descends down the stairs to the common room where everyone is. 

Halloween decor scatters all over the place in spooky banners and themed snacks. Students in different costumes dance with one another as they sing along to the music. Everything seems so lively and Y/N smiles thanking everyone who passes by and gives her compliments on her werewolf attire. 

Her eyes look all over the dance floor as she walks towards the beverage table to pour herself some fruit punch. No sign of him. Is he not going to show after all? 

Many ideas swirl around her head causing Y/N to get lost in thought. So much so that when another hand touches her own, her heart nearly stops at the sudden warm sensation.

“That’s not juice. Don't drink that” he mumbles as he lifts his hand from hers to grab an empty red cup for himself. Her head snaps up to look at him, only to see Bakugo already looking at her with those piercing red eyes. A neutral expression on his face, not breaking eye contact whatsoever.

Suddenly every plan she could think of, went out the window. Like his eyes pulled her into a trance. He's wearing the werewolf costume after all. A navy green jacket, a red collar with a chain leash and wolf ears…. plus a tail?! 

Yeah she's definitely gonna thank and ask Kirishima about this later.

He looks good. 

Really good.

“Woah! You two are matching! How funny!” the red head says as he suddenly appears beside them.

Ah, speaking of him.

Her cheeks heat up at Kirishima's comment and obvious sarcastic tone. She tries to act oblivious in hopes Bakugo won't catch on “oh i guess we do.”

Slowly she attempts to peek at Bakugos face for some sort of reaction. But to her disappointment, he’s simply filling up his cup with soda. Not paying either of them any mind. 

Though she notices his pink tinted ears… hm? 

Kirishima interrupts her thoughts as he suddenly latches onto Bakugo, “C'mon you two lets get out there and dance!” 

“Hmph as if!” the blonde barks back as he tries shoving Kirishima off him.

This was gonna be a long night. 

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ  ⎯⎯ ✦

Hours pass by and no luck. There was so much dancing and activities going on that Y/N had no time to talk with Bakugo at all. Either she was being pulled away by her classmates or he was. 

All of a sudden while on the dance floor, she spots him walking upstairs alone. Huh? Was he leaving already? 

Quickly, she excuses herself and rushes to follow him. Her legs swiftly move up the steps as she attempts to reach him. Assuming he went back to his room, she makes it to his floor and looks down the hallway. Spotting the blonde as he unlocks the door and starts walking inside.

“Bakugo!” 

She sees the way he pauses and looks in her direction. Now feeling embarrassed, she slows down to not look like she ran after him. But before she can say anything else, he beats her to it. 

“Don't even think about convincing me to go back. It's time for bed and I’m exhausted” he says, narrowing his eyes slightly. 

“No that's not why I….” she squeezes her hands behind her back and looks to the side to avoid eye contact, “I just have something to tell you.”

The sound of fumbling footsteps and talking was heard down the hall. Probably some drunk students trying to find the bathroom. Her head turned in that direction as she heard slurred words and sloppy sentences from someone. 

“hey werewolf girl c'mere for a sec-” 

She was about to respond until she felt a hand on her waist and it takes all her willpower to not melt right then and there. The grip was tighter then it should be but not painful. 

“Tell me inside, too many drunk idiots around” he grumbles under his breath as he pulls her inside his room with ease. His hand was so warm that she would've believed that it left a mark, it was likely due to his quirk. 

“O-Oh okay…” she says as he locks the door behind her then unfortunately lets go of her waist. 

Oh my god. She's in his room. No one in the class has ever been in his room before. No one even knows what it looks like! 

And she's the first..

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

She sees him staring down at her and quickly her eyes shut. His brows furrowed in confusion, “what the hell are you doing?” 

“Huh? Oh well… I just closed my eyes since I assumed you didn't want anyone seeing your room so-”

“You can look.”

“...sorry?”

“I said you can look. It's fine you dummy.” 

Hesitantly she opens her eyes again, blinking twice to adjust to the new surroundings. The light wasn't on but the curtains were open, letting moonlight fill the room. 

It was exactly like how she imagined. The room was incredibly clean and organized, but with hints of personality regarding the rare all might collectables scattered around and band posters on the wall. 

“Your room is really nice Bakugo” she says as he opens the balcony door and beckons her to follow with a wave of his hand. Simply grunting in acknowledgment to her words. She walks with him outside, while attempting to cool her nerves on the way.

The two of them lean against the balcony railing in silence as they stare at the starry night sky above. Alright it's now or never…

“Um Bakugo about earlier. I just wanted to say that..” she takes a deep breath and looks at him. Her face feels like it's on fire. His eyes stare back down at her and he tilts his head slightly to the side, giving her a surprisingly calm expression.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“I-I really like-” 

In an instant his hand gently covers her mouth, stopping her from continuing. Her eyes widened at his action but also at his face. His cheeks are tinted in pink and his brows are now furrowed in thought. Those red eyes look in every direction as he attempts to regain his senses. Then fall back on her face after a short moment.

“You idiot. You were gonna confess right now, seriously?” he huffs out with what looks to be a shy yet serious expression. 

Wait. What? 

Almost like he could read your mind, he rolls his eyes and continues looking at you. 

“I knew you liked me since last year stupid” he says, almost having the urge to smirk at the look of embarrassment and disbelief on your face, “and no shitty hair didn't tell me. You guys are such horrible liars it made me wanna end it all.” 

Agh how embarrassing!? Though she shouldn't be shocked given his perceptiveness. His hand that was covering her mouth fell down, allowing her to speak. 

“But then… why didn't you say anything this whole time?!” she says in complete disbelief. 

“I… didn't know how to feel about you or whatever” he mumbles now going back to his rare soft voice. 

“But now I do,” he says while stepping closer to her. His body is such in close proximity she is sure that he can hear her heartbeat if he just paid attention.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“Was waiting for your confession. Didn't expect it today though but when I saw you copied my costume… that shocked me I admit” he says as he leans his head down. His hand reached out to touch her collar around her neck. Fumbling with the material. 

His eyes bore into hers as his lips barely curl up into the faintest smug grin, “A bit possessive aren't we? I didn’t think you'd be like that.”

Her whole body feels as if it's on fire. She never really thought about it like that. All she wanted to do was match with him…. right? 

Now that she thinks about it, maybe unknowingly she was being a bit possessive. Trying to drive away his fangirls that he's gained these past years. Her heart thumps wildly at the realization. 

“Though I don't mind. After all, I don't share either” he states with no shame as his hand goes from touching her collar to sliding up her neck to cradle her cheek. 

 ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“You mean….” her breath wavers at the implication of his words. 

He hums and nods at her unspoken question, “I was getting a bit impatient here ya know? Was gonna talk to you in a week or so if you haven't confessed today. Tch damn nerd making me wait.”

“Gonna kiss you now. Ready?” he says casually, already leaning in zoning onto her plush lips. A look of desire seen in his red orbs, almost hypnotic. 

“H-huh?!” she says quickly already on the verge of fainting from the sudden statement. 

“What? You dont wanna?” he immediately pauses looking into her eyes for a response or signs of disgust. 

“That's not it! I want to! But it's… my first” she says quickly leaning her cheek into his palm to hide her nervousness. She doesn't want to mess this up. 

“It's my first too. I'll be gentle I promise” he whispers back to her with care.

That comment suddenly made her feel all giddy. Being each other's first kiss. She knows Bakugo, he wouldn't break his promises so carelessly. She trusts him. So she nods for him to continue.

“Use your words Y/N” he says as his finger traces circles on her cheek. In a somewhat teasing yet genuine tone. 

  ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“I want you to kiss me Bakugo-”

“Katsuki. We're dating now. Got that? It's Katsuki to you” he says, correcting her immediately as if he's been waiting for this forever. Like he imagined this scene many times in his head. 

“Please kiss me Katsuki” she whispers to him as she sees him lean closer. A pleading look on her face. 

His hands gently hold her by the waist, pulling her to him to close the distance. 

“About damn time” he says as her eyes quickly close with anticipation. She could have sworn she heard a chuckle right after she did. 

It didn't take much longer for him to close his eyes. 

He tilts his head as his lips press onto hers. It was gentle as if he was scared he could break her given his strength. A warm sensation passes through them both, as they savor this moment under the stars.

It was only for a few seconds but when they broke apart, it felt as if neither of them were breathing at that moment. 

Despite his confident words and attitude, she notices how red the tips of his ears are. A warm smile appears on her face and she keeps quiet about that discovery. He may act all cocky yet he's secretly a softie. 

He shines a small smile back at her and it feels as if she's been kissed all over again. His smile is breathtaking. And she's so happy to have seen it. 

“You look… beautiful when you smile” she manages to say in a softer tone just for him. Only for him. 

She doesn't miss the way he tenses and how he averts his eyes. Looking just about everywhere else but her. He still isn't used to receiving such compliments yet it seems. But that's okay. She thinks it's adorable. 

“So do you…” Bakugo says in the gentleness tone he can muster. But honestly it's not much of a challenge given how dazed he is at the moment.

Agh damn it. Her confidence suddenly goes away at his rare tender demeanor.  

Both of them don't dare to look at one another. Not wanting the other to see just how effective words can be. Guess you both settled for a treat tonight. And the rest of your lives. 

Happy Halloween Indeed.

✦ ⎯⎯⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ masterlist || taglist || intro || socials ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⎯⎯ ✦

[laynore-x]

--"Replaced Miracle AU"--⛈️🌈🌹

Despite the drama of years ago, Isabela and Dolores are very close.

Isa is still hesitant to talk about Mirabel for objecting at her wedding with Mariano since it was Alma's wish, but deep down she is very grateful that she did (Isabela was the favorite granddaughter for possessing a powerful gift; while no matter how hard Dolores tried to look perfect or meet her standards, it was never enough for her grandmother).

After some events, Mariano and Dolores got to know each other better, and they fell in love.

(full image below if you'd like to see)

[swordboybestboy]

So we all agree that Mihawk is super weird, right? Like obviously he's goth (and every alt person I've ever met is at least a little weird its part of their charm) and he lives alone on war-ravaged goth island full of murder monkeys and took over the castle there to live out his life as a vampire cosplayer

But also he has a boat that's shaped like a coffin and sails the fucking SEAS alone in it and I swear this man is alive by sheer force of drama alone like there's some god in the one piece world that's watching him and going "Yeah can't let that boat capsize I'm living for his dedication to the aesthetic"

And who made that fucking boat anyway it's mast is shaped like Yoru how much did Mihawk pay to get someone to build his fucking death boat like did he go to water seven and commission this imagine that conversation "I want a boat big enough just for me, it needs to he shaped like a coffin and have a coffin shaped cabin just big enough for me to sleep in cause I wanna feel like I'm rising from the dead when I wake up also please make the mast look like my sword is stabbing into the boat, black fabric for the sails and don't forget the candle holders at the front, they're very important"

Speaking of which who makes those candles is he making his own special candles with boric acid or copper(II) infused wicks so the flame burns green or is there some specialty goth candle shop who gets a bunch of business from him I could see him being like my orgo professor and adding salts to fires because they burn pretty colors also he in a modern au he would probably throw wrappers into fires to see what happens and then keeps Dubble bubble sour fruit gum around so he can throw the wrappers in fire and watch them burn pretty colors

But this entire thought was started because I was thinking about how I like the idea of Shanks and Shamrock fighting over Mihawk and that I like the idea that Shamrock just isn't weird enough for Mihawk

And it made me think of how Mihawk's entire social circle is made of weirdos

Crocodile - this man apparently lives to make criminal organizations he knows what he wants in life and that is to be a mob boss he lost his hand and replaced it with a very large ornate hook and that shit has got to be heavy but it is intimidating and probably more useful than it would immediately seem he also has a collection of eccentric weirdos (let's not even get into the subject of his gender or status as luffy's potential mother)

Buggy - clown may be the most normal of them all actually

Perona - another goth carries around what I can only assume is either the shrunken body of the zombie Kumashi or a plush replica enjoys using her hollows to make people momentarily horribly depressed cause she's mean like that has a very unique sense of what is and is not "cute" and judges harshly based on it (though I have to agree that tiny plush kumashi IS cute in a creepy sorta way)

Zoro - has sworn to take his head but also begged to train under him like it's weird Mihawk agreed to that but it's also weird that Zoro asked (outside of the context of needing to be able to protect his friends) is a dork who thought it'd be a good idea to fight with a sword in his mouth (It's a miracle he was right) and decided to pose when he thought he was gonna die as a wax statue cause obviously that's the important part

Okay. The buzz in my brain has stopped producing actual thoughts now. Mihawk is weird. I love him for it. His friends are weird. His husband is weird. If my brain ever allows it I'm trying to write an entire fic that's basically "Mihawk is actively trying to be the weirdest person anyone he meets has ever met" because it's my favorite Mihawk thing.

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

Trials of Apollo Au

@fanofstuff01 @beef-brisket

Sera tried not to throw a fit, she was too mature for such things but this was her baby. How could she not get upset?

Sera: Michael don't do this. Adams just a ba-

Michael: That's the problem, he's not!

It has been pointed out to Sera that she babies Adam, the angel of music too much. She always wanted a child but angels don't have babies the normal way.

Adam was made to replace Samuel, the fallen angel and devil down in Hell. When he opened his perfect golden eyes he took right to Sera and she knew she had to protect him from everything and everyone.

But that came at a price. Sheltering Adam like that made him naive, uncultured and lacking proper knowledge. And the fact that God made him the first gay angel meant Sera had to keep other men away from him. They only take advantage!

But now they want Adam to lead the Extermination Day army, Sera didn't understand why. He was too sweet too soft. Adam didn't have a real mean bone in his body.

Sera: He's my baby!

Michael: He needs to learn about the world and life! He can't do that with you sheltering him. He's going to earth to help a human better their life, without his powers.

Sera: WHAT!?

Michael: Or would you rather he go to Hell?

Sera winced, she didn't want either thing. She looked at her sleeping son, he didn't know what was going to happen and it wasn't fair.

Sera: No...... But no powers?

Michael: The more he helps them he'll start to get them back. Say goodbye it's time.

-

Down on earth, Lucifer and Charlie were laying in their normal dumpster watching the night sky. The brother and sister duo were about to fall asleep when they saw a shooting star.

Lucifer: Make a wish!

Charlie crossed her fingers and closed her eyes. She wished for a miracle to save them from the streets.

Charlie: Done!

That's when the shooting star...... Started coming for them!!

[zumek0]

draft 05; fushiguro, m.

↪︎ angst but very mild?, comfort, college/university au, no curses au, reader is very stressed.

↝ summary: megumi comforts you after you break down due to academic stress.

There’s a feeling of pressure on your chest, and a growing pit of despair in your stomach. You fucked up. Big time. Your teacher had given you a topic to make a presentation about a month ago and yet here you were, a week before your due date, not even having a clue of what the hell the topic was. As you stare into the google calendar tab open in your laptop you realize that not only were you supposed to present the topic in a week, but also turn in two different group assignments and an individual one. On the same day.

Almost mechanically you pick up your phone and open the messenger app. 

Megumi’s always been more of a night owl. His body is used to staying awake until sunlight threatens to spill over the horizon. He knows it’s not healthy but even if he tries to sleep at a normal, decent hour his mind remains restless. So he does what he’s able to: assignments, projects, pre-reading for lectures, reading books he enjoys or has been wanting to read, listen to music, make playlists with songs that fit the vibe of a very specific picture of you he has in his gallery, watch a movie, etc. 

It’s 11:56 p.m. when his phone starts vibrating over and over again. He can’t help the feeling of irritation that bubbles up inside him, thinking that Yuuji or Nobara are spamming the group chat with TikTok slideshows of “ask your friends which ‘blank’ are you!”. Although the feeling is immediately replaced with worry and slight curiosity when he sees it’s you who has been spamming him for three minutes straight.

His eyebrows furrow when he notices you’re texting with correct spelling, no emojis, no jokes in the middle of the conversation and capitalizing the first letter of every text. He reads over the messages you’ve sent so far to grasp an understanding of the situation. When he gets to the bottom of the chat, he gets up and grabs his shoes and keys while still paying attention to the still incoming messages you’re sending him.

You’re startled when you hear a soft knock at your door, stilling your fingers from expertly moving across the keyboard on your phone. Your eyes remain on the door while you wait for the sound to repeat itself, just in case you misheard or imagined it. Your phone vibrates softly on your hands, displaying a text from Megumi: “open the door”. You get up and do as he ordered. 

Once he’s inside your small campus room, he speaks. “Okay, now tell me everything slowly.” You do.

“… oh, did I also mention that I have two midterms that same week? And that quiz that we were supposed to present last week but the teacher changed last minute.” You can feel the headache creeping up your spine. You bring your hands to your head and rub your temples.

“And I know what you’re gonna say: ‘complaining about it isn’t gonna help you at all’” you make your voice sound deeper and more monotone to make it sound like his, “It’s just- It’s really frustrating. I don’t know why I can’t seem to just sit down and do things, like you do!”. 

He doesn’t say anything and you’re thankful for that. “It’s like—I know I have stuff to do, and I know it’s very important that I do it right. But I just can’t seem to ever find the motivation to do it. And then I’m left in spots like this one where I’m gonna have to pull a miracle out of my ass to actually turn in everything I have to turn in this week.” He listens to your rant patiently. Even rubbing your thigh when he notices your eyes crystallizing and tears starting to well up in the corners of your eyes.

After sitting in silence for what feels like hours, he finally speaks. “Do you want reassurance or a solution?” “Both. More reassurance though.” You both move to make yourselves more comfortable. 

He’s sitting down in the floor with his back against the side of your mattress. One of his legs is bent and the other is stretched. Your head is now resting on his outstretched thigh. His long fingers find themselves running through your hair, an action that you commonly direct towards him whenever he finds himself unable to fall asleep while sleeping over in your room.

“I think you’re gonna make it out of this.” His voice Is soft, but assertive. “And yes, you have some awful time-management skills that we need to work on,” a snort leaves your nose “However last time you were able to give that other presentation while only having studied two days prior. If you try hard enough, everything will be okay. We’ll be okay. I’m gonna help you.”

You’re pretty sure the tears are running down your face at this point. You sniff tour nose. “Thank you.” Megumi leans down and gives your forehead a kiss. “But now, we need to get some rest. We both have early clases tomorrow. Well, today, technically.”

You get up from your position and make it to your bed. He’s hugging you while your head is on top of his chest. From this position you’re able to hear his heartbeat slowly lulling you to sleep.

can you tell i’m proyecting with this one? i literally wrote it at midnight. stress is eating me alive, so please excuse me if this seems like a self insert. i know people who are currently dealing with a lot in uni, so i hope this can help you if you’re going through the same.

—han

[hamburgerndsprite]

Sprite's Favourite Fics {Bangtan Fics} Part 8

Note: (I'll keep updating the lists as I read more fics. Also, all the moodboards are edited by me therefore I request everyone not to repost them as theirs)

[Masterlist]

[OT7]

{SERIES}

➺ Combined Beings by Numinousher

pairing: mafia/ceo! Bts x chubby! reader (poly!au) genre: office au, mafia au, deep conversations based on beauty standards, body dysmorphia, mental health issues, harassment/bullying, gore/violence parts: 20/20 + Drabbles summary: You are bullied on a constant because korea’s beauty standards do not fit girls on the heavier side. The bullying gets worse once a ceo is attracted to you and he mentions you to the other 6.

➺ Masked Miracles by remedyx [ONGOING]

Pairing: Hybrid! BTS x Reader Chapters: 14 posted Genre: angst, fluff Summary: It wasn't supposed to happen this way. A quick in and out. Infiltrate and bring down a hybrid trafficking ring. Saving lives while we're at it. But things hardly ever go to plan. And being locked in with seven hybrids that meant more to me than victims forced into a life they didn't deserve was definitely not according to the plan.

➺ Heartbeat by minniepetals

— pairing: bts x reader — genre: angst, fluff, hybrid!reader, rich!bts — word count: 9.7k — warnings: mentions of abuse, running away from an abusive household, hybrid cruelty, hurt and comfort — summary: running away from your master is never easy so you deem yourself this will be the last time if you are fatefully brought back to his hold again. so what happens when you stumble upon seven men who says they won’t bring you back? what happens when they promise you their love and care instead?

➺ Hybrid Heart Attack by daydream-hobii

Pairing: BTS x Female!Reader; Human!Seokjin x Human!Reader; Eventual relationship with Snow Leopard!Yoongi, Red Panda!Hoseok, Koala!Namjoon, Calico Cat!Jimin, Husky!Taehyung, Doberman!Jungkook Genre: Poly!AU; Hybrid!AU; Fluff; Angst Chapters: 20/20 Summary: Y/n finds her current fiance during college, his name is Seokjin. They fell in love and dated for three years before he proposed. Now, Seokjin is a lawyer for hybrids, and Y/n, well, she has the perfect stay at home job. When Seokjin invites her to move in, she wasn’t expecting that he has six hybrids. She doesn’t know why a hybrid lawyer wouldn’t have hybrids, she just didn’t think about it…. Y/n is petrified of hybrids, something happened to her when she was little…. Guess she’ll have to adapt… or leave.

[KIM NAMJOON]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Feel the Rain by happy-meo

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader Genre: Fluff Summary: In the midst of your mundane routine life, you meet a man who changes it all.

[KIM SEOKJIN]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Pink Panther by gimmesumsuga

Pairing: Hybrid CEO! Jin x Reader Genre: Hybrid Au, Fluff, Smut Wordcount: 13k Synopsis: “Clumsy, maybe.  Messy?  Most definitely.  But stupid?”  A frown replaces the momentary fondness that'd graced his expression.  “Never.”

[MIN YOONGI]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Cuddle Noodle by redrose10

Pairing: Snake Hybrid Yoongi x Female Reader Warnings: Mentions of abuse, euthanasia, doctors office and sickness, mentions of mating/breeding but no smut, abandonment Word Count: 6,432 Summary: Since no one else wanted him, you agreed to adopt a dangerous noodle of a snake hybrid named Yoongi. And even though you were terrified of snakes, he somehow managed to cuddle himself right into your heart.

➺ Now We Reign by oddinary4bts

☆pairing: Min Yoongi x singer female reader ☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI) ☆genre: work collaborators to lovers, idol!au, smut, angst, fluff ☆word count: 34.9k ☆summary: when working on a collab together makes you and Min Yoongi seek comfort with the other, you discover there’s more to life than loneliness. Only, hurdles mark your path in Min Yoongi’s life, and it’s unclear what the outcome will be. Will you be destroyed by him and his world, or will you learn to reign over it, together with him?

➺ Souvenir by jiminrings

pairing: yoongi x reader wordcount: 3k glimpse: shouldn’t this be the part where you tell him not to stay out too late? alternatively, yoongi thinks you hate him because you don’t coddle him after a fight.

➺ I want her with me by justtextmeoppa

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader Words count: 2,8k+ Genre: Fluff Plot: You and Yoongi are both idols and you’re dating. During a Music Award Show he confesses you’re his girlfriend. 

{SERIES}

➺ BOO-lieve in me by jimlingss

➜ Pairing: Ghost! Yoongi x Ghost! Reader ➜ Parts: 2/2 ➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Spirit Marriage!AU ➜ Summary: A Spirit Marriage - in which two deceased people are wedded together. In your life, you wouldn’t have ever imagined yourself married. Much less to mommy’s boy, Min Yoongi.

➺ She's Testosterone by jimlingss

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader Parts: 4/4 Genre: Crack Fic. No lies here. Summary: Drop-dead gorgeous, cute, and sassy - you adore your best friend. But is there more beneath the surface? Who exactly is Min Yoonji?

➺ Silver Spoon by happy-meo

pairing: Yoongi x Reader (ft. Jimin & VIXX's Leo as side characters; some other BTS members show up too in a later part) genre: Office au Romantic Comedy, Fluff parts: 9/9 prompt: "A classic tale of what happens when a cold, uptight farm girl meets a playful, rebellious, easy-going city boy that was born with a silver spoon in his mouth." summary: Having been born and raised in the country side, you have worked hard your entire life to make it to the big city. You eventually achieved your dream and now you have a wonderful paying job for a large company and you continue putting your 110% into everything you do. However, your perfect plan to climb to success through consistent effort and hard work becomes disarrayed with the arrival of your branch's new rebellious and easy-going CEO, who never desired the position in the first place and has never truly worked hard a day in his life. Your job is on the line if he can't be turned into a quality CEO within a year, but he has no intention of changing himself for anyone or letting you boss him around so easily. How will you work your way through this obstacle? Will you succeed in changing him or will he be the one that changes you?

[JUNG HOSEOK]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Just a Dream by mirahuyooo

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x Reader Word Count: 6,530 Contents: flUff, sWeAriNg, pinch of crACk, best friends to lovers! AU Summary: Dreams usually don’t elicit anything more than a laugh from you, but this one? This one really shakes you.

[PARK JIMIN]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Accidentally on Purpose by taleasnewastime

Pairing: Barista! Jimin x Reader Word count: 1,123 Genre: Fluff Summary: Jimin keeps giving you the wrong coffee on purpose.

➺ Flights and Fate by happy-meo

pairing: jimin x reader genre: fluff summary: a fluffy one-shot of when the reader met jimin for the first time. [Part of First Meeting Series]

➺ Azure Blue by Jimlingss

Pairing: Fairy! Jimin x Fairy! Reader Word count: 8711 Genre: Fluff, So much damn cuteness (you could die), Adventure, Fairy!Au summary: "Two butterflies, colored white and blue flutter and circle between the two of you, and this time, they never leave."

➺ Lilac Hues by Jimlingss

Pairing: Fairy! Jimin x Fairy! Reader Word count: 2k Genre: Fluff, Fairy!Au summary: “It’s your fault anyways. You’re the one who put a butterfly in my underwear when I was four.”

➺ The Dark Side of the Moon by dovechim

➾ Pairing: werewolf! Jimin x reader ➾ Wordcount: 11.1k ➾ Genre: Smut ➾ Summary: falling in love at first sight is cliche, not until it happens to you on a dark night in a lonely alley. but you’re only human, while Park Jimin is the Alpha of his pack; it could never work out. so you resort to pining for him like a wolf howling at the moon, but when Jimin goes feral, that’s when everything changes. 

➺ Mutual Muses by army-author

➸ pairing: busker jimin x heir reader ➸ wordcount: 2.5k words ➸ genre: fluff, heir au ➸ summary: ❝ After helping a young busker one Christmas, he goes on to earn fame and fortune. But he hasn’t forgotten you, or your kind deed ❞ ➸ prompt: I vowed to do something nice for a stranger this Christmas. Guess today’s your lucky day… 

➺ Serendipity by pasteljeon

Pairing: Jimin/Reader. Warnings: Bit of swearing, non-explicit descriptions of sex. Length: 3.9k. Summary:  Sometimes, you think Park Jimin is better off without you. He thinks otherwise.

➺ Destined With You by Borathae

Pairing: Queen!Reader x Knight!Jimin Genre: Forbidden Love!AU, Fantasy!AU, Childhood Friends to Lovers!AU, Romance, Smut Wordcount: 23.9k Summary: "You and he aren't supposed to fit so well together. You aren't supposed to work and yet somehow destiny seems to tie you to him tighter and tighter. Will you be able to cut the string of fate before the knot gets tight enough to suffocate or will you accept it and allow yourself to entangle with him?"

{SERIES}

➺ Our Little Family by nightbts

pairing: single dad! jimin + teacher! reader  genre: fluff, angst + parent! au  parts: 6/6 + (bonus) summary: you were living a simple life filled with simple dreams; combining your two most loved things in life, children and teaching, you were starting out your career as a teacher at the local pre-school. but little did you know, how one child and her very special father, would change your simple life into something extraordinary

[KIM TAEHYUNG]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Moonlight by jjungkookislife

ღ pairing: best friend!tae x f. human!reader ღ genre: f2l, wolf!au, smut [18+] ღ wc: 5.8k ღ summary: The full moon means one thing and one thing only to your best friend, Kim Taehyung. It’s the one time a month he turns into a wolf and frolics in the moonlight. However, on his 25th Hallows’ Eve, his wolf is calling out for his mate.

➺ Drive You Fucking Crazy by borathae

Pairing: Vampire!Taehyung x Witch!Reader Genre: established relationship!AU, Magic!AU, Smut Wordcount: 8.1k Summary: "Taehyung shows you a spell which makes your strap function like real cock, then asks you to fuck him with it and he knows exactly how he wants it to happen. He's going to be the one getting pounded, but he'll drive you fucking crazy in process."

➺ Lock Down [M] by untaemedqueen

Pairing: Idol!Taehyung x Reader WordCount: 6.6k Genre: Fluff, Smut Summary: A fluffy and smutty oneshot in which Tae accidentally finds out you like him and then goes out of his way to make your life impossible (brushing up against you, lip bites, etc) until he knows you have no resistance left.

[JEON JUNGKOOK]

{ONESHOT}

➺ Slipping Through My Fingers by thvhoe

PAIRING: BOXER!Jungkook x Ballerina!Reader SYNOPSIS: Jungkook is frustrated, and you're the only one who can calm him down WARNINGS: Disgusting amounts of fluff, Jungkook tired tk be a badboy, lowkey succeeds, lowkey doesnt, fighting, mentions of blood and bruises, long hair jk, sentimental stuff, Christmas trauma?, oc is super joyful, she makes him talk about his feelings, small argument scene, cringe nicknames, polar opposites, KISSING

➺ Mistaken Very Much by 1uvtae

★pairing: jungkook x reader ★word count: 7.4k words!! ★genre: university romance, fluff, crack, tennis au ★summary/snippet: you don't think staring at his butt cuts straight to the conclusion that you, y/n y/l/n, have a crush on him....but whatever. it's not like you actually have a crush on him...right?

➺ Pink Sapphire by jiminrings

pairing: jungkook x reader wordcount: 11k genre: angst, arranged marriage au, fluff glimpse: having jungkook for a husband is great as far as arranged marriages could go; he's easy to love. your relationship's perhaps become so easy that jungkook doesn't think sometimes — and that's what makes it the easiest for you to hate him. alternatively, you and jungkook married each other for business, but the both of you stay for love.

➺ Letting Off Steam by wnderkoo

pairing: f1 driver! jungkook x sunshine gf genre: pure fluff word count: 1.3k summary: a bad day on track has jungkook storming off and disappearing. where else would one find him but in the comforting arms of his loving girlfriend?

{SERIES}

➺ Ungodly Hour by explicit-tae

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: Fluff, Smut, Jimin and reader are frenemies Parts: 9/9 + Drabbles Synopsis: That time you - a broke college student - were willing to do just about anything for a hulu account after your brother kicks you off of his - (and Jungkook would do anything to have you)

➺ The Love Prognosis by awrkive

pairing: surgeon!jk x surgeon! (fem)reader ft. corporate lawyer! mingyu genre: medical!au, rommates!au, f2l, fluff, smut, angst word count: 90.9k words (main story, excl. drabbles) summary: for as long as you can remember, you've always been a hopeless romantic. the girl who’s always dreamt of cheesy encounters with her soulmate, grand love declarations, and a cute little beach wedding to boot. but reality pretty much slaps you hard right on the face, because love, unfortunately, doesn’t come grand — it’s simple and it’s quiet, but it is quite painful, especially when the love that you’ve been seeking for all your adult life has just been right under your nose all this time.

➺ You're on Jeon by smoljimjim

>Pairing: FuckboyJK x FuckgirlOC named Siri >Genre: enemies/idiots to lovers, angst, funny shit, fluff, sort of slowburn, happy ending >Parts: 38/38 >Overall story Warnings: OC is bisexual, she’s 3 years older than JK, she sleeps with a lot of girls at the start (no details), JK+OC are both hoes at the start- they're just having fun. Betting and revenge, small slut shaming, OC has family drama: a mean dad, an evil sister and a cheating ex-bf, but she has the best mum! JK is immature but grows to be a loyal golden retriever. >Description: You’ve heard the typical story where the college fuckboy does a bet to get the girl – well what if that girl happens to be a fuckgirl? And what if she’s the one making bets with him?

[tojisun]

I’m in such a soap mood rn and that hockey!soap ask just near ruined meeeee!! What if he is dating a more alternative girl and he goes out of his way to find his tooth on the ice, making sure his team know that it’s not weird and he is not being over dramatic cuz its actually a very big deal. The next time his team sees her is at their engagement party and when they ask to see the ring she shows off a real pretty gold band with a pointy tooth replacing a stone.

this is so fucking peak im shaking like an old dog

part of this rambling teehee; f!reader // sugar, spice, everything on ice (hockey au mlist)

“wan’ ma’ fuh-kuh’ tooh’,” johnny grumbles, throbbing mouth muffled by the towel he’s using to stop the bleeding, before turning to kyle who blinks at him.

the game hasn’t resumed yet which is honestly a drag at this point, johnny thinks, because there’s only nine seconds left and sure miracles can happen within that time—some teams seem to have abundance of those—but does johnny even care anymore? no.

he’s angry and tired and in pain, and all they gave him was a white ass face towel and pinched smiles, before handing his team a four-minute penalty too. what the hell?

he would’ve complained if it wasn’t for the burning feeling in his face, thrumming from the base of his jaw to the tender press inside his cheek where the tooth was ripped out of his gums. he’s glad he was able to throw a punch in retaliation, that and the fundamental silver lining—

his loose tooth is out there.

johnny needs it.

“you… want your tooth?” kyle asks, looking at him like he’s the oddest creature in the rink. “why—”

the face-off begins, kyle and johnny turn, watching the puck fall, lumbers smacking against each other in the final grapple and skates slashing the ice, taking speed and taking force only—

the horn blows, marking the end of the game.

“fuh’ yeah!” johnny screams, banging on the glass protector, before he curls in the open arms of his teammates, laughing, bloodied gum forgotten.

they’re kicked out of the penalty box, finally—“it’s been twenty seconds, ‘tavish.”—and johnny gargles something unintelligible to price who skated towards them for a celebratory hug because there’s something johnny needs and he needs it now before the ice girls come in to swipe the rink.

he whirls past teammates trying to pull him in, waving his glove in lieu of a response because he can’t dignify them a proper one, not with the way his eyes are trained on the ice like this is his first time skating again, hesitant and eyes all-seeing.

he skates at the scene of tragedy, nose scrunching at the faint blood but otherwise empty patch of ice. god. where the hell did that go?

johnny almost gives up, almost decides to just knock out another tooth, probably the molar this time, when his eyes finally snag something that looks like it doesn’t belong on the ice. it’s tucked there in the corner of the rink, unassuming and still pink with blood.

“oh, y’r tooth,” simon grunts beside him.

“ye’,” is what johnny manages. “‘m taki’ it home.”

“…sure, whatever,” his friend says like he hasn’t done anything weirder. remember montreal 2019? yeah.

johnny skates towards the little thing, plucking it off the ice and holding it tight within his palm. he turns, blinking in surprise at seeing both kyle and john there beside simon now. the other guys are still parading, celebrating their victory with the audience, so johnny doesn’t know why his closest circle are here.

“what.”

“y’know you don’t need that for the implant, right?” john asks slowly like johnny’s some spooked thing.

“uh-huh,” is all johnny says, not understanding what price is insinuating now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, and the sharp stinging pain in his gums thrums harder from within. “leh’ go. wan’ medi-hin.”

kyle huffs, shaking his head fondly, before leading the pack out of the ice after a last lap for the audience. johnny keeps up with them, bright in his own happiness, pain be damned, because their fans deserve to see the fruits of their unwavering support.

besides, he knows someone’s out there, cheering for him louder than anyone else is.

.

“ah, there it is!” johnny cheers as he rummages through his locker, grinning when he meets the curious eyes of his teammates to show off his prized possession.

“your tooth?” enzo asks, face scrunched in his slight disgust. “don’t you wanna, you know, chuck it out?”

kyle murmurs something to reyes, something distinctly like, “just leave him be, mate,” but johnny bulldozes through, excited, and replies, “hmm? nae. i’m givin’ it to my girl.”

johnny doesn’t even notice the sudden silence in the room until the awkward petering laughter of gus.

“he smashed his head harder than we thought, no? probably needs more than a dentist.”

johnny rolls his eyes with a huff and flips him off, but he stops when he noticed the genuine concern in kyle’s face, the poor lad looking at him like he truly believes gus’ words and that he’s a second away from dialling for the standby medical team for johnny.

“what,” he bites out, shoulders hunching because why are they looking at him like that?

“it’s your loose tooth, johnny,” kyle answers, bug-eyed like there’s something obvious that johnny isn’t getting.

“i know.” it’s johnny’s turn to be confused. “‘s why i’m giving it to ‘er.”

“oh for fuck’s sakes— johnny, fill us in: why are you giving your girl your tooth?” price finally pipes in, looking more tired than he was on ice.

oh! johnny thought, his mind finally catching up to the situation. he breaks out into a smile, giddiness going rampant in his chest again, his stomach swooping at the thought of it—

“i’m proposin’ to her.”

a beat.

“that answers fuck all!”

he doesn’t even know who screamed that anymore, jumping in his own surprise at their explosive reaction, before yelping when a leg pad—probably price’s—was flung over his way with sharp accuracy.

“riley!”

.

you and johnny invited the boys and their plus-ones to celebrate the engagement, keeping most of it as private as one could after johnny posted a picture of you crying in his account, with the caption, “she said yes!”

(“couldn’t you have posted that selfie of us with the ring instead, baby?”

“shit, m’bad, bon. s’just that ye were too cute cryin’, almost had me panicking when you wouldn’t stop heaving.”

“…right. okay. can i post a different picture then?”

“of course, bonnie.”)

(yourname

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the party was vibrant, formalities thrown away at the promise that not a single photo would be posted without anyone’s permission. any news sites were explicitly banned, guests screened because you and johnny had wanted to, at least, keep one celebration for the engagement closed off to the world.

you’re chatting with simon’s girlfriend, who is so shy and sweet, bug-eyed because she said she’s only ever seen you from her phone when she watches your games, when johnny returns with his mates and instantly slots himself beside you.

simon nods at you in greeting, while john and kyle repeat their congratulations, beaming at your quiet chuckles while johnny preens at them, so boyishly charming and endearing.

you can’t help but brush a kiss on his jaw, faint as to not transfer your gloss to his skin. johnny tips his head down and looks at you like you’ve hung the moon for him.

“since y’r engaged, i just gotta say,” kyle begins after sipping from his flute. “did you know ol’ johnny wanted to propose to you with the tooth he lost last season?”

johnny snorts and you two share a fond look, even as you quirk your brows up because you are so sure he told them, at least.

“lord,” john whispers, catching on.

“oh,” kyle adds, humour leaving his face, and is replaced with incredulity. you would have giggled if it weren’t for the fact his eyes are now trained on your hand as if to gauge how it looks.

simon grunts before you can show it off to them, and when you all turn to him, he just shrugs, avoidant, until his partner pokes his side with a confused tilt of her brows.

“i mean,” he begins, almost petulantly. “it’s johnny.”

he sniffs like that explains anything, and, given than you’re the person marrying johnny, it really does. you can’t help the giggles now, and you turn, smothering them on johnny’s shoulder who is busy cussing out his friend in murmurs.

“may i?” john asks, apparently tired of dancing around the topic.

“or course!” you reply, smiling, and put your arm out to show to them the pretty ring that your boy has given you with a warm promise of an eternity shared with him. if you’ll let him.

(there were so many more you wanted to tell johnny, so many more you wanted him to hear, but they all fell short. they all felt incomplete. but right there, in that moment, you knew what it was that you had to say. what it was that would let this bring his promise to life.

“yes,” you gasped out, choking on your own tears. “a hundred times yes, johnny!”

you two were trembling as he slid the ring on your finger, hearts throbbing with all the love reserved for each other.)

they crowd around your arm, leaning, their eyes bulging at seeing johnny’s tooth nestled there, in between the gold and the little diamonds surrounding it, and—

“i saw that fall off his mouth, oh my god.”

you laugh at kyle’s words, your heart so full and so fond because everything is just so beautiful.

johnny nuzzles his nose on your cheek, ignoring his lads in favour of kissing you.