#still fist fighting my illness so

[midnightmoodlet-art]

🎶Chan🎶 Chan🎶 Chan 🎶

[gentlethorns]

you know what? i'm gonna say it. i miss being seventeen. not for the "glory days," bc they weren't, by a country mile lol. if i had glory days i'd say they were in 2020. but i miss the electricity, the constant undercurrent of euphoria and deep plunging black. i miss the fight i had. i was literally known for being scrappy. i was self-destructive and coping poorly, but goddamn if i didn't burn bright and long. it took me until my twenties to finally start to fizzle out. does the candle with its wax melted down to the base of its glass cage miss when the wick was lit?

[sammygender]

the older i get the more i realise how young 12/13 actually is. it’s fucking crazy and i was so crazy at that age? like what happened? and now i’m like - well i’m crazy, YEAH, just on a this-is-who-i-am level, but when i was that age i was like insane. and a lot of people say this about being 13 but i was REALLY insane. my early adolescence was like… batshit. not my life just how i felt what i did. i suppose honestly it makes sense when you look at the years PRIOR to that but like. jesus. 13 is so little

[hayatoseyepatch]

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Description: Getting kinky with the windbreaker boys. I have so many thoughts about these men and I just needed to get them out of my system. Characters: Toma Hiragi, Ren Kaji, Haruka Sakura, Hayato Suo, & Yamato Endo. Word Count: 2.2k Tags: fem!reader, brat taming, praise, somnophilia, edging, mommy kink, dacryphilia, consent non consent, choking, degradation, oral (fem!receiving), penetrative sex, dirty talk.

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a/n: These are more like thirsts than headcannons but oh well. I might expand on some of these eventually and turn them into full fics if I can sit down and commit to it. It the mental illness, innit? Regardless, I hope you enjoyed these little blurbs! Special shout out to @foxyfiction & @to-eden for helping me with the prompts for some of these, you both are amazing. <3

I also have a masterlist now, if you’re interested that could be found : HERE

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Brat Taming

Hiragi had enough of you today, your skirt pulled up high, a constant switch in your hips while on patrol today with the Tamon team. Constantly teasing him, whether it was pulling him into an alley for an impromptu make out session, bending over in front of him letting him catch a glimpse of your already wet panties, or rubbing against his perpetually hard cock as you “just needed to slip past him real quick”. He was patient, tension building throughout the day coming to a fever pitch when you had both made it back to your shared apartment. He was on you in moments, lifting the back of your skirt to lay a harsh lap to you ass. Grabbing a fistful of your hair as he growls in your ear. “ I want you on that bed and I want you completely bare, do you understand?” He releases you hair, watching as you strip for him, climbing on the bed moments after you do.

Grabbing a hold of your cheeks with a rough hand he forces you to look up at him, eyes glazed over with arousal. Squishing your cheeks he props your mouth open, shoving a long digit past your lips. He grins as your mouth instinctively wraps around the digit, pumping the finger in and out of your lips, eyes rolling back as he feels your tongue wrap around the digit. Sucking his teeth as you shoot him a wink as he stuffs a second digit in your mouth. “Such a fucking brat, you know that?” He forces your thighs apart, free hand punctuating his words with a harsh slap to your dripping cunt.

His fingers sliding down, his fist two digits using your saliva that coated them to rub fast smooth circles against the sensitive bud. “Don’t forget your still getting punished baby.” He tsks giving you a sharp toothed grin. “Look at your pretty cunt, clenching around nothing, poor baby.” He coos, leaning down to your ear, lips grazing the shell to whisper. “You’re going to have to come from just my fingers before you can have my cock baby, think you can do that for me, hmm?”

Praise (Receiving)

Kaji had lost his temper once more, today a fight had broken out. One of the members of the opposing gang had harshly grabbed your arm, tugging you against him spitting extremities about the things he plandded to do to you. The words coupled with the fear in your wide eyes had Kaji seeing red. Completely blacking out in a fit of rage, he hated his, he especially hated you seeing him like this. The few times he had lost his temper in front of you, he ran, unable to face you. But not this time, you wouldn’t let him run from you. Grabbing the sleeve of his jacket you were quick to take him back to your apartment, silencing whatever apologies or exasperations with your lips against his.

Walking him backward toward your bedroom you wait for the back of his knees to hit the mattress. Pushing him to sit down as you climb on his lap. Mouths entangling in a heated embrace, clothes being pulled from each others bodies in a rush of passsion. Kaji trails kisses down your exposed body, lips wrapping arount a perked bud taking your nipple into his mouth. You rocked your hips against his, gronaing into the air. Your hands unfaten his pants, and with his help you pull his cock from his pants. You give him a smile, stroking his cheeks, eyes soft with fondness. “You're such a good boy Ren, always so good to me.”

You coo, the praise falling from your lips as you place one more kiss to his lips. Moving to grab him by the base, positioning him at your entrance, the desperate look in his eyes is all the confirmation you need to sink down on his length. You bite your lip, letting out a whimper at the feeling of his thick cock filling you to the brim. You tangle one hand in his hair, pulling lightly on his blonde strands, while the other moves up to his shoulder, nails digging into the skin. Pulling away only far enough to mumble into his lips. “Fuck, Ren.. Feel so good, you fill me up so good baby. I love you so much.”

Somnophillia

You wake feeling something warm between your legs. It isn’t long before your head is thrown back against the pillows you were once sleeping soundly against, voice crying out in pleasure as your boyfriend’s tongue draws slow patterns on your sensitive clit. You look down at him eyes lidded with sleep and now lust. “Haru.. what are you doing?” You mumble, blinking the sleep from your eyes. Between your thighs you can feel his cheeks heat up, a feirce blush on his features. He barely pulls from your cunt, mumbling against your center. “Couldn’t sleep, needed to taste you, ‘m want you so bad.”

He groans, hips rutting into the mattress, desperate for some friction to his aching cock. Any further arguments are silenced by a loud moan erupting from your lips, Sakura licks a fat stripe up your clit brfore reattaching his lips fully to your nub. He eats your cunt with such desperation, as if he needed to conume you to keep air in his lungs. His tongue is soon replaced by the rough pad of his thumb, head ducking lower to slide his tongue inside of your entrance, sliding against the silk walls of your pussy. He groans deep in his throat, the vibrations of the noise only enhancing the pleasure you’re feeling. ”Always taste so fucking good, need more..” He groans, pulling from your center, he slides up your body lips attacking yours with reckless hunger. He slid the material of his boxers down in one swift motion, grabbing himself by the base of his cock, collecting your wetness on the tip of his cock using it to ease himself inside your velvety walls.

He lets out a loud groan as he fully sheaths his cock inside you, head dipping to capture your lips with his own. The kiss is immediately laced with hunger, teeth clashing and tongues dancing in each others mouths. He pulls away, heavy breaths fanning against your lips as he sets a harsh steady pace from the start. “Fuck baby… can’t even sleep without you consuming my thoughts. Need you desperately… constantly.. feel like I’ll lose it if I’m not inside of you.”

Edging/Mommy Kink

You place a delicate kiss to his lips, trailing your kisses down his body until you were situated between his thighs. Looking up at him with hooded eyes from your current position. “You weren't lying baby boy. Look at how hard you are.” You grin, not letting him answer as you gave a few experimental tugs to his cock. Leaning up to lick a fat stripe from his base to his tip, collecting the pre come that had been steadily dripping since you had begun. Pulling away and leaning up once again, you grab his face in your hand, forcing his mouth open before letting your saliva mixed with his precum drip from your mouth to his. Placing a hand over his mouth, you lean down to his ear. “Swallow baby, I want you to taste us.”

You take his shock as an opportunity to lower yourself back down between his legs, swirling your tongue around his sensitive mushroom tip, taking as much as your throat would allow, hollowing your cheeks. Beginning to bob your head up and down on  his cock. Choji tugged at the cloth around his wrists, restraining himself as much as he could to not buck his hips. Failing miserably as his body writhed under yours He cried out as he felt your warm mouth around his cock, tears collecting by the corners of his eyes. Whimpers and cries falling from his lips as he found every ounce of restraint to not let his body betray him. The could in his stomach building once more for what seemed like the umpteenth time that evening. He didn’t want to fuck all of this up and receive punishment even further. “Mommy, please your mouth is so warm… be careful. I dont wanna come.. too soon.”

You grin around him, looking up at him through your lashes, nearly removing yourself from him before plunging back down, taking him until you feel him hit the back of your throat. You do this a few more times before pulling yourself off his cock with a 'pop'. You make your way up his body, getting impatient yourself, feeling your cunt clench around nothing. Straddling his abdomen, right above where he needed you most,  pressing your lips against his in a heated kiss. Desperately trying not to show that you were just as affected by your actions. You grab a fistful of his hair, tugging harshly, effectively separating your lips as you speak against his lips. “Tell mommy what you want baby boy. Go on, use your words I want to hear you.”

Dacryphillia

Each one of your pleas fog his mind with uncontrollable lust. Wram brown irises drowning in it. “So desperate for me already, darling, we havent even begun the main event.” He teases, directly into your ear, as he finally lines the tip of his thick cock with your entrance. Suo had been teasing you for what seemed like hours. Pulling orgasm after orgasm from your overstimulated cunt. Having made you come undone on his fingers and tongue several times, your pussy having felt desperatly empty without his cock filling you. He grins as you whine, his head just barely probing your entrance. “Please, Haya.” You whimper desperate for him to do something, anything, tears blurring your vision as they collected at your lashline.

“Please?” He tiles his head in mocking obliviousness. “Please what princess? Gotta tell me what to do or I cant help you, tell me what is it that you want?” He coos, free hand sliding up your stomach, thumb circling a pert nipple. Grinning he leans down tugging on your earlobe with this teeth, breaths fanning against your ear as he continues to speak. “Want me to fill this pretty pussy up with my cock? Feeling you flutter against me, whimpering out my name from those beautiful lips. Is that what youre asking for my pretty little bunny?”

He grins eyes lithe with mischief as you continue to babble, words coming out in a jumbled mess of pleas and calls of his name. Fat tears stream down your cheeks, desperation for him consuming your entire being. Suo’s hand coming up to caress your cheek. Thumb swiping at the tears that cascaded down your face. “Oh, sweet baby” He purrs, slipping the same thumb past your lips, letting you taste the salty wetness of your tears. “Crying for me already? We’ve barely even started.” He giggles, hips lurching forward, slamming into you to the hilt with one swift movement of his hips. Groaning as your back arches from the bed, eyes rolling back with a scream of his name being forced from your lips. “As much as I’d love to hear you beg for it, ive been waiting for too long for you my princess.~”

Cat and Mouse/CNC

Your breaths come out in heavy pants, your heart racing in your chest, your feet slamming against the grassy terrain as you run as fast as your legs can carry you. The shadow of the figure on your tail looming behind you. You pushed further, weaving in and out of trees to shake your assailant. The dark wooded area was easy to get lost in. You had only paused your running for a moment, attempting to take in your soundings, looking for a route to escape. Attempting to catch your breath, you were sure you had lost him. Just as you were about to turn on your heel and take off once more your eyes shoot wide, feeling fingers of a large hand wrap themselves around your throat. Your attacker using their grip as leverage  to shove you roughly against a tree, the larger figure looms over yours. Tattooed fingers squeezing just enough to make gaining air flow a bit difficult. Lips grazing your ear as he leans down to your height. “Gotcha~”

Endo’s piercing blue eyes lock with yours, leaning down to capture your lips in a heated kiss. Tongue invading your mouth, free hand coming up to cup your dripping cunt. Fingers circling your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. He smirks against your lips as you moan into his mouth. Pulling from you, he quickly removes your soiled panties, running his finger between your soaked slit. Bringing his finger to his lips taking in the way you taste, moaning around his fingers.

“Fuck doll, you taste so fucking good. Already so fucking wet for me.” He uses his thumb to force your mouth open, spitting a glob of saliva between your parted lips. “Go on babydoll, taste yourself.” He chuckles as you instinctively swallow, turning you in his embrace so your bent over. Flipping up your skirt, he leans back to take all of you in, eyes hungrily wracking over your exposed sex. Parting your folds with a thumb, watching as your entrance contracts around nothing a large grin splits across his face as he lands a harsh slap against your ass. “Gotta remind you who this belongs too huh? This cunt is mine princess.”

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Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! I already have a part two in mind for this, so keep an eye out. Until then, see you later!

[harryhighkey]

jealousy

here is a part two to 183!

this is a Frontman/Player 001/In-ho/Young-il x Reader lmao why does he have so many names

also kind of a bonus Dae-ho x Reader. Frontman owns my heart but I also have a soft spot for Dae-ho so was nice to write for him a little bit in here too! hope u like!

a frontman x reader series - masterlist to series here

"I think my sisters would really like you." Kang Dae-ho told you with a smile on his face.

"Really?" You responded, smiling back at him - you were happy to hear something so nice after yet again losing the vote to go home.

Up until just before the vote you'd only known him as Player 388 but he was the one who had suggested everyone learn each others names. You were happy to learn his name, you'd started to really enjoy being around him, you found him to be a breath of fresh air in this hell zone.

Yourself and Dae-ho had been having brief moments of making each other laugh. Every now and again the two of you would do impressions of the guards and their robotic way of walking and talking. The first time you both found it so funny, it became a personal joke that you two had continued to do.

It was silly and although no one else really found it as funny as the two of you, most of the other players around still enjoyed seeing you both with wide smiles and loud laughs. Some of them would even smile at those moments you shared. It was a welcomed contrast to the very dark aura that existed in this place.

Not everyone welcomed it, though.

Player 001 watched your smile reach your eyes and his jaw hardened. He was filled with jealousy and he was finding it hard to mask his rage.

In-ho - or Young-ill as you knew him because that was what he had told everyone his name was - was drawn to you in ways he couldn't admit. He was already having an internal battle over how much younger you were than him, but the part of him that was fighting to have you as his own was definitely winning.

From the moment he saw you, he thought you were too good to be here, too young to be here, too innocent to be here. It was why last night he sat on the side of your bed and stroked your hair until you were sound asleep. Even once you were asleep, he continued to sit by you, memorising your peaceful features, he wanted to provide you with that kind of peace all the time, that's what someone as pure as you deserved. Not the terror he had seen displayed in you due to being here.

Here. His games.

He felt so guilty you were here, he felt to blame for the trauma that was being inflicted upon you from being here. A player had never had this kind of affect over him. Although you put on a brave face, he still saw the way you reacted every single time a gun went off and someone dropped dead. No one flinched as hard as you did, he would see your eyes squeeze shut and your hands move to cover your ears. This place was not meant for you, and he wanted to keep you safe. He wanted to be the one making you feel happier, making you laugh, making you feel good, making you his.

Dae-ho seemed to be one of the better ones in this group of players, but In-ho felt like he wanted to knock him out with a single punch right now. The sound of plastic being crinkled sounded out loudly as he quickly clenched his fist around the packaging the bread had come in, his knuckles becoming very prominent.

You quickly turned to look at him, your eyes lingering on his hand before looking up to his eyes. He was already looking back at you, of course he was, he was always looking at you. The immediate eye-contact caught you off guard, your eyebrows furrowed, you opened your mouth to ask him what was wrong when Dae-ho - completely oblivious to Player 001's anger - spoke before you could.

"Yes! When we get out of here, you'll have to come meet them."

"I would love that!" You responded, your voice genuine, full of hope and excitement. Dae-ho had your attention again and In-ho got up from his position and walked away.

---

"Faster, Dae-ho!" You yelled out from your spot on Player 388's back.

After Player 001 walked away, you were questioning Dae-ho on what growing up with so many sisters was like. One of the facts he told you was that he could run faster than anyone else while giving a piggy-back ride from doing it so much for his sisters when they were younger.

He was challenged to prove it from Player 390, so he asked if you wanted a piggy-back so he could demonstrate, to which you happily agreed.

In-ho watched with venom in his gaze, your legs were wrapped him, your arms were around his neck, his hands were gripping your thighs, your front was pressing against his back. And then there was your beautiful, angelic laugh again, being caused by him. His will power was being challenged because all he wanted to do was march down to where Dae-ho was running around with you on his back and rip you off of him and into his own arms where he believed you belonged instead.

"Hey, that was the fastest yet! Think you can go faster?" Park Jung-bae spoke, he had been counting to time the fun activity.

"Maybe! But this one will be bumpy, (Y/N), I don't want you to fall so let's get you secure." Dae-ho tightened his grip around your legs and just as you were adjusting yourself on Dae-ho to be more locked in place, that commanding voice interrupted.

"I think that's enough." Player 001 walked closer to the two of you. The same look of rage he'd had before present on his face. You and Dae-ho froze in place and both turned to look at him. Your face screwed up in annoyance. Most people listened to In-ho, but as he had come to learn about you in a short time, you were not most people.

"Relax, old man. We're just having fun." You snickered after your comment, a playful smile on your lips, you were not going to obey him the way others had. "Dae-ho, let's go-"

"You're being disrespectful." In-ho cut you short. You met his glare with one of your own.

"How?"

"People died today, people will die tomorrow and you two are running around laughing. Playing silly games in here like idiots while others have lost their lives to the games we play out there."

That got you instantly, your mood doing a complete flip flop.

You didn't have any remark back to that. Your face crumpled into sadness and In-ho noticed. Part of his heart ached knowing he caused that, but the twisted part of him was glad he got his own way in separating you two. You loosened your arms from Dae-ho's neck and he leant back so you would safely land on the ground.

You felt guilty, Player 001 was right. You were being selfish, having fun and playing around while others had died. It could have been you that died. Suddenly you felt the weight of all the deaths that had taken place here.

Dae-ho felt guilty too, it created an uncomfortable shift between you two so suddenly. You felt so bad, you didn't know what to say and you felt the oncoming of tears so you just made quick steps to hideaway in your bunk for the rest of the night.

---

It was late and the room was dark when you heard footsteps coming towards your bed.

"Are you awake?" Just like he had last night, Player 001 was paying you another visit.

You were laying on your side, facing away from him. "No."

"Ah, the advanced sleep talking is happening again." He attempted to make a joke referencing what you had said to him last night, hoping it would get you to talk to him.

It didn't.

"(Y/N?)" He called your name and you let your hurt ignore the way you liked how it sounded. How it felt so right leaving his mouth.

He quietly sighed as he was once again met with silence. At this point, he would've taken one of your feisty remarks, that would have been better than this. He was realising the depth of hurt he'd put on you earlier, he should've known the toll it would have taken on you. You were too good, too pure, of course you'd hear those words and instantly accept the guilt. He'd did it all because you were simply having fun, it was unfair of him to do that. He should have been happy you were happy, he should have enjoyed hearing you laugh, he should want you to find comfort in someone closer to your age. But he didn't. He was a selfish man who was used to getting what he wanted. So instead, he had been greedy over you.

"Please, can we talk?"

"I don't want to talk, Young-il." Finally, you responded. It wasn't the response he wanted but he was relieved to have any response from you. Although, he had heard the sadness in your voice, the words came out a little shaky and you sniffled, too.

"I want to apologise to you."

"You don't have to, you were right. It was wrong. I don't deserve to be laughing like that, I've voted to leave every time and am just lucky to still be alive. I was being selfish, those poor people died and I-" A sob cut off what you were saying and you brought your hand up to cover your own mouth, your body curving in on yourself. You'd been crying on and off since returning to your bunk.

At this, In-ho succumbed to his greed when it came to you and climbed into your bed. You were hurting and it was his fault. He wrapped an arm over you and pulled you into him.

He didn't know if you would reject his touch at first, but he felt no resistance and instead, it seemed you relaxed against him. "Shh, (Y/N), it's okay." He whispered right into your ear.

"But you said-"

"I know, I'm sorry." He gritted his teeth, he was a manipulative man, he knew how to get people to do what he wanted. He wanted to seperate you and Dae-ho and he carefully chose the words he suspected would affect the both of you the most and give him what he wanted. Which it did. It was just in most other cases, he didn't feel guilty afterwards, but having you cry in his arms was destroying his hardness. It was making him want to be gentle, to be soft for your comfort. "None of this is your fault. Do not feel like it is."

Your breathing was still uneven and so he tightened his arm around you, pulling you in closer again until there was no space at all left between you both, your back now flush against his chest. He placed his open palm in the middle of your chest, the wide span of his hand placing some pressure on it. "You need to take some deep breaths, okay?" He told you, and you listened, the first few getting caught in your throat but eventually they begun to even out. "Good job. Good girl."

You liked how it all felt, him calling you a good girl, his broad chest warm and strong against your back, being in his arms, his breath blowing against the back of your neck, his hand against your chest acting like some sort of tiny weighted blanket to calm you.

Your heartbeat intensified, your cheeks warmed with a blush.

He could feel your heart beneath his hand, it was the reason he didn't move it once your breathing had returned to normal. He vowed to keep this heart of yours beating, he needed to feel it every day.

His own heart was beating harder in his chest. You could feel it against your back because of how close you were.

It was silent, you both were walking a dangerous tightrope. Yours was because you finally admitted to yourself you were falling for this older man, you were getting attached and you had only known him for a few days, you were wondering what it would do to you if he died in here. His was because he was already attached to this younger woman, he would do anything to keep you safe, you could ruin his plan if he focused too much on you and he was going to let you.

He dotted a gentle kiss to the back of your neck. You sighed and relaxed into him further.

[hcneymooners]

⋆ you used to be alive, now you're almost mythic.

warlord!ambessa x dragon rider!f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: despite being arranged to marry your brother, ambessa chooses you as the next reigning consort of house medarda. in the wake of her assassination, you begin to unravel.

cw: dark content. please tread carefully. heavy angst, heavily inspired by house of the dragon but still understandable if you haven't watched it, warlord!ambessa, dragon rider!reader, consort!reader, arranged marriage, wife!ambessa, age difference, older woman/younger woman, non-graphic suicide, mental illness, grief, very morally grey characters including reader. notes: i'm in my luteal phase and began to rewatch hotd and this happened. you must suffer with me. i'm returning to my roots (grief and insane family/romantic dynamics). i wanted to explore the effects of ambessa's death on reader and what it means to love someone who is sometimes well-intentioned but almost always corrupted.

୨୧ you meet on a clouded day, you in your house's emerald silks that catch like seafoam in the bitter wind. ambessa towers over everyone else, battle-scarred and beautiful in ways that make your chest ache. she is supposed to wed your brother and you are meant to be afraid—this is the woman who burnt three kingdoms to ash, who feeds her enemies to her dragon. 

୨୧ instead, you find yourself fascinated by her hands, how carefully they hold the marriage contract as she chooses you instead.

୨୧ the rumors spread quickly: the gentle noble daughter and the warlord, what a terrible match. they whisper that she must be cruel to you behind closed doors. 

୨୧ they don't see how she braids your hair each morning, how she teaches you to wield a knife ("don't be stupid, [name]. you know who you've married. you are an easy target. you must not abide."), how she watches you with such careful control when you’re naked before her for the first time.

୨୧ her wedding gift to you is perfect. you and ithoa the dark are evenly matched—the dragon is massive and obsidian-scaled but gentle-hearted, prone to curling around you protectively during storms. ambessa jokes that you've made her soft.

୨୧ you remember your first flight together, how the wind tore the breath from your lungs and ambessa's hands steadied you, warm against your waist. 

୨୧ the first time you saw her truly fight, it was like watching a dance. she moved like water, like shadow, like death itself. afterward, when her enemies lay bleeding into the earth, she looked at you with such fear in her eyes—fear that you would finally see the monster everyone claimed her to be. and she was one, you weren’t blind, but she’s yours.

୨୧ in some ways you are worse than she is.

୨୧ you help clean her of blood and kiss each of her knuckles. you learn fealty tastes of copper and salt.  

୨୧ you wake sometimes to find her watching you in the dark, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin like she's memorizing you. "what are you thinking?" you ask, and she says, "that i never thought i could love something so much. it terrifies me."

୨୧ you understand—love like this is dangerous; it sent half your bloodline mad.  

୨୧ there are nights when the nightmares come, when she thrashes and calls out names of the dead. you learn to weather these storms, to hold her until she remembers where she is. you whisper against her temple, “bessa, come back to me." and she does, she always does.  

୨୧ "my advisors say i've grown weak," ambessa confesses one night, her head in your lap as you card fingers through her silver-streaked hair. "perhaps they are right."

୨୧ you think of how she still trains daily, how her enemies still fear her name, how she commands armies with an iron fist. but is she is weaker. she's learned to love too, to show mercy when warranted. you lie.

୨୧ you tell her, "you've only grown wise," and she kisses your palm like a benediction.  

୨୧ the politics grow more heated. you notice how mel watches her mother with increasing worry, how the peace treaties remain unsigned. you find ambessa in her war room late at night, maps spread before her, and you know what's coming. you love her enough to pretend you don't.

୨୧ you know something is wrong when ithoa screams. it's a sound you've never heard before, something ancient and terrible that makes your bones vibrate. you're running before you can think, your feet carrying you through corridors that seem to stretch endlessly.  

୨୧ you find her in the war room. there's a cup rolled beneath the table, a dark stain spreading across the maps she was studying. she looks peaceful, almost, except for the way her fingers are curled like claws against the floor. someone has closed her eyes. someone has touched her. someone has taken her from you.  

୨୧ your knees crack against the stone as you fall. there's a sound coming from your throat that doesn't sound human, a keening wail that matches ithoa's grief. you gather her into your arms—she's still warm, still soft, still smells like herself. 

୨୧ there is a constant ringing in your head.

୨୧ for one terrible moment, you look at mel standing in the doorway and your mouth forms around the word "dracarys." you feel the heat building in your chest, taste ash on your tongue. ithoa's answering roar shakes the castle foundations. it would be so easy—one word and everything burns.  

୨୧ but your father taught you mercy, didn't he? or maybe your mother did. taught you when to hold and when to release. 

୨୧ your mouth fills with blood from where you've bitten your tongue holding back that deadly word. mel's face is wet with tears as she falls to her knees beside you, reaching for her mother's other hand.  

୨୧ "i'm sorry," she sobs, "i'm sorry, i'm sorry." you want to tell her that sorry isn't enough, that you want to murder her with your own hands—no poison. instead, you keep screaming, high and shrill until your voice breaks, until guards have to pry you away, until they force dreamwine down your throat to quiet you.  

୨୧ the funeral is a blur of red and black, but you wear green still—your final act of defiance, of remaining true to yourself as she always wanted. ithoa's keening echoes across the kingdom, a sound of such profound grief that even the oldest dragons respond. she hasn't eaten since ambessa fell.  

୨୧ when mel approaches, you see the cost written in the shadows under her eyes. she loved ambessa too, in her way, even as she plotted her death. "i understand," you tell her, voice hollow. "it had to be done. she wouldn’t see reason. she was ruining us.”

୨୧ you see how she flinches at your words, how desperately she wants absolution you cannot give.  

୨୧ "you are still my daughter," you add softly, and watch her composure crack. she reaches for you but you step back, the space between you as vast as the void in your chest. “but my blood does not forgive.”

୨୧ you turn back to her before leaving. you say, "learn from your mother. do not apologize for the kill. if they see weakness they will eat you alive. stand on her bones. build on them."

୨୧ you start to forget to eat, to sleep. your ladies whisper concerns about your wandering the castle at night, how you speak to shadows in ambessa's voice. ithoa grows more restless, wilder—they say grief-maddened dragons are dangerous, but you understand her rage. you are two halves of the same coin. 

୨୧ sometimes you wake thinking she's still there, reach for her warmth only to find cold sheets. you wear her old shirts to bed, press your face to the fabric searching for traces of her scent. sometimes you go back to the war room, press your face into the cold spot where her body had rotted, and try to find her.  

୨୧ you only reach her in your dreams.  

୨୧ you sleep in her chambers still, surrounded by her things. sometimes you wake to phantom touches—her hand in your hair, her lips against your shoulder. you find yourself talking to her, telling her about your day as if she's just stepped out for a moment. "you would have laughed," you say to the empty room, "you would have loved this."

୨୧ ithoa refuses to leave the castle grounds, her massive form curled around the tower where you sleep. her grief manifests in physical changes—her scales losing their luster, her eyes clouding over. her handlers whisper that she's dying of heartbreak. you understand—you're dying too, just more slowly.

୨୧ you find yourself holding her things to your chest—her favorite knife, still sharp enough to draw blood when you clutch it too tightly; her riding gloves, worn soft with use; her journal, filled with battle plans and, in the margins, little notes about you.  

୨୧ “[name] wore green again today," she wrote once,  “she is my only redeeming quality.”

୨୧ sometimes, in your last days, you remember that morning in the garden. how the sun caught in her hair, how she looked younger when she smiled. "if i die," she had said, practical even then, "don't follow me too quickly." 

୨୧ you had kissed her quiet, tasting sunshine. "you can't ask that of me," you'd whispered against her mouth. "you've never asked impossible things of me before—don't start now."  

୨୧ she had laughed, then grown serious. "you're the best of me," she said, touching your face with those deadly hands that were only ever gentle with you. "the only good thing i've ever done." you had wanted to argue—she was more than her reputation, more than her wars.  

୨୧ but she kissed you again and you let it go.

୨୧ now, you think she would understand. after all, she never could deny you anything you truly wanted. and this—a reunion, a reclaiming, an ending that is really a beginning—this is all you want.  

୨୧ "fresh air might do you good," your lady's maid suggests, and you smile distantly toward the misty bridge.  

୨୧ "yes," you agree, fingering the vial in your sleeve. "i think i shall walk tomorrow, at dawn."  

୨୧ you don't tell her you've already sent your letters—one to mel (forgiveness, finally, because you know now how duty weighs), one to your house (explanation, though they never understood), one to the maesters (instructions for ithoa's care, though you suspect she'll follow you as dragons sometimes do).  

୨୧ dawn breaks cold and clear. you wear blue, the color of loss in your house, and ambessa's favorite ring. it is heavy and should keep you under the waves. ithoa waits by the bridge, her dark scales catching the first light.  

୨୧ the bridge stretches out before you like a body. ithoa's eyes follow your every movement, understanding in her ancient gaze.

୨୧ you uncork the vial with steady hands. you pray. the poison doesn't taste of anything at all. you think that's funny, somehow—that death should be so subtle when life with her was so vivid.  

୨୧ as your vision starts to blur, you swear you see her standing at the other end of the bridge. she's wearing her armor, but her hair is up the way you always loved it. "little dove," she calls, holding out her hand, “you’re late, and i’ve missed you."

୨୧ they say a dragon's cry can be heard for leagues. they say ithoa's mourning shook the mountains themselves.  

୨୧ they say that when they found you floating in the water, you were smiling and still beautiful, one hand stretched out as if reaching for someone just beyond sight. it almost looked as if you fell, that you’d leaned too far, if not for the vial. they place flowers in your mouth, in the bloated pockets of your waterlogged skin.

୨୧ mel won’t let them burn you. you sink into the earth, and your flesh becomes land. she puts your bones in her mother’s grave but keeps a tooth. it’s diamond, a replacement for one lost to illness, and it sits in the center of her diadem.

୨୧ your last thought, as the world grows soft around the edges, is of ambessa’s hands, how the scars hurt her the most there. the pain was chronic, aggravated by any extensive movement. still, she bent them to hold yours because you were always scared in the beginning.  

୨୧ through the water, the sky seems so wide. you aren’t scared now. you're going home. you're going home. you're going home.  

୨୧ maybe it is not a good place, where you’ll arrive, but it will not matter.

୨୧ the afterlife is white and quiet. it presses against you. you’re slick, weeping, and bare. there’s a birdsong in your head. 

୨୧ you turn, crouched low like a dog, and she’s there.

© hcneymooners.

⚚ special taglist: @sugrcookiiee @icespiceluva  @16novvs @tnash-tammy @dyk3miffy @iwasholic @absandsevikasgirl @blackdykegirlblogger @fortluocha @neganwifey25-blog @rottngrl3 @fruitfulfashion @ambessaswifey

[icarusredwings]

Thinking about how canon it is that Logan's cptsd and truama is so bad that his brain quite literally just DIPS sometimes like in days of future past when he blinks out and Charles is the one who calms him down.

How he grabs charles up and growls at him that he dosn't know who he is, where he is, or how he got here. He sees one of his best friends in the future and screams "What the fuck is that!?"

Charles and Hank just look at him like bruh weve been over this already. He says "Ill handle this," while looking at Logan when talking to Hank, then tells Hank to go stop Erik.

Logan recognizes this as Charles having authority over this big blue beast of a man, somewhat submitting to his word, litsening that he is infact 'Logan' and that he's spent the last couple of days with them (establishing that they are friends not foe) and then- in the most pathetic way ever- Lies to him. Tells him he's on "really bad acid"

Logan is still very spooked but just gives a little nod.

This is the quickest I've seen ANYONE gain his trust when in states like this other than Jean and Kurt, who was stupid enough to bear hug the feral woods man charging at him with his claws out.

Kurt is one of the few people without telepathy (even though Charles sacrificed his for his legs) who can get to Logan very quickly with minimal damage.

And I feel like... Wade might be just as stupid. He's so stupid that Logan would growl at him, shove a fist full of knives right through him, and Wade would just stand there like "ouch. Anyway- what's got you all riled up, peanut?"

So he'd do it again. And again. Annndd again.

When he finally does think Wade is dead, he just gasps and sits back up. "Look if this is about what I did with your toothbrush-"

Logan could decapitate him, and still he would just chase after his head like, "Aaw not cool man, do you know how much it hurts to put this thing back on? 3 days of neck pain, that's what."

It would both freak logan out and confuse him enough to become grounded, that shock factor of "what the fuck just happened???" enough to regulate his heart.

Logan would stare at him, baffled, watching as he sits there and tries to reattach his head. He'd look at his bloody claws, look at the mess on the floor, blink a few times, and honestly might start batting at his head with pure curiousity.

"Oh my god, you're such a cat."

How was he talking still? Maybe he was sleeping. Yeah, that's it. He was dreaming. This was a dream.

The only real issue he would have is keeping Logan inside the apartment until he calmed enough to realize that this wasn't a dream- this is real- you just decapitated your room mate.

Because god knows that once you set a feral wolverine free? You won't find him again until he wants to be found, which can be weeks, months, years even.

He needs that soft authority. The type that's built on mutual trust and respect. The type where he has the ability to leave and return at his own will. The moment you try to pin him down, tell him that you have higher authority due to some made-up rank, that's when you lose him. Logan subconsiously has an animalistic based sense of authority and hierarchy.

Charles had "control" over this blue beasty creature, and to Logan, that means he's head hancho in that moment. It makes Logan recognize that there's a reason, too, seeing as Beast could easily destroy such a scrawny pathethic looking man, right? It's only natural for his systems to lay out like this. Having constantly battled for "dominance" with Victor also plays a part.

Despite being in the military for so long, hearing someone is captain does not add up in his head unless they deserve to be captain through strength or size. It's why while Wade (who technically is stronger than him) dosn't show agression to "prove" his status, Logan realizes that his claws being usless plays a big part.

It's like when you go to fight a battle in a video game only to realize that your fire powers do absolutely no damage on the fire based enemy, if anything, fueling it by giving it more fire.

A "aw shit sorry fam my bad" type of submission such as wolves do. While usually related, juvenile males will still try to prove dominance with the top male only for the top male to quickly remind them why they are boss in which case the juvenile wolf will be like "Damn sorry- My bad original gangster I was just being silly"

Logan also needs a reason to stay. Charles telling him that logan has stayed with them makes Logan believe he should stay with him longer.

He needs that beacon. And right now?

That talking head that he's pushing around on the floor is pretty entertaining.

"...how are you talking?"

"Oof look wolvie I love you're embrassing your true self but let's not open that can of worms The comics are contradicting, and by rights, I shouldn't be able to control my limbs anymore, but I can. Now- be a big, strong kitty cat and give me back to that handsome man over there, will ya?"

His body is just casually sitting there with his arms out, wanting his head back.

".... i'm so fucking high."

"I wish. If you were high on catnip you wouldn't have sliced me to bits."

"Heh... you're funny."

"Aawww!! Really?"

".... what happens if I punt your head out the window?"

"Woah woaH WOAH PEANUT LETS NOT GO THAT FAR! SAFEWORD!! I NEED THE SAFEWORD!"

But alas. He fogot the safeword.

This has been your PSA that safewords are important. Be safe, kiddos.

[blackbirdsblackberries]

I HATE THE NEW HERO

Pt 4: No luck today

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 (You're here) - Pt 5 - Pt 6 - Pt 7 - Pt 8 - Pt 9 - Pt 10

Engineering is probably one of your good subjects - mainly due to the grades you get and the equipment you get to create for your second life.

That being said, your luck isn't very high right now because just as you enter the classroom you're called up to the office. Over the loud speaker. In front of everyone.

This is your last straw. You're going to actually break down and cry.

Taking a deep breath you head to the office and stand in front of the receptionist.

"Uh, hi.. I was called up?" You state to the distracted receptionist. "Huh? Okay. Go into the principal's room I guess." She waves you off dismissively and you hold back a retort.

You make your way to the room and knock on the door. It opens with the principal on the other side. "Ah, There you are. I was worried you wouldn't show! Please, have a seat." He opens the door wide enough for you to get in.

You enter and your eyes fall onto a boy with spiky black hair and tanned skin. His back is to you. Next to him is a taller, more bulkier man in a pressed suit.

Your stomach lurches, feeling ill all of a sudden. Your senses go off and you fight the urge to run away. You can't tell who these people are but something isn't right.

Slowly you make your way to a third chair that was placed at the desk. You glance at the two males and have to swallow the bile - it was none other than Damian al Ghul-Wayne and Bruce Wayne. Your eyes immediately snap forward and you clench your fists slightly.

There's no doubt Tim had said something horrid about you to them, maybe he snitched on the fights you two had, whatever it was now you're in deep shit.

You try to get a read on them but it was near impossible, they were both stoic. It didn't help that you refuse to look at the two. The principal sits down at his desk and crosses his arms.

"So, I have been made aware of some things that you have done recently, (Reader). According to numerous anonymous reports you have cyber bullied someone, picked fights, had plans to build dangerous weapons and had hit animals... Listen, you're a good kid but with what I have here I might have to expel you."

Fuck. You can't get expelled your parents would throw you out or something! You can't! You didn't hit animals! The most you hit was a fly! Dangerous weapons? There's nothing like that at all, besides the plans for you superhero weapons. Those aren't dangerous though. You cyber bullied your vigilante persona to make it more realistic! You never pick fights - you don't want to risk hurting someone with your increased strength!

Though, something makes you freeze. If you were called here for that then why are the two Wayne's here?

You think the principal is a telepath because he speaks up.

"You're very lucky Bruce Wayne and his son are kind enough to vouch for you though they said they wanted a favor in return." Oh. Manipulation. You scrunch your eyebrows, they probably reported me alongside Tim. They're doing this so they can hold it above my head and make me complacent or subservient to them.

Maybe it'd be best if Aranea faked their death. Started a new identity or something... You probably wouldn't go through with it but it's a nice thought.

Well, you don't have much of a choice. You can still silently make your hate known towards the vigilante and it's not worth losing a scholarship over. Especially with parents like yours.

"... Fine... Thank you for this offer, Mr Wayne and Mr al Ghul-Wayne" you mutter. God it's shameful, you want to crawl into your skin and die. Was it worth putting your dignity on the line? You're not too sure. What you're sure of though is that you will get to eat tonight. If your family has the money...

Bruce nods his head in affirmation and puts on his Brucie smile, one that even you struggle to see past. "Of course, what kind of person would I be if I would overhear something so tragic and not do anything about it. We can go over the favor later." He states. You hold back a grimace though you're sure everyone can see the effort.

You don't know what to respond with, humiliated enough by this clear manipulation. You just give him a double thumbs up. Damian stares at you weirdly and the principal raises a brow. Bruce however chuckles, though it's forced.

The principal ushers you out of his office and tells you to wait out the front with the receptionist for Bruce and Damian while they chat some more with the principal himself.

After waiting for a bit the door opens and the two males walk down the hallway to where you are. Damian scowls and glares at you while Bruce looks to you blankly, detached.

You stand and awkwardly rub your hands on your uniform. Something they clearly don't miss as their eyes snap to the motion.

"uh, thank you for this opportunity... What's the favor?" You managed to work up the courage to speak without stuttering like a madman. Something you believed you should get a pat on the back for because the two guys were terrifying.

"The favor is simple really," Bruce starts his Brucie personality back in play "Stop speaking badly of Aranea and don't pick fights with my ward, Tim. Easy right?" You nod. You expected this. Honestly you should be a detective or something you think to yourself.

Nah, that's Batman's job.

You pick up your bag and head to the door, Bruce however had moved while you had seemingly zoned out while in thought and was standing in front of the door while talking to the receptionist and in your haste to leave you bumped into his side.

He automatically puts his arm on your shoulder to steady you and your mind connects the dots.

Bruce has the same build as Batman. Batman seemingly adores Aranea, or at least you think so, he's hard to read - like Bruce (for both being hard to read and adoring Aranea to a weird point). Same amount of kids. Plus Batman had to be rich if he could have a plane and a new looking suit after gruesome nights.

God, how did you not see this before...

Amidst your freaky reality check you fail to notice Bruce trying to get your attention until he snaps in your face - like how your dad does. You hate that.

Your head shoots up and you take a couple steps back while muttering an apology while Bruce stands there with a raised brow, confused while Damian looks at you with disdain as if you soiled a good outfit.

Feeling humiliated and terrified you quickly move around the two men and out of the door. You're in deep shit now... Even something as simple as secretly knowing the identities of the vigilantes that watch over Gotham is a death wish.

This is going to be the worst day of school, so, you decide to leave. You go to the sick bay and get a slip to leave school and you do.

You run home as fast as possible and get to your room. Your mother is out cold in her room with some man she met from the bar so you shouldn't have to worry about her.

You take a couple deep breaths and contemplate on what to do now that you left school, you could catch up on assignments, you could take a nap, or you could go on patrol...

It's daytime and you're pretty sure Signal will be patrolling today, you like Signal, he's a chill guy. Now though, now you don't really want to be near any of the vigilantes.

You decide to check your phone to see what area Signal is patrolling, it comes up in the GC, Westside Gotham at the Midtown area.

Okay. You can do East Park Side then. It's not your favorite area but at least you won't be confronted with one of the vigilantes so soon. Plus, the park is nice.

You suit up and head out. East Park side wasn't far away from you due to the lack of money your family has you are stuck in downtown.

You spend a majority of your time on patrol, helping people and just hanging around. Soon, much to your surprise, you get a call from Batman.

"Aranea. What are you doing patrolling without your comm on and without informing us?" He sounds as serious as ever, usually you'd roll your eyes but right now you're struck with fear. His voice holds maliciousness and anger deep under it. The very same way that Bruce Wayne had spoken to you. You don't want to admit it but knowing the identities of these heroes makes it more suffocating to be around them.

It also meant you had to be much more careful around them.

"Uh... I was bored at home so I went out on patrol?" You respond, trying to keep the energy in your voice, even if it felt like you were going to explode.

"That doesn't answer my question." He responds, you're sure he's picked up on the fakeness of your cheerfulness. "Right! Ha! Forgot about that. I didn't wanna disturb you all! Plussssss, Signal is patrolling so it's all good!" You laugh it off.

Batman isn't laughing. When does he ever?

"That's no reason to not inform us or at the very least turn on your comm. What if something happened to you? What if you died? You aren't invincible. You'll die in that stupid suit if you don't work with us!" You wince slightly. Fuck him. Does he really think you need him and the others to survive? Not to mention him calling your suit stupid, sure it's not perfect but stupid is just overkill. He only even thinks it's stupid because it isn't made with his money!

You honestly couldn't find the effort to continue talking to him, so with your faux cheerfulness you decide to end the call. "I get it. I'll know better next time! Bye bye!"

Sometimes you wish you were old enough to drink.

[cheolieji]

Seungcheol

warning: Smut,unprotected sex, breeding kink and idk what else im too lazy

A/N: This is in no way to say mingyu acts like this. it's just part of the fiction

not proofread

I'm lowkey bad at writing smut🫢

feel free to send requests!

check [17] (pink highlighted) to see my yes and no's

seungcheol is the type of guy to walk on the street side of the sidewalk

seungcheol is the protective boyfriend everyone wishes for

the perfect and clingy boyfriend

you wanna wear a short dress? go ahead, he can fight

a guy just looks at you the wrong way, his fist is tightened, his jaw is clenched, and his death glare... goddd if looks could kill

you love it when he's protective over you

but something happened that made you think, is he a little too protective?

now you're sitting in his living room beside him, hands rubbing against each other, nervous to say it

seungcheol, of course, notices this. "You okay hun?" "Yeah! why wouldn't i be?" weird... but he just nodded his head, turning his attention back to the show playing. the sound of tv playing in the background mixing with your thoughts, should you really ask him about something so little that could turn into a heated argument?

"Hey-" "babe-" "Yeah? you say it first"

"no its just uhm. i" his eyebrows raised in confusion. What are you trying to tell him?

"Okay. will you promise not to get mad?" "Of course baby, why would i get mad at you?

"You know how we went to the kims gathering?" he just nods "yeah and how mingyu kept looking at me and stuff?" "Where are we going with this" his eyebrows still raised

"Nothing like that. It's just the way you were glaring at him. felt a little.... i don't know.. rudee? I'm sure he didn't mean it like that. " "Ah, that? i know him, babe he doesn't have good intentions. when he looks at someone like that, it means he wants something out of them." he pauses for a second, "and plus, you're mine..."

you blushed in your seat

"okay good i guess... i thought you were being a little too protective"

"Hey. It's good to be protective over what's mine!" he giggles while hugging you and placing you on his lap. and you're straddling him now. Suddenly, the air shifts

noticing this, seungcheol pulls you in closer before pressing a kiss on your lips. It starts to turn into a makeout session with you grinding on him while heavy breathing leave your mouths

"Can i?" As he's looking down at your pants, you nodded. he takes your pants along with his off. "No panties? want me to fuck you that bad? huh?" You nod again, eyebrows furrowed. "Say it, baby, i wanna hear you" "yes please cheol just fuck me, please"

he teases your opening with his dick before slowly entering your already wet cunt. shit did he get bigger?

"You feel so good, baby, just for me." Now he's fully inside you. He waited a bit for you to get used to his size

he's balls deep inside you, and you're a moaning mess, but he's looking at you like you're the prettiest thing in the world

he's hitting all the right spot "ah- cheol please" your gummy walls wrapped around his thick cock feels like heaven, for the both of you

he's leaving hickeys all over your neck as you're riding him like there's no tomorrow

bouncing on his dick as you're moaning his name loudly. it's like music to his ears

you feel the familiar pit in your stomach "fuck cheol im gonna cum" he lets out a loud grunt before cumming inside you "fuck ill fill you with my babies"

" gonna make you forget about that fucker" he continues thrusting inside you until you reached your high before softly kissing you

you let out a loud moan before falling on his shoulder. "You know, if you wanna put babies inside me, we should probably do more." "you wanna move it to the bedroom?" he carries you to the bedroom for a night of pleasure

[jiminrings]

four seven eight, phase 3 (3)

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: jungkook wants to fight with, for, and beside you.

alternatively, nothing will ever be the same again, and you and jungkook couldn’t be any happier.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale — complete series masterlist, from phase 1 to 3 ]

[ fluff, angst, the moral dilemma of keeping someone (read: yoongi) who was almost ur first, last, and everything in ur life despite having another person (read: jungkook) to be exactly that, yearning, full circle moments, The Vagueness n different kind of angst now that 478's a family n not jus a couple anymore, redemption :) ]

notes: thank you for locking in!!!! the og 478 fic aka phase 1 was released two years ago n now we're here can u believe . hee-hee thank u for all the love you've given and continue to have for them!! TRUSTTT that this won't be the last you'll see of them :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

In a nightmare that Jungkook’s experiencing in real time, Hwayoung mistakes Yoongi as her dad.

Jungkook knows fully that there’s a knee-jerk reaction available for practically everything. He knows it well, because the impulse that occupies him kicks in during the most important events of his life.

Your husband’s impulse, which he often confuses for instinct, is too driven to the point that even for the briefest second, all that Jungkook could feel is himself. 

He tasted blood in the roof of his mouth when you left him the first time all those years ago. He had clenched his fists so hard, he almost drew blood over the realization that you had given up on him, even if it was for the time-being.

He felt his heartbeat in his eardrums when Hwayoung’s cries first pierced into the world (and straight to his ears), all to the point that the people surrounding you thought that he suddenly fell ill.

Jungkook could and should be able to feel himself right now; right now when his only child glazes past him and calls Yoongi as her dad, and right now when he hears his name called out for someone it doesn’t and should never belong to — except Jungkook can’t even feel his fingers.

He can’t taste blood in the roof of his mouth and he can’t feel his heartbeat in his eardrums. Jungkook can’t even claw himself out of a nightmare that’s built around him yet staged by his karma alone.

“That’s not appa, Hwayoung,” you cut into the thick air, your lips set in a straight line as it takes everything in you not to scoop up Jungkook into your arms because he looks like he’s about to collapse in shock. “Yoongi’s not your dad.”

Hwayoung understands, of course. She understands it like how she always does whenever her little mistakes get rectified. The concentrated pout on her face tells you that she’s listening, hearing you loud and clear as you reiterate a fact that she seems to have forgotten.

Jungkook genuinely tweaks within his own hold, the knot in his throat unbearable as he can’t even figure out how he’s standing beside you on his own to feet. He stands beside his wife and he stands before his daughter, yet he doesn’t even know if the weight he holds in between is enough for him to stay rooted.

Jungkook is as still as a rock while he watches you correct Hwayoung on the spot. He’s immoveable as he sees his daughter’s eyes flit to him in curiosity before finally coming to realization. He’s frozen, not by his own choosing, but because neither of his impulses nor instincts kick in.

Hwayoung nods easily, and Jungkook thinks that he’s about to lose his mind if it hadn’t already been muddled three seconds prior.

In a dream Jungkook doesn’t tell anyone, he’s not as easily interchangeable with Yoongi in the same way that Hwayoung thinks apples are pears sometimes, and that blue is somehow violet.

The mornings without Hwayoung have been too long for Jungkook.

They’ve been too long since her impromptu vacation from the both of you started, dragging out endlessly to the point that he had to ask you to hold his phone so he could withhold himself from hovering above Hwayoung by asking Yoongi for updates by the minute. Mornings were too bright; too normal to be spent by you and him without a playful toddler who tries to slip her finger in whenever someone yawns. 

Jungkook’s missed his mornings with Hwayoung in between the two of you.

He missed the mornings where it’s still dark out and he’s been asleep enough for long that he could make out Hwayoung twitching in the dark as she searches for a cold pillow, before later ending up next to your stomach or next to his head. 

He longed (read: still longs perpetually) for the mornings wherein he gets to sleep in and it’s you and Hwayoung who wake him up from dreams he’s always willing to part with, because he knows that he has something infinitely better to wake up to.

“Hiii, appa,” Hwayoung drawls out, hugging his leg as Jungkook automatically pats her head with a gentle hand, the smile on his face more or less forced as he chokes out a greeting. He gets snapped out of his trance immediately, even if he isn’t sure that the sight he woke up to this morning is even worth living alongside with.

“Hi, Young-ie,” he whispers, his eyes strikingly neutral even when Hwayoung grabs his hand and swings it around lightly.

Jungkook make the mistake of looking up and he doesn’t know which is worse; your husband, for once, can’t definitively tell if you looking at him empathically should placate him or unsettle him deep into his core.

What Jungkook can tell however, is that seeing Yoongi’s sly gaze on him with the ghost of a smirk on his lips plays into the rage that he can barely hold onto, if not for the little hand that’s already silently apologized to him.

Hwayoung may not know any better at the moment, but she knows well not to ask questions when Jungkook suddenly stands up out of nowhere when he’s just agreed to play on the floor with her two seconds ago, and she knows better not to stare when you immediately agree and not interrogate him at all.

“I’m gonna step out. Need to blow off steam because otherwise, I’ll take it out on him,” Jungkook whispers to your ear, hands grimly shoved into his pockets. “I know we both saw him do the same thing, Y/N,” he laughs humorlessly, clenching his jaw tightly before he leans down to speak again, enough for Yoongi to both see and hear just how angry he is. “Go put your friend on a leash.”

.

.

.

Yoongi likes to think that it’s spite that keeps him running.

The notion of doing things out of spite is not new at all to him; as a matter of fact, he actually thinks he’s the foundation of it.

Yoongi can’t keep track of the many times that it was spite that put food on the table and pushed him to his limits to arrive at the state that he’s in now. Yoongi yearns unlike no other to the point that it ails him because longing, without any bitterness in it at all, feels pointless.

Longing with only the ambition to surrender in the end is pointless; it doesn’t push Yoongi at all to be the best in anything. It doesn’t make him feel any better because without the regret in his stomach and the resentment in his chest, he wouldn’t be reminded of his dream. 

In a dream Yoongi wants to tell everyone, he doesn’t fall short to Jungkook.

It’s a ridiculous gag dream that feels like a poorly-made skit to him. Yoongi, with all his spite, can’t believe that he only comes second to the likes of Jungkook, who hadn’t worked as hard as he did nor attempted to fight tooth and nail to be even recognized (even under your light) in the first place.

In a well-rehearsed yet trite skit that appears in Yoongi’s mind whenever he goes to sleep after drinking a little too much or waking up with the sheets a little colder than usual, he doesn’t acknowledge Jungkook to be in the same orbit as him; in his dream that’s equivalent to Jungkook’s nightmare, you and Hwayoung are within arm’s reach.

It had been spite that made Yoongi smirk at Jungkook, right after the latter’s whole worldview shattered in front of him when Hwayoung mistook him for a stranger.

It’s everything but spite that makes Yoongi keep his head up high at you, refusing to bow even just a little out of shame. You’ve dragged him to the nearest empty room and while he would’ve teased you about it for any other context, he can’t seem to do it now when you look at him in disgust, even before he gets to open his mouth.

“What was that, Yoongi?!” you fume, standing by the door as you keep your voice hushed.

It’s almost poetic for Yoongi to see because even when you’re bound to curse him out, even when the both of you are at a turning point (or whatever is left of it to change before it perishes completely), you still put Hwayoung first above all else.

“What was what?” he smiles cheekily, even if it’s apparent that it’s just for show because if anything, it’s Yoongi who knows the most about his own fallacy.

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I was playing around?” he offers weakly, shrugging his shoulders to make it seem that he doesn’t care at all about the anger you’ve reserved specifically for him; as if he’s not trying to buy time to prolong what could be the last time he’ll ever see you outside of work.

“That was nothing, Yoongi. What Hwayoung said meant nothing,” you grit, your fists balled to your sides as you try not to let your mind drift to the fact that you had confronted Yoongi first before comforting your own husband. “She’s a kid and she just got confused.”

There’s only silence between the two of you, and Yoongi wants to stay in it.

Yoongi wants to consume the dead air if it means that he won’t be backed into a corner and forced to take all the hits that Jungkook’s reality – which are his dreams— could throw to his face.

“You don’t have to tell me what I already know,” he murmurs lowly yet for some odd reason, Yoongi still refuses to bend his head.

The thing is, Yoongi doesn’t feel regret at all. Out of all the times he could ever feel it, he doesn’t feel it now, even when the supposed love of his life wants to banish him out forever.

“Then why do you look happy about it?” you seethe. “Why the hell did you look happy when Hwayoung called you her dad?”

“Because I was,” Yoongi smiles so tightly, his skin buckles under the pressure — come to think of it, his eyes almost feel like they’re stinging. “Do you want me to lie?”

“It would be better if you do,” you retort without even thinking, the tremble of your bottom lip only goading Yoongi further.

Yoongi stands before you, proud yet unwilling, as he serves as the largest and longest milestone of how far you’ve come in your career with his unrequited love for you as the barometer.

“Oh,” he reacts, his face falling before his throat tightens impossibly. Yoongi keeps nodding his head madly, the pricking of tears in his eyes making him frustrated even more. “Okay. Sure. Y-you know what, let me just lie andsay that I don’t constantly think about how it could’ve been me, o-or how I don’t usually hope that Jungkook completely fucks it up because I could show you that I’ll never do you wrong in the first place!”

“Friends don’t fucking do that, Yoongi!” you clench your teeth, the devastation on your face apparent yet never equivalent to that of Yoongi who’s already nearing his limit.

“I don’t want to be just your friend!” he whispers at you, because while he thinks about Hwayoung in the living room who’s just a few steps away, he also thinks of how scared he is to admit the fact to your face no matter how high he holds his head.

“I don’t think we can’t be friends either,” you sigh breathlessly, the finality to your tone making Yoongi freeze.

Finally, he lowers his head.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

In an overdone skit that plays in Yoongi’s head, somebody pulls out a slate and yells for the scene to be over, because not only did the whole thing play out in just his head, it was also just a silly dream that a married man with a kid could only have.

In a well-rehearsed, trite, and critically acclaimed skit that Yoongi writes himself but could never act in, you never have to be put in a position wherein you have to put a pause to your friendship with Yoongi. 

The dependency and entanglement the both of you have with each other, no matter in what degree, only proves to be a double-edged sword that hurts you more than it could ever hurt him, and Yoongi knows he can’t ever live with that.

There needs to be distance between you and Yoongi, and he’s never hated that fact more than now, no matter how much he knows it’s needed.

Yoongi knows he’s an intruder.

He’s an intruder who frequently gets to see you at work, he’s an intruder who always gets to loathe Jungkook no matter from what angle, and he’s an intruder who occasionally gets to hold Hwayoung who isn’t his.

( ♡ ) 

The truth is, Jungkook didn’t even really think of having kids until you came along. It had been a long withstanding truth in himself, even with Sora before you, that the thought of having someone of his own flesh and blood was too heavy for him — too much.

Jungkook didn’t entertain the thought of having children until you came into his life and he had decided then and there that there’d never be too much of you for him. 

You weren’t too much for Jungkook when you were still a new couple and had asked him if he’d be open to marrying you one day, even if you were barely a year into your relationship (and your first one at that) that he was yet to have a full grasp of. 

You weren’t too much for him when you had talked his ear off when you were still a rookie, promising him sincerely that you’ll make it big and that soon enough, the both of you would live a comfortable life — provided that you were still in each other’s by that time.

You weren’t too much for the Jungkook of then, your wide-eyed boyfriend who’s a man of few words, and you’re not too much for the Jungkook of now, your husband who feels like he has far too many feelings.

The truth is, Jungkook didn’t even really think that his heart could exist outside of his chest until Hwayoung came along.

There’s this dull, agonizing pain that always squeezes on Jungkook’s chest like clockwork whenever he feels he’s letting his daughter down. There’s bitterness in failure and there’s failure, even when Hwayoung’s tiny hands don’t seek his when they’re walking side by side, or when she’s not as enthusiastic about her meals like how he had been when preparing them–

Or even when Hwayoung mistakes Yoongi for her dad.

“This shirt?” Hwayoung asks, interrupting his inner turmoil as she points to a shirt of his from high school. She has a whole drawer filled with yours and Jungkook’s old clothes for sleep shirts, the giddy smile on her face as she awaits for approval making Jungkook almost forget everything. (Read: almost)

“You can choose any shirt you want, Young-ie,” he answers, his eyes only half-lidded and just a whisper close to stinging with tears. The exhaustion in his voice is practically inseparable from the gutting feeling of his full-time work as a dad for a little more than two years, being mistaken for Yoongi’s part-time favor as a godfather for barely two weeks and then some.

Jungkook’s hands immediately twitch at his sides when Hwayoung walks towards him and stumbles for the slightest second, the brief hiccup on his heart reminding him that he’ll be attuned to her no matter what — even if his daughter mistakes him for a stranger.

He knows the shit that the elders say about letting children fall. He has the script memorized by now and he knows the annoyance that blooms in him routinely when he gets unsolicited advice. 

Jungkook knows it all, and he knows that eventually, Hwayoung would get hurt and he won’t be able to do anything about it. Just like how she can hurt him, someway and somehow along the line (maybe she’ll call Yoongi appa again), and how he won’t know what to do with himself should that time come.

Tonight isn’t the time.

“Help, appa.”

“Okay,” he obliges. “I’m here,” Jungkook utters, ironically refusing to call himself the title that he wants Hwayoung to keep only for him; not for Yoongi, not for your manager, and not for the men that constantly pine after you even when they know fully that Jungkook’s in the picture.

Your husband knows greed and he hates it, because it had been in the form of Yoongi briefly smirking when Hwayoung called him appa that time.

Jungkook knows greed and is well-acquainted, because his fist is scuffed and Yoongi’s number is blocked. 

He knows greed and whatever indomitable power that puts a brake to his rage right when it’s about to pour over, because he had punched the brick wall in the patio instead of Yoongi to blow off steam, and because he has the mind to not taunt Yoongi with a complete family picture right after you distanced yourself away from him.

“I’m sorry, Young-ie. Mama and I are sorry to put you through that, okay?” he murmurs to her ear like it’s only their little secret for them to hear, the unbridled wonder that lingers in his daughter’s eyes enough to placate him that everything’s okay between them tonight.

( ♡ ) 

To wake up in the same bed as Jungkook and Hwayoung after so long makes your heart swell.

Your heart swells, not just with pride, but with a feeling you can’t ever put a name to. You’re more than content enough to see Hwayoung cuddled up to Jungkook and the mess of their hair tangled in between, but even more, you’re filled with a strange yearning that you don’t want them to stay that way.

You want more of them in a way that you’re overwhelmed, just by thinking that they’re the closest you could ever have to feeling immortal in this life. Not everything is completely back into place like they once were, but oddly enough, neither you and Jungkook are actively trying to replicate the old times. 

“You sure you’ll do the groceries alone this time?” you ask Jungkook for the third time, also receiving his third consecutive playful eye roll as he packs Hwayoung’s bag for you.

“Yes, ma’am. Just go with the princess and look at playschools,” he hums, ruffling your daughter’s hair that you spent a good ten minutes on. “If I come with, I fear I’ll already cry just by thinking Young-ie’s growing up.”

“She is growing-…”

“Can’t hear you!” he hollers as he backs out from the driveway, the smile on his face incomparable because he woke up with the thought that you did.

Jungkook wants more of you and Hwayoung, not because he just wants to return your unspoken sentiment, but because he figures that no amount of time or space will ever be enough if it’s the both of you that hold it.

It’s nice to be back to a somewhat normal routine. With your work finished (and all that is left is for the publicity to ramp up) after having spent so much time on it, you immediately resign yourself to the fixed routine you’ve been dying to get back on.

You’ve almost forgotten just how chaotic a supposedly mundane breakfast could be for a family of three, seeing to it that Jungkook’s packed lunches had grown on you to the point that even having your own plate on the dining table felt weird.

You’ve almost forgotten just how liberating it felt to walk outside with Hwayoung (despite having to put on masks and caps on for animosity) without having to worry how much time you have left before shooting starts again, considering that your daughter doesn’t even regard you for the actress that you are.

Hwayoung pulls your hand and walks ahead of you, and you let her. She’s small and unyielding, even if she pulls you with the equivalent of a mini Jungkook’s strength.

Your daughter walks ahead of you and you don’t mind because you rarely ever get to see her in the sunlight wearing the dresses that Jungkook buys even if there aren’t any sales going on (you’re trying to get him to curb his shopping addiction), as opposed to her being bundled up in pajamas, sitting on your lap in your trailer under studio lights.

Hwayoung has the strength that only a child of yours and Jungkook’s could ever possess, because while you freeze in your tracks upon seeing a familiar face as soon as you open the glass doors to the playschool you were about to scope out, Hwayoung only looks at you and the woman in front with a smile.

“Y/N, is that you?”

“Sora,” you exhale, the surprise probably evident on your face because it takes a solid second for you to register her presence. “Hi.”

Sora’s even prettier in person (not that she was ever ugly in the first place) than the beauty she was on the picture you’ve seen of her and Jungkook, her genuine smile unmistakeable because she looks like light itself.

You get why Jungkook had fallen for her, and while there’s nothing about now to blame him for, you can’t understand either why Sora’s absolutely ecstatic to see her ex-boyfriend’s wife.

“She’s my daughter,” you belatedly add after finally moving on from being starstruck, putting a reassuring hand on Hwayoung’s back (who doesn’t need it anyway because she’s more at ease right now than you are) as you smile. “Say hi, baby.”

Sora gasps in awe, and while you appreciate her politeness in not assuming anything about Hwayoung before you introduced her yourself, the curious, baser part of you wonders if she thinks about you and what she could’ve been–

If Sora thinks about you as much as you do with her whenever she fights with her partner, or if she ever thinks about the lingering insecurity that comes with being a lover in general. 

“She’s an absolute sweetheart! She looks so much like you.”

“She does?” you beam, completely surprised at her words. You’re already surprised about Sora in general along with her unexpected enthusiasm, but you’re even more shocked at her sincere interest. “A lot of family and friends say that she looks like Jungkook more.”

“I mean they do say that soulmates will look alike at one point,” she shrugs playfully, head tilting as she waves to Hwayoung while you digest her words.

You didn’t think Jungkook’s past would be this kind no matter how much it had hurt you before.

You feel guilty for having expected a confrontation of some sort, the slight paranoia that had creeped on you before completely dissipating the longer that you look at Sora. She looks at ease and it’s contagious, the soft smile on her face extending up to her eyes when she sees your gaze lingering at the hand on her belly.

“Oh, yeah. I’m expecting,” she announces excitedly, cheerfully, as if you’re childhood friends and go to brunch every Sunday — as if you’re close enough for her to spread her joy with.

“Congrats, Sora,” you grin, extending your hand to gently hold her arm in celebration.

You had insisted again and again to yourself that Sora’s no one to you; that she’s a blip in Jungkook’s radar that lasted for years and came before you. You had let the idea of her consume you fully to the point that her kindness takes you aback.

You can’t blame Sora, and she can’t blame you either. Somewhere along Jungkook’s mosaic he’s made for himself, she lingers in there as a stray piece that fits no matter the pattern. It’s irrevocable and only natural for your husband to be an accumulation of everything and everyone he’s ever loved, and while you know that you and your daughter occupy most of it, you can’t ever erase Sora from existence.

You want to ask who’s the dad with the most inconspicuous tone you could ever possess. 

You want to ask her how she’s been and how things went with her partner during the last time that she and Jungkook had celebrated their anniversary as exes. 

You want to ask Sora about her cousin and maybe even joke about how chaos must probably run in her bloodline.

You want to ask Sora about hundreds of things and hold her accountable for the sleepless nights she’s costed you and your family, but you hold yourself back — not only because it’s the right thing to do, but because everything had already worked out in the end. Sora’s already in the past and you want her to stay there, even if you have the opportunity to get the answers you’ve only used to pray for.

“For what it’s worth, Y/N, I’m sorry. I know it’s a little too late to say it, but I really am,” she murmurs after some time of only you and her silently watching Hwayoung talk to another kid, the sincerity in her eyes evident even if she holds her head low before you.

The closure you could only ever ask for whenever your heart hurt the most, comes to you when you feel that you’re at your lightest.

( ♡ ) 

True to your word, you don’t let Jungkook attend your press conference.

There’s no point in denying that you do need Jungkook here with you, but there’s no denying either that needing him and wanting him to be here are two different things.

You’re oddly reminiscent of the time that you had been in this position, and even if the memory’s bittersweet, the rational and realistic part of your brain could only think that it’s reasonable to miss Jungkook despite barring him from here. This is your highest peak after all, and it’s only normal for you to be nervous.

It’s normal for you to be nervous despite telling the staff that you’re going to keep the wedding ring on your finger throughout the entire thing. It’s entirely reasonable for you to be jittery at the possibility of being asked about your family, no matter how far-fetched the queries could be from the actual movie at hand.

It’s only okay for you to feel that trepidation in your stomach even if everything in your life, at the moment, is at your favor.

The room’s quiet with only you and Jimin in it, and without the buffer of Hwayoung that laughs through everything that he says, the one-on-one that you have with your manager reminds you of the talk you had to have when the rumors about you and Yoongi broke out.

Jimin has more years and experiences under his belt now, but with the way he talks to you, it feels as if it’s neither of you are experienced; that the both of you are complete beginners who’d like to think that the only way to go is up, and that a tiny irregularity could instantly make everything you’ve built to collapse.

The talk about Eunsu has been a long time coming, and Jimin wants to let you know now when there’s nobody else — when you’re reminded that you have everything to both gain and lose.

“I’ve managed to put a lid on it for the meantime,” he clears his throat, looking at your reflection in the mirror as he puts on your microphone delicately. “I don’t know for how long though.”

Your gaze looks blank, almost unreadable to the untrained eye, yet Jimin knows that there’s a weight to it. Unlike all the brush-ins you’ve ever had with issues before, this is the first time that it had ever hit home and everything that ever mattered to you.

He could only imagine the weight of what it must feel like to be you; of how heavy it must be to be the one to take everything in stride.

“It’s okay, Jimin. Thank you,” you murmur, looking down on your lap as you try to fight the frown that comes with the realization that you’ve been used to having Hwayoung on it.

“Y/N,” he tuts, his tone stern yet familiar.

“Hmm?” you ask while you’re in a daze, letting yourself stare at a spot on the wall that could only hold your attention for so long. You can’t erase it as much as you can’t avoid this conversation with Jimin, and even more, you can’t avoid the eventual turbulence you’ll be subjecting your family to once everything goes public.

There’s an innate guilt that comes with being a wife and a mother, you figure. It’s your first time being both and with it comes the sense of doom; it’s not the morbid type of ruination, but rather, it’s the anxiousness that comes with knowing you don’t only have yourself to look after.

“What Eunsu did to Jungkook— to your family, even-…”

“I know,” you interrupt, nodding fervently to cut the conversation short, except Jimin doesn’t fold.

“I know you’re protecting them. I know you’re thinking about Hwayoung the most,” Jimin sighs. “But you wanting to protect them also means that you’re protecting Eunsu even if it isn’t your intention,” he murmurs, squeezing your shoulder gently. “The news coming out about her won’t be the worst thing in the world.”

The same two people that you’re protecting, one of them more innocent and clueless than the other yet just as loving, give you complacency amidst your unease.

( ♡ )

You always insisted on having a big bed.

Jungkook remembers your insistence on having a big bed when the two of you moved in together and slowly started furnishing your home before your wedding. Your preferences didn’t exactly clash his because while you mostly took care of the budget and he took care of the aesthetics, there would almost always be common ground. Almost.

Additionally, you also remember Jungkook’s gratefulness for your stubbornness towards having a big bed because realistically, he can’t ever picture himself lying down on a deluxe standard bed with a toddler between the two of you.

The maintenance for the third-biggest variation of a king-sized bed that you had pleaded him for (and even made a whole presentation about defending your case) with Hwayoung in the picture now is even more troublesome. The quest for bedsheets that are hypoallergenic, extremely soft and comfortable, have a neutral, classic, yet easily-maintainable design, and toddler-proof simultaneously seems to be never-ending.

Jungkook can’t sleep at all sometimes. Even when the airconditioning in the room is at a perfect temperature, his comforter is on his person and not on the other side of the bed by your doing, his daughter’s hair isn’t in his mouth, and his cat’s humongous built isn’t blocking his passage of air, there’s days wherein Jungkook can’t put himself to sleep.

In one way or another, it’s always the ache and worry that manifests in his chest for the next day. He keeps wondering about tomorrow’s meals and the probability of Hwayoung throwing a tantrum. He keeps wondering if there’s going to be a wild curveball that somebody will throw at you tomorrow, and how fast he can get to you should that happen.

Jungkook’s no stranger to sleepless nights. He’s used to analyzing one unfavorable context after another to scare himself into being awake so he can’t get nightmares when he eventually goes to sleep.

To wake your husband up just because you couldn’t sleep yourself is a menial task that you finally talk yourself into doing, the little shake that you give Jungkook on his shoulders enough to make him jolt awake.

“Kook, wake up.”

“What, what-…? What is it?” he darts up groggily, eyes barely adjusted to the dim light you’ve set the room to. Jungkook’s lost to why you even woke him up when Hwayoung’s out like a log, but he doesn’t question you on it — instead, he gently carries his daughter to occupy his warm spot on the bed, just so he could crawl his way to the middle to listen to you.

“Jungkook.”

“Hmm,” he hums again, sleepily propping himself up with a pillow as he tries to blink the sleep away from his eyes. Jungkook doesn’t even dare to take a peek at the alarm clock because all he knows is that you’re awake and you also want him to be, so he doesn’t complain.

Four seconds. Breathe in through your nose.

Seven seconds. Hold it.

Eight seconds. Exhale through your mouth.

“Let’s fight,” you whisper, leaning your head on Jungkook’s shoulder.

Your husband could only rub his eyes tiredly, the yawn that escapes him making his entire body shake. “Huh? Right now?” he clarifies, the sleepy pout on his lips only highlighting how wide and docile his eyes are for you at the moment.

“Come on. Let’s fight,” you half-heartedly offer, bumping your head to his.

Your husband only stays silent, putting a hand up to your forehead to check for a fever. 

Jungkook only yawns once again, his sluggishness being infectious to the point that you suppress your own by burying your face to his neck.

“Can we like, fight in the morning or something?” he tries to compromise, fully serious about a half-baked joke you woke him up for.

Jungkook’s come a long way. He’s no longer your husband who didn’t want to fight you on things for the sake of self-preservation. He’s no longer the one who avoided confrontation in fear of setting you apart from him. He’s this now, so willing to go with your every whim that if you want to have a fight with him at two in the morning, he’ll rub the sleep out of his eyes and let you rest on his shoulder if ever you were being serious.

You kiss your husband on the lips, the love-drunk smile that he gives you afterward making you snort.

Your king-sized bed is a mess. Somewhere by the end of your foot, there’s Hwayoung’s pink crayon that she insists on holding to sleep. Somewhere by the tips of Jungkook’s hair, there’s Miso’s fur kept together with his daughter’s hair clip because she didn’t want to go to sleep without putting it on him.

Jungkook, your husband who’s clad in a shirt of yours with too many holes on it because of his daughter’s safety scissors and his cat’s claws, hugs you to his chest in silence.

You think about how you can’t tell when the news about Eunsu is going to release, while Jungkook sneakily tries to uncover your sock-covered foot with his own because he lost one of his socks while sleeping and wanted to be even.

You think about how the Academy nominees are going to be revealed in a week, while your husband says out loud his grocery list for the week while randomly staring off into space every ten seconds.

You think about Hwayoung attending playschool in a matter of months, while your husband internally plays rock, paper, scissors with himself as he waits for you to gather your thoughts.

You think about you and Jungkook and whatever comes with, for, and between you while he hugs you under the dim lights.

Four seconds. Breathe in through your nose.

Seven seconds. Hold it.

Eight seconds. Exhale through your mouth.

“What if it only gets brutal from here on out, Jungkook? What do I do?” you murmur, looking up at him.

“Who says it has to be brutal?” Jungkook laughs, his voice bouncing out into the space as if you’re in a newly-built house with barely any furniture. 

Jungkook’s laughter is still joyous and loud, because even if Jungkook’s heart is a newly-built house, his happiness still reverberates the more it settles into the ground and comes closer to its roots; closer to you.

“We’ll keep up.”

[regressionschool]

PAMPERS PUBLIC SCHOOL REFORM: EDUCATION REIMAGINED OR REGRESSION GONE TOO FAR?

By Emily Dawson, Investigative Reporter

For years, education reform has been a topic of heated debate. Traditional schooling often leaves students overwhelmed by stress, struggling with expectations, and ill-prepared for real life. In response, school districts across the country have begun partnering with Pampers Corporation to introduce a radically new approach to learning—one that eliminates unnecessary pressure, fosters emotional well-being, and removes the burdens of growing up too quickly.

The Pampers Public School Reform Program has now fully replaced traditional education in multiple districts, converting high schools into structured learning environments tailored to a simpler, more guided lifestyle. Students are relieved of responsibilities that once weighed them down, such as complex coursework, college preparation, and even basic hygiene routines. In their place? A nurturing, preschool-style environment where comfort and security come first.

While many officials praise the program’s success, not everyone is celebrating.

"I’m Not a Toddler—Why Are They Treating Me Like One?"

Emma Reynolds, 18, had spent years working toward an honors diploma, with hopes of attending a prestigious university. But when her high school was converted to a Pampers Academy, she found herself pulled into a system she never agreed to.

"It’s not school—it’s a daycare," Emma hisses, gripping the edge of her desk, which is barely big enough to accommodate her.

Around her, the other students seem perfectly content in their new reality. The majority have already transitioned to full-time Pampers, no longer expected to even attempt bathroom breaks. Many sit in their seats with thickly padded bottoms, others waddle freely around the classroom, their sagging diapers peeking out from beneath colorful onesies. Some suckle on pacifiers while listening to their teacher read a picture book aloud, their attention spans seemingly far removed from any concern about essays, exams, or college applications.

Emma isn’t like them. She remembers what school used to be.

"They call me ‘sweetie’ and ‘princess’ and pat my head when I get answers right. They make me sit crisscross-applesauce on the rug during storytime. They don’t teach math, they teach shapes. We have scheduled nap times. And worst of all?" She shifts uncomfortably, her thick pull-ups rustling beneath her skirt. "They won’t even let us use the bathroom like normal people."

Under the Pampers system, students are placed in protective undergarments based on their "developmental needs." For most, that means ultra-absorbent Pampers diapers, ensuring accidents never disrupt classroom learning. Only a handful, like Emma, are still permitted pull-ups, though even that comes with restrictions.

"I told them I don’t need them. I told them I can hold it during class. But guess what?" She clenches her fists. "I couldn’t."

She shakes her head, looking away. "And when you have an accident, they make a big deal about it. They take you to the ‘quiet corner,’ change you, tell you it’s okay, and give you a sticker for ‘trying your best.’ It’s humiliating. But the worst part?" She swallows hard. "The more accidents you have, the more they ‘adjust’ your routine."

At first, Emma was only required to wear pull-ups during class. Now, she’s in them full-time. She doesn’t know what the next "adjustment" will be.

"What happens if they decide I don’t need pull-ups anymore?" she whispers. "What happens if they decide I need…more?"

A Mother’s Concern: “I Don’t Know How Much Longer She’ll Last”

Emma’s mother, Debbie Hall, initially believed the program was an opportunity for her daughter to learn patience and adapt to new challenges. Now, she isn’t so sure.

"She’s been fighting this since day one," Debbie admits, rubbing her temples. "But every time she resists, the school just… doubles down."

At first, Emma refused to use her Pampers-issued pull-ups, insisting she would simply wait until she got home. It didn’t last.

"She told me she’d hold it," Debbie sighs, shaking her head. "She didn’t."

When the school called, Debbie was asked to bring a fresh pull-up and a change of clothes—a moment she describes as one of the most surreal experiences of her life.

"I stood outside the classroom, holding a pack of training pants meant for toddlers, about to hand them to my eighteen-year-old daughter." She exhales sharply. "I don’t know how much longer she’ll last before she stops fighting it."

And that, she fears, is exactly what Pampers wants.

Success Stories: “Happier, Healthier Students”

Despite cases like Emma’s, school officials and many parents insist the program is working. According to Superintendent Laura Whitmore, dropout rates have plummeted, student anxiety is at an all-time low, and behavioral issues are almost nonexistent.

"When we take away the pressures of growing up too fast, we allow students to flourish in a safe, nurturing space," Whitmore explains. "Pampers helps us create a structured learning environment where students can focus on emotional well-being and positive reinforcement.

Studies show that students in the program are better rested, less anxious, and more cooperative. Many enthusiastically embrace their new routine, growing attached to naptime, play-based learning, and the security of their Pampers uniforms.

"Some students come in fighting," Whitmore admits. "But as they settle into the routine, they come to appreciate the comfort and care we provide. And the best part? They never have to worry about making ‘big kid’ mistakes again."

The Future of Education?

With more schools adopting the Pampers model, traditional high school education may soon become a thing of the past. For students like Emma, who still long for independence, the future remains uncertain. But for many others, a world without adult pressures, expectations, or even bathroom breaks is a dream come true.

And as the Pampers program continues to expand, one thing is clear:

For the next generation, growing up may no longer be necessary.

(Sponsored in part by Pampers Corporation. Because learning should be comfortable.)

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate you — Part 21

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: please forgive spelling errors, I’m still coming out of my illness. I’d also wanted to write more but I suppose it’ll help to have a solid starting point for the next chapter! I can’t believe it’s been a year since the first part of cbmthy went up.

warnings: likely spelling errors; Deliah; reader’s miserable life

word count: 5,738

-Part 20- -Part 22-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“I know it’s difficult, but I urge you to tell your family as soon as you are able.”

Madja’s round, soft brown eyes are imploring as she looks into you, and you dip your head.

“I will,” you mumble, frowning into your lap. “I just want time to process it. Besides, you don’t know that for sure—it’s just a theory.”

“A theory that I wouldn’t tell you unless I thought there was a high or definite chance of it happening,” Madja counters, passing you the glass of water. You drink reluctantly. “I know it’s a lot, and it’s sudden… How are you coping?”

You set the glass down when you’ve had enough. “Silver lining, right?”

————

Madja’s earlier question has been echoing through the chambers of your mind all morning. Nagging for an answer until you’ve no choice but to pause, and think. A bench sits overlooking the Sidra, and you take it, choosing to seat yourself for the duration of the thoughts.

How are you coping?

Because you weren’t a while ago. That’s what got Azriel bedridden, although he seems to be on the mend. So, how are you coping now? You can barely feel the gloves around your hands, even when your curl them to scrape the fabric against your skin. There’s nothing more than a slight pressure.

To have no solution for the pain, that you’re permanently damaged… Permanently imperfect, even as a fae. You could have had something. Could have been like Nesta, wielding her Cauldron-Made magic. How stupid of you.

————

His door looms before you, the windows empty and the front garden still. Taking a deep breath you raise your hand to a fist, delivering three muffled knocks to the wood panelling, gloves softening the thuds. You take a step back, and wait. Glance about the small entry, the vines crawling up either side the door, the glass lantern hanging above your head.

The garden is dying, life slowly receding, pulling back in on itself to protect from the descent of winter. Another two weeks and the transition will be clear. Already frost is often crisping leaves and slicking cobbles, ice gleaming over the lip of windowsills and thick rolls of fog floating up from he sidra, basking the city streets in a deep cloud-cover. Sometimes it’s so thick you can’t tell where the edge of the canal lies, and you make a point to offer a generous margin of error. You’re not sure you’d have the will to fight the terrible shock of icy water or the wit to navigate, blind, through the thick mists back to a lowered platform.

You’ll stick behind the guard rails, for now.

Metal scrapes, a latch clicks, the door creaks open. A heavy, golden eye peers out from the relative darkness.

You push a smile to your mouth, weighted, subdued, tentative. “Hi, Bas.”

Golden eyes pause, taking you in from an almost passive standing point. His lips don’t shift like you’d become accustomed to, no half-amused smile curving his familiar mouth and no sweep of warmth across his face. Rather, his lips tighten, as if regretting having made acquaintance with a creature with needle sharp teeth that hook into skin and cling to flesh as it feeds. You’ll stay out of his life if he wants you gone.

You can manage to give him six months of space.

Bas sighs, his broad chest briefly deflating as his shoulders slope and the ice lessens to frost. The door opens wider and an ember of mild warmth begins to glow faintly somewhere in your chest. You take care not to show the visible relief—he hasn’t forgiven you, he’s just opening up for conversation. Maybe now he’ll tell you to stay away, maybe now he’ll tell you not to disappear again, maybe now he’ll tell you you’re forgiven, maybe now he’ll forgive you but he doesn’t want around.

You shake off the thoughts like a sparrow shaking off raindrops from her narrow, nimble wings, fluttering her feathers to rid the dampness from her warm body.

Inside the fire is lit, crackling in the hearth. Dried rosemary and herbs still hang in bunches from the thick wooden beams of the ceiling, patchwork quilts still hang over the back of plush armchairs, small, plump pillows still tucked into either end of the sofa and you sit yourself near one arm, knowing Bas usually takes the armchair to the left of the fireplace. Not directly in the way of the radiating heat but close enough to be warmed by the rolling waves as they spill out into the low-ceilinged living room. You meet his golden eyes. “How’ve you been?”

“Good.” Bas nods his head. “Been doing some thinking. Sure you have too, yeah?” He takes his seat but doesn’t lean back into the cushioning. Instead he braces his forearms on his knees, feet shoulder-width apart and the fire reflects in his strong, golden eyes.

You lick your lips, placing your gloved hands in your lap. “I’m sorry for using you like that.”

Bas cocks a brow. “Just jumping straight into it, huh. No preamble.”

“I understand if you’re angry with me. If you’re upset with me. I feel that you’ve been there for me a lot…more that I can say. Through a lot of stuff I haven’t been brave enough to talk about, too.” Your eyes are hot on their surface, burning from the heat of the crackling fire but you blink away the heat, swallowing. “I was in a bad space, when I left. And I wasn’t thinking right.”

Bas snorts. “You weren’t thinking at all.”

He pushes off from his knees, settling himself at last back into the armchair. Long legs stretch out over the thick, patterned rug, arms crossing behind his head and legs crossing at the ankle.

“I’m sorry, Bas.” You tell him, firmly. Looking into his fierce gaze. He’s always been more straightforward. You’ve managed to be more straightforward with him, too, and it’s been a perk of your…friendship. “Will you… Can you forgive me?”

Silence hangs in the air, his features unmoving, eyes holding that fierce glint in their golden irises. Seconds tick by and neither of you say anything. The room grows hotter, denser, and you shift in your seat. It’s sweltering. It’s been a minute.

Your eyes lower and you nod your head. “Okay.”

You rise from your seat, straightening out your skirts, unsure whether your cheeks are burning from humiliation or the fire. “Thank you for hearing me out,” you tell him, nodding your head once before finding your own way out.

“You aren’t going to ask for my side?” Bas calls from his seat, bringing you to a halt. You turn, looking at the outline of the back of his head, the muscles in his arms are tense and his fingers are pushing into his skin. You keep to the entryway, unsure whether he’s being sincere or whether he’s waiting for an argument. You’ve never known him to be manipulative, but he’s always been ready for a brawl in the past. Bas turns his head, and piercing golden eyes bore into you.

“What’s your side?” You ask, softly.

Bas snorts and makes a sharp gesture with his hand, telling you to sit. Your lips purse but you follow, returning to the seat but this time discarding an outer layer leaving you in a top and skirts. You’re here for a conversation—not a brief exchange where nothing’s said.

“Did you even listen to me, last time you were here?” Bas asks. “Where did you go? Who did you meet? Why did you think it was a good idea to just—” He bites off the ending, his frustration and anger bleeding out. His arms brace themselves back on his knees, body hunching over as his brows narrow, exhaling in a harsh hurry. “Talk to me. You got to talk to me instead of just vomiting up a bland fuckin’ apology like that. ‘I’m sorry for using you like that’? ‘I was in a bad place’?” He stares at you, hard. “Are you kidding me?”

“I- What do you want me to say, Bas? I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry for making you angry. I’m sorry for not telling you where I was going-”

“‘I’m sorry for making you feel like shit, Bas'. ‘I’m sorry for not only leaving and not telling you anything, but also then coming back and not telling you anything either, Bas’. ‘I’m sorry for creating something private and safe and then letting everyone in to tear it to shreds, Bas’.” Golden eyes gleam with heat, boring into you. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Those would have been a good fuckin’ start.”

You lick your lips, trying to buy yourself time to comprehend the words he’s spat out. Beats pass, but you have no idea what to say. You’re sorry. You regret the way things happened. They won’t unfold like that again. It all feels so insufficient when his eyes are so fierce on their surface but the tears are making them glassy. “You were my fuckin’ treasure,” he rasps. “And you fuckin' walked out without a word.”

“Bas I’m sorry,” you whisper. Heat prickles your eyes, “I just needed to get out.”

Bas laughs a wet laugh, “Fuck off with that.” His thumb and middle finger span across his eyes, bracing his temples. “You know I stopped seeing other people?”

Silence hangs in the air. Blood cooling in your veins.

Bas laughs. “Stopped drinking after you showed up, stopped sleeping around as much, started getting to bed on time. Started talking with ma again. Started to get better after pa-” He chokes off, a wet droplet breaking on the rug far below. He rubs his eyes shaking his head. Golden eyes gleam in the firelight. “You were good,” he whispers, “a good thing.”

Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it. You know what it’s like to feel you aren’t good enough to be trusted. You know how it hurts.

You stand quietly from the sofa, gathering your cloak and scarf. Pause when you pass him—he doesn’t look up, keeping his head cast down, staring at the rug. Your palm settles over his shoulder and you squeeze once, firmly. I’m sorry.

You’re in the doorway, the salty citrusy coastal air mixing with the warm rosemary of his interior when he calls for you once more.

“We’ll be moving to Winter soon,” Bas says through his raw throat. He swallows, hard jaw working. “Ma thinks it’ll be good for us—to visit pa’s Court. Reconnect with the magic there.” In one movement that exudes far too much boyish embarrassment for you to bear, he dries his eyes, rolling his shoulders and standing straighter. “Thought I’d let you know.”

“You’re leaving?” You can hardly hear your voice. Bas shrugs but the edges of the gesture are too sharp to be natural. “Guess Night Court isn’t working for us.” He licks his lips. Nods his head. “I wish you well, from here.”

————

The sunlight is watery, offering an edge of warmth but you’re in a daze. You’re not even sure you know where you are in the city. Just started walking and didn’t stop, feet moving mindlessly over the cobbles, carrying you through streets and alleys, down roads and narrow tracks between shops. With the smell of food you’d guess you’re near a restaurant zone, but…

He’s moving. All the way south to the Winter Court.

Will you be able to visit? Will he even want you to visit? You can admit you’re not the most well-versed on Court politics, nor the most caught up on current affairs, but it doesn’t take much to know the Night Court isn’t a Prythian favourite after the fifty years the High Queen ruled with Rhysand at her side.

You look around Velaris, the street you’re on. Did it look like this during her reign? Before? Did it change during the attack that took so many lives, Bas’ father among them?

Inside your chest your heart is flittering too fast, fluttering against your ribcage, pulsing in your throat sporadically. Where are you? None of it looks familiar. A breeze blows and you catch the scent of the Sidra, somewhat salty, somewhat briny, but crisp. Dampness dredged up from an open-mouthed estuary far from here. It’s only a few streets away, and a trail of cold relief slithers down your spine as you recognise the canal. If you follow the water upstream you’ll probably find your way back to a spot you know—you’ve been heading mostly downhill, after all.

————

Rita’s

That’s a name you recognise. You’re nearby, back in a familiar area at least. Although being lost had been a temporary relief from the tempest tipping and turning inside of your, raging emotion crashing on your banks and you’re unsure what to do with all of it. Even having lost a lot of feeling in your hands you can tell they’re numb. More numb than usual anyway, and the cold is spreading to the rest of your body. You seem to remember the others having spoken about it in a way to suggest its busiest hours would be after dark but you wonder if they might be open during midday—just a familiar place to step into and warm up for a bit.

Well, it’s not exactly familiar. Come to think of it, you’ve only really heard Mor speak of it as someone who’s been inside. It didn’t seem to be a frequent spot for the others.

You squeeze your eyes shut and pray she isn’t inside.

As soon as you step foot within the establishment you feel the warmth on your face, washing over the frozen tip of your nose and the nipped-at skin of your cheeks, lips probably chapped and dry from the cold. The lights are on—strung up around the ceiling, hanging from wall to wall so they look like hundreds of yellow-bottomed fireflies. Paintings hang from the walls, stacked closely together and rimmed in what looks like gold, carefully crafted to carve into swirls at the corners. Pictures of flowers and bouquets, horses and riders with neat hair and long legs, dappled shade on a pair of shoes. Parted lips painted a dusty rose.

There are a few fae about the place—there seems to be a part of the large interior sectioned off for games and socialising, pool tables set up with a piano in the corner and a violin laying on its top, a guitar against the piano stool. Plush settees are dotted about the place, mauve and maroon leather with a healthy sheen beneath the glowing lights.

You make your way over to a counter that looks like a bar, nervously approaching the female behind the stand. “I’m sorry—is it fine for me to stay inside for a little bit? I got lost and-” But she’s already nodding understandingly and you’re struck dumb by her beauty. Dark brown hair that snarls about her round face, healthy and rich, full lips stretching into a welcoming smile as she clops to your side of the bar, ushering you over to take a seat on one of the sofas.

“What can I get you? Hot water? Tea? Whiskey?” Her eyes are full and dark, round and pretty as they watch you. “You’re such a small thing! What were you doing out in the cold all on your own?”

“I- sorry. I don’t have any money on me at the moment… I’m after some warmth is all. Sorry,” you say, holding your hands up and shaking them gently as though metaphorically pushing her away. But her smile doesn’t falter for a second, leaning her weight to one hip and folding her arms over her slim chest, “And I asked what can I get you? You’re half-frozen, I should dip you in candle wax!”

“Oh, I-” You swallow thickly. “Then, could I have some tea? If it’s not a bother?”

“Stay right there and don’t wander,” she smiles, nodding her head, “I’ll be back in a moment. Hang tight and don’t freeze.” Then she’s clopping away, heeled feet clicking over the polished wooden floors, thuds muffling when she passes over a rug.

You blink away your surprise, adjusting yourself to Rita’s interior. It’s nice: warm and welcoming. You lay your hand in your lap, peering at the dark green fabric of your gloves, self-consciously fiddling with the fingers. Maybe if they become frost-bitten they’ll turn stiff and fall off. At least you wouldn’t have to deal with their ugliness anymore, but it’d still be all up your arms.

It’s not long before the server is returning, a pinkish ceramic mug cupped in her palm, taking care not to spill anything as she passes it over to you. “Careful not to burn your tongue, it’s piping hot,” she warns with a smile, “unless you’re frozen stiff. Then drink away!”

You manage a grateful smile, murmuring thank-you after thank-you until she’s trotted back to her place behind the counter, a new couple of fae having also come in from the cold. You wait impatiently for it to cool, gently blowing on it from time to time but it’s difficult to hold through your gloves and you have to be careful not to spill any on yourself, or worse, any on the lovely rugs. Raising the mug to your lips, you take a small sip but it’s still scalding. How did she even make a cup of tea this hot? You’ve waited for it to cool.

Sighing to yourself, you shift on the sofa, making to lean back against the cushioning then thinking better of it when you remember your layers. It would be nice to remove them, but you won’t be stopping for long—just waiting to warm up. Until you’re certain blood has returned to your fingers and toes. You try the tea again but only succeed in scorching your upper lip. You’re so preoccupied with willing your tea to cool that you fail to notice the fae approaching from the far end of the room.

A body fills the space beside you and you’re pulled from your thoughts. The female’s lips are a bright slash of blood red, white teeth glittering inside her mouth as she offers a smile. You give a polite smile in return, thinking nothing of it as you return to gently blowing on the steaming liquid.

“You’re new here…”

You blink, then turn back to the female. Her eyes are so dark they’re almost black. Not a suctioning void of darkness, but more like a peaceful midnight or experiencing a restful sleep. They’re enlivening, not draining. “Yes…I heard someone speaking about this place so when I recognised it I thought I might come in to warm up,” you reply, shifting in the seat so you’re facing her a little more.

Black silk trousers cover her lower half, a sheer, silky band hugging her slim waist before flaring into wide, sweeping hips. On her top is a sleeveless, rouge, lace-covered shirt that hugs her full breasts, exposing a sharp but surprisingly deep V of moon-pale skin. Around her collar bones sit pretty pearls, matching the ones pinned to her ears, and you wonder if she’s the kind who’s always so finely dressed or whether you’ve accidentally stumbled in during a special occasion. Blood red nails delicately clasp a stout, crystal glassful of amber liquid and from the smell of it you can guess the contents.

“You’ll warm up faster if you let the heat touch your skin,” she muses, reclining into the far arm of the seat, her crossed legs pointing in your general direction. A stray curl of rich, chestnut hair escapes over her shoulder, flaring outward in a neat curve. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be here for long…” you laugh, gently shifting the mug in your hands.

“Why not?” The female muses, swirling her glass in deft fingers. “We won’t be getting busy until at least six; it’s not even three yet.” She sips from her glass slowly, savouring the flavour. A pink tongue swipes at her lips, collecting the remaining taste. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. It’s what we’re here for.”

“I’m sorry—you work here?”

“I’m the owner.”

Your brows raise. “You’re Rita?”

The woman laughs through her lips, eyes twinkling faintly. “No. Rita was a friend.” She winks as she says it, like it’s some funny secret she’s decided to share between you. “And we’re all friends here, so you don’t have to worry about a thing. Stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you.” You flush at her warmth. How welcoming she is.

“Who told you about Rita’s?” The female asks, drawing you again from thought. You pause, unsure how to label your relationship with Mor. Instead you simply settle for giving her name. “Mor,” you answer, shifting in your seat before offering an unsure smile, “she’s a…friend.”

The female nods like she’s understanding part of a larger puzzle. You suppose it makes sense though—you’ve gotten the impression Mor is somewhat a regular, of course the owner would be familiar with her. Anxiety begins to crawl up your spine, bone by bone, piece by piece. What if she knows who you are—what you’ve done to upset Mor. But instead the female’s eyes twinkle, sparked by something.

“A friend of Morrigan’s,” she drawls, elegantly settling deeper into the cushioning, finishing off the knuckle’s-depth of her whiskey, knocking it back like it’s nothing. “Well then, you can call me Deliah.”

————

It wasn’t until the clock had struck five that you’d realised how long you’d been speaking with her. She’s a master of conversation, and you were swiftly swept up and away, almost forgetting your tea entirely, warmed beneath her attentive gaze. When you’d finally gotten up to leave, she’d wrapped you in a warm embrace, like you’d been friends for much longer than a few hours, and had pressed a departing kiss to your neck before you’d wrapped yourself in a scarf and headed back out into the much colder outdoors.

But still, the icy winds bite at your throat and nip at your cheeks, and you hug your cloak tighter to your body.

————

Night has fallen by the time you reach the River House, carefully hanging your cloak upon one of the iron hooks and removing your shoes. A surge of voices sound from your left—coming from the living room with windows overlooking the front lawn—and you quickly slip past into the kitchen searching for something to eat before tiptoeing up the stair to bed.

You don’t want to touch what Bas had told you—that he’s leaving. What if you hadn’t visited? What if you had put it off? What if he had decided not to tell you? What ultimately persuaded him to let you know? After all, he’d only mentioned it when you’d been leaving…perhaps he hadn’t intended to tell you, but something good in him had known the kind of emptiness you’d feel if you went to him one day to find the house packed up and empty? With no trace of him to be found?

The thought alone has a pit opening up in your stomach, eyes pressing together hard to keep tears at bay. He wouldn’t have done something like that, surely. Had you hurt him so badly?

For someone you had thought close to leave so abruptly without any notice…no reasons, no goodbye…just gone. How many methods of torture the mind could create with that. How the unknowing would surely swallow you whole. Regret feeding off every second, wishing to have a second chance.

Guilt weighs in your stomach.

“You’re back.”

You snap back to reality, ice flooding your veins as you spot Mor stood the other side of the kitchen counter, poised to pop open another bottle of wine. Your throat closes up but you nod, walking further into the room—it would too childish and obvious to exit as soon as you’d seen her. Her caramel eyes drop back to the cork, skewering the nail through the stopped and twisting. “Looking for something?”

“Just a bite to eat,” you manage, eyeing an apple in the fruit basket. Buttered bread with something on top would have been nice, but an apple will be great, too. Cool, and crisp. Hopefully not too tart.

“There’s food next door,” Mor tells you, neither of you really looking at the other, and you pluck the apple from the basket. “Olives, bread, cheese, grapes, wine.” She lifts the bottle, gesturing to the second one she has on the table beside her. “Probably apple slices and raisins too-”

Silence beats between you, and then fabric is rustling. You look up to find her almost upon you.

You jump when her hands rip the scarf from your shoulders, staring wide-eyed in…shock?

“Mor?” You ask, slightly defensively as you take a step back. “What-”

She grips your arms tight, pain flickering up through your flesh and your stomach clenches. “Stay away from her,” Mor hisses, her nails digging in through the fabric of your gloves. A low moan of discomfort escapes your mouth and her eyes again widen, inhaling sharply as she drops your arms. Mor recovers quickly, a mask sliding into place that’s cold and icy, not even a fragment of the previous hurt you’d seen to be found. “I don’t know how you met her, how you ran into her, and I don’t care. Just stay away from her.”

You’re breathing heavily, a light sweat on your skin but the light pain’s vanished as quick as it appeared, leaving you feeling cold and tingly all over. Flesh once again fading to numbness. “I don’t…Who?”

A small beauty mirror materialises out of thin air and she flips it open, showing the dark red imprint on your throat, a stamp of a woman’s lips. Deliah’s lipstick must have been pressed into your skin. A flush of regret rises up from your stomach and you slap your palm over the skin, hoping to conceal the blazing proof that you’d visited Rita’s. She’s never claimed it as her space, but it’s Mor’s domain.

“I’m sorry,” you splutter, trying to explain. “I was just cold, and I got lost, I didn’t mean to intrude, I swear I won’t go there again, I just needed somewhere to-”

“I don’t care where you go,” Mor hisses, a tissue appearing out of thin air, tipping your jaw to one side. “Stay in Rita’s all day if you like it. But don’t get involved with her. Does she know you know me?”

You nod your head, shame warming your cheeks. Mor sighs, rubbing harshly at your neck to remove the stain. It doesn’t take intelligence to tell she’s frustrated.

After a while Mor pulls away, the tissue a dark rouge colour, blood dried and faded to black. “I’ll talk to her. Tell her to stay away from you.” She turns, tossing the tissue in the bin. She shoots you a hard look over her shoulder, “Don’t go near her. Do you understand?”

You nod again.

Mor sighs, and you can hear her lips purse. “I’m serious. She’s a bloodsucker.”

“I won’t go near her,” you say, reaching for the apple and shifting it between you palms. “I promise I won’t this time.”

Silence hangs in the air, and you think you feel the tension disperse. She nods, once. “I believe you.”

Your lips press together, and you peer at the apple, turning it around in your hand to shift your awareness from the weight of Mor’s gaze. At last it lessens, and you look up to see her walking away, heading out of the kitchen and probably for the living room, where it sounds like the others are. She pauses on the threshold. Looks over her shoulder. “You can join these ones too you know. It’s not just the dinners people spend time together.”

You look at one another quietly, but before you can reply she’s vanished off into the hallway, the voices rising a few seconds later when she reaches the living room.

You can join these ones too, you know.

The waxy red of the apple shines beneath the faelights.

It’s not just the dinners people spend time together.

————

You pause in the doorway. One foot in the room with all of them, the other out in the hallway, already poised to depart. You feel it as attention openly shifts to you, not coming in, but not leaving either. For the first time, you’re openly wanting of their focus.

Your skin prickles as you feel the room quiet, but you’ve already taken the first step which you know from having heard so many people say is the hardest. It’s a lie. You know from experience it’s never the first step that’s the most difficult, but the one you have to make in the present. The present is always the worst.

You meet the blue-grey eyes of your youngest sister, Nyx held to her front, Rhysand at her side. “Will you sit down, for this?”

Feyre stiffens, and you can feel the room itself grow stagnant. The air that had previously been alive and bubbling growing colder. Even the warm lighting, the fae-lights and the candles seem to have dulled. A nervous laugh rattles her shoulders, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so serious.” Your features remain solemn, and the little mirth she had left in her eyes winks out. Feyre settles on the arm of one of the big, cushy armchairs, Rhysand sliding in beside her.

You swallow thickly, fierce, lionlike eyes passing through your head. Your head bows. “Madja believes she knows what’s wrong with me.” You clear your throat, and correct yourself, “With my magic.”

Silence hangs in the air, and you have to force yourself to continue, fingers leafing together. “It is a little serious,” you say, glancing briefly to Feyre with a tired, guilty smile, “so I’ll try to be as concise as possible.” Feyre nods her head, and you last a small breath before starting.

You lift your chin to dress the room.

“I only found out I had magic about two months ago. It caused me a lot of pain, and still does when I try to use it, though not as much as those initial attempts.” Your gloved fingers wring together. “After some poor experiences, the side-effects of my magic became apparent. You might have noticed I’ve been wearing gloves a lot lately—it’s not a new fashion craze.” A half-smile appears on Elain’s mouth and you could kiss her cheek for it. “Rather, it began to damage my body physically, externally. My hands became dry, and…there were some other things I’ll leave out, but there was obviously something wrong with them.”

You try to keep your voice steady, try to keep your hands from shaking as you pinch one tip of a finger and begin pulling the glove from your skin. The patchy, discoloured flesh of your arm appears, scabbed and flaky, skin ashen where it’s begun to peel. You remove the other, and fold them over your hands, clasped together at your front.

“After I…After the House Of Wind happened, the dryness spread further to my shoulders. I’ve lost almost all sense of touch in my hands, and most of my arms are numb, but they still hurt a lot if I knock into something.” Are you taking too long? Is this stupid? You try to imagine finding Bas’ house empty. “Madja’s been very attentive, an absolute blessing, and she’s figured that my magic wasn’t existing externally, because it was festering internally.” You pause, lips trembling, but swallow past the lump in your throat. Your voice is hoarse when you add, “For two years.”

The room itself shifts—Feyre sitting straighter; Nesta leaning forward, Cassian squeezing her hand tighter; even Mor’s shifted in her corner, no longer slouching against the wall; only Elain is frozen still.

“What does that mean?” Feyre asks, her voice like a finger dragging through sun-softened butter.

“Madja says she can’t reverse the damage; what’s happened to me. That two years is too long for her to even attempt to undo.”

“So…what?” Feyre’s voice is quiet, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “It’s going to keep spreading? There’s no way to remove the pain?”

“Kind of.” You nod, shifting on your feet. You can’t help wanting to look into a hazel set of eyes in the far corner of the room. You wonder what he’s making of this big speech. Whether it’s all stuff he already knows, and he’s waiting for it to be over already. Old news.

“Madja says she can’t erase the pain. It’s always going to be there because it’s been able to sink too deep.”

Feyre’s hand is covering her mouth; Nesta’s expression is focussed but her knuckles are white where she’s gripping Cassian’s hand; Elain’s eyes are wide, and her skin is sickly pale.

You bite your lip, shifting once again in the doorway. Shifting to stand just over the threshold, teetering on the edge of the living room and the dark, empty corridor.

“She’s given me about six months to live.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d think someone, somewhere, had plucked the final string of the harp and frozen time. It’s unnerving—being in a room filled with living statues.

You almost flinch when Mor pushes off from the wall. It’s not a sudden movement by any means, if anything it’s more subdued than you’ve ever seen her, but with a swift look around the room, locking gazes with four pairs of eyes, she takes her drink with her and makes to pass you, exiting the room. Cassian glances at Nesta, squeezing her hand tight before standing; Rhysand remains still, his and the High Lady’s eyes glazing before he’s pushing a kiss to her temple, scooping up Nyx and following after Azriel and Amren.

You almost crumble now it’s only you and your sisters.

It’s too much for you to bear.

You’d thought you were okay with your silver lining.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[scribblesofagoonerr]

𝑀𝑜𝓃𝓀𝑒𝓎 Our girl: Growing Up | 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝐻𝒶𝓈 𝒞𝑜𝓂𝑒

summary: all good things come to an end when it's decided that custody will go to monkey's dad

thank you to @lvnleah and @alotofpockets for the help with this one

our girl: growing up masterlist

The moment the social worker told Leah that you would be moving in with your dad, it felt like the ground had been ripped out from under her feet. She’d been sitting in her mum’s kitchen, hands gripping the table's edge as though that might stop her world from tilting.

“But her grandma wanted her to be with me,” Leah said, her voice tight, almost breaking, “She told me before she passed. She wanted me to be the one to take care of her.”

The social worker gave Leah a measured look, “Leah, you’re 18. Legally, you’re an adult, but you’re still also very young. Social services believe that her father can provide a more stable environment. He has a steady job, a home, and–”

“He’s been absent for most of his life. Jean told me he was dangerous! How can you let her go back to a man like that?” Leah snapped, her frustration boiling over. 

Amanda placed a calming hand on Leah’s arm, “Bubba, you need to calm down…”

“No, mum. They don’t get it,” Leah shook Amanda’s hand off, “You can’t just drop her off with someone like that, you don’t understand what he’s like. He’s got you completely fooled. How is it possible to allow that? I’ve been there for her every day since her grandma got ill. I’m the one who knows her routine, her favourite bedtime stories, and how she likes the crusts cut off her sandwiches otherwise she won’t eat them. He doesn’t even know her favourite colour!”

“Leah,” Amanda said softly, but Leah still wouldn’t hear it.

“No, this isn’t fair! None of this is fair! They’re not listening. You’re not listening!” Leah’s frustration was directed at the social worker, “I’ll fight for her. I’ll go to court. I’ll… I’ll do whatever it takes for her to be mine!”

The social worker sighed a hint of pity in her eyes, “I understand that this is hard, Leah, but I’m sorry, the decision has been made,” She paused, “Her father has been assessed, and we believe it’s in her best interest to live with him. He’s her biological parent.”

“Her best interest? You don’t know what that even means,” Leah’s fists clenched on the table, “What about what that little girl wants? She’s only nine, but she still deserves to have a voice. She doesn’t want to go with him. She… She doesn’t even know him! Doesn’t that count for something?”

“At her age, her wishes are considered but not decisive,” The social worker explained to Leah, “I’m sorry, Leah. It’s out of your hands. You have until the end of the month, and then she will be moving to her father’s house.”

“Le!” You sprinted across the playground, your plaits swinging behind you, and you threw yourself into her arms.

“Oo, there’s my little Monkey!” Leah’s face lit up as she wrapped you in a warm embrace, lifting your backpack off your shoulders, “Did you have a good day at school today?” She asked, her voice full of affection.

Leah never missed a chance to pick you up from school. It had become one of her favourite parts of the day, a small ritual that always made her smile.

You nodded enthusiastically, your plaits bouncing with movement, “Uh-huh! So fun! And I made a new friend. She likes football too!” You couldn’t contain your excitement, the words tumbling out faster than you could keep up.

“Wow, really?” Leah feigned shock, her eyes sparkling, “That’s great!”

Grinning from ear to ear, you kept walking beside her, your hand firmly clutching hers as you headed toward the car, “I told her I play for the academy and that I know players from the Arsenal team!” You gushed, “She definitely wanted to be my friend after that!”

“Oh, I bet she did,” Leah chuckled, unlocking the car door with a click.

You slid into the car, fastening your seatbelt with a tug, “When you have your game this weekend, can she come watch too? I already told her she could!” You asked eagerly.

Leah’s smile wavered for a moment as her mind drifted to a darker place, but she quickly masked it, her voice soft as she hummed in agreement, “Maybe, we’ll have to see…”

The drive home was filled with your chatter as you excitedly told Leah more about your new friend, but Leah’s thoughts were far from the conversation. She smiled, nodded, and kept the atmosphere light, but inside, the weight of what was coming hung heavy on her heart.

The clock was ticking, and soon, you would be taken from her life.

Despite it all, Leah held onto the promise that she made to make every moment count.

“Is Jordy coming around today? I want to see her!” You asked, looking at Leah with hopeful eyes.

“Yeah, she’s coming round later,” Leah answered, her voice betraying just a hint of exhaustion.

“Do you think she’ll build Lego with me?” You asked, bouncing slightly in your seat, your excitement undiminished.

“You’ll have to ask her, but I have a sneaky feeling she’ll love that,” Leah replied, a soft chuckle escaping her lips.

Even as you spoke with innocent joy, Leah’s heart ached. It was becoming harder to pretend everything was okay, harder to act as though there wasn’t an enormous weight bearing down on her – Knowing that, in just a short time, you would be gone, pulled away from her home and into a life she couldn’t bear for you.

“Remember, shoes off before you go racing through the house…” Leah’s words were left ignored as she unlocked the front door, in favour of you darting straight past her and grabbing the next Lego set you were itching to dive into.

“Ah, ah, not a chance, Monkey,” Leah called after you, her tone playful but firm, “No Lego until you’ve done your homework. You know the rules.”

“But homework is so boring, Le,” You complained, holding the Lego box like it was the most exciting thing in the world.

“It might be boring but it still needs to be done,” Leah smiled, unbothered, “You know this…”

“Le…” You whined, dragging out the sound like it was the most difficult thing in the world.

“The sooner you get it done, the sooner you can build your Lego,” Leah said, her voice reassuring.

“But it’s so boring though,” You muttered.

Leah raised an eyebrow, trying to hide a smile, “Why don’t you grab it out of your bag and we can take a look at it together?”

“It’s Maths,” You sighed, already dreading it.

“Ah, well, that just happens to be my favourite subject,” Leah replied, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Really?” You scrunched your face up in disbelief, “You are weird, Le!”

“Excuse me, little miss, I’ll have you know that Maths can be fun sometimes,” Leah teased, ruffling your hair.

“Nuh-uh. Maths is sooo boring,” You countered, sticking out your tongue, “And you’re weird for liking it!”

Leah laughed, shaking her head in amusement, but underneath, a wave of sadness washed over her. These moments – simple, ordinary, and filled with love – were becoming increasingly rare. She needed to cherish them.

“Tell you what,” Leah said, her voice softening, “We’ll run through your homework together, and then… my parents are out tonight, so it’ll just be me, you, J and Jord when she comes round for dinner. What do you say to pizza?”

“Cheese pizza?” You asked eagerly, already imagining the cheesy delight.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be anything else. So, why don’t you go grab your bag, and we’ll smash through this homework? And then we’ll have more time to build Lego, right?” Leah suggested, her words full of the kind of energy she desperately wanted to feel.

Leah was determined to fight for you over the coming weeks. She rallied her family, pleaded with her mum and dad to back her, and even roped in Jordan to help. Every connection she had was used to its full potential.

But the system was relentless, and every effort she made was met with the same cold response.

“You’re only 18. You’re too young. You don’t have the resources or experience to take on a child full-time.”

Thankfully Jean had left behind a written statement, ensuring that you would stay with Leah and her family until a formal decision was made.

The moments you spent with Leah and her family were some of the hardest, yet most meaningful moments of her life. You had both suffered through so much loss, and Leah poured every ounce of her heart into giving you the safety, comfort, and love you deserved.

Amanda and David both adored having you around. Amanda had become a maternal figure in your life, cooking your favourite meals and helping with your schoolwork. You loved the jokes David would tell you which would make you giggle controllably. Jacob, just a few years older than you, would happily sit and build Lego with you for hours. Jordan often came over, spending time with you, Leah and Jordan taking to you to the park or kicking a football in the garden.

Leah made sure you knew you weren’t ever alone. Together, you watched movies, played games, and built Lego creations that took days to complete, filled with laughter every step of the way.

Leah and Jordan had even been planning a trip to the zoo for your tenth birthday. They had saved up for weeks, wanting to make it special.

But then everything changed. Despite Leah’s best efforts, the court ruled in her dad’s favour, and you were sent to live with him just days before your birthday. The zoo tickets sat untouched on Leah’s bedside table, a painful reminder of what could have been.

The week leading up to the day you were set to move in with your dad had been filled with chaos, confusion and raw, vulnerable emotions.

It was clear that you were struggling with the impending change, and Leah could see it in your behaviour. You were no longer the calm, sweet little girl she knew but the complete opposite, a whirlwind of tantrums, resistance and anger.

At nine years old, you knew that something was happening. Something big and frightening, and you couldn't express the fear you felt any other way than lashing out.

Leah had tried to talk to you, tried to comfort you, but nothing seemed to work. Each day, you grew more defiant, more unwilling to cooperate, and more upset.

Here you were, sitting at the breakfast table, refusing to eat it with your arms crossed and glaring at the plate of toast in front of you, “I don’t want it!”

“Come on, Monkey,” Leah coaxed gently, “It’s your favourite. I made sure to cut the crusts off, just how you like it. Please try a bite.”

“No!” You shouted, pushing the plate off the table. The crash of the plate hitting the floor echoed through the kitchen, and everyone froze.

Leah stared at the mess, her frustration bubbling to the surface, “Monkey,” She said, her tone sharp, “That was unnecessary.”

You had never acted like this, not even on your worst days.

You slid off the chair and crossed your arms, tears forming in your eyes, "I don't want it. I don't! I'm not eating it. I'm not!"

“Le,” Amanda stepped in, her voice calm and soothing, “She’s scared. This isn’t about the toast.”

Leah pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly, “Alright,” She said, crouching to clear up the mess, “No breakfast then. Let’s go upstairs and get ready for school.”

“I don’t want to go to school!” You yelled, stomping your foot.

“You have to go, Monkey. You can’t stay here alone,” Leah replied, her patience wearing thin.

You shook your head in defiance, “No! I’m not going!” You continued to shout in protest.

Leah’s jaw tightened, and she stood, towering over you, “Enough. Upstairs. Now.”

The tantrum that followed was one of the worst Leah had ever faced. You kicked and screamed all the way upstairs, making Leah's job of getting you ready nearly impossible. By the time she was dressed and out of the door, you were ten minutes late to school, leaving Leah drained and dreading the rest of the day.

When you got home from school, your mood hadn’t improved at all.

“Monkey?” Amanda called gently, her tone light and inviting, “Do you want to help me set the table for dinner? I could do with my little helper.”

Normally, you’d love to help with this and be super helpful, but this time round, you completely ignored her in favour of focusing on your Lego.

“Monkey?” Amanda tried again, this time adding a playful note, hoping to coax you.

“WHAT?!” You snapped, your voice sharp and defensive.

Amanda blinked, taken aback by your tone, “Oh… I didn’t mean to upset you, sweetheart.”

Leah, who was busy with her own coursework, immediately looked up from her laptop, her brow furrowing, “Hey, excuse me, little madam. That’s not how we talk to people. I’d like you to apologise, please.”

You crossed your arms tightly, refusing to meet Leah’s eyes, “No, I don’t want to apologise to ‘Manda,” You muttered.

“Monkey, I understand you’re upset, but being upset doesn’t give you a free pass to be rude. Apologise now. Please,” Leah stood, her voice calm but firmer now.

“I don’t want to apologise, and I don’t want to set the stupid table!” You shouted, your frustration bubbling over as you slammed a Lego piece onto the table.

Leah crouched down beside you,  meeting your eyes with a steady gaze, “I know things feel really hard right now. And I know you have some big feelings inside, but throwing them at people like this isn’t fair. We’ve talked about finding ways to tell us what’s wrong, haven’t we?”

“I DON’T CARE!” You yelled, your hands gripping a Lego block tightly before you hurled it in Leah’s direction.

The block hit Leah’s arm with a soft thud. Her eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, the room fell silent.

“Monkey,” Leah said after a deep breath, standing up slowly. Her voice had turned firmer now, though it remained steady, “We don’t throw things. That’s not okay,” She told you, “If you're not going to be nice then no more Lego tonight." She bent down to pick up the scattered blocks and placed them back in the box out of your reach.

"HEY. NO. GIVE IT BACK!" You screamed, launching yourself onto the floor, kicking your legs as tears streamed down your face.

Jordan walked into the room as your wail reached its loudest pitch, “Hey– Whoa. What’s going on in here?” She asked, her eyes flicking from you to Leah.

“Jordy! Le’s being mean!” You sobbed, pointing an accusing finger at Leah, “She took my Lego! Tell her to give it back– NOW!”

Jordan crouched down beside you, keeping her expression calm but concerned, “Hey, little one. That’s not how we ask for things, is it?” She said gently, brushing a hand over your hair, “If Le took the Lego away, I’m sure she had a reason. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No! She’s just super mean!” You wailed, your voice cracking as you buried your face in your hands.

“She threw a Lego brick at Leah,” Jacob piped up from the other side of the room, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Oh,” Jordan said, her brows lifting as she glanced at Leah, who gave a tired nod, “Well, you know that throwing things isn’t very nice, is it? I’m sure you wouldn’t like it if someone threw something at you, would you?”

“She deserved it!” You blurted, your voice muffled by your hands, “She’s being mean!”

“Hmm,” Jordan said thoughtfully, crouching lower to meet your tearful gaze, “It sounds like you’re feeling really upset right now, but throwing things or shouting doesn’t help anyone understand what’s wrong. Do you want to take some deep breaths and try telling us what’s going on?”

You shook your head stubbornly, curling up tighter on the floor.

Jordan sighed softly and looked up at Leah, who gave her a weary but understanding look, “Alright, little one,” She said, “When you’re ready to talk, we’re here. But for now, let’s take a break, okay?”

Your tantrum, however, carried well into bedtime where your defiance reached new heights.

“Alright, Monkey,” Leah said firmly as she stood by the sofa where you were curled up against Jordan, “It’s time for bed.”

“No! I’m not tired!” You argued, though your drooping eyes betrayed you, “I’m not going to bed! I’m staying up!”

“I don’t think so. It’s getting late, and that means it’s bedtime,” Leah replied, keeping her tone steady but firm.

“I don’t want to!” You yelled, your arms crossing tightly over your chest, “No!”

"Yes," Leah insisted.

You continued to stubbornly glare at Leah, "No!"

Leah took a deep breath, crouching to your level, "I'm not arguing with you about this, Monkey. Let's go –Upstairs to bed, please."

You kicked your legs out defiantly, "No!"

Jordan rubbed your back, trying a different approach, "Hey, come on. How about you go get changed into your pyjamas, and I can read you a bedtime story? We can pick your favourite one.”

"Nooo!” You wailed, “I don't want to go to bed!"

Leah pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly, "This is not up for decision, Monkey. It's bedtime, and that's final."

But instead of complying, you leaned forward, and in a burst of frustration, bit Leah’s arm.

“Ow, Monkey!” Leah gasped, pulling her arm back in shock, “No, we do not bite. That was very naughty. Why would you do that?”

Jordan winced as she watched you instantly cower in fear at Leah’s words. That is something that you have never done before, “Le, easy. I think she’s just scared with everything going on.”

“That still doesn’t make it acceptable for her to bite, Jord,” Leah retorted, “Monkey, I know you’re upset but we don’t bite. That is not okay to do.”

You froze, realising what you’d done, but the defiance in your eyes didn’t waver, “You’re being mean!” You shouted, even though guilt was beginning to creep in.

“Little one, biting hurts people,” Jordan reminded you, her expression softened but her voice remained calm, “That’s not how we show our feelings, even when we’re upset, it is?”

You shook your head stubbornly, tears welling in her eyes.

“I know things feel hard right now, Monkey,” Leah knelt beside you, her tone softer but still firm, “And I know you’re upset. But hurting people is never okay, no matter how big your feelings are. Do you want to try again and use your words instead?”

Tears began to spill down your cheeks as the weight of your emotions overwhelm you, “I… I don’t want to go, Le,” You finally admitted, your voice cracking as you buried your face in your hands, “I want to stay here with you, and Jordy, and… and ‘Manda, and J, and David.”

“Oh, Monkey,” Leah’s expression softened instantly, scooping you up into her arms and holding you close, “I know you want that, and I would love nothing more than for it to be possible, my girl, but it's… it’s complicated.”

“Then why can’t I?” You cried, your voice trembling with desperation, “Why does it have to be complicated? Why can’t I just stay here, Le?”

Leah sighed, her heart breaking at the rawness of your plea, “Well… Some people decided that it would be best for you to go and live with your biological dad, remember?”

“But I don’t want that!” You sobbed, clutching her tightly, “I want to stay here. I want to stay with you!”

“I know, my girl,” Leah whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “I know you don’t. And if it were my choice, I wouldn’t let you go. Not for a second.”

“I don’t like it,” You murmured, your voice barely audible as you hid your head in Leah’s chest.

Leah rocked you gently, letting you cry into her jumper while her own eyes glistened with unshed tears, “Sometimes… Sometimes grown-ups make decisions that seem really unfair, don’t they?” She continued softly, “And I wish I could change this for you. I really do. But unfortunately, it’s just… it’s just not possible this time round.”

The morning of the move, the weight of the day pressed down on both of you. You clung to Leah as though she were the only thing anchoring you in the world that suddenly felt too big, too scary.

“Don’t make me go, Le,” You sobbed, your small hands gripping at her hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

Leah’s heart cracked in two. She could feel your pain, your fear, and the helplessness that filled every inch of her. She wanted to shield you, protect you from the uncertainty that lay ahead, but she knew it wasn’t that simple.

Your social worker that had been assigned to you was here to pick you up. She was a stern woman with a clipboard tucked under her arm, standing there impatiently by the door, glancing at her watch every few seconds, “We need to get going, Leah. She’s not going to do well if we keep dragging this out.”

But none of that mattered to you. You were determined you weren’t going anywhere, clinging tighter to Leah, “Nooo! Don’t make me go!”

Leah felt her patience fraying, “I know exactly how my girl is feeling, okay?” She snapped, her voice sharp and raw, “You don’t need to tell me how to handle this.”

The social worker blinked, taken aback by Leah’s tone but unfazed, “It’s just… Well, this is difficult enough without making it worse.”

“I’m aware,” Leah growled, her grip tightening on your shoulder as she tried to stay calm, “But she’s my priority right now.”

You buried your face into Leah’s chest, your sobs shaking her to the core, “I don’t want to go, Le. Please, I don’t want to go!”

“I know, I’m sorry, Monkey,” Leah whispered, her voice cracking with the weight of her own emotions, “I’m so sorry. It’s just… It’s not up to me anymore. It’s… It’s out of my hands, my girl.”

You shook your head, tears soaking up her hoodie, “But I… I don’t want to go. Please don’t make me go.”

Leah tilted her head back, trying to blink away the tears burning her eyes, but they wouldn’t stop. She had to be strong for you, even if she didn’t feel strong at all, “I know, Monkey. I know,” She said softly, brushing your hair out of your face, “Remember how we talked about doing things we don’t want to do?”

“Uh uh,” You sniffed, nodding hesitantly, “Like grandma’s funeral? When I was scared?”

“Yeah, just like that,” Leah replied, her voice gentle but firm. She ran a hand through your hair, her fingers catching on the tangled strands - a reminder of how you’d refused to let her brush it this morning, “Well… This is one of those times, too. It’s hard, and it’s scary, but… it’s something we have to do.”

The social worker cleared her throat, stepping closer, trying to force the moment along, “Leah, we really can’t delay this any longer. It’s time.”

Leah spun around, her face contorting with frustration, tears still hanging heavy in her eyes, “Do you think I don’t know that?!” Her voice cracked under the weight of everything, the words coming out sharper than intended, “I don’t need you rushing me. This is my kid. My kid, okay? Flesh and blood don’t mean anything. And if you think you’re going to make this easier by standing there like you’re some clock-watcher, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

The social worker held up her hands in a gesture of surrender, “I’m just trying to help you both.”

“By hurrying me up?” Leah’s jaw tightened, “By forcing us into this goodbye before we’re ready? That’s not helping. So no, I’m not ‘just’ going to let you make this harder. You’re going to have to wait.”

You looked up at Leah, eyes red and tear-streaked, “I want to stay with you, Le. Please… Please don’t make me go!”

Leah knelt down, bringing your face to hers. She wiped away your tears with the pads of her thumbs, “I know, Monkey. I know… But we talked about this, remember? You have to be brave.”

“I… I don’t want to be brave,” You continued to sob, shaking your head as tears continued to spill down your cheeks, “I don’t want to, I want to stay here. I want to… I want to stay with you. Don’t make me go, Le!”

“Shh, I know, my girl, I know,” Leah cupped your face and pulled you closer to her, “You’re going to be okay, Monkey. You are… It’s going to be fine. You are going to be fine.”

The social worker shifted uneasily, glancing at the door, “Leah, I really think we need to–”

“No. Not yet,” Leah snapped, her patience completely gone, turning back to you, her arms wrapping around you tighter as if to keep the world at bay for just a little while longer, “You’re gone to be fine, you’re going to be okay, my girl. I love you so much.”

You sniffled against her shoulder, still reluctant to let go. The social worker took a step back, choosing silence instead of pushing further.

“I know it all seems big and scary right now that things are changing, but I need you to be brave, yeah?” Leah squeezed you a bit tighter, savouring the moment before she looked up at the social worker from where she knelt beside you, “I know it’s time but do you think I could just have a minute alone? Please.”

The social worker hesitated but nodded, stepping back into the hallway, and leaving Leah and you alone.

“I’m never going to stop fighting for you, Monkey,” Leah leaned in close, her voice barely above a whisper, “I’m never going to stop, okay? I love you, my girl.”

“I love you too, Le,” You whispered back.

Leah pulled you into one last tight hug, wishing for time to stop, wishing she could keep you forever. But the reality was unavoidable. 

“Be brave my girl,” Leah murmured with a final, heart-wrenching kiss on your forehead, she stood up, wiping away the last of her tears.

“I… I should’ve fought harder,” Leah muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, the exhaustion in her words heavy with self-doubt.

Leah sat on her mum’s sofa, her phone lying untouched in her lap. Her fingers gripped the cushion, her eyes unfocused as she stared at the black screen. Her mind replayed the last few hours – the goodbye, the sobs, the quiet ache of watching you leave – and the words she’d been trying to ignore crept up again, gnawing at her insides.

“Le, you did everything that you could,” Jordan said softly, sitting beside her on the sofa. She’d come round that night, knowing how difficult this was for Leah. She placed a hand on Leah’s knee, her touch grounding, “You couldn’t have done more.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Leah whispered, shaking her head, “She begged me, Jord. She begged me to not let her go, and I… I couldn’t stop it,” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears at bay, “What kind of a person am I if I can’t even protect her?”

Jordan wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, “You’re the kind of person who loves her enough to keep fighting, even when it feels impossible. That’s who you are, Le.”

Leah leaned into Jordan’s embrace, her chest tightening with the effort of holding back her emotions.

Before she could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs caught both of their attention. Moments later, Jacob appeared, clutching a small, worn brown and white monkey.

“Mum?” Jacob’s expression was hesitant and unsure, glancing towards Amanda, “I found this on the stairs…” He held it out, the monkey’s arms ragged from years of being chewed on. 

Leah stared at the stuffed monkey, her breath catching in her throat, “That’s… That’s Monkeys,” She whispered, her voice breaking, “If she doesn’t have that then…” Her hands trembled as she reached out and took the stuffed monkey, clutching it tightly to her chest.

“She’s not going to be able to sleep without it,” Jacob said quietly, his tone filled with the kind of innocent wisdom that only children possess.

Leah couldn’t hold back anymore. A sob escaped her lips as she buried her face in the monkey’s soft fur, the familiar scent hitting her like a wave. All the emotions she’d been holding in – the guilt, the heartbreak, the helplessness – poured out in heavy, gut-wrenching sobs.

Jordan tightened her hold around Leah, whispering soothing words into her ear as Amanda came over, sitting on Leah’s other side, “She’s going to be okay, Bubba,” She said firmly, though her own eyes were glassy, “You’ve done everything you can, and she knows you love her.”

Leah shook her head, tears streaming down her face, “It’s not enough,” She choked out, “She needs me. I… I should’ve fought harder.”

“You fought as hard as you could,” Jordan reassured her, “And you’re not done fighting, Le. You’re not giving up on her.”

Leah’s jaw clenched, tears brimming in her eyes, “I’ll never give up on our girl. Never.”

Amanda reached over and squeezed her hand, “And that’s why, in the end, you’re going to be the one she turns to.”

© scribblesofagoonerr

[gotta-winwin]

(🎞️) ... hit the road docu.<> at the end of this road

masterlist | cyana's masterlist

word count: 1k TW: mentions of scoups hiatus, overworking italics are interviews cut in between scenes + english. a/n: this one's short but sweet ( ˶ˆᗜˆ�� )

Cyana watched as Hoshi mumbled to himself in the mirror. She walked over, worried that the boy had finally pushed himself to the brink of insanity.

"You got this, Hoshi." He chided himself through the mirror. "You have to smile onstage even if you're not feeling well. This is your job."

Her heart sank.

She knew everybody was finding it rough without Seungcheol, their conditions were wearing thin and members kept falling ill left and right. Approaching him, she put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

"Number?" She asked. The question was feeling increasingly silly to ask as everyone's pain became more obvious.

She admired Hoshi a lot, when he still looked up at her with a bright smile. "7? I'm doing good." They both knew he was lying through his teeth, afraid of adding to the already low moral.

Cyana pulled up a chair next to him and laid her head down on the table, turning so she could still see him. "I miss Coups."

Hoshi nodded, reaching over to run his fingers languidly through her hair. She no longer recoiled at the physical touch anymore, both too tired and too used to it to move. They felt like second nature to her by now. "Me too."

It felt like they were always dodging around the problem, pretending that everything was fine. Cyana supposed it was probably easier to go onstage and smile if you didn't have to talk about what was bothering you.

"Fighting!" Hoshi brought his hand up for a fist bump.

Returning the gesture lazily, Cyana couldn't help but feel amazed at how well Hoshi could adapt, still bringing the energy even when he wasn't feeling 100%.

"My stomach was hurting a lot during rehearsal." Hoshi was busy eating as he answered the interviewer's question. "Probably caught whatever Dino had in Japan."

He could be seen stumbling during their choreo, a strange sight coming from their performance unit leader.

"I wanted to bubblewrap every single one of them and tell the world not to get them sick." Cyana's lips curled at the wishful thought. "We were all trying to compensate for Coups oppa's absence and Hannie oppa, but Hoshi was trying the most."

"We're both sick." Dino told the camera, as if he was a little proud to be having a partner in crime.

Cyana frowned when Hoshi nodded. "That's not a good thing."

"At least we have each other." Hoshi shrugged, clapping Dino on the back in solidarity. "Suffering together."

She scoffed, although the worry was evident by the way she was pulling Dino's jacket tighter around him. "My overachievers." She mumbled endearingly, shaking her head when they only exchanged a smile. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Cherish and love us." Hoshi laughed when she cringed at his comment. "Ow." He stopped laughing to clutch his stomach. "Laughing hurts."

Cyana let out a deep sigh. "Go lie down with Jeonghan. We have like 20 minutes before we're rehearsing again."

She looked at the camera with an exasperated glance as the two boys left, following her orders. "It's a wonder I'm younger than all of them. Sometimes I feel like the oldest."

The Hiphop Unit's performance felt empty without Seungcheol's presence. Cyana sat next to Hoshi and Woozi, joining them as they watched Vernon, Mingyu and Wonwoo rehearse their own separate parts.

"They're good." Hoshi spoke into her ear, tucking her hair aside.

She nodded. "I miss Coups though."

"You've been saying that since he left." Woozi glanced at her with faint amusement. "Keep talking and we'll start thinking you have a favourite."

Cyana laughed, clapping her hands together at the accusation. "Maybe I do have a favourite."

"It's got to be me." Hoshi mused, grabbing her hand in his and shaking it. "You love me."

She made a face and he pouted.

"We both know her favourite is Dino." Woozi offered, it was rare for him to join in in teasing Cyana, but she was glad he felt they were close enough for that now.

Eyes wide with mock offense, she gently nudged Woozi in retaliation. "I'm not telling."

Hoshi sighed, ignoring her words. "It's definitely me." He said, deliberately, to no one in particular.

The other two shared a look and they both snorted at the statement. "You wish."

"What is Hoshi to you?"

The question was asked to everyone gathered in the makeup and hair room, a couple hours before their concert in Bangkok.

Wonwoo looked up from the ramen he was busy picking apart. "A..." He paused, trying to find a more polite way to phrase what he was thinking. "...a very passionate friend."

"A cute attention seeker?" Minghao offered when the camera approached him.

Hoshi let out a guffaw from behind him. "I am not an attention seeker.”

"Hoshi's a lunatic." Woozi said, summing up exactly what everyone else had been thinking but had been too afraid to say.

The camera panned to Cyana, who was staring at Woozi, mouth agape. "That was what I was going to say!" She protested, now at a loss for words. "Umm..." She looked at Hoshi, thinking. "Hoshi is a friend who I look at sometimes and think...what is going on inside his mind?" She quoted the viral tiktok sound, laughing when only Vernon caught the reference.

"People usually don't know that I'm an introvert." Hoshi spoke to the camera. "I'm only a lunatic around my members, or people I'm close to."

"You should've seen how shy he was the first time we were alone in a room together." Cyana remembered the instance. "He could barely look at me. Addressed the ground whenever he said anything.”

As the hours passed and it was time for the concert to begin, everyone crowded around and placed their hands in the center, looking expectingly at Hoshi for him to begin their chant.

"Okay everyone!" He yelled, all fired up and ready to go. He could feel the energy and passion bubbling through him as a fire ignited within, ready to give his all onstage. "An Ode Tour in Bangkok! Let's give a shout in 3!"

Cyana stood opposite to him in the circle, admiring him silently.

"I always joke and say I want to be just like Hoshi when I grow up." Cyana giggled at her little quip. "But there's truth to that. I want to be just like him onstage - a natural performer who gives his all."

a/n: there will be lots of hit the road eps coming soon! i loved exploring hoshi and cyana's dynamic further

[minkdelovely]

catharsis

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“we are more

than our disguises,

we are more

than just the pain.”

Alastor x Lucifer ; RadioApple ; MDNI 18+

tags/warnings: angst (w/a happy ending), established relationship, hurt/comfort, crying, mentions/allusions of abuse, mentions of death from illness, sexual content (biting, blood/blood play, kissing, palming)

word count: 2.5k

author’s note: guess who’s writing angst again?? this kinda hit me out of nowhere, but is fully inspired by @sunlit-mess / SOL 1 x 1 (on twitter) recent works (linked HERE and HERE) with alastor seeking luci’s comfort. seeing these back-to-back just set something off in my mind and i couldn’t rest until it was out. a special thanks and shoutout to our darling @fraugwinska for helping me get a title on this baby — without her y’all would have been reading ‘untitled’ 😂💖 quote is from twin flame by weyes blood. without further ado, buckle up and dive in; i hope you enjoy 😌 (also posted on my ao3 if that’s your preference)

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It was surprising, even to himself.

Alastor couldn’t recall the last time he had cried, much less in front of a witness. Composure and a display of strength were hard-won attributes he had built upon himself. Each unpleasant memory in his mind was a brick in his fortification; the tears he denied himself to shed the mortar between them.

He hadn’t always followed his own code of conduct and taken the ugliness of life on the chin. Before he had found his own strength, he could admit to being swayed by the will of others. Alastor found words to be harsher than the switch and was more than familiar with the sting of both. Though the switch was a boy’s punishment… A closed fist was more suitable for raising a man.

Or so his father had thought.

Mama’s boy… Just my luck. I got me a mama’s boy... C’mere you little pansy!

The repulsion in his father’s words hadn’t lost any of its potency, even after all this time. Alastor recalled them with more clarity than the face of the man they came from, which only served to plunge him further in his despair. Hadn’t he proven his resilience? Not only in body, but in mind and spirit? Perhaps not as much as he thought, with the way he was sobbing. If his father could see him now — bereft of stoicism and drenched in tears, drool, and mucus — he’d have been absolutely disgusted. Alastor loathed how much that bothered him. The fear of inadequacy lurching in his gut like a bad tonic.

Hot, angry tears flowed down the streaks that shame had carved on his face. Not that Lucifer would be able tell the difference with the way Alastor had burrowed into his chest. It was merely a fresh bout for the candy-striped vest to soak up. The saline fabric was beginning to chafe Alastor’s face, but he didn’t feel ready to surface; arms tightening around his lover’s waist as his hands gripped Lucifer with a desperation he assumed was buried long ago with his innocence.

Stop hidin’ behind your mama and come take your whoopin’ like a man!

Alastor choked on another sob and gasped for breath, heaving in Lucifer’s arms as the angel held him firmly. Gloved hands petting red hair and anguished, downcast ears. Hushed words of comfort spoken into the crown of Alastor’s head to soothe in tandem as they both shook from the force of the demon’s sorrow.

“I’ve got you. Shh, honey, I’ve got you.”

So much love conveyed in so few words. Alastor still grappled with accepting it. Evidenced by more tears fighting their way through his clenched eyes and a muffled, heart-wrenching cry into Lucifer’s chest. The pain of it went straight through the King’s heart as he pressed a firm kiss to Alastor’s head, feeling the distress on his face as he did so. How he wished to unburden the demon of his suffering. More than anyone, Lucifer could understand what it was like to be wracked with such melancholy.

If only Alastor could remember what had set him off, if he had, in fact, been triggered at all. He had just woken up this morning feeling low. Why was he dwelling so much on things that were better left to the past? Unbeknownst to either of them, they were sharing the same thought. And both knew that dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed did nothing other than inflict harm. Must they be plagued by the ignorance and rejection of their fathers for eternity? The cost of the scorn they’d endured seemed to grow ever higher some days.

That was one of the first things they had bonded over, sharing self-deprecating laughter to hide from their aching wounds. When love is built on a foundation of hurt, it’s only a matter of time before the walls crumble. Most times they were Lucifer’s, and sad as it was, it felt much easier to navigate. The angel was much more comfortable wearing his feelings, after all, and he’d had millennia of experience weathering his storms. Alastor was no stranger to being the shoulder to cry on. If anything, it came to him too naturally; a trait he couldn’t be sure was born in him or a side-effect of the wall he had built.

When Alastor buckled under the weight of his grief, it was devastating. He repressed himself for such long bouts of time that the force of his woe had the impact of an avalanche. Sadness, anger, shame, and regret cascading through his lithe frame until he was utterly hollowed out. Lucifer’s task of mending him was only beginning, he knew. It would be days before Alastor returned to himself, but he was more than willing to put in the work. Stitching his love back together with his needle of assurance and thread of devotion.

It was impossible to tell how long they spent this way. Alastor kneeling on the floor between Lucifer’s legs, knees sore and body aching, face still smothered in the drenched clothes donning the angel’s chest. Lucifer on the sofa in their bedroom, comforting the demon with every ounce of strength he could muster.

Until finally the tears stopped, replaced with uneven, sometimes stuttering breaths and hiccups. And soon enough those were gone too. Lucifer’s right hand rubbing Alastor’s back as his left cradled Alastor’s head. Before long, the demon was stirring. Sniffling a bit as he nuzzled his face into the mess of fluids he had left on the King’s vest and shirt. Lucifer didn’t mind, knowing that he could have it all gone with a snap of his fingers, but it wouldn’t do any good for Alastor to try wiping his face on his clothes in the state they were in.

“Let me clean your face, love. You’ll get a rash if you stay there,” Lucifer chided softly, manifesting a warm, damp handkerchief as he bent down to kiss Alastor's forehead for good measure.

It wasn’t a very convincing threat, both of them knowing that if Alastor did suffer a rash Lucifer would heal it in an instant. But Alastor conceded, and gingerly peeled himself away from the safety of the angel’s chest. His poor face was raw from tears, eyelids chapped red with irritation; dried salt crusted his cheeks like the vestiges of sea foam on the shore.

Alastor knew he looked awful. He could see himself reflected in Lucifer’s eyes proving as much. Every bit of moisture his body had was soaked into Lucifer’s chest, and he could feel the headache promised by dehydration blooming in his forehead. He was wrung out and exhausted but nearly began crying again, too moved by the tender act as Lucifer gently wiped his face. His Sire hushed him, voice calm and gaze full of adoration. Not even bothering to clean himself up before ensuring that Alastor was taken care of first.

The swell of affection Alastor felt in that moment was overwhelming, and he swallowed thickly as he closed his eyes, succumbing to the comfort of his lover’s hands tending to him. His father’s cruel words fading into darkness with every soft swipe of the warm cloth.

You’ll find someone special someday, mon amour.

Alastor was grateful for his mother’s memory, and wondered — not for the first time — what she would think of Lucifer. She had been a God-fearing woman, after all. A fear that she did not pass down to her son, choice of partner aside. He had turned his back on God long before his eyes had set their sight on the fallen angel. If she could see him from Heaven, he hoped that she would be happy. The Devil wasn’t all he was made out to be, if the way he cherished Alastor wasn’t proof enough.

His mother never pestered him about settling down, but worried for him deeply when they realized that she was sick and wouldn’t be getting better. Alastor was self-sufficient by then, with a year of working at the local radio station under his belt. Not that he didn’t take her concern to heart. If anything, when it came to her, he took things all too seriously. He wasn’t weighed down by the need for partnership or marriage, especially not when his career still had traction to gain. Alastor would try to tell her as much, assure her that she had nothing to worry about, and they would drop the subject and speak of other things. But he never left the sanatorium without receiving her prayers; his large, warm hands looking almost comical in her frail, cold grasp. Her hold on him was as fervent as the words and wishes she spoke to someone Alastor knew wasn’t listening. Though that didn’t make the act any less sincere or appreciated.

It was a brand of care Alastor thought he would never know again after his mother finally succumbed to her illness. The near-decade that passed after this had only cemented that fact. He didn’t seek companionship nor did he deny it when the mood struck. But beyond his small circle of friends, Alastor was content with his solitary life. Besides, a partner or spouse would have only made his nighttime affairs much harder to juggle — if not damn near impossible — and having the reputation of an elusive bachelor only helped with his fan base when it came to his radio segment.

It wasn’t until Lucifer had broken through his defenses that Alastor understood how he had barricaded himself from the world. And that he wanted support and comfort and understanding more than he cared to admit.

There are things you need that you can’t take care of on your own.

Basked in the warmth of Lucifer’s affection and his mother’s memory, Alastor hummed and opened his eyes, a tired smile curling his lips. Lucifer smiled back at him, expression benevolent and soft as his hands found their way back into Alastor’s hair to resume their petting. And grateful as he was, Alastor couldn’t ignore that Lucifer had yet to address the mess setting into his clothes. He fought against the pain as he uncurled his fingers, stiff from the grip on Lucifer’s waist, and silently began unbuttoning the candy-striped vest he had come to adore as the angel’s signature.

“Hey, you don’t have to —”

Alastor stopped him with a kiss, his fingers continuing their work as Lucifer sighed against his lips. The tension in both their bodies deflating as they shared hungry pecks and inhaled each other’s breath. All the while, Alastor’s hands remained busy with the undoing of buttons. First on the vest, then on the white shirt beneath it. Each open button providing relief like the snapping of a taut string.

Perhaps it was the musician in Alastor subconsciously rising to the task, but Lucifer would never cease to be caught flat-footed by the demon’s impeccable timing. How Alastor’s fingers managed to perfectly sync with his kisses was a feat Lucifer could only describe as divine. As if the acts were always meant to be one, never separate. It made the golden blood in his body turn molten; roiling through his veins as he sighed and chased every touch with relish. He was not often given these affections without needing to ask, whether with a look or an outright plea. Games that Lucifer was content to play, knowing that anticipation and a good tease left them both more than satiated.

With the collar of Lucifer’s shirt loosened, Alastor straightened his back and bent his neck to suckle and kiss down the angel’s pristine throat. The demon took his time with this, hoping to convey his gratitude and desire with every press of his lips against the milky skin beneath them. When Alastor made it to the junction between neck and shoulder, he was unable to resist the urge to sink his teeth in; the flesh yielding to his fangs like a ripened peach, and the nectar that soon coated his tongue was a gift in itself.

Lucifer hissed through the bite, hips jerking in space between them as Alastor groaned and languidly sucked and licked the blood rising from the wound. With his hands free from buttons, Alastor let them explore. How he adored the feeling of Lucifer’s small frame beneath them. Endlessly fascinated by the twitches and sounds he could elicit from the angel with little more than the slightest drag of his claws against sensitive skin.

Alastor released himself from Lucifer’s neck with a salacious pop and licked his lips for good measure. The whine that escaped Lucifer from the action had Alastor’s ears and groin at attention. The low creaking sound of antlers branching out mingled with their shallow breath. Alastor’s crimson eyes drank in the almost bashful look on Lucifer’s face, accented by a golden flush that made his abdomen tight with hunger.

How lucky he was, truly.

The silver lining of Lucifer’s descent was heavily in Alastor’s favor. Had Lucifer remained God’s favorite, he’d be in Heaven — a place Alastor had never planned to be. In truth, he never intended to be in Hell either, which is where luck came into play. He wasn’t destined for mortal companionship, but for something transcendent. Not a god to worship, but a sin. A king.

An angel.

“I’m unworthy of your benevolence,” Alastor lamented, desperately kissing and kneading the supple skin of Lucifer’s chest. “But I’m devoted to you, always.”

It was a sentiment he had expressed before, feeling much like Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’ feet with her tears. But it made Lucifer’s heart jump all the same; its rapid beat calling to Alastor like a siren from under skin and bone as his teeth latched to Lucifer’s breast. Their pleasured moans harmonized as Lucifer cupped the back of Alastor's head, encouraging him to continue with a whisper of his name. Alastor happily obliged. Tongue lapping at the pert nipple, hot and fervent, as his mouth and teeth provided a deliciously sharp suction, drawing out the ambrosia in Lucifer’s veins.

Lucifer struggled to remain cognisant, lost and overwhelmed as Alastor’s mouth peppered a trail of kisses from right to left. Alastor shifted slightly between Lucifer’s legs as teeth sunk into the top of his left pectoral just as Alastor’s left hand palmed his groin. The wanton cry that echoed off the walls of their bedroom only served to make Alastor desperate for more. Eagerly succumbing to his need to worship the angel, the agony he had suffered earlier behind him but not forgotten.

An offering of gratitude and declaration of fidelity in a language they shared when words failed. When adoration was beyond articulation and the only thing strong enough to quell their aching hearts was propinquity. The evening had started with Alastor falling apart in Lucifer’s lap… but it would end with Lucifer falling apart in Alastor’s hands.

And they would wake in the morning with tangled hair in wrinkled sheets. Sharing hushed jokes and lazy kisses as the early morning sun colored their room in a hazy, pink glow.

Healing each other one day at a time.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧     ✧     ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmiccandydreamer, @hyperfixations-keep-me-going, @cherry-cola-100, @wonderlandangelsposts, @catticora, @velvette3, @sailorsmouth, @reath-solia, @junieshohoho, @cxrsedwxrlds, @littlebluefishtail, @hazelfoureyes, @sugoi-writes, @nxcxllxsevens, @swagkittybear

[tenjikyu]

It has been an illegal amount of time since I've been on tumblr (like a week and a half), but I'm back.

Hope you're doing well!

Anyways! Provided you're not busy (take however much time you need, whether that be a week or whatever), I have thought of another Tokyorev request since I've been rewatching the anime. There is a staggering lack of m!reader x Rindou on this platform, so therefore, here is my request.

How about m!reader x Rindou (romantic/fluff, whatever) where reader is a lesser known delinquent in Roppongi (2005 for reference) who constantly gets into fights, and winds up fighting Rindou and Ran. I'll leave it up to you if he wins or loses, but basically he catches Rindou's eye. I'm trying not to make my requests super detailed so I can leave space for creative liberties.

Well, there's the request, do with that what you will. Also I will probably be dropping a BSD request on you soon, so fair warning.

— 🎭

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 ( 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝 ) 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

🎐rindou haitani x m!reader ‪‪ ༄

🎐fluff, headcanon format bc i’m struggling, lowercase intended, possibly ooc bc i haven’t touched any tokyo rev content in months but ill do my best. ‪‪the fight scene is WHACK bc i suck at writing it so im begging yall to ignore ༄

🎐 you were a rambunctious little shit growing up, and it was to nobody’s surprise you ended up roaming the streets of roppingi, picking fights with anyone you could see

🎐 you were smart though, choosing to grief on people you knew you could take on and people who were interested in fighting. you had no interest in bashing innocent passerby’s and people who could clearly stomp you into the concrete.

🎐 boxing and martial arts was something your parents had put you into as a way to vent out all that energy (it didn’t work, you still beat the shit outta the kids in your school), so you had both a good technique and a strong fist whenever you threw yourself into battle a fight.

🎐 this all changed the day you encountered the haitani brothers, rindou and ran.

🎐 their reputation was nothing exaggerated, and their eye for fashion was also nothing short of perfection. they were flashy and had total control over roppongi before they were even adults.

🎐 you never thought you’d have to end up laying hands on either of them, let alone both at the same time, until last week.

🎐 you were much less known then the brothers, however that doesn’t mean you didn’t have friends and alliances on the streets. you were a fun and energetic character, who had no problem stepping up if someone worth saving needed help. and that gave you a good reputation between the other lower gangs in the area.

🎐 so, when you saw the haitani brothers beating the shit out of your friends forehead, you wasted no time jumping in.

🎐 it was a shitty battle, with a 2v1 (your friend was fucked UP, bro was no help) , however your martial arts techniques prepared you for rindou’s quick movements, and your boxing provided a good punch to his pretty face.

🎐 in the end, it was clear you were going to lose. you bet if only one were there you might’ve stood a chance, however on the verge of passing out, decided to accept your fate and hope you don’t end up dead.

🎐 however you find that as you collapse, you watch them both walk off into the distance.

🎐 wait wtf.

🎐 they weren’t gonna torture you ? or break your bones ?

🎐 if you were a little more conscious, you might’ve been able to hear the conversation between the two brothers, however you knocked tf out not a minute after.

“so why are we letting that boy off the hook? he jumped into a fight that wasn’t his” ran curiously asked his little brother.

“to jump into a fight you know your gonna lose is honorable, however if he does it again then we can shatter his arms!” rindou perclaims, a flushed face that clearly wasn’t coming from the fight he just fought.

as ran looks back at the two bodies behind him, he thinks to himself…

nah i’m kidding ofc bro speaks his mind.

“nah, we’ve beaten up plenty of dudes doing the same thing. you just think that kid back there is hot huh.”

“ran what the FUCK-”