#air blowing and sterilization

[wepackmachine]

Milk Powder Cans Filling Capping Machine – Worldepack-Packing Machine Supplier

[grandisknight]

afternoon treatment | zayne

summary: Zayne follows the "doctor's orders" in order to feel better.

tags: suggestive, established relationship, gn!reader (no specific descriptors), soft zayne, medical kink, 'doctor' kink, kissing, medical procedures (auscultation), medical inaccuracies (in a sense), chest mention, straddling

wc: 2.2k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: relax time affinity 80 with zayne and that one liner he has. that's it, that's the tweet.

Afternoons at Akso Hospital were always the busiest, from routine check-ups to meetings alike. Staff and accompanying patients hustled through the halls and hushed rooms—there was always something happening, and the cardiac surgery department was no different.

Yet, today seemed to offer Zayne some grace and time to reside in the chilled comforts of his workspace. The morning surgery went well, and his next procedure wouldn’t be for another hour or two. 

Therefore, he’s rewarded himself with a simple diagnosis report. The file was lighter in subject, easier to digest in comparison to what was usually on his plate. In his mind, this was a well-fitted solution to kill some time before returning to sterile scrubs and tense operating rooms.

Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he looks over their exterior when a soft series of familiar knocks reach his door.

“It’s open,” he calls out, rectangular reflection returning to the onscreen data. Without missing a beat and sparing another glance, he adds on, “Weren’t you supposed to visit a No-Hunt Zone today?”

“Finished my observations earlier than expected,” you chirped, pushing the door to a close and striding towards his busy desk. 

Recent reports of Metaflux fluctuations had consumed your bright morning with Herte Knaves running amok. Nothing out of the ordinary from your usual line of work, easily dealt with in a couple of bulleted blows. Their dispersing remains flecked the air in a quiet flurry that reminded you of snowflakes—naturally, your feet led you to the pristine floors of Akso soon thereafter.

Curiously, you sidestep to shadow his focused form, gaze altering between the wall of text and precise clicks of his keys. “Thought you were on break, but it seems like you’re working,” you mumble, in awe of his steady pace. “As always, Dr. Zayne.”

He speaks with an obvious, “Well, I am at work. The call is coming from inside the house.”

“Zayne,” you punctuate. His sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed, and you cross your arms in turn. “You know what I mean.”

A faint chuckle passes under his breath. “You’re accusing me as if I’m in the wrong.”

He was not, actually—far from it. That goes without saying when you were in the middle of his office, imposing during said work time. But you’ve been in his graces for nearly a year now, and know well enough that it was only around this time in the afternoons would he be able to catch a breather.

You shake your head, putting on your best voice before coming to your defense. “No, but the doctor’s orders require you to take a break.”

This catches his attention, fingers slowing their clicks and chair swiveling to face you head on. Slight confusion quirks his brow, mirroring your folded arms in observation. “And pray tell, who would that be? Last time I checked, only one of us is a certified surgeon in this room.”

Your eyes instinctively dart to his stationed badge, credentials on full display against his chest pocket. He had you beat there, at the very least.

“You may hold a degree for medical hearts,” you start, taking a step into the space of his parted knees and tapping your chest. 

“But I hold the degree to your heart.” Your finger redirects to the meeting point of his neckline, resting above the aforementioned muscle.

“Is that so?” The corners of his lips lift, amused by your display and newfound authority. “I was unaware of such a professional. Surely, I would’ve remembered seeing someone as dedicated as you during my studies.” 

He takes the chance to brush away a strand of hair hugging your cheek, neatly tucking it behind your ear. Gentle appreciation fills his comment of, “Would’ve made them much more enjoyable, too.”

“That’s besides the point.” You wave him off, though it doesn’t fan away the heat blushing your ears, sensing his underlying meaning. 

Returning to your self-presumed role, you nod. “As your dedicated and completely legitimate doctor, I believe you’re showing concerning symptoms.”

Zayne hums, withdrawing his hand. “I’m afraid your assessment is lost on me. What exactly are these symptoms?”

“Well, my patient seems to love working overtime. This can cause unnecessary stress to the body and mind, for one.” 

You lift one knee to bracket his, the other following in suit—Zayne adapts rather quickly, leaning back to give you space as you carefully straddle his waist. His arms naturally circle around you, hands hovering your tailbone to keep you steady.

Neatly settled on top, you continue with your mild lecture of reported observations. “Even though he should be using the precious time in-between work to give himself a well-deserved break, he does the exact opposite.” 

“He is on a break,” Zayne says to his defense. “It’s barely considered heavy work.”

“Doing any kind of work during down-time does not count, mister,” you chide.

You gently tussle his bangs, pushing them to the side and revealing his forehead. Smoothing over the skin above his brow, your eyes searched his expression before noting a shadow of fatigue beneath his lashes. He really was working himself to the bone, even if he didn’t want to admit it. 

“A dire symptom of a workaholic is when his skin is faring worse than usual,” you exaggerate. “Your eye bags are so prominent they could be checked in at the airport.”

“It’s not that bad,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling at your touch. They flutter to a close when your hand slides to cup his face, thumb brushing the high of his cheekbone in gentle care. “The lighting just makes it seem worse for wear. I’m fine.”

“I beg to differ.” You slowly trail downwards, caressing the side of his neck with a pursed lip. 

His pulse point thrummed nicely against your fingers, and a curious press elicited a low sigh from him. Unexpected, though the sound was music to your ears and had butterflies rampant in your stomach. A part of you wanted to hear more of the gravelly timbre that rarely made an appearance—you knew what needed to be done.

Picking up where you left off, more of your self-declared medical ramblings followed. “See here? Another symptom, such a fast pace surely isn’t for the faint of heart. Your apical pulse,” to which your fingertips lightly drag themselves towards, “can’t lie to me.”

Zayne is breathless by the time he formulates a response in sincerity. “How can we go about a treatment plan, then? It seems pretty serious.”

A slowed, purposeful pronunciation follows soon thereafter. “Doc-tor.”

Your heart skipped not one, but two beats—dangerous, surely, but it fell short in the face of Zayne’s steadfast compliance. He peers up at you, factually smitten and framed softly by the office lights blending the contours of his face. You raise your other hand to hold his fine face between them. Admiring, in awe of all that he was.

“There’s only one known treatment option, I’ll have you know.” Unable to hide your smile, you quickly add, “Might require mouth to mouth if things go south.”

Zayne’s pools of hazel flick to your upturned lips, before meeting your mischievous stare with a hint of his own.

“Is this truly scientifically proven, or did you come all this way just to kiss me?”

“Yes,” was all you offered to his question, before placing an airy kiss to his cupid’s bow. 

A second found its way to the bridge of his nose, laid over the slight ridge you adore before another rested between his raised brows. His eyes flutter to a close when your lips gently pressed to his temple, stilling at the contact. Slowly, you leave a trail of love across his cheeks, pausing once you meet the corner of his mouth.

Your thumb brushes against his lower lip, smiling at the way he parts them so readily for you. His chin tilts in the direction of your touch, mouthing the chase. A flush of pink sinked into his skin, a perfect peach for you to sink your teeth into.

“Tell me,” you say softly. Your fingers curl underneath his chin, observing the lidded gaze that follows. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

A tender exhale pushes past those very lips. “Right here,” he quietly admits. Closing the distance until you were only a breath away, his eyes focused on the plush of your mouth. “Please, Doctor.”

The union was gentle and warm, a kiss so kind that the same sentiment blossomed in your chest. Traces of a sweetened coffee picked from the hospital’s cafeteria and warm amber from his collar consumed your senses.

Zayne held you closer, chest to his and enveloping in a tender embrace. His hands traced the curve of your back, following your spine to gently cradle your head. Just to keep you this close, he was restless—realizing that he needed this more than he thought. The smile that cracks through another kiss is a testament to it, sealed with a deep breath of contentment.

It was perfect, a moment in time where your thundering heartbeats were equally matched. The world was nothing but a witness to the seconds spent in meaningful lip-locking.

“Mmph,” you groan unceremoniously. 

Something firm brushed against your brow, pulling you out of the sweet trance. The culprit looked back at you in its silver rimmed and glass glory, sliding down the bridge of Zayne’s nose.

“Hm?” He leans back, noticing your discomfort. “What’s the matter?” 

You contemplate on telling him, partially distracted by the puff of his lower lip. It has a sheen of your affection, and you were sure you looked no different in his eyes.

“Your glasses are falling,” you admit. You reach for the frames, intending on pushing them back to the high of his nose.

Zayne pauses your wrist then, a warm mirth in his gaze. “These are in the way, are they not?” He guides your hand, allowing the glasses to depart from his face and settling it on his desk. 

With or without the specs, he truly was handsome—the kind of beauty modeled in Greek busts, from the contours of his cheeks to the sharp angle of his brow bone. You’d have to thank his parents the next time you see them.

He sneaks in a kiss, no longer obscured by the barrier and face perfectly pressed to yours. “My Doctor seems to be distracted,” he comments, taking in your wandering gaze. A cool hand graces the crowd of your head, patting softly. “What are you planning this time?”

His touches brought you out of your daydreaming, and you nod. Hands settling on the curves of his shoulders, you slide them upwards with a murmur of, “I should check your apical pulse again.”

Your eyes wander to the space behind him, a stethoscope only a grab away. With some effort, you spare a hand to reach for it, rising from the chair to a degree. 

Zayne noticeably stiffens at his newfound view—your chest in his face wasn’t something on his agenda for today. The breath in his throat hitches, recognizing your fragrance. Comforting and pleasant, a piece of home warmly enhanced by your skin.

By the time you successfully have the medical device in hand, you nearly drop it at the feeling of his nose digging into your chest. 

“Zayne? You’re—mmh?!” His hands find their way to your midsection, holding you still as he inhales deeply. You only hear him hum between muffled fabric, and your mind dizzies at the heatwave the mere sound sends to your core.

He pulls back with a soft sigh, the peach of his skin notably deepened to a soft rouge. Zayne guides you back to sit proper in his lap, reaching for the stethoscope in your surprised hand. Carefully, he places the ear tips into place for you and brushes your hair back in the process. Nonchalant, as if he didn’t spend the last waking moments happily buried in your chest.

“If you’re checking my pulse for me, I hope you’ve read the hospital’s code of conduct.” He drops his hands then, patiently awaiting your auscultation. In the reflection of his coy stare, you find that your own blush is faring far, far worse than his.

“Right, right. I did, trust me,” you say in confidence.

You, in fact, did no such thing. But memory of past appointments guides your hand over his heart, chest piece sliding around to count the beats. Not a single count was missed, all perfectly in place and accounted for.

Though, the only thing you could hear was your own heartbeat drumming. It didn’t help that his eyes were entirely focused on you, pointed with affection and observation alike.

“Well?” Zayne hums. “How does it sound?”

“You have a heart, and it’s beating alright.” Your conclusion was far from exemplary, but at least it was the truth.

“That’s a relief,” he laughs quietly. He gently removes the stethoscope, setting it aside. “Realistically, this isn’t how an auscultation works.”

“My methods are just special, that’s all.” You shrug, lightly patting the space that protects the aforementioned organ. “But you seem to be feeling better, and that’s all that matters to me.”

“Mhm.” Zayne presses a kiss to your nose, and offers his gratitude. “Thank you, Doctor. I don’t know what I would do without your care.”

[its-avalon-08]

what are we even fighting for? (cs55)

✦ pairing - carlos sainz x female!reader

✦ genre - angst, fluffy ending

The air in the flat hung heavy, thick with the unspoken words of a fight that had fizzled out hours ago. Y/N sat on the couch, meticulously folding laundry, each crease a testament to the storm raging inside her. Carlos emerged from the bedroom, a shadow of his usual energetic self.

"Going for a run?" Y/N asked, her voice clipped. It wasn't a question, more a confirmation of the escape route he usually took during their arguments.

"Yeah," Carlos mumbled, avoiding eye contact. He grabbed his trainers, the familiar routine a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

"Great," Y/N said, the single word dripping with sarcasm. Carlos flinched, his shoulders slumping further. He paused at the doorway, finally looking at her.

"Y/N, do we really have to do this?"

"Do what?" she challenged, her gaze hardening.

"This," he said, gesturing vaguely between them. "The constant fighting, the silence."

"Maybe if you hadn't—" Y/N started, but Carlos cut her off.

"Here we go again," he sighed. "It's always my fault, isn't it?"

"No, it's not," Y/N snapped, her voice cracking with unshed tears. "It's just... everything feels so different lately."

They were at an impasse. Every conversation, every attempt to bridge the gap, ended in a fresh volley of accusations and hurt. The silence, once comfortable, now screamed with unspoken resentments.

Carlos ran. He pounded the pavement, his frustration mingling with the rhythmic thud of his feet. When he returned, showered, and hesitantly entered the living room, Y/N was gone. He found her in the bedroom, surrounded by open suitcases.

"What are you doing?" he asked, dread pooling in his stomach.

"Packing," she said, her voice flat. "Maybe a change of scenery will do us both some good."

Carlos's heart hammered against his ribs. "A change? Or a break?"

Y/N stopped folding, her shoulders slumping. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over like a dam finally breached.

"I don't know, Carlos," she choked out. "Maybe... maybe this whole thing was a mistake."

The words landed like a physical blow. Carlos stared at her, the color draining from his face. A mistake? All the laughter, the late-night talks, the shared dreams - were they all meaningless to her?

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The fight had drained him, leaving him numb and speechless. With a defeated sigh, he turned and walked out, the click of the guest room door echoing the hollowness in his chest.

The roar of the engines at the Monaco Grand Prix was a dull thrum in Y/N's ears. She stood stiffly at the pit wall, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach. It was race weekend, a time that usually buzzed with shared adrenaline and nervous excitement. Now, the atmosphere felt sterile, devoid of their usual pre-race ritual.

Carlos emerged from the garage, his helmet tucked under his arm. He scanned the crowd, his gaze finally landing on her. Their eyes locked, and for a horrifying moment, Y/N thought he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't come to her. A fresh wave of tears welled up, blurring her vision.

"Y/N," his voice was a croak, barely audible over the din. He hesitated, then began walking towards the starting grid, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Tears spilled over, tracing hot tracks on her cheeks. It was over. All the fights, the resentful silences, had finally driven them apart. A strangled sob escaped her lips.

Just then, the commentator's voice boomed over the loudspeaker, snapping her attention back to the track. "And Sainz is rushing into the paddock! What is he doing?!?"

Y/N's head whipped towards the pit lane, heart pounding in her chest. Through a haze of tears, she saw Carlos sprint past the mechanics, his face etched with determination. He tore through the crowd, his eyes fixed on her.

He skidded to a halt in front of her, his chest heaving. Before she could react, he cupped her face in his calloused hands and pulled her into a desperate kiss. The roar of the crowd faded into the background, replaced by the frantic drumming of their hearts.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Carlos looked at her, his eyes raw with emotion. "Y/N, I messed up," he rasped. "That was never supposed to happen. This… this whole thing, us… it can't end like this."

"Carlos," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "Can we fix it?"

He held her gaze, his voice firm. "I promise. We'll fix it. Whatever it takes." He squeezed her hand, the familiar spark of warmth a lifeline thrown across the chasm that had grown between them. "Now, I have a qualifying to win."

Y/N wiped her tears, a flicker of hope rekindled in her eyes. "Go get 'em, champ," she said, her voice hoarse but determined. "And remember, we're in this together."

Carlos offered a shaky smile, the ghost of his old grin. With one last, lingering kiss, he turned and sprinted back towards the grid, leaving Y/N with a renewed sense of possibility. The roar of the engines no longer sounded like a dirge, but a challenge, a call to face their problems head-on, just like they faced every race.

The qualifying session concluded with Carlos securing a decent starting position. Relief, however, battled with anxiety as he rushed back to the drivers' room. Y/N stood by the window, her back to him. He took a deep breath, the image of her tearful eyes fueling his determination.

"Y/N," he called out gently, his voice raspy.

She spun around, her face etched with a mixture of worry and hope. As their eyes met, the dam broke. Tears welled up anew, spilling down her cheeks. Carlos hurried towards her, his arms outstretched.

"Carlos," she choked out, rushing into his embrace. They clung to each other, the roar of the track a distant echo compared to the storm of emotions within them. Tears soaked their shirts, silent apologies mingling with the salty sting.

"I'm so sorry," Y/N whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. "We haven't been communicating, and I shouldn't have said what I did back in the flat."

Carlos held her tighter, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Me too, cariño," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I've been so focused on the championship that I forgot what truly matters. You matter, Y/N. We need to talk, to listen to each other."

He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands. Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them.

"We can fix this," he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear. "We just need to try."

Y/N nodded, a small smile trembling on her lips. "I know. I just… I got scared, Carlos. Scared of losing you."

He leaned in, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. "You won't lose me," he promised, his voice firm. "Not if you don't want to."

His lips grazed hers, a question lingering in the air. Y/N met him halfway, the kiss a rekindled flame, burning away the hurt and doubt. It was a kiss filled with a newfound appreciation for each other, a promise to rebuild their trust and communication.

Pulling back, foreheads resting against each other, a comfortable silence settled between them. The weight of unspoken words had lifted, replaced by a fragile hope for the future. They knew the road wouldn't be easy, but with each other, they were ready to face whatever came their way. The roar of the engines seemed less daunting now, replaced by the steady beat of two hearts determined to race together.

[rieamena]

haiiii may i request a nurse!y/n and sukuna thing? like maybe y/n takes care of sukuna after he's injured or something???? 🥰

oh nonnie you intelligent you and hear me out HEAR ME OUT. established relationship?? just got out of surgery sukuna?? i am CLAWING at the bars of my enclosure. thank you for bringing this idea to my attention (im going insane).

the sterile smell of antiseptic lingered in the air as you quietly entered sukuna's room. he was just coming out of surgery, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. despite the harsh lines of his face and the intimidating aura that usually surrounded him, there was a rare vulnerability to him now, softened by the remnants of anesthesia

carefully lifting a nearby stool closer to his bed, you moved to check his vitals, your touch gentle and professional. as your fingers brushed against his arm, sukuna's eyes flickered open, his gaze sharp despite the lingering grogginess

"what're you doing here?" he grumbled, voice raspy and words slurred. "shouldn't you be off tormenting some other poor soul?"

a small smile tugged at your lips. even fresh out of surgery, he couldn't help but throw barbs. "just making sure you're still alive, your majesty. can't have you keeling over on me."

he scoffed, turning his head away, but not before you caught the slight tremor in his hand as he reached out, grabbing the edge of the sheet. without thinking, you placed your hand over his, feeling the warmth of his skin under your palm

"i don't need you coddling me," he muttered, but there was no bite to his words, just a tiredness that made your heart ache

for a moment, there was silence, the once near silent beeping of the monitors became the only sound. then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, sukuna tightened his grip on your hand, his eyes closing once more

"just… don't go too far," he murmured, so soft you almost missed it

"well, i am at work, ryo." you stifled a laugh before continuing, "but, i'll see what i can do."

two knocks came to the already ajar door, slightly opening it a bit wider, the voice of a trainee filling the air

"nurse ryomen? you're needed in room 112!"

nodding quickly to the young lady, your eyes stayed on your husband's as you stood up. "i'll be right back, okay?" sukuna reluctantly let go of your hand, turning his back towards you. "it'd be best if you never came back."

"i love you too," you said pressing a kiss to his cheek. and all sukuna could do was watch as you left his room, blowing him an uncountable amount of kisses. he let himself smile for the first time that day, and let his thoughts drift once the door closed

nurse ryomen, huh? that does have a nice ring to it...

jjk taglist

@blendingcaramal @gzchaos @theamazingrain @woah-girlz @voloslobotomyservice

@kyozvy @obessionofagrl @bubybubsters @sugurusbaobei @raindropsonrwses

@c-moon20-12 @saltynanobeanie @theamazingrain @synthiiiiis @ghostlyluminarycloud

@poopyyy @supernatrualqueen @bxrbie-jadeee @laitifly @discipleofthem

@cheesecake95 @strawberry-cherrypie @makeshiftproject @magiamad0ka @ncitygreen

@stillnotherapy @oniondrip @cloudy-yyy @definitely-not-leena @kidd3ath

@atigerandabear @russianremy @ohnoitsamistakee18 @ivy-vivii @ourfinalisation

@1ndee @yourhornysister @ancientimes

[ghadasaftawi]

A Playground Silenced: War's Toll on Innocence The vibrant chaos of crayons and finger paint used to be the soundtrack to my mornings. Dropping my child, Yousef, off at kindergarten was a symphony of shrieks, giggles, and the occasional tear – a beautiful cacophony of childhood. But war, a cruel conductor, has replaced that melody with a chilling silence. Yousef's kindergarten wasn't just a building; it was a castle of color, a launching pad for dreams. The walls were adorned with construction paper masterpieces, a testament to tiny fingers exploring creativity. The playground, a haven of laughter, echoed with the joyous shouts of tag and the squeals of delight from the slide. Now, the building stands as a hollow shell, a monument to the war's senseless destruction. The news reports were sterile, devoid of the human cost. Buildings destroyed, infrastructure crippled – just statistics on a screen. But the reality for us is far more agonizing. The sight of the kindergarten, its roof caved in, windows shattered like broken dreams, is a constant reminder of the stolen innocence. The silence where laughter once danced is a physical ache that no bandage can heal. Yousef, robbed of his carefree world, doesn't quite understand the gravity of the situation. he asks, with a heartbreaking innocence, "When can I go back and play with Jad on the slide?" Explaining the concept of war to a child so young feels like trying to explain the color blue to someone who's been born blind. The words hang heavy in the air, a woefully inadequate response to his wide-eyed confusion. The destruction of a kindergarten is more than just bricks and mortar. It's a blow to the very heart of a community, a symbol of the future stolen. It's a generation of children forced to confront a world they never asked for. War may silence the playground, but it cannot silence the hope that burns within these children. Rebuilding the kindergarten will be more than just bricks and mortar; it will be a testament to the enduring human spirit, a promise to our children that laughter will rise again.

[actual-changeling]

We always talk about Aziraphale discovering secrets about Crowley's fall in heaven, but have you considered the opposite?

Do you think Aziraphale ever walks through heaven's endless archives, trying to find something, anything to help stop the wheels that have been in motion for millennia? If he does, one day he might find a pile of dusted files, all of them marked with a name that is nothing more than a smudged ink blotch. He knows now that every fallen angel's name is erased like that, their identity wiped away like a fingertip drawn through wet ink; the rough evidence of their existence remains, the shape of a black hole where grace should be.

Aziraphale is alone in the stretching corridors, there is no one else around, and even if another angel were watching by chance, nothing about what he is doing is forbidden.

(He would not care if it was.)

So he opens the file and pulls out its contents, only to find himself surrounded by ink-black darkness. Electricity crackles through him, sharp but oddly familiar, and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Seemingly out of nowhere, an angel clad in white with hair like fire appears next to him. Aziraphale does not remember their name, but he would know this face even if it were wiped from his memory; the elegant features are both fragile and powerful, and so, so loved. When one of his hands reaches out on its own accord, the memory flickers as it goes straight through their face, and with a sense of broken, golden loss, he cradles it against his chest.

They are holding a flickering light within their palm, a proto-star, one of the very first designs, and with a soft blow of air from them, it takes flight. Spinning slowly, its light spreads and spreads, taking most of the darkness with it, yet even as the bleached sterility of heaven begins to shimmer through at the edges, the Starmaker's smile is bright enough to drown it out.

"You're beautiful," they whisper, their hair moving like a flame in the wind as the star expands and nears its collapse.

Aziraphale does not notice the tears flowing down his cheeks as he watches until the star goes supernova, until the Starmaker turns and takes in the glittering clouds of spacedust, their smile and eyes wide and alive, until the memory fades slowly like a dream in cruel morning light, and he is left alone with a scratched-out name and a hollow grief in his chest.

[palindrome-alt]

Digital Stars on The Wall

|| Kieran x Reader ||

Your new dorm room in Blueberry Academy is outfitted with all sorts of futuristic technology. You still haven't wrapped fully your head around the fact that you're physically stranded in the middle of the ocean in a giant submerged dome, but hey, whatever they did to make these screens, the night sky looks almost how it'd be if you were camping out in the wild on a cool night.

||Mild Spoilers for the Indigo Disk DLC!||

Everything about Blueberry Academy feels like it came out of a separate, futuristic world. The chromatic metal that never corrodes, the blue... substance, that flows through the artificial veins in the walls and keeps the place running... Out in the middle of the ocean, it's sort of like the whole megalithic building itself is somehow... alive.

Despite that, there's no electrical interference, no static hiss at the back of your ears as you rest your head against the artificial glass sky displayed on the 'window'. How the director managed to even design the illusion of depth in these screens is beyond you, but instead of square pixels, gentle pinpricks hang above you in the false distance. The fact that they aren't plastered flat to a screen is a mini engineering marvel in itself despite the slightly visible panels if you look closely.  Hand shifting out from underneath deep blue sheets, you run your palm over smooth, slightly grooved glass. It feels like touching a bunch of small bathroom tiles, and though you logically know that there's really only a deep dark ocean stretched out for miles, you almost forget just how far you are from the home you've carved out in Paldea.  You're still somewhat scared of the scientists of this world. Somehow, you don't remember civilization being this... technologically advanced.  Cool air blows through the vents above you, tasting nothing of the slightly salty expanse of water above. With their filtration systems, this might be some of the cleanest air you've ever breathed. It's sterile, much less handmade and aged than your dorm room back in Mesagoza. But somehow, this place has started to feel so comfortable, as if it weren't ever foreign in the first place.  The sound of rustling next to you shakes you out of your thoughts, and you shift back onto your back to get a closer look at Kieran, who you almost forgot was there.

He's stiff as a board, his arms folded on top of his chest, his eyes wide and staring straight at the ceiling.  Aside from his shoes, he's still wearing his full school uniform, and his hair has only just started to slip from the tie he's put it up in. He popped in rather unexpectedly, and must not've thought you'd let him stay, so he didn't think to change into more comfortable clothes. Small frazzled black bunches drape onto the extra pillow you pulled from the closet, and the off-color purple no longer remains the dominant color. 

You shift again, this time gaining his attention by curling against his side and nuzzling into the mattress a little more. He stiffens under the touch, but you can feel his sharp eyes flicker from the ceiling to you, a little more of an edge to him than before that he might not ever let go of. 

You don't move, and he must think you're asleep with how you catch his eyelashes gently lulling, spine slowly losing its tension. He must be so sore from all the clenching he's been doing, if not from how he's been pushing himself up until recently. The events that transpired between you are probably still haunting him, even now. With a fresh set of new skin-deep scars, you know it has to be hard on him. Up until last week, it wasn't even certain if you were both still friends.  He sighs beside you, head sinking into his pillow. Unclasping his hands, he slowly reaches over, testing the waters. He hesitates, looking conflicted over whatever thoughts are running through his head. Whatever he was going to do, he must've decided otherwise as his hand drops just short of you.

His eyebrows furrow, pupils dilating a little when they land on yours.  "S-Sorry." He flinches away, shifting his gaze.  You don't say anything, but the following silence between you isn't entirely comfortable like before. Inhaling deeply, he stiffens back up a little, pretending to look around the room though his focus is still on you. He can't seem to pay attention to anything else right now.

He's been so consumed with thoughts of you for so long that he's a little scared that he can't be normal about it.  You can't know that.  He tries forcing his eyes shut.  He won't be getting any sleep tonight. 

[c0mbatchameleon]

@jegulus-microfic March 12, prompt: retire, words: 953

Aka optometrist reg au (part 1? maybe) loosely based off of this post

James is having trouble breathing.

The problem is, he can’t quite remember how to do it right now. His brain, rather impressively, emptied of all of its contents the moment the optometrist opened the door.

Right off the bat, the man had been straight to business; swift stride into the room, eyes glued to the clipboard in hand, a curt “hello” and introduction before he sat down and uncapped a pen with his goddamn teeth. James could only stare dumbly, mouth agape as he stumbled over half-sentient responses to the all routine eye exam questions (“See okay with your current prescription?” A black curl falling over the doctor’s otherwise perfectly framed face, cheekbones carved by the sea, like stones.

“Uh huh.”

“Taking any current medications?” Beautiful silver-blade eyes meeting his expectantly.

“Uh-“ James coughing and clearing his throat, “no. No medications.”)

Now, he's at least regained his ability to form sentences. But as James watches the doctor fiddling with machinery, silver rings glinting in harsh, sterile lighting, he is finding immense difficulty in breathing like a normal human being.

“So,” James begins, leaning to rest his elbow on the table and swelling his chest ever-so-slightly. He does his best to smooth out his voice as he speaks, going for casual with just a sprinkling of something sultry. “Dr. Black, did you say it was?” He may not be able to fully function but God help him if he can’t still flirt.

The doctor's eyes flick up for only a split second, but James counts it as a win. “That’s correct.” He maneuvers what looks like an avant-garde torture contraption towards where James is sitting. “Rest your chin on the platform.”

James does as he’s told, holding back from an absurd urge to respond with a Yes, sir. He's definitely not conjuring a medley of alternate scenarios in his head in which Dr. Black orders him around. “And what might your first name be?”

“It might be of no relevance to the matter at hand, Mr. Potter.”

“Call me James, please.”

Regulus sits on the other side of the torture-machine and begins turning dials. “You should see a red X on the right side, James,” he replies flatly. Still, the sound of his name on the man’s tongue is fucking intoxicating. It's echoing around his skull--James James James JamesJamesJames--he wants to hear it a million more times, every minute of every day until his last.

James usually hates these appointments. Hates the big machines he has to stick his face in, blowing air and shining bright lights in his eyes. Hates that stupid picture of the house that they make him look at a million times over while some old man who looks just about ready to retire asks “One or two?”

But Dr. Black is not some old man.

He’s new—James has been coming here for years and has certainly never been graced with the sight of this angel-fallen-to-earth before. He's young, too; despite the way he carries the poise of a man with years of experience under his belt, cool and confident and collected, there’s no way Dr. Black is old enough to be more than a couple years out of school. All sharp edges and smooth skin.

And god, his skin. It looks impossibly soft, stretched over slender hands and freckled cheeks, strong nose and cut jaw. As James runs his eyes hungrily over the landscapes of peach-pale skin--hills and valleys spanning the doctor's face and neck and fingers and knuckles--he considers how easy it would be to reach out and touch it, find out for himself if it's really as smooth as it looks.

“James,” Dr. Black's voice cuts sharp through his fantasy, one brow raised where he's clearly caught James drooling over him. “Please look into the eyepiece.”

It’s not like James can help it. He’s a bit entranced by the way the doctor maintains such a stoic expression, posture rigid and cold eyes unwavering, especially now. It’s all the beauty of a pointed blade, glittering in the sunlight, begging to draw blood.

But James doesn’t miss the light blush now in full bloom across the man’s cheeks. Silver-clad fingers have begun tapping a sporadic pattern on the table as storm cloud eyes sweep down and back up James' face, quick as a flash of lightning, and isn’t that just curious? Suddenly, James wants to know what it would take to get that stone-cold cast to crack.

He shoots back a sly grin. “Sure thing, nameless doctor.” He looks into the contraption. “Oh would you look at that. A red X.”

The doctor lets out a muted sigh. He fidgets some more with the dials and buttons on the other side of the machine as James watches the X shift in and out of focus. He breaks the silence only when it's stretched for just a moment too long. “My name is Regulus. There’s gonna be a bright flash now.”

Immediately, a blinding white light flashes directly into his eye, burning a goddamn hole into his field of vision. He swears he can see the inside of his pupil for a moment.

But James doesn't care. Once the shock subsides, he finds himself grinning ear-to-ear.

Now we're getting somewhere.

He looks back up from the eyepiece to where the doctor, Regulus, is still intently focused on the computer and equipment. Evading James' gaze. Cheeks still pink.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Regulus.”

[peggyao3]

Pt. 25 - Pussy Slapping

A/N: Respectfully ooga-oogaing at my own post 💦

TAGS: she/her AFAB FMC, dom!Feyd, spanking, slight dub-con, daddy kink if you SQUINT, a hint of brat taming

WORD COUNT: 580

There is something grossly domestic about being bent over his lap with her nose pressed into the leather of the sofa. The material smells sterile and there are no cushions to hold onto. She sobs quietly, mostly in shame and not out of pain.

The palm of Feyd-Rautha's dominant hand cracks down on her bare ass cheek, thick rings lightly biting her skin. His other hand idly toys with the hem of her stocking and the lightness of his touch against her sensitive inner thigh makes her squirm in denial.

This type of punishment is archaic and so below her status! But the worst thing about it is Feyd-Rautha's cock which palpably strains against the fabric of his slacks and her belly. She tries not to move, lest she entices her volatile husband, but his punishing hands make it impossible.

"You're a sociopath!" She finally hiccups when he tugs on the squishy flesh of her ass and cool air fans her exposed center.

"What, for spanking my own wife?" He grates out, his voice low and dangerous. "You're delusional, my darling. You're a spoiled princess." The next spank really hurts and the soothing caress of his palm afterwards does little aside from making the heat rush to her cheeks in shame. If only he would stop tugging and making her feel so exposed.

"You're barbaric."

"And how else will you learn manners, hm?" The side of his hand dips between her cheeks, rubbing down her cleft and slit.

"No!" She protests when his strong fingers curl around her thigh, sliding it further down his lap to expose her fully.

"Your esteemed Lord Father never taught you your place?" He tsks with feigned unhappiness. "More work for me. I didn't know I was purchasing such a spoiled bride." Feyd-Rautha snickers and she is glad not to have to see his face. "Harkonnens aren't so easy on their brood."

"You didn't purchase me." She tries to wrest her leg out of his calloused grip and free herself from the embarrassingly exposed position. "Our union greatly benefits both of our ho—oowwww!"

Feyd's palm has landed a painful blow right on her cunt and the most humiliating thing about it is the wet resonance of his hand meeting her flesh.

"Keep them spread or I'll put you over my knee in front of my men next time and I'll let them hear every squeak and see how you're dripping all over my pants."

"I'm sorry, husband~" She hiccups pitifully, nails biting into her palms while Feyd-Rautha deals out the same attention he had already given her bruised cheeks to his new target. Her center burns from more than just the derogatory impact of his self-assured hand. 

Whining, she crosses her legs at the ankle but keeps her trembling thighs apart. Her husband rewards her with a gentle pat of her cunt. The pads of his ringed fingers meet her clit and her rear grinds against him by its own volition. She can almost taste the complacence that drips from his purring voice.

"Now tell me, wife, what was it that I wanted you to learn?"

"I am not to defy you in public," she whimpers out, sound muffled by the sofa. Feyd-Rautha's hand settles over her head, pinning her face down with little, soothing circles of his thumb. Finally, two long, thick fingers sink into the warmth of her wet cunt and she can't help but let out the sweetest moan.

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst

[untaemedqueen]

Finding My Pack

Alpha!OT7 x Omega!Reader

Genre: Fated Mates, Omegaverse, Smut, Angst, Fluff

Series Warnings: Omega Abuse (Not By OT7), Fated Mates/Soulmates, Scent Sympathy, Sunshine!FMC, Knotting, Smut, MMMMMMMF, MMMF, MMF, MF, Breeding Kink, Cursing, Dom!OT7, Sub!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Omega Abuse

A/N: This will be the only chapter posted to Tumblr. All future chapters can be found on Patreon~! See you there!

Chapter 1.

"You do not lock the goddamn doors in this fucking house."

The sentence was thick with a growl, one that if I was born correctly wouldn't have mattered in the slightest. Just hearing the sharp hit of his words, my insides clenched and coiled, dying to listen and make sure that he wouldn't be mad at me again.

"Sorry," I whispered softly, looking down at my bare toes that curled awkwardly under my gaze.

"You need to put on your scent blocker and try a little bit harder to fit in here. You're making all your brothers crazy with that fucking smell."

Swallowing thickly, I grabbed the bottle from him with a nod.

If my scent made my brothers crazy, they made me out of my fucking mind with sickness. Every one of them smells like acidic garbage with a hint of overpowering sweetness, y'know, like the way too fake soaps or body lotions you find in those hoity toity stores.

"You're a fucking Pangborn. Please act like it," my father grumbled, wrinkling his nose at the smell of my nervousness. "Jesus Christ. I can't believe your mother made you."

His words were a low blow but nothing I wasn't used to hearing now. Nothing any of the pack said got to me as bad as it used it.

Liar.

Okay, a lot of it hurt but I tried not to think of it all the time. It was my fault, really. I wasn't born right.

To be a Pangborn in Cypress City, you have to be an alpha. The Pangborns breed for one purpose and one purpose only, to give the city more alphas then they know what to do with.

Every Pangborn is expected to be a boy, to be an alpha and to take on the numerous betas that are practically beating down the door for them to be let in. So when I was born, disappointment was ripe in the air. It still is.

A small female omega with no qualities and no purpose.

I'm nothing.

Oh that's fun, what a great thought to have. Even if it hurts, it's true.

Since I was born I've been kept hidden like a secret. There's no fairytale here, there's no pack of alpha princes waiting at the bottom of my incredibly sterile, sad tower. There's no one that cares. Well, maybe Brady and MacKenzie but they pretend I don't exist half the time.

Looking down at the bottle of scent blocker, a sob threatened to well up in my throat.

"Weak omega bullshit." That's what my father would say.

It's so fucking annoying to be different. It's so painful. But the hope that one day I'd be accepted never ceased to creep into my thoughts.

So I sprayed the spray on even though it makes me feel sick.

I could smell him before my door opened. His alpha pheromones were bleeding throughout the long hallway that lead to my room.

He smelled of garbage, lemon juice and the slightest hint of boysenberry. Although the boysenberry is not his own smell. It's a betas.

"Oy!" MacKenzie booms, shoving open the door.

His bright red hair and forest green eyes searched the mostly barren room until he found me in the corner.

"He cornered you again?" he asked softly, stepping into the room like he's witnessing a hurt animal.

"It's okay!" I tried to beam a smile for him but it fell flat into some kind of grimace.

MacKenzie wasn't really my brother, he hailed from the Alban Pangborns so he's more like my very distant cousin but he's pack and that makes him my authority regardless. If he barked at me, I'd end up doing his bidding. Just like all my other brothers do. I'm grateful he doesn't do it but he still could nonetheless.

"You sprayed on the right amount," Kenz praised, giving me a small smile.

The praise made me want to preen, made me want to jump and shout for joy that I did something right but I kept it locked tight within me.

"You'll be pleased to know that your father and some of the others are going on a business trip soon. It'll just be some of us left in the house. You won't have to smell all this alpha shite around, you ken?"

His thick accent made me smile then. When he first came over from Alba I had not a fucking clue what he was talking about but now it almost feels like a secret language we speak.

"I ken," I nodded, setting the spray down on my dresser.

"Just wait a while to come down to get your dinner. The boys and I have been having a beta fucking feast," he wiggled his eyebrows and left the doorway without so much as a goodbye.

I wish I was a beta.

No, actually, I wished I was an alpha. I wished I was born an alpha so that I didn't have to be a disappointment and left out of everything.

Sitting down on my bed, I fluffed the uncomfortable comforter around me to no avail and since I know I'm alone I let out the most pitiful of whines. Whining wasn't allowed. My father told me that alphas hate whining more than anything.

Once I whined during dinner with the Landons and their alpha son looked like he wanted to tackle me from across the table. It was the one and only time I was able to go to dinner with my family. They never let me go again.

I apparently ruined their business merger dinner.

My family made a fuck ton of money. Too much money to count on your fingers, not that I'd ever see a cent. I wasn't worth a dollar to them. They own a vast majority of land across the globe, mostly farms or patches of free wilderness that people are begging to buy from them.

If only those vast patches of land would be able to buy me a soft comfortable comforter. This one is rough and itchy and I don't like it. I don't know much about being an omega but I do know that I don't like the blankets I own.

You see, omegas are rare. Like one in one hundred is an omega rare. Somewhere in history omegas just became a rarity and as such they're terribly hated.

Whenever I tried to ask the pack any questions they all shut me down with a growl and told me to go back to my room.

"Y/N!"

My father's bark was sharp and I tightened my terribly uncomfortable blanket over my shoulders at the noise.

If they are having a beta party downstairs I most certainly wouldn't be welcome to interrupt it. All the beta females that came into the house hated me. I tried to be friendly and smile, tried to make friends with other girls but they didn't want anything to do with me.

Probably feeding into the whole hate omega-kind thing, huh?

When my father shouted my name again, I had no choice but to get up. It was an alpha command now, filled with bite and fury.

If I saw one bare tit I was going to lose my goddamn mind. I'd been having these awful urges these past couple of months. It felt like something was boiling in my gut and itching beneath my skin, just begging to get out of me. What it was, I wasn't sure but it feels fucking awful and devastating just the same.

When I was starting to run a fever, my father would give me a few pills and lock me up in my room until the fever had passed and I was able to carry on with my chores.

My feet took me without thinking. The large home I lived in with the twelve others in the pack passed by in a blur. I tried not to look up from the wooden floorboards, I really didn't want to see anyone mating out in the open like I know my brothers loved to do.

I could hear the audible moans of the betas, probably in various states of undress all around me as I made my way to my father's office.

This had always been my home but I'd always felt like a stranger here. It's not just because my family wasn't welcoming, it just felt wrong. Nothing in this place is where it should be. The pictures on the cabin-like wooden walls weren't at all in the right order, the couches in the sitting room weren't staged properly, even the wood that goes into the fireplace smells horrendous.

Everything about this place made me feel sick.

That includes my father's office.

Once I stepped inside I was immediately smacked with pheromones, ones that made my stomach roll with nausea. I wonder if that's how everyone felt. I wonder if betas got nauseous with their families too.

My eyes scanned the room which was terribly out of order and then they caught on the one picture that sat on my father's desk.

It was her.

My mother. Whom of which I've never met. She was a beta that my father never bonded with but got pregnant anyway. He loved her…I think. But when she had me and I was an omega she was disappointed and left me here. She left me here alone. With these people.

Family.

She left me here with my family.

I hadn't realized I whined until my father cracked his hand down on his desk with a fierceness. "What did I say about that shit?!"

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"Not that she ever does, eh?" my brother Riley laughed, elbowing me in the ribs as he passed.

Riley was an interesting case of smells. There's the cedar which makes sense because he spends a lot of time outdoors, there's the sharpness of spearmint like a powerful gum that makes your nostrils burn and…boysenberry?

He and MacKenzie have been sharing again. Definitely not uncommon for those two.

"Close the doors. She's gonna scare all the betas away. I'm not waiting another round for Hunter to have an alpha son of his own."

"Keep the lineage alive." That's the pack motto. What a terrible fucking bumper sticker that would be.

I stood there, looking down at my toes as my father and Riley talked and laughed with one another. Probably forgetting I was even in the room. Which happens sometimes.

"Alright, little O?" Kenz cheered, entering the office.

"Don't call her that," my father snapped, finally remembering I was around.

MacKenzie held his hands up in a gesture to soothe any frayed nerves and he sat down with a groan on the couch closest to father's desk.

"Y/N," my father began, not even offering the kindness to look at me. "Your brothers and I are going on a business trip outside of the city. Some of your brothers, like MacKenzie, are staying back because they have a dinner meeting at the house while I'm away."

My head lifts in surprise. Will I be allowed to go?! Can I eat dinner with my brothers?!

"There's many alphas in the pack, we can kill two birds with one stone. This business meeting is incredibly important for us."

My smile was megawatt and I nodded instantly. "Sure, of course! I can–"

"You can," my father interrupted with a sneer. "Make sure you stay in your room, take your pills and keep your scent blocker applied when the Euphoria Pack comes to the meeting. This contract will be our biggest one so far and I will not have your omega bullshit fuck it up for the rest of us. Do you understand?"

The disappointment and sorrow that swirled through me almost knocked me off my feet. "Oh, I see… I understand."

"See that you do. I won't stand for losing this deal because you couldn't handle yourself."

God, I wanted to curl up and die. I'm so pitiful. What a fucking waste. I wish I was never born an omega.

Trying to bury whines and suffering hurt sometimes and in this instance it felt like a red hot poker was shoved down my throat.

"She stinks like sadness," Riley chuckled, shaking out his long brown hair and looking me over with disdain dripping from every pore.

"Lighten up, brother. She's only human," Kenz laughed, stepping in front of me and waving his hand behind his back.

Get out.

That's what he was telling me.

"Dinner will be brought up to you. If you're feeling hot then take your pills. We're leaving in the morning and we won't be back for a few weeks."

Oh, thank God, I could do without seeing my father and half of my brothers for weeks on end. Maybe finally I would be able to walk around without getting yelled at.

Three days of the freedom I thought I would be acquiring went by too fast. I'd been left with my brothers that were the easiest to deal with. Brady, Ronan, MacKenzie, Dash and Hunter were, of course, the easiest to deal with because they never nagged me and they were always too busy fucking betas to really give a shit what I was doing.

The house stunk of sex and carefree fun but more importantly it smelled of my freedom. I was able to go out in the garden to read, to sunbathe, to smell something that wasn't garbage. It was heavenly.

I'd seen flowers I've never seen before, ones that weren't there the last time I was in the gardens. Apparently Leticia, one of the pack chasers, suggested sprucing things up. When I suggested it to my father I got sent up to my room with no dinner and pills because I was acting 'out of order.' I'm a person not a goddamn machine. How could I possibly be out of order?

But now with the three days of freedom gone, I'm once again left up in my room without a single thing to do. Defiance curled in my bones and I narrowed my eyes at the white little pills on my bedside table.

My father wasn't here, he wouldn't know if I took them or not. I'd rather get a fever then take them and feel even sicker than before. Those pills made me nauseous and I felt like reality was so far out of touch that I'd never get back to it. I did end up spraying the scent blocker, though. Just one little spritz, just enough to save the visiting alphas downstairs from my monstrous odor.

They shouldn't be subjected to a disgusting omega. An embarrassment to the family.

The sprawling cabin estate was large before our eyes but it pales in comparison to the mansion we just created on the outskirts of the state.

"I don't like the smell," Jin murmured to us.

The smell was honestly horrific. These alphas seemed to stew in the scents of sex and their own pheromones. You could smell the female betas like they were throwing out a wide casting net to repulse everyone around them.

"Why the fuck did we agree to this?" Taehyung grumbled, folding his arms.

"Because although they're disgusting, they're rich as fuck and they have the land we need to start up the center," Namjoon replied evenly, fixing his tie.

I couldn't seem to take my eyes off the enlarged wooden cabin in front of us. That's exactly what it was: a large, gigantic wooden house. It would be almost comical if it wasn't very real.

"I don't even wanna touch the door," Hoseok hissed, taking to kicking the front door insead.

Even in this day and age everyone lives with the one soul purpose of finding their person, their omega but this pack didn't seem to care about finding one. Not with the way their lodgings smelled.

Now, of course, finding an omega that's right for your pack is like finding a unicorn or finding gold at the end of a rainbow but packs do it. Not all the time but enough to keep packs hopeful, at least.

Once the door swung open, a red headed alpha before us smiled widely. "Gents, welcome! The Pangborn Pack is happy to have you!"

Namjoon gave him his typical killer smile and the alpha seemed to relax at it. Our pack leader was all killer charm and easy going… until you fuck with his pack.

The seven of us have only had each other for quite a few years now and our family depends on one another more than most.

"Thank you for having us," Jimin smiled, stepping into the home first.

His eyes bounced around the interior before nodding. Once I stepped into the entryway behind him, the need to look at the inside faded. In the air, apart from the alpha scents were the scents of dinner and something so deliciously sweet that it made my mouth water.

Fuck! What is that smell?!

"Made us dessert?" Namjoon inquired with a laugh.

So he can smell that too.

The scent was warm and sugary like a fresh out of the oven sugar cookie with vanilla ice cream slowly melting on top.

Why the fuck was I about to nut over dessert?

Casting my eyes to Taehyung, I could see him tugging at the collar of his expensive dress shirt.

It was getting increasingly hot in here, that I could guarantee.

The scent was so thick and practically viscous I could feel it wrapping around my cock and tugging sensuously. My knot was two seconds from expanding and the desire to rut until I was sated was pressing indecently on my brain.

"No dessert here, lads. The betas can barely cook a steak without it burning! We ordered out for dinner tonight! Dinnae ken billionaires like you would be opposed to that, eh?"

"Dinnae ken means didn't think," another alpha offered, slipping in beside the redhead. His hair was long and brown, shaggy even with a boyish smile that could probably charm anyone he laid his eyes on.

"That sounds great," Jin replied, unbuttoning his suit jacket and cracking his neck.

Whatever that fucking scent is, it has us all by the balls.

Namjoon gripped his hand into a fist, eyes glazing over all of us. "To the dining room, then?"

"Getting right down to business! I love that! We have betas to look after anyway," Red chortled, wiggling his eyebrows at us.

When the group of us moved with the two other alphas, my heart started to hammer as the smell became stronger.

I tried to temper my growl that wormed its way up my throat but Joon caught it. "I don't know what it is but fuck, I want it so bad," he agreed.

"Alright there, lads?"

"Just have to use the restroom. Would you mind sending me in the right direction?" I inquired, needing to find the words through a thick haze of want.

"Bathroom on the first floor is occupied for the betas. Second floor up that staircase there," Red pointed to the staircase from where the scent is strongest. "Fifth door on the right."

With a nod, I set off trying not to falter and stumble from the exquisite smell.

"We'll be waiting in the dining room. The pack is excited to make this merger," the brown haired man smiled.

Once they were out of sight I took the stairs two at a time, eyes searching for any indication of where the scent came from.

I let my senses guide me. Following the smell took me past the bathroom and past any rooms that smelt of the alphas. Stopping at the end of the hallway, the door before me was completely different from the others. It was metal, almost sterile in a sense. But the scent was there, it was so heady and present that my cock stood to attention.

"Oh fuck," I grunted, shoving open the door and barreling up the stairs.

The hallway I rushed down was bare of anything home-y and it looks like some sort of clinical hospital ward.

The door at the other end suddenly opened in a flourish and the sweetest little thing I'd ever seen stepped out with curious, glazed eyes.

"Omega," I groaned long and low, stepping toward her.

She was the maddening scent. She was what my pack was going crazy over.

"Oh! I'm so… I've never–" the sweet thing whispered, looking me over with hunger.

The perfect woman. Right before my fucking eyes. Those lips, those sweet eyes, that adorable, if not a little scared smile, that fucking body. Built just for me and my other pack brothers.

Mine, mine, mine! Every cell in my body screamed it with frantic need.

"Why do you smell so good?" she whimpered, lifting a hand as if she wanted to touch me.

Please fucking touch me. Holy shit, I was going out of my fucking mind from this perfect little thing.

"What do I smell like, sweetness?" I inquired, stepping closer.

"Like warm hot chocolate and marshmallows. Not like garbage at all!" she gasped, looking up with wide, innocent eyes.

A laugh tumbled past my lips. What an innocent creature.

"Does everyone smell like garbage to you, sweetness?"

"I just want to…" she groaned, a whimper slipping past her lips.

A purr started in my chest, rattling my bones with how thick and heavy it was. Oh fuck, I'd never purred for anyone before.

"What do you want?" I asked softly, holding my hands up to show her I mean no harm.

She gripped my wrist with a dainty hand probably thinking it had a fierceness she didn't embody. She lifted my hand to her soft cheek and my purr started up once more.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized, not taking her eyes off mine. "I know omegas are disgusting. I shouldn't bother you."

The sweet purr she pulled from me turned to a growl in an instant. "You could never be disgusting. Omegas are precious. Didn't your alphas teach you that?"

She stared up at me, eyes starting to brim with tears.

Oh my God, she was everything I could have ever wanted. My pants were so fucking tight, my heart feels like it was gonna combust and I'm pretty damn sure I just met my fucking mate.

"They're not really my alphas," she whispered softly, keeping my wrist close to her nose.

I wanted to take this gorgeous woman and lock her away where no one but the pack can find her. Holy shit, my brain was turning to fucking mush.

"What are they then if not your alphas?" I asked, stepping closer.

When my chest brushed against hers, she perfumed the air for me and another purr ripped from my chest like it was an instrument being played purely for her.

"Brothers, father," she mumbled, lost in a haze of our own making.

"So you don't have a pack of your own, sweetness?" I whispered, coursing my thumb over her cheek.

"No one would want me. I'm useless," the omega replied so softly I might not have heard her if not for her keeping my attention ensnared.

"I highly doubt that, pretty girl. What's your name?"

"Y/N…"

Beautiful.

"I'm Jeongguk. It's nice to meet you, sweetness."

"I can't take it. I can't take it. I can't take it!" Jimin chanted, rushing into the hallway.

The omegas gasp was loud and frightened for only a moment until she laid eyes on the other alpha. I purred for her, watching her instantly relax at the noise.

"This is Jimin. He's a part of my pack. The Euphoria Pack."

"Oh no, I've…I've ruined dinner. My father will be so upset with me," she groaned, sounding not as upset as she probably would be if I wasn't purring up a fucking storm.

"Scent sympathetic. I thought it was like a fucking myth for people like us," Jimin laughed, stepping up beside me.

He didn't seem jealous or upset at all that my hands were on her. We've never tried for an omega, not really. Unfortunately, most omegas wanted us for our money and not for the connection. Not to mention most of the omegas we met smelled so cloyingly sweet that it gave us headaches for weeks. Most omegas wanted just some of us but not all of us and that doesn't bode well for a pack.

"You smell like calming tea and blueberries," Y/N breathed, blinking up at him.

"And you smell like a yummy dessert, sweetheart. How's such a pretty omega like you hidden up here away from everything?"

"Why are you being so nice to me? I'm just an omega," she whimpered, looking between us.

"'Just an omega'? Don't you know your worth, pretty girl?" I scoffed, tilting my head.

She opened her mouth to reply, only to shut it and furrow her eyebrows.

"I want to introduce her to the pack. I think this is it. I think we found our girl," Jimin beamed at me, allowing her to pull him closer.

She seemed to be a needy little thing. One we certainly wouldn't mind doting on. She also seemed completely out of touch with reality and it wasn't just because she was obsessed with our scents.

"Do you have a nest, sweetness? Would you care to show us?"

A nest is very sacred to omegas, it's one of the only places they can find comfort during heats and in times of stress. It was incredibly forward for me to ask but I wanted to know what she liked. I knew my hopes might be high but I wanted to set up the nest in the new mansion how she would like it. Because she was mine. She was ours. She belonged with us.

"I– What's a nest?" Y/N asked, eyebrows pinching innocently.

"Do not fucking tell me you're kept in the dark up here," Jimin growled deeply, his scent turning acidic.

Instead of turning tail and running, she started to… climb him?

She climbed him like a fucking tree. And the good looking bastard was all for it.

One arm snaked around her waist to keep her up and the other ran up and down her back in soothing motions.

She nuzzled his cheek and neck, whimpering and begging for his scent to be all over her.

"Good girl," Jimin cooed, purring for her. "Take what you want, sweetheart. We'll gladly give it."

There were rules to getting an omega, courting before mating and making sure your omega was happy and well looked after. In some cities omegas even went to Help Centers to find their perfect pack but Cypress City had no such thing. That was what we were trying to change. That was why we needed this deal with this pack.

"I don't know what's happening! I'm so sorry! I just feel so…"

"Overwhelmed?" Jimin offered, pulling back to look at her.

She nodded, whimpering and tucking her face into the crook of his neck.

"We need to talk to the pack," I told him, pressing my chest to her back and purring. I drifted the back of my hand over her bare arm and she seemed to thrive on not only praise but physical affection.

"I can't leave her," Jimin hissed over her shoulder, hugging her tighter at the thought of having to part.

"I don't want you to go! Please! I'm so tired of being alone! Please don't go!" she sobbed into his neck.

A growl ripped from my chest at her sadness and I was storming off before I even knew what was happening.

She's mine. She's mine. She's mine.

"Guk!" Jimin called but I was already barreling down the stairs with a fierceness building in my chest.

They kept that precious omega in a sterile fucking ward like she was some sort of disease. She didn't even know what a nest was! It was a disgrace! She'd been abused without even understanding anything!

She's mine!

If one more sob of hers entered my ears, I thought I might burn their oversized camp cabin down and dance on the embers.

Shoving open the dining room doors, I glowered at the pack that sat high and mighty at the end of the long dining room table. Once they saw me and smelled me, they all stood.

"Been wandering around our home, have you?" Red asked with the tilt of his head.

"Stupid girl can't do anything but get herself in trouble!" one of them sneered.

The insult made a growl rip from my throat and they all stared long and hard at me. I wouldn't stand for this. I couldn't stand for this.

"She doesn't even know what a fucking nest is. How dare you all treat an omega like this! This is abuse!" I boomed, widening my eyes at them.

My packs jaws fell open in shock and suddenly they were standing to surround me, to have my back.

"She's scent sympathetic with us," Jimin assured, entering the room with her still cradled to him.

I was happy she liked him. He's far more easy going and carefree then most of us and she'd enjoy his company.

My pack stepped toward her and she cried sweetly at all of their scents. They purred for her and my heart expanded. No one was left out and she locked eyes with all of them. She jumped ship from Jimin to Namjoon and he nuzzled her hair. He wrapped her legs around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Would you like to leave this place, pet?" he inquired.

“She'll do no such thing!" Red boomed.

When she whimpered at the alpha bite, we growled in defiance.

"You think your bark is bad? Mine was given to me by the devil. If I have to force you to obey, I fucking will. It's the omegas choice. You can't keep her here like a fucking prisoner!" Joon boomed.

"She's not a part of the deal," one of the Pangborn's hissed through his teeth.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she gasped repeatedly, trying to set herself down.

"Do you want to get down, pet?" Namjoon asked, tilting her jaw to look up at him.

She reluctantly shook her head, burying her face back into his neck.

Oh fuck, she's so perfect and sweet.

"Then you stay exactly where you are," the pack leader whispered, giving her his wrist to be able to tilt his head and glower at the Pangborn pack.

"You expect me to pay? For a person?! Are you out of your small alpha minds?" Namjoon bit out, sneering at her brothers.

"MacKenzie… Dad is gonna flip," one of them breathed.

"I'm tired of always having to sneak Juliet around. Just be rid of her. Omegas are nothing but trouble."

Hoseok growled so loudly, something he never does, that it almost made my chest rattle.

"I know you don't know us very well," Seokjin breathed slowly as the other pack continued to argue. "But if you feel safe with us we'd like to take you somewhere you can be yourself and be happy. How does that sound, princess? You deserve much better than this shithole."

"I won't feel sick?" she inquired, looking up at him with hopeful eyes.

Oh, she's killing me here.

"Do you feel sick in this house?" Yoongi growled, narrowing his eyes at the other pack.

Her nod was slow and sad.

"I'm getting her out of here. Now!" Namjoon boomed, pressing her face into the scent gland of his neck.

She seemed to love being held. We could do that for her. We could give her anything and everything she wants. We could be good for her.

"Give us a million!" Red or MacKenzie called back but Namjoon was already heading for the door.

"Get fucked!" our pack leader growled.

"Wh-Where are we going?" Y/N asked, taking a deep breath of fresh air.

"Home, sweetness," I promised. "We're going home."

[lebbys-world]

I was wondering if request based of the manga base on chapters 365 -406 like you know how bakugou is currently severely injured in manga /anime instead of bakugou almost dying it’s the reader who takes all the hits blow for him when fighting shigaraki crushing reader arm and taking major brutal blow to chest to protect bakugou and since reader she cares about him aslo maybe reader quirk could be like somewhat similar to scarlet witch mcu or raven from teen titans but whichever you prefer maybe when fighting Shigaraki since reader was using her quirk to full strength potential maybe her powers it started corrupted her due over usage making Shigaraki have the upper hand i hope this makes sense can the ending have fluff and angst type fic if this ok i hope this requests is ok makes sense if uncomfortable with i can definitely change it

To Be a Hero

Bakugo x gn!reader; mentions of injury, battle, self-sacrifice, self-deprecation/insecurities, end of the war arc, angst to comfort

notes: thank you sm for the request, and thanks sm for your patience !! everything has been crazy rn for me because of college. i love bakugos character sm, especially just his development, so i hope this does him a bit of justice.

You’d never felt the world sting so harshly before.

The very air around you tore at your skin, debris scattered around, making quick lacerations. 

You’d come into this battle no more than an ambitious child, striving to save those you could.

But now?

You’d seen more blood than you’d ever thought you would.

The smell of death was burned into your very existence. 

It made you nauseous.

You just wanted this all to be over.

Yet, here you stood, center of the battlefield, watching as Shigaraki tore to pieces the life you once loved.

For the first time in years, you didn’t feel like a hero.

Your body stood frozen, watching as those around you fought with everything they had.

Why can’t I help them? You beg of yourself.

Those you love are risking their lives- losing their lives.

But your body has had enough.

Too much has poured out from every aching wound on your body.

Your head pounds, both reminding you of the physical pain and your mental inability to process the situation at hand.

Maybe you weren’t meant to be a hero, after all.

Above, an array of light drew your eyes.

You see Bakugo, battered, bloodied- the damn bastard barely even able to stand.

He’s flying through the air, putting himself straight in the middle of the action.

He was always that way.

You admired that about him- his sense of selflessness when it really mattered.

He wanted to be the best, and he sure had a chance at it.

Yet, you realize what’s happening before you even can properly see it.

He’s diving in, head-first, straight towards the same Shigaraki that killed so many of the Pro-Heros. 

He may want to be the best, but he isn't the best yet.

That same selflessness you loved was the selflessness that was going to get him killed.

He wasn’t going to land the shot. 

You lurched off the ground, your feet moving without you even telling them to.

You positioned yourself perfectly, feeling the impact hit you like a warm embrace.

You smile to yourself:

Now, they’ve got another chance.

The world spun for a moment, as your hearing dulled. 

That crash onto the ground must’ve really taken a toll on you.

Either that, or, maybe the gaping hole in your chest.

You gaze into the blurry sky, letting the gray clouds turn black in your vision.

From a distance, you think you can hear a familiar voice screaming your name.

The world goes away before you put a name to that familiarity.

. . .

You awake to the sound of patterned beeps, the scent of sterilizing products hitting your nose quickly after.

As you open your eyes, the bright, fluorescent light forces you to close them again, hesitantly getting yourself out of your slumber. 

The rustling of your sheets alerted the blonde sitting in the chair beside you, urging him to get up at once.

He looked at you gently, as though you were more fragile than glass.

The guilt he felt practically ran through him.

Why did you step in like that, Y/N.

They barely kept you alive on the battlefield.

And every surgery you’d had kept him on edge.

He’d lost so much, already.

He couldn’t lose you, too.

You opened your eyes enough to glance at the face in front of you, mumbling the familiar name:

“...Katsuki?”

“Oi, looks like someone’s finally awake.” 

His usual demeanor seemed softer, almost as if he didn’t want to overwhelm you.

“..where are we?”

“-hospital. You’ve been in here since you pulled that stupid stunt of yours.”

You looked at him silently, processing the fact that you even made it out of that alive.

Last you recall, the world had fallen dark.

You’d really accepted dying in that moment.

Yet, God had other plans it seems, since here you were, alive and, mostly, well.

You couldn’t quite believe it, but seeing the boy in front of you, you were grateful.

“Snap out of it” Bakugo hissed at you, rolling his eyes. 

He thought to himself for a moment, before putting his head in his hands.

“Damn it, Y/N, don’t do that ever again.”

“...do what?” You respond, still in a daze.

"..."

“Trying to get yourself killed like that.” 

You looked at him, as you took in his words,

“Don't step in the way for me, you idiot. It might get ya hurt, or worse, don’tcha see?”

“I didn’t try to.” You explained, slightly shifting in your hospital bed to fully face him.

His demeanor had changed from his usual self, and was instead filled with disdain. 

He’d be tearing himself apart over this - that much, you figured.

“My feet ‘moved on their own’” you smiled, repeating the words so often uttered around class.

He scoffed, shaking his head, before putting your hand in his. 

He smiled at you wholly, 

“I guess that makes you a real hero then, huh?”

"..."

“I guess so.”

all fictional works are for entertainment purposes only. all rights to characters, media, references, and other third party materials belong to their respective owners. do not repurpose, modify, copy, or repost my work to other sites without permission. © @lebbys-world 2024.

banners from saradika-graphics

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; YJ packs up and gets pupped. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Kon searches around the common areas–like, the main meeting room and the kitchen and storage rooms and the halls on the way to them all just to be safe and even the stupid bathrooms, even, but he doesn’t smell any trace of Suzie anywhere. Everything just smells scrubbed, clean and neutral and empty. No trace of anyone’s scent, except for his own presenting cream soda and from Cassie’s shirt and Cissie’s towel. Kon doesn’t like it.

Actually, it makes his fucking skin crawl. 

It just–it makes him think of sterile, bleached halls with scent filters in every room and waking up tangled in machines and drowning in tinted green biofluids and dark basement lighting and–

Kon tightens his grip on the shirt and towel in his hands, and stops, and–and just . . . catches his breath, kind of. Just–for a second. That’s all. 

He breathes in Cassie and Cissie’s mixed scents, wild ozone and controlled iron; high-altitude air and warm leather. He feels anxious and uncomfortable and alone, but also his stomach is twisting with that weird warmth again and he feels–he’s–he thinks–

Cassie and Cissie smell so good, he thinks. 

But he can’t smell Suzie. Or Bart, or Robin, or anyone who’s actually here, or–or anyone at all, even. 

He’s alone, and everything smells–scrubbed. 

Smells sterile. 

Kon swallows roughly and tries not to cry again, or at least not cry on his meager nesting supplies. He doesn’t wanna wreck or even just muddy Cassie and Cissie’s scents. But–but he needs Suzie’s scent too. She’s gotta have left some of it somewhere in the base. Like–she’s gotta have, if anyone did. And Cassie and Cissie both did, so–so she’s gotta have. 

He really hopes so, anyway. 

Kon swallows again, then tries searching a little more–carefully, maybe. Maybe he’s just . . . not looking carefully enough. Rushing too much. He might’ve missed something, or . . . 

He cries some more while he’s looking, probably, but not on purpose. He manages not to do it on any of his nesting stuff, at least, but–but–

. . . his nesting stuff, he thinks again. 

Kon sniffles; rubs the sleeve of his jacket roughly across his eyes. He’s definitely crying again now, but . . . but differently, he guesses. Just–

He has nesting stuff. Like–he does. Like . . . stuff he’s just scavenged up, obviously, but . . . but nesting stuff. Nesting stuff he’s gonna use, for–for his nest. Because he’s an omega, so he can have that kind of stuff. Because–because that’s normal, for omegas. 

So . . . so it’s okay, if he has that kind of stuff too. And no one can tell him it’s not, or that he’s not–that he isn’t–

He is, and he can, and it’s okay. 

Kon sniffles one more time, then goes to dig up the tissues he’s pretty sure are in the common room where they set up the couch and stuff they dug up to hang out on during their downtime, because if he gets all stupid and snotty he won’t be able to find anything that smells like Suzie, much less Bart or Robin, and probably he won’t even be able to find something that smells like Robin even if Robin hadn’t run the scent scrubbers, ‘cuz he always wears those stupid Bat-issue blockers that never linger when he leaves a room, but . . . 

Kon finds the tissues, cries some more into a fistful of them, and then scrubs his face dry and blows his nose a couple times all without ever putting down Cassie’s shirt or Cissie’s towel–all without putting down his nesting stuff–and then feels . . . kind of stupid and overemotional, mostly, but also a little better anyway. He’s supposed to be kind of stupid and overemotional right now. That’s–that’s normal, for an omega who’s on their cycle. So it’s fine, if he’s like that right now. 

He can check some other places Suzie might’ve wandered through, he figures. And maybe he’ll find something from Bart too, if he’s gotta spread out his search range anyway. If Bart left any of his scent anywhere the scrubbers didn’t get, it’s gonna be somewhere weird and out of the way anyway. The scrubbers here are real good, and also Bart is, like–Bart. Obviously. 

Kon really wishes the others were actually here. 

He really wishes that.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Don't Speak 50

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating, dissociation, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber, Steve Kemp

Note: getting close.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You hate the smell of hospitals. It clings in your nose even after you leave. You can taste it. It dries out the mouth. It stains like the blinding lights against the sterile walls. Your vision is washed out in the hangover of your outing. 

The doctor took your blood. He asked questions too but you didn’t answer them. Ann did. Even if you had tried, you wouldn’t have gotten a word in. 

You left with another appointment scheduled and an endless list of rules. No caffeine, no lunch meat, no hot baths, only sleep on your side... Your body is a prison. It always has been but now, it’s like solitary confinement. Dark and isolating. You can’t see the way out. 

You sit in the back of the car, staring at the seat in front of you. Like a child. She didn’t stop you from sitting back there but you can’t sit beside her. Maybe she prefers it too. Her touch has always said more than her words. She despises you. 

The colours of the city blur. Pallid and dull with the late dregs of winter. You hug yourself and a new tide of nausea overwhelms you as you touch your stomach. You try not to. It’s a reminder. You’re not showing yet, not there, but in other ways. You can feel it even if you can’t see it. 

Ann sighs as she rolls slowly down the suburban street. You recognise the brick house. You rarely see the outside of it. She hits the button below the rear view mirror and the garage door opens. You know what they do. They don’t let you out of the car outside, only in the garage. They’re hiding you. 

As she pulls in, you slump against the door. She unlocks the doors and clicks the button on her belt. You unhook your own seat belt and follow her at a delay. It’s easier to just do everything she wants. 

She hums as she stands, “oof, I’m sore,” she complains, “will you get the door.” 

You nod and go to the button mounted on the wall. Before you can hit it, a grizzly voice wafts through the frigid air, blowing in with the wind under the open garage door. Your hand lingers before the close button but doesn’t hit it. 

A man ducks to see through, “hi, excuse me,” he says as he raises a hand above him to grip the metal, “I’m looking to deliver a package...” 

“Oh, a package?” Ann echoes, “I’m not expecting anything.” 

“Uh, yeah, it’s for... Dr. Steve Kemp?” He shifts the flat box under his arm to read it. “It’s pretty cold out here. Think you can take it off my hands?” 

“Why, of course,” she strides along the length of the car, “I’m his wife.” 

The man nods as she approaches and his grey blue eyes wander over to you. His dark stubble refines the angle of his jaw as a tuque covers his hair. You squint. He’s familiar but you don’t know how. He stares for a moment then hands over the package, “just sign here.” 

He takes out his phone and presents it to her. She drags her finger over the screen then pulls back to examine the box, “thank you, sir. Bit late for a delivery.” 

“Got backed up with the ice up on the freeway. Everyone’s taking the back roads today.” 

“Ah, makes sense,” she says, “well, you have a good day.” 

“You as well, ma’am.” 

He backs up and marches off without another look or word in your direction. She looks down at the box and rolls her eyes. She backs up.  

“Close the door. It’s freezing.” 

You tap the button and the door descends with the thrum of the motor above. You wait for her to go inside first before you follow. You hear the kids and Steve’s low timbre. You wonder why the courier didn’t knock on the front door. Maybe he did but couldn’t be heard. The TV is blaring as the kids giggle and holler. 

“Steve,” Ann calls out as you leave your shoes on the mat, “you got a delivery.” 

He doesn’t answer. She keeps on down the hall and drops the package on the side table against the wall. She stops to peer into the front room. 

“Honey,” she says curtly, “package.” 

“Alright,” he says, slightly agitated as he helps Harper build blocks into a castle. “Thanks. Any idea what it is?” 

“I don’t know. Looked like more of those magazines. Aren’t those supposed to go to your office?” 

“Could be an old subscription,” he shrugs. You stand back in the shadows but he finds you, “how’d it go?” 

“Fine. She’s on track. She’ll have a scan next week,” she sniffs. “You made a mess in here.” 

“The kids are bored. It’s too cold to go outside,” he grumbles. 

“As long as I’m not the one cleaning it up,” she tuts. 

“Love you too, honey,” Steve says dryly.  

“Got enough to worry about with the baby...” she mutters, “I’m thinking of sending out a card as an announcement.” 

“Ann, really? No one cares about a third kid,” he chuckles. 

“I care,” she snips. “Aren’t you excited?” 

“Of course I am. I just don’t see why it needs to be a whole broadcast.” 

You shrink away from their argument as the children give pause at their parents’ tones. They might be young but there’s an obvious tension there. You don’t dare interrupt. 

“It’s a big deal,” she growls. “It’s almost dinner time. Did you take out the chicken like I asked?” 

“I promised the kids pizza. Figured we’d order.” 

“Pizza? It’s so expensive these day--” 

A knock cuts her off and she winces. She huffs and shakes her head. “Busy day.” 

“Could be Jeff. He borrowed my drill.” 

“Tell him to keep it,” she ignores the door and struts back down the hall. “You never use it anyway.” 

You flatten yourself against the wall to let her pass. You stare up the stairs, wondering if you should just go and hide. When they need you, they’ll find you. 

“Get the door, will ya, sweetie?” Steve says. 

You hesitate. That’s all you are these days. A thing to be used. You’re not a person to them. Just a means to an end. You nod. 

You go down the hall to the door. You’re nervous. You don’t like strangers. You’ve had enough of them for the day. All those nurses poking and prodding and preening over that thing inside of you. 

Just get it over with. You make yourself open the door. 

Before you can say a word, you’re name whispers with the wind. You’re seized and pulled into a hug. You barely catch a glimpse before the woman has you in her arms. You can smell her. She always smells of cinnamon. 

“You’re alive,” she says. “Oh my god, you’re alive.” 

“Huh?” You wriggle in confusion, “Amber?” 

“I’ve been...” she loosens her hold but keeps her hands on your arms. “I’ve been looking for you. All these months. I’ve been...” her eyes gleam with tears. “I’ve been so afraid.” 

You’re frozen by more than the chill creeping in around her. Something cracks. Like a toothpick between your fingers, you feel it. All those weeks of hiding behind a wall, of telling yourself not to feel, to just get through it. It’s more than her being there, it’s the care and gentleness in her touch. That’s different. 

She lets you go and holds you at arm’s length, “hey, bub, what’s... you okay? Come on, let’s go home.” 

You blink at her. You look around at your eyes burn with a glimmer of tears, “what?” 

“Home, bubba. Please.” 

“Why?” You breathe. 

“Why? Because...” her voice trails off as you sense a shadow behind you. 

You turn as Steve stands in the doorway, his hands on his childrens’ shoulders. His eyes narrow and his jaw squares, “kids, go find your mother.” 

“Daddy?” Avery says. 

He hushes her and nudges them both down the hall. They run up the stairs and he turns to face you. And Amber. You don’t like the way he looks at her. 

“Ah, took you long enough,” he steps up next to her. “Right, dove? She really took her time. Almost like she doesn’t care at all.” 

You look between them, a sinking sensation rising in your chest. “What?” 

You can’t understand any of it. That wall is slowly crumbling. The only protection you have from any of this. The only thing keeping you from destroying yourself. 

“As if you do, doctor!” Amber snaps.  

He snorts, “as far as I have it, I’m the only one who ever tried to help you find her. Thanksgiving wasn’t that long ago, was it? You can’t blame me for your lack of follow up--” 

“Bullshit,” Amber snarls, her tone and words frightening you. “I’ve been searching for months. I’ve been tearing my hair out and you’ve had her all this time. Do you understand what that man’s been doing? He just sits outside my house and--” She throws her hands up, “you’re just like him.” 

“I’m helping this poor woman escape years of abuse and neglect. Neglect of her mental wellbeing, narcissistic abuse, using her to prop yourself up--” 

“I never—she's my sister. I take care of her.” 

“You do, Amber? So where have you been?” Steve chuckles. 

She lunges forward but doesn’t reach Steve as he steps back and she’s caught from behind. Another man stands behind her, his arm hooked around her middle as he restrains her. It’s him, the delivery man. You recognise him now. He was on her Insta. 

“Amb, please, calm down,” he holds onto her, “shhh, come on. Everyone, let’s be calm.” 

His voice alone puts his words into effect. You feel calm. He slowly releases Amber and squeezes her sleeve. He looks between you and Steve.  

Steve grabs your wrist and pulls you behind him, “I should call the police. You’re disturbing my family--” 

“She’s my family,” Amber growls. “Bub, please, come home.” 

“This doesn’t have to be hostile,” the other man says. “We came here to bring her sister home. That’s all.” 

“She is home--” 

“Ask her,” Amber cries out. “Look at her. I know she wants to come home. Right, bubba? Ask her. Ask. Her.” Amber’s close to tears as she begs, “please. Listen to her. Why does no one listen to her?” 

The words hit you like a punch in the gut. She’s right. No one listens, not if you don’t say what they want. No one but her. Your sister. The only person you ever had. The one who kept you behind her when your mother was having one of her fits, the one who told you to lock the door when the screaming got loud, the one who held you even when it hurt too much to be touched. 

The one who loves you.  

“Home. I want to go home,” you say and try to push past Steve. He turns and holds you, an arm across your chest. “No, home. With her. Amber--” 

You reach for her but he keeps you from getting to her. Amber extends her arm as you wriggle against the restraint. You stomp your feet and thrash. 

“This isn’t my home!” You holler. “This isn’t--” You’re breathless and dizzy. “Amber, help! Amber!” 

“Let her go, man,” the other man says. He’s taller than Steve. He steps up, filling the doorway. 

“Curtis,” Amber whines. 

“She’s not fit. She’s manic. Having an episode. You don’t understand. She’s in treatment. I’m a doctor--” 

“She says she wants to go.” That man, Curtis, grits through his teeth. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Ann snarls sourly as she comes down the stairs, “there are children in this house.” 

“Shouldn’t be,” Curtis sneers. “The meaning is simple. We came for her, we’re not leaving without her.” 

“And who the fuck are you, pal?” Steve puts himself between you and the door. Ann latches onto your wrist and tugs you back. 

“Let her go!” Amber cries out. 

You twist your wrist free as the room tilts and spins around you. Your head bobbles as you look around at the hazy figures. You back up and turn, racing away from the chaos. You hear your sister wail and that man she’s with snarls. There’s footsteps and a clamour. A mess all around. 

You hurl yourself upwards and stumble over the top step. You’re not thinking, just doing. You burst into the guest room and tear open the drawer in the nightstand. You grab your sweater and your journal and a few random pieces of clothing. You bundle it all up and charge back out. 

“Fuck off of her!” Curtis barks. 

“She’s trespassing,” Steve snarls. 

“Oh, stop it! Stop it!” Ann shrieks, “would you stress a pregnant woman like this? Oh my, oh my!” 

You barrel back down the stairs and stop at the bottom. You look at Ann as she touches her stomach. You curl your lip and the realisation startles on you. Locking you up in the room, not letting you out front, keeping you inside all day long... 

“What is all that?” She turns on you. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

“Come on, bub,” Amber shouts as Ann grabs your ear. “Let her go, you bitch!” 

Steve slips in his socks as he tries to hold her back. He flies back as Curtis throws him into the wall and stomps forward. Ann cries out and cowers away as the sting of her pinch throbs in the shell of your ear. 

“Shoes,” Curtis snarls, “go get em.” 

You look down as he glances at your feet. He turns back and grabs Steve by the back of his sweater and drags him away from Amber. He spins him by the shoulder and pins him to the wall. He snaps his fingers. 

“Amb, help her find her shoes.” 

Amber squeezes by and Ann moves toward you. Your sister puts her arm across you and steps up to the other woman. 

“Touch her again and I’ll rip your pretty hair out,” Amber lurches as if she might actually do it. Ann shies away with a screech. 

“Please, please, don’t hurt me,” she keeps her hand on her stomach, “you wouldn’t hurt a pregnant woman.” 

You shrink away and scuttle down the hall to the mat by the garage. You bend down the back of your sneakers as you step into them. You come back as Ann sobs. 

“Oh, please, we were only helping her,” she rocks against the wall. “Please, don’t hurt my husband. Steve, baby, are you okay?” 

“Fucking take her,” Steve shoves Curtis off of him as he kicks his foot into the wall. “She’s broken anyway. Can’t fix that.” 

Curtis staggers a single step and tilts his head dangerously. His hand balls to a fist. “That’s fucked up, doctor.” 

“Curt,” Amber puts her arm around your shoulders and ushers you forward, “let’s just go.” 

“Yeah, fucking run like you do from everything, Dove. Isn’t that how it goes?” Steve snarls. 

You stop beside him and waver. Amber stops too. You look at her and nod. You pull away and she lets you go. You face Steve with watery eyes. 

“You’re evil. I hate you.” You say. “You don’t deserve those children. Or mine.” 

His eyes flare and he stands straight. Curtis looms and you turn away. You walk forward and Amber follows. You don’t look back. You can’t. You’re going home. 

[its-avalon-08]

can u do a carlos sainz x reader, where reader forgets him birthday oop- he's is really hurt by it! thanks

let me dry your eyes (cs55)

✦ pairing - carlos sainz x female!reader

✦ genre - major angst, alot of tears, happy ending

The smell of tears hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the tension crackling between Carlos and Y/N. Empty plates sat abandoned on the table, the remnants of a dinner that neither had the heart to finish.

"You didn't even remember," Carlos choked out, his voice thick with emotion. Y/N flinched, the color draining from her face.

"What? No, of course I did!" she sputtered, scrambling to mend the situation. Work had been a relentless beast lately, consuming every waking thought, but forgetting his birthday? That was unthinkable.

"Don't lie to me, Y/N," Carlos said, his voice barely a whisper. "There wasn't even a card, a stupid text... nothing."

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes. "Carlos, I..." Her voice cracked. A horrible dread settled in her stomach. Had she truly forgotten? Memories flickered - a discarded calendar reminder, a half-written email draft... the mounting pressure of a looming deadline. Shame washed over her.

"You what?" Carlos snapped, his eyes blazing. "This isn't some random Tuesday, Y/N! It's my birthday!"

"I know, I know!" she cried, scrambling to her feet. "But work, it's been..."

"Work, work, work! That's all it ever is!" Carlos roared, his voice echoing off the bare walls of the apartment. "Is that all I am to you? Just some inconvenience in your never-ending schedule?"

Tears streamed down Y/N's face. "No, that's not it! You're everything to me, Carlos. I just..." Her voice trailed off, the enormity of her mistake hitting her like a physical blow.

"You just forgot," Carlos finished for her, his voice laced with a bitter resignation. "Because apparently, my birthday just wasn't important enough for the woman I love"

"No! That's not true!" Y/N reached out for him, but he flinched away. The hurt in his eyes was a reflection of her own carelessness.

"It's okay, Y/N," Carlos said, his voice hollow. "Don't worry about it. I obviously don't matter that much."

The finality in his voice struck a raw nerve. "Don't say that, Carlos. Please," she begged, desperation creeping into her tone.

He looked at her, a flicker of pain crossing his features. But then, his face hardened.

"I need some air," he said curtly, brushing past her on his way to the door. Y/N lunged after him, but he was already throwing it open.

"Carlos, wait!" she cried, tears blurring her vision. But he was gone, leaving her alone in the wreckage of their burnt dinner and a birthday celebration that never was. The silence echoed louder than any scream, a chilling reminder of the carelessness that threatened to tear them apart.

The sterile white walls of Lando's house offered a stark contrast to the warmth of Carlos's apartment. Lando, ever the friend, had found Carlos pacing outside his building, tears threatening to spill over again. Now, Carlos sat slumped on the plush couch, a beer untouched in his hand.

"And then she just... said work was busy," Carlos choked out, his voice thick with a mix of anger and hurt. "Like my birthday is just another meeting she can reschedule."

Lando, ever the calm presence, sat beside him, a sympathetic hand resting on Carlos's shoulder. "Mate, that's rough. Birthdays are supposed to be special, you know?"

Carlos let out a humorless scoff. "Special? Apparently, to Y/N, it's just another Tuesday." He took a shaky breath, wiping at a stray tear that escaped. "The worst part? I know she didn't mean it. She's been swamped at work lately, but..."

"But it still hurts," Lando finished gently. "It's the forgetting, the feeling like you don't matter. Trust me, I get it."

Carlos nodded, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. The anger that had fueled him earlier was starting to ebb, replaced by a bone-deep tiredness. "I just... I don't know what to do, Lando. We haven't been fighting much lately, but this feels different."

Lando squeezed his shoulder. "Look, give her a chance to explain herself. Maybe there's more to it than just work."

Carlos scoffed again, a flicker of the earlier anger returning. "What more could there be? It's my birthday, Lando! Not exactly rocket science to remember that."

"Easy there, firebrand," Lando chuckled, though the sound lacked its usual cheer. "I know you're mad, but blowing things up won't fix this. Talk to her, Carlos. But talk when you've both calmed down."

Carlos slumped further into the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're right," he muttered, the fight finally draining out of him. "I'm just... so fucking tired."

Lando gave him a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, well, birthdays can be draining, especially when they go sideways. How about we forget about the whole girlfriend drama for a bit and play some Call of Duty? My revenge skills are legendary, you know."

Carlos managed a weak chuckle. "Sounds good, mate. Just promise me you won't go too easy on me. I need to vent my frustrations somehow."

Lando grinned. "Don't worry, Sainz. On the virtual battlefield, there's no such thing as mercy for you."

As the familiar sounds of gunfire filled the motorhome, Carlos closed his eyes, the image of Y/N's tear-streaked face flashing behind his eyelids. He knew Lando was right; they needed to talk. But a part of him, the part that had been so excited to celebrate another year with her, couldn't help but feel a cold ember of anger rekindle. He was tired, yes, but he was also starting to feel overwhelming pain.

Exhaustion finally claimed Carlos. The emotional rollercoaster of the evening, coupled with Lando's relentless (but admittedly therapeutic) Call of Duty onslaught, had drained him completely. He slumped against the back of the couch, his breaths deepening into a steady rhythm.

Lando, controller still clutched in his hand, watched his friend with a mix of concern and amusement. He muted the game and pulled out his phone, a determined glint in his eyes. With a sigh, he dialed Y/N's number.

"Hey, Y/N," he started, his voice gentle. "It's Lando."

There was a choked sob on the other end, followed by a shaky, "Lando?"

"Yeah, listen," he continued, his voice low. "Carlos is here. He's pretty wiped, but…" He hesitated, gauging her reaction.

"But what?" Y/N's voice trembled. "Is he okay?"

"He's… hurt," Lando admitted carefully. "He's more upset than he lets on Y/N."

Y/N flinched at the nickname, a painful reminder of the way she'd let Carlos down. "Oh God, Lando, what can I do?"

Lando could practically hear the despair in her voice. "Look," he said, his tone firm but kind. "You messed up, big time. But Carlos cares about you deeply. He's just… well, he feels forgotten."

Y/N sniffled. "I know. I feel like the worst girlfriend ever."

"Don't beat yourself up," Lando soothed. "Here's the thing – you can fix this. But it'll take effort."

He outlined a plan. It involved a grand gesture, a little creativity, and a whole lot of groveling on Y/N's part. As he spoke, a slow smile spread across Y/N's face, a spark of hope rekindled in her voice.

"Lando," she whispered, "that might actually work. Thank you. Thank you so much."

"No problem," Lando replied, a genuine grin breaking out on his face. "Just promise me one thing – make it epic."

"Epic it is," Y/N vowed, a newfound determination hardening her voice. "He won't forget this birthday, not in a million years."

Lando hung up, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. He glanced at the slumbering Carlos, a small smile playing on his lips. "Looks like we're in for a wild ride, mate," he murmured. He grabbed a blanket and gently draped it over his friend, a silent promise that things would be alright. (my carlando heart is sobbing brb)

The rhythmic rumble of the engine lulled Carlos further into sleep. Lando, ever the watchful friend, kept a careful eye on the road, a smile tugging at his lips. Y/N's plan, as he'd suspected, was a winner.

As they neared Carlos's apartment, Lando broke the silence. "Hey, mate," he nudged Carlos gently. "We're close."

Carlos stirred, blinking blearily at his surroundings. Memories of the argument and his subsequent meltdown flooded back. Shame washed over him, quickly followed by a pang of longing. All he wanted right now was to hold Y/N, to feel her warmth, to hear her apologize.

Sensing his friend's turmoil, Lando offered a playful nudge. "Come on, sleepyhead. Looks like your princess is in another castle... or rather, apartment." He winked, throwing a knowing look towards Carlos's building.

A jolt of energy coursed through Carlos. He sat up straight, a sudden desperation filling his eyes. "Lando, I just… I want to hug her and give her the biggest kiss. Right now."

Lando chuckled, a hint of mischief in his voice. "Well, looks like your nap is officially over then, Mr. Sleepyhead."

Finally, Lando pulled up in front of the building. He gave Carlos a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Go get her, tiger."

Carlos didn't need telling twice. He practically sprinted towards his apartment, his heart hammering in his chest. He fumbled with the keys, the door swinging open with a creak.

The sight that greeted him stole his breath away. Fairy lights twinkled in the darkened room, casting a warm glow on everything they touched. Carlos's favorite flowers, lilies and sunflowers, bloomed in vases strategically placed around the room. Simple silver streamers fluttered gently, catching the soft light.

A low hum filled the air – the familiar score from his all-time favorite movie. The scent of sizzling garlic and herbs wafted from the kitchen, a tantalizing promise of his favorite pasta dish. And then, there she was.

Y/N stood in the center of it all, a vision in a dress that shimmered like moonlight on water. Her eyes, though puffy and red-rimmed from crying, shone with an intensity that sent a jolt straight to his heart.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the weight of the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Then, Y/N's eyes welled up again, and she ran towards him, a sob escaping her lips.

Carlos met her halfway, engulfing her in his arms. The scent of her shampoo, a familiar comfort, filled his senses. He held her tightly, burying his face in her hair, his own tears threatening to spill.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I…" Words failed him, so he simply held her closer, letting the embrace speak volumes.

Y/N clung to him, her body trembling slightly. "Carlos, I'm so sorry. I was an idiot. Please forgive me."

He steps further into the room, his eyes searching mine. "Y/N," he starts, concern lacing his voice. "You didn't have to do all this."

"But I had to," Y/N interrupts, her voice gaining strength. "I messed up, Carlos. Big time. Work was a monster lately, but that's no excuse. You… you deserve to be celebrated. Every single day. But especially today."

Y/N stepped closer to him, the space between the two shrinking. "You see, Carlos, forgetting your birthday wasn't just about a missed date on a calendar. It… it showed me something about myself, something scary. That I, in my whirlwind of stress, could almost lose sight of what truly matters. And you, Carlos, you matter more than anything in this world."

Her voice cracks a little, but she presses on. "You're my best friend, my confidante, my biggest supporter, and the person who makes me laugh until my sides ache. You're the calm in my storm, the sunshine on a rainy day. You're… you're my Carlos."

She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead "And I promise," she vows, her eyes pleading with him to believe her, "I will never, ever forget that again." A single tear escapes, tracing a glistening path down Y/N's cheek. "Can you forgive me?"

The silence stretches for another beat, then his lips curve into a slow, understanding smile. He pulls Y/N into a tight embrace, the warmth of his body chasing away the lingering chill of doubt.

"There's nothing to forgive," he murmurs against her hair. "Just… maybe a few extra birthday kisses?"

She laughs, the sound echoing through the room like a promise of a new beginning. "As many as you want, birthday boy." Tonight, with the flickering lights and the promise of a shared future, they celebrated not just his birthday, but the strength of their love, a love that can weather even the most forgetful storms.

He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. "Just… no more forgetting birthdays, okay?" he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Y/N's lips curved into a watery smile. "Never," she promised, her voice barely a whisper. Then, she added, "The movie's just starting, and your food will be ready soon. Can we just… stay like this for a while?"

Carlos leaned his forehead against hers, a wave of relief washing over him. "For as long as you want," he murmured. And in the quiet embrace, surrounded by the soft glow of fairy lights and the promise of a new beginning, they knew this birthday, though starting on a rough note, would be one they'd never forget.

As they pulled away from their embrace, Y/N's eyes darted around the room, landing on a small table decorated with a single wrapped box. "There's, uh, one more thing," she mumbled, her cheeks flushing a light pink.

Carlos raised an eyebrow in surprise. "More surprises?"

Y/N nodded shyly, biting her lip. He watched with a growing smile as she carefully unwrapped the box, revealing a framed photo of the two of them, beaming at the camera during a recent vacation. The edges were decorated with tiny seashells they'd collected on the beach.

"It's for you to remember all our birthdays," Y/N said softly, handing it to him.

Carlos's heart melted. He held the photo close, the warmth of the memory radiating from it. "Y/N, this is perfect. Thank you." He looked at her, his eyes shining with affection. "You really went all out."

Feeling a surge of confidence, Y/N reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. "There's actually one more tiny thing," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Carlos's eyes widened as she opened the box, revealing a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny race car charm dangling from it. "Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "It's beautiful."

Y/N helped him clasp it around his wrist, a shy smile gracing her lips. "It has your number on it," she explained, tracing the car charm with her finger.

Carlos's smile widened into a full-blown grin. He was about to say something when his stomach rumbled loudly.

"Oh my god," Y/N gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Dinner! I completely forgot with all the excitement."

Carlos chuckled, pulling her close. "Hey, it's okay. Birthdays are for celebrating, not worrying about schedules."

They decided to ditch the fancy dress and uncomfortable shoes, opting for their usual cozy sweatpants and t-shirts. As the delicious smell of garlic and herbs filled the room, Y/N set about preparing their plates, a newfound lightness in her step.

Curled up on the couch with the movie playing in the background, Carlos took a bite of his pasta, his face contorting in blissful satisfaction. "Mmm, Y/N, this is amazing," he mumbled, his mouth full.

Y/N, nestled comfortably on his lap, beamed. "I'm glad you like it. I put extra love in it after… well, you know."

A momentary shadow crossed Carlos's face. "Hey," he said gently, "about that… I'm glad you apologized. But honestly, I was more hurt that you were so stressed with work you forgot. It made me feel like…"

He trailed off, not wanting to upset her again. Y/N, however, anticipated his words. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. "Like you didn't matter?" she choked out, her voice thick with regret.

"No, no," Carlos quickly assured her, placing a hand on her cheek. "I never said that. It's just… you're the most important person in my life. And seeing you so focused on work… it scared me, a little."

Y/N leaned into his touch, tears spilling over. "I'm so sorry, Carlos. I promise, I'll find a better balance. Work will never be more important than you."

She snuggled closer, burying her face in his chest. "I love you," she whispered over and over again, seeking forgiveness and comfort.

Carlos wrapped his arms around her, his heart overflowing with love. "I love you too, Y/N. More than words can say." He kissed the top of her head, a silent promise that he would always forgive her, as long as they communicated and worked together.

The rest of the evening melted away in a warm haze of movie magic, shared laughter, and whispered apologies. As the movie's credits rolled, Carlos leaned back, Y/N's head resting contentedly on his chest. He knew, despite the rocky start, this birthday would forever be etched in their memory – a reminder of the importance of communication, forgiveness, and most importantly, the power of love.

[notthefirstfallenangel]

Memories I

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, mention of injury, amnesia

Summary: You had your memory wiped after a messed-up mission. All that you remember is your childhood and fragmented glimpses of your teenage and adult years. Poor Simon, your would-be hubby, is left to pick up the pieces when you can't even recall his existence.

Words: 1.7k

A/N: I've had this story in the works for some time now, but only recently got around to finishing and publishing it. In that timeframe, I've seen some wonderful stories from other authors that share some similarities with mine. If you're one of those authors, please know I'm not trying to steal your ideas🤍 I hope you guys enjoy this piece and that it provides a unique perspective despite the possible similarities!

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

The room was quiet, save for the rustle of leaves blowing through the windows to a slow rhythm, a song of the wind. It was not melodious or gentle. It was a dirge heralding the beginning of the storm. 

 The hospital room was clean but bare. There was no furniture, books, or colourful pillows, nothing to ease the quiet. All that was in here was a narrowed hospital bed, a small table beside it, and a chair.

The air was dried and sterile; it smelled of chemicals and a hint of decay that a hospital was always haunted by. 

Simon leaned against the doorframe, his powerful frame illuminated by a shaft of light from the hallway. He wore a tight black hoodie, dark blue jeans that hugged his thighs like a second skin, and black shoes. 

 Simon’s voice was low, velvet-like, and he looked directly into your eyes as he spoke, “Hey, sweetheart.”

You sat up in bed, wearing a hospital gown, no makeup, no jewellery. The only thing that popped out on you was the PICC on your left arm, a tape holding it in place with a trickle of blood that had soaked through. 

Your face was washed in the hospital’s flickering fluorescent light, and your eyes were cold and calculating, like an owl on the hunt. You didn’t say anything — you just watched Simon. 

 “How are you feeling?” his voice was a low rumble; his words were slow and measured.  

The chair cracked as he sat, the wood groaning in protest to hold his weight. 

 “Your wounds? Any pain?”

You blinked slowly but didn’t answer. Instead, you gazed at the ceiling, letting your eyes wander around the room. Your face was passive, your thoughts hidden.

Simon sighed. “I know you don’t want to talk.”

He waited for a reply, his breath holding as he stared into your eyes. The seconds seemed to drag on endlessly until he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “But...can you remember anything yet?”

He held his breath once more, almost afraid of the answer.

His tone was quiet, but his eyes were like deep pools of emotion, begging for understanding even as he kept his expression neutral. The slight twitch of his cheek indicated a level of tension as if he was holding back an outpouring of feelings that had been brewing inside him for days.

It was something that he asked every day, with the same inflexion and the same intonation. As the two-week mark approached, you grow accustomed to the sound of Simon’s voice, the feel of his presence. For those brief moments each day he spends with you, it is just the two of you. But despite his daily visits, you didn’t recall a single thing beyond your name and childhood.

Your eyes trailed over his face, trying to make sense of it, wondering if it should ring any bells — but there was nothing... No memory, no feeling, no recognition, no nothing. It was as if a faceless, empty void was talking to you.

He watched your lips press together, forming a thin line and heard the resigned sigh that escaped you.

“I've told you: I’ll tell you if I remember something.”

The corners of his mouth twitched with a weak attempt at a smile.

“Right. Okay.”

Simon stayed still for what felt like an eternity, his weariness apparent as he stared at your face. He had been doing this for two weeks – visiting every day – and yet nothing changed.

A long quiet stretched between the two of you. He slouched in his seat, exhausted and angry. Days had passed since you emerged from the coma—and yet, you still couldn’t remember a thing.

“This must get dull,” he said after a moment. “Me coming here like this every day, asking the same questions over and over.”

You looked at him sadly, your hands fidgeting in your lap. His gaze was intense as he spoke, his words soft and full of longing.

“We met in Moscow on a cold winter evening. I remember it like it was yesterday. You had just come out of the Bolshoi Theatre; you were undercover as a baroness.”

Simon took your hand; the touch was warm and reassuring against your own, no matter how cold and distant you were towards him. He peeled back your sleeve to reveal the scar running down the length of your arm. “You got this wound that night, right here. You were caught in a crossfire.”

He waited for an answer, but all you could do was shake your head in sorrow.

With a disappointed sigh, you murmured, “No...I don’t remember.”

He spoke softly but sternly like he was disciplining a child. “Sweetheart,” he said slowly. His voice held just the right amount of disappointment and hint of authority — something you had become accustomed to over the past few weeks.

His words made your face instantly stern; your eyebrows knit together in a frown, and your nostrils flared.

“I told you, I don’t remember!” you barked at him. A strange combination of rage and grief welled up in your chest and spilt over into your voice as you shouted out the following words, “What am I supposed to do? I’m trying here!”

Your skin was flushed with emotion.

He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. The more he tried to explain himself, the angrier you became.

“I’m sorry...” he murmured. “I just want you to remember what we had,” he spoke softly, “all those moments we shared. I know you’re doing your best...but it’s hard for both of us. Please, let me help.”

There was a faint look of hurt but also resignation in Simon’s eyes.

“You come here every day, asking me to remember, and it doesn’t help!” you said, your voice full of frustration and anger. “Do you think I like this? Do you think I like having forgotten years of my life?”

Your whole body was rigid with stress and tension. You were tired of the constant questioning as if you could simply choose to remember by the snap of a finger.

Simon flinched, the sharp rebuke a painful reminder that he can’t control the situation, and he can’t fix what he can’t understand.

You glared at each other, icy daggers slicing through the air. Your fury was palpable, and his sorrow so heavy it weighed on his shoulders like an invisible cloak. The air between you sizzled with tension, and both were waiting for the inevitable explosion that was about to come.

But then Simon took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

You were a stranger to yourself. A stranger to your fiancé, your life, everything you once knew.

You used to look at him the way he would look at you, with pure and limitless love. But in that moment, you saw only fear and confusion in yourself. You looked at him and saw a stranger, a man you once loved but could not recognize.

He uttered your name in a whisper, almost afraid of what you would say. He reached out his hand, but as soon as his fingers grazed your arm, he felt you tense and recoil away. You had the same eyes as before, but it was like looking through a window into someone else’s life. Your eyes were wide with fear, your expression blank and unreadable—the only emotion present was anxiety. You grasped the sheets tightly, your knuckles turning white as you held onto them for dear life. He could sense that you were about to yell at him in frustration again.

The door opened, and a petite nurse in her forties stepped inside, alarmed by all the fuss. Her gaze was stern and commanding as she surveyed the room and all its medical equipment. As she drew near the bedside, her gaze softened. She placed one hand on your forehead in a soothing gesture. “Calm down, dear. You mustn’t upset yourself now,” she murmured. Then she turned to Simon, her gaze hardening once more. “Visiting time is over for you. It’s time to go now.”

” Just-,” he protested, trying to think of something to say that might convince the nurse to let him stay for a little while longer.

The nurse’s face was a mask of stern disapproval as she glared at him. Carefully consulting the chart, she stated in a tone that indicated this would not be questioned: “It is imperative for her health that she remain at rest and undisturbed.”

He reluctantly stood up, feeling as though he had been dismissed like an unwanted schoolboy sent home for misbehaving. He wanted to stay, to be there for you in whatever capacity he could, but he knew he had no choice but to obey the nurse’s command.

You looked away, your cheeks burning with shame. You felt the weight of your mistake as you tried to make sense of the situation.

He stayed still and silent for a moment before his lips brushed your forehead. “It’s okay,” he whispered, the warmth from his breath sending a chill down your spine. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He walks out slowly, his head down and his shoulders heavy. His thoughts were consumed with apologies he could never voice. 

As Simon’s footsteps faded away, you were surrounded by an oppressive silence. The beeping of the heart monitor seemed to get louder and louder. You wondered what time it was, how long until you could run from the room and the nurse, the needles and artificial lights and their cold. Your eyes darted around the cold, sterile room, taking in the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting and the unyielding machines with their wires and tubes that seemed to take up most of the space.

The muscles in your neck and shoulders tightened with anger as you realized how quickly your temper had gotten away from you, pushing away the one person who wanted to help you regain your memories. But it soon subsided, leaving you with nothing but a profound feeling of emptiness and helplessness. You let out a shaky breath, hating how small and powerless you felt.

“I wish I remembered,” you whispered.

[wifetomegatron]

Imagine Cybertronians trying to understand the concept of motherhood when they are, as a species, sterile. I would assume Cybertron, was born with an individualist culture, even before the war. Spark brothers exist, but that doesn’t carry the same gravity as being a mother. Conjunxes, friends, companions; they make the Cybertronian vernacular less lonely, less cold. But they ring empty next to the word mother — giver, carrier. How painfully gentle must the word be, the role even more so.

One of the human liaisons is a single mother, and she had no choice but to bring her child with her, well aware that the ship was no place for her son. And yet, circumstances were difficult: no one was surprised at the lack of equal treatment for working mothers — and so she never lets the child out of sight. And this had sparked a few curious questions from the crew. 

Tailgate, specifically, found the idea weird. Why does the little human struggle with feeding themselves? Or why can't they accomplish basic, ordinary tasks? The minibot knew he could be dependent, but this was just overboard. She had to explain to him that humans were different.

If Cybertronians were forged and welded, humans were moulded. They need to be shaped as they mature.

Humans don't come with a series of pre-programmed instructions. Those are nurtured into us. And no, Tailgate, they are not transferred through the umbilical cord.  

(Pregnancy was another complicated — if not terrifying — phenomenon for Tailgate.)

He's old enough to feed himself. I just don't want him to be alone, the mother smiled, bouncing the giggling toddler in her arms. That's why he has his mommy.

After that, Tailgate found the concept rather convenient, if not unfair: why is it that the small human gets to have someone to care for them, hold them, and love them all day long, and Cybetronians don't? The liaison had laughed, noting that the bot still had a long way to go to understand if he continued to dumb down the idea of ‘motherhood’ as simply being someone’s daily caretaker. 

Until an incident rocked the ship, and the Lost Light had a close encounter with the DJD. Only then did they see it : the teeth and claws and fear behind her usual, gentle eyes — how the liaison had carelessly thrown herself in front of Tarn, defiant and loud, mustering more courage than her trembling body could hold to put herself between his blaster and her child. The DJD leader’s optics had widened with something akin to shock, melting to interest as he faltered, just for a few seconds, at the blasphemous show of courage. That was the distraction Ultra Magnus needed to land the blow to save them. And once the crew was back in hyperspace, lightyears away and safe and quiet — she wept in relief. 

She tried to soothe her cub, choking on her tears to pretend she wasn't afraid. And it did not matter to the child whether her strength was tangible or not. He was in his mother’s arms. And to him, it was enough. Always, it was enough. 

Magdalene and the sword of grief; Loss decorated the long history of this million-year war between Autobots and Decepticons. And yet they never ring heavy with the cry of a mother who had lost a child. It had been a close call. Too close. Rodimus immediately ordered tighter security, and there was a shift in the air as everyone returned to their stations.

Mommy’s here. The mother crooned, stroking the hair of her child as the baby sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. And something sad and heavy tugged itself against the strings of Tailgate’s spark.

He finally understands. 

inspired by this post <3