#mittens updates

[mamamittens]

For the first time since 2018, I am COMPLETELY caught up to or unsubscribed from my waiting fanfics.

Dropped a lot that I lost interest in, forgot, and would need to reread a lot of fucking chapters to make sense of.

So weird to see my inbox at 0...

Still have an event to do.

Still need to go to bed.

Got a busy Saturday of (maybe) practice driving around the neighborhood (on God one day I WILL NOT HAVE TO WAIT TO LEAVE OR PAY A WHOLE ASS STEAK DINNER TO GET HOME), visit my old friend who had a baby recently (he looks either angry or horrified in every picture she's sent us lmao), and go to my optometrist appointment.

🙃

Busy busy bee that I am lol, hopefully I can get them to pull my insurance cause FUCK if I know what my specific carrier is right now.

Hopefully I can make real, noteworthy progress for my event soon but the maybe 4 hours of free time are just... So woefully short for all the things I wanna do. And I have absolutely been distracted watching the various Tiktoks about Hurricane Milton (I know some of those folks are fucking stupid (can leave, could ABSOLUTELY LEAVE THEY HAVE SO MUCH MONEY ITS PAINFULLY OBVIOUS THEY SAVED BY REFUSING TO BUY SENSE but don't EVEN WHEN THEY LIVE AT THE SHORE LINE WTF) but I hope they're safe and that the recovery goes well... Until the next fucking hurricane about a week later, Jesus I am so sorry Florida).

[toxicroyjamie]

I think Jamie talks to Georgie like every night and spends at least 45% of the call updating her on the latest in his insane and volatile relationship with Roy because it's always something. She literally never knows from one day to the next what the status will be. Yes we did get in a fistfight yesterday mummy but then we went to the kebab place so we were totally friends again :) and he forgave me and he even drove me home this morning. I said he drove me home. No I wasn't there overnight. I don't even know why I said that. I don't think I even said that

[jailofhorns]

[forgottencomic]

[nightsandreala]

i have another exam tomorrow but Editing The Characters’ Hands Together seemed more important for a second

[mittenlady]

what do u mean in order to write i have to actually make time to write…

[kitten-mitts]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ hello hello :D . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

I'm Mittens, a pretty faint-hearted proshipper, feminist and lgbt+ supporter. （˶′◡‵˶）

In my blog you'll find drawings of fanart or ships I made personally, most of which will be self-ships of either others or my own :3

Although I do enjoy darkships, comships, and other unsettling content, I do not condone any real life actions regarding fictional activities. Please for your sake, if I post anything that bothers you in anyway, feel free to block me (^_^;)

Also an update!! I have a seperate blog created for the sole purpose of making my darker ships and suggestive content, and it goes by the name of @mittens-other-art . I don't care who views or likes, as long as they're not minors (; ~_~ )

My interests are below _(:3」∠)_

Fandoms I'm currently in: Professor Layton, Pokémon, Made in Abyss, The Legend of Zelda, Evangelion, BFB/TPOT, the Mother Series, Mob Psycho 100,, and maybe more

Characters I self-ship with (；・ω・) :

Gaster (Undertale)

Hershel Layton

Gendo Ikari ( Evangelion)

Shōta Aizawa (My Hero Academia )

Duster (Mother 3)

Ozen the Immovable (Made in Abyss(

Happy Mask Salesman (Majoras Mask))

Warden Ingo, Nanu, Kabu, Professor Laventon, Larry,, (Pokémon )

Ness & Lucas (The Mother series)

Finn Mertens (Adventure Time)

I'll be updating this every so often if anything changes :)

[1988-fiend]

MITTENS!!!

MITTENS MITTENS MITTENS!!!!!

Welcome sweet Mittens 🤗🤗🤗

And this teaser I’m sure is only the beginning of Matt falling in love with another member of his growing household

Alright Matty, do I have your attention? The readers have spent the last week voting and I finally have your trash cat's name now. You ready for it?

FFTD Matt and Reader's new cat will be named Mittens! Thank you so much for the 200 of you who voted and helped pick their new ball of fur's name! I'm already working on the next installment for FFTD titled "The Stray" which might entirely be Matt’s POV as he interacts with the cat while Reader is briefly out and then when she comes back. I'll have to work up a conversation of how they name their trash cat now that he (yes, it's officially a he) has one!

If you're interested, there's a brief little unedited teaser of the very beginning of that installment below the cut!

Matt hunched over his steaming mug of coffee on the kitchen table, one of his hands running along his face as he tried to wake up. He was still dressed in only his boxers, finally crawling out of bed a little after he’d heard you leave the apartment. He knew you’d woken up early, excited to pick up the extra odds and ends for the cat that you’d excitedly ordered last night on your phone from the pet store just two blocks over.  It had admittedly been adorable listening to how excited you got over picking out cat toys. A faint smile ghosted over Matt’s lips even now as he remembered the little shriek of excitement you’d made, grabbing at his arm beside you on the couch when you’d spotted sushi themed ones. Granted, Matt always thought you were adorable and found your excitement contagious.  Drawing the mug of coffee to his lips, Matt could hear the soft patter of paws approaching him. He drank down the liquid before lowering the mug back to the table, his attention shifting to where he heard the cat sit down on the floor not too far from his chair. The soft swish of its tail back and forth was fast becoming a familiar sound around the apartment already. "She's not here right now," Matt told the cat. "So whatever manipulative face you've been giving her to get your way since yesterday? It won't work on me. Because I can't see it." A tiny mew met Matt’s ears, the cat's tail continuing to rhythmically move back and forth along the floor.  "Yeah, you won," Matt told him. "Seems like you didn't belong to anyone after all those calls we made yesterday, so you get to stay here." He pointed a finger down towards the cat, his expression stern. "But don't think you get free run of this place destroying things just because she likes you so much. No scratching up the couch. Or knocking dishes off the kitchen shelves–especially the coffee mugs," he told the cat. "She's weirdly attached to a few of them. I don’t want her crying because you broke one." Another small meow met Matt’s ears and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. Pressing his lips firmly together, he fought the smile threatening to slip onto his face.

[quins-makeshift-menagerie]

Knew I wasn’t gonna have the time/energy to do a big thing but the mittens turn a whole year old today, so have some updated refs

[mamamittens]

Okay, it's happened a few times already and I know the kind of people that send these particular asks likely don't do much research on the blogs they send their messages to, but, just in case I want to say it now.

No.

I will not promote your go fund me or anything else.

I do not promote fundraisers for people I do not know. Simply put, I have no reason to trust you are who you say you are, or that you aren't lying when you send summarized, copy/pasted sob stories about how you need help raising money for something.

Much in the same way I automatically block blogs I believe to be bots, your DM or ask for help will be ignored.

It's not personal.

I do not hate you or whoever you claim to be gathering funds for.

I just refuse to blindly assume and perpetuate a scam.

My blog is not your platform or your soap box.

For those genuinely suffering and in need of assistance, I wish you luck. But that luck will not be found here.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Imagine melusine creator slowly starting to open up to other characters from Fontaine, Since i believe they didnt care for the whole impostor hunt thing

I shall now leave it to your imagination:3..

*pulls you really close* Arlecchino (and the House of the Hearth)

naturally, being Childe's coworker, she's noticed his increased absences over the past several months- only giving updates during mandatory meetings, who does he think he's fooling. evidently everyone but her, since none of the other Harbingers seem to really care enough or notice. she corners him one afternoon, crossing her arms and bluntly asking exactly what he's been up to. Childe stumbles over his words, attempting to weave together several half-baked excuses as her eyes narrow, before he finally sighs, hands falling to his sides

"...I found the Creator."

Arlecchino blinks, once, her gaze marred with astonishment and doubt and suspicion, and Childe huffs, gesturing for her to follow

he doesn't take her all the way to Merusea, only to the edge of the caverns before telling her to wait, venturing deeper himself. the Melusine all know him, giving him cheerful greetings and leading the Harbinger to you, painting with Mamere. your antennae wiggle when you see him, giving him a warm hug as Childe grins, gently saying that he has someone to introduce you to. there's a flash of fear in your eyes, the months spent with your new siblings and friends calming but not erasing the memories of the people who swarmed and slaughtered you, all because you were impersonating yourself, but Childe gives you a reassuring pat on your shoulder. you trust Foul Legacy, and you trust him- although, he's not so keen on being Foul Legacy in front of Arlecchino. you can still hear his purr in the hum of Childe's voice as he leads you towards his colleague, her legs crossed neatly as she waits. she stands when she hears two sets of footsteps, and you shiver as she turns her cold, scrutinizing gaze over to you, examining your Melusine self silently

just as your siblings taught you, you lean out slightly and wave your mittened hand, hoping to gain her approval

Arlecchino's stare slowly trace over the shimmering markings on your body, in the same place she saw grievous wounds on a corpse, and her eyes widen a fraction

the Fourth Harbinger lowers her head and bows deeply to you, and Childe breathes a sigh of relief

[crinklemommy]

40 Ways to Embarrass your Little in Public (Preview)

1. “Well, you said you wanted a change. Don’t complain now that it’s happening in the parking lot.”

2. “Can you ask the nice cashier where the diaper stuffers are, my little piddler?”

3. “This is the quiet section of the library, babydoll. Can you keep the crinkling down a little?”

4. “The next time you unclip that child leash, I’m taking you out in mittens and a pacifier gag, too.”

5. “It’s a beach, silly goose. A diaper, swim shirt, and floppy hat are perfect.”

This is the first official subscriber post :3 Check out the rest at:

[dylsluvrs]

ryomen sukuna x reader | college au [18+]

touchdown ch.2 boundary king!

ᡣ𐭩 pairing. football player! sukuna x journalism major! reader

ᡣ𐭩 summary. ryomen sukuna. your best friend’s frat brother. he’s tall, hot, suave, not to mention the best thing to happen to college football since…well, ever. he’s in a world completely different to your own. while he spends his nights partying and racking up his body count, you spend your nights reading and racking up your word count. but when the two of you decide to come to a mutually beneficial agreement, you realise you aren’t so different after all.

ᡣ𐭩 warnings/tags. 18+. fem!reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, alcohol consumption, weed consumption, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, fake dating, opposites attract, acquaintances to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, sukuna being an asshole, best friend gojo.

ᡣ𐭩 chapter. 2/?

ᡣ𐭩 word count. 1.5k

ᡣ𐭩 a/n. hi my babies!! official chapter 2 of touchdown is out now! i’ve had a lot of uni assignments to do so i haven’t been able to update, but i’m done for christmas as on the 17th so i’ll have more time to write! i hope you all enjoy this chapter and pls know all your reblogs mean so much to me!!

nav. masterlist

Your hands shook steadily from the cold of the November air, your mind having skipped over the mittens laying on your dresser ready to be worn, thus leading to your predicament. You struggled holding onto the files, notebooks and tape recorders you needed for the day’s interviews, and your brain was so scattered you didn’t register the sight before you. The football field. The exact place you were looking to avoid after last night’s run in with the king of assholes. “Hey! Princess!”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You began to move quicker, willing your legs to carry you as far away from the football field as humanly possible. But he was quicker. he caught up to you instantly, with a tap on your shoulder. You spun around, and there he stood, his signature cocky smirk gracing his lips as he stared down at you. “What do you want, Sukuna?” His smirk twisted into a scowl at your attitude. He huffed, taking a side glance towards the rest of the team packing up their gear to leave practice. “Come on, l/n. I told you I needed a favour.”

“And I told you i’m not interested. Get one of the sorority girls to do it.”

“You and I both know if I give one of those bitches a chance, they’re gonna think it’s real. I need someone who won’t get attached.” As much as you wanted to let out a snarky comment at that, there was logic in what he was saying. You wouldn’t be interested in Sukuna if he was the last man on Earth. So instead, you let out a resigned sigh, finally meeting his gaze. “What’s in it for me?”

“You wanna interview the team, right? I’ll make it happen.” Your breath hitched, and you hoped he didn’t notice. (He did.) You’d been wanting to interview the football team for your class for months, and the only person you could get to agree was Satoru, under the ‘best friend privilege’ category.

“Does that include you?” You needed the captain to be in on this or you may as well not bother with the rest of the team. “I’ll be first in line, princess.” You rolled your eyes at the pet name, but held your hand out anyway. “Okay. I’ll do it. But we need rules, Sukuna. I’m not doing this without them.” He kissed his teeth, but nodded nonetheless. And thus came about the rules of your game.

Princess and Sukuna’s Rules:

1. Attend all parties together

> attend most parties together

2. Minimal PDA - hugs, hand holding, ass grabbing, SOME GROPING

3. NO KISSING!!!!

“Are you fucking kidding? Have you ever been to a party? No one in this fucking place is gonna believe this shit if we don’t make out at parties.” The urge to punch him was getting stronger as your arguments about the rules went on, and you were close to losing your shit with him. “It’s non-negotiable, Sukuna. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine. No fucking kissing.” His hands fell across his face, eyes practically rolling into the back of his head. “Okay, I’ve got another one. You can’t flirt with other girls like Ronnie did in can’t buy me love. It’s gonna be too obvious this is fake if you do that.”

“What the fuck is can’t buy me love?” Your jaw dropped. This son of a bitch didn’t know one of the greatest love stories of all time. “Are you kidding? How have you never seen that movie? It’s pretty much the same thing as what we’re doing, but Ronnie, who’s the nerd version of you, gets too big for his boots and starts trying to fuck Cindy’s friends, and that’s how everyone finds out it was all bullshit.”

“So you’re getting possessive over me already?” His smirk only grew as he looked at your flushed cheeks, and you could feel the tips of your ears burning under his gaze. “You want everyone to know this is a load of shit? No fucking flirting. And no snitching.”

“First rule of fight club, princess.” Your brows furrowed as you looked at him. He could see the confusion in your eyes and it only served to anger him.

“You’ve never seen fight club? Right it down, woman. I’m so making you watch it.” He ripped the notebook from your hands, scribbling down ‘make princess watch fight club’. In turn, you snatched the notebook back from him, your neat handwriting a stark contrast to his. ‘make asshole watch can’t buy me love.’ You both nodded. A silent agreement that a movie night was in order for the two of you.

“You drive?” You shook your head without looking up from your notebook, beginning to draw small doodles hearts around the words to pass the time. “I’ll pick you up for my games. Got a practice jersey you can wear.” You nodded, a quiet agreement that this should be added to the list of rules. You begin to write it down, before stopping in your tracks. “Wait, when are your games?”

“Friday nights, why? Got something better to do?” He had a teasing grin on his face. He knew what the answer would be. He’d seen you creeping out of Gojo’s room in the early hours of friday mornings before. “I work till five, is that okay?” He nodded, stuffing some chips in his mouth that he’d stolen from your bag.

“Games don’t start till seven, girl. Thought you’d know all this, miss journalist.” You huffed, ripping the chips away from him and eating them yourself, a sly smirk on your lips. “They were on saturdays at five last year, asshole.”

“I’m impressed. I still think we gotta kiss though, princess. Make it real believable.”

“Choke.” You grinned at him. His eyes narrowed but you could see the slightly playful glint hiding behind his red irises.

“Fine. But you gotta let me at least grab your ass. I’m a physical guy.” You offered him the rest of the chips, slightly smiling at the way his laidback expression faltered into happiness at the sight of food. “You can grab my ass all you want, Sukuna. It’s probably the only time in your life you’ll touch one that isn’t made of silicone.”

“Ouch, babe. I don’t like fake girls. The fake girls like me. All girls like me.” You scoffed, placing your notebook in your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. He followed suit, throwing his gear bag over his body and following you away from the football field. “There’s a party tonight, you gotta come. First step to making everyone think we’re fucking. I’ll take you with me, sit you all pretty on my lap, get everyone thinking you’re my girl.”

“Okay. My roommates going so i’ll get a ride with her and see you there, yeah?” He nodded along with what you were saying, constantly tugging the strap of his gear bag from under his armpit. “Sounds good, princess. Who’d you wanna interview from the team first? Me?”

“I’m gonna leave you until last, if that’s okay? I wanna go for Geto first, he’s probably got the most going on with the tattoo shop, the team and being an art major.”

“Make an order, send it to me, i’ll get it done. You won’t get no problems from the guys.” You smiled, before leaning over to grab his face, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek, leaving a bright lipstick mark just under his cheekbone. His hand instinctively went around your waist, as his head tried to turn to capture your lips with his. “What the fuck?”

“Look to your right. No! Don’t make it obvious, asshole!” His eyes fell to his right, spotting Choso and Nanami not too far from the two of you, watching you with surprised eyes. “Gotta make it believable right? Speaking of…I need a nickname for you. No girl calls their boyfriend by their last name.”

His eyes narrowed. There was only two nicknames he ever went by, and one of those, you definitely weren’t allowed to use. The other, appointed to him by the rest of the team, and commentators watching the games. The king of curses.

“Just use my first name.” You groaned, wrapping your arm around his bicep as you walked when you realised the two team members were still watching the two of you. “Ryomen is such a mouthful.”

He smirked down at you. “Damn right I am.” You shoved his chest with a small laugh bubbling in your own. “What about Ryo?” He hated the way he enjoyed the sound of the nickname rolling off of your tongue. It made him think how he could get you to say it more often. And how desperately he wanted to hear you say it in a sickly sweet voice as you fell apart—NO!

“Okay, princess. You can call me Ryo. I’ll see you at the party, yeah?” You nodded, giving him one final kiss on the cheek, ignoring the tingle it sent down your spine.

“See you later, Ryo.”

taglist: @kyo-kyo1 @kenmacantakemeaway @coldluminarykoala @sukubusss @clp-84 @ieathairs @toratsue @mocha-the-muse @livinggxd3adgirl @gojoscumsluttt @sukuxna0 @gaychaosgremlin

[elliespassagerprincess]

What about Ellie taking readers first kiss?!?🤭 very nervous reader?? anxious somewhat but also super excitedd

Frostbite - (ellie williams x reader)

Hi anon!! i did it a little differently from your request, i hope you don't mind. I could not stop writing this, i might make a part 2 to this... I hope you enjoy <333

Pairing: ellie x fem!reader

requests are open! send me your silly thoughts

Warning: none

Summary: in which you shared a special moment with her

authors note: did i mention Christmas in this because I'm excited for December? yes.

masterlist

Jackson was covered in thick layer of snow. Everyone was wearing puffer jackets, mittens and beanies hoping that the cold air wouldn't affect them. You walked down the street seeing how people were hanging Christmas lights, and how the children stared at everything in awe. The children made snowmen, and you knew that soon the town would be buzzing with people as they started to buy gifts for their families.

As beautiful as the holidays were, you hated it. Every year you'd end up alone in your house, listening to carols being sang. You're be filled with a emptiness that you can't explain.

You missed your family every year. You'd always imagine the type of life you'd be living if the outbreak never happened.

You sat in the local garden, shivering slightly when the cool breeze blew past you.

"There you are, i was looking for you"

you turned your head to that voice.

Her voice.

Ellie Williams.

You rolled your eyes "you need to stop looking for me"

"i missed you though" she pouted

You hated when she did this.

When she'd come after you with nice words, pretending like she cared.

Maybe she did and you didn't believe her. At this point you don't know how to feel.

When Ellie first arrived in Jackson the two of you were inseparable.

"We were bound to be friends" she'd always say.

Sleepovers, makeovers, baking, watching old movies, you did everything together.

But the older the two of you grew, things became different.

You both got new friends, new interests. You used to spend every waking second of the day together, now the two of you only awkwardly said hi when you saw each other in public.

You both had reasons for the sudden distance.

You thought Ellie had outgrown your friendship. One day she'd be smiling with you, the next day she'd barley look at you.

Ellie on the other hand, was in love with you.

She suddenly became self-aware of how she looked, how she smelled, how she spoke. She didn't want to embarrass herself. The best solution to her problem (or what she thought was right) was avoiding you.

Now that she's older she has realized that damage her avoiding you caused.

Years had gone by and the two of you lived separate lives, but Ellie's feelings for you never went away. She was stuck on you.

No matter how many girls she dated, kissed or hooked up with, she knew her heart belonged to you.

The older Ellie grew, the more attractive you found her and some days you're actually glad the friendship ended.

Imagine you were best friends with the girl you loved?

Both of you assumed your feelings were one sided. Until the rumors started.

It all started when a girl randomly slapped you across the face saying that Ellie moaned your name while they were doing the deed.

She's been avoiding you but she's moaning your name?

You weren't sure if you should feel flattened or disturbed.

You'd hear more stories as the years went on.

"She liked you" , "She misses you" You weren't sure if this was even true. Maybe it was all just a sick joke.

Even with all the drama you missed her. The friendship. The cheesy jokes, the stupid stories. You just missed her.

You were actually happy when Ellie slowly started coming back into your life. It went from just saying hi occasionally, to small life updates to full sleepovers.

It was just like old times.

Your heart ached for her even more, now you're getting close again. As much as you enjoyed the friendship, you couldn't help but want more.

You noticed her lingering touches, the small glances.

Maybe you were being delusional? Maybe you were reading into it?

You could feel a connection, but does she feel it too?

Maybe the rumors weren't true.

"You saw me earlier els, you cant miss me"

"I just love spending time with you"

fuck, how many girls has she said this to?

"i want to-" she went silent, not finishing her sentence.

She seemed nervous.

From the corner of your eye you see her moving closer to you, her arm wrapping around your shoulders.

You shiver at the close contact.

"Why are you so close?" You ask in a whisper

"I'm keeping you warm"

It was winter and its really fucking cold but suddenly you were hot. You were almost sweating because of the close proximity.

This is closest she's been in years.

Ellie leaned closer towards you, so close you could feel her breathe on your cheek. Your heart races, you felt comfortable in her presence, you palms felt clammy.

You were nervous.

Why does she make you nervous?

"Can i kiss you?" Ellie suddenly asked.

Without hesitation you said yes.

Before your lips crashed into hers, your body turned hot, your breathing came out in short breaths. You turned to her and and her hand gently touched your cheek, you leaned in first.

Since when are you bold? Were you really this desperate?

As soon as your lips made contact, you felt butterflies explode in your stomach. She pulled you closer by the waist and you grabbed her face bringing her closer than she already was.

Your heart was beating so fucking fast, you assumed she could probably feel it.

"Your lips are...cold" you softly chuckle as your fingers brushed against your lips.

Did this just happen?

You were suddenly hyperaware of your surroundings.

Did you breath smell ok? Did you kiss ok?

Fuck now you were really nervous.

Ellie didn't respond and there was a comfortable silence between the two of you.

Ellie spoke up eventually "I've always wanted to do that"

You stayed silent blushing at her words.

"Do you want to come back to... my place so we can talk about us.... and i know you hate being alone during the holidays so can we perhaps... i don't know... go?"

"Yeah... I'd like that"

<3

[mittenlady]

i have made a series for all my klavquill fics… if u even care…

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

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

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Four - Hamster ball

See? The last update wasn't a fluke! :) Bit of a more easygoing chapter compared to the hecticness I've been subjecting our poor omega to. Bit more background on our girl. Give her a bit of breathing room before hopping back into more chaos.

Also: I've added a change to the reader's physicality. There's a reference to being underweight for medical reasons so I'm sorry if that takes any of you out of the experience. I try to not mess with that aspect, but I just felt it necessary given everything I put this girl through.

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

Life had apparently decided against throwing you any more curveballs on your way back to the apartment – slushy roads and bad drivers notwithstanding (honestly, how could this many people forget what front wheel drive did on black ice and wet pavement?).

Densely populated areas gave way to suburban life as you drove the twenty minutes it took to escape the city center and arrive back into a world a little less crowded.

The area you resided in could generously be considered lower middle class. The crime rate was on the lower end of the spectrum though still a tinge too high for most members of polite society. Nothing too terribly outlandish; juvenile gang violence typical of a sizable city and the occasional asshat who decided the stuff in your car now belonged to him. But there was a police station a few blocks down the road from you that ran frequent patrols and the low level violence kept the rent at a decent affordability. 

There were less and less brownstones the further east you traveled, row house opulence giving way to multi level apartment buildings interspersed amongst a smattering of mid century moderns. Grass became a thing again, but only in long strips running parallel with the sidewalk – unless you were fortunate enough to own a modest front lawn on a small corner lot. Not that it was visible beneath the eight inches of snow that’d accumulated since it started falling late yesterday morning. 

It was only late afternoon by the time you were back in familiar territory, but this close to the impending holiday the local residents left their Christmas lights on 24/7 it seemed. Most abodes were adorned with at least humble decorations. 

Community members wrapped battery powered twinkle lights around the sparse barren elms, evergreen garland candy caning down metal street lamps, interlaced tinsel glimmering from passing headlights. Cheap vinyl stickers of cartoon snowmen and Santa's little helpers splattered across glass windows and sliding balcony doors in haphazard childish fashion. Mesh reindeer lawn ornaments and creepy animatronic statues recreating Saint Nick’s undertaking in kaleidoscopic – if not positively garish – displays. 

Muddied coir welcome mats proclaiming ‘Blessed Yule!’. A giant inflatable dinosaur taking up way too much space and spinning an oversized dreidel. You even gave props to the guy with a grinch head popping out the top of his chimney, smirking deviously at the passersby down below as if they were in on the secret. 

All walks of life celebrating the winter season in their own special ways. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you bothered to hang a simple wreath.

You were fortunate enough to find decently close street parking as you pulled up to the curve, grateful the black Kia behind had left space enough for more than just a clown car. A group of rowdy boys bundled snug in thick mittens and hand-knit toques called for a ceasefire, taking your nearby arrival as an excuse to catch their breaths and stockpile more ammunition for the fierce battle they waged. Childish insults flew from behind snowy barricades as you stepped out of your car and onto the icy sidewalk.

It was a more than usual hassle making the trudge inside your apartment building. Normally you kept your grocery list light; manageable for the haul up three flights of stairs despite the fully functioning elevator. But with the previous week’s illness eating into more of your food supply than normal you’d been forced to compensate for the barren cupboards. 

Could you make multiple trips? Sure. Did you want to be outside in the blustery cold for longer than necessary? Nope. Hence the sight of you iron-manning your way through the building’s exterior entrance, clusters of bags biting into your arms even through your heavy winter coat, overstretched plastic really field testing its weight requirements and lumbering your already lethargic pace.

You were grateful that you’d remembered to double bag some of the heftier items, having almost made that same mistake the month prior if not for the shredding sound alerting you to the seam's fatal flaw. That’s all you needed was to be spending your evening on hands and knees mopping up shattered glass and pickle juice from grime-laden steps.

There's a sense of accomplishment as you haul the purchased goods over the threshold to your apartment, carefully depositing the burdensome load on the tile in front of your refrigerator, far too many to overwhelm your bite-sized kitchen table with. Doubling back to re-check the numerous door locks and deadbolts, you finally let loose a sigh as you kick off your snow boots and shuck the weighted material from your weary shoulders, hanging the ratty scarf on the hook next to it and giving your neck a chance to breathe again.

Rubbing the irritated skin hurt more than it helped. The damn thing was sensitive to abrasive material – only concealing it when absolutely necessary. Winter was easy; warmer months made the task trickier. Thankfully most people didn’t stare much at an omega with a patch of gauze taped over her neck. Newly bonded designations wore it as a badge of honor, proudly proclaiming to the world at large that they’d finally found their place amongst the upper echelons of packdom.

You, meanwhile, would have to be more careful in the future to wear turtlenecks if bombshell interactions were to become a normal occurrence. The last thing you needed were prying questions from nosy alphas.

A half gone tube of medicated ointment called your name from the bathroom counter, but the inflamed mating mark would have to wait until after you got the bulk of groceries put away. Canned items and other non perishables could be dealt with tomorrow. There was only so much strength left in your bones after a day like today.

The knock on your front door would have startled you worse if not for the preceding text message hailing the arrival. 

‘Paranoid’ would be the appropriate term. Practically overnight you found yourself turning into one of those god awful annoying conspiracy theorists that hide in the dark cobwebs of the internet, spouting schizophrenic ravings of lunacy and government surveillance, too wrapped up in their straight jackets for oxygen to reach their corrupted brains. 

It was hard not to be distrustful to any and all intruders of your dwelling, knowing full well the consequences that come from letting your guard down in a stunning display of naivety. The pinched tether on your bond reassured you of his distance, but he was far from being the only ill-intentioned alpha in a thousand mile radius.

Pulse fluttering like a baby bird and fingers flexing into trembling fists, you creep up to the peephole with all the finesse of a one-legged cat – despite knowing the face that would greet you on the other end. Per usual, the kind beta didn’t take it personally when you opened the door with barely enough space to let her inside, squeezing through the gap provided and scooting out of the way while you relatched your pacifying security measures.

All she offered was her usual glowing smile and a box of double stuf oreos.

“Hard day at therapy?”

Chloe had been an unexpected addition to the chaos of your life. For lack of in-unit appliances, the apartment complex housed a small laundry facility on the ground floor – free of charge, but awfully stifling come the summer months. Enough square footage that multiple people could use it at any given time, but not enough to hold even a quarter of the residents. On the weekdays, that damn thing could be packed tighter than a dented can of sardines (and smell just as fishy). It wasn’t unusual to find your neighbors making the trek of shame back to their rooms, hefting a still-soiled bag of clothing, waiting another hour or so in hopes of trying their hand at the laundry lottery all over again.

You were embarrassed to say you avoided the place like the plague for the first month after moving in. After all, what did it really matter? 

You didn’t leave your apartment at the time. There was no need for decorum – no call to impress. And as an unpacked omega with disabling agoraphobia it sounded like the worst sort of torture porn experience. It had taken running out of febreze and being on the phone with your dads to finally venture down there at three o’clock in the morning on a random Tuesday in hopes the facility would be barren enough that your musky basket could stop reeking up your closet. 

The scream you screamt upon turning the corner and finding another human being skulking around in the unlit void had you so sure your father’s were a hairs breadth away from calling down the fucking feds.

Turns out Chloe was a skittish thing a few years younger than you. A recent college graduate, this was her first real apartment outside of campus dorm life. But where you were up at the ass crack of dawn due to an anxiety-inducing aversion to civilization, she was down there to keep from running into the cute nerdy alpha across the hall and risking mortification at him peeping her dainty underthings.

Honestly you hadn’t been sure the smell of urine was coming from either laundry basket.

Once you’d calmed down enough to pull your fathers off the edge of booking the next flight down there to rough up some nonexistent predator, you’d managed to finish your chores on opposite sides of the room, neither engaging in any conversation beyond muffled apologies of humiliation. 

What followed was an uneasy truce born out of necessity, a silent acknowledgement that this would be a weekly safe space free from judgment and criticism. Silence turned to whispered greetings, whispers became timid banter, until eventually you were confessing in therapy to eating homemade peanut butter cookies on the floor in front of the laundry machines.

Now she was the only other person in this whole entire city besides Dr. Miranda that you could go to for advice and needed companionship. 

Originally you had no intention of exhausting any more of your social battery than had already been consumed. But therapy wasn’t for another week and you had too much bubbling inside to be contained by the cramped confines of your studio apartment. And Chloe was considerate enough that she knew not to overstay her welcome, her own introverted alarm clock ringing about the same time as yours.

“If only that had been the hard part,” you replied with a sigh, taking the parcel of outstretched goods and moseying on over to your butt shaped indent on the far end of the couch.

The sound of creaky hinges and clattering plastic informed you of Chloe’s detour to the kitchen. “Has that rust-bucket jalopy of yours finally gone to the great big scrap metal in the sky?”

Everyone’s a critic.

“How about we don’t put that out into the universe thank you very much.” Shoving a whole cookie in your mouth, you gratefully accept the cold glass of milk she passes over before taking up a spot on the cushion next to you, grabbing at her own treat from the open pack.

The mess of red curls atop her head and the loud pattern of her knit rainbow sweater deceptively implied a boisterous personality. Bright green eyes. A healthy dusting of freckles. Blue corduroy pants still smudged with gold leaf. One look at her 5 foot 11 stature and you’d think she was some sort of artistic fairy, flitting about from flower to flower like a social hummingbird. In truth she’d gone to school for fine arts, but in preparation for a career in conservation – something quiet and away from the harsh critics where she could help express someone else's ideas instead of her own.

Her soft hazelnut scent matches her sympathetic smile, always patient and warm with you. “Does it have something to do with why you smell like a latte? Oh dear–please tell me no one spilled hot coffee on you today!”

You duck your head from her doe eyed worry and concerned frown of dread, focusing on the cold bite of milk on your fingers as you plunge another sugary morsel into your clear plastic cup. 

As toxic as it might have been, you couldn’t bring yourself to wash the scent of alpha from the pores of your skin.

“Chloe, I…” Here goes nothing. “I met someone yesterday…”

For the second time in less than four hours you found yourself spilling your heart to a friendly ear. 

She heard all of it. The supermarket run-in. Tantalizing lemon. Silky coconut. Devastating chocolate. Therapy. The coffee shop mishap. Being gentled by a complete stranger.

The promise kept safe in your electronic device. 

Where Dr. Miranda had broached the topic with a level-headed sense of therapeutic resolution, Chloe had all but clutched her pearls the longer your tantalizing tale was spun. She wore her expressions the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, squeezing the life out of a proffered couch pillow in a way that made you hope she didn’t have any pets at home.

“How could he possibly expect any of this to not come crashing down in a fiery hellscape of cataclysmic fury that would put Dante’s inferno to shame?”

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

“I mean… it's not like I caught him off guard technically,” you try to bargain. “Like yeah, today’s meeting wasn’t exactly on purpose, but they would’ve had a whole night to discuss things amongst themselves. Maybe they just reached some sort of weird agreement with her?”

She bites her lip to hide the sympathetic frown. “Do you really believe that though?”

No. No you didn’t.

It wasn’t hard to put yourself in her shoes considering the thick iron cable anchoring you to another. If that bond came with passion... if you knew the cloying taste of devotion – the idolatry that comes from having your molecules grafted onto a lover’s DNA – you’d shred every muscle strand in your body, tear skin from bone with bloodied teeth to keep what was coveted.

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

At your lack of a meaningful answer, she unknowingly goes for the throat.

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.” 

The ice in your tone brokers no room for argument, instantly regretting the bite behind it as you watch her flinch back into the cushions with a meek whine. 

Your expression softens in guilt. Chloe is just trying her best to help you navigate an otherwise impossible scenario. Her suggestion doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, only one of care. Even if it does speak of ignorance.

Not that she didn't still try.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?”

“And what good would that do?” you press far more gently this time, the acid of pain climbing up the back of your throat. “No matter what they say there’s no tangible future for us. That ship has well and truly sailed – I know that now. My destiny was signed with an iron pen and the deed says I belong to him.”

Your voice quivers on the last word, the sting of acceptance cutting into flesh with a rusty barbed wire. You never thought there could be a feeling worse than hopelessness.

“Telling them will only ensure that both parties suffer for another’s twisted scheme,” you continue past the lump in your throat, “and I won’t subject them to the burden that should be only mine to bear. I refuse to let them live with that guilt.”

Maybe it’s her beta upbringing that keeps her from fully understanding the colossal weight of putting your bonded through such inner turmoil. Chloe will never know what it means to share someone's emotions across an unwavering connection. Pack life isn’t barred from her, but the same primal urges that draw us towards our mates are nothing but strings of thread easily pruned. 

Truthfully most betas never want it. To them, we all drew the short end of the straw; being forced into subjugation by ancient instincts that never shed their skin after the last ice age. 

After the eternally looping rollercoaster that's been holding you prisoner the past four years, you can't say you disagree with them anymore.

“...maybe they chew with their mouths open.”

The huff she pulls from your chest is genuine, catching you off guard with the attempt at levity, the small roast doing its job of diffusing the atmosphere. Her extemporaneous remark reflects the giggles in her eyes begging you to play along.

“Bet they don’t wash their buttcracks either,” you add with a half-grin after a few moments of quiet, relishing in the way she covers her mouth to stifle a snort. Her energy is endearing, granting you leave to feed off the sunrays of her carefree aura, unblemished by the malice of a hateful underbelly, continuing for the next couple minutes that her presence lingers.

If only laughter was all it took to make everything better.

Consciousness greets you like a lifelong friend – one waiting to welcome you into outstretched arms, promising comfort and geniality with its disarming smile, swaddling you in a blanket so thick and plush it cradles you like a pregnant mother’s womb. It beckons with a silvery tongue, promising a joyful reunion as you give yourself over freely under the guise of a fresh start.

All the easier for it to slip a knife between your ribs. 

You should’ve known better.

Sleep hasn’t been your ally since the night before the incident. Rest is not restful; it is a time where the walls between protection and abuse are at their thinnest. Where the toxic sludge of your connection oozes through the cracks like bubbling tar and coats your insides with its virulent adhesive. It chokes you with its noxious miasma, seeping into dreams and disturbing the regenerative process vital to your health.

Each day starts the same – dealing with the consequences of life on a strained leash.

Awareness comes into focus next like a camera in the exclusion zone, grainy and crackling under the effects of radioactivity while spreading like the beginnings of cancer through the pores of your skin. It clings around the edges, lethargic in its letting go, giving way only to the melodic chiming of your phone’s alarm that might as well be set to a booming fog horn. 

Eyelashes crusty with dried salt crystals peel apart like fly paper, pupils fully dilated as the blackout curtains remove the need for constriction. The rumpled towel beneath you leaves tender spots on your back from where it bunched up in the night – a result of the fitful writhing when the nightmares your mind guards you from remembering leave your body feverful and drenched, soaking through the lightweight sheets and condensing in a thin layer of slimy moisture.

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

The condition was a constant in your life, but its disruption was the worst during the early hours of the day.

Movement requires a delicate balance first thing in the morning. Jostle your body too much and the empty bin wedged between your bed and your nightstand gets reacquainted with the bile of your stomach (they’re apparently in an intimate relationship that you’re just sandwiched between like an awkward third wheel).

Problem is, barring the use of hefty restraints, it's impossible to know which side of the bed you’ll be waking up on. Literally. 

Some days you find yourself facing the drab interior of your studio apartment rather than covered window panes, knowing the energy required to roll over towards the small nightstand will likely result in the emptying of your insides. Sleeping on your back had potential, but your form preferred to curl in on itself for lack of anything else to bring it comfort.

Lady Luck had apparently seen enough of your mental breakdowns the past forty eight hours to grant you a reprieve, taking pity on your string of misfortunes as the first thing your eyes take in upon blinking free from sand is the heavy satin of your window coverings keeping in the dark – some lavender pattern to help match the rest of your nesting materials. They’re still fresh out the box after all these years, though the accumulation of filth would tell you otherwise, dust bunnies taking up residence on the weighted linen.

Your furnishings haven’t been bathed in sunlight since the moving van.

The well-loved bottle of Zofran sits in its spot on the corner of your nightstand, next to your still ringing phone and a robin's egg stanley, a glass picture frame shoved in the far corner on the other side of your table lamp.

Still wrapped in a thick fog of drowsiness, leaden muscles flex and groan as your arm stretches the short distance, ears taking priority and fingers tapping at the illuminated screen until they locate the damn snooze button. Popping the small oval pill comes next, chasing it with lukewarm water before burrowing back down into the soft minky goodness of your comforter. 

You're awake an hour before you need to be, but not to get anything done. No rejuvenating shower. No balanced breakfast and a half hour of yoga. Just adjusting to the abject misery your bond greets you with every day as a not so gentle reminder of the alpha you left behind. 

It’s a constant struggle to remind yourself that the suffering is worth it for the lifetime of abuse from which you escaped. Better to be tormented by a path you chose than one unwillingly taken.

About forty minutes go by before the medication kicks in enough to allow you freedom of movement, pulling yourself from the tangles of your bedding with aching joints and low fuel reserves. Walking into the bathroom, you squint against the blinding overhead fluorescents, rubbing the spots from your eyes as you take in your frumpy reflection.

There’s a photograph next to your bed that you haven’t glanced at in a few months. Six familiar faces beaming into a camera lens somewhere high in the mountains. A family vacation from eight years ago; the best summer of your life. 

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

Spiritless eyes meet your gaze in the glass, early crows feet forming from periods of prolonged stress. A bone deep exhaustion reflected in your undereye bags, the dull pallor of your complexion. The frizziness of unmoisturized locks begging for a drink. Wind chapped lips and an eternal frown. 

The oversized shirt hangs baggy on your form, once belonging to your brother but now in your possession. If you lifted up the garment you could practically count the ribs, a once healthy layer of fat and muscle cannibalized by famished cells and underutilization. It's hard to keep on weight when your stomach rejects the nourishment you try to provide.

If this is the empty shell you’ve become a full continent away from him then it’s hard to imagine what lifeless husk of a creature you might’ve deteriorated into under his brand of care. 

There’s no more energy left by the time you do your business and finish brushing your teeth, knowing what few bolts remain will have to go towards the impending headache of customer service. Taming your unruly hair will just have to wait until later – if at all.

You flick the lights on as you pass, trudging on shaky legs to the cabinets above the microwave. There’s still too much unease in your tummy for your usual coffee order, opting for a mug of herbal tea to help settle the irritated organ, a spoonful of honey cutting through the mild bitterness. Settling on a sleeve of poptarts for a lazy breakfast, you lumber your way over towards the couch and the awaiting annoyances.

Opening shifts were always the worst. 

Originally you’d approached the company with open availability in hopes of bettering your chances at landing a remote job. In those days, commuting to a location had been out of the question. It took months of submitting applications – relying solely on your family for all your expenses – before someone finally gave you an opportunity to rejoin the workforce.

(You wept the day you received the offer from HR. Having even a sliver of autonomy returned to you after a tumultuous period without it was as the first melting snow of a long envisioned spring).

Unfortunately it meant you were handed the hours no one else wanted to take. Most days that was the early shifts. 

It’s not like you work a whole hell of a lot. The job itself is only part time after all and fairly easy; fourteen hours max per week. But you’d quickly learned that the later you were scheduled, the clearer your brain was to focus, the better you performed overall. 

Now if only the big wigs at corporate would allow you to update your availability. When last you’d scrounged up enough courage to broach the topic to your immediate supervisor you were promptly informed that there was no current flexibility to your role and, when pressed, sent a look via Zoom that clearly said don't push it.

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

A small rolling side table acts as your makeshift desk, the apartment too cramped for something proper no matter how many attempts to tetris the layout. One of your fathers had come up with the brilliant solution while shopping at ikea for new end tables, spotting the piece of furniture and shipping it out to your location. You’d had to brave the awkward visit of the buff delivery man for a signature – hiding behind the door jamb like a sketchy criminal – but the purchase had been well worth it for how cluttered your poor kitchen table had previously looked, a jumbled mess of pens and wires, certifiably hazardous with its lengthy extension cord.

Armed with soothing chamomile and a warm knit blanket thrown over your lap, you boot up your laptop and log onto the program that would keep you chained to it for the next six hours.

Ask anyone that deals with customers directly: Christmas is the least wonderful time of the year.

Garbled phone calls over shitty receptions. The droning monotony of preplanned scripts. Old bitties recounting eight decades of family drama. Mass hysteria around shipping delays. ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ and the audible slick of his palm. Entitled socialites for whom the word ‘please’ never came preinstalled in their gold filigree hoity-toity dictionaries. 

The fifteen minute break is almost insulting. As if anyone can decompress in such a meager timespan. It’s no wonder why people used to chainsmoke their way through the stress of their jobs.

You try to remind yourself of the before times – the trials and tribulations that came from previous employments. Long grueling hours spent pent up in bustling kitchens, the dinner rush on crab leg nights testing your arm strength and patience for slow steamers. Pushy roofing salesmen harping over impoverished neighborhoods. Car guys calling you toots and insisting on being assisted by a ‘real professional’.

This job was by far the most laid back. No fussing over business casual, no extroverted coworkers crowding your space, no bosses micromanaging for the sake of being assholes. You were living a cushy life by comparison.

But then your mind wanders to Jose on the third floor kitchen, busy doing prep work for the various departments; a kind man once he warmed up to you and found you competent enough to last. Always sneaking you tender bites of grilled meats and a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.

Nyle bringing you ladies in the office a round of Starbucks when he came in for mandatory meetings. Sharing music with Stacy and gabbing about just aired episodes of your favorite tv show. Heather bringing in fresh blueberry bear claws from the local bakery near her home.

Going to the irish pub across the street with the guys in finance that knew the owners, getting drunk off free whiskey and cider on Friday nights. All smiles and laughter as you twirl across the dance floor to a live band performing hits from musicians like Flogging Molly and Great Big Sea…

…and you realize just how much you took for granted. That there’s a palpable difference between surviving and living.

You don’t even notice you’re six minutes over break until your laptop pings from someone trying to get in touch with you, startling you out of melancholic reminiscence and bringing you back to a somber present that longs for the taste of livelihood.

That time has ended; those figures mere ghosts of a past better left forgotten in the vaults of your memory.

Now, you make a small but tidy living solving other people's problems a few hours a week. Enough to pay for personal bills, groceries, and the occasional indulgence while your fathers provide the bulk of your utilities and the sum of your rent. Your lost independence used to bother you more, but the thought of a homeless shelter quickly silenced your tongue.

Your cellphone reads one o’clock by the time you're freed from servitude, happy to be logging off as you push the rolling setup back out of the way. The air bubbles between the contours of your spine pop and crackle as you rise to your feet, ignoring the rush of lightheadedness from six hours remaining stationary. Resisting the urge to itch at the healing scab on the side of your neck, you pad into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sandwich – cautiously optimistic on the inclusion of juicy pickles – before plopping back down in your usual spot.

The acidity doesn’t seem to upset your stomach any further, allowing you to munch in peace on the simple scrapings of lunch, scrolling through the kindle app on your phone for something to occupy your time with.

There’s never much to do around here when the people in your life are busy living their own. Your family checks in on you every so often, catching you up on the goings-on in the quiet neighborhood, your father taking the opportunity to gush about his lego collection to someone other than his partner for a change. You miss the camaraderie that came with building the Death Star.

Despite living hundreds of miles away, their calls always made you feel as if you were gathered around the sectional in the warm lit interior of the sprawling living room, Christmas tree glowing by the light of the fire, a hot cup of cocoa and the merriment of family.

The same couldn’t be said for your younger brother Alex.

Ever since moving out at eighteen he'd become quite a prick, a beta complex a mile wide that only got worse when he surrounded himself with the wrong kinda crowd. The loss of his once fervent companionship had devastated you. After the accident that brought your parents to an early grave, you’d kept each other afloat through turbulent waves of depression, tidal waves of grief. Six became four, but – even though that wound would never fully heal – you still had the strength of their love to turn to when forgone memories played like black and white film.

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

It's been years since you last had any type of contact outside the occasional cheap greeting card – just another notch added to your mile long grinchmas belt come the holidays.

Fuck him. 

Shaking yourself out of that spiraling rabbit hole, you turned back to the task of entertainment at hand. Since you didn’t feel like spending any more time on the phone listening to idle chatter than you already had today, you settled for choosing a book at random from your extensive TBR, diving into a medieval fantasy where brave warriors slayed evil dragons and an honorable knight could still save a princess. 

The minute hand goes round and round.

Dinner is as simple an affair as lunch; a cheap frozen pizza popped in the oven adding an extra layer of warmth to the already balmy interior. There’s no need for a plate as you pull it off the wire rack onto the cardboard box it came in, gooey cheese bubbling hot and steamy, sizzling toppings shiny with bright orange grease, savory aromas wafting as they ride the circulation of the antiquated heating system. 

Years of battling chronic fatigue have made you crafty, cutting corners on labor with gathered tips and tricks accumulated over hours of lengthy research. There’s no need to add to your pile of dishes; no plates or utensils to scrub free of dried food particles. Just you and your fingers tearing through the saucy meal chunk by chunk.

Dr. Miranda tells you it's all about the little victories. The moments of accomplishment no matter how insignificant. Doesn’t matter how you get the job done so long as it happens. Roll out of bed? That’s a win. A sleeve of ritz crackers for a meal? Glad you got sustenance. Just because you weren’t claiming a nobel prize didn’t mean your triumphs were any less important. 

Didn’t leave much in the way of riveting stimulation though. Just acclimatizing you to existing in a hamster ball where the difference between day and night is as little as the am or pm on the clock. 

After all, it wasn’t like your body signaled a change in energy levels. There’s no ‘getting tired’ when you never wake up.

The only time you ever felt a sense of normalcy was when you started the process of getting ready for bed, pinpoint focus narrowing in on the task of fixing your nest. Logic shuts down and gut feeling takes the reins. You lose yourself in the fussing over placement of plush fleece and textured sherpa, jersey knit sheets and squishmallow plushies. Weighted quilt blankets and cloud-fluffy pillows of various shapes and sizes, the assortment of pastel pinks and lush earthy greens giving off the enchanted forest vibes held dear to your heart. 

It wasn’t large or luxurious by any means, but the few modest pieces you did have were plenty enough for the cozy space, strewn across the full sized bed in an organized haphazard chaos understood only by the omega instincts that dictate your actions. 

Only, there’s something wrong…

You lament the smell of mildew as your nose breathes in the cloth of your pillowcase, whining in dejection at the offense to your delicate olfactory senses and pawing at the material in shame. 

An omega’s nest is a vital part of the care and keeping of their fragile emotional state. Oftentimes they’re seen as a reflection of their owner's inner consciousness and a handy tool to monitor their anxiety levels on a day to day basis. An unkempt nest can not only signal deeper depression, but if neglected for too long may result in bodily dysregulation that can affect them even right down to a molecular level, throwing hormones out of whack and causing real physical illness. 

Your nest hasn’t been properly cleaned in far too many months – no doubt adding to the high levels of stress that already permeate your everyday life. The sacred space that’s supposed to be your safe haven acts as just another graphic reminder that he’s taken everything from you. There's no true relaxation in your life because of it. 

For what was the point of washing the sweat-stained fabric if there’s no stopping it getting soiled again the following night?

Pulling the musky sheets up to just below your chin, you stare blankly at the evidence of what happens when you get your hopes up, sitting plugged into the charger on the corner of your nightstand.

The phone hasn’t rang once. 

You’ve been religiously checking the screen all day. Turned the volume from vibrate to blaring. Unclicked ‘do not disturb’ mode (turns out even telemarketers think you’re a waste of time). The device went everywhere with you, whether it was ten feet to the bathroom or six inches across the couch. Your desperation might have been otherwise embarrassing, but there was no worry of judgment besides your own in the guarded solitude of your apartment.

He'd given you a thimble of hope, and you were clinging to it like the last drop of water.

Whether it be a call or text; you didn’t know. But he promised you... promised you… that you’d be hearing from him soon. Threatened you against inaction on your part. And you’d just believed him. Believed that even for a moment – some tiny fraction of oblivion – there could exist a world where you didn’t have to feel quite so fucking alone.

What exactly has he been up to? Some prior commitment that pulled him from his phone? Maybe he’s just stuck at work all day? But then surely he doesn’t pull twelve hour shifts. Not like you found out their given occupations yet. Which means he’s gotta be sick, right? The weather’s been atrocious and you hadn’t physically seen him get in a car when he left. 

Shit! He went home smelling like you. How did the pack react? 

How did she react? 

They didn’t get into a fight did they? She probably forced him to delete your contact info. God, you were so selfish putting them through this mess. But hadn't John been selfish too in wanting to keep you around? Was that really a pack decision?

The tears culminating in your eyes were pathetic. Acid rain bleaching your pillowcase in big caustic globules, seeping into the fabric and burning through the thin membrane of your cheeks. Bitter rage tainted the half formed excuses, corrupting like malware into personal betrayal.

How could you be so foolish? What part of ‘you’re not allowed to be happy’ did you not comprehend? Hadn’t you already learned not to shoot for the stars, much less the occupants of unit 2B?! 

Poor, stupid omega.

You grasped your chest as if that could stop whatever clawed beast was burrowing its way past your ribcage to dig out a hole and lay its clutch. Flicking the bedside lamp off brought you as much darkness outside as there was feasting on your entrails and gorging itself for a long unforgiving winter.

Curling up in your repugnant nest, you couldn’t keep your heart from shattering as each teardrop extinguished the sputtering flame of hope.

You never got around to fixing your hair.

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