#woven backpack

[partagerlajoie]

Woven backpack | Partagerlajoie

[its-short-for-jackalope]

There's no way this could end terribly. No way.

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Grace Chasity for @amygdalaspamdip !!

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[evilgwrl]

TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Three

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: Suggestive themes (smut is coming I promise)

I literally wrote a whole chapter and it deleted </3

Masterlist

You woke up, body slumped against the door as you groaned. The soft strum of pain vibrated through your lower back, the dull ache sending a small zap through you as you stood up.

Groggy eyes drifted to the stained window, the barely visible streak of sun peaking over the forest as you sighed, feet padding against the floors as soft creaks spoke back to you.

You stared in the mirror, dull eyes staring back. You rubbed your face, small streaks of sticky sleep dragging across your palms as you picked them off.

Mortification is all you could feel. Not only are four men in your house, but you touched yourself to one, and another walked in on you. MID ORGASM. You silently prayed they had packed up their stuff and left. Or maybe it never happened and Ghost hadn’t seen anything. Or maybe- fuck it. There wasn’t much use denying.

The chill of the water woke you up as you scrubbed vigorously, almost as if you could wash away the embarrassment you felt.

You dressed yourself before heading to the barn, the acreage becoming more and more visible by the minute as you fed the animals, collecting any eggs in your makeshift apron, before letting the horses roam in the paddock

You took note of the overcast, thick smog of clouds littering across the barely visible sky. You needed the rain, but you also knew it would make it harder for them to leave if it did.

Conjuring that it would make things easier if they woke up and you were gone, you cooked yourself breakfast before heading out, planning to target a small set of shops you were yet to raid, tucked away on a more secluded part of the area. In fear of waking them up, you rolled out the rusting bike from the garage, a small woven basket adorned with half broken flowers as you rolled the worn wheels onto the gravel road.

You didn’t take much with you. Only a bottle of water, a pistol (incase you magically needed it) and two apples as well the large backpack stitched on your back.

The trail was mostly flat, a few rocks causing you to wobble from time to time, but for the most part it was an enjoyable ride. The soft flicker of the sun stretched through the adorned trees, the heaviness of the clouds beginning to weigh on you as you peddled faster.

It was an hour or two trek, you believed, the roaring ache of your thighs begging for the needed break as you pulled into the abandoned town. Sometimes you expect people to run out, waving you down in celebration, but it never came.

You could hear the soft groans of nearby dead, wobbling their rotting limbs towards the bike before turning around. The tinkle of the rusted bell greeted you as you ducked through the aisles. It was a small store, only supplying anything for a couple hundred, most items expired now anyway, but it was worth a look.

You held your bag open, dumping a few cans of tinned vegetables in as well as a bag of sugar, a pack of razors and some long-life cartons of skim milk. With achy thighs, you jumped over the counter, mess everywhere, register half open with nothing inside. It was funny, even during an apocalypse people found the time for money.

You rattled at the metal knob on the staff door, growing frustrated when it wouldn’t budge before you began to kick, slamming your boots against it repeatedly before it eventually swung open. It might have taken you 15 minutes, but it was sure worth it as you snatched up the golden sweetness many would refer to as whiskey.

You headed off with a few other things, half open stock boxes tipped everywhere as your hands grabbed for anything that hadn’t expire, or was about to. With a heavier bag, and a smug smile on your face, you peddled your way home.

“Y’ think she got scared and buggered off?” Soap quipped, mouth half full with an apple, juices spurting across the room as Ghost glared back.

“If it wasn’t for him,” Gaz interjected, thumb pointing towards the masked-man, “she probably would have let us stay.”

Ghost rolled his eyes, replaying the scene in his head for the hundredth time. Sure, he should’ve knocked but he’s glad he didn’t. Half of him wanted her to ask him to stay, to fully satisfy her, to fully satisfy him.

“She wouldn’t have just packed up and left- put far too much effort into all this place to leave,” Price said, voice deeper than usual as he took a swig of water. Time ticked slowly as they waited around, searching every crevice of the house before they landed on a bow and arrow.

Soap snatched it, veiny hands clawing at the weapon as if it was gold. “What’dya say, LT? Fancy hunting some deer?”

“I ain’t hunting for anybody if I ain’t staying-“

“Go hunt a f’cking deer,” Price huffed.

The two me disappeared into the forest as Gaz stepped outside, bottom plonked in the barely comfortable porch chair. The Captain knew you would probably bitch them out, but a sick part of him wanted you to let them stay, wanted you to realise they were what you needed, that they magically landed on your farm for some Godforsaken purpose.

He would make you realise. He knew he would.

You felt like vomiting now, your bones burning as if they had clawed through your flesh, attempting to escape the treacherous journey that you forced yourself to endure.

You almost felt lost. Why did it feel so much longer on the way back?

You smiled to yourself softly as you passed the tree you marked a few months ago, the unmistakable smiley face almost greeting you. Your smile quickly faded when you felt a spit land on your cheek. And then another. And another. Until you were peddling faster as wet pellets hit the ground.

Slippery hands clutched the leather handles as you neared the entrance of the farm. You were drenched now, hair matted to your neck and face as you flicked it behind you, annoyed that you neglected your clip.

Your boots squelched against the ground as you slammed the garage door shut, weak arms clutching your bag as you swung it around your shoulder, weaving in and out of trees as you stumbled up the front steps.

Tumbling inside, you took note of the cleaner house, a small wrapped bowl of vegetables and a bowl of tomato soup (that was probably cold now) greeting you as you kicked off your boots. You stood over the sink as you scrunched your hair out, the trickle of water tapping as you shrugged off your coat, fumbling outside to hang it on the underground clothes line.

For a minute you thought they had left, no manly faces greeting you until you heard the soft clearing of a throat. “Made you some lunch,” he said.

“Thank you… Gaz, isn’t it?” Clammy hands gripped the bowls as you sat down on the couch, the lukewarm mixture sliding down your oesophagus.

“That’s right,” he replied, gentle smile adorning his face as he watched you, trying to observe you, almost as if you were a war criminal he wanted to break in. Military men, you thought.

You sat in silence, yet didn’t find it to be uncomfortable. Though Gaz was incredibly handsome, and well built, you almost felt comfortable in his presence and you couldn’t quite place why.

“Where did you go?” He asked, almost as if he was hesitant to speak. Your eyes flickered to his lap, hands gently rubbing together before rubbing against his denim-covered thighs. He has nice thighs.

“Uh, I went into a town.. bout two hours from here. Got a few things and I also just wanted to.. get out, I guess.”

He nodded.

Once you finished up, you braced yourself as you ran outside, yet found no horses frolicking frightened in the paddock. Fear ran through you as you sprinted to the barn, heavy footsteps slapping against the mud as you took in the closed door.

You let out a shaky sigh, relieved, when you saw two large, longer heads staring at you from inside, the gentle squawks of hens sounding across the room.

“I hope you don’t mind that I put them inside, figured you would hav’ done that anyway when you got back.” You jumped at the voice, body jolting as you snapped your head.

Price stood there, rough hands clutching a wooden broom as he swept, a beanie now plonked on his head instead of the hat he greeted you with.

“Uh- thanks. Yeah, they’re afraid of the rain.”

“Y’r a good owner, picking up the slack after they were abandoned.”

“I guess so,” you conceded. You looked at him, taking in the way his eyes flickered down your drenched frame, a cerulean blue darkening into a navy.

“Y’r wet.” His tone was sharp, even while stating the obvious, a visible clench of his jaw causing you to tense as you wobbled, suddenly nervous under his gaze.

“Well, I was out in the rain,” you said, almost like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. You looked away but could feel him walking closer to you.

“Y’r gonna catch a cold if you don’t change.”

“I’ll survive,” you replied, your voice now dropping to a low whisper. You looked at him, his stare heavy, almost like it was weighting you down. He smiled at you, a hand reaching out before it landed on the flesh of your waist, squeezing as you felt the familiar heat you encountered last night, prickling through you again.

Your breathing was shallow, an occasional hick passing through you as his hand lingered. “Pretty thing, hm?” He gestured, nodding towards your chest as you noticed the faint outline of the rose-coloured brassiere you chose today. You blushed and you were sure you looked silly, a red hue across your face as you barely stuttered a reply.

You turned, almost feeling like you were about to choke. Feeling betrayed by your own body, you pressed your thighs together and you were sure he noticed.

“Y’n need any help staying warm,” he began, “just tell me, sweetheart.”

[polychromaic]

🌸 when the Hindriarch banished Eskhind and her kin from Bey Lah, Neelahind would follow her heart into voluntary exile. To abandon a surefooted life, as well as a coveted spot among the Fellowship, is nearly unheard of among both hindren and Wardens, but Neelahind was glowing when she took her leave. I hear the pair are quite happy together, practicing arconautics in the ruins to the west—at least, that's what the kendren bring news of when they come back to trade.

back at it again w more caves of qud deer gals 😏✨ i'm kind of enamored with the ending to the Bey Lah quest where Esk and Neela both take off, so i wanted to see what they'd look like as a matched set of lesbian pariah-arconauts. geez, i can’t believe it’s been almost two years since i drew them last

image descriptions under break!

img desc: A drawing of a hindren deerfolk girl from "Caves of Qud". On the left a title card reads "Pariah Neelahind (she/her)". Some of the details are labeled. Her fur is a rich cedar red, with a lighter heartwood underbelly curling under her arms and on the inside of her legs down to her hooves; her curly hair is dark mahogany, tied back in a ponytail with a sky-blue bandana; her antlers are a pale heartswood, deepening to a rich velvet at the tines. She’s smiling, looking up and off to her right; she's poised upright, her arms spread to either side of her as she grips the haft of her war-scythe Yal, which is laying across her shoulders. She’s wearing shining steel platemail—a breastplate over a nanoweave surcoat patterned with pale lemon slices over pink (called "Pink Lemonade"); her armor is incomplete, but well taken care of. She’s wearing leather braces, a steel gauntlet on her left hand only, and a woven blue sash and bedroll across her back.

img desc: A drawing of a hindren deerfolk girl from "Caves of Qud". On the right a title card reads "Pariah Eskhind (she/it)". Some of the details are labeled. Her fur is ashen, with her pale undercoat spotting through on her forearms and flanks. Her messy hair is a greenish bleach-blonde, and one of her ears has a hole in it; her antlers are pale and their velvet is darker grey, and they're covered in little tied-on charms and brass tine hornaments. She has an eyepatch over her left eye, and a gap between her front teeth. She's grinning, slouching in a relaxed fashion, pulling back her hood with one hand and flashing a rock-on with the other; her front two legs are crossed, while the back two are spread like she's posing for a picture. She's wearing a well-worn chainmail hauberk, which extends down over her back; a ragged cowl, with buttoned slots along the hem of the hood for her antlers to fit through; a leather bracer on her left wrist, a steel pauldron on her right shoulder, a fingerless elastyne glove on her right hand, and two pairs of croccasins on her hooves. A pocketed saddle is slung over her back, along with a backpack and bedroll; on either side, the pockets are full of tools and bits. Tucked into her swordbelt is a sheathed folding carbide longsword and a gaslight kris; slung across her chest is a bolt-action rifle called "Peashooter" (it has a lesbian flag on its stock). Around her legs are several beaded bracelets and charms; one of them is the rightfully reclaimed Kindrish, complete with its carved deer charm.

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (4/???)

The Carnaval week are coming, so I am having a few moments to chill and write for you.

Just enjoy my perfection!

MINOR DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio X Fem Reader

Summary: External events take away your control of your own life.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist.

Control

The day began like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from. The plants, once vibrant, now wilted in their pots, as if the universe itself were draining the life around you. The weather, unstable and oppressive, mirrored the chaos settling in your mind. And the headache—oh, the headache—hammered at your temples like a warning that nothing else would go right. It felt as if the world were conspiring against you, and you had no idea just how true that was.

As you descended the stairs of your building, you nearly tripped over the yellow envelope waiting innocently in your mailbox. The landlord’s notice was a dull blade, cutting without mercy: "Building sold. Demolition in 60 days. Mandatory eviction."

Your hands trembled as they clutched the paper, your fingers pressing into it with the force of despair. That tiny 23m² box was all you had—a precarious refuge, yes, but yours. The only place where rent didn’t devour your waitress salary at the café. It didn’t get much sunlight, and the leaks never failed to show up when it rained, but it was home. And now, even that was being taken from you.

But there was no time for panic to settle. The bus arrived honking, and you ran, your broken heel striking the asphalt like a metronome of misfortune. Traffic was at a standstill, the bus’s air conditioning spat out moldy air, and your phone vibrated. It was your father. You answered out of instinct, never imagining that call would be yet another blow.

"What the hell are you doing?!" His voice cut like a jagged saw, rough and filled with fury. "Your brother... that disgusting excuse of a brother…"

Your heart stopped. Josh. You imagined him dead, beaten, run over. But the truth was worse.

"I caught him with a man in our house! In my bed!" Your father spat the words as if they were poison. “And you’re going to fix this. Now. He should be on his way.”

"Dad, I… I’m on my way to work, I can’t—"

"You’re the only one he listens to!" He roared, and you pulled the phone away from your ear, embarrassed. The other passengers were staring, their gazes pressing into you like silent judgments. "Fix it."

The call ended. You swallowed your sobs and despair, chewing them down as you bit your nails until they bled. The bus finally reached your stop, but you couldn’t even remember getting off. Your thoughts were scrambled, your mind racing in every direction. Work, your brother, the eviction—it all blurred into a fog of agony.

The bus terminal smelled of stale coffee and desperation. Flickering fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on cracked plastic benches, illuminating weary faces staring at the ground as if the answer to all their troubles was written in the dirty linoleum. You ran between platforms, your heart pounding in rhythm with the loudspeakers announcing departures to distant places. Each destination sounded like a farewell.

And then you saw him.

Josh was sitting in the darkest corner of Platform 4, his worn-out backpack clutched in his lap like a shield. His right eye was swollen shut, purple and bruised, a red gash splitting his eyebrow. And yet, he smiled when he saw you—a shaky smile, full of broken teeth and shame.

"Josh…" You swallowed the lump in your throat, approaching slowly, as if he were a wounded animal.

"Hey, sis," he said, his voice hoarse. He tried to stand but stumbled, and you rushed to steady him. His body smelled of dried blood and cheap menthol ointment.

You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, just like when you were kids hiding under the stairs from your parents’ fights. You pulled a damp tissue from your bag and started cleaning the blood from his face, your hands trembling.

"Did he hit you?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

Josh laughed—a bitter sound. "Not just him. A friend of his... thought I was hitting on his son. So he and two other guys waited for me in the alley." He rested his head against the wall, closing his good eye. "Three against one. I did okay, though."

You couldn’t hold back your tears. You remembered him at sixteen, teaching you how to ride a bike, his hands already calloused from work. You remembered the nights he came home late from the grocery store job, his uniform stained with grease, yet he still helped you with your math homework.

"Why didn’t you ever tell me?" you whispered.

Josh opened his eyes, staring into nothing. "You were too young and already had too much on your plate. Work, school, taking care of Grandma... How could I throw one more problem at you?" He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a faded tattoo of a bird in flight. "Besides, the world out there... it’s not made for people like me, sis."

You grabbed his hand, his fingers rough from carrying boxes. "You are not a problem, Josh. You never were."

He looked at you, his good eye glistening. "You know the worst part? It’s not the beatings, not Dad calling me a freak… It’s having to pretend for 32 years. Pretending I liked it when he talked about women, pretending I was with my fiancée when I disappeared from home…" His voice cracked, and you felt the weight of every word.

You knew you had to do something. With your heart clenched, you stood up slowly, determined. You helped Josh up and took him to your apartment, silently promising yourself you’d find him a job. If your father didn’t want him anymore, maybe you could give him a fresh start.

On the way, as you waited for a taxi, your thoughts tangled into a storm: the eviction notice, Josh being kicked out, your father’s relentless demands.

The taxi carried you through the maze of the city. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you typed a quick message to América:

Family emergency. I’ll be late. Can you cover for me?

After settling Josh in, you ran to work. América greeted you with a look of exasperation, muttering something like, “You’re impossible.”

And during your lunch break, you scrolled through apartment listings, but none were within your budget—not with you and Josh living together now. You huffed in frustration. Josh. You needed to find him a job. And then, an idea struck you.

Someone.

You reached into your bag, fingers searching frantically for a solution, until they found the card. Black, with elegant silver lettering. It looked almost out of place among your simple belongings. You hesitated for a moment but knew you had no other choice.

Dialing the numbers on your phone, you heard the line ring only twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Hey, Rio.”

"Little gem! To what do I owe the honor?” The woman’s cheerful voice made the confusion in your mind dissipate slightly.

“I… I need help.” Your voice cracked. You barely knew the woman, but you didn’t have many options.

The hesitation in your voice didn’t go unnoticed by Rio. On the other end of the line, you could hear the smile forming.

“Of course you do,” Rio replied, with an almost irritating certainty. Her voice was sweeter than usual, but with an underlying firmness that made your nerves dance. “Tell me what’s going on, little gem.”

You took a deep breath, trying to organize your thoughts. The headache was still throbbing, and the pressure of the situation made your throat feel even tighter.

“It’s…” Your voice trembled with shame, “I’d rather say it in person, if possible.”

Rio let out a small chuckle, as if savoring each of your words.

“Oh, you want to see me?” The teasing in her voice was clear. “That makes me curious, little gem.”

You took a deep breath, trying to ignore the shiver that ran down your spine.

“Can we meet today?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. When Rio spoke again, her voice was lower, more enticing.

“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll send you the address. Come alone.”

The call ended before you could respond.

You stared at your phone for a few seconds, your heart beating faster than you’d like to admit.

There was something about the way Rio spoke that made you feel like you were falling into a carefully woven web… and the worst part was that maybe you didn’t want to escape.

Minutes later, your phone vibrated with a message from Rio.

Urth Caffé. 7 PM. Don’t be late, little gem.

You frowned as you read the name. Urth Caffé was one of the most sophisticated and exclusive cafés in Los Angeles, the kind of place where you needed a reservation just to breathe near the entrance.

For a moment, you wondered if it was some sort of test. Or if Rio just wanted to make clear the difference between the worlds you two lived in.

But that didn’t matter now.

You put your phone away and tried to focus on work, but it was impossible. Your stomach was tied in knots. It was a mix of the meeting with Rio and the uncertainty of the future that made you restless.

Hours later, as your shift was about to end, the worst happened.

The café was busier than usual, the noise of espresso machines and the buzz of conversations blending into a constant hum. You picked up a full tray—three hot coffees, two slices of pie, and a glass of juice—and turned to take it to table 12.

Your body froze.

For a moment, you felt a presence. Something cold, like invisible fingers brushing the back of your neck. Your vision blurred, and it was as if the world around you had folded in on itself.

The tray slipped from your fingers.

Time slowed down. You saw the coffee flying through the air, the cups spinning as if suspended in zero gravity. The sound of glass shattering on the floor echoed through the café, followed by absolute silence.

The hot liquid spread across the floor and, worse, splashed onto the expensive pants of a man sitting near the accident.

He cursed loudly, standing up suddenly.

The blood drained from your face. You couldn’t understand what had just happened. Your grip on the tray had been firm. You were sure of it. But something… something had pulled it from your hand.

Before you could react, a shadow loomed over you.

"You’ve got to be kidding me!"

The tone of disdain was like a slap.

Your boss approached with heavy steps, his eyes full of fury. The entire café was watching.

"You already did me the favor of arriving late, and now this?" His voice cut like a razor. "Are you really this incompetent?"

"I… I don’t know what happened…" Your voice came out shaky. You tried to crouch down to clean up the mess, but he gestured sharply for you to stop.

"You don’t know?!" He laughed, a cruel and impatient sound. "You’re a walking disaster! I should have fired you weeks ago!"

Your face burned. You felt everyone’s eyes on you—some filled with pity, others just entertained by the humiliating spectacle.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. The cold sensation on your neck was still there. You wanted to turn around, to look for something—someone. But there was no one.

"Leave your apron at the counter. You’re fired."

The words cracked like a whip.

You blinked. For a moment, you thought you had misheard. But then, América, who was behind the counter, widened her eyes and stepped forward.

"Mr. Howard, don’t you think that’s an overreaction? It was just an accident…"

"I don’t pay for incompetence, América." He turned to you again. "Out. Now."

Your fingers trembled as you untied your apron. You felt your eyes welling up, but you didn’t want to cry there. Not in front of everyone.

You placed the folded fabric on the counter, grabbed your bag, and left without looking back.

The air outside felt heavy, as if the whole city was about to swallow you.

The phone vibrating in your hand was the only sound that managed to pull you back to reality.

A new message.

I hope you have a good excuse for your delay, my dear.

Shit.

Maybe you needed to apply for two jobs now.

Urth Caffé was the kind of place where every detail screamed exclusivity. From the delicate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling to the tiny porcelain cups holding absurdly expensive coffee. You had never stepped into a place like this before. Never felt the weight of so many expectations pressing down on you.

And at that moment, you felt the weight of Rio Vidal’s gaze, piercing into you like a sharp blade.

She was leaning against a white leather armchair, her fingers tapping lightly on the armrest as if keeping time with her own impatience. The moss-green tailored suit she wore had a deep V neckline that dipped into the valley of her breasts, making her presence seem even larger in the room. You swallowed hard, feeling the urge to lean in just a little closer to get a better look.

Her light brown eyes scanned you from head to toe, stopping at your hands, still marked by the red of shame.

"Almost an hour late, little gem," she said, her voice as soft as the edge of a scalpel. "And I hate waiting."

The words were simple, but they carried a crushing weight.

You averted your gaze, looking down at the table. You noticed a cup of black coffee sitting in front of her. A fine piece of white porcelain with golden details. The dark liquid, with no trace of milk or sugar, looked almost like a stain against the cup’s purity.

Bitter.

Your stomach twisted. You opened your mouth to speak, but your tongue felt tied. Rio wasn’t like your boss. She didn’t yell, didn’t make a scene. But her pressure was much worse.

You swallowed hard.

"I’m sorry. I…"

The words failed before they could even leave your lips. Your heart pounded. Rio arched an eyebrow, her impatience evident.

"I got fired." Your voice came out softer than you intended.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing. She just gestured with a slight tilt of her head for you to continue.

You took a deep breath, trying not to break down.

"I just… I don’t know what happened. I just dropped the tray. Like—" You stopped, shaking your head, pushing the thought away. "It doesn’t matter. He fired me on the spot."

Rio let out a small chuckle, followed by a scoff.

She leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, her woody perfume wrapping around you like a trap.

"And you think the universe conspires against you, darling? That hidden forces knocked over your tray?" she said, clearly mocking your attempt to justify yourself.

You clenched your fingers against the fabric of your skirt, averting your gaze from hers. "I don’t know what happened," you repeated, more to yourself than to Rio.

And you sank further into the cushioned seat, feeling your cheeks burn with pure embarrassment. You hadn’t thought that... But things had happened in such a... strange way. So out of your control.

She let out a slow sigh, as if enjoying your confusion. The corner of her mouth curled into a lopsided smile, but her eyes were sharp, analyzing every little reaction of yours.

"So you need a job."

You nodded, feeling your face burn. "Actually… I need two."

"Two?" She tilted her head slightly. "And why do you think I would give you a job, let alone two, to a clumsy little girl?"

Her smile widened. Her eyes gleamed with an interest that made you shrink into the seat.

Your stomach twisted at the way she said that. As if she had already decided you were nothing more than a child stumbling through the world.

Rio leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand, studying you like a predator sizing up its prey.

You clenched your fists in your lap, trying to steady yourself.

"Because I’m dedicated." You spoke, your voice firmer now. "I learn fast. I’m not stupid."

"Oh. Of course you’re not," if Rio had seemed annoyed before, now she looked at you with her usual bright, playful eyes. "You’re a smart girl, aren’t you?" She took a sip of her coffee, but the shadow of her smile was still there.

Your jaw tightened at the thought of her mocking you, treating you as inferior—as a child.

"Don’t pout." She warned, startling you. You really had no control over your expressions. "Come on, say it to me."

Heat crept up your neck, burning your skin. You felt your fingers tighten against the fabric of your skirt again, a reflex of the tension taking over your body.

It was a game.

Everything was always a game with her.

But then, why did you feel so suffocated? So trapped in this web that Rio seemed to weave around you with such patience?

"I—" Your voice failed, and Rio raised an eyebrow, waiting. You hated how much she seemed to enjoy your discomfort.

Your pride screamed at you not to say it. To stand your ground. But at the same time, there was something in the way she looked at you… in the weight of that moment… that made you feel that if you didn’t give in, she would simply lose interest.

And the worst part… you didn’t want her to lose interest.

You needed her.

"I am," you finally murmured, almost in a whisper.

"Louder," Rio said, stirring the spoon in her cup absentmindedly. Her tone was lazy, but her eyes… her eyes were sharp.

Your cheeks burned. You hated yourself for giving in. "I’m a smart girl."

Rio’s smile spread fully now, satisfied.

"Good girl," she praised, and your stomach twisted again, an uncomfortable mix of shame and… something else. Something you didn’t want to admit even to yourself. "That was very convincing." She ran her fingers along the rim of her cup before finally asking, "And why two jobs?"

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to lie. Say anything but the truth. But you knew Rio would notice.

"I have a brother." Your voice came out softer. "He needs me."

Then, as if the moment had never happened, she relaxed in her seat and crossed her legs. "Interesting."

Rio’s eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

For an instant, just one, her expression seemed to soften. But it was so quick you almost thought you imagined it.

She picked up her cup and took a sip, keeping her gaze locked on yours the entire time. Then, finally, she raised an eyebrow, a small amused smile playing on her lips.

The silence that settled between you seemed to compress the air around you. You felt the tension vibrating in every cell of your body, as if you were about to make a mistake that could cost you dearly.

Rio twirled the cup between her fingers, studying you with an expression that revealed absolutely nothing. Then, with that exact calmness that made you want to shrink, she tilted her head slightly to the side.

"Your brother."

Your heart skipped a beat.

"I want to meet him." She said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "If I’m going to give you a job, it’s only fair that I know who I’m investing in."

Your hands clenched over the fabric of your pants.

"S-seriously?" You asked, surprised.

Then your mind went to Josh. His face bruised in shades of purple, green, and yellow. You would have thought this would take a bit longer, enough time for Josh to recover his health and his pride.

The woman seemed to ignore your stupid question.

"Tomorrow. At the gallery. Six in the morning." Her authoritative voice fired off commands, making your head spin.

"Is this… is this really necessary?" Your voice came out more hesitant than it should have.

Rio raised an eyebrow, and you immediately knew the question was a mistake.

"I never do anything without a reason, little gem." The way she dragged out the words sounded like a veiled warning. "If you want my help, you shouldn’t question it."

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to refuse. Say that this was unnecessary, that your brother didn’t need to be involved in this. But you needed the job. Needed it desperately.

"Now, as for you…" She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. "You still need to prove to me that your hands can stay out of trouble."

Your chest tightened.

"I can do anything." You tried to sound firm. "I learn fast."

Rio let out a low chuckle. The sound made your skin prickle.

"Learning fast doesn’t mean actually being useful," she leaned forward, her presence filling the space between you. The woody perfume mixed with the faint aroma of coffee felt more intense, as if the air around had thickened. "And I don’t have time to train you."

"Then test me." The words slipped out before you could think. You hated the pleading tone in your voice, but it was too late.

Rio stopped. Her eyes widened for a brief second before her pupils dilated, swallowing almost all the golden honey. Her mouth slightly open, as if she was about to speak, but no sound came. Just a subtle movement of her throat as she swallowed dryly. The tip of her tongue moistening her lips, the previously relaxed hand now resting on the table with fingers tensed.

"Test you?" Her voice came out rougher than before, scraping through the silence between you. Her jaw tightened, as if she was holding something back. You nodded, feeling your own chest rise and fall faster than you would have liked.

You nodded, swallowing hard.

She stayed silent for a moment, just watching you. Then, she smiled again.

"Great." She replied, her voice slightly husky.

Your stomach twisted.

She stood up, without saying goodbye, without looking back. She just left, leaving behind the unsettling feeling that, somehow, you had already lost this game before it even began.

As you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day, you glanced at the clock, and your heart skipped a beat.

Damn. It was already time for your internship.

You stood up hurriedly, grabbing your bag. You couldn’t be late—not if you truly wanted to impress Agatha. Your legs barely kept up with the urgency of your pace as you headed for the exit. But just as you were about to step through the door, a hesitant voice called out to you.

“Hey... wait a second.”

You turned around and found the waitress watching you with an uncertain look. In her hands, she held a paper bag carefully.

“What’s this?” you asked, frowning.

The girl swallowed hard before replying. “Someone asked me to give this to you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You took the bag, feeling the light weight of its contents and the lingering warmth of something freshly baked. With trembling fingers, you peeled the paper back slightly and found a meticulous selection of snacks—iced coffee, a dense brownie, a cinnamon roll, and a cheese croissant.

But it was the note that made your chest tighten.

You felt your throat go dry.

“A hard day, isn’t it?

Eat, little one.”

It was almost impossible to reconcile the pieces of who Rio Vidal was. The woman who made you feel small, fragile, always pressing you against the wall… and the same woman who made sure you ate after an exhausting day.

Was it a game? You didn’t understand. She pulled you in and pushed you away, confused you and ensnared you until there was no clear line between where your resistance began and where your surrender ended.

Your stomach twisted at the duality of the gesture. How a simple note and a few carefully chosen snacks had the power to warm your chest with something dangerous.

You swallowed hard and clutched the bag against your chest before stepping out the door, feeling, once again, trapped in the web Rio was carefully weaving around you.

By the time you arrived at your internship at the studio, exhaustion seemed to weigh down every cell in your body. Silent tears slipped down your face as you desperately tried to maintain a neutral facade. The weight of the day was truly crashing down on your shoulders, and you didn’t want to hold it in anymore.

Your superiors’ words passed over you like a distant breeze—you heard them, but you didn’t absorb them. You only responded when necessary, moving like a broken puppet, soulless.

Following orders, delivering documents seemed like a mundane task, but when the door opened for you, the air shifted. It was heavy, almost electric, and your eyes were immediately drawn to the unmistakable gleam of Agatha’s blue eyes. They stared at you, glowing in the dim light like two enchanted sapphires.

Agatha’s trailer was a world of its own. The soft, diffused light came from Himalayan salt lamps, creating a warm and inviting aura that contrasted with the coldness of the studio outside. The scent of sandalwood incense floated in the air, mingling with her woody perfume, which seemed to seep into every fiber of your being. Your legs wobbled as you stepped inside, as if the very space was conspiring to make you more vulnerable.

Agatha was seated on a burgundy velvet chaise lounge, her blue eyes gleaming like beacons in the dark. She watched you enter, her lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Honey,” she said, her voice so soft it felt like a physical touch. “You look… exhausted.”

You tried to maintain composure, but your hands trembled as you held the documents.

“Here are the papers you requested,” you murmured, extending them to her with a voice that barely concealed your fragility.

Agatha didn’t take the documents immediately. Instead, her gaze traveled over your face, as if reading every line of exhaustion, every shadow of despair.

“Sit,” she ordered, with a gentleness that left no room for refusal. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

You hesitated, but your feet seemed to move on their own, carrying you to the chaise lounge. As you sat, the weight of the day finally crashed down on you, and you felt the burn of tears behind your eyelids.

“Sorry,” you whispered, staring down at your hands in your lap. “It’s just… it’s been a rough day.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Agatha’s voice was a low, soothing whisper, like the sound of a gently flowing river. It was warm, almost intoxicating, and you felt your shoulders relax against your will. It was dangerous, but it felt so good you couldn’t resist.

She rose with the elegance of a predator who knew exactly how to hypnotize its prey. Slowly, she approached you, her movements carrying a deliberate grace.

“Come here,” she said, gesturing to the chaise. When you hesitated, she kept moving closer until her hands found the top of your head. The touch was gentle, yet carried a weight that made your mind go blank for a moment.

“What’s been happening, huh?” Her voice was strangely maternal, filled with a sweetness that seemed impossible for someone so calculated.

Your already weakened defenses crumbled. The tears began to fall uncontrollably, and you felt your face heat up.

“I… everything is going wrong,” you began, your voice breaking with sobs. “My parents… they hate me. The difference is that my mother was brave enough to abandon me for good. My boss… he… he humiliated me and then fired me.” Your voice wavered, choking up. “I have no friends, no one. I’m so tired of this pressure. Working, studying, being good… it’s so—so impossible.”

Agatha gently pulled you into an embrace. You didn’t resist, letting your limp body collapse into her arms. Your face was buried against her clothed chest, and her floral perfume seemed to embrace you along with her. The warmth of her body was so comforting that, for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“Poor baby…” Her voice was a soothing whisper, but it held something deeper. “No mother to comfort you.”

The way she spoke made you feel small, protected, like you had finally found a safe place. But there was something hypnotic in her voice, something that made your mind waver and your body relax more than it should.

You melted into that touch, into that warmth, unable to notice the satisfaction hiding behind Agatha’s mask of compassion. She watched you with keen eyes, analyzing every detail of your vulnerability. The smile that formed on her lips was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

The kiss on the top of your head was the last thing you felt before everything faded into a warm, comfortable haze. The exhaustion that seemed rooted in every cell of your body finally relented, and the world around you ceased to exist.

When you opened your eyes, it was like being transported into a movie scene. The room you were in was massive, with large windows that allowed sunlight to stream in, reflecting off the dark wooden furniture and the golden details that adorned the space. The curtains, made of a fabric that looked more expensive than your entire bank account, were pulled to the side, revealing a perfectly lit garden.

The soft scent of lavender lingered in the air, probably coming from the sheets of the bed you had slept in. A crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, shining as if each piece were cleaned individually every day. For a moment, you just sat there, trying to understand where you were.

“Good evening, sweetie.”

Agatha’s voice echoed behind you, calm yet full of presence. When you turned around, there she was, impeccable as always, a slight smile on her lips. There was something comforting in her tone, but also something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Where… where are we?” Your voice sounded hesitant, with a touch of confusion still evident.

“At my house. Pacific Palisades, to be exact,” Agatha answered casually, gesturing toward the window with an elegant motion. “Don’t worry, it’s a very peaceful neighborhood.”

Pacific Palisades. You knew it was one of the most exclusive areas in California. Knowing that only made the situation feel even more surreal. The idea of being there, surrounded by so much luxury, was almost suffocating.

“But… what happened? Why can’t I remember anything?”

Agatha walked toward you, the sound of her heels barely audible against the wooden floor. She stopped a few steps away, hands neatly folded in front of her. “You were unwell. Very unwell,” she explained, her tone firm yet carrying an unexpected gentleness. “You had no one to take care of you, so Rio and I decided to help. It was necessary.”

You frowned. Her words were direct, yet they left something unspoken, a gap you couldn’t quite fill. “But what about Lucky? And my plants? My brother…”

Agatha tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes assessing every nuance of your reaction. “Rio is taking care of everything. She went to fetch your belongings. As for your brother… He’s an adult. I’m sure he can handle himself.”

“But—”

“Darling,” she interrupted, her voice low, almost soothing. “You need to rest. You were exhausted, and frankly, it was beginning to take its toll.”

Despite her calm tone, something in the way she spoke made you feel like you were being controlled without even realizing it. You stood up, restless, walking to the window. Outside, the perfectly manicured garden seemed like an extension of the suffocating perfection of the house.

“That still doesn’t explain…” you began, turning to face her.

“There’s no need to explain everything right now,” Agatha replied, smiling again. She gestured casually toward the door. “Why don’t we leave these worries for later? Dinner is ready.”

Reluctantly, you followed her out of the room. The staircase you descended together felt endless, each step echoing in the impeccably silent house. When you reached the dining room, the setting was just as luxurious as the bedroom. A small army of staff moved around, carrying trays and adjusting the table’s details as if preparing for a formal event.

“Why are there so many people here?” you asked, frowning as you watched the staff work with near-military precision.

Agatha smiled, and this time, there was a hint of amusement in her expression. “Just the staff, honey. Nothing unusual.”

With a simple gesture, she dismissed them all, and they left in silence, without question. The room suddenly felt empty, and somehow, even more oppressive.

“Doesn’t that seem… I don’t know… unprofessional?” you asked nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

Agatha let out a soft chuckle, the sound echoing through the space. “Perhaps it is. But you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

You tried to think of something to say, but the words caught in your throat. There was something in her gaze, something in the way she moved the pieces around her, that was both reassuring and unsettling.

“Now, sit down,” she instructed, pulling a chair for you with an almost ceremonial gesture. “You need to eat.”

You hesitantly sat, feeling like a misplaced piece on a board you didn’t yet understand. As Agatha moved with her usual grace around the room, the persistent feeling that something was off continued to gnaw at you.

Before you could respond, the door opened again, and Rio entered, carrying a large box filled with your plants and a cage with Lucky inside, already meowing in protest. She smirked slightly, as if she had just solved the world’s biggest problem.

“Brought everything,” Rio announced, placing the cage on the floor and setting the plants carefully on a nearby table. Lucky immediately jumped out, inspecting the new environment as if he owned the place.

“See?” Agatha said, her tone almost maternal. “Everything’s taken care of. You don’t have to worry about anything now.”

Rio smiled at the sight of the two of you and went straight to Agatha, leaning in to kiss her deeply, unreservedly. The kiss was intimate and possessive, the kind of display that made their bond unmistakable. You couldn’t help the heat rising to your cheeks, quickly looking away as if you were intruding on a private moment.

After a few seconds that felt like an eternity, Rio pulled away, smirking as she noticed your reaction. Before stepping back completely, she pinched your cheek between her fingers. “Hello, little girl,” she murmured, amusement flickering in her eyes as she watched your flustered expression.

Rio stepped away, sitting next to Agatha. The filet au poivre on your plate was tender, the sauce rich and peppery. But you noticed that both women were drinking wine, while you had a glass of orange juice.

That made you furrow your brows. Your age allowed you to drink legally—so why weren’t you having wine too? Your thoughts were interrupted by a sound from Rio.

“So, how are classes going?” she asked after taking a sip of the crimson liquid. Rio seemed genuinely interested.

You swallowed your food slowly, feeling the weight of their gazes as you processed her question. Something about her tone, combined with the way you were being treated, sent a chill down your spine.

“Classes… are fine,” you replied, trying to sound casual, but there was hesitation in your voice. The orange juice in your hand felt like an almost childish contrast to the elegant wine they were drinking.

Agatha arched an eyebrow, a slight smile playing on her lips as she rested her chin on her hand. “Just ‘fine’? That doesn’t sound very convincing, little gem. Don’t tell me you’re letting your grades slip.”

You looked at her, slightly confused by the almost scolding tone. “No… My grades are good. It’s just that… things have been a bit intense lately.”

Rio let out a low chuckle, leaning forward as she twirled her wine glass between her fingers. “Well, that’s part of adult life, little girl. But you seem to be handling it well. Right, Agatha?”

“Hmm,” Agatha hummed, her eyes fixed on you in a way that made your stomach twist. “She has potential, but perhaps she needs a bit more… guidance.” The woman murmured, sipping more of the intoxicating liquid as she turned her body to face you. “Have you considered that maybe you’re taking on more than you can handle alone?”

“I can handle my own life.” You retorted, feeling a slight discomfort in the way her words echoed in the room. The sensation of being diminished, as if you were inexperienced or incapable, was starting to irritate you.

"Of course you can, darling," Agatha replied softly, but there was something in her tone that made it sound like she was merely humoring you, as one would with a stubborn child. "But that doesn't mean you couldn't benefit from a little help every now and then."

Rio chuckled, raising her glass toward Agatha as if toasting silently. "She’s got a point, you know. Everyone needs someone to hold their hand sometimes. And frankly, you seem to need it more than you realize."

"I'm not a child." You protested, feeling your cheeks burn.

Agatha tilted her head, an indulgent smile on her lips, a softness that seemed to contrast with the weight of her presence. She reached out and brushed away an invisible crumb from your cheek. "Oh, aren’t you?"

You narrowed your eyes at her, feeling the condescending and challenging tone of Agatha bubbling in your stomach. Rio interrupted your intense stare-down. "Agatha, darling…" she murmured calmly.

Rio had been silently observing, but there was something in her gaze that unsettled you, as if she was waiting for a reaction from you, something only she seemed to understand.

"So," Rio said after a few minutes of silence, resting her chin on her hand as she watched you with curiosity. "What's the story behind all this? You, alone, taking care of a cat and an army of plants… sounds like the life of a busy single mother for someone so young."

The tension in the air began to dissipate slightly with Rio's more relaxed tone—she seemed to know exactly when to step in. Her question had a touch of genuine curiosity, different from Agatha’s provocative tone.

You let out a sigh, trying to ignore the heat in your cheeks and the feeling of being studied like a specimen. "Yeah, maybe I am a single mother… But I like my plants. And Lucky… well, he’s a little grumpy, but it’s nice to have someone waiting for me at home."

Rio tilted her head, her lopsided smile softening the atmosphere even more. "Grumpy… Sounds like he matches someone here, doesn’t he?" she teased, winking as she took another sip of wine, glancing at Agatha.

The remark pulled an involuntary smile from you, though you still felt uneasy about what had happened before. "He’s very selective with people. He doesn’t trust just anyone."

"Cats… always with high standards," Rio replied, laughing quietly.

Agatha looked at Rio, and something unspoken passed between them, as if they had an entire conversation just through their eyes. Then, Agatha leaned back in her chair, her smile now less sharp. "I suppose he’s happy with the choices he makes."

You weren’t sure if that was a compliment or another provocation, but before you could respond, Rio changed the subject again.

"Well, you seem to manage just fine on your own," Rio continued, her tone now almost warm. "But it must be nice to have a little help every now and then. Lucky is good company, but he’s not going to cook dinner for you, is he, darling?"

You let out a short laugh, relaxing a little more. "Definitely not. In fact, he’s a professional mug-knocker."

Rio burst into laughter, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. "I like him more by the second. Maybe we should keep him around for a while. I bet he’d love to explore the chaos." She murmured with intention, though you seemed not to notice.

"Chaos?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"With Agatha around?" Rio replied, winking at you conspiratorially. "There’s always a bit of chaos. The controlled kind, of course, but chaos nonetheless."

Agatha feigned offense, but there was a playful glint in her eyes. "Chaos? I prefer order," she corrected, though her voice held a trace of amusement.

"Order on your own terms, isn’t that right, my lady?" Rio teased, raising her glass as if toasting again.

You chuckled, feeling the atmosphere finally lighten. Lucky, now settled near the plants, let out a low meow, as if confirming his presence in the space.

Rio leaned in, resting her chin on her hand again, this time looking at you with something more genuine in her eyes. "I think Lucky already feels at home."

You hesitated for a moment, but something in her tone made you relax a little more. "I think… yeah."

Agatha smiled slightly but remained silent, watching as Rio continued to smooth out the edges of that strange evening. The balance of power still lingered in the air, but for now, it felt like you could breathe again.

Agatha’s chin lifted slightly, and a satisfied smile curled on her lips as she gestured for you to follow her. "Come, darling. We have something to show you."

They led you to a nearby room, which looked like a dream materialized. It was spacious, with a large window that let in the perfect amount of sunlight. Your plants were already carefully arranged on shelves, and Lucky had seemingly already claimed the space as his own.

"It’s the guest room," Agatha said, a glint in her eyes. "I thought it would be perfect for you."

You stood still for a moment, taking in the room and feeling a whirlwind of emotions. The fear and distrust were still there, but the sight of the space—so inviting and warm—along with the relief of seeing Lucky safe, started to weaken them.

Rio and Agatha exchanged a discreet glance, their smiles carrying a silent triumph. You didn’t realize how carefully you were being drawn in, but they knew exactly what they were doing.

You remained there for a moment, watching the room as Lucky curled up on the bed as if he had found paradise. But there was something more in the air. Something that made your skin tingle slightly, like an invisible energy pulsing around you. It was strange, but you couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

"Why are you doing this for me?" you finally broke the silence, your voice hesitant, filled with genuine confusion. "I mean… I barely know you."

Agatha crossed her arms, her gaze firm and assessing as she answered with almost disarming simplicity, "Because you needed it."

Rio, on the other hand, let out a quiet laugh, stepping closer to sit at the edge of the bed. "Do you really need more explanation than that, sweetheart? You were alone, exhausted, crying… We couldn’t just leave you like that."

You swallowed hard, still uncertain. "But… this all seems too much. I don’t even know how I’m going to thank—"

Agatha cut you off, her voice sharp yet controlled. "In time, you will know how to repay it."

There was something in her tone that made it sound more like an order than a suggestion. You averted your gaze, nervously fidgeting with your fingers. "You both came into my life so suddenly… It’s strange. Why me?"

Rio stood up, walking towards you with a smile that was both warm and disarming. "Because, darling, some people get lucky. And apparently, today was your day." She tilted her head, as if studying your reaction.

"I do just fine on my own," you retorted stubbornly, your voice carrying a resistance that made the tension in the air spike again.

Agatha closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if searching for patience. When she opened them, there was a determined glint in them. "You think you do. But you’re far too young to understand just how much you need someone to guide you."

"I don’t need anyone to guide me!" you snapped, your voice louder than you intended. Lucky, lying among the sheets, lifted his head at the sound, watching intently.

Rio chuckled softly, trying to ease the weight of the exchange. She leaned forward, threatening to come closer. "You’ve got fire, little girl, that’s clear. But you know…" She paused, glancing briefly at Agatha before looking back at you. "There’s nothing wrong with accepting a little care. You don’t always have to fight, you understand?"

Your throat went dry, but you held your ground. "I don’t need that," you muttered, but the words sounded weak even to yourself.

Agatha narrowed her eyes, her expression hardening with a patience that seemed about to snap. "Oh, of course," she said in a sweet, almost sickening tone as she stood from her chair, walking slowly around you. "You don’t need it. After all, you’re doing so well on your own, aren’t you? No job, a failure of a brother, and a father draining you dry. You look absolutely fantastic!" she concluded sarcastically.

You straightened in your chair, feeling each of her words like a small blow. "I… I do my best," you shot back, trying not to sound defensive, but her sharp tone made your confidence waver.

"Your best…" Agatha repeated, almost mocking, as she turned to face you again. Her eyes gleamed with something dangerous. "And how’s that working out for you? Oh, wait…" She gestured dramatically with her hand, a sarcastic smile on her lips. "You were alone, exhausted, crying like a lost child—but sure, you don’t need anyone. You don’t need us."

"Agatha," Rio intervened softly, her voice calm but with a hint of warning. She reached out, touching her wife’s arm, but Agatha didn’t back down.

"No, Rio," she replied, her voice still sugary but laced with frustration. "If she insists she can handle everything alone, who are we to say otherwise? Maybe she enjoys drowning by herself."

You felt your face burn, Agatha’s words hitting deeper than you wanted to admit. They didn’t understand. You had acted like an adult your entire childhood and teenage years—and now, two women you barely knew expected you to relinquish control over your life.

"I never asked for anything from you," you said, your voice coming out firmer than you expected.

"You didn’t ask," Agatha countered, leaning slightly forward. "But you accepted. And that’s the problem, darling. You don’t know what’s best for you, yet you insist on acting as if you do."

A heavy silence hung in the air as her words lingered, and for a moment, you felt small under her gaze.

Rio let out a quiet sigh, but you noticed the brief glance she gave Agatha—something like a silent warning. She leaned toward you, a soft smile appearing on her lips. "Listen," she began, her voice a balm after Agatha’s cutting tone. "It’s not about being right or wrong. We just… want to help you, you understand? This isn’t a battle. It’s just… care. And maybe you need it more than you’re willing to admit."

You hesitated, Rio’s words almost reaching a part of you that still resisted. But the weight of Agatha’s gaze remained—fierce and piercing.

"I don’t…" you started, but your voice faltered.

"Don’t want help?" Agatha finished for you, crossing her arms. "Or don’t want to admit that you need it?"

Her tone was relentless, and for the first time, you felt your walls begin to crack. It wasn’t just exhaustion; it was something deeper, a part of you that wanted to allow trust, even against your will.

The energy in the room seemed to thicken, and that tingling sensation returned to your skin. It was as if both women exuded a magnetic presence you couldn’t understand—but it made you curious.

"You two are so… different," you murmured, observing them. "Like, the way you talk, act… It doesn’t seem like you—"

"Match?" Rio finished, laughing softly. "Yeah, a lot of people think that. But we work, you know? Like two pieces of a puzzle."

Agatha didn’t laugh, but a small smile tugged at her lips, as if she silently agreed. "Different, yes. But complementary. That’s what matters."

You hesitated, trying to absorb it all. "And now? You want me to stay here?"

Rio slipped her hands into her pockets and leaned slightly toward you, her eyes shining with something you couldn’t quite place. "We want you to rest, to breathe. One step at a time, sweetheart."

Agatha nodded, her posture relaxing. "We’re here to make sure you have what you need. No rush, no pressure."

There was something comforting, almost hypnotic, in their words. But there was also an unease in the back of your mind. You didn’t understand why, but even with all the apparent kindness, the energy radiating from them made you feel small, vulnerable.

"Alright," you replied softly, trying to ignore the invisible weight in the air.

Rio smiled again, a subtle glint of triumph in her eyes. Beside her, Agatha kept her gaze on you, as if measuring every word, every reaction.

The silence that followed was broken by Agatha’s low, satisfied chuckle. When you looked up, you saw the smile that had formed on her face—bright and triumphant, yet still carrying something darker.

"That’s a good girl," she murmured, her voice low and filled with an almost dangerous satisfaction.

The words hit you like a wave of warmth, making your chest tighten in a confusing way.

Good girl. Good girl. Good girl.

Something about the way she said it made you feel… strangely good.

Rio’s soft smile lingered as she leaned back in her chair. "See? It’s not so bad." She said gently, touching your shoulder with an almost protective lightness. "Tomorrow is a new day. You’ll see, things will get better."

They stepped away, leaving you alone in the room. As you sat on the bed, watching Lucky sleep peacefully, you tried to convince yourself that this was just kindness. Just good people appearing at the right moment.

[...]

The soft glow of the lamp illuminated the room, casting shadows on the walls decorated in deep shades of blue and gray. The space was luxurious, but there was something intimidating about the way every detail seemed meticulously calculated.

Agatha sat on the right edge of the bed, her posture erect as if authority itself rested in the way she carried herself. She was underlining notes on the script for the new feature film, the precise movements of her pen accompanied by the contemplative glint in her eyes. There was something almost ritualistic about the way she worked, as if each correction was a crucial piece in a puzzle.

Rio, on the other hand, seemed to belong to another world. Leaning casually against the edge of the bed, her legs crossed in an effortless manner, she slid her fingers across the iPad screen with a serenity that contrasted with Agatha’s intensity. But beneath her apparent calmness, there was an undeniable firmness, a silent vigilance.

“She accepted,” Agatha remarked, her voice low and measured, but not devoid of pride. “One way or another, she accepted.”

Rio smiled, one of those smiles that could be either affectionate or a warning. “Oh, my love, she’s tough. She grew up carrying the weight of the world, but deep down...” She lifted her gaze from the iPad. “She’s still just a girl.”

Agatha tilted her head slightly, humming in agreement. “And the brother?” Her voice remained unhurried, but her eyes betrayed genuine interest in the answer. “Did you make sure he won’t be a problem?”

Rio closed the iPad with a sharp click, placing it on the mattress. “He’s not a threat. Just a frustrated man trying to rebuild himself.” There was a calculated lightness in her tone, something reassuring yet dangerously final. “The interview is tomorrow. Everything is under control.”

Agatha glanced up from the script just enough to look at her over her glasses, measuring her words. “Be careful.” Her voice was low, deliberate. “They can’t think she’s getting any kind of special treatment.”

Rio let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for that, director?” Her eyebrow arched in provocation. “Little Gem is sleeping in the room next door.”

Agatha sighed, leaning back against the pillows. “That doesn’t mean we should make things easy for those vultures.” Her voice tensed at the thought of greedy journalists. “She needs to learn to fight for herself. If we treat her like a princess, she’ll never grow.”

Rio leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with an intensity that made Agatha hesitate for a moment. “She already fights, Agatha. Every day. You saw the state she was in today. She’s exhausted, hurt, and yet she’s still here. Isn’t that strength?”

Agatha held Rio’s gaze, but her expression softened slightly. “She is strong, yes. But strength without direction is just wasted potential. We need to guide her, not spoil her.”

Rio smiled, but this time there was genuine sweetness in her eyes. “And what if I want to spoil her a little? Doesn’t she deserve some kindness?”

Agatha frowned but didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she set the script aside and crossed her arms, studying Rio with a look that mixed disapproval and affection. “You’ve always been like this. Intense. Impulsive when it comes to this.”

Rio stood up, walking toward the window. The moonlight illuminated her face, highlighting her striking features and the determination in her gaze. “I’m just saying she needs someone to see her for who she is, not as a project.”

Agatha remained silent for a moment, watching Rio with an expression that was difficult to decipher. “And you think you can be that person?”

Rio turned to face her, lips curving into a smile that was both challenging and tender. “Her favorite person? I already am. And you know it.” She teased.

Agatha sighed again, rolling her eyes, but this time there was amusement in her voice. “Just don’t ruin her, Rio. She’s important to me too.”

Rio walked back to the bed, sitting beside Agatha. Her fingers found Agatha’s, intertwining with the kind of ease that only years of intimacy could create. “I won’t ruin her. I’ll take care of her. In my own way, of course.”

Agatha looked down at their intertwined hands, and for a brief moment, her expression softened. “Your way has always been... intense.”

Rio chuckled, a low, melodic sound. “And you love that.”

Agatha didn’t respond, but the gentle squeeze of her hand was answer enough. She knew Rio was right, but she also knew the path they were on was dangerous.

Rio turned to face her again, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “And you? What did you do?” There was undeniable amusement in Rio’s voice as she looked at Agatha. Her chocolate eyes sparkled, her prominent cheeks alive with emotion. “It happened faster than I expected.”

Vida.

Agatha snapped out of her trance, averting her gaze from her wife’s. “I did what was necessary.” She cleared her throat, trying to shake off the warm and comfortable feeling in her chest.

Agatha’s eyes gleamed with approval. “Well... Either way, she’s going to need it. Our little one still doesn’t understand that she can’t overburden herself.”

Rio chuckled softly, a feeling swirling in her chest. She turned her body to face Agatha directly, locking eyes with her wife’s piercing blue gaze. “She’ll learn. And when she does, she’ll never want to leave.”

Agatha shifted on her side of the bed, a kind of insecurity creeping into her mind.

“Do you think she’s ready for what’s coming next?” Agatha finally asked, her voice unsteady.

“I don’t think so,” Rio admitted, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “But who ever is? What matters is that we found her.”

Agatha smiled slightly, but it was impossible to tell if it was out of tenderness or something darker.

“She’ll understand, my love,” Rio assured her, her voice now softer. “And when she does, she’ll know she has never been so well taken care of.”

Agatha didn’t reply, but the glint in her eyes indicated she was already several steps ahead, calculating, planning.

After all, this wasn’t just about care—it was about control. And that, Agatha knew, was something she did better than anyone.

~*~

I am nothing without my plants and cats, I'm just a lesbian :)

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[hakkkuu]

stalker anton hiding in your closet watching you changing your clothes/getting out of the shower just to fuck yourself with a dildo and moaning out his name (bro was flabbergasted and turned red 😩🤟🏻)

later on he decided to replace that thing with his cock which is bigger than that dildo you’re fucking yourself with GAWD IM FERAL i just know he’d let the neighbours know his name by now

cw: stalking, sex toy

You still remember the first time you met Anton. The way his shy smile lit up his face as he fumbled with his backpack in the crowded college hallway made your heart flutter. There was something adorable about him—a quiet intensity that drew you in, but it wasn’t long before that attraction morphed into an unsettling obsession.

Days turned into weeks, and soon you realized he was everywhere. At the library, in the café, lingering just outside your dorm. You tried to shake off the feeling of being watched, but it only intensified with every furtive glance he cast your way. Something primal stirred within you, a mix of fear and fascination, each incident igniting a thrill you couldn't ignore.

Tonight, after a long day of classes, you step into your room, blissfully unaware that he’s hiding in your closet. You close the door and run a towel over your skin, the fresh scent of lavender filling the air. As the steam rises from your body, the bathroom draws you in, and you start to imagine Anton there with you. Your heart races, and the thought makes you bold.

The moment you step out of the shower, your hand instinctively wraps around the smooth silicone of your favorite dildo. You pretend it’s him, that shy smile replaced by a smirk—vividly imagining Anton’s confident presence. As you slide it inside, you can’t help but moan his name, relishing the secret thrill.

“Anton… oh, Anton…” The sound escapes your lips, barely above a whisper, but you feel a surge of exhilaration. This is your guilty pleasure—playing with the idea of the boy who observes you so intently, his obsession transforming you into something more than just a target of his gaze.

Then you hear the creak of the closet door, and your heart stops. He emerges, silently, like a shadow woven into the fabric of your fantasies. His eyes are dark, hungry with an urgency that sends delightful chills racing through your body.

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one with a fantasy,” he hums, his voice low and gravelly, sending a ripple of excitement through you. He steps closer, and in a heartbeat, his larger frame envelops you as he replaces the dildo with the warmth of his own cock—bigger and far more real than anything you could have expected.

The sensation is electric, a rush of primal need coursing through you as he thrusts deep, his breath mingling with yours. You feel empowered and terrified, the thrill of being his obsession heightening every move he makes. Your neighbors will surely hear it—the sound of skin meeting skin, the way your moans spill out into the hallway.

“Anton!” you gasp, unabashedly loud, letting the world know who owns you in this moment. The thrill of being desired, hunted, yet completely consumed by pleasure sends you over the edge, spiraling into ecstasy as you embrace the dangerous exhilaration of being his.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Saccharine Expressions.

my masterlist || ask me anything <3

authors note - enjoy 8k words of Harry grieving his wife.

trigger warnings - mentions of car crashes, hospitals, mentions of miscarriage and a shit load of angst. if you notice anymore triggers please let me know asap!

word count - 8k

in which, your husband postpones his american leg of tour because you get involved in a road traffic accident, resulting in you ending up in a medically induced coma, your husband and four year old comes to visit you everyday and they always have something new to tell you. this is everything that Harry experiences whilst you asleep, speaking to you whilst holding your hand, getting forced to eat because he doesn’t want to move and reassuring your son that mummy’s going to be fine.

12th August, 2022. — 14:47pm.

You had been looking forward to this moment all day. The afternoon sun cast a warm glow as you sat behind the wheel, cruising along the familiar roads on your way to pick up your four year old son, Alfie from school. The car hummed softly, the radio playing a cheerful tune in the background. The anticipation of reuniting with your little one filled the air, your heart light with the prospect of his laughter and stories from his day.

As you turned onto the street leading to the school, you imagined his face lighting up when he spotted your car. He would come running, his backpack bouncing against his small frame, his smile infectious. You couldn't wait to envelop him in a tight hug, his energy and innocence providing a welcome escape from the adult world.

The plan was to head to your husband's music studio, where he was getting everything ready for his American Leg of tour. It had been a while since the three of you had spent quality time together there, surrounded by the melodies that had woven into the fabric of your life. You had ordered takeout from his favourite restaurant, a little treat to celebrate a simple yet special evening.

The studio was your sanctuary, a place where your husband's creativity flowed freely. The walls were adorned with framed memories and records, a testament to his journey as a musician. Walking in, you'd inhale the familiar scent of music equipment and the subtle mix of coffee and old books. You'd settle into the cosy corner, watching as your son explored the room with wide-eyed wonder.

You'd listen to your husband's stories, sharing in his triumphs and frustrations. The music playing softly in the background would create a serene backdrop to your conversations, each note a reminder of the bond you shared. You'd laugh, you'd dance, and you'd cherish the time spent as a family.

But as the sun began its descent and the car continued down the road, fate had other plans.

Out of nowhere, a truck materialised in your path, its imposing presence casting a shadow over your joy-filled thoughts. Panic surged through your veins, your heart racing as you attempted to react, but time seemed to slow.

The impact was sudden and brutal, metal colliding with metal in a deafening symphony of destruction. Your world spun, and for a fraction of a second, everything went black.

Harry sat in the dimly lit studio, his fingers dancing across the keyboard of his laptop as he worked on everything that would be needed for the show in upcoming days. The soft hum of the air conditioning was the only sound accompanying his thoughts.

But then, a sudden interruption shattered his focus – his phone began to ring insistently, its vibrations causing it to skitter across the table.

Frowning, Harry picked up the phone and saw the school's name on the caller ID. He furrowed his brows, a sense of unease fluttering in his chest. He swiped to answer the call and held the phone to his ear.

" ‘ello?" he said, his voice a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Hi, Is this Mr. Styles?" a voice on the other end inquired.

"Yeah, this is ‘im," he replied, his brows knitting tighter.

"I'm calling from LakeRidge school," the receptionist explained. "It seems there was a mix-up, and no one came to pick up Alfie today."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Wait, what? No one picked him up?"

"That's correct. We were trying to reach your wife earlier, but it seems no one was answering," the receptionist explained, her voice apologetic.

Harry's mind raced as he glanced at the time on his watch. You and Harry took it in turns to pick up Alfie from school. You did Mondays, Wednesday and Harry did Tuesdays and Thursdays. You both picked him up on Fridays. He ran a hand through his hair, his worry deepening.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "I'll be right there t’pick him up."

"Of course, Mr. Styles. We'll make sure he's safe until you arrive," the receptionist assured him.

"Thank you," Harry replied, his tone earnest. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

12th August, 2022. — 15:12pm.

The tires of Harry's car screeched as he quickly manoeuvred into a parking spot near the school. He barely had time to turn off the engine before he was out of the car, his long strides carrying him toward the school building. Panic surged through him with every step, a mix of worry and guilt propelling him forward.

As he burst through the doors of the school reception, his eyes frantically scanned the room for a familiar face. And there he was – his son, Alfie, standing near the reception desk, his face a mixture of relief and excitement as he spotted his father.

"Daddy!" Alfie's voice rang out, and he sprinted toward Harry with open arms.

Harry's heart swelled with a rush of emotions. He crouched down, his arms outstretched, and Alfie practically leaped into his embrace. Harry held his son tightly, a mixture of relief and remorse flooding his senses.

"I'm so sorry, buddy," Harry murmured, his voice filled with regret. "Me and Mummy should have been here t’pick y’up on time."

Alfie squeezed Harry even tighter, his small arms wrapping around his father's neck. "It's okay, Daddy. I knew you'd come."

Harry pulled back slightly, looking into his son's eyes. "Still, I should have been here f’you. I promise this won't happen again."

Alfie's face lit up with a bright smile, his forgiveness and trust shining through. "I love you, Daddy."

Harry's heart ached with love as he pressed a kiss to Alfie's forehead. "I love you too, more than anything."

After a moment of holding his son close, Harry straightened up and swung Alfie onto his hip. He gathered his son's backpack with his free hand and draped it over his shoulder.

"Ready t’go, bud?" Harry asked, his voice gentle.

Alfie nodded enthusiastically, his arms wrapped around Harry's neck. "Yeah!"

With Alfie securely perched on his hip, Harry made his way back to the car. He settled Alfie into his car seat, making sure he was buckled in safely. As he closed the car door, he leaned in to meet Alfie's gaze.

"M’really sorry about today, Alf," Harry said sincerely. "From now on, Me and Mummy will make sure were here on time t’pick y’up, n’matter what."

Alfie's smile returned, his eyes filled with trust. "I know you will, Daddy."

Harry smiled back, his heart full as he ruffled Alfie's hair affectionately. With one final glance, he closed the car door and walked around to the driver's seat.

Just as Harry's hand touched the ignition to start the car, his phone lit up with an unknown number. A sense of unease washed over him, but he quickly connected the call to the car's Bluetooth system.

" ‘Ello?" Harry said, his voice projected through the car's speakers.

"Is this Mr. Styles speaking?" a calm voice inquired.

Harry's brows furrowed as he gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. "Yes, this is ‘im."

"Mr. Styles, I'm Dr. Parker from Willow Creek Hospital," the voice introduced itself. "I'm calling because you are listed as the emergency contact for (Y/N) Styles."

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the mention of his wife’s name, his thoughts racing as he tightened his grip on the phone.

"(Y/N)?" he repeated, his voice shaky.

"I'm afraid there's been an incident," Dr. Parker explained gently. "It would be best if we discussed this in person. Can you please come to Willow Creek Hospital as soon as possible?"

A surge of panic coursed through Harry's veins as he turned to look at the backseat, where his four-year-old was sitting. He reached out and gently grasped his child's small hand, his mind racing with worry.

" ‘hat happened?" Harry asked, his voice quivering.

"I understand your concern, Mr. Styles," the doctor replied, his tone compassionate. "I assure you, we will explain everything once you're here. Please, make your way to the hospital as soon as you can."

Harry swallowed hard, his mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion.

"Yeah, ‘kay," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

12th August, 2022. — 16:09pm.

The hospital loomed before Harry like an imposing fortress of uncertainty. He had hurriedly dropped off Alfie at his manager Jeff's house, making sure his son was safe and away from the unsettling environment of a hospital. Now, his heart raced as he rushed through the sliding glass doors, the sterile scent hitting him like a wave as he stepped into the hospital's bustling foyer.

His eyes darted around, scanning the signs that pointed the way to different wards and departments. But his mind was a blur, and he found himself striding over to the reception desk, his voice hurried and tense.

"S’cuse me," Harry began, his voice tinged with anxiety. "M’looking f’m’wife, (Y/N) Styles. Can y’tell me where she is?"

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, looked up from her computer screen and offered a sympathetic smile. "Of course, sir. Let me check for you."

Harry's fingers tapped nervously on the counter as he waited, his gaze flitting around the lobby. The distant hum of footsteps, the occasional murmur of conversations – it all blended into a surreal symphony that only heightened his unease.

After a moment, the receptionist turned back to him. "It says on her notes that her doctor wants to speak to you before you l are updated on your wife, I’ll page her doctor and let him know your here, be will be out to speak with you shortly about your wife’s condition"

Harry's shoulders slumped slightly in frustration, but he nodded in acknowledgment. "Right. Thank you."

As he paced back and forth near the reception area, his mind raced with scenarios and questions. What had happened? Was (Y/N) okay? The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity, until finally, a doctor emerged from the corridor beyond.

"Mr. Styles?" the doctor called out, his white coat billowing slightly as he approached.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he turned toward the doctor. "Yes, that's me."

The doctor extended a hand, his expression a mix of professionalism and empathy. "I'm Dr. Parker. Please, come with me. We have a private room where we can talk."

Dr. Parker led Harry down a series of hallways until they reached a small, private family room. The air inside felt heavy with anticipation, and as Harry stepped through the door, he could hardly ignore the sense of foreboding that settled over him.

Taking a seat, Harry's hands trembled slightly as he looked at the doctor, his eyes wide and expectant.

"I appreciate your patience, Mr. Styles," Dr. Parker began, his tone gentle. "I know this is a difficult time, and I want to provide you with as much information as I can."

Harry nodded, his heart pounding as he held onto every word the doctor spoke.

"Your wife, (Y/N) Styles, was brought in unconscious after the car accident," the doctor explained. "Upon evaluation and a CT scan, we discovered a small bleed on her brain. It's causing increased pressure, and we're closely monitoring her condition."

Harry's breath caught in his throat, his fingers clenching into fists as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. His wife, the person he loved more than anything, was facing a critical health challenge.

"Additionally," Dr. Parker continued, "she has sustained multiple injuries. Her ribs are fractured, and she has also broken her femur."

The weight of the doctor's words seemed to press down on Harry's chest, his mind struggling to process the extent of his wife's injuries. Images of her vibrant smile, her laughter, and the moments they had shared together flashed through his mind, a stark contrast to the reality he was now facing.

"What... what’re the next steps?" Harry managed to ask, his voice quivering.

"We've already begun treatment for the brain bleed," Dr. Parker explained. "She's under close observation in the Intensive Care Unit. Our priority is to stabilise her and manage the pressure on her brain. Once that's achieved, we'll assess the best course of action for her other injuries."

Harry nodded, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. He wanted to be strong, for both his wife and their family, but the weight of the situation threatened to overwhelm him.

"Can I... can I see ‘er?" Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Parker nodded understandingly. "Of course. We're preparing a room for you to visit her briefly. Please keep in mind that she's still unconscious, and we're closely monitoring her condition."

As the doctor led Harry through the hospital corridors, the journey felt like a surreal blur. He couldn't shake the fear that gripped his heart, nor the deep sense of longing to see his wife's face, to hold her hand and offer his unwavering support.

The door to the room swung open, revealing you lying in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines and monitors. Your face appeared peaceful, a stark contrast to the turmoil within Harry's heart. He approached the bed, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead.

"(Y/N)," Harry whispered, his voice laden with emotion. "M’here. I love you."

He held your hand gently, his grip offering both reassurance and a silent promise that he would be by your side throughout this challenging journey. As he looked at you, his heart swelled with a mixture of love and determination, a reminder that your bond was unbreakable, even in the face of adversity.

The soft beep of machines filled the room as Harry stood by your bedside, his gaze fixed on your still form. Dr. Parker joined him, his presence a mix of professionalism and empathy.

"Mr. Styles," the doctor began, his tone gentle, "I need to explain that due to the severity of (Y/N)'s injuries, we made the decision to place her in a medically induced coma."

Harry's heart sank at the doctor's words, his eyes widening as he turned to look at Dr. Parker. The gravity of the situation seemed to deepen with each passing moment, and the reality that you was facing a critical condition hit him like a ton of bricks.

"A coma?" Harry repeated, his voice barely audible.

"Yes," Dr. Parker confirmed. "Given the head injury and the need to reduce pressure on her brain, we initiated the coma to allow her body to heal and to give her the best chance of recovery."

Harry's hands trembled as he reached out to hold your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, his heart heavy with worry for his wife.

"I know this is incredibly difficult," Dr. Parker continued, his voice compassionate. "But the induced coma is a crucial part of her treatment plan. It will help minimise any further damage and allow us to closely monitor her brain activity."

Harry nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving your face. He felt a mixture of helplessness and determination, the need to be there for you overwhelming his thoughts.

"M’here f’er," Harry said, his voice firm. "Whatever she needs, I'll be here."

Dr. Parker nodded, his expression one of understanding. "Your presence and support are invaluable, Mr. Styles. We'll continue to keep you updated on her condition and progress."

Dr. Parker remained in the room, his expression a mix of concern and professionalism. After a moment of silence, he spoke again, his voice measured yet compassionate.

"There's one more thing I need to discuss with you, Mr. Styles," the doctor said, his tone somber.

Harry's head shot up, his eyes locking onto Dr. Parker's. A sense of dread gripped him, his heart pounding as he awaited the doctor's words.

The doctor's gaze met Harry's, his eyes conveying a mixture of empathy and gravity. "Were you aware that your wife is pregnant?"

Harry's brows furrowed in confusion, his mind racing to process the question. He shook his head slightly. "No, I wasn't."

Dr. Parker nodded, his gaze steady. "According to our initial assessment and subsequent scans, (Y/N) is approximately 13 weeks pregnant."

Harry's eyes widened in shock, his thoughts a jumble of emotions. The news hit him like a tidal wave, the realisation that not only was you facing a critical condition, but your was also carrying yours and his second child.

"She... she’s pregnant?" Harry managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alfie was going to be a big brother.

"Yes," Dr. Parker confirmed. "The baby appears to be fine, given our initial scans. However, I need to be transparent with you, Mr. Styles. The circumstances surrounding the accident do pose a higher risk of miscarriage."

Harry's heart ached at the doctor's words, the weight of the situation heavy upon him. The room seemed to close in around him as he processed the reality of the delicate life that hung in the balance.

" ‘hat can we do?" Harry asked, his voice trembling.

Dr. Parker's expression softened. "Right now, the focus is on (Y/N)'s recovery. We'll continue to monitor both her and the baby closely. While the situation is delicate, we'll do everything we can to support their well-being."

Harry nodded, his thoughts a whirlwind of worry and determination. He glanced back at you, his hand instinctively moving to rest on your abdomen, as if trying to protect the life that was growing within her.

"Thank you, Dr. Parker," Harry said, his voice heavy with gratitude. "Please, do whatever y’can t’take care of them."

The doctor offered a reassuring nod. "We're committed to providing the best care possible, Mr. Styles. We'll keep you updated on any developments."

As the doctor left the room, Harry's gaze remained fixed on you, his heart a mixture of hope and fear. The journey ahead was fraught with uncertainty, but he knew that the love and strength the two of you shared would be his guiding light, illuminating the path toward recovery for both you and their unborn child.

Dr. Parker's steps had barely faded when Harry found himself whispering to the still room, his voice a mixture of desperation and raw emotion.

"Y’can't leave us," Harry murmured, his fingers gently brushing your hand. "We need you. Alfie needs you."

His voice cracked as he spoke, the weight of his words heavy in the air. He looked at your face, so peaceful yet distant, and a lump formed in his throat.

"Alfie can't grow up without a mother," Harry continued, his voice trembling. "I don't know what I'll do without you."

Tears welled in his eyes as he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. He took a shaky breath, his fingers gripping your ones tighter.

"Y’everything t’us," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. "We can't lose you."

The room was silent, the machines and monitors offering a haunting backdrop to his plea. Harry's heartache felt like an ache in his chest, a reminder of the fragility of life and the depth of his love for you and your unborn child.

DAY ONE. 13th August, 2022. — 07:54am.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the window, casting a gentle glow across the hospital room, Harry roused from his light slumber. He had spent the night in the chair beside your bed, his presence a steadfast symbol of his unwavering support. The machines continued their soft symphony, their rhythmic beeps and hums creating an almost surreal backdrop to the uncertainty that hung in the air.

A nurse, her footsteps soft and purposeful, entered the room. She moved gracefully, her experience evident in the way she approached your bedside and began checking her vitals. The machines responded with gentle beeps, their cadence familiar to Harry's ears by now. He watched the nurse's actions with a mix of hope and apprehension, his heart pounding in his chest.

As the nurse worked, her gaze shifted to Harry, and she offered a kind smile. "Good morning. Did you stay the whole night?"

Harry nodded, his voice hoarse as he replied, "Yeah, m’didn't want t’leave ‘er."

The nurse's gaze held a mixture of understanding and reassurance. "She's in safe hands here, Mr. Styles. We're doing everything we can for her."

Harry's grip on (Y/N)'s hand tightened, his gaze unwavering as he looked at the woman he loved. "I know, but I just... I can't leave her side."

The nurse nodded in understanding, her demeanour empathetic. "It's understandable that you want to be here for her. Just know that if you need anything – a drink, a meal, a moment to step outside – the nurses' station is just outside the door. Don't hesitate to reach out."

"Thank you," Harry said, his voice filled with gratitude. "I appreciate that."

With a final nod, the nurse completed her assessments and left the room, her presence a brief yet comforting interlude in the otherwise tense environment. Left alone once more with (Y/N), Harry's gaze returned to her face, his emotions a tumultuous mix of concern, love, and longing.

"Y’not alone in this," Harry whispered, his voice gentle. His fingers traced over her skin, the wedding band on her left hand a poignant reminder of the life they had built together. "We're in this together."

14:17pm.

Later in the afternoon, Harry's phone rang, shattering the quiet stillness of the room. His heart jumped at the sound, and he quickly retrieved the device, seeing his mum Anne's name on the screen. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, he answered the call.

" ‘Ey, Mum," Harry greeted, his voice laced with a hint of anxiety.

"Harry, love," Anne's warm voice came through the line, tinged with concern. "I saw the announcement about the tour. Is everything alright?"

Harry's eyes welled up with tears, his emotions still raw and close to the surface. He took a deep breath, his voice shaky as he replied, "No, Mum. Everything's not alright."

Anne's voice softened with worry. "What happened, sweetheart?"

Harry's voice quivered as he began to recount the events of the past day, from the car accident to (Y/N)'s injuries and the delicate situation with their unborn child. As he spoke, the emotions that he had been trying to hold back surged forth, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I just... I can't lose her, Mama," Harry choked out, his voice breaking. "And Alfie... I don't want ‘im t’go through this. I don't know what t’do."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, a pause that carried a weight of empathy and understanding. Then, Anne's voice came through, filled with unwavering support.

"I'm catching the first flight out, Harry," Anne said firmly. "I want to be there for you, for Alfie, and for (Y/N)."

Harry's heart swelled with gratitude, his breath hitching as he wiped away tears. "Mum, y’don't have t’ I know y’have y’own commitments."

Anne's voice was resolute. "Harry, you're my son. Family comes first, always. I want to be there for all of you."

Tears welled up in Harry's eyes once more, this time fueled by the overwhelming love and comfort that his mother's words brought. He took a shaky breath, his voice heavy with emotion.

"Thank you, Mum. I... I really need y’right now."

"Of course, love," Anne replied gently. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Take care of yourself and Alfie."

18:30pm.

As the sun began its descent, casting a warm and soothing light across the hospital room, Harry remained rooted in his seat beside your bed. His unwavering presence was a testament to his devotion and concern for you, a quiet guardian watching over you as machines softly beeped and hummed in the background, a symphony of hope and uncertainty.

As the day's shadows grew longer, Harry turned his gaze to your serene face, his fingers still delicately entwined with your frail ones. With a tender smile, he began to speak, his voice a soothing balm in the hushed room.

"M’sun," he began, his words a blend of affection and determination,

His voice carried a note of eagerness, a glimmer of the future he envisioned. Gently, he reached out, his fingertips brushing against her hand as if conveying his sentiments through touch.

"When y’better we’ll go back t’England," he continued, a touch of excitement in his tone. "We'll leave everything behind f’a’while – the tour, the noise, the schedules. It can all wait. We can wait."

His gaze then shifted to her stomach, where their child was growing, a symbol of their love and resilience.

"N’this lil’one," he said softly, as though speaking directly to their unborn child, "we'll take y’to the places y’never seen. The countryside, the beaches, the parks. We'll have picnics and adventures. Your mum, I, and your big brother, Alf, we're going t’show y’the world."

A tender smile played on Harry's lips as he imagined the joy that such simple moments would bring to their son's life.

"We'll watch the sunset by the sea," Harry murmured, his voice an intimate whisper. "It'll be just the four of us, wrapped’n’blankets, sharing stories’n’laughter. We'll make memories that'll last a lifetime, (Y/N)."

His hand gently left hers and reached out, his palm resting tenderly on her stomach. The connection felt tangible, a bridge between the present challenges and the future joys they were determined to experience.

"We'll have all the time in the world," he promised softly. "Time for us, f’our family. No rush, no pressures. Just our love and the life we're creating."

DAY TWO. 14th August, 2022. — 08:03am.

The next day's gentle light filled the hospital room, casting a sense of quiet hope. Anne, Harry's mother, entered with a mixture of concern and determination etched on her face. Her gaze fell upon Harry, who remained hunched over in his chair, his fingers tightly interwoven with yours, and his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she took in his exhausted appearance, noticing the telltale signs of strain.

"Harry," Anne's voice held both care and worry as she walked over. She crouched down next to him, gently touching his shoulder to get his attention. "Hey, love."

His eyes blinked open at her touch, his gaze filled with a mixture of surprise and relief as he registered his mother's presence. He managed a small smile, grateful for her being there.

"Mum?" His voice was hoarse, a mix of gratitude and exhaustion.

Anne offered him a soft smile, her fingers brushing a wayward strand of hair from his forehead. "I'm here, Harry."

He pushed himself up in the chair, a mixture of relief and emotions washing over him. He looked at his mother, his eyes red and heavy with sleepless nights, his exhaustion painted across his features like a canvas of worry.

Anne's eyes flickered with concern as she took in his appearance. "Harry, love, you look exhausted. How long have you been here?"

His gaze dropped, a mixture of guilt and weariness weighing heavily on him. "I... I haven't left ‘er side."

Anne's voice was a gentle mix of understanding and concern.

"Oh, Harry." She reached out, her hand gently lifting his chin, guiding his gaze back to her. Her fingers brushed away the tracks of tears that had silently fallen down his cheeks. "You can’t do this alone, my love."

He looked at her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his emotions finally bubbling to the surface. "I know, Mum. But I can't leave her. I can't..."

Anne's touch was soft as she cupped his cheek, her eyes brimming with motherly warmth. "Harry, you need rest too."

He turned his gaze back to yours, his expression one of intense worry and fear. "M’scared, Mum. Scared t’leave ‘er."

Anne's voice held a comforting note as she spoke. "I understand, H. But you need to recharge so you can be strong for (Y/N) and for Alfie."

His eyes met hers, his vulnerability shining through as his voice cracked. "Thank you, Mum. F’being here."

Anne's smile was tender, her thumb brushing his cheek as she wiped away a lingering tear. "Always, Harry. Always."

As their gazes held, the room seemed to fill with a sense of connection, the unbreakable bond of family reminding them that they were not alone in facing the challenges ahead.

Anne's voice held a reassuring note as she spoke once more. "Listen to me, Harry. You need to go home, get a shower, and spend some time with Alfie. He's probably got a lot of questions about where you and (Y/N) are. You can come back right after."

Harry hesitated, his eyes drifting back to you. "But ‘hat if something happens?"

Anne's hand rested on his cheek, her touch warm and grounding. "I'll be here the whole time. I promise, if anything happens, I'll call you right away."

The weight of Anne's reassurance settled over him like a comforting embrace, giving him the permission he needed to take care of himself and his family.

"Okay," he finally nodded, his voice soft and weary. "Okay, Mum."

08:58am.

Harry's car pulled into his manager Jeff's driveway, the engine's soft hum fading into the tranquil neighbourhood. He sat there for a moment, his thoughts a maelstrom of worry and uncertainty. This visit, intended to be a routine pickup of Alfie, had taken on a weight he hadn't expected. He took a deep breath, his grip on the steering wheel tightening briefly before he finally turned off the ignition. For a few lingering seconds, he sat there, his hands resting on the wheel, gathering his strength.

With a deep sigh, Harry opened the car door and stepped onto the pavement. Each step to the front door felt heavy, a silent acknowledgment of the upheaval that had consumed his life. Before he could fully process it, he stood before the door, his knuckles poised to knock. In that fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, as if hoping to find solace in the darkness behind his lids.

The knock resounded through the door, a signal of his presence. As he waited, his heart seemed to echo the rhythm of the universe, the anticipation hanging thick in the air. The door swung open, revealing Jeff, his manager. The lines of concern etched on Jeff's face reflected the tumult that Harry carried within himself.

"Hey, H," Jeff greeted, his voice a mixture of understanding and empathy.

Harry managed a faint smile, though the weariness in his eyes betrayed the facade. "Hey, mate. M’gonna pick up Alf and then take ‘im t’see ‘is mum."

Jeff's eyes softened, recognizing the weight Harry carried. "Yeah, he's inside. Come on in."

Harry stepped into the familiar surroundings, the walls of Jeff's house offering a silent embrace. He took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of his emotions press against his chest. A mixture of memories and apprehensions filled the air, an intangible current that Harry navigated with each step he took.

"Alfie, it's your dad!" Harry's voice carried a blend of warmth and longing, the words directed down the hallway where his son would soon appear.

From within the depths of the house, a small voice responded, "Daddy?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the sound of his son's voice. He waited, his gaze fixated on the hallway, his breath caught in his throat.

And then, as if from a distant dream, Alfie burst into view. His face lit up like the sun breaking through the clouds, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he saw his dad. "Daddy!"

A rush of emotion overcame Harry as Alfie ran towards him, his little arms wrapping around his legs in an enthusiastic hug. Harry's own arms encircled his son, holding him close as if he were his anchor in the storm. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, a mixture of relief and tenderness flooding his heart.

" ‘ey, buddy," Harry murmured, his voice tinged with both love and weariness. He knelt down, his fingers ruffling Alfie's hair with a gentleness that only a father could muster.

Alfie looked up at him, his eyes wide with curiosity. "Are we going somewhere, Daddy?"

Harry managed a small, affectionate smile, his heart a tapestry of emotions. "Yea’ Alf. We're going t’go home and then go and see someone."

Alfie's face lit up with a radiant smile, his excitement contagious. "Yay!"

09:16am.

Harry's car rolled to a stop in front of their home, the engine's soft purr fading into the tranquil surroundings. The journey from Jeff's house had been a mixture of quiet conversations and Alfie's enthusiastic recounting of his day. As Harry stepped out of the car, he glanced up at their home, a mixture of warmth and heaviness settling over him. The familiarity of the place was a welcome comfort, yet the weight of the situation cast a shadow over everything.

Alfie bounded out of the car, his small steps carrying a youthful exuberance as he rushed towards the front door. His laughter filled the air as he fumbled with the keys under Harry's watchful eye.

"Alright there, buddy?" Harry's voice carried a mixture of amusement and tenderness.

Alfie looked up at his dad, his eyes dancing with excitement. "Yeah, Daddy! Can we play pirates when we get inside?"

Harry's smile was fond, a genuine reflection of his love for his son. " ‘f’course, mate. We can play pirates."

With the door unlocked, Alfie swung it open with a triumphant grin, his youthful energy infectious. As they stepped inside, the house enveloped them in a familiar embrace, the creak of floorboards and the soft hum of appliances a testament to the life they had built together.

"Daddy, look!" Alfie's voice carried from the living room, his excitement tangible even from a distance.

Harry followed his voice and found Alfie standing amidst a makeshift pirate ship of cushions and blankets. A sense of warmth filled Harry's heart as he watched his son play, the innocence of childhood a precious balm against the storm of emotions that had consumed their lives.

"Great job, Captain Alfie," Harry said with a playful salute, his heart aching with both sadness and a fierce determination to be strong for his son.

As Alfie continued his pirate adventures, Harry's gaze lingered for a moment before he turned and quietly retreated down the hallway. He stepped into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click. The sound of the running water provided a gentle rhythm, a backdrop to the thoughts that had been hovering at the edges of his mind.

The water cascaded over Harry's body, the warmth soothing his muscles but doing little to ease the ache in his heart. As he stood under the spray, his head bowed, tears mingled with the water, the release of his emotions a quiet catharsis.

He lathered up a razor and carefully shaved, the rhythmic motion offering a small sense of normalcy amidst the chaos. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and reached for another to dry his hair.

As he moved through the motions of getting dressed, his eyes caught his reflection in the mirror. The image that stared back at him was a complex tapestry of emotions – a father, a husband, a man who was holding onto hope amidst uncertainty.

The tears he had shed in the shower had left traces on his face, a silent testament to the pain he was carrying. But as he looked at himself, there was a quiet strength in his eyes, a resolve to be the pillar of support that his family needed.

With one last glance in the mirror, Harry stepped out of the bathroom, his footsteps carrying him back to the living room where Alfie's laughter echoed. The journey ahead was uncertain, but in the simple moments like this, Harry found the strength to navigate the storm, determined to be the anchor that held his family together.

10:01am.

As they sat in the back of the car, the engine's gentle hum providing a comforting backdrop, Harry stole a glance at Alfie. His son's curious eyes were fixed on the passing scenery, his mind likely filled with questions that he didn't yet know how to voice. Harry took a deep breath, his heart heavy with the task ahead.

" ‘ey, buddy," Harry began, his voice gentle yet tinged with a mixture of sadness and reassurance.

Alfie turned his head to look at his dad, his expression a mix of curiosity and trust. "Yeah, Daddy?"

Harry smiled, his eyes warm with affection. "Y’know how Mummy's not at home right now? She's in the hospital."

Alfie's brows furrowed slightly, his young mind processing the information. "Why is Mummy in the hospital, Daddy?"

Harry sighed softly, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel for a moment before he continued. "Well, y’remember when we talked about how sometimes people get hurt or sick, and doctors help them feel better?"

Alfie nodded, his gaze fixed on his dad's face, absorbing every word.

"Exactly," Harry affirmed. "Mummy got a lil’hurt, ‘n’the doctors are taking care of her t’make sure she gets better."

Alfie's expression shifted to one of concern, his eyes widening slightly. "Is Mummy going to be okay, Daddy?"

Harry's voice held a soothing tone, his hand reaching back to briefly squeeze Alfie's knee. "Ye’,buddy. The doctors are doing everything they can, and we're going t’visit her right now."

Alfie nodded slowly, the weight of the situation evident in his gaze. "Can I see Mummy, Daddy?"

Harry smiled softly, his heart aching at his son's innocence. " f’course, Alf. We're going t’see her together."

As they continued on the journey to the hospital, the atmosphere in the car was a blend of quiet anticipation and unspoken emotions. Harry's grip on the steering wheel was steady, his thoughts a mixture of concern for (Y/N) and a determination to provide comfort and reassurance to Alfie.

"Buddy," Harry said after a moment, his voice gentle, "if y’have any questions or if y’feeling worried, y’can always talk t’me. I'm here f’you."

Alfie's small hand reached out to grasp Harry's, his fingers curling around his dad's hand. "I love you, Daddy."

Tears pricked at the corners of Harry's eyes, his grip on the steering wheel momentarily tightening. "I love you too, Alfie. We're a team, okay? We'll get through this together."

10:35am.

Harry walked into the hospital room, Alfie nestled in his arms, their footsteps quiet against the linoleum floor. The room, typically a place of healing, was filled with an air of uncertainty and tension. Harry's gaze shifted from the floor to the sight that awaited them – you lying still on the bed, your eyes closed, your form a stark contrast to the vibrant woman he knew.

As they entered, Alfie's eyes widened, his gaze immediately drawn to the figure on the bed. He also noticed Anne sat next to the bed,However, this time, the usual excitement that would accompany seeing his grandmother wasn't present. His little body tensed in Harry's arms, his eyes fixated on his mother's still form, the weight of the situation settling over him.

"Daddy," Alfie's voice was a mere whisper, tinged with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.

Harry held him a bit tighter, his heart aching at the realisation that Alfie was trying to process what he was seeing. "Yea’, buddy?"

Alfie's small hand pointed toward the corner of the room, where Anne stood, her gaze filled with a mix of sympathy and love. Typically, Alfie would have dashed over to her with the energy only a child possessed, but now, he seemed frozen in place.

"Is that Grandma, Daddy?" Alfie's voice was soft, almost hesitant.

Harry nodded, his own eyes briefly meeting Anne's before he turned his attention back to his son. "Yea’, that's Grandma."

Alfie's gaze shifted back to you, his eyes filling with a mixture of emotions that were too complex for his young heart to fully understand. He looked back at Harry, his voice carrying a request that seemed beyond his years. "Daddy, can I go hold Mummy's hand?"

Harry's heart swelled with both sadness and pride at Alfie's resilience. He walked over to the bed, carefully lowering Alfie to the edge of it. "Of course, Alf. Y’can even give her a little cuddle, j’gotta be careful."

Alfie's tiny hand reached out, hesitating for a moment before he gently placed it on your hand, his eyes studying her features as if searching for a sign of life. His other hand rested on your arm, his touch gentle yet filled with an innocence that brought tears to Harry's eyes.

As Alfie leaned in, his small body pressed against his mother's, Harry stood beside them, his emotions a tempest within him. He watched as Alfie's head rested on your chest, his breaths steady, as if seeking solace in the closeness of his mother.

"Y’doing great, buddy," Harry whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

Alfie's voice was soft, a mixture of curiosity and longing. "Is Mummy asleep, Daddy?"

Harry's heart ached at the innocence in his son's question. "Yeah, Alf, she's asleep right now."

Alfie's gaze remained fixed on yours, his small fingers curling around your cold hand. The room held a fragile sense of connection, as if time itself had slowed down to honour the moment. In that stillness, Harry watched his son, his heart both heavy with grief and full of hope for the future.

DAY THREE. 15th August, 2022. — 14:12am.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the hospital room. Harry sat by your side, his gaze fixed on your still form, his thoughts a jumble of hope and uncertainty. Anne had taken Alfie back to the house, giving Harry some time alone with his wife.

As he sat there lost in his thoughts, the door creaked open, and a doctor entered the room. Harry looked up, his eyes meeting the doctor's with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

"Good morning," the Dr Parker greeted, his voice gentle and reassuring. “How’re you holding up?”

Harry managed a faint smile, his voice carrying a mix of gratitude and fatigue. "Doing m’best, thank you."

Dr. Parker nodded understandingly, his gaze shifting to your form before back to Harry. "I'm here to talk to you about the next steps. Given the circumstances, we'd like to perform an ultrasound to check on the baby."

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the mention of the baby. The mixture of hope and fear that had been his constant companion intensified. "F’course, whatever y’think is best."

A nurse entered the room, carrying the necessary equipment for the ultrasound. She smiled at Harry as she prepared for the procedure. "Hello, I'm Chloe. We'll make sure everything goes smoothly."

Harry offered a small smile in return although it never fully reached his eyes, his eyes shifting between the doctor and the nurse. "Thank you."

As the nurse prepped the ultrasound machine, Dr. Parker explained the procedure to Harry. "We'll be able to see the baby on the screen and check for any signs of distress or complications. It's a routine precautionary measure."

Harry nodded, his fingers involuntarily tracing patterns on your hand. "I understand."

The nurse positioned the ultrasound device on your abdomen, and the monitor came to life, displaying the fuzzy image of the baby. Harry's breath caught in his throat as he saw the tiny figure on the screen – their unborn child, a symbol of hope amid the uncertainty.

He watched as the nurse moved the device, the image shifting slightly, revealing more details of the baby. The room was filled with a tense silence, broken only by the soft hum of the machine.

"There we go," the nurse's voice was gentle, her expertise apparent in the way she manoeuvred the device.

Dr. Parker stood by, her gaze shifting between the screen and Harry's expression. "Everything looks good so far. The baby's heartbeat is strong."

A rush of relief washed over Harry at the doctor's words. He couldn't help but feel a swell of emotion, a mixture of awe and gratitude for the life that was growing within your body.

As the nurse finished the ultrasound, she smiled at Harry. "You have a healthy, strong baby here."

Harry's eyes were fixed on the screen for a moment longer, his voice soft. "Thank you."

The nurse and the doctor left the room, giving Harry some space. He turned his attention back to you, his hand gently resting on your abdomen. The image of their baby, captured on the ultrasound screen, held a promise of better days ahead. As he sat there, a sense of determination settled within him, a resolve to be strong for his family and to hold onto hope, no matter the challenges they faced.

15:05pm.

Later in the afternoon, the room was bathed in a soft, warm light. Harry sat by your bedside, his gaze shifting between your still form and the monitor that displayed the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. The room held a hushed stillness, as if time itself had slowed down in the face of the uncertainty that lay ahead.

Harry's hand rested on your stomach, his touch gentle yet filled with an unspoken tenderness. As he looked at the monitor, his thoughts drifted to the tiny life that was growing within your – their unborn bundle. His heart swelled with a mixture of love and protectiveness.

" ‘Ey there, little one," Harry's voice was soft, his fingers tracing patterns on your abdomen. "Y’mum and I, we're here f’y’We're going t’be strong, just like y’mum."

His gaze shifted to your face, his heart aching at the sight of the bruises that were slowly starting to become more prominent. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead. "Y’mum's the strongest person I know, y’know? She's been through s’much, and she's still fighting. Y’going t’be just as strong as her."

A soft smile tugged at Harry's lips as he imagined their future together as a family of four. He leaned down, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your stomach, as if to convey his love and hope directly to their unborn child.

"Y’not alone in this, lil’one," Harry continued, his voice carrying a mixture of reassurance and determination. "We're all in this together. And when y’ready t’meet the world, y’have a whole lot of people who love ye’."

As he spoke, the room seemed to hold a sense of promise, a quiet sanctuary where his words held the power to bridge the gap between the present and the future. Harry's hand remained on your stomach, his touch a physical connection to the life that were growing within her.

"We're going t’get through this, y’and me and y’mum," Harry's voice was a whisper, as if sharing a secret with the unborn baby. "And when y’mum wakes up, we're going t’tell her all about ye’. She's going t’love y’so much."

Harry's gaze shifted back to your face,his heart filled with a mixture of longing and hope. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Hang in there, love. We're all waiting f’you."

As Harry's words hung in the air, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if the universe itself was listening to his heartfelt monologue. His hand remained on your stomach, his touch both tender and resolute. He leaned in, pressing a final kiss to your forehead, a mixture of emotions welling up within him.

And then, in a moment that felt like a miracle, your hand twitches in his hold.

Harry gasped, his heart leaping in his chest. He stared at your hand, disbelief and hope warring within him. Before he could react, the heart rate monitor suddenly went off, the rapid beeping filling the room with urgency.

With a sense of determination, Harry bolted out of the room, his heart pounding in his ears. He found Dr. Parker in the hallway and quickly explained what had just happened – how your hand had moved, triggering the heart rate alarm.

Dr. Parker's eyes widened in surprise and excitement. "Let's not waste any time. Come with me."

Harry followed the doctor back into the room, his pulse racing as they reached your bedside. A sense of tension hung in the air, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

Dr. Parker approached the heart rate monitor, checking the readings and your vitals. His expression was a mix of concentration and cautious hope. He adjusted a few settings on the machines, his fingers moving with practised precision.

"She's trying to breathe on her own," Dr. Parker said, his voice carrying a note of astonishment. "Her body is responding to stimuli."

Harry's heart swelled with a mixture of joy and disbelief. He looked at your figure, his fingers gently brushing against your hand. "Y’doing it, m’love. Y’fighting."

Dr. Parker continued his assessments, his focus unwavering as he monitored the changes in your condition. The room seemed to vibrate with a newfound energy, a sense of possibility that had been absent for so long.

As the minutes ticked by, the heart rate monitor displayed a steadier rhythm, and Dr. Parker nodded in approval. "She's showing signs of improvement. She could wake up at any moment. It's a positive step forward."

Tears welled up in Harry's eyes, his voice choked with emotion. "Thank y’Doctor."

18:45pm.

The hospital room was cocooned in the gentle embrace of the night. The soft glow of the dimmed bedside lamp cast a warm and soothing ambiance, casting delicate shadows across the walls. The rhythmic beep of the heart rate monitor punctuated the stillness, a reassuring reminder of the life that pulsed within the room.

Alfie sat nestled on his father's lap, his small frame comfortably settled against Harry's chest. The hospital chair cradled them both, a makeshift throne where father and son formed an intimate fortress of love and togetherness. Harry's arms wrapped protectively around Alfie, holding him close as they shared the moment.

Alfie's concentrated expression was etched with a mixture of focus and determination. His tiny fingers clutched a pencil, his brow furrowing as he tackled the math problems that were laid out before him on the sheet of paper. Harry watched with a blend of admiration and amusement, his heart swelling at the sight of Alfie's dedication.

"Okay, buddy," Harry's voice was a gentle blend of guidance and encouragement, "y’got this. J’add those numbers together."

Alfie's tongue peeked out from between his lips as he concentrated, his eyes narrowing in concentration. The tip of the pencil move with purpose, crossing out digits and jotting down numbers. Every so often, Alfie would glance up at Harry, his gaze seeking validation and assurance.

Harry's fingers gently brushed the back of Alfie's head, offering silent encouragement. "Y’doing great, Alf. Keep going."

The two of them formed a heartwarming tableau, a portrait of fatherly support and shared effort. Amid the beeping monitors and the hushed hum of the hospital, Harry and Alfie created their own small world, a world in which challenges were met with determination and love was expressed through shared moments.

And then, in the midst of the quietude, a movement caught Harry's attention. His eyes shifted from the maths problems to the bed, where you lay, and his heart ricocheted against his rib cage.

Your eyes were open and staring at your two boys.

“(Y/N)?” Harry spoke in a hushed whisper as you tried to smile at him.

[bandgie]

Snow Angels

2.8kwords

warnings: MDNI18+, fem!reader, not smut but making out and *some* boobs, Grinch!au, Seungmin makes a fat joke BUT it's to Major May, mentions of bullying, reader is called Martha May

notes! I watched the grinch the other day and I was like "omg this is so seungmin' and yeah here we are. I don't picture seungmin as like the grinch-grinch, but maybe a greenish-skin tone and with straggly hair. Think of beastboy from teen titans more so? or whatever you want idk. merry late Christmas! divider from @/saradika-graphics

You could recall it easily, though a part of you wishes you didn’t.

Cindy Lou, a young Who child, came knocking at your door, asking about the origins of The Grinch. You wanted to turn her away, but her nose was red from the cold, her hands were filled with pens and notebooks, and her eyes, such curious, child-eyes full of wonder and determination, convinced you to let her in.

“Eh, he had no sense of color coordination. A-Although I hardly remember him, I didn't have time to socialize. I was far too busy with my... studies.”

Which was somewhat true. You were far too young to have real homework, and your high status had you passing all your classes without having to read a single book. But you were captivated by a peculiar boy with greenish skin and straggly hair.

“Children can be…so cruel,” you recall how Major May behaved as a child. “Seungm- I mean…The Grinch didn’t do anything to warrant such terrible treatment. He was…kind.”

You blink back to the present, startled to see Cindy Lou writing down so intensely. 

You panicked. “D-Did I have a crush on the Grinch? Well, of course not.”

Cindy Lou stopped her writing, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask you that.”

“Oh,” you can feel your heart squeezing. “Right.”

He had come to class with a bag over his head on Christmas day. Children mocked him, and the teacher laughed, but you could only stare in adoration when he took his gift out of his backpack, holding the most beautiful angel you’ve ever seen.

Merry Christmas, Martha May.

Your eyes watered at the time. You’ve never seen such an item in any store or window. Seungmin must have made it himself. 

But things didn’t go as planned. The moment the bag on his head came off, there was havoc. Spots of blood decorated his face as if he had tried shaving. It was nothing funny, but everyone in the class hollered with laughter. 

The Grinch had shouted. He raised the Christmas tree above his head and threw it across the room in embarrassment.

STUPID PRESENT! STUPID TREE! I... HATE... CHRISTMAS!!!

You shuddered at the memory. The screams from the other children in the room always gave you chills. But Seungmin's angry tears, his quivering lip, are something you think you can never forget. 

“The muscles! It was a horrible day... when they were so cruel to him. And... I could hardly bear it.”

His gift was in pieces on the floor. You remember students running, stomping over it without a care in the world. Once the classroom was empty with nothing left but the echoes of chaos, you picked up a piece and tucked it away safely.

Now, that piece sits on your hair, carefully woven with other crystals and gems in plain sight.��

You reach to touch it, sliding your fingers along the edges. “Any more questions, Cindy Lou?” The child writes her final notes, snapping her notebook closed and hopping off the couch. “Nope. Thank you, Miss May.”

You nod. “Not a problem. Can I ask why you’re so interested in The Grinch? Is this for your homework?”

She smiles, her two front teeth shining. “Nope. I’m trying to figure out why the Grinch hates Christmas so much. I think I know how to fix it now.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

“By inviting him to Whobilation!”

-

He’s here. Oh sweet apple pie, he’s here. You don’t know how such a young girl convinced the Major and The Grinch, but Seungmin stands out like a beautiful ornament.

So many Who stared in shock, fear, and some interest. They step away when he steps forward. They look away when he looks. Seungmin appears as if he couldn’t care less. He seemed almost bothered by the joyous songs and colorful trees, but he didn’t look…like he hated it.

You haven’t seen him in years, almost a decade you’d say, but time did little to rid you of your feelings.

He’s tall, and lean with the same green tint on his skin. It never bothered you. You never understood why it was such an issue. You loved his originality. You loved the hair that seemed as if it could never be tamed.

His limbs were long but proportionate. His slender fingers reached to touch the tree, feeling the rough pine between them. 

You shivered. 

“I can’t believe he showed,” Major May scrunched his nose in disgust. “I can’t imagine any Who that is happy with such an appearance.”

You look at the Major, his curled hair and short stature. “Cindy Lou is quite ecstatic.”

He grimaces. “Children…they don’t know anything.”

The relationship between you and Major May is purely business. The two of you stand at the podium together, but you might as well be alone. Both of you are high-status Whos. It only makes sense you two marry in time, but you’re trying to stall for as long as you can.

If only you could have a choice. If only people saw you as more than just a pretty face with money, but a Who with purpose. If only you were like-

“The Grinch! Major May, he’s coming this way!”

His footsteps seem to be in tandem with your thudding heart. You look out to the Whos once more to see Seungmin already closing the distance. 

Is your make-up good? Is your hair still in place? Should you maintain eye contact or look away as he approaches? A million thoughts race through your mind, and you end up staring him down until he’s in front of you and your husband-to-be.

“Major May.” Seungmin doesn’t so much as look at him. His abnormal green eyes are on you. 

“Martha.”

Martha. When was the last time he said your name? You remember his voice being so squeaky, but now he’s a man. Full grown with what you can only think is animosity in his heart from all those years of mistreatment. 

“Seu-” Does he even go by that name anymore? “Grinch. How are you liking the Whobilition?”

“Oh, you know. Bright colors that make me want to vomit, families looking so jolly that it makes me happy I never had one, and children squealing in delight until my ears bleed. Other than that, I’d say I’ll live, unfortunately.”

You smile. Quickly, you cover your lips with a gloved hand and pretend to cough, but he already saw. 

He grins with you.

“Ah, you’re such a funny guy.” Major May smiles, but his eyes are hostile. “I remember that in school too. You were always the butt of the joke.”

Seungmin drops his smile, sliding his eyes to the Mayor and tensing his jaw. Then, he shrugs. “I remember that all too well. I also recall how you couldn’t lay off the snacks back then. Seems like you still can’t, even now.”

Verbal jabs continue for what feels like hours. Their voices are light and fun, but their words are the complete opposite. You hate having to listen, forced to play the role of the good, pretty woman who does what she’s told. 

But of course, so long as the Whos are happy, so are you.

“It’s time for the pudding cook-off!” “Sack Race!” “Christmas conga!”

And despite his earlier arguments, Seungmin is having a…great time. He’s smiling with the Whos, dancing with them, and playing with children. You’ve never seen him this happy, not since you told him your favorite colors in elementary school. Though the cold air nips and bites at your skin, your heart is warm with affection.

“And now it's time for Present Pass-it-on!” The Major says. The attention of the Whos is captivated by him in mere seconds. He calls Seungmin onto the podium, placing him right next to you. “As always, we start with our Cheer-meister. The gift of a Christmas shave.”

Confusion etches on your face. You watch as Major May hands Seungmin an electric shaver, a red bow tied tightly around the neck.

“Good times! Huh? Good times…”

You’re in shock. No, you’re…appalled. The warmth that was building in your chest turns sour. The bitterness in your mouth is so strong that you softly weep, covering your tears as Seungmin stares at the ‘gift.’

His hand clenches around the razor. You swear he’s trembling beside you, stuck on how he should react in the eyes of so many Whos.

Everyone’s laughing. Again.

“I…I fucking knew it.” 

The crowd gasps. No Who swears. 

“I fucking knew it! You bring me here to laugh at me. To mock me! Christmas is a lousy excuse to do what you want! To be selfish and want more more more when you already have enough! All these fun times you have are garbage. GARBAGE! You bake and wrap and sing and praise the meaning of Christmas when you laugh at anything slightly different than you. You are all a fucking joke.”

His hand raises high above his head before coming down fast. The razor slams on the ground, pieces flying off.

You scream from the shatter. More Whos being to panic, yell, and point. It only takes seconds for chaos to erupt. You can see people screaming and grabbing their children, running for safety. 

As if Seungmin would do any real harm.

“Martha May…Martha May!”

You jump. You were so busy watching Seungmin walk away that you didn’t notice the Major calling your name.

“W-what?”

“I asked you to marry me.” He smiles as if this mayhem isn’t his fault. “What do you say?”

What do you say? Is this some kind of joke? His citizens are running for their lives and he’s standing here like it’s not a big issue. He has the guts to embarrass the only person who made you feel seen, and he has the guts to ask you to marry him?

“What do I say?” You sneer. For the first in your life, you’re not going to listen. “Fuck. No.”

Major May flinches back, stunned. His wide eyes try to find yours, but you’re already running down the podium and following the large footsteps that can only belong to one Who. You push past the scurrying people, apologies leaving your cold lips.

You make it past the center of town, rushing down the alley where the lamp posts don't shine bright.

You hear him before you see him. The angry words and soft sniffing. Your heart aches. 

“Seungmin?” 

His head turns. Even in the dim light, you can see the whites of his eyes turnings red and the flush of his cheeks matching. 

“Don’t you Whos have anything better to do than antagonize me? You already got what you wanted.”

You take a few steps closer, slowly. “No. No, it’s not like that at all. I promise you, Seungmin, I had no clue what the Major was going to do.”

He scoffs. “The major. You mean your husband.”

You don’t respond and Seungmin takes that as an invitation to continue. “I heard him ask you to marry him. I imagine you clapping your hands and jumping for joy when he did.”

You’re still getting closer. “You imagined wrong. I could never be with a man like that.”

He’s so tall. You know this already, but when it’s just the two of you, it adds a different taste to the air.

“He has money and status. What more could you want?”

Something like anxiety settles in your chest. You stop walking, caught between keeping your mouth shut or throwing up.

You do something much worse. “You. I want you.”

Seungmin jolts, reeling back as if you’ve struck him. His green eyes widen and he looks at you up and down, like you’re not really you.

You find your steps again. “I know we were children back then, but all these years, I’ve thought about you. How you’ve been. How cold it must be living on that mountain, alone. I’ve thought about if…if you’ve thought about me too. If you’ve missed me.”

Now, you’re directly in front of him. The tremors that rake through you aren’t from the cold, but fear. You don’t know if he feels the same. It’s been years and you’re not the same girl you once were. Then again, Seungmin isn’t the same boy, but you love him nonetheless.

Oh wow. You love him.

“Do you mean that?” He turns so his chest is to you. “Do you really mean that, Martha May?”

“Do you remember the gift you gave me for Christmas? The angel?” Seungmin nods at your words. “Look in my hair. Tell me what you see.”

You stay silent as he inspects. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to make their way into your curls, carefully moving the hair. The tips of his fingers massage your scalp and you close your eyes and relax into his hold.

Then he finds it. “Oh my. After all these years, Martha May?”

You smile, but the way he says it makes your stomach flip. “After all these years.”

His hands trail down. His knuckles graze your cheek and he goes lower, just above the swell of your chest. “You were always so pretty. But now…” His fingers suddenly grab your chin so you look directly into his eyes. “You’re mesmerizing.”

Heat makes its way to your cheeks. Even if you try to glance away, Seungmin gently shakes your chin so you look back into his green eyes.

“I let you go once, but I was a child, and I didn’t know any better. But now, as a man, I’m not doing it again.” Seungmin leans down and tilts his head. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You’re worried that breathing will ruin the tension, but you whisper into his lips, “Yes.”

“Good.”

He breaks the distance easily, molding his lips with yours. He presses so close against you that your breasts squish, but you like the warmth of his body on yours. His lips are confident, but not overwhelming. You let your mouths slide and angle until they fit like a puzzle piece, smacking and licking until you’re lolling your tongue out.

Everything about Seungmin is soft. His lips, his tongue, and his mouth. So many people have made horror stories about how rough and scaly The Grinch’s skin is, but as you run your hands through his messy hair, even that is smooth in your grip.

Seungmin places one hand behind your head so he can kiss you deeper. Spit mingles on your tongue and you can’t help yourself to taste more. You suck gently on him, hearing his surprised gasp and feeling his hand tighten in your carefully styled hair. 

You giggle. “Bet you don’t get that on the mountain often.”

Seungmin has a type of look in his eyes that seems delighted and devoted. “They don’t have anything like you anywhere.”

You laugh again, attacked with his lips and teeth. His lips trail down until they find your breasts. Both of his hands grope you, stealing a whimper from your lips.

“Your dress is splendid. You don’t have any idea how hard it was for me to keep my eyes up.”

You don’t laugh with the moan caught in your throat, so you smile. Your hands thread in his hair again and he kisses your chest, nipping at the fat and sucking it into his skin.

Seungmin is eager to do more. He wants to pull your dress down until your tits pop free, hard, and begging to be bit. He’d swirl his tongue on your bud until it’s red with sensitivity, switching to the other one while twisting it between his fingers.

But it’s cold. He can feel your beautiful body trembling from the snow and hear your chattering teeth.

If he straightens up to press against you, he’s sure you’d feel his hard-on. Seungmin has a feeling you’d let him take you right now, but he’d rather take you somewhere warm. Where you don’t have to worry about getting hyperthermia.

You whine when he pulls away. The saliva on your skin begins to freeze almost immediately and you shiver.

You know your panties are wet, but it feels uncomfortable in this weather. 

“Why did you…?”

Seungmin looks at you as if you’re crazy. “Martha, I can see your breath. As much as I want to, you’re gonna have to screw this green freak later.”

You roll your eyes and smile, correcting your coat and wrapping your arms around yourself. “I suppose.”

Seungmin smiles at you, wrapping his long arms around you and pulling you in. Contently, you lean on his chest, hearing the steady rhythm in his chest. And for the first time ever, you hear him humming a Christmas carol.

And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say… that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day.

[reaper2187]

Jade west x masc female reader

The sky above Hollywood Arts was a perfect blue, its clarity interrupted only by the occasional wispy cloud drifting lazily by. The iconic school of performing arts buzzed with its usual electric energy, a tapestry of creativity and ambition woven together by the eclectic student body.

Y/N walked through the main entrance, her combat boots thudding softly against the polished floor. She adjusted her leather jacket, glancing around the hallway filled with colorful lockers and bulletin boards plastered with show announcements and club flyers. Her short hair was artfully tousled, and her strong, confident stride drew a few curious looks from her classmates. But Y/N was used to it. She knew her butch style stood out in a sea of trendy fashionistas and aspiring stars, and she embraced it.

Her eyes scanned the hall for a familiar face. She spotted her friends by the lockers, deep in conversation. But it wasn’t them she was looking for. It was Jade West. The girl with the raven hair and piercing eyes who had a way of making Y/N's heart race and her palms sweat.

Y/N found Jade by her locker, her usual scowl in place as she fiddled with the combination lock. Jade's dark, enigmatic aura was what had drawn Y/N to her in the first place. There was something magnetic about her intensity, her refusal to conform to anyone's expectations.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N walked over, trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. "Hey, Jade."

Jade looked up, her expression shifting from annoyance to mild curiosity. "Y/N. What's up?"

"Not much. Just wanted to see if you’re free after school. I was thinking we could hang out."

Jade raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Hang out? With you?"

Y/N chuckled, used to Jade's sharp tongue. "Yeah, with me. Unless you’ve got better plans."

Jade closed her locker with a metallic clang. "Actually, I don’t. What did you have in mind?"

"I thought we could head over to Nozu, maybe grab some sushi and chill for a bit. Then, if you're up for it, there's this indie band playing at the Black Box later. They’re pretty good."

Jade's eyes lit up slightly at the mention of the Black Box, a small, underground venue known for showcasing raw, edgy talent. "That doesn’t sound terrible."

Y/N grinned. "Glad to hear it. Meet you by the front entrance after class?"

Jade gave a curt nod. "Sure. See you then."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes and rehearsals. Y/N found it hard to concentrate, her thoughts constantly drifting back to her upcoming date—if she could call it that—with Jade. When the final bell rang, she grabbed her backpack and headed to the front entrance, feeling a mixture of excitement and nerves.

Jade was already there, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She looked effortlessly cool in her signature black attire, her hair falling in perfect waves around her shoulders.

"Ready to go?" Y/N asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Ready," Jade replied, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Y/N as they walked towards Y/N's motorcycle.

"You okay with riding this?" Y/N asked, patting the sleek, black bike.

Jade's eyes gleamed with interest. "Definitely."

Y/N handed Jade a spare helmet and mounted the bike, feeling a thrill of adrenaline as Jade climbed on behind her. Jade's arms wrapped around Y/N's waist, sending a warm shiver down her spine.

They sped through the streets of Hollywood, the wind whipping past them as they made their way to Nozu. The ride was exhilarating, a perfect start to their evening together. When they arrived, they found a quiet corner booth and ordered a variety of sushi rolls, the conversation flowing surprisingly easily.

Y/N found herself laughing at Jade's dry wit and sharp observations, and Jade seemed to relax, her usual defensive demeanor softening. As they finished their meal, Jade leaned back in her seat, a rare smile playing on her lips.

"Not bad, Y/N. Not bad at all."

Y/N chuckled. "Glad you approve. Ready for the next part of our adventure?"

Jade's eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Lead the way."

They made their way to the Black Box, the small venue already buzzing with energy. The dim lighting and graffiti-covered walls gave the place an edgy, underground vibe. Y/N led Jade to a spot near the stage, the close proximity to the performers adding to the thrill.

The band started their set, their raw, powerful music filling the space. Y/N glanced at Jade, who was completely absorbed in the music, her eyes closed and a content smile on her face. Seeing Jade so at ease made Y/N's heart swell with affection.

As the night wore on, the music grew louder, the crowd more animated. Y/N felt a rush of happiness being there with Jade, sharing something they both loved. When the final song ended and the applause died down, Y/N turned to Jade, her voice almost lost in the cacophony of departing concert-goers.

"So, what did you think?"

Jade opened her eyes, her gaze locking onto Y/N's. "I think tonight was… amazing. Thanks for inviting me."

Y/N smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. "Anytime, Jade. Anytime."

They left the venue and headed back to Y/N's bike, the night air cool against their skin. As they rode back towards Hollywood Arts, Y/N felt a sense of contentment she hadn't felt in a long time. She parked the bike and turned to Jade, who was removing her helmet.

"Hey, Jade?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you want to do this again sometime?"

Jade smirked, her eyes softening. "I'd like that."

Y/N's heart soared as she watched Jade walk away, her confident stride as captivating as ever. She knew their relationship wouldn't be easy—Jade was complicated, fierce, and often difficult. But Y/N was ready for the challenge. Because underneath all that, she saw the real Jade: passionate, loyal, and capable of great love.

And Y/N was determined to be the one Jade let in.

[delopsia]

Cinnamon, Coffee & Vanilla | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 12,600 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, alpha! Bob, omega! Reader. Physical altercations, implied abuse/mistreatment & trauma from the Navy, a little blood, brief food mentions, handjobs, mating cycles, first ruts, knotting, unprotected sex, a (slight) open ending, and a weak traitor plot woven between the lines. Brief Summary: You'd figured you would be able to smell him by now. Truly deduce whether or not he's an alpha, beta, omega, or something in between the lines, but even as you breathe in, you can't catch a damn thing.

Wind howls around the corner, rain pattering against the window with soft thunks that dance and twist down the hallway like their own little melody. You haven't got the slightest idea where your feet are falling, barely guided by the pale blue light that peeks out from the kitchen and out into the hallway.

Turning the light on is a viable option; the switch should be somewhere on your right, but your arm is too heavy to lift, dangling limp at your side as you amble down the hall.

There are some things that you can't bring yourself to do this late in the night. Not when this is the first time you've seen these walls since you left this morning, skipping off into the sunrise, naively believing that you'd get to come home at a normal time.

Lightning flickers so brightly that, for a moment, you think the kitchen light has turned on by itself. But it's gone just as quickly as it appeared, thunder rattling the picture hanging on the wall as you drift past.

The kitchen isn't that much better. It seems that being closer to the window doesn't do all that much in regards to lighting because...you can't see a damn thing. All you know is that you're surrounded by vaguely shaped splotches, all varying shades of black. Some of them are familiar: the round blob that is the clock on the wall, the rug, the step stool, the dining table, the foot sticking out from underneath it...

Your eyes narrow. Squinting as if that can possibly brighten the room.

"Bobby?" Because there should only be one other pair of feet in this apartment. 

"Hm?" It's faint, but you recognize that hum all the same. 

Your weary knees creak as you crouch down, peering below the table. Light leaks out from a crack in the curtains, casting across a familiar mop of hair. His eyes squint back at you, unfocused and blurry, without the assistance of his glasses. 

"What are you doing?" Your head tilts to the side, trying your best to shake an idea out of your brain. 

"Dunno," Bob raises his hand, watching intently as he knocks his knuckles against the wood above his head, "trying to figure out what omegas get out of this."

You're...not following. "I've never gotten under the table."

"You said you like small, dark spaces." His shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "This is the only place I could fit."

"Well..." pausing, you shrug the backpack off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a resounding thunk. The neighbors downstairs probably heard that, but it's not your problem right now. "Is it striking any instincts for you?"

A chuckle rumbles out of him. "Not a damn thing."

But he's not making the slightest effort to come out from under there. Content to rest with his back against one of the table legs, like it's the best spot in the house. If the sun were still out, and your eyes weren't halfway closed, then you'd probably have a lot more questions for him, but fuck if questions are the last thing you want to think of right now.

Your palms flatten against the floor, left knee chirping as you begin to crawl under the table with him. Another motion, and it pops, the remnants of a nagging ejection injury. It's usually an easily missable sound, but in this quiet little kitchen, it might as well be as loud as the thunder.

"Was that your knee?" Bob asks it as if he doesn't already know the answer, his hand darting out as you settle next to him. His palm is hot against your bare skin, thick fingers squeezing around the joint like he thinks that a bit of pressure will heal the old fracture. 

You wish it was that simple.

"Yeah," your head falls against his shoulder, unable to keep it up any longer. "I should bill Maverick for the surgery."

As if they'd even give you enough time off to heal. The consequence of being the best of the best: your free time vanishes because everyone on planet Earth needs you. 

Bob's head comes to rest against yours, a subtle weight that seems to quiet your thoughts in an instant. No worries about getting into bed before six-thirty rolls around, what you'll pack for your rushed lunch tomorrow, and whether or not you'll come home from this mission alive. All you can do is breathe and watch as Bob reaches for your weary hand, squeezing it gently.

His wrist shakes, and you don't need to ask to know that it's been caused by another one of those full-body tremors. One of the side effects of being taken off navy regulation suppressants for the first time in over a decade, left to suffer the consequences of a body that has never learned to regulate its own hormones. 

Slow, you tilt your head, nuzzling into the soft fat of his cheek. Squishy. "Anything change for you yet?"

"I can smell your scent now," you can feel the flex of muscle as he smiles, peeking at you through the corner of his eye, "but...nah, I think that's about it."

You'd figured you would be able to smell him by now. Truly deduce whether or not he's an alpha, beta, omega, or something in between the lines, but even as you breathe in, you can't catch a damn thing. Still the same vanilla shampoo and faded woodsy cologne.

"What do I smell like?" Asking after a moment.

"Somethin' like..." All of a sudden, the tip of his nose finds the shell of your ear. His fingers dance across your sensitive thighs, tickling. 

"Hey!" You squeal. 

A kiss presses to your cheek. "Sugar." Kiss. "'n fresh laundry." Another kiss.

Your noses bump together. It's too dark to see, but you know there's a shade of cherry dusting across his cheeks as he pulls you into him, mouths colliding like galaxies, merging into one. 

There is no end to your exhaustion—simply an intermission. 

Your feet fall so heavily that it sounds as if you're stomping down this empty hall. Boots pounding against the floor with heavy thump, thump thumps that pale in comparison to the voice that booms above all. It's so loud that you can hardly understand a single word, and you're making no effort to try and decipher it.

The hand on your bicep tugs, forcing you forward. A voice in the back of your head sparks to lie; they shouldn't be hauling you around like a mutt on a leash, but you can't bring yourself to say a damn thing. Not when your throat is already raw from shouting, voice run ragged in a desperate attempt to convince Cyclone that you're not the person he's accusing you of being. 

What ever happened to innocent until proven guilty, anyway?

"I cannot fucking believe this!" Maverick's voice crystallizes as you round the corner, feet flailing beneath you as you're thrust into the room. 

Weary heads turn your way. Jake. Natasha. Rueben. Mickey. Bob. Javy. Billy. Brigham. Callie. And you know the names of the remainders, but their names just aren't coming to you right now. But one glance is all it takes to realize that they must have pulled all of you all at once; they look just as miserable as you feel.

"The Navy trusted you!" Spit flies out of Maverick's mouth. "I trusted you!"

He turns, hands combing through his hair as if to try and soothe himself. It doesn't work. It never works. "I paraded you as the best goddamn pilots the Navy has seen this decade, and you make a fucking fool of me!"

Bob's head tilts, muttering something to Jake that you can't quite hear. Whatever it is, it's enough to have Jake nodding his head and leaning over to Javy. 

"I give you my best and how do you repay me?" Mav doesn't seem to hear them, too red in the face to think about anything other than this. Betrayal. A figurative knife in the back. "By running off and becoming an insider for the goddamn enemy!" 

His arm swipes across a shelf. Porcelain figures and glass frames fly in your direction. Shattering on the ground into a million and one pieces. Damn near invisible on this white floor, presence merely indicated by the glisten of the shards in the light. But he's not done. A potted plant strikes the wall, exploding like a firework. 

"God, so help me," spinning around, Mav jabs his finger in your face, "if I find out which of you fucking did this—"

"For godsakes, Mav!" Bradley's voice is loud in your right ear. Every bit as strained as yours is.  Cracking in the middle. A husk of its usual sound. 

Just as quickly as he's turned to face you, Maverick is moving again. Storming across the room. Turning. Pacing back to you and Bradley like a mad dog, thirsty for someone's blood. 

"How are you so damn sure it was us?" Bradley continues, throwing his hands up. He's so close that his nails scratch your elbow on their way past. You hardly feel a thing. "We weren't the only ones who knew this shit!" 

A hand appears on your shoulder. Warm, a thumb swiping back and forth in such a familiar manner that you don't need to look to know who it is. Bobby. His slight nudge is enough to get you to follow him, slinking toward the back of the room. Walking backwards has never been your talent, but somehow, you don't bump into anything.

What's he trying to do?

"You and your team are the only pilots who knew the information that made its way across enemy lines," there's a sudden calmness to Maverick's tone that wasn't there before. You don't like it, not one bit. "And now you've cost us an entire goddamn mission."

Boots stomp across the tile. Louder. Closer.

 "And not one of you is fucking leaving!" And all of a sudden, Maverick is nose to nose with Bobby. "Not until someone starts talking!" 

Bob's mouth opens, but for a moment, nothing but air escapes. "You can't lock us in here." 

Jake's head nods. So does Javy's. Silent agreement. 

Mav shoves Bob's shoulders. Knocking him against the wall. "Yes, I goddamn can."

Bob's lip curls. Canines uncharacteristically flash in the light with the same glisten and sharpness as the glass scattered across the tile. 

Maverick strikes him. 

You don't even see him reeling back. You blink, and his fist is crashing into Bob's glasses. The frames fracture, falling to the floor with a clatter. 

Someone gasps. Mav falls backward, hand shielding the side of his head. A boot finds his jaw. Hands grab hold of his hair. A flurry of bodies dart between. Someone's got Mav by the collar, and Bob—

Bob growls. 

Held back by Jake and Bradley. Teeth bared. Blood pouring from the corner of his mouth. Shoving against Jake and Bradley's hold. And he's strong, but he's not stronger than both alpha and omega combined. You hardly feel your feet moving, bending to scoop the fractured frames off the floor. 

"What's gotten into you?" Natasha shouts. Somewhere off on your left. "Both of you!" 

Her shoulder clocks yours. 

You spin on your heels. 

She's nose to nose with you. "Get your roommate under control," she hisses under her breath. For a moment, her gaze darts to Maverick, eyes so wide that you fear she may never close them again. Then, back to you. "If this goes south—"

"I know." Your hands find each other at the same time. Squeezing once. Twice. Four times. She's got this handled. "I'll get Bobby sorted."

"By safe," she's stepping away, already beginning to shout something that you don't quite catch.

By the time you turn around, Bob is gone. 

For someone who usually operates at a turtles pace, Bob sure does move quickly when he wants to. Jake tells you that he caught a glimpse of him leaving the locker room, and by the time you get outside, his truck is missing from its usual place beneath the old maple tree in the back corner of the lot.

"Do you think he's realized that he can't read the road signs?" Javy wonders aloud as you walk toward your vehicles. Always parked next to each other. He's the only one you trust not to ding your car with his door, and vice versa.

You're still waiting on Mickey to pay for that giant scratch he gifted you this past Christmas. 

"He's probably wearing the set with the tinted lenses," you chirp, adjusting the bag weighing on your weary shoulders. "I think he usually keeps them in the center console." That's where you last saw them, at least.

Javy nods his head like he's agreeing with your train of thought.  "Well, if I see a black truck swerving in and out of lanes, I'll give you a heads up."

The front of your boot thunks against the curb. Your weight falls forward. But your footing recovers just as quickly as you lost it. Javy's already grabbing your shoulder, holding you steady. 

You might be too tired to be driving. But what other choice do you have other than to call a car and pay the fine when your car gets towed overnight? 

"Maybe we should check for him around Mav's place," the sound of Reuben's voice is the only reason why you remember that he's walking behind you, "might be looking for a round two. No referees this time."

Your hand darts into your pocket, pressing a button on your key fob. A second passes, and the locks in your car doors audibly open. "Well, if he's not home, I'll sound the alarm," 

"Y'all make it home safe!" Jake's voice echoes across the lot.

"Text the group chat, or you'll find me at your front door!" Natasha picks up right where he left off, her phone shaking in the air as she yells. "That means you, Bradshaw!"

Bradley's horn honks. "It was one time!"

It's not until you get situated in the driver's seat and are combing through your music, looking for something decent to listen to, that your phone dings with a singular message. 

Bob: Made it home 👍 12:47 AM

With everyone leaving at the same time, it's not difficult to find yourself falling into a loose line as you all make your way off base. A symphony of honks soar through the air once you've crossed onto city-owned pavement, some dumb little routine that sparked from Jake's incessant need to remind you all that he's here before you can possibly begin to forget.

This place is so far out that for a good three miles, the only vehicles on the road belong to your little group, following the slightly too-fast lead of Mickey's project car until the street guides you into town. Jake and Bradley take a left at the red light. Natasha cruises off onto the upcoming exit. Mickey and Rueben turn off into the parking lot of a sandwich shop; Javy tails you until you enter a roundabout. 

And all of a sudden, you're by yourself. 

It's almost strange, actually. You've grown so used to Bobby's headlights reflecting in your rearview mirror that without them, the road feels impossibly dark. Not another person on this Earth but you. 

The sight of his truck parked in its spot is just as foreign, and once parked, you catch yourself trying to wait for him to pull in next to you. But there is no smiling WSO to accompany you on the walk into the apartment complex. No giggling as he tries to beat you to the elevator doors. It's just you and your overfilled backpack. 

All that, only for the apartment to be dark when you open the door. 

"Bobby?" You call out, trudging into the darkness. No response. Blindly, your hand feels along the wall, seeking the switch.

A whine jumps out of your throat. Light does nothing to reveal him, but his backpack rests in its usual spot beside the door, those tinted glasses sit on the arm of the couch, and his work shoes rest in the place of the beat-up pair reserved for the gym.

Is he not tired? 

Evidently, you aren't either because somehow you've got the energy to slip into a softer pair of shoes and head back out of the apartment. Eyes half-lidded, barely paying attention to your surroundings as you make your way down the hallway. 

There's absolutely zero reason for you to be doing this. It's not as if Bob is never going to come home again, but something has got you hunting him down like a bloodhound on a trail. Frozen images flicker through your head, like flipping through a picture book. 

The drop of his smile when Cyclone made his accusations that someone is leaking information to the enemy. How tired those usually bright eyes were when you were finally hauled out of the office. The flashing of fangs, the fist connecting with the side of Mav's head. You don't understand. You've seen him riled up a number of times, but this...

This is new. 

You suppose that you can't blame him; you acted similarly when they finally took you off those suppressants. Too many unbalanced hormones, all at once, thrown in the deep end with no idea how to swim. 

You hear him before you've even stepped off of the basement stairs—the soft patter of fists against leather echoing throughout the stairwell like a beacon. Heat greets you like a slap in the face, enveloping you as if you've just walked into a sauna. It's always so damn hot down here; you don't know how Bobby can stand working out in it. 

The door to the bottom of the stairwell is missing, seamlessly opening up to the gym. Treadmills, a long rack of weights, specialty machines you've already forgotten the names of; the mini fridge in the corner is still broken, and whoever left their neon yellow yoga mat has yet to come back for the poor thing. 

It's so big that at first, you don't notice him. But then you do, and...

Shit. Has Bob always looked like that?

It's got to be a trick that the lighting is playing on your eyes, set off by the sweat that pours off his body like a waterfall. Dripping down the swell of his chest, running loose across a toned stomach, only makes it that much more obvious when his abdomen flexes. There's no way that he's fully awake, but his feet are alive beneath him, dancing left and right as if this old punching bag might start punching back.

You've seen this sight more times than you count, have followed him down here for the sole purpose of drooling over his swollen biceps, but this...this is different. Something has changed, and you can't pinpoint what that is. 

The strike of his fists might be more aggressive than you remember them being, but maybe the exhaustion slowing your senses is causing you to misjudge. His upper lip twitches up, breathing hard through his nose. It's the only other sound in the room. Too shy to allow himself to make much noise, for fear of hearing his own grunts. 

There's a foreign scent in the air. Something hidden beneath the stench of sweat and the indescribable sourness that comes with a poorly maintained gym. Your brows furrow. It reminds you of...a kitchen. Fresh. Warm. Kind of like...the pot of black coffee that he brews every morning. Wrapped around a cluster of cinnamon and vanilla, like a hand-crafted candle. 

Is that...?

All of a sudden, the gym falls quiet, his fists frozen at his sides, the punching bag still swaying from his final strike. From across the room, his eyes lock with yours, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead, cheeks flushed, unkempt in an almost endearing fashion. 

 Oh, his poor eye. Mottled with red and darkening purple, swollen around the corner, just enough to be noticeable when compared to his right one. The split in his lip doesn't look that much better, a visible scab resting in the corner. 

Something in your lower belly twists. A shiver wracks down your spine. 

Bob doesn't say anything, and you don't either. Frozen into silence. 

Coming here may have been a mistake. Shit. Why did it never occur to you that he probably came down here because he wanted to be left alone? Why else would he be down here at one in the morning?

"I...I'm sorry," Bob's voice breaks through your thoughts like sunshine peeking through storm clouds, warm enough to melt away the words fluttering about your head, "I almost blew—"

"Mav had it coming." Cutting him off before he can finish his sentence. You were never upset about that to begin with. 

Again, it's quiet. Hesitant, Bob steps forward, then pauses, looking back toward the swaying punching bag, then back to you. Then, one foot falls in front of the other, head hanging low as he crosses the room. A small part of you wishes that he would have stayed right where he was because that little voice in your head stirs to life the moment that he's within an arm's length of you.

Touch his chest. Touch his chest. Touch his chest.

You're no better than an omega in heat. 

"'s my face look that bad?" A chuckle rumbles out of him, blindly pawing at his bruised cheek with the side of his hand. 

Blink. "Huh?"

"You're looking at me kinda funny," he says it like there's absolutely nothing different here. As if today is just another average day. Same old, same old. 

"You really haven't figured it out, have you?" It's more of an observation than a question. Even through your half-open eyes, it's not hard to tell that he hasn't put two and two together. 

He reaches to scratch at the back of his neck. "...no?"

Ugh.

"Flashing your teeth, sudden aggression..." You're starting out slow, listing your evidence out bit by bit, but he's not reacting to a word you've said, "developing a scent..."

A scent is an understatement. He smells like a goddamn bakery.

A beat passes, and then, slowly, his shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "I'm not following."

For a guy with glasses, Robert Floyd can be really fucking dense sometimes. 

If you were more awake, then maybe you'd put more effort into spelling this out for him, but a king-size mattress on the ninth floor is calling your name, and you're running low on willpower. Your brow furrows, swallowing hard. It's been a minute since you last tried to do this, but if you dig deep and focus on flexing your throat...

A chirp bursts out of you. Sharp. High pitched. 

Jake did a piss poor job of explaining what that noise does to an alpha, but he must be right about one thing. Bob stiffens. Holding onto his breath, his wide eyes flickering up and down your body. 

His eyelashes flutter. "Oh." 

You're fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Alphas. 

Of course, that's what he would wind up being. 

It seems that you can only fight one battle at a time because your hands are on the move. Palms skittering up the sides of his waist on a one-way track to his chest. He's on fire, burning so hot that the feel of his skin alone is enough to have you feeling light-headed. There's no reason for you to be embarrassed by it, but you find yourself masking your intentions by using him to remain steady as you lean in. 

His scent glands have only just begun to awaken, producing so little oil that your scent almost wipes his out entirely, but it's there, and it's real, and it's so...him. Hands appear on your waist, drawing you in, his sweaty body pressing against your uniform. Slow, his head moves against yours, temples brushing against each other once more.

"'m I doing it right?" He asks, breath tickling your ear. 

"You're getting the hang of it," your confirmation doesn't amount to a whole lot. He knows that as well as you do. You're only slightly better than he is, too far removed from the instinct that resides in your DNA to make much connection with it. 

Even so, that doesn't stop him from following your lead. Letting your hand curl around his jaw, guiding him to nuzzle against you in a sloppy, unpracticed fashion that just feels right. A noise lurches out of him, a low, rumbling thing that sounds like the beginnings of a purr. 

Lips appear on the corner of your ear. Breaking your attempt at scenting in favor of kissing along the side of your cheek, each one growing closer and closer until his lips finally meet yours. Soft, melding with yours in a dance that you know like the back of your hand. 

This is something that the Navy can never take from you. The weightlessness that settles into your joints, the way your head goes completely and utterly quiet when you kiss him. He molds against you like he's been built just for this, the soft jabs of his prickly chin drawing you into him like a moth to a flame. 

You can feel the flex of muscle in his arms as they curl around you, strong and burning and so, so familiar. The fresh, warm scent that greets your nose is new and yet so undeniably him; you've only known it for a few minutes, but you can't wait to spend a lifetime wrapped up in it. In him, and his soft hums and the dizziness that he puts in your head. 

It's the voices in the stairwell that break you apart, but it's the deepest craving of your soft, cozy bed that has you both tumbling up each and every step. Shoulders bump together as your weary legs carry you to that familiar apartment door, not quite awake enough to maintain any sense of balance. 

"I can't believe you never put it together," you find yourself saying as you meander down the hallway. Whoever decided that the elevator should stop on the first floor and not the basement should be fired. 

"Well...I sort of already did," Bobby pauses, squinting at the buttons, "I just didn't..." he trails off, too focused to finish his sentence.

"Uhuh, sure," Your hand darts out, pressing the correct one.  "What other symptom could I have possibly missed?" 

"A knot."

Saliva catches in your throat. "Huh?"

The elevator dings, evidently just as surprised as you are. A moment passes, and the door slides open. It's empty, thank god. No prying ears to overhear what is about to come out of your partner's mouth. 

"I'm just as surprised as you are," his hand squeezes yours, obediently following along as you walk into the elevator. There's no use in him trying to do anything else. Not when he can't see. "It's not...you know, all the way there yet, but it's either that or an unfortunately placed tumor."

Almost automatically, you press one of the buttons, not even entirely sure if it's the correct one or not. Guess you'll find out when the doors reopen because this cheap old contraption gives no indication as to what the hell you just did. Are you going to the ninth floor or the third? Only the elevator knows.

Bob's weight sways from foot to foot, and in the thin sliver of mirror in the corner, you can see the overhead light glistening against his sweaty chest. There's that twitch in your lower belly again, thighs pressing together on their own as if to keep something at bay. Maybe there would be something if your head weren't so...empty. 

"Nobody ever warned me about how sore it'll be when it's coming in," Bob's words are stretched around a yawn, quickly chased by a second one.

Almost simultaneously, your mouth pries itself open, yawning, too. "That bad?"

"You have no idea," his laugh bounces off the metal walls, ringing in your ears; it's the kind of thing that might put you to sleep right here and now. "I forgot about it while I was in the shower this morning and about hit the floor."

With another ding, the doors slide open, and as it turns out, you did pick the correct floor. The next thing you know, you're stumbling into the apartment together; your phone rests on the couch, screen flickering to life with a text. Right. 

You: Made it home! 2:12 AM

Almost instantly, a new message appears on your screen.

Rueben: Is Rob home, or should I send the search team to Mav's house? 2:12 AM

Bob: 🙄 2:15 AM

Something about that text has both of your phones buzzing away with a flurry of texts as if some kind of floodgate has been opened. Bob entertains it, but you're too focused on gathering clothes and towels, dumping them in an unceremonious pile on the bathroom sink. 

Where your belongings end, and his begin can be figured out when you're out of the shower. For now, all you're focused on is turning on the water and pulling this stuffy uniform off your body before it becomes permanently stuck there.

 "Do we have work in the morning?" You find yourself croaking as you test the water. Still a little chilly. 

Lips appear on the back of your neck, pressing a kiss there. "We don't work on Sundays, remember?"

"I don't even remember what day it is." Oh how you wish that you were exaggerating. At some point in the week, you've just quit looking at the calendar and let your overfilled schedule swallow you whole.

There's no reason for him to guide you into the shower; hell, it's a walk-in, but he does it anyway. One hand on your waist, moving at the same slow pace until you're standing under a warm stream of water. Your eyes are already trying to drift shut, fighting against you as you try to keep them open.

Defiant, they drift down between Bob's legs as he reaches to grab a bottle off the shelf. There's a soft swell to the base of his cock that wasn't there before; skin stretched tau, not quite adjusted to this sudden change he's been hit with. Whether or not he catches you staring, you don't really care.

Moving is the last thing that you want to be doing. Your shower gel is only an arm's length away, but it might as well be a mile, and once you finally grab it, it's almost too heavy to hang onto. Somehow, though...somehow, you manage. You think you do, at least; you catch the familiar scent from the soap, and you certainly remember washing the bubbles off, so you must have washed something.

You're staring at your reflection in the foggy mirror when a cold wipe presses to the side of your neck, rubbing at the scent gland there. Funny, you'd almost forgotten about that. But now that it's been brought back to the forefront of your mind, you can't help but pluck one from its container. 

The corner of Bob's lip lifts, obediently tilting his head to expose his neck for you. A few little swipes are all that it takes to unveil a scar atop the scent gland there. Faded white with age and almost blending in with his pale neck. For something that could cost you both your jobs, it's quite small.

"We're lucky Mav didn't see these," you mutter, thumb swiping over top of it. The gland is still dry, hasn't figured out how to produce that thin sheen of oil yet. 

Maybe it never will.

Bob's frown is something that you find yourself having to kiss away, can't stand the sight of such a thing. And that's really...that's the last thing that you remember doing. Standing in the bathroom, feeling his arms snake around you, as you kiss his lips until they lift with a smile one more. 

What you do know is that somehow, you get into bed because the next time you open your eyes, you're snuggled into the sheets. Sunlight peeks through a crack in the curtains, casting a horribly bright light into this otherwise dark little bedroom, all too visible behind your closed eyelids. 

Defiant, you roll over. 

If you don't acknowledge it, it's not there. 

Guided by habit, your arm darts out from your side, sliding across Bob's warm belly. His hand settles around your wrist, squeezing gently as if to test and see if you're really there. Through the haze of sleep still lingering in your head, you think you can feel him moving, hips wriggling back and forth against the mattress, unable to keep still.

It takes a moment to find your voice. "What's wrong?"

"It's..." fuck, you forgot how deep his voice can get in the mornings, it's the kind of thing that can put thunder to shame. "It's nothing."

The room is darker than you expected it to be, nothing but that little sliver of light to illuminate the whole place, stretching across the bed and up onto the wall. 

"Well, it's got to be something," gliding your palm up and down his belly in that lazy sort of fashion that always makes him sigh.

His mouth opens, then snaps shut just as quickly, afraid of the words that rest on his tongue.  "'m hard," he croaks, and then, before too much silence can build in between sentences, "which wouldn't...which wouldn't be a problem, but that stupid...that stupid knot hurts." 

Oh, and his cheeks are on fucking fire, red as they can possibly get. All these years, and yet he's still so shy about these topics. It's cute. Even if part of his face is decorated in a frightening mixture of red and purple, only just beginning to recover from yesterday's events. 

You're only just beginning to blink away the blurriness resting in the corners of your eyes, but there's already a lightbulb going off in your otherwise foggy head. So bright that you can feel it lighting up your features, eyes brightening, smile sprawling across your face.

Bobby clocks it before you can even begin to formulate words. "I suppose you have an idea."

"When do I not?" Your weary arms help to push yourself up, lazily swinging a leg over his waist. 

The sheets jostle, pooling around your hips, a chill nipping at your skin. But alphas run pretty warm, and Bobby was already a furnace, to begin with, downright burning against you like a flickering campfire. 

Your plan isn't that unpredictable. It's so easy to figure out that Bob is already leaning up, elbows settling on either side of himself as he meets you halfway. Teeth knock together, lips crashing with so little grace that you distantly wonder if you're at the start of your relationship again—just two fools who don't know how to navigate around each other's bodies. 

But you do know. 

Only several years spent together could teach you that he'll shudder when your nails trace down his chest, gasping into the kiss when they drift across his nipples. Always has been sensitive here, even if he struggles to admit it. 

Biology suggests that you won't get away with it, but history assures that putting your hands on his shoulders and forcing him onto his back will be rewarded with perfect compliance. Instinct be damned, he's putty in your hands. Blinking up at you with those big, unfocused eyes, like a lamb caught in the hungry gaze of a wolf. 

You just can't help yourself. Mouth finding the soft underside of his jaw, where a little bit of stubble has managed to make itself known, scraping against your nose as you drift past. His hands splay out on your hips, his only attempt at reigning you in as you kiss down his neck. Soft little pecks that can't last any longer than a second or two, lest you get carried away and leave a mark that your superiors may spot. 

One of these days, you're going to childishly mottle his neck with marks. Make everyone understand that the cute WSO is yours, nobody else's. Alpha or not. 

"Don't tell me..." his chest heaves as you make your way across it, peppering every little freckle with attention, "don't tell me you're..."

"I'll be gentle," peeking up at him through your lashes, blindly following the hard valley of his sternum. Down, down down to the start of his upper belly, soft and squishing beneath your kiss. Here, you can pause, sucking gently at a patch of pale skin.

A hand slides up your back, settling into the space between your shoulders, just resting there. "Ain't worried 'bout that," his words come out breathy, not quite focused on what he's trying to say. 

You've already got a little red spot forming. Then a second, and a third, before you've reached the treacherous territory of where his shirt may unexpectedly ride up. Being visible in the locker room is one thing, but if he reaches to grab something while wearing that little black regulation t-shirt...

"Do you want me to stop?" Pausing in your tracks. 

"Nuh uh," his head shakes back and forth, then, hesitantly, "'s just...new." 

Your knee pops as you scoot further down his legs, fingers hooking under the thick elastic of his boxers. Obedient, his hips lift, letting you slide the fabric down his thighs. But you're a little too close, forcing him to pull his knees to his chest in order to get it safely past his ankles.

Fuck, he really does have a knot. Properly swollen at the base now, the skin stretched tight and flushed a dark shade of red, not quite adjusted to this sudden change. At least at sixteen, your body encounters these things over time, gradually increasing in intensity. But he's a decade older and up the creek without a paddle. 

"Well, if you could handle me on my first heat," carefully taking his length into your hand, feeling the weight of it, "then this should be a walk in the park, right?"

Bob's head tilts to the side, gaze fixated on what you're doing. "'s easier when I ain't the one changing." 

Fair point.

Maybe you would have more to add if you weren't too busy settling between his legs. In hindsight, you should have detailed your plan a little bit more because now that you're here, you're not entirely sure what to do. Start at the base? The tip? Somewhere in the middle? What do you usually do here? 

Your tongue darts out, running over the swell of his knot. Just one little lick and—

"Oh."

A spring squeals as his hips writhe against the mattress, suddenly full of life. 

Curious, your tongue pokes out once more, gliding across it slower this time. A whine cuts through the morning air, rising to chase your touch. Greedy. Like he hasn't been touched in forever. 

"Do that..." sucking in a desperate gulp of air, "do that again." 

You don't need any more encouragement; already beginning to fall into some kind of rhythm. Lazily mouthing at his delicate knot, all lips and tongue, like you're playing with a lollipop and not the base of his twitching cock. So simple and yet he throws his head back and whines, content with this and this alone. 

"Lube," speaking against him, if only to see the shiver that ripples up his spine. 

His hand audibly pats around the bed, feeling around until he makes his way onto the bedside table. A beat passes, and the bottle appears next to you. Thank god for being lazy; otherwise, he would have had to move and dig into the drawer. 

This is something you know. Leaning back to pour it directly onto him, savoring that little hiss at the chill. Maybe you're a bit too generous with it, thick globs of it running down him like some kind of waterfall, but it's too early in the day to be worrying about such a thing. 

All you care about is getting your hand around him, feeling that familiar girth beneath your fingers as you give him an experimental stroke. How his back rises up off the bed once more, his hand reaching to grab a handful of the pillow, anything to keep himself from pawing at your arm. 

"Feel good?" Your wrist twists. His thighs squeeze around you.

Dumbly, he nods. "Uhuh." 

It's not enough for you, and so you're already opening your mouth with another question. "Can you use your words for me?"

But that pretty head shakes back and forth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "N-no." 

He's cracking. Hand flying away from the pillow, making a little grabbing motion until you offer him your unoccupied one. Always has to be holding your hand. Always. Even if it's when your other hand is lazily gliding up and down his weeping cock, working at its own comfortable pace.

Swift, your thumb darts out, massaging circles around his enflamed tip. 

You don't know what's louder, the squelch of lube or the cry that rips out of him, muffled a little too late. This is so new. He's so much louder, reacting to every little thing as if it's the first time all over again.

"Up—mmh!" Bobby's eyes squeeze shut, then flutter open again, panting hard. "Up here." 

If this was his first time requesting such a thing, you wouldn't know what he's talking about, but it has almost become second nature at this point. For a moment, you let go of him, needing both hands as you crawl back into your place beside him. He rolls onto his side, already beginning to reach for you before you can even settle in. 

"This better?" You chirp. He's nodding before you can finish your question.

The change in angle makes it so much easier to stroke him, following your own undisclosed rhythm, feeling the way he twitches under your touch, sensitive to all hell. But you're already growing distracted, letting go of him once more, lightly tracing your fingers over that newly formed bulb at his base. 

"That..." his thighs squeeze together, whimpering high in his throat. "That..."

In the back of your mind, you wonder if the neighbors can hear this. The unusually loud noises that just keep tumbling off his pretty tongue, so beautifully overwhelmed with the newness of all this. Glassy-eyed and pink in the cheeks, reaching out to hang onto your wrist as your fingers wrap around his cock once more, if only to keep himself grounded.

Maybe he's worried about being overheard because he's craning his neck, lips crashing together with the same clumsiness as before. Your tongue darts out, wrapping with his for a fleeting moment, wet and messy and certainly getting saliva on the pillow below. 

Again, your thumb swipes across his flushed tip, running back and forth across his slit. His body jerks, gasping into your mouth so sharply that it startles you. 

"Talk to me, Bob," you've got to quit using that phrase outside of the workplace, but it just works so well on him. 

"Feels, feels, aha—!" If he sounded this pretty in the backseat of a jet, you probably wouldn't have a license anymore. "Feels good!"

Vanilla, cinnamon, and coffee kiss your senses with all the strength and intensity of a roaring freight train. The scarred gland on the side of his neck glistens, finally producing that intoxicatingly warm scent. So strong that it makes your head spin, senses downright swimming in it.

"I want...I'm gonna..." Bob's eyes scrunch shut, his foot kicking at the sheets like he can possibly keep it at bay if he fights hard enough. 

But you're not slowing down.

"That's okay," squeezing him a little tighter, twisting your wrist in a fashion that makes his knees knock into each other. Close. So, so close. "Cum for me, Bobby." 

And he does. Twitching in your hand one, two, three times before that first rope of cum paints your palm with white. Fuck, and it just keeps coming, knot swelling impossibly wide, pulsing with every spurt, until your entire hand is fucking dripping. 

You've never seen so much of it. Not from him. 

On their own, your fingers dip down, delicately rubbing at his expanded knot; it throbs under your touch, his thighs snapping together on impulse. The greedy voice in your head wonders what it would be like to feel that inside of you, locking your bodies together, cum flooding your pussy until you can't possibly take another drop from him.

"Feels..." he's fighting for a proper breath, eyes rolling, "feels so different."

"Is that a good thing?" You hum, drawing your hand away before that nonexistent refractory period of his can raise its ugly head and drag you in for a round two. 

Weary, his head nods, but you're not entirely sure that he realizes he's doing it. "Uhuh."

You don't know if he's just not awake or if it's something about the alpha thing, but he hardly has his eyes open, lying next to you like a lazy puppy. His belly and your hand are a downright mess, drenched in an obscene mixture of cum, saliva, and lube, and more just keeps spilling out of him. 

A shower is the only thing that can clean this mess up, but it's too late for that. He's already wriggling an arm around you, his head nuzzling beneath your chin, and moving is suddenly impossible. 

If he's not worried about it, then you suppose that you aren't either. 

It takes twenty minutes for his knot to go down, disappearing entirely as if it were never there, to begin with. It takes an hour to get out of bed and another one for your impromptu bubble bath to end, only for you to crash on the couch like a pair of sleep-deprived teenagers. 

What else are you meant to do on your day off? Something productive? 

You'd known this day was coming, but Christ, you didn't expect it to arrive this soon.

A gray building with gray floors and even grayer walls. The definition of boring and exactly where you're supposed to spend the next several hours rotting away in a meeting. The plastic chairs, the doors, and the pen that the lady sitting at the front desk taps her cheek with are all the same, dull monochrome. 

It's such a severe lack of color that it makes the fading on Bob's cheek appear brighter. Fresher. Like he walked out of the fight ten minutes ago and not three days. There's no uniform, but Jake's red t-shirt is almost offensively vivid, persistently resting in your peripheral, no matter which direction you turn your head.

All of a sudden, the unnamed girl stands, darting into another room without a word.

"Sure can't wait for this to be over," Bradley mutters almost as soon as the door slams closed. 

Jake shifts his weight, bumping their shoulders together. Hard enough to make Bradley sway with the impact. "Worried you can't take the heat?"

"Are you projecting?" Bradley hums, hardly even reacting to the second attempt to shove him.

There's a response there that you don't quite catch about something back at home. But before you can decipher those whispered words, your eavesdropping is cut short by a weight appearing on your own shoulder. The burning press of Bob's nose against your neck, shamelessly burying into you. 

"Bobby?" You chirp, craning your neck to try and get a better look at him. No dice. 

He doesn't move. "Mmm?" 

Rueben's head swivels in your direction. Nose wrinkling. 

...did you forget to take a shower? What's he looking at you like that for? 

All of a sudden, Bob's feet stumble. Weight falling atop your back as he tries to regain his footing, so damn heavy that he's got you wobbling right along with him. A strangled noise rumbles out of him, riding on the coattails of his breath.

"Robert?" Because he's not answering to your nicknames. "Do you feel okay?"

"My head is..." his words vibrate into your collar, arms wrapping around you as if to use you as a pillar, "spinning." 

"You're not gonna get sick on us again, are you?" Nat has suddenly appeared on your left, brows knitted together. 

Between the lingering glances from Rueben and the sudden end to Jake and Bradley's conversation, it's suddenly far too quiet in this little room. A second drags by. Then a second, and a third. Your only indication that Bob is even awake is the brushing of his eyelashes against your skin.

Just as you're beginning to think he doesn't have a response, he opens his mouth.

"'s not that kinda spinning," he mumbles, hardly even loud enough to reach your ears. 

Surely, it can't be something that he ate; you two have shared the same meals all week. If he's feeling off, then you should be, too. It's certainly not allergy season, and as far as you could tell, he was perfectly fine on the drive over here. 

So what gives? What could have possibly changed in the span of a few minutes?

The unnamed woman stumbles back into the room, her heels clicking with every little step that she takes. Something comes out of her mouth, but the grumbling noise that rumbles out of Bob covers it up entirely. It must be a request to follow her because all at once, everyone around you begins to move, filing through the same door that she just came from.

Bob's arms loosen from around you, and he's straightening up, all things that should make him appear better, but...he looks worse. Pale in the face, shoulders appearing to slouch in on themselves as he walks next to you. He's moving, though, feet falling in perfect tandem with yours, following the crowd down the corridor and around a corner. 

The group comes to a sudden halt.

Bob's shoe squeaks against the floor. His shoulder hits the wall, his head rolling like it's too heavy to hold up. Eyelashes flutter, his chest rising with a breath so shaky that you can see him quiver with it. 

Something's wrong.

"Bobby?" You start to reach for him, but Rueben's quicker than you, settling a sturdy hand on the back of Bob's shoulder, trying to draw him away from the drywall before he can accidentally put a hole in it. 

Abnormally short fangs flash. Something akin to a growl rips out of Bob's throat. Heat rushes between your legs. 

His face drops. Eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I—"

"It's nothing personal," Rueben's already backing up, his palms facing the ceiling. The closest thing he can get to waving a white flag. "I get it." 

You don't believe what you're seeing. Smelling, even. It's way too soon for this, but...

He's starting his rut. 

"Is everything okay?" The girl from before is asking; you wish you could remember her name, but reading her nametag is the last thing you're doing right now.

Bradley's shoulder nudges against yours, his head hanging low as if to shield out the rest of the group. "Get him home," he whispers. Firm. "I'll cover from here."

Your attention flickers to Bob, then to the rest of the group. "You're sure?"

All it takes is a look. Unwavering, jaw stiff, commanding all the authority that he can possibly muster. Omega or not, he's not one to be argued with. 

Bob's shoulders shudder. Sweat is already beginning to bead at his forehead; lips parted, breathing through his mouth. 

You don't need any more convincing, already beginning to take him by the wrist. There isn't the slightest bit of resistance, falling into step with you without any ounce of convincing. Whether or not he's actually comprehending what's going on, you're not sure, but he knows enough to not try and let go of you.

Taking the keys from him is the hardest part, trapped in the front pocket of his jeans, right next to the growing tent in the fabric, downright begging for your attention.

"Feels...weird," he grumbles, foot missing on his first attempt to climb into the truck. The second is a little more successful, almost trembling as he pulls himself up into the seat. 

"I know," if it's anything like what your first heat felt like, then you've got a pretty good guess of what he's going through. Heat flashes, loss of coordination, nausea, the overwhelming need to orgasm damn near eating you alive.

In fact, you think that's exactly what he's going through. Grumbling with every turn you take, slouched against the corner of the seat, his head against the glass. There's a tremble in his hands that wasn't there before, knee bouncing up and down, unable to slow itself even for a second.

There are more signs that you would likely notice if you weren't so focused on the road ahead. You've only driven this truck a handful of times; the turn signal is in a different place, the view of the road is different, and it doesn't quite take turns as sharply as your car does.

But he's quiet. Uniquely so, as if he's lost in his own head. Doesn't make a comment on how you pull his truck into its spot rather than backing it in, only grumbling when you don't immediately give him your hand during the walk toward the apartment complex. 

His chin falls onto your shoulder the moment the elevator doors close. 

"Still feeling weird?" You ask, attention flicking to the mirror.

He whines, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, arms wrapping around your waist. A familiar hardness shamelessly grinds into the curve of your ass. Even the thick material of his jeans can't stop you from feeling the way he twitches, desperate for something. Anything.

Warmth rushes down into your thighs. Knees knocking together as they clamp shut, helpless to do anything but wriggle against him. His shaky exhale tickles your ear. 

Something clangs overhead, but you can hardly pay it any mind. The elevator could be falling, and you still can't bring yourself to care. Too focused on twisting in his hold, bodies so close that your noses crash together. 

Bob looks no better than he did while you were in the truck. Skin so clammy that he glistens in the overhead light, not quite pouring with sweat but if you give him a few minutes, that story may change. 

The elevator doors open with a squeal. You move toward them. He doesn't budge. 

"Bobby?" Your head tilts. 

His eyes dart toward something in the hallway. You follow his gaze, but not a damn thing is there. Nothing but the same old gray carpet, dusty, decorative table, and the welcome rug sitting outside your neighbor's door. 

Your alpha neighbor. 

"Bobby, it's your instincts running wild," your attempt at diffusing fails to evoke the slightest reaction, "nobody is going to hurt us." 

He doesn't seem to believe you. Still staring off into the hallway as if his greatest enemy is about to slink around the corner at any given moment.

You reach over his shoulder, fingertips brushing over the back of his neck. Scarred and battered from all those scruffings during basic and every other time a superior thought they caught a glimpse of defiance. Delicate, you pinch the soft skin there, but his shoulders don't loosen like they should. No, they stiffen. 

His chest swells with a sharp inhale. 

"It's okay," whispering, as gently as you can, "it's just me." 

Hesitant, he takes a step forward. Obediently following your lead, those big blue eyes flickering back and forth across the hall as you walk down it. The apartment door is only a few steps away, off in the corner of the building, but it must take a minute or two to get him there. He's just sane enough not to fret when you let him go in exchange for digging the keys out of your pocket.

The door opens, and it's as if an invisible string snaps.

Kisses appear on the side of your neck. Crowding you through the threshold, the door slamming closed the moment you're through it. The apartment is at the same temperature it's always been at, and yet it's too damn hot in here. Feels as if you're walking into a burning room, but instead of flames licking at your skin, it's Bob's hands. Darting under your shirt, desperate to feel more of you.

"I..." Bob's voice dies in his throat. Rumbling against your nape. "I..." 

It's too easy, letting him pull that thin piece of material over your head, your back finding its way up against the wall. The meeting, your friends, the buzzing of your cell phone in your back pocket, none of it matters. Only the press of Bob's lips against yours, how his body slots against yours, built for this and this alone.

He's everywhere. His lips are crashing into yours, and his hands are creeping up your naked back, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against your hip, and, and—

It's so much. 

Fuck, it's so much. 

"Bob," you find yourself gasping, aimlessly uttering his name as if it can quench the fire beneath your skin. "Bobby..."

He whines at that. Rumbling against your mouth and down your spine, rattling through you like a shockwave. Your fists gather the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. Deeper. Draws a surprised groan right out of his throat, caught off guard but making no move to stop you. 

His hips roll into yours once more, all too eager for something, anything. Your thigh slots between his, pushing up just enough and...

"Shit," he's swearing under his breath, so quiet that you hardly hear it. 

Your impatient hands tug at his shirt. The kiss only breaks long enough for you to yank it over his head, taking his glasses with it. They the floor with a painful clatter. 

He makes no effort to retrieve them.

Neither can you because he's back in your space within an instant, his lips stealing your breath away as if it has belonged to him all along. He tastes like coffee and the honey biscuit he scarfed down on the way to the meeting, so warm and sweet that it's like kissing a bakery instead of a man. 

It ought to drown you. Flooding your senses like some kind of pleasant assault swirls your thoughts and delves deep into your belly, disturbing the butterflies there and setting you alight. This is...this is new. He's always made you weak in the knee, but you don't recall them nearly buckling from his scent alone, only held up by the strong arms looped around you.

Something in your lower stomach clenches. So upset over the overwhelming sensation of being empty that it begins to cramp, a wave of slick rushing to ease the ache. 

Bob's moving, and it's all you can do to throw your arms over his shoulders and hang on. Following blindly as he backs you through the bedroom door, feet stumbling blindly. Back, back, back, guided by the pressure of his hands and the bump of his chest against yours.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, crumpling out from beneath you.

Your ass hits the bed. Vision swimming as you try to regain focus. 

That soft belly is right in front of you. Pale and dusted with freckles, the thin layer of fat concealing the muscle that lurks beneath. You just can't help yourself, greedily leaning in and kissing a fading hickey. One of your hands finds its way to the tent in his jeans, pressing softly. 

Bob sucks in a breath. Jerking. "Hurts." 

"I'm gonna take care of you," you say it as if you've got yourself together. You don't. "I promise."

The button to his jeans pops open without the slightest resistance, zipper racing down the tracks at a record pace. He's too quick to help. Hands colliding with yours as you both yank at the hem of them, pulling his pants and his boxers down in one go, sloppy as it might be. His cock springs free without warning, the flushed tip nearly hitting your cheek as you try to help him pull the fabric past his thighs.

Once they're past his knees, you can no longer reach them.

Your eyes dart to the bottle of lube sitting on the bedside table. With the heat between your legs, you're almost certain that you won't need it, but you're squirming across the bed anyway, rolling onto your belly, arm outstretched, reaching for it. Your fingers wiggle, catching on the side. The bottle spins across the table, right into your grasp.

Hands appear on your hips, dipping beneath your waistband.

"Hey!" You squeal, but it's too late. He's already tugging your pants down, too, pulling you across the sheets in the process. Your phone pops out of the pocket, landing next to you.

"Sorry," but those half-lidded eyes and his lazy grin imply that he's definitely not sorry, already hovering over top of you. There's barely enough room for you to roll onto your back, caged between his shivering arms. 

Funny, you'd always presumed alphas to fall under the same old, aggressive stereotype once their rut started, but this one...he's anything but. Pink in the face, pressing soft kisses against your cheek, almost entirely himself. 

Whether or not he hears you uncapping the lube, you don't know, but he doesn't react to it in the slightest. 

"Ah—!" He does react when your dripping hand wraps around his heavy cock, spreading cold lubricant across him without so much as a warning.

His knot is hardly there, nothing but a slight bump at his base, as it should have been this whole time. You reckon that something about his rut finally kicked his hormones into gear. 

Your hand is hardly doing anything special. Simple strokes to spread the sticky substance across him, thumb swiping over his head once, twice, drawing little whimpers past his lips with every motion. Sensitive and so wrapped up in the feeling that he doesn't realize that you're surging up off the bed. Pushing him over, your leg swinging out to straddle his hips. 

Those wide eyes draw a giggle out of you. "Dummy." 

It's so easy, reaching between your thighs and taking hold of his weeping cock, guiding it up until his tip slips through your folds, nudging against your clit and all. Ugh, you've missed this feeling.

"You're..." Bob sucks in a trembling breath, eyes flickering from your face to the sight of his cock nuzzled against your cunt. "You're sure?"

"Are you?" Mirroring him. You've already made your intentions loud and clear. 

He nods before he can find his voice. "Uhuh."

"Then so am I," and before either of you can begin to conjure up a response, you're sinking down on him.

A sudden pressure appears at your entrance, an ache already arising from your severe lack of interest in stretching yourself for him. It's a dizzying kind of burn that has your body shuddering, taking his cock head in with a soft 'pop' that ought to make your heart stop. 

"Jesus," Bob's hands fly up to your hips, squeezing tight, "fuck." 

There's just something about hearing him swear that gets your head spinning, fighting to keep your body upright as you take him inch by delirious inch. Not obscenely thick, but enough to already be rubbing against those little hidden nerves. It's not fair. He has no right to have your thighs tremoring before you've even taken him halfway.

Your hands fall forward, bracing yourself against his heaving chest. The feeling of the pitter-patter of his heart beneath your palms isn't doing much to help you either, beating at his chest like a caged animal.

Coffee and cinnamon strike your nose with the intensity of a freight train, tearing through your head so quickly that everything becomes muffled, wrapped up in your own little world. A little place where Bobby is your only concern, with his oddly sweet scent and soft blue eyes that threaten to drown you if you gaze too closely.

But your ass is settling into his lap, and you're too damn full to remain up in your head much longer. Fuck, you can't breathe. Lungs tight as if you've run out of room, forced to pant for air that you can't possibly hang onto. 

Already, Bob's hips roll up, unable to keep himself from squirming beneath you. His hands roam up your sides, idly touching, as if to make sure that you're really here. That you're not a figment of his rut-clouded mind.

"So pretty," he babbles, sounds absolutely awe-struck, "you're so pretty." 

"You're just saying that because I'm riding you," teasing, a little smile emerging onto your face as you draw yourself up.

"No, I'm—mmh!" His head falls backward, thunking against the pillow.

This...this is something. You've hardly even drawn yourself up an inch, and he's already whining about it, his hands squeezing your sides once more, hanging on tight as you sink back down on him. 

It's on the second attempt that your breath hitches, stars sparkling in your vision as he rubs against a particular bundle of nerves. An experience nearly identical to any of the other times his cock has been in you, but something...something is different here. You don't recall feeling a sudden gush of slick, reacting to an extreme. 

He should have quit taking those suppressants sooner.

You're drawing yourself up quicker now, clinging to his chest as you try to find your pace. Something quick enough to get what you want but shallow enough to avoid wearing yourself out before you've even gotten close. But it's so hard to remain rational when he's downright nailing that little spot, cock head kissing it over and over and over. 

Bobby's hips jump up once more, meeting you halfway. His whine intertwines with yours, dancing about the room and through the walls. You hope the neighbors aren't home because you don't have the strength to quiet him down. Not when he sounds so pretty. 

"Darlin'," his head rolls back and forth, blinking rapidly, "darlin', I..." 

A beat passes. He doesn't finish that thought.

"Hm?" Fighting to keep your eyes open, "talk to me, Bob." 

You're using workplace phrases in the bedroom again.

But his eyes only scrunch shut. So tight that his nose wrinkles with it. "I don't know."

On its own volition, your hand darts out; he meets you halfway, fingers lacing together as you push them onto the bed. It's a motion that forces you to lean forward, such a subtle change in angle, but—

"There," you blurt it as if you're not the one in charge here. Heat rushes up your belly, burning high into your throat, smoke clouding your vision. 

You're babbling something, but you just can't hear it. Control crumbling like a house of cards, impossible to rebuild as your hips quicken, chasing the delicious pressure of his cock against your nerves. Cunt clenching around him like a vice, every little motion punctuated by an obscenely wet noise that you're only vaguely aware of. 

It's a sudden growl that rips you back into reality. Bobby's short fangs sink into his shivering bottom lip, pretty blue eyes glassy as he bats his lashes up at you. 

"Huh?" Freezing in your tracks. Is there something...did you do something that he doesn't like? 

He's pushing himself up, suddenly all too close. "Wanna roll over." 

The room is spinning before you can even realize what he's just said. Back hitting the soft mattress, a familiar weight settling atop your chest. Arms brace on either side of your head, already finding his favorite position.

Your newly empty hand darts up. Grasping at his wrist until your fingers lace together once more, his weight pinning them into the sheets. You haven't the slightest clue how he stayed inside of you, but he's already beginning to move, and your shaking legs are coiling behind him, and—

"There!" It rips out of you so suddenly that you think you sound akin to a wounded animal. Little shocks jump up your core, pussy fluttering around him. "There, there..."

His hips move a little harder, properly jostling you beneath him, rubbing into those little nerves once more. "Jus' like this?"

All you can do is nod, tongue limp in your mouth. 

Bob's leaning closer, his nose nuzzling against yours, hardly an inch of space left between your heaving bodies. The slight swell of his knot catches on your entrance, such a sudden thing that it rips the air out of your lungs, fighting to keep your legs hitched around his waist. All it's doing is drawing him up against where you crave his touch most, growing impossibly wet from the feel of his knot alone.

A stray squeezes out from the corner of his eye, rolling down his cheek and leaping down to hit your nose. His lips crash into yours before you can begin to ask about it. A soft intertwining that makes your thoughts swirl together until they've blended into a constant, incessant murmuring. Bob. Bob. Bob. 

"Bobby?" It slips out before you've realized it, and if your voice itself could echo a word, you have no doubt that a hundred incantations of his name would be tumbling out your parted lips.

His whine cuts through the air. 

"Feels good," he gasps, speaking against your lips, making no effort to pull away any more than he has to. "Feels...it's so—mmh." 

There's no possible way to keep himself quiet, his whimpers so distracting that you hardly notice the ones coming out of your own mouth. Your unoccupied hand rises, shaking with the heavy thump of your heart as it settles against his cheek.

As if it's come alive, your back twitches up off the bed, legs squeezing around his bony hips, a wildfire rushing across your skin. Head swimming with the noise that is Bob Floyd and the incessant nudge of his growing knot rubbing against that sweet little spot. It's so new and it's so much, and, and it's got spots decorating your vision. Patches of black fading in and out, like you're about to faint.

His knot catches on its way out of you. So big that it doesn't slip back in on the next pass, merely pressing into your pussy once, twice, three times. 

You don't feel it coming. 

One moment you're fine, and the next, your eyes are rolling, cumming without warning, as his knot finally pops inside of you. Quaking with the force of it, ears ringing so loud that you can hardly hear Bob's cry as he cums inside of you. Knot swelling to its full size, locking your bodies together, his cum flooding your spasming cunt, with nowhere for it to escape. 

You're only distantly aware of your back hitting the bed once more, legs slipping out from around him to fall at his sides instead. There are teeth sinking into your shoulder, and your heart is pounding against your chest, lungs burning for a breath you've gone too long without.

The first inhale grounds you. Brings you down from the ceiling and back into his arms. 

The second rips every ounce of strength from your body. All too limp beneath Bobby and his crushing weight that has long since settled on top of you. 

"I love you," his words are jumbled together, so unintelligible that you hardly realize what he's saying. 

It must take a minute or two for you to squeeze his sweaty hand, still linked with yours. "I love you too." 

There's no way that you'll be separating any time soon, not with his knot pulsing inside of your poor pussy, stretched to a limit you didn't know you had. Even when his phone dings from the other room, there's nothing he can do about it. How cruel nature is, forcing you to lie here and accept his snuggling advances. Barbaric, even.

"This..." Bob hums, kissing at your jaw, "feels so damn weird."

Idle, your arm loops around his shoulders, hand greedily delving into his hair. "Tell me about it. If you cum any more, I think I might pop." 

Your giggles melt into yawns; whoever said that sex was a quick and easy thing clearly wasn't doing it right. The moment that Bob gets his head comfortable, his nose nuzzled beneath your ear, you know that you've lost him. Frankly, you're not far from it, either, already beginning to fight back another yawn. 

But your brain isn't on the same page because while your body is already sinking further into the bed, growing heavier by the second, your thoughts are racing a mile a minute. Maverick. The prescription suppressants sitting on the dresser, waiting for the day that the Navy requires you to start taking them again, for the sake of efficiency and making the job easier for all parties.

You don't understand it. 

Why does the Navy prioritize scrubbing you of alpha, beta, and omega statuses? What's the point of soap designed to strip your scent glands when all it does is make you so much more sensitive to the variety of scents out there? Was the endless scruffing from your superiors really meant to 'build character'? Or was it just a bunch of insecure superiors desperate to make themselves feel in charge?

Bobby should have known whether he was alpha, omega, or beta over ten years ago. Why is it that you and he have been medicated to high hell while Maverick has walked around for the better half of thirty years without being given a single fucking pill to take? He's exactly what the Navy preaches about; a hot-headed, cocky alpha who gets so invested in instinct that he hurts his team.

God, fuck, his fangs aren't even formed properly. Short and stunted from the lack of hormones, not an ounce of threat to them, no matter how many times he may try to flash them. 

Your eyes dart to your cell phone, resting on the unoccupied side of the bed. 

It's barely within reach, but it's nothing that a little stretching won't resolve. Heavy in your hand as you type in the passcode and navigate toward an app, resting in the far right corner. The screen turns black. 

A beat passes. 

Then, a second.

And a third. 

The camera opens, little squares dancing across the screen as it scans your irises. A microphone crosses the screen. Your name tumbles off your tongue.

Finally, it opens. A crudely built messenger app, a myriad of texts flooding in as it loads. Wire transfers. Messages about the mission. Information that the Navy never thought would leave your lips. Names. Javy. Natasha. Jake. Rueben. Bob. Mickey. Three other familiar names that you cannot be bothered to read. All you care about is finding a contact by the name of Admin, and pressing the call button. 

As the dial tone sounds, Bob's head lifts, sleepy eyes flickering up to meet with yours. Doesn't need to look at the phone to understand what you're doing. It's a call he made when Admiral Cain left a mark on your wrist. The same number Bradley dialed when Cyclone started that brawl with Jake. 

Bob's just beginning to settle back into the crook of your neck when someone picks up. 

"Who hit him?" 

You know that voice. You know what happened the last time you called. But for once in your life, you've forgotten how to feel hesitant about the words that are about to leave your mouth. 

"They call him Maverick."

[love-at-first-sight-23]

Obx Headcanons Part 1|What Gifts to Give them

Any gender, SFW, romantic or platonic, no warnings (except JJ and Rafe by themselves?)

—Header from saradika-graphics—

JJ:

Get him a new surfboard, surfboard polish, a surfboard stand— ok, we get it, he loves surfboards. 

A new pair of sunglasses or a skateboard would also send this man crazy.

(And if we’re being honest, he’d love a nice shiny new gun 😂.)

He’s likely to be pretty chilled out about receiving gifts, unless his inner child happens to be out and he starts running around the house like your dog when they get the Zoomies.

Kinda like this.

Rafe:

(Help, it keeps autocorrecting to Rage.) 

Rafe would be surprised to get a gift from you in the first place, but don’t take his awkwardness as him being ungrateful. 

He’d appreciate anything you get for him (hopefully) and try his shot on finding something for you as well. It’ll be store-bought but hey, it’s the thought that counts.

As for what to get him, let it be anything but cocaine or alcohol. We all know the reasons why this is a bad idea. 

Just find him a nice tie or fancy ring, and he’ll be perfectly happy. Cologne, anyone?

Kiara:

Kiara, whether you’re a friend or dating, would be super grateful about receiving a gift no matter what it is.

In the case that she doesn’t like it, which isn’t likely, well, at least there’s the gift receipt. (Right?)

She’d love some handmade jewelry or something crafty, possibly something nature-related per her activist persona. (Maybe a small wooden whale to place on her nightstand?)

If it’s jewelry, you can expect her to wear it every day of the week and show it to her friends —(“Guys, look at the ___ y/n got me! Isn’t it gorgeous?”)— whilst taking good care of it.

Pope:

Pope is probably one of the best when it comes to gift giving— He’ll be chill with a smile on his face, polite as he always is.

Really though, he’s grateful. If you’re dating, don’t be surprised to see a blush on his face. On second thought, he might blush anyway out of embarrassment.

A nice book or a quality pack of pencils is all you need to make him happy.

If you’re leaning away from the nerdier side, how about a new hiking backpack or a fishing rod?

John B:

Awkward about receiving gifts? Yes. Happy though? Also yes.

He’d love a surfboard like JJ or something that reminds him of his friends. That’s part of the spirit of Christmas, isn’t it?

A picture frame of his closest friends, a bracelet with your names on it, or a photo album of all you guys waving to him will hit right home.

Booker is John’s middle name, so he might just book it on out of there he’s so emotional— no? Nevermind.

(Side note: don’t buy him a gun like JJ.)

Sarah:

Sarah is the best at receiving gifts— case closed. She’s the sweetest thing ever; the only thing she enjoys more than recieving gifts from you are giving them. True beauty of Christmas.

Sarah will literally squeal with delight when she opens the beautiful gift you’ve wrapped just for her. Expect hand-written thank you cards sent to your address.

Cute jewelry, a stylish new sweatshirt, or her favorite box of chocolates fit her vibe.

Have a blast shopping for/with her for the holidays!

Cleo:

Gotta include my fave girl boss!

Cleo will take anything you gift her to heart. Trust me, this woman will never let an act that means so much to her go to waste.

Cleo’s gotta admit, her new friends grew on her. She’ll treasure that present of yours forever. A hug or a thank-you card good enough for thanks?

Make her something with the shells from the beach or a glamorous woven-style bag to feel unique and extra-special to her ❤️

Ooh, don’t forget about some sharpening tools for her knives~

[partagerlajoie]

Woven backpack | Partagerlajoie

[tallulah477]

Fill Me Up

Kinktober Day 15: Size Difference

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Warnings: AgedUp!Neteyam, Oral (female receiving), P in V, Size Difference, Belly bulge, Creampie, Mention of free hanging over a tall height (not sex related), Very brief mention of possibly falling to one’s death

Word Count: 3.1K

A/N: Guess who has full use of her account again babyyyyyy! Now no one's comment sections or asks are safe. Thank you, tumblr, for finally fixing the glitch after a week. Anywho~ fic is late (again), but I hope you enjoy it <3

Summary: There’s plenty of things Neteyam loves about how tiny you are, but none of them can compare to how you feel wrapped around his cock. 

Translations:

Tewgn - Loincloth

Yerik - Animal resembling a gazelle or antelope

Tawtute - Human

Palulukan/Thanator - Apex predator resembling a lion or panther

Nantang - Hyena/wolf-like animal

Tanhì - Star, bioluminescent freckle

Neteyam’s favorite thing about you is how tiny you are compared to him. 

When he first saw you, you captured his attention completely. He had been hunting a yerik near the human outpost, his body hidden in the foliage behind the cover of some nearby plants, bow drawn at the ready to take his shot. 

A rustle on the opposite side of the small clearing grabbed his attention, halting his movements, and the yerik lifted its head slightly from where it had been nibbling on some bits of tree bark. 

You slowly walked through the brush, tiny hands lifted up to show that you meant no harm as your eyes stayed glued on the yerik. Neteyam watched in curiosity as you slowly approached the animal, moving cautiously, careful not to startle it as you moved closer. To his surprise, the animal let you. Deeming you no threat, the animal went back to its snack and didn’t move an inch when you reached out to place a delicate hand on its blue striped skin. 

Your smile, even through your mask, was blinding and Neteyam’s eyes widened as the sound of your giggle hit his eardrums. He thinks that was the moment he fell for you completely - just watching you admire your small hands on the larger animal’s back. He watched you the rest of the afternoon, leaving his hunt behind and stalking you through the forest as you studied various plants, taking samples and shoving them in a small backpack slung over your shoulder. 

He learned you worked closely with the human scientists, were one of them actually - ‘a very smart xenobotanist’ his father had told him when he asked. He had never seen you before, always choosing to avoid the cramped and all too chemical smelling lab and making sure to stay outside when he would be sent to get Lo’ak and Kiri during their visits with Spider and Kiri’s mom. 

What a mistake that was, he had thought. 

When he finally got the courage to meet you face to face, he was worried you were going to panic about the size difference. He stands at a respectable 9 feet tall, towering over your smaller frame at nearly twice your height. His build is even bigger than most Na’vi as well, a benefit from having some human genes courtesy of his once human father. His body is lean and long like a Na’vi, and there’s no denying that the average Na’vi is incredibly strong, especially compared to humans. But the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and back are much more visible than the average Na’vi, his thighs bulkier in their strength, and he knows the look makes him seem even more intimidating than he actually is. 

But you don’t react the way he thinks you might, and is shocked even more when he presents you with the small woven bracelet adorned with polished beads that he made you as a courting gift and you don’t immediately throw it back at him. 

Instead, you take the gift graciously, holding it to your chest like it’s something precious. He watches with wide eyes as your own scan down his body, slowly taking in the angles of his face, the dip of his collarbones, the hard canvas of his chest and down the flat plane of his belly. They hover a bit longer around his tewng, your tongue poking out to wet your lips, and when your eyes flick back up to meet his, they’re completely blown - only a small sliver of color left around the darks of your pupils. 

The smirk gracing your beautiful, plump lips is absolutely wicked. 

Being with you comes with different expectations than being with a Na’vi woman. You need help, a lot - your tiny tawtute body is not equipped to handle the extreme environment that Pandora throws at you. Neteyam can navigate the terrain just fine, stepping over fallen branches or large growths of shrubbery, jumping large rocks and creeks like it doesn’t even phase him to do so. Because it doesn’t, his body was made for it. Yours, on the other hand, was not.

So Neteyam does his best to help you out. He’d carry you around all the time, if it were up to him. He doesn’t mind. Loves it even - loves the feel of your soft body against his as you cling to him. So small and easy to carry, arms wrapping around his neck while his big hands support your thighs as you hang on him like the small backpack you were wearing the first day he saw you. 

But you’re a stubborn woman. An ‘I can do it myself’ kind of woman, and, even though each journey without him carrying you takes significantly longer than when he does, he doesn’t mind, enjoying every additional second he has in your presence. He’ll hold your hand, or give you a supportive hand on your butt to lift you up and over any obstacle, because you’re just so beautiful with that proud grin on your face when you’ve accomplished something hard. 

He likes to tease you, using his height to his advantage. You’re notorious for stealing the last few bites of Neteyam’s yovo fruit. Your excuse is that since you’re the one that cut it, you should be able to have some too. Neteyam always agrees with this fact, but you knock back bite after bite with the desperation of a hungry thanator, and when it comes to the end of the bowl and he’s only had a few pieces himself - he knows exactly how to put a stop to your yovo fruit destruction. 

“Neteyam,” You whine, jumping up and trying to reach his arm to pull the bowl back down. His arm stays solid where it is as he pops another bite of fruit in his mouth. “Give it back! I want some,”

“You ate the whole thing already,” He laughs, grabbing your reaching hand with the one not currently holding the bowl and pressing it back against your chest. “My little hungry palulukan, let me eat some, yes?”

He makes up for his ‘inexcusable use of his gargantuan height’ by cuddling you after, wrapping his entire body around yours as he pulls you close. You feel so safe in his embrace, protected from everyone and everything who could ever try to hurt you. Just let them try to come and grab you from his unwavering hold - your big, strong teddy bear who’s flat nose presses against your neck, docile and sweet with his shielding hold around his love, turning fierce and wild at the first hint of any danger. 

He loves your curves, loves how soft and squishy you are compared to everyone else. The Na’vi women are all lean, hard muscle, beautiful in their own right - but you, your hips that mold under his fingers, plump chest that feels so good under his head when he rests on it, small fingers playing with his braids that lull him to sleep. No one can compare to you. 

And he loses his breath when he thinks about how much you trust him. He’s your protector, he knows that more than anyone. He would lay down his life for you in a heartbeat, fight tooth and nail to keep you safe from anything - but you have these . . . adrenaline rushes. Moments where you can’t help but want to feel a sense of excitement and the feeling of complete freedom that comes with it from doing something daring. You're able to contain it mostly - it’s not like you’re jumping off mountains or cliff diving into the freezing water. 

You like to test him, try to catch him off guard by climbing on tall rocks or on the lower tree branches and throwing yourself at Neteyam giggling like a nantang about to attack. He always catches you, arms wrapping safely around your smaller frame and never letting you hit the ground. The antics used to scare him, prompting him to give you long, frustrated lectures about how he’s responsible for your safety and you shouldn’t purposefully put yourself in dangerous situations. But you would just shrug him off, heart still beating faster in your excitement and tell him that he should just always be there to catch you then. 

Now, he helps you get your fill - laying on his stomach on a high tree limb as he slowly lowers you over the side, large hand wrapped securely around your forearm while your own hand wraps around his wrist. He lets you dangle there, suspended in the air over nothing but what would be a long drop and a rather nasty death if you actually fell. But he would never drop you, and the look of pure thrill and happiness on your face as you hang there overlooking the vast expanse of forest and feeling like you’re invincible always makes his chest flood with warmth. He especially loves it when you look up at him and grin, reaching up to grab his wrist with your other hand, too, and playfully kicking your feet, swinging slightly and using his arm like your very own personal swingset. 

But his favorite thing about your size is how tight you feel wrapped around him. 

You look so gorgeous, laying on the forest floor and spread out for him like the delicious feast you are. Your back arches, breasts jiggling with each movement as you grind harder against his face. He sucks savagely at your clit, two fingers curling just so inside of you, pressing against that special spot that makes you see stars.

“Neteyam, please,” You whine, leg lifting up to drape over his shoulder, trying to pull him closer. 

“What’s wrong, tanhì?” He murmurs, voice sending vibrations through the sensitive nub between your thighs. His eyes are dark with desire as he looks up at you through hooded lids, the usual amber of his irises nearly completely overtaken by the darks of his pupils.

“Stop teasing,” You breathe, walls clamping down tightly around his fingers. His head looks so big between your thighs, his fingers thick and long where they’re thrusting inside you. “Just put it in already. Want you to fill me up.”

“You’re not ready,” He says, sounding drunk as he breathes in your arousal. “Need to stretch you out more.”

“I’m not an amateur,” You grunt, glaring down at him. “I’m stretched out enough,” 

His eyes stay locked on yours, unamused at your little tantrum even as he gives your clit another firm lick, textured tongue swiping across the swollen nub as pushes his last finger into your drenched cunt. You whimper at the stretch, humping his fingers and face as you chase your orgasm. You feel so full already, so full with only three fingers and it's not enough. Not enough when you know just how full you’ll really feel with his cock inside you. His long, hard, thick, beautiful cock that he’s currently pressing into the ground but that should be pushing into you instead. 

The coil in your belly tightens, and your fingers grip onto his hair, pulling the braids tightly as the pressure bursts and you cum, squirting all over his face and thrusting fingers. He works you through your orgasm, fingers digging into your sopping hole and lips attaching to your clit as you ride it out. Wave after wave of pleasure rushing through your body as you scream. 

When your orgasm subsides, he pulls his fingers from you, ears perking at the wet noise your pussy makes as it tries desperately to stay clinged to him. You pant, pushing yourself up on your elbows as you watch him kneel in front of you - large body blocking the setting sun behind him and you watch in awe at how he can look so beautiful in his orange glowing halo. 

His skilled fingers untie his tewng, pulling it from his body and letting his hard cock slap against his belly. Your mouth waters at the sight. It stands proudly, tall and thick and nearly the size of your forearm - dark blue stripes and sparkling tanhì decorating the shaft all the way up to the lilac tip that’s already dripping with precum. 

You want it inside you so badly. 

He moves to crawl over you, lips pressing reverently against your neck before you pull back, mischievous smirk on your face as you crawl backwards away from him. 

His hairless brows furrow at your distance. “Ma y/n, what is wrong?”

“You’re so mean to me,” You tell him, scooting back even further as he tries to get closer to you. 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m mean to you?”

“Mhm,” You hum. He moves closer again, faster this time as he tries to cage you under him, but you scramble away again. “I beg and beg for your cock, and all you do is deny me.”

“I’m trying to give it to you now,” He huffs.

“Well, what if I don’t want it now?” You say with all the attitude you can muster, and your heart pounds in excitement at his dark glare.

“Woman,” He growls, a wicked grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Come here,”

With lightning quickness, he grabs your ankles and pulls your body towards him. You squeal at the sudden movement, giggling as your body flops when he manhandles you into the position he wants. He flips you over onto your stomach, gripping your hips and dragging your lower half up so they’re flush against his. One of his hands finds your upper back, pushing you down further into the moss covered ground and pinning you against the forest floor. 

You moan when you feel his cock slide through your slick folds, gathering your wetness on his length as his tip bumps rhythmically against your clit. 

“You don’t have to be a brat, tanhì,” He says, his grin audible in his voice as he rocks his hips, and your breathing hitches when the head of his cock catches on your entrance. “You know I’ll always give you what you want.”

You whimper desperately as he starts to push inside of you, large cock bullying its way into your tight pussy. The stretch is glorious, your body molding to take his length, and the burn making your mouth fall open in a silent scream as he pushes in further, inch by inch - and it feels so good, so fucking good and you cry for more, cry for faster despite the fact that you feel like you might split in half.

He ignores you, pushing into you at the pace that he wants, not you. And you both let out satisfied moans when he’s finally buried deep inside you. You feel like he’s in your guts and a large dopey smile graces your lips at the thought of your body being completely used by him, any and all important body parts and organs pushed to the side to make space for his even more important cock. 

You can feel yourself dripping on the ground beneath you, long lines of slick dripping from off your clit and onto the moss below. The burn has subsided into a dull pleasure, and your eyelashes flutter as Neteyam adjusts his stance behind you, leveraging himself onto one knee with one foot planted on the ground. Your pussy clings to him as he pulls halfway out, not wanting to let even an inch of him leave your tight heat, and you gasp when he slams back in.

“What happened, baby?” Neteyam teases, pulling back out and pushing in again, your eyes crossing when you feel his tip kiss your cervix. “You had so much to say earlier.”

“Nughh, f-fuck,” You whine. 

You can do nothing but take it as he thrusts into you, fingers so tight on your hips that you know there’s going to be bruises afterwards. His cock drags against your walls, balls slapping against your clit with each thrust, and sparks of pleasure shoot up your spine. Your hands try to find purchase on the ground but can’t find anything to grab onto, and your fingernails dig into the dirt just to do something. 

Your second orgasm is quickly approaching, the intense stretch and constant battering against your cervix combined with Neteyam’s husky voice in your ear grunting ‘you feel so tight, baby. Feel so good. Fuck,” pushing you closer and closer to that sweet edge of bliss that you’ve been craving ever since you dragged Neteyam out here. 

“Teyam, g-gonna c-cum,” You whimper, and in an instant he drags you up by the back of your neck, hand sliding around to the front of your throat to keep you pressed against his sternum. 

“Yeah, you’re gonna cum?” He asks, huge hand moving to caress the large bulge now visible in your belly. “Gonna cum for me, tanhì?”

You whimper at the contact and your hand drops to massage at your throbbing clit. “Please! Please, I’m so close. So fucking close,”

“Shh,” He says, hand gently rubbing the jumping bulge as he continues to rock into you. “Cum for me, baby,”

You scream, pleasure ripping through you when his hand presses down hard on the bulge. Your orgasm rips through you like a freight train, your hand rubbing furiously over your clit as you squirt all over the ground below you. He roars as your pussy clenches and pulses around him, drenching him in your essence, and with only a few extra thrusts he’s cumming too, spilling into your warm, tight, tawtute body and filling you up to the brim with his release. 

It’s too much for you, too much and too hot as he paints your insides white. He’s still cumming even when you're full - his release spilling out of you from around his cock and mixing with your squirt in a puddle. You shake and twitch in his hold, a long hum of satisfaction ripping from your throat as your eyes roll back into your head. 

You can hear him panting into your ear behind you, trying to recover from his own explosive orgasm, but he’s ready all the same when your body goes limp in his hold. He picks you up, carefully pulling your exhausted body off of his cock, and his strong arms cradle you to his chest. 

“Just sleep now, ma y/n,” He says, gently brushing a strand of sweaty hair away from where it's stuck to your mask. “I’ll take care of you,”

A sleepy smile graces your lips and you let yourself fall asleep without argument. You know he’ll take care of you. He’ll always take care of you. Neteyam Sully - fierce Omatikaya warrior, eldest son of Toruk Makto, your protector, your lover.

And the man who can fill you up like no other.

**Special thanks to @pandoraslxna for the prompt!

Taglist: @eywaite @teyamshuman

[abbyandersonslove]

♡ May Her Love Guide Me ♡

Plot Summary: You’re a Seraphite and you catch Abby’s eye one day while she’s out on patrol

Warnings: Kidnapping, canon typical violence, not so canon typical Abby, mention of gunshots, mild religious undertones, loss of consciousness and slight angst

Word Count: 1.7k

 

Abby Anderson was madly and indisputably in love with the enemy. Every negative feeling, every Scar she had killed suddenly left her mind when she laid eyes on this girl. It was supposed to be just another patrol. Clear out the area Issac was having problems with, and leave. No big deal. That’s what Abby had thought when she left the stadium, and what she continued to think until she saw you.

When she first laid eyes on you, she had just removed her foot from a Scar’s smashed in head. She had turned to see where Manny was and locked eyes with you. Her heart dropped. Fuck, you were beautiful, she could never bring herself to kill you. Your hair was done in intricately woven braids that she had no clue how to even attempt, but she would learn them in an instant if it meant getting close to you. Your brown leather robe shone in the dim light from Seattle’s constant onslaught of rain. For once, Abby thought the traditional scars marking all Seraphites were endearing, not a hideous proclamation of stupidity. You trembled slightly, holding your drawn bow. Blood splattered your clothing and face, you looked deeply frightened. You, Manny and Abby were the only people left here.

“What should we do with this señora?” Manny asks Abby cockily, knowing they had the upper hand here. Abby is conflicted on how to answer. On one hand, she wants to do her job as Issac’s right-hand woman and get the job done but on the other hand, she wants to spend the rest of her life with you, protecting and loving you. Wait what? Abby’s lost her fucking mind. She can’t want this. Maybe she should just kill you right here, right now and absolve any feelings she has. But the thought of killing you makes her sick. She should let you go back to your village. Maybe that would stop the Scars from invading on territory that isn’t theirs. But then she might never see you again. “Abs? Hello? Have you suddenly been surrounded by overwhelming guilt for all your actions? Joking. I know you’d never feel remorse for these pendejos. Seriously though, she we take her into custody?” Abby didn’t think about that. They could take you back to the FOB. That way, she’d be able to see you every day, but you’d be tortured for information. Possibly until death. Abby doesn’t want that either.

Abby’s head was swimming with anxiety and guilt, but her mouth speaks before she can make up her mind. “Let’s take her back to the FOB, she’ll have information Issac can use” Abby says, adjusting her backpack straps. Abby points her gun in your direction. “If you move or resist, I will shoot you” Abby says. The words demand confidence, but her voice betrays her. If they can take you back to the FOB, at least Abby can keep an eye on you. “Please, I have a little sister I have to take care of” you say, shaking. “Haven’t you taken enough precious lives?” “Shut up Scar, we don’t need your whole life story” Manny says, sneering in your direction. Abby regrets that she gives you a small sympathetic smile. She knew this wouldn’t work out, so why was she entertaining the idea? She needed a good sleep and some time with Alice and that would shake her out of things.

For now, Abby tries to push you out of her mind. You were encroaching on WLF territory after all. Gun still pointed in your direction; she advances towards you slowly. Manny follows suit and closes in behind you. He swiftly grabs you by the shoulders, causing you to lose the tension on your bow and drop it. You had been holding it drawn the entire time but never struck. Why was that? You started to cry, saying something unintelligible. Abby had to look away and step behind Manny. “If she tries anything I’ll shoot her” Abby says flourishing her gun. “Truck should still be parked where we left from. It’s a bit of a walk though.” Manny begins walking down the road, shoving you along in front. You try to look behind you, but Manny takes a hand off your shoulders and grabs your head. “Eyes in front señora. I am not against putting a bullet through your head,” he says shoving you a bit harder down the road.

Abby has checked out mentally, she’s cold, tired and covered in muck. She wants more than anything to be back in her room, freshly showered, watching one of Manny’s anime movies. But no, she’s here in the piss pouring rain, kidnapping the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen. She thinks about her dad. He wouldn’t want this for his girl. She wishes things had turned out differently. If her dad hadn’t died, she’d still live in Salt Lake City, still be in her boring but stable relationship with Owen, Mel wouldn’t completely hate her and most of all, she would’ve never met you. She can’t dwell on this other life for too long. It made her want scream and cry.

By the time Abby has clocked back into reality, they’re approaching the truck. Manny has been talking for God knows how long about his latest fling. “Yeah man, that’s great,” Abby says non-convincingly, having very little clue who he was actually talking about. “I might actually see this one again,” Manny says excitedly. “You say that about a lot of people Manny, be real with yourself here,” Abby says, going ahead of you and Manny to grab some rope off the truck. She jumps off the back of the truck and lands in front of you, Manny moves to your side, holding your arms to your side so that Abby can tie you up.

While tying you up, Abby can look anywhere but your face. Usually, this part gives her a massive power trip but now, all Abby can feel is regret. Your cheeks are stained in tears, and your choked out sobs barely come out with how much you’ve been crying. She looks you in the eyes, for a second, she thinks she sees your expression change briefly, but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. She kneels down on one knee to finish her work with a knot and flicks her head towards Manny. He lets go of you. “You’re not going to get away with this, her love will come and save me,” you say, wiggling around in your binds. “If you keep moving around like that, you’re gonna get rope burn,” Abby says partially because she doesn’t want to see you get hurt, but on the other hand, she wants you to know that it’s stupid to try and escape this.

“We better get going Abs, Issac wanted us back a while ago,” Manny says climbing into the back of the truck. Abby grabs you bridal style and steps onto the back of the truck. She places you down on the floor of the truck and sits behind you, legs caging you from getting up. “All clear,” Manny yells to driver and the truck starts moving. Abby tries to make small talk with Manny, but your whispered prayers distract her. You look up from the floor, first at Manny, then at Abby. She tries to look anywhere but you. Craning your neck to try and get eye contact with Abby, you say, “I see how you look at me. Is it regret? Is it longing? You feel remorse about what you’re doing to me, so why not let me go?” Abby looks down at you frustratedly. She hates that you’ve clocked her already. “Just shut up Scar, you’re already in a hole, don’t dig yourself deeper,” Abby says. She thinks about your words, she does long for you, and she regrets coming here today. Fuck, right now she regrets even joining the WLF. Maybe in another life, Abby thinks. Maybe in another life the two of us aren’t so different.

Back at the FOB, things are pretty quiet. It’s around 7 and most of the evening patrols left an hour ago. Issac is in one of the nearby medical tents, talking to Nora. When he sees you, Abby and Manny, he quickly excuses himself. “You two should have been back an hour ago. What the fuck happened out there?” Issac asks, annoyance laced in his tone. “There were a lot more Scars than you had told us about. And this señora was providing a bit of difficulty,” Manny says matter of factly. “We think she may have some information to give you,” he adds.

You struggle in your binds of rope. “If you think I’m going to willingly give up information, you’re mistaken,” you spit in Issac’s direction, punctuated with a glare. He looks down at you with general disinterest in his eyes. “We’ll see about that, Scar,” he says, applying pressure to several points on your neck. You try and escape his grasp but you quickly fall unconscious. He picks you up and talks over his shoulder to Abby and Manny. “You two are dismissed, you may go back to the stadium.”

Abby feels numb, she wants to turn around and grab you from Issac, never looking back once but she knows better. “We missed the shuttle truck from here to the stadium. We’ll have to walk home,” Manny says, stretching out his arms and legs. What a great way to end a great day, Abby thinks.

As the pair walk out the gate, Abby looks back one more time. Maybe by tomorrow you’ll be dead, beaten to death by Issac. But that won’t stop her from at least coming to check on you. She knows this whole idea is crazy, but just for a while, she wants to savour it as if it could happen. So tomorrow she’ll come back, but until then, you’ll occupy her thoughts and dreams.

Authors note: My first real post on this blog! Reblogs and notes are super appreciated <3

[averixus]

on friday I decided I wanted to make better luggage bags for my wheelchair in time for my trip today (monday), so I spent the weekend in a frenzy and created these

lots more pics and info under the cut!

until now I've been using an off-the-rack under seat bag at the front (smaller than necessary, awkward to use) and random shopping bags bungeed to the axle at the back (impossible to add/remove items without taking them off and unpacking them entirely, not much volume for all that effort).

here's my old setup for comparison (although I can still add the backpack with the new setup too):

the old front bag attached by wrapping all the way over the seat, which made it difficult to remove. it was also unnecessarily small - there was a lot of wasted spare space behind and either side of it.

I measured up for a replacement to properly fill the available space. It's a simple but irregular cuboid - the top edge slopes slightly (because the seat slopes), and the top is narrower than the bottom (becase the frame is in the way at the top).

I designed mine to attach directly to the frame, rather than around the seat. at the back there are short straps with side-release buckles to wrap around a conveniently-placed bar on the frame. at the front are more side-release buckles, attached to make use of the buckles that were installed on the chair by the manufacturer (intended to attach a much smaller under seat bag).

the old bag just had one big compartment inside, so there was no easy way to keep small items accessible without them getting lost among everything else. so I added pockets to mine!

at the top, I made a panel the whole size of the top face, and attached it at a slight diagonal to make a shallow sloping pocket. I also added big flat patch pockets to both sides. and I added a piece of really thick cardboard as a base shaper so it wouldn't sag when full of stuff.

the rear bag was a lot more complicated. I didn't have an existing bag for this use at all, I'd been getting by with just bungeeing soft bags onto whatever bars I could reach on the frame.

I took a bunch of measurements and planned out my design. to make the best use of the space, it needed to wrap *around* the axle both above and below. so the end result is a slightly irregular cuboid but with a cutout at one side.

just above the axle cutout, there are short straps which clip around side bars on the frame to keep it in place. at the other end there are longer straps which buckle around the horizontal bar on the seat backrest, to hold it up.

I didn't add any pockets to this bag, because it's basically for luggage so I won't need to get at small things while it's still attached. more board in the bottom to keep the base in shape.

I would have used a double-ended zip for this one too but I couldn't get one in time (might replace it later). I'm also wondering about adding a shelf or something, to make it easier to squeeze things into the little above-axle space without falling back out.

on both bags I added a strip of old woven belt along the inside top of the opening, to help it keep its shape when the zip is undone.

I don't know enough sewing vocabulary to describe the kind of seam I used on them, but- I folded the edges in, right-sides together, and then topstitched over them. just one line of stitching per seam, but that line goes through each piece of fabric twice. raw edges still exposed on the inside.

I successfully took the new bags on a 4.5-hour train journey today, packed with a week's worth of luggage. and when I arrived, all I had to do was clip them off the chair and lay them on their backs, and then they can easily unzip like suitcases!

[iatrophilosophos]

I would be way more on board with a lot of vegan anti wool/leather stuff if it wasn't like. Fundementally indoors/imperial-core-comforts lifestyle wise & still industry-focused

Like. The wool and leather industries are fucked. It's not "waste product", it does have a rlly big carbon footprint, the chemicals used in scouring & tanning alone are janked and a huge problem; and the lines ppl use to defend it are inaccurate and tired, from the assumption that these textiles are somehow both immortal & easily biodegradable to the honestly Uncomfortable and sometimes kinda fashy?? Narrative that all farmers of animal based textiles are chill and cool people with a deep and rightful attachment to their livestock and the land and. Honor and stuff

And Also: yeah a brushed thick organic cotton knit under a beeswaxed canvas coat will keep you pretty warm on your way to your car from your climate controlled house to your climate controlled job. Good Fucking Luck if you end up sweating in it tho. Wet cotton = hypothermia is sometimes somewhat exaggerated but it still *sucks* even when its warm enough; nevermind if you, say, live in a backpack and need to haul immense amounts of super heavy fiber ***and keep it dry*** to stay warm enough. Good Luck if you live somewhere damp, even just in a shitty house or trailer! Because that shit wild mold into soil the second you're not looking at it. The clothes might look green on paper but these people are taking all the clean, climate controlled, energy-guzzling shit required to maintain them as a given when that's like not even workable for a huge percentage of the population *now*, let alone pretty far from an acceptable setting wrt ongoing collapse.

Don't even get me started on rayons. Don't talk shit to me about wool processing emissions and then talk about RAYONS. unserious.

It's most frustrating because there are like, interesting options out there. None of these people ever talk about kudzu, a superior bast fiber for canvases (cotton sucks for canvas honestly it's cheap but it's heavy on its own & then the staple lengths are short so durable yarns have to be quite thick), that's Fucking Some Shit Up and needs to be removed ANYWAY and is processed via nigh-zero-input fermentation (literally just dig a hole and use some straw, you can even reuse straw produced as a byproduct from previous batches). Kudzu, like all bast fibers, also breaks down and becomes softer and nicer with age, there's literally a Japanese saying that's like "a coat for the first generation, a shirt for the second, and underwear for the third". Kudzu is also not really feasible for industrial processing and effectively utilizing it without doing horrible things to other people would require a significant reassessment of how we use textiles.

Which brings us to the point that like, the problem with any textile is not rlly inherent to the materials themselves, but a problem of scale and system (except plastics and rayons which can only exist in systems of scale and mass extraction). Where i live, 900 years ago, leather was not a horribly destructive industry, and most textiles were made of leather, because if you brain tan virtually every single animal you eat (except birds. You can't rlly tan turkey skin, you just eat it), your community has a buncha fucking soft leather and you don't like, rlly have a need for woven textiles bc that's actually a fuckton extra work that doesn't make sense if you live in a climate where you need warm coats in the winter and can get away with being pretty naked in the summer.

There's other interesting small-scale options for various climates too-- if ur not on a kill-all-domesticated-animals kick, angora rabbits + silk worms is a rlly interesting one of you have cold weather needs and don't wanna kill anybody. Angora rabbit fur on its own is a pretty nothing textile bc it has a short staple length and is straight, meaning it makes a very fluffy and warm but ultimately very non-durable yarn; but, peace silk, which is made in Buddhist traditions after the silk moths have emerged, breaking the one long fiber of the silk cocoon into many short-er ones, is still incredibly strong with a relatively extremely long staple length, so you can spin the two together and then felt the final object for something that's very warm, very soft, and pretty durable--with some bunnies and bugs that take up like 1/4 acre and just need a couple trees to very sustainably harvest leaves from and probably some rotated paddocks with attention paid to what's planted in them, and a relatively non-ridiculous amount of drying/storing high protein winter foods like legumes. Neither the silk industry, nor at-scale angora farming, are OK, but this is Fine.

Idk there's just so much in veganism discourse that's just ppl who do have rlly lucid and justified critique but are still unwilling to challenge the fundemental assumptions of industrialized life and/or consider non-consumption-level changes to their lifeways. Most antivegan critiques are stupid too and mistake what could be for what is at an industrial scale, also for the sake of changing nothing meaningful about their lives. But at least make it interesting. Jesus.