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[partagerlajoie]

Woven backpack | Partagerlajoie

[its-short-for-jackalope]

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

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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.”

[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.

[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

[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."

[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.

[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!

[comfortless]

HEYYYY I came from the art class post😭😭 if im bothering you or you’ve got other works then delete this one, but omg him painting reader NUDE!?!? 😩😩😩

you are not a bother omg!! my ask box is always open forever (especially in regards to König being a menace)!! 💕

Unfortunately for König, you were actually insinuating that you would like to paint HIM nude…

So, when he does arrive at your home, backpack stuffed with a canvas and his own set of brushes in tow, you’re already seated with your easel stood before you. The chaise lounge across from your workspace is covered by a darkened throw, the color a stark contrast from his pale skin and even paler eyes, something that would help set the tone and make him appear more radiant.

He stares at you when his bag is dropped to the floor, mortified for a moment before you see the hint of a grin curling at his lips.

“You said you wanted to try.” You tap your brush against the bare canvas, gesturing him over to the lounge with a tilt of your head. All of the appropriately colored paint is mixed and prepared, the only thing that you need is your model.

“I did.”

After a few moments of seemingly silent contemplation on his part, he does oblige. With each layer of his clothing stripped off, each peak of him beneath the thick, dark colors your face grows ever warmer.

To think this terribly awkward man was built like a god? Narrow hips, a broad chest, the trail of fur running down to thick thighs… You swallow hard, hoping that he will not notice your stare as it momentarily rests on the already frighteningly stiff cock between his legs.

He’s rigid when posing too, so much so that you find yourself reluctantly padding over to him to guide him down onto his side with words and light nudges with the back of your hand. A part of you wonders if it’s intentional, too, from the way he adjusts perfectly with the slightest brush of your hand, the way his face seems to flush and that mischievous grin only seems to grow more prevalent.

When your hand moves to push him to prop his elbow up, rest his chin on his palm to stare out towards your waiting canvas, the dam seems to burst entirely. His frustrations reach a peak and he groans whilst resting his hand against your waist, his thick fingers tracing lazy patterns into your blouse.

“It would be quicker if I painted you first.”

“That so?”

You had set this all up with him in mind, but allow the gentle way he guides your blouse over your head, the warmth of his hands against your stomach as he ushers you out of your pants. There’s a slow urgency to his touch as he rises up behind you, a trembling hand freeing the clasps of your bra and rolling the pads of his thumbs over your shoulders when he lowers the straps.

His breath catches in his throat when you turn your head to glance at him from over your shoulder.

“I can handle taking off my underwear,” you chide.

He almost looks mortified, despite the way he remains entirely erect, shameless and not making an attempt to cover himself at all.

“Ja,” he mutters.

You’re left to it as he takes your place to paint. Fingers hook beneath the waist band, thighs raised as you languidly pull yourself free of the last of your defenses, a mere strip of tightly woven lace. It’s just a simple art practice there’s no need to feel so… nervous, but König’s stare is only as innocent as the evident arousal he shifts in place in a pitiful attempt to subdue.

As promised, his painting is completed far quicker than yours would have been.

This time, however, it’s less of an endearing splatter and more of a love letter lain out on canvas. When your eyes catch each curve, each soft dip of your flesh, even the placid expression on your face the rapid beating of your heart must have been nearly audible. It’s not just that he’s painted you well, it’s a glimpse of how you must look through his eyes, something so ethereal and tender…

You lean over him, feeling the muscles of his back tense beneath your breasts as you hook your arm around his shoulders in a partial embrace.

Your thanks is spoken in a tight murmur, as he rests his fingertips over your hand, leaving traces of vivid paint striped across.

When the canvas is replaced, you’re determined to recreate the admiration felt in his own painting. Only, it seems to pale in comparison— there’s far too much to focus on, from each bundle of muscle, the spread of hair leading from his chest to navel, the scars you’ve adored so much… for the first time since this strange, billowing confusion struck up between you two, you find yourself with shaking hands instead.

It does not help at all, that upon reaching his hips your mind is fogged by something far less noble than the blossoming of creativity.

When you call him over to look over your own work, conveniently having stopped just at his hips, you give a half-hearted shrug and suggest that he comes back over to have it completed another time. He hums something in German as he rests his chin atop your head, a flurry of warmth surging forth when he gently pries the brush from your hand and sets it aside.

Though it’s lackluster, he still praises your talent, in a breathy whisper that seems almost uncharacteristic when attributed to the strange, shy titan you had met before.

“I can come back tomorrow,” he suggests when he finally draws back to gather the scattered pieces of his clothing from the floor.

“Yeah… Tomorrow, then.”

He marvels at his painting of you for a moment before gathering it, careful not to smear the still-wet paint… A part of you had hoped that he would let you keep it, just like the last that hangs proudly on your wall.

König, however, finds that this piece is much more tailored for his room rather than yours.

[sodamnradd]

“Give it up, Draco. You found what people spend a lifetime searching for, and you just let her leave without you.” Blaise fell back onto the leather sofa and crossed his ankles, looking pensively into the fire. “What I don’t understand is why. You keep saying that if anyone will win, it’s her. And yet here you are.”

Draco opened his mouth to deny, deny, deny. But what was the point? Blaise had seen them together in the prefects’ bath, and later, when Draco tried brushing it off as a casual hook-up, Blaise had only shaken his head and said, ‘I saw your face,’ as if that was supposed to override any lies that came out of Draco’s mouth.

His stomach had been a tangle of nerves since Granger had kissed him goodbye and disappeared with Potter and Weasley to save the world. That was the issue with Gryffindors, forever killing themselves over the next big heroic deed. He wasn’t like them.

“What would you have done?” sniped Draco. It was easy to cast judgement from afar, but Blaise wasn’t living it. “Would you just turn your back on your mother? On your friends? To hell with everyone if you’re in love?”

Blaise gave him a side-long look, grinning. “Are you in love?”

“You seem to think I am.”

“Do you see a future with her?”

“If the world wasn’t so fucked up?”

“Yeah.”

Draco didn’t really have to imagine it because it’s all he’d been thinking about since he first kissed Granger nine months ago.

It wasn’t just her physical being—the charged, tantalising pull of their bodies like opposing magnets—but a vision of what their life could look like. Granger didn’t need pure-blood persuasion to pave her way into the world. She could be self-made. And Draco would stand proudly beside her, as he did best. He could manage the accounts, pursue his hobbies, while ensuring Granger never felt alone navigating her mountainous ambitions.

Draco lived a satiated life, but with Hermione, all he knew was starvation. She was the one thing he didn’t want to barter or consume in small bites. If he had her, he was going to feast.

“It’s not that simple,” he concluded. “It’s not some playground romance anymore. She’s out there risking her life. I can’t afford to love her how I want if she’s just going to wind up dead.”

“Take this from someone who’s buried seven fathers—death is preventable.”

Draco looked up at Blaise, surprised.

His friend had an eerie look on his face, made worse by the fire casting strange shadows over him, but Draco knew the Zabinis had a complicated relationship with murder. And that’s what he meant: murder was preventable, not death.

“What makes you think I could protect her any better than Potter could?”

“The Dark Lord trusts you, you’re a sneaky fuck, and you’re in love. Nobody will fight harder to win.”

~

Donning a backpack full of survival gear, his wand, and the warmest clothes he owned, Draco used their matching bracelets to Port-Key to Granger the next Saturday morning.

She had woven the bracelets with colourful thread—red and gold for him, green and silver for her—and the next week, Draco had adhered matching charms to them. She didn’t know that he could sense her through it. That when she fingered the cool metal engraved with his constellation at night, he felt her presence. Or that it was a gateway to each other using the right spell.

Maybe he’d known he’d follow her all along.

The bracelet transported Draco to lush, crawling hills and enormous, craggy rocks. The sky hung bright white above him. He could sense Granger’s magic in the air, or maybe it was her perfume drifting in the breeze. He inhaled deeply, feeling closer to her already.

There was nobody around when he heard the gasp directly behind him.

He turned and saw the air wobble. The ward he hadn’t realised was there descended. Granger stood two feet away, eyes wide and lips parted. She was thin and pale and seemed afraid.

Regret washed over him. He should have come sooner.

“How do I know it’s really you?” she demanded, wand clutched tightly by her side, a combination of fear and hope flickering in her eyes.

Draco dropped his bag by his feet, taking three strong strides forward. He framed her cold cheeks in his hands, hoping she saw the look on his face and remembered how much she meant to him. He said, “Because nobody else knows how much I love you.”

He kissed her, and a second later, Granger threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back, sobbing.

“I’m here to stay,” he reassured her, holding her tightly. “I’m here to fight.”

And he thought of Blaise in the Slytherin common room, the only one who knew of Draco’s whereabouts, and their discussions of love and death. And he thought of the future he’d seen with Hermione, and he thought he could have it, maybe even a better version of it. One that didn’t involve him at home, pursuing hobbies, but being worth something, too. He could be that. He wanted to be that.

Draco wanted to feast.

(873 words, inspired by Don't Swallow The Cap by The National)

[partagerlajoie]

Woven backpack | Partagerlajoie

[ickyarson777]

Many Eyed Vessel Fic Thing???

This title will change later I promise.

Anyway! I did some thinking about This Post and I’ve decided I’m gonna go all out and write a fic about it. This prompt is something I think about all the time, so I was very excited to receive it to say the least :)

That being said, I have no idea how any of this is gonna play out. Right now I’m thinking kinda slow burn entities-to-lovers type of thing??

Here it is though!! I promise if you like it, I’ll do my best to keep up with writing, and please, let me know what ya’ll want!! I’m here to please ;)

Chapter 1, 2

Tried to stay as gn as possible, no mentions of y/n or names, readers is just called ‘human.’

Word count: 2,132

Content warning: Maybe a bit of dread, spooky horror type stuff. Bit of violence, not anything horrible at all.

I glance around me as I walk through the quiet woods. Rays of light filtered through the leaves of the trees behind gradually being drowned out by the darkness of the shadows ahead of me.

I had traveled to a new city, and decided to take some time to explore the smaller nearby towns. London was great, but it was nothing compared to the smaller communities that were just outside of the larger city. The town I was in was smaller in comparison, greatly so. A couple of small neighborhoods, a few streets of shops, convenience stores and restaurants. On one side however, there was a forest that wrapped around half of the town.

Anytime I was in a small town like this, I always took the time to learn the local rumors. Any scandal, or story going around. As I was making my rounds through this small town, I’d heard tell of the forest containing monsters, creatures. Things that were definitely not meant for the human eye. Angels, demons.. it had me absolutely captivated. I needed to know more. So of course, after a good night's rest, I packed a backpack of supplies, put on some thermal wear, considering it was a chilly, bleary fall day, and made sure I had food and water to last the day.

And then I drove out to the edge of the forest, and began walking.

Immediately the air turned colder. I had this sense that I definitely shouldn’t be here, that something definitely didn’t want me here. Multiple something’s at that. It was exhilarating.

I stepped farther in, glancing around slowly. The day was already dark, but the canopy of branches were so tightly woven above, the forest seemed to be bathed in midnight, though I knew it was barely a quarter past ten in the morning. Luckly, it wasn’t dark enough that I couldn’t see, so I continued on.

It wasn’t a quiet walk, branches and leaves snapped and crunched beneath my feet, and I could hear birds singing their sweet songs. For how terrifying the image of the dark forest was, it was still peaceful here, even if I did have a small feeling of dread brewing beneath my subconscious.

I walked further in, approaching a small stream, and stepped through. The water wasn’t deep, barely reaching the middle of my shins at the deepest. I could feel the temperature of the water through my boots, which I was very glad to be waterproof. Freezing cold, of course it would be in weather like this. I crossed to the other side of the stream, and whatever sense of peace I’d had before was ripped away from me.

For a moment, I hesitated, unsure if I should continue. I glanced around, trying to steel my nerves. ‘Calm down,’ I thought to myself. ‘You hear a couple rumors about monsters in the woods and you’re scared straight. What kind of explorer are you if you can’t walk through the woods by yourself..’

I shook off the fear and continued walking. I came to a clearing, where the trees opened to reveal the sky above, still overcast with dark clouds. I’d checked the weather before coming out here, there wasn’t supposed to be any rain, but looking at the sky now, I wasn’t so sure. I take a deep breath and keep walking.

At this point, I’m maybe half a mile in, knowing forest monsters, they’re sure to be a bit further in than that. I think aloud while walking, about anything and everything, home, my family, my friends. I’ve been studying abroad for a couple months now. As an anthropology student, traveling has been an incredible experience for me, but that didn’t mean I didn’t miss home.

Eventually, a couple miles into the woods, I begin singing to myself. Nothing particular, and everything at the same time, I sing nursery rhymes and lullabies, and find ways to rework the words, making myself laugh. I counted on like this for another half a mile before I realized suddenly that there’s no longer any sounds around me. The birds have gone quiet, and the wind has hushed entirely, the rustle of the leaves above me silent. I pause for a moment, glancing around me carefully.

Suddenly a horrible, piercing screech sounds and I’m filled with an absolutely overwhelming sense of terror. I make a split second decision and decide to walk in the direction of the horrible sound.

As I come closer to the location of the sound, I begin to notice there’s a slight path that’s been worn into the ground here, and I come up on a large rock formation. Not quite a cliff but not just a boulder either. It looks easy enough to scale, and I silently assume someone might’ve already been doing just that, seeing as the slight path seems to end here.

I take a breath, tighten the strap of my backpack, and begin to climb. Quickly enough, I reach the top of the formation and glance down below me. I stare in horror at the thing I see before me. The thing was at least eight feet tall, and covered in a thick black substance. It’s face could’ve been white, but it was now stained, smeared with whatever covered the rest of it. Its eyes, mouth and nose, or at least what I assumed it was, were nothing but dark empty sockets. It’s body was large and bulbous, segmented, almost like the thorax of an insect, and decorated in skulls, mechanical limbs jutting out at odd angles, and there were many of them, spindly, covered in grime and gore down to the jagged needle-like tips. It clutched a battle ax, dark and covered in rust and dirt.

“What the fuck,” I whisper into the air.

In a split second the thing whipped its head towards me, its empty eyes taking me in. I take a step backwards and almost fall from my perch on the rock, forgetting where I stood.

It begins stepping towards me on its multiple long spindly legs, slowly at first, but then it begins picking up speed. I watch it, safe from its grasp high above it on the rock, but then tense as it shoots one of its legs out into the rock, embedding itself there. I stare in horror as it begins to climb.

“Oh fuck, fuck,” I say out loud, panicking slightly.

I turn and begin descending back down the rock the way I’d come. At the last couple of feet, I let go, dropping to the ground just as the thing makes its way over the top. It doesn’t even bother climbing back down, just throwing itself off and continuing its pursuit, I watch, terrified for a moment before turning and running. I don’t even bother trying to remember which way I’d come from, running in zigzagging patterns, trying to throw off the monster. I can hear it, the metallic grinding and groaning of the half organic half machine thing that was hot on my trail.

I wasn’t even looking where I was going, vision slightly blurry, eyes stinging with sweat that fell into them occasionally. I hear the thing even closer to me now. I gasp out in shock as I hear a sharp whirring sound pass my ear, knowing it was right on top of me, trying to grab me. With every fiber of my being, I pushed myself to run faster, lungs burning and adrenaline coursing through my veins. And then BAM! I slam into something.

I glanced up quickly, thinking I had run into a tree, but realizing a tree would’ve hurt a bit more, and probably wouldn’t have grabbed my arm, and pulled me behind it.

The hands that grabbed my wrists left dark black stains on my skin. I pause for a moment, letting my vision clear. The figure now stood in front of me, facing away, towards the monster. He’s tall, much taller than me, wearing a black cloak and black pants. One shoulder of his cloak is covered by a stark white pauldron, lined with deep red and encrusted with rough gold ore at the curve of his shoulder. He raised a hand towards the monster.

Quietly, in a dark, melodic voice, the man breathed a few words in a language I didn’t recognize. before him, the monster stared, twitching and writhing in its place, swaying on its many legs. It took a gentle step forward, lowering itself and pressing its face into the palm of the man's hand, before turning, lurching forward and walking away from us.

I stand there, taking heavy, shaking breaths. The man doesn’t turn to face me until the monster is out of sight, and when he does, I gasp.

His body is completely covered in black paint, there are streaks running through it, lines of sweat showing pale skin underneath, his chest is broad, toned, but not overly muscled. His hands are large, the paint of his palms, light and mostly missing, though the lines of his hands are deeply stained with dark paint. There are silver rings on many of his fingers, the edge of them tarnished from the paint, like the chains on his chest, stretching across his chest, underneath the cloak is a leather strap, perhaps holding the pauldron in place. He was beautiful, by all accounts, but his face left my jaw slack. The paint covered him up to his upper jaw, if there was more paint, I couldn’t tell as the top half of his face was obscured by a mask. Stark white, a huge contrast to the black on his skin, beautiful and intricate deep crimson lines swirling and curling along the bottom edge of the mask, forming a crescent around his mouth. Six holes in the shape of eyes line the front, dark black and almost sleepy in shape, dark red lines, perfectly symmetrical in shape crossed over under and above the eyes or the mask, forming a sigil or sorts.

I notice my mouth is open, and snap it shut quickly before opening it again, trying to think of something to say. Luckily, the stranger beats me to being the first to speak as words fail me.

“Are you hurt?” He asks simply, voice soft, reverberating through me and sending a shiver down my spine.

Slowly, I shake my head, still staring in awe. “Uh.. what.. what was that?” I ask softly.

Rather than answering my question, the stranger turns, beaconing me to follow him. “The people of the town don’t venture into these woods, you’re not from here.” What he says should’ve been a question, but I can tell he’s stating it as a fact. “You seem well prepared, well traveled in your own right, but that’s no reason to wander into an unknown wood.”

I follow after him, unsure of where we’re going. “I’m studying abroad,” I tell him, struggling slightly to keep up the pace with his long legs. “Heard some of the locals mention monsters in the woods, and I wanted to see for myself. Clearly… they weren’t lying.”

He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “What is it with humans always putting their noses where they can’t protect themselves?” He says it softly, almost in an endearing way.

‘Humans?’ I think to myself.

Before I realized it, we'd approached the stream I’d crossed when I first arrived.

“This is not a safe place for you,” the man says softly. “You are incredibly lucky to have escaped that creature with your life. Leave this place please, and do not return. There are… worse, more terrible things than that one in these woods.”

I turn to face him, ask him what else there is, but he’s gone. Not a single trace of his existence, no rustle or crunching of leaves underfoot, no thud of footsteps on the forest floor. For all I knew, I could’ve played the whole situation off as a psychotic episode. But I knew better. The dark handprints around my wrists and the blood that dripped from the small cut on my ear told me all the truth I needed.

I turn to walk to my car, opening my phone and pressing the call button. The phone rings for a moment before my mother picks up.

“Hello?” She says.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, opening the door and tossing my backpack into the back seat. “So you know how I said I was passing through this small town? I think I’ve changed my mind. I might spend a little while longer here. Something about it…” I mutter glancing into the trees, almost convincing myself that I can see him, blending into the dark shadows of the woods. “Something about it just captivates me.”

~~

OK!! Short little thing to get the story started, let me know if you want more!! I whipped this out in like 20 minutes, and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.

[hisui-dreamer]

the edge of adventure

Pairing: Jade Leech x gn!reader

Synopsis: Hiking can be thrilling, but even more so when a certain eel is with you.

Tags: hiking, fluff, slight banter, reader has hair, bot proofread

Word count: 1k+

Notes: i went hiking on a trip by the seaside and of course, hiking reminds me of this slippery eel<3

Masterlist

As you approached the trailhead, the warm, golden light of the sun spilt over the landscape, casting the rolling hills and jagged cliffs in a soft glow. Jade was in his element, practically gleaming with excitement as he led you up the treacherous path.

He had invited you on this outing a few days ago, his voice infused with a bubbling enthusiasm that was so rare for him as he enthralled you with vivid descriptions of the rugged sea cliffs and the undulating hills, promising magnificent sights that would leave you spellbound. His words painted a picture of a spectacular adventure that would take you into uncharted territory. Having been rather exhausted by your errands at school and in need of a break, the thought of immersing yourself in nature was a balm to your frazzled nerves. The lure of the great outdoors, with its stunning vistas and vibrant colours, was too hard to resist. What better way to lift your spirits than the dazzling sky?

His tall, lean figure strode confidently ahead of you, a backpack slung over his broad shoulders. Every so often, he would glance back at you with an encouraging smile, lending you a hand where the steps were unsteady and slippery. You could tell he was elated to explore the rocky landscape and discover new wonders, his gaze scanning the rocks and cliffs with a childlike curiosity.

The salty air filled your lungs as you neared the top of the cliff, and the sound of crashing waves grew louder and more insistent, beckoning you closer to the cliff's edge. Jade's eyes lit up as he spotted an interesting patch of mushrooms growing by a tree, and he eagerly took out his camera to snap a few photos, before carefully harvesting the fungi.

Meanwhile, you were transfixed, gazing out at the endless expanse of cerulean sky and sparkling ocean. The sea cliff was a towering behemoth, standing high above the tumultuous waters below. The waves were a symphony of power and violence, rising up in towering peaks, their foamy white caps akin to glaciers reaching for the sky before crashing down onto the rocks below with incredible force. A frothy contrast to the cliff's rough and jagged surface, the sea foam clung to the rocks like delicate lace. It appeared as though nature had woven an intricate tapestry onto the jagged rocks, smoothing their sharp edges.

As you stood on the edge of the sea cliff, the raw power of the waves crashing against the rocks below filled your senses with a thrilling sense of danger and excitement. The wind whipped at your hair and clothes, as if taunting you to take one step too far.

"Are you sure you should leave your back open like that?" His words broke through your trance. "Someone cruel might just push you, you know." You turned around to see his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes glinting with a mix of playfulness and sadistic glee.

You couldn't help but laugh at his antics, his teasing only adding to the thrill of the moment, the adrenaline pumping through your veins. "Haha, you wouldn’t do that," you chuckled, calling his bluff.

His eyes widened in surprise before a wry smile spread across his face, revealing his sharp teeth that twinkled in the sunlight. "My, what confidence you have in me, dearest," he said, his words laced with a mix of amusement and challenge.

"I trust you," you said, your voice firm and steady. "And besides…" You took his hand and pressed it to your chest, feeling your heart beating strong and steady. "Even if you did, I'd just come back and haunt you. There's no way you're getting rid of me that easily!"

You tugged on his arm playfully, the force pushing you back a step. "Go on, I'd like to see you try," you said cheekily.

As the wind continued to whip around you, Jade's teasing demeanour suddenly melted away, replaced by profound affection.

He let out a soft sigh as he enveloped you in his embrace, his arms like a fortress around you, providing a sense of safety and protection. As he held you close, you could feel the steady thud of his heart against your chest, a rhythmic beat like the tide of the ocean.

"Mmm, my dear pearl," he murmured, his voice a smooth caress of love. "You truly are so endearing."

With those words, you felt a warm and comforting sensation spread through your chest, a strong sense of love and belonging that made your heart sing.

You leaned into Jade's touch, resting your head against his chest and breathing in his musky scent mixed with the freshness of the sea. As you closed your eyes, you felt his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back, a tender and soothing gesture that made you feel safe and loved.

With a gentle but firm movement, you pulled out of his embrace, your hands still clasped tightly together as you looked up at him with a bright and eager smile.

"Come on, Jade," you said enthusiastically. "We've still got so much more to see! The day is just getting started."

As you spoke, you noticed a fleeting hesitation in Jade's gaze, his eyes reflecting a reluctance to leave the comfort of your arms. You reached for his hand, fingers entwining with his, his gloves a barrier against the chill of the morning air, and tugged him forward, urging him to embrace the anticipation for the journey ahead.

Shaking your head fondly, you pressed a tender kiss to his cheek, the last remnants of his hesitation melting away like snowflakes in the spring sun under the warmth of your affection. His sigh was heavy, but it was a sigh of surrender, as his eyes once again alit with the thrill of exploration. "You're right," he said, a hint of eagerness creeping into his voice. "Let's get going."

Without another word, you resumed your journey down the path, the cool breeze tousling your hair as you gazed in wonder at the breathtaking scenery that surrounded you. The verdant foliage of the forest stretched out before you, dappled sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy overhead. And with him by your side, everything would only seem more enchanting and wondrous.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

[formlines]

Reflection

Qwalsius/Shaun Peterson

from the website: As the saying goes, hindsight is 2020. Of course this references vision, but as much as I shy from these nuanced phrases, it’s inevitable. Not unlike the other phrase, “I wish I knew then what I know now”. Just before the pandemic I was setting on making–and still am–the work of my dreams. I always wanted to see the art tradition of the land I was born and have deep roots in recognized in a higher profile. Like roots, it takes time for a message to break through and connect. All that said, there were foundations that helped me get there, which are many.

In process of carving I have always been aware that the cedar I carve was alive, and from this place, and therefore sacred. It can be daunting to think about what you are shaping into something and be lead into paralysis by analysis. Which lead to my naming of this print as such. I felt it wasn’t easy to name something with complex reflection, which it is ultimately named. It is something that isn’t talked about often, but it’s not always clear what I am making as I am making it, or why it comes to be a driving factor for me to make it.

As a Native artist, I’m often asked about casinos and stereotypes of my culture. We are unfortunately not well represented or visible. To some, we are like unicorns in the wild, which is something I have finally made peace with over the years. In the end, we are human beings like anyone else, but with a unique history in the land of the free and home of the brave.

During the time of ‘lock down’ in the early pandemic, I was nervous like anyone else, but somewhat reluctant about how I could express it. I had worked on designs that could be looked at as a card deck, and from there this image shaped itself. Examining what our ancestors would think about how we live today, caught in a game of monetary values as a gauge of worth. Yet, all the while thinking of underlying values of the environment that shaped our culture.

Harvesting cedar bark from the trees to provide shelter and clothing is, or at least was, commonplace at a time. Bark pounded into soft fiber, roots woven into hats, capes lined with eagle down as means to literally remind us our connection to the land and its values. It was a different time and a different world in many ways. However, in time of isolation–which I have to do as part of my nature of occupation painting or carving–I recalled a powerful memory of a woman and man wearing cedar clothing, not entirely, but a hat, a backpack and eagle feathers crossing the street in downtown Seattle. It made me light up to know that they were not putting on a show or flaunting culture in opposition, but moving about as we all do in our daily lives.

Something about that memory made me put a pen in my hand and start drawing something from what was not comfortable, necessarily, but felt right to me. In this time of reflection I was thinking about the mask of this day we wear for function and not for show. Then, equally, how we put on a mask to show how happy we are when we aren’t, and how it took a pandemic for some to come to grips with this. I would be lying if I said this wasn’t something I wrestle with, but I’m no shaman, I’m no leader, I’m a product of my environment. I’m fortunate to have roots that kept me grounded here and I see the power of reflection in so many ways. Like anyone else, looking into my phone doesn’t tell me who I am or where I came from. No more than a screen does, or looking in the mirror.

I also wanted to depict somehow a modern reflection of a story of a man who sought fire for power so much that he had become it. Without humility, we give up more than we know. For some it is time, for some it is value, but there is resolution where lightning touches the water.

[mysafehaneul]

II.AQUAMARINE

JEON WONWOO X READER

WORDS: 7k+

GENRE: ARRANGE CONTRACT MARRIAGE AU! ENEMIES TO LOVERS!

ANGST, (obviously lol), Fluff, Smut (in future chapters not this one).

This is my original work for free comsumption because fuck capitalism but please do not steal it. All characters are orginal except The members of Seventeen, I do not own them. This is purely a work of fiction with no similarity with real life whatsoever, If any incident feel familiar, That is purely a coincedence. Please drop your feedback as it helps me feel motivated and improve. Happy Reading!

Previously On

CHAPTER 1

Here's the Picture that inspired this chapter.

CHAPTER 2: A RELUCTANT AGREEMENT

Ten years ago

Through the corridors of yesteryear, you recall the day when, in that bright classroom, red chairs and whiteboards, your professor's voice echoed through the room. The chirps of the birds could be heard from outside the window. Silent and attentive, like a gust of wind, he burst into the classroom, a whirlwind of energy and presence. Brown hair, tousled like a cascade of autumn leaves, His eyes bore the stories yet to be told; gentle and expressive, his brows arched as if to frame his emotions, a canvas upon which his feelings painted their masterpieces. And that smile, my goodness, that smile, a warm sunbeam peeking through the clouds, a constant presence on his lips, as if kindness itself chose to reside there. He tilted his lean body as he excused himself through the narrow passageway between the tables without knocking over the laptops or catching the professor's eyes.

Professor Stevens spun the pointer in his hand, expounding on the intricacies of change management. ''So as we can see from this point, change is an inherent part of life because the ability to adapt to a new circumstance is a hallmark of human resilience. From personal transformations to shifts within organisations, the psychological aspects of change and adaptation play a pivotal role in our ability to navigate unfamiliar'' His voice drew out and lost its trail when the movement at the back of the class disrupted his lecture. Catching sight of the intruder, voice laced with reprimand and amusement, he said, ''Stop right there, Mr. Mouse. Where are you attempting to sneak into?'' following his line of vision, all twenty pairs of eyes looking back at him. Through the collective attention of the classroom, Joshua could feel the burn of it as its evidence slowly rose to his cheeks. His embarrassment was palpable, an eloquent smile tucked away, and his gaze cast downward as if the most interesting object in the world were now on the floor beneath him. ''The class started twenty minutes ago, young man,'' the professor's voice resonated. With a sheepish grin and the shoulder strap of his backpack clutched tightly over his shoulder, Joshua lifted his head, his fingers finding refuge at the back of his head. ''Sorry, Dr. S,''  a hint of apologetic charm twinkling in his eyes. A swift retort danced in the professor's gaze. ''Party went too long,'' he quipped, and a ripple of chuckles traversed the classroom. ''Come here and sit in your assigned seat'' and went back to the lecture. Reclaiming the reins of the lecture, he went back to highlighting the nuances of adaptation, echoing through the walls. But his words faded into the background as you stood in the midst of that moment, your heart beating in a newfound rhythm. Your gaze was an unwitting lighthouse, locked onto him, and the cadence of his movement to his seat enveloped your senses. Your reverie was broken by a nudge from your best friend. Pulling you back from your daydreams. Her voice, laced with playful jes, reached your ears. ''I get that he's cute, but stop doorling.''

A smile adorned your lips. Rolling your eyes, you forced your eyes back to your professor. Unbeknownst to you, a pair of the same brown eyes got fixated on the person right next to you.

...

...

Present day

Laughter flowed like a melody, woven into the golden threads of the lamps and chandeliers above the table. Amidst the opulent splendour of the dining hall, the clinking glasses and the delicate harmony of forks and knives became the soundtrack of the evening. Your parents are mainly leading the conversations, engaging in animated conversations about Mr. Hoshimoto, the CEO of Tiger Baby Media, and his inexplicable obsession with tigers. ''I tell you,'' your father declared, his voice filled with mirth and the boost of wine. '' One of these days, he'll start adding 'rawr' at the end of every sentence.'' The collective laughter that followed enveloped the room with shared amusement.

And there, across the expanse of the table, was him. His eyes, as sharp and inquisitive as a fox, a shade of black as deep and enigmatic as the night sky, held stories untold, a universe of thoughts and emotions concealed within their depths. His gaze was both intense and preceptive, as if he possessed an innate ability to see beyond the surface and to delve into the hidden corners of the soul. met yours in a challenge, a dance of determination that played out in unspoken verse. With a lazy smile gracing his lips, he laid down his fork, reaching for his glass in sync with your movement, like a subtle mirroring of your actions. A silent duel of wills, a tug of intentions, unfurled between you both. His words echoing in your head: the information you believed was unbeknownst to the whole world, he is aware of it. You steeled your resolve; no matter what, you would not let him breach your composure. You will not let him have the benefit of doubt that he got under your skin. You gave a subtle cheer to the glass and brought it to your lips. 

But the universe had other plans. For your mother's voice, a beacon of redirection cut through the atmosphere, dissolving your silent standoff. A victorious grin danced on her lips, a know-it-all grin that spoke volumes of maternal triumph. ''Mrs.Jeon is asking you something,'' she announced, her words pulling you from the magnetic pull of his gaze. You redirected your attention, a reluctant withdrawal from the battlefield of gazes, only to meet the warm and understanding smile of Mrs. Jeon, who encouraged familiarity with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Call me Sunmi," she insisted, her tone one of amity. "So, Y/n, I've heard you completed your education and now handle your father's business in Switzerland. Any particular reason?" Her inquiry hung in the air, a canvas upon which you painted your aspirations and your reasons for charting your own path beyond the shadows of legacy. "I like the weather over there," you offered, your chuckles echoing like a chorus that surrounded you. "On a serious note," you continued, eyes glinting, determination set like steel. "I wanted to expand my horizons beyond the family's shadow, learn about the world, experience life, and make friends." And then, the audacity in his gaze pierced through, his mocking remark barely veiled, ''who feel like family'' a reminder that he was present in every corner of your world, even here. Your gaze, unwavering and defiant, shifted from Mrs. Jeon to him, a smile that whispered "Fuck off" without uttering a word. And then came the probing question that shifted the air—a playful inquiry about your romantic inclinations.

So, Y/N, do you have any boyfriends or girlfriends? '' "Suni—"

"Honey, it's the 20th century. A girl can have options." Sunmi's voice, cheekily defiant, carried an air of rebellion, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips as she leaned on her palm and elbows on the table. a posture that didn't sit well with your mother's etiquette-driven sensibilities.

"We're all friends here, aren't we?" she mused, her gaze challenging the boundaries of decorum. With a calculated tilt of your head and your voice a blend of wit and audacity, you responded, "Not sure. I'll have to check my dungeon in Switzerland to see if he's still there." The room held its breath, a suspended moment, a tightrope between jest and earnestness. Then, like a storm breaking, the room erupted in laughter—a deep, soulful laugh that enveloped you, drawing you into its embrace. Among the harmonies of shared amusement, his laughter stood out—a sonorous echo that mirrored the rhythm of your own mirth. He has a nice laugh, you thought to yourself. And amid the laughter, Sunmi's declaration washed over you like a gentle tide. "I like you," she confessed, her words an embrace of shared connection. "I knew I was going to like you." As the conversation flowed seamlessly back to its course, you found yourself excusing your way from the table—a retreat to solitude in the powder room. Yet even as you left, your curious eyes met his, his amused smile leaving a lingering trace on your thoughts.

In the realm where awareness transcends mere information, a deeper truth takes root. Information, like fleeting gusts of wind, is consumed and forgotten, but awareness—ah, awareness—unfurls like petals, revealing what lies beneath the façade presented to the world. It's the art of observation that grants one the privilege of peering beyond the surface, uncovering the hidden layers waiting to be unveiled. Such was the state that Wonwoo found himself in on a Thursday morning, stirred by a curiosity that had lain dormant for far too long. As your graceful figure retreated from the opulent dining hall, a realisation swept over him like a gentle breeze. He became acutely aware that the waters of your persona ran deeper than what shimmered on the surface, and an inexplicable urge surged within him to plunge into those depths. A subtle clearing of the throat snapped his thoughts back to the present, a reminder that it was impolite to let one's gaze linger too long. Such introspective musings were often doubled in embarrassment when witnessed by the lady's father. Caught in an unspoken exchange with your father, their eyes locked briefly, and an unspoken recognition passed between them. Your father then addressed Wonwoo, ''Young man,'' he began. ''I have to tell you, you make your father very proud. He was telling me how you have a keen eye for property.'' ''He flatters me, sir'' "Good work deserves appreciation," your father said, his words carrying the weight of wisdom. "It fuels productivity and fosters competition among peers. Learn to seek what you want, my boy, and when you find it, treasure it." With a tender gesture, he kissed your mother's hand, a symbol of the appreciation he spoke of. The secret smiles exchanged between them held volumes of shared understanding. Wonwoo's father chimed in, ''I agree'' his smile echoing his agreement. Amidst these exchanges, a restlessness began to claw at Wonwoo's insides. He excused himself from the table, his fingers twitching with a subtle anxiety. He needed solace, a moment of respite, and smoke. And so he rose from his seat, excusing himself from the company and the conversation that had entrapped him.

"Would you like someone to show you the way?" Your mother's voice offered assistance, kindness colouring her words.

Politely declining the offer, Wonwoo left the room, his destination veering not towards the washroom but towards the haven of the balcony. The open air beckoned to him, a refuge to sort through the whirlwind of thoughts that spun within him.

...

...

The tendrils of moonlight that wrapped around you, a heavy ambience of anguish clung to your soul, reminiscent of a night shrouded in sorrow. Your feet, as if drawn by the moon's silver strings, carried you into the night, and with every breath of cool night air, you felt a weight on your chest that hadn't pressed down so heavily since the night you lost a piece of your world. As the moonlight bathed you in its ethereal glow, you found solace in its tranquil embrace, a moment of respite from the tempestuous memories that surged within you.

Two years ago

The echo of heavy footsteps reverberated through the halls of your home, carrying with them a grim aura that painted the scene as it unfolded before you. In the doorway stood police officers, their expressions etched with sombre gravity. A voice, tinged with urgency, pierced the silence as one of them addressed you.

"Do you know Noella Bulavia Hong and Joshua Hong?" The words hung like a haunting melody in the air.

"Yes," you replied, urgency tightening your voice. "She's a very close friend of mine—Noella'' Oh my Ella.

It was the dreaded moment when reality turned into a nightmare. "I am sorry to inform you, Ms. L/N," the officer's voice held the weight of crushing news, "but today at 1:30 am, there was an accident at the Bahnhofstrasse. Two cars collided, and a gas leak ignited a fire that resulted in an explosion. The occupants of both cars lost their lives."

No--- Your world spun in disbelief, and your mind was a maelstrom of chaos. Numbness spread like a winter frost, as if you were detached from the very ground beneath you. Tears flowed involuntarily, and your senses dulled as if robbed of their essence. A heart-wrenching void opened within you, an emptiness so profound that it felt like you were falling endlessly into an abyss. The weight of the night pressed upon you, suffocating your spirit.

'Noella, the girl with the most resplendent eyes,' your thoughts whispered, each memory a fragile touch that warmed your heart. Every laugh, every shared moment, is all fading into the bitter reality of the present. You have heard that when a soulmate departs, a part of oneself fades away with them. Today, you understood that agony.

Why her?  Why her? What did she do to deserve this? Your thoughts spiralled into an anguished chorus. "When she finally found the love she always yearned for and the family she deserved,"

Sobs clawed at your throat, but you continued, driven by a desperate need for answers. "Officer, they had a son, Noel Hong. He's five years old; was he... He has blue eyes and

Words faltered, and incomprehensible emotions swirled within you. Officer Batch, a familiar face, placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, guiding you inside. The tea cup in your trembling hand was a lifeline, a futile attempt to find solace amidst the storm. But your thoughts slipped back to that dreaded call from Jeonghan, informing you of the accident.

"Fortunately, their son was not with them," he had said. "He was with his babysitter. Right now he is with Ms. Ashley, a child services officer. He's in the car sleeping."

Oh, Noel. Your mind groaned in anguish as you rested your head in your hands, trying to process the pain that gripped you. There was a honk outside, followed by a loud slam of the car door. A few beats later, Jeonghan rushed into the room, gathering you into a tight embrace. Sobs wracked both of you, two souls mourning the loss of the most important people in your lives.

"They're gone, JJ," you choked out, tears a torrent between you. "They're gone."

Victor, Jeonghan's partner, conversed with the officers before heading out to retrieve Noel from the car. "Where's Noel?" Jeonghan's voice trembled, brokenness painted across his face.

"Tante," a small voice roused you both. Noel's sleepy inquiry cut through the air like a blade, his innocence contrasting with the devastating truth. "Why are you crying? Where are Mama and Appa?"

Your heart shattered at the innocence that clung to his voice. You walked over to him, scooping him into your arms. Holding him tightly, you mustered a smile through your tears. "They went somewhere, little one. It's late; why don't Tante and Noel have a sleepover?"

"Without mama?" his voice trembled, mirroring your own.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice catching. "Today, it's just you and me."

You led him to your room, laying him down beneath the covers. He clung to your finger, his tiny hand a lifeline amidst the abyss of grief. In his slumber, he echoed the pain that reverberated within you. ''Tante, when will Mama and Appa come back'' for the first time in a while? You prayed for the first time in a while to know the answer to that question. ...

Descending back downstairs, the scene had changed. Officer Batch remained, as did Jeonghan and Victor. Ashley, the child services officer, stood, straightening her attire. Her condolences were heartfelt, and her sympathy was genuine. As she prepared to leave, her words lingered like a balm on your wounds.

"Firstly, I am extremely sorry for your loss."

The weight of her words hung heavy in the room. You looked around; the officer who had delivered the news had excused himself. It was now just the three of you, the grief englufing the room and the reality setting in.

Ashley's words took a practical turn, discussing procedures, cooperation, and the logistics of what lay ahead. But your thoughts drifted, images of Joshua and Noella surfacing like ghosts. You realised the danger Noel might be in—the very real threat that could have stolen him too.

"Jeonghan," you interjected, your voice calm yet resolved. "Noel's existence should remain hidden from the Bulavia family."

The room went quiet, the implication lingering in the air. ''The Bulavias are his only blood relatives,'' he cried, but you understood the darkness that lurked within their legacy. Victor's words echoed in your mind, urging you to see beyond the façade of their societal stature.

"They are murderers. Are you truly that naive to think their deaths were mere accidents?" The words tumbled from your lips, filled with an understanding forged from the past. "Come to your senses. We know what they are at the core; they may be arms manufactured for the world, but we all know—-'' you drew a deep breath, lowering your voice, '' they never cared for Noel. I am certain you can recall what happened when they learned of her pregnancy'' Jeonghan was now pacing as you sat down on the same chair as the officer Batch was once seated, recalling that horrendous sight when Joshua was beaten to pulp and Noella's brother slapped her to the ground—the horror she lived through till she came to the university. You were certain that if they got their hands on Noel, then one could only imagine the horrendous things they would do to that child. unshaken eyes and a composed voice, ''till the time I am alive, I won't let anyone touch Joshua and Noella's child''."

Jeonghan and Victor exchanged glances, their unspoken agreement cementing an unbreakable pact. A silent oath was shared among the three of you—Noel's protection was is and will be your first priority. Because every child deserves a childhood and no one will deprive him of it.

Present.

Your musings were interrupted by the persistent vibration of your phone against your dress. The moonlight cast a sombre glow, your thoughts mired in the past, and your heart still carried the weight of those memories. You glanced at the caller ID, Rema's name catching your eye.

Your phone stirred in your hand; its vibrations were a stark interruption to the calm. Your heart quickened, for her calls often held weighty matters. You answered, your voice soft yet tinged with an undercurrent of anticipation.

"Rema?"

Her voice carried a mixture of empathy and concern, her words threading a tapestry of news that would unravel your tranquilly. "Y/n, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a new development. A notice from the Swiss court has arrived."

Your fingers tightened around the phone, an invisible tension sweeping over you. "What is it?"

A heavy pause danced on the line, a prelude to a storm of emotions yet to come. "They're suing you, Y/N. The Bulavia family is filing a lawsuit against you, claiming that you've kept their grandson away from them."

Your breath caught, a tempest of disbelief swirling within you. Their intentions bore a weight that you couldn't ignore, and the accusation against you was an unwelcome intrusion into the sanctuary of your solitude.

"They're also alleging that you're an unstable person, unfit to care for Noel." Rema's voice carried a note of frustration, mirroring your own feelings.

The words hit you like a tidal wave, a surge of anger and desperation intertwined within your chest. The moonlight seemed to dim, the world tilting on its axis as the weight of their accusations pressed upon you.

As you processed the news, your back remained turned towards the entrance of the balcony. Little did you know that within the shadows, another presence lingered—WWonwoo, a silent observer in your moment of vulnerability.

Amidst the turmoil of emotions, your voice wavered as you spoke, your words a mix of resilience and defeat. "Rema, I... This is... it's unjust."

Her response was a reassuring echo in the night. "We won't let them tarnish your image, Y/N. I've already contacted our legal team, and the evidence is in our favour. We'll fight this with everything we have."

Your grip on the phone eased, and the connection between you and Rema felt like a lifeline in the storm. As you absorbed her words, the door leading to the balcony creaked open, but your attention was so consumed that you remained unaware of the presence that had joined you.

In the shadows, Wonwoo stood, his eyes upon your figure, his heart stirred by the depth of your emotions. Your strength and vulnerability were on display—a portrait of resilience in the face of adversity.

"We'll weather this storm together, Y/N." Rema's voice was a promise, a lifeline to hold onto in the tumultuous sea of uncertainty.

With a small nod, you replied, your voice a blend of determination and gratitude. "Thank you, Rema. I... I don't know what I'd do without you."

As the call ended, you remained standing on the balcony, seeking solace amidst the twinkling stars. The tendrils of cool air wrapped around you like a gentle embrace, a balm for the restless thoughts that stirred within. Unbeknownst to you, a presence approached, a shadow converging with your own.

A soft spark illuminated the darkness as a cigarette was lit, the warm glow revealing the figure that had joined you. Wonwoo's towering form, standing at a commanding 6 feet, casts a silent yet powerful presence. The tendrils of smoke that curled from his lips seemed like ethereal wisps of thought floating into the night.

"You're quite the enigma, aren't you?" His voice was a low rumble, a testament to the depth of his emotions.

Startled by his sudden appearance, you turned to face him, your eyes meeting the soft ember of the cigarette's tip. Your brows furrowed, and a mixture of surprise and accusation laced your voice. "Were you eavesdropping?"

He quirked an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his gaze. "Eavesdropping would imply a certain level of secrecy. I believe the word you're looking for is 'overheard.'"

Your lips curled into a wry smile, and you crossed your arms, meeting his gaze with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. "Semantics. What's the difference?"

He took a leisurely drag of his cigarette, his eyes never leaving yours. "The difference, my dear, is that eavesdropping implies a certain degree of intentionality, while overhearing is simply a matter of being in the right place at the right time."

The banter between you was a dance of words, a subtle clash of wills that echoed in the night air. The moon above seemed to glow a little brighter, as if captivated by the exchange unfolding beneath its watchful gaze.

As the cigarette dwindled to a mere stub, his final exhale mingled with the evening breeze, a symbol of conclusion. He flicked the remains away, the glowing ember dissipating into darkness. "Well, my unintentional overhearing has come to an end. Shall we return?"

You nodded, a mix of annoyance and something else settling within you. The two of you turned to leave the balcony, making your way back to the warmth of the dining room. The moment you stepped inside, you were met with the knowing glances of your parents, their exchanged looks laden with unspoken implications.

With an inward sigh, you were about to find your seat when Wonwoo's actions surprised you. He pulled out your chair, a gesture both unexpected and oddly courteous. The corners of your lips twitched, an amused yet sceptical glint in your eyes. "I can sit down on my own, you know."

His lips curled into a faint smile, his gaze meeting yours with an air of playful challenge. "I'm aware. But isn't it polite to assist a lady?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress a chuckle, despite yourself. "Chivalry isn't dead, I see."

As you settled into your seat, he took his own place across the table. The room was steeped in the echoes of your exchange, an unspoken understanding threading between you. The dance of words, the spark of banter—iit was a tapestry woven from different threads of emotion.

The clinks of silverware and hushed conversation enveloped the room once more, a symphony of togetherness and shared moments. Amidst it all, you and Wonwoo exchanged a fleeting glance, a silent acknowledgment of the dance you'd shared, a dance that had brought you both a little closer, even in the midst of your verbal jousting.

The evening had unfolded like a symphony of shared moments and whispered laughter. As the dinner drew to a close, the air held a blend of both familiarity and anticipation.

Mr. Jeon's eyes held a mixture of admiration and genuine warmth as he leaned forward, his words an echo of sincerity. "Y/N, my dear, your accomplishments are nothing short of remarkable. I sometimes wish I had a daughter like you."

A smile played upon your lips, a mixture of humility and gratitude. Beside him, Mrs. Jeon's gaze was softer yet equally sincere. "Indeed, dear, though we might not have had a daughter, there's always room in our hearts for someone as exceptional as you."

The words lingered in the air, like petals of praise carried by the wind.

And now, the time had come to bid adieu. Outside, the night awaited, and as the group made their way to the grand entrance of the mansion, the atmosphere was charged with the bittersweet awareness of departure.

A soft breeze brushed against your cheeks as you stood beside your parents. One by one, your parents exchanged pleasantries and farewells with the Jeon couple. When it was your turn, a sense of both anticipation and trepidation took hold.

Wonwoo's approach was graceful, his every step resonating with a quiet confidence. He first pressed a tender kiss upon your mother's hand, a gesture steeped in old-world charm. Then he shook your father's hand with the kind of firmness that conveyed respect.

And then, it was your turn. The air seemed to hum with charged energy as his eyes locked onto yours. The anticipation was palpable, and you felt his thumb gently trace the outline of your knuckles, a touch that sent ripples of sensation down your spine.

However, unlike how he bent to kiss your mother's hand, He raised your hand to his lips, but just as the moment seemed poised to unfold into something more profound, you made a choice. With a swift shift of your hand and a mischievous smile, you transformed the kiss into a handshake. His chuckles joined yours, a moment of shared amusement that danced like fireflies in the night.

The sound of his engine roared to life, a powerful crescendo that echoed the energy of the evening. Both cars began to glide down the drive, the mansion's gates awaiting their passage.

...

...

The road stretched before him, each mile carrying him further away from the evening that had etched itself deeply into his thoughts. The engine's low rumble echoed through the empty streets, a symphony of solitude that seemed to resonate with the weight on his mind.

You. The name seemed to echo in the quiet chambers of his thoughts, a refrain that he couldn't escape. Those eyes, your eyes, had held a certain fire that intrigued him, an ember of challenge that stirred his curiosity. The conversation he had unwittingly overheard in the corridor replayed in his mind like an elusive melody, each word resonating with a melody of its own.

As the penthouse came into view, its sleek lines and imposing presence a beacon in the night, he parked his car with the precision of someone accustomed to control. The lift carried him to his sanctuary, the living room, an oasis of shadows and scattered moonlight. The vast window transformed the cityscape into a tapestry of twinkling stars and luminous hues, a world outside the reach of his contemplations.

A figure graced the couch, legs crossed in a display of elegance that masked the complexity beneath. Eleanor Calder, a name that carried the weight of a past he couldn't quite shed, was a habit he yearned to break. He approached, the tension between them palpable, words unspoken yet hanging in the air like a tempest.

"Good evening, Wonwoo." Her voice was honeyed, a mixture of familiarity and ambiguity that had once ensnared him.

"Evening," he replied curtly, his gaze fixed on her as he took in her features illuminated by the faint glow. Glossy hair framed an alluring countenance, pouty lips, and eyes that held secrets of their own.

"How was the dinner?" Her question cut through the silence like a dagger, a reminder of the evening that refused to relinquish its hold.

"Fine," he replied tersely, the monosyllabic response a shield against the tides of memories.

"Is she as pretty as they say?" Eleanor's question was laden with a blend of curiosity and a hint of insecurity.

He let out a soft breath, the temptation to reveal his thoughts just shy of his lips. "Beauty is subjective," he said with a flicker of a smile.

She leaned closer, a sultry grin playing on her lips as she attempted to close the distance. "What about us, Wonwoo? Aren't we a beauty worth cherishing?"

His hand gently stopped her advance, a silent refusal that hung in the air. Her frustration surfaced, her lips trailing to his neck with a bite of aggression that carried echoes of their past.

"Why don't you like me anymore?" Her voice held a tinge of desperation, a question born from the shadows of uncertainty.

"You made your choice," he replied, his voice a mix of resignation and detachment. "Now you have to live with it."

Her retort was laced with bitterness, a blend of anger and longing. "That's never stopped you before."

The sound of shattering glass punctuated her exit, the remnants of a vase littering the ground as she left his presence. A sigh escaped him, a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

Slipping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he loosened his tie and unbuckled his belt, the insignias of formality discarded as he sought solace in his sanctuary. With practised ease, he dialled Chan's number, a weary smile tugging at his lips as he heard the groggy voice on the other end.

"Late night, Chan?" he quipped, his voice tinged with amusement.

"You may think I don't have a life outside of you, but I do have a routine, you know," Chan responded with a hint of mock annoyance.

Without missing a beat, Wonwoo shifted gears. "Get the construction company under a pseudonymous name, the one we'll be using for the Oasis project, to contact me. There's something I want to discuss."

The connection remained for a moment, a silent agreement shared in the darkness. As the call ended, a wistful smile played on his lips, a plan unfolding in his mind.

The path of water droplets on glass mirrored his thoughts, his gaze fixed on the city lights that danced beyond the window. And as he moved towards the sanctuary of his private space, his mind held a singular focus that burned as brightly as the moonlight.

....

....

The morning embraced you with its crispness, each step propelling you forward along the winding path of the park. The rhythm of your breath is synchronised with the rhythmic beat of your heart. Amidst the rhythmic cadence of your run, your thoughts were momentarily interrupted by the chime of your phone. With a brief pause, you pulled the device from your pocket, and the voice of your assistant, Rachel, filled your ears like a familiar tune.

"Good morning, Rachel. Early morning?"

"Morning, boss. It's about the Vanguard Builders project. They're refusing to work under the current terms of the contract. They want adjustments made to accommodate our engineers, and there seems to be a lack of cooperation between the architects, engineers, and workers. It's turning into quite a mess."

The tinge of irony that life often offers "Weren't they the highest bidders for this project? Why the sudden defiance?"

"Beats me," Rachel replied with a hint of exasperation.

"By the way, who's heading the Oasis department now?" You inquired, a sense of curiosity weaving through your words.

"William Holmes," Rachel promptly answered. "Here's a fun fact about William Holmes: Jeon Wonwoo and he graduated in the same class."

The gears of thought spun in your mind, pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

"Rach," you mused, "who's the owner of Vanguard Builders?"

"Well, the acting head is Roland Thomas," she began.

"And the real owner?" you pressed further.

There was a pause before she answered, the realisation dawning on both of you simultaneously. There were a few clicks on the keyboard. "It's a subsidiary of JJ Group," Rachel replied.

"Jeon Wonwoo." You echoed the name with a mix of astonishment and determination.

"Rach, put the project on hold," you commanded, your tone unyielding yet composed. "And get in touch with his office. I need an appointment as soon as possible."

With a nod that only you could sense through the call, you concluded, "I'll see you at the office."

As you continued your run, the weight of the situation settled on you. What was it about that particular project, that particular place, that had him so resolute in its pursuit? With each stride, you felt the anticipation and tension growing, a prelude to the battle that lay ahead.

Upon returning home, you couldn't shake off the sense that this was going to be a long and intricate day.

....

....

In the seclusion of his office, Wonwoo perched on the corner of his desk, a solitary figure framed by the expansive window that offered a view into the bustling world beyond. His gaze was drawn downward, watching the city's heartbeat throb in the form of fast-paced cars and the hurried lives of its inhabitants. The city's rhythm was a stark contrast to the moment's stillness, his thoughts a tempest swirling in the calm.

As if sensing the weight of his contemplation, the door creaked open, and Chan, with a sprightly demeanour, stepped into the room. A subtle dance marked his steps, a rhythm of his own that added a touch of buoyancy to the space. With a cordial smile, Chan informed him about the call from your assistant.

"Sir, Ms. L/N's assistant called. They want to arrange a meeting," Chan shared, his words carrying an undertone of intrigue.

Wonwoo turned slightly, his gaze shifting from the window to rest on Chan. "What time did they suggest?"

"Anytime that's convenient for you, sir," Chan replied.

A calculating glint sparked in Wonwoo's eyes, and a faint smile touched his lips. "Tell them this. I don't want to meet her in my office. Arrange for a meeting at the restaurant in my hotel. Inform the staff there that I'll be dining with her. Confirm the details with her, of course."

The pieces of the puzzle were slowly falling into place, and Wonwoo found himself musing about the unbinding knots of destiny. As Chan nodded and left to carry out his instructions, Wonwoo's thoughts continued to wander. The game was afoot. The city continued its rhythm outside the window, and Wonwoo knew that within its cadence, a melody of possibilities was beginning to emerge.

....

A monstera plant stood sentinel by the door, a hint of nature's wildness juxtaposed against the sleek, orderly decor. An aquarium to your left provided a soothing contrast, an aquatic symphony of colours and life.

Rachael's entrance echoed with purpose, her heels punctuating the marble's silence. "Boss," she addressed, her tone threaded with urgency, "Mr. Jeon has agreed to the meeting, but not in his office. He's opted for the hotel's restaurant, Lyden."

You muttered an exasperated "son of a bitch" under your breath. Wonwoo's manoeuvring was a subtle art that kept you on your toes. The enigma surrounding his intentions was matched only by his persistence.

The thought crossed your mind—was he trying to be overly familiar, or was this merely a strategic ploy? His determination to procure the land was palpable, but his methods—oh, his methods—remained enigmatic.

Sighing, you confirmed the dinner for 7. The sooner you navigated this web, the quicker you could retreat to familiar ground. And marriage—well, that was a topic that had lost its novelty.

...

As twilight painted the canvas of the city, you found yourself within the opulent embrace of the Lyden Hotel—a sanctuary of luxury nestled in the heart of urban chaos. The clutches of your office attire remained steadfast, for the effort to change felt extraneous. Lavender notes wafted in the air, a soothing touch to your racing heart, and the art that adorned the lobby resonated with the lively atmosphere. The hotel's colour palette resonated with hues of purple and lavender, a tranquil dominance that contrasted with the usual gold and red. The gleam of lamps and chandeliers, cast in ethereal white instead of conventional gold, danced around you as an attendant, average in height and likely in his mid-40s, approached. His warm smile invited you to navigate this orchestrated rendezvous, his presence a gentle anchor to the surging tides of anticipation. But then a presence sidled up to you, and you met those dark eyes again. Wonwoo, your enigmatic companion, surveyed you with an intensity that mirrored your first encounter. A tinge of humour danced on his lips, shared only with you. He leaned in slightly, his voice laced with a jesting tone.

"You know, Ms.L/N, I've heard rumours that Swiss chocolate is so irresistible that it once convinced a diplomat to give up an entire country just for a taste."

You chuckled, playing along. "Is that so? Well, Mr. Jeon, I've also heard whispers that Swiss watches are so accurate that they can predict the future."

He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Predict the future, you say? I must have missed that feature on my watch."

"It's a hidden setting, only activated when you're running fashionably late," you replied with a grin.

His laughter mingled with the ambient sounds of the restaurant, creating a melody that seemed to synchronise with the beating of your heart. "Ah, so that's the secret! I'll have to try it out sometime."

"Mr. Jeon," the manager began, addressing Wonwoo, "I apologise for the wait. And you must be Ms. L/N. Please, this way, your table is ready."

As the evening unfolded, a tapestry of conversation weaved between you. They served wine, but you abstained, aware of your responsibility on the road. Wonwoo, that audacious man, prodded you "You know, Ms.L/n, I've heard rumours about these smile police," he quipped, a playful glint in his eyes. "Apparently, they're quite strict when it comes to ensuring that everyone's lips are on an upward curve." You saw through his whimsical façade, demanding to know his true intentions.

''What is it that you truly want, Mr. Jeon?''

With a practised lean and a wry grin, he revealed his interest—your Oasis project.

You chuckled. 

The weight of his intent hung in the air as he proposed a partnership, a 30-70 arrangement.

You, unperturbed, countered his proposition with grace.

''How about 40%?''His reaction was a study in composure—stillness giving way to a wry smile. He inquired ''What's the catch?'', arching an eyebrow.

The pasta found its way to your mouth, providing you with a moment's reprieve. Washing down with water, you said, "Would you like to marry me, Jeon Wonwoo?"

A few hours ago

"Rach!" you grumbled, rubbing your temples. "Rema's on line two." A quizzical look passed between you as to why she would call the office line, and then realisation dawned—you'd left your phone on the dresser, charging.

Rema's voice trickled through, laced with fatigue and worry. As she detailed the developments, a storm brewed within you. The lawsuit, the custody battle—the magnitude of it all pressed against your chest.

"They're claiming your lifestyle is unstable," Rema informed, her voice tinged with sympathy.

You scoffed. "Define unstable."

"Frequent moving, long absences, and—well, they highlighted the lack of a husband."

"Bullshit," you spat. "I don't recall the law stating that a single woman can't adopt her ward, bestowed upon her by the child's parents."

Rema's understanding tone resonated with the receiver. "I know, Y/n."

The conversation pivoted to the notion of marriage, and your disbelief was palpable. "So, I should get hitched just for a legal battle? That's absurd."

"Y/N, I'm your lawyer," Rema asserted, her voice unwavering. "I can't suggest illegal activities. But I can ponder the 'what ifs.'"

Your mind whirred, emotions settling into resolution. Closing every avenue that the Bulavia family sought to exploit. Even if it means Jeon Wonwoo,

Present

His reaction was a symphony of amusement,his eyes glinting with intrigue. He leaned back, beckoning you to elaborate.

"I don't like owing anyone," you began. "It seems I'm in a bit of a predicament. I find myself in need of a husband. If you agree—"

A grin played on his lips as he interjected, "So, when do you want to get married?"

You spluttered, momentarily caught off-guard. He was swift in his response, crafting a clever solution out of thin air. "You said you wanted a husband, and there's pressure on me to find a wife. Killing two birds with one stone" He shrugged and said, "Do enlighten me, Ms. L/N. I'm curious to hear about these circumstances that demand such a drastic solution." and you did. ...

In the car, As you drove Wonwoo to his place, the air was laden with silence, your thoughts whispering secrets only the wind could hear. The plans for Noel, your mutual benefit—it all tumbled through your mind. The contract, the call, and your parents

"Are you always this persuadable?" you inquired, your words filling the silent car.

"Only when it involves a beautiful lady in distress," he retorted, causing you to roll your eyes.

As you navigated through the city streets once again, you spoke of Noel, his significance, and the impending legalities. Wonwoo remained thoughtful, his demeanour subdued. With his apartment in sight, his voice resounded, seeking answers.

"So, he's not your son?" he queried, a sliver of vulnerability seeping into his tone.

"No," you affirmed. "Your informant was not as efficient as it seems, but he's like a son to me."

His curiosity blossomed further. "Do your parents know about it?"

You chuckled. "About what?"

"About Noel," he reiterated.

"No," you confessed, "they believe he was with Noella and Joshua that night, as they couldn't attend the funeral."

He nodded in understanding, his thoughts churning in the silence. . As he watched your car fade into the distance, a sense of purpose filled him. The evening's discussions had ignited a fire of determination within him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialling his mother's number.

As the line rang, his thoughts swirled like the city lights below. The memories of his grandmother, a regal and wise woman, were as vivid as ever. She had worn a unique ring—a family heirloom—that he had admired since childhood. He could still hear her stories, her voice rich with history and love.

The call connected, and his mother's warm voice flowed through the line. "Wonwoo, dear, how are you?"

He smiled, her voice a comforting balm. "I'm well, Mama. I was actually calling to ask Do you know where Grandma's ring is"? 

tbc

A/N: Phew! its was a long chapter, hope you all liked it. Please drop your feedback in the comments or reblogs with tag or in the inbox as it motivates me and help makes the fic better.

xx

msh

[simstorian-blog]

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