#ic ... to build statues out of snow ❅

[cardiolog1st-gone]

"Zayne 哥哥，不如張開嘴巴让我喂你吃东西吧 ~" Jade 提起勺子輕輕地在醫生的嘴边撩撩了一下，Zayne 一定是不稀奇地又為了工作忘了用餐

賈伊德用那雙深邃的眼眸緊緊盯住他 ， 目光帶著不容拒絕的意味 。 黎深無可奈何 ， 只得順從地張開嘴 ， 任由賈伊德將食物輕輕送入他口中 。 平日裡 ， 黎深總是冷著一張臉 ， 但此刻他心軟下來 ， 嘴角微微上揚 ， 露出一抹難得的笑意 。 他低聲說道 ： 「 叫我哥 ？ … 乖 。 你到底有什麼目的 ， 話還說得這麼甜 ？ 」

[cardiolog1st]

his sudden departure from the medical community had sent a wave of unease through his peers. given that he'd been selected as a researcher for the arctic project that everyone had wanted to be a part of, he could hear their minds whirring: he seemed so happy in the course, everything at his fingertips, & yet still dissatisfied? it was hard to explain himself, but there was something about forensics that drew him in, like moth to flame. unlike medicine, which gave him a sense of satisfaction at best, forensics excited him. made him feel passionate again, like a child discovering a new hobby, eyes bright for the first time.

he lifts his coffee cup for a sip, observes the dark ring it leaves behind; the countless of dried marks under that. " i feel like i was meant to work in forensics. it just took me a bit longer to find my way there. "

he listens placidly to armaros' speech. privately, he agrees with the speculation: while the acts were gruesome, inspection of the cuts showed that they were not senselessly violent or brutal. there'd been no defensive wounds; no mess at the scene ... no, this kill was unindicative of a loss of control. with the victim's face intact, it likely wasn't a crime of passion, either. he supposed that the killer felt justified by his own actions. righteous. cutting off hands, as if robbing the victim of agency, & the degrading arrangement of the body - it was all done with a certain precision. an attention-seeking, passionate sort of tableau. a person with a story to tell. self-grandiose, fanatic, ritualistic. kind of pathetic. without enough attention, a killer like that is bound to come crawling out of the woodworks, screaming for someone to look.

" i never knew you had such strong feelings about the recent murders. it's a pity, isn't it. " that seems like a sufficiently bland answer to give. easier to play the role of an echo chamber than call attention to his investigation; people enjoy that sort of treatment well enough. he doesn't really care for the deliberate hook in armaros' tone. refuses to bite. he's a picky fish, after all. " is that what you think - that killing is to sate the ego? hmm. " takes long enough of a pause for the hum to sound like disapproval. " i think there are a lot of reasons that cause people to kill. "

a chuckle sings from armaros's lips. a tad bit dissonant if you're in tune, but pleasant enough. the title isn't unfamiliar to his ears, though something about hearing it from zayne had the typically refreshing moniker twisting into something ugly — pulling what wanted to be an ugly sneer into a smile, as kind as he ever gave. distant as he ever was. it was never anything strong enough to name, anyway. "dr. zayne," he said with a nod to the seat that zayne was already sliding into, book closing. "or is it coroner, now? what attracted you to that position, i wonder. either way, same could be said for yourself, mm?"

he scans jade briefly; he doesn't see any surprise on the younger man's features, not even as he dares to peer into ponds of lotus to be sure. people always told him he had an unnerving gaze anyway; may as well use it to take what secrets he can. not that there's much to find here, only still waters. somehow, it makes him grin wider, flash of cheshire. it's not the first time zayne had seen the scene. armaros himself had fled quickly enough — loathe to be caught, confident in his swept-away footsteps. interesting. when he laid his trap he was expecting no more than a mouse, one he could poke and prod before forgetting about. maybe a trophy of some kind, a fox or a raven. instead he finds himself faced with a bloodhound, and if armaros is correct — his very own hound on his trail, one unaware he's close to his own reward. if zayne plays his cards right.

an eyebrow quirked, armaros placing his chin in his hands in mock thought, head cocked. "what makes it disgusting? is it not obvious? i suppose you know it isn't the gore of it — our history would make that laughable." he hums, considering his words. he's curious, now; one of the few things here to perk his attention, remind him of his pulse. he plays with fire, remembering the feeling of his matches in his hands. his heart thrums now the same as it did then; he reminds himself to play it smart, too, but he can't help but briefly indulge the excitement. his tongue clicks, face falling flat. "but to lose yourself to such primal thoughts and urges? all over...what, an ego? especially when violence is already rising..." armaros trails off with a lazy shrug. "but perhaps that's all the more reason, right? psychology tells us so, it's a question that answers itself despite the ugly emotions events like this cause."

[inkedinshadows]

Warm Embrace

Pairing: Eris x reader

A/N: @kathren1sky-blog here you go my love! I changed the prompt a little to keep it in canon, hope you don't mind<33

Word count: 499

Warnings: none

6 - it’s freezing cold and they can’t figure out how to turn on the heat; they’ll just have to share the bed to stay warm then

Go to the Winter Court, they said. It'll be fun, they said.

And it had been fun. You liked the snow, and you enjoyed the change of scenery, from the oranges and browns of Autumn to the whites and blues of Winter.

But it stopped being fun the moment you entered the cabin you'd be spending the night in, only to realize that there was no fireplace to shield you from the freezing night.

Your teeth chattered together as you wrapped the blanket tighter around your body, but even pulling it up over your head did nothing to chase away the cold that seemed to have settled deep in your bones.

“Need some help?”

Eris's voice was muffled by all the layers covering you.

“How?” you grumbled, silently cursing whoever had the brilliant idea to build a house without a fireplace in the Winter Court.

Eris let out a low chuckle. “Did you forget I can wield fire?”

Your eyes peeked out from beneath the blanket. He was still sitting on the other bed, seemingly unbothered by the cold.

“I can use my power to keep you warm,” he explained. “But I need to be very close to you to do that.”

It was a good thing your cheeks were already red from the cold.

And even though the idea of sharing a bed with him made your heart flutter, you were too close to turning into an ice statue to dwell on it.

You nodded, and Eris quickly walked over to your bed and slipped under the covers.

“Can I hug you?” he asked softly.

You froze. But of course, it was the freezing weather's fault. Not the thought of Eris hugging you.

Sensing your hesitation, he added, “You'll warm up faster if I do.”

It was all the explanation you needed.

“Okay,” you murmured.

As his arms wrapped around you, you tried to ease your tension by saying the first thing that came to mind.

“This isn't just an excuse to hold me, right?”

“No, it's not,” he assured you, and you could feel his breath against your neck. “Trust me.”

You'd never been this close to him. The heat that rushed to your face as he pulled you back against his chest was probably enough to forget the cold.

But then… Then the cold truly disappeared.

Behind you, Eris's body grew warmer. His hands enveloped yours, and slowly, the blood began flowing again through your stiff fingers.

You relaxed in his arms as the icy chill faded, a relieved sigh slipping from your lips.

“Better?”

A satisfied hum was your only answer.

Eris's soft laugh tickled your ear and skittered down your spine.

“Get some sleep, then,” he murmured, holding you closer. “It's been a long day.”

Finally comfortable in his warm embrace, it didn't take long for sleep to find you. But as you fell into the realm of dreams, you heard the last few words Eris whispered.

“I'll always keep you warm. I promise.”

Taglist: @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd @lreadsstuff @littlest-w01f

Eris tags: @kathren1sky-blog

[cardiolog1st]

Puts a hat on him, on it, boldly printed in golden letters was "Fish want me, women want me too" 🧢

" ... are you quite done? i hope you're happy. "

[cardiolog1st-gone]

what sort of doctor would he be, if he didnt check up on the status of his patient ? after escorting @quietlyblooms back home in a drunken state, he didn't have the heart to leave her be. " did i wake you ? " he whispers apologetically, smoothing a hand over sleep-rumpled hair as he places a thermos of warm water beside her. he contains a soft laugh at her clingy behaviour, gently extricating the grip of her lax fingers, " go back to sleep. it's still early morning. "

[cardiolog1st]

how long has it been since someone asked? he'd kept those needs & desires to himself for so long, that by now, he has no need for them any more. the time for comfort has passed. higuruma's hands cup his, & he lets himself be guided: finds something comforting, in being led. the simple touch resonates; hyperaware of his thumb over his pulse. does his blood rise up to meet the steady fingers ?

" things never end. " the way he speaks those words, as if drawn out of him - as if a memory is elicited by their intimacy. unknown bitterness, the press of something bigger than him crowding the space between his eyelids & brain. he sees an afterimage, tipping fountain of pain, punishment cycling through like a wheel. like it all ends in perfect symmetry. the beginning of the end and the end of the beginning. he grits his teeth. speaks. " what i want is this, here, with you. "

higuruma's hiding something from him. he wants to peel back the layers, & know exactly what. eyes narrow. two abysses facing into each other to combine as one. " is that too much to ask? "

It's nice. The way they seem to intertwine into each other — though ensnare might be a more fitting term. Severed from what once made him holy and ousted from high heavens, he is no fool. Hiromi's well aware of the effect he has on others. Those seeking atonement especially seem to fall into orbit.

Does this make him the carrion or tireless vulture? He's yet to come to a sound conclusion.

"To constantly have in mind? No, I suppose not." Hiromi almost sounds amused. Not from the response, no, but rather the path being trailed down the heart of his palm. Briefly, he wonders if Zayne can sense it — the horrors wrought with these now resting things. At one point, both blood and ichor alike welled deep in each crease. Can he feel it? The strength and sorrow, pride and anguish that constructs each hand?

"Things will always end, in one way or another." Fingers curl further down, far softer than the steel-jawed trap they imitate. "But for now.." He hums, autumn dry and hearth warm. Lets his hand continue upwards past the heel of a Zayne's palm and onto the wrist. "What is it that you like? What things?"

[crystal-to-bloom]

Chapter 1: The Call of the Cold

Grayson family x child dragon reader

𝟙, 𝟚, 𝟛, 𝟛.𝟝, 𝟜, 𝟝

It started as an ordinary task.

Nolan hasn't flown to distant sectors for a long time. The Global Defense Agency has seized an unusual energy impulse emanating from one of the forgotten planets - Dragon Peak. The planet was considered dead: frozen for a long time, completely uninhabited.

But the signal was clear, and as if... alive. Cecil asked to check - quickly and without noise.

Nolan hardly hesitated. He didn't tell Debbie the whole truth. He didn't wake Mark up. He just kissed his wife on the forehead and said:

- I'll be back soon. It won't take much time.

He believed in it himself.

Dragons' Rest

...As the ship descended onto the icy surface, the silence was almost absolute. Only the hum of the systems in his helmet and the creaking of the ice under his feet. Nolan looked around.

The planet was covered in crystalline snow and permafrost. He climbed the slope - the scanners did not pick up a single sign of life, only traces: old buildings, ruined temples, frozen bones of dragon-like creatures.

He walked through fields of petrified wings, where everything seemed to have stopped in its final, farewell movement.

"Here... was life," he muttered, looking at the ice statue of a dragon bending over something... as if guarding it.

That "something" turned out to be the entrance to a temple - an ancient sanctuary, half-ruined, but still filled with strange energy. There were frescoes inside. Images. Dragons with horns and tails. One of them held a shining egg in its paws. No inscriptions, no sounds - only a sense of loss. Departure.

Nolan froze in the center of the hall.

He felt a presence, but not a living one. Memory. Echo.

This civilization disappeared - not yesterday, not a hundred years ago. Thousands of years ago. And the egg lying on the pedestal is all that remains of them.

"Are you... the last?" he said, looking at the shining turquoise egg.

He stayed in the temple for several hours. Left beacons, analyzed the air, energy traces. Returned to the ship, checked every sensor.

There was no life.

He approached the egg only when he was sure: it belonged to no one, except the planet itself. It was waiting. Waiting for someone to wake him up. Someone to take care of him.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said quietly, picking up the egg, “but I know you shouldn’t disappear.”

Chapter 2

(Yeah... maybe for some people it will be strange, but it's okay, at least I like it. :] )

[cardiolog1st-gone]

“  Got caught giving a fuck. Embarrassing. ” / From Sylus!

sylus isn't talking about him ; he knows he's never caught lacking like that . still the more zayne gets to know him , he realizes that sylus is kind of dramatic . he turns another page of his book , casual even as he tries to hide a smirk . " what about , this time ? "

[darkficlord69]

Fire & Ice

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Jacaerys Velaryon

Warning: tastefully depicted smut (18+)

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When fire meets ice, the very walls of Winterfell seem to tremble. But is the wolf a worthy match for the dragon?

Jacaerys Velaryon sat beneath the sprawling canopy of the godswood, a single white flower caught between his slender fingers. He plucked its petals one by one, watching them drift down to the withered grass like fallen snow. A sigh escaped his lips, soft as the summer breeze, and his fingers, adorned with silver rings fashioned in the shape of dragons' scaly tails, stilled when a bee landed upon his pink nipple. He dared not move, resembling a statue of marble, all sharp curves and delicate lines, carved by a true master’s hand. He held his breath until the bee took flight, then allowed a small smile to break across his face as he prepared to rise.

But then, a shadow fell over him, long and imposing, blotting out the sun. Jacaerys looked up, squinting against the sudden darkness.

"Good day, my prince," came a husky voice, roughened by the chill of the North.

"You too, Cregan," Jacaerys replied mildly, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though he feared to break the stillness of the godswood.

"The lords of the war council request your presence in the solar," Cregan Stark said. "I had hoped you would care to join us."

Jacaerys let his gaze wander over Stark’s solid frame, taking in the man’s sturdy build. Those legs, long and strong beneath plain woolen breeches; that broad heavy chest hidden beneath layers of soft furs and leather; his hair, brown as autumn leaves, and his hard eyes, grey as winter’s ice—eyes that could thaw even the heart of a dragonlord.

He was lost in girlish thoughts, caught up in the rugged beauty of the Stark, when a soft throaty cough brought him back to himself. Cregan extended a gloved hand.

"Of course, my lord," Jacaerys said, taking the offered hand and letting Cregan pull him to his feet. "Anything you need."

***

The great hall of Winterfell rang with voices of discontent. Lord Umber’s booming shout rose above the rest, his face as red as his hair. “Straining our armies will only increase the risk of wildling attacks!” The room responded with a chorus of grunts and murmurs of approval. “Southron skirmishes are no concern of ours, I say!”

Lord Manderly, heavyset and lounging in his chair, responded in a bored drawl. “The South is as much a part of the Seven Kingdoms as the North. Sooner or later, one king or queen will force us to choose a side.”

“The Iron Throne will not look kindly upon our allegiance to Rhaenyra Targaryen,” Lord Hornwood intoned. Cregan Stark, seated at the head of the long oak table, had listened to enough prattle to make his head throb in annoyance. With a resounding thud, he slammed his large hands on the oak table, sending goblets rattling and silencing his bannermen. A sombre heaviness fell over the room, thick as the northern snows. The Warden of the North took a breath, his grey eyes hard and unyielding.

“We pledged our support to King Viserys’s heir long ago,” he said, his voice stern. “Never has a Stark broken his word, and I do not intend to be the first. Remember where your loyalties lie, my lords.”

With those words, dark and final as the grave, Cregan rose from the table, his wolfskin cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. Jacaerys Velaryon followed, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Once they were alone in the dim corridor of the Great Keep, Jacaerys’s mask of composure slipped, revealing the warmth beneath. “Cregan,” he said softly, his voice filled with genuine gratitude, “thank you.” The support of the North meant that his mother would be one step closer to claiming her birthright.

Cregan gave a curt nod, intent on heading to his chambers. But before he could take another step, he felt a firm yet gentle push, his back pressing against the cold stone of a column.

“Now let me show you how a dragon expresses his gratitude,” the prince murmured, a teasing grin curling his full, pouty lips. The words hung in the cold, still air, filled with a heat that made Cregan's blood pulse faster. Jacaerys moved with a lithe grace, every step a promise, every movement a dance of seduction.

Slowly, Jacaerys knelt before the Stark lord, his hands gliding up Cregan’s strong thighs. His touch was featherlight, just a whisper of fingers trailing over thick wool and leather, but it was enough to make Cregan’s breath catch in his throat. The prince’s eyes were dark, glimmering with mischief and desire, his expression one of pure intent as he let his fingers dance along the inside of Cregan's legs, feeling the muscles tense under his touch.

Cregan’s heart pounded in his chest, a heavy, insistent rhythm that matched the stirring in his loins. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling into fists as he fought the urge to pull Jacaerys up, to crush their mouths together in a desperate kiss. But he held back, held still, mesmerized by the sight of the prince at his knees, those nimble hands tracing patterns on his skin.

Jacaerys’s fingers found the edge of Cregan’s tunic, slipping beneath it, brushing against warm hair-covered flesh. The touch sent a shiver up Cregan’s spine, his breath hissing out between his teeth. Jacaerys looked up at him, his eyes half-lidded, his lips parted slightly, his breath warm against Cregan’s thigh.

The prince leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Cregan’s leg, just above the knee. Cregan’s muscles tensed beneath the tender touch, his fingers twitching with the need to reach out, to bury them in the dark waves of Jacaerys’s hair. He watched, entranced, as Jacaerys continued his slow, torturous journey, his lips brushing lightly up the inside of Cregan’s thigh, each kiss a spark, each touch a flame.

The wolf stirred within Cregan, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he felt the heat of Jacaerys’s mouth moving higher. His desire, coiled tight like a spring, grew with every brush of those lips, every teasing touch. He felt himself harden, the ache of want becoming almost unbearable.

Jacaerys’s smirk widened as he felt the evidence of Cregan’s arousal beneath his hands. He looked up again, his eyes meeting Cregan’s, holding his gaze as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin just below Cregan’s hip. Cregan’s breath came out in a harsh exhale, his control slipping, his need overtaking him.

With a growl, Cregan reached down, his hands tangling in Jacaerys’s hair, pulling the prince up with a rough urgency. Their lips crashed together, the kiss fierce and desperate, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a frantic dance. It was a kiss that spoke of hunger, of a desire that had been simmering beneath the surface for too long, finally unleashed.

Jacaerys responded with equal fervor, his hands gripping Cregan’s shoulders, pulling him closer, their bodies pressing together, fitting like pieces of a puzzle. The prince’s lips were soft but insistent, demanding and giving all at once. Cregan could taste the heat of him, could feel the fire that burned beneath his skin, and he met it with his own cold fury, his own wild, untamed desire.

Their mouths moved together, each kiss deeper, more intense than the last, as if they were trying to consume each other, to fuse together through sheer will. Cregan’s hands moved down, grasping Jacaerys’s waist, pulling him closer still, until there was no space between them, until they were one, bound together by the force of their need.

His lips left Cregan’s mouth, trailing down his jaw, his neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the column of his throat. Cregan tipped his head back, a groan rumbling in his chest as Jacaerys found a sensitive spot, sucking gently, teeth grazing over skin.

The prince’s hands moved lower, finding hard planes of muscle, scars that marked his furry skin. He traced them with his fingertips, memorizing the shape of them, the feel of them, each one a testament to the man before him, to the strength and the honor that he embodied.

Cregan’s hands moved to Jacaerys’s waist, fingers digging into the prince’s hips as he pulled him impossibly closer, grinding against him, feeling the heat of his arousal through the layers of fabric. Jacaerys gasped, his head falling back, his eyes fluttering closed as pleasure coursed through him, his body arching into Cregan’s touch.

They moved together, lips meeting again in a fierce kiss, hands exploring, claiming, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. The wolf and the dragon, fire and ice, together in the dark, bound by a passion that neither could deny. And in that moment, they were lost to the world, to the weight of their titles and the burdens of their duties, lost to everything but each other.Jacaerys gasped, his fingers tangling in Cregan’s thick, dark hair as he pressed ever closer, his body melting against the northerner’s like ice before a flame. Cregan’s lips moved to Jacaerys’s neck, finding the pulse there and biting down just hard enough to make the prince hiss in pleasure.

“More,” Jacaerys demanded, his voice breathless, his eyes half-lidded with desire. “Show me how fierce the wolf can be.”

Cregan needed no further invitation. He lifted Jacaerys effortlessly, the prince’s legs wrapping around his waist as it was Cregan’s turn to press him against the wall. The cold stone was a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies, but neither of them noticed. Their world had narrowed to this moment, to the taste of each other’s mouths and the feel of their skin.

They were fire and ice, light and shadow, opposites drawn together by a force neither of them could fully understand but neither wanted to fight. Here, in the shadows of the keep, they were free of the burdens of their titles and the weight of their responsibilities. Here, they were just two dandy men, lost in the madness of each other.

Cregan’s hands found the laces of Jacaerys’s lacy smallclothes and pulled, the fabric sliding down the prince’s hips and pooling at his feet. Jacaerys shivered at the sensation, his hands gripping Cregan’s shoulders as the northern lord knelt before him.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Cregan looked up, his eyes meeting Jacaerys’s, asking a question without words. Jacaerys nodded, a silent answer, a trust given and accepted.

“Stay still now, woman,” Stark commanded and Jace whimpered at the order.

Then, Cregan’s lips were on him, hot and wet and hungry, and Jacaerys gasped, his head falling back against the stone. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, to the heat of Cregan’s mouth and the rough scrape of his beard against sensitive skin.

Jacaerys’s breath came in ragged gasps, his hands fisting in Cregan’s hair as pleasure coursed through him, building and building until he thought he might shatter from it. And then, with a cry that echoed off the walls of Winterfell, he did, his body tensing, his back arching, and then collapsing against the stone, boneless and sated.

Cregan rose, his lips curved in a small, satisfied smile as he pulled Jace into his arms, holding him close as the prince caught his breath. They stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the only sound their breathing, the only warmth the heat of their bodies.

Finally, Jacaerys pulled back, his eyes bright, a lazy smile playing at his lips. “Well, Lord Stark,” he murmured, “I must say, your loyalty has its rewards.”

Cregan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a thrill through Jacaerys’s already sated body. “And you, Prince Jacaerys, are a demanding wench.”

Jacaerys leaned in, his lips brushing against Cregan’s ear as he whispered, “Only because I know you can handle me, oh Wolf of Winterfell.”

Cregan’s grin widened, his eyes darkening with promise. “Then you’ll have to show me again, you feisty dragonling,” he said, his voice a low growl.

Jacaerys laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the corridor. “Oh, I intend to, Cregan Stark. Many times over.”

And with that, they slipped away into the shadows, leaving only the faint echo of their laughter and the lingering warmth of their passion behind them.

End.

Hi! Hope you liked it 🥰 Any form of feedback is greatly appreciated! 🫶

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

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

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Four - Hamster ball

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

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

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hard day at therapy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone’s a critic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The promise kept safe in your electronic device. 

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

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

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

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

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

No. No you didn’t.

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

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

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

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.” 

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

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

Not that she didn't still try.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should’ve known better.

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

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

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

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

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

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

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

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

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

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

Opening shifts were always the worst. 

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

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

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

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

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

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

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

Fuck him. 

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

The minute hand goes round and round.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only, there’s something wrong…

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

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

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

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

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

The phone hasn’t rang once. 

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

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

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

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

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

How did she react? 

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

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

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

Poor, stupid omega.

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

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

You never got around to fixing your hair.

<< ✿ Previous ✿ << ✽ >> ✿ Next ✿ >>

[madaqueue]

THE SUN SHINES ON YESTERDAY’S NEW-FALLEN SNOW

PRESS SNOWFLAKES IN A BOOK LIKE FLOWERS — a milestone event

status: closed!

hi friends! i recently hit a milestone and to celebrate, i’ll be hosting a little event!

to thank all of you for being here with me, i’ll be writing short drabbles (250-500 words) for a character of your choice with a genre and prompt below! to participate, just send me an ask with the following information:

characters: anyone from jjk

my most-written for are choso, geto, gojo, and sukuna, but for this i’m writing everyone - if for some reason i’m unable to, i’ll respond to your message and let you pick another! only exceptions are the disaster curses/mahito and mei mei (sorry girlie)

readers: include pronouns and gender (f/fem, gn, or m/masc)

genres & prompts:

ice on the window: fluff

catching snowflakes, meeting family, warm drinks, baking cookies, ice skating + choose your own

a crescent moon: smut

warm skin, trapped in a snowstorm, icy hands, cozy mornings, sharing blankets + choose your own

a gold and silver day: matchmaking

i will assign you a fav and date! if you choose this, it’ll only be fluff! send me 3+ things you love and 3+ things you loathe, gender preference for your pairing, and anything else you want me to know

rules:

this event is intended to celebrate my amazing and lovely followers, so please be following me lol :3

off anon + an age in bio/pinned (18+)

see my writing rules for more on what i do and don’t write if making your own request!

note:

if you would prefer i not publish your ask to keep it more anonymous, add ‘please don’t publish’ to your request and i won’t - i’ll just write your request and add it to the masterlist :)

examples:

“hey beautiful hot and sexy quinn, gimme some f!reader (she/her) x gojo and ‘icy hands’ (i just know that freak has poor circulation)”

“hi there! for the event, could you write choso fluff with a gn!reader (they/them) using my own prompt of ___? also, could you please not publish this ask? thank you <3”

“hi quinn! i’m here for matchmaking :3 i would like to be paired with one of the boys, m!reader with he/him prns, and 3 things i like are ___ oh and i haaaaaate ___, love you :3”

MASTERLIST

kiss it better — satoru gojo x f!reader (fluff : warm drinks)

heat of devotion — suguru geto x transmasc!reader (smut : body worship)

recipe for disaster — yuji itadori & ryomen sukuna x gn!reader (fluff : baking cookies)

sugar and spice — choso kamo x f!reader (matchmaking : building gingerbread houses)

stars and snowflakes — ryomen sukuna x f!reader (matchmaking : catching snowflakes)

crowned in warmth — suguru geto x gn!reader (matchmaking : warm drinks)

heat of a sun — suguru geto x m!reader (smut : cozy mornings)

something sweet — satoru gojo x gn!reader (fluff : baking cookies)

keep out the cold — suguru geto x f!reader (smut : trapped in a snowstorm)

[cardiolog1st]

he watches, thrown for a loop as she takes his hand. the contact feels wrong, painful in it's intimacy despite their mere acquaintance. politeness forgotten, he snatches his hand back. clenches fingers into a fist as he feels the remaining ghost-fire of her touch, still curling along his palm & tracing along his faint scars with puzzling familiarity. he peers at her imploring gaze, the sincerity in those liquid pools, & finds himself speechless at the sudden admissions, improbable as they sound.

" is that so. " he's taken aback by the proclaimed familiarity, as if that's a hard fact for her. part of him feels unease at the thought of someone knowing him, while he knows nothing about her in return. she's his infrequent patient, so its not as if they haven't talked before. however, she's appeared to be deliberate in how much she's divulged, rather cold up until this point, leaving him with nothing of substance yet. even though nothing has changed in the moment, & her words though persuasive, nothing more than hypothetical, he turns his gaze away at her claims, feeling all too exposed.

at her abrupt mention of split universes, his mind turns unbidden to his dreams; the vision of a blurry figure of a woman amid a world long past hope. was that something she would potentially know about ... ? he is reluctant to divulge any further, however, to show that he's so moved by her words. keeps those thoughts to himself for now. rather, her complete conviction & puzzling knowledge keeps him rapt.

his curiousity whet, it incites him to ask, " what do you mean by that? the person that you lost … are you taking about a version of me from another world? "

Kairos was at odds with herself, looking as if she was having an argument in her own head before her body suddenly moved forward of its own volition. It put her closer to Zayne, close enough that Kairos reached out to take his hand gently into both of her own.

Her touch was soft, like she was afraid he'd break if she grabbed onto him too roughly. There was reverence in her touch, a longing left in the brushes of her thumb against his knuckles. She turned his hand over so his palm was facing up as her fingertip traced along the lines there.

"It didn't matter how many times you'd try to hide it from me. Your face was always so...easily readable to me, you know?" Kairos started in a more gentle voice, eyes glazed over as she recalled memories long locked away. There was a moment of pause as her gaze flickered upwards, only managing to linger on Zayne's chest before she was looking at his hand once again.

An inhale. "You know those theories and conspiracies on the existence of multiple variations of a singular world? A multiverse, if you will?" Kairos asked softly, a thoughtful hum following her words as she trailed a fingertip up and down along each of his fingers.

"It was like waking up from a nightmare, being here." Kairos whispered, her fingertip moving to draw distracted little patterns in Zayne's palm. "Or maybe it felt like waking up from a nightmare only to realize you're still dreaming." She nodded. "I could've sword I had just watched you die and yet.." Kairos's breath trembled for a moment.

"You were here, at the hospital like you always had been, you don't change a bit.." She laughed weakly. "I knew it was all real though, I knew what had happened was real. I had lost you and the you that is in front of me now is not the one I lost." Kairos said, the movement of her fingertip pausing for the briefest moment.

"So yes, you could say I've seen it affecting you on occasion. It's what took you from me."

[cardiolog1st]

❛ i don’t think i’ve ever seen you smile. ❜ [ nine tails au uvu ]

he looks up from the bound book, cool eyes sweeping over the fox before returning to paper. " i have better things to do. " he intones simply, hoping to leave the subject there. when the sharp amber gaze doesn't leave him, he lower the book again with a shallow sigh. " why focus on scheduling my expressions when there are more important things that need doing? " he dips his calligraphy pen in ink, tapping it on the miriam stone before copying a character of the passage, pauses. " &, on the other hand, i don't think i've ever seen you not smiling. why don't you try matching my demeanour, for once? "

[honeyandruin]

Between the Shadows

Chapter Nine: Ash in the Snow

 “Some things don’t explode. They unravel.  They bleed out slow and no one notices until it’s too late.”

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: Injury, PTSD, graphic wound care, emotional collapse, chaos, blood, guilt, emotional hurt/comfort POV: Second person Status: Ongoing

 “You’re not afraid of dying.  You’re afraid of what happens if you stop trying to keep everyone else alive.”

----

You’re running.

Barefoot. Half-dressed. Gasping.

The snow bites at your feet, skin slapping wet stone and ice as you sprint. The coat barely clings to your shoulders—half on, the wind clawing it open with every step. Your breath saws in and out of your lungs in ragged bursts, and the only thing louder is your heartbeat pounding in your ears like a war drum.

You don’t know where you’re going.

You just know the sky is glowing.

Orange. Red. Gold.

Wrong.

It stains the clouds. Turns the tree line to shadow. The air smells like burning sugar and old oil and something worse underneath—something acrid and wrong and human.

You round the corner and nearly slam into a cluster of people.

Jesse’s yelling, barely audible over the roar of the flames. “Get the barrels! Form a fuckin’ line—move!”

Someone stumbles past you, sobbing. Another body collides with your shoulder. You can’t even register their face. You barely hear them swear as they keep running.

Your eyes lock on the building.

The supply house.

Not just food—everything. Blankets. Medical gear. Warm coats. Tools. Trade goods. Half the town’s winter prep.

And now?

It’s engulfed.

Flames crawl up the sides of the building, licking the roof beams, casting warped shadows across the snow. You can hear the fire eating—boards snapping, nails twisting, support beams groaning as they buckle under the heat.

You freeze.

Only for a second.

Then someone screams inside.

A sharp, high-pitched sound—childlike. Real.

Your body moves before your mind can catch up.

“Wait—!” Jesse shouts.

You’re already shoving past him.

The heat hits you like a wall—sudden, oppressive. Your throat closes. Your eyes water. The smoke pours out of the doorway, thick and blinding, already stinging your lungs.

This is stupid. This is suicide.

But there’s still someone in there.

You drop low and dive beneath the worst of the smoke, one arm shielding your mouth, the other reaching through the dark. Your eyes sting. Your skin prickles. It’s so hot it feels wet.

You can’t see.

You can’t breathe.

Your hand brushes fabric—charred, crumbling. Something collapses behind you with a crack, and sparks explode across the room like shrapnel.

You cough, choking, gasping. It sounds wrong. Your throat is too dry, too raw. You want to panic, but there’s no time. You shove debris out of the way—wood, ash, twisted metal—and hear it again:

A cough.

Small. Weak.

You lunge forward and find them—a kid, maybe ten or eleven, curled tight beneath a half-burned table, face streaked with soot.

Their eyes lock on yours.

They’re too scared to speak.

You pull them into your arms, wrapping one around their chest, pressing the other to the back of their head as you turn, crawling toward the light.

You can’t stand.

The smoke is too thick. Your lungs won’t expand. You stumble into something hot—wood or metal—you don’t know which, but it sears your leg through the fabric.

The kid whimpers.

“Almost there,” you rasp, not sure if you’re lying.

Your vision tunnels. You can’t tell if the roar in your ears is the fire or your own body giving out. Every breath tastes like soot. You’re dizzy. The heat is unbearable. Your knees scrape open. The floor is melting under your hands. The kid goes limp.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you pass out. Don’t you fucking—”

You crawl toward the light with the kid limp in your arms. Your knees are raw. Your lungs scream. Every breath is agony.

Then—a hand grabs your arm.

Strong. Familiar.

You’re pulled through the smoke like you weigh nothing. The cold air hits you in a rush, blinding. You gasp so hard it feels like drowning.

The kid is yanked from your arms.

Joel.

You see him for a second—blurred through stinging eyes—as he lifts the boy into his chest.

“Got him!” he shouts. “Somebody—take him!”

Jesse’s there. Or someone like him—you can’t see through the haze. Hands take the kid from Joel, who yells something you don’t catch. Then he turns—

And he sees you.

Still on your hands and knees. Still choking. Shaking. Barefoot and bleeding in the snow.

And then he’s moving.

Back at your side in two strides, dropping down into the slush, hands reaching—not careful. Urgent.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “What the hell were you thinking?”

His hands grip your arms, steadying you, hauling you upright even as your legs buckle again.

You try to speak, but nothing comes out but a wheeze. You blink hard. Your eyes are burning. Your ears ring. The world tilts.

Joel’s voice is closer now—sharper. “You’re gonna pass out.”

“I’m fine,” you manage, barely audible.

“You’re not.”

His hand comes up to your jaw, tilts your face toward him. His thumb brushes a streak of ash from your cheek.

His face is grim. Eyes dark. Jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

But beneath it all—he’s scared.

That’s the part that breaks you.

“I didn’t think,” you whisper.

Joel shakes his head. “No. You didn’t.”

And still—his hand stays where it is. His fingers curled tight around your sleeve, like if he lets go you’ll fall apart completely.

You don’t argue. Don’t move. Your breath catches. Your knees tremble. Your feet—numb, blistered, bleeding—are buried in slush.

The building behind you groans—a deep, splintering sound. Another piece of the roof caves in, sending sparks flying high into the air.

Joel doesn’t flinch.

Neither do you.

Because the worst part isn’t the fire.

It’s knowing this wasn’t an accident.

—--

You try to stand again.

You get halfway upright before your knees give out, a sharp burst of pain flashing up your leg from somewhere raw and bleeding.

Joel catches you—again.

You hiss through your teeth, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he mutters.

His hands don’t leave your arms. One slips lower, under your knees.

You realize too late what he’s doing.

“Don’t—Joel—”

But he’s already lifting you.

It’s not graceful. Not some sweeping, effortless thing. It’s rough and fast, like he’s worried you’ll fight him harder if he hesitates.

You go rigid in his arms.

“Put me down,” you snap, but your voice is more breath than sound.

“Ain’t happenin’.”

You hit his chest with the side of your fist. Weak. He barely flinches.

“There are people worse off than me—fuck, Joel, that kid—”

“He’s alive. Because of you.”

“There’s more—”

“There’s always more,” he says, sharp. “You wanna bleed out tryin’ to help every last one of ‘em?”

You glare up at him. The movement makes your head swim.

“I’m not—”

Joel cuts you off again, voice low now, dangerous quiet. “If you don’t take care of yourself, there’s gonna be nobody left to take care of them.”

The words land harder than they should.

Your throat tightens.

He keeps walking.

You pass people in the street—some crying, some coughing, some just standing with ash in their hair, watching the fire burn down to its bones. No one tries to stop him. No one says anything.

They know better.

You don’t even realize you’ve started shivering until Joel shifts you in his arms and mutters something under his breath, pulling your coat tighter across your chest.

By the time he kicks the clinic door open, your teeth are clenched so hard your jaw aches.

He lowers you onto one of the cots, fast but careful, then grabs a stool and yanks it over. You try to sit up. He plants a firm hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down.

“I can do it,” you breathe.

“No. You can’t.”

“I can. I just need a second—”

“You’ve got blood all over your damn feet, you’re shakin’, you’re burned, and you smell like you just crawled out of hell. Sit. Still.”

You do.

Not because he told you to. Because… you can’t fight him anymore. You’re too tired.

You let your head fall back against the wall as he pulls a clean towel from your kit. Your eyes flutter shut for just a second.

Then the burn hits.

Your eyes snap open as Joel dabs at the torn skin along your ankle with something damp. It stings.

“Christ,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the cot.

He looks up. “Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“Not really,” he admits.

You catch a glimpse of the bottle in his hand. Antiseptic. You’ve used it a hundred times. You know how bad it hurts. Still—being on the receiving end of it makes your whole body tense.

“I need clean gauze and—there’s a roll of saline in the red bin, under the shelf,” you rasp. “Third shelf down. Don’t grab the one with the black cap. That’s iodine.”

Joel nods, already moving. You hate that he listens.

You hate how fast he finds it, how calm he is.

Like he’s done this before.

Like he’s done this for someone else.

He comes back, crouches in front of you again. He’s careful this time. Slow. He waits a beat before pouring the saline.

You flinch anyway.

“Sorry,” he says again.

You swallow. “I can do the wrapping. If you—”

Joel shakes his head. “You talk me through it.”

You bite your tongue. Not because you’re angry—but because this is worse.

Being helpless. Letting someone see it.

You nod, barely. “Start with the right foot. You’ll need two pads. Don’t press hard.”

He does exactly what you say.

You feel every movement. The pressure. The warmth of his hands, even through the gloves he tugged on. The way he steadies your leg against his knee.

“You got burned here,” he says quietly, touching the inside of your calf.

You glance down. Skin red. Blistered. You hadn’t even noticed.

Joel doesn’t ask how. Doesn’t ask why.

He just cleans it.

And wraps it.

His fingers are gentle now. Almost too much. Like he’s afraid of touching you wrong.

You’re not used to that.

You’re not used to being handled like something breakable.

“Joel,” you say, and your voice cracks.

He looks up. Waiting.

You shake your head. “Never mind.”

He doesn’t press.

Just finishes bandaging your foot, taping it off with steady hands.

When he’s done, he sits back on his heels.

You don’t move.

The room is quiet now. No more yelling. No more sirens in your head.

Just the soft crackle of the stove in the corner and the smell of ash soaked into your clothes.

Joel’s still staring at you.

“Next time you run into a burnin’ building,” he says, low and hoarse, “put some fuckin’ shoes on.”

You huff a breath that might’ve been a laugh, if it didn’t hurt so much.

“No promises.”

He leans back. Runs a hand through his hair.

Then, quieter: “I thought we lost you.”

You don’t say anything—because you thought that too.

—-

You barely sit before the clinic door bursts open again. No warning. No time. You’re still on the stool, bandages fresh, the sting still singing along your calves. It hits the wall with a crack loud enough to make your pulse jump.

“We need her—” Jesse stumbles through, dragging a man with blood soaking the back of his head, shirt stuck to his skin. His voice is hoarse. “He—he was under a beam. I think—fuck, I think his skull’s cracked—”

More people spill in behind him. Two women—burned. A teenager limping, her arm bent wrong. A man with ash stuck to his neck, gasping like he can’t breathe. A kid with glass in his palm, crying and silent at the same time.

The room fills in seconds. Too many voices. Too many wounds.

Joel’s at your side in an instant. “You can’t—”

You’re already pushing yourself upright. The pain’s instant—white hot and deep, swelling through the wrapped burns like fire under skin. You stumble. Joel reaches out to catch you—

“Don’t—” you hiss, shaking him off.

He doesn’t touch you again, but he doesn’t leave.

You limp forward, vision spinning, blood rushing in your ears. “Put him on the cot—pressure here, like this,” you murmur, already grabbing gauze. “Jesse—watch his pupils. If one blows, you keep him awake.”

Jesse nods, wide-eyed. “Okay—yeah, okay.”

You move to the girl with the broken wrist. A sharp, quick assessment. Splint. Bandage. Move on.

There’s no time, no air, no break.

Your body begs you to stop, but your hands keep moving. Because they have to.

Because no one else knows how to do this.

Because you’re the only one who can.

Because if you stop—

Someone dies.

More come through the door.

A boy with burns across his chest. A woman who won’t speak—just shakes in place, her hands curled into fists, eyes vacant. Another man, coughing wet black smoke into his sleeves.

You wipe your forehead. Realize your hand is shaking.

Joel hands you a clean towel.

You don’t thank him. You don’t speak.

You don’t even look at him.

You just keep going.

You’re bandaging the boy’s arms when your foot slips.

A soaked cloth under your boot. You go down hard—weight slamming onto your bad leg. The scream rips out of you without warning—sharp, raw, gut-deep.

The whole room goes still.

Even the fire seems to pause.

Your body spasms, twisting away from the heat that isn’t there. You grip the edge of the cot with white knuckles, the bandaged foot throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

“Okay. That’s it.” Joel’s voice is low. Steady. Too calm. “You’re done.”

You feel his hand on your arm. Strong. Familiar.

You jerk away.

“Don’t.”

“You need to lie down.”

“I don’t have time.”

“You’re bleeding through the fuckin’ gauze—”

“I don’t have time.”

You force yourself upright.

Every muscle protests.

Every breath hurts.

Joel moves to catch you again. You slap his chest—harder than you mean to.

“Stop touching me,” you snap, voice shaking.

“Then stop tryin’ to fucking die,” he growls back.

Your vision blurs.

You stagger. Your knees buckle, just a little. You plant a hand on the counter to stay upright.

“I have to keep going,” you whisper.

Joel stares at you like he doesn’t recognize what’s standing in front of him.

“You’re gonna collapse.”

“Then I collapse,” you say. “But not yet.”

“Why?” he demands. “Why the fuck won’t you let someone else—”

“Because no one else knows how!” Your voice cracks into a yell. “Because they’ll make it worse. Because they’ll die. Because they always die if I stop.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until your chest seizes.

You drag in a breath. It tastes like blood and smoke.

Joel steps closer. Slower now. Cautious. “You don’t have to do it like this.”

You shake your head. “Yes. I do.”

You turn.

Back to the woman curled against the wall. Back to the boy clutching his wrist. Back to the wounds still bleeding, the people still coughing, the chaos still waiting.

You grab a pair of gloves off the counter.

Your hands tremble as you snap them on.

You’re not in your body anymore.

You’ve slipped just above it. Watching yourself work.

You give orders. You stitch flesh. You brace bones. You murmur comfort you don’t feel.

Your foot leaves red stains wherever you step. You ignore them.

You feel Joel in the room the whole time. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

But he doesn’t leave.

Because you’re scaring him now.

Because even he can tell—

You're unraveling.

But you won't stop.

You can’t.

Because if you do—

Everything breaks.

[cardiolog1st]

"on your wall… you mean hung and mounted?" he quips, side-eyeing her. finally breaks into a small, mischievous grin at her reaction. nudges her softly, "i'm kidding."

"i should eat." stands and stretches out his sore back. he doesn't have the best appetite these days. keeps hearing too much on the radio, how the police have been scouting out praedator activity, stop searches, warrants for every other shop and whatnot. it feels like a noose tightening around his neck, and he's being forced to smile through the rope burn.

"ah, why not." shrugs at the suggestion. pulls out his wallet from back pocket, "my treat this time, okay? for the… shitty juicebox."

Someone else might have considered such a complaint to be dramatic - Tang Sanyue, however, is exactly the type of woman to think an under-sweetened juice warrants this kind of reaction. She sounds, in fact, a little too pleased with herself, like her evil schemes have been pulled off without a hitch. " - Well, you should know you're always welcome at mine. You'd be a special guest and end up on my wall of famous and important clients, if I had such a thing."

Uncrosses her arms at his suggestion, stretching like a cat - and pushes away from where she had been leaned comfortably against the back wall. "Going to take your own advice? Winning because you collapsed from having nothing except a sour juice box in the next six hours sounds sort of...UNDERHANDED." Despite their so-called rivalry, she really- DOESN'T MIND HIM. Not at all a bad neighbor, all things considered, and it's nice to have someone to talk to now and again on a long night full of picking out bullets. "Come on." Tilts her head with a grin. "There's a new crepe place around the corner, I think."

[lyragrayson4ever]

Mr Winfield (Lyra x Grayson)

The room felt cold.

Not physically—Hawthorne House was never anything less than perfect—but emotionally, it was ice. The announcement had shattered something in all of them.

Gigi Hawthorne. Kidnapped.

Grayson’s little sister.

Security had kicked in immediately. Full lockdown. All contestants’ belongings were searched, dissected, questioned. No one was allowed to be present when their items were rifled through—no matter how personal.

Lyra Kane hadn’t seen what they’d done to hers.

So when she stepped back into the room afterward, she expected a mess. But she didn’t expect—

She didn’t expect him.

Mr. Winfield.

Torn open like he was nothing. Like he hadn’t been everything.

He lay amid the contents of her duffel, his fabric shredded, one eye dangling, stitches undone like they’d performed some violent autopsy. White stuffing was scattered like snow on the floor. His ribbon—her ribbon—was missing.

Lyra froze, her heart slamming against her ribs.

No one said anything. The others were already there: Avery, Nash, Jameson, Xander, even Rohan hovering awkwardly near the back. A few of them saw what she was looking at—and immediately tensed.

She walked forward slowly, like in a dream.

She knelt.

And then, in a voice so small it broke everyone’s heart:

“Why did you cut him up?”

Her fingers trembled as she reached out. Her throat burned. She wanted to stay strong, wanted to keep her cool, but the ache in her chest—

Mr. Winfield had been with her since she was five. Won for her by her dad the day they met. He had been there when no one else was. He was her anchor. Her constant. Her comfort.

And now he was destroyed.

“Why?” she asked again, her voice cracking, her eyes glistening. “He didn’t do anything…”

One of the guards stepped forward, stammering, “We were told to check for surveillance devices—bugs. He could’ve… there could’ve been something inside…”

Lyra clutched what remained of Mr. Winfield to her chest, even as his stuffing spilled between her fingers. “He’s a teddy bear.” Her voice rose, sharp with pain. “He was mine.”

Silence.

She could feel them all looking at her. She didn’t want to cry. But the tears were hot and fast and refused to stop. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks, but the sadness won. It always did.

She turned away, trying to hide her face. Trying to swallow the sob building in her throat.

No one had seen her break before. Not like this.

Not even Grayson.

Grayson—who stood statue-still across the room, fury simmering in his eyes. His fists were clenched. His jaw was set.

He hadn’t said a word.

Jameson looked sick. “Gosh.”

Xander stepped forward, voice unusually soft. “Lyra, I’m so—”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please.”

Avery blinked back tears. She took a step closer, hand out like she wanted to comfort her, then stopped herself. “We didn’t know.”

Nash rubbed the back of his neck. “That wasn’t right. That was not okay.”

Even Rohan, who didn’t know Lyra well, looked like he wanted to vanish through the floor.

Lyra’s hands tightened around Mr. Winfield’s ruined body. The sob finally escaped.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I just… I need to go.”

And she left.

The door shut behind her with a soft click.

Nobody moved.

For a long beat, the room stayed frozen.

“I feel awful,” Xander muttered finally, still staring at the door.

“She looked heartbroken,” Avery whispered. “That wasn’t just a toy to her.”

“She didn’t even raise her voice,” Jameson said, stunned. “Just… cried.”

They all looked at each other, guilt thick in the air.

And then Grayson turned.

The look on his face was thunder. His eyes—usually cold and calculated—were burning. “Why didn’t any of you stop them?” His voice was calm, but dangerous.

“We weren’t there,” Jameson tried.

“You could’ve said something after the fact,” Grayson snapped. “It was a teddy bear, not a weapon.”

“She’s not a threat,” Avery said softly. “Not in that way.”

Grayson didn’t respond.

Instead, he walked across the room, knelt down, and gently—gently—picked up what was left of Mr. Winfield.

He left without another word.

Lyra curled up in her bed, her arms wrapped around a pillow, silent tears soaking into the fabric. She hated how weak she felt. Hated how stupid it seemed—crying over a stupid fucking bear.

But it wasn’t just a bear.

It was her childhood. Her memories. Her first day with her dad. Her safety.

She didn’t hear anyone approach.

But she heard the knock.

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, heart still aching. “What?”

No answer.

Cautiously, she got up and opened the door.

There, on the floor in front of her, was a box.

Inside—

Mr. Winfield.

Whole.

Perfect.

Stitched together with expert precision, his button eyes gleaming again, seams tight, new thread so well-matched she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t known.

There was a note.

I tried my best to stitch this little fella up. I added a little something extra—if you don’t like it, I can remove it.

Your sincerest,

Grayson.

Lyra’s breath caught.

She turned Mr. Winfield over in her hands, heart racing.

There, sewn delicately to his soft feet—tiny pointe shoes.

She stared. The tears came again, but this time, they were different. Softer. Warmer.

Of course he knew how to sew perfectly. Of course he cared this much.

She didn’t stop to think.

She just ran.

She found him walking toward the balcony, hands in his pockets, eyes stormy with everything he’d refused to say earlier.

“Grayson!”

He turned just in time to catch her as she flung herself at him.

He stumbled back half a step, then wrapped his arms around her like she was the only thing holding him together. She buried her face in his chest, clutching Mr. Winfield between them.

“You saved him,” she whispered.

Grayson exhaled, pressing his cheek to her hair. “I had to.”

“Why?”

“Because it mattered to you,” he said. “And I can’t protect my sister right now—but I could protect this. You.”

Lyra looked up, eyes shimmering. “He has pointe shoes.”

Grayson smiled, just a little. “Strongest people I’ve ever met were dancers. Thought he should match.”

“You are such a—” she laughed, cried, hiccupped, “—Hawthorne.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” she whispered. “Not when it’s you.”

He hugged her tighter.

And in that moment, even in the chaos, even with Gigi gone and the games tearing everyone apart—there was comfort. Not from Mr. Winfield.

But from Grayson.

Because sometimes, someone sewing together your broken pieces mattered more than any game.