#compact space desk

[interiorergonomics]

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Otto Reception Desk Functional Features

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Top trendy reception desk materials for the best from office aesthetics demands in Dubai commercial spaces

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[kernigkrafts]

Is Cheap Furniture Worth Buying?

Buying cheap furniture can seem like a practical choice due to its initial affordability, but it often comes with several drawbacks that may outweigh the initial cost savings: Quality Concerns: Cheap furniture is typically made from lower-quality materials such as particleboard or thin veneers, which can lead to durability issues. It may not withstand daily wear and tear as well as…

[nightlark100]

Stiles Emergency Bag

things found in Stiles bag:

A key ring with keys to all the pack houses, as well as to various secure locations in the police station, hospital, etc

A burner phone

A first aid kit

A lighter

His phone with an app linked to the tracking devices he secretly placed on the pack members (except Peter who keeps removing his)

basic make up supplies

A can of fly spray

A collection of the loudest personal alarms he could find (very useful when being chased around an enclosed space by a creature with supernatural hearing)

A mini hoover (the kind advertised for cleaning desks)

Two mini supersoakers, one filled with wolfsbane and mistletoe solution, one filled with holy water (just because you've not met a vampire Derek doesn't mean there aren't any. It's called being prepared!)

A compact mirror (added after the kanima incident)

Throat sweets (for Lydia)

Super glue

A baggie full of sand (demon wolf or not, it's hard to look intimidating when trying to get sand out of your werewolf eyes)

Zip ties

Lock picking gear (a combo of professional tools and improvised ones)

Duct tape (tests on Isaac proved that suitable levels of application could indeed prevent a wolf from being able to claw their way out once their hands were bound. Isaac did not agree to be the test subject)

A mini sewing kit

A jar full of a homemade mixture that absolutely stank (and could therefore effectively disguise a person's scent)

A bag of marshmallows

A wallet with at least one fake ID for each pack member

A lacrosse ball (Derek was 90% sure that was just to make fetch jokes)

Hair ties

A spare t-shirt

A packet of rubber gloves

A dog whistle

[pyxxiestyxx]

Truth and Rumors

You didn't exactly plan on being your space station's liaison to the Affini Compact, but everyone in leadership had fled into the darkness of space hours before the plant's first ships jumped into position. Clearly someone had tipped the C-Suite off somehow; honestly, you couldn't blame them. Everything you had heard about the Compact was…rather terrifying, really. Behemoth plants with rows upon rows of teeth, infectious parasites ready to take over your mind, eternal servitude and endless labor with no pay…you shuddered at the rumors, at the stories. Perhaps worse was the actual propaganda produced by the plants; not that you or anyone else on the station was legally allowed to watch it, but even the few still frames that were shown to you had painted a grisly picture. The limp figure of some Terran Navy hero, cuddled and coddled by the hulking beast of a plant behind her. Apparently they had changed the soldier's gender, or something? The report accompanying the image was rather unclear for that particular detail. And now, here you were: sitting nervously in the largest conference room on the station, the lone Terran at a desk made for over thirty to sit at comfortably. When the Compact had hailed your station, you were one of the few working the comms station, and everyone else had either fainted, screamed, or panicked. Not that you were much better, but it was apparently enough that you were voluntold to answer it. The voice of the caller was…strange. Different, somehow. Calming, and yet thrilling. She introduced herself as Lady Violetta Larella, Fourteenth Bloom, she/her. Blushing, you apologized for not referring to her by her title earlier. In your defense, you hadn't realized she was nobility. She seemed to enjoy that, for some reason. You had only been sitting at the table for a few minutes when there was a sharp knock at the door. The Lady entered as gracefully as one possibly could when entering a door made for someone at least five feet shorter, her long dress trailing behind her as she clasped her hands and smiled. "Hello, darling. It's so lovely to see you in the flesh, so to speak! And just look at you! Why, that video feed certainly dulled your charms~" Her voice was dripping with genuine affection as she stepped over to you, taking a knee and reaching an elegant hand out to tussle your hair. You couldn't help but shudder as she did so; your nerves dancing in abject joy as she gently pet your head. Your eyes slowly closed in utter delight as you sagged back into your chair, your tensed muscles relaxing one by one by one... "Oh, but I apologize! Playtime can come later, dear. Let's get down to business, shall we?" You blinked in confusion as you realized She had stopped petting you, and couldn't stop yourself from letting out the smallest of whimpers as She began to withdraw Her hand. Every single one of Her eyes, each of which ranked among some of the most verdant jewels you had ever seen, quickly seemed to shift and dance to a brilliant violet. Her hand returned, sending your worries scuttling for the door as She did so. "Well…perhaps we can take a few minutes, first. Just to make sure you have been thoroughly examined, of course; it would be my duty as Own…as Overseer of this operation to guarantee your mental and physical wellbeing~" You smiled dreamily as you were picked up and held by Lady Violetta, happy that everything you had heard about the Affini was so clearly wrong. She grinned at you, a wide smile that showed all Her many, many pretty teeth, and held up a single, succulent berry, the sight of which made your mouth water. "Now then…let's play a fun little game. When I stroke downward on your cheek, I want you to open your mouth…"

[the-trailblaze]

Picture perfect

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: request #10!! You’re bored so you ask Dante if you can do a makeup look on him and he agrees. This has so much fluff, this is so cute (he’s so cute)

Today is a chill day with no responsibilities lined up. Even though you wish for days like these, you can get bored quite easily. To cure your boredom you decide to test out new makeup look.

You enter the bathroom to grab your makeup bag and head downstairs. You know if you’re going to try a new makeup look you should have more space and a bigger mirror to look into compared to your compact mirror. But you want to be by your boyfriend. Dante’s been all over the place recently so it’s been hard to sit down and enjoy his presence. Since he’s finally here and to stay for now you want to be around him as much as you can.

He’s quietly sitting on the couch cleaning and taking care of his weapons. You sit down at his desk and pull out all the stuff you need. You think about a look to do when you’re suddenly hit with an idea.

“Dante?”

“Yes baby?” He turns his attention from his weapons to you.

“Can I do a makeup look on you?”

“Sure.”

“REALLY!?”

He chuckles at your excitement, “Yes baby. Let me just put these away first and you can do whatever you want.”

“YIPE!”

He gets up and puts his weapons neatly away in the little armory he has. Dante then falls back onto the couch and spreads his legs giving you the go ahead to come over. You quickly rush over to him with everything in hand and plop down into his lap. His hands automatically grab your waist to hold you steady.

“So baby what’s the plan?”

“I wanna do a rock look on you.”

“Like the kind with the heavy eyeliner?”

You grin at his question, “Yes, exactly! The contrast between the black eyeliner and your blue eyes should make your eyes pop.”

He smiles at your excitement, “Well then, go ahead.”

You dig in your bag for your headband. You find it at the very bottom and pull it out. You slip it over Dante’s head and push it back so it’s holding his hair out of his face. When no stray hairs are in your way you go to find your eyeliner.

Dante reaches up and touches the headband and feels little bumps on the headband top. “Uh why is there bumps on your headband?” He questions.

“Oh it’s suppose to look like panda ears.”

He smirks, “I like pandas, now I can proudly say I am one.”

You giggle while tilting his head back a bit. “Okay you have to stay still for this so I don’t poke you in the eye with my pencil.”

“Wait you’re drawing on me with an actual pencil!?” Eyes blown wide by hesitation.

“No! It’s an eyeliner pencil…”

“Oh… yeah right I knew that.”

You roll your eyes and murmur, “Yeah sure.” He pinches your side and you wiggle in his grasp. You send him a look and he immediately stops his actions. You once again tilt his head back and begin.

You start at the waterline because you know that’s going to be the hardest part. You gently put some pressure down on him while coloring his water line. You try and go as quickly as you can so he doesn’t squirm or blink his eye. Which is proving to be difficult.

After shimming under you, you place your hands on his shoulders to stop him. “You gotta stop moving handsome or I’m going to accidentally end up hurting you.”

“But my eyes are so watery from not blinking.” He whines.

“I know but the quicker you let me do this part the quicker it’ll be over.”

He relents and stops moving. You then take the opportunity to keep going. You just have a little bit more of the waterline to color then you’re done with that part. You go closer to the corner of his eye and make sure to get the little inside corner. With that you finished step one of the eye look.

You ask him to close his eyes and he does so without question. You quickly draw a line across his lash line and bring it further out past his eyes to create a wing. You then reach your finger up and smudge it to give it that faded edgy look to it. Step two done.

You then ask him to open his eyes again and he does so without fail. You then draw a thick line under his eye and bring it up to connect to the wing you just made. For a second time you bring up your finger and smudge the line to create the same look you just did on top. You pull back a bit to look at your masterpiece. You were right with your claim from earlier. The black eyeliner makes his eyes POP.

You jump up and down a bit under you feel a firm send of hands slam you down. You focus more on Dante’s whole face instead of just his eye and you see him looking directly at you. “As much as I love you bouncing on me, if you keep doing that you’re never going to finish this.”

You flush at what he’s implying and you just slowly nod your head. “I finished your eyeliner look on that eye. I just have to do the mascara then I’ll do the other eye.”

Dante lets out a low hum to let you know he understands. You grab your mascara and quickly put it on both set of his lashes. You once again look at your masterpiece and grin ear to ear, “It looks great! Time to do the other eye!”

You quickly copy the look on the other eye and Dante actually doesn’t budge one bit. He must be use to it or he’s just zoned out. You lean back and compare both eyes and make tiny adjustments so they perfectly match one another.

Dante asks if you’re done yet and you explain to him you still have to do his face makeup. He doesn’t put up a fight but you can tell he’s getting a bit antsy. He can never sit around in one spot for too long, he always has to be doing something. With that you quickly put on concealer, foundation and powder. He already has perfect and smooth skin so the makeup doesn’t really add much but you’re having a lot of fun putting this on.

That’s also why you think Dante isn’t complaining about sitting here for so long. He knows he’s been gone a lot recently and he’s seen the toll it has taken on you. The thought of cutting this moment short and potentially upsetting you makes him unsettled. Even though it’s starting to get uncomfortable for him sitting here for so long, he’ll let it happen if it means you’re happy.

“Okay last part. Open your mouth slightly.”

He raises an eye brow but does as he’s told. You lightly put some clear lipgloss on him to tie together the look. You hand him your tiny compact mirror and he looks at it. He lets out a long whistle, “Damn baby it looks really good.” He brings his hand up around his eye to lightly feel it and look at different angles of it.

“Wait!” You hop out off of his lap and dart upstairs. You push open the bedroom door and go to your nightstand. You open the top drawer and pull out a camera you have. You slam the drawer and rush back down stairs. You grab Dante’s hand and pull him off the couch.

“It’s picture time!” You hold out the camera and jump up and down.

Dante walks to the opposite side of the room and starts doing poses. He does different rock poses, he plays the air guitar, and dances. You two are laughing and smiling uncontrollably while doing this photoshoot. Your camera definitely is filled with photos of him now but you don’t mind. You know you’ll keep these photos and memories close to your heart.

Dante then takes the camera from your hands and holds it up. He turns it around so it’s facing you two. He pulls you into him and takes a photo. He then moves his hand that was lower on your body to the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss and takes a picture of that too.

Dante lowers the camera and throws it on the couch and uses that free hand to deepen the kiss. The kiss is a bit sticky because of the lipgloss you put on him. You can’t help but love the feeling though. Any time you get to kiss Dante it feels like you’re having your first kiss all over again. He’s never one just to do a simple kiss and leave it at that. He always has to deepen it and have it last awhile.

You two separate and you look at his lip. You laugh when you see the clear lip gloss is spread all around his mouth now. You stand on your tip toes and raise your hand to wipe off the excess lipgloss that isn’t on his lips. He smiles at your actions and at your delicate touch.

After you wiped it off you go and grab the camera and look at the photos. Dante comes up behind you and pulls you into his embrace. He sets his chin on your shoulder and watches you go through all the photos. When you go through all of the photos of him you take your time looking at the photos of you two. You both look so happy and in love. You wouldn’t trade these photos for the world.

“We should get these printed.” Dante voices.

“For sure. I can out tomorrow and do that.” You quickly agree.

“Sounds perfect baby,” he gently whispers before kissing your temple. “But print the one of us kissing a couple times. I’m putting one in my jacket so I can look at it when I’m away from home.”

You turn to face him with the most excited face he’s ever seen, “I love you.” You confidently state.

“I love you more baby.”

@moon-cakiie this was so fun to write! Hope you enjoyed it :)

[carminejade]

Florets and You

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has knowledge and filings on many of our wonderful galaxy's strange and unique life forms and peoples. From the Vogons and theit revolting poetry, the Rinans with their fusion reactors, and humanity with their continued incompetence on the galactic stage. The galaxy is simply positively teeming with life.

Which is why it is so fascinating to approach the subject of florets when analyzing the Affini Compact. Whereas most components of the Compact can be best divided into "The Various Kinky Subjugated" and "The Kinky Plant Subjugators", the florets are something of a quandry to put into the scope of things as they fit into the most extreme end of the former. Rather than being a shorthand classification for affini below average height, a term that The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has yet to find the existence of, the term "floret" refers to all of the pets the affini have subjugated regardless of species.

Florets enjoy a variety of delights from the affini, such as free access to any and all xenodrugs, head pats, and all the wild and kinky sex they could want. This is not to say independents and ferals do not enjoy such delights as well, but the florets get to do it even more whenever they want while wearing collars.

These sometimes poor and unfortunately happy souls are best defined by their loss of all rights in exchange for having a curious plant device grafted onto your spine to completely bind and subjugate you to whichever affini has decided you would look really cute in a pet bed beside their desk. This "spiney clingy friend," as it is known by former hitchhikers, provides the endless supply of drugs and regulates your body so that you can more effectively enjoy knowing only loving subjugation to your owner.

When traveling in Compact Space, it is in your best vested interest to know about florets and be aware of them. If you're in your ship or land transport, or the one belonging to the person you are borrowing it from, and someone yells "FLORET" please be mindful of whether there are florets in your path, and you must avoid them, as harming a floret is a good way to become one.

Conversely, if an affini is chasing them with a large smile, you should take that as a sign that you misheard them and that you actually need to "floor it."

Running from an affini is only advised if you want to be a floret. If you do desire this and try to run, make sure your back is ready for a plant to be embedded in it, you're ready to no longer to be a person, and your orifices are ready and primed for the incoming vines.

[regallibellbright]

In general the world of Rune Factory 5 could stand to be compressed a bit so there's not quite so much big empty space to run around in and massive buildings that are like. FAR taller than the people in them, when you actually measure their interiors compared to your model.

The exception to this is Lucas's house, which is absolutely perfect as-is. You live in a big building you have chosen to furnish with one (1) desk, one (1) desk chair, one (1) bookcase, and in the second room, one (1) bed. No more than this. No more is necessary. The vast, empty and completely unadorned space is comedy gold. No notes. If anything, the comedy would be increased by making the rest of the town like, 10% more compact.

[silassinclair]

Let me Take Care of You

Yandere Boxer x Injured Reader

Summary: It’s always been you taking care of Viktor and the other fighters. After all you’re the gym’s doctor! It’s your job. But what happens when it’s the other way around and you’re the one with the injury this time?

CW// Injuries, Blood, Personal Space Invaded

Masterlist Here!!

The gym was packed with fighters training for the upcoming fight this weekend. This weekend Viktor was going to be fighting a German fighter named Iron Klaus; the famous Iron Claw of Berlin. One punch from him and the opponent will be out like a light. So Viktor has been training especially hard in dodging and weaving for the past month.

While everyone was focused on training you decided to clean up a little bit around the clinic. The last doctor who worked here had no organizational skills whatsoever and it peeved you. So why not use the spare time to tidy up a little?

The top cabinet was pretty dusty. The dust was pretty annoying too because the fighters with a dust allergy would always be sneezing whenever they came in. Wetting one of the paper towels you look for something to stand on so you can reach the cabinet. There’s no stools or four legged chairs, only your swivel chair.

“This idea a terrible idea.” You think to yourself. But you have to get rid of that dust for the sake of your patients. So you wheel the chair over and put a foot on it. The wheels immediately feel like they want to slide out from under you. But you ignore it. You stand to your full height with both feet on the chair and begin dusting off the cabinet top.

But suddenly one of the six plastic wheels burst off the chair, throwing you completely off balance and sending you falling to the hard tile floor.

“AH-!” You scream and hit your head on the counter then fall to the floor with a loud thud. Groaning in pain you massage your tail bone. But then something gets in your eye. Something wet.

Tapping your forehead you flinch with a hiss when you accidentally touch an open wound.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” You mutter repeatedly and rush to grab a mirror. Shuffling through the junk drawer of your desk you find a compact mirror and flip it open. And to your horror you see that the top right of your forehead as a long bleeding cut. Luckily it isn’t too deep but without proper care it could scar.

“Great…”

Getting some rubbing alcohol and a cotton pad you spurt some onto the pad. But just as you’re about to dab it onto the cut the door slams open causing you to drop the wet pad.

“Can you knock-?! Viktor?” You calm down when you see it’s just Viktor. If it were Alexi you would have thrown the alcohol bottle at him.

“I need some ice..” His words fall off his tongue and his eyes widen when he finally looks at you. Viktor takes large hurriedly steps towards you immediately.

“What happened kroshechnyy!?” He asks worriedly. “You’re bleeding so much. It may scar your simpatichnyy (pretty) face.”

You roll your eyes. “It looks worse than it feels. It’s alright. I was just about to disinfect before you came barging in. And don’t slam my door open anymore, you’ll break it.”

Viktor just grunts and takes you by the arm and pretty much forces you to sit on the bed. “I will help you.” He says and looks through your cabinets and drawers for supplies. He gets some hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, gauze, and medical tape.

“You really don’t have to do that, go back to training Viktor. Don’t waste your time with me.” You say earnestly. He needs to spend his time training, not taking care of you. It was your own fault for getting into this mess anyways.

With all the supplies in hand Viktor turns to you with a shake of his head. “Any second spent with you is a second well spent, not wasted. So let me take care of you.”

And he wasn’t asking. He goes to work immediately and dabs some of the hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball and dabs it onto your forehead. When you wince in pain he shushes you calmly like a baby. Cooing and reassuring you that everything is going to be okay.

“Shh shh kroshechnyy, it will only hurt a bit.” He whispers and cleans the wound. The bleeding has stopped now.

His eyes are calm and focused as all his attention is on you. Helping you, taking care of you, loving you. It feels so domestic cleaning your wound. It makes him feel like the two of you are lovers. He gently lays a square of thin gauze over the cut and tapes it down with some of the medical tape.

“Sorry if the job is… sloppy. I am not used to attending wounds.” He mutters with disappointment in himself.

But you reassure him with a light smile. “Hey it’s a better job than what I would’ve done with just a compact mirror. I appreciate it, thank you.”

Viktor nods softly, he turns away from your gaze as pink blush dusts his pale cheeks.

You sit still for a moment. The sting of the cut is slowly fading away thanks to Viktor’s first aid. But then you remember why Viktor came into the office in the first place; you retrieve a bag of ice from the mini fridge.

“Here. Thank you again for helping me.” You say and hand him the bag.

Viktor nods with a small grunt and accepts the bag.

“So what’s the ice for?” You ask. “Did you get hurt?”

Viktor nods. “Olēg hit me pretty hard in the ribs. Old bald bastard still packs a mean punch.”

You chuckle. “Well it’s good practice for you against your upcoming match with that German guy. Anyway, you can rest here while you use that ice.”

Viktor smiles slightly. “You’ll let me rest here? Usually you always try to shoot me away kroshechnyy.”

Well he had a point. It annoyed you when Viktor would come in here on the daily and just watch you while you worked. But for the past few weeks he hasn’t visited due to his rigorous training regiment. Deep down you missed his calm presence and his awkward attempts at making small talk. So what if you missed him a little bit? He was the only decent company here. All the other fighters have no manners.

“This time is an exception, think of it as a thank you for patching me up this time.” You say whilst organizing some drawers.

You feel warmth press up from behind and turn your head slightly to the side. Viktor’s gotten up from the bed and came up behind you, pinning you to the desk with a hand on the hardwood on either side. His front is right against your back and you can feel his warm breath on the side of your cheek. He leant his face down lower; his lips just barely graze the shell of your ear.

“Viktor what did I say about personal space-”

“Sorry, I can’t help myself. I just really miss you.” He says with a low hum. His voice is rich and deep like honey, but also dark and dangerous like the night.

Shivers shoot up your spine. What was he trying to pull? “Viktor I said I wanted to take it slow with the whole becoming friends again thing…”

His hand slams down on the desk making you jump with a yelp.

“Well I’m getting impatient.” The growl in his voice makes your blood run cold.

“O-Okay okay j-just calm down for a sec.” You say wobbly. The feeling of his nose on the top of your head makes your train of thought stall. He inhales your scent slowly, reminiscing in the nostalgic smell of your lavender shampoo.

“Just let me hold you close… please. Think of it as your gift to me for patching you up.”

You nod your head in understanding. Viktor is a damaged man. He’s touch starved, affection starved, and had a rough up bringing. If he wanted some semblance of comfort from you then you’ll happily give it. Even if it’s awkward and slightly uncomfortable for yourself. But hey, maybe the uncomfortable feeling will go away soon once you two re-bond overtime.

“It’s alright.” You whisper and pat his back. “I’m here now… Just don’t fuck up again okay? Or I really won’t forgive you ever again.”

He hums lowly. “I’ll never. Never again.”

His arms wrap around you into a warm embrace. And you welcome the embrace. His exterior is cold but his arms are warm. You can’t help but put your arms around him in return.

The two of you bask in a couple minutes of calm silence. But shouts from outside the clinic yelling for Viktor can be heard. Said blonde grumbles in annoyance as he lets go of you, much to his distaste.

“Be more careful next time kroshechnyy. And take care of yourself.” He says while petting your hair. You bag his hand off your head with a grunt.

“Okay okay personal space breaking time is over. Now get out there and train.” You say and push him towards the door.

He rolls his eyes and opens the door. But before leaving he turns quickly to kiss your cheek, then shuts the door immediately and runs off.

“Bastard…” You mutter to yourself.

[airandyeah]

Crying For Help (Alpha!Higuruma X Omega!Reader X Alpha!Nanami) Pt.15

My Masterlist Series Masterlist

It had been a few weeks since the move.

Nanami’s apartment, sleek and spacious with its clean lines and soft, muted tones, was now less bachelor-pad, more home. Somehow, your mugs had multiplied in the kitchen cabinets, your sweaters were draped over the back of the couch, and Higuruma’s collection of legal thrillers had made their way onto the built-in bookshelves alongside Nanami’s first editions. The three of you had slid into the shared space with an ease none of you had dared expect.

It helped that the apartment was closest to the firm—just a short commute. One vehicle most days, quiet conversations over coffee during traffic. You usually took the middle seat, Nanami driving with one hand on the wheel and Higuruma beside you, reading case notes or stealing sleepy kisses when the red lights lingered too long.

Mornings were slow but efficient: Nanami made the coffee, Higuruma read headlines aloud, and you tried not to burn the toast. You all moved around each other like you'd been doing it forever, a rhythm built on touch and unspoken cues—hand brushes at the sink, shirt cuffs fixed, scenting nuzzles tucked in before work. The occasional soft growl if someone got too possessive over the last croissant.

At night, Nanami cooked when he wasn’t buried in paperwork, and Higuruma insisted on cleaning up even if you all took turns. Sometimes you fell asleep on the couch while the two of them talked work across the table. Sometimes it was the other way around—you catching Higuruma half-asleep with his tie askew, Nanami’s shoulder a pillow.

There was a comfort in it. A warmth. Even in the silence, you felt tethered.

It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes Nanami got too in his head, worrying about stability, about boundaries. Sometimes Higuruma retreated into a quiet storm of thoughts and you had to draw him out gently. And you—well, some nights your omega instincts curled like a tide and you had to seek them both out, bury yourself between them like your nest wasn’t complete without their weight.

But they were yours. And you were theirs. ~~~

The day started like any other.

You sat between them in the car—Nanami driving with his usual calm precision, Higuruma sipping coffee beside you, his knee gently bumping yours every time the car hit a rough patch of road. Everything felt normal. Stable. Warm.

Until you walked into the office.

It started small—just a few glances, subtle and fleeting. You chalked it up to coincidence. Maybe they were just surprised to see you all arriving together again. But then came the whispers. The way eyes trailed after you when you moved down the hallway. A few poorly concealed sniffs.

Your stomach knotted. Was your blouse inside out? Did you spill something on yourself at breakfast?

You made it to your desk with a practiced grace, setting your bag down and pulling out the day’s case notes, but your pulse was ticking too fast. Something was off.

When you caught Gojo dramatically fanning himself as he passed your desk—nose crinkled and grinning—you narrowed your eyes.

“What,” you asked, voice low, “the hell are you doing?”

He waggled his brows, leaned in, and whispered, “Didn’t know you were so busy last night, sweetheart. Bold move not replacing the scent patch.”

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

Gojo only laughed, breezing away with a wink. You blinked, hand immediately darting to the side of your neck where your scent patch sat. It was still there—still pressed neatly against your gland—but when you sniffed… you caught it.

Faint, but unmistakable.

A blend of cedar and smoke. Earth and honeyed spice.

Them.

The patch hadn’t worked. You reeked of them. Of two Alphas. Of nights wrapped between bodies and hands and growls that still echoed in your bones.

You almost died on the spot.

Face burning, you bolted to the nearest bathroom, locked the stall, and pulled your compact mirror from your purse. With trembling fingers, you peeled back the patch.

Defective. There was a tear in the edge—subtle, but just enough.

Just enough for the whole damn office to smell your embarrassment.

You cursed softly under your breath, face in your hands.

This day was going to be hell.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Nanami.

Nanami: “Stay in the restroom. I’m handling it.”

You didn’t even have time to respond before another message followed:

Nanami: “Someone is on their way with a fresh patch. Don’t move.”

A wave of relief flooded you, but it did nothing to quell the embarrassment burning beneath your skin. You sat on the toilet lid, legs bouncing, palms slick with residual panic. How many people had caught it? How many more would?

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door. “Omega coming in,” a gentle, feminine voice called. You stood quickly and cracked the stall open.

She was older, kind-faced, and moved with the calm authority of someone who had been through worse a hundred times over. She didn’t comment on your flushed face or the way you barely met her eyes.

“He sent me with a spare,” she said softly, handing over the sealed patch from a small pouch. “Always keeps extras in his office. Said it might happen one day.”

Of course he did.

Nanami Kento, ever the planner.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice a little hoarse.

She offered a knowing smile. “It happens to the best of us. Don’t sweat it.”

And then she was gone, the soft click of the door echoing behind her.

You changed patches quickly, peeled away the defective one and wiped the gland with a cool cloth from your bag before applying the new patch firmly. The scent cut off instantly, the air finally sterile again.

You exhaled and leaned back against the stall, letting your eyes close for a second.

God, you owed him for this one.

And when you finally stepped out of the restroom, a message was waiting.

Nanami: “Crisis averted?”

You bit your lip and typed back:

You: “You’re a lifesaver. I owe you. Lunch on me?”

His reply was near-instant.

Nanami: “No need. Just… next time, let me check your patch before we leave the house.”

Later that afternoon, when the office buzz had dulled to quiet clicks of keyboards and the distant hum of the copier, you found yourself passing by the break room. Unfortunately, that also meant walking into Gojo Satoru’s line of sight.

His grin was immediate.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the little omega heartbreaker,” he sing-songed, leaning dramatically against the counter. “Tell me, sweetheart, what would HR say about that little scent bomb this morning?”

You froze, coffee halfway to your lips. Your entire body tensed.

He clicked his tongue, eyes glittering with mischief. “Actually—don’t answer that. I think I already know. Scandalous.” He gasped. “Unprofessional. Alpha bait.”

You opened your mouth, either to snap or to stammer—you weren’t sure which—but you didn’t get the chance.

“Satoru.”

The deep, unimpressed rumble of Suguru’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

You turned just in time to see Geto walking over, hand reaching out calmly… and then grabbing Gojo by the ear.

“Wha—OW! Babe, not in front of everyone!” Gojo whined, flailing uselessly as he was tugged away like a delinquent schoolboy.

Suguru didn’t even blink. “Apologize and be nice, or I’ll make you review budget sheets for the next month.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Gojo sent you one last glance over his shoulder, eyes watering from the ear pull, but still grinning. “You’re lucky your alphas are hot and terrifying.”

And then they were gone.

You blinked, sipped your coffee, and muttered under your breath, “I need hazard pay.” ~~~ Just as you were settling back at your desk, phone finally on Do Not Disturb and coffee halfway gone, your screen buzzed with a quiet notification.

Suguru Geto

Apologies for Gojo earlier. Would you and your alphas be open to a double date sometime soon? Nothing formal—just dinner. A chance to talk about a few things.

You stared at the message, reading it twice.

Double date.

You, Nanami, Higuruma.

Him and Gojo.

The implications weren’t lost on you—but neither was the intent. It wasn’t about prying. If anything, it felt like a peace offering. A bridge. There were things only another unconventional pairing could understand. Especially in a firm like this, where instincts simmered just beneath tailored suits and office protocol.

You

Depends. Will Gojo be muzzled? 👀

The response was instant.

Suguru Geto

Emotionally or physically?

You laughed out loud, earning a few glances from nearby desks.

You

Either works. We’re in. Just tell us when.

There was a pause before Suguru’s next message came through.

Suguru Geto

Friday evening. We’ll make a reservation. And don’t worry—I’ll keep him in line.

Your phone buzzed again almost immediately after.

Gojo Satoru

I HEARD THAT.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. The week just got a little more interesting.

Alpha Suguru always has me fanning myself Taglist is always open for anyone! Just comment, send an ask, or a DM and I'll add you! Taglist: @ollyissleepy , @erintaro , @hellv1ra Perma Tags: @thenightperson , @makingtimemine , @nina-from-317

[togglesbloggle]

Self-Harm

One of my most shameful memories surrounds a guy I’ll call S.T. It was one of those lamentably common situations in grade school- a somewhat odd kid who got picked on for years.

I’m sure there were specific bullies coming after him in particular, though I never saw who it was. But there was a much wider circle of gawking, othering, and exclusion; as far as I know, he never really managed to close that gap with his peers before graduation, if he even wanted to.

There’s a particular moment that stands out in memory. It wasn’t a climax or anything, just unusually clear in some of the particulars. The classroom was emptying out, and S.T. was seated in the front row, one of the only people still in their desk. I and a few other people were standing near the door, talking between ourselves.

The thing you need to know about this room was that it had those chair-desk combo things; plastic chairs with metal supports to one side, for a small desk space projecting forward and around where the presumptive student is meant to sit. Each was a separate unit, not bolted to one another or to the floor, but in pretty compact rows so that the desk-space of one was usually in physical contact with the back of the chair in front of it. In other words, lines of force could move from chair to chair- one student in the back row could often give a bit of a kick to someone several chairs in front of them.

S.T. being S.T., this was something he’d been on the receiving end of, many times before. So that day, when he felt someone give a sharp kick against his back, he didn’t encourage the bullying by looking backwards or making a fuss. He just shoved his own desk back in retort, jolting the desks behind him, and went back to packing up his bag. He got another kick, he retaliated again, and he and the bully went back and forth like that in a petty little cycle of quasi-violence.

Except, nobody was behind him at all.

The first kick happened as an accident; he’d shoved his own desk backwards by a few inches while he was leaning down to grab some notebook or other, and the desks behind him absorbed the shock all the way back to the rear wall of the classroom. A couple of the desks buckled, and built up force, until it sprung back against his own desk in the front row again. He interpreted that as some willful act by a bully, kicked back on purpose- compressing the entire row of desks like a spring that inevitable sprung back against him.

Retaliation followed retaliation, and I and my friends watched on in silent astonishment as S.T. bullied himself. It’s pretty hard to play back that particular memory in my head, realizing with an adult’s hindsight what kind of accumulated pain that moment must have represented, and how easy it would have been to intervene and make a positive difference.

There’s a story that’s making the rounds today, about a shootout between a Jewish man and two Israeli tourists:

According to arrest documents, at 9.30pm on Saturday surveillance video appeared to show Mordechai Brafman, 27, getting out of his truck and opening fire with a semiautomatic handgun at a vehicle as it passed. Brafman allegedly fired 17 times, striking one victim in the left shoulder and grazing the other’s left forearm.

While in custody, Brafman spontaneously told detectives that while he was driving his truck, “he saw two Palestinians and shot and killed both”, arrest documents said.

Further complicating the incident, one of the injured men reportedly posted “death to the Arabs” in a message on social media after the shooting. “My father and I went through a murder attempt against anti-Semitic background,” he wrote.

There are some clinical ways to talk about this; an extreme case of “trapped priors”, in which the fear of violence and the racial bigotry combine to create a perception of risk that literally cannot be anchored in reality, a fear that justifies itself with its own senseless convulsions of violence.

But in the end it’s not something that needs a specialized vocabulary. Pain just makes us so goddamn stupid. And here I am again, watching from the doorway, doing nothing. I’m not even sure what ‘doing something’ would even mean in this case, at least from the perspective of a bystander who doesn’t know either the perpetrator or his victims.

Any theory of the world really needs to reckon with this as one of the deep animating forces of history, I think. It’s not a fully sufficient theodicy, but I’m guessing it comes a lot closer than one might naively assume; I wouldn’t be at all surprised if, in some grand accounting, this kind of self-harm contributes to as much human misery than the more direct forms of interpersonal violence and antagonism which precipitate it.

How much of the broader Israeli-Palestine conflict is driven by the very same paroxysms of self-delusion that drove this shooting in Miami Beach? How about the war in Ukraine? How about the crackdown on trans rights in the United States? How about- ?

Interpersonal harm can originate in any number of ways: competition for scarce resources, recklessness, actual malice, and often just sheer ignorance. That harm begets itself through retaliatory cycles and escalation. And then, at a certain point, cycles of violence between us become cycles of violence within us, and we start building that suffering in to the fabric of the world as we construct it.

But in a peculiar way, I think there’s some optimism in that. Competition for scarce resources is to some degree intractable, but this kind of delusional self-harm can sometimes pop like a bubble. It will always be vulnerable to being broken by contact with reality, and the chaotic mess of the world as it actually is.

Some days, I dare to hope that the world was always this stupid. That the great wars of our ancestors were just as groundless as ours, and their bigotries just as preposterous. That the narrative of history that we weave is just the robe of Shem and Japheth writ large, covering our father’s nakedness. Because if it was always this stupid, then this subjective feeling of rising nonsense and absurdity— that feeling means that we are getting better, that we are slowly but surely expanding the scope of our awareness. Feeling somewhat foolish is the necessary price of becoming less foolish, however you slice it.

[connorsnothereeither]

It was mentioned off handedly in a drawing stream but I’m thinking so much about Virgil’s inherent need to be… small.

Which is partially just there because… it’s a trait that I have and most of my characters get (Virgil, Dan, Leopold, etc) but specifically with Virgil the idea that despite avians needing to stretch their wings when they sleeps, he wants so badly to be curled up and confined in a small space. He feels most comfortable when he’s wrapped up tightly, including his wings. The tiny bunk in the house with Pietro, the sleeping bag under his desk in the library, the corner of the haystack in the cave… there’s a comfort in that to him, being pressed into that small space.

And I think maybe some of his flight issues come from, along with the boots (which he wears less often now), the way he sleeps on his wings. Virgil has mentioned an injury to his wings when he was young that never healed right, and I think that maybe the reason he sleeps curled up is because it’s most comfortable for the wing in a resting position, maybe? Spreading it out makes it start to ache and cramp up so he keeps it curled. Keeps himself bundled up. But I also think, given his innate fear of hurting someone, after causing Pietro’s scars as a child, there’s probably an element too where he feels like if he’s curled up, and presses away from the world, he won’t be able to hurt anyone. There is probably also an element that I just think Virgil naturally runs quite warm, and doesn’t sleep with a lot of covers, so when he does sleep he curls up to retain what warmth he has.

I don’t know. Like I said it’s an aspect I relate to a lot in characters. That need to curl up and feel compacted, and not take up space. I think it’s interesting to analyze why characters have that trait.

But also just saying,,, I think Virgil would be so unused to cuddling with anyone, and I think he doesn’t realise how much comfort that would bring him, to fall asleep curled up with someone. To have that added weight and embrace. /lh /hj

[ruttingdoe]

last night, i got to thinking bout what would make a better den in my room

yknow those bunk bed things where the space underneath isnt another bed but like an empty space to put a desk in, for compact rooms? i want that soooo bad. the trouble is, i live in the basement of my house and the ceiling isnt very high. so if i had something like that, itd have to be pretty cramped space for both the bed and beneath it

but itd be sooo nice to finally have a proper den. im currently just working with my bed and putting a curtain up, but the fact that theres no roof to it, no corner to compress myself and pillows into, no easy way to light it nicely, and it doesnt feel properly cut off from the rest of my room - i feel so unsatisfied :<

i NEED this

[ashthesalamipiece]

Heyyy!! Could I request bakugo x fem depressed reader, he enters her dorm room just trash everywhere makeup scattered on the vanity, clothes on the floor her bedsheets aren’t on the bed all the way, desk is crowded in dishes, and she lays in bed, very depressed, and really wants help, she also over spends money to make herself feel better and stress eats. I have a lot of trouble with all these things unfortunately, it would mean a bunches🧡

"Don't Gotta Do This Alone"

Bakugou didn’t expect to find you like this.

He’d knocked twice. No answer. Typical—you hadn’t been replying to texts all week. So he muttered something about how you were gonna kill him if he barged in, and opened the door anyway.

And then he just… stood there.

Your dorm room was wrecked. Trash bags half-full. Clothes draped over your desk chair, the bed frame, hell—even a hoodie hanging off your lamp. Your vanity was chaos: makeup stains, open compacts, empty shopping bags, and way too many unopened packages. Your bed looked like a war zone—sheets half-pulled off, a hoodie balled up where a pillow should be.

You were curled under the thinnest blanket you owned. Barely breathing, barely moving.

His throat tightened. "Oi."

You didn’t look up. Just tugged the blanket over your shoulder like you hoped he’d go away.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped in, closing the door softly behind him. That alone was weird—Bakugou never did anything softly. But this… this was different.

“Y/N,” he said again, voice low, but not angry. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

You flinched. Then your voice came out, small. “I… I don’t know.”

You didn’t know how to explain the emptiness. The spending sprees you couldn’t afford. The way food felt like the only thing that made you feel better for even a second—until it didn’t. The way just existing in your own space felt too hard.

“It’s like everything’s loud. And heavy,” you whispered. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”

There was silence for a moment. You expected him to sigh. To scold you. Maybe even leave.

Instead, you heard him move.

Bakugou sat on the edge of your messy bed, carefully avoiding a pile of laundry. He reached over and slowly tugged the blanket down from your face.

You blinked up at him, puffy-eyed, barely holding it together.

“You don’t gotta fix it all right now,” he said, staring right into you. “And you sure as hell don’t gotta do it alone.”

You bit your lip, breath catching. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t judging. He was just there. And for the first time in days, the ache in your chest eased—just a little.

“I don’t know where to start,” you admitted.

Bakugou nodded. “Then we start with today. With me helpin’. I’ll take the dishes, alright? You sit here. Breathe.”

You stared at him, lips trembling. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He shrugged, standing up again. “’Cause I fuckin’ care, dumbass.”

That was all he said before he started clearing your desk, grabbing the dirty mugs and plates without a single complaint. You watched him, heart cracking open in the quiet.

Maybe you weren’t okay yet.

But Bakugou was here.

And for the first time in a long while, that was enough to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

[penumbra-mayhem]

And All That Follows (ch. 3)

aka: Silence Slips From My Tongue, It’s the Only Thing I Can’t Hold In

Emergency pack meeting and Gabe’s funeral

Ch. 2 // ao3 // 3.9k words

(TW: grief, funeral, vomiting, mentions of car accident and drunk driving)

——————————————

Sept 4. 2017, 10:01 am

The pack den had been nothing special when Gabe first began renting it. Just a vacant floor of a small, rundown office building. There were only two offices in use—one for himself and eventually one for David—to manage Shaw Pack and Shaw Security business.

The rest of the space had been cleared of all desks and cubicle walls and ergonomic chairs; they’d been replaced by a clunky circle of assorted couches, ottomans, plush recliners, and beanbags. The gray, compacted carpet was smothered in various rugs, and a scattering of vintage lamps replaced the harsh overhead fluorescents. Gabe had also expanded and refurbished the tiny kitchen, recognizing how important communal eating was for pack bonding and cohesion.

Since he was a kid, the den had been David’s favorite place in the world, where he felt most loved and safe. For years, it was filled every other week with the warm rumble of his father’s voice. David always sat at full attention, taking in every word, every gesture. He’d then go home and emulate Gabe in the bathroom mirror, imagining the day he’d command that room with the same grace and power and love.

He had never hoped nor dreamed that that day would come so soon. But now it had, and David felt woefully unprepared.

The pack had just had a meeting the evening before. Nothing had changed, everything was just as it had been left and yet already the den felt different…colder. David picked his way through the space, switching on each light in the hope that the glow would bring some semblance of comfort. It didn’t.

Looming near the final beaded lamp was Gabe’s seat—an understated pinewood chair with suede maroon cushions and brass rivets. David avoided going near it for as long as he could, but eventually he ran out of lamps.

The closer he got, the further away the chair seemed. David grew frustrated as his heart began to race. It was just a chair. Sweat pooled in the crevices of his palms. It was just a fucking chair. His chest became unbearably tight. Just turn on the damn lamp. And the wasps. The wasps were thrashing in his stomach.

David barely made it to a toilet before he was heaving. Between the night before and the lack of any meal since then, it was a wonder he had anything left to throw up. His body shuddered as it tried to expel every frantic bug from his stomach.

Eventually they were gone, but then everything ached. His vision was swimming. His whole body was shaking. How the hell could he lead this meeting when he could barely even stand?

Somehow, David got himself into the kitchen. He filled a glass full of water and downed it, then filled and drank another. He knew he needed to eat. He knew it, but even the thought of food brought him close to throwing up again.

The den pantry was always stocked, Gabe had made sure of that. David grabbed the easiest food to digest—a pack of saltine crackers—and gave himself the goal of eating five. He managed three.

He was interrupted from his session of glowering at his fourth cracker by the sound of the den door opening. Staggering to his feet, he left the kitchen and watched as a tower of pink confectionery boxes shuffled into the room.

“Ash?” he croaked. Fuck, his voice sounded wrecked.

“Hey, David,” Asher called from behind the boxes. David rushed over and grabbed a few, revealing his friend’s face—smiling despite his evident exhaustion.

“What’s all this for?” David asked as he followed Asher into the kitchen.

“We always have food at meetings,” he explained, “I figured nobody would really feel like cooking, so I went to Roedersheimer’s before I got here.”

David gawked at the heaps of baked goods now spread out on every surface in the kitchen. He felt sick and couldn’t quite tell if it was from the guilt of Asher doing his job for him or the overwhelming sugary scent flooding the space.

“Thank you, Ash,” he choked out, “I’ll pay you b—”

“I’ve got you, David. You and the pack,” Asher insisted, a gentle hand on David’s shoulder.

David nodded. Speechless, he left the kitchen and wound his way to his office. It was a little thing, sparsely decorated and organized for maximum efficiency. Collapsing in his rolling chair with a groan, David checked his watch:

10:14 am

The usual early arrivers would be there soon.

He’d led a few pack meetings before, when Gabe had been ill or caught up in something he couldn’t get out of. But those had been different. Those hadn’t mattered. Not like this at least. What David said, what he did, would directly affect the future of the pack. He needed to appear strong. They needed an Alpha. They needed Gabe. David was neither. He had no idea how to be an Alpha, and he certainly didn’t know how to be his father. He’d only been Beta for two years. And that was a completely different role, with different expectations and responsibilities. How the hell could he—

His spiral was interrupted by a small knock. Looking up, he saw Asher leaning in the doorway of his office, holding a donut and a scone: maple-almond, David’s favorite.

Whenever Gabe and David had a particularly early gig or meeting, the former would always stop by Roedersheimer’s beforehand and buy a chocolate croissant and a maple-almond scone. David would always protest the treat at first, declaring it was too early for something so sweet. But in the end, he could never resist.

“I can’t,” David admitted weakly as Asher walked in and placed the scone on his desk, “I-I don’t have the stomach for it.”

“You’ve gotta eat,” Asher countered softly. He sat in the chair opposite David and took a small bite of the oreo-pistachio-cinnamon monstrosity he called a donut.

David’s stomach twisted. His eyes darted between the scone and Asher and the wastebasket in the corner. He clenched his jaw; Asher was right. David reached out a hand, grimacing at how hard it shook, and grabbed the scone.

It tasted like the sun rising.

The wasps were confused, stirring up at the food, calming in Asher’s presence. But despite the unsettled feeling in his gut, David kept eating. He had a job to do, and this was part of it.

Asher eyed him over his donut, a small smile on his face.

——————————————

Sept 4. 2017, 10:58 am

People were still filing in. David stood near the door and addressed them as they entered, just as Gabe used to do. He was surprised by how many people had been able to come on such short notice; nearly the whole pack was present. Even Tank, who slipped in quietly and hid in their usual corner, hoodie drawn over their face.

They’d hoped no one had noticed them, but David had. He saw them and the large bandage covering their cheekbone. He breathed deeply against the worried sting that sight brought.

At 11 am, David moved to his usual low-backed chair beside Gabe’s seat and sat down. Everyone looked at him. In that moment, he was certain his tan skin had suddenly turned clear and everyone could see what a wreck he was inside.

When David spoke, he put as much strength as he could behind his words, “I understand that an emergency meeting can be quite disruptive to your lives, especially on a Monday, so I’m appreciative of everyone being here today. As I believe you all know by this point, last night my father was killed in a car accident. He was struck by a drunk driver. Although I have not received a full autopsy report yet, I have been informed that after an initial assessment it appears he died instantly. I say this to hopefully provide some relief and assurance that he did not suffer; he may not have even known the car was coming.”

The new information on how Gabe had died coursed through the pack. Some looked relieved, others enraged. Murmurs rose around the circle, allowing David to take a deep breath before continuing, “I spoke with a funeral home this morning. I’ve arranged for the service to be held this Thursday. You will all be sent the information for that day as soon as I’ve finalized the arrangements, which should be later today or tomorrow. I promise you all, this does not mean the end of our pack. Although his death was unanticipated by us, it was not by Gabe. He had planned extensively for any situation in which he could no longer serve as our Alpha.”

“Are you gonna be Alpha now?”

All heads turned to eight-year-old Jamal as his mother shushed him. She apologized, “I’m sorry David, he doesn’t understand.”

David could have thrown up on the spot. His insides burned, his mind recoiling at the thought of anyone replacing his father. It didn’t matter if the kid didn’t know any better. It didn’t matter that he didn’t understand. Nobody understoo—

“It’s alright, Leila,” David assured her, his tone calm despite the swarm in his brain. He dropped his gaze, breathing slowly. They had to choose a replacement. They had to. Too much time without a leader, and the pack could come undone.

“We will vote after the service, during our next scheduled pack meeting,” he declared.

“That’s in two weeks,” Christian immediately protested, “We can’t wait that long. We should just do it now.”

A faint snarl reverberated from the back of the room. All eyes locked onto Tank.

“Do it now?” they hissed, voice acrid with repugnance, “Gabe’s body isn’t even in the fucking ground yet.”

“Tank,” David interjected. It was less a condemnation and more a tranquilizer, his tone clear and commanding. Tank huffed but settled back down, lowering their head once more. Everyone’s attention returned to David.

“You all know that choosing a new Alpha is a serious undertaking. I do not want anyone to feel pressured or rushed in this decision. I am still pack Beta until another is chosen. I will handle all legal, technical, and leadership matters until our next meeting. Then, we will vote,” David decreed. When no one objected, he continued:

“In the meantime, if anyone has any need for counseling, I am in contact with a local therapist. I will send you all their information and can assist with setting up meetings. I’ll now open the floor if anyone else would like to say anything or has any questions.”

Silence.

David should have expected so. He was in a room full of people in states of shock and disbelief, neither of which typically inspire much conversation. He was at a loss, though. He’d done what he was supposed to, what he’d planned, but now what?

David glanced at Asher, who gestured with his eyes to the kitchen.

“Alright,” David concluded, “As usual, there’s food in the kitchen, gluten-free and dairy-free on the round table. Please eat, stay as long as you need. If any of you would like to speak with me individually, I’ll be here for the next half-hour. Meeting adjourned.”

——————————————

Sept 4. 2017, 11:45 am

Seeing that nearly everyone had trickled out, David got ready to leave. The day ahead was completely full, and he’d already had to stay at the den longer than he’d anticipated. As David stuffed his belongings into his shoulder bag, a voice reached out from behind him:

“David.”

“Not now, Tank,” he muttered over his shoulder.

They bristled, “You said if we wanted to talk to you, we fucking could.”

Dammit.

Tank tested David more than anyone else did. But they were right, he had said that. And as much as he was their friend, he was also their Beta. He was responsible for them, just as he was for everyone else. Sometimes even more so, much to his frustration.

He took a breath to placate himself before turning around and asking, “What is it?”

They faltered, David’s composure an unexpected response. Their verdant eyes locked onto their boots as they mumbled, “I’m sorry if I got blood on anything at your place last night.”

Of course. It wasn’t anything important, just another waste of David’s time. Why couldn’t they understand that he was monumentally busy?

“I don’t care about blood, Tank,” he grumbled, grabbing his bag and charging towards the door.

“Is there anything I can do? To help?” Tank blurted out, “Please, David, I-I wanna help.”

David’s breath caught in his throat. What was it? The way they were standing? The way they looked at him? The way they said his name? It was so subtle, he couldn’t tell, but something about Tank in that moment reminded him of Gabe. And that brief resurrection of his father stung in a way he didn’t know how to respond to. So he did the only thing he could and walked out without a word.

He heard Asher call out after him as he left. David knew he should turn around and apologize. He knew he was being unfair.

But he also knew that if he tried to speak, there was no telling what would come out of his mouth. Maybe he’d apologize. Maybe he’d cry or scream or throw up. Or maybe he’d hurt Tank, kick them while they were already down. That final possibility scared him more than anything else. It was something he couldn’t risk.

Tank was left frozen, unshed tears turning everything into a haze. “See, I told you,” they whispered, “He doesn’t need my mess.”

Milo opened his mouth to speak, but Asher beat him to the punch:

“No, hey, that’s not it. David just…he doesn’t know what he needs. He doesn’t know how we can help. And he doesn’t know how to say that. So, we just need to figure out what we can do and just do it. Okay?”

“...okay,” they mumbled, unconvinced.

“How’s your cheek holding up?” Asher asked, “That fall must’ve been nasty to need stitches.”

Tank’s eyes flit to Milo. Before he could explain, they replied, “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Good. I told David I’d pack up the food, so if you want something, come grab it quick,” Asher said before heading to the kitchen.

When he was out of earshot, Tank whispered to Milo, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he whispered back, “Your secret’s safe with me.”

——————————————

Sept 7. 2017, 7:33 pm

Gabe was buried near the ocean, at a large cemetery with towering redwoods, lush ferns, and beds of pine needles and clover. The site reminded David of camping trips.

Following shifter funeral traditions, David had prepared a large feast for the end of the service, the smell of which wafted through the trees with the remaining hints of sunlight.

It is custom for shifter funerals to take place at sunset. The transition from day into night is chosen as an acknowledgment of both the individual’s passing from life to death and also their nature as a shifter—a being whose core is continually in flux and whose body flows between two forms.

Having a funeral on the edge of daylight also allows for vampires to be in attendance, which was important at Gabe’s funeral; there were quite a few he’d befriended over the years. The size of the crowd and the magnitude of Gabe’s impact was staggering. It felt like all of Dahlia was gathered around the open grave. Even the officiant, a sonal energetic named Sunyi, had known him.

She greeted each party as they joined the group. David stood at her side, enduring the inundation of tearful condolences with a stoic face and numb gratitude.

Frank and Deborah Talbot were some of the last arrivals, having just flown in earlier that afternoon. They were accompanied by their daughter Madelyn and her husband. Each embraced David, commending him for the service, the location, the music, the food.

David was clinging to his composure like a lifebuoy. His body was stiff, his words brief and stilted. He felt so ashamed of his behavior, acting so standoffish to the people who were the closest thing he had left to family.

He watched as Frank walked over to his son and crumbled into his arms, tear tracks glistening on his dark brown skin. Asher held him tightly, sending his mother a tender smile over Frank’s shoulder. She smiled back until it broke and she hid her paling face as it flooded with tears. Madelyn rushed from her husband’s side and embraced her mother.

Milo broke away from the crowd, his mother on his arm, and greeted them. Colm stood at a slight distance, reserved and quiet.

“Maribel,” Frank croaked, reaching for Marie. She embraced him, equally grief-stricken.

As the rest of the mourners found their place around the grave, Tank nestled themself into the back of the group, determined to not draw attention to themself. This wasn’t about them or their feelings or their stupid bandaged face. It was about Gabe.

Once everyone had gathered, Sunyi spoke, amplifying her mellow voice so everyone could hear:

“Alpha Gabriel Elias Shaw was better known as Gabe by everyone in his life. Although he was highly accomplished and deserving of every title awarded to him, he rarely used them. He once told me that he’d rather gain respect through his actions than through his name. And he did just that. Gabe was a man who led by example. He worked tirelessly to build his pack and his greater community. Fiercely protective, deeply empathetic, innately curious, Gabe was a man who sought to understand and support everyone he encountered. He was never quick to judge, though his morals were resolute and guided him always towards justice and peace. Believing in the power of words, Gabe rarely had to show how formidable his wolf could be. He was a man with a deep well of patience, kindness, and wisdom.

Gabe took on many forms beyond just human and wolf. He was one of the founders and Alpha of the Shaw Pack, which under his leadership has grown to be one of the most prominent wolf packs in the region. He was a man of service, devoting his free time to volunteering at the Dahlia branch of the Haven for Empowered Domestic Abuse Survivors. He was a passionate guitarist, as well as a talented and renowned, albeit sometimes experimental, chef.”

Faint laughter traveled through the group as people recalled the many unusual (and occasionally downright inedible) meals that Gabe had concocted when he’d been feeling culinarily adventurous.

Sunyi continued, “Gabe was a loving husband to his late mate, Amelia, and a dedicated father to his son, David. He was a dear friend and ally, which is evident by the sheer number of people in attendance here this evening. Gabe’s family and I extend our gratitude to you all. Thank you for gathering and honoring Gabe with your presence, your words, your silence, your mourning, and your celebration. I now invite anyone forward who would like to share any memories or thoughts about Gabe. With your permission, I will amplify your voice so everyone may hear.”

David could feel every gaze shift to him. He should speak. He was expected to speak. He was the Beta. He was the son. His hand clamped around his speech in his pocket, crumpling the paper.

He couldn’t do it. The buzzing in his head was so loud it paralyzed him. Everything he’d prepared to say felt meaningless. How could he possibly put to words what his father had meant to him? His father who was like the Sun, holding everyone together, lighting the way, providing warmth and life to everyone in his presence. David’s feeble attempt to speak would just disgrace Gabe and his memory.

Suddenly, he heard someone else speaking. David realized Asher had begun to share a familiar, endearing tale involving Gabe falling out of a pickup truck. Everyone knew the story; it was one Gabe told all the time. Despite this, the crowd erupted in bittersweet giggles, like it was the first time they’d heard it.

David wanted to crawl into the grave with Gabe and smother himself in soil.

And, in a sense, he did.

The rest of the funeral was a blur to David as he lost himself to the buzzing, to concentrating on not crying and not throwing up.

David didn’t hear Frank Talbot’s words—watery and hushed, despite Sunyi’s amplification:

“Gabe founded the Shaw Pack because he believed in the strength of community and the necessity for shifters to have a pack. He always said that a pack is more than just a bunch of wolves. It’s a family. It’s where you turn to for everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. The Shaw Pack extends beyond just Dahlia; it has members across the country. Gabe weaved people together with bonds so strong that neither distance n-…sorry…that neither distance nor death can break them. That was the beautiful thing about him. He brought people together. He made us feel less alone, and in that he dispelled our fear, eased our pain, and emboldened us to be our truest selves. I will…sorry…I w-will miss him d-dearly…”

David didn’t hear when Marie spoke, her prepared eulogy trembling in her hands:

“The author bell hooks once wrote: ‘Our mourning, our letting ourselves grieve over the loss of loved ones is an expression of our commitment, a form of communication and communion.’

She reminds us that grief ties us to those we have lost. Death causes the transformation of a relationship, not the loss of one. Gabe’s death does not take away that connection each of us has with him. Gabe remains a leader, a friend, a father, a husband, a kind and caring man. We will continue to look to him for guidance and strength. His memory will echo in our minds, as his presence and his actions will continue to ripple through the world for years to come.

bell hooks also reminds us that grief is to be experienced openly and in community. When we grieve together, we ease the burden. We strengthen our relationships in communal commiseration. We find Gabe in each other, through our stories of him, through our longing and our remembrance. To hide our grief is to hide our love for Gabe, to hide how deeply he affected our lives. When we share our grief, we affirm the positive impact he made; we keep Gabe’s spirit alive, and we keep each other’s spirits alive. To grieve is to live. So I will grieve in Gabe’s honor. I will live for him, as I do for all those we’ve lost.”

David didn’t hear the praises and memories from the countless people who loved his father. He didn’t hear the whispers of concern and support as people passed by him. He didn’t hear when the band began playing Gabe’s favorite song:

One morning I woke up and I knew // you were really gone // A new day, a new way, and new eyes // to see the dawn // Go your way, I’ll go mine and // carry on // The sky is clearing and the night // has cried enough // The sun, he come, the world // to soften up // Rejoice, rejoice, we have no choice but // to carry on…

It wasn’t until the end of the service that David resurfaced, when a wail erupted from someone nestled in the back of the group.

The Howl had begun.

The crowd rippled as people shifted into their wolves and started howling. David shifted as well, but when he opened his maw, no sound came out. His voice was locked in his throat, held back by shame and wasps and crumpled paper and disgrace and soil and the ever increasing belief that no matter how hard he tried, he would fail everyone.

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[postnuclearophelia]

“Sometimes during the night I'd look at my poor sleeping mother cruelly crucified there in the American night because of no-money, no-hope-of-money, no family, no nothing, just myself the stupid son of plans all of them compacted of eventual darkness. God how right Hemingway was when he said there was no remedy for life - and to think that negative little paper-shuffling prissies should write condescending obituaries about a man who told the truth, nay who drew breath in pain to tell a tale like that! ... No remedy but in my mind I raise a fist to High Heaven promising that I shall bull whip the first bastard who makes fun of human hopelessness anyway - I know it's ridiculous to pray to my father that hunk of dung in a grave yet I pray to him anyway, what else shall I do? sneer? shuffle paper on a desk and burp rationality? Ah thank God for all the Rationalists the worms and vermin got. Thank God for all the hate mongering political pamphleteers with no left or right to yell about in the Grave of Space. I say that we shall all be reborn with the Only One, and that's what makes me go on, and my mother too. She has her rosary in the bus, don't deny her that, that's her way of stating the fact. If there can't be love among men let there be love at least between men and God. Human courage is an opiate but opiates are human too. If God is an opiate so am I. Thefore eat me. Eat the night, the long desolate American between Sanford and Shlamford and Blamford and Crapford, eat the hematodes that hang parasitically from dreary southern trees, eat the blood in the ground, the dead Indians, the dead pioneers, the dead Fords and Pontiacs, the dead Mississippis, the dead arms of forlorn hopelessness washing underneath - Who are men, that they can insult men? Who are these people who wear pants and dresses and sneer? What am I talking about? I'm talking about human helplessness and unbelievable loneliness in the darkness of birth and death and asking 'What is there to laugh about in that?' 'How can you be clever in a meatgrinder?' 'Who makes fun of misery?' There's my mother a hunk of flesh that didn't ask to be born, sleeping restlessly, dreaming hopefully, beside her son who also didn't ask to be born, thinking desperately, praying hopelessly, in a bouncing earthly vehicle going from nowhere to nowhere, all in the night, worst of all for that matter all in noonday glare of bestial Gulf Coast roads - Where is the rock that will sustain us? Why are we here? What kind of crazy college would feature a seminar where people talk about hopelessness, forever?” ― Jack Kerouac, Desolation Angels