t141 + könig and their reaction to sleeping on the couch after an argument
—price
when you banish him to the couch, he could be one of two ways—mature and forces you to talk it out nicely or toxic, flat out refuses, and fucks you back to your senses.
the first way, when the words spill from your mouth, his shoulders slumped with dejection as he steps from the room. no point in arguing when you're worked up. after stewing in your anger for thirty or so minutes, he returns—armed with food—and talks it out with you.
the other way, he flat out refuses to sleep on the couch. i could see him manipulating you with the "I paid for that bed, and I'll sleep in it." you're stubborn, muttering something about you sleeping on the couch then, which is how you end up getting your brains fucked out.
—soap
I imagine soap just pushed your buttons way too much that day. you know how he is sometimes—over the top, hyper, and an all-around instigator. he was looking for a reaction, and he found it—just not the one he wanted.
immediately pouts, acting like a dejected child before he goes on to try and convince you to change your mind. real annoying about it too, doesn't give up until you're at your breaking point.
—kyle
the only one that I see actually accept his banishment with stride. he knows he made you upset, respects the boundary you placed with him and doesn't take it to heart. there's also a big possibility that, by the end of the night, you end up talking it out anyways like mature adults.
he knows you needed to get it out of your system, and you serving punishment to him did just that.
—simon
the second the words leave your mouth, he shuts down. you see the moment he deflates, doesn't try to reconcile, and just accepts it. he doesn't want to upset you further or make you more mad than you already are. simon doesn't respond well to domestic conflict.
the second his back hits the cushions? he's tossing and turning. he barely fits the couch to begin with, and you both learn you need each other to sleep—bonded like a pair of cats.
—könig
he's not fitting on the couch, and that's what makes it more satisfying. maybe he was being too persistent about his horniness, hands wandering too far until you snapped and threw your finger to the couch you know he can't fit.
he whines about it for sure, trying to whip you with puppy eyes and convince you to change your mind. he apologizes until you're sick of hearing it, allowing him back in bed just to get him to shut up.
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I may of sent this before but my wifi was messed up so I don't know if it went through, but!!! Can you draw 141 doing communal shower antics and maybe if you'll be soooo kind to bless me with some gaz stuff just doing anything on duty love him in your style, keep creating😘
The alpha at the counter doesn’t really speak to you.
It’s not abnormal. You get plenty of folks, all ranges of them in here. It’s a pass through town. People pulling off the interstate to get gas and a bite to eat, a revolving door of stranger’s faces.
So, he doesn’t really say much, but it doesn’t really bother you. He orders coffee with milk and a standard breakfast, eggs scrambled, toast, sausage, the usual. And then after that, he’s quiet. Either lost in his thoughts or he doesn’t care to share them, and you don’t care either way.
You’re here regardless. In this diner, waiting tables, gritting your teeth, faking smiles, just like you have been for the last six months.
Since them.
They haunt you like a phantom. A cold you can’t shake. Their proximity triggered your basal instincts, your buried need, and put you into heat. A miserable, painful one that you spent alone. One you almost died from, and once the smoke cleared, you were left with the sickness, the very kind you didn’t even believe existed.
Bond corrosion.
Poisoned.
Since then, it’s been non stop suppressants, scent blockers and whatever you can get your hands on for pain relief. Every day, for six months. Cleaning out your checking account, your savings account, everything just to buy medication.
The over load of pills can’t be good for your health, but neither is the alternative.
But does it matter?
You’re nothing, after all.
The man clears his throat. You realize you’ve zoned out and he’s watching you, waiting.
“Can I get a refill?” He motions to his empty mug. There’s something wrong with his face, something off. A serrated blade of foreboding, something sinister in his eyes.
A shiver runs down your spine.
“Of course, sorry.” You lean over with the pot, careful to pour slowly, and at the same time, he drifts forward, close enough you register his breathing.
His sniff.
He’s smelling you.
You pull back, startled. Alphas don’t smell you, not anymore. Not with the blockers.
“Thought you’d smell different.” He drawls, eyes sweeping your body, hips to face. “Sweet, or somethin’.”
“I’m sorry?” What the fuck? He just shakes his head.
“Never mind,” he lifts his mug in a salute. “Thanks for the top off.”
“Uh, sure.” You try to calm the uneasy feeling that’s now swirling in the pit of your stomach, the off kilter axis you’ve been thrown into. You chance another look at him, but he’s gone back to ignoring you, reading something on his phone, and you take the opportunity to slip away, mentioning to your coworker that you’re going on break, before stepping out into the back parking lot and cool crisp air.
Gravel crunches under your feet.
Don’t think about it.
Your mates’ rejection has become a living, breathing thing inside of you. A tumor taken up residence in your brain, something that white and grey matter grows around, accommodates, changes shape for like it’s a part of you now. Permanently altered down to your DNA. Every morning feels like it only happened the day before, even though it’s been almost seven months, but your designation, your biology, the crux of who you are, makes it impossible to move on. Time ticks forward, but you stay stuck, frozen in place with empty bonds that grow heavier and sicker inside your soul, poisoning you from the inside out. Trapped in a moment where your scent matches throw battered bills at your feet and turn their backs on you. Leave you.
Pathetic.
Desperate.
You didn’t think it was possible, biologically, for mates to leave one another, to want to be separated. Rejections are so rare, they’re like ghost stories told in the night to scare little children.
But here you are, alone with rot in your soul where two bonds should be.
Dogs bark in the distance. Somewhere past the parking lot, the trees, a trio of howls start up, loud enough that it startles you. They don’t stop, not after a few seconds, or a minute. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, that unsettling feeling turning to wariness, discomfort.
It’s enough to force you back inside, locking door and double checking it.
When you make back into the dining room, intending to check on your sole customer, you discover he’s gone. Mug emptied, cash left next to the napkin, empty sugar packets wedged under the saucer.
His absence lightens a load, loosens your shoulders, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
He’s gone, and that’s one good thing at least.
You keep checking your rear view mirror on your drive home. The sky is starting to purple, bloom like a bruise, and while there are no other calls on the road, you can’t shake your discomfort, the unease that’s crawling up your spine. Something was off with that alpha. Something was wrong. You can’t shake it.
And why does it feel like he was there for you?
The light in the hallway is out, naturally.
It never gets changed. Just another shitty part of this shithole building that houses your even shittier apartment. The one with uneven floors and drafty windows and water stains all over the ceiling, ones that gradually grow larger and larger, leaving you to wonder when it’s all going to come crashing down on your head.
Some place to call home, even though that’s what it is. Your home, the only place you have, in this backwoods town that caught you in its snare.
You rub your chest with your knuckles as you fiddle with the lock, jimmying the key just right, getting it to the point where it finally pops and lets you turn the handle.
The door swings open, to a dark apartment.
You frown.
You always keep the hallway light on. Always. You hate coming home to pitch black apartment, hate the way it makes you feel, like nothing is waiting for you, no one. You’ve thought about getting a dog or a cat, more than once. Just so there’s someone to welcome you home, snuggle with you at night.
For a brief second, a split moment in time, your brain breaks. It goes blank.
And then-
You smell it.
Cardamom.
Tobacco.
Sea salted leather.
Honey black tea.
It’s muffled. Covered by what you suspect is blockers, but for you, for their mate, it’s clear as day.
Your hand flies to the wall, slapping against plaster, looking for the light switch in a panic as your heart pounds in your ears, but as your fingers graze it, something moves in the dark. A mountain cuts through shadow, faster than you can even blink, and then your mouth is covered.
“Don’t scream.” The rough voice says in your ear. A voice you recognize. A voice who called you desperate and pathetic, a voice belonging to the man, the alpha, that left you behind in a gravel parking lot.
Your body knows him immediately. Instinctively. You hate yourself for it. Your omega hindbrain lights up like a jackpot has been won, trying to drag you under, soften you, turn you into some starved, pathetic thing, reduce you to nothing but everything they think you are.
Alpha.
Mate.
Safe.
No.
You bite. Hard. Jerk back and then unhinge your jaw, bringing your top teeth down onto what you’re assuming is his gloved palm, as hard as you can.
He doesn’t even flinch.
So then you scream. You let your lungs loose behind his hand, thrashing in his hold at the same time, causing enough of a disturbance that he loses his grip for a nanosecond, enough time for you to pull far enough away, far enough to reach the light switch and flick it on.
He lets you go.
The living room light floods your surroundings, illuminating him in all his cruel glory.
Dressed in black from head to toe. Combat boots. Black hoodie pulled up over his head.
Skull mask covering his face. Skeleton gloves on his hands.
It’s terrifying. He’s terrifying. He looks like the grim reaper.
He’s larger than life in your apartment, towering inside it like a monster in a doll house, dark eyes focused on you with such brutal intensity you have to look away.
“What… what are you doing in my apartment?” The words are rusted metal scraping up your throat and out of your mouth. Metal and bitter and painful. His jaw flexes under the mask.
“You need to come with us.” Us?
Johnny appears over his shoulder in the hallway at the exact right time, a zipped up black duffel in his hands.
He looks the same. Brilliant blue eyes, impossibly handsome face. Only the mohawk is different, longer.
He offers you a small smile. It shocks you. Getting hit by a truck would be less surprising.
“You can’t… You can’t be here. What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to take ye.” Johnny says, taking a slow, careful step towards you, palms flat and non threatening at his side, duffel still slung over his shoulder.
“Take me?”
“Aye. Take ye somewhere safe.” It’s at that moment you realize there’s something strapped to Johnny’s thigh.
“Is that a gun?” You squeak, the already loud pounding of your heart now vibrating in your ears, your blood turning to ice as fear churns in your belly. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen a gun in your life. At least, not up close. “Wh-why do you have a gun?” Johnny’s smile disappears, his face turning severe. Serious. His eyes flick to the window, then to Simon with a nod, a silent conversation unfolding in the room, one you’re not a part of.
You should run. Flee. Try to make it around the blockade that is Simon’s body and make a break for the door. But you can’t, you’re stranded, a ship run aground, lost in the fog. Your body is already shutting down, at war with your instincts and your brain, an impossible fight unfolding inside your tissues, a battle all the way down to the molecular level.
“Get yer shoes.” Johnny motions to the pair of sneakers next to the door, the best pair of shoes you have, better than your worn out work non-slips. You shake your head.
“No, what? My shoes? I don’t… I don’t know what you’re d-doing here, or what’s going on, but-”
“What’s going on is you’re comin’ with us.” Simon nods to the duffel Johnny is still holding. “Got everything?” It’s yourduffel, you realize with dawning horror, the one that lives in the back of your closet, unused and mostly forgotten.
Now, it’s stuffed full.
“Why do you have that?” Why, why, why. All these questions in a room full of deaf ears.
“We had to pack your stuff. Now get your shoes.”
“Pack my stuff?” You ask weakly, because it’s all you can do. You’re a parrot, repeating everything, trying to make sense of it.
“I got everything I think ye’ll need.” Johnny says gently, face soft. “Some clothes an’ yer toothbrush. Yer meds.” Your face heats with shame. Your meds. The suppressants, the blockers, the pain killers, all on display on your nightstand. You imagine them, in your room, in your space, going through your things, cataloging them, studying them. Seeing them. Seeing your pain, your destroyed nest, the one you built meticulously and then tore apart after they came and went. “Anythin’ else ye need we’ll-” he stops dead, face turning towards the living room window.
Simon kills the lights. You open your mouth to ask, again, what is going on, but words die on your lips when a small red dot appears in the room, it’s trajectory lined up right next to your head.
The rest of it happens very fast. Too fast.
There’s a crack, like a whip, and then the window explodes, spraying glass everywhere. You’re suddenly in someone’s arms, Simon’s, his body curved over yours, a shield that takes you down to the floor and keeps you there with an impossible weight.
There’s more cracking, popping, Johnny and that gun, firing into the shattered glass, your frightened screams covered by the gloved hand on your mouth, and then you’re being pulled onto your feet.
“Move.” Simon barks in your ear, and your body automatically responds, a puppet played by a master. He’s half dragging, half pushing you through your apartment’s front door and then down the hall, thundering towards the emergency exit. Everything is happening so fast, too fast, and you can’t process it, can’t even begin to put the pieces all together as the door opens and the three of you spill out into the night.
What is happening?
The alley behind your building is pitch black, and you stumble, tripping as Simon pulls you in tighter to his side, an impenetrable force, pinning your body against his.
Another crack splinters the air and you scream as Johnny swears, his gun coming up from his side.
“Keep your head down.” Simon orders, and you close your eyes, following along numbly as he leads you past your building and around the corner.
This can’t be happening.
Whatever this is, it can’t be real.
Johnny appears on your left. You get a whiff of him, honey black tea steeped in raw fury, the violent edge of it tainting that honey sweetness you smelled before, and he’s so close, close enough you can feel his heat through your shirt.
“Almost there,” he murmurs low, and you hate, loathe, how it sinks into your bones. How it tries to warm you.
There’s a black SUV parked at the end of the alley, engine running, lights off, waiting. Waiting for them, you realize numbly as you’re propelled forward, waiting for you.
You try to dig your heels in.
“I’m not going-” Simon yanks open the back passenger door, grabs you by your arm.
“You are.” There’s no room for an argument, no room for even a single word. Before you know it, you’re being tossed into the back seat, door slammed at your back before Johnny is climbing in up front and Simon is sliding behind the wheel.
The engine turns over.
The locks click.
And then you watch as your apartment building fades into the distance, your life and everything you ever knew slowly disappearing from view.
werewolf!Soap has gotten robbed by a one night stand.
you were desperate. short on rent because your siblings couldn’t be bothered to return the money they borrowed from you after you’d been pressured by your parents to just give them what they wanted.
so you got creative and got busy. the bar was your usual place to strike. you went after the loud and boisterous fucker with the bad haircut after he’d declared that drinks were on him at his table for the night.
it was Soap’s own fault, really, for bringing you to his place. he was a good lay, which was a bonus. enthusiastic, a little too passionate. you hated how soft his eyes were when he pinned your hands above your head and made a point to set a slower pace, hated how praises seem to tumble out of his mouth when he trailed his lips down your skin before he littered you with bites and nips. his chest rumbling with something sickly sweet as he nuzzles his cheek against your neck and inhaled thickly as if he’s trying to breathe you in.
you didn’t sign up to be worshiped. didn’t sign up to be revered by a complete stranger. one you planned to steal from anyway, yet here you were. trapped under him as he pushed you over the edge again and again while your nailed raked down his arms.
he was eager to please too. eager to eat your pussy before and after he stuffed you full of cum. you went the extra mile to ride him to tears for good measure and he returned the favour by folding you in half and fucked you till the neighbours called and complained to keep the noise down.
but slept like a log right after. you almost did too with how much he wore you out but you forced yourself to stay away and pry yourself out of his heavy arms. which gave you the perfect opportunity to take what you want from him.
you struck gold that night. found a fat wad of cash in his wallet and a couple of expensive watches on his night stand which were worth a fortune.
you cast one long look at his sleeping frame. handsome motherfucker, this one. burly arms with a big hairy chest and legs to match. your fingers traced the faint, jagged line running along the side of his head to his chipped ear.
part of you wished this could’ve lasted longer. part of you wished you met him under different circumstances. but alas, life goes on. this would be the last you saw of him and he’d be glad to be rid of you.
or so you thought.
not even half a week lapses before you heard a knock at your front door. your blood ran cold when you opened it to find Soap’s familiar grin flashing vividly before he pushes his way in and pins you down, clasping a hand over your mouth before you can even think to call for help.
“there ye are, little thief.” he heaves over you as you squirm helplessly under him. “yer scent was far too easy tae find, lass.”
it’s not just that he’s heavy. he’s strong too. much stronger than you’d like him to be. you’re reminded of how he’d used that strength a two days ago to mold you to his bed without much of an effort.
you attempt, through tears, to mumble apologies under his palm. your hands try to push him away, to crawl out from under him. but he won’t budge and he won’t let you go anywhere.
just like last you saw of him, you’re trapped under him.
“not here fer that, sweet thing.” he pants into your neck. “i came tae finish what we started.”
it’s only then that you feel his cock pressed against your thigh. his hands pawing over the layers of your clothes and slipping underneath.
it’s only then that you realized that robbing him wasn’t your first, nor worst mistake.
willingly throwing yourself his way like a lamb to slaughter was.
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werewolf!Soap has gotten robbed by a one night stand.
you were desperate. short on rent because your siblings couldn’t be bothered to return the money they borrowed from you after you’d been pressured by your parents to just give them what they wanted.
so you got creative and got busy. the bar was your usual place to strike. you went after the loud and boisterous fucker with the bad haircut after he’d declared that drinks were on him at his table for the night.
it was Soap’s own fault, really, for bringing you to his place. he was a good lay, which was a bonus. enthusiastic, a little too passionate. you hated how soft his eyes were when he pinned your hands above your head and made a point to set a slower pace, hated how praises seem to tumble out of his mouth when he trailed his lips down your skin before he littered you with bites and nips. his chest rumbling with something sickly sweet as he nuzzles his cheek against your neck and inhaled thickly as if he’s trying to breathe you in.
you didn’t sign up to be worshiped. didn’t sign up to be revered by a complete stranger. one you planned to steal from anyway, yet here you were. trapped under him as he pushed you over the edge again and again while your nailed raked down his arms.
he was eager to please too. eager to eat your pussy before and after he stuffed you full of cum. you went the extra mile to ride him to tears for good measure and he returned the favour by folding you in half and fucked you till the neighbours called and complained to keep the noise down.
but slept like a log right after. you almost did too with how much he wore you out but you forced yourself to stay away and pry yourself out of his heavy arms. which gave you the perfect opportunity to take what you want from him.
you struck gold that night. found a fat wad of cash in his wallet and a couple of expensive watches on his night stand which were worth a fortune.
you cast one long look at his sleeping frame. handsome motherfucker, this one. burly arms with a big hairy chest and legs to match. your fingers traced the faint, jagged line running along the side of his head to his chipped ear.
part of you wished this could’ve lasted longer. part of you wished you met him under different circumstances. but alas, life goes on. this would be the last you saw of him and he’d be glad to be rid of you.
or so you thought.
not even half a week lapses before you heard a knock at your front door. your blood ran cold when you opened it to find Soap’s familiar grin flashing vividly before he pushes his way in and pins you down, clasping a hand over your mouth before you can even think to call for help.
“there ye are, little thief.” he heaves over you as you squirm helplessly under him. “yer scent was far too easy tae find, lass.”
it’s not just that he’s heavy. he’s strong too. much stronger than you’d like him to be. you’re reminded of how he’d used that strength a two days ago to mold you to his bed without much of an effort.
you attempt, through tears, to mumble apologies under his palm. your hands try to push him away, to crawl out from under him. but he won’t budge and he won’t let you go anywhere.
just like last you saw of him, you’re trapped under him.
“not here fer that, sweet thing.” he pants into your neck. “i came tae finish what we started.”
it’s only then that you feel his cock pressed against your thigh. his hands pawing over the layers of your clothes and slipping underneath.
it’s only then that you realized that robbing him wasn’t your first, nor worst mistake.
willingly throwing yourself his way like a lamb to slaughter was.
At first, you’re not sure what exactly it is you’re smelling. Leather and tobacco soaked in sea spray, mixed with cardamom and honeyed black tea.
What is that?
You sniff the air. It’s barbaric, embarrassing, but you can’t fight the instinct that has your nose lifting, nor can you stop your feet from automatically moving, following the trail.
Your skin prickles as it grows stronger, and there’s a pinch in your stomach, a light twinge that yanks you forward, propels you out of the kitchen and into the dining room, hot on the heels of whoever it is that smells like this.
An unbidden, fully uninhibited omega whine crawls up the back of your throat as the scent rises to it’s full strength and leads you down a row of red pleather booths, to where two alphas sit across from one another.
The whine is loud.
They both turn when you get close, nostrils flaring, eyes widening with surprise, suspicion, and your focus splits right down the middle, the rational, logical part of you trying to stay in control, and the animal, omega part of you trying to bare your throat. Offer yourself up.
Now that you’re here, in front of them, the scent has shifted. It’s still strong, but somehow softer. Warmer.
Safer.
It’s safe.
It’s more than safe, it’s like light. Blinding, baptizing, white light that sinks into your cells and rolls through your shoulders, unclenches your teeth and tightens your core.
It’s holy. The closest you’ll ever get.
Scent matches.
True mates.
It’s kismet. You know in your bones, in your cells, they’re yours. They’re meant to be yours.
Not one, but two.
“Omega.” The one breathes, drawing your attention, your focus. He’s tall, muscled, brown hair cut into a mohawk, bright blue eyes like Caribbean waters. So handsome it hurts, his scent is the warm, honeyed tea, the cardamom in the fall.
You forget yourself. Forget this place, this dead end job, this backwoods town. Forget the little notepad in your hand, the old almost dried out ball point pen between your fingers.
“I…” Speak. Say something, say anything. Your gaze swings to the other alpha, the one who looks too large for the booth, the room even. Where the blue eyed one is handsome, this one is severe, beautiful like a sharp cliff that sheers off into the ocean. Focused brown eyes with a crooked nose, black hoodie pulled up over his head. There’s something dark about him, something dangerous, and it’s his scent that is the burnished leather, tobacco leaf, dried salt of the sea.
Your gaze drops, and then snags on the sight of a bite. Just barely peeking over the outline of the hood, is a clear as day bite mark. A claiming mark.
A bond.
Your stomach drops.
This alpha is bonded. You glance at the other one, blue eyes, and immediately find his in the same spot, proudly displayed. These are not new, fresh bites. They’re faded, scarred over, commitments, and it all plays out in front of you like a horror movie. Two alphas with two marks, and one omega, standing in front of them, too late.
im like a starved dog gnawing on a dry crumbling bone waiting for the next part of fun secrets to take the grave to come out
I'm working on it now, but it'll probably be a while still, sorry! But here's a sample of the next chapter if you want to chew on this while you wait:
There’s also a chance they’ve lost interest. How fun could it be to have you over when there’s no prisoner for you to pretend to ignore? Or maybe they’re busy setting up the basement for their next captive, and that next captive is you, where they sent you down there so you’d have a preview of your new living arrangements.
(But what if it’s not you? What if when they left the other night, they were off to search for their next pet? Someone who listens and behaves and doesn’t keep little secrets from them.)
Kyle in a survival horror scenario where he falls in love with you through the notes you’ve left behind.
He’s entered the research facility that ended the world. He failed to stop the apocalypse from happening, but anger and purpose and guilt drive him to find a way to end it. Even though the building is barely standing, lockdown procedures are still in place, so he searches for any intel that will help access the lower levels, all while dealing with the deadly creatures lurking around every corner.
It starts as a hopeless endeavor. Most of the computers he comes across are useless, either broken or not on the emergency power grid or password protected. He focuses his energy then on combing through file cabinets and desk drawers.
Your desk was his first stroke of luck. You were training a new hire, so you put together instructions and guides for various procedures—one of them is how to override the ground floor lockdown. It’s well written, explaining the steps in detail while keeping in mind that this would be read by someone with little context. Your documents are typed and printed, but you’ve also stuck handwritten post-it notes on several of them. Kyle peels one off and holds it in his hand.
Good luck!
As he traverses deeper into the facility, battling monsters and madness, he keeps coming across your documents and your notes, picking up vital information with words of encouragement stuck to them.
You don’t have to rush!
He finds himself seeking out what you’ve left behind. Initially, it’s because your papers have been the most useful, but on this solo, self-appointed, suicidal mission, he can’t help but also cling to this connection. Everything fell apart so quickly. His team is gone, his home is gone, his world is gone. There’s nothing left, especially not down here. Nothing but your words.
You did great!
Take it easy every once in a while!
It wasn’t your fault! You did your best!
He keeps that last note. Whenever he’s secured a location to rest, he reads it again and again, taking care not to get blood and grime on it. It keeps him sane, or so he thinks.
After he routes power to the servers that host the organization’s research journals, Kyle searches for yours first. The logs are mostly professional, but you have casual entries mixed in as well—notes to yourself that you probably thought no one else would see. They give him a more candid picture of what you’re like. He reads them all, even the ones unrelated to the world-ending event, taking longer than he should when there are monstrosities lumbering outside the barricaded door to this office.
He risks a detour to where the personnel files are stored. It’s worth it to know the names and faces of the people who destroyed the world, that’s all. When he comes across yours, it has a photo of you. He keeps that too, stashing it with your note. The rest he commits to memory.
Level by level, Kyle descends. He’s still pursuing salvation from the nightmare that was unleashed here, but he’s also chasing your ghost. Your notes continue showing up all the way down. He already knew this from your file, but you had a surprisingly high clearance level. He tells himself that you didn’t know what you were signing up for when you joined the research team here. You didn’t know what sinister plots were being carried out, or even if you did, you probably couldn’t just walk away without consequences.
By the time he reaches the lowest floor, what little hope he started with has run out. He’s found no magic cure for this plague of monsters, no secret weakness revealed. All the information he’s come across indicates that the worst case scenario has come to fruition and this disaster is irreversible. He shifts from searching for a panacea to searching for a way to burn everything here to the ground.
There’s only one sealed section of the facility left. He almost doesn’t bother, but maybe what he’s looking for is just behind that door. (Don’t give up! It’s hard work, but it’ll pay off in the end!) When he manages to open it, it reveals a bunker with survivors.
And you are one of them.
He almost can’t believe it. Out of the hundreds of people who worked here, you managed to be among the half a dozen that made it to this safe room. Since Kyle still has his SAS gear on, your fellow survivors think he’s here to rescue them, as if there was anywhere safe left to take them to. They seem flippantly dismissive of the fact that their actions set humanity on a crash course to annihilation.
You know better, though, warily shrinking back to the edge of the bunker, and Kyle feels a swell of pride. You can recognize that it’s not a savior that’s arrived, but a judge, jury, and executioner.
The rest of the room is a mix of top level executives and researchers. In a previous life, he would have seen this as an opportunity to interrogate them for more information. But that Kyle is long dead, so they’ll meet the same fate. He shoots the others before they can even try to defend themselves. You scream in despair, but Kyle is numb to screaming by now.
Your legs have given out, though you still scramble backwards when Kyle approaches. He knows how he must seem to you with gore and blood all over him, some of it painted on by your colleagues. So he smiles and takes out your post-it note and lets you know it wasn’t your fault. He didn’t find what he came here for, but he’ll settle for taking you back with him.
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I don't know why it never occurred to me before now after rereading it like 8 times that Johnny and Simons foster pets are probably also woman and not men. I dont know in my head I just pictured them having a boy pet and not a girl pet and then i was like wait but they want this girl as their forever pet so theyre probably kidnapping other women 😭😭😭
They’ve had both male and female pets! These aren’t really spoilers, but putting this under a read more in case you prefer your Fun Secrets to Take to the Grave lore to be vague and mysterious.
Their second foster, Luca, was a male. They liked that his name was so close to their first foster, Lucy. They joked about how if they could take Lucy’s collar and carve the Y to an A.
The joke is that there wasn’t actually a name or any other identifier on the collar, which has been incinerated and disposed of. But the idea was amusing enough that it played a factor when choosing their next pet.
As they’re both new to pet owning, each foster informs them more of what they’re looking for. Luca is more willful than Lucy, who was too timid. She cried and whined and whimpered all the time, which was cute at first but eventually got tiresome. It's important for pets to have confidence.
Luca ended up too far in the other direction, though, always attempting to escape and coming close to succeeding twice. He was not given the chance to try a third time.
tumblr staff will let the thousands of porn bots on here run rampant yet will take down trans comics with no actual nudity
i originally reblogged this post, but since staff took it down you can't fucking see my reblog anymore. well i liked this comic, i want it on my blog, and it does not include any fucking nudity. especially compared to all the straight up porn staff allows to go free
so here it is
untitled by Pas (paxiti), all pages from May 23, 2018 to June 22, 2023
When I was a kid, we moved into a house that had a huge lilac tree out front. It was mostly rotten, and it needed to be taken down before it fell. It took a while, but eventually, it was gone.
Mostly. A couple years later, little lilac babies popped out of the ground in its place. My mom was determined to get rid of them, because she'd planted a beautiful flower garden there, and the lilac trees would overshadow and kill the whole garden. I insisted on saving at least a few saplings. She said fine, but I had to dig them out and put them in pots myself.
So, I did. I spent days digging little lilac bushes out of the ground and putting them into pots. Some couldn't be saved, but some could. When all was said and done, I had five brand-new lilac saplings. Seven or eight years old, and it was my absolute pride and joy.
Three died due to sun scorching, severe drought that no amount of watering could save, and perhaps just being moved from their place in the ground. But two survived, and I was awfully proud of them! I'd go out and talk to them every single day. I watered them by hand and made sure they were fertilized properly. I learned all about their favored environments, and I was determined to make sure they lived.
One of my mom's friends saw what I was doing with the lilacs. She asked if she could have one to put in her backyard, and I agreed on the condition that she take very, very good care of it.
It's now fucking enormous. I'm talking ten feet tall and bursting with beautiful purple flowers every spring. My mom still gets updates each year as they start to bloom, which she forwards to me. And all I can think is, "That's my friend! Thriving some twenty years on, there it is."
The other tree nearly died, too. It lived in a pot for far, far too long. I wanted to plant it somewhere in my parents' yard, but my mom was reluctant. Eventually, we agreed to put it in the far back garden. It grew okay for many years, despite the shade, but in all these years, it's never bloomed.
Last year, the massive tree casting massive shadows over the lilac and the garden cracked in half and fell. It tumbled into the garden, crushing part of the nearby shed and destroying a few plants beneath it.
It missed my lilac by inches.
The clean-up is long done. The rest of the tree has been cut down, and my lilac has full sunlight for the first time in fifteen years. It won't bloom this year, I know. But it's got new shoots up. It's taller than ever. I spent half an hour a few weeks ago praising it for surviving all this time, dreaming about its future and telling it how I believe it'll become the tall beauty it's always been meant to be.
Hello, everyone who scheduled this post to remind themselves to check in - which seems to be, uhh, quite a lot?? First of all, thank you for the interest and all the lovely notes on this post. It means a lot.
The lilac is doing very well! It's got almost a dozen new little branches and it's covered in more leaves than ever before. It looks so, so healthy - and that's where it's prioritizing its resources. No flowers this year, because the lilac has chosen essential growth and fundamental health over ornamentation and reproduction.
It's a good choice, I think. It looks so good. So many little leaves, so much new growth. Bits I thought were going to be dead are beautifully green. I decided not to take pictures of it; something about it felt wrong to do.
The other lilacs in the yard have bloomed, though, and I did get pictures of those. Plus the little potted one on my deck, which has teeny little flower buds on it.
I hope that you'll all be here next year to check for flowers with me again. Because you really never know.
And who knows? Maybe you'll have flowers to show me, too. I certainly hope so.
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this rose-breasted grosbeak was banded by powdermill bird banding during the fall of 2005, during a random wild bird banding of the area. participants were surprised to find the bird to be a bilateral gyandromorph - one side of the body is male, the other female. this is typically due to an event that happens in early mitosis, where one of the dividing cells does not split its sex chromosomes in a typical fashion. interestingly, most birds only have one functional ovary on the left side of the body, so this individual could still hypothetically produce offspring.
You've thought about Price's mouth everyday for four months.
Not obsessively. Or... no, that's a lie. Obsessively, but in the involuntary way the brain latches onto a detail and will not release. The texture of his lips under yours. The way his chest had refused to move on its own, and you had put both hands to his sternum and pushed like you were trying to reach something buried deep inside of him. The count in your head- one and two and three and- and the absolute, animal terror of those seconds where he was just weight. Just absence shaped like a man.
You had brought him back.
You have not been the same since.
His office door is open. That's normal for him. Door open to the corridor unless there's a briefing or someone catching hell. You pause in the frame without announcing yourself, long enough to take him in: him at his desk, hunched slightly over something on the screen, the lamp casting him in an amber glow. The overhead is off. He hasn't noticed you.
You should knock. Say his name. Do any of the many reasonable things someone does when they enter someone's space.
You don't.
You cross to him quietly- not sneaking but not announcing yourself either- until you're close enough to smell the wool of his jumper, close enough to see the silver threading through the short hairs at the back of his skull. You watch his movements. The slight rise and fall. The small shift of weight as he reaches for something on the desk.
You weren't doing that, you think and do not say. For a minute and forty five seconds you weren't doing anything at all.
"Can I ask you something," you say instead.
He doesn't startle. You've noticed that about him. He registers people before they expect to be registered, like some part of him is always tracking. He tips his head back just slightly in acknowledgment.
"Ask," he says.
You press your lips together. You heart pounds against your rips. "Do you trust me?"
A pause- not hesitation, you think. But the stillness of a man choosing his words carefully. Then:
"Yes."
No qualifier. No of course or within reason or that depends what you're-. Just the word, clean and flat and entirely sure of itself. The same voice he uses to give orders. The same voice you've heard go soft exactly twice in the many years you've known him.
You close your eyes briefly.
Then you lift your hand and sit it over his eyes.
Your palm covers them both: the left, the right, the fine skin of his brow, wrinkles from the corner of his eyes expanding into his temple. You can feel him breathe. He goes very still under your hand, the way prey goes still, except that isn't right. Price has never been prey in his life. He's choosing this stillness, holding just for you.
He doesn't reach up. Doesn't ask.
You find his mouth with yours the way you found it four months ago, in the dark, kneeling over him on concrete with your hands shaking and your lungs full of something cold. Except... this time his lips are warm.
That's the first thing that you notice. Just the warmth of him. You had forgotten or maybe you had never let yourself remember it properly, the way the mind protects itself from the things it can't afford to want. But his mouth is warm and present and you feel something in your chest that has been held very tightly for four months begin, incrementally, to release.
You don't rush it. You can't. This is too careful of a thing to rush.
His lips are slightly chapped, you can feel the faint drag of it, the realness of it, and something about that detail makes your eyes sting behind their closed lids because he is real, he is here, he is warm and breathing and his heart is beating entirely on its own. You press in just a little more, closer, like you're trying to verify it through contact. Like you need to know he's solid all the way through.
He makes a sound, very low, barely there at all, more a shift in the quality of his stillness, and this his lips part for you. Slow. So slow you feel each small movement of it, careful and deliberate, the way he does everything. Like a door being opened by something who knows what's on the other side and has decided, having considered it fully, to open it anyway.
You taste coffee and tobacco and something faintly sweet, and you think oh, the way you think oh when something you have been bracing against turns out to be something else entirely.
Both of his hands come up. One finds the wrist of the hand covering his eyes, and wraps around it loosely, not pulling, not directing. Just... there. Just present. His thumb settles against the thin skin on the inside of your wrist where your pulse is doing something mortifying and rapid and you wonder if he can feel it, and you suspect that he can, and you find that you don't mind.
The other hand finds your face.
It's tentative at first, just his fingertips at your jaw, the lightest possible contact, like he's asking a question before he commits to saying it out loud. Then his palm settles over your cheek, broad and scorching and rough, and he tilts you, just barely, into him. The movement splits you open somewhere quiet.
You had put your hands on him four months ago with the desperate force of something trying to keep another person alive. You and pushed and counted and breathed into him and felt nothing except the terror of the task. You had not let yourself feel anything else until it was over and he was breathing on his own and someone was pulling you back and you were sitting on the ground with your knees wet and your hands shaking, and you had looked at your own palms like they belonged to someone else.
You are not shaking now.
Your hand is still curved over his eyes. He is still holding onto your wrist. His other hand is still cupped against your cheek, and you are leaning into it without meaning to.
You pull back the smallest distance. An inch. Maybe less and you stay like that. Your hand over his eyes, his over your wrist, the lamp the only light, the corridor outside quiet. His breathing comes out slow and steady. Yours is less steady.
"Okay," You say, eventually. To no one. To the four months of it.
His thumb moves against your pulse point once.
"Yeah," Price says. Low and rough and soft all at once, like okay is the only word big enough for what he means, and also not nearly big enough at all. "Okay."
