I'm honestly not sure about my gender. I enjoy she/her alot, but idk about any other pronouns. He and they don't work well for me, so I believe for right now, I'm cis-gender.
I'm genderfluid, using any pronouns with a general preference for they/them but not in the sense of them being my only pronouns. It's more like pronouns are in the same category as adjectives for me. They don't make me dysphoric, they just don't always feel like the Technically Correct words in the same way that I don't think compliments like "hot" are Technically Correct. They/them always feels correct, but the other fluctuate. Gendered nouns and honorifics, however, are an absolute no-go 100% of the time. So as an example you can use she/her for me and on some days I'm like "Yep" but I am never ever a Woman. My aesthetics vary pretty wildly, but it feels difficult to talk about my presentation when I haven't had the chance for HRT due to my doctor being concerned with my diabetes and not wanting to add more variables. In general though, I consider myself a fagdyke wrt my gender and my presentations are always aiming for gender nonconformity, even if my body isn't really working with me on that.
In terms of my relationship orientation, I am bisexual and polyamorous. While I am allo on all counts, I have had queerplatonic relationships and consider them just as much of an option for me as romantic and/or sexual relationships. For me, polyamory means having relationships that don't need to meet any expectations besides what a partner and I want/need, and a qpr is not going to be weighed as less than my romantic relationship(s).
I go by mainly she/her as a cis woman, but I'm pretty okay with they/them or he/him or other sort of androgynous/masculine terms (The only firm no-no I would say is calling me a man)
you know that trope where it’s princess + knight, but they’ve both been captured by the bad guys and the princess is now gripped by the jaw by the villain, receiving a thin cut to her cheek while remaining completely still with a defiant look in her eyes even as a droplet of blood begins to trickle out of the wound, all while 3 people AT THE VERY LEAST need to have their hands locked on the knight because he’s thrashing around like a wild animal, trying so so so desperately, violently, to get to her?
In your head you've been dating your boss since the week you started working at your job. You loved the job, mainly because you loved one particular thing; Auron.
Sadly, he doesn't see eye to eye with you on certain aspects of your relationship. For example, he keeps acting strangely when you call him "Baby". But his replies are the funniest: "What are you on about, Rook?" or sometimes a fine look of confusion, but you know, because he's shy about having his other employees know about your relationship with each other.
Or that one time you let yourself into his office only for him to yell at you. To you, his behavior in the office didn't matter much because at the end of a hard day's work, you'd always be able to see his face at home.
Oh, not your home, but his.
In a way, it's like you live there too. You know all the hallways, the look of the bathroom, his room, the living room, did I mention his room? That's where you both spend the most time at, you watch him get dressed, and undressed, from a window he never closes. The blinds always stayed half-open while the curtains were wide open.
You watch him pace in his room, back and forth on the phone, only wearing a towel. It's almost adorable how he never notices you.
Your favorite part of this charade was his reactions. Last Christmas, on his birthday, you left him a gift: cologne, new pillows, a towel, lotion, a watch, and your favorite, a stuffed raccoon plushie. You left the gist unnamed, and as he read the card, you watched as his face twisted into something of worry, watching as he murmured "what the hell" in such a way that made your heart race. All of it was visually pleasing to you.
And of course, you saw his hesitation to throw away the gift, ultimately he decided to lay the plushie on the top of his dresser, in a most convenient position, well, for you at least. The perfect position to watch him from, his still body in bed was almost too much for you to watch through a small phone screen connected to a camera set in the toy.
As you became tired, you lay in bed taking a deep breath and kissing your phone screen gently before falling asleep, and as booze off, you hallucinate the strangest of noises from Auron,
"Goodnight, Rook."
Of course, he knew you were watching. Are you serious?
Thinking about failure in the YuuriVoice narrative and the crucial role it plays in the characters. Like we meet these characters after they've had formative mistakes that shaped who they continue to be. Even when characters get to make amends after those mistakes, they don't feel like second chances, not really. To me, the phrase "second chance" means a fresh piece of paper you can try again with, but the prologues are still there with these characters.
For example, Seth made mistakes in his romance with Alphonse. Now he and Alphonse are in a relationship again (with listener interpretation to what exactly that relationship is) but it's not like they're just leaving the past behind them. Who they are now and what kind of relationship they have is crucially informed by why they didn't work before. They're not pretending it didn't happen because that's an important chapter of their story, for better or worse. They didn't resume their relationship, they started a new one.
Maybe a more polarizing comparison is Seth's dad. He was a father who would drink and hit his young son. He is a man who has put in the hard work to be a better person and become sober. The second sentence does not undo the first, but the nature of being human is understanding that both are true at the same time. That's why it can also be true that Seth forgave his dad and that they aren't at a point where they can spend but so much time together. Their story still has those chapters in it, but they're slowly adding more words to their narrative. I think that's also part of where Jesse is falling short in her own arc: even her big moment to keep her son safe is still her grabbing the pen and scribbling whatever she wants in their book, and Seth didn't want to see another person he loved stare at him covered in Derek's blood. They can't properly reconcile when Seth doesn't get to have a say in their story.
It's not just their backstories in their current narratives: with the deaths we know of the major players they were the results of failures. The Wanderers Three were on a mission, and they died failing to complete it. The Bloodhound and The Oracle were working towards a goal, and they died failing to meet it. While these characters don't have cognitive memories of those failures, they still define their lives in The Beyond. I believe that, on some level, they are reaching for each other in this life because they couldn't hold each other tight enough in their past lives. With Alphonse's veil between memories wearing down through numerous mind washes, I'm really excited to see how that impacts all the anxieties from what's happened to him in The Beyond. How much of his resistance to leave his Dark Mode behind is informed by the knowledge, however deeply buried, that he died with Seth and Sugarboo on that battlefield?
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
Your phone is missing.
You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.
You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.
You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.
But you know you had it.
Which means…
You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.
It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.
The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.
“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.
“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”
“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”
He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.
These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.
It’s torture, being here.
And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.
Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.
A craving that can never be satisfied.
It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.
That you can’t find.
You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.
And in order to do that-
you need your phone.
Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.
It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.
You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”
Stop.
What are you doing?
“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.
“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”
“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”
“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.
You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.
“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.
“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.
He says none of those things.
“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.
“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.
“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”
“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”
“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?
“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.
“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”
You hate him.
He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.
You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.
“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.
“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.
“Yes.”
“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.
He moves.
It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.
Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.
Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.
You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.
“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.
But it doesn’t stop there.
He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.
Subharmonics.
It almost brings you to your knees.
“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”
Alpha.
You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.
He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.
You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.
No, that is what you mean.
You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.
“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.
Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.
Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,
“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.
“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.
It’s not fair.
“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”
“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.
“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.
Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.
The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.
He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.
“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.
“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.
“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.
“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.
“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”
“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.
Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.
It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.
It’s late when the knock comes.
“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.
You don’t answer. He sighs.
“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.
But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.
He knocks again.
You meet it with silence.
Finally, after minutes, he gives up and leaves, taking the wave of cardamom and black tea with him, and you slip back into oblivion, closing your eyes to escape into sleep.
(CW for mild bodily modification, implied knife/blood/painplay- nothing too crazy imo, but viewer discretion advised)
I 100000% believe this man would go completely feral for tattoos, piercings, scarification- any sort of permanent bodily modification done in his honour.
A collar can be taken off, but his initials inked or carved into you? Intimate piercings, gotten just for him to play with, for his pleasure? Especially if they can be hidden beneath your day to day clothes- as far as anyone else knows you're a perfectly respectable member of society, only he knows the claim he's made on your flesh.
Something that will last, even if all else comes crumbling down.
Imagine him pinning your legs down, spread apart, his grip like a vice, as he oh-so-carefully carves his initials into the inside of your thigh
Imagine him holding you by the shoulders, his grip both comforting and inescapable, crooning encouragement and praise into your ear as needles pierce your sensitive skin.
(How he wouldn't be able to touch you in any of those intimate spots for months until they properly healed. All he can do is look. His petard >:( By the time those few months are up you're both ready to tear each other apart.)
I honestly think if you agreed to such a thing, he might never get any work done ever again.
I forget that in the audio fandom we are all shorties except for like maybe 2 ppl bc I’ve personally never talked to someone in the fandom that was over 5’5 and a half-
