#read tags for warnings

[largishcat]

I actually don’t mind that “dead dove” has become conversational shorthand for “fics with heavy themes where you REALLY need to pay attention to the warnings”. such is the nature of language. what i do mind is when people tag their actual fics with dead dove and then give no indication of what they’re actually warning about. that is useless. that helps no one. that is completely against the spirit of the meme. i will not be reading that

[wickcipher]

You've Been Portal Jacked! Part 11

[Prev] [Masterpost] [Next]

Everyone you know, huh?

[umblrspectrum]

nevermind i figured out how to draw her

[anemonet]

Technoblade....

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter One: News Crashing

Poly!TaskForce 141 x Omega!Reader

The Omega Pack Plan Masterlist

Summary: A change in procedure around base causes you to spiral as your world comes crashing down. There's only one way out of this and it starts with telling the truth.

Words: 4.4k

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anxiety, Existentialism, Misogyny, Dismissive Attitudes, Angst, Rage

Mentions of: Medication,

A/N: Honestly, I'd been inspired by a few series (Standard Emergency Protocol and Pantry Solutions) I've read those and it caused me to want to write my own A/B/O COD AU, so I started this as a sort of funny fic awhile ago. I'm haven't entirely plotted out the whole story, but I have some ideas for the first few chapters. I was finally inspired to finish and post it because @cringeycookies liked the snippet I posted in a wip tag game. So thanks to everyone who inspired me, and a special thank you to @penelopepine for helping me with the dialogue and Price's reaction as I try to begin writing for them.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," the nurse responds, "we're no longer authorized to refill suppressants of any kinds for any purpose." With a push of the empty orange pill bottle back across the counter in your direction, she offers you an ugly forced smile.

"Is there really nothing we can do?!" You complain incredulously, "Nothing at all? What am I supposed to do with this?!" Taking the emptied bottle into your hands, you stare at the nurse with widened eyes and a wild look.

"There is no 'we'..." she rolls her eyes in response, focus returning to the papers before her. "But if you insist, you can always bring it up with your CO, or the Base Commander." She scribbles something out on the page, but you can hardly focus when your world is virtually crumbling apart around you. "Now if you don't mind, some of us actually have work to do around here."

Still stunned, you can't help the way your breathing picks up as your heart begins to race. About a month ago now there was a base-wide meeting where they'd finally cracked down and implemented a new program the government is trying out: OPP. The Omega Pack Plan. While it's uncommon for Omegas to even be recruited into the military to begin with, such a thing does exist. Regardless, the Base Commander gathered everyone in the Auditorium for a presentation to talk about the new program and how the army would implement it into the troops. Luckily, considering you're on an elite Task Force, it doesn't apply to you. At least... it didn't.

"What the hell is this?!" You yell, tossing the orange bottle in his direction.

He'd heard the stomps all the way down the hall and smelled you coming, so he's neither surprised by your appearance, nor startled by the toss of the bottle. John swiftly catches it in his hand as he looks up at you. "What?" He inquires, finally glancing down to examine what he's caught. "A pill bottle?"

"Captain, it's empty! They won't refill it- I can-"

A groan tumbles past his lips as he drags a hand down his beard. "Look, Panther-" referring to you by your callsign, interesting move. "There's nothing I can do, it's over my head now. I wish I could do something, but I can't." Sitting back in his leather chair, Price places the bottle on the desk; a faint rap of the plastic hitting the wood is the only sound between you momentarily before you hurriedly shut the door.

Panic begins to flood your system as you're not sure how to handle this. It's your turn to freak out. You know how this goes, you know the story now; ever since they'd implemented and dispersed the Omegas into the troops, they'd started implementing them into the Task Forces, and now they have to do so with the One Four One. Fingers curling in and out of shapes as you try to process your next move, you speak before you can even begin to plan what you're going to tell him.

"I- I'm- I..." You're pacing his office now, the heavy gaze of your Captain upon you as you try to prevent yourself from hyperventilating. The thing is, you're usually good with pressure- really good. It's your job to be good. It's just... this is different. This is your life, your livelihood at stake, the livelihood of all your future generations to come.

A sigh resounds throughout the office before you hear the low timbre of his voice. "Dove," he calls out with a gentle tone, "I want you to take a deep breath for me. Alright?" With the calm and even sound of your Captain's voice and the assured look on his face, you comply. Exhaling the last of your breath, you close your eyes and focus in on the deep intake of air through your nose. With the parting of your lips you slowly release it before giving yourself a moment.

When you open your eyes he gestures to the seat before his desk, though you know he won't take offense if you decline. Hesitant, one hand finds its way to the other, wrapping around your arm as you listen to him speak. "Now, can you explain what has you in this state? I assure you that there's nothing that can't be dealt with." You want to trust him, you know him--John Price--your Captain. He's always had your back, always made sure you felt comfortable in the Taskforce, always made an effort to check on you after things got rough.

You nod. Licking your lips, you search his blue eyes as you tentatively take the seat across him.

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it, alright? I can guarantee you that unless you're trying to tell me you're an Omega, nothing you say is going to shock me that warrants the amount of panic you're putting yourself through," Price chuckles. He's obviously joking, trying to break the tension with humor. Lips drawn upward into a small smile, the Captain stares at you expectantly.

"What if I am?" You whisper, eyes unable to tear from his visage as you try and gauge his reaction. Unexpectedly, silence fills the space between you and feels deafening in the small space. The growing comfort of his office these couple of months now feels like a cage you're forced to stay in, under watch, as you stare down your superior on the brink of a battle to the death. And that's what you do. His blue eyes bore into yours, skeptically shifting between your left and right as he seems to try and get a read on you.

All of the sudden you jump at the smack of his hands hitting the desk in front of him. He laughs at you.

He's laughing at you.

And you're sitting there with your guts spilled out, dread eating away at the pit in your stomach... and he's laughing. It feels like forever is passing you by as you stare at him in shock, this moment between the two of you frozen in time as nothing else persists.

"I understand what this was now," Price explains, still chuckling to himself as he shakes his head. There's a warm smile on his face that feels eerie considering the dire context of the situation at hand. "You got me! I fully believed you for a second there, too."

Eyebrows furrowing in dark realization, you can't help but stare at him wildly. "Wha-" You begin to question him and his line of thinking, but he cuts you off.

"This was all a prank, right? The bottle, the hysterics- you really outdid yourself, Sergeant." Leaning back in his chair, he props his ankle up on his other knee. "Because let me tell you, this was good. Better than anything Soap's cooked up in awhile. Did you come up with it yourself?" There's a cheeky grin on his lips. "Ah, I know you did."

Lips opening and closing like a fish out of water, you sit in the armchair across from him pale with a dazed look across your face. He doesn't actually think that this was...

"Well, with your little triumph in your pocket, I say we get back to work, yeah? I've got some new leads from MI6 that've just popped in." With that, the man stands from his desk and rounds it. "Garrick should be back around Tea. I'll see you in the Command Station then," he informs you. It's then that he passes by, a genial clap on your shoulder while he's at it.

Left stunned in silence, you can't help but grit your teeth, consequentially pronouncing your jaw as anger ebbs through your bloodstream. Breath getting heavier, you can't help but loathe the meeting tonight. Your Captain might be satisfied with the conversation, but all you feel is discouraged. He's abandoned you, left you alone in his office with a humiliating sense of betrayal and shattered trust. Almost like you hadn't just told him your biggest secret at all.

Punching the standard heavy punching bag hanging in front of you, you grunt, ignoring the pain that gnaws at your knuckles underneath the reusable hand wraps. Sweat builds on your brow as you continue to unleash your pent up anger on the gym’s equipment. How could he?! When had you ever pulled anything even similar to this? Never! And the fact that you’ve only been on the team for a handful of months only exacerbates the abandonment you’re feeling right now. He’s your Captain! Regardless of your feelings or the situation at hand, isn’t he supposed to be there for you? He’d promised from the get go to help you with whatever you need, and now the one time you go to him for aid it backfires in your face and leaves you without any sort of solution going forward aside from straight up telling the whole team the flat out truth, and God forbid! You can’t even begin to fathom how that’d go.

A pent up and frustrated yell almost akin to something of a growl emanates from you as you tear into another round of swift jabs and punches. Regardless of the situation at hand, you’ve been trying to build up your upper body’s strength and letting out the anger you’d accumulated over this morning’s events seemed like a perfect opportunity to let loose.

The stretches and treadmill routine didn’t take a lot out of you, but the weights, and now the punching bag definitely is starting to take its toll. Sweat beads at your forehead in rivulets that drip down the sides of your neck, down your scalp past your neck and between your shoulder blades. Tank top soaked in sweat, you breathe hard as your heart pumps rapidly in your chest. You would’ve wound up here at some point or another tonight, but the Captain’s discourteous response certainly led to an earlier workout time.

While others sparsely litter the gym’s floor, you pay them no mind and vice versa. It’s not uncommon for soldiers to be found blowing off steam or aiming to beat their highest reps on the weights. Yet, this gym is reserved for higher standing members of the Force, the gym on the far side of the base where there are less people, offices, and considering the regular army men train in the bigger gym closer to their quarters, it’s mostly other higher ranked officers in here.

“Captain’s lookin’ for ya,” Markowski, another Sergeant that you’d come to befriend on base announces from the doorway, having poked his head in after leaving a few minutes earlier. He belongs to a different Task Force.

A groan tumbles out of you as you realize it’s already that time. Just as the door clicks shut, your phone chimes loudly with the alarm you’d set earlier going off. A few quick swipes of your fingers, you turn the alarm off and unlock the device, seeing a number of messages flood your notifications.

Kyle: You hear they’ve bumped up the timeline? 😯

Johnny: “ https://Tiktok/Shattered.Rat567 ” Had me rollin’ 🤣👏🏻 Gotta check it, Bonnie

Simon: You coming to the meeting or not? 🤨

Johnny: Where r u? You’re usually first here 👀 Cap’s getting peeved, watch out

Not looking forward to the inevitable mess of a meeting before you, you don’t bother rushing to join the men. With a wash of your face in the women’s locker room, a speedy bathroom break, and a grab of the items you’d brought with you, you’re heading for the Command Station.

With the time Price set the meeting, you won't get to eat dinner till afterward. You'd be lying if you said you weren't annoyed by this entire situation, your agitation from neglecting your hunger earlier has certainly come to bite you in the backside.

While you don’t have time to respond to their texts, having set the alarm with only enough time to get back to your team’s Command ‘station’ albeit more like your headquarters before heading out. Speed-walking through the orderly halls with a haste perfectly common around here, you navigate with a well practiced knowledge. Though you’ve only been here coming up on six months soon, you’re well acquainted with this part of the base.

Rounding the corner, you’re in the hall, close. Yet, the worry of being late lingers in the back of your mind and adds another layer of annoyance on top of your residual anger buried deep down from this morning’s situation. You’d inevitably come up with your solution. It’s not one you like… but it’s the only logical option. Another turn and you’re striding into the big garage-like room.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Sergeant,” Price calls out to you. Lifting his eyes from the map laid out across your station's table, he glares in your direction.

“What took you so long?” Soap snaps, his brows slightly furrowed as he stares at you from the opposite side of the table, hands lazily wrapped around his vest’s straps.

A look at your watch tells you that you’re not even late, the meeting doesn’t officially start for another minute! But you are usually waiting on them. He’s got you there.

“Yeah, you’re usually the first one here. It’s not like you,” Gaz whispers under his breath as you sidle up alongside Ghost, Gaz standing diagonal to you right beside Price at the head of the table.

“Focus,” Ghost orders the men, his hands tucked in his hoodie’s pocket. You don’t fail to notice the way he subtly takes a step further away from you as soon as they start talking again. Price goes back to talking plans as Gaz is questioning the circumstances of the information the Captain had acquired earlier when he’d had to leave the office.

“Which is exactly why-”

A heavy exhale on your behalf leaves the men frozen as their eyes drift back to you. “Do you have something you’d like to say, Panther?” The Captain questions. Jaw clenched, you tear your eyes from the map they’d settled on.

“We’ve got a big problem,” you announce, cutting off the Captain as you finally raise your gaze to meet Price’s slightly widened blue eyes.

“Well, if you see something that needs changin’ then let’s hear it,” he responds. A ‘hmph’ follows as he crosses his arms over his chest and sits his weight back onto his heels.

“It’s not about the op,” you correct him. Tilting your head side to side you attempt to crack the kinks in your neck while standing a little straighter to appear more engaged and serious.

“And it’s more important than this? What we’re doin’ right now?” Soap questions, his hands dropping to rest on the table as he looms over it, eyeing you with frustration obvious in his irises.

“What is it?” Gaz asks, a quirk of his eyebrow garnering your attention for a split-second. He’s genuinely asking, and there doesn’t seem to be a hostility in his scent as he turns his attention to you. Then there’s Ghost, who you don’t even need to look at to feel his heavy gaze on you, waiting expectantly.

“Actually, it is,” you argue with Soap, anger beginning to boil in your belly, the frustration and angst having been left to simmer all afternoon. “I can’t believe you didn’t take me seriously when I came to you earlier,” you turn your anger on Price. He looks taken aback by the outburst, something you’re not known for.

“Dove,” he calls calmly, hands out in an attempt to pacify.

“Don’t-” you bark, starting to raise your voice without realizing it. “I came to you in confidance! Trusting you when you said you’d be there to help me if I ever needed it! How could you?” Gritting your teeth, you don’t realize how hard you’re breathing as your chest heaves with anger.

“Woah, woah-” Gaz sputters, “What-” holding his hands out to try and diffuse the argument.

“I let myself be vulnerable-” You continue to shout.

“Isn’t this something that shoul-” Soap attempts to dissuade, backing down as he puts his hands out.

“-and tell you the truth, and-” you’re lunging for him across the table. You’re held back by a massive hand on your shoulder. “You laugh in my face?! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You're suddenly pulled back, off your feet, and shoved into a metal chair that'd been nearby. Your Lieutenant is hovering over you, his cold eyes now tinged with a spark of anger as they bore into you scrutinizingly. There's the sound of commotion behind him, multiple voices overlapping, yet you can't see anything with that utter giant in front of you!

“Does anyone wanna explain what the bloody hell is goin’ on here?” Ghost snaps. It's only then when the man steps aside that you can see where everyone is. With both of you in your respective corners, you simply glare at the Captain from over your crossed arms out in front of you.

“Are you bleedin’ kidding me, ya Scally?” Price grunts as he shrugs Gaz’ hand off his shoulder. “You’re still on about it! When w-"

"That doesn't explain what happened, Cap," Gaz interrupts, stopping him from going off and getting them nowhere.

He groans, running a hand over his face once more before composing himself. Everyone waits for an explanation—you too—he’d been the first to speak, and you’re curious to hear what he comes up with. “She came into my office, bloody cryin’, tossing me a pill bottle, muttering about, saying she’s a-”

You don’t dare let him finish, not wanting him to be the one to finally say it, exposing your truth to the team. "Omega. I’m an Omega, ” you finish his sentence. While you’re scared to meet their faces, you take a deep breath and force yourself to do so.

"Christ," Price curses, fingers coming up to pinch the skin between his brows as he hangs his head.

Ghost's stoicism is nothing unordinary, and in fact, is somewhat a comfort considering you'd expected nothing less from him.

Gaz looks stunned for a moment, eyes flitting about the other’s faces before the serious look on his face morphs. Lips slowly drawing upward, you shouldn’t be surprised when he starts laughing. "Yeah right," Garrick teases, "and I'm actually the Prime Minister."

Yet, it's not just him. The uproarious laughter from your right only adds fuel to the already burning flame as the two other Sergeants laugh like idiots. All as if it's some poor joke with no consequences to anyone's life, and yet... it's the truth. At the end of the day, it doesn't change anything. At the end of the day, your life is still in jeopardy and they're treating it like some joke. Unable to form any sort of retort, you simply blink; stuck in a stupor raw, stung, and with a dumb look on your face.

Soap, rounding the table slaps Gaz on the back, his face flushed red from laughing so hard. "Yer makin' my stomach hurt. God," he eggs the other on between his dying chuckles and attempting to catch his breath.

"You're really just gonna stand there and laugh?!" You finally burst. Anger surely must be coming off your scent in waves, but you don't care. Standing from the chair, you don't flinch as Ghost swipes his arm out in front of you in case you were going for the Captain again. There will be no physical altercation on his watch.

"She already pulled this on me earlier, mind you, and now what? You're trying to pull it over on the lads' too, eh?" Price goads you.

"And I was telling the truth! You're the one who said I was joking," you point out. The volume of your voice is lost on you, partially blinded by the fury bleeding out.

"I suppose you never did admit to it being a prank," Price reasons, fingers grazing his beard as he runs them over it repeatedly in thought. "But how do you expect us to believe that when you clearly smell of a Beta?"

"Even on the battlefield, after everything we've been through-" Gaz starts.

"After yer all sweaty from a workout, too. I think we'd notice, Pan," Johnny argues, illuminating a legitimate point of consideration.

"Oh please," you mutter quietly to yourself. Shaking your head, you can't believe they're really all being this daft right now. "Like you have heard of those Scent Spritzers.”

There are various perfumes on the market specifically designed to alter one’s scent. Most use it smell like an Alpha when they’re not, or an Omega when they’re wanting to seduce an Alpha when going out. But Omegas posing as Betas was rarely heard of. You’re more than sure it happens more frequently than people know of, they just haven’t been caught. And in your line of work? It’s scarce. People are thoroughly vetted, but… you’d been on suppressants for a long, long time. And a Beta perfume only perfected your hiding.

“Did you forget we’re Alphas, love? We’d be able to smell you across the room if you were,” Gaz taunts. There’s a puff of his chest that makes his cockiness even more annoying than usual.

"You really want to be an Omega? Dumb yourself down to some weak fragile thing?” Johnny jokes, nudging Gaz’ arm as he shakes his head.

“A doll who can get whoever she wants? Want to be nothing more than good for knockin' up and popping out pups?” Gaz adds on.

“Are you serious right now?” You test, seething under your skin as your hands ball up into fists. “How could you say that?!”

“It’s what people say,” Ghost comments.

“Nobody would want that and you’re out here lying about it,” Johnny pokes.

“We’re only trying to point out the flaws in your little rouse, Pan,” Gaz says, a smile lighting up his features as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"And what if I was lying, hm? Would that change anything you just said to me? How you feel about Omegas?" You scoff.

“This isn’t about your designation,” Price finally speaks. Fingers still weaved into his beard, his blue eyes lift to meet yours. “I see what this is about now, but there's nothin' to worry about, Dove.” Your Captain takes on a softer tone and all of the sudden you feel yourself start to get emotional as a twinge of sadness, of the hurt bleeding through upon understanding makes you feel seen.

“I know it's intimidating, the thought of having your first unmedicated heat, but we have medics here. It's natural. Heats, ruts, we all have them. And, hey... at least you're not an Omega, right?" Whatever relief you’d momentarily experienced sinks back down in your gut with the speed of a rollercoaster drop. It’s as silent as a stakeout, the only sound being people’s breathing. And the lack of yours.

It takes a moment to gather yourself, everyone’s eyes on you with the serious topic change. While sex and the downsides to a designation are something discussed with the boys, you’d often been left out. And to your comfort. "You know what? I can’t do this,” you retort. Backing from the group, you toss your hands up. “I guess you'll just have to wait and see," you bite back. With a whip of your hair over your shoulder, you head for the door.

The room is silent once more as everyone gawks. You’d never reacted in such a manner, had an outburst like that… this is… certainly different, and something they’re not at all used to.

“It’s because they took away her suppressants today,” Price explains. It might not have been something the group should be privileged to know. A private matter, really… but with the way you acted? He felt the men deserve an explanation, at least.

“That makes sense,” Gaz responds quietly, eyes still on the door you’d gone through.

“That’s no excuse,” Johnny counters, arms crossing over his chest with a scowl on his lips.

"Well... that went better than I thought,” Ghost comments with a shrug. “Back to the plan? We can fill her in later.”

[teratomatica]

you always land on all fours

[clairewritesfanfics]

Inside an Otoge: Mister Dragon, Let Me Love You Chapter 6

Pairing: Dragon!Sylus x Non-MC!Reader

a/n: I know, I know–it's been 800 years and the jellyfish are walking naked–but before you throw rocks at me, I have a very good reason for not updating in so long; two words: Invincible hole. Anyway, enjoy the chapter! edit: I'm also sorry if I haven't replied to your comments/replies in the previous chapters, it's hard navigating Tumblr replies 🤧

CHAPTER 5 | Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

You don’t think you were an envious person. You aren’t completely immune to feelings of inadequacy, but you didn’t spend a lot of time comparing yourself to others. Except for special cases.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” Sylus says.

He brought you to a tavern, in a different city this time, brighter and looking more like a Disney theme park than medieval Gotham. Despite his mild grumpiness when the sun is out, Sylus is quite fond of walking around outside, provided that it was the afternoon or near the evening. Before you arrived, he’d been alone, stuck in that sad cave in the Abyss for over a thousand years. Neither of you understood how you managed to free him, but all that matters to Sylus now is that he can stretch his wings whenever he wants–and that he can drag you along.  For this trip, you wore a period-appropriate outfit he bought for you, but he didn’t bother putting on anything, saying that his illusion magic would be enough.

When you don’t reply, he calls out your name again.

“What?” You turn away from the slice of cake in front of you.

He raises an eyebrow. “It has been fifteen minutes since you last spoke, and you’re not eating like it’s your last meal today.” 

He’s teasing you but you only grin as you pick up your fork. “I was thinking.”

“I gathered as much.”

“Sylus.”

He hums, pouring himself another cup of tea.

“Tell me, what do you think of a person who gets jealous of someone who is not real?”

“What nonsense are you spouting now?”

“You see, even from a young age I liked to read books, some were fairytales and love stories, others were meant to scare me or take me into a journey beyond the stars. At some point, I developed… affection for certain characters.”

“Affection? Are you speaking of romantic love?”

You smile. “Something like that–rather than outright love love, I think it’d be fairer to call it infatuation. It’s silly. I became obsessed with these figures of imagination to the point that I would get angry when they fell in love with other characters.”

You expect him to say something mocking, but instead, he drops a sugar cube into his cup and says, “I don’t think it’s silly.”

“That’s surprising. Most people would call me crazy, after all, what’s more insane than loving something that doesn’t exist?”

“I’m not most people. Desire is simple, humans make it more complicated than it needs to be. It’s far more foolish to lie to ourselves about what we feel.” He shrugs.

“You’re right, it is simple,” you laugh wryly and poke the strawberry on top of your cake. 

He watches you. He then sets down his cup and looks at the street. “Fictional people aside, have you experienced true love?”

“No.”

“Huh.”

“Shocked?”

“Yes.” He meets your gaze. “You struck me as a hopeless romantic.”

You laugh for real this time. “It’s precisely because I am a hopeless romantic that I have never experienced that kind of love.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I told you, I like to read. Love that transcends time and space is a common theme for a lot of books.” You stab the cake. You spent most of your life admiring the stars so now, no earthly gem can ever compare. “One would have a higher chance of meeting a mythological creature than finding true love.”

He chuckles. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, from what you’ve told me about your reality, don’t I qualify as a mythological creature?”

The cake crumbles and you push the pieces apart. “That’s true.”

Ruby eyes fall over to your sulking form. 

Sylus clears his throat and looks at the stores. “It’s truly fascinating how much this place has changed since I last remembered.”

Your ears perk up. Since you’ve met him, Sylus has barely shared anything about his childhood or his life a thousand years ago.

“What was it like?” You ask.

A little girl passes by the street with what looks to be her grandfather; her twintails bob with each step she takes. Her head turns and she sees Sylus. Without missing a beat, she offers a toothy grin and waves her arm in greeting. 

Sylus weakly raises his hand, the faintest smile evident on his lips.  

Satisfied, the girl continues dragging her grandfather around the town.

“It was a little village, barely big enough to house more than maybe 300 people. There used to be a town square where this very tavern stands.” There’s a far off look in his eyes, mind somewhere you cannot see.

Heart aching, you say playfully: “I bet you were a cute kid.”

He snorts. “I was small.”

“I have a hard time picturing that.” The Sylus you came to know is a big guy, not just physically, his presence has a way of enveloping you. When he’s in a room with you, you can’t help but look at him.

“I was a tiny thing,” he continues, “it was ridiculous, really, even the human children were taller than me. My horns and tail and wings used to be much bigger than my body. They feared me, but because I was smaller they still had the guts to throw rocks.”

You hum, watching him reminisce. 

After a while, he exhales and looks at you. “Anyway, is there anything you’d like to do today?”

“I’m going for a job search.”

“...what?”

“You’re already letting me live with you for free, not to mention paying for my meals, I figured it’s about time I earn my own money.” You sip on your tea. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

You hated your job back on Earth, and you fantasized about living a carefree life without having to worry about rent or food. But you soon discovered that life as a homebody is no fun and games either. As much as you enjoy annoying–ahem, admiring and praising Sylus, staying alone with him for too long is making you feel things. Things that have no place in your heart. 

“You can’t–you don’t have to work,” he insists. “I have more gold than I know what to do with, you can use them all you want.”

“As tempting as the offer is–” who doesn’t want to be a handsome dragon’s sugar baby? “–I’ll have to decline for, let’s say, ethical purposes.”

“But–”

“Sylus,” you cut him off, the soft clinking of your teacup on its saucer sounds sharp, like a warning bell. “I’m doing this.”

He is about to protest, but then he catches sight of the bruising on your wrist, so he purses his lips and folds back on his chair. “I’m sorry.”

The Sylus in-game is the epitome of a perfect man: confident, secure, respectful and devoted. But the Sylus sitting in front of you is basically Rapunzel. Over a thousand years spent alone in his tower with no human contact may not have broken his mind, but the gaps in his emotional development are evident. He’s growing too attached. You knew of the consequences of staying with him and you selfishly let it happen. You don’t know how destiny works, but you know that somewhere in the future, there is a world where Sylus can be happy, truly happy with the woman he loves. And you love him too much to rip that away from him, so you will do the right thing and leave before either of you can make a mistake.

***

Sylus doesn’t understand. 

Humans work to make money, so they can buy things. From what you told him, you always worried about money, that’s why, even though you loathed your job, you did not stop until you died.

But his cave is full of treasures already. He has enough money to last him for eternity, enough to last the both of you for as long as you live. 

He hates that he does not understand. He hates that small trinket shop that hired you, and he hates that human boy–no, the young man who looks at you like… like you just told him really good news and now he can’t stop smiling.

It’s infuriating. 

He would never admit this to you, but sometimes–not all the time–he wishes you were a bird. You would be a very adorable bird, he thinks. A loud and cute thing. If you were a bird, he would build you the biggest, most intricate, most beautiful golden cage. Only the best bird seeds and fruits would be given to you. You would never want for anything.

If you were a bird, you could stay with him.

If you were a bird, you wouldn't have to leave ever again.

***

“Everything’s been running more smoothly since you came along,” says Orson as he carries the newest delivery of antiques inside the store. He’s the grandson of the owner and an incredibly polite eighteen-year-old. 

“Well, I’m glad you find me satisfactory.” This place isn’t so bad. Compared to your old nine to five, this is easy money. The people are also nice enough. No one calls you an idiot every second and the only other employee, Orson, knows how to pull his weight. 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. We used to lose a lot of the smaller stuff, but your–what do you call it, inventory? Your inventory makes it easier to keep track of everything.”

You laugh and help him unload the crates. You fish out the usual knicknacks that are sent to this store: silverware, secondhand books, old toys, a kettle–no. 

You rub your whole face.

Orson peers over from his crate and teases, “Dust in your eye again?”

You ignore him and look back at the contents of the box. This can’t be. 

He calls your name as you reach inside and carefully pull out a lamp, its gold sheen nowhere to be found under layers of dust and dirt. Wrapped around it is a small, black and red dragon.  

@phisen @leryg0 @capribun @sinnamon-bunn @wegottastayfocus @erisnxxi @syyyy4ever @limerenceisserenity @shiorihoshino @poptrim @jeleryyy @serenity-loves-red @vigtore @imagineblaqkttv @calverkeys @malleus-draconias-rose @traumaramacenter @tak3yourpill @lucifers-silhouette @lanxianschoenheit @anixx1 @cupid-gene @animechick555 @lostpsycho13 @roselleviennesstuff @athanasia-day @nazifa613 @multisstuff @shadowqueen09 @sleepykittycx @perla-drg @codedove @mentaltrouble2201 @seris-the-amious @alyssac9 @kira-loves0905 @yutterfly @nerrivm @sharlinna @sleepykittycx @huuvu

Sorry if I missed /repeated someone in the tags, Tumblr doesn’t exactly have the best commenting system.

a/n: How’re you guys liking the verb tense change? I know I originally wrote everything in the past tense but since this is set in an otoge I went with the usual present tense used in such games. Or does it feel too awkward? ALSO PLEASE NO SPOILERS ABOUT THE NEWEST ADDITION TO THE MAIN STORY. I have been busy with finals so I still haven't played them.

CHAPTER 7: Coming soon.

Disclaimer: The image of Sylus used in this post does not belong to writerclaire, it is an official image from the game itself.

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[System notice: the ask box is open for discussion and questions and fangirling/fanboying, but it is now CLOSED FOR REQUESTS.]

[littlelovelunette]

Sevika G!P Headcanons

Contains- Sevika G!P, nsfw content ahead, BDSM, CNC

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Big spoon all in nude; Sevika likes her cock pressing against your butt as you both sleep, especially because if you're the one who wakes earlier, you can feel her morning wood hard against your cheeks. If she wakes up first... Get ready for a morning pounding.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Precums A LOT; you get her hard and you see her oozing her precum and it's always so hot to you. It's like her drooling, but with her cock. If you ever tease her with it, she will deny it though.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Sensitive tip and underside; Sevika will squirm when you suck her off and tease her tip a little too much. Her hips will raise off the bed, she'll try to hold back her moans though as she tangles her fingers in your hair and tries to make you suck all of her instead of just teasing her. Babygirl gets miserable :((

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Gets a boner at the worst possible time; You're both baking together? Gets hard. Maybe she just wants your buns? You both outside on a date? Gets hard. Playing poker with you on her lap? She'll get hard.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Didn't stop complaining after Vi kicked her in the nuts during their brawl; Sevika is still mad about the fact that Vi had kicked her in the balls during their fight. She won't let it pass, and you sometimes tease her saying Vi was thinking about Sevika's cock.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Won't have you sleep with it inside; Sevika is stern about it and you know no matter how many times you'll ask her to elaborate, she won't give you a proper reason whatsoever. Her point stands and she ABSOLUTELY won't allow you to sleep with her cock inside.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Prefers feeling you raw but is always stern with protection even when drunk; No matter how drunk or high she'll get, she won't forget to use protection. As of now, she can't imagine little hers or little yous running around, yet.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Barely needs lube because you're so wet for her, will tease you about it; do I need to explain?

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ When she spanks you, she'll get hard and you can feel it under her; she spanks you often. When you tease her during her poker games or don't wear panties under your skirt deliberately, she will bend you over and spank you. She prefers to do it with her hand too and most of the times when she's done that, you could feel how hard she was getting. She has a thing for impact play.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Will put it in whenever you're naked and bent even at the most ungodly times just for the hell of it; whenever you both finish having sex and you go and bend to pick your clothes up, you can expect a 2nd round of pounding. She claims you willingly tease her by doing it. But we all know our Sevika is just horny ;)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Doesn't like jerking it if you're not there with her; Sevika says she doesn't like jerking it or fapping if you're not around or with her indulging. Because it feels wrong to be doing that although she would do that if she got way too horny without you around to help but she prefers not to jerk it. Likes having you do that though.

[ram-to-the-ham]

If I can't find any fan art for He Is My Master then goddammit I will make that fan art myself.

[vulturevanity]

A Father's Purpose

Someone asks Martin if he actually cares about his daughters. He laughs at the joke he thinks they made.

Alternative version and thoughts under the Read More (please read the content warnings in the tags before clicking through!)

Epithet: ☆Dumb☆

Martin Blyndeff is a carefree man.

Despite his uncomplicated character, I have plenty of thoughts on Worst Dad and his impact on his daughters -- particularly Lorelai, but she isn't the focus on this piece and I'll talk about her another day.

I think what gets me about Martin and Molly is how efficient he is at shutting her down. Whether or not he's aware of what he's doing (it doesn't matter), it's really telling how smoothly he's able to do it. In the Museum Arc, he unloads another night shift onto her, rapid-fires excuses for why she has to take the night shift, takes credit for the school worksheet which she filled out, then changes subjects so she'll drop it. And he does it often enough that Lorelai has caught on to it, to the point that the first thing she does in the book is use his name to shut Molly down too. No matter what, if it's up to Martin, then Molly will have to shut up and deal.

I wonder how much of this DARVO-adjacent behaviour is a result of losing Calliope, if at all. I mean, I really, REALLY can't see how someone like Calliope would've fallen for Martin as he is today; we know he's always been the personification of the word "carefree" and Callie was an anxious workaholic mess, but honestly the Martin we see would probably just constantly stress her out even more (which he did sometimes). He was already rather senseless back then, but I can't help but think having Calliope to take on every burden for him for over 15 years and then losing her so suddenly must have exarcebated the learned helplessness. And since Molly was the one who took over, he just went "well I guess it's her job now", dusted off and went right back to his little world of toys and blissful obliviousness.

And speaking of Molly. She was suffering so much in that house, and yes, there have been plenty of walls of text about the verbal and emotional abuse she suffered from Lorelai, but I feel like we don't talk enough about Martin's complete dismissal of her feelings, thoughts and protests, and how deeply that affected her. He was the one who taught her no one would listen to her. He was he reference point Lorelai used to take advantage of her. He parentified Molly and made her bear the brunt of their financial troubles. And he did it all with a genuine smile across his face.

Martin Blyndeff sucks and I think we should talk about him more.

[spacehomos]

Kaos

Dennis

[steviewashere]

Steve's parents get a divorce, but they blame it on Steve instead of their own problems. (I got carried away with an idea, sorry)

CW: Suicide Attempt, Gun, Discussions About Divorce, Self-Deprecating Thinking

Everything turns out fine! This ends more hopeful than it sounds, I promise!

They're just like, "You're the only reason we had to stay together. If you weren't born, then we could've separated years ago." And just generally making him feel like dog shit for being their son. And they add insult to injury by counting every single one of his failures, the way he "embarrassed" them and "failed" them. They belittle him for not making it to college—siting that if they knew he wasn't going to be intelligent enough to make it, that they could've used the money they set aside for something better; like a vacation trip or to move out of Hawkins or to get a divorce attorney.

They're not calm about telling him at all. Just level 100 mad and fuming. His parents are shouting at one another, they're shouting at him, he's shouting back at them. When he starts crying, his dad tells him to stop acting like such a "hysterical woman" about everything; that he's "not even affected" by the divorce; that "not everything's about you, Steven, my god."

He doesn't know what to do once his parents finally calm down for the night, going to separate bedrooms; his mom packs her bags and states she's staying with her sister; Steve is left with his dad who refuses to talk to him—unless he's drunk out of his mind and angry. A lot of nights just ends up with tense, awkward one-sided conversations with his dad where he's told over and over again, "I could've still loved your mother if it wasn't for you."

And, sure, Steve knows the divorce isn't his fault. At least not 100%. But you can only hear something so many times before it starts to become true, right? So he begins believing that maybe he really was the pinnacle to all this. That if he had never been born, never been raised, never lived with them, that they could've lived happier, more well off lives.

And then this overwhelming self-consciousness begins to spread into other parts of his life. He begins to believe that Nancy was right in calling him bullshit—because he was shallow and he was a fuck-up and he was bad at being a boyfriend. He begins to believe that if he never threw that party, Barb wouldn't have died—that her death is, somehow, directly his fault. He begins to believe that if he'd never been so naive and stupid and a failure, that Robin wouldn't be involved in any of this mess.

He isn't sure if Hopper means it when he says "son". He isn't sure if he believes Eddie when he says, "I love you." He doesn't trust himself to fuck everything up with Dustin, because he can't stomach the idea of Dustin turning away from him and ridiculing him and brushing him off—same with Max. He isn't certain if Robin's actually his best friend, or if she's just doing it because she has to—because they fucked each other's jobs at Scoops and so she had to help him, or because they're the only two on the outside of the Upside Down/Vecna bullshit, because they know each other's secrets.

He isn't sure about his place in anything. And maybe there's a lot more that is his fault.

And when Eddie tries to tell him it isn't, Steve argues with him; screams at him that he's just saving face or pitying him or loving him out of obligation. Steve's insecurities end up being so bad that Eddie just goes, "I think...I think we need some time apart from each other. I think you need to figure yourself out before we can continue whatever this is."

And then the same thing happens with Robin. Where Robin leaves him with, "I'm your best friend because I want to be. I'm not pitying you. And you're not my obligation. If you're feeling doubts, maybe we need time to ourselves—really think things over."

And then it just continues to trickle down.

Until all that's left is him. Him and his stupid drunk dad. Him and this realization that he really does ruin everything he's involved in. And he could try to mend it all, but now he's too exhausted to try. So he just leaves it all as-is. He just continues on like this indescribable loneliness is his normal.

He goes to work at Family Video, but doesn't talk to Robin even once while he's there. And his car is always empty. And his heart is always heavy. And his bed is always cold. And the pictures he has of all the people he's ever loved are beginning to fade, but now he can't take new ones.

He's grown so insecure that he proved himself right, in a way. Yeah, he really was the hardship in all these relationships—but only because he made it harder, by ignoring the way everybody was quick to reassure him.

Now he doesn't know what to do, how to fix things. He's alone. He's miserable. He's depressed.

Steve's always tired now and he's not keeping himself tidied the way he used to. He's too quiet now. He shows up where he needs to and then he hides. He's not eating right. He's not smiling anymore. He's forgetful. He's pale and sickly and gaunt. He won't flirt with anybody, he won't laugh with anybody, he won't make new friends, he won't reach out to anybody. He just shuts down.

And then one day, he shows up to Family Video. He talks to Robin for the first time in months. He apologizes. He's smiling. He's laughing at her jokes. He hugs her. Then, he gives her his favorite album on tape—his most cherished cassette—and refuses to take it back when she turns it down.

And then he does the same to Eddie. Steve gives over his favorite t-shirt with a simple, "So you don't miss me." He kisses Eddie and they have sex and they giggle with one another and praise one another.

And then he apologizes to Dustin and Max.

To Nancy and Jonathan.

To Hopper.

Everybody's thinking that Steve's back to himself. Back to normal. That he got over what had been bothering him. Because he seems more level headed and clearer and happier. He's funny again. And he's hugging them, so hard he pops backs. He's telling them over and over and over that he loves them. That he missed them. That he hopes they didn't miss him too much. Makes them promise they won't miss him too much if he goes dark like that again, trying to play it off as some teasing, playful remark.

However, the only one who is suspicious is Hopper. Because something about Steve's behaviors feel familiar and planned and plastic. He responds the way Steve wants him to—sometimes. He forces Steve to stay longer at hang outs, even when something nervous flashes across his face—a blink and you'll miss it sort of thing, which is why Hopper believes he's the only one that catches the falter, the drop. And he hates the way Steve talks about his parents' divorce; "I kinda got in the way here and there. But it's fine, really, they're divorcing now and they'll get me to themselves one on one. Won't have to worry about both being there. Don't wanna make somebody do something they don't want to." Hopper keeps a really, really close eye on Steve.

And then he sees something new.

He and Joyce host a BBQ party with everybody invited. Steve's there. Sort of. Talking to everybody when they talk to him. But then he does this thing. This thing where he goes completely silent and sits off to the side, sort of relaxed in a lawn chair. And then he looks out everybody. With a soft reverence. With a soft sort of adoration. And acceptance. Some weird, nearly missed acceptance. Like he's allowing something inside him, something to take place while everybody's in the backseat. Or, more so, like Steve's in the backseat and he's letting everybody drive him somewhere.

Steve leaves half way through the BBQ. With a throw away excuse. He's smiling, bright and cheery. It won't meet his eyes, not really. There's color in his cheeks. He's holding himself casually. Nonchalantly. Still accepting something.

Hopper pretends to take a phone call while everybody's cleaning up outside. Pretends Callahan needs him. And then he follows Steve as closely as he can without being spotted. They end up in a forest that opens to a grassy clearing. It's quiet. Empty.

He parks far, far away from where Steve did. Goes the rest of the path on foot, stepping everywhere Steve did, right where it's oddly the quietest. And then he stops, hiding behind a tree, eyes thrown around it.

Steve's not too far away. Standing in the open. The shiny happiness has fallen off his face. Leaving him blank and bare. Vulnerable in an unsettling, nauseating way. There's a backpack in his hand. He crouches down and unzips it. Stands back up with something held tight to his front—something Hopper can't see, so he steps out from behind the tree, still standing off quietly, watching.

Steve raises his arm. Flicks out his wrist. And there, in his tight, white-knuckled grip is seemingly brand new handgun. A handgun. It's not up to his head yet, to his temple where Hopper suspects he's going to place it.

Hopper, frightened out of his skin, does the only thing he can think to do. With all his chief of police bravado, he shouts out, "Freeze!" And Steve, surprisingly, stops. "Drop your weapon."

And Steve doesn't.

"I said drop your weapon, Steve."

And then Steve holds his arm straight out from his side. Hand visibly quaking. The gun drops to the grass. Drops in a way that sets it off, just once—bang! And the noise alone startles Steve so bad that he crouches down and covers his ears and balls up into himself. Still next to the disposed gun.

Of course, Hopper hurries to him. Pulls him in tight. Shushes him when he cries and sobs. Rubs his back when Steve hunches over and expels the contents of his stomach. And then he just nods his head, muttering, "I know, I know you are," when Steve begins apologizing.

Hopper has to take him back to the house. To where everybody is still enjoying their BBQ. But he sneaks Steve in. They end up just sitting in Hopper's bedroom. Steve's gone completely silent, no more mask on his face. So Hopper begins talking about himself. About what he experienced, the guilt he carried, how he felt like so much was his fault—even if he'd been told it wasn't.

And Steve asks, "What changed?"

And Hopper, honestly, truthfully, "I don't know, Steve. I want to say El, but I think it was more than her. I wish I had an answer."

"I'm sorry," Steve says—for the millionth time. "I thought I was covering it up well." He sniffs. "How'd you know to follow me, Hop?"

"Son"—and Steve's eyes well with tears again, so Hopper squeezes him in tighter—"you were the most lucid I'd seen you in months. I knew what you were showing wasn't you."

Wobbly and wet, "Will everybody be mad? I feel like I've been lying to them."

"No," Hopper immediately answers, "they'll probably be very sad that you felt like you had to do this. But I don't think they'll be mad."

"But...but I...I—what if they think I've been trying to guilt them into...into being around me again? 'Cause I...it's my fault they all left me."

"You'll have to be honest, son. And it's gonna be scary, I know. But you've been carrying around a lot of weight the last few months, hell the last few years—you've been putting on a very convincing front. I think everybody will understand." Hopper brings Steve into a side hug when he begins to weep again. "And if they don't," Hopper adds, "then you've got me. I know it's not all the same, but I promise you that I understand, okay?" He pulls Steve back. Looks him in the eyes. "But you've got very good, very empathetic friends. These people really do love you. They love having you in their lives—we all missed you before, we were waiting for you to come back. They don't want to miss you forever. You got that?"

And Steve just breaks down again. And Hopper allows him.

Okay, this started as an angst thing where Eddie had to, like, comfort Steve after what his parents said. But uh...I spiraled?

[blue-cyber-dreams]

Baby I'm Yours

Reformed!Megatron x human!reader

I think reader is GN? Def racially ambiguous

It's kinda left up to the reader what version of Megatron this is, but I was thinking of/inspired by @revelboo's version of MTMTE/Lost Light's Megatron 🩷

SFW and fluffy with bits of angst

-----------------------------------------------

You swayed slowly as you hummed an old tune, right arm stretched out with your hand clasped in Megatron's left servo, his other gently resting on your ribcage.

While sitting on his desk, you had been humming a song to yourself and gently moving to the beat, when he asked about human dancing. So after he mass-shifted, you had introduced him to the simplest form of human dancing you knew. You guided him in how to place his hands and encouraged him to relax enough to move with the music. The dance style was intimate, but you tried to maintain some distance between your bodies, if only for the sake of your nerves. Now you were alternating between humming and softly singing lyrics to that sweet song you remembered from Earth as you rocked from side to side.

"...And I'll be yours, 'til the mountains crumble to the sea..." the words fell from your mouth as you stepped away to twirl, right hand still in his, only to return to his hold.

You looked up to offer a small smile, hoping this was entertaining the mech. He was already looking at you, a wistful expression on his face.

"You humans have much more complex optics when viewed up close," he said lowly.

You tipped your head to the side and smiled. "We call them 'eyes,'" you responded, playfulness dappling your tone.

You continued to hum before he spoke again. "Your eyes look deep, like I could leap inside. They seem like portals to another world."

You stilled at his words, and he leaned closer to you. The eye contact and proximity made it hard for you to breathe and you became aware of a whole new level of intimacy.

Then, he looked down. At your lips? Surely not. But then he released your hand and brought the servo which had been holding it to your side, and he inched closer. And closer...

You realised you were unconsciously leaning in as well. Then eyes and optics both fluttered shut as lips and dermas met softly.

His servos and arms moved to encircle you, drifting slightly lower, and his grip became firmer. For a moment, all your thoughts halted, and your palms rested on the metal of his chest.

Then, you became catastrophically self-aware again. With a spark of panic, you broke off the kiss to hide your face against his chest.

His hold on you loosened, as if to allow you room to escape, but you didn't want to move away. His embrace felt safe and soothing; you just needed to pause for a moment.

"Little one?" he murmured, a hint of concern in his tone.

You felt embarrassed. You had pulled away without thinking, and you felt you definitely owed him an explanation.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have done that," you said softly into his chest plates. You decided to just be out with it.

"I've never done that before." And if you didn't before, you definitely felt a wave of heat at your face now.

His tone was mild. "What? Kissed someone?"

You pulled away slightly to look up at the big mech. You were met with optics which held a flicker of... Uncertainty?

You averted your eyes before responding. "No, I haven't..." you said, fingers fidgeting with the edges of his armor plating to relieve the akwardness you felt.

His servos shifted up, now loosely resting near you shoulder blades, higher than they had been even during the slow dancing. You looked back up to see a whisper of pain and sadness on his face.

"You are too innocent for me," he murmured.

"I'm not that innocent!" A note of incredulity slipped into your voice.

He looked down at you again. His response came out smoothly at first, then slipped into a near-growl by the end.

"I mean no offense. But you do not know who I am, or what I've done."

"I know what I've seen. I know my own experiences. You saved my life!"

You had been abducted from Earth by another Cybertronian, and kept as a pet. Or a plaything, more like. They had no idea how to care for you and clearly took you on a whim, just wanting a defenseless creature to mess with. Megatron had found you by chance. "Humans are not fit to be kept as pets. They are intelligent, sentient," he had growled to your inept keeper. You hadn't been sure why at the time, but they had clearly regarded him with fear and intimidation, so they easily handed you over when he extended his servo to take you. You remembered what he had said when he departed from them. "Do not worry, little one. You are safe now." And you were.

You brought your mind back to the present, and Megatron's brow was furrowed, his optics screwed shut. A low sigh escaped him.

"They may not have taken you if I had not encouraged disdain for organic life in my followers."

"But it was still their choice. And you're different now," you responded firmly.

You continued in a softer tone. "You are always kind to me, and gentle." His optics opened again slowly.

"I do not deserve you," he murmured, voice rumbling.

You pursed your lips. "That word - 'deserve' - I don't like it. It's so subjective."

He looked at you intently, like he was trying to understand, so you went on.

"By some philosophical metrics, none of us deserve anything good that happens to us." You reached up to stroke the bridge of his nose, and despite his previous protests, he shuttered his optics and slightly leaned down into your touch.

"I prefer to aim for maximising the good things in the universe. Sometimes, or even often, that means pursuing justice, and trying to determine just what it is that someone deserves... But not always."

Your finger came down from his nose and traced his dermas, and they parted when you made contact with them. His optics opened again and met your eyes.

"You are far too compassionate towards me," he rumbled.

"I'm just a big believer in people having the capacity to change. It doesn't always happen, but I admire it when it does. It takes more strength to admit you were wrong and change course than it does to have the correct course from the beginning."

Megatron took your hand in his servo and pressed a kiss to it.

"Could I be allowed this?" He seemed to be asking no one at all, and yet also the entire universe. Any being who might be listening, or perhaps the eternal sparks and souls of those whose deaths he had brought about.

You reached to pull him down for another kiss. "That's up to me. And I say yes."

[secriden]

This line. God, this line! It has been eating me up inside for 2 days now, because let's not forget, this line isn't about love, it's about trust. And that has implications that make me want to scream.

It's a direct reference to this moment earlier in the episode:

At the start of this discussion, Style and Fadel still have a kind of playful air about their conversation:

Style: Oh? Not even me? Fadel: You're at 80% at best. I feel like you're hiding something from me in the 20%.

In this exchange, though, there's a sense that Fadel is issuing a challenge, like there's something specific which Style can do to gain Fadel's full trust. And while Style knows there are things he cannot (yet) reveal to Fadel, I think a part of him is determined to be as honest as he can be, which is why he issues a challenge of his own by asking for more specificity:

Style: What do I have to do to gain your complete trust?

Part of this question is a simultaneously inquisitive and deflective - What (and why) do you think I'm hiding (something) from you? - but there's also a moment after Style finishes speaking where he stills and goes quiet that feels... genuine, weighty. Or, as @airenyah has pointed out in her meta on Style in episode 4, the "grounded[ness]" in Style's demeanour is a signal that Style means what he's saying in the moment. Maybe about his own desire to be worthy of Fadel's trust, maybe about how he genuinely does want this relationship to be real in whatever way that matters to Fadel.

I think Fadel sensed that too, because the moment looses all the lightheartedness it had before. Fadel pauses, and then gets a look on his face that just... breaks my heart. There's a sombreness there, like he knows he's going to have to say something that makes him sad. Fadel looks away, and then down, before he seems to steel himself and says:

Fadel: It'll never happen. No matter how much you love someone, I just don't believe that you can completely lay yourself bare in front of them.

Fadel says this like it's fact. Like what he's expressing is something foundational and true and irrefutable. It's not even about his doubt in Style's honesty, because this statement has no qualifiers or conditions put on it to connect it to Style. Rather this is what Fadel fundamentally believes about relationships and trust: he finds the very concept of being fully known and still accepted an impossibility.

Sure, maybe this is because of the falling out (or betrayal or disappearance) associated with the former lover; but I also think it might be because Fadel is acutely aware not only that he's hiding a rather big and dark secret (not to mince words, but: actual literal premeditated murder), but also about what it implies about Fadel. Because being able to kill another human, coldly and clinically and without remorse, takes a certain type of person. Because, yes, Fadel has lived through an absolutely harrowing and traumatising event (his parents' murder), but it's also undeniable that it changed him. Because there's something about Fadel that twisted dark and which he never quite got back. There's an anger, a hurt that colours every moment of his life; that enables him to look a man in the eyes, smile politely, and pull a trigger.

And at this point in their relationship, Fadel's understanding of Style is that he's... well, kind of innocent. Especially in comparison to Fadel and Bison, and even Kant.

Style, who easily reveals facts about his life which Fadel already knows (winning a car tuning competition), making Fadel doubt his own instincts about Style hiding secrets. Style, who also reveals the things Fadel doesn't know, like the tender and secret pain of a mother lost to cancer (which, now that I think about it, Fadel may also know) and his worries about a father who "lost his bearings for a bit" (which he probably doesn't). Style, who tries to comfort Fadel in his own loss by offering a safe space and a sympathetic ear.

Style, who doesn't just see Fadel for his tragedy, but is asking to be given the chance to accept all of Fadel as a person. Style, who not only wants but has the capacity, to be the only person Fadel needs to rely on. Style who, despite the sea of differences between them, understands Fadel on a level that is so very foundational.

I'm going to slightly segue and mention something that may not resonate with everyone, but really hit me in the gut this episode: because I lost my father when I was 16 after he battled cancer for 2 painful years. And this revelation about Style has totally shifted and coloured everything Style has done in a new light for me. Because not only does this totally explain Style's sometimes almost stubbornly childish demeanour (it's common in adults who've had to 'grow up' too early), but also why Style shows seemingly random flashes of insight and maturity when they are most crucial. Notably, Style has this almost instinctive sense of when he needs to back off a sore point with Fadel that I couldn't quite put my finger on until this episode.

I've seen a few jokes about Style's awkward subject change, but I've actually got a friend who I hold very dear to my heart who was one of the only people to give me a sense of normalcy and comfort when my dad was on his last few days and then at his funeral. And part of that was the instinctive way she would know when I needed to just. Not be a grieving daughter for a few minutes. To get a small respite from the overwhelming hopelessness and sense of impending loss. To get a moment to breathe and gather my strength, because knowing I was never going to see my dad again, or hear his voice, or hold his hand was tearing me apart back then. Sometimes she'd talk to me about college drama, sometimes she'd introduce a new kpop video to me, sometimes she'd just ask me what I wanted to eat and take me to go have a meal with her. And sometimes there really just isn't anything else to say other than "I'm sorry." Nothing you say - nothing you can say - is going to ever, ever make this grief go away, and in most cases, it was better when people (especially those who couldn't really understand) didn't try.

And I think if you look at Fadel very closely, there's a moment of genuine surprise (Fadel wasn't expecting the subject change at all) and then... something that looks like fondness mixed with exhausted relief. Because I don't think Fadel was ready to talk about his parents yet. This was honesty he wasn't ready to give Style, mostly prompted because Style himself had willingly been so vulnerable that a part of Fadel wanted to reciprocate. But further down that path lies not only his darkest memories, but also the connection to the part of his life he is not willing to share with Style yet. So this subject change is a relief, it's a blessing, but it's also Style knowing when he shouldn't push any further with Fadel's fragile heart.

Which brings me back to how well the episode's theme of trust (both deserved and undeserved) was woven in this episode. This is true on multiple levels and characters but I'm not even going to attempt to touch Kant in this post because... Lord, that is beyond me at the moment. Someone else needs to do that, pretty please, so I can reblog it and scream.

It starts, somewhat unexpectedly, with Fadel asking for entrance into the intimate spaces of Style's life.

So, this episode was not about Fadel's fear of his own feelings, desires, or even affection for Style - that appears to be fully addressed in episode 4. I think that's why we see Fadel be so physically affectionate and indulgent of Style in this episode. He's come to terms with his lust for Style's body (hence his comfort in initiating sex), he's accepted Style as his boyfriend and so can enjoy Style's playful teasing (still reluctantly, but Fadel is still an introvert even if he's mostly enjoying Style's rambunctious nature), and give into Style's (and Bison's and Kant's) cajoling with relatively little fuss.

He's even comfortable toying with the edges of revealing his darker and more sinister side by reminding Style implicitly about how violent Fadel has the potential to be. Recall that Fadel knows Style knows some of his capacity for violence; he just doesn't know how very thoroughly Style is aware of the full scale of this truth. It does help that Style evidences no actual fear and, in fact, looks positively euphoric. Like, buddy, pal, dearest one... please control yourself.

And yet something very, very telling is the way the show makes it a point to depict Fadel very deliberately getting drunk during the double date. Even before the date has started, Fadel looks to be about half a beer in and we see him constantly drinking, drinking, drinking during the whole date. From the conversation about trust he has with Style while Kant and Bison are being off key and adorable about it, to after Kant leaves and Bison gets worried. And we've seen Fadel cope with emotional and mental distress with alcohol before, so we know that Fadel is internally fighting some kind of very intense battle even as he is also very clearly enjoying moments with Style on this date (most notably when they're dancing by the bowling lanes and when Style asks him to go home with him).

So here's my take: rather than being about love, this is about Fadel fighting to hold onto his own philosophy on relationships and trust. Because as much as I do believe Fadel believes he's telling the truth when he tells Style that 100% trust is "impossible", I think it's clear that's not what he wants.

What he wants is to finish this last job so that the only thing he can't be honest about with Style will finally stop being a factor in his life. What he wants is to fully and completely reciprocate the openness Style seems to be giving Fadel. What he wants is to switch off his brain and let his heart lead for once, to stop fighting a battle he has no desire to win anymore, only he can't. Trust (not love) is Fadel's final frontier, and one which he can't quite give up in spite of himself.

Which is why I think Fadel intentionally gets himself drunk here. Because he wants to let his guard down around Style. He wants to open himself fully, he wants to "lay himself bare" for Style, he wants Style to know the full truth and accept him anyway - and he gets so close, but can't quite get there - because he doesn't know that Style already has.

When Style says this, Fadel thinks it's empty words, not knowing that Style has long passed the bar Fadel thinks is insurmountable. And just like Style was able to offer safety and reassurance to the vulnerability Fadel was showing in episode 4, Style instinctively gets to the core of Fadel's darkest fears again:

Style: One day, I'll be your 100%.

This isn't (just) a promise that Style will wear Fadel's stubbornness down, or that Style will be worthy of Fadel's 100% (which, already, has me in tears, ngl). Beyond that, this is Style promising Fadel isn't ruined for this; that it isn't too late, that whatever hurts and wounds Fadel has can be made whole again. That the kind of honest and all-encompassing and unconditional trust which Fadel says is impossible can, in fact, be his. That Fadel still has the capacity to trust and be trusted the way he so desperately, painfully longs for.

I know a lot of people have said Style in this episode is writing cheques he has no ability to honour, but I think it's more layered than that. Because in a very significant and profound way, Style is wholly deserving of Fadel's trust. Because in all the ways that Fadel has ever known he should want, Style actually IS worthy of his trust. Style knows the truth Fadel is hiding, knows what this man is capable of, knows the danger of being in his arms, knows the likely nonexistent future Fadel has to offer him -- and wants him anyway. Style is a man who would stare into Fadel’s darkness and reach out first. Strip away the complication of Kant being blackmailed and dragging Style into his mission, and Style is literally perfect for Fadel. He is exactly what Fadel wants (and possibly has wanted for a very long time). He is, in fact, exactly what Fadel needs to ever experience anything beyond the shadow of a life he's had so far.

But oh, the cruel narrative means that Style is also, simultaneously, painfully undeserving of Fadel's trust; and this is something Style is very much aware of. I think that's why he's trying so very hard to be worthy in all the other ways he can be. Style's awareness of what Fadel is hiding enables Style to (counterintuitively) be completely honest about his feelings for and about Fadel even as he cannot reveal his motivations. So he gives Fadel as much honesty as he can: offers the vulnerability of his own pain and hurts; the comfort of his true understanding and acceptance.

And just as Fadel's vulnerability in the abandoned factory was met with Style choosing a form of physical connection that prioritised Fadel's pleasure (it's made very clear that Style is jerking Fadel off and that all his focus in that moment was on Fadel, not his own pleasure), so too is this moment met with Style very intentionally choosing to worship Fadel's body with all the tenderness and genuine emotional weight that Style wanted Fadel to have in their first time in the storeroom.

Because, crucially, this was Style giving Fadel the chance to lay himself at least physically bare. This is the closest either of them can get to full honesty with the secrets they both are keeping. It's why Style tries so very hard to show the care and adoration and genuine feelings he has for Fadel. Why he makes sure that the vulnerability of Fadel getting himself as drunk and as relaxed and as trusting as Fadel can allow himself to be is tied only to gentleness and tenderness and pleasure.

Because Style actually knows that Fadel can't (and shouldn't) trust him in the way Fadel truly wishes to.

And as much as I believe that Style genuinely means this from the bottom of his heart, the horrifying full truth is that it is Style that has the metaphorical knife hovering over Fadel's chest. He is the one with the capacity to actually give Fadel a new scar that would truly matter. He is, in fact, the only one Fadel wants to fully trust -- and this, along with Style's compromised heart, makes it so that the circumstances will doom them both.

[emryx]

“I’ve got you.”

Inspired by a fic I found on accident and I’m sobbing over the Teia characterization. 100% recommend

READ IT HERE

Written by @/saessenach <3 We need more Teia-centered works. I love my man Viago, but Teia deserves all the spotlight she can get 🫠

[zorosdimples]

UNDER HIS THUMB ꒰ uraume x reader x sukuna ꒱

minors and blank/ageless blogs do not interact—i will block you. cw: suggestive content. nonconsensual nudity. dubious touching. brief descriptions of cannibalism and violence. suicide mention. reader is referred to as “bride” and “wife.” reader has breasts. wc: 1053. notes: uraume ily—please ditch shitkuna for me <3 (based on this idea)

A fire blazes in the yawning hearth, bathing your bedchamber in a warm titian. The shadows of flames leap and dance across the cragged stone walls—a solar flare—a cosmic spectacle. Logs and branches resembling human bones sputter and spark, crackling in your ears. You shift in your seat. 

The diaphanous veil remains pinned to your crown as Uraume’s fingers move deftly through your locks, the sweeping gossamer that brushes your ankles now pooling on the floor. They unravel the intricate updo they crafted for the ceremony, your hair a glowing halo in the firelight, head bowed in gentle subservience. The pins that bite at your scalp are crusted in blood; the sharp pain has long-since softened into a dull throb.

“I hate him,” you announce. 

(It’s how you cope with your precarious situation: burying your fears beneath carefully woven layers of disdain.) 

Barren aside from a bed, a wardrobe, and an armchair, your threadbare accommodations are as cozy as a dungeon. No torch, tapestry, or looking glass adorns the walls. Your companion’s expression is hidden as they continue their work atop your head.

Uraume chastises you after a few beats, affectation frigid as ice. “You shouldn’t speak of your husband in such a manner.” 

You snort. This one-sided union will only further scar the ugly face of matrimony; looking upon your captor with respect or affection is as likely as you kissing the cheek of your slain mother a final time. “My ‘husband’ for all of ten minutes.”

“And still your husband, nonetheless.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you snap. 

Uraume pushes you to your feet and fluffs the veil with a hum. They circle you, appraising your body—the flimsy, silken robe that ripples across your curves hides nothing from their piercing stare—then, for what must be the fifth time, they adjust the knot that holds the garment together. When their eyes meet yours, you find yourself falling for the ruse, plucking fresh buds from a field of fuchsia.

How you wish their gaze held more than cool indifference.

Ever perceptive, they reach out to gingerly tuck a wayward strand behind your ear; if you close your eyes and still your heaving chest, you can pretend that it’s an intimate gesture—the touch of a lover. “Rarely do we have a say in our own fates,” Uraume muses. 

Fidgeting with your fingers, you quell the urge to embrace your attendant. (It’s a disgraceful thought for a newlywed. But you can’t spool in the words that unfurl from your lips, the edges raw, frayed with longing.)

“I would have taken my life if it hadn’t been for you, Uraume. I can’t stand him.” 

“Master Sukuna would never allow you to harm yourself.” 

“Tch—that vile brute cares little for my well being.” Hatred flares within your chest, your once-blooming heart now withered with rot. Tears of anguish blur your vision and make each syllable tremble. “If he didn’t want to harm me, he wouldn’t have murdered and feasted on my family.” 

A smile tucks itself in the corners of Uraume’s lips like a secret, though you miss it—misty-eyed and waist-deep in a deluge of painful memories. “You seem to forget that I prepared their flesh at my lord’s behest.” 

“I can’t fault you for being trapped under his thumb; you’re kinder than you give yourself credit for, anyhow.” 

They chuckle darkly. “And what leads you to believe that?” 

It doesn’t occur to you until this moment that you’ve edged closer to Uraume. If you leaned forward, you would smell the frost on their porcelain skin, taste the mint on their breath. Despite yourself, you reach out, cupping their cheek. 

“You’ve been my devoted caretaker since I arrived, patient and helpful at every turn. Your presence is the only constant here—my sole comfort.”

“Oh? Is my blushing bride ready to consummate our unholy union?” A rumbling voice cracks the tense air open like a bone, marrow seeping out, juices staining the tender earth. 

Your neck snaps to the doorway. Your monster of a husband nearly blots out the frame with his inhuman physique, clothed in nothing but a simple pair of black trousers, both sets of arms crossed. Disgust pinches your brow and purses your lips; you sneer. 

“With you? Never.”

Amused by your vehemence, the King of Curses approaches you, both mouths curled into wolfish grins. Uraume bows as Sukuna invades your space, two clawed hands wrapping around your waist, the other two cradling your skull. He demands your attention, irises a wine-dark sea of skeletons and ichor. A cursed siren urges you to plunge into its depths. End your suffering.

“Uraume—has my wife been inappropriate with you in my absence?” 

Without hesitation, they answer: “Yes, my lord.” 

Several sets of eyes—one belonging to Uraume, the others to Sukuna—gorge on your discomfort. You bristle under their scrutiny, and fruitlessly attempt to rip yourself from your husband’s grasp, nails scratching angry lines across his tattooed forearms. 

He clicks his tongue. “My naughty little bride.”  

Bile burns your throat at the mock-endearment, bitterness coating your tongue. For as resolved as you’ve been, you shake with rage, the hulking beast before you stoking the embers of your wrath. He smiles something sharp and wicked before releasing you. You stumble backwards, limp as a ragdoll. 

“Uraume,” Sukuna commands. 

There’s an unspoken agreement between master and servant. When Uraume steps forward and swiftly unties your robes, you shriek, the fabric slipping open to expose your nude form. They proceed to rip the garment from your body; it falls to the floor in wispy shreds. 

Attempting to preserve your dignity, you scramble to wrap an arm around your chest and press a palm between your legs. “This hardly seems proper,” you pant. 

Sukuna snickers as he sits at the foot of your bed, spreading his legs. “How else is a ‘vile brute’ supposed to learn the intricacies of his little wife’s body if not through careful examination?” 

As much as you want to spew poison at him, you gasp when Uraume’s chilly lips graze the arch of your neck, their delicate hands slipping up to caress the swell of your breasts. Unable to stifle the moan that warbles past your lips, you make the sinister decision to revel in this pleasure—no matter how short-lived, underhanded, or wrong it may be.