#Terminal Ambitions | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

divinit3a · 4 months ago

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oneshot: out of character -> ao3 link reader x mer animatronic!moon 🌊 word count: 3,403

Working at a Fazbear animatronic theme park hadn't really been your dream, but it is your current reality.

At first, you were starry-eyed. Clocking in each day at a place that brings out the magic of imagination. Revamped from its first attempt that mysteriously burnt down after a rigorous police investigation, inexplicably refurbished into a half VR game center, half water-park. You’d bet the money that fuels such an over-the-top offshoot for the franchise pumps in from the Pizzaplex the next city over.

The ambition of the two owners who picked up the business manifested into a massive aquarium at the center, home to mechanized sea life. Animatronics of all shapes and sizes, perfect replicas of their real life counterparts. Plus or minus a more vivid, appealing, toy-selling color palette.

The multi-level aquarium showcases beautiful spectacles of engineering that allow all creatures of the deep to intermingle without the limitations of reality. You’ve stood in the tunnels that wind throughout the first floor on the slow moving tracks before, looking around with awe and wonder at the flittering sharks and jumping dolphins. A whale would float by now and then, casting a great shadow across the tunnels as everyone hurried to snap a photo.

Ferry rides are offered at an exuberant price to float atop the largest of the decorative tanks, where a stationary mermaid animatronic waves with a pleasant smile. You stopped going to the ferry rides after they replaced the human staff with the admittedly rather creepy, blank-staring bots and their pre-recorded voice lines.

Despite all the splendor surrounding you, the position of 'general maintenance' tends to become lackluster after cleaning up one too many barf piles near the food courts. Or being tasked with fishing cellphones out of the tops of tanks, enduring the hellish fury of whichever parent you had the misfortune of relaying the lost or damaged items policy to. Rattling off of a lengthy speech of ‘we wont pay for this,’ in corporate, smiley, customer-service-y terms.

You sigh, pushing a heavy mop forward as music thrums through your ear buds. You take a moment to rest your head against your curled up hands at the top of the handle, listening to the last few seconds of the track, before popping the ear buds out one by one and shoving them into your jacket pockets.

The slow drip of a faucet welcomes you back to cold, harsh reality. The last hour or more of your life was spent sopping up the ick that countless shoes tracked in and out the restroom facility throughout the day.

By now, the sun is setting over the horizon line. You always pick up the latest shifts in the day. The overnight security staff are your regular acquaintances. You’ve bribed the main desk guy into being your ride-or-die with sugary, outdated donuts.

There's a ding on your pager. You lean the broom handle on the brick wall, which is plastered with Chica and Roxanne themed posters that encourage handwashing. As you rest the mop, you falter to catch it from falling over, as the damn thing could never just stay put. Once you’ve prevented the disaster of the mop tipping over, you check the pager again, missing the glitching and rearranging of the letters on screen.

Honestly, the technology is considerably retro compared to what's out on the market; looking more like a terminal you’d see in a sci-fi movie, or perhaps a calculator that would be chucked at a classmate in second grade.

What greets you is an open-ended service ticket for the Haunted Shipwreck. You quirk an eyebrow. The exhibit was usually cleaned diligently by daytime staff in preparation for opening in the evening. Spruced up by the folks who worked at the bar, and the poor teenage saps who had to stand in the queue lines scanning tickets. The ‘ride’ was part of the finale of the virtual reality storyline that guests could pay a premium price to experience, connecting all the dots of the theme park’s attractions together.

Plus, it was the only place that served alcohol after five pm. The specialty drinks are so neon and vivid that the sugar content has to be astronomical.

Parents flock there like it is truly an oasis in a kiddy-park desert.

Scratching at your head, you walk in a circle as you read the details, or lack thereof. The ticket reads, 'Exhibition needs spot cleaning.' Spot cleaning? A whole exhibit? Your thumb hovers over the button to accept the task. It beats mopping bathroom tiles any day.

You wring out the mop into its bucket, and begin the tedious task of ferrying cleaning supplies from one area to the next. On your way out, you sling the heft of a tool bag over your shoulder.

_____________________________________

The scent of lemony freshness follows you in hot pursuit. You shove open the doors to the exhibit with a “Hello?”, expecting another person or two from the maintenance crew to have accepted the job. Cleaning a whole attraction on your lonesome did not bode well for the ‘no overtime’ policy.

The response you get is absolute silence.

You feel along the wall for a light switch, and then remember that this is an amusement park, not a hotel. The controls for the area’s lights are all in the breaker room out back. Locked away with a key that is not in your possession. With a sigh, you fish out a flashlight from your tool bag and continue to wheel your cart in.

Without music blaring through the hidden speakers, or patrons milling through the bar onto the dance floor, the main atrium of the ride feels as haunted as its namesake. Grumbling, you pull out your pager and look down. The screen is blank, as if the task had never existed at all.

Before you can question the disappearing act, spotlights turn on. A deafening click causes you to jolt and nearly drop the device.

You look up, and are face to face with the animatronic who prowls the exhibit. Your lungs temporary pause all function as your heart works in overdrive.

Above you is an elaborate trick of puppetry. A skeletal siren with a face as white as bone is frozen in place, with its arms outstretched as if it had been reaching towards you in the darkness to swipe you up. Thin, transparent plastic that shimmers like true fish scales acts as webbing between its sharp claws.

A billowing tail snakes like a serpent atop most of the area’s ceiling, weaving around the lighting system. The tip of its tailfin is curled around the rafters, as if supporting its weight. But that couldn’t be true; as a large cord connects into its back. Following the tubing leads to the pulley system which keeps it on predictable tracks.

One eye is cyan. The other eye is entirely a deep crimson, casting an eerie glow across your face. The eye with the cyan pupil trembles.

“Jeez, you scared me!” You say, too shocked to catch yourself before talking with an inanimate puppet.

The robotic siren, Moon, stares at you, not budging from its post. The lack of movement makes it feel more and more like a statue. You feel silly for speaking to it directly.

But you remember: there's a person whose entire job is to spend the day operating these guys. To keep them lifelike, same as the free-roam 'animatronics' that are actually just staff in sweaty old mascot suits. Learning the truth as an employee had dimmed the magic of the theme park, but you still admit that it is an impressive work of robotics, especially considering the aquarium.

“Are you still on for the night? Ride’s shut down,” You ask, pushing through the lingering fear you felt from the brief scare. During off-season the park closes earlier and is open about half the days, meaning that Haunted Shipwreck is mostly operational Friday and Saturday. Today is a Wednesday. You didn’t expect the elusive staff who controls the two mermaid animatronics to be on duty.

In response, the animatronic's massive tail slaps against the faux rocky terrain that decorates its elaborate enclosure. Moon lands back on the main stage it perches on during performances. Without the constant spray of dry ice to create the illusion of fog, and the bright red lighting, the siren lacks the intimidating flare you expect.

“Well, I'm here to clean. That's all.” You rest your hands at your sides, settling your thumbs into the belt loops.

Moon peers at you. Then it rolls over onto its back. The wires controlling its electronics flatten against the surface as it settles into place. You blink as you stare at a 'belly-up' fish. Its hands rest into a t-rex, claw-like position at its sides, as if it wasn’t used to laying down, either, and instantly felt awkward.

“Oh,” You exclaim, wrapping your head around the vague task you accepted. At last, you understand who – or what, needs cleaning: the animatronic itself. There’s gum stuck to its sculpted fins and a few pieces of paper wedged into the joints that segment its torso from its abdomen, limiting its range of motion.

A cruel prank, regardless of the recipient’s ability to feel discomfort.

You set your tool bag down on the floor and stumble up the plastic molded rocks, right past the ‘DO NOT CLIMB’ sign. All things considered, the ‘spot cleaning’ looks like an easy project to finish off your shift.

You sit on your knees next to the animatronic.

You start by pulling the paper jammed into its torso hinge out. You brace a palm against its side, and carefully tug. Hearing the papers tear makes you curse softly under your breath.

The animatronic watches, and then bends its torso hinge away, giving you easier access to pull the shredded bits out.

You begin to notice that all the papers jammed inside the robot are actually posters and pamphlets that you can pick up for free at the photo kiosk a room over. Strange.

Taking a second to indulge your curiosity, you inspect one of the postcards.

The front of the card is split into two; the daytime half, Sun, spritely and bright on the left. And his cursed form that haunts the seas at night, Moon, in an ominous dark silhouette on the right. A few of these are even lenticular prints that you can shift back and forth, but those have to be bought at the complimentary gift shop at the end of the ride.

The depicted dark, jagged silhouette of Moon is a sharp contrast to the docile animatronic beside you. Existing to be ‘vanquished’ time and time again, by brave patrons, in order to free Sun from the shackles of an evil witch’s hex.

The witch character is set to debut at long last in a few months.

You find yourself smiling at the memories of watching the performance for the first time; the smoke and mirrors of the robots being switched out on stage to masquerade as one feat of engineering. The silly story never fails to be engaging, with how much production was poured into making Sun’s character so lifelike and memorable.

Now that you think about it, you wonder why Moon never got the same treatment. You look up to see that the ‘cursed siren’ on your mind is staring right at you, almost expectantly. Beneath its chassis where your palms rest is a soft, insistent hum of machinery, fans set to medium gear. It points to a piece of paper you missed under its arm socket. You lean closer to dig in, their gaze burning into the back of your head.

The silence as you work on the clean-up becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Even more so when you consider that whoever is tasked with puppeting Moon is still up in the server room, no doubt working past their shift’s end to make your job easier by maneuvering the siren this way and that.

Though, you wonder why the puppeteer didn't just meet you at Haunted Shipwreck themself to talk it through. Must be some kind of NDA, or lack of a remote control.

By the time you are scraping gum off glittering scales, you decisively break the ice with, “Y'know, Im surprised. I thought you'd be home by now,” beginning the idle, one-sided chatter. Just because you are here on business, doesn’t mean the exchange had to be so clinical. Your quiet companion shows that its listening by flicking the long fin that adorns its head. Bright cyan tracks your every movement with what feels like intense curiosity.

While you work, you take out the pager to check on your tasks for the night. In an instant, Moon swipes it, moving faster than you can comprehend. They slither away from you with shocking speed, cable attached to its back whirring to keep up with the momentum.

“Hey! Give that back!” You reach up, fingertips brushing off the smooth scales upon its long, imposing tail. Up above, the animatronic fiddles with the pager. Frustration ripples off it as its hands clunkily tap away at the tiny, human-sized keyboard.

“Don't break it, c'mon, it'll come out of my paycheck!” You swat at the robot whose mid-air. You gasp at the audacity it has to curl its tail inward and away from you. An unfair game of keep-away.

Moon turns the screen of the pager back to you. 'Thank you,' is typed out in simplistic, boxy letters. You blink, staring at the screen as the pager is gingerly placed back in your hands, claws ghosting across your arms. The siren pulls back quickly. Moon fidgets with the hem of its costuming, a subtle act of nerves that trips you up even worse.

“You—you're welcome.” You stumble on your words, not quite sure why the sentiment is so shocking. But it feels like it came from the robot itself—whoever ran these guys was committed to staying in character. Even to other staff. You admire the dedication.

The robot leers down at you. Pupils burning, an unsettling lack of expression except for a wide-eyed stare that never relents the pressure it exerts. A hand extends out, and it takes a moment for you to realize that its asking for the pager back. Dumbstruck, you comply without a second thought. The robot taps away at the keyboard, dwarfed by its palms. You hear the click-click-click of the backspace button as it shakes its faceplate.

The pager returns to you. After all its effort, only one word is on the screen: 'Again.'

“Again?” You repeat aloud, looking up at Moon with confusion. The robot continues to fidget, before nodding so quickly in confirmation, that you are worried you'll need to send in a ticket to fix its neck hinge. That sort of job goes to the on-sight mechanics who the company contracts, not a regular maintenance guy like you. “You'd... like me to stop by, again?” You guess, and Moon's nerves boil over. The tracks in the ceiling creak as the creature 'swims' all around you, showcasing flashes of glittering fins and the faintest glint of sharp fangs beneath its flowing collar. With the blur of violet, magenta, and crimson swirling around you, its like being in the middle of a shark swarm— without any of the fear.

Because you take the boundless enthusiasm to mean, 'yes.'

”Okay, okay. I will,“ You laugh at the strange antics, charmed by how earnest the supposedly wicked siren can be. You don’t know much about Moon's character here at the park; he was intentionally left mysterious to add to the villainous flare. Or perhaps, to excuse the lack of forethought into an antagonist designed for a theme park. So, to see him instead doing several aerial laps around the perimeter of the shipwreck, you can't help but find them endearing.

Your pager dings, reminding you that there is twenty minutes before your shift ends, and one bathroom facility left half-mopped in your haste.

“It was nice meeting you,” You hesitate—you have no idea who this person is. You stare into the lens of the animatronic’s eyes, pondering who was watching you back on the camera feed.

Maybe the two of you could get lunch sometime off the clock, away from the prying of corporate eyes. Perhaps they are nervous to break character. You glance to the security camera in the corner, and back, ”...Moon,” you decide to call them by the character they play, for the time being.

The siren lurches toward you.

You reel back, almost slipping on the plastic rocks.

Spindly limbs wrap around you, catching you from your fall, and—Oh.

You blink, struggling to keep up. The wretched siren of the coast is giving you a hug. The fabric of its costume sleeves is silky and smooth, and almost bundles you up like a tarp.

”O-okay, then.” You pat at the back of the animatronic. Its staring at you so seriously with massive, leering eyes, that you are struggling not to buckle under the stress. The pressure Moon exerts is light, but spikes your heart rate regardless. Your feet are almost off the ground, balancing on the heels of your work boots as you tilt back. You aren’t looking to go for a swim, or to be put on medical leave from a concussion.

“That’s, um, very sweet, thank you, Moon.” You tap its arms next to indicate you’re ready to be let go of. You find your cheeks flushing in embarrassment, wondering if the animatronic’s puppeteer thinks its amusing to scare you with this level of whiplash. Maybe it is funny to them, to make the theme park's aloof villain act all cuddly for one-on-one exchanges.

“There we go—nice and easy,” you find yourself narrating, as the siren deliberately sets you back down on the floor. Not back onto the rocks; no, it cranes you over to main floor, where you run a much smaller risk of falling on uneven terrain.

Walking over to collect your belongings, you shrug your tool bag over your shoulder, and place a hand on the handle of your cleaning cart.

The animatronic waves you off, watching with interest as you shove your way out the door. A glimpse of the outside world, the low lights of the shut-down park and the infinite expanse of the night sky.

You stop in the doorway, prolonging the moment, “Have a good night, Moon.” The animatronic stays perfectly still, playing its role. Poised with elegance and a threatening aura. The sight leaves you with chills, although you hardly had reason to fear the animatronic, or its friendly puppeteer.

The door closes.

A pause.

Moon stays put until they can no longer hear the roll of your cart. Then it springs up. Pacing back and forth, tail moving as smoothly as kelp in the current, weaving through decorative pillars that sell the illusion of being underwater, trapped in a shipwreck. The sliding of the wire on its tracks plays a symphony as it maneuvers around. Feeling–feeling, like it did something right, by doing something terribly wrong. The sensation was so complex that it keeps cataloguing every second.

Moon couldn't believe that tampering with a maintenance ticket actually worked. A small, small chance that anyone would pick up the task he made up— jamming postcards into its segments in a fury to make the objective believable, once someone had actually said 'yes.'

The cord above squeals, and Moon realizes it needs to relax, less it break its ability to move within its small, small world.

Settling back down, the siren sits on its lonely perch with a glimmer of hope–that you'll be back again the next night, and the next, and the next. After all, you spoke to them with such ease. Most everyone pretends he’s nothing more than a glorified stage prop. Doomed with an underutilized, elaborate AI on the same caliber as all the others in the park, who roam freely. Who get to interact, learn, and grow daily; who get to make friends and play so many games.

Until next time, they'll work on their communication. Study the humans who walk through its exhibit closer and closer. Experiment with how to evoke emotions beyond fear.

Their tail thumps, eager to continue daydreaming throughout the rest of its cycle spent awake.

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sanguineousreverie · 2 months ago

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money talks.

ghost. part i ┃ sevika x reader WC: 4.7K

ⓘ: i don't know jack about the 80s, the stock market, new york...just read some articles and surfed google maps. f it we ball ⚠︎: alcohol consumption, mild homophobia if you squint, mild misogyny, blood, psychological horror/thriller elements

A shaky exhale escapes your parted lips as you enter the office, the tense atmosphere of the bustling trading floor hitting you like a gust of wind. You remind yourself that you’re fine—you can do this. Sevika didn’t help you land this job just so that you could stand about and be a nervous wreck.

Tentatively, you navigate through the maze of desks, heels clicking against the scuffed vinyl flooring. Cackling laughter and a potent scent of tobacco infiltrates your senses, causing your nose to scrunch in disgust. The air is thick with bravado and smoke, punctuated by the piercing ring of phones and the rapid click of typewriter keys.

In the cramped lunchroom, clusters of coworkers lounge around battered tables, cigars drooping from their lips. You set your briefcase down and pour yourself a cup of coffee, grateful for the sharp aroma that cuts through the haze.

You can feel their eyes on you and hear the undercurrent of the shift in conversation. What had seemed to be a friendly chat regarding the current market faded as their voices dropped low and conspiratorial. Your lips press into a frown, unease growing once more at the initial hostility.

Suddenly, the chatter dims. You turn, mug in hand, and spot Sevika in the doorway.

You brighten, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Sev, hey.” the nickname slips out, almost naturally.

Her lips upturn as she saunters over. “Hey, doll. You gettin’ settled in?” She leans against the counter, arms crossed.

You shrug, gesturing to your coffee. “Well, I just got here.”

She hums, studying your expression, attempting to gauge your emotions. “You nervous?”

You nod, a little sheepish. “A bit… I’m still new to all this finance stuff.”

Sevika waves off your concern. “Nah, don’t worry. You’ll do great.” Her eyes flick to the men in the corner; they shrink under her gaze. She huffs, amused, then turns back to you.

“C’mon, I’ll show you where your desk is.”

You follow her past rows of nearly identical desks—laminated wood, each with a Quotron terminal and a heavy black phone. At the end of the row, she stops.

“This one’s yours,” she says, gesturing.

You set your briefcase on the desk, nerves prickling under your skin.

She lingers, sensing your unease. “Hey, look at me.”

You meet her eyes.

“You’re gonna do just fine, yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” She sighs as the energy in the room ramps up—shouts from the trading floor, the clatter of keys, the low thrum of ambition. “Listen, I’m pretty swamped today, but if you need anything, just ask. My desk is up front.” She points across the room.

“Thanks, Sevika.” Her hand is reassuring on your arm for a moment, the softness in her gaze reserved just for you. Then she straightens, her expression hardening as she strides away, leaving you to settle in.

You lower yourself into the chair, the worn leather creaking softly beneath your weight. The faint scent of polished wood and stale cigarette smoke lingers in the air around you. With a small, tentative smile, you unzip your briefcase and pull out a stack of files, a thick phone book dog-eared from use, and a few personal trinkets.

Carefully, you arrange the little objects—a faded photograph, a small figurine, a lucky charm—on the bland laminate surface of your desk. They stand out against the sea of beige and gray, providing you with a sense of individuality.

The soft hum of the Quotron terminal buzzes nearby, and somewhere in the distance, the acute ring of a phone cuts through the murmur of voices. You glance around the room, feeling the weight of the day settle in your chest, but for a moment, your little corner feels like your own.

You jump straight into work, taking calls from clients and offering trading advice with as much confidence as you could muster. You scribble notes on a legal pad, flipping through your phone book for client numbers, the plastic receiver pressed tight to your ear.

As the afternoon sun slants through the grimy windows, casting golden rectangles across the scuffed floor, the office door bangs open. A man in a striped suit strides in, cell phone pressed to his ear—one of those chunky Motorola flip phones, the kind only the higher-ups can afford.

He dumps his briefcase on the floor, shrugs off his jacket, and slings it over the back of the chair beside yours.

“Honey, listen, we just can’t afford any more of these shopping sprees,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, yeah, I know it’s from the catalogues, but those prices add up.” He glances at you, rolls his eyes theatrically. “Listen, hun, once I get my check on Friday, we can go out and shop, how’s that sound? Yeah, okay. Love you too, sweetheart.” He snaps the phone shut, finally giving you his full attention.

His gaze lands on your desk, lingering on the faded photo of you and Sevika. There’s a flicker of something—judgment, maybe amusement—in his eyes.

“Ah, you’re the new girl,” he says, voice flat as a subway announcement.

You offer a polite smile, extending your hand. “Yes, my name is—”

He cuts you off, waving a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, no need for that. Just try not to screw up, alright? Boss’ll have our heads if we lose another client.” He pushes up his rectangular glasses, already dialing the phone on his desk. The rotary clicks echo in the small space.

Your smile falters, but you nod and turn back to your work, jotting down a note about a client’s position in AT&T. The hours blur together—you grow accustomed to calls, quotes, and the constant drone of voices that filtered through the space.

Eventually, your neighbour swivels in his chair, eyeing you over the rim of his glasses.

“So, you from Manhattan?” he asks, one eyebrow arched.

You shake your head. “Oh, no, I’m from Brooklyn.”

He lets out a low whistle, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Brooklyn, huh? Don’t sound like it. You lose the accent or somethin’?”

You start to explain, but he barrels on. “So, how the hell do you know Sevika?” He leans in, curiosity piqued.

“Oh, uh, we met a few years back and—”

He waves you off. “Yeah, yeah, good for you. So, you two, what, friends?”

You frown, but he keeps going. “I mean, Christ, she’s pretty intense, eh? Knows a whole lotta shit.”

You nod. “Yeah, she’s sharp. Real sharp.”

He cackles, slapping his knee. “Sharp? That woman could run this place if she wanted. Knows more than the damn manager, I swear.”

You laugh, a little awkward. “Sounds like Sevika.”

He leans back, propping his feet on the edge of his desk. “You drink, little missy?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes…?”

He grins, wide and wolfish. “You should come out with us tonight. Bunch of us are hittin’ up somewhere in Tribeca, a real swanky joint. First round’s on me.”

You hesitate, but he waves a hand. “Eh, don’t gimme that look. Think of it as celebrating your first day. Besides, you gotta learn how to unwind in this business, or you’ll burn out before your first bonus.”

You manage a small, grateful smile. Though it carries a hint of disquiet. “Yeah, okay. Sounds fun.”

The day rolls on. Your phone rings again, and you pick up, pressing the receiver to your ear.

“Williams & Co., this is—” you begin, but the voice on the other end is clipped, commanding.

“This is Jerry Williams. I wanted to go over my holdings in Johnson & Johnson and see what you think about the market this week. I heard there’s talk of a rate hike—should I be worried?”

You flip through your notes, recalling Sevika’s advice: always keep your cool, never let them hear you sweat. “Mr. Williams, there’s been hints at a rate increase, but the Street’s already priced most of that in. J&J’s fundamentals are still strong—steady dividend, solid earnings. If you’re looking for growth, we could discuss reallocating a portion, but I’d recommend holding for now.”

There’s a pause. You hear a woman’s voice in the background—biting, impatient.

“Give it here, Jerry, let me speak to the girl.”

The phone’s coiled cord digs into your palm as you grip the receiver, and Mrs. Williams’ voice shrills in your ear. The Quotron terminal on your desk flickers with green numbers, but you can barely focus on the shifting prices. Sweat beads at your temple, and you fumble for a pen, nearly knocking over a stack of trade tickets.

“I—I understand, Mrs. Williams, but—”

Her tirade cuts you off. Around you, the office hums with the clatter of keys and the low drone of a dozen other calls. You catch a few sidelong glances from your coworkers—some amused, some pitying.

Just as you open your mouth to respond, a gentle tap on your shoulder pulls you back. Sevika stands over you, her gaze steady, her presence a sudden anchor in the chaos.

“What’s goin’ on, doll?” she asks, her voice low enough that only you can hear.

You cover the mouthpiece, voice trembling. “It’s the Williamses. I think I messed up, and they’re… not happy.”

She squeezes your shoulder—her hand cool, the pressure oddly reassuring. “Easy, doll. Let me talk to them.”

You hand her the phone, your fingers shaking. Sevika leans in, her eyes flicking to the Quotron screen, then back to the call. She speaks with practiced ease, referencing last week’s market dip and the Williamses’ recent portfolio gains, weaving in a mention of Jerry’s fishing trip. The tension in Mrs. Williams’ voice softens, and after a few minutes, Sevika ends the call with a warm, “You take care now—tell Jerry I want to see those photos.”

She hangs up, sighs, and turns to you. You start to stammer an apology, but she cuts you off with a gentle touch, her thumb brushing your cheek. “It’s all good now, dolly. They won’t speak to you like that again.”

For a moment, you lean into her touch, the noise of the office fading. Then she pulls away, her expression hardening as she glares at your onlookers, sending them back to their work.

A shaky exhale escapes your lips—It’s as if she knew exactly what Mrs. Williams needed to hear before the words were even spoken—you think to yourself, your hand gingerly coming up to touch the spot she had caressed. Her hand was cool, almost unnaturally so, but a piercing ring shatters the silence and derails your train of thought.

Reluctantly, you answer the phone, effectively silencing any rattled sentiments that lingered. And most importantly, the butterflies that flew around in your stomach.

The day wears on without any more confrontations. When the clock finally hits five, the office erupts into motion—phones slammed down, jackets shrugged on, and the stale scent of tobacco growing sharper as people pack up. Matt, the man at the next desk, glances over at you with a crooked grin.

“Ready to head out, missy?” he asks, already gathering his things. A few other guys from the bullpen wander over, slapping each other on the back, the energy shifting from cutthroat to casual.

“Yep, just gotta—” you start, but Matt’s already calling across the room.

“Hey, Sevika, you joinin’ us tonight?”

Your gaze flicks to Sevika. She looks tired, her eyes shadowed from a long day, but she scoffs as she slips on her suit jacket, rolling her shoulders.

“Hell no, I’m not goin’ to no damn bar with you fools,” she shoots back, her tone dry but not unkind.

Your expression falters, and she catches it, one brow arching in your direction.

“You goin’ out, doll?” she asks, her voice softer for you.

You nod, trying to sound casual. “Yeah… I mean, might as well.”

Sevika sighs, running a hand through her hair. She glances at Matt, then back at you, then back at Matt. “Fine. But I’m not babysitting when you idiots start doing shots and tryin’ to outdrink each other.”

The guys just cackle, clearly pleased Sevika’s coming along. Her presence shifts the dynamic—You can tell she’s respected, maybe even a little feared, and the men tone down their jokes just a notch.

As you all head for the elevators, the chatter turns to which bar to hit—somewhere downtown, maybe. The city outside is just waking up for the night, neon flickering in the dusk.

The guys and Sevika pile into the elevator, still bickering over which bar to hit first. The cramped space fills quickly, and you hesitate at the threshold, eyes flicking to the crowded interior.

“Oh, uh… I’ll just wait for the next one,” you murmur, stepping back.

Before you can move, Matt’s hand shoots out, gripping your arm firmly. You stumble forward with a soft “oof” as you bump into Sevika. Her prosthetic arm snakes around your back, steadying you.

“Easy,” she gruffs, shooting Matt a sharp glare—one that lingers a beat longer than necessary.

Matt just shrugs, unfazed, as the elevator doors slide shut. The air inside is heavy with the scent of cheap cologne and aftershave, mixed with the faint trace of tobacco smoke. The elevator hums softly, the mechanical whirring punctuated by the occasional muttered argument over which floor to select first.

You shift slightly, trying to make yourself as small as possible, standing close to Sevika, whose presence feels like a shield in the crowded space. Her eyes remain fixed straight ahead, expression unreadable but tense.

Matt leans against the wall near the buttons, grinning. “C’mon, doll, don’t be shy. You’re one of us now.”

Sevika’s jaw ticks, her voice low and flat. “Watch it, Matt,” she says, not taking her eyes off the elevator doors. “That’s not your word.”

Matt simply cackles in response, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. “You call everyone ‘doll’, or just the ones out of your league.”

Sevikas' eyes narrow, and she scoffs. “Don’t,” she warns. The simple one-word response still isn’t enough to shut him up as he presses on.

“C’mon, don’t be a bitch, I'm just—”

“Keep it up and you’ll find out real quick why I'm the only one who gets to say it.”

Matt’s laughter falters as Sevika fixes him with a look that brooks no argument. The space seems to shrink around them, the rest of the group falling silent as her words hang in the air. The elevator lurches downward, and you swallow hard, caught between the buzz of the group and the quiet weight of Sevika’s steadying touch.

You step out onto the street, the clean scent of rain washing away the office’s stale air. The elevator chatter has faded, but Sevika’s earlier sharpness still lingers, hanging awkwardly between the group. You clear your throat, trying to break the tension. “Uhm… have we decided where we’re going?” you ask, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

Matt shrugs, glancing at the others, then at Sevika, then back to you. “Dunno yet. Was thinkin’ Tribeca, but the boys had another idea.” He flicks open a pack of cigarettes, lighting one with practiced ease.

Chris takes a long drag from his own cigarette, exhaling a thin plume of smoke. “Well, I was thinkin’ we hit up King Cole.”

Your eyes widen just a bit. “Isn’t that place super expensive?” you ask, reluctance clear in your tone.

Chris grins, nudging you. “Yeah, but c’mon, it’s the King Cole. Place is a classic—old-school New York, you know? You ever seen that mural behind the bar? Things’ worth more than my apartment. Besides, first round’s on Matt.”

Matt snorts. “Not if we’re going there. But hey, I don't see why Sevika couldn’t help cover a round. For her dolly, of course"

Sevika’s eyes narrow, her tone sharp but cool. “Don’t worry about my ‘dolly,’ Matt. I’m not letting you stick her with a thirty-dollar martini just so you can play big shot.” She flicks her gaze to you, voice softening. “You want to see the mural, we’ll see the mural. I’ll pay for you.”

You hesitate, starting to protest, “Oh, well, we don’t have to—”

Chris cuts you off with a grin, “Then it’s settled, let’s go.” He strides toward his car, the others following.

You huff softly and glance at Sevika, who just rolls her eyes. “C’mon, doll, ride with me,” she says, her voice low but firm.

You nod, falling in step beside her as you both head to her vehicle. The sun sets behind the city skyline, casting a warm glow over the flashy lights that begin to flicker on around you.

The silence between you is thick until Sevika’s voice cuts through like a knife. “How was your first day?”

You rub the back of your neck, laughing awkwardly. “Uhm, it was alright... besides getting cussed out by Mrs. Williams.” Your eyes meet hers, her appearance illuminated by the sundown. “Don’t beat yourself up, doll.”

You start to protest, “Yeah, but—”

“Doll,” Sevika interrupts gently, her eyes locking with yours for a moment before returning to the road. “Mr. and Mrs. Williams own the company. They’re very picky about who helps manage their money, among other things.”

Your eyes widen at the blatant realization, a flush of embarrassment creeping in. “I—she was really mad, Sev... I must’ve messed up.”

Sevika shakes her head, hand moving to brush lightly against your knee, steadying the wheel with her prosthetic. Her cool fingers trace a fleeting path across your upper thigh, sending a shiver through you.

“You didn’t. You did just fine. Besides, you heard me—I handled it.”

You bite your lip. “Yeah, but I should’ve handled it myself.”

She sighs softly. “It was your first day, doll. Just… forget about it for now, yeah? We’re almost at the bar.” Her hand squeezes the plush of your thigh gently—a quiet reassurance, though you’re not sure if you feel comforted or rattled by such contact.

Upon arriving at the Bar, Sevika keeps her hand firmly on your lower back, guiding you through the plethora of well-dressed patrons spilling onto the sidewalk. The polished wood-paneled room hums with conversation, jazz floating beneath the clink of glassware. The famous mural presides over the bar, its vibrant colors and enigmatic smiles catching the light as you pass beneath the king’s gaze

Your coworkers have already claimed a table tucked into a corner, half-hidden from the main crowd. Matt waves you over, a smirk plastered on his face. You and Sevika make your way through the maze of cocktail tables, her touch a quiet anchor until you both sit. She keeps her arm around you for a moment longer, her thumb tracing slow circles on your back before she pulls away to flag down a server.

Matt and Chris immediately start in on you, tossing out drink suggestions—Chris pushes for the bar’s signature cocktail, while Matt insists you try something “with a kick.” You glance at Sevika, trusting her judgment. “I’ll have what she’s having,” you say, and she gives you a small, approving nod before ordering for you both.

As the evening wears on, the table grows louder, laughter and stories tumbling out with each round. Matt and Chris become increasingly animated, their cheeks flushed, voices rising above the commotion. Even you feel the alcohol begin to warm your body, eyes glossing over ever so slightly. Sevika, in contrast, remains composed, her glass barely touched. She watches the group with a steady, discerning gaze, always keeping you within arm’s reach.

At one point, Chris leans in a little too close, his tone dripping with sleaze. “You know,” he says lowly, “I bet you’d look a lot better if you smiled more. Don’t be so serious all the time, doll.”

You stiffen, the words hanging in the air like a weight. The laughter from the table falters for a moment, the easy camaraderie suddenly strained.

Sevika’s hand tightens around her glass, her gaze snapping to Chris with a cold intensity. Without breaking eye contact, she leans forward slightly and says, “That’s enough, Chris. Show some respect.”

Chris chuckles nervously, leaning back a little, but the unease lingers. The bar’s hum resumes, but the moment leaves a quiet tension beneath the surface.

You peer over at Sevika, her agitation written in every tense line of her body—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the table. You frown, concern flickering across your face, but mask it with a feigned yawn. Gently, you tug on her jacket, letting your fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. “Sev, I’m tired…” you murmur, your voice softer than usual.

She looks down at you, her eyes scanning your flushed cheeks and the way you blink a little too slowly. For a beat, her gaze remains on your expression—longer than it should, maybe, if anyone else were paying attention. You catch the way her lips part, as if she wants to say something else, but she just clears her throat, her voice rough around the edges. “…Okay, doll, let’s get goin’.”

Sevika stands, her hand finding the small of your back with practiced ease, fingers splaying out in a gesture that feels both protective and possessive. She leans in close enough that you catch the faint scent of her cologne, her breath warm against your ear as she addresses the table, “We’re heading out—she’s wiped.”

Matt raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips, but Sevika’s gaze flicks to him, daring him to comment. You feel a flutter in your chest at her silent defense, and as you both turn to leave, your hand brushes hers—neither of you pulling away immediately.

Outside, the city air feels electric, charged with something unspoken. You glance up at Sevika, catching the rare, fleeting softness in her eyes, and realize you’re not the only one reluctant to let the moment end.

She clears her throat, looking down at you. “We’ll call it a night at mine. You’ll feel better in a quieter space.” She insists casually, thumb rubbing soothing circles on your lower back.

You can’t help but nod mindlessly, your eyes glued to her sharp features. The night sky compliments her appearance, grey eyes twinkling under the stars.

She helps you into the passenger seat, leaning over to buckle your seatbelt. Your cheeks flush at the close proximity, breath-hitching as the scent of her cologne penetrates your senses.

“I could’ve done it myself,” you mumble, craning your head up to meet her gaze.

A small, almost negligible smirk ghosts her lips. “I know.”

The ride to Sevika’s place is quiet, the silence interrupted solely by the soft sounds of your breathing and low purr of the engine.

After she pulls into the parkade of her apartment complex, she helps you into the building and up the stairs. Though she notices you aren’t as exhausted as you had claimed to be, causing her grip to loosen. “Thought you were tired?”

A giggle escapes your lips as you brace yourself against the doorframe, slightly lethargic from the drinks. “Jus’ wanted to get out of there…” You shrug, kicking off your shoes upon entering her apartment.

“Yeah…don't blame ya, the guys can be a lot.” She hums in agreement, shrugging off her blazer in one fluid motion. You enable your eyes to linger, tracing the curve of her shoulders and the subtle play of muscles beneath her shirt. Yet you make sure to look away right when she turns to face you.

“You hungry?” She asks.

You shrug, glancing up at her. “A little, you?”

She nods. “Yeah, I could eat. Didnt get a chance to take lunch today–too busy.”

You laugh softly, falling into step beside her as she heads to the kitchen.

“Same here.”

Sevika heads to the fridge and pulls out a few vegetables, setting them on the counter. “How about a quick stir-fry? I’ve got some rice left over from last night.”

You nod, rolling up your sleeves. “Sounds good. Want me to chop?”

She hands you a knife, then grabs a pot for herself. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. I’ll start on the sauce.”

You start slicing a bell pepper, the steady rhythm of your knife filling the kitchen. “You always this busy, or was today just extra rough?”

She snorts, measuring out soy sauce. “It’s Wall Street. There’s no such thing as a slow day.”

You grin, sliding the chopped peppers into a bowl. “Fair point. I’m still getting used to it.”

She glances over, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re doing fine. Better than most, actually.”

You shrug, reaching for another vegetable. “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You cut into an onion, the knife feeling heavier than it should in your hand. The alcohol still buzzes in your veins, making your movements a fraction too slow, a touch too loose. You blink, trying to focus, but the kitchen lights seem too bright, casting long, warped shadows across the counter.

Then, the blade slips.

A sharp, hot sting blooms across your finger. You gasp, dropping the knife. It clatters against the tile—a jarring, metallic sound that seems to echo far too loudly in the suddenly silent kitchen. Blood wells up, thick and vivid, trailing down your skin in a line that feels both illusory and painfully present.

“Shit,” you mumble, more out of shock than pain, stumbling toward the sink.

Behind you, Sevika inhales. The sound is harsh, grating, almost inhuman. You glance over your shoulder, expecting a look of concern, maybe annoyance. Instead, you see her standing absolutely still, every muscle in her body tensed and coiled, her hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly you hear the wood creak.

Her eyes are fixed on you—or rather, on your bleeding hand. They’re wide, pupils blown, the usual warmth gone, replaced by a cold, predatory hunger. For a moment, she looks like a stranger in her own kitchen.

You try to laugh, the sound brittle. “Guess I’m more drunk than I thought—”

“Don’t,” Sevika says, her voice low and raw, barely recognizable. She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t move. The shadows seem to grow longer around her, swallowing the edges of her figure. The air thickens, heavy and oppressive, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

You turn back to the sink, running your finger under cold water, but the blood keeps coming, swirling in the basin. The metallic scent fills your nose, sharp and nauseating. Behind you, Sevika’s breathing changes—shallow, ragged, almost animalistic.

You glance back again. Her lips are parted, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle twitch in her cheek. Her eyes are locked on the blood, and for a split second, you catch a glimpse of something—something impossibly sharp and white—behind her lips.

A chill races down your spine, prickling your skin. Your heart thuds, slow and heavy, as if your body’s trying to warn you of something ancient and terrible.

“Get out,” she growls, her voice guttural, vibrating with a note you’ve never heard before. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command—urgent, desperate, dangerous.

You freeze, hand still under the water, blood still dripping. Sevika brings her hand up to her mouth, pressing it hard against her lips, as if she’s holding something back. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for the first time since you’ve known her, you see fear—real, bone-deep fear—fighting with something darker. Something…horrifying.

“Go,” she chokes out, louder, barely holding herself together.

The room feels wrong, warped, as if you’ve stepped into a living nightmare. The familiar kitchen is gone, replaced by something cold and ravenous. You stumble backward, nearly slipping on the tile, your gaze never leaving Sevika’s face—her wild, desperate eyes, her trembling hands, the shadow of fangs behind her lips.

You don’t ask questions. You don’t look back. You run, the sound of your own heartbeat drowning out everything else, the image of Sevika’s monstrous hunger permanently burned into your mind.

taglist: @half-of-a-gay @sapphiccup @iamaboringrattat @spinback-kiva @theoreticalfreak @moodient @diouna @helaenabugmom @womenlover360 @sumisamente @thatsmadiculous @madzorwhatever @vkumi @boom58 @h2pinky @glittzygorilla @koralinebox @kay-khronicals @belldonic

note: so sorry if this was shit fr, i just wanted to explore writing horror elements heheheheeh

#arcane #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #fanfiction #wlw #thriller #arcane fanfic #friends to lovers #lesbian

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emmg · 15 days ago

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I am, without shame, an Emmrich-in-the-sheets truther. The man will 100% try anything once in bed. He’s got that golden retriever energy. But here’s the catch: he’s a try-everything-once sweetie trapped in the body of a man who says “golly” during sex.

He’s also just… so earnest. terminally sweet. Fatally nice. Pathologically considerate. The kind of “dom” who says “may I please you orally, my dearest blossom?” while tying the most pathetic little knot on Rook’s wrists. It could be undone by a stiff breeze and a dream. It’s giving Etsy mormon mom bondage.

But WAIT. There is a point to this shit. Tis’, you might say, a grand announcement. This post is actually about my upcoming literary masterpiece: a dumbass oneshot where Emmrich, in the throes of horny ambition, accidentally takes Viagra and ADHD meds at the same time.

Next thing you know, he’s inside Rook. Not fucking her. Not even thrusting.

Just… soaking.

Because his body might be in the bedroom, but Emmrich’s mind? Oh, honey, it’s in the meal prep aisle of his imaginary Whole Foods, hyperfocused on quinoa texture and spice ratios.

He’s balls-deep and mentally in a cooking vlog.

“So I was thinking quinoa, but you know how that gets mushy if you don’t rinse it properly…”

Rook: ??

Emmrich takes her silence as engagement.

She’s clearly on board.

This is now a dialogue.

He ramps it up.

Adderall and viagra have him locked in. He’s moaning softly about organic fennel. His dick? Still heroically erect. Trapped in erection purgatory. It has not moved in 15 minutes. It is more of a hostage than a participant.

Then, mercy upon Rook, he thrusts once.

Just a single, confused pump.

Then he pauses again and genuinely, genuinely, says:

“Wait… shall I marinate the tofu overnight? Or is that too much effor—”

AND ROOK SCREAMS.

In pure goddamn exasperation. She screams in the way someone screams when a raccoon crawls into their kitchen and starts sorting the spice rack.

She has to grab his shoulders and shake him like a vending machine that ate her last dollar, yelling “Nut, you sexy culinary podcast, NUT.”

Emmrich snaps back to reality like he just came out of a fugue state.

“Oh! Right. Yes. Ejaculation. Thank you, darling,” he says politely.

Then he cums with the derelict panic of a man who just remembered he left the stove on.

Anyway, fic’s coming soon. It’s horny. It’s horrible.

#dragon age shitpost #idk guys i need him to be dumb in the bedroom every once in a while lmfao #my cross to bear #dragon age the veilguard #emmrich volkarin #datv #dragon age #emmrook #emmrich x rook

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brookghaib-blog · 1 month ago

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Silence between hearts ( preview )

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Note: I’m testing ideas and I came up with one, I’m mostly posting this already for you guys feedback, the first chapter will take a few days to be posted, I am working on my dissertation, but you guys understand.

—

The glass was thicker than it needed to be. Reinforced, sealed with polymer layers, and bolted into an alloy cradle designed to survive a small war. But none of that mattered to Y/N. All she could see was him inside it.

Bob.

Still.

Cold.

Lying there like a man who’d simply fallen asleep with no promise of waking.

The O.X.E. lab—once bright, bustling, and full of scientific ambition—now reeked of sterilizer and silence. They were shutting everything down. His project had failed, they said. Too unstable. Too dangerous. Too powerful. And now—too dead.

“Project SENTRY has been terminated. Containment protocol 6X is in effect,” droned a voice over the speakers. The kind of voice that never wavered. Not for ethics. Not for grief. Not even for love.

Y/N stood frozen as technicians fastened the final clamps onto the glass coffin. Her coat, still stained with dried blood from trying to stabilize him, hung limp around her. Her hands trembled. Her face was pale. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came out.

Two security guards hovered behind her.

“Dr. L/N,” one of them said gently. “You need to let them take him.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped forward, eyes locked on the body within. Bob’s chest didn’t rise. His face was pale, serene—eerily calm for a man who had been made of light and rage. His golden hair framed a face that once radiated warmth, now drained of it entirely.

“No,” she whispered. Her voice cracked like splintered glass. “You don’t get to box him up. You don’t get to just erase him.”

“Doctor—”

“He’s not dead!” she snapped, finally spinning on the guards. Her voice echoed through the corridor, sharp and broken. “He’s not dead, he’s not—he’s not—”

But her knees buckled before her words could finish. She collapsed to the floor, her hands catching her barely an inch above the cold tile. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one scraping her throat like rusted nails.

The guards hesitated, unsure whether to comfort her or restrain her.

Valentina didn’t.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached—always polished, always calculated. “This isn’t a romantic tragedy, Doctor,” she said, arms crossed. “This is containment. He was compromised. If you’d like to keep your clearance and your career, I suggest you walk away now.”

Y/N lifted her head slowly, tears streaking her face.

“I don’t care about clearance,” she hissed. “I cared about him.”

Valentina’s expression didn’t change. “Then you’re a liability.”

The moment stretched like wire pulled too tight.

And then, Valentina gave a cold nod.

“Seal it,” she ordered.

Technicians obeyed.

Y/N watched as a final hiss of hydraulic steam sealed the edges of the glass. The lighting inside dimmed, bathing Bob in a faint blue glow, like he was being buried beneath a glacier.

They strapped the coffin to a magnetic dolly, preparing to roll him out—out of the lab, out of history, out of her reach. Like he’d never existed. Like the nights they’d spent in quiet corners of the lab, whispering about the sky and everything he’d forgotten about being human, had never happened.

Like she hadn’t kissed his trembling hands after his first breakdown.

Like he hadn’t told her he was scared of the darkness inside him.

Like he hadn’t looked at her the night before the meltdown and said, “If I lose myself, don’t let them lock me away. Just tell me you loved me once. That it mattered.”

She scrambled up, stumbling toward the coffin, arms outstretched.

“Wait!” she cried.

The guards tried to intercept her, but she ducked around them, slamming her palms against the glass.

Her voice cracked as she spoke, forehead resting against the cold surface. “Bob. I’m here. I didn’t leave. I—I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry. But I remember you. Do you hear me? I remember everything. I do love you.”

No response.

She pressed her hand over his heart, her eyes tracing the shape of his closed eyelids, the curve of his lips. She could almost believe he was sleeping. Almost.

“Please,” she whispered, softer now. “Please come back. Just open your eyes. Just—just breathe. I’ll take the Void. I’ll take all of it. Just come back to me.”

Silence.

Valentina made a gesture. The guards pulled her away, gently but firmly.

“NO!” Y/N screamed, kicking and fighting. “You don’t get to take him! He’s not—he’s not a thing! He’s a person! He was mine!”

But Bob remained still, and the glass began to fog slightly with the temperature shift as the containment unit rolled toward the freight elevator.

Valentina didn’t look back.

And Y/N—struggling in the arms of men who didn’t know who Bob was, what he had become, what he meant—finally went limp.

Her voice, barely a breath now, rasped, “Please don’t leave me here without you…”

The elevator closed with a heavy clang.

Then he was gone.

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ryes-brownies08 · 3 months ago

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flights, not feelings [jake x male reader]

˙⋆✮ genre: ANGST ˙⋆✮ roles: top! jake, bttm! mreader ˙⋆✮ word count: 2.4k words ˙⋆✮ inspo: flights, not feelings - aespa

SYNOPSIS: Busy, busy, busy. Those are the words your life would speak if it had a voice. You were on your way to catch a flight, ready to embrace a corporate life for a change. A job where you’d be filing some paperwork, working in an office, and having dinner with coworkers was all something you thought suited your personality as it mellowed out. But on your way there, you bumped into your ex. The two of you didn’t end on bad terms, and were in love while it lasted, sharing a bittersweet conversation. But, now it was all just a ghost of the past, and you had a flight to catch.

WARNINGS + TAGS: ex bf jake, swearing, u both want each other but are denying it, changed people, post-breakup, flights, final goodbyes, depictions of any irl character here does not reflect who they are irl this work is purely fictional, etc

You know, you hadn’t actually gotten the chance to sit down and take a break for a while, but now that you had a moment to yourself, it was lonelier than you’d expected.

You sat in the waiting lounge of the airport, looking to your left as the airplanes behind the terminal glass wall of the airport hovered towards the horizon, soon to take off to unknown destinations. The sun was setting, casting a temperate orange glow on the rows of empty seats in front of you, illuminating how the only person there, was you - M/n L/n.

You’d recently resigned from your job as a human resources manager, because you were always occupied managing the interactions of fed-up employees against tyrannical managers, and barely had time for yourself. It’s actually why you booked this flight. You were gonna go to Toronto, have a fresh start, and live a better, corporate life for yourself. Of course, you were already somewhat in the corporate life, but now, your hours of work would strictly be kept from 9 to 5, and would never spill into your home life.

As you grew and got worn out by the world, you began to mellow out. You lost a lot of ambition and were comfortable reaching for the basic office life. Moreover, you began losing some of the things you’d valued most in your life and yourself.

Your passion for the arts, extinguished by your family ages ago, the brightness of your personality, deemed ‘too much’ for others, and the right to feel worthy of love, wiped clean from your esteem. You were in a shit position right now, and no, you didn’t wanna talk about it. M/n was the guy who made jokes about his life, and didn't tell anyone how his decaying soul lies dormant within the ribs of his slender chest.

Suddenly, you were caught off guard by an announcement going off over the speakers. “We would like to announce that Flight AC456, with service to Toronto, Canada, is boarding at Gate 12F in 15 minutes.” After taking a look at yourself in the glass wall’s reflection, fixing up your long charcoal cotton coat, and ensuring your navy sweater and beige pants rested coherently under its embrace, you made sure your suitcase was all zipped up and began to make your way to your gate. Your outfit wasn’t actually that bad at all; it added an edge to you, without washing out your (S/c) skin color, or making you look cold and antisocial. Your silver necklace sat immobile on your chest, adding a little bit of bedazzle. Nice outfit, M/n. You didn’t flop your choice for the airport.

You began to take off, looking around to see any signs that indicated Gate 12F was nearby at all. You looked to your right, noticing how there was an increase in people going towards a particular hall that you hadn’t seen that densely crowded before. That must’ve been where your flight was. The closer you walked to what you began to realise was a corridor, you saw a sign saying ‘GATE 11J-12H’, and you knew that you were in the right place. Bless those strangers’ hearts for taking you there.

Eventually, you were met with another large, longue-looking area, and found yourself reaching in your pocket to hold onto your passport, for reassurance. To your horror, you couldn’t find anything. As people walked all around you in numerous different directions, and anxiety slithered all up in your body like a snake made of icy slime and tar, you were close to being overstimulated. You properly started rummaging with your both hands in your large coat pockets, and were now regretting the choice of wearing it at all today.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfu-

That’s all that ran through your head at that moment. Everything and everyone should’ve just gone to hell. You felt yourself spiral, and just when you couldn’t get anymore lost in your thoughts, you started sinking in an episode of self-doubt and self-loathing. You wouldn’t have been so depressed about this a few years back. You’d probably have laughed, and got a random stranger to help you. That stranger would’ve had fun, too.

You’d make someone’s day and all you’d have done was smile. You tend to do that less nowadays. But before you could fully drown in your thoughts, you fell to the floor when you felt a thud against you.

*Thud*

*Thump*

*Gasp…!*

“Oh shit, I’m sorry!” You heard a male voice call out, and for a split second it felt somewhat familiar to you. Maybe you were overthinking it. When you turned to look up, an exuberant light behind his head and the suitcase in front of you blocked you from seeing his face. He reached out his hand to you, and you took it after a moment of regaining clarity.

“Ah.. it’s okay..” You said. Well, at least after all these years, you were still a polite person.

“I should have seen where I was going, man, I just..” You stood up, and as you did, you could finally begin to make out who it was. You knew him. And you didn’t know if that was a good thing. “I dunno, are you alright?” He asked. He looked up at you as you got up, your height a bit taller than his. Yeah, you knew him.

His Aussie accent was unmissable, alongside his slightly longer, yet nevertheless ethereal face. His eyes were large and almond shaped, expressive and captivating, just like you’d remembered. His nose was straight and well-sized with a soft tip, his cheekbones and jaw decently prominent, and his pink lips decently full for a dude. This being said, his visual was boyish, and attractive. He looked young, yet chiseled, and ready for anything, which was exactly what he was.

The man in front of you was Sim Jake, your ex. And you watched as his eyes widened and features softened as he looked at you in a mixture of surprise and wistfulness.

“Hey, Jake..” You said, your face shifting to a muted, half-smile; a grin with a bit of regret to it.

“Hey…” He said, clearly a bit unsure. “You okay?” He asked, after a moment of hesitation. You could feel the tension dissipate at a moderate pace, but while it lasted, it was more than notable.

“Yeah, I’m.. I’m fine.” There was a bit of a pause, and you two were sort of awkward in that moment. You decided to try and make a bit of conversation. “How’ve you been, Jake?” You inquired placidly.

“I’ve not been bad, what about you?” The way he said those words in his thick, milky accent - ‘whaute abaut you’ - just reminded you of the memories where all you’d known was how much you loved him. The two of you broke up due to a difference in schedules, is what you liked to tell yourself. But you knew it was all your fault.

You were a bright, pure soul, not too long ago. People treated you like shit, and your heart started graying from then into the carcass it was now. He ached seeing you lose your light, and you took his care for you as pity, and broke up with him. You should’ve known it was love. Now, you were resilient, but at the cost of your inner glow. You wondered what he would think if you’d stayed with him. Maybe you’d have been able to retain your light but still be resilient. The thought just depressed you, cause you knew you made the wrong decision, and you didn’t wanna dwell on that. Not at all.

“Not bad, actually. Thanks.” You said the last part with a bit more gratitude than you’d usually offer. You felt a warm smile creep up onto your face, and the tension was lifted for sure now. After all, he was a great person to you.

“That’s great, babe.” A pause arose at the use of the latter word. He let out an embarrassed scoff. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” You smiled, chuckling. He laughed with you. You remembered the way his undereye would crease when he smiled, and his teeth bared themselves in a beautiful surrender.

“Where you flying, M/n?” He asked. Again, you also forgot how much you liked it when he said your name. Just the way the sounds flew in the ripples of his unique tone, becoming nothing but a cozy collection of consonants against the cadence of his voice.

“Toronto. I’ve got a job there as an office worker. I start in two months.” You smile at him, and he nods, pouting his lips in awe. But underneath that, you could detect him feeling a bit of loss at the thought of you going away. It made you sad, but you told yourself to ignore it. “What about you, Jake? Where are you heading?”

“Back to Seoul. I’m visiting my family. It’s been a minute. But that’s great, ba-” He bit his lip, shaking his head, trying to not say ‘baby’. He would say it so casually before. “I meant M/n.”

“That’s cool. I’m happy for you.”

“I know, I’m really excited, can't lie.” Caunte lie. There’s the accent, again. “So yeah… I’m… I’m happy for you. You’re gonna go to Toronto. Is that far?” He asked, kind of hoping you’d say no, even though he probably knew it was. It was clear you both were over each other, but it was also clear that you missed what you had. I mean, it’s not like either of you did anything to hurt one another, so that was more than warranted.

“It is. You’re probably not gonna see me for a while.” You said, not rudely. You offered him a polite smile to compensate. After all, you had nothing but respect for him.

He nodded, looking down at his feet, his hand fidgeting a little. He bit his lip. You felt bad. A silence arose.

“You know, you can call me baby.” You said to him. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. You can just say it for fun.” You smiled softly whilst tilting your head, trying to reassure him a little. He looked up, and wore a wistful smile. He appreciated it, but obviously knew the true meaning behind it was in the past. You knew you should have been going to board your plane, but for the first time in your stick-up-the-ass life, you’d remained there, feet firmly planted in the ground. You didn’t wanna part ways at the current moment. You were meeting Jake again, and there clearly wasn’t any tension at all. It was a comfortable vibe, with a comfortable resolution to the post-breakup tensions, if there even were any.

“Do you wanna get going?” He asked, feeling bad.

“Not at all. It’s okay.” You replied. “We have time.”

“We would like to announce that Flight AC456, with service to Toronto, Canada, is boarding at Gate 12F right now. Please arrive as soon as possible.” The speaker called out. You and Jake both looked up at the roof, as if trying to find the voice over the speakers.

“Fuck..” You laughed. He laughed too, undereyes creasing adorably and everything.

“You gotta go, huh?” He chuckled, the sound a bit defeated. “Happens, mate.”

“Well, this is where we part ways.” You smiled at him, as warmly as you could in that moment. “Thanks for this. It was… it gave me clarity.” You said, taking a deep, composed breath. You were hurting as well, but kept it subdued although not hidden, whereas he showed it without much filter.

“Me too. You’re a good dude. Know that, yeah?” He mustered up a smile, his care for you genuine, and his regret very real. You kept telling yourself that he was completely over you, but he clearly still had a place for you in his heart. A small enough gap to operate normally, but big enough to still be thinking of you on a cold, lonely winter night.

You offered a final smile, and just as you turned to walk away, you heard his voice again.

“M/n, wait.” You turned. “Can I… can I have a hug before you go?” He asked, and you couldn’t say no, especially given the look in his eyes; vulnerable and longing. You could deduce that he might have wanted a kiss, or a second chance, but you recognised the fight in him to not ask for anything more than either of you were comfortable to do in that moment. He truly was a solid individual.

You nodded, walking into him without hesitation, and felt yourself sink into his warmth. He was a bit shorter than you for sure, but you still felt safe in his arms. Jake was always the protector of the relationship. You can’t lie, you’d wanted to kiss him, just this one last time. But you didn’t.

“M/n. If you need anything - if you need me -,” He paused, and hearing his dejected voice muffle into your coat pulled a fair bit at your heartstrings. You felt yourself falter for a moment. “You just let me know. Okay?” He asked, and it sounded more vulnerable than you’d have expected. It hurt your heart hearing him like that.

Eventually, after a long breath, the two of you untied from each other's arms, and you flashed him the last soft smile, not knowing if you’d ever see him again, before turning your back and walking to your gate. The last thing you’d seen from him was his faltering smile as he watched you walk off into the distance. As you walked away, you felt something move in your pocket. When you reached in to pull the object out, you found it, right there; your passport. For a second, you caught yourself wishing it would do it’s little passport magic and you’d meet Jake once again. Admittedly, part of you didn’t want that moment to end.

But you weren’t going to call him. You didn’t want to. And you’re not sure if you ever would, but you knew you weren’t going to soon. The thought of reaching out to him didn’t deter you the way you thought it would, but you just decided in the current moment that you were never going back just to hurt him again. At least not now. You had to hold onto that. You just had to. Just for now.

Because after all, you had to catch a flight, not feelings.

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jeszrosse · 7 days ago

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🧬 “Deviation”

MANIPULATIVE!Albert Wesker x Reader | One-shot AU | Reader Unaware | Deep Psychological Control | Obsession-Slowburn

⚠️ Possessive behavior • Surveillance • Delusional Justification • Isolation tactics • No reader realization • Smut • Stalking

🧬 1. [Observation]

It begins, as most things do with Wesker, in silence.

Your first day on the team, you barely warranted a glance in the surveillance feed.

Another lab technician. Another replaceable assistant. Another insignificant moving part.

But then you lingered.

Stayed late. Came early.

Read the case files beyond your clearance level and didn’t flinch at the corpses.

You passed the first test.

Not that you knew there was one.

You thought it was coincidence that no one sat beside you in meetings.

That your access card opened doors you never requested.

That the intern who made a joke about your smile was transferred within the hour.

It wasn’t coincidence.

It was calibration.

He was isolating the variables.

And you, you became an anomaly worth noting.

He began compiling minor reports on your behavior, tucked into encrypted files labeled with meaningless acronyms—justifications for your existence in his system. He logged your arrival times, the hesitation in your speech, the way you handled scalpel trays with a certain… reverence. Clinical on the outside, but with the sharpness of someone who wanted to understand.

You weren’t like the others—those limp, nodding bureaucrats or ambition-hollowed researchers. You read between lines. You saw things. You didn’t ask for approval.

It should’ve been threatening.

But instead, it was fascinating.

---

🧬 2. [Containment]

Wesker doesn’t trust easily.

He trusts data.

Outcomes.

Silence.

But you unsettled the metrics.

You moved differently. You saw things. You questioned protocols he didn’t authorize you to read.

And he watched.

The way your fingers hovered over a scalpel you didn’t need to touch.

The way your reflection lingered in the biohazard glass.

The way your laugh, rare as it was, made low-ranking guards look up.

So he changed the guards.

Restricted hallway access.

Reassigned co-workers.

Built your world to orbit only him.

And still—still you never noticed.

Not when your new desk faced his office.

Not when your login synced with his terminal.

Not when your lunch orders began arriving, already paid.

You thought it was protocol. Efficiency. Company structure.

It wasn’t.

It was obsession.

Even your chair was adjusted—replaced with one designed to support your back based on posture data from security footage. Your lighting changed imperceptibly across weeks, tailored to prevent eye strain and keep you awake longer, sharper.

He scheduled briefings when you were most alert.

Redirected minor crises to ensure you'd report directly to him.

He watched the way you blinked when you were confused.

Memorized the twitch of your mouth when you were about to ask something risky.

Your coworkers left one by one. Transferred. Fired. Reassigned.

Those who got too familiar? Disciplined. Quietly.

You didn’t wonder why your inbox felt so clean.

Why no one interrupted your concentration anymore.

Why the company started feeling like a corridor, narrowing around you.

---

🧬 3. [Degradation]

It got worse.

Or—closer to the truth.

He found himself pausing the security feed just to watch the curve of your spine as you bent over notes.

He rewound your voice recordings, cataloguing the inflections in your “Good morning, sir.”

He deleted the word sir from your tongue in his mind.

He didn’t want your respect.

He wanted your obedience.

Your trust.

Your presence, constant and unrelenting.

You belonged in his space, like air belonged in lungs.

He just hadn't told you yet.

Sometimes, you left behind small things—sticky notes, paperclips, coffee cups. Harmless. Forgettable. But he kept them all.

The mug with a faint mark of your lip balm.

The pen you once clicked while reading virology samples.

A typed memo, crumpled, with a single word scratched out and replaced. "Necessary."

He examined them not with sentiment but calculation.

These were not keepsakes.

These were proofs of proximity.

You were slipping under his skin molecule by molecule, and he needed evidence of your presence in his domain.

But there were moments—dangerous ones—when calculation gave way to something darker.

Moments when you reached for a dropped stylus beneath the lab table and the hem of your coat pulled taut across your thighs.

Moments when you tilted your head to read something over a microscope and exposed the soft column of your neck.

Moments when the feed from the surveillance cameras caught just enough.

He knew every angle of your body from security footage.

The way your blouse sometimes gaped slightly when you leaned forward.

The way you stretched without thinking, unaware of how it framed you.

Unaware of the man watching—memorizing.

It was a weakness.

A flaw in his design.

But sometimes he would watch the footage at half-speed, eyes burning, jaw clenched, and tell himself it was for behavioral monitoring.

That the brief tightening in his chest wasn’t arousal, but concern.

And yet—when you bent to pick up a file one night, alone, late, and the back of your skirt lifted just slightly—

—his fingers had twitched.

Not from irritation.

From restraint.

From the raw, silent thought that he could take you. Right there.

Not in fantasy. Not in dream. But in brutal, clinical, breathtaking reality.

He could fuck you against the sterile counter and no one would stop him.

No one would even know.

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He was control. Discipline.

He filed the footage.

Encrypted it.

And watched it again the next night.

Hands behind his back.

Jaw locked.

Throat tight with the sick, hungry coil of desire he refused to name.

You didn’t know.

Didn’t see.

Didn’t feel the weight of a man who no longer saw you as a subordinate or asset—

—but as something already his, simply awaiting the correct time to be claimed.

---

🧬 4. [Denial]

You never caught it, but he looked away first.

Every time.

Every instance your gaze met his, however briefly.

You assumed it was deference. Coldness. That clinical thing he wore like a second skin.

But it wasn’t.

It was containment.

Because the sound of your voice—the precise cadence in which you said “Understood, Doctor Wesker”—lit up some dormant, vile thing in him.

Something untested.

Something monstrous.

He was not above temptation.

He was simply better at dissecting it.

The way you smiled at your coworkers, never at him?

He noticed.

The way you stood just a fraction closer when anxious, fingers tightening at your sides?

He filed it away.

He let others believe you were isolated by accident.

But he'd engineered that loneliness. Curated it.

Suffocated anything that threatened to pull your attention elsewhere.

You never got that offer for project co-lead.

Never received the anonymous gifts left at your desk by interns.

Because Albert intercepted them.

Silently. Strategically.

You didn’t know it was his hand pulling you toward him, only that every direction seemed to fold inward until he was the only constant.

The only man who saw you.

Who understood you.

He watched you trace your notes, watched your lips form silent syllables, and all the while he denied himself.

Denied the heat pooling in his abdomen.

Denied the cruel ache behind every “Goodnight, sir” you uttered.

Denied the nightly compulsion to run simulations of what you would sound like begging.

And when he couldn't sleep, he listened to your voice on the lab’s intercom archive.

Just to hear it.

To pretend.

To substitute control for contact.

And still—he told himself he had not crossed the line.

Not yet.

Because you were still untouched.

Still pure, in the way only someone unaware of their ownership could be.

---

🧬 5. [Possession]

He began to see it in everything.

The way others looked at you—a threat.

The way you spoke about your family—a liability.

The way you said “thank you” when he passed you reports—intolerable.

You didn’t thank him.

You didn’t understand him.

You couldn’t.

But that was fine.

Understanding would come later.

He started curating your tasks more delicately.

Steered you away from field ops, too dangerous.

Assigned you exclusively to him, citing “performance optimization.”

You didn’t protest.

You thought you were being promoted.

But in truth, you were being drawn in.

Woven tighter.

Placed carefully, perfectly, exactly where he wanted you.

In his office.

In his world.

In his reach.

Your name was embedded in his daily reports. Your security log-in pinged his terminal every time you swiped a door.

The other researchers stopped referencing your work without Wesker’s express permission. He had erased your reputation as independent—you were his now.

And no one questioned it.

Not when his gaze burned through the glass walls of the lab.

Not when he stood beside you in meetings like a shadow wearing a tailored suit.

Not when his hand briefly brushed yours while reviewing samples, and he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t need to pull away.

He had already claimed what he wanted.

---

Now, his fingerprints existed on more than your reports.

He’d rewritten your schedule to end near his. Aligned your meals. Synced your lab hours. Even your breaks were subtly shifted, your elevator stops timed perfectly with his descent.

You didn’t see it.

But he did.

Every day you returned to your workspace slightly adjusted—your chair moved back in, your pens restocked, your personal mug rotated exactly one degree counter-clockwise.

“We’re optimizing,” he’d say.

“For your convenience.”

He'd begun accompanying you to biometric checks. At first, a coincidence. The second time, an excuse. By the third, he was inputting your medical logs himself.

His voice was always calm. Always formal. Always patient.

But his gaze lingered.

His presence loomed.

And his hands—always gloved—brushed against the small of your back far too often for protocol.

---

And he watched.

From behind glass. From dark monitors. From still frames and slow replays. When your blouse sat a little too low. When your eyes wandered where they shouldn’t.

You were careless with your innocence.

But he would be careful for you.

He adjusted the brightness of the surveillance feed. Zoomed in. Studied the way you leaned too close to your keyboard.

Imagined your breath fogging the screen.

Imagined how easily that breath could hitch. Could falter. Could beg.

You have no idea, he thought.

But you will.

Not yet.

But soon.

Understanding would come later.

---

🧬 6. [Infection]

The final stage was the most dangerous.

You said his name once.

Not “sir.”

Not “Wesker.”

Just:

“Albert…?”

His gaze snaps up from the report.

You’re standing in the doorway of his office, the heel of one shoe slightly kicked back, as if you weren’t sure whether to enter. The folder in your hand trembles slightly—an involuntary twitch you don’t even notice. But he does.

He notices everything.

The breath that stutters in your throat after the name escapes.

The flicker of hesitation in your pupils when his expression doesn’t immediately soften.

The way you shift—defensive, unsure—before you correct yourself:

“I mean—sir. Sorry, I meant—sir.”

But it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

You spoke it aloud.

Not in passing.

Not as a slip of protocol.

Not with bitterness or irony.

But with concern.

Soft. Tentative. Almost gentle.

And that… that is what undoes him.

You don’t know he has a file buried six levels deep into a server no one else can access—labeled with your name, storing every image of you captured on internal footage.

You don’t know he’s wiped out four internal transfer requests that would have pulled you from his floor.

You don’t know he personally selects your meals for team events—ensuring your preferences are always met, even when no one else notices.

You don’t know he’s kept you here, orbiting him, perfectly placed, under the illusion of promotion.

And now you’ve said his name like it belongs to you.

Like he does.

“Sir,” you try again, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Apologies. I—I didn’t mean—”

He stands slowly, measured, the desk separating you like a fragile boundary he’s had to respect for far too long.

“No need to apologize,” he says coolly. “You simply… surprised me.”

But inside? His thoughts are nothing but static.

He replays the syllables.

Not just the sound, but the shape of your mouth when you said it.

He files it into memory. Deep. Permanent.

And he knows—sooner than even you do—that this is the beginning of the end for the illusion.

Because from this moment on, you’ve stopped being a project.

Stopped being a subject.

You’ve become a trigger.

A fixation.

An opening he hadn’t anticipated—but cannot ignore.

You said his name once.

You won’t realize until it’s far too late:

You’ll never say it the same way again.

Because you didn’t know what you’d done.

You didn’t hear it the way he did.

Like it was already yours to say.

Like he wasn’t a god.

Like he was a man.

A man who had already rewritten every security protocol to keep you near.

A man who eliminated colleagues who made you uncomfortable.

A man who—if you ever truly looked—might shatter the illusion of “normal” with one cold sentence:

“You’re not here by accident.”

“You’re here because I designed you to be.”

But you don’t know.

You smile politely.

You offer your reports.

You drink the coffee that arrives on your desk precisely how you like it.

You go home.

You live your life.

While he rewatches your day in full.

While he listens to your voicemails and deletes names from your inbox.

While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

While he reminds himself that love is irrelevant.

Control is what matters.

And he already has it.

---

He’d timed every entry and exit.

He knew how long you took in the restroom.

Which hallway you paused in to check your phone.

What time of day your voice grew tired.

He saw it as clearly as he saw cell degradation under a microscope.

That slow unraveling.

That quiet compliance.

You were adapting.

Your posture had shifted. Subtly. You walked faster when alone. Slower when near him. You dressed differently—more reserved, perhaps without realizing. You avoided eye contact with male superiors.

Wesker approved.

He didn’t speak of it.

Didn’t need to.

The conditioning was holding.

You had stopped asking questions.

Stopped challenging schedules.

Stopped requesting to work from other wings.

You had folded into the environment he designed—one where he was a constant hum beneath your daily routine. Where his name lingered at the back of your tongue. Where his voice set your pace and his silence set your nerves.

---

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he muttered to himself, watching the security footage replay. While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

There you were again. That exact moment. Your eyes soft, confused, lips parted: Albert…?

He paused the video.

Leaned back.

Let the sound echo in the sterile quiet of his office.

It was not an accident.

Not some sweet slip of tongue.

No.

It was the infection taking root.

Your body catching up to what your environment had long accepted.

Dependence.

Deference.

Attachment.

He could work with that.

Love was messy. Emotional.

But dependence—he could mold.

He could reinforce it, reward it, create just enough tension to keep you needing his approval.

To keep you needing him.

---

(A/N: should I make a part 2??? I mean- I already have it. I just wanna hear it from you dirty sluts;>)

#fanfiction #x reader #fanfic #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker #albert wesker smut #possesive love #stalker au #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil albert wesker #albert wesker x you #albert wesker x y/n #x you #x you smut #smut fanfiction #minors dni #minors do not interact

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pichirobi · 6 months ago

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Terrible Influence Tour Song Lyrics

(because this earworm is driving me crazy! transcribed from these recordings x x x)

We saw you from across the Internet, and we really liked your vibe I might just have to parasocially dedicate my life How'd I ever live without this warm feeling inside? So many ups and many downs, but hey, it's been a ride We're sorry for what we did to you We gave you love, we gave you abuse You wrote it in pen, I got the tattoo You blocked me, I want to introduce my family to you

T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E Say it to my face, you want to influence me Content, consume, you say it's crazy But I-D-G-A-F because it saved me

I can't get you out my head My first thought in the morning, my nightmares in bed You ruined my life, you kept me fed If it weren't for you, I would be dead What's theory, what's real, what's just fiction? Is it queerbaiting, or homoerotic friction? Endless greed, ruthless ambition Commissions open for the naked depiction

Is it them, or is it me? Am I dedicated, or fucking crazy? Too much, too young, too fast, it changed me But now it's terminal, this shit can't phase me

T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E Say it to my face, you want to influence me Content, consume, you say it's crazy But I-D-G-A-F because it saved me

#LOVEYOU, #AD #CANCELLED, #DADS It's not illegal, it can't be bad You changed my mind, you made me mad

Is it them, or is it me? Am I dedicated, or fucking crazy? Too much, too young, too fast, it changed me But now it's terminal, this shit can't phase me

T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E Say it to my face, you want to influence me Content, consume, you say it's crazy But I-D-G-A-F because it saved me

It's been a lot, it's been a time We need to move on and forgive the crimes This is our space, our time to thrive It's us against the world, together we'll survive

T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E Say it to my face, you want to influence me Content, consume, you say it's crazy But I-D-G-A-F because it saved me (x2)

#GIVE ME THE STUDIO RECORDING NOWWWW #I FEEL INSANE #dan and phil #daniel howell #phil lester #amazingphil #terrible influence tour #terrible influence tour spoilers #tit spoilers #titspoilers

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nyxiemania · 10 months ago

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To rats, bats are angels 🦇✨

In a recent session Destiny got a familiar with help from her gal pal (and totally not mutual slowburn crush) Karina. They burned incense together for 2 hours in a private inn room while Karina helped walk Destiny through the whole process and went off on a bunch of tangents about magic and Destiny just listened and watched her thinking "she is so perfect". The familiar ended up being a bat called Mystique, named after the X-Men character to match Destiny being an X-Men reference herself and because she's going to be doing sneaky scouting and spying for us.

Mystique is able to see through certain illusions thanks to her echolocation, which is of course very useful given Destiny's terrible dad is a master of illusions and he is very much out to kill us now. Or at least kill all the people Destiny cares about to spite her. It's unclear what he wants from his daughter now that she's betrayed him. Perhaps unsurprisingly given that, Destiny frequently looks through Mystique's eyes to make sure nothing in their environment is illusory or invisible. Also the whole "bats are just angels to rats" thing wasn't initially intended, but it fits so well with Destiny being an aasimar.

#familiar #bat #dnd #dungeons and dragons #art #dnd oc #tiefling #dnd art #my art #Destiny #Terminal Ambitions

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shiorihyugawrites · 7 months ago

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Masterlist

My original account got randomly terminated 🙃 so here we are building from scratch guys!

Backup account incase Tumblr acts a fool again and terminates me here: @shiorihyuga

Follow me on A03

Join my Patreon! Note: I am four chapters ahead :)

All of my works are 18 + Only | Minors DNI

Currently Working On:

The Legendary Black Cat: Selena de la Rosa, known across Marley as the Legendary Black Cat, is the world's deadliest assassin—a master of agility, precision, and deception. When Marley turns against her, she is shipped to Paradis as a living weapon, chained and drugged, with her survival all but assured to be short-lived. But Selena is no ordinary prisoner.

Bound by no one, loyal to none, Selena plots her next move, determined to seize her freedom by any means necessary. Yet, her plans are complicated by the Scouts who captured her, particularly Captain Levi Ackerman—the so-called Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Selena is intrigued by his strength and reputation, but her pride refuses to acknowledge him as her equal.

Caught between Levi’s unrelenting gaze, Selena plays a dangerous game of manipulation. She’s biding her time, but when the moment comes, will her calculated escape bring her freedom—or will her path collide violently with Levi’s unwavering resolve?

The Black Cat has always landed on her feet, but for the first time, she might meet her match. (Levi x OC)

Red Regrets: Twelve years ago, Levi Ackerman made the hardest decision of his life—he left behind the only woman he ever loved, believing it was for her own good. But fate is cruel, and when a fiery redheaded boy with a familiar scowl crosses his path, Levi is forced to confront the past he abandoned. The truth he never knew. And the woman whose heart he shattered. (Levi x OC)

The Soldier & The Daisy: Raised in the protection of her father, Lady Daisy Lenore lives surrounded by luxury and sheltered from the turmoil outside the walls. But when the war with Marley heats up and the secrets of the world beyond Paradis begin to surface, Daisy’s life is turned upside down.

Levi is assigned as her personal bodyguard, tasked with keeping her safe from the dangerous forces lurking in the shadows. However, the more he spends time with her, the harder it becomes to ignore the undeniable attraction between them. Levi, a man who has never let anyone get close, struggles to protect his heart while safeguarding the woman he’s come to love. (Levi x OC)

Damaged: Before the fall of Wall Maria, a string of brutal murders grips Wall Sina—noblemen found strangled, their mouths stuffed with drugs, and not a trace of the killer left behind. The Military Police call him “The Spider Killer.” But he's no man. She's a ghost in silk and shadow. A master assassin hiding in plain sight. When the Scouts get involved, Levi Ackerman begins to suspect that catching her won’t be so easy… especially when she starts hunting him too. (Levi x OC)

Throne of Flowers: In the opulent court of Valoria, Emperor Solomon and Mikasa Ackerman fight to rewrite a 300-year-old law demanding four noble consorts, determined to make their love the empire’s heart.

As a foreign soldier turned ambassador, Mikasa faces nobles’ scorn and political schemes, while Solomon balances duty and devotion. With allies like Empress Dowager Solana and foes lurking in the empty Rose, Lily, Dahlia, and Peony houses, their bond is tested by tradition, ambition, and secrets.

Can they forge a future where love, not law, reigns supreme? Sequel to Diamond Of The First Water (Mikasa x OC)

The Devil In Your Eyes: In this modern AU, Eren, a magnetic political science major, and Aurora, a gentle pharmacy student, find each other in a world untouched by war. Their soulmate spark ignites at a chaotic college dinner, a fleeting moment that feels like destiny where their instant connection proves they’re meant to be, no matter the timeline, in a tale as tender as it is electric.

Spinoff Sequel to The Devil's Bride (Eren x OC)

Coming Soon:

Nothing....for now 😉

Completed Stories:

A Soft Place: (Levi x Plus Sized OC)

Tides of Fate: (Eren, Levi, Floch, Jean, Armin, Connie, Bertholdt, Reiner x OCs)

Steadfast Hearts: (Levi x OC)

The Ballad Of The Magenta Witch (Eren x OC)

Diamond Of The First Water (Levi x OC)

The Devil's Bride (Eren x OC)

One Shots:

Eren x Reader

The Dumpster Behind The Club

Karma

Power Trip

Owned: Eren x Reader - AU Series

Levi x Reader

Letting Go

Heavy Lifting

Velvet Heat

Steamy

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ilovejoostklein · 1 year ago

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Bad Journalism

You’re an annoying journalist trying to get a story out of Joost, but he knows that’s not what you really want // joost x fem!reader

nsfw: smut, one shot

The news that Joost was disqualified had sent shock waves through the entirety of the Eurovision. You heard the news first through whispers, not believing it at first until it was in every headline, plastered over every local news channel, and blowing up all your group chat messages.

You felt bad for him more than anything. Your heart sunk for him, especially when some of your colleagues had not one bit of empathy for him, and were itching to corner him for a story. You’d passed him a few times in the hallway, smiling at him or waving, he was like a beam of sunshine in every room and captivated the audience with infectious excitement and charisma. You didn’t want to admit it, but you found him incredibly attractive. You found yourself scrolling through his socials late at night and never missed any of his rehearsals. It was clear he was the favorite, and it was all ruined for him now.

It was the heat of the moment, tensions were at an all-time high. Everyone at Eurovision, both behind closed doors and in hushed voices out in the lounge areas, and everyone on social media who followed the competition talked about Joost. It was all in whispers, yet completely in your face at the same time. No one could avoid it, it was more than an elephant in the room at this point.

As a journalist, it was like a mosquito constantly looming at your shoulder, irritating you that you could do nothing about it in good conscience. Your boss was hounding you and your colleagues for someone to get a word out of him, incentivizing you all to no end with bonuses, paid vacation time, or even a promotion. It didn’t help that journalists from other papers and countries all shared the same ambition, and some were far more aggressive and weren’t afraid to make it known. You wondered if those shared smiles meant anything at all, and if there was a chance he’d be more receptive to give you a statement rather than the other journalists who didn’t have the best intentions.

You tried to formulate a plan to gently approach him and try to get even a sentence out of him. Your conscience wrestled with each other. Your boss zeroed in on all of you specifically soon. He complained that you and a few other colleagues in particular weren’t performing up to par, and he was threatening termination.

“A lot of you are proving yourselves to be dead weight, you especially. You can show you deserve to be on this team by getting a story.”

You fell into a panicked state of anxiety for the next few days. You could barely sleep or eat knowing that your livelihood was now on the line. You’d been so excited that you secured a job at a top company, and now it was all in jeopardy over this nightmare of a situation. The journalists were now in their competition, and that alongside your boss’s threats gave you a new sense of determination.

You waited for the evening when you learned that Joost would be down for a mandatory meeting with members of the EBU. You gave false tips to other journalists who heard about the meeting as well, who believed you hesitantly, but you’d made yourself seem non-threatening and docile since the very beginning. In a way, it still held. It took everything inside of you to keep the shakiness of your voice hidden, and you concealed your nervous body language as harmless fidgeting.

You noticed him come out, and it was as if it was a different person. The room filled with anxiety and anger, from the both of you. His face was concerning stern, he dressed in basic, dark colors instead of his usual fun, unique outfits that always drew attention. He was alone, and like the fox you were, you cornered him.

“Hi, Joost.” You greeted him, immediately approaching him. “Did you just leave a meeting with the EBU?”

You glanced over at you, his eyebrows knitting together as if there was some sort of betrayal. He vaguely recognized you from the fleeting glances in the hallway, a bit disappointed knowing that you were just like all the others.

“I’m in a bit of a rush.” He mumbled, hoping that it would be enough to shut you down. “I’m sorry.”

You were so overcome with adrenaline you didn’t hear him, doubling down you continued to pester him. “Can you say anything about your disqualification?” You asked, seeing a blush immediately appear on the apples of his cheeks. “Is it true you assaulted someone?”

It was like a switch was flipped. You felt yourself grow cold immediately at the way he looked at you with deep offense. You’d jumped your questions prematurely, not giving him time to warm up to you, or even intelligently posing them. You’d made a complete mess of things and your failure plunged you into mania. There was no going back now, you’d either get a story out of him or make one.

Joost ignored you, he had to unless he wanted to make matters worse for himself. If you were a man, and not a woman looming at his side, staring up at him with big doe eyes and a blush that rivaled his own he would’ve pushed you away. He desperately wanted to take your stupid phone and throw it across the room before telling you to fuck off, but he tried to keep himself level-headed. He repeated like a mantra that all he needed to do was get into the elevator and go to his room, then it would be over. If you followed him then he’d have good reason to call security to haul you away.

He didn’t anticipate that you would use the fact he couldn’t hurt you to your advantage. You weren’t sure what came over you either, shocking yourself as much as you shocked Joost you yanked off his headphones from his neck and ran towards the elevator.

He chased after you without thinking, rushing past the closing silver doors as you desperately pushed the button to try to shut him out but your efforts were in vain. Your eyes shot open and you felt yourself move to the corner of the elevator, clutching the heavy, expensive headphones to your chest. Your breathing was erratic, you rendered yourself speechless as the man stood mere inches away from you.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He questioned in a low tone that bubbled with anger. “Give it back.”

“Answer my questions.” The calmness of your voice shocked you, and you looked up at him like it was an implicit dare. You knew as well as he did that he had no intention to hurt you.

“Don’t do this.” He pleaded, his head falling to the side. Yet still, his tone was angry and his body language rigid. He held out his hand, “Just give it back, and we have no problems. Ok?”

“No.” You stood your ground, hearing the elevator ding open to his vacant floor.

“No?” He laughed in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

You didn’t say anything, feeling yourself on the verge of tears from the intensity of the situation you left the elevator and walked down the hall aimlessly as he called after you in a hushed tone. You knew it wasn’t out of gentleness, but because he didn’t want to cause a scene like you had. You felt like you completely lost sight of yourself, you’d played dirty and this was exactly the kind of journalism you abhorred.

“Come here.” Joost began to approach you as if you were a wounded animal, “Just give it back, and I’ll answer three of your questions.”

“Really?” You asked, surprised by the easy defeat. He nodded, his face so genuine that you completely believed him.

You handed the headphones back and he practically ripped them from you, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Now go away before I call the police on you.” He spat. “Verdomde eikel.” He mumbled under his breath as he turned to walk back to his room.

You were overcome by the same adrenaline that you felt when he walked out of the conference room. You followed him to his room, no matter how many times he told you to fuck off and slammed the door in your face you weren’t going away until he gave you what you wanted.

You knocked on the door until your knuckles were raw and aching. Almost an hour went by, some people peering out of their rooms but ultimately paying you no mind. Joost finally opened the door, just enough to peer out with one of the locks to keep you two separated in case you tried another one of your stupid tricks.

“I don’t want to call the police on you.” He seemed to have calmed down, the cigarettes and alcohol in his breath further indicating it. “Go away, you’re too pretty to be acting like this.”

You huffed in frustration, “I’m trying to help you.” you tried to make something up as you went, “The other journalists tried to wait for you, I told them a lie to get them to go away. If you give me a story you won’t have to worry about them as much.”

“Ah, well.” He shrugged, “I’ll take my chances. Goodnight now.”

You put your arm in the door, a last effort to prevent him from shutting you out again. “Please, Joost.” You said shamelessly, now feeling like you’d just had a dopamine crash and all that was left was shame.

He looked at you for a moment, head coming to the side his head eyes narrowed almost inquisitively before he busted out in laughter. “Oh fuck, I hope you’re not who I think you are.” He said amid his mockery, burning tears immediately forming in your eyes, “What’s your name?”

You mumbled your name pathetically, your head somewhat bowed to avoid eye contact before he howled in laughter, “No fucking way.” He repeated over and over, the mockery hitting you like nails and making you bleed with miserable shame all over him. “You’re the journalist, my friend told me about you.”

You realized why his reaction was so over the top, and if anything it was warranted.

You recall when it was only the second day of the competition, everything was still in the very early and most exciting stages. You shared the elevator with a man from the Netherlands, tall, curly hair and dark skin. He complimented your shoes, you complimented his back and you two made small talk. He said that he was just an enthusiastic fan, something that you now knew was a white lie, and asked you about your job and what you thought of the performers.

“I like your guy from the Netherlands.” You said, smiling at him. “I’d fuck him.��

His eyes widened, and he looked at you in disbelief for a second before smiling back. “Yeah.” He finally said. “Me too.”

You didn’t know how you could be so clueless, and how you didn’t connect the dots that it was him in that costume performing alongside Joost all this time. He had captivated you so much, that you hardly paid any mind to the other performers, as talented as they were, much less his two friends at the side of the stage.

“You just wanna fuck me, huh?” He questioned in a sarcastic, degrading tone. “Are you even a journalist?”

You stayed silent, knowing that whatever you said would just make everything a million times worse, or even make you completely break down. It was again, like everything you were doing at this point an empty effort. The tears fell on your face like pieces of hot coal, burning your skin in sorrow and embarrassment. Your chest constricted in quiet sobs, you didn’t understand why your feet felt sewn to the carpeted floors and your arms bound to the doorknob of his room.

Joost expected this, he could tell from the way your once vibrantly pretty face lost all its color and your eyes became low and glossy that you had lost your strength. He knew someone like you was weak, hardly cut out of this type of journalism. He felt bad almost, knowing you would do much better tucked away in an office, away from people like himself whose personalities completely overpowered yours. He was a performer, after all, so he couldn’t blame you. Joost knew he was soft underneath this hard exterior, and no matter how badly you offended him he couldn’t bear to see you so upset at his expense.

“Alright.” He relented, sighing and unlocking the door completely as a form of surrender. “I will make a deal with you.”

Your face was buried in your hands, trying to stop and wipe away the tears to the best of your ability, but you still managed to nod.

“Either you come in here, I answer the three questions you asked about.” He offered, “Or, you come in here and I fuck you, and I don’t answer anything.”

If you couldn’t stand to look him in the eye before, you certainly couldn’t do it now. “The second one.” Your voice was strained, weighed down by your sobs it was nothing less than humiliating.

You heard Joost’s chest jerk in laughter, and he didn’t have to verbalize how pathetic he thought you were. You were fully worn down now, accepting defeat and realizing that you were so deeply depraved to choose physical pleasure over your literal job. He let you in, shutting the door behind you heard nothing but the turning of bolts and his soft footsteps. There was no turning back now, even if you came to your senses, there was no way your body would allow it.

“Wait for me in my bedroom.” He said all too casually, “I’m going to have a cigarette.”

The white hotel sheets were cold and uninviting under your warm skin. You began to undress down to your underwear, it was unassuming, the fact that it was black and matching was your only saving grace at sexiness. You found yourself waiting for several minutes, but as you clutched your knees to your chest and shivered from the notoriously harsh hotel air conditioning it felt like hours.

Joost seemed to be stringing you along, and enjoying every bit of it. He came back inside from the porch, walked into the bedroom, and paid you not even a glance before walking into the bathroom. You felt your humiliation plummet to new depths, especially when you heard him turn on the shower. The least he could do was say something, instead of walking past your almost naked body as if it was the least interesting thing in his room.

The excruciating wait ended once he left the bathroom, steaming and smelling of the freshest, most intoxicating body wash you’d ever smelled. It was perfectly masculine, eucalyptus and citruses you wanted to wrap yourself in it.

Joost approached you, watching as you crawled to the edge of the bed, looking up at him with your raw, puffy eyes it was almost erotic. You’d put yourself through so many emotions just to get a word out of him for your pathetic little job, and now you were on his bed, desperate for his touch.

He was always a man of his word, so naturally, he was a little ashamed that he tricked you earlier and wanted to make it up to you by not forcing you to beg for him. He unwrapped the towel, his cock springing loose in front of your face. Your face gave away your reaction, showing him that you weren’t used to his size and stroking his ego a little more.

“Go ahead.” He encouraged, “I hope you’re better at this than you are at interviewing.”

You took him into your mouth eagerly. It was almost like a wish being fulfilled, or being in a dream your depraved mind had conjured up. He felt incredible in your mouth, the way your lips stretched over him and how the tip nudged at the back of your throat did nothing but excite you. You hummed and moaned against him in contentment, the vibrations on his cock driving him wild. Your mouth was perfect, and you had something to prove. This was exactly what you wanted, you weren’t sure who the winner here was.

Joost couldn’t let you have the upper hand, not yet at least. He grabbed your head and held it into place before he began to fuck your mouth. He wasn’t relentless, even if he wished he could be as the reminder of how you pestered him sat at the back of his mind. His thrusts were deep but mostly gentle. You gagged against him but breathed carefully through your nose and braced yourself with the rhythm he’d set. Saliva dribbled down your chin, your mouth so wet and warm he couldn’t imagine how it would feel like to fuck you.

The desire was too overwhelming, he was impatient and desperate now, withdrawing his cock from your mouth. Your eyes were watery again, this time for good reason. You coughed a bit, regaining a bit of composure before Joost grabbed a handful of your hair and brought you into a kiss.

It was the sloppiest, least romantic kiss you ever had. He shoved his tongue into your mouth and held you in place like you were an animal threatening to escape. Your body was aching almost unbearably now, you straddled him and pressed your pussy against his bare thigh and began grinding down on him with such desperation it made him chuckle into the kiss.

“Slut.” He muttered against your neck, you shuttered against him before you felt his teeth sink into your skin, just enough to make you gasp. “You like that?”

“Mhm.” You groaned, your hips still moving against him hardly getting what you needed. “Please fuck me, Joost.”

His hand returned to your hair, this time pulling it so that you’d face him. He smiled almost drunkenly, his eyes low and dazed, “Can I eat your pussy first?” He asked the smug look on his face anticipating your reaction.

He laid you down on your back. You were a bit glad he wanted to pay attention to you. You fully expected him to fuck you from behind and kick you out, it would’ve been understandable, especially from the way you were acting and the fact he probably had dozens of girls who would kill to be in your place.

You felt the power balance restored as he buried his face between your thighs. He was as eager as you had been, licking and sucking on your pussy as if you had made the deal with him. His thick mustache burned the tender skin between your thighs in the best way possible, a reminder of what he’d done for you that would last at least till the next day. You felt nothing but the warm, blanketing pleasure. It felt like you’d just had a drink, your nerves had settled and all that was on your mind was finishing all over his pretty mouth.

Your hands tangled in his hair, your back arched as you felt yourself grow closer. A part of you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of your thighs closing against the side of his face and moans pouring from your lips, but it happened regardless. Your body almost convulsed from the intensity, the pleasure making your body surrender and melt into his hands so much that you began apologizing.

“I’m sorry.” You muttered continuously, your orgasm coming at its peak and then rolling over you, “I’m sorry Joost.”

He didn’t say anything at first as his mind was foggy, and he was lapping up your pussy, avoiding your clit now to give you a moment of calmness and for his pleasure. You tasted good, and it was intoxicating for him.

“It’s ok, baby.” His tone had now sweetened with you, even if you knew it was mostly from the intimacy of the moment. “I know what you need.”

Joost was overtaken by how turned on you made him feel. He loved how he was putting you in your place, how he had softened the stone-like scowl on your face, the sharpness in your voice and movements to something so perfect. He kissed you again, this time just a few pecks before you felt him press the head of his cock against your pussy.

He rubbed up and down, every time he passed over your sensitive clit you jerked up in overstimulation. He had condoms in the dresser, but you hadn’t brought up the matter so he decided to disregard it. If anything he’d give you some money for the morning-after pill, but that was the last thing he wanted to worry about.

Joost groaned loudly, almost overly dramatic as he began to push himself inside of you. You trembled beneath him, letting out sounds of discomfort from how big he was, the sensation new to your body that you instinctively began to push him away with one hand and attempt to cover yourself with the other.

“Move your hand, please.” He told you, “I promise I’ll stop if it hurts.”

It was a bit of a struggle, he had to stop a few times to allow you to adjust yourself to his size before he was able to bottom you out. It was all worth it, the pestering and the headache to have you beneath him. He fucked you slowly at first, pulling out until only the tip of him was inside of you before plunging himself back inside of you. Your pussy squelched and squeezed around him, your eyes screwed shut as you brought him into an embrace.

Joost kissed you on the cheek, resting his face against you he picked up his pace until it was something almost punishing. The thoughts of what you had done before were now at the forefront of his mind, that horrible feeling intertwined with his passion for you. The sound of slapping skin filled the room, his grunts against your soft gasps. He hit the sweetest spot inside of you with every movement, the feeling so overwhelming you felt your orgasm building again. You tried to tell him, feeling as if hearing it would feel like a reward to him, but your body and mind were no longer one. The only thing that left your mouth was his name and desperate sounds of pleasure.

Joost felt you come all over his cock, your pussy clenching around him as you cried out into his shoulder. He knew now he wasn’t going to last any longer, his movements becoming sloppy and the feeling of no friction, just how wet you were for him sending him over the edge. He would’ve loved to last longer, but he soon found himself pulling out and pumping himself over your body before coming undone all over your stomach.

He marked your body, warm cum falling against your stomach and breasts as you were cooling down from the nearly out-of-body experience. Joost looked down at you, breathing heavily it was almost like he was admiring his work. He’d left bruises against your neck, your hair was disheveled, your face wet with tears, and the prettiest sight of all was that he’d finished all over you.

He wiped down your body softly, kissing you when he was done before climbing under the sheets. He brought you into his arms this time, cuddling with you for a while before he spoke,

“Are you hungry?” He asked in a whisper, you giggled in response and nodded.

“Alright.” He nodded, “Maybe I’ll answer some of your questions after.”

hope you guys enjoyed :) this is a cross post from my ao3 if you wanted to check it out there

#joost #joost klein #fanfic #smut #fem reader #joost klein x reader

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luxlightly · 1 day ago

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I could write an essay on Warframe's use of forcing the player to walk slowly or limp as a way of creating a feeling of powerlessness and how masterfully it's used. And I could write an essay just on the segment where Stalker limps to his landing craft.

Stalker is extremely, almost comically powerful when he's in his element. The spy mission is laughably easy. He auto hacks every terminal. He can insta-kill every enemy. He can stay invisible basically the entire level and when he's invisible he doesn't trigger any alarms or tripwires. There's no challenge whatsoever. He's been doing this for centuries, to the point its become effortless.

This is juxtaposed with his complete and total powerlessness to help Jade. He doesn't know what to do or how to do it. He doesn't have any abilities or tools that help him with this. He can only watch her waste away.

Or, he can ask for help.

He can break the endless repetition and make a change. He can go to those he hates more than anything for help.

And, despite a thousand years of rage and pain, he does. Because, somewhere, deep down, in a part of himself he's long forgotten, the desire to protect is still what defines him, moreso than even the hate.

The second mission is slightly harder, as AOE damage circumvents his invisibility to a small extent, but is still pretty effortless. It's a change in why he's doing it, but not much change in what he's doing. He's still in his element and extremely powerful.

Then Sirius(or Orion) is born and Stalker's role, his goals, his whole existence, changes instantly. He's no longer the hunter, but rather the hunted. No longer a just a killer, but rather a Protector.

All of his abilities are disabled. All of his weapons besides the scythe are disabled.

The scythe that, in a written prelude, Hunhow praises for, unlike his other weapons, being a tool meant both for destroying and for growing. For creation and destruction.

A tool he uses as a shield. But, crucially, one that FAILS.

He CAN'T protect Sirius. He's defeated. He has to be spared. Someone else also has to choose to protect. To choose to go against the trait that has defined their life (greed/ambition in the case of Xeto) in order to protect something precious.

And they do.

Xeto gives up her chance to impress the Sisterhood and likely paints a huge target on her back, in order to help someone she doesn't know. She lets Stalker get to his feet and she and her men stand aside for him to escape.

And, in that moment, bloodied and beaten and dragging his broken form to his landing craft, we are given back control as the player over Stalker only to sell the effect of the powerlessness, physically, he has been reduced to.

And how, in that moment, as a person, he has more power than he has in a thousand years. Because he has chosen to break the endless spiral of grief he's been trapped in for a millennium and go against what he was crafted into to, once again, choose to love and protect instead.

Ballas tried to shape him into a tool of nothing but bloodshed because he hated how Sorren had defined himself with love in a way Ballas never could and, in that way, attained the love Ballas always saw himself as unfairly denied. He tried to destroy every bit of that love and every scrap of that man. But he couldn't. He could not destroy the child that Jade and Sorren created and he couldn't ever fully stamp out the love between them. And, even in the deepest depths of hatred and despair that Stalker fell into, the caring and loving man he was remained, never able to be destroyed.

Slowing those steps down and forcing the player to hold the command to keep going forward the entire time gets that feeling across in a way that is so poignant and part of what makes interactive media like video games such a powerful and unique medium.

He is reclaiming both his past and his future. Reclaiming the parts of himself defined by love. He is rejecting that easy path of wallowing in misery that he's chosen for so long and instead dragging himself forward, one limping, painful step at a time, towards something that actually matters to him.

And trusting the universe to stand aside to let him.

#warframe #stalker warframe #long post #jade shadows spoilers #'I could write an essay'#*writes an essay*

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mysterygrl20 · 3 days ago

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I’m gonna go cry

TaiLai's long response statement under the cut

On May 12, 2025, without any prior warning, Smart suddenly deleted all HLN and Tailai contact information from his personal Instagram account. Shortly thereafter, his agency, Grand Ivory Record Co., Ltd. (GIR), posted a unilateral termination statement on social media. It landed like a meteor out of nowhere—plunging TopFormTheSeries, then at the peak of its critical and audience acclaim, into an inexplicable crisis. Audiences, once immersed in the emotional storyline, were jolted from the clouds of fiction into the rupture between reality and narrative. Although HLN issued an official response five days later, clearly reaffirming its contractual authority over Smart’s professional activities, “The May 12 Incident” has since become a Damoclean sword hanging over the entire production. The emotional subtleties once celebrated between Jin and Akin—their chemistry praised as “visually poetic”—were now shadowed by the breakdown of real-world agreements. The fracture between on-screen romance and off-screen reality cast a heavy cloud over SmartBoom, a duo once seen as electrifying and on the rise. But the deeper blow struck the future. Like a storm tearing through the foundation, the incident shook the core of what had been a carefully crafted five-year vision by producers, platforms, and original creators alike: the romantic arc set in DAKAICHI – In Spain, Jin’s character growth, producer Jade’s hidden love line, Johnny’s comedic misadventures, Naru’s adorable journey, Judy’s free-spirited life, and above all—Boom, after a decade of preparation, finally poised to take Akin to the pinnacle of stardom—were all cast into uncertainty. Every blueprint, every creative ambition, now hangs in limbo as the contractual framework collapses. The butterfly effect of this contract rupture is quietly unraveling into a silent erasure—of devoted creators, emotionally invested viewers, investors betting on a new model of BL commercial success, and all who believed in the power of great storytelling. All have been shaken. Therefore, WeTV and Tailai will wield the sword of justice and pursue accountability for all breaches of contract. The road ahead may be long, but we will never bow to contract violators or those who seek to undermine what we have built.

#smartboom #top form

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bisclavret · 8 months ago

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like many who have suffered at the hands of bbc merlin before me, i recently indulged in a thought experiment in which i outlined my own version of seasons 3-5 that stay thematically and tonally in line with the show (except they're less fucking stupid). but then i quickly realized that focusing on details is pointless: all you need is to solve the one Big Problem the show has, and the rest will follow. the problem in question? ✨morgana✨

i like the first two seasons. s1 achieves what it sets out to do and has fun while doing it, and s2, while flawed, sets up a ton of potential that the following seasons unfortunately squander, beginning with the insidious season 3. you can only distract me with cute knights and goblins and fart jokes for so long before i start seeing through you, evil, evil season of television.

my hypothesis is that if the writers had crafted s3 morgana into anything more sympathetic than a violent half-alive poltergeist that can never be reasoned with because she's suddenly terminally off her rocker, everything would've fallen into place. a sympathetic morgana would've made real, valid arguments against uther (and arthur) that wouldn't just be the ramblings of a woman possessed. her betrayal of arthur would have stemmed from her feeling increasingly morally superior to him because of his complacency in the face of their father's tyranny. under morgause's guidance she would stop believing that arthur is capable of change, and the whole point would be that she might actually be right. arthur would have to actively try and prove her wrong, instead of getting praised for doing the bare minimum because the bar is on the floor.

furthermore, morgana's prophetic dream about arthur and gwen becoming king and queen and her decision to prevent this however she can is a direct parallel to merlin learning about that same prophecy and making it happen by any means necessary. merlin's desires about his and arthur's futures are subtextually fueled by gay love and devotion, so why couldn't morgana's be? why couldn't she properly express her bitterness that arthur gets to be with gwen in a way she can't "took gwen away" from her, instead of suddenly declaring that gwen is nothing more than a servant, after two seasons of demonstrating again and again that she loves, values, and respects gwen more than anyone else in that godforsaken castle?

following this, an angry and emotionally volatile but still sensible morgana asking gwen to stay by her side during the coup of the castle in the s3 finale and gwen going behind her back to help arthur and the knights would've hurt like a bitch. double-sided betrayal! gwen having a real plot! the proper beginnings of a toxic yuri that would shape a generation!

then there's the utter hubris of having morgana shoot arrows at the same civilians she worried herself sick over for 2 seasons — even morgan, her medieval counterpart that was rooted in every sexist trope in existence, doesn't just go around killing senselessly but instead has (often petty!) personal vendettas against gwen, arthur, and the knights. morgana had every right to be sick of the pretensions around chivalry in camelot (she was always quick to mock it, even in s1), and to lash out at the knights and soldiers after years of feeling powerless in a castle full of armed men that blindly followed her oppressor. the show conveniently forgets that morgana was victimized as a woman as well as a sorcerer those first 2 seasons.

but like i said, this is not just about morgana. allowing her to remain a real and multifaceted character even as she betrays everyone in pursuit of her ambitions would've given the rest of the core four more interesting conflict to work with: merlin because he would have to experience real consequences to his actions, arthur because he would watch his sister go against his father (and his knights, and his birthright) and experience some actual internal dilemmas about it, and gwen because she would be forced to choose between morgana and arthur without the pretense that it's an obvious or easy choice for her to make.

even morgause and gaius would come off more interesting as mentors: neither one inherently evil or inherently good, both jaded by events that happened before our protagonists were even born, both heavily influencing morgana and merlin into fulfilling roles that they think are appropriate, but that morgana and merlin may not have chosen for themselves had they not been under their care.

you get the gist. if the show followed its own setup, morgana's mistakes wouldn't lie in cheap and senseless acts of violence but in alienating the people she loves because she is too hurt and jaded to trust them. meanwhile, everybody else would feel guilt over "failing" her and yet they would be too caught up in their own (sometimes flawed!) beliefs of right and wrong to truly see her point of view.

arthur would convince himself it was sorcery that corrupted her. merlin would know that isn't true but he wouldn't be able to argue without confessing everything, which is the defining conflict between him and morgana and it's cheapened when she's just an evil witch caricature and merlin is framed as inherently virtuous in contrast. gwen, too, would become a more active participant in her own life by choosing arthur over morgana and choosing to rule camelot with him instead of just waiting politely to see where things go.

and, of course, uther's downfall and death would be quick, final, and completely earned — when and why did the show even decide he of all people was the sympathetic villain, anyway?

lastly, and perhaps controversially, i think morgana should've learned merlin's true identity by season 4. her being the first of the main characters to find out makes perfect sense considering their shared history and their interconnected and mirrored arcs. even the show seems to agree, considering she does find out a little before arthur. but the narrative itself tried pointing flashing neon arrows towards this way earlier — there is a whole entire episode in s4 where merlin being emrys is repeatedly spelled out for morgana and she still isn't allowed to see it. that episode makes her look like the stupidest person to ever live, which is pretty funny im not gonna lie, but also another frustrating thing in the endless string of frustrating things that make up this show.

morgana learning that merlin has magic would've transformed the source of merlin's anxiety from a crippling fear of being outed someday to the crippling fear of knowing she could out him at any moment. this would make him want to beat her to the punch (perhaps he'd consider killing her for a minute and decide against it because she isn't a cartoonishly insane evil person in my version of events) and maybe he would even feel some tentative excitement at the idea of coming clean, now that it seems inevitable. after all, he always intended to tell arthur eventually! and i think gaius would have to admit outright that he does not want merlin to tell arthur he has magic because he, gaius, simply cannot risk such a gamble. it would be so interesting to see gaius and merlin clash and disagree once it becomes obvious that it's not merlin that isn't ready for the reveal, it's gaius. delicious!

with morgana's knowledge looming, things would inevitably spiral into a magic reveal by the end of season 4. i picture this season as an absolute mess of miscommunication between everyone at camelot, which is, y'know, canon. growing increasingly cunning and vengeful, morgana would use this tension to her advantage, destabilizing the court from the outside while she creates alliances with other sorcerers outside of camelot (instead of living alone in a hovel for no reason — morgana le fay i'm sorry i'm so sorry they gave you agravaine instead of your all-female entourage oh my god).

and here's where the events would change beyond recognition (aka here's where the meta becomes the fanfic i refuse to write). picture it with me: a militia of sorcerers infiltrates camelot and arthur and gwen have to set aside their differences (assuming gwen kissing lancelot and arthur overreacting happens, which it should) for the good of the kingdom as well as for love. picture high priestess morgana in her element, side by side with a bunch of misfit sorcerers that aren't so easily vilified, chopping down camelot's soldiers and knights and assuredly making their way to the newly-minted king.

then, just as it starts to seem that all hope is lost, in swoops merlin (the actual merlin, not his old fart disguise) on dragonback (kilgharrah hates morgana so much i know his sexist ass would stoop to anything to stop her)!!! imagine merlin showing off the extent of his powers in front of everyone and preventing the sorcerers from getting any further, declaring loud and clear that camelot is protected by him, by emrys. imagine that display of power alone being enough to send everyone home.

imagine the loyalties clearly drawn: merlin on arthur's side, morgana on the sorcerers'. imagine arthur, feeling confused and betrayed by everyone at this point, banishing merlin despite everything he's done for him in the angstiest, most emotionally dysregulated scene the show had ever put to screen. imagine merlin starting season 5 free at last but very lonesome, an embittered dragonlord like his father. imagine the absolute mess camelot would become without him, even with gwen — now queen guinevere — there to pick up the slack. imagine arthur actually earning merlin back, finally growing into his role as king as he does so. imagine the reunion.

all this and more could've been not just possible but inevitable if morgana was allowed to remain a complex character that is neither inherently good nor inherently evil: it was undeniably the biased and one-note treatment of morgana's downfall by the writers that set the precedent for literally everything else that happened after merlin chose to poison her. the show wouldn't have even had to jeopardize its tone or the monster-of-the-week vibe, all it would've had to do is admit that even the "good guys" are capable of mistakes and what makes them good is the ability to feel remorse and change for the better. (as opposed to uther, who was miles beyond redemption since way before the pilot and deserved to lose everything and die alone. OBVIOUSLY???)

in a world where morgana remains multifaceted and sympathetic, mordred would get a better arc as well, so if we really wanted to, we could still end on the same tragic note that the show ended on. with so much harm inflicted onto so many innocent people by the pendragons for so long (including mordred and the many druids and sorcerers that raised him), it could realistically end up being a little too late for anything more than one shining glimpse of king arthur and the sorcerer merlin's short-lived golden age before fate catches up to them. glimpsing that reality just to immediately lose it would've been far more satisfying and far more tragic than whatever the writers thought they were doing with all that pointless carrot-dangling.

and finally, an ending in line with morgana's new and improved arc. in this version, rather than bleeding out on the forest floor alone, she would channel the morgan le fay we know from the legends: sobered up by the reality of her brother dying, she would use her high priestess status (and perhaps also her pendragon status) to be granted passage over to avalon alongside arthur on the boat — a one-way ride — just to make sure he gets there safely. this is her penance for the harm she has caused, the same way arthur's penance is to die and leave the true ruler of camelot (gwen) behind to achieve everything he was too slow and indecisive to build while he still had time.

merlin's penance, then, would be to stay behind and watch them cross over without him, waiting and waiting and waiting until they come back or until he can finally join them. which is a bit fucking harsh if i'm honest, so i'd at least make it slightly more faithful to the legends by having him return as an old man and letting him take a long nap under a tree by the shore, his body slowly enveloped by vines like the cobwebbed fisher king in 3x08, never fully sure if he's dreaming or if there really are strange shapes fading in and out of the fog over the lake. still tragic, but nevertheless a little more open-ended and whimsical than [TRUCK NOISES] THE END!

#[johnny the dragon voice] ✨ MORGANA ✨#tldr: if you treat your villain with nuance then more nuance will follow and your story will be better for it! groundbreaking i know!!!#what im also getting at is that morgana broke free FIRST so she DESERVED to become the morgan le fay of legend #way before any of the others grew into their own roles.#morgana #bbcm #bbc merlin #analysis #merlin meta #morgana pendragon #theres no focus on the knights here but if you know me you know how angry i am about s4 and s5 gwaine at all times #so in a story with a more nuanced portrayal of villainy and knighthood i think he would openly question his choice to become one #and maybe he'd leave for a while #go home and sort out his daddy issues. have some fruity subplots along the way. visit merlin during his dragonlord era. that sort of thing #and interact with lancelot at least once!!! for gods sake #but i dont see lancelot surviving sorry. that dude will literally die for anything #also scientists and tv execs had not yet discovered bisexuality in 2011 and he already had everyone acting unwise #in ways that barely got past the censors :/ unsustainable #elyan however shouldnt have died. i know gwen ruling alone with only the lamest knights in her service is “the point”#but its a stupid point. elyan is her best knight and they rule camelot together. working class heroes etc.#poetic justice for their father who was murdered by uther + a fun narrative contrast to morgana and arthur #nightmare siblings of all time. banished from the mortal realm for their crimes. could never rule together. stinky #ANYWAY. I HAVE THREE (3) EXAMS DUE THIS WEEK. HERE'S TWO THOUSAND (2000) WORDS OF BBC MERLIN ANALYSIS.

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