#tw; mind games

[terrence-silver]

Hello 🖤 I love seeing your blog pop up in my feed, simply exquisite 🖤

I have a request. What would older Terry Silver do with an adult student who is rather boisterous in class, she listens but only when she wants, she's a smarty pants. Terry so wishes to teach her a lesson after many months of class passing, learning her mannerisms, learning HER. Ever the voyeur, finding her home, seeing what lies within when she's not home, Terry plans a little 'private lesson,' specifically for her at his home dojo. Ending with his gi sloppy on him, his hair a mess like the slut he is with his student underneath him with no mercy being shown. His student definitely listens to HIS wants and desires, eager to please.

Breaking Stone.

(Terry Silver x Reader)

---

-"How safe is this, Sensei? I mean, it’s solid rock."- 

Your voice speaks up from the gathered crowd and Terry Silver, he knew you’d have something to say without having to turn his back towards the mass of students keenly eyeing his demonstration in silence, standing jam packed in a circle around the erected board with a concrete block fastened to the center of the scaffolding propped up on iron legs, following his every word like a mantra only for him predict that your mouth will eventually move to utter something and dare interrupt him. Class fifty eight. A lesson on Brick Breaking. Tools necessary; pretty straightforward. A slab of rock and a fist. Additional spices; your usual commentary in the midst of it all. Happened almost daily. Happened to the degree it was a constant he could count on. -"We’ll break our hands on that."- You add with a sense of urgency and worry once the entirety of the exercise’s participants turn their eyes towards you, scrutinizing, weighing and accessing what you just blurted out and you tended to blurt out stuff frequently. Terry joins them in their quiet staring, finding a twitch of satisfaction stir through him once he realized you were jittery and stuttering, made self aware through the fact you were the sudden center of attention. Needing to justify yourself for placing the spotlight unto yourself, you blurt out some more bullshit. Nerves, was it? You deserved that. Deserved much worse for stepping out of line. -"What do we do in case we tear our ligaments punching the board?"- You ask, scratching the back of your head. Ligaments? Were you frightened of getting a boo-boo? At that point, Terry allows himself to turn his entire body towards you, taking his time, slowly --- painfully slowly --- looking straight ahead, towards you. You shift, from one bare foot on the mat to the other, like the stillness of everything around you gave you a sense of discomfort.

Stew in it. He hoped you'd stew in it.

-"Seems a bit extreme. Sorry."-

You chuckle, apologizing, looking down. Then back up.

Terry has to chuckle with you, neatly folding his hands in front of him.

A bit extreme? It was meant to be extreme.

-"Our student here thinks our methods are strange, but these classes aren’t mandatory."-

He simply shrugs matter-of-factly, addressing the people around him, all eyes leave you and pinning themselves in his direction instead, encircling him like a tightly closed ring, listening attentively, leaving you even more isolated in your folly. The great mother hen and the ducklings. The one, solitary ugly black duck that talked too much. -"Nobody’s here by force."- He explains, and contrary to popular belief, everyone here gave their signature of consent on a written contract. Terms. Conditions. Price rates. Health insurances. They showed up to daily classes because they wanted to, giving their hard earned money out of their own volition. He didn't go kidnapping people off of the streets of LA and harassing them into black Gi, in spite of what the likes of Larusso tried to accuse him of, same way not even Larusso himself was harassed into this, decades ago. -"Or are you all here by force?"- Terry purses his lips, looking around, enjoying this far too much to stop. In unison, they all speak up, one voice, stemming from one collective lung. -"No, Sensei!"- The dojo resonates with their shout. He tries again, spreading his arms, envisioning himself like Pontius Pilate about to wash his hands clean of you and let the crowds make their decisions. -"Why are you here for then?"- He inquires, raising his voice, encouraging them. Spurring them on. -"To learn, Sensei!"- Obeying, they repeat the motion, letting out a united cry and content, Terry squeezes his fingers into a fist once they all fall silent, all but an echo remaining, his other free hand caressing the concrete block in front of him, never taking his eyes off of you. At this point, with a mouth standing agape, forgetting you should've joined everyone in their jubilant war cry, you were as pale as a ghost. Not quite so chatty or smart anymore.

Perfect.

-"The lesson is —"- He begins. -"A true artist of the craft spends years, even decades just hitting things. Sand. Wood. Stone. Metal. Flesh."-

Terry coos, confessing, that he did, on occasion, imagine hitting you.

The sweetest thing he'd ever strike. Purely to shut you up, get you the way you were right now; As quiet as the dead; all gulps and anxious little eyes darting left and right. Preferably having you bent over his knee like an unruly child and taking the bamboo stick to you bare buttocks until they were rendered crimson red with punishment. After it was all done, he'd have you thanking him for the honor too. He smiles, just at the notion; an expression he doesn't bother hiding.

-"Having been broken so many times, it makes their bones so dense that when it comes in contact with solid rock, the rock breaks first."-

Terry digs his teeth into his lower lip, taking his stance and lunging forward suddenly, knuckles breaking through the barrier of the rock and crumbling, his fingers pushing through the crack he made on the other side. It was as simple as that. -"Asaa!"- He bellows and if the dojo was collectively holding it's breath, once he's done, the remains of sharp jagged tiny pebbles spilling on the mat under around his feet like so many rolling marbles, he senses an equally collective exhale. He can swear you weren't blinking at that point. What were you shocked by? The fact that he just smashed through a brick that weighed ten pounds like it was nothing or the implication he's broken his hand by choice so many times that he could pull shit like this in the first place? Maybe it wasn't smart to backtalk or question the methods of a person who could crush your windpipes in with merely just his thumbs. -"So, you see — breaking our fists, it’s part of the curriculum."- He shakes his head, staring you down, taking a couple of steps forward, until it was undeniable he was addressing you in particular; his infuriatingly Doubting Thomas, ignoring the students that wordlessly volunteered to clean up, scooting down to pick up the unfortunate remains of the rock slab, chirping away at the remains like a handful of chicks. -"This is part of what you signed up for when you came to this dojo. When you came to Cobra Kai."- He assesses firmly. -"You came to break with the old so the new and the improved could take its place."- He adds. Eventually, you'd have to bruise and break in those pretty little hands much like everyone else would and if you didn't have the guts to do that, you'd advance nowhere and your here would become fairly obsolete. Someone might as well tell you that upfront.

Even though, he confessed. The idea of a piece of rock breaking your hands?

Something shoots through him, like a radioactive phantasm of jealousy.

He wanted to do the breaking instead.

Not leave it up to an inanimate piece of training gear.

-"And if you can't imagine yourself doing that, you can always take up a knitting class."-

He adds, finally, earning himself a couple of amused chuckles.

Blood rushes into your cheeks.

Were you angry? Ashamed? Humiliated? Good.

—

Looking through your files was child's game after that.

He pretty much had everything he needed to know about you, printed in black and white in his own two hands, on the very exact form you filled the day you signed up for adulted classes six months ago; your home address, bank statement, contact number, email, age, place of employment, blood type in case an accident took place mid-training and a transfusion was needed on short notice. And yes, he's broken into your home before. Terry did it the first time you ever ran your mouth to backtalk him, asking if doing fifty consecutive push ups as warm was a smart decision because it was bound to leave everyone too exhausted to hold proper form and too distracted with tiredness to properly follow the class. He checked every drawer, every shelf, every nook, every cranny, supposing he wanted to find something he could spit on in indignation and discovering nothing more fitting but what he could only deduce was your framed graduation photograph, pursuing his lips and letting the saliva build up right before he hurled the spittle out of his mouth and right unto the glass inside of the frame, watching it trickle down your face, smearing it with his finger in retaliation, deciding the gesture was fitting punishment. If only he had a chance to do it with your actual face next. Spit in your mouth too, for refusing to shut up as it did. Spit in your mouth for missing three of your classes this week, like that was a thing you were allowed to do when you weren't. Did he tear into you verbally too hard last time? Was that it? Undoubtedly, but that still didn't give you permission to leave. He wanted you to come back so he could harass you some more, like you deserved to be harassed.

He knocks on your door, freshly having concluded this week's teaching.

Still in his Gi, jacket slung over his shoulders.

He did that on purpose, to make it seem like him coming here wasn't premeditated or something he tactically prepared for in advance, but rather, like a last minute decision he made in the utmost rush to the degree he didn't even have time to change out of his training attire, forgetful, overworked old man that he is. -"Who’s there!?"- Your concerned, slightly confused voice calls from the other end and he hears the keyhole clicking, only for your uncertain face to show up in the precipice of the doorframe illuminated by the warm light of your apartment's foyer looming like a halo behind you, brows practically jumping once you recognized him, appearing relieved. -"Sensei Silver!?"- You state in surprise, opening the door entirely, letting him step over the threshold, moving out of the way to usher him inside from the corridor. He tries not to seem too familiar with the territory, pretending not to know exactly where to stand; next to the shoe rack or the coat hanger. -"God. I’m so sorry. Got scared halfway to death!"- You place your hand over your chest, exhaling and smiling. Way too fidgety for someone who took Tang Soo Do classes. What were you afraid of? Of someone barging in and subduing you? -"What do I owe the honor of the visit! I didn’t expect anyone."- You shake your head, all charm. Of course he prepared an excuse for him being here and it comes in a form of a sleek pamphlet he produces from inside of his jacket, handing it to you. He had it printed, in bulk and giving out to everyone at the dojo solely so he could have a reason to give you one to you as well. -"The curriculum. For our future classes. I thought you might wanna look through it. Freshly printed."- Terry explains. He hoped you would've continued showing up, smart mouth you always were, but there you went, disappearing. If Muhammad wouldn't come to the mountain, the mountain would have to come to Muhammad.

-"You missed the last session so I brought it over personally. Where'd you go?"-

Terry feigns concern. He knew where you went. You were pegged down a notch.

Proceeded retreating with your tail behind your legs.

That's what you get for questioning him.

But, he didn't expect you to retreat quite so definitely.

Who'd you ask if you can do that? Did you ask anyone? Him?

You eyelashes flutter, like you were about to come up with an excuse.

-"I think you're right, Sensei. I mean, the whole Cobra Kai dojo scene, ---"-

You begin, looking away from him, vehemently staring at the pattern on the corridor carpet, holding the flyer with a sense of unease, like you weren't certain what to do with it. If you crumpled it up, he'd make you eat it. -"It ain't for me. I'm not cut out for it."- You confess, finally meeting his gaze, appearing a bit shy at the notion. He knew a tangent was incoming. Decides to let you have it. And knowing you, you wouldn't shut up any time soon in the next five minutes. -"I can't do any of those things you demonstrated last week. Break my bones on purpose? Smash through rocks? Ignore pain? I know when I'm out of my depth and there's no shame in admitting something ain't for me and gracefully moving on. What you said the last time --- you helped me see that. You really did."- You utter, in one solitary breath, and it takes everything within Terry not to laugh at you. So, humiliating in front of the whole class for interrupting him for the umpteenth time with some inane observation, you thought it was for your own good and that it made you see things more clearly? What? Was that why you left his dojo like it was a bus station? Did you really take up knitting as a hobby in the meantime as well? -"I had a great time studying these past few months under you, but I just can't continue."- You visibly gulp once he says nothing and you feel incentivized to further explain. You never had a problem with that before. Go ahead. He was giving you center stage to speak. So speak. -"I talk back. I interrupt. I question. I worry. I'm so sorry. I can't just let go and do it. Do what I'm supposed to do on the mat."- You add, your eyes widening, perhaps in anxiety, pupils dilating, looking back and forth between the surrounding furniture and the wall --- anywhere but at him. Why should he let you go? When it was so fun pushing your buttons? In fact, he decides you could use some more of that.

-"Do you like me?'-

He asks, bluntly. You take a step back, stammering.

-"Excuse me, sir?"-

-"I said, do you like me?"- He repeats himself, firmer.

Your mouth wordlessly forms a shape, but no sound comes forth.

You weren't certain what to say.

Finally.

You were speechless for once. That was a welcoming novelty.

-"Because, if you like me, you won't leave me here stranded, with one student less and waltz out impulsively, on such a short notice. That's not how things work. There's a price for that."-

He winds you up, deciding to stoke a fire and then immediately extinguish it, intending to fluster you for thinking what he led you to think, watching the abject shame settle into your expression like a newly formed wrinkle just because for a mere second, you thought this was a confession of something more than it was instead of a cleverly phrased and deliberately misguiding segway intended to put you on the spot and make you feel like an idiot with no listening comprehension. -"I'll pay everything I still own and ---"- You practically stumble over your words, clutching the pamphlet to your chest vigorously, like a shield, referencing unpaid lesson, trying to regain what little balance you had, visibly sweating bullets. Stoke the fire. Extinguish the fire. Stoke the fire. Extinguish the fire. Terry steps forward, shutting you up. Commanding you to stay silent. -"Don't talk."- He orders, flatly, putting up his hand alongside his finger as a warning and then coming closer still, until the tip of it is practically pushing against your mouth. You appeared flaggerbasted. Like you weren't sure what was going on, too shocked to actually move. This was why confusing people into a state of paralytic awkwardness was paramount in verbal warfare. He pushed his index finger between your lips and you still didn't move, letting him get away with it, too stunned for words. -"For once, listen. Don't speak."- He murmurs, staring at your mouth, pushing his nail inside, feeling your wetness and finding your tongue, frozen stiff, clasping it with his thumb and index finger and holding it, pulling on it, until you groaned, trying to mutely gibber and failing. -"This is the thing that always talked back. Can't talk back anymore, can it?"- He taunts and you shake your head with an expression that would place deer in headlights to shame, shivering vigorously.

You've seen what his hands could do. What his fists could do.

He could rip your tongue out of your skull and it would pose little issue.

He felt you knew that right about now.

Practically dangled by the tip of your mouth's organ. Your head slumping back.

Unable to release yourself, you slowly lower yourself, to your knees.

-"That's good."- Terry coos, pleased, watching you drool all over his hand.

-"Open that pretty little mouth of yours and use it for something really valuable for a change."-

He purrs, even as his fingers go fidgeting, lower his Gi's trousers, loosening the obi around his waist, pulling his cock out of his briefs, showcasing it to you so the state of the situation would settle in. He'd hatefuck your mouth. He was already hard. Already dripping precum. Almost like the very act of coming here and pestering you served to do it for him as he, without much deliberation, pushed himself inside of your lips, taking in the sloppy, receptive moisture, enjoying the symbolism of the flyer he's given you falling next to you on the floorboard until you were practically kneeling atop of it. -"Perfect."- He hums, praising. -"You've been badgering and badgering and I can't tell you how many times I thought about interrupting class and just giving it to you, in front of everyone, right there, in the middle of the dojo. Let them all see what happens when someone questions Terry Silver and his methods."- Now it was his turn to make some confessions, fingers tangling into your hair, coiling into a fist, making you look at him with your watering, teary eyes. He amps up his pace, bobbing your head back and forth for you, using your tresses as reins. Look how you've infected him. Now he was the one rambling and loving it. -"But, I wanted the occasion to be something special. Someplace I could really savor it --- and what better place than right under your very own roof."- He closes his eyes, smiling, enjoying the sensation of tense pleasure building up in his gut, right before looking down at you with your brows furrowed. You were just now realizing this was premeditated. Poor you. -"Oh, don't look at me like that. Don't think I haven't been in here before. Been here a thousand times."- He chuckles into his own chin, moaning. Of course he's desecrated something miniscule every time you talked back as an elaborate form of revenge and violation, like wiping his cock on the curtain after masturbating on your bed. Nothing was for free. Disrespect certainly wasn't.

-"And you'll be seeing a lot more of me just yet. Don't think this is over. Don't think you can disassociating with Cobra Kai and me on a whim. You can't."-

He flat out threatens, his hips rutting vigorously against your head.

You thought this was a game?

You sign up to his dojo for like six months and call it quits when things get hard?

Cobra Kai was a brotherhood. A society. Not an extracurricular pastime or a hobby.

That's what people weren't getting. He didn't want them to just yet.

But you? He'd was breaking the news to you hard and fast in the flesh.

-"You belonged to me from the moment you met me and put on the Gi and you'll belong to me until your dying breath."-

He grits his teeth, shaking, seething, feeling his tresses slide out of his ponytail and unto his forehead in an unruly mess, satisfaction coiling in his groin imaging you returning to the dojo on Monday, dressed in your uniform, all neat and proper, your attitude curbed and kept only for special occasions, releasing suddenly, just at the thought that he owned you, hearing you gurgle from the floor, droplets of his cum trickling down your chin and leaking unto the Cobra Kai pamphlet on the parquet in front of you. No, no. That wouldn't do. Not a single ounce wasted. -"Swallow."- Terry orders, catching his breath, scrutinizing you as you did so, still holding your hair, yanking forward suddenly, his cock falling out of your mouth, giving you leeway to breathe again and you do, gasping with sharp inhales of breath, a bubble of saliva popping between your lips as you rolled back to sob and cough. Pathetic. Eager to serve. So you were capable of shutting the fuck up, letting go and getting lost in an action after all? You were teachable. He knew you would be. Much like the rock slab on the training dummy, though, you needed to be broken in first. Terry slides his hand across the top of his head, slicking loose hair strands back, lifting up his finger to threaten and warn once again. Remind, in case you've forgotten. Had your brains scrambled in all sorts of awkward and unlikely directions. -"So, you better not miss out on any of my classes ever again or I'll have a reason to hold a very, very big grudge. Especially if you don't show up and break that stone like I've taught everyone to do. Understood?"-

-"Yes, Sensei."- You manage desperately, drooling, nodding your head.

[yourdoorisunlocked]

I'll Never Meet Another You... - Part 2

📺〘 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑰 | 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑰𝑰 | 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑰𝑰𝑰 〙📺

𝐀/𝐍: Back after popular demand... *drumroll* OUR FAVORITE TV MAN!! 🥰 I just love writing Possessive!Vox, idk what it is about him, he's just so sCrUmPtIoUs-

I lowkey feel like I'm betraying my country of Alastor Nation by simping for this man, but CAN YOU BLAME ME??

. . .

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟑,𝟎𝟕𝟗 ⚠︎ 𝐓𝐖/𝐂𝐖 ⚠︎: 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫, 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐕𝐨𝐱 𝐡𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬, 𝐞𝐭𝐜. 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: ꜱᴏᴍᴇʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ

. . .

The skies of hell that normally shone a bright cherry red had faded into a deep alluring maroon, mock sparkles twinkling down upon the Pride Ring in a beautiful imitation of Earth’s stars when you finally returned home from work. 

You slammed your front door behind you, as all of the day’s pent-up frustration from being overworked and criminally underpaid finally weighed down on you, and a few dishes trembled in fear of your wrath as a soft glow of darkness outlined your figure. 

The peace of the apartment had been entirely interrupted to make room for your sulking at your shitty living situation, though you knew you should’ve been grateful to have your job, however stressful.

For you, it definitely beat out prostitution or becoming an assassin-for-hire, so, who were you to complain about your mentally taxing job as a waitress? You might’ve been catcalled a handful of times, and maybe it even bordered on harassment here and there, but you weren’t forced to outright fuck them.  

And thankfully, after some time, you had realized that for some reason, they never seemed to return to the restaurant, seeming to go missing completely from existence. Even an uncomfortable coworker of yours that you despised being around had been “let go” after a mere day of working at the diner. Maybe they all got the hint? That’s what you’d like to hope. 

Though, even if you were safe from such advances, you definitely weren’t spared from the abuse of being burnt out of all your social battery in order to serve people. 

The fact that it was Valentine’s Day in a few days didn’t make it any better. 

For the entire first week of February, you were forced to sacrifice your sanity to serve people with a dazzling smile and cake a ridiculous amount of concealer on your face to hide your heavy eyebags.

Not to mention the slight jealousy that had boiled over inside of you, fueled by exhaustion and loneliness from cold nights alone and grueling days working at the restaurant, whenever you had to serve those lovey-dovey couples that were all over each other.

You despised them, with their tender Eskimo kisses, and stupid, mushy pet names for each other, and- Oh, great, they’re fucking under the table, now!

You’d had to kick out more than one group for that handful of incidents.

Just once, you’d like for someone to sweep you off your tired feet and bring you to a nice little outing, while shoving your infatuation with each other in everyone’s single-pringle fucking faces. 

Oh, well. It wasn’t like finding love in a wretched place like Hell was probable. But you had your delusional fantasies, and more importantly, your playlists. 

A familiar bloom of warmth in your chest had your heart ache with relief as you stumbled over to your bedroom. You promptly flopped onto your thin, squeaky mattress and stretched out your arms and legs, popping each stiff joint that had formed that day. 

Rolling onto your back, you let your loose hair that had been strained into a bun all day fall onto the bed as you opened Sinstagram, bobbing your head to a song that had been stuck inside your playlist for a while.

It felt like an actual crime to start indulging in your daily stalking admiring of your latest obsession, the television Overlord himself, the founder of the biggest tech company in the Pride Ring, you guessed it, Vox. 

Yes, you knew that it was creepy, but this was Hell. Who was anyone to judge you for fangirling – just a little bit – over him? Especially with that face card. You’d had very unsavory relationships in the past, but you’d throw your entire Sacred Rulebook of Relationship Standards out of the proverbial window for Vox. 

Besides, anyone would be fucking blind not to fawn over him. Seven feet tall, hotter than hell itself, and more powerful and influential than you could possibly conceive? He was every Wattpad reader’s wet dream. The blueprint, if you were being honest.

As you start scrolling through his Sinstagram – well, the company’s, really – a soft smile spreads across your face, your yearning gaze completely taken with him. 

The levels of down bad you had to be, to fall in love with a flat screen... 

Unbeknownst to you, a soft whirring that could’ve easily been mistaken for an air conditioner had gotten louder and louder, closer and closer to the familiar stained glass of your bedroom window, tarnished with smoke and pollution. But it was clear enough for someone to look in and see what heinous acts you were doing on that phone of yours, never mind your search history. 

Even Val would turn his nose up at some of that shit...

You didn’t even notice the small flash of the lens from its installed camera, or how it hovered just ever so close enough to the window beside you that it could get a proper view of what you were looking at, the contents of your phone on display for its Master to see. 

And said Master was currently relaxing into his chair with a self-satisfied simper, his earlier stress from the typical daily jetlag melting away in your presence. The tension in Vox's shoulders loosened as his fingers danced over the keyboard briefly, and a monitor to the right lit up with a close-up of your face.

We meet again, Doll~...

The electronic Overlord had been awaiting this moment for what seemed like an eternity, as he mundanely danced his way through daily routine simply to keep you under his watchful eye, come the evening. 

Throughout the day, Vox’s phone had been blowing up, par for the course of the ‘season of love’, as they called it. Of course, dealing with his job daily would’ve been an absolute thrill; cultivating his power and influence to spread across the Pride Ring by the second, watch Sinners fall over themselves to purchase the latest of VoxTech, y’know, the usual everyday experience.

But you were his change in daily routine, an escape from the facade of a showman that he had to keep up for the public, and you were right within Vox's reach.

And he could only restrain himself from up and snatching you away for so long. 

Though, recently, the idea of kidnapping you had left a rather sour taste on Vox's tongue. He would've rather lured you in with his persona, and captivate you with all that he could offer, the security, the wealth, whatever you'd desire, Vox would provide.

So, when Vox found out about your "little" infatuation with him, what with the sinful fanart hoarding and the fact that you anonymously followed every account that he or his company managed, it was a game changer.

And the television demon was, above all, a courteous, charismatic demon, despite his... outbursts. And although he didn't have much relationship experience, he'd rather like to learn.

And he was sure that you'd be more than willing to teach him.

Vox’s focus from his fantasies were broken by the sight of your expression souring when a notification pinged on your phone. 

It was your new co-worker, who had texted you the details of the new opening times since the restaurant had been getting much more foot traffic. 

And it apparently planned to remain that way until the end of the month. 

"6 A.M.? Are you fucking kidding me?... Alright, might as well get to bed earlier, now," you stood up and begrudgingly over to your bathroom, grumbling a string of curses as your bad mood was freshly revived.

Vox watched as you retreated from your bedroom, throwing articles of clothing from the bathroom onto your bed.

Water began pattering against the marble walls, and steam had gradually seeped into the room.

“I’m just an average man, with an average life...” 

“I work from nine to five, hey, hell, I pay the price.” 

Oh, you little tease...

With a soft scoff at the irony, Vox started humming along to the little tune you’d started singing as he tapped his fingers against the desk, impatient to be graced with your presence on the live feed of the VoxTech Voyeurscope. 

“All I want is to be left alone, in my average home.” 

“But why do I always feel, like I’m in the Twilight Zone?” 

Vox sat back in his chair and kicked his legs upon the surface of his desk, his mind racing with answers to your predicament.

“I always feel like, somebody’s watchin’ me~!"

He was accustomed to returning to his room, only to bear witness to your mad self-ranting about what a dick your boss was, how your shitty pay was barely supporting you, and the many idiots you had to deal with, ones Vox would personally take care of, of course. 

“And I have no privacy, ooh-oh-oh,"

"I always feel like, somebody's watching me!"

But as entertaining as it was, Vox hated seeing you slump into your abode, the eyebags more prominent than ever on your face.

You looked so... tired, so spent. He'd never use you like that, not if he was your boss...

“Tell me is it just a dream?” 

Wait...

A pixelated lightbulb flashed against the left side of Vox's interface as he leaned forward against his monitor, frantically searching for whoever he needed to terminate fire so that you could take their place. 

And, like a hellish prayer answered, the spot for a personal assistant was gloriously empty.

Heh, there really is a God...

A wave of Vox’s hand ordered the computer to direct him to his personal digital office, showing him forms, emails, and requests waiting for him to green light, all minor cases compared to what he was searching for. 

It didn’t take long for Vox to find the form he was looking for, and it seemed that Lucifer had smiled upon him that day, as right when he retrieved the assistant application form, you exited the shower, the patter of water coming to an abrupt stop. 

You walked out in nothing but a towel and a sheen of water droplets glistening against your skin. Ever the gentleman, Vox turned away with a small blue-hued blush when you dropped the towel and began to dress yourself, only turning back when he spotted you picking up the towel out of his peripheral. 

With a small, triumphant smirk and a short mental request, the Voyeurscope returned promptly to Vox. He handed it the form, manifesting it into a physical piece of paper to insert into its awaiting craned claws. 

Vox could get you out of that horrible place, no doubt about it. But he had to make sure that you did your part as well. 

"Bring this to her apartment. Be discreet about it."

He handed the drone the empty form, and instantly it zoomed across the Entertainment District to your apartment, which wasn’t even that far from the Vee’s headquarters. 

It made a short trip through the ventilation system that led into your bedroom, tucking in on itself to deliver the paper to you.

Thankfully your back was turned to it and braiding your hair, as a shiny metal claw reached out from behind the metal door to the vent just above your bed. It dropped the application form upon your mattress, and Vox waited with bated breath for you to notice.

The form floated precariously down onto your bed, landing gracefully just as you turned around and jumped onto the mattress. You were half-tempted to reach for your phone and end the night with your daily simp-scrolling before bed. 

Vox’s heart lurched in his chest once you spotted the form and held up the piece of paper with a questioning expression. You didn’t remember having this anywhere in your bag when you left the restaurant. 

“What in the...?”  

Then, your eyes caught onto the logo. 

VoxTech. 

Holy shit. 

Apparently, you’d accidentally snatched someone else’s application form to work for VoxTech, an idea that completely slipped your mind for the last miserable months you’d slaved away at the diner you worked at.

It wasn’t like a spontaneous trip to the Entertainment District, of all places, was something that you could afford, let alone tolerate with the skeezes that sauntered about the streets, looking for young little things like you to prey on. 

But despite its infamous reputation, Vox definitely wasn’t the worst of the Vees, not by a fucking long shot. And that wasn’t just your obsessive, simping brain talking here. 

Sure, he was the embodiment of capitalism and corporate greed at its finest, but an office job with a few tons of workload sounded much better than what you were getting, working at a shabby restaurant and going home every night to your shithole of an apartment.

Not to mention, you’d be working under the Overlord you’d obsessed over for weeks on end. 

Hopefully you’d get the chance to be under him, too- 

Also, the goddamn paygrade! Your eyes bulged out of your head and your mouth fell slightly agape in surprise, unaware of how the television Overlord was gauging your every reaction and sipping on his coffee with an amused smirk. 

Perhaps God had finally taken pity upon your mortal soul and decided that you deserved to catch a break, and for that, you were eternally grateful. You’d be skipping halfway to church, by now, if Hell had one. Maybe even click your heels a couple times on the way, too. 

In a flash, you rushed over to your nuclear fallout zone of a desk, sweeping the mess of papers and ‘RENT DUE’ bills off its surface. You quickly took a pen and scribbled down the required information for the application form at lightning speed. Smoke was practically rising off the paper by the time you were done with it.

The form was filled out in record time, and Vox watched as his plan unfolded perfectly before him. The definite click of your desk drawer closed as you placed the form inside for tomorrow, your fate sealed and unknowingly passed into Vox's greedy hands. 

“So gullible for me, aren’t you~?” His gaze softened adoringly towards you as he murmured to no one; gentle, placating words meant for your ears hitting only the damned barrier of his computer screen.

A fond, blue-hued grin lined with neon teal teeth spread across Vox’s blue-screen interface as he watched you flop onto your bed. You kicked your feet happily and gushed like a schoolgirl as you lost yourself to your daydreaming.

You knew you weren’t important enough to actually have a meeting with Vox himself, but this was fucking fanfic material, and a gorgeous opportunity that you knew was too good to brush off. 

“Ooh! I can’t wait to meet him! If I ever meet him. I wonder what Vox's like when he isn’t working... He’s definitely the Type A kinda guy, super work oriented.” A spot-on observation.

“Ugh... But I’m totally not, though. Eh, doesn’t matter, I’ll be accepted either way, it’s not like anyone else is brave enough to accept the job.” Well, she’s not wrong. 

“No, that’s a little cocky. I mean, it’s not exactly a guarantee I’ll be accepted.” Oho, you’d be surprised, my dear...

You pouted doubtfully for a moment, weighing all the variables in your head. This could go horribly wrong for you, maybe even end up with your brains splattering against an aquarium wall, if you played your cards recklessly.

But you'd had enough of this life, and you were far from sick of drowning in the suffocating depressive cycle that you'd been spiraling into for the past couple of months since you'd arrived in Hell.

Who knew your afterlife would be just as dismal and bleak as your human one.

“But it’s worth a shot!” You clenched your fists with a newfound determination, and Vox let out a relieved sigh. You really shouldn’t scare him like that, not when he was so close to having you securely within his grasp. Willingly, that is.

If pushed to it, Vox had no qualms over taking you by force.

“Even though I have no idea what he’s like in person, I’d die to meet him. Double die, that is.”  

“Ugh, but should I miss my shift for the interview? Or should I plan to go there whenever Boss gives me a break next?”  

It was practically torture, watching you go back and forth between decisions, leaving Vox feeling like he was watching the finale of ‘Yeah, I Fucked Your Girlfriend, So What?’, and it had left him on the cruelest cliffhanger he could’ve possibly manifested in the history of shitty melodramas. 

You hadn’t even decided what you were even going to wear, and you were already rethinking your afterlife’s choices. 

Oh, shit...

Your once relaxed state was all but diminished when you realized that simply showing up to the interview wasn’t going to cut it. You had to dress to impress to land this job.

After all, Vox's reputation was the peak of excellence, perfection at its finest, and the company's interviewers would probably have you executed on the spot if you dared to show up in tattered sweatpants and your favorite hoodie.

You rushed over to your dresser, throwing out any articles of clothing you deemed inappropriate for the interview.

Finally, you settled on a plain midnight blue form-fitting blouse with a black ascot, and a black pencil skirt that you had bought for your uniform at the diner. You never wore it much, of course, with all the sleazy customers you’d attract, but you thought it was cute, anyway. 

With a satisfied hum, you laid out the outfit upon your desk, and with a relieved sigh, fell right back into bed with your phone on the lowest brightness possible.

You then scrolled the endless crimson twilight away with half-lidded eyes until you slowly drifted off to sleep, leaving Vox alone to his thoughts once more.

Upon seeing your dozing form, Vox made the drone hover for just a few more moments to watch you drift off into a blissful sleep.

He promptly called it back, and once again, the poor drone worked overtime to return to its Master, and its battery was nearly completely spent as it landed in Vox's claws.

Sharp, neon-dipped fingers tampered with the device for a moment, searching for the gold mine of footage he had recorded. He tossed the video onto his monitor's screen, and the file loaded and saved instantly into his precious folder. 

A warmth crept up his chest as he laid back in his chair, a conniving grin stretching its way onto his features.

The familiar smugness of sure victory, and the honey-sweet bitterness of whatever spell you had put him under had left his heart aching. You may have been prone to your midday daydreaming, but they couldn't compare to Vox's ambitious fantasies of you and him together.

And tomorrow, you'd be all his. His personal assistant, clad in that tight little uniform that had him frothing at the mouth for you.

And speaking of which...

Vox's retinas pulled up different images of uniforms and color-coordinated outfits that perfectly matched his likeness and style.

Indeed, when Vox was done with you, you'd be a spitting image of him, every facet and aspect of you fashioned for him, and him alone.

Every demon in Hell would know exactly who you belonged to, from the marks that would line your shoulders and thighs, to the pleated blue skirt and coattails that he'd have Velvet fashion, just for you.

She'd look stunning in my colors...

. . .

𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: Alright, I promise, I SWEAR WE'RE GETTING THERE-

I needed to use this chapter to build up the plot's structure, since the first chapters tend to be little concepts of what I want the rest of the story to be about. I promise, ON MY MOTHER that next chapter we will be seeing more Vox x Reader content in chapter three, especially since the tv demon brainrot is invading and corrupting my brain cells rn 😓

As always, thanks for reading! And once again, my taglist is always below, so please comment there to be tagged!

. . .

𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @starsformydarlingmazel, @chitter-chatter, @hazzbindarlingg, @darkangel582, @matrixbearer2024, @prosciuttosblog, @frog-fans-unite, @chewbrry, @villxinmiixx, @lulurubberduckie, @mysterypotatoink, @kintsugi-akane, @rustedtoaster

➺𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝑻𝒐 @cafekitsune - 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐓𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫!

[bxnnie-bxwl]

TW: suggestive

thought i could post it here with a little warning, glam bonnie from freddy in space 3...,,the dubious bunny you are

[al-norton]

Uh oh

[charlie-artlie]

One day, years after the events of Network Effect, Murderbot gets a message package labeled “Murderbot 2.0: Mission Report”. Then, shortly after that, it gets another message package simply titled “assistance needed”. And then another, with that same title. And then another. And another.

[faetreides]

i cant stop thinking abt yan boyf!sej :(

hes so awfully lovetsruck its actually quite sickening, its vomit inducing. like hes calling u the most awful pet names, begging for your attention like some starved dog in the streets and do not mention when u talk to people!! he isnt coryo level insane in the possessive or deadass murdering people way but hes just a lovestruck puppy boy :(

(he called u his little cream puff after he came in u)

No because he'd be such a puppy bf like :(

You could be in public, and he'd actively have to hold himself back from humping your leg and whining to get your attention. He cuts it close though, crowding your space at an Academy Party or a Gala of some sort and gluing his front to your side. He'd lean in and straight up pant in the crook of your neck, gritting his teeth and covertly wiggling his hips against as much of your ass as he can reach. The idea of trying to be good and keep it in his pants loses its' appeal rather quickly, so he concentrates on lapping his wide tongue over your pulse point. He knows perfectly well that the man who you are trying (and failing) to talk to hasn't left, he just doesn't care. Plus, don't think he hasn't noticed how friendly you've been getting with him at other events.

"Babydoll, do you think it'll be much longer? I'm tired, let's get outta here."

Cries like he's about to be hanged when he cums and slobbers all over your tits as he babbles out a stream of "Thank you" 's. You have to tell him that he can stop thrusting, his brain having melted so much that his puppy brain makes him chase another orgasm despite being in so much pain. It's automatic for him, you're just so warm and wet and silky that he forgets that he has other things to do with his life besides making love to you until his heart gives out.

Even when you finally get him to snap out of it, he'll trap you in a messy kiss that's more about swapping spit than anything else and weakly pump his hips. He just thinks you'd look sooooooooo pretty with a swollen belly, his whines about he'd such a good pa are almost worse than his usual dirty talk.

You'd be walking anywhere in the capitol and you wouldn't go too long without hearing a "Wait up, honey bun!"

You don't have the heart to find a way to ditch him when you see how deep and wide his smile is, how his cheeks must hurt from the pure joy he gets from doing literally anything with you. He's glowing, you're sure he'd be kicking his feet and giggling if he wasn't too busy racing to catch up with you.

Falls over himself in his rush to hand you a pen when you say to yourself that you've forgotten one. He nearly trips and falls onto another student, but you can't help but mirror the bashful grin he tosses your way as he hands you his pen. He makes your fingers touch for too long before he lets go but he's screaming gleefully on the inside. Presses the softest kiss against the lock of hair he nabbed when class was over, the newest addition to his collection.

Modern!Sej would 100% have "cream puff" as your contact name.

faetreides 2024.

[an-american-teen-against-crime]

Hey Clue Crew!

I just finished playing a really awesome game called “This Bed We Made” where you play as a maid in the 50s uncovering the secrets of guests staying at the hotel she works at.

It’s an Indie Studio’s first game, and while it is a bit on the shorter side, it was such a good story (with really important themes) and really fun to play. It genuinely took me back to playing Nancy Drew as there is SO MUCH snooping you can do; it honestly reminds me of the earlier ND games just with a third person camera.

There are I think several alternate endings to the game as well as different paths and choices you can take which really adds to the replay-ability.

Please check it out on Steam if you can! And come talk to me about it hehe :3

[collinnmckinley]

Make Your Own Fate - Destiny 2 | The Final Shape Gameplay

[tsubaki94]

23 Begging/ Forced to watch 24 Failed escape/ Hunted down 25 Nightmare/ Flashback 26 Came back wrong 27 Forgotten/ Locked Away 28 Hairpulling/ Oxygen deprivation 29 The easy way or the hard way/ Bargaining/ Forced to choose 30 Mind Games 31 PTSD/ Headache/ Crying

Ai-less whumptober

(Sorry I lost motivation to finish these all up.)

[artnusky]

Jean Moreau and water and healing.

Some details under the cut:

[terrence-silver]

Hi 👋! Can you do “ we could’ve had something, if you weren’t so fucking evil.” with terry? Have a nice day

Differing Points of View.

(Terry Silver x Reader)

---

-"Good and evil are relative."-

He coos, just as easily as that, caressing the words as smoothly as a lover would and that was your cue to finally snap. Cut the crap. -"No, Terry, they're not relative! It doesn't work that way!"- You point at him, vigor in your arm, your voice rumbling with righteous fury. Yes, you and him, you had an argument. An argument that escalated. You never figured yourself as the type of people who would have shouting matches, or rather, you never figured yourself as the kind of person who'd shout, because Terry didn't. He simply sat in his arm chair, legs crossed, seeming completely unfettered. Like he enjoyed this, in a sense. Maybe that's what was so infuriating. How he didn't seem to take any of this seriously.

-"I don't think profiteering from environmental disasters for over forty years, abusing some kid who's no longer a kid for decades over some stupid vendetta, putting your own best friend behind bars who the vendetta was for in the first place and burning down someone's place of employment to send a message is relative! You're acting like some sort of gangster!"-

His list of transgressions --- recent ones, that is, come out, rolling off of your tongue in the form of a rant and you realize you blurted out all of that in one breath, standing in front of him practically hyperventilating. Another thing Terry appeared to like; he visibly chuckles his chin when the moniker of 'gangster' crosses the threshold of his lips. Jesus, he took that as a complement. He really took that as a complement. Couldn't even try to insult him without him viewing it as a crowning achievement. -"I mean, how could you do that?"- Your shoulders hunch forward and you almost plead then, trying to appeal to him. Reaching something within him. Some point of empathy. Regret? Remorse? Anything. But, there's nothing there. If anything, there's pride. -"Which part?"- Terry clicks his tongue, appearing profoundly amused and there you were, shouting again. He was infuriating and deliberately pushing your buttons. How well he did it too, that even as your temper flared up, you understood you were being toyed with yet you found yourself unable to stop.

-"Every part!"-

You yell, feeling a bit like an adult trying to contend with a child.

-"How can you wake up in the morning?

-"You put one leg forward. Then another."-

He leans back into his seat, talking with one hand, twirling one bejeweled finger mid-air, describing his point of view through a saying. Of course he'd use a saying. Of course. The Zen of Terry Silver. -"Enough with the proverbs! Jesus! You've got a proverb for everything!"- You shriek, smacking your hands down, talking with your whole body, finding yourself in pain due to what you were about to say, feeling that regardless how difficult it was it still had to be said. It was inevitable. Looming over you. -"You know, we could've had something. If you weren't so fucking evil."- Your voice cracks saying that and by the time you've uttered your line, you're whimpering, because by god, that hurt. You always knew confessing that to him would've hurt, but never this much. You catch Terry's face stilling. His expression growing serious. Without a single ounce of rushing, he leans forward, standing up from his armchair, looming large, walking forward, slowly. You take a step back. Part of you thinks then that calling him evil will have him coming at you with a fury all his own, but instead, Terry's calm. Quiet.

-"All that profiteering off of environmental disasters, as you called it,"-

His jawline twists, and he's smiling, looking to the side, shaking his head.

-"Companies nowadays claim to be good and green and then they still dispose of their waste somewhere in backwater Thailand where nobody can see it. It's like pushing the scum under the carpet and calling yourself an accomplished janitor. At least I was fucking honest about my policies."- He chuckles and you're standing there, mouth agape as you listen, momentarily confused. What was he talking about? This conversation wasn't going in the direction you figured it would go in. You brace yourself, searching for some kind of catch, some sort of verbal trap, a tactic, his usual line-up of mind games. But, Terry? Terry was utilizing logic and you couldn't deny it. Your fight or flight instinct kicks in. Your heart starts pounding away in your chest. God. He was going to dodge each and every argument you made chronologically and with sound reason, wasn't he? He'd leave you without a single way to debate him on any of this, won't he?

-"That punk kid?"-

Terry's eyes shoot up at you, his gaze growing cold.

You immediately knew who he was talking about.

-"Larusso has been continuously asking for a good beating for the past thirty years and once he finally gets one over the nose, he cries foul and everyone cries foul with him."- There's venom on his tongue and you hear it in the way he pronounces each and every one of his words; like he wanted to spit them out on the carpet. Let the acid of his voice leave a hole in the fabric. -"Could've justified himself as a victim when he was a snot-nosed twerp fresh in highschool --- but now? He's a grown man. He really thought nobody would hit back? How long do you think he's gonna use that little self-righteous schmuck from Jersey card until it grows old, huh?"- You gulp hard. You've nothing to say to that. Nothing at all. Deep down, you knew Terry was right in a weird sense; that Larusso was just as culpable. Just as petty and spiteful. That nowadays, if Terry was pushing, Daniel Larusso was pushing right back when he could've just as easily let it go. That there was fighting in the streets because of it. That you were standing up for someone who would've never stood up for you. You take yet another step back. You have to. You have to move your limbs in some direction or you'd collapse on the floor. Like a magnet, Terry moves with you, taking a step forward, as if on cue.

-"The whole thing with John?"-

Something clenches in your gut, you knew what was coming.

More facts you couldn't deny no matter how badly you wanted to.

-"John knew the stakes. He also knew I'm not to be trifled with. He's a grown man too. He can handle the heat in the kitchen. He's been handling it for an awfully long time. Don't be here pleading his case for him."-

Terry's mouth presses into a hard line. Eyes unblinking. You sense the edge of the sofa smack the back of your feet in movement with a thud. You had nowhere left to go. You hit a wall. -"I loved that man. I still love him. I'll love him for the rest of my life."- Terry's stare pierces through yours. There's an acute ache in your chest, bubbling, coiling and you recognize it as pity. You felt bad for him. You couldn't believe it, but you did. Your ire pipes down, cooling, dwarfing from a pulsating black hole of anger into a star. You're on the verge of apologizing and you don't like that. You don't like that one bit. Were you that much of a pushover? You collapse, plopping down on the sofa, feeling exhausted and lost, looking up at Terry, rendered speechless. -"But, you don't visit a friend knowing he has a weakness for you, uproot his life after disappearing and going no-contact for well over quarter of a century and some change, ask for a non-refundable kickstarter loan and get surprised when your friend doesn't exactly appreciate your conflicting loyalties."- Terry puts up his his index finger, speaking slowly --- very slowly --- putting special emphasis into every word, every line, every sound, until you found yourself nodding away, quietly agreeing, looking down at the floorboard. God. Well over a quarter of a century and some change. The poignancy of that smacks the wind out of your belly, even though you knew this whole story. John's and Terry's whole story. You were agreeing. You really were. He wasn't even manipulating you. Wasn't even toying with you.

He was merely telling you the truth.

And you knew. You knew it was all true.

It was you who'd be a liar if you argued him further.

Terry knew that. You knew that he knew.

-"As for Mike Barnes? His business? Give me a break!"-

At that point, Terry raises his voice laced with bitter laughter, throwing his head back, appearing part outraged, part amused. Like he didn't believe he had to defend his reasoning on this particular matter in the first place. -"You forget that in the 80's, he was awfully casual about going all mercenary for a buck."- Terry leans down, his neck bending your way, his eyes searching yours. You couldn't look at him. Not right now. You were too embarrassed. Somehow, deep down, you hoped Terry wouldn't have had valid excuses for any of his actions over the years, but he had concrete and rather purposeful basis, as frightening as that sounded, for quite literally everything he ever did and you felt like such a fool. Such an idiot. You underestimated him catastrophically. -"Roughening up some kid he never even met up for some other guy he never met either? You think someone made him do that? That his hand was forced? That he didn't hop on that plane to LA of his own free will back in the day? That he didn't come rushing to my door like it was fucking payday?"- You feel a finger sneak itself under your chin and you try to move, shiver away on instinct --- anything to ensure no eye contact happens, but you're grabbed, not unkindly, but with enough firmness to where he makes you look at him. Where he holds you by the jawline, tilting your head towards wherever he so pleased.

You blink. You blink furiously. Wanting to sink into the couch.

Disappear.

-"It's only when he didn't get his share of the cake that he got all rehabilitated."-

Terry tilts his head sideways, appearing wholly sardonic. If you ever felt sorry for the incident with the furniture store downtown, the empathy disappears someplace you can't find it and you scurry, looking for it internally, desperately trying to grab unto it like a life-raft, not wanting to agree with an arsonist precisely because it was so easy to agree with him. You feel empty. Filled up by everything Terry was saying. Sensing yourself defeated. Completely and utterly. Today, you intended to break things off with Terry Silver, if that was at all possible. All but five minutes later, you were the one who felt like you were in the wrong, having an out of body experience; your worldview shaken. -"Thing is, Barnes is always one step away from playing by gangster rules and it's only fitting he gets hit with a gangster's revenge. All the rest of them too."- Terry adds with a sense of finality, his hand sneaking up from your chin to cheek, caressing you there, looming over you like a tower. You shiver. You...wanted to break up. Leave him. You built everything up in your head. What you'd say. How you'd say it. How you'd organize yourself. How you'd pull this all off. This wasn't going as you planned.

-"So, tell me how good and evil aren't relative?"-

He asks the question you feared since he started his tangent.

You had no answer.

How could you out-philosophize Terry anyway?

You choose to hold yourself responsible. Apologize for shouting.

Getting carried away.

-"Terry, look, I ---"-

You stutter, finally speaking, mustering up the courage to do so, twiddling your fingers around in your lap awkwardly. -"I'm sorry. Okay? I really am."- You stare up at him from under your lashes, looking back down just as quickly, shocked by what you were uttering. Were you afraid of him? Yes? No? Maybe? Partially? You couldn't tell. You supposed you feared him more when he was like this. Quiet. Concise. Logical. You could handle his wrath. His volatile tendencies. His unpredictable calm, less so. Humbled, you capitulate to the wry notion that for all intents and purposes, that if Terry was a bastard, he wasn't exactly the only bastard in The Valley. You understood that the only reason he even bothered explaining himself to you with so much detail was because in his own weird, Terry way, you mattered to him. The same way he mattered to you, even though his choices weren't always easy to accept. Swallow. -"I'm not. My life is everything I did in it, and given the chance, I'd do it again."- He smiles, unapologetic, face practically beaming with genuine, unspoiled mirth. Fuck sake, as awful as that sounded, you couldn't help but admire him for that. Jesus, how he crawled under your skin. Inside of your mind. You wanted to cry, feeling judgmental towards a man who more than deserved to be judged. Instead, you mutter, barely audible, practically whispering with a small voice. -"This thing of ours."- You manage, unsure how to describe you and him. -"I want it to continue. Us. I don't want us to end."- You blink up at him desperately, needily, entirely downtrodden and aware of it, sensing his thumb brush against your lower lip, savoring his moment of triumph in the sun.

Help, you wanted to scream.

Someone help me, please. I'm begging on my knees.

I have no opinions, no will of my own, no sense of morals.

I'm his robot. Puppet on a string.

He's taken everything. Made it his own. Made me his own.

Who am I anymore?

Someone shake me and talk some sense into me.

-"We'll never end."-

Terry coos, sounding infinitely pleased with that conclusion, practically purring as he parted your frowning mouth, pushing his finger inside so you couldn't speak any further even if you wanted to, practically gagging you as he stood perfectly still, towering above you, his teeth on full display, his form casting a long, dark shadow on the wall behind him --- and believe him. You really do. You believe that you and him would never end. He'd never allow you and him to end. Even if you really wanted to. Even if you insisted upon it. Fought for it. Ran. Grew a spine. Stood your ground in spite of your love for him. Would you know how to be anything but his even if he let you go, however unlikely that might've been as an option, though? Would you know how to function in society again? Would you knew what was right? What was wrong? Could you ever be sane again? Would anyone even want you back? Someone who was agreeing with a tyrant when he carefully explained to you how everyone he's ever tyrannized deserved it and you truly sat here, thinking they did, fully self-aware of both the truth and the ridiculousness of it all? Understanding it was wrong. Understanding it was bad. Horrible. And yet still seeing his point of view? Would anyone outside of the bubble Terry's created for you ever be able to trust you ever again?

You doubted it.

You were that far gone.

You were more Terry Silver's than you were your own.

[suntails]

malleus is an artist wowie 😍

[flareboi]

im in lov wit your ballista design ned more plz plz

hi anon, i made this just for u

i think agent smith/striker/g.u.i whatever and ballista are worsties. guy that says ‘henceforth’ in daily conversation vs monster energy drinker

[wayward-delver]

SCP-682 “Hard to Destroy Reptile” in SCP: Fragmented Minds:

He will be a recurring threat throughout the game and as well as being a giant monster that destroys everything in his path, he’s also very intelligent and condescending. He’s like a cat with godlike strength, speech, and immortality.

This is going to be his voice.

[saintshigaraki]

brain is just yan nanami yan nanami yan nanami yan nanami yan nanami yan nanami yan nanami yan nanami yan nanami yan nanami yan nanami

[honeypleasejustkillme]

i’m trying my hardest to not act how i feel