#with variables to control and test

[daily-odile]

everything is the same except Odile is the one looping

oh. heheheheh. muahahahaha. hold on *digs through my pile of disorganized sketches*

Odile loops au; a sketch compilation!!

Some old fic drabbles + associated sketches under cut (a6 secret spoilers):

hc: Since equipment carries over, as long as Odile uses her book in a fight, she can write down notes and have it carry over loops

toxic doomed yuri (for a more fleshed out fic I highly recommend The Sweetest Thing by soreimoon, it's amazing)

[anonymusbosch]

.

[beemovieerotica]

as a scientist i think that the debate around "does white people hair actually turn blond in the sun" should be put to a rigorous test where we control for all variables...like all these adults are going off confirmation bias and ingrained beliefs, so what we need to do is find a white person who has never been outside and put them in the sun for like, i dont know, 5 hours

[eikotheblue]

How do you *accidentally* make a programming language?

Oh, it's easy! You make a randomizer for a game, because you're doing any% development, you set up the seed file format such that each line of the file defines an event listener for a value change of an uberstate (which is an entry of the game's built-in serialization system for arbitrary data that should persiste when saved).

You do this because it's a fast hack that lets you trigger pickup grants on item finds, since each item find always will correspond with an uberstate change. This works great! You smile happily and move on.

There's a small but dedicated subgroup of users who like using your randomizer as a canvas! They make what are called "plandomizer seeds" ("plandos" for short), which are seed files that have been hand-written specifically to give anyone playing them a specific curated set of experiences, instead of something random. These have a long history in your community, in part because you threw them a few bones when developing your last randomizer, and they are eager to see what they can do in this brave new world.

A thing they pick up on quickly is that there are uberstates for lots more things than just item finds! They can make it so that you find double jump when you break a specific wall, or even when you go into an area for the first time and the big splash text plays. Everyone agrees that this is neat.

It is in large part for the plando authors' sake that you allow multiple line entries for the same uberstate that specify different actions - you have the actions run in order. This was a feature that was hacked into the last randomizer you built later, so you're glad to be supporting it at a lower level. They love it! It lets them put multiple items at individual locations. You smile and move on.

Over time, you add more action types besides just item grants! Printing out messages to your players is a great one for plando authors, and is again a feature you had last time. At some point you add a bunch for interacting with player health and energy, because it'd be easy. An action that teleports the player to a specific place. An action that equips a skill to the player's active skill bar. An action that removes a skill or ability.

Then, you get the brilliant idea that it'd be great if actions could modify uberstates directly. Uberstates control lots of things! What if breaking door 1 caused door 2 to break, so you didn't have to open both up at once? What if breaking door 2 caused door 1 to respawn, and vice versa, so you could only go through 1 at a time? Wouldn't that be wonderful? You test this change in some simple cases, and deploy it without expecting people to do too much with it.

Your plando authors quickly realize that when actions modify uberstates, the changes they make can trigger other actions, as long as there are lines in their files that listen for those. This excites them, and seems basically fine to you, though you do as an afterthought add an optional parameter to your uberstate modification action that can be used to suppress the uberstate change detector, since some cases don't actually want that behavior.

(At some point during all of this, the plando authors start hunting through the base game and cataloging unused uberstates, to be used as arbitrary variables for their nefarious purposes. You weren't expecting that! Rather than making them hunt down and use a bunch of random uberstates for data storage, you sigh and add a bunch of explicitly-unused ones for them to play with instead.)

Then, your most arcane plando magician posts a guide on how to use the existing systems to set up control flow. It leverages the fact that setting an uberstate to a value it already has does not trigger the event listener for that uberstate, so execution can branch based on whether or not a state has been set to a specific value or not!

Filled with a confused mixture of pride and fear, you decide that maybe you should provide some kind of native control flow structure that isn't that? And because you're doing a lot of this development underslept and a bit past your personal Balmer peak, the first idea that you have and implement is conditional stops, which are actions that halt processing of a multiple-action-chain if an uberstate is [less than, equal to, greater than] a given value.

The next day, you realize that your seed specification format now can, while executing an action chain, read from memory, write to memory, branch based on what it finds in memory, and loop. It can simulate a turing machine, using the uberstates as tape. You set out to create a format by which your seed generator could talk to your client mod, and have ended up with a turing complete programming language. You laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

[kyreniacommentator]

Variable lane control is being tested on Semih Sancar Street, Girne

Girne Municipality is implementing a new application on Semih Sancar Street. With the regulation that will be implemented in order to ease the traffic flow, traffic on Semih Sancar Street will move with a variable lane arrangement. According to the statement made by Girne Municipality, street traffic will be used as two lanes in the West-East direction between 20:00 pm and 16:00 pm. Between 16:00…

[cherryredstars]

Ok so i have this fic idea where reader and mig are from different universes and reader is a scientist and one time mig and her get drunk and start talking about the multiverse and suddenly they are on the topic of what would happen if people from different universes had a baby together. (You see where i am going with this...) they end up drunkenly fucking and saying it's for "research" because they can't admit to themselves that they are in love. If this request is too complicated feel free to ignore. Thank you in advance cherry!! I hope u have a marvelous new year!! 💕

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Penetrative Sex, Mentions of Oral Sex, Mentions of Animal Testing (for science), Breeding Kink

A/N: Thank you, love! I hope you're well!!!

You know there is a process.

And you know this isn't it.

There are supposed to be hypotheses and written out procedures. Dependent and independent variables, a control group. Fucking hell, you should be experimenting on fucking mice. You should be limiting the margins of error, should be going with the most direct, straightforward pursuit for results.

And yet...

You don't stop Miguel when he pushes you back onto the couch. You don't pause or even really think when he's pushing your pants down your legs, placing kisses along the skin as he goes. You lift your hips to aid him when his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, shivering when his warm breath fans over your exposed sex. If this experiment was in any sense proper, you would get straight into it. Cut out all the unneeded steps. But you can't help but pull his head closer to your aching core, craving the way his warm tongue laps at you. If you weren't already drunk, you would be drunk on this feeling alone.

But god, nothing has even been more satisfying than doing the work. You know the data would be void in a real experiment. The trials bleeding into each other hardly make for adequate data, but the way you beg him for more is involuntary. It feels too good, to have him desperately thrusting into you. It makes your mind numb, and everything you know about your life's passion is erased. The only thing that fills your head is the words Miguel grunts into you ears, promises of fucking a baby into you. Vows to make you bloated with load after load of his cum. That all it'll take is one of his orgasms to make it happen.

You guess that is a hypothesis in itself: Miguel O'Hara can get you pregnant with just one orgasm.

Too bad he's too desperate to find out if that hypothesis is correct. Because he doesn't stop at one. No, he keeps going. One after the other with no breaks in-between. But you guess that's to be expected, he is a man of science himself. A passionate one at that.

He's almost crazed in the way he overstimulates himself. Sweat beading in his hairline as he grunts down at you, watching the way he creamy cock slides in and out of your abused pussy. You've lost count of how many times you've come alone, but you know based on the way your body shivers and jolts that it's far more than you've ever had before. It's almost painful now, the way your next orgasm rips through you and shatters your soul again. You let out strangled breaths as you fight through the aftershocks and the continued pleasure of Miguel's cock slamming against your cervix. You swear you black out before he finally stops, your eyes and mind groggy as he pulls your hips flush against his as he spills into you.

You can feel him trying to push deeper into you as he pants ruggedly, his cock twitching against your walls until he's milked dry. Even when he's done filling you, he stays connected. He collapses onto you, breathing in the linger smell of sweat and sex on your skin.

"Got to make sure it takes."

Well, does the process really matter if you get the desired result anyway?

Part 2 Part 3

[dammit-tazmuir]

TLT Theory: Pyrrha was the Necromancer

No get back here, hear me out. I'm not saying Gideon didn't become one as a Lyctor. But I've been noticing a lot of things adding up weird here...

In Ch6 of HtN, when preparing for the first trip through the River, they call it Pyrrha's trial.

Much later, when Pyrrha is mad at Palamedes for the soul fuckery he and Camilla are doing, she refers to it as one they designed together, but that doesn't negate Mercy calling it Pyrrha's first and foremost. And...

She's worried about Camilla's brain, and okay, sure, they only have Camilla's body. But with Cris and Mercy, it was Cris getting cracked open. With Harrow and Gideon 2, it was always Gideon in danger, not Harrow. And with Gideon 1 and Pyrrha, it was Gideon's skull, Gideon's brain, getting the testing done. No mention of the same kind of testing or Mercy or Pyrrha. The principle of it is the necromancer's consciousness being overlaid onto the cavalier's brain, right?

But okay, maybe Pyrrha just doesn't mention herself, and Gideon's "a control variable" to compare herself to? But there's more.

Pyrrha fights with guns, prefers them. Gideon fought with not just a sword but a whole ass massive spear for an offhand, and has easily more physical prowess than any other necromancer we've ever seen. His stomach is still desiccated in typical necromancer fashion, he's dehydrated and not a scrap of fair fat on him, but he's a wall of muscle and sinew. Yes he looks "like an idiot's construct", probably because John regrew him from an arm when he was still getting the hang of using that level of power, but he's distinctly not built like other necromancers. If he wasn't a necromancer prior to being a Lyctor, his build might make more sense. Moreover, we've seen other cavaliers turned into sort-of-constructs, with both Protesilaus and Kiriona.

I also want you to look at the Saint of Duty and tell me that man isn't the walking essence of what it means to be a Cavalier.

And he rarely uses necromancy. He can travel in the River, and he drains thanergy, but he never really uses theorems or sets up wards. His necromancy is used pretty exclusively in passive ways or to remove obstacles between himself and his weapons. But Pyrrha is extremely knowledgeable about all kinds of necromancy. She tells Harrow fresh thalergy is harder to drain. She sees Ianthe's brilliantly inventive combination of wards creatively mimicking the effect of Mercy's trial and can accurately tell what they're going to do, as well as how to break them. Among other things. She also says she walked the Eightfold. Maybe that means being led willingly as a cav, but what if she was in control of the process?

With Harrow, Gideon was constantly in and out of awareness, watching from Harrow's subconscious, things that Harrow was fully conscious for. Palamedes doesn't have that with Camilla, and both of them being conscious is rare and dangerous, as detailed above. Pal and Pyrrha are frequently compared with their situations. How did Cam and Pal work out how to do the switcheroo, especially while Pal had extremely limited ability to move or perceive? How did they work out a safe time limit before too much irreparable damage was done? Could they have had guidance from someone who's done it? Done it with a necromancer's knowledge, letting him know where he can safely go under in the brain, how to come out at will, what to watch out for?

On a separate note:

Lyctor names are sacred, but the Houses were founded before Lyctorhood was achieved. Anastasia did not become a Lyctor, so her name was not removed from history, and became common in her House. Judith and Marta are part of the Dve Territorials, and while that doesn't prove anything or could even be evidence against, I feel like it would make sense to have named prestigious military groups after the House's "main" Founder, before there were Saints and the decision to erase the Saints' names.

On a more meta level, I think it would be weird to have "their names were meant to be forgotten", history knowing jack shit about the cavaliers of old, and even emphasis on the Lyctors forgetting each others' House names, only to have a cavalier's House name in active use somewhere, if that information wasn't supposed to be serving a narrative purpose. If we weren't meant to question why.

"But they call her his cavalier. She calls him her necromancer."

Sure. And maybe that's straightforward; this is a theory, I could be wrong. But switching titles after Lyctorhood doesn't sound too out of the question to me. What's a bit of revisionist history in TLT? John knows where memory lives in the brain, and on Pyrrha's end, at least after Lyctorhood Gideon was the necromancer, after all.

(Edit to add: Augustine calls attention to how astonishing it is that Pyrrha never divided opinions, that not one of them has ever had a single bad thing to say about her. She's great but we've met her. We've seen John rant about her calling out his bullshit, in the dream. Not one bit of annoyance or criticism, from anyone? I'm just saying, if Something Happened that led to John needing to tweak memories, making everyone remember her nothing but fondly feels plausible.)

"So why can't she do necromancy when she's in control?"

"He took more from me than got taken from you" feels like explanation enough to me. He got her aptitude and more. She's a partial soul. If anything, she could even still has an ounce of it, to retain the body's healing capabilities. If Gideon was fully giddy-gone and the soul that was left had zero aptitude, what would the furnace be burning? But if Gideon's consciousness is dead and what's left of his soul is in the furnace with a (partial) necromancer at the helm, well, that's not far off from Lyctorhood working as intended.

"Why though?"

And there's the part that gets really tricky but interesting. My best guess short answer is, one of them was dying, and it was an act of desperation.

Maybe Pyrrha was dying and so brutalized her body wouldn't have healed right even becoming a Lyctor, but given what they're like and the Cam/Pal parallels, I feel like an even more likely answer was that Gideon was dying. Cris and Alfred had already put Mercy and Augustine in that position, and they took their souls to preserve something, but Pyrrha would have seen how well that worked, assuming the third ascension wasn't immediately after the first two. So perhaps in her own desperation, with endless adoration for the man so willing to burn for what he believed, she said no. You don't get to throw your life away. If you're going to keep throwing yourself on things, I will make sure you can survive it and keep surviving it, even if it kills me instead. And then walked the path in reverse, pinning her own soul to his instead of pulling his into her.

I've seen a post around here pointing out how when Pyrrha tells Nona about her first tantrum, she's laughing with her mouth but not her eyes, and it looks like it reminds her of something her brain doesn't want to bring back, and the post proposes maybe Alecto killed Pyrrha. And I do think there's a solid possibility it was Alecto's tantrum that mortally wounded whichever (or maybe even both!) of them and prompted them to ascend. If Pyrrha didn't blame Varun for Gideon recently, I doubt she'd hold it against Alecto either.

Either way, wouldn't something like that more than earn the title of Duty? Wouldn't it be beautiful that they both fit the title if both had in ways been the cavalier? Wouldn't it be fitting to allow the name Dve to stand in the military as a monument to such a woman?

I know this might still be a long shot, but I definitely think there's enough little things sprinkled around to at least to warrant some solid suspicion. And it honestly would explain a lot.

[sst4rdst]

synopsis : scaramouche got hard while cuddling. pairing : scaramouche x reader (no gendered pronouns used for reader) warnings : suggestive. author's note : i didn't know how to evolve this into a nice smut so I'll just let this be how it is :']

minors do not interact.

scaramouche isn’t sure how you managed this.

he doesn’t recall agreeing, doesn’t remember when exactly you maneuvered him into such a compromising position. but here he is—pressed close, warmth settling over him like a slow, creeping tide.

he’s stiff at first, every muscle locked in place, body taut like a bowstring. he isn’t used to this—has never had to be. he doesn’t seek touch, doesn’t crave it the way others do. it’s never been a necessity, only another means of control, another variable he refuses to relinquish. but you’re relaxed, and it’s only when he notices this that he begins to loosen—slow, hesitant, like an animal testing its restraints.

and then he realizes.

a discomfort, subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. the tightness in his body was replaced with another, concentrated in a lower part of his body, a far more frustrating kind. his lips part slightly before snapping shut, his jaw locking in place. he wills it to go away. it doesn’t.

humiliation threatens to creep up his throat, but he swallows it down with a sharp inhale, expression schooled into something unreadable. he will not be the first to address this.

if you notice—if you dare mention it—his response is instant. a scoff, a sharp narrowing of his eyes, his confidence piecing itself back together like shattered porcelain. you did this. you planned this. you—with that innocent act and those wandering hands—must have known what you were doing. he accuses you first before you can accuse him, throwing out half-hearted threats that lack their usual bite, the embarrassment curling in his stomach dulling the edge of his words.

but he doesn’t push you away.

even as his irritation simmers beneath the surface, he stays where he is. lingers. he tells himself it’s because he’s only just gotten comfortable, that moving now would be more trouble than it’s worth. he’ll call you unbearable, insufferable—impossible—but he won’t let go.

it might take some effort to convince him to do this again. he might roll his eyes, tell you to forget it—but if you’re patient, if you’re careful, if you reassure him without forcing him to ask for it, maybe, just maybe…

he’ll let you pull him close again.

[monophobix]

another non-mc au idea

reader who was in the labs with mc and caleb. she had no evol. just a normal, ordinary human put in alongside two other worldly children. she became their caretaker in there. when they were bloodied and exhausted, she was the one who eased their pain, who plaited their hair and told them stories so they could all sleep. she was the control variable for the experiments, to test exactly how far the other two could go compared to an average human.

but she didn’t get out. josephine takes caleb and mc but for some reason she ends up staying with ever. but caleb never forgets her. the way she cared for them becomes how caleb cares for mc. he remembers her dedication to keeping them happy, so he vows to honour her memory, taking care of mc, keeping her alive so readers dedication wasn’t for nothing.

but non-mc is still alive. still used by ever. a guinea pig for their experiments.

when ever gets caleb back, they already know how to create his mechanical arm. how do they know this? well they did it to non-mc. over the years, they modified her, removed and replaced her parts with metal, learned how to attach wires to ones nervous system and turn her into something more metal than flesh.

and when caleb is back at ever, he sees her again. he sees her mechanical arm, a more rusty version of his own. perhaps she has other prosthetic attributes. a metal leg, a mechanical eye, maybe her organs have been altered. yet he recognises her all the same.

oh the guilt he would feel. knowing that for all those years he was out living his life with mc, she was still suffering, never able to experience the real world. knowing that the only reason his prosthetic is so advanced is because it came at the cost of her suffering.

maybe non-mc doesn’t remember him. the years of constant abuse making her in a near constant dissociative state. maybe she was also used for the beginning of the experiments on the toring chip, leaving her mind fractured. but what little flesh she does have might remember him. the feeling of his gravity evol around her, his touch being so gentle compared to every other experience she has. maybe he can bring her back.

or maybe she does remember him. a messed up mixture of resentment and relief building at the sight of him because ‘oh thank fuck he’s alive’ and also ‘what the fuck are you doing here’ and also ‘why did you leave me behind’. perhaps they’d work together to take down ever from the inside, growing close once again.

what about mc? maybe she runs into her. caleb insists that mc can trust her, that if anything goes wrong she can rely on her, but something about her is just different. maybe mc dislikes her, feeling threatened by caleb’s innate trust in some random woman. but maybe, subconsciously, mc feels relief at the sight of her. maybe she drags the other LIs into the situation to take down ever, non-mc providing that extra motivation to take down ever.

idk bro it’s 3am i should be asleep.

[lordprettyflackotara]

who’s afraid of little old me? || eyeless jack

smut minors dni 18+ ! tw: primal!eyeless jack, tall!cryptid!cannibal!reader, descriptions of gore/cannibalism, unrealistic predator/prey tendencies, blood kink, biting kink, breeding kink,squirting

full credits to @miss-multi45 for this concept <3

Strength. Skill. Stealth.

These were the traits that made Eyeless Jack believe he was at the top of the food chain. He had fought grizzlies before for fun, just to test his limits. The wolf pack that hunted in Slender woods steered clear of him. His scent was everywhere, along with the screams of his victims still echoing throughout the trees. Jack never had any issue hunting, a deer becoming a treat if campers hadn’t dared to wonder into the forest. With his heightened senses, he could smell or hear any living thing with no troubles. Truthfully the older he got, being an immortal cannibal was making him cocky. The self deprivation and depression was beginning to fade away. He was the best of the best. The only member of his kind. And better yet, he lived like a goddamn champion.

Hunting always put Jack in a good mood, the trill of the chase his favorite part. The potential of the victim, the variables he couldn’t control always made things so exciting.

So he did what he did best, shoving his scalpel in his hoodie and walking into the Slender forest. He was barely twenty feet in, when the sweet scent of metallics hit his nostrils. Jack frowned, lifting up his mask for a moment to deeply inhale. It wasn’t uncommon to smell blood in the forest, after all, Jack wasn’t ignorant enough to think the circle of life didn’t exist without him. But as he inhaled deeply, his eye sockets widened. Copious amounts of blood had been shed on his land and he hadn’t caused it. It could only mean one thing: there was an intruder lurking on his territory.

Not only were you lurking, you were hunting. You might as well have slapped Jack in the face. Jack gritted his teeth, darting into the direction of the scent. He zipped effortlessly through the trees, ignoring all of the curious gazes the forest’s creatures gave him as he zoomed by. Usually Jack stalked his prey effortlessly, he never ran unless he was chasing something. Little did those little chipmunks and squirrels know he was hunting, just something much more dangerous than normal. You.

When Jack had hit the clearing, that’s where he saw you. A secluded campsite that once sat in the open field was now painted crimson red. Tents were barbacilbly torn open, blood trails splattered across the grass. It was something straight out of a horror movie. Dont get him wrong, Jack loved horror movies. But only when he created them. He walked past the abandoned tents, the wind blowing past him only increasing the sweet stench of exposed organs. That’s when Jack saw you. As ethereal as the internet and story tellers had described. Your hair was long and luscious, braided down your back. Your eyes were bright and snakelike, the golden color focused on your meal. You held a young man in your grasp, the life drained from him ages before you had gotten him in this position. His eyes were lifeless, his body slumped over as you bit into his neck. Jack watched silently as you ripped out a chunk of flesh, chewing on it quickly before swallowing it. Jack was puzzled, were you even enjoying the flavor? He watched as you continued to eat the scraps of flesh that remained on the corpse. Blood trailed down your chin, thin splatters of the red liquid were drying across your cheeks.

“Are you going to stand there or are you going to join me?” You asked suddenly. You were very aware of Jack’s presence, the notion alone freaking him out. “I don’t dine with trespassers,” Jack stated plainly. He stepped fully into view, your eyes briefly flickering up and scanning him briefly. “You’re not human, what are you?” You asked. Jacks hands were tucked in his pockets, his height giving away his species. “I could ask you the same. Thought you were just a myth,” Jack replied cooly. You finally looked up from your meal, ignoring the dozens of other ripped apart corpses that laid between the two of you. “And I thought one could only have sight if they had eyes. I guess we both thought wrong,” You quipped. Jack tried to conceal the animalistic growl that boiled in the bottom of his throat. “Allow me to cut to the chase, you’re hunting on taken land,” Jack spat, venom placing his words. Curiously you rose to your feet, the demons eye sockets widening. You were just as tall as him, without shoes. You were bare foot, your long legs glimmering in the sunlight.

The pastel yellow sundress you wore was stained with dry and fresh blood, rising up just above your inner thighs. “The Operator owns this land,” You answered, slowly. It occurred to you that Jack may look human like, but his animal instincts were overriding any sense of humanity he had left. “Right, but I hunt here. My scent is everywhere, I know you smelled it when you decided to slaughter my cattle,” Jack snarled. You narrowed your eyes, momentarily blinded by one of the corpses being reanimated. The young woman was barely clinging to life, her intestines hanging loosely on the ground. Both of you could hear her shallow breathing. “Oh for fuck sake,” You mumbled, stepping over your previous meal. Jack growled, watching you pick up the slumped over body. You grabbed her neck, twisting it to the side. A sharp snap rung through out Jacks ears. “I like my organs fresh,” Jack snapped. You dropped the fresh corpse. Rolling your eyes, you straightened your back. “Her organs were quite literally coated in dirt, is that the freshness quality you were searching for?” You asked sarcastically. Jack’s patience was thinning. In a swift motion he took off his mask, baring his shark like teeth.

“Enough chit chat. I am an apex predator. You are quite literally no where near me on the food chain,” Jack yelled. You blinked, your mind spinning as you contemplated your next move. “Are you really afraid of little old me?” You questioned quickly. Should you laugh? He couldn’t quite possibly be serious right? “Um, I mean we can share the leftovers..?” You asked slowly, unsure how to respond to his animalistic behavior. Jack snarled, throwing himself at you. You were a threat. Jack knew how to handle threats, he did it for Slender on occasion. He was proficient in his ability to kill. Killing you was no exception. You narrowly dodged him clawing at you, his sharp claws ripping through your dress. He was huffing as you both watched the fabric fall to the ground. Shreds of the pastel yellow cloth hit the dirt, a cool breeze sending goosebumps across your freshly exposed skin. Jack’s eye sockets widened at the sight of your exposed breast, a creamy silk lingerie covering you. Jack couldn’t quite remember the last time he had given in to his primal urges to mate. He never considered a human being, due to the likelihood of him breaking them by mistake. But you, you were just like him in an odd way. Your breast were nice and perky, your cunt covered with a thin fabric that he could hardly consider to be undergarments.

He had anticipated you to rush to cover yourself, as the average person would do. But if anything you stood taller. “One minute you want to kill me, the next you’re staring at me like a pre teen boy. Are you bipolar?” You asked. Jack snickered at the question. “I’m a doctor, i’d know if I was bipolar,” He answered. Something about your unwavering confidence only made you more attractive. You were a threat surely, but you seemed to have much more potential as a mate. The primal urge to breed was clouding Jack’s judgment, his temporary territorial rage completely subsided. “I’m no doctor but i’d say you’re animalistic then human,” You say. Jack furrowed his eyebrows. “Oh really? How do you gather that?” He asked. You pointed at his pants, your hands still covered in fresh blood. “Your cock is straining against your jeans,” You say. Jack felt heat rush to his cheeks, before looking down. He hadn’t felt embarrassment for the first time in a long time. Yet here you were, flustering him beyond belief. “You’re cute when you’re flustered. I get the sense that neither of us have had the privilege of mating in a long time,” You said. Jack nodded, trying to seem cool and level headed. “May I make a proposal?” You asked.

Jack agreed, trying to keep his voice steady and even. “I’d say one thing we have in common is the fact we have pent up stress due to what we are. Now, I think leaving you these delicious leftovers as well as allowing ourselves to indulge in our more primal urges with one another is more than fair,” You offered. Jack ran the offer in his head, calculating all of the different possibilities. “And after you’ll leave?” He asked. You nodded affirmatively. “I never stay in one place for too long,” You answered. You walked towards the demon, bringing your index finger to under his chin. You lifted his head up, examining his neck. You could hear his pulse up close, it was beating much faster than the average human. “I will admit though i’ve broken my previous toys in the past. Are you sure you can handle me?” You questioned. Jack chuckled darkly, grabbing your wrist and moving your hand away. “I could ask you the same question,” He grinned. Quickly you brought your lips to his, allowing yourself to shudder under his warm touch as he grabbed your waist. His hands were large and warm, pulling you closer towards him. You could feel his aching boner as you kissed him deeply, the demon on cloud nine.

Your height complimented his if anything, his large hands grabbing your ass. You jumped, wrapping your legs around his waist. The dampness of your panties was already soaking through, leaving a wet spot on his crotch. You whined as you bucked your hips against his, the demon unfazed by your height. You briefly pulled away, nibbling teasingly at his bottom lip. You tasted like blood, as well as faint bubblegum. “You’re stronger than I thought loverboy,” You complimented. Jack roughly brought you to the closest tent, your back hitting a forgotten sleeping bag. “Yeah? Let’s see how you handle me,” He replied smoothly. He kissed down your neck, purposefully nibbling at the sensitive skin. His hands wondered down to your hips, pulling apart what remained of your dress. “I assume you’ll be acquiring me some clothes?” You questioned. Jack shrugged off his hoodie, carelessly tossing it at your face. “Here, that should fit you,” He grunted. Tearing away your panties and tossing them aside, your bare slick drove the demon into a frenzy. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, keeping them pried apart as as began to lap at your cunt.

Your hand instinctively flew down to his hair, tugging harshly at the roots as he stuck two of his tongues inside of your aching entrance. You gasped in surprise, moaning in delight as he curled them upwards. “At least that mouth is good for something,” You panted, grinding against his face. His third tongue flickered and swirled at your clit, pushing you closer to the edge. Your human lovers could never compete with this. He had been buried in between your thighs for mere minutes and you already could feel the knot in your stomach tighten. Jack grunted in response to your comment, delivering a sharp slap to your thigh. A whine escaped your lips, your thighs squeezing around his head. His tongues were merciless, your juices so delicious Jack found himself humping against the tent’s floor to help relieve his aching cock. He could feel your gummy walls squeezing his tongues, a concealed smirk spreading across his lips. You were just as delicious as the chaos you caused. You gave his hair one final tug, releasing all over his face.

Jack contained to lap at your slick until he deemed you clean. You were dazed, but repositioned yourself quickly. Your mouth was watering at the idea of sucking his cock. You’d never wanted something more. Jack quickly pushed you back down, the clinking of his belt sending a shiver down your spine. “Not this time. I can’t go another minute without being inside of you,” He snarled. His sudden dominance only made you more wet, his hands roughly shoving you into a mating press. Jack licked his lips as he pulled out his cock, slowly pushing it inside of you. You whined at the stretch, Jack not failing to notice your claws digging into his arms. “Not so big and bad now are we?” He teased. He let out a groan as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. The way you were gripping him, the way your nails were digging into his back. You wanted this just as bad as him. You needed this just as bad as him. He fully bottomed out inside of you, his tip brushing against your g spot. “Holy fuck,” You whimpered. Jack couldn’t help but grin devilishly as he slowly moved his hips. “It’s like you were made for me,” He grunted. He began to pick up the pace, snapping his hips into yours.

His thrust were rough and desperate, his body craving to release into yours. He had never felt such a raw and intense connection before, his body demanding more. “You’re mine, all mine,” Jack grunted. He continued to fuck you, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. You gasped at the sensation, a moan escaping his lips and being muffled by your skin as he sucked at your blood. The metallic taste was euphoric, your cunt squeezing him tighter as he marked you. “Fuck leaving. You’re mine. My mate,” Jack moaned. His thrust became more aggressive, his cock abusing your cunt as he claimed you as his own. You felt your eyes roll into the back of your head, your thighs shaking. “Oh my fucking- fuck! Jack!” You moaned. Jacks thrust were uncontrolled, his body demanding to fill your cunt to the brim. He released your neck, his three tongues lapping at the wound. “This feels nice huh? Being knocked down a peg?” Jack snickered. The feeling of your gummy walls milking him dry was euphoric, the demons orgasm coming closer.

“Gonna fill you up over and over and over. My little mate. Your pussy’s like goddamn heroin,” Jack rambler. You forced yourself to prop yourself up on your elbows, crashing your lips against Jack’s. “You talk too much,” You teased, nipping at his bottom lip. You groaned in his mouth as his cock abused your g spot, your eyes fluttering open as you squirted around his cock. Your juices coated his lower half, the demons hips finally stuttering and coming to a halt. His warm, thick cum flooded your cunt, filling you to the brim. You both were panting messes, Jack utterly surprised when you flipped the two of you over effortlessly. You straddled him, managing to keep his cock buried inside of you.

“So loverboy, wanna go for round two?”

You had so much stamina it was scary. Jack could see it in your eyes, you were ready to go as many rounds as he could do.

Maybe Jack should’ve been afraid of little old you.

[callingitquits]

Johan Relationship Headcanons (Basic Outline)

Hey. First post. Hope you enjoy

Touch is Rare, but Loaded

Johan doesn’t initiate touch often. When he does, it’s purposeful. Either unsettling, comforting in a disorienting way, or startlingly gentle. A hand on the back of the neck, a brushing of fingers, lingering eye contact while staying just out of reach. His restraint is part of the seduction.

Emotional Distance

Johan operates from behind a veil. Even in a relationship, he keeps his core self guarded. He shares thoughts and feelings selectively, often as a way to provoke or test, rather than to bond. Vulnerability is not something he offers freely. If he does, it’s deliberate and loaded.

He Watches You Sleep

Not in a romantic sense…in a knowing one. He watches because it’s when you’re most defenseless, most yourself. Not to protect. Not to admire. Just to understand. There’s always a method behind the stillness in him.

Devotion in Obsession

If Johan becomes attached, it’s not in halves. It’s in totality. His version of ‘love’ is consuming, but not loud. He fixates, learns everything, observes always. He won’t say it. He might not even call it love. But he sees the other person as uniquely his, even if the world burns.

Jealousy is Subtle but Dangerous

Johan won’t make a scene. He won’t say he’s jealous. But you’ll notice the tension. The small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The shift in tone. The sudden interest in the person who was too close to you. If he feels threatened, the consequences are quiet but permanent.

Almost Domesticity

He makes tea with precision. Folds your blankets when you’re not looking. Puts your favorite song on quietly before you wake up. There’s an eerie calm to the way he does small things for you.

He Remembers Everything

Even things you said once, in passing. Even the way your face looked when you said it. He remembers and reintroduces them like gifts: your favorite flower on the table, your birthday you never talk about, your offhand wish quietly granted.

He Likes to Be Understood But Not Too Much

Johan longs to be seen, in some twisted way. But if you see too much—if you get too close to the monster in him…he’ll either pull away or challenge you, to see if you’ll still stay. He’s always testing thresholds.

Love Is Not a Cure

Even if Johan loves someone…he is still who he is. He doesn’t soften easily. He doesn’t become safe. The relationship will always exist under a certain tension, a constant questioning: Is this real? Am I real? He can love deeply, but that love will never be innocent.

He Loves in Secrets and Silences

He won’t say it. Probably never will. But he’ll sit beside you after you cry and hand you a glass of water. He’ll reread your favorite book just to understand you better. He’ll keep the note you left him in his coat pocket until it fades. His love is a ghost in the room.

Protective Without Announcement

He’ll never say “I’m here for you.” He’ll just be there. When something scares you, he’s already standing between you and it. You won’t know how he knew, just that he did. He’s not loud about his protectiveness, but it’s absolute.

He Touches You Like You’re Breakable

Every touch is slow, thoughtful, like you’re something he was told never to touch, but can’t help himself. Fingers on your jaw, brushing your hair back, resting a hand against your back when you tremble. He touches rarely, but when he does, it’s reverent.

His Version of “I Love You”

He won’t say it. But it’ll come out in ways like:

“You’re shaking.”

“Don’t go off wandering again.”

“Will you still be here in the morning?”

Johan shows love through concern disguised as observation, in questions laced with fear he won’t admit.

Love Feels Like a Threat to Him

The closer you get, the more unstable he becomes. You become the one variable he can’t control. It terrifies him, even if he never says it. He’ll try to push you away just to see if you’ll go. And if you do…he’ll feel it like a knife.

There Are Things He’ll Never Tell You

No matter how close you get, there will always be locked doors. Secrets he keeps not to protect you, but to protect control. You might beg to understand him. He might smile, even touch your face, and say, “Some things are better left unsaid.”

He Lies to You, But Never Directly

He doesn’t say “I didn’t do that.” He says “Why would I?” Or “That’s not what matters right now.” He misdirects. Omits. Gives partial truths, especially about his past, about where he goes, what he’s done. And you know—deep down—but he’s so calm, so convincing, you stop pushing.

He Controls Through ‘Kindness’

He never tells you not to do something. He simply suggests you avoid certain people. He helps you rearrange your routine. He gives you soft reasons: “You don’t seem yourself after seeing them” Until your world orbits only around him. It looks like love. It’s really a cage.

He Pushes Until You Break, Just to See

Sometimes, he wants to know how far he can go. He’ll say something cruel: “Maybe you’re not as different from them as you think” and watch you crumble. And afterward? He’ll comfort you like he didn’t cause it. Stroking your hair, whispering, “It’s alright, I’m still here.”

He Prepares for the End Constantly

Even on your best days, Johan is quietly preparing for the end. He memorizes your face, the sound of your breath, the pattern of your routines. Not because he’s sentimental, but because he’s already saying goodbye in his head. Love, to him, is always temporary. Always doomed.

He Dreams of Losing You. Then Tries to Make It Happen

Sometimes he dreams of you leaving. Dying. Forgetting him. And then he tests it in reality. He’ll withdraw. Say something cruel. Push just a little too far, just to see if you’ll go. And when you don’t? He’s relieved. And quietly disgusted with himself.

He Knows You’re Better Off Without Him

He knows wholeheartedly that he’s a danger to you. And yet he stays. He stays because you make him feel, and he’s selfish enough to want that. Even knowing he could be your undoing. It eats at him.

He Thinks He’ll Break You. Slowly, Quietly, and Permanently

He’s always watching for cracks in you. Not to exploit them, but to confirm what he already believes: that being near him hurts you. And yet he doesn’t leave. He just watches the slow unraveling and wonders if he’ll recognize you when it’s done.

He Thinks the Most Loving Thing He Can Do For You Is Leave

One day, he may just walk away. Not because he stopped loving you. Far from it. But because he thinks it’s the only way to protect you from himself. It won’t be dramatic. No goodbyes. Just silence, and absence, and a hole shaped like his name.

He Can’t Handle Being Forgiven

Apologies aren’t in his nature, but if you offer him grace—if you say, “It’s okay,” you’ll see something flicker in him. Not gratitude. Not peace. Shame. A deep, almost childlike confusion. He doesn’t know what to do with being accepted.

[vinnyvamppp]

Your fics have my gay ass twirling my metaphorical long hair 🤣 to be desired and bite me back - easily my favorites!

If your requests are open, i really would like to ask for male reader since your okay with that 🙏🏾 Shiesty mark x male sub reader x omnimark with it being smutty and the marks smug and butting heads ☺️

Double Booked

Note: LMFAO, I'm glad I was able to manifest your inner diva, and so on! I always saw them as a friend/sibling comedy duo, BUT I see the vision, let me cook rq.

Warnings: Smut, Spit-Roast Position, Double Penetration, Face-Fucking, Power Dynamic, Explicit Language, Submissive/Bratty Reader Who Flips The Dynamic, Mutual Obsession, Ego Battles, Edging, Overstimulation.

Synopsis: You’re the problem that makes them argue, compete, and wreck you just to prove a point. Used, stuffed, and silenced—until you flip the game on them and make them beg to take turns. Who’s really in control? That’s the fun part.

Shiesty Mark x Omni-Mark x Male!Reader

Word Count: 2,050

It’s not that they get along, not really. They were never meant to coexist in the same space, two divergent directives spun from the same code. One optimized for logic, restraint, calculated control. The other? All instinct, all impulse, teeth bared and tongue always sharp. If Omni is the command line, Shiesty is the glitch in the system that learned how to want.

They disagree constantly. About methods, about meaning, and about you.

That’s the one variable neither can stabilize. You entered the equation soft, snarky, insatiable. Too mouthy for your own good. Too tempting not to take. Somehow, you hit the exact nerve that made them both decide: you’re theirs.

Not shared or split, but rather claimed simultaneously. Every interaction becomes a competition for attention.

And so, you live in the tension. Caught between a god and a demon in the same mirrored face. You’re a toy, test, and a pet they argue over. Shiesty wants to break you down and hear you beg. Omni wants to build you back up and train you to kneel. They take turns ruining you. Competing for your reactions. Measuring their worth in your moans, your obedience, your surrender.

The problem is, you like it. You like the chaos. The control. The quiet jealousy and cruel smirks. You like being fought over, fucked through, and flattened under their ego games. And maybe—just maybe—you know exactly what you’re doing when you sass one in front of the other.

Because if there’s one truth you’ve learned? They don’t need to agree, they just need to have you. Today, you were asking for it and not in the subtle way, in the downright suicidal way.

“I thought Omni was supposed to be the smart one,” you say, breathless but smug, gaze flicking toward Shiesty Mark who’s already leaning against the wall like he knew you’d blow this. “But I guess even he glitches.”

Shiesty chuckles under his breath. It’s more like a snort, dark, amused, and ready to revel in your downfall. “You just signed your own fuckin’ death sentence,” he mutters, low and giddy. “God, I love this part.”

Omni Mark doesn’t yell. Doesn’t curse, doesn’t even raise his voice. He just walks toward you slowly, like he's weighing every step with divine precision. His eyes are unreadable, but the tension behind them is palpable. Your breath hitches.

“I expected more discipline from you,” he says, calm but cutting. “But if this is what you need to understand your place…” He doesn’t finish the sentence… he doesn’t have to.

Next thing you know, his fingers are in your hair—not rough, but commanding and he's pushing you down. No warning, not even the grace of patience. “On your knees,” he says softly.

You obey and fast. Faster than you want to admit to the point it's shameful. And you swear you hear Shiesty laugh again behind you. “Look at him, all obedient now. Got that mouth full and suddenly he knows how to behave.”

Omni unzips with clinical like practice, hand steady at the back of your head. He doesn’t thrust, not yet. Just lets you feel the weight of him resting against your lips.

“You will not speak,” he says. “Unless it’s to apologize.”

You try. You try to say something smart, something biting, but the second your lips part, he pushes in. Your throat contracts around the pressure causing you to choke.

Behind you, you feel movement, clothes shifting, and a belt coming undone. You don’t even have time to look back. “You always this dumb?” Mark murmurs, voice now low by your ear as he crouches behind you. “Or does Omni just make you cockdrunk?”

You moan around his length—reflexive, humiliating, hot as hell—and the sound makes both of them freeze for a second. He grips your hair, guiding you down onto his thick cock, your lips nudging the base of his pelvis. Your lips stretch around him, your tongue flattening as the bulbous head nudges the back of your throat. You gag, eyes watering, but he holds you there, letting you adjust to the girth stretching your mouth. The taste of salt wells in the back of your throat, a faint rumble vibrating in his chest with each inch.

Then Shiesty growls, “Oh fuck, yeah,” and you feel the first thick press of him behind you. He grinds his own cock between your ass cheeks, the blunt tip catching on your rim with every thrust. He's thicker than you remember, the shaft pulsing with need as he teases your hole. The shlick sound of precum echoes in the room, the perfect lubricant to poke and prod as he pleased. The soft thrum of his heartbeat rattled against his chest, muscles tensing as anticipation spiked his pulse. This was his favorite pastime. Then it happens–

They move in sync. Like they’ve done this before. Like you’re just another variable they’re testing, except you know better. There’s tension simmering between them. Omni doesn’t slow his pace as he starts fucking your throat—tight grip on your skull, breath even. It starts shallow. Thrusts that let you feel every ridge and vein of his cock gliding over your tongue. He’s savoring the heat, the give of your muscles as you learn to take it. Shiesty’s hands dig into your hips as he lines up behind you, already leaking, cockhead rubbing between your cheeks with no patience, the hairs of his pubes tickling your ass. He waits until you're flushed and panting before the fat head of his cock pops past your rim. The burn is instant, the stretch almost too much as he drives into you with a guttural groan. “You really think you can talk shit to him and me?” Shiesty spits. “You think we won’t ruin you for that?”

You can’t answer, not with your mouth full, not with your body pinned, not with your brain short-circuiting from the thick stretch as Shiesty finally thrusts in from behind.

Omni doesn’t break pace. Doesn’t even look up, instead focusing on the contraction of your lips, the hollowed outline of your cheeks, and the spit drizzled down his length..

“Don’t be sloppy,” he says coolly, hand still in your hair. “We’re not rushing this.”

“Sloppy’s how he likes it,” Shiesty snaps, already moving rougher, deeper. “Ain’t that right, baby? Bet you like being used like a fuckin’ trophy while we argue.” They bicker over you and through you. 

You’re gagging, moaning, twitching—every muscle in your body caught between their rhythm, their dominance, their fucking egos. You’re nothing but a body, a problem they’re solving together, a brat getting what he begged for without even saying the words and it’s perfect.

Your whole body coils like a wire pulled tight, pleasure knotting low in your gut, spreading fast—hot, sharp, overwhelming. Your cock’s swollen, untouched, dripping onto the bedsheets with every brutal, synchronized thrust inside you, and your muscles lock up, toes curling, abs twitching—right there, so close you can taste it, every nerve in your body screaming for release. But it never breaks. Your cock throbs, useless, your climax teetering on the edge like a cruel mirage—just out of reach, no friction, no mercy, only the relentless stretch of two cocks slamming into you and your body begging for permission it’ll never get. You can’t come. You just shake, trembling, leaking, ruined—forced to feel every unbearable second of pleasure with no end in sight.

Their bodies stutter in sync, each thrust sloppier than the last, both of them buried so deep inside you they’re shaking—Omni’s jaw clenched tight, eyes half-lidded as sweat beads along his temple, his calculated control unraveling second by second, while behind you Shiesty’s rhythm falters, his fingers bruising into your hips, teeth grit, breathing like he’s been sprinting uphill, too stubborn to give in first even as his cock twitches inside you with every clench of your hole; they’re both trembling, holding on by a thread, each of them locked in silent, desperate resistance—not because they want to stop, but because they refuse to let the other win. You don’t remember finishing, no, not really. Your mind goes blank somewhere between Shiesty’s filthy growling and Omni’s slow, devastating thrusts down your throat. Your knees are aching, your lips are raw, your hole is flooded—both of them finishing inside you like it’s a race neither wanted to lose.

And still... you smile. Your face is a mess. Saliva and slick, sweat clinging to your skin. But the grin is there, lazy and cocky, per usual. Because you know something they don’t. … Or maybe they do—and that’s why they’re staring at you like they don’t know whether to fuck you again or drag you out of the room and marry you.

You rise to your feet slowly, somewhat staggering, and grab Shiesty by the jaw first. His lips are still wet, his cock half-hard and twitching as it softens. He gives you that trademark smirk—the one that says, you ain’t done with me.

But before he can speak, you lean in. “You look prettier when you’re mad,” you whisper against his lips. “Bet you’d lose it if I let him fuck me again first, huh?”

Shiesty’s nostrils flare. You know you’ve got him. That possessive, unhinged twitch in his brow tells you he’ll be back in you within seconds if you say the word. You turn next, casually, even as your legs shake and face Omni. His chest is rising slowly, evenly, but his eyes? They’re intense. There’s a storm there, hidden behind all that control, hidden behind narrowing eyes, with the twitch of his eyebrow revealing more.

You step close, press your hand to his still-clothed chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. “You’re both obsessed,” you say with a tired little laugh. “Like you didn’t just double-stuff me and argue like divorced parents in front of a buffet.”

Omni doesn’t move, but his jaw ticks.

And then, you do the unthinkable. You reach down, wrap your fingers around both of their cocks—Shiesty’s already thickening again, Omni’s twitching under your palm.

“Let’s go again,” you murmur. “This time I’m not shutting up.” You’re straddling Omni’s lap this time, facing him, grinding slow against the length you know he's trying to keep from reacting to, but he can’t help it. You feel it—thick, already getting hard again, his self-control cracking like glass under pressure.

“You should stop me,” you whisper, angling your hips so your slick, used hole is brushing against his cock. “If you don’t want this—” Omni cuts you off. Not with words but with mind numbing action. One hand grips your waist, the other wraps around your throat, not choking, but close. His cock slips back inside you in one long, deep push until he’s fully sheathed.

You bite back a groan and grind, loving the stretch even after what you just took. Omni groans softly, low in his throat. From behind, you hear Shiesty pacing.

“Oh hell no,” he snaps. “You don’t get to fuck him again without me. He’s still dripping my load.” You look over your shoulder, smirking through your moans. “You’re jealous,” you pant. “Say it.”

Shiesty growls like a full animal and grabs your hips from behind. Omni doesn’t stop thrusting. You’re sandwiched again, Omni below you, slow and deep, Shiesty behind you, lining up with zero patience. “Fucking ruined,” Shiesty says as he pushes back in alongside Omni—two thick cocks spreading you open again, one slightly off-center, with both of them stuffing you full of heat and vengeance.

Your eyes roll back and you swear you black out for half a second. You’re moaning now—loud, shameless, because you know they’re both obsessed with you. They can’t stop, they won’t stop. Every thrust is a battle between them, but every scream you let out is a win.

“You’re both mine,” you whisper hoarsely, voice cracking as they both thrust into you at once. “Try to deny it.” Omni’s pace falters and Shiesty groans, “Fuck—shut up—shut up—”

But they don’t want you to, not at all. They want to hear you say it again. Every filthy word, every bratty taunt, every moan, every broken breath, and every whisper of I own you. Because deep down? They’re both obsessed with being the one who makes you break. And even deeper? They’re obsessed with how much you love making them break, too. A/N: I made it a little shorter than usual. I'm testing the waters. Hope you like it! lmfao

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[kenzdolls]

𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐈 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧! 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫, 𝐩𝐫𝐞-𝐰𝐚𝐫

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧! 𝐠𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

MEETING TOMURA SHIGARAKI:

first meeting? he barely acknowledges you. he's got bigger things to worry about than some new recruit. you're just another pawn to him.

he watches you carefully during your first mission together. not because he cares, but because he needs to know if you're competent enough to be useful. if you screw up, expect a harsh comment.

your quirk fascinates him, but not in a good way at first. he sees it as a variable he needs to understand and control. he might ask you a million questions.

if your quirk is touch-based, he's extremely wary. he'll keep his distance and probably wear gloves even when he's not using his own quirk. 

he forgets your name for weeks. you're just "the [quirk name] user" to him.

he tests you, pushing your buttons, and trying to figure out what makes you tick. he needs to know everything about his teammates, obviously.

you're probably the only one who doesn't flinch when he gets angry. he notices.

TOMURA CRUSHING ON YOU:

the first time he actually listens to you – really listens, not juststrategizing – he's caught off guard. 

he starts finding excuses to be around you. "i need to observe your quirk usage" turns into "i'm sitting in the same room as you while you do absolutely nothing."

he gets unreasonably irritated when other league members talk to you for too long. he would never admit he's jealous.

he starts mimicking your mannerisms, subconsciously. 

he starts cleaning up his hands some more. not because he wants to touch you, no, no, no. it's because he wants to seem presentable for all for one.

small acts of "kindness," like making sure you're included in mission briefings or "allowing" you to choose your assignments. he's still the boss, after all.

he notices the little things about you: the way you furrow your brow when you're concentrating, the way you fidget when you're nervous, your favorite snack.

he'll deny it to his grave, but he starts taking your opinions into consideration.

he starts scratching his neck a LOT more when you are around for some reason.

if someone hurts you, he is more enraged than he is normaly.

he is more likely to listen to you.

he can't help but stare at you.

he accidentally calls you by a pet name when he's frustrated, and he gets even MORE frustrated after he realizes what he did.

he starts losing sleep, which is never a good sign for his mental state. he doesn't know why, it must be because you are bothering him or something.

DATING TOMURA SHIGARAKI:

the "confession" is less of a romantic declaration and more of a mumbled agreement. "i guess you're... not entirely useless."

physical touch is a HUGE hurdle. it starts with accidental brushes, then maybe a hesitant shoulder bump. he doesn't trust himself (or his quirk) to get any closer. 

lots of late-night talks about villains, society, and their shared hatred. it's his way of connecting.

he still doesn't say your name often. pet names become his go-to.

he is very protective and possessive of you.

dates? forget fancy restaurants or romantic walks. you're more likely to find yourselves planning world domination over cheap ramen.

he actually listens and remembers things you say and like; if it's useful for a mission, of course.

he can get jealous and possessive, and he isn't afraid to show it.

he occasionally wants to hold your hand but doesn't know how to approach it without disintegrating you.

he gets genuinely upset if you get hurt.

he hates seeing you sad or stressed.

he's still a mess, but your mess. And secretly, he wouldn't have it any other way.

sleepovers are uncommon since his skin can be harmful, but there are nights when he is okay with it.

he's not a cuddler, but he secretly likes it when you snuggle him.

he always wants to be around you.

he would go with you everywhere.

he's willing to do anything for you once he's in love.

when he actually calls you his partner, you know its serious.

sometimes when he's asleep, he has nightmares of you leaving him/ dying, so he hugs you closer in his sleep.

he would take you out on a picnic if you asked, even though he would hate it.

he will often ask you if you are doing alright or if you needed anything.

he would kill for you.

you are, without a doubt, his player 2.

he would never admit it, but you are his weakness.

it makes him very happy when you hug him.

he likes hearing you call him by his name.

he will do anything for you; wether it’s killing dealing with someone, or if it’s getting you anything you desire

he loves tolerates you a lot

© 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 —

[jeszrosse]

🧬 “Deviation”

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

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

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🧬 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.

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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.

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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.

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“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;>)

[illuminatedquill]

Mark S created by Mark to forget the pain of losing Gemma but she’s still “in his veins” as Devon and Petey point out, making things hurt. I don’t care what others say (looking at you Ben Stiller), innie Mark had a connection - and feelings - towards Gemma. He just didn’t know what it was, but that connection is what made him so damn good at his job. Because Mark loves Gemma so much and it bleeds into his innie.

And then, even as she’s being torn apart into these different versions of herself, Dichen saying that all of Gemma’s innies trust Mark instinctively because Gemma is in love with Mark. He’s aiding in this unspeakable harm being done to her (unknowingly, I need to emphasize, because it’s all FUCKING LUMON taking advantage of these two) and all of her still trusts him. He could walk into any of those rooms and she would always follow him out.

That is why Lumon’s test failed. They didn’t anticipate that the connection would survive despite Gemma’s tempers being balanced. How is such a scientifically based company not understanding that their product would ultimately fail in the real world because of unknown variables? Everything in Lumon is controlled to such an insidious degree but people in the real world are messy and complicated and much more complex than the sterile white halls of their building.

Hell, severance doesn’t even work within their own building! The innies still creating connections with each other, their jobs, finding love in what they do and with each other!

Severance fails! It will always fail! Because the love bleeds through no matter what, even in the deepest pit of Hell that they constructed for Gemma, Mark and Gemma’s love remains strong enough to defy their technology. To transcend through it all.

[booty-uprooter]

some tips on how to make bosses easier if youre feeling theyre too hard:

play a ranged physical dps class. that way you can hang back to keep an eye on the arena and what the boss is doing without having to worry about needing to stand still long enough to complete an induction

on that note, inductions are considered finished before the bar is full. you can usually move right before it fills and still have it go off, but it takes some trial and error to figure out how close you can cut it

move your ui around. my own life was made immeasurably easier when i put the target right above my hotbar so i wouldnt have to pay attention to both the top and bottom of the screen at the same time, but try stuff out and see what works best for you

the best time to mitigate an attack is right before the boss finishes casting it. the second best time is as soon as the mit becomes available, every time it becomes available

use addle and feint. you almost never see these used in casual content and it's a waste because they really are extremely useful skills at any level

use arm's length and surecast. there are some knockbacks they dont work on but those are rare. if you know youre gonna get pushed, use these and you probably won't get pushed

take advantage of duty support. the npcs know the mechanics. watch them and let them teach you

particle effects cant hurt you (usually). with the exception of puddles that stay on the ground for a while or layered stacks like akh morn, as long as youre not standing on the marker when it disappears (or are if it's a stack), you're in the clear. feel free to move through the animation if necessary. more and more mechanics require you to do so to be in position for the next one in time

it's usually fine to let spread markers overlap. just, yknow, make sure another person isnt in yours (though its the responsibility of anyone without a spread to keep themselves out of harms way)

when in doubt, ask your party members. it's extremely rare to match with a group of randos and have everyone be a first-timer. most players are happy to help, and the ones that know the mechanics but are bad at explaining them will usually just stick a marker on themselves (usually a triangle) for you to follow

read your tool tips. boss fights are as much a test of how well you know your class as they are your ability to read and react to mechanics. unless youre playing a healer or paladin, youre going to use your entire kit, so make sure you know what everything does

on that note, freecure is a scam. once you get cure ii/benefic ii, you will never need cure or benefic again. keep them on your hotbar for when you get synced content if you wish, but otherwise you do not need them. do not use them

if you play multiple classes, try to keep skills that do the same/similar things at the same spot on your hotbar. this isn't always possible bc despite what some may claim, not all classes of the same type are actually identical, but it will save you a lot of headaches

entirely new and unique mechanics are rare to the point of being nigh nonexistent. everything is a remix of something else and practicing in lower level content can actually be a big help

look up guides. the internet is full of them in pretty much whatever form works best for you (though they can be of admittedly variable quality)

turn down party effects. theyre on one of the tabs under character configuration > controls. if you put them on minimum you can still see heals and such but you wont have your screen constantly full of explosions

turn on target health percentage. this one is under character configuration > ui. it lets you better see how close the boss is to going down

make summons smaller. we all love titan's ass but not when it's the only thing you can see. "/petsize all small" will make this problem go away

relax and have fun. panicking leads to mistakes, which can lead to worse mistakes. if you need to take a second to breathe, do so. your party members probably wont mind waiting a minute or two between pulls