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seungsluv · 1 month ago

Text

Left on Read

── .✦ content warning : SMUT! MDI!!! fem!reader; kinda angst; mild burnout; miscommunication; light argument; explicit sex;

��⋆˙ pairing: idol seungmin × fem!reader

✮⋆˙ word count: 2,1k

✮⋆˙ synopsis: “He shuts you out. You show up anyway. Tension snaps, words cut, and then it's just hands, mouths, desperation — because silence never kept you from choosing him.”

✮⋆˙ A/N: heyy!! I personally didn't like this one – cause I hate writing short ones – I just wanted to post something so the blog doesn't ""die"". if you have some requests or thoughts you want to share, please feel free to send me a message and lmk what you think. don't forget to like and reblog it!! xox ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

The lights in the apartment clock flashed 00:42 AM. I sat curled up on the couch, my phone screen glowing in my palm as I stared at the latest message I had sent him.

No response. Again. I had already double-checked if the messages were delivered. They were.

I sighed and typed another one, shorter this time.

[00:42 AM] Y/N: Are you still at the studio?

[00:56 AM] Y/N: Seungmin?

[01:09 AM] Y/N: Do you at least ate?

Still nothing.

My lips pressed into a thin line. I tapped on Chan’s name instead and sent a quick text:

[01:14 AM] Y/N → Chan: Is Seungmin still at the company?

The reply came almost instantly.

[01:14 AM] Chan: Yup. Still in the recording booth.

[01:15 AM] Chan: He’s arguing with himself about how his vocals suck.

[01:15 AM] Chan: You should probably come take him home before he erases the whole track.

My jaw tightened, fingers clenching around the phone. This wasn’t the first time. I tossed a hoodie over my tank top, grabbed my keys, and headed out.

The city passed like a blur outside the window as I drove, hands tight on the steering wheel, jaw clenched. Maybe this was insane. Maybe he just needed space. Maybe I was overreacting. But I knew him. And if there was one thing Seungmin was good at, it was pretending he was fine when he wasn’t.

The building was mostly empty at that hour, the distant hum of ventilation systems the only sound as I made my way through the halls. When I reached the studio, the door was slightly ajar, a soft trail of Seungmin’s voice leaking through.

Chan was in the producer’s chair, arms folded, head leaning back like he was halfway to sleep. He turned when he heard the door creak. His eyebrows rose. “Wow. He really pushed you, huh?”

I dropped my bag onto the couch with more force than necessary. “He’s not answering me. Again.”

Chan shrugged with a tired smile. “He’s locked in perfectionist mode. Keeps saying his tone sounds wrong. I’ve told him to stop at least four times. He argued. I gave up.”

I crossed my arms. “Is he eating?”

“No. He’s eating self-hatred and... vocal fry.” That earned a half-smirk from me.

Chan stood, slinging his jacket over one shoulder. “He might listen to you, though. I mean... if the pissed-off girlfriend look doesn’t make him flinch, I don’t know what will.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Coward.”

“Correct.” he said, grinning as he walked to the door. “Good luck. Don’t destroy any equipment.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, I finally turned to the booth. Seungmin was inside, headphones on, replaying the same take, muttering under his breath as he adjusted the mic. He hadn’t noticed me yet. I moved closer to the glass, arms folded.

Eventually, he turned and froze. Our eyes locked. He blinked, surprised, pulling off his headphones. I didn’t wait for an invitation, I opened the booth door and stepped in.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice rough. Seungmin blinked, pulling the headphones off. “It’s late.”

“Yeah. No shit.” I stepped further in. “Did you plan on ignoring me until morning or…?”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve just been working—”

“You always say that.” My voice cracked, just barely. “I get it, Min. You love what you do. But I’m not just some… background character in your day.”

A beat passed.

“I just... needed to get this right.” he muttered.

“You’ve been doing this for days. Skipping meals. Coming home after I’ve fallen asleep. Acting like I don’t exist.” His jaw clenched. “You think I’m mad because you’re working? I’m mad because you won’t let me in.” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, Seungmin. Not when I’m right here.”

He exhaled slowly, voice strained. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Yeah well, too late for that.”

He looked at me, finally meeting my eyes. And for a second, he looked smaller. Tired. Vulnerable. “I’m sorry.” he said. “For shutting you out. For making you feel like you don’t matter. You do. More than anything.”

I softened, stepping closer. “I’m sorry too. For making you think you can’t fall apart in front of me.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something more, but the words didn’t come.

“Let me hear it.” I said. He hesitated, then pressed play. The recording played softly in the background. His voice filled the booth — raw, imperfect, and beautiful. I didn’t look at the monitor. I watched him. When it ended, silence hung between us.

“You sound like you mean every word.” I said. “It's good. Better even.”

He let out a shaky laugh. “You always say that.”

I reached up, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “Because it's always true. That’s the curse of caring too much.”

He leaned into my touch without thinking.

“I missed you.” I whispered.

“I’ve been here.”

“Not really.”

He looked at me again — really looked this time — and everything about him softened.

“I’m sorry.” he said quietly. “For not replying. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I wasn’t listening.”

I stepped forward, my voice lower now. “Sorry if I made you feel like you’re never doing enough. That’s not what I think. That’s never what I think.” The tension in his shoulders. The tired edge in his voice. I leaned in, closing the space between us slowly, giving him time to stop me. He didn’t.

Our lips met, slow and deliberate, like we were savoring something we weren’t sure we’d be allowed to taste again. There was nothing rushed about it. It was all breath and longing and the echo of weeks spent in silence. His mouth moved against mine like a silent apology, and I kissed him back like I wanted to undo every minute of distance with nothing but my lips.

The way he touched me wasn’t hungry at first —it was careful. Like I was glass. Like he was afraid I’d shatter and disappear. His hands rested at my waist before sliding up, tentative, brushing under the hem of my hoodie. The heat of his palms made my skin jump, and I gasped into his mouth when his thumbs grazed my ribs.

I pulled him closer, fingers threading into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. His soft groan vibrated through me. It was the kind of sound you only make when something feels too good to be real.

And it did feel unreal.

The studio was quiet, lit only by the soft glow from the control board. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. Just me, him, and the months of tension unraveling with every brush of skin.

He broke the kiss first, breathing hard. “You should go home.” he whispered, but his arms tightened around me like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

“Not happening.” I murmured, my lips ghosting across his jaw. “You don’t get to shut down and pretend I don’t exist just because you’re scared.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like he was fighting something heavy inside him. “I’ve been so fucking lost lately.”

“Then let me find you.” I pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it somewhere behind us. My hands moved automatically, relearning him — his collarbones, the heat of his chest, the slight tremble in his stomach when my fingers dragged down his abs. His breathing hitched.

“You’re shaking.” I said quietly.

“I haven’t touched you in weeks.” he replied, voice wrecked. “I’ve been thinking about this every damn night.”

My hoodie was next. He peeled it off slowly, reverently, like each inch of skin he uncovered was sacred. When he kissed my shoulder, just below my collarbone, I felt my knees weaken. Then he looked up, eyes dark, lips parted. “I don’t remember how to take it slow.”

“You don’t have to.”

I pressed my body to his, grinding slowly against the bulge in his jeans. He cursed under his breath, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. When he kissed me again, it was messy and breathless. No more restraint, just weeks of built-up tension crashing into us like a wave.

He backed me toward the padded bench, lips never leaving mine, hands everywhere, waist, hips, the underside of my breasts. He pushed me down gently, then stood between my legs, looking down at me like I was some beautiful secret he didn’t know how to deserve.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” he whispered, almost angry with himself for not saying it sooner.

He kissed his way down my body — hot, open-mouthed kisses on my chest, my stomach, the insides of my thighs. When he pulled my underwear down with his teeth, I thought I might combust right there.

He looked up at me from between my legs, eyes smoldering. “Let me taste you.”

I barely had time to nod before his tongue slid over me, slow, firm, deliberate. My hips bucked involuntarily, and he moaned into me like the taste alone was enough to undo him.

His tongue worked me open with practiced ease, lapping, teasing, circling my clit just right before sliding two fingers inside me. I gripped the edge of the bench, gasping, back arching as he pushed deeper, curling his fingers until I saw stars.

“Seungmin— fuck— don’t stop—”

“I’m not going anywhere.” he growled against me. “You’re shaking so pretty for me.”

And I was, legs trembling, breath ragged, vision blurring. He kept going, steady and relentless, until my orgasm hit me hard. I cried out, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs clamping around him as I came with a force that made the world tilt sideways.

He didn’t stop until I was panting, sensitive, trying to push him away with shaky hands.

Then he stood, wiping his mouth, looking thoroughly wrecked and incredibly proud.

“My turn.” I said, breathless.

I pulled him down by the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button with slow, teasing fingers. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, and when I wrapped my hand around him, he hissed through his teeth.

“You’re killing me.”

“You like it.”

“Too much.”

I stroked him slowly, dragging my thumb over the head, watching his jaw clench and his eyes flutter shut. When he looked down at me, his control was visibly cracking. “Turn around.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Bench.” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Hands on the bench. I need you.”

The words made heat pool in my stomach. I did as he said. Bent over the bench, back arched, looking over my shoulder at him.

He lined himself up behind me, running the head of his cock through my folds. “You’re dripping,” he muttered. “Fuck. You feel ready?”

“Don’t make me beg.”

He slid in slowly, inch by inch until he was fully seated inside me. We both groaned. My hands clenched the edge of the bench as he pulled out halfway, then slammed back in, making the whole booth shake.

“I missed you.” he rasped against my ear.

“Shut up and keep fucking me.”

He obeyed, thrusts hard and deep, filling me completely. The sound of skin on skin, his breath in my ear, the ragged moans he tried to hold back, it was too much. And not enough.

I pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, panting his name between gasps. One of his hands slid under me, fingers finding my clit again. I jolted. “Oh my god— Seungmin— ”

“Come again for me, baby,” he growled. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

And I did. Harder than before. My vision went white, body clenching around him, drawing him deeper. He cursed loudly, fucking me through it, and moments later, he stilled, burying himself deep as he came with a broken gasp, his chest pressed to my back.

We stayed like that for a long time, breathing in sync, sweat cooling on our skin. He kissed my shoulder again, softer this time. More tender than desperate.

“You okay?” he whispered.

I nodded, twisting just enough to see him. “That was... good.”

He pulled me into his arms, tucking me against his chest like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us. We stayed like that, still tangled, breathing each other in.

Eventually, I smiled. “I guess I really did have to come get you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Please keep doing that.”

I kissed him again, softer this time, and in the quiet hum of the booth, it felt like the rest of the world could wait.

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jennxxe · 29 days ago

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Gate B17.

pairing — billy hitchcock x fem! reader

summary — you and billy really wanna join the mile high club, but oh noo the flight is delayed… good thing the airport bathroom is open though.

warnings — 18+, unprotected sex, p in v, public sex, making out, cursing, on the sink, mirror sex, french kissing, he talks A LOT during the nasty

a/n — a request from @fapqueen <33

And there you were… Gate B17, a half-empty terminal lit in soft fluorescent doom. Somewhere between LAX and your vacation dreams. Billy’s bouncing his leg like the plane’s late just to spite him. And your skirt’s not exactly helping.

Billy’s sprawled across those cheap plastic airport seats, hoodie haphazardly slung around his shoulders, one hand clutching a drink he doesn’t even remember gettinh. His other arm’s looped around your waist, clinging like a koala that’s two seconds from passing out.

And he’s sulking. Full lip-jutted, wide-eyed sulk mode.

“They said boarding at ten,” he mutters, shooting another look at the monitor blinking DELAYED in big, unapologetic letters. “It’s eleven-freaking-twenty. I’ve aged. I’m gonna start college before this plane takes off.”

You lean into his side, pretending to check your flip phone, but mostly just enjoying the way his hand tightens on your waist every time your thigh brushes his. You’re in your little airport fit; skirt, tank top, lip gloss still sticky sweet. He’s been struggling to focus since TSA.

“Billy,” you say, slow and teasing, “you know once we’re on that plane, you’ve got a mission to complete.”

He blinks at you like a cat who’s just heard the treat bag crinkle.

“Mission?”

You glance around. Terminal’s still mostly empty, a few bleary-eyed passengers dozing, some Karen yelling at a gate agent across the hall.

Then you lean in, your lips brushing his ear.

“You. Me. Tiny airplane bathroom. Altitude. Physics-defying activities.”

He lets out this broken, fragile little sound. “You’re evil.”

“I’m giving you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“You said it was a once-an-a-always-time. Like—like a bucket list thing.” His voice cracks on ‘bucket.’

You smirk, eyes glittering. “And yet... we're grounded.”

He groans, flopping backward across the seat, knees twitching. “God is punishing me.”

You nudge his shoulder. “For what?”

“For wanting to do the nasty at 36,000 feet with my hot girlfriend,” he grumbles, eyes half-lidded. “Is that so wrong? Is that not patriotic?”

You stifle a laugh. “You think doing me in an airplane bathroom is patriotic?”

He sits up fast. “There’s a flag in there, babe. It’s like... government-sanctioned.”

You’re wheezing now, biting your lip to keep from cackling.

Then he glances toward the empty hallway leading to the bathrooms and leans in close, whispering against your cheek, “We don’t need a plane to start the mission, though…”

You raise a brow. “You’re suggesting we christen the airport bathroom instead?”

His smile turns feral. “You ever seen those family restrooms? Whole room. Lock. Ventilation. Sink.”

“Billy.”

“I’m just saying, babe. God closes a gate, He opens a stall.”

And just like that, you’re yanking him up by the sleeve, both of you giggling like high schoolers sneaking out of detention, slipping toward the hallway with his hoodie barely disguising the chaos in his eyes.

You pause outside the family restroom, fingers on the handle, Billy behind you with that too-big grin.

“You’re an idiot,” you whisper.

“Your idiot,” he replies.

Billy hits the lock with one shaky hand and you’ve already got your fingers tangled in his hoodie, yanking him forward like you’ve been starving for him. Your bodies crash together in a tangle of lips, limbs, and adrenaline, his back slamming against the door with a muffled thud.

He gasps into your mouth but you don’t give him a second to think. Your lips crush against his, fast and full of teeth, all heat and hunger. He makes this sound, half-moan, half-whimper, as your tongue brushes his, his hands landing wild on your hips like he doesn’t know what to grab first.

“Holy—” he mumbles between kisses, “this is—insane—you’re insane—I love you—”

“Shut up,” you murmur against his lips, dragging your nails down the front of his hoodie.

And he does. For once in his life, Billy Hitchcock shuts up because your mouth is back on his, and you’re kissing him like it’s your only job. You shift your weight, pressing your knee between his thighs just enough to make him twitch, his breath stuttering as his hands grip tighter, sliding up your back and under your top.

Your bodies grind together in frantic rhythm, hips rolling, lips bruising, and it’s hot—not just physically, but in that all-consuming way, like you’ve both been waiting for this moment since the day you met. Every kiss is messy, desperate, like he’s trying to taste every single word you’ve ever said to him.

You pull back just long enough to smirk, licking your bottom lip. “Get me on the sink, Hitchcock.”

His jaw drops. “You—you wanna sit on the—”

You grab a fistful of his hoodie and spin the both of you, backing up until your thighs bump against the cold porcelain. You hop up like it’s nothing, spreading your legs with just enough of a slow, teasing flair to make his breath catch.

“Now get in here,” you whisper, voice a velvet threat.

Billy steps between your legs like a man walking into traffic, half-aware, fully willing. His hands find your thighs, then your waist, pulling you flush against him, and his mouth is back on yours in an instant. His hips press forward between yours, barely restrained, like he’s fighting the urge to absolutely lose it right here and now.

Your back arches slightly, lips parting again, your hand fisting the collar of his hoodie as he kisses you deeper. The sink is cold beneath your thighs, but everything else is heat—his breath, his tongue, the tremble in his hands as they slide up under your top, groping your breasts.

You moan softly into his mouth, and he makes this desperate, broken noise, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hair wild, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen.

“You’re literally gonna kill me,” he breathes.

You drag your finger down the center of his chest, smirking. “Then die like a legend.”

He leans in again, kissing you so hard your head tips back, your spine pressing to the mirror behind the sink. His hands are everywhere now; your thighs, your waist, your jaw.

You’re all smudged eyeliner and parted lips, legs wrapped around his waist, owning every inch of the moment like you planned it all the second you bought the plane tickets.

It starts with his hands under your top; hot, frantic, thumbs skating over your ribs like he can’t decide where to touch first. You’re kissing again, deep and molten, your arms looped around his neck as you drag him closer by the collar of his hoodie. His lips are swollen, breath ragged, and when you nip at his bottom lip with a smirk, he just melts right into you.

“Shirt,” you pant against his mouth, and he doesn’t even question it.

He grabs the back of his hoodie, tugging it over his head in one clumsy motion that ruffles his curls and leaves him breathless. You help him with the T-shirt underneath, hands skimming his chest as it goes flying somewhere near the baby-changing station. He’s warm and flushed and looking at you like you just dropped from heaven onto his lap.

Then his hands are back on you.

He tugs your top up with a groan, lips catching yours again before it’s even off, and you giggle into the kiss—clothes getting stuck halfway, both of you laughing, panting, fumbling like this isn’t the millionth time you’ve been undressing each other. The second your top’s gone, he’s pressing kisses down your neck, all open-mouthed and desperate, like he needs to feel your skin under his lips or he’ll combust.

“God,” he mumbles against your collarbone, “how are you real—how are you real right now?”

“Billy,” you warn, grinning, tugging at his belt now.

“What?” he says, eyes wide, breath shaky. “I’m just saying you look like a fantasy and I’m—ow! Okay, okay!”

You’ve unbuttoned his jeans with a smirk and pinched his side for dramatic effect.

Then he’s kissing you again. Every piece of clothing that comes off is followed by another kiss. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he leans in, your lips parting for him automatically, and his hands are at your hips, slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

You gasp into his mouth as he lifts you just enough to slide your underwear down, his fingers trembling, his lips chasing yours again like he can’t stand the thought of not kissing you while he undresses you. You kick them off, your legs tightening around his waist again as you yank his jeans down, his boxers following with a flick of your fingers.

“Okay,” he pants, resting his forehead against yours, “this is—the hottest I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Just so we’re clear.”

You kiss him again, fingers tangled in his hair. “Good. Now shut up and finish what we started.”

And he does, hands firm as he lifts you up higher onto the sink. His hips press between yours again, and there’s nothing left between you now.

Then you turn around so you’re on your knees. Your palms hit the sink with a sharp little slap, the porcelain cold under your touch, but it’s nothing compared to the heat crawling up your spine. You look up and meet your own eyes in the mirror.

And behind you?

Billy’s frozen.

Absolutely wrecked by the view.

You’re bent forward, skirt pushed up high, your body perfectly arched and he’s standing there, jeans shoved halfway down, one hand on your waist like he’s trying to remember how his knees work.

“Holy—” he breathes, eyes glued to your reflection. “I’m—this is—oh my god.”

You smile at him in the mirror, lips curved like you know exactly what you're doing to him. “Something wrong, baby?”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking from your reflection to the way your hips sway just barely back into him. “I’m gonna pass out.”

You laugh before giving him a little arch, a tilt of your hips that has him physically shuddering. His hands slide up your sides, he leans in.

His chest brushes your back, mouth ghosting by your ear. His breath is ragged, his lips just barely brushing your skin as he exhales like he’s been holding it in for minutes.

“You ready?” he whispers.

You nod once, slow and sure, pushing your hips back in silent invitation. He groans and you feel him line up behind you, one shaky hand at your waist, the other guiding himself with the kind of reverence that makes your heart stutter.

And then he sinks his dick in.

The slide of skin against skin, dizzying and warm. Your breath catches. His grip tightens.

“Holy—” he chokes out, like the sensation short-circuits every thought in his brain. His fingers dig into your hips, and for a moment he just stays there inside you.

You glance at him in the mirror.

He’s already looking at you.

“Good?” you murmur, smug and breathless.

He laughs, half-moan, half-disbelieving gasp, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, voice cracking as he breathes, “So good.”

And then he moves.

Slow at first, just a roll of his hips, a drag of his hands down your sides, his lips pressing to your shoulder, your neck, your spine. But it builds; fast, needy, chaotic. One hand on your waist to steady you, the other bracing beside yours on the sink. Your eyes stay locked on your reflections in the mirror; him behind you, head down, jaw tight, hair wild. You, breathless and undone, mouth parted, knuckles white against the sink’s edge.

Your moans bounce off the tile, quiet but sharp, like little sparks in the heavy air.

“God,” he huffs, sweat damp at his temple, “you look so—so hot like this. You’re gonna kill me. I’m gonna die in an airport.”

You manage to laugh, just barely. “You’re complaining?”

“I’m—bragging,” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips now, eyes watching every reaction spill across your face in the mirror. “Look at you. Look at us.”

You do.

And it’s a sight.

The mirror fogs at the corners from your mingled breath, your bodies moving in a rhythm that’s all hips and helplessness, chaos and craving. He shifts slightly, changes the angle and your head tips back with a choked gasp, your eyes fluttering shut—

“Keep ‘em open,” he pants, voice all breath and heat. “I wanna—I gotta see—just… just keep ‘em open.”

But his rhythm stutters a second later, and the words keep tumbling out, unfiltered, so him.

“Jesus, look at that… That’s crazy. You’re—God, you’re makin’ faces and I’m not gonna survive this,” he groans, eyes glued to the mirror like it’s showing him his favorite movie in real time. “You look so hot I might die. Like—I’m serious—this is like, cardiac arrest levels of hot.”

Your laughter comes in gasps, legs shaking, arms barely keeping you up, and he grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like he thinks you’ll float away if he doesn’t anchor you there.

“Dude,” he whines under his breath, like he’s actually overwhelmed. “Dude, you’re killin’ me. Why do you look like that right now? Why is your face doing that? I can’t handle this—I can’t handle this!”

You try to sass him, toss something over your shoulder, but all that comes out is a moan and that does it.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes, brain clearly short-circuiting, “you’re like—a video game cheat code. This isn’t even legal. This is—I’m gonna black out. I’m gonna straight up die in this airport.”

And then quieter, raw and too honest, like it slips out by accident:

“…You’re the hottest person I’ve ever seen. Like ever. And you’re letting me—this? Me? Right now? What is happening.”

Your grip on the sink tightens, knuckles white, arms trembling, as the rhythm builds to something reckless. You’re gasping and in the mirror, it’s all there: your flushed skin, his sweat-slick chest, the blur of his hair as he leans over you, his mouth open like he’s choking on every sound he can’t hold in.

“Shit—oh my god, babe—babe, I’m gonna—”

His voice breaks, and he lets out a sound that’s half-gasp, half-moan, high and ruined and so Billy, and then you feel him jerk forward, his body locking up behind you as he presses in deep. The mirror fogs hard, your reflection blurring just as your body starts to shake, a choked cry tumbling from your lips as you follow him over the edge of the orgasm.

Your back arches instinctively, your legs threatening to give out, and you swear you feel stars burst behind your eyes. The only thing keeping you grounded is his hand, tight on your hip, and the breathless way he whimpers your name like it’s the only thing he remembers.

“Holy—holy crap,” Billy huffs, forehead dropping to your shoulder, chest rising and falling against your back like he just sprinted a mile. “I—I think my soul just left my body.”

You let out a shaky laugh, trying to steady yourself on the edge of the sink as your heart hammers in your ears. “Yeah? Think you’re gonna make it?”

“No,” he groans dramatically. “Call the pilot. Tell him I can’t board the plane. I gotta be hospitalized. You just destroyedme.”

He eases out of you like he’s scared you’ll snap in half, hands tender now, fingertips skating over your hips like they’re his favorite possession. He pulls your skirt down with clumsy care, still dazed, still mumbling nonsense under his breath like “this is better than Disneyland” and “why do my legs feel like gelatin.”

He stares at you in the mirror as you fix your hair, awestruck and slightly unhinged. “You’re actually not real. You’re a government experiment. Some kind of perfect girlfriend weapon.”

You lean back into him with a satisfied little hum, kissing his cheek.

“And you,” you murmur, “are very lucky I like chaotic men with zero chill.”

Your bodies are still humming, nerves frayed and buzzing, when Billy leans back with a grin so dopey it borders on historic.

Then he throws up his hand.

“High five,” he says, breathless, triumphant, still panting. “C’mon. That was insane. We’re legendary.”

You blink at him, half-laughing, still struggling to catch your breath. “Are you serious—”

But of course you slap your hand into his anyway. Because you’re his girl, and this is exactly the kind of ridiculous moment the two of you were built for.

#final destination x reader #final destination #final destination franchise #the final destination #flight 180 #billy hitchcock x reader #billy hitchcock

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pleaktale · 6 months ago

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Bleaky!! I'm just a girl asking for a request for our man Ekko where in episode 3 of s2 he brought you with heimerdinger and he's trying to protect you from the hexcore 'exploding' please and thank you!! 🥺👉👈 Muah 😘 take your time!!

-katy ❤️

it took a life of it's own but after I figured out the plot it went smoooooth 🤭 I'm sorry for the long wait though! I hope it's worth it Word count: 2k Warnings: death mention, swearing, time travel (?) Tags: Ekko x firelight!Reader, mention of Y/N, no description of Reader other than hair, CW alternate universes, CW death, gender neutral Reader, CW time travel (kinda), hurt/comfort Enjoy!

Maybe coming along wasn’t the best idea.

It’s what you think about when Jayce guides the group towards the hexgate core, a big room with glass floors and lights shining everywhere, a giant ball with runes and lights and intricate patterns standing in the middle of the room. It felt like you should be afraid of it, but you put on your brave mask.

Ekko insisted you should come along, saying you were his ‘right-hand’ and ‘his engineer partner’, Heimerdinger didn’t have much of a choice and brought you with them to the lab of Piltover.

At least it was a fun adventure to get there, with Heimer thinking you guys were in a secret spy mission of sorts, doing hand signs created on the spot and rolling over ducts. You and Ekko couldn’t help but chuckle at the scenes unfolding.

Once in the lab, and with Heimerdinger making the presentations, you remember to hold in a laugh at Ekko trying to appear taller when talking to Jayce, even though he was a good amount shorter than him. Nonetheless, he was still your short king. He just wouldn’t know.

Now in front of this… thing, both you and Ekko exchange glances, you could see the worry in his eyes that quickly were replaced with determination as he tugged you by the sleeve of your shirt to tag along. Closer, in preference.

“I thought this was underground,” Ekko noticed, looking around before landing eyes on Jayce. His tone started to grow stern.

“The mesh is, this is just a fell safe as we were not sure what would happen if the gates overloaded,” he explained, making you scoff at this brilliant idea.

“So it would explode on us?” You ask back, eyebrows furrowed together as, once again, Piltover proves to not care about Zaun’s safety. At all. “Pretty wise for a scholar genius.”

“These are far from the city, it wouldn’t explode on anyone,” Jayce is immediately on defensive mode, even though, deep down, he knows this wasn’t made thinking about the others. Ekko walked closer, also getting defensive at his tone at you.

“These are our utility ducts! The ones that carry our water and guide our ventilation,” this time, Ekko was the one to confront him, taking a few steps closer.

Ekko continued with his arguments, but a shift in light caught your attention, turning around to see Heimerdinger looking at something on the ground, you also took a step closer to see what he was doing.

“Heimer? What is that?” you asked, and as the professor touched it again, something clicked.

Everything turned white, there were no floors nor walls, just a completely blank space of nothing. Well, nothing except for a massive sphere of something you couldn’t quite pinpoint. But it had the same patterns as the leaves of the tree.

“A… wild rune?” you ask, walking a little closer in awe, just to be held back by Ekko, his gloved hand keeping you from going further close.

Meanwhile, Jayce was right in front of it, almost completely mesmerized by it. Everyone in the room was, in a way, even Heimerdinger who also got close, but Ekko didn’t keep him from walking.

“Ekko…” you called, taking him out of some kind of trance as he shook his head lightly, looking back at you, his eyes wide and with slight confusion. “It’s alright,” he reassured you, or tried to, staring back at Jayce who seemed to be approaching even more the sphere.

“Jayce!” Ekko shouted, trying to get him to stop going further into touching that warping thing of organic patterns and fluid geometries, but his voice sounded like it was below water. He heard himself like some twisted and warped sound.

You feel a tingle in your spine, taking a few steps back as the sphere started to lash parts of itself as Jayce got closer, your hand reached for Ekko, but it felt like you were a ghost, touching on nothing and lacking any physical parts on you.

Panic starts to settle, and you’re frozen in place, Ekko watches as Jayce grabs ahold of his hammer, aiming it for the sphere who twisted and warped and angrily reacted to the environment, tendril-like shapes lashing and gushing out of the sphere.

You heard a faint sound that was twisted and too dense for your ears to fully comprehend, but you made out as Ekko trying to stop him.

Then the hammer went full force on it.

Jayce’s skin warped and twisted, creating shapes and geometries around him, something weirdly two dimensional, like a thin piece of paper that follows your eyes. You look back, a line of copies of you, endlessly repeating, constantly copying your every action. Like time ripples out of place and creates thousands and thousands of versions of the same moment in splashes of color and shapes.

A mismatched sound fills your ears, something familiar yet strange, you look back ahead, Ekko is staring at you with desperation in his eyes. You see Heimerdinger exploding in a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, something akin to oil amidst water, his eyes multiplying, following the lines.

You feel out of breath, screaming for Ekko but your voice comes out like some reversed echo, warped in the chaos that’s happening in that room. You can make out a repeated “run” screamed from Ekko, who is also trying to run away from it.

He jumps in your direction, copies of him flashing around your eyes, he’s close yet far, you can’t make out the distance in this weird time space you’re locked in. You try to reach for him too, your hand doubling into a thousand others, pops of color lashing out of your skin.

Ekko makes it to you, his arms enveloping your form tightly, the first time you’ve felt weight like you’re supposed to, something unearthly heavier than it should. You both fall into some form of flooring, but it still was just a blank space, you try to make the fall easier but your head finds one of the screws in what would be the real world.

And things go from blank to black.

Time wraps itself around, twisting and tugging and moving in an all time high, like being tossed into some sort of infinite blender that you’ll never reach the blades. Ekko feels it on his body for a mere second, but it feels like forever.

But then it stills.

“And I…” he stops, hands holding yours, or was it you? You had a different hair, your smile seemed brighter, but still he felt unfamiliarity. He continues without even knowing he was talking.

“I think I love you,” Ekko smiles, eyes squinting from how big it is, his heart feels full, but something on the back of his mind itches. You’re almost tearing up, or was you? With a short nod, you whisper a soft ‘me too’ that almost doesn't reach his ears, your arms circling around him.

He feels full. And then it stills.

“… that day was fun, y’know?” Ekko says, eyes staring down at some flowers in a vase, above a grave. Your grave, your name beautifully displayed with carvings of fireflies and your favorite flower around it. Something’s amiss, but he can’t quite scratch that itch in the back of his mind.

“I miss you,” he whispers, feeling his eyes tear up. It felt weird, he thought he was past it on his grief. Guess not. Feeling his lungs with fresh air, Ekko leaves a shaky breath, smiling to himself despite the pain in his heart.

He feels empty. And then it stills.

“Y/N, do you accept Ekko as your spouse?” Scar says, keeping a small smile after looking towards you. Ekko swears he’d never seen you so beautiful before. Or were you? Is it you?

“I do,” you answer, smiling almost ear to ear, hands clasped together. You feel his hands get a little clammy after your reply.

“Ekko, do you accept Y/N as your spouse?” Scar continues, now looking back at Ekko, who smiles with eyes shiny from the unshed tears. You squint your eyes, waiting for his reply, your heart almost beating out of your chest despite knowing the answer.

“I do,” he replies, “absolutely do,” and then adds. He feels full seeing your smile, the way you’re also almost tearing up, despite the itch on the back of his mind. Ekko just takes you in.

He feels complete. And then it stills.

Over and over and over and over.

“Y/N! Come out! We’ll miss the opening!” Ekko calls, he feels younger, he is younger, he’s still a kid. You’re a kid too. You’re running to him, hair bouncing as you halt almost atop of him. Your hands on his arm, shaking him.

“C’mon! We can’t miss it!” You sound so happy, so full of life. Or were you?

“Stop shaking me and let’s go!” Ekko holds your wrist, running the two of you towards the bridge to watch the opening of the shops. Benzo tried to call you two to wait, but he was a bit late. Benzo. Another itch he can’t scratch.

Time stills once again.

“Hey, don’t run on the stairs!”

Your voice echoes through the tree house, watching closely on your kid. His kid too. Our kid. Ekko smiles to himself, taking his cup of coffee from the pot. “It’s the nerves, firefly, first day of school,” he says to you, sipping on his mug.

“I know! But safety-”

“-always comes first.” He continues your phrase, making you smile in amusement and annoyance. He feels his chest warm up with a chuckle.

“C’mon, loosen up a little, will you?” His arm circles your waist, pulling you closer while his mug with hot coffee is kept far from your body.

The way you roll your eyes and lean on him makes it all worth it. But that damn itch. This weird feeling.

Time doesn’t stop this time, though.

BOOM!

A groan of pain escapes his lips, his arms tightly holding onto you. His body hit something physical for once, the weird feeling was gone, the memories still there.

Despite himself, Ekko just lays there for a moment, half scared of what he’d encounter by opening his eyes. When the courage comes, he slowly shifts, feeling you first, leaning onto his elbows to get himself up. His eyes are greeted by your knocked out form, but you’re still breathing peacefully. Almost like you’re asleep.

“Hey,” he calls quietly, gently shaking you, your eyes fluttering up brings relief to his heart.

You’re still drowsy, a stinging pain on the back of your head. Sitting up, Ekko is still checking up on you, his hand gently touching your elbow. “What happened?” you ask, feeling like you’ve slept for way too long.

“I.. I’m not sure,” he replies, looking around and seeing Heimendinger on the floor and no trace of Jayce. The hexcore was dimmed, with no power coming from it. He turns back at you, seeing you scratch the back of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice gentle and low. Unlikely so.

“Yeah, I think I just hit my head when that thing.. exploded, I guess.” Sighing, you stop for a moment, sitting up on the floor with him. “Are you?”

Your question pulls him from the memories he’s still drowning himself into. He couldn’t quite tell what that was; alternate universes? Another kind of dream? Whole different dimensions? Daydream? Had he hit his head too? But it felt too real, your touch was too real, the smells were too real, the warmth of the sun on his skin were too real. But that itch on the back of his mind was also too real.

One thing he knew was that you were the constant on his equation. Despite the changes, you were his equivalent.

Taking your hand in his, fingers intertwining. A sigh leaves his lips, eyes briefly closing before looking back up to your own. A smile of relief on his face.

“I am.”

Ekko feels full. And time is back to the right place, with you.

THANK YOU FOR READINGGG <33 ngl I kinda went crazy with this one, writing the wraps of time was fun!!! ALSO THANK YOUUU @the-kr8tor for all the yap sessions about this <3

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jeszrosse · 14 days ago

Note

bro ur wesker fic is so good i wanna eat it aaaa

🥼 “Precautionary Measures”

One-Shot part 2 | Albert Wesker x Reader | AU: Overnight Lock-in | Slow tension to heat

“Security protocols are temporary.”

He says it like a promise. But his eyes say—“I planned this.”

---

🧬 You stayed late. That was your first mistake.

Lab 3C was always freezing past sundown. The kind of cold that hummed in your molars. You should’ve left two hours ago, but your project data was finally syncing and you knew if you didn’t back it up manually, the system would eat it alive.

Besides… Wesker was still on-site.

You’d seen his shadow move behind the frosted glass of his office when you passed by earlier—tall, controlled, silhouetted in gold and blue light. The late afternoon sun had cast long beams across the corridor, catching the edge of his frame and turning him half-myth, half-monument. He rarely acknowledged you outside of debriefings, but you always felt him before you saw him.

His presence was clinical.

Like a scalpel laid neatly beside an open wound.

You hear the metallic clang of security shutters dropping—one by one.

There’d been a pause.

Not one minute later, the emergency lights flicker red. A low, stuttering whir begins to echo through the hall—the telltale warning of isolation mode—and then, without ceremony, the sirens start. Not loud. Not panicked. Just a shrill, calculated chirp every few seconds. As if the building itself were breathing slower. Sharpening its teeth.

The lab doors hiss shut behind you with a finality that rattles the glass.

LOCKDOWN PROTOCOL – UMBRELLA HIGH SECURITY ZONE. ALL ACCESS RESTRICTED.

You freeze mid-step, breath caught.

The hallway, once humming with fluorescent light and the low murmur of researchers, now pulses crimson. Shadows crawl and multiply in the corners. Every movement looks suspicious under emergency lighting—every silence louder.

You break into motion.

Your shoes tap brisk against the linoleum as you move back toward your desk—heart already thudding against your ribs. Fingers slightly trembling, you swipe your ID badge at the reader.

Nothing.

Red light.

No response.

You swipe again. Harder. Slower. Faster.

Still red.

Still nothing.

“…No, no no—come on—”

Then—

“Having trouble?”

The voice—low and measured—rolls from behind you like the drop in a symphony.

You turn.

Albert Wesker stands in front of the threshold of the lab, arms folded behind his back. Sunglasses on, as always. No lab coat. No clipboard. Just him—dressed in tactical black, gloved hands pristine, boots gleaming beneath the pulsing red lights. He looks like he stepped out of some other world entirely. One with tighter rules. Sharper consequences.

You hesitate.

“…Sir. I—uh, I think the system—there’s a malfunction—”

“There isn’t.”

That makes your heart drop.

“…Sorry?”

He approaches.

“Security initiated a precautionary lockdown. Protocol requires a full overnight reset before clearance is restored.”

“…You mean we’re stuck?**”

He inclines his head.

“Temporarily.”

Silence creeps in, unwelcome and heavy. Somewhere in the ceiling, a vent groans as the ventilation adjusts to lockdown mode. Your pulse pounds in your ears—too fast, too loud for the silence that follows his answer.

Wesker steps further into the room, his boots quiet against the tile but still deliberate—measured. You track his movement out of instinct more than choice, like a rabbit unable to look away from the wolf.

“No staff may enter or exit,” he adds, tone bordering on casual, as if quoting an instruction manual. “Until 0600 hours. All systems are suspended. Communications are disabled.”

You glance toward the terminal again, trying not to show your unease. “Right. Of course. That makes sense.”

He pauses in front of one of the containment consoles. Gloved fingers drift over the edge, not touching, merely hovering—like a man familiar with every inch of this place, yet still amused by its little performances.

Then he looks at you again.

“Your shift ended forty minutes ago.”

Your throat tightens. “I—I was logging the results from the sequence trial. I didn’t know the lockdown was about to—”

“I didn’t ask why you were still here,” he says smoothly, and there’s no sharpness to the words—just a kind of quiet, clinical amusement. The kind that makes you feel like a scalpel laid out on a tray. Examined. Catalogued.

He begins to circle the room slowly, glancing over the scattered reports, the sterile equipment, the monitor still blinking an error code. You fight the urge to follow him with your eyes, to watch him too closely—but it’s impossible not to. There’s a gravity to him. Calculated. Cold.

And then:

“It’s fortunate,” Wesker remarks, “that I remained on the premises. Some staff tend to… panic. During containment scenarios.”

You blink. “Oh. No—I’m not panicking. I just—”

“You’re trembling.”

He says it plainly. A statement. Not an observation, not a judgment. Just a fact, delivered with surgical precision.

You glance down at your hands. Damn it. You hadn’t noticed.

“…It’s just adrenaline,” you mutter.

Wesker steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the shape of him—presence, more than proximity. He’s a wall. A locked door. A sealed vault of intent you cannot read.

“I’d advise you to sit down,” he says. “You won’t be leaving for quite some time.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips—just barely there, just long enough to make you question whether you imagined it.

And then he turns, slowly, walking back toward the central terminal.

Behind you, the lab doors remain sealed. The red emergency light pulses.

Your badge is still useless.

And you are very much alone with him.

---

🧬 The night passes in a blur of static silence.

You pace. He does not.

You check your watch. The hands haven’t moved in minutes. Or maybe you’re imagining that.

The lab feels colder now—just a few degrees, but enough to slip beneath your clothes like a second skin.

You try again to badge out as if you're in denial. No response.

You try your company-issue phone. Dead. No signal. No bars. Just the dull, mocking glow of the Umbrella logo.

Wesker hasn’t moved.

He stands near the server rack, arms folded behind his back, legs squared. Perfectly still. Like he’s waiting for something—watching something—but not you. Never just you.

He might as well be carved from obsidian. A fixture of the room. Part of the design.

You break the silence first. Voice quiet.

“I wasn’t informed of any lockdown drills tonight,” you mutter.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers.

Just that faint hum, low in his chest. Amused.

“Not a drill.”

You frown, trying to keep the edge of nervousness out of your tone.

“So it’s real?”

A beat.

“…Real enough to warrant containment.”

He finally glances your way, just over the rim of his glasses. You catch your breath, unsure why.

“But there’s no incident?” you ask.

He tilts his head—just slightly, the kind of motion that feels reptilian somehow. Studied. Deliberate.

“There is no need for alarm.”

He says it with that steady, quiet finality that makes you feel ridiculous for asking.

You swallow.

“Feels a little excessive,” you offer, with a half-laugh you regret the moment it leaves your mouth.

Wesker’s head turns the rest of the way, attention fixed on you now like a pressure point.

“Excess is subjective,” he replies. “Containment, however… is effective.”

The words hang there.

You don’t speak again.

Not because you agree.

But because something in the way he said it—measured, near indulgent—tells you he’s enjoying this. Not the situation.

Your reaction to it.

A chill settles deep in your spine.

You take a seat, finally. Far corner of the room. As far as the walls will allow.

He watches you only briefly.

And then the silence returns.

Soft. Clinical.

Unbroken.

---

🧬 Hours pass.

The hum of the lights becomes a lullaby for anxiety. A perfect, droning loop.

Your hands are cold. You rub your palms for warmth, pacing in tight loops near your workstation. Not out of restlessness anymore.

Out of survival.

Motion keeps you from spiraling.

From the corner of your eye—you catch him watching.

Not idly. Not incidentally.

Wesker watches like it’s a diagnostic process.

As if your heartbeat is on a screen.

As if he’s logging how many steps you take before you start repeating yourself.

His head tilts a fraction—almost imperceptible.

His arms remain behind his back, posture straight, boots planted with a soldier’s rigidity.

No movement. No flicker.

Like a statue carved from something ancient and intentional.

Like a predator learning your pattern.

You speak before you can stop yourself.

You try not to meet his gaze. Try to pretend it’s nothing.

But the silence stretches and coils, tighter and tighter, until—

“...Do you ever blink?”

A pause.

Then—barely—his lips curl.

“I do many things you don’t notice.”

There’s no need for emphasis. No shift in tone.

Just that sentence. Icy. Controlled. Unsettling in how true it feels.

You feel your throat tighten.

Across the lab, Wesker doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

You do.

You turn back to your terminal, pretending you have something to check. Pretending the screen isn’t blank. Pretending you're not being studied like something contained.

And from behind you, the weight of his presence lingers—coiled, steady, waiting.

---

🧬 Around 3:00 AM

You’re exhausted. Strung out. Muscles trembling from tension you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since the doors sealed. His presence has made the air itself feel wired.

Like the oxygen has teeth.

Like the walls are watching with him.

“I’m cold,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

The words fog a breath into the sterile air.

He doesn’t respond right away. But you hear the soft flex of leather as he moves. He doesn’t respond right away. But there’s a shift—so subtle it’s soundless.

You hear the soft flex of leather, a movement so deliberate it cuts through the quiet like a thread being drawn taut.

click.

The overhead fluorescents dim a fraction.

Then—like dusk slipping in—the corner near your workstation glows softly with ambient light. A warm, amber hue. Not Umbrella standard.

Your eyes adjust slowly, blinking at the unexpected softness.

“…How did you—?”

“I made a few modifications.”

You stare.

“So… you can override lighting, temperature, access—?”

“Correct.”

Your stomach dips.

“And you didn’t use any of that to let us out?”

He regards you evenly. Calm. Not defensive—never defensive.

He could be talking about the weather.

He looks at you.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t. I said we were required to wait.”

Your stomach turns.

“Why wait?”

He steps forward, boots whisper-quiet against tile. He doesn’t rush. He never does.

And somehow, that’s worse

“To... observe.”

You stand up sharply. The chair scrapes.

Your heartbeat stutters in your throat.

“Am I being tested?”

A pause.

“Not officially.”

Your fists clench before you can stop yourself.

“Then what the hell is this, sir?”

He doesn’t flinch at your tone.

If anything, there’s a flicker of interest. Something beneath the surface—sharp and cold and interested.

Then he steps into your space.

Closer than he’s ever been.

Close enough that you can see the faint lines at the corners of his mouth, the hint of something nearly-smiling.

Close enough to catch the pale reflection of yourself in the dark sheen of his lenses.

Close enough that the scent of sterile gloves and something colder—metallic—lingers in the space between you.

“I’ve found,” he says quietly, “that true behavior reveals itself only under pressure. In isolation.”

You inhale sharply. Your breath sounds too loud in your ears.

“You planned this.”

“I enabled it.”

The correction slices cleanly through your accusation.

You shake your head, disbelief warping into something half-wild.

“That’s—psychotic.”

“That’s efficiency.”

He brushes past you then, and you nearly flinch.

But his hand—gloved, precise—ghosts along your wrist as he passes.

A touch so fleeting it barely counts as contact.

But it lingers. Burns.

Like static. Like warning.

“You’ve performed admirably.”

You turn to face him, pulse high in your throat.

“I wasn’t performing—”

“And yet you still impressed.”

The words land somewhere low in your chest, where panic and something colder begin to mix.

Where you start to realize:

You’re not just being observed.

You’re being chosen.

---

🌶️🧬 The air shifts.

You're not sure when the tension stopped being frightening and started feeling... charged. Heavy. Electrical.

Like something waiting to strike.

He stands just in front of you now, a wall of silence and shadow. When he speaks, it’s lower than before—closer.

“You adapt well. Even when discomforted.”

His presence fills the space like gravity—anchoring, absolute.

He's so close now that the sterile scent of leather and ozone wraps around you, tightening with each breath.

“You wanted to see how I’d what—break down? Panic? Run?”

He studies your face, head angled just slightly, as if fine-tuning an analysis only he can see.

“None of those. I wanted to confirm your capacity.”

Your voice softens, barely a whisper.

“…For what?”

A pause.

His gloved hand lifts with surgical precision, fingers brushing the collar of your lab coat—just once.

It’s not a grip. It’s an assessment.

“Obedience.”

Your throat dries.

“Why—why would you want that?”

“Because chaos is inevitable. And I require constants. Assets I can rely on.”

You bristle, jaw clenching.

“I’m not an asset.”

But instead of correcting you—he agrees

“No. You’re not.” Then the curve of his mouth shifts—slow and slight. Not a smile. Something more primal. More interested. “You’re something far more rare.”

He steps forward, the motion quiet but undeniable.

You feel your back nudge the edge of the desk behind you.

Trapped—not by force, but by design.

“Sir, I—this is—”

But his voice dips beside your ear, a phantom breath across your skin.

“You don’t need to speak.”

You freeze. Not out of fear.

But because it’s working.

Because every molecule in the room feels aligned with him.

You gather breath, manage:

“Is this protocol?”

A stillness, brief—and then:

“No.”

He reaches up.

Removes his glasses.

You’ve never seen his eyes before.

They’re golden. Glinting with something not entirely human. Not soft, not kind—but focused.

Hungry. Clinical. Inevitable.

“This is instinct.”

Your heart stutters.

And before your brain can catch up, leather-clad fingers tilt your chin upward.

Deliberate. Gentle. Commanding.

The first kiss doesn’t arrive like a question.

It arrives like a conclusion.

Planned. Earned. Controlled.

Like you’ve crossed an invisible threshold—and he’s marking it with the most human gesture he knows.

You don’t resist.

You don’t want to.

Because part of you has always wondered if Albert Wesker ever blinked.

Ever broke.

Ever burned.

Now you know—

He saves it all for moments like this.

---end of part 2---

(A/N: I give you crumbs… because watching you starve is part of the fun >:3 stay hungry until the next drop. It's gonna be full of 💦😈😩)

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ranticore · 2 months ago

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kettle's warren was post-apocalyptic? 👀

sometimes the development of a colony is interrupted by the dragon leaving or dying or whatever, which makes the colony go cold and so on. but that still ensures a kind of continuity from one generation to the next within that same colony. when the colony goes warm again (new dragon, old dragon returns, etc), it will be the same colony with the same history, even if it was only in basic survival mode for years and years.

kettle's colony is a mature colony which has experienced a cold stage in the past. it has advanced infrastructure (more than holly's) and tertiary industries outside of basic primary production, simply because it has been around for a long time. BUT it was not the first colony to settle in that particular cave system.

these are creatures who never leave their cave unless seriously pushed to. the first colony who lived there was also a mature colony, potentially more advanced than the one that followed, and this one did not die out after going cold and failing to persist. it died because the dragon left to go hunting, which is a regular occurrence lasting a night or two outside and accidentally caved in a major ventilation duct. the kobolds can survive in poorly ventilated areas where oxygen % is reduced, but in this case it was carbon monoxide poisoning that wiped out the colony overnight.

the dragon was unable to return as the entrance had caved in so the system went cold and froze. the cave was discovered while cold by the founders of kettle's colony, and they cleared the cave-in to make it an attractive place for a dragon to settle. it worked, and a new dragon came to warm the place up again. so by post-apocalyptic what i mean is that kettle's colony was built on top of the ruins of an existing colony, so they have an entire area of study dedicated to this mysterious ancient civilisation. but also the scavengers don't just gather resources from the cave itself, they live in what is essentially a huge landfill/dump/etc of refuse left behind by a more technologically advanced dead civilisation.

leadership in kettle's colony is painfully aware that one day their civilisation might be ancient ruins, too, and they are more proactive about trying to preserve themselves at all costs. it has a 'last throes of a dying empire' kind of feel, as the cultural consciousness starts to turn towards a potential future annihilation. this is why their religious practices are so intricate and formal.

#kobolds never use open flames not directly arising from the dragon for cooking or lighting UNLESS there is a direct ventilation passage #to the outside overhead #a dragon that leaves to hunt will also leave its eggs/hatchlings behind and they can start fires #dog knight story

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padawan-snack-packer · 2 months ago

Note

Hullo my fren 👀🔔 Loving your clone trooper rants! Do you have anything about the Delta Squad, maybe some headcanons of a scenario where the reader is being bullied? Thanks! 💛

💥 Delta Squad x Reader — When You’re Being Bullied (and They Find Out)

OH MY GOSH!!!🧡 absolutely @orangez3st !! I adore Delta Squad, and this idea was SO fun and cathartic to write — thank you for sending it in!!💥💛 Our favorite murder commandos would absolutely ride or die for you, no questions asked, and now you’ve unlocked the feral protectiveness I’ve been keeping in my brain. Hope you enjoy the chaos and comfort, fren!! 👀🔧🧡

Hope you like it!!!😇

🟠 Boss (RC-1138)

You don’t even have to tell him. He sees it once — the way your shoulders curl in, the too-quiet “it’s fine” — and that’s it. His tone goes flat.

“Who did it?”

You say it’s not worth it. Boss says that’s not your call.

If you're with him during the moment? He steps in with zero hesitation. Calm, commanding, terrifyingly collected.

“You’ve got three seconds to walk away. I only need one.”

The bully runs. You shake a little. Boss just gently sets a hand on your back and murmurs, “Don’t let anyone talk to you like that again. Not when I’m here.”

He stays with you afterward, silently watching you breathe until the tension leaves your shoulders.

…Also might send an anonymous military complaint to their superior if they’re Republic-affiliated. No one traces it back.

💚 Fixer (RC-1140)

Fixer has a detailed file on this person within 20 minutes. He doesn’t even look at you when he gets up from the console.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

He’s the quiet, vindictive kind. Files misconduct reports. Has screenshots. Logs audio. Turns the bully’s security clearance into vapor. They’ll be lucky if they can access their own email next cycle.

Then he comes back and sits by you and — awkwardly — hands you a stimcaf.

“Here. Sugar’s set the way you like.”

He stares ahead.

“Don’t let them get in your head. You matter more than they ever will.”

You cry a little. He pretends not to notice, but one of his hands stays lightly touching your sleeve the whole time.

🔴 Sev (RC-1207)

”Who hurt you?”

You try to joke. You should not have joked.

Sev disappears for three hours. When he comes back, he’s got blood on his boots and a smile that makes Fixer actually look up.

“It wasn’t their blood,” Sev adds dryly. “Probably.”

You: “...WHAT did you do?”

“Don’t worry. They’ll live.” He leans in, voice lower. “But they’ll think twice before opening their mouth again.”

Then this chaotic horror show just sits beside you like some sort of a good therapy dog, crosses his arms, and grumbles, “You’re one of us. No one gets to treat you like you’re not.”

…It’s the most heartfelt thing he’s said all month.

💛 Scorch (RC-1262)

“WHO—WHAT—WHO AM I YELLING AT?”

He’s immediately at full chaos mode. He wants names. Spelling. Descriptions. Their whole astrological chart.

“I will EXPLODE something in protest! Not THEM, obviously! Because that’s illegal! I will explode… THEIR TRASH BIN. Yes.”

He brings you your favorite snack, a blanket, and five bad jokes in a row.

“Hey, did it hurt?”

“When what?”

“When they made fun of you? BECAUSE I’M ABOUT TO MAKE THEM CRY LIKE A WET SOCK IN A VENTILATION SHAFT.”

But real talk: Scorch is the one who stays up with you later. Makes you laugh when you feel gross.

“I know I joke a lot, but... you matter to me. A lot. And if anyone ever makes you forget that again, they’re gonna find out what I keep in this satchel.”

You do not ask what’s in the satchel. You do not want to know.

#star wars #sw tcw #star wars the clone wars #swtcw #star wars fic #the clone wars #star wars headcanons #delta squad #republic commando #clone commando scorch #clone commando boss #clone commando sev #repcomm #clone commando fixer

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covid-safer-hotties · 10 months ago

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What would an adequate COVID response look like? - Sept 05, 2024

By: Julia Doubleday

Ok, COVID is a problem. What can we do about it anyway?

The problem is stark: we have unmitigated transmission of a deadly and disabling virus, in all public spaces, with zero plan to bring it under control.

We’re seeing millions of infections in each wave, and multiple waves a year; an unsustainable health burden on an already strained healthcare system.

We’ve got a student absence crisis, record worker sick days, rapidly rising disability, and the expulsion of high-risk people from public spaces.

And unfortunately, we have a public that is largely uneducated about and unaware of the problem, thanks to the tireless efforts of our political leaders and corporate media outlets who pushed for a “new normal” of forever COVID reinfections.

The first hurdle is making people aware of the problem. But beyond that, a second hurdle; often, once the risks of recurrent COVID infections are conveyed, the next objection is: but what can we do about it anyway? Surely you don’t want a permanent forever lockdown?

Well, I don’t. So what, in my wildest dreams, would competent public health bodies be doing to mitigate transmission of COVID, even years into a botched response with millions of people negatively polarized against collective measures?

Start from the top: acknowledge that COVID is airborne. Loudly.

Educate the public about airborne mitigation measures and model them.

On April 30, 2021, the WHO officially acknowledged that SARS-COV-2 is a fully airborne virus. They did so quietly, without fanfare, on their website, without a well-publicized apology for the year they spent loudly claiming otherwise.

The embarrassment of this early mistake- costly and deadly as it was- has doubtless played a role in the subsequent inadequacy of communications around SARS-COV-2’s actual mode of transmission.

Droplet measures like surgical masks and social distancing were inadequate to prevent the transmission of COVID; both can reduce, but not eliminate, risk. Has the public been made aware of this? Have medical practitioners?

Official communications from representatives of the WHO and CDC tend to avoid mention of high-quality respirator masks entirely, if masks are mentioned at all. The importance of ventilation and filtration have never been properly explained to the public, certainly not by our politicians who continue to do nothing but repeat their treasured talking point, “COVID no longer controls our lives” while a thousand Americans lose those very lives to the virus each week.

In public, operatives from public health bodies do not mask, nor speak about airborne disease mitigation. Politicians certainly do not mask, even elected officials who quite clearly fall into high-risk categories, belying their claim that people are simply adopting the libertarian “personal risk assessment” approach to COVID. This refusal to mask, no matter the case numbers, no matter the risk factors, is a political choice designed to encourage the public to accept a lack of airborne disease mitigation. It pushes people to believe the virus is harmless, even as scientific research fails to support this claim, and while the CDC puts out conflicting guidance that large swathes of the public are high-risk.

Refusal to directly communicate 1) how COVID spreads 2) that it can be avoided 3) how it can be avoided while modeling mitigation, makes pandemic communications much more difficult for vulnerable people, activists and marginalized groups attempting to reduce disease burden in their communities. We should not be swimming against the current of public health officials’ poor pandemic hygiene.

Mandate airborne infection control in all healthcare settings

Of course, COVID is an international problem, and it’s critical that measures like indoor clean air and airborne infection control in healthcare are implemented globally. WHO has no legal authority to issue such a mandate; it can do little more than make recommendations. However, those recommendations have power, and as of now, it has failed to make them. Recommendations from WHO often form the basis of directives from regulatory bodies like the CDC.

The decision to claim that SARS-COV-2 was not airborne was politically motivated. There was no data to support this claim, only decades of bad physics in medicine and very strong financial and legal incentives to assume that COVID was not spreading through the air. It all comes down to the cost of rethinking medical care entirely, with an eye to airborne infection control.

I already wrote about the WHO’s recent attempt to both acknowledge COVID’s airborne nature while walking back their early-pandemic claims that, were COVID airborne, of course they would recommend proper airborne infection control measures.

Specifically, WHO Health Operations, Infection Prevention and Control Technical Team wrote in an April 2020 email to a group advocating for airborne precautions:

"Would there be evidence of significant spread of SARS-CoV-2 as an airborne pathogen outside of the context of AGPs [aerosol generating procedures], WHO would immediately revise its guidance and extend the recommendation of airborne precautions accordingly"

Well, COVID is airborne, and they have not immediately revised their guidance.

This continues to cost the lives of hospitalized vulnerable people every day.

It also contributes to public confusion about how COVID transmits, including among healthcare workers. Doctors and nurses are well aware that there is no airborne infection control in medical settings; their personal justifications tend to be either “because COVID must be mild” or “because COVID can’t spread that way.”

This is an understandable psychological response to watching their employers- hospitals and medical facilities- fail to implement measures to control the spread of airborne disease in a hospital. Either COVID must not be spreading that way, or COVID must be no big deal.

Education and mitigation practices coming from the top will speed the process of normalizing disease control and bringing down cases at an institutional level.

Like seeing public health officials masked, seeing doctors and nurses masked in hospitals with well-fitting respirators will also help educate the public about how SARS-COV-2 spreads, and confirm that indeed, COVID is still with us.

While there is no previous legal framework for patients to rely on, what medical institutions are doing is highly immoral if not explicitly illegal. They are failing to even attempt to provide proper infection control in hospitals.

Public health bodies should properly educate medical professionals about airborne infection control and mandate upgrades to hospital infrastructure that accommodate the existence of SARS-COV-2. Set the expectation that healthcare settings will be held responsible for healthcare acquired infections.

Legal and financial consequences for healthcare acquired infections

Currently in the US, many HAIs have to be reported to the CDC; that COVID does not, is a choice based on the reality that they are allowing it to spread freely.

From the CDC website on Healthcare Acquired Infections and the 2022 HAI Progress Report:

"The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) is committed to protecting patients and healthcare personnel from adverse healthcare events and promoting safety, quality, and value in healthcare delivery. Preventing healthcare-associated infections (HAIs) is a top priority for CDC and its partners in public health and healthcare….The 2022 National and State HAI Progress Report provides data on central line-associated bloodstream infections (CLABSIs), catheter-associated urinary tract infections (CAUTIs), ventilator-associated events (VAEs), surgical site infections (SSIs), methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) bloodstream events, and Clostridioides difficile (C. difficile) events."

The CDC itself states that preventing HAIs is a top priority, and it collects reems of data around other, more easily controlled infections. HICPAC, the CDC advisory body that recommends infection control measures has repeatedly come under fire from activists over the past several years as they attempt to shove through a new set of recommendations that incorrectly equates N-95 respirator protection with surgical masks and otherwise ignores airborne transmission of viruses.

HICPAC’s strategy for dealing with the entirely new paradigm uncovered by engineers and aerosol experts in 2021- because, bear in mind, the work of scientists like Linsey Marr showed that no viruses are spreading via “droplet” alone, the way scientists formerly conceptualized their transmission- is utter denial.

It would be too disruptive to decades of infection control norms to acknowledge that SARS-COV-2 came in like a wrecking ball to previous guidance; thus, HICPAC members are pretending they’ve never even heard of COVID. Watching their public facing meetings is bizarre; hours of academic debates where the pandemic isn’t mentioned, followed by 45 minutes of activists explaining that they are unable to access medical care, or that their loved ones caught COVID in the hospital and died. HICPAC members remain utterly stone-faced throughout these sessions and fail to acknowledge the comments at their next session.

Currently, Medicare has a program that reduces funding to hospitals with higher rates of acquired infections; COVID is not one of those targeted. Change this and watch how quickly hospital management goes from not understanding, to indeed understanding, airborne infection control. This is all a matter of financial incentives to hospital management, and those incentives must change.

Since 2020, incentives have stubbornly pushed healthcare institutions to ignore COVID to save the money it would cost to dramatically reimagine healthcare with top-to-bottom airborne infection control. How do you properly segregate COVID+ patients? When do you test them? How often do you test staff? Do you send COVID+ staff home? (Yes, you should, but currently the hospital saves money by not doing this).

We need to pivot from the early pandemic model of mandating individual behaviors (masks, distancing) to mandating outcomes (lack of viral spread in public spaces). That doesn’t mean a public space can never mandate masks, it means that masks must be part of a coherent strategy to prevent infections; this should also eliminate irrational mask rules (mask only before you sit down) and incentivize mask hygiene, education, and distribution. If a hospital loses money because of hospital acquired COVID, it is not merely incentivized to mandate masks. It is incentivized to mandate proper respirator masks, educate staff as to proper mask wearing, fit test masks, properly ventilate and filtrate, ensure that masks aren’t being worn on chins, test staff and patients, send sick staff home, ensure that meals can be eaten in a COVID-free, low-CO2 area, etc.

Legal and financial consequences for infections acquired in congregate settings, prisons, workplaces and schools

Continuing this theme; there is nothing particularly radical about the idea of legal repercussions for infectious disease via negligence in a workplace, school or congregate setting.

You can sue your workplace for infecting you with a foodborne illness if it was not following proper public health regulations. You can sue a school that doesn’t get your kid his epi pen in a timely manner. You could sue a retirement home with cholera in the water.

Therefore, world governments need to set indoor clear air standards, as well as assign culpability for the containment of outbreaks to employers, schools, prisons, etc., with government money available for infrastructure upgrades and a timeline for their achievement. If disease transmission occurs because indoor CO2 is high, because air filters weren’t turned on, because sick people were forced to work, that should be legally actionable the way dirty water and poorly handled food is.

All institutions- schools, workplaces, retirement homes, prisons- must have not only baseline protections like clean air, but outbreak plans. What happens in the event of a positive case? How is that handled, how is spread prevented? Government money, guidance and resources must be available to ease the development of this process.

Before Biden was elected, he promised to implement a new OSHA standard to protect workers from COVID infections. On January 21, 2021, the day after his Inauguration, he issued an Executive Order asking OSHA for revised guidance to protect workers from COVID-19. What resulted was both grossly inadequate and temporary. In June of 2021, OSHA issued an ETS - Emergency Temporary Standard- for healthcare workers only. It included guidance about social distancing, AGPs, solid barriers, and surface disinfection, though it was issued over a month after the WHO updated its website to affirm that COVID was not droplet spread.

It did, however, contain good guidance including screening for healthcare workers, sending positive workers home, reference to respirator masks, reference to HVAC and MERV-13 filters, but it has since expired. In the years since, OSHA has dragged its feet as workers’ groups like the National Nurses Union (NNU) lobbies for protections and industry groups like the American Hospital Association (AHA) lobby against them. If “COVID is here to stay” and “we have to learn to live with COVID”, why would worker protections from infection be temporary?

On the whole, workers were forced back into COVID-riddled workplaces with no new protections. A new OSHA standard should acknowledge the threat of airborne disease, make use of the many technological solutions for mitigating airborne disease, and outline the responsibilities of employers to both utilize available technologies, promote mitigation, and send sick workers home.

Comprehensive indoor clean air laws with specifications for upgraded ventilation, filtration, and other tools like Far UVC

I’ve already written about this in detail. The CDC has decent guidance, updated in May of 2023, about ventilation and filtration, here. However, none of this is enforceable without new legislation, nor does our current infrastructure meet these standards.

Ventilation norms and requirements must be overhauled. Currently, hotels and schools often have windows sealed shut; this is inappropriate for disease control and leads to dangerous levels of CO2 accumulation. All public buildings must be able to guarantee air changes per hour (ACH) deemed appropriate by aerosol experts, keeping CO2 as low as possible. Only MERV-13 or higher (HEPA filtration) effectively filters airborne virus from the air, so these must be standard.

I have only the basic knowledge of a layman; to learn more, you can check out this roadmap for national IAQ standards written by dozens of experts and published in Science.

Far UVC is another promising tool, and engineers should be consulted as to the appropriateness of implementing it in public spaces, particularly in schools, airports, hospitals, and crowded venues.

Work from home should be encouraged, conferences should be virtual where possible, flights should be tested.

Unwinding WFH in the midst of wave after wave of COVID was anti-science and self-defeating. Increasing the severity of waves and worsening spread in the community creates less productivity and more worker absence. Additionally, lessening the environmental impact of commuting and converting commercial real estate to residential should be priorities.

Governments, instead of pushing people back into the office, should be pushing in the opposite direction, for a sustainable approach to long-term remote work. This lessens community spread, environmental pollution, and local traffic, while creating more accessible jobs. Conferences should always have virtual options if they can’t be fully virtual. The carbon footprint of professional conferences is something I do think about a lot, but I digress.

Relatedly, yes, I believe people should have a negative PCR to fly. You do not have the right to get in a tube with a bunch of other people while positive for COVID, period. People need paperwork to fly. They need an ID to fly. They need a passport to fly internationally. It is expensive to fly. There should be on site, cheap, fast PCR or PCR-accurate testing at the airport, and you should need the negative to fly, like you need your ID and ticket. PlusLife tests are 5 Euros.

I had to PCR test to board flights to Mexico, Chile, Brazil, and Argentina in 2022 and nobody died. As a disabled person, it was the last time I was able to fly internationally, because I wasn’t forced to risk exposure. Testing has the added benefit of encouraging pro-social mitigation behaviors when people know they will have to test before flying.

Free masks, free tests, free vaccines, free Paxlovid, universal paid sick leave, and negative tests to exit quarantine

Expense should never be a barrier to practicing disease control. As usual, our governments continue to be penny-wise and pound-foolish, depriving people of the tools to keep themselves safe and incurring much, much higher expenses to the economy in terms of long-term health loss of workers.

As of now, volunteer-led radical mask blocs are attempting to fill in the gaps by offering free masks and tests to locals in need, but there is only so much that small groups of (often disabled and multiply marginalized) citizens can do.

We need free distribution of proper KN95 and N95 respirator masks, as well as tests; ideally tests that work well. Currently, the government sends out the odd packet of 2-4 rapid tests; RAT tests are 28% accurate on day 1 of symptoms. We need to get more tests and more accurate tests into the hands of the public, for free. Then we need to allow people to stay home until they test negative.

The CDC has unscientifically reduced the COVID quarantine several times until it has become functionally non-existent; this was done not to effectively control disease, but to appease employers. People with COVID-19 should leave quarantine when they have tested negative on two tests, 24 hours apart. Period. Not before. A positive test = viral load = contagion.

OSHA standards that penalize employers for spread between employees would incentivize the provision of proper sick leave. I do understand that the government, after failing to control COVID for so long, cannot shift the burden of disease control overnight to individual business owners. There needs to be a long period of infrastructure upgrade, education, resource distribution, perhaps even tax incentives for proper pandemic management and airborne infection control. But overall, incentives must align to push individual institutions toward infection control and away from infection maximization. The government must continue to provide support, resources, and education, while building a framework for regulation and financial disincentive as well.

Vaccines must be free. Paxlovid must be free. And in an ideal world, in a world that truly wants to end this pandemic, and all pandemics, healthcare must be free.

Education

Education can take many forms; even the implementation of proper airborne infection control in hospitals is a form of education. It educates the public “here is how you halt the spread of COVID” and “yes COVID is still here” and “yes we take it seriously because it can kill”. Currently, hospitals and medical professionals, at the behest of the WHO and CDC, are communicating the opposite.

But in addition to the education provided by modeling airborne infection control, wearing masks, instituting infection control, implementing legal consequences for infections, setting a new OSHA standard for workers, etc., the public needs direct, honest communication about the health risks of COVID.

This means talking about the risk of Long COVID that accompanies each infection without purposely undercutting that messaging by then loudly reassuring people “but it probably won’t happen to you.” It means explaining COVID is a multi-systemic disease, not just a respiratory virus. It means explaining that COVID carries long-term health risks that outlast the acute infection. It means explaining that COVID variants are excellent at evading immunity, meaning they learn to outsmart our body’s protection via vaccine or previous infection; that’s why you must get boosted and layer your precautions.

Of course, the above is only an overview of prevention. We need another coordinated, funded, communications and research campaign to handle the Long COVID crisis.

In the fantasy world where tomorrow, we can build an ideal pandemic response from the ground up, I see several major switches that would need to flip.

The first is that the culture of silence and denial among leadership would have to change to one of education and communication. Right now, state representatives are deliberately avoiding mention of COVID, while propagandizing the safety of infection and/or the end of the pandemic by refusing to mask. It is hard to imagine how successful a pandemic response might be if public officials were actually trying to end the pandemic. We quite literally have public health and political and media figures working to hide three pieces of critical information: public knowledge of the virus, public knowledge of mitigation measures that would reduce viral spread, and public knowledge of the severity of the virus (which would motivate desire to reduce viral spread).

On the one hand, that is a terrible and depressing place to be. On the other hand, it tells us that we might better control COVID through public behavior alone, if the public were given information and tools instead of purposely obstructed from accessing either. We have a lot of room to grow.

The second would be the construction of physical infrastructure to deal with the existence of very contagious, very common, highly disabling airborne virus that is currently circulating in all public spaces. If we have to “learn to live with” COVID, let’s learn to live with an airborne virus by cleaning the air.

The third would be building the legal infrastructure to enforce and hold accountable a failure to implement said physical infrastructure, along with other disease control measures. Patients should not be infected in hospitals. Workers should not be forcibly infected at work. Prisoners should not be forcibly infected in prisons. Kids should not be forcibly infected in schools. Let’s drill down and prevent transmission in congregate settings, with accountability.

COVID control essentially came to an utter halt because our system was not designed to control airborne disease. Our governments did not want to pay to do it. Our governments did not want to explain that they did not want to pay to do it. But this is 2024. We have technology we haven’t even begun to deploy in the fight against COVID, all because we’re too proud to admit we’re still fighting. We have not even scratched the surface of what would a pandemic response that acknowledges the airborne nature of COVID could achieve.

The introduction of the vaccines in early 2021 appeared to our governments like a “get out of jail free” card. They thought they could grab onto it, induce broad herd immunity, and get back to normal without ever acknowledging or paying for clean air. But that isn’t what happened, and now, our lack of mitigations continues to rapidly produce new variants that harm the efficacy of our vaccines.

It would’ve been nice if the vaccines were all that were needed to end the SARS-COV-2 crisis. Since it isn’t, we need our leaders to stop doubling down on their failed strategy, accept reality, and start building a long-term approach to ending this airborne pandemic, as well as avoiding future ones.

The problem underlying all the current failures is that, quite simply, our government is not trying to end this pandemic. It is trying to hide this pandemic. And you’re not going to solve a problem you won’t acknowledge.

#covid #mask up #pandemic #covid 19 #wear a mask #coronavirus #sars cov 2 #public health #still coviding #wear a respirator

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rottenpumpkin13 · 6 months ago

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all the soldiers plus cloud get stuck on the soldier floor because the elevator breaks how does everyone react

Sephiroth: Calm, cool, collected, the picture of professional composure. Can he do anything about the situation? No. Will freaking out solve anything? Also no. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, meditating, reaching a state of transcendent peace, all is well. The chaos around him might as well be happening in another dimension.

Sephiroth, after discovering that Professor Hojo is also on the 49th floor: Attempting to use the window as an escape route while Lazard and Angeal hold him back, calculating the probability of surviving a 49-story fall versus spending one more minute in the same vicinity as Hojo.

Angeal: Not worried at all. The 49th level has showers, a kitchen, a fully stocked fridge in the break room and enough rations to survive a small apocalypse. He's treating this literal hostage situation like it's a luxury camping retreat. Has apparently been preparing for this exact scenario his entire career, with his office resembling a doomsday prepper's paradise. There's medical kits, pillows, blankets, emergency flares, three different types of water filtration systems, and what appears to be a small herb garden. Has produced his guitar and is insisting everyone share their feelings around his makeshift "campfire" (a desk lamp turned sideways).

Zack: Full blown freakout. He's mildly claustrophobic and the idea of being stuck anywhere sends him into crisis mode. He's banging on the elevator doors screaming "LET ME OUT!" while trying to pry them open. He's holding up posters to the windows with "S.O.S." written in various sizes and colors. Attempting to flag down pigeons as potential messengers. Keeps trying to send morse code with the office lights to passing helicopters, despite it being broad daylight. Had to be physically restrained from attempting to punch through the elevator doors with his "face first" strategy. He's drafting his will and doing stress-induced squats in the corner, and Angeal has to physically hold him down while another SOLDIER assists him with paper bag breathing. Has already gone through the office's entire supply of paper bags.

Genesis: Freaking out like Zack but with 300% more determination. He is a free man, a SOLDIER of destiny, and no mechanical malfunction shall imprison his spirit. He has maps of the ventilation system complete with annotations and escape routes. He's rounded up a group of Seconds who are either brave or just really bad at saying no. He's going to prison break this bitch with style. Last anyone sees Genesis, he's disappearing into the vents like a determined raccoon in a red leather coat.

Genesis, after falling through a weakened section of the ventilation system and crashing through the ceiling panel: Breaks his wrist.

Cloud: He's not even there anymore. He managed to pry open the door to the stairwell an hour ago and is currently in his bunk in the barracks, chilling.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 crisis core #angeal hewley #zack fair #ffvii crisis core #cloud strife #crisis core

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emperor-kumquat · 3 months ago

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The new alt-modes given to certain Transformers: Mercy characters

In the process of creating TFP versions of characters for my game, sometimes I make unique choices and give them new alt-modes. Or if it was unclear what they transformed into in IDW, I made something up. Here are some examples!

Nightbird: she is of the Corvicon species introduced in RID 2015, an actual bird to fit the name!

Trepan: he is a two-wheeler with a body type very much like Arcee's (boobs included to break gender norms). I wanted him to be very small and prickly.

Rung: he is a three-wheeler, though he isn't too fast. I was inspired by a scooter Rung was on in IDW.

Froid: he is a copter but he can also change his long arms into wings for gliding. Due to his ventilation system disease in Mercy, he refrains from transforming at all unless necessary.

Kaon: he used to be a three-wheeler like Rung, but after experimentation, he now transforms into a power pack with sleeves. He is meant to cling to the backs of bots so he is hard to pry off as he electrocutes them.

Vos: she is not just a gun, but now a six-winged Seeker with a massive laser gun. Yes, a gun that will pursue you!

Helex: Originally a heavy vehicle, but mostly just a furnace after experimentation that sucks up lava to spray at bots.

Tesarus: Once a heavy vehicle, but after experimentation, a heavy vehicle with many chopping blades at its front. You know that scary tractor from Cars that chased McQueen and Mater? That kind of vibe.

(Tarn is still a tank but with a power to kill not related to her voice)

Krok: he is a Croctobot (another RID 2015 concept). In the War he adopted a Seeker body from advanced Decepticon surgery, but then he wished to revert back to his natural body type.

Fulcrum: he is a copter-jet instead of a bomb now. He likes to hover at a distance in bot-form, wear his goggles, and watch the bombs he made go off.

Rewind: he is a torpedo-like Minicon like those from RID 2015. He can also magnetically stick to walls and ceilings and slip around like some kind of black roomba bug.

Browning: he is a tiny, tiny, tiny tank. He isn't a pistol anymore and can roll around on his own, but can only really hurt the zap-mice and retrorats that might attack him.

Devcon: he is secretly a triple-changer. The Seeker mode is obvious, but he is very closeted about his third mode which I have given him. No one could guess it by looking at him!

Vehicons: they start obtaining new alt-modes thanks to Knockout. You will see the extra forms from the TFP video game (copters, tanks, trucks) and also motorcycles, animals, and more! Wolf Vehicon, anybody?

(Yes, I do incorporate many RID 2015 concepts! The show wasn't all bad!)

#tf mercy #transformers mercy #transformers #transformers fanfiction #tfp fanfiction

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diazsdimples · 6 months ago

Note

To absolutely no ones surprise, I am sending Doctor AU emojis ⚕️⚕️⚕️⚕️⚕️⚕️

18 doctory sentences! And my apologies in advance 😬

“I’ve called blood bank and initiated the massive hemorrhage protocol, but they had a problem cross matching her blood so there’s going to be a delay. I don’t think –” “I know, Bobby,” Eddie snaps. The tension in the room is thick enough to bite, and Eddie knows they’re all in crisis mode. The insistent plink plink plink of blood falling to the floor sets Eddie’s teeth on edge as he rushes to push the retractor towards Jessica’s bladder, holding it out of the way so he can properly get to the uterus. “Hold that,” he instructs, pushing the retractor towards the junior doctor on the other side of the table. “Keep it taut, I don’t want to risk giving her a bladder injury on top of everything else.” Although, internally, Eddie knows a bladder injury will be the least of her worries, if she makes it out of the OR. He works methodically, clamping blood vessels and isolating ligaments and nerve bundles. The junior doctor holds each retractor as instructed, but Eddie can see the way her hands shake, the metal instruments clinking together as she stands as still as she can. The room is silent, save for the sound of the ventilator and the dripping. It’s slowed down since Eddie managed to clamp the bisected artery, but he knows there’s still little to no hope from here. Without fresh blood to replace what she’s lost, Jessica’s heart won’t be able to pump effectively, and eventually it’ll give up entirely. But he can’t stop. He won’t stop, not until… “Eddie.” He begins the first cut, eyes focused solely on the operating field, filled with less blood now but still complete carnage. “Eddie,” Bobby’s voice, insistent and strained, jolts him. “She’s gone into asystole. Commencing resuscitation.”

#james answers things #james writes #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 abc #911 #911 buddie #buddie wip #doctor au #bobby nash #911 fic #911 wip

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clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles · 7 months ago

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CHASED

The distraction was enough to give them a five-second head start before the two security guards were able to process what happened.

"Get them!"

The gold-masked Transformer exclaimed, running after the two. Orion and (Y/Cyb/n) dashed through the corridors, weaving through the boxes and crates. The two security guards, slightly caught off guard, soon recovered quickly and gave chase. Their large servos pushed aside the obstacles in their way, creating a wake of destruction as they pursued the two.

"Halt!"

"Stop immediately!"

The two security guards shouted at Orion and (Y/Cyb/n) as they closed in. With quick thinking, Orion let go of his friend's servo and leaped to grab a ventilation shaft, pulling it open.

*CLANK!*

The metal swung open, hitting the two security guards in their faceplates as they fell to the floor. While they were monetarily down, (Y/Cyb/n) activated one of his Algorithms, which was the Quadirectional Keeper.

He shifted a few boxes and crates over, creating a wall and barrier before running off.

*Screech!*

Orion slid across the floor, hitting a shelf before getting back to his pedes and running alongside (Y/Cyb/n), who nearly tripped and stumbled. "I... I... I... We need something to fly." Orion muttered.

They were about to run further, but Orion paused when he noticed one of the security drones. "::Halt, criminals! Prepared to be detained—"

*CLANK!*

After they made a left turn, Orion grabbed the drone with his other servo. Passing through more crates, they were nearing a shaft that led to the outside. Behind the two, the noise of gears and metal shifting was heard. Glancing behind, they both saw the security guards turning into an aerial vehicle, increasing their speed.

"Hang on!" Orion shouted.

"[CONFUSED] Huh—"

*CRASH!*

As they plummeted from the upside-down building, Orion gripped the security drone tightly, his panicked shouts echoing through the chaos. Meanwhile, (Y/Cyb/n) struggled to convey his emotions without functional vocalizers, resorting to selecting an audio file to mimic a scream.

"Start, start, start!" Orion cursed as he frantically thumped the security drone. The thought of dying was unbearable to him, not now, not ever, not today.

Suddenly, there was a powerful BWOOSH as Orion activated the drone's jet boost, propelling it into the air. (Y/Cyb/n) clung to the other side of the drone as it spun through the sky. Their moment of relief was cut short when an aerial vehicle collided with them.

*SMACK!*

They careened in a different direction, crashing into a right-side-up building with a resounding THUD. As they tumbled down the steep, slippery slope of the building, teetering on the edge, Orion urgently warned (Y/n) to brace for impact. With a tight grip on the security drone, (Y/n) swiftly deactivated it using the Saboteur Catalyst Algorithm.

*FWOOSH!*

They were launched into the air, hurtling across to the other side with a sharp CLANK as they barely managed to clutch onto the edge of another building. Orion struggled to find purchase on the smooth surface, desperately attempting to pull himself up as they dangled precariously over the edge.

(Y/Cyb/n) huffed and squirmed to pull himself up. He glanced behind and noticed the two security bots heading toward them in their alt modes.

Swiftly, (Y/Cyb/n) drew out his Laser Blade knife and stabbed it into the metal, using it as a stepping stone to pull himself up. "Come on." He offered a servo to Orion, who quickly grabbed it and pulled himself up. They both began to run to a door with an opening.

"Haha!" Orion turned back to taunt the two guards. "So long, sir-"

*FWOOP!*

He was cut off as they both fell through a hole instead of feeling flat ground.

*Crash!*

Orion landed on his back, breaking a table of a small party of Transformers. (Y/Cyb/n) landed more carefully, although it was clumsy since he tripped before falling.

"Ooh, Energon." Orion smiled, picking himself up and taking several small Energon cubes. "Evening, everyone. Pardon us." He waved as he casually left the room of confused Transformers with (Y/Cyb/n) shuffling along.

The door slid open quickly when they left. Orion ducked from a passing aerial vehicle, making him drop the armful of Energon. He again held (Y/Cyb/n)'s servo, guiding the trans-mech through the crowd. His optics soon landed on a train coming from their side.

"Hey, that's our ride!" He gestured to the moving transportation. "You ready?"

"[APPREHENSIVE NOD]" (Y/Cyb/n) nodded, nervous at the thought of jumping on the fast-moving train.

"Here we go!" Orion exclaimed, running to a railing of the central walkway of Iacon.

*Clank!*

*Fwoosh!*

They stepped onto the railing and jumped over, freefalling to the moving train.

*Thud!*

Orion carefully landed on the train's outside due to its rounded and smooth surface. (Y/Cyb/n) landed a bit off, making him slip off the train. The blue and red Cybertronian grabbed his friend's servo, helping him to his pedes. The Transformers who heard the noise looked annoyed, recognizing the two, especially the "the most defective one" out of the defective mining bots and society. They at least didn't make a big deal about their presence.

The train carried on, moving swiftly across the train tracks. Orion and (Y/Cyb/n) found themselves on top of other passengers of the same train, although it was evident that the other passengers were giving them disapproving looks. The occasional glance and murmurs indicated they weren't pleased with their presence, especially (Y/Cyb/n). However, nobody bothered to speak directly, simply grumbling among themselves.

"What's with all the sour faces?" Orion muttered under his breath, his optics scanning the train's occupants.

"[SHRUG]" (Y/Cyb/n) spoke reflexivelyflexively.

The train continued its ride until it stopped at a station. Orion and (Y/Cyb/n) slid down the train's door when it opened upward. They took off running again to get away further.

*SWOOSH!*

The noise of jet engines was heard above the two as they noticed the pair of familiar aerial vehicles approaching from behind.

*THUD!*

Both Transformers turned into their bipedal modes, landing in front of them with a loud thud. "[NERVOUS GULP]" (Y/Cyb/n) instinctively spoke before he played an audio sound of gulping as he huddled behind Orion Pax.

"Hey, big fellas." The blue and red robot waved at the approaching security transformers as he tried to catch his breath from running. "Thanks for the headstart. Do you want to go for another run again?"

The magenta-masked transformer chuckled mockingly. "You're not getting away this time, Oeron."

He tilted slightly towards (Y/Cyb/n), who shyly peeked out from behind his friend's shoulder. "And we're not letting the walking ticking time bomb out of our sights."

Orion's optics narrowed with irritation as the security Transformers approached, their optics fixed on (Y/Cyb/n). He stepped forward to shield his friend, standing protectively before him. "Hey, watch your language. You don't even know him."

The magenta-masked guard smirked, clearly enjoying the chance to belittle (Y/Cyb/n). "Oh, we know him. Everyone knows him. He's the most defective mining bot on this whole planet."

"Okay--you might have a point right there-" Orion stuttered out. "But hey! You could probably know him better if you were just nicer to him! He doesn't bite or explode-"

The golden-masked guard let out a frustrated scoff and stepped forward. "You're dead!"

"I'll take that as a no..." Orion's sheepish smile faltered.

*Clank!*

The golden-masked guard was bumped by a cart being pushed by a miner bot. The two guards turned behind to see who bumped into them.

"Hey!" A dark grey and silver Cybertronian complained when his stuff fell down. "What where you're going- His complaint died out quickly as he realized the Transformers he was confronting had a bigger frame.

"What did you say, no-cog!?" The golden-masked security guard snarled menacingly, addressing his superiority.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean you." The Cybertronian stepped back, his servos raised in a placid gesture. "I was referring to the two bots who were behind you."

At that moment, when they turned their helms to face the two bots they were trying to chase, they were gone already, taking the distraction to flee or hide. "Where did they go!?" The golden-masked guard snarled in disbelief and annoyance, looking around with his magenta-masked brother.

"The filthy red and blue bot with his special left optic?" The miner mech inquired, placing the spilled contents back into his cart. "Yeah- the red and blue with a big mouth, squeaky joints, and a corrosive metallic stench. His buddy..."

He trailed off slightly, not wanting to offend the poor "defected" trans-mech who was unfortunate to be built the way he was. "He's a bit... buggy here and there." He didn't have a lot of bad things to say about (Y/Cyb/n).

He was a genuinely kind and placid person, although extremely monotonous and quiet to others due to his "defect" of impaired vision, a broken vocalizer, and the need to narrate his actions and emotions reflexively.

The two security guards nodded in mutual understanding, a touch of disgust crossing their faceplates.

"That's them, alright." The magenta-masked guard grumbled, optics scanning the area.

"Where are they!?" The golden-masked guard echoed his companion's words, his voice dripping with irritation.

"They went that way." The miner bot pointed a servo to his right.

The security guards looked at where the miner bot supposedly saw them before they took off, not without the golden-masked Transformer grumbling, "When I get my hands on them..."

"Ooh, I can't wait to give that little defected-freak buddy of his a nice check-up." The magenta-masked Transformer was added.

Once they were out of the way, the miner bot pushed the car into the train as the door closed.

*Psssh!!*

With a sharp hiss, the train began to move to its subsequent designation: The Energon Mines. While on the train, the miner acknowledged a passing bot with a nod and waited for a few moments. The miner bot then spoke to the cart, "Alright, all clear."

*Clank!*

Orion popped out of the cart, grabbing the drilling machine. "D-16, I may be rusty but corrosive- that is too far." He chuckled at his best friend playfully. D-16 had covered him and (Y/Cyb/n) hiding from the guards by staying in the cart D-16 was carrying.

"Let me guess," the dark grey and silver mech spoke with a knowing smirk. "You checked out of the archives?"

"Yeah," the blue and red mech nodded enthusiastically, midway in pulling himself out of the cart. "I had to jump out of a window this time. Almost died- it was wild." He summarized.

"And going through ancient data is worth dying for?" D-16 asked sarcastically.

"Yes, it is." Orion pulled himself out before he tumbled, spilling the cart's contents again.

The contents spilled again, leaving D-16 groaning in slight annoyance, concern, and exasperation. "Ugh... I need a new best friend." The dark gray and silver miner bot mumbled with sarcasm as he felt to help Orion put the items back.

"Ow." (Y/Cyb/n) monotonously yelped, rolling out of the cart, too, faceplanting against the floor.

D-16 chuckled, patting the top of (Y/Cyb/n)'s helm affectionately before offering a servo to pull him up. "Careful, you clumsy buddy."

Orion chuckled as he began to pick up the cart's spilled contents. The other two mechs assisted Orion in placing the contents back. "If there are clues and our recording history to help us locate the Matrix of Leadership. There in the archives." The red and blue bot tried to reason. "Trust me-"

"Sentinel Prime," D-16 spoke sternly. "The-Sentinel Prime is up on the surface," He tossed in another metal prop. "Risking his life for us in search of the Matrix."

"That's exactly what I am doing!" Orion replied enthusiastically. "I'm trying to help him."

"Yeah, yeah- okay." D-16 chuckled, leaning against the cart as he chuckled at his best friend's ambition of searching the Matrix of Leadership.

"The sooner the Energon flows, the sooner we don't have to mine for it," Orion remarked. "Don't you want to choose your own path? Do whatever you want?"

"We're miners. We mine, that's all." D-16 deadpanned.

"No." Orion Pax disagreed, leaning back against the cart. "There's got to be something more I can do. I... I can feel it."

"Oh yeah?" The dark gray and silver bot had an amused smirk at his best friend. "Like the time you had a "feeling" you could "transform" without a cog?"

"You said you were never going to mention that again." The blue-optic mech pointed a digit at D-16, not wanting to remember the embarrassing memory.

"Took me three days to pry you over." D-16 added. "Your feelings can get you in trouble."

"Mm..." (Y/Cyb/n) hummed in agreement. He popped his helm out sheepishly his shawl. He tugged the metallic fabric over his helm as if it were his only security blanket to comfort him from society looking down at him.

Orion pouted sheepishly at (Y/Cyb/n)'s agreement. "Oh, not you, too?"

D-16 chuckled in amusement at his friend's sheepish response. "I think that says something..."

The blue and red bot let out a huff, feigning a hint of annoyance, but a hint of a smile was evident on his faceplate. "You two are both traitors, you know that?" He then chuckled jokingly.

"Sure are." The dark gray and silver bot placed a servo on the (a/c) trans-mech's shoulderplates.

"Yeah, yeah..." The blue and red bot waved dismissively at his friend's comment while he picked up another piece of metal.

"Just trust Sentinel Prime." The dark gray and silver bot shrugged.

"I do trust him," Orion remarked quickly before tossing in a piece of metal into the cart.

"Hey, if we did have cogs-"

"I'd transformed into a shovel. I would still beat you." D-16 answered his friend's rhetorical question quickly, leaning against the transparent door of the train. "What about you?" He looked at the other two mechs.

"I don't like how fast you answered that." Orion huffed, leaning against the cart.

"..." (Y/Cyb/n) contemplated in his own thoughts. The left pupil of his broken optic changed from a neutral, flat white line into a vibrant, ocean-blue teardrop once more as he stared at the floor.

For cycles since the incident, he'd been told that a Codex like him (despite not knowing the meaning) shouldn't deserve to be a Transform, or he wouldn't be granted the ability to transform because of his "strange powers."

Orion glanced at (Y/Cyb/n)'s optic, its tear-drop-shaped pupil gleaming of his defected optic. His optics widened, concern etched on his faceplate.

"Hey- hey." The blue and red mech turned his gaze directly at (Y/Cyb/n), his voice dripping with worry. "Don't listen to any of that nonsense. You're not an... a..." Orion couldn't bring himself to say the word.

Instead, he cleared his throat and replaced it with something more friendly. "You're an individual like us. You're not defective. You're not."

D-16's optics softened, sharing Orion's sentiment as he glanced at the (a/c) mech beside him. "Exactly," he replied, his tone mirroring Orion's concern.

He placed a reassuring servo on (Y/Cyb/n)'s shoulder plates, giving them a gentle squeeze. "No matter what anyone says, you're as much a Cybertronian as any of us."

(Y/Cyb/n) looked up at the two mechs, his optics filled with gratitude and vulnerability. "[GRATITUDE AND SHEEPISH NOD]" He flatly spoke his action and emotion reflexively again while doing it.

Orion and D-16 nodded at (Y/Cyb/n)'s response, their expression holding a mixture of concern and reassurance. Both shared a glance, a silent understanding passing between them.

The dark grey and silver bot took the lead, breaking the momentary silence. "And don't let those guards' words get to you either." He spoke sternly. "You are not a 'defect.'"

"... And you are not a walking ticking time bomb." the blue and red mech quickly added, turning his gaze towards (Y/Cyb/n) as he spoke.

"Yeah." D-16 chimed in with a firm nod. "You're just... a bit buggy here and there, that's all."

For a few moments, the train carriage was silent, with the only sounds being the low hum of the train's engines and the occasional click of metal against metal.

Orion broke it as he glanced at D-16. "Listen, if you did beat me, I could give you this Megatronus Prime I have here, or I could give it to someone else."

"What Megatronus Prime thing?" The dark gray and silver mech inquired.

"It's nothing. You know, the unconditioned Megatronus Prime decal first edition?"

Orion smirked, taking out a Megatronous Prime sticker out of nowhere.

D-16 gasped in shock and surprise. He was a massive fan of Megatronous Prime. "What?" He spoke breathlessly.

"I mean, if you don't want it. I can just throw it away." The red and blue bot teased, twirling the sticker.

"Throw it away-" The dark gray and silver mech furrowed his optic ridges in disbelief. "That's not funny, let me see-"

"Waaait- don't grab." Orion stepped back after D-16 tried to reach for it. "You're going to crease it." He smiled, gently placing the sticker on his best friend's arm.

The yellow-optic mining Cybertronian smiled with contentment. "As Sentinel Prime says, Megatronous was-"

"-strongest Prime who ever lived." Orion crossed his arms with a knowing smirk. "I know that." He looked at the sticker on his best friend's arm. "Looks good on you." He complimented.

"Dawg, it's-" The yellow-optic mech was still in awe at the sticker he was given. "It's really cool." He glanced back at the blue-optic mech. "Thanks."

"[REALIZATION]" (Y/Cyb/n)'s optics suddenly lit up. He clicked a button on his wrist, opening up a mini-storage compartment, revealing several cubes of Energon. "Surprise." He smiled monotonously, his left pupil turning into a yellow circle.

"These were stolen when Orion and I ran away from the guards. So I thought we could fuel on some snacks before we get to work in the mines."

The two mechs were surprised at how their friend was able to obtain a handful of the and store it in his compartment. "How did you-" D-16 looked at the Energon cubes with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

"I-I thought I dropped them?" The blue and red mech was genuinely confused about how (Y/Cyb/n) was able to steal several cubes of them.

"I picked them up and stored them in the compartment. [GIGGLE]" (Y/Cyb/n) flatly remarked.

"Why thanks, (Y/Cyb/n)!" Orion reached for one of the Energon cubes while the dark silver mech just stared at it.

"This is the best surprise I've ever got, (Y/Cyb/n)!" He grinned widely at the (a/c) mech. "Thanks!" He took one of the snack cubes.

"Mhm." (Y/Cyb/n) nodded.

Orion Pax smiled at the warm-hearted camaraderie between each other. "Always got each other's back." He held out a curled servo.

"No matter what." D-16 agreed, fist-bumping Orion's servo.

"[AGREEING NOD]" The (opt/c) optic trans-mech chimed his emotion reflexively as he bumped his servo between the two best friends' own. "Cheers to friendship." He held up the Energon cube.

"To friendship." Orion Pax and D-16 spoke simultaneously before the three popped the Energon cube into their intakes.

As the trio savored the last of their Energon snacks, the train gradually decelerated upon reaching the next underground station, enveloping the surroundings in dimness.

"::Approaching sublevel station. Stand clear of doors...::" The voice echoed through the train's intercom as they delved deeper into the tunnel.

"Ah, man, looks like it's time for work," the dark grey and silver bot remarked with a sheepish chuckle before disembarking from the carriage.

Orion Pax, his shoulders drooping in resignation, muttered, "You can say that again," as he followed the dark grey and silver bot.

Feeling nervous and apprehensive, (Y/Cyb/n) clutched onto his shawl for comfort. Orion Pax offered a reassuring pat on his friend's back, saying, "You'll be alright down here, buddy. No one would judge you."

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