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moondirti · 1 year ago

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13. A CHALLENGE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter twelve / chapter fourteen ⇀

summary: you ask for a challenge. miguel gives you one worth your salt

mature | 10.2k words warnings: praise kink, mentorship with benefits, sparring, sexual tension, loads of banter/flirting, mild angst, sexual fantasies (including blowjobs), insecurity, blood and injury, mentions of death, dirty talk, arousal notes: i know y'all hate me after that end

Sunday, 14:45

“How long’s it been?” You urge, voice strained with thinning breath.

Miguel – for all his insistence that you push yourself beyond normal measure – doesn’t seem to hear you, gazing off into a distant corner. His forehead looks especially flickable from this angle, in this particular moment, and you have to curl your fist to quell the urge as it arises.

“Hm?” He hums, finally snapping out of it when you walk to the stretch of ceiling above him, intruding on his eyeline. The conditioned air of the gym itches the parts of you that are damp with sweat, particularly that exposed by your drooping shirt, draped under your bra to reveal your abdomen. Gooseflesh pocks your skin.

“The time.”

“Right.” He blinks, lifting his wrist to pause the stopwatch he’d set, then makes a small noise. “Double the last. You’re getting better.”

“Yeah, well–” To dispense the effects his praise has on you, you turn to make your way over to the pull-up bars at the back. They were your means of getting up on the ceiling, and they’re your way off. “S’not really difficult. I’m just hanging, trying not to throw up.”

“You could start practising on walls. It’d make the whole ‘getting down’ process easier.” He says, almost admonishes. As good as you’ve gotten at defying gravity upside down, you’ve stayed clear of testing your luck by doing so perpendicularly. “Not to mention, accessible. You won’t always have conveniently placed support to help you.”

“I don’t quite trust it yet.” Because you don’t, and it’s hard to imagine you will. The whole idea feels like a big fuck you to every physics lesson you’ve ever digested. “It makes no sense.” Swinging off the bar, you make sure to land on a wide stance to prevent your tumble. Your extremities have long since numbed, and you’ve already learnt your lesson on how that generates a lack of stability for the first few seconds until adjustment. “If everything in the universe operates on the same laws, I won’t be the exception.”

“You’re right.” Miguel ducks to fetch the bottle you left beside him, handing it over before you can ask. “You wouldn’t be. Several spiders manage it just fine.”

“Several spiders also have several one-ups on me.” The cold slice of water cuts through your thirst, tamping the headache you could sense starting at your sinuses. Recovery, in absolute contrast to your endurance, has cut by half. You’re recuperating from exertion a lot quicker than before.

“Like?”

“Failsafes in case they fall. Web-shooters, assistive gear.” You neglect to broach the topic of your own infallible; him, never too far out of reach. Not only would its mention go against your point, you’re still unsure of the nature of his aid – whether he would catch you if the severity of the situation did not call for it. If he’s here because you need him, or in commitment to a duty beyond your understanding.

(Tallying what you know about Miguel, you’d bet on the latter.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.”

“Very helpful, thanks.” You’d offer him your drink, but even the thought of his lips touching where yours once did makes you flush with molten heat. Late at night, tucked on your bed as you watch the highway leading to Second Base, you strain to remember what they felt like, mashed to yours in a laser confined cell. If you knew back then how things would end up, maybe you would’ve savoured it for longer. “Experience too. With the constant danger they face, they pretty much have to equip every skill at their disposal.”

“Is that what you want, then – danger?” He teases, mouth curling in a downwards smile. You’re too quick to shake your head. That word, want, still haunts you.

“You’re missing the point.”

“Am I, now.”

“I’m just saying,” Biting your cheek, you scramble for a fitting sentiment. Nothing quite encapsulates the crux of your little tangent, and you can’t help but compare yourself to Miguel. No matter how far the conversation strays, he always finds a link to tie it altogether. Unshakeable, poised. Like the sun, pulling comets into its orbit until they shine brilliantly, their tails forged under the radiation pressure. “A challenge might hit your lessons closer to home. Y’know, thrill, adrenaline – forcing me to resort to lengths I wouldn’t typically go to, instilling in me all the marks you want me to land on.”

(But if he’s the sun, what would that make you? Pluto, far on the other side of the solar spectrum, barely doing enough to keep its cosmic status? Even dwarf planets have their pull, some force strong enough to accrete nearby matter, and so it seems ill-fitting.)

Your mentor accepts your argument regardless, nodding minutely.

(Perhaps you’re the comet itself – coming from nowhere, heading nowhere, meant for the one, singular event that could give your existence meaning. That crossing paths with a star, to burn brightly in its influence before dissolving into nothing.)

“Similar to the planking exercise we do. Up the stakes and simulate something real for you.”

We. Your stomach lurches to your chest and you have to swallow it back before speaking. “Y-Yeah.”

“Te entiendo. Alright.” He agrees. “If that’ll get you to make progress. Come.” You follow him to the centre of the room, stumbling over hurried strides until you reach the combat training mat. “You remember our first day here.”

“Feels like centuries ago, but yes.” You respond, assuming he means the premiere lesson of yours, betiding this very spot. You’d christened it by letting him fuck your throat, and that’ll forever be the memory that occurs to you so long as you keep returning to this gym. It’s hard to forget.

“What did I ask you to do?”

“Er– Pin you down.” Your pitch drops an octave in an effort to mock him. “Three seconds, and you’ll have proved your point.” His inflection is tough to nail down, though – unique to the broad-shouldered form that affords his vocal folds more space, subtly curled where his accent comes through. You end up sounding like a parched frog more than you do him.

He shakes his head, nose twitching. It’s a vague quirk that says nothing about his amusement.

“As I recall it, you couldn’t.”

“As I recall, I was kept quite busy.” You, of course, are referring to his cock and it’s wedging into your mouth. And if he didn’t get the implication on word alone, then your lewd miming of the act fills in what gaps remain. Miguel sighs, waiting for your redolence to subside to continue. Though his weight shifts from one foot to the other, like he’s ridding himself of the tension that swells at your suggestion, and the small action speaks louder than what he likely intends. To think that you might have the same effect on him as he does you, however physical, is a tempting thing.

“Before that.”

You acquiesce, arm flopping uselessly to your side. “Sure. Though to be fair, I’ve no knowledge on how.”

“Good.” He crosses his arms. “We’re going to try again.”

“Right now?”

“No.”

“Well don’t keep me in suspense,” Rolling your eyes, you start to fold your sleeves to sit above the elbow. “Or next thing I know, I’m trapped in a cage with Rhino and a knife for defence.”

That drives a chuckle from him. It’s warm and coarse and low, and with the way your stomach churns at the sound, you hardly care that it’s at your expense. “Proper spectacle that would be. You wouldn’t last ten minutes. The best I’d give you is a weaponless Vulture.”

“Are you forgetting that I took down a symbiote on my own? Where your first instinct was to throw punches at it.” You huff. “They’re regenerative!”

“An oversight on my part. ‘Course, I didn’t want to get involved in the first place.” His chin practically sits on his chest now, tipped down to look you face-to-face. It’s the way through which you realise how close you’ve gotten, nose millimetres away from his forearm. He smells infuriatingly clean – fresh patchouli aftershave, soap, clothes fragranced from the laundry, familiar only because you use the same detergent. “Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for you, your opponent continues to be me.”

“And you want us to wrestle.”

“Given a few caveats.” He shrugs when your expression pinches. “To make it more real.”

“Okay…”

“Today will continue as is. I’m going to teach you the basics of taking down a larger opponent and we’ll drill it until you understand.” You cut his explanation into small fragments for better digestion – takedown, larger than you, drills – and show your attendance with wide eyes, following as he circles you. “Pinning me down in a static setting is simple enough. Your challenge is to do so unexpectedly, somewhere outside of this gym. Within the next week, I want you to sneak up on me and staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds. Anywhere, any time of the day; so long as you aren’t following me on missions, it’s all up to you. Take me by surprise, use it to your advantage. But remember–”

You cock your head, earnest. As he speaks again, it’s seven trumpets to armageddon, deep punctures to the anticipative silence you’ve built.

“When you come for me, I won’t be holding back.”

Ribs echoing with the rattle of your rapid heartbeat, you wipe your palms on the loose fabric of your sweats and take longer than you perhaps need to register his dare. He wants you to act much like a hero would on a stealth operation. That’s fine. You can do that. You’ll be taught on how to disable him and all that’s left is the matter of covertness, in which you have an advantage given your newfound ability to walk on the overturned pathways of HQ. Except–

“Wouldn’t your spider-sense–”

He shakes his head. No. And though he doesn’t state it explicitly, you’re reminded of his claws and how divergent they are to the standard spider-power. It seems, then, that he differs in more ways than one. No enhanced intuition. You couldn’t imagine.

But it’s new. Exciting. It’s exactly what you needed, and again, you’re left wondering how he’s gotten so good at reading you. If in place for his deficits, he’d been granted a supernatural knowledge on body language. Even now he’s looking, studying your restrained appearance for a hint of your feelings on the subject. You give it to him with a devilish smile.

“That the best you got?”

“Big talk.” He winds around you, positioning behind your back. “We’ll see how you feel in seven days.”

“Glorious, having kicked your ass ‘n’ all.”

“Okay, sparks. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Miguel says, before patting your hip. His hand is heavy, and you brace yourself against the urge to shiver under it. “Most people are left leg-leaning. Not always, but it’s a statistic you can count on for learning. Put it forward. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

You do as he says, adjusting to an open posture, slanting your torso so your head faces the same direction as your left foot. The man appears in front of you after making a few corrections, mirroring your effort.

“Because I’m anticipating what leg you’ll resort to, I’ll bring my right leg forth. Always match same side foot. It’ll give you leverage towards your opponent’s vulnerable areas.” You sway a bit when his muscles stretch the taut material of his shirt. As you try to picture what more is hidden by his civilian clothes, it occurs to you that you’ve never seen him nude enough to make that a possible feat. “Assuming you’re shorter than them, aiming for their lower half is your most efficient bet. But you want their focus away from it when you make the jump.”

Blinking, you reorient yourself away from your tangent. “Right.”

“So you’re going to reach.”

“Rea–”

Suddenly, he’s grabbing for your face. It’s swift and done with enough aggression that you don’t process what you’re doing until your arms come up to defend it. Split second instinct, your spider sense combing through the hairs on your neck. And he takes the obliviously-given opportunity to duck, hooking his foot behind yours, back hand wrapping around your knee to grip onto his other. His head pushes up on your ribs to stand you on one leg, off balance, and faster than it started, it stops. The attack throws you backward, slamming you onto the cushioned floor. Air syphons out of your lungs.

“When they’re down, you don’t hesitate to straddle them.” He adds. “The blow will probably knock their limbs to the side.” He bridges over you, lowering so that his knees touch the surface above your shoulders and his feet anchor onto the bits below. His weight rests on your upper arms now. You, despite the loss, can’t help but flick your gaze down to his crotch. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “The technique’s called stapling. Pressing down on two points to completely immobilise.”

“Feels awfully familiar.” You grin, only to choke on the spit accumulating by the back of your throat when he not only acknowledges your innuendo, but reciprocates.

“Used to being on the bottom?” Huffed sardonically, with all the constituents of a flirt yet none of the sticky-sweet charm. And he doesn’t give your stunned-self a chance to quip back either, rising and gesturing that you do the same. You scramble off your back, rubbing the sore spots left by his grip, watching him warily. It’s facile to convince yourself that it didn’t really happen at all. “Your turn. Right foot forth this time. Remember, reach and duck.”

You stay locked onto him when you throw your fist up at his face, stopping shy of his jaw. He isn’t as ignorant as to believe you, but his elbows draw away from his hips to allow space for your consequent assault. Squatting, you step forward to completely embrace his left leg. Quick calculations tell you that his weakest point is at his knee, so you lower your clutch around it, cheek squishing onto his stomach, before lifting the appendage off the ground. It isn’t heavy on you, all his mass directed to the back leg he now has to balance on.

And then–

And then… what?

He’d done it so briskly that you completely missed his method.

“Tell me what you did wrong.” Miguel examines. He’s got your head scissored in one strong arm, and if you weren’t struggling to comprehend how he gained the upper-hand, you’d be salivating with how potent his cologne is from this distance.

You mutter a faint “Agreeing to this.” and hope your bowed pose muffles it enough.

“Overcommitting. If I wanted to, I could shove your neck downward and take you on from behind.” He shakes you off his leg. “Don’t put your chest on my thigh. Lace your right shoulder over it so that your crown hits my ribs. Yeah, that’s it.” He smooths his hand over your back. It’s merely a graze and almost enough to have you collapse out of position entirely. “See how your head is preventing my arm from leaning on you? Good. Now use that, knoc– oomf.”

You don’t let him finish, driving him up until he tips backwards. The gratification stalls you for a split-moment, pride trembling up your frame, knocking your bones together. But he raises an eyebrow at you from the ground, and you remember the second part of the expectation.

(If this were the real thing, you’d be squashed by now. He’s holding back, guiding you semi-gently through this practice round.)

With no further ado, you seat yourself on his abdomen. His biceps are too large to pin your calves to while keeping both your knees and toes to the ground, so you spread until you can do so over the bends of his arms. Your pelvis aches with the near-split, and you find you couldn’t care less, shivering in high delight.

“Huh. Would you look at that.” You wiggle to reinforce your point. “And how did I do for my first time?”

(Admittedly, it’s a much milder line than what you had in mind; but even you have your limits, and congratulating him on taking your wrestle-victory virginity is just out of bounds.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.” He says, purposefully echoing his earlier attitude, recognizant of how it irritated you so. The answer pops your ego before it could begin to surmount to anything. “But you wavered, don’t pretend I didn’t see that. Get off. We’re going again.”

Tuesday, 22:00

Your first attempt at his challenge comes late.

The logic felt elementary; wait a day before trying anything so he’s caught further off his guard. It was a plan born with sights on his warning – when you come for me, I won’t be holding back – and, admittedly, your anxiety to it. This new equanimity you find yourself within is fragile, a compromise held up on couth alone. You’ve fought Miguel at his best, with claws reared and fangs snarled right at you. It never ended cleanly. And if either of you lose sight of the labour that is keeping it civil – away from that exact past – you’re terrified that things will shatter in pieces that tear you apart.

(There also remains the knowledge that you’d lose, sorely, should the match be equal.)

So, you didn’t want to give him the opportunity to resist at all. To your sleep-deprived self, there were a few steps in ensuring that:

Find him late at night, following a presumably long day, having just been lulled into faux comfort by his last meal before retiring. Beyond the fact that you skipped a day since his initial proposal to act on it – with a belly full of food, the lights of HQ dimmed low, and a drowsy filter cast by work, he’ll grow lax. Complaisant. At least, that was your theory, based on patterns you’ve observed in yourself. And it had been solid enough to ground your hopes on, especially when all that was required of you is to disarm him.

Only as you wait for him to emerge from the cafeteria do you realise the various other factors you forgot to take into account. Ones that complicate your lattermost objective.

The bridge is still, a thick cover of quiet befalling the sector. Bobbing outside the asymmetric windows is a waning gibbous moon, its luminescence casting lurid shadows onto the carpets and columns surrounding you. You sit, crouched behind a bench on an offside seating area, tracing patterns onto an adjacent palisade with your eyes. The moulding on it is triangular, like everything else in this building, and the task is mind-numbing enough that it hits you, then and there. Entirely too late.

He only taught you the one way of tackling your opponent.

Head on, with no room for stealth in your approach. Unless Miguel comes out of the cafeteria with a blindfold on, he’ll see you running towards him and squander the endeavour with ease. It’s like you to resort to your worst suspicions when cornered, so you can’t help but believe he did that on purpose. Either to test your ingenuity, or for some other convoluted reason you’ve no mind to get to right now.

Fuck. That bastard.

Should you back down now, you won’t trust yourself to face him tomorrow. Already, you’ve stalled for far too long, prudent to the approaching deadline. A week's time. Seven days to prove you’re worth your salt, to overcome the obstacles he’s thrown your way. Unlike your other exercises, you weren’t guaranteed anything in return for mastering this. He probably expects you to want it so bad that you become motivationally self-sufficient. And he’d be right. You do. Christ, you’d asked for it – this much needed intervention on the monotony you’ve been living in. It’s given you something to do beyond your lessons, and a victory might encourage him to design more like it. So–

You’ll stay. Work something out – an alternative plan. He hasn’t been in the caf for long. Given the chance he chose to have a sit down meal, you’ll have time.

“Lyla.”

The artificial intelligence flickers into being above you, hovering at your shoulder. She appears wildered, blinking owlishly at the source of her summon. You’d never called on her before – until now, you didn’t think you could. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and your throwing caution to the wind seems to have paid off.

That is, if she’s willing to proffer Miguel’s position.

“Upgraded from haunting worlds to our very own HQ?”

You shrug, blaisé to the jab you’ve heard so often. “Promise I’m on my best behaviour.”

“My, my.” She belly flops onto a nonexistent surface, still level with your nose, to shelf her chin onto her hands and kick her feet behind her. A small smile worms its way onto your expression when you notice her attire; a silk set of pyjamas, bunny slippers and a heart-shaped sleeping mask, pushed back to keep her bangs off her forehead. “Wonder what the boss has to say about that.”

“The boss can’t know I’m here.”

“My lips are sealed.” After miming the action, she glitches onto the ground in front of you, peeking from behind the bench to spy on the automatic doors leading into the cafeteria, much like you’re doing. “What’s with the secrecy? Please tell me this is a proposal. You’re certainly underdressed, but we can work what we’ve got. Oo!” She straightens to a ram-rod posture, alongside the exclamation mark that pops above her head, clothes returning to normal and a clipboard materialising in her hand. “We can add a little jeuje to the space. What’re we thinking? Flowers–” An orange array of digital peonies projects onto the bridge, fat and blossoming with accelerated speed. “Or streamers?” The petals are soon replaced by banners and curled ribbons, drooping from overarching beams.

Face molten with panic – and a hint of mortification – you wave through her incorporeal form to hurriedly interrupt her tangent. You can only hope that none of the commotion gave away your primacy.

“No!” Whisper shouting, you bow your head to the floor to look her in the eye. “Nothing like that. Listen, I just need you to watch Miguel and report back to me on his status. Preferably, before he exits the cafeteria. It’ll help me anticipate his approach while I think of what to do next.”

“Hmmm.” The lifeform approximation takes her sweet time considering it. Your gaze oscillates anxiously between her and the door, your body in perpetual flight or fight. Any longer, and you’re afraid quick-trigger reflex will have you jumping regardless of whether he emerges or not. “Don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I gotcha. Double agent Lyla, at your command!”

And then, she disappears.

Her aid does not reassure you. Baby hairs tickle your nape, matted with sweat. The condition persists, extending to your palms, which lay pressed to the tiled floor to tamp the perspiration seeping from them. Adrenaline – the very response you’d predicted – makes you sick and dizzy despite, bubbling up your gut in violent bursts. For all that you should be focusing on a course of action, her words claim a monopoly in your mind.

Double agent.

Do you want to know?

No, you decide. Not now. Whatever it is, it’s bound to hinder your performance. You settle back down.

Moments later, she crops back up.

“He’s on his way. If I were you, I’d up and turn around. He looks hangry.”

“Thanks, Lyla.” It’s about the worst thing she can say to you right now. “Go back to… sleep.”

Giving a final bow of her head, she departs. Her exit marks the milliseconds before Miguel’s entrance – sacred suspense stretching, spreading, only to implode by the schwip of the automatic door. It unlatches, layer by layer, to reveal a wide silhouette, framed by the bright fluorescents of the still-open cafeteria.

She’s right. Based on posture alone, you can tell he isn’t in the best of moods. It’s the only clarity you’re afforded as the entryway closes off, plunging him – and you – into the void of your surroundings. You strain to see where he begins or ends now, navy-suit obscuring his edges, punctuated only by the red accents on his chest. They become your indication on how and where he moves, the angling of the lines informing you that he’s headed straight towards you.

In complete contrast to the plod he takes on, your internal dialogue is a tangled mess of stray worries. An old, feral part of you – the girl who had to fend for herself for a year, untreated to the woes and safeties of regular food and board – claws out with a vengeance. She’s scared, she has nothing to lose, she’s plump with horror at the sight of a prowling hero, which had only meant one thing for her – and the sheer force of it all crushes you into choked submission. Perhaps it’s foolish to think you’ve moved on from your past when old habits return so easily. So she is still you, and it takes a good bit of convincing – of spotting and counting backwards from ten and breathing real slow – to prioritise your objective in face of the sudden regression.

By the time you manage it, in fact, he’s already a few paces away.

There goes your plan.

Frantically, you spring off your haunches, shooting to the side to hinder his track in an bid to salvage what’s left of it. It’s clumsy, lacking all the grace necessary for you to have even the chance of success, and when he stutters short of stepping on you, you make matters worse by curling around his ankles, striving to destabilise him by tugging at the roots of his support.

It fails. Obviously.

(In a rather anticlimactic way.)

He releases an exasperated sigh, staring down at your writhing form with what you can only imagine is regret at having ever agreed to this. “What are you doing?”

“Um–” You stop, glancing at him with one, hesitant eye. “Tackling you.”

Miguel blinks. Once. Twice. His foot bounces, pushing you off. Then–

“Up, before you hurt yourself.” Unphased. Strict.

You clamber to a stand. He gives you a once over, shakes his head, and brushes past you to continue his route. As he walks off, you catch a quiet huff, followed by a mutter – the reflection meant only for himself to hear. “Tackling me. Honestly.”

Wednesday, 10:20

Your second attempt finds you asleep under his desk.

Not deliberately, of course. You didn’t drag a pillow and comforter to his lab like an impromptu nap would lend you an upper hand. The position that brought it forth is hardly even a comfortable one – tucked under a squat table that has you bending your neck to fit, raised high off the ground on a hovering platform, in a cavernous office whose only lightsource seems to be the overhead aperture and orange monitors. They beep multiversal jargon and blare the occasional alarm, which never fails to send your heart rate sky-high – and if you hadn’t at all been convinced in your plot, then you would’ve left after the first couple minutes wait.

It’s torturous. Depressing. How he’s able to think, let alone work here, is beyond you. It can only be an optimal environment for what you set out to do – and perhaps that’s a point you should take up with him, should he care about being snuck up on by a more competent threat.

But you dozed off anyway, made weary with all your fretting, legs pressed close to your breast, cheek slotted upon them. It was cold, and he hadn’t arrived yet – off being the responsible spider-hero that he is, conducting city patrol while you tarry for the opportune – and Hobie’s gifted cardigan is snug enough around your frame that it serves as a blanket of sorts. Your course of action, set on an unremitting loop in your mind, was the last straw – a lullaby, cradling you down onto security. Fully drafted, practised, with no room for mistakes given the lessons you learnt last time.

Even submerged in sleep, it’s all you think about.

On account of an oversight, you’d panicked. Lept at him with no regard for the tactics you’ve learnt, instead of rerouting an alternative or preparing for contingencies. He’d taught you to tackle him head-on, and while that isn’t ideal for the covert-component of this challenge – like on that bridge, where he would’ve seen you coming from miles away – you can still make do with what you’ve got. That’s why you’re here, early in the morning, waiting for him to come to you, all while remaining oblivious to your presence under his desk. Not only does it grant you cover while he stands mere centimetres away, it ensures his hands are too busy to defend him when you strike, raised to tap away at his screens.

Those are the foundations you worked out on your chagrined walk home last night. The logistics – intricacies you have to calculate spontaneously – can be dealt with as they come up. Like sneaking in undetected. (Accomplished successfully.) Or whether space will allow you to lunge out onto him when he appears. (You practised it first thing – one eye on the door in case he comes in – and established that with a bit of improvisation, it’s possible.)

Your fingers twitch, triggered by muscle memory into acting the attack out on a smaller scale. It’s odd that you recognise it – still somewhat unconscious, suspended in an hypnopompic state where both your dreams and reality intersect. Elements of both topple over one another, porcelain dominoes that splinter on impact. You feel your fingers twitch, yes, and the scrape of your chapped lips – things you abstractedly assign as real – but they’re strewn between memories that run like worn film, singed at the edges.

A warm hand cupping your neck, callused fingers rubbing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. Shallow breaths, fanned across your lashes, struggled in keeping still.

Multi-coloured motes, flipping through a catalogue of colours in dark corners.

A headache, nipping the nerves leading to your brain. Pain, excruciatingly itchy above your elbow, up the back of your arm. Whiplash, smouldering agony across the junction of your shoulder.

A voice, hummed from the depths of a broad chest. Resonant, rugged. ‘Don’t move’ – the demand so steady it could’ve been gospel. Him, keeping you stable. Him, the only constant you know.

For a moment, you believe you’re still there. Buried under mounds of grey rubble, nestled on his lap. Oxygen depleted, injuries severe. No hope of escaping or checking in on the population of Earth-15, whose fate you screwed by merely existing on the same plane. The past number of weeks were fable, then, conjured by your sick mind to help you die easy. Creating a story besides the one that ended you; where you and Miguel worked something out.

And if it’s true – if you truly imagined it all – then that’d entail you never grew out of your hatred. You never got to rest on a bed, or take a shower, or bask in a filling meal again. It’d mean you didn’t leave any legacy beyond that of Wraith; destroyer of worlds, bane of his existence.

(And that you never counted as anything more to him than just that.)

Gradually, the pseudo-dream morphs into a nightmare born of stressful thought, and at its peak, it shakes you so hard you wake up. Bones jolting out of your skin, legs ready to kick outwards; raptured in fight-or-flight until you remember where you are, why it’s so cramped – because his desk is obnoxiously short and not because a building toppled over you – and how you got here.

You’re thankful you’re able to collect yourself so swiftly. Had you smacked your head on the belly of the table, or otherwise panickedly flailed about, then you would have alerted the man currently standing in front of you. His upper body is cut off from your sight, but you’d recognise those muscled thighs anywhere. Clad in his digital suit, little patterns shimmering on its surface. You see them clearer in your proximity, correlating them to the figures you’d observed on his monitors. Parallel lines and concentric circles, like maps of the spider-verse projected onto a navy backdrop.

How long were you out?

Despite your semi-awareness to your surroundings, you hadn’t heard him come in. Nor did you feel the platform drop to allow him to step onto it. You brush the confusion off, figuring it’d do you no good, and rub the drowsiness from your eyes while catching yourself up to speed.

You’re here to tackle him. The voice in your head begins chanting the plan again; leap out, grab his forward leg, ram his ribs with your head and pray it’s enough to tip him over. That’s one.

Two: you’re a quiet sleeper. You can’t imagine the embarrassment had you not been – if he were to catch you napping in his office by following the sound of your groans. You suppose it’s a frivolous thing to get hung up on, but you remember how your college roommate would talk during her nightmares. It never failed to capture your attention, even with headphones clasped tightly to your ears.

Which leads into your third remark–

He doesn’t realise you’re here; the most important thing considering. You’re still in the clear to go ahead.

Right now, Miguel is a smidge too far away for it to work out. You knead the sore flesh of your nape, stalking his feet for the slightest movement. They stand on the other side of the platform, verging near its brink, tapping in cogitation. Then, when he swipes a screen away from his direct view, his weight leans onto the back one. The manoeuvre brings his pelvis lower, cut-off rising to his midriff. It’s all you can do to remain dignified, gaze locked on anywhere except his hamstrings and where they round out to form a pronounced behind.

Would it be wrong for you to abandon your objective on justification of lust? It strokes some primal part of you seeing him so dedicated to his work. You’re instantly overwhelmed with the urge to crawl out and service him like this, on your knees, while he maintains his concentration. To give him a soft mouth, soft hands, maybe elicit an iota of pride over how well you behave. It’s depraved – you won’t deny it – but in your darkest moments, nothing consoles you like the thought of his unequivocal praise. Acceptance. There’s no one it would matter more from.

(No one it could matter more from. It’s true that he’s the only constant presence you’d ever had, even before your world went to ruin. Though you’re unsure of whether it’s in good providence, or if you’ll ever fully accept the fact.)

Miguel steps closer. You repress the reverie, slapping yourself softly to land back on target. A bit more to his left– yes, that’s it. He’s in front of you now.

When you’d practised, your head had to be out from underneath the desk for the manoeuvre to work. Pushing up into a squat, you shuffle forward. All you need is a distraction so he doesn’t catch you peeking out in his peripheral, and it comes in the form of child laughter.

Distant, as though it’s been passed through a speaker. With the way it repeats, incessant like that of a fond video playing over and over, you can appreciate that it isn’t happening live. Perhaps it’s a subject he’s keeping his eye on, or he’s slacking off with a movie. Not that it matters, of course – so long as he’s honed in on anything other than you.

His knee is at your eyeline. You scoot further. The low metal of the desk slips over your head. Now or never.

Pouncing, you wrap a gable grip around the bend of his leg, using the momentum of your squat to spring upwards. It’s bull-like when your forehead slams onto the exposed expanse of his ribs, toes skidding for acceleration as you force him to balance on the one limb, driving onward. The force could’ve concussed, had he not been cushioned by brawn. It’s certainly enough to almost throw him over, in any case. He stumbles backward, arm slipping across your back, and the scuffle is so promising that you let yourself relax slightly.

That’s your fault, you admit.

He exploits the slip-up to wrench your arms off from around his knee, using the appendages to pull you out from underneath him. With a frankly painful tug at the wrists, he twists you so your back is facing him, before pinning them in one strong grip. You’re shoved onto his desk that way, unceremoniously bent at the hip, nose ramming into the reinforced durasteel. Warmth trickles from it. A metallic taste fills the back of your mouth.

“¡Maldita sea! What the hell?”

Pain crackles up your nose, where ichor continues to bloom and slip from your nostrils. His aggression perhaps shouldn’t surprise you – he did say he wouldn’t be holding back – but it’s parallel to the treatment you received as Wraith, and you can’t help but assume that he resorted to what he was used to in all the adrenaline.

“That hurts.” Groaning, you wiggle your fingers in a plea for release. His pelvis flattens on the plump of your ass, and it burns the longer he continues to press into you. The situation is almost reminiscent of the fantasies you create when alone; rough-treatment and all.

“Christ.” He hisses, backing off at once. Despite asking for it, you mourn his absence, rubbing the brand left by his clothed crotch, sheepishly turning back to look at him. The instant he sobers up, he’s opening the drawer to his left. “I didn’t realise it was you.”

“Who else...” You murmur, ducking to shield your bloody nose from his attention. It’s done in vain, though – he already has a towel in hand, heading towards your face. Erroneously, you think he’s passing it to you and reach out to grab it – only to brush across his knuckles when he instead presses the white cotton to your lip. “Security that big of an issue?”

“You got in, didn’t you.”

“Har har.” As the red is wiped off your skin, he steadily lets you take over, dropping the towel to allow you to tamp the flow on your own.

“How long have you been under there?”

“Ah–” You pretend to occupy yourself with the task at hand, waiting for the heat to diffuse from your cheeks before you speak again. “Depends on what time it is.”

“Half past ten.”

“Two hours then.” You’d come in at eight. “Give or take.”

“I’ve been here for one.” He adds, prodding for a more satisfying explanation.

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t snooping for intel or anything.” A necessary preface and not at all a bid to steel yourself for your confession, the prospect of doing so filling you with shame. “I fell asleep.”

“You–” Like his stutter, his brows spasm at a rapid pace, creasing together in a flash before smoothing out to form a more pleasant expression. With eyelids fluttered shut and lips quirked at the edges. Amusement. Your stomach cartwheels. “You fell asleep.”

“Sure.” In complete contrast, you imagine your expression is solemn. Loss is an ugly and hopeless beast, roaring in your gut. You place the towel on his desk, starting to make your way out with a petulant march. “Like this place isn’t built for it, you gloomy jerk. I mean, where are the lights?”

(If he managed to overpower you despite doing everything correctly, then what chance have you got?)

The universe has a sick sense of humour too, it seems. Your argument is interrupted by the border of the platform, where you teeter over a fifteen foot drop. Fear blazes through your nerves, suddenly awake with the knowledge that you’re hovering mid air, no fence or handrails to hold you in.

Miguel chuckles from behind you, sounding way too pleased with himself when he asks. “You need help getting down?”

You throw a dirty glare over your shoulder, hoping it compensates for the humility you have to succumb to. “Yes.”

His arms stay crossed over his chest, holding out.

Fucking fine.

“Please.”

Thursday, 13:05

You plonk the heavy bag of scraps onto your table, sighing in relief as the weight redistributes off of you.

All morning, you’ve snooped around HQ with a nimble hand. It’s vast, after all, with many winding halls and unfrequented corners, of which you’re probably the only person to have walked through in weeks. Accompanying you, a makeshift pouch and a cover-up story; if any outsider should inquire – then you’re exploring the building that’s been your home for the last month. It would be suspicious, if the venture could not be so easily misconstrued.

No. You’re not worried. Far from it, in fact. You’re sure that the gadgets you pilfered won’t be missed. Some even had a thin coating of dust when you picked them up, their uses long neglected in favour of newer technologies. You’re merely giving them a new purpose, reshaping bits and bobs to suit your goal.

(A far-fetched one, for certain. But it’s wild enough that he won’t expect it.

That’s what you need. To stop playing by his rules.)

“Lyla.”

The AI glitches into translucency at your beckon, saluting as though you were a general and she a cadet. “Lyla á la espionage, reporting for duty!”

“No. Not this time.”

“Theeeen…”

“Can I count on your discretion?” Squinting, you stare straight through her pink-heart glasses, like lying is an expected part of her programming. Her last remark occupies a small portion of your mind. Double agent. You still haven’t asked, and you’re running at a speed too fast to jump over that hurdle now.

“Perhaps.”

Shaking your head, you do away with the ambiguity. “I’m hoping you’re good with tech.” You say anyway. “I need help.”

She only grins, wickedly, skipping over to peer into your bag. You spread it open for her, laying out the stolen paraphernalia. Then–

“Wraithy.” She adjusts the moniker so that it rhymes with baby. “I am tech.”

Saturday, 2:00

Nueva York streaks past you in blurs of blue and purple.

The sky lifts its buildings from the top up, spires pierced into its inky surface. You count the panels that pose a stark, golden contrast to the night-drenched landscape, lit up by residents whose lives are framed in the tiny windows. It’s a worthwhile distraction from the vertigo damaging your systems – all your efforts directed in looking forward, not up, as the ground shrinks farther and farther away above you. Yet with every metre, your distress worsens, distending to become a ferocious force.

Eventually, not even city gazing is enough.

You’ve trained on ceilings. On balconies. But the bottom-side of an elevator is another matter entirely, especially as it moves with zipping speed. You’re terrified that, at any moment, it’ll wobble and send you plummeting to your untimely death. And Miguel, who currently stands on the flip-end of it, won’t be able to process your presence or scream for help by the time you hit the ground.

That’s the calculated risk you convinced yourself into making when you sought him out today. It’s evolved beyond the point of learning a lesson, or whatever prompt you’d initially proposed to get him to agree to this. Now, or in the way it has been for the past two days, it’s personal. Your ego is bruised but not battered yet, and if the cuffs on your forearms have any sway in it, then you’ll get your solatium soon enough.

The apparatus is impressive, by standards of the day it took to hurriedly construct it. A smooth fit to your wrist, with narrowly hammered metal and a small compartment designed to hold your personal, synthetic formula. Lyla had pulled schematics from a large archive, handing you one she deemed ‘friendly for beginners’. You begrudged the coddling, if only because you yourself were worried about your competency with it.

You tested it, naturally. It’s functional. The fluid is durable, if not sticky. If worse comes to worse, you can rely on the prototype to catch yourself. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, all the way up to the top floor of HQ, which comes at a gradual halt of the lift.

Eager, you hook your fingers over the brim of the platform before flipping over to the right side up. You somersault so your landing isn’t as heavy-footed, and blood bursts down to your numb legs as you reorient yourself with gravity. It’s all you can do to wait until you regain feeling in them, before following the man out the door.

He’s multiple steps ahead already, traipsing with a tired gait. You match it, careful to set your toes down first so as to not make noise. The floor isn’t one you’ve been to – and it isn’t so much a floor as it is a singular hallway, lined with tilt-and-turn glass windows that gleam like all futuristic things do. The aesthetic is juxtaposed by a frankly retro carpet, shades of yellow and brown cut into a pattern you recognise from the bridges in the lobby.

Plastered to the edge, away from the subjection of the spotlights down the middle, you wonder where he’s going. It’s gotten late – you’ve been shadowing him for the better half of a day, since Friday afternoon after your lesson. The plan was to tackle him on his way out, right as he was about to leave to go home, but it’s two a.m. now and he’s at work. Still in hero attire. Wandering a corridor you’ve no reference to, with sight set on the door at its end.

If he waited this long to get to it, then it must be important. That’s what you argue against, anyway – that he likely arranged to complete this task at night when he would be ensured total privacy. How questionable is it, then, that you’re violating that?

You could turn back now, find him later instead. Yet today marks your final day before the deadline he set expires, and you want at least one more chance to try should this attempt turn to shit.

The right glove of Miguel’s suit disappears, digital projection flickering to white as the nanotech retracts into his palm. You notice the act only because his fingers soon flick out, a key pinched between them. It’s red and patterned with the same arithmetic lines as his ensemble.

Smart.

Once he arrives at the door, he uses the pass to unlock it. It comes open with an effortless swish, sliding completely open to allow him access. He lingers for too long, though, and you press closer to the wall in case he suspects your pursuit. He doesn’t turn around though, instead hitting a setting on his watch that causes the entryway to slip shut.

Before you can catch up. Before you can sneak in.

Your heart drops.

Floundering, you run to pull at the lock. It doesn’t budge. Nor are there any other ways in, the narrow hall composed solely of this door at one end and the elevator on the other. You can’t go in by any manner except pass through, and with every slap of your hand on the wall, it becomes increasingly apparent that your powers won’t miraculously emerge like they have before.

Nails digging into a fist, you reassure yourself that not all is lost if you give up now. It’s an unofficial loss, made outside the scrutiny of anyone besides yourself. And though you’ll kick yourself to sleep over being so inept in your own abilities, at least he won’t come to the same conclusion. That’s what matters – doesn’t it? His opinion of you.

Giving a final, aggravated sigh, you’re about to relent when you catch sight of it – a silver lining, adjacent to you. Levelled on the same plane as the door, separated only by the right wall of the hallway, opened to the high atmosphere air – a casement, hinged to a window much like the one you ogle at it through. Leading into the room he just entered. Just a short jump and swing away.

You shiver at the notion, first instinct loud and conclusive. No. Absolutely, positively not. It’s a ‘jump’ over a hundred-story fall. Even if you manage to crawl out of the first opening with your sanity intact, you’re nowhere near experienced enough to make it to the second. Unless–

Your belly lurches with pre-emptive nausea, and you sink to your knees to massage it without retching. You can’t believe you actually consider the reckless idea, sitting with your poor excuses for web shooters, triggers flat on your palm, looking far flimsier than anything you could trust. Your refusal to walk on walls comes back with a vengeance, laughing in mocking echoes at the simple obstacle you can’t overcome.

Whispering, you try your last alternate. “Lyla.”

There’s a lag before she appears, glasses skewed upon her nose. “Huh.”

“Do you…” You rasp, swallowing the bile surging up the back of your throat. “D’you think you could, y’know–” When words fail, you gesture to the locked door with the cock of your head.

“Oh-ho-ho. No can do. I’ve done a lotta favours for you sister, but this is crossing the line.”

“Okay. Okay, sorry for asking.” Your chest tightens. The corridor narrows. The shapes on the carpet warp to resemble the plunge off the end of a skyscraper. You have to ask to abate the panic. “What’s in there, anyway?”

“Find out on your own accord.” She doesn’t take the bait, fur coat rising with a brief shrug of her shoulders. “Good luck.”

And in a blink, you’re on your own again.

You must sit like that for half an hour, rocking back and forth in anxiety that refuses to settle. It gnaws on your energy until the passion depletes, draining out, leaving you to wallow as an empty husk. Every so often, you press your cheek to the cool glass spanning the side of the hallway, wishing the problem had magically amended itself since the last you checked. But the ground remains where it is, bottoming endlessly down below, and so does the window to the room, built just out of reach.

Of your concerns, there’s a resounding question that doesn’t quite fit. Its edges and curves search for a spot to click into place, but you aren’t able to find it – not until you give the piece further contemplation.

Why haven’t you left?

If you’d given up hope, then why haven’t you gathered your wounded pride and salvaged the rest of your night? You could’ve been in bed by now, cosy under a heavy comforter, ruminating over your failure in a safer setting. Yet you’ve chosen to stay and prolong your torture, egged on by the reminder of what you couldn’t do.

You’re not waiting for him to emerge. That hadn’t even occurred to you.

(And a tiny part of you already knows the answer, keening by the base of your skull. It just takes some work to admit.)

It’s that stupid, idiotic, dangerous philosophy he’s instilled in you. The ideology that gets heroes killed. The conviction that marks scars on their body or gives them the peace of mind when walking on walls and swinging across heights that could permanently ruin them.

What had you spread out underneath him, cupping your knees while his tongue lathered your wet cunt. Or when his fingers shoved into your pants, scissoring you open to the seconds on his stopwatch. The thing that’s kept you coming, fighting, over and over again despite receiving the brunt end of your endeavours every time.

Resilience.

You’ve internalised it. You’re here, where you wouldn't have stayed a month ago. And it’s forcing you to face the second lesson he’s been trying to teach; a value impossibly scarier. Courage.

You know you won’t rest until you embody that too.

Rising, you take your first step towards it by unlatching the fastener to the window in front of you. The pane upturns, pitching open like a gluttonous mouth. Frigid wind rushes in, biting at your cheeks. You breathe in the crisp freshness of it and ignore the threat it might pose to your welfare. Pessimism is a hulking burden. It’ll only weigh you down.

The rest follow in a clumsy sequence.

You sit on the edge, sticking the soles of your shoes onto the wall outside. It fixes in that newly familiar way, like how it does when you’re upside down, sucking onto the perpendicular surface. You don’t stand up despite the mild relief that washes through you, though – you understand now not to let your guard down until the task is done.

Keeping a firm grip around the window for stability, you scoot off the support it provides your bottom. You’re hanging out, posted on the external side of the hallway. There’s nothing but air underneath you. You don’t linger to process it, moving on to the next operation before dread knocks you out.

Tapping the button on your free hand, you test your web shooter one last time. Once to equip, twice to release. Once to equip, twice to realise.

When you sling it to the adjacent slot, your gaze is bolted forward. Never, ever down. Nothing exists, you cry to yourself, nothing exists but this small jump. And the web holds firm when you tug on it. You’ve tested the fluid against your own mass. It’s held strong. You’d have to be a novice scientist to have overlooked that; and you’ll be fine.

Nothing exists beyond this small jump.

(Except for maybe the cosmic forces you pray to. You invoke God, the sun, the stars. Even the moon, who gently glows down on you. It hits you, then, that you’re the closest you’ve ever been to any of them.

That verity reassures you just enough.)

You jump forward.

Tears bud on the corners of your eyes, scleras burning with the whip of air, sinuses scorching alongside it. Your organs hurtle to your feet, and your heart beats like bullets to your chest. It’s a vile, sickening sensation – akin only to the paralysing disbelief after finding out you’d brought an early apocalypse to your world. Nothing has required more bravery from you than enduring it, but…

You don’t fall.

In fact, your angling is so flawless that you glide into the space between the window frame and casement. The grace ends there, however, as momentum throws you hard onto a piece of furniture, toppling over it to smack head-first on the tiled floor. Pain blazes up your shoulder, jerked back by the web you forgot to release. You blink to diffuse the black dotting your vision, slowly coming to terms with the havoc you’ve wrought. The commotion had made way more noise than intended, and it seems you aren’t the only one who thinks so.

Sure enough, the light in the next room flicks off. It’s a choice made with the careful contemplation of a trained hero; if Miguel suspects an intruder, then he knows that he’d have the upper hand in the dark, within this space he’s far more familiar with. You feel around for the seat you tripped over, crawling behind it for cover.

As your vision adjusts, you’re able to make out the advent of his faint silhouette. His pants are looser than that of his suit, his arms bare – judging by the fleshy colour, hardly illuminated by the ambient lighting outside. The change would confuse you had you not been honed in on your challenge, reconciling stealth as you calculate your next course of action. The pound-force per square inch of your splitter-web function isn’t high enough to shoot across the distance you want – that being the expanse between you – so either you move closer, or he does.

The circumstance mirrors how things played out in this lab. Although this time, he creeps away, cautiously navigating the space with a prowess that can only be explained with night vision. Perhaps it’s a part of his spider-granted abilities, or otherwise he frequents the foyer often enough to know when to side-step to avoid incoming furniture.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have either luxury. Thrill rockets within you, striking every nerve like a pinball game gone wild, fuelled by the fortitude your indiscreet stunt afforded you. He’s taking far too long to search his surroundings; at the rate it’s going, you’ll have lost your will before he comes close enough to wrestle onto the floor. You decide it’s much too intoxicating a sentiment to sacrifice, then, settling on the former bet.

Move closer it is.

You don’t run at him like you’re inclined to do. That hadn’t resulted in your favour the last time. Instead, you stay on all fours, bound inching in the opposite direction he takes on. You use the bulky chattels surrounding you to escape his notice, ducking behind the shaded shapes until you’re mere inches away.

The web shooters practically hum on your flesh now, mimicking your excitement as you point them to the angles intersecting his arms and torso. You hope your aim is as good in this less perilous scenario, the ploy contingent on your initial shot. Binding his extremities together would reduce possible scrimmages to zero, which buffs your chances of pinning him down to a pretty percentage.

And you make sure he spots you before you fire.

(Nothing satisfies like the slight widening of his eyes when he realises it’s you.)

The bombardment allows him no room to escape, discharged in every possible way as you run a three-sixty around his thrashing form. Your webs secure his arms, yes – but also his legs to one another, and his hands flush to his hips. For extra measure, you even go so far as to switch into long-form shots to wrap the final product once, twice, thrice, so he’s adequately swaddled and cuffed.

You don’t know how he’s still standing once you’re done. It can be seen as rubbing it in at this point when you tip him onto his back – but really, you just want to hit every aim he’d set out for you.

Within the next week. Check.

Sneak up on me. Check.

Anywhere, any time of day. Check.

Staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds.

As you crouch down to straddle his abdomen, you count. Check. Check.

Miguel’s face is hard to read, shrouded and pursed in an indecipherable lour. You bite your lip with the appreciation that, despite his vague disapproval, your pride is still wholly valid.

“I won.” You croak, voice hoarse with misuse.

He shakes his head, slowly, then quicker when you combat it with an eager nods.

“I won. I won. I wo–”

“Web-shooters were never part of the challenge. ”

“Call it ingenuity,” You smirk, tapping on the metal contraptions. “You should add it to your list of traits befitting a hero.”

“Let me go.” He growls.

“Not until you admit it.”

“Let me go.” Firmer. It's smouldered by a fire you can’t locate the source of, for all that his tone rings familiar.

“C’mon, O’hara. I can see how badly you want to cut me the credit.” Arching down, you only mean for your next bribe to be heard more clearly, yet your chin brushes against his and his cologne hits you like a brick wall. Tension crackles in the same way it did then – when you’d been at the wheel of a cop car, hurtling towards a fate that’d always been coming for you. Promising ruin. Promising change in the sense that things could never be the same again. “It’s as much of a victory for you as my mentor, I think.”

“Hardly, seeing as you followed me home.”

(Home.

Of course it doesn’t go in the way you expect, though. Nothing ever does.)

“Wh–” All of a sudden, things start to make a whole lot more sense. You look around like the revelation will paint your setting in new colours. “You live at work?”

“I own the building.”

Your bravado shrivels to a minute thing, becoming a fraction of what it was. Just like that, he captures the upper hand again, all the while still dormant underneath you. The sun – you remind yourself. Always the sun to your comet.

“Alright, well.” You mumble, nipping the soft tissue of your cheeks. “I still won.” Though the proclamation holds foolish meaning now; not at all worthy of the lengths you went to.

Miguel’s hips thrust up, jostling your thighs, which remain pressed on him. Your core keels with the movement.

“Let me go.” He emphasises again. You shift to do exactly as he says, succumbing to the crushing pressure of your diffidence – only to be interrupted by his continued warning. It’s tricky. Devastating. It stops you right in your tracks, tearing the fibres of your chest apart with mad violence. Yet the implosion is only as powerful as the various fantasies that’ve gone into this very moment, and you can only attribute your reaction to your depraved self and not the filthy words that exit his mouth.

In truth, you have to hold on to his leg to make sure you heard him right.

“Lest I change my mind about fucking you silly, you bold little thing.”

chapter fourteen

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371 notes · View notes

changbinsboobs · 6 days ago

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pls do chan tea session how he views his teammates? thanks very much!

Omg y'all THIS has been the reading we've all been waiting for😭🙌🏻🙌🏻😂 i swear i couldn't stop gasping and tacking a moment after each card to gather myself cuz WTF IS ALL THIS😂😳🫣 yk i did a tea/vent reading with changbin a few weeks ago and i thought its gonna be a banger but we couldn't get one "bad word" out of his mouth - he wasn't serving AT ALL😤 and i got a bit discouraged to continue the series but im so happy i did and did it with CHAN cuz my guys's spilling so much😂 tbh idk what i think of it all and if i agree, in fact i was quite shocked at a few cuz i really did bot expect such answers and i pulled several cards as confirmation and it all pointed painfully obvious to what the first card was already showing. So im just gonna start and ya'll are gonna see foe yourselfs😂

Oh also my tea series was initially not really meant to be focused on the group but more in general but at least with the last reading with changbin i found it difficult to take such a vast field of topics and distill it so if you have suggestions on what else they could have things to vent about or tea to spill send ask. Please be specific tho about something specific that interests you / preferably with a specific member:) ok moving on

Ok not really i forgot to mention that i asked about his opinion on the members WITHOUT FILTER and leaning more on the tea side. So, very important - this is not Chan's absolute opinion on the members, but a small, "scandalous" fraction if the opinion he has build on them over the years. It doesn't mean that this is all he thinks of them - remember humans are complex beings and can have conflicting thoughts and feelings:)

Tea Series: Chan's opinion on the members

Lee Know

I was SHOCKED but he kinda thinks of him as a bit of a dumbo. Not in the sense that he really is stupid but to Chan it looks like he's just a bit out of it and there's a vibe of a whole geoup laughing about a joke that lee know doesn't get, and not necessarily cuz he's stupid, its just he doesn't care to get it😂😭 this baffles him and im actually seeing a similar energy with him regarding lee know as i did with changbin in the previous reading where Chan just feels a bit weirded out by lee know at times and just sometimes gets annoyed cuz he just doesn't understand him. Yk how people are disgusted/scared by spider no reason? This is something similar, it just icks him how he cant understand lee know. He accepts it tho, more than changbin for sure. And im feeling that its actually even charming to him sometimes. Im hearing "a genius dumbo". So yeah, they're very different apparently, and to chan lee know just seems way waaayyy out of the circle, way above it all, way to out of it and he doesn't even want to get in and that BAFFLES him so much!

Changbin

This one's not hot at all, im seeing this pile along with felix's being the most melow ones. So I see that chan really sees changbin as his equal, possibly the only guy in the group he sees as one. Not in the way that others are below him but rather he's to the same level of matureness, toughness, headspace etc according to him (not that i agree😂). He views him as a bro and really enjoys spending time with him and "talking like men" or whatever its called😂 im actually seeing them going out for drinks or having late night talks with some strong alcohol (although im not really seeing chan drinking very hard i think the alcohol's more for changbin to loosen his tongue and for both of them to feel like adult men😂🙌🏻) Also another thing thats coming up which made me laugh is that chan thinks changbins bad at love and always has bad luck in it (and is kinda a simp) and he(cb) should learn a thing or two from him(chan). This gives me such huge sleepover vibes i live it so much - all of chans readings have that feeling to it and im always giggling when reading his energy😂💗 So yeah im also seeing them having lots of chats about women too🌝 and...sex👀👀👀 but for that i think it needs to be a bit deeper in the night and the bottle should be close to empty for that conversation to open. But it does, pretty often (not often like every other day but often only within their "meetings" so if they have a hangout every other months, and have had 6 this year, in 4 out of 6 this conversation happens - thats what i mean by often).

Hyunjin

Fo hyunjin he thinks he's very impulsive and very pushy but on the inside(?). He also thinks he's very appreciation hungry and attention greedy. Not attention whore-y tho (contrary to han), but rather ifjgkkf like someone who lives for the applause. Someone who's a performer. Not only on stage but also in private. I think he thinks that hyunjin's actually a bit insecure (not the kind of looks-insecurity, but the primal one like having security in your own being and the person who you are, having trust that you got ur own back) and that he's compensating that insecurity with others validation and admiration. And if he doesn't get that or feels like he doesn't he gets spiky/prickly. And thats where his impulsivity comes up and where this pushy energy happens. He may behave normal on the outside but on the inside he's going crazy and thinking of all the ways he can fix that and if you spend time with him long enough you begin to see that eagerness and spikiness - according to chan.

Han

According to chan he's pretty isolated and a tad bit odd. Probably thats why he gets along with lee know the best. He's also a bit infantile in chans eyes, like an annoying 12 year old fortnite little cousing that spits when he speaks and knows now personal space. Not saying hans like that - just creating a vibe to describe how he feels to chan sometimes😂 idk if nuisance is the right word but im getting the feeling that when 3racha's doing their thing, hans kind of the odd one out and he can see that han wants to belong and tries to but chan feels like he's that little cousin that wants to hang out with the cool old bros and, yeah sometimes feels liek a bit of a nuisance i would say. Cuz chan does include him, when he maybe would not. I could see that being a theme during their time in the 4/4 dorms. And here's the part i mentioned above - i think chan might view han sometimes like an attention-wh*re, making a clown of himself, and embarrassing himself quite offten to appeal to them or maybe others he fancies and wants to impress. Another thing is, that as i said he might be a bit odd and at times overexcert his boundaries? Or have weird boundaries? Like he hates when people touch his blanket or he only has to wear orange socks and if someone put the laundry and forgot one of his sock and now only one's clean he gets really pissed over nothing - stuff of that sort.

Felix

I would say thats the only pile where he had nothing "bad" to say about him and i pulled 4 cards for him cuz there had to be something - but there wasn't so i guess chan really really likes Felix and holds him in very high regards☺️ he thinks that he is muchs tronger than he looks and can defend himself and his loved ones very well. In fact i believe when chan saw this side of him he was really shocked because felix seems really sweet but when it comes to protecting what he loves he gets very fierce and that was very shocking to witness. Theres just admiration, admiration and more admiration in this reading he thinks felix has that royalty vibe to himself and really just has it all. Im getting a slight whiff of jealousy, but a friendly type of jealousy. Like he just thinks he's so amazing and sometime she wishes he were like that. He wishes he were as cool as him, as lighthearted as him, as bright and positive as him, he were as liked by him and i also feel like chan feels that stuff may often be just very effortless for felix and even if he's bad at something its still with grace. Theres this aura to felix that he can never do anything wrong and he just sometimes feels that felix has it too easy and must be really lucky or like gods favourite and thinks he must have really good karma for that.

Seungmin

He thinks seungmins too sharp and that his words hurt. Im also seeing lots of bickering...no actually fights. So either chan often gets the urge to just throw it all and start a fight with him or drop the manners and just tell him off - or they actually do that often. I do get the feeling that this is exaggerated in his head and that maybe to seungmin their fights aren't nearly as bad but once again i feel like chan might be holding back a lot and seungmin might'be much sharper and meaner for others than he thinks he is.

I.N

Finally the last one😮‍💨 he thinks he's a mamas boy and sees him still as a kid. That one's pretty obvious but to be honest i expected something else cuz im getting a much maturer energy from him, the other guys have said that too but still, here im getting that he's just a kid and doesnt know "of the real world", relies too much on mom and dad etc. Tbh i don't think thats the case😂 but rather that chans having a bit of a parent syndrom where he actaully feels like i.ns big bro or some sort of a parent figure or whatever and he literary watched him grow from a child to a man so i think that image of him from a few years back has stayed with chan and maybe its difficult for him to let go of that impression if i.n being still just a little kid being full of wonder, innocent and still dependant.

#skz #stray kids #tarot reading #kpop #bang chan #lee know #seo changbin #hyunjin #lee felix #han jisung #seungmin #i.n #kpop tarot #skz tarot

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ineffable-endearments · 7 months ago

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Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell

Wow. There is...there is so much here.

First, a caution about the book itself: there is significant sexually violent narration, and lots of torture as well. This post is going to discuss these topics only in general terms - I don't think I need to go into detail to discuss what they mean for the story - but take care of yourself when you're deciding whether to read it. If you have any questions, always feel free to send an ask or message.

I am going to need to make multiple posts about this book. For this first one, I'll focus on summarizing the book and its main themes, especially the ones that I think relate to Good Omens. As always, I can't summarize it in a way that will give you a better understanding than simply reading the book, but summarizing it will help me put my own thoughts together and hopefully help you follow along as I try to articulate them.

Because it's impossible to miss, I think it is best to confront this issue at the outset: there is a lot of especially blatant misogyny on Winston's part in Nineteen Eighty-Four. This is not meant to be a good or sympathetic thing. It is a demonstration of how messed up he is, and how messed up everyone in that society is.

The Society

The plot of Nineteen Eighty-Four is tied up very much in the story's world. The characters are at the mercy of their society in this story, much more than in most. It will make sense to describe the world first. Indeed, a massive portion of the book is just information about Oceania itself.

In the world of Nineteen Eighty-Four, the entire planet is supposedly ruled by three perpetually warring authoritarian states: Oceania, Eurasia, and Eastasia, conglomerations of Earth's former independent nations. Through the novel, it is revealed that all three states have governments that are structured in largely the same way with approximately the same quality of life for their people, and the perpetual war is itself a way of controlling each population.

Technically, we don't know for sure that the war is really happening. In fact, we don't know that anything is true, because almost all the information the characters have comes from the Party, the government of Oceania, and the Party's operations revolve around reality control. The Party's "leader" is an enigmatic figure referred to only as Big Brother, who, of course, is watching.

Our protagonist, Winston, lives in Oceania. There are Inner Party members, who are the highest-ranking, with the highest responsibility and the highest quality of life. There are Outer Party members, who work for the Party, are heavily surveilled, and whose daily needs are all provided for with low-quality supplies; they have a highly regimented daily schedule. Inner and Outer Party members have telescreens, which broadcast Party propaganda but also have cameras to monitor all Party members. It is incredibly difficult to get away from telescreens, since there's at least one in every home and they're everywhere in public. Altogether, the telescreens form a panopticon that is hard to evade.

Then there are the proles, a shortened term for proletarians, who are the lower classes of Oceania and make up the majority of the population. The proles live in poor conditions and are constantly manipulated by State-generated propaganda. However, they have more freedom than Party members, in the sense that they are also largely ignored by the Party because they have no real power and are assumed to be incapable of engaging in revolutionary behavior. For this reason, proles get to have human relationships and enjoy pleasures, wherever they can find pleasures, in ways that Party members are not allowed. In reality, the Party's perpetual war is a way of grinding through resources in order to keep people, especially the proles, buried under work without improving their quality of life. This is because when people have free time, they can use it to learn and organize, and they might become a threat to the Party.

Winston is one of the Outer Party members. He works in the government department that rewrites history. See, every time a fact or anecdote in the media is inconvenient for the Party, the Party goes back and destroys all old copies of newspapers and books, all old video content, all paperwork, any scrap of evidence that anything was different. Newspapers are routinely reprinted with "updated" (falsified) information. For example, Oceania is always either at war with Eurasia and allied with Eastasia, or at war with Eastasia and allied with Eurasia, and as far as the Party is concerned, this has never changed. Every single time Oceania's alliance changes, the newspapers are updated so that the current alignment has always been true. Every time someone becomes a disgrace to the Party, their previous deeds are rewritten.

On the surface, this sounds difficult to implement, but over the story, one realizes the vast majority of the Party's operations revolve purely around the constant reshaping of history, control of people's memories, and control of people's emotions for the purpose of maintaining power eternally. Art produced by human beings is actively discouraged; instead, the Party mass-produces art, including novels, using machines, to control what kinds of ideas people are consuming.

The Party is essentially a machine that controls reality, or at least, what the people inside it consider to be reality. There are people who specialize in managing the thoughts of the public: the Thought Police. While they may technically not be able to literally see inside one's mind, they watch everyone carefully and are excellent at noticing everything: every facial expression, every eyebrow twitch, and every breath.

The Party rules through a series of four "ministries." These are the Ministry of Truth (like an educational ministry, responsible for producing propaganda), the Ministry of Peace (like a military, responsible for warfare), the Ministry of Love (like the correctional system, responsible for jailing and torturing dissidents), and the Ministry of Plenty (like the treasury, responsible for rationing).

When it suits the Party, anyone can be "vaporized." This means they are secretly murdered and all evidence of them - any existing record whatsoever, any news story, any list or database entry - is erased.

The Party has a new language they're developing as a method of thought control called Newspeak. The purpose of Newspeak is to make it impossible to articulate certain kinds of thoughts. The following is a character named Syme describing Newspeak:

"Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. ... In fact there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking - not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness."

It's worth noting that Syme is later vaporized, presumably just for being too insightful out loud about Newspeak. In Newspeak, people who have been vaporized, if they must ever be referred to at all, are called "unpersons." In this way, no one has ever been killed by the Party, because those people have never existed in the first place.

There's a key Newspeak word that appears over and over: doublethink. It's the ability to believe two contradictory things simultaneously, and unlike the way we usually experience cognitive dissonance, there is no urge or attempt to reconcile what is really true. With doublethink, the existence of two contradictory ideas at once is itself exploited to help Party members serve the Party.

The Party (and its equivalents in Eurasia and Eastasia) uses perpetual war to control the population by squandering the resources produced by human labor and keep people in a perpetual combination of patriotic fervor and fear. The war is infinite and can never be won; the whole purpose of the war is to be at war.

Socially, the Party has destroyed family life. Winston was married years ago. He and his wife are so estranged that he is no longer sure if she is alive. They did not have a good relationship. The Party does not want close emotional relationships between its members, so while they are strict about who is allowed to marry (not for love, strictly for procreation), they don't care if people continue to live together. However, the Party does not want people forming new relationships, so divorce and extramarital sex are also illegal. The Party has also turned children against their parents by encouraging children to report their parents' potential thoughtcrimes. All in all, family members are generally afraid of each other.

We see, over and over again, how the Party does its best to frame human beings as both inherently untrustworthy and as objects to be used. Pitting people from individual family members to entire classes, sexes, and races against each other is one of the Party's many techniques for controlling people, and it has seeped into Winston's everyday thought processes. Only actual experiences with other human beings even begin to break these ideas down.

Eventually, it becomes apparent that the Party's motivation is immortality through the denial of the individual. Human beings are denied their own personal thoughts, feelings, and bodies. Only their ability to be assimilated into the Party is permitted. Even thoughts and feelings about the greater good are unacceptable because these lead to regime changes and interfere with the raw totalitarian power of the Party. Every Party member in Oceania is meant to strive exclusively for the continued power of the Party. Dissidents are denied even the ability to be martyrs, because the Party does not kill people while they carry hatred for Big Brother; they simply change their thoughts until they are good Party members again, and then kill them later, when they are no longer dissidents and have no legacy of resistance to leave behind.

Winston's Plot

Winston has a secret desire to be free of the Party. He does get swept up in the Party's fervor when he's in the middle of it, but he also longs for the extremely basic pleasures and freedoms that have become taboo. For example, Winston secretly buys an old pen and journal to write in - a completely forbidden act that he has to conceal from the telescreen in his own apartment. He finds himself almost unconsciously writing things like "DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER" in that journal.

There is an Inner Party member named O'Brien who Winston admires greatly from a distance despite knowing only his appearance: "intelligent" with a "prizefighter's physique." Winston perceives that he and O'Brien "understand" each other somehow, and even believes O'Brien has spoken to him in a dream, saying they "shall meet where there is no darkness." Eventually, Winston imagines he is addressing his journal to the mysterious O'Brien, believing him to be an ally.

Winston has an acquaintance at work named Syme. Syme is very passionate about revising the Newspeak dictionary. However, he is a little too openly insightful about the true purpose of Newspeak for his own good. Even though Syme does not seem to have any intention of betraying the Party and in fact is extremely taken with Newspeak, Winston is convinced he will be vaporized, and sure enough, he is.

There is a woman Winston thinks he hates because she looks like the perfect Party member who would turn him in to the Thought Police. Actually, the narration outright states that he doesn't like women entirely, because he thinks they're too committed to the Party and enjoy betraying men. However, it turns out that this woman observes Winston by the shop where he bought his illegal notebook. By simply observing Winston in that shop, the Party would suspect he's committing thoughtcrimes, and Winston panics. However, the woman later bumps into Winston at work and passes him a note that says, "I love you." Winston then instantly decides he wants to be with her; the idea of not being with her never even occurs to him.

The woman's name is Julia. It turns out Julia is putting on an incredibly convincing act, but she hates the Party, too. Winston is technically married, so he can't legally marry Julia, and any kind of non-procreative sex is illegal anyway, so their relationship is entirely forbidden.

Winston and Julia meet up and have sex in secret. It's worth noting that during their first meeting, they enjoy listening to a thrush singing. During this first meeting, they go out to the countryside, where there are fewer telescreens and microphones; Winston comments that it's like the "Golden Country," his symbolic dream-place where people are free.

A man named Mr. Charrington owns the shop where Winston had bought his notebook, and he also owns a room for rent above the shop. It's an old-fashioned prole room without telescreens and with a great number of old-fashioned fixtures. Winston and Julia rent it to get away from Party life for a few hours every now and then. When they first start staying in the room, Julia observes a rat and throws her shoe at it. Winston is utterly terrified, showing that he has a serious phobia of rats; it is vaguely implied that he had a traumatic moment related to them as a child. Julia takes the rat in stride; they are everywhere. She promises to block up the hole so the rat does not return.

Julia and Winston spend time in their prole room knowing for sure that it will eventually lead to their capture, torture, and death, but they decide it will be worth it. Winston voices some interest in trying to work against the Party; Julia does not believe this is possible whatsoever, and is not interested in trying. She believes people are better off putting on a convincing act and getting away with as much as they can for as long as they can.

Meanwhile, during the workday, O'Brien speaks to Winston. He mentions Syme without using his name, which is incredibly unusual, since people who are vaporized are never ever acknowledged again; all their work is erased from history. But O'Brien mentions Syme's work on the Newspeak dictionary and gives Winston his home address so that Winston can borrow the dictionary. Party members also don't often give each other their addresses. Because of these unusual cues, Winston infers that O'Brien is inviting him over to conspire against the Party.

While Winston and Julia meet up and have sex, they also indulge in other pleasures of the world, like real coffee and chocolate, and proles singing outside their window, and art that hasn't been generated by the Party. Observing the proles and their richer emotional lives, Winston and Julia decide they are going to worry only about their feelings. The Party can coerce them to do anything, including to confess, but as long as the Party can't make them stop loving each other, they agree, they will never have betrayed each other. Julia says that for all the things the Party can do, they can't get inside their heads.

So seized are Winston and Julia by their conviction that they decide to go visit O'Brien together and confess to wanting to destroy the Party. O'Brien tells them they may join the Brotherhood, a mysterious group of dissidents working to bring down Big Brother, but they must be willing to sacrifice everything; they must be willing to not only suffer and die, but to murder civilians, to spread disease, to sow discord, to do anything the Brotherhood asks of them. They even, O'Brien says, must be willing to "separate and never see one another again." This is the only thing Julia and Winston are unwilling to agree to. O'Brien accepts them anyway and, many days later, gives Winston a book through a secret messenger.

This book contains the writings of Goldstein, the supposed leader of the Brotherhood, outlining the Party's core philosophy. Winston reads this to Julia, who is hinted to not be all that interested, but she does listen a little.

While they look out the window and contemplate that the proles are alive and the Party members are already dead, Winston and Julia are captured. It turns out Mr. Charrington was a member of the Thought Police and the room had surveillance in it. Winston and Julia are separated and dragged to the Ministry of Love.

While at the Ministry of Love, Winston spends a lot of time waiting, watching other prisoners pass through. Some of them are proles, and some of them are people he knows. The waiting room is enormous and brightly lit with telescreens on all walls. There are essentially no shadows.

Another familiar face appears at the Ministry of Love. It's O'Brien. Winston first thinks O'Brien has been captured, but it soon becomes apparent that O'Brien was masterminding this whole operation and is in charge of Winston's torture. They have, indeed, met "where there is no darkness" - because of all the telescreens and artificial lighting. O'Brien and other Party members even wrote Goldstein's book as yet another propaganda piece. O'Brien states the description of the Party in the book is true, although the book's implication that the Party can be defeated through a prole uprising is false because a prole uprising will never happen. (Note that Winston did not actually read the part of the book where "Goldstein" outlined how the Party should be defeated.)

Winston is tortured for an undetermined amount of time. He discovers that he is a prisoner of his body; his torturers can get him to say pretty much anything through punishment and reward. In fact, they can force him to feel certain ways, too. O'Brien and the Party aren't only trying to get Winston to give away information; they want him to really internalize sincere belief in the Party doctrine, like doublethink, symbolized by the concept that 2+2 equals 5.

Winston starts out promising to himself there are certain things he will never agree to or say out loud, but torture proves an effective method at getting him to say whatever O'Brien wants. Winston vows that he will recite the Party lines, but will not actually believe them. If he lies to get the torture to stop but still retains his ability to reason for himself, Winston believes, then he can beat the Party.

However, O'Brien and the torturers are slowly able to break that down, too, as they are good at reading Winston's emotions, and they torture him every time he recites their desired lines without the sincere belief they're looking for. Winston is highly resistant to the 2+2=5 idea, but as he is tortured over and over, he does come to believe that because the Party can define his reality through brute force, then 2+2=5 could very well be true. They can force it to be true. He has no choice but to believe it, because only believing it might possibly end his torture, and the torture must end.

In other words, Winston and Julia were wrong. The Party can, in fact, get inside your head.

When Winston starts to believe 2+2=5, O'Brien does indeed start to improve his treatment of Winston, providing him with food and comfort, allowing Winston to become much healthier over time. This bonds Winston to O'Brien and makes him feel attached. However, Winston has not forgotten Julia, and in an unguarded moment, he cries out for her. This prompts O'Brien to ask Winston his feelings, again, about Big Brother. Winston states that he hates Big Brother.

It is at this moment when O'Brien sends Winston to the notorious Room 101.

In Room 101, prisoners face their worst fears - which, of course, the Party knows, because they know everything about everyone. Winston, who we know has a phobia of rats, is shown a pair of cages with starving rats in them. He is told that the rats are, as everyone in this world knows, flesh-eaters, despite being rodents. Winston is restrained, his head held in place, and O'Brien informs him that the rats will be released to eat his face.

Winston realizes what O'Brien wants to hear: he realizes his torturers will probably not allow the rats to eat him if he is willing to inflict the torture on Julia instead. They want Winston's betrayal of Julia to be complete. They want him to stop caring for her, the one thing he and Julia had once agreed they would never, ever do. And Winston has reached his limit: he cannot tolerate the idea of being eaten alive specifically by rats. So Winston says, "Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia!"

And then he is finally let go.

We continue with Winston once again living on the outside. He has seen and spoken to Julia, who was also let go. But the bond between them is completely broken. Julia admits she also betrayed Winston when she was faced with Room 101.

"Sometimes," she said, "they threaten you with something---something you can't stand up to, can't even think about. And then you say, 'Don't do it to me, do it to somebody else, do it to so-and-so.' And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn't really mean it. But that isn't true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there's no other way of saving yourself, and you're quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person. You don't give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself." "All you care about is yourself," he echoed. "And after that, you don't feel the same toward the other person any longer." "No," he said, "you don't feel the same."

In other words, by demonstrating to Winston and Julia that they ultimately cannot escape their own self-interest, O'Brien has caused them to reject each other.

At the tail end of the book, Winston is sitting in his usual spot at a place called the Chestnut Tree Café, pondering a happy moment from his childhood before pushing the memory away, believing it to be a false memory. When an enormous military victory is announced on the telescreen, Winston realizes that he finally, truly loves Big Brother.

Interpretation of the End

Although the events at the end of the book are pretty straightforwardly described, I found them slightly confusing on an emotional level. Winston and Julia aren't really angry at each other for their betrayals, it doesn't seem - in fact, they admit to each other that's what happened, and they agree on their mutual experience. But they don't love each other anymore, and Winston loves Big Brother instead.

So, here is my initial thought on what the characters went through:

For people to love each other, both need a sense of individuality. There needs to be a connection, but there also needs to be a specific You and a Somebody to love, to connect to.

Through torture, O'Brien has effectively torn away Winston's individual sense of self. I know that's a weird thing to suggest when the book repeats "all you care about is yourself" multiple times, but I think that by so completely obliterating Winston's ability to make anything resembling his own decision, O'Brien has essentially made "Big Brother" and "Winston ('yourself')" the same person. Big Brother's wishes are Winston's wishes. Winston has been assimilated into Big Brother. Winston and Julia's conversation at the end describes what it feels like to be liquidated as a person and assimilated into a collective.

Winston now knows that the one core impulse he can never escape is self-preservation, and the only one who can provide that, with infinite military might and an infinitely-deep torture repertoire, is Big Brother. Julia represents the ideal that caused Winston to estrange himself from the safety of embracing and trusting Big Brother. And because Big Brother is both eternal and almighty, giver of both life and death, he is the only one it is safe to trust.

By betraying Julia, Winston discovered that his own will inherently had limits; because he would always, eventually, revert to self-preservation, his will and therefore his identity became synonymous with the force that decided whether to preserve him. That's why the end of the novel involves Winston imagining that he has finally been shot in the head and killed; he has experienced the death of his sense of self. And this is exactly how "Goldstein's" book indicated the Party's operations work: eliminate individuals and assimilate them into a collective to achieve immortality.

Character and Faction Parallels Between Nineteen Eighty-Four and Good Omens

The Party and Heaven and Hell

They're both the one overarching power over everyone's existence. The inner workings of it are mysterious to the characters and even moreso to the audience. The main characters are agents working for these entities, and they are controlled through surveillance, punishment, and reward.

Although Heaven and Hell give the impression of being two large overarching powers, it seems apparent to me that the whole thing is really just one system that has intentionally split its workforce into factions. Ultimately I think we will see in the most explicit way possible that whoever is actively calling the shots in Heaven is also actively in charge of Hell.

Winston and Julia, Aziraphale and Crowley

Both pairs are agents who are in love with each other even though they're not supposed to be, who enjoy Earthly pleasures and experience the joys of humanity before getting arrested and dragged away by their authoritarian "employers."

It's tempting to try and figure out which character mirrors which - Aziraphale mirroring Winston, Crowley mirroring Julia? - but I think, sort of like with Nina and Maggie, the reflections work in every direction. The characters aren't literal stand-ins for each other, but they are exploring similar themes, including what happens to people when a society forbids intimacy.

O'Brien and the Metatron

"More even than of strength, he gave an impression of confidence and of an understanding tinged by irony." This line describes O'Brien from Nineteen Eighty-Four, but it sounds quite a lot like the Metatron's manner as he enters Aziraphale's bookshop. Confidence and an understanding tinged by irony indeed.

O'Brien seems to appeal to Winston's ideal in authority figures, appealing both intelligent and physically strong. The Metatron seems to have tailored himself to appeal to Aziraphale's ideal of an authority figure: someone who is calm and in control, but also has an exceptionally gentle manner (and this isn't really true of the Metatron, but he can make it look like it is).

There are more similarities. Winston thinks and hopes O'Brien will be a helpful figure, and O'Brien convinces Winston he's a helpful figure, but in the end, O'Brien is the mastermind behind Winston's capture and torture. Additionally, Winston assumes, during his torture, that the Party's drive for power is for the Greater Good. But O'Brien tells him this is stupid, and the Party's drive for power is just for the pure sake of having power, because that's the only thing that will guarantee the Party's immortality.

This reminds me a little bit of the Metatron telling Aziraphale the point of the war is to win it, not to avoid it. It also hits me as a potential motivation for Heaven - like, why do they do what they do instead of doing something else, since the universe seems perfectly capable of running itself? "Power" or "immortality" could be a reason, and it would also be a reason that would resonate with very human themes, since power and (symbolic) immortality are among the motivations that can drive real-life authoritarians.

The Proles and Humanity

The common people. The populations who are considered by the main characters' societies to be "beneath" them, but who the main characters become fascinated by, and whose lifestyles the main characters come to prefer.

Both Nineteen Eighty-Four and Good Omens contain in their narratives the notion that the prole or human way of life is where true meaning can be experienced. Winston and Julia go as far as to announce that proles are alive and Party members are dead. And at the end of Good Omens Season 1, Aziraphale outright tells Adam that being "human incarnate" is better than being Heaven or Hell incarnate.

This mirror is probably the one that brings up the richest speculation possibilities for me. I won't go in-depth here, but I see in both stories the main characters developing this love for the proles and humans while continuing to separate from them - even trying to turn around and exploit the very power structures that have oppressed them in an effort to fight against the oppression.

It's worth noting that in Nineteen Eighty-Four, Mr. Charrington, the man who Winston and Julia rented their secret love nest from, and whom they thought was a prole, was actually a member of the Thought Police who helped capture them, whereas in Good Omens, so far, the humans have just been humans, and while Adam Young started out as an incredibly powerful non-human, he later chose to be a human and used his power to reject authoritarianism.

The Themes

Authoritarianism and Power

Obviously, the whole overarching cautionary tale in Nineteen Eighty-Four is about authoritarianism and the insidious ways it affects populations. The Party's power is almost as absolute as it can possibly be. Big Brother really is almost always watching; there is almost always a telescreen somewhere nearby. Even when there isn't a telescreen, there are microphones. And unorthodox ideas and behavior are punished with annihilation - not just death, but the total annihilation of the self.

Doesn't this sound like a version of Heaven and Hell in Good Omens?

At first glance, it appears Oceania's Party is more aggressive about surveilling its Party members than Heaven and Hell are about surveilling Aziraphale and Crowley. One has to wonder if perhaps Heaven and Hell are just as aggressive with surveillance in the Upstairs and Downstairs themselves, but are less aggressive or maybe even less capable on Earth, just like the Party's surveillance is less in the countryside (although it is still a significant threat there).

But still, we see Michael pull out those photos of Crowley and Aziraphale through the ages, and we hear the Metatron refer to reviewing Aziraphale's "exploits," and we see Hell drag Crowley down in 1827, and we see both Crowley and Aziraphale anxiously glancing around throughout history with the assumption that someone might be listening, and we see how ready Heaven is to erase Gabriel's memories (his identity! his entire self!) from existence. We also watch Heaven and Hell try to make Aziraphale and Crowley disappear in a gout of hellfire and a tub of holy water after realizing that Aziraphale and Crowley do represent a threat to the current celestial order. Heaven and Hell's Nineteen Eighty-Four-esque insidious threat is clearly established in both seasons.

Vaporizing Dissidents

In fact, Heaven and Hell's arrest of Aziraphale and Crowley reminds me a bit of Winston and Julia's arrest, in the sense that the protagonists knew what was probably coming but not exactly when. And Heaven's attempted execution of Aziraphale in particular reminds me very much of the Party choosing to vaporize a dissident. They were going to try to disappear him. No angel or demon other than the ones who were involved would have known what happened to him. Hell's attempted execution of Crowley, meanwhile, reminds me of the Party's public executions of war prisoners.

Finally, the Party will attempt to erase people from existence by killing them and then erasing all records related to them, down to the very last detail. Meanwhile, the Archangel Michael threatens Aziraphale with being literally written out of existence in the Book of Life. There's lots of speculation about how possible this is. I wonder if maybe, it's a flawed process. Maybe erasing someone from the Book of Life can cut a hole shaped like them in the universe - but maybe it isn't that simple, and they don't actually get taken from anyone else's memories. Maybe, as people in Oceania haven't quite lost the ability to remember their dead, Heaven cannot actually erase the fact of anyone.

Social Disconnection

I see a lot of complaints online about the characters of Nineteen Eighty-Four being impossible to like. What tends to make characters likable? Their behaviors toward others, especially humor, compassion, individual quirks, and affection. Their moral strengths, like a sense of justice, might appeal to us, too. And what has the Party been systematically beating out of people for decades now? Anything that could possibly make fictional characters likable.

One of the Party's primary modes of social control is to keep people from having individual, intimate relationships outside of the Party. Each individual regards every other individual with distrust at all times, and only the Party is capable of providing safety. Winston mentions many instances in which he believes parents are afraid of their children, for example. There are also a number of people who he thinks would report him for thoughtcrimes.

This is getting into heavy speculation territory, but it hits me as a major motivation for the Fall in the first place. It's a great way to instantly divide Heaven itself in half, make everyone instantly suspicious of everyone else, and set up a whole bunch of rewards and punishments to hold over people's heads related to Falling.

One thing that's obvious, though, is the total lack of social connection in Heaven. Michael and Uriel are constantly treating each other with barely-suppressed contempt. Muriel wants approval so badly, but nobody has any patience for them. The "friendliest" any angels get are Gabriel and Sandalphon in Season 1, and that's still like, corporate-coworkers-style friendliness. Gabriel outright tells Beelzebub that no one has ever given him anything. Although it's...theoretically possible Gabriel is an outlier, I think his experience is probably representative of all the angels.

Bodily Experiences, Physicality, Gross Matter

There is a moment that made a big impression on me. Winston observes a prole woman outside singing a silly popular song at the top of her lungs as she works. This woman is not an attractive person by Winston's or Party standards; she is older, she is fat, she has a "lower-class" accent, her skin is weathered and reddened from working outside. But Winston, self-admitted misogynist who came of age on the Party's feminine ideal, thinks she is beautiful. He has a moment of realization that she's beautiful because the very things that theoretically would make her "unattractive" are evidence of a human life fully lived.

We also have Winston and Julia enjoying the world through their senses together in a way that they simply cannot in the grips of the Party. From listening to a thrush in the countryside to drinking real, delicious coffee, they experience pleasures that are denied to them and cause them to feel peaceful in a way that is denied to Outer Party members. As they experience life in a way that is much closer to the ways of the proles, they decide that only proles are alive; Party members are dead. It is at the moment when they speak this out loud that the Party chooses to capture them.

There's a darker side to the bodily experiences explored in Nineteen Eighty-Four, and that's experienced in the Ministry of Love. Here, Winston and Julia discover that their thoughts and feelings are indeed controlled by their bodies. There is only so much pain a human being can withstand before they will comply with their captors just to get the torture to stop. In fact, if the Party's psychological manipulation tactics haven't worked thus far to indoctrinate the population, then the body can be used to brute-force an attitude change.

The connection to Good Omens here is obvious. Aziraphale and Crowley are just like a couple of Outer Party members who haven't experienced real pleasure before, and then they discover wine and ox ribs and music and nice clothes and all those delightful human experiences that the other angels sneer at. It seems Heaven looks down on Earthly pleasure as a morally inferior, dirty pursuit, while Hell looks on Earthly pleasure as a kind of weakness, a pathetic softness. But Earth is where Aziraphale and Crowley have found meaning. Physical existence is where they've found themselves, where they've connected with each other, and where they've connected with the stuff of the universe itself.

Memory Manipulation and Thought Policing

In Nineteen Eighty-Four, there are massive governmental departments dedicated to revising all printed records, including reprinting newspapers as needed. Private writing is also not allowed. This means that even if a Party member has a memory, there is no physical evidence of it. Even if there were physical evidence, something a person had stuffed away in a safe place, there would be another, more "official" source to prove one's personal source wrong. Of course, anyone trying to make any kind of fuss about official sources being wrong would disappear, too, so no one will even try.

Winston mentions often in his narration that he has trouble remembering large portions of his life because of the way the Party has controlled the public narrative and obscured any fact that would once have been a point of reference for him. For example, Winston estimates that the date his journal starts would be April 4, 1984, but he actually isn't certain, not even about the year, because time isn't kept track of by those dates anymore. Historical facts, like events that led to the Party's ascent to power, have been rewritten so many times that Winston can no longer know what really happened. He can be sure there was chaos in the streets, followed by violence, and then proclamations from above about what was supposedly true, but one individual human being usually can't judge the big picture of what's going on in their entire society without a relatively objective source of information for major events.

Nineteen Eighty-Four also has literal thought police, Party members who study their fellow citizens for any sign of even the most remote disagreement with Party doctrine. If someone proves to be a problematic thinker, as Winston and Julia both did, they are dragged to the Ministry of Love to be violently re-educated. Using a series of punishments and rewards, prisoners are slowly broken down until they are unable to think for themselves at all.

Although it's unclear what Heaven is like in regards to spreading information, we've got the Metatron and the Archangels literally ready to erase Gabriel's memory. In Good Omens, since it's all dressed up in Heavenly attire and the characters have their unique attitudes, it comes across as less dystopian, more quirky and fantastical. But they are fundamentally threatening exactly what is done in Nineteen Eighty-Four. And based on Beelzebub's comment about how Gabriel's memory is "all your...you," the same identity issues would be at play. To erase Gabriel's memories would be to erase everything that makes Gabriel himself - an execution by another name.

Reality As A Construct (Or Not)

The Party's stance on reality is fairly simple: human beings perceive reality, so if human perception can be altered, reality can be changed and turned into whatever the Party wants it to be. This sounds wrong because it is wrong, but people who the Party has targeted for thought control don't get to think for themselves about it, because they can't withstand the torture.

This might be Heaven's approach to reality as well. Look at how questioning is discouraged, and how the angels choose to believe whatever is most convenient for Heaven, or whatever they believe should be true ("there are no back channels").

More importantly, though, we have characters in Good Omens who actually can change reality. In particular, this is what Adam Young does - and what he actively chooses not to do for the majority of the world, in the end. He only adjusts reality enough to be allowed to make his own decision: he's not the Antichrist anymore. Otherwise, he restores the world to its state from before he ascended to power (aside from a couple of tiny little eleven-year-old-boy-ish tweaks here and there; hey, you can't blame a kid for adding a few extras of his favorite books to the world).

Proles as the saviors of society

So this one is complicated because repeatedly through Nineteen Eighty-Four, we come across this feeling from WInston and Julia that the proles have some almost mystical connection to True Humanity which Party members have lost. However, there is also the repeated assumption that the proles are incapable of revolution on their own. And in a practical sense, this appears to be true. The intellectuals of their world look down on them for it, but the truth is that just as in real life, the proles are living in poverty and are far too desperate for their basic necessities to ever gain the class consciousness needed to overthrow the Party. This is, of course, by design.

Winston goes as far as to believe the proles might possibly rise up and overthrow the Party, but he never considers working with them. He goes straight into the jaws of the Inner Party instead! This seems to be for a couple of reasons, but primarily because Winston has formed this sort of attachment to O'Brien, his Inner Party member of choice.

In Good Omens, Season 1 and the book, humans do eventually save the world. Well, Adam - technically an Antichrist - saves the world by thinking like a human and accepting humanity as his true "side."

Free Will

"Free will" as a theme really ties into humanity as a theme in Good Omens, since Earth is neutral ground between Heaven and Hell and humans aren't born to a particular Side. In Nineteen Eighty-Four, of course, the Party's goal is to eliminate free will, while in Good Omens, Heaven and Hell are looking to eliminate humanity.

Individualism Versus Collectivism

Oh there it is! There's my pet theme!

I've always argued that in Good Omens, the core of the dualism explored between Aziraphale and Crowley is individualism and collectivism, with Crowley the dedicated individualist who nonetheless would like to belong somewhere, and Aziraphale the nervous collectivist who is secretly desperate to have an identity and belongings to himself. Good Omens has already touched on the notion that working together as a collective is necessary to keep the world turning, but it's also important to preserve individuality, so we have people to keep us company and meaning to live for. I think this will come up again.

Meanwhile, Nineteen Eighty-Four explores an authoritarian and destructive form of collectivism in which human beings are not allowed to have individual interests or experiences; everything flows toward the power of the Party. Individual identity is viewed as a weakness. With that said, Nineteen Eighty-Four does consider the potential power of collectives to overcome authoritarianism.

Mortality, Immortality, and Change

In Nineteen Eighty-Four, O'Brien eventually reveals that the goal of the Party is to become immortal through collectivism. While the fate of an individual human being is always to die, the Party believes a collective that is single-minded enough about maintaining power can live forever. In that way, people who submit to the Party's power can live forever, too. One has to wonder about the real point of all this, of course. The Party regards change as its downfall. For the Party to succeed, it must keep everyone moving toward the exact same goal of maintaining power forever.

In Good Omens, many of the characters are naturally immortal, as angels or demons. They don't have to change, and Heaven and Hell don't have to change. However, existing as immortals in Heaven or Hell, not experiencing any of the things mortals do in the physical world, all seems pretty obviously pointless. Aziraphale and Crowley, and then Gabriel and Beelzebub, and then Muriel, all start to find meaning on Earth among mortals. And I think this is all yet to be expanded upon, especially with the looming Second Coming.

Where Good Omens is concerned, the notion of change as a type of death and/or death as a type of change may be important (and ties into The Crow Road by Iain Banks as well).

By coming to Earth, the immortal characters are essentially doing the reverse of assimilating with the Party or Heaven and Hell: they're discovering themselves. With self-discovery comes the risk of change - changing from who they used to be in Heaven or Hell - and the reward of meaning.

The Party of Oceania wants to assimilate everyone into the same goal of maintaining the Party's power in order to make the Party immortal. While "maintaining power" is a "purpose" of sorts for the collective, on an individual level for any specific human being, it is nihilistic, since there is no place for the individual other than ensuring the success of the Party's destruction of the individual.

Freedom in the Natural World

In both stories, we've got the notion of nature as a place of freedom. The countryside where Winston and Julia first meet up lacks telescreens, and there are fewer microphones as well, allowing them to act naturally in a way that isn't usually permitted in the city. The room that Winston and Julia rent from Mr. Charrington is also so old-fashioned that it doesn't have a telescreen; they believe themselves to be momentarily safe in their own little world there. Unfortunately, Mr. Charrington is not really an ordinary prole, but a member of the Thought Police, which allows the Party to invade Winston's and Julia's space.

Of course, in Good Omens, Earth is the ultimate place of freedom. Heaven and Hell are both awful in their ways, hyper-controlled and devoid of real meaning. It's on Earth that Aziraphale and Crowley can begin to truly live. Of course, the safe little place they create together, the bookshop, is eventually invaded by Heaven and Hell.

I'd like to leave you with a pair of quotations.

"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face---forever. ... And remember that it is forever. The face will always be there to be stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always be there, so that he can be defeated and humiliated over again. Everything that you have undergone since you have been in our hands---all that will continue, and worse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tortures, the executions, the disappearances will never cease." O'Brien Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell Part Three, Chapter III

"If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends. If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boot . . . no, imagine a sneaker, laces trailing, kicking a pebble; imagine a stick, to poke at interesting things, and throw for a dog that may or may not decide to retrieve it; imagine a tuneless whistle, pounding some luckless popular song into insensibility; imagine a figure, half angel, half devil, all human . . . Slouching hopefully towards Tadfield. . . . . . . forever. Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett

#good omens #nineteen eighty four #good omens 2 #good omens 2 spoilers #1984 #good omens book club #long post #torture mention #sa mention

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kiwicopia · 1 year ago

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Hey ! I loved your Jugram nsfw headcanons. May I ask you some Jugram dating headcanons, please ? :3

Thanks a lot 🐱

I'm so glad that you enjoyed them, and I hope that you enjoy these as well. ☺️

TW: mentions of sex, a bit of possessiveness & jealousy, angsty on some parts

Dating Jugram definitely has its ups and downs. It's obviously not the easiest thing in the world, but relationships never are, right? That doesn't mean he's the worst lover, or even the best, but he does what he can to make you happy.

Everyone will either know of your relationship or be kept in the dark. It really just depends. On one hand, Jugram might find that mixing the relationship with work isn't ideal, however, he wants others to know so that no one, and I do mean no one, tries anything with you. Not that they would, anyway. That's just a death sentence when he finds out.

Speaking of work and relationship mixing, he's very good about not letting it get in the way of certain decisions he has to make, however, this can change depending on how new or cemented in the relationship is. If it's just starting out, yeah, he's able to make clearer decisions. If it's already cemented in, we'll, that can make it more difficult and might cloud his judgement on certain things.

Likes to leave you little gifts with a handwritten note, when he's able to. His handwriting is the most elegant you've ever seen, but what he writes is never cheesy, or so he thinks. "Thought about you today", "Have a great day", and "See you tonight" are typically what he writes.

Jugram can be jealous at times, especially when seeing some random foot soldier talking to you so nonchalantly. He'll stand off to the side, watching and waiting for you to finish the conversation so that he can have you. He's a patient man, so he doesn't mind waiting, but he also doesn't like it when that soldier decides to just keep talking. Or if he deviates from the topic and to another.

He's possessive in the sense that he keeps a part of him on you when he can. Whether it be a hand, his fingers, etc. People know of your relationship, but there will always be a few that think they can still try something and get away with it. If his cold, hard glared don't work, then expect him to hold your hand or even have it placed on your shoulder while he's staring daggers at the person. Jugram is most likely planning their downfall in his head. At least it makes for some good fucking later in the bedroom.

Couples argue and have little fights. It happens, but he absolutely hates it when the two of you do it. He's not above giving you the cold shoulder to make you learn a lesson, but he can't deny the bit of guilt he feels when he does it. He also doesn't like it when you ignore him as well, and he usually busies himself with his duties to get the spat off of his mind. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. One of you eventually caves in and apologizes, to which the other does as well before he suggests talking it out. Jugram likes to learn from his mistakes, even if you were in the wrong.

As punctual as he is, and always has been, you honestly make him want to lie in bed a little longer. Just to feel the warmth radiating from your body. He loves what the two of you have, not that he'd admit it to anyone else but you, but that's besides the point. Even though everything is hectic for the Sternritter at times, you make him feel normal, or as normal as he can possibly feel.

#bleach #bleach x reader #bleach x you #bleach x y/n #bleach jugram #jugram haschwalth #jugram x reader #jugram x y/n #jugram x you #jugram haschwalth headcanons #bleach headcanons #female reader #male reader #gender neutral reader #kiwicopia writes

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nicoline1998enilocin · 1 year ago

Text

Flufftober Day 16 | Lullaby

Pairing | Husband!Andy Barber x Wife!Female!Reader

Word count |~ 870 words

Summary | After a long, stressful day at work, there's nothing you enjoy more than sitting next to your husband, Andy, when he's playing the piano and singing to you. These moments work like a charm to get you to fall asleep, and you two lovingly call them your own lullaby.

Warning(s) | This is your official trigger warning. Do not proceed if any of these topics upset you. Angst (mention losing someone you care about, death of a minor character, stress), fluff (Andy being the best, most comforting husband).

Prompt(s) | 16. Singing one another to sleep | @flufftober

A/n | This one shot is written for day 16 of Flufftober 2023. I decided to give the hurt/comfort genre another whirl, so I hope you will all enjoy it as much as I did when writing it 🖤

Likes, comments and reblogs will be very much appreciated 🧡

Divider is made by @cafekitsune | GIF credit to the owner

Main Masterlist | Andy Barber Masterlist | Flufftober Masterlist

Working as a nurse has its ups and downs, but today is definitely one of the ''down'' days, so to speak. Your job can be rewarding to no end, but it can also be difficult on days like today.

After caring for a sweet, young gentleman for the last five weeks, you suddenly lost him when his heart gave out because it couldn't handle the stress anymore.

Right now, you're sitting in your car before you drive home, and you can't stop bawling your eyes out after the shock when you hear that he has passed away.

Your patient, Justin, was always so sweet, caring, and funny, but most of all, he was strong. The fact that his heart was deteriorating rapidly didn't stop him from living life to the fullest, even when he was in a hospital.

But today, his life sadly ended, and a donor heart was on its way to save him, but they were too late. His heart couldn't take it anymore, and you weren't there to be able to say goodbye to him.

During your shift, you managed to keep it together, though you never stopped thinking about him, and you visited his family in the family room during your break to share your condolences.

It wasn't until you unlocked your car and got in that you finally let go of everything, and now you're seated in the parking lot of the hospital where you work, grieving one of your favorite patients.

You have no clue how long you've been sitting there, but when you've finally calmed down enough, you pick yourself together enough to drive home to see your husband, Andy.

There's always been something about walking through your front door and seeing him that instantly brought you comfort and warmth, today being no exception to this.

''Hi, Princess,'' he says as he envelops you in his arms, and you can't help but burst into tears again, and it feels like this time you won't stop crying for hours on end.

''C'mon, let's sit on the couch together so you can tell me what's going on, okay?'' he says softly, and you nod, your sobbing now having died down to soft sniffles.

When he leads you to the couch, you're still in your scrubs, but neither of you mentions it. Right now, you need your husband, and a change of clothes can wait until later.

''What's going on, Princess?'' he asks when you're sitting sideways in his lap, your face buried in his neck and your eyes closed. You're inhaling his comforting, soothing scent while gathering your thoughts.

''H-He didn't… They were too late,'' you sigh out, followed by another sob, and he pulls you close, his cheek resting on your head as he holds you close, rubbing your back soothingly while you allow yourself to grieve one of your favorite patients.

''I'm so sorry to hear that, Princess,'' he says, thinking back to all the stories you've told him about Justin. You shared all your worries with him, and Andy's heartbroken to see you like this.

The two of you sit like this for a while, Andy whispering sweet words into your hair while you tell him about Justin and grieve his loss for as long as you need to.

''Babe? Could you sing me a lullaby?'' you ask suddenly, and the smile on Andy's face lights up the room and your mood. Every time you're stressed or can't sleep, you ask him to sing you a lullaby, which is when he plays the piano and sings softly to lull you to sleep.

''Of course, Princess,'' he says, and you get up before letting him guide you to the piano, and you sit down next to him.

''Is there a specific song you'd like today?'' he asks when you're all settled in, but you shake your head and let him choose today. Today, he decided ''Listen To Your Heart'' because it's one of your favorites.

As soon as he plays the first chords, you sigh softly and close your eyes, and with Andy's voice in your ear, you slowly calm down and let yourself rest.

Though you're not entirely asleep when he's done, he still picks you up and carries you to the bed, where he lays you down before undressing and taking his place with you.

''I love you so much, Princess, more than you'll ever know,'' he whispers against your shoulder, complimented by a few soft kisses as you melt into his touch.

It doesn't take long for a dreamless sleep to take you, and the following day, you wake up wrapped in your husband's arms. You feel a lot better than yesterday, and you're very thankful.

''Mornin', Princess,'' he says, and you shuffle a little bit to be able to kiss him. The kiss is soft, tender, and loving, and it melts your heart as his hand ghosts over your side and down to your hip.

''Mornin'-'' you shriek as his warm hand wraps around your thigh, and he pulls you onto him so you're straddling him. He's planning on making good use of every last second of your day off, showing you how much he loves you.

#flufftober 2023 #day 16 #defending jacob #andy barber #andy barber one shot #andy barber fanfic #andy barber fanfiction #andy barber imagine #andy barber x female reader #andy barber x reader #andy barber fluff #chris evans #chris evans one shot #chris evans fanfic #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans imagine #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x reader #chris evans fluff

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polyamorousmood · 6 months ago

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Hey there :)

So I have no problem with my bf dating other people, and recently hes started having sth with someone else. Good for them! Legit, no problem with that by itself

But.. now I'm being left on read a lot, like majority of the time it feels like, no matter the topic or time. I just feel.. forgotten, I think, or replaced idk. But it feels pretty bad.

I dont want them to think I'm jealous or mad, I just wish he would still show me the same attention/care as before. Ive talked about how left on read makes me very insecure, due to fake friends and person past experiences before so I dont want to bring it up again.. but it hurts. Idk what to do?

Bad news, babe. You're gonna have to say something again. The good news though is that you can productively procrastinate it, because there's some stuff I want you to do first.

But before I get into that, I let having a cool opening distract me from very important other things that need said: That sucks, and I'm really sorry, but you can make it through this.

Now then. Time to productively procrastinate a difficult conversation. Look, I'm procrastinating it more by making it a read more! (It, um, it is A Lot. I took "blogging platform" literally on this one😅)

It sucks. Believe me, it bothers me too when I can't hear from my partner📵📴 because they're with my meta. It has been A Problem I've had to work through, so I think I'm actually pretty qualified to give advice on this.

Some of what I have to say is going to smart (old-timey word for sting) a bit, so I want to make it clear that I understand where you're coming from, so you can trust the part that stings is necessary. I imagine its something like this:

You relationship with your boyfriend is great! So great, you're happy for him to have someone else to love! That's. That's so rare and incredible, its a love beyond what most will know. And then he takes that love and wads it up and throws it in the back seat to make room for this new schmuck. The love is still there, it's just... in the back seat. And you never thought that would happen, because the relationship is so good! And you already said something, so you worry you're being a nag, which you don't want, because you ARE happy for them, you're so happy for them... except when you're not because you can't be happy when he can't be bothered to text you back. Its not really so much to ask, and you EXPLAINED why its important to you, so why doesn't he seem to care? You communicated, you did your part, and it was hard and scary! Surely harder than texting you back would be! And you don't want to feel like this, but. There's this anxiety that... shouldn't he want to text you back? Isn't that how he would act if he really did still care about you just as much?

Any of that resonate? I don't know you, so maybe some of it was way off base🎯, I don't know. But I hope enough of it was close enough to right that you know I get it when I say:

This isn't just your boyfriend fucking it up. This is, in part, probably you asking something unreasonable. To give you the exact same level of time an energy as when it was just you too is a big ask. To be able to supercede his time with the other person any time you want is a big ask. If you're only okay with your boyfriend having someone else if it doesn't cut into your time at all, how okay with it are you actually?

So before you talk to him about it, you gotta step back. Its not that you're wrong for feeling sidelined. But a poly relationship just isn't going to be the exact same as a monogamous one. It it were, I wouldn't have bothered making a blog, and I wouldn't have needed to because I wouldn't have a trail of loving, wonderful, burnt to ashes monogamous relationships behind me. Let's take a deep breath together. Pause here if you need.

Now, there are some questions here that do affect what I think would be fair. For example, if you're living with your boyfriend, and he's taking you for granted, always texting the other person when he's with you, you don't have any special time with him anymore, and then when he goes out its radio silence. That's a very different situation from you being in a long distance relationship so texting is your main form of communication/bonding and now he's got a new person that lives near him so he's with them constantly and now, what are you, chopped liver? for example. I'm going to give a list of things you might be doing that's unfair, and I want you to take a minute and evaluate as honestly as you can where you fall on that. This is a self-reflection, not an accusation, so please resist any temptations to get defensive (if you even feel them). I recommend taking out a pad of paper and committing to an answer for each. Some you may not be doing at all! Some okay maybe a little. And some now that you think about it, yeah actually, you're doing a lot. That's okay. You not handling it perfectly is okay, and doesn't mean we can't ask the boyfriend for accommodations still.

Are you valuing 1:1 time with your boyfriend as much as you're valuing (negatively) the time he spends 1:1 (not texting you) with his partner? IE, are you more bothered by him not texting you than you are appreciative when he takes time for you?

Are you texting him compulsively out of anxiety instead of because you have something more important to discuss?

Are you accidentally infringing on his other partner's time?

Are you trying to infringe on his other partner's time to reassure yourself that you're important to him?

Are you texting him to "test" him?

When you communicated that you didn't like being left on read, did you properly convey how big of a problem it is for you and what your expectations were?

When you communicated, did you allow space for negotiation and to work on the problem, or was it more like a list of demands?

Are you misplacing your feelings somehow? Is there something else that's bothering you that you don't feel comfortable bringing up?

Are you letting your anxieties run you? Is there something you could be doing to address your feelings?

Are you forgetting to weigh other allocations or shows of love he's making or you?

Is there anything else internally you might be overlooking in regards to this?

Whew! Heavy stuff. But you made it!🎉 Now, we'll dig into how his actions are making you feel. That last set was about what you could be doing better, and this one will help determine he could be doing better. But just like we weren't making accusations about you, we aren't making accusations about him either. We are assuming good faith on your boyfriend's part. This is still ultimately about your feelings and what reasonable accommodations could be made for them.

Do you feel the time allocation for you vs his other partner is fair? Why?

Does he seem to text them back more than you?

Does it seem like he's not taking your concerns seriously enough?

Does this issue look like a larger pattern? If so, what? How will that look long-term?

Has he made specific promises he hasn't kept to you in regards to this? If so, what were they and how hasn't he lived up to them?

Do you feel he's made adequate time for you to discuss concerns, or do you feel like he tries to rush through them?

Do you think he gave you a reasonably clear expectation of what him dating someone else would look like (or did he make it seem "nothing will change")?

Has he not responded to something critical?

Is there anything else he's done in regards to this that doesn't sit right with you?

You did it! 🎉Now we can officially start working on problem-solving. I imagine that was a lot more than you bargained for, for such a simple problem as "I want a text back," but its important to get everything laid out. This helps in a lot of ways. It helps guard against striking on a "solution" that isn't actually sustainable. It makes sure you're starting a discussion in good faith. And hopefully, it will help minimize having to return to the issue.

For the sake of formatting, we're going to address the questions for you first, then the questions about him, then how to have the hard conversation, then workarounds that you may not have considered that aren't really your or his problem. I actually think that third group has some of the better "quick fixes", if you can find one that works.

Starting with the questions about what you could be doing better, in order, skip any that don't apply:

Re: valuing 1:1 time -- Make active efforts to appreciate the time you do have more. Use this time as a guard against negative thoughts when he is unable to respond ("We spent all day together yesterday, a few hours today without hearing from him is fine")

Re: texting compulsively -- Be more vigilant about self-soothing. I find self-talk to be most effective for me. I cannot possibly cover everything here, but it sounds like it stirs up fears you're losing your partner. Since you cannot guarantee that will never happen, I find it most helpful to reassure myself I will be okay even if I do lose them. Another option is to make a reassurance bank, where you can store and see evidence of his affection without asking it from him. Your mileage may vary. If you really struggle with this, there's always therapy.

Re: accidental infringing -- Be more mindful of what you send. Save things that are non-urgent to discuss later, when you have his attention anyway.

Re: deliberate infringing -- Stop it. It will only strain things and make the outcomes you don't want more likely. See self-soothing. Find something else to distract you that you can put energy into.

Re: "testing" him -- See above. I know, its easier said than done. Do the hard work. That shit can ruin your life.

Re: didn't adequately express importance -- Well, its a good thing we're about to talk about it anyway! Really think through how you can explain how badly it makes you feel. We'll get into that more when we discuss How To Have the Conversation

Re: list of demands -- Well, its a good thing we're going to talk about it anyway! This time, see it as a negotiation. Ask him if that's feasible, or if its too much. But open to trying alternate solutions.

Re: misplaced feelings -- Take the advice on How To Have a Conversation and apply it to the thing that's actually the problem.

Re: managing anxieties -- Again, you'll have to find a way to self-soothe somewhat. That's not to say your partner shouldn't meet you halfway, but you do have to do your half.

Re: forgetting other expressions of love -- Literally make a list of all the things he's done/is doing for you. As many as you can think of. Add to it often. Pick a couple and do a deep dive on why that mattered so much to you and how you felt. Tell him, too. You gotta be grateful consciously, bro. This applies to all of life

Re: anything else -- Take that into account. Work on that, too, however you can. Be honest with him about your shortcomings when you address it.

A lot of these will require upkeep on your part (kind of mirrors🪞how texting you back consistently requires upkeep on his, huh?). Be prepared to discuss the changing you're going to make and have an actionable plan for them. Okay, his turn, same as before:

Re: fair time allocation -- does he need to make more time for you? Do he need to make protected time that is only for you? You said you feel forgotten, replaced, so maybe this is part of it.

Re: unequal texting -- first, consider why. If he lives with you, he's probably going to have to text the other person in front of you sometimes. If you still think its too much, again, protected time for you may be appropriate, he may need to do a better job keeping his New Relationship Energy (NRE) in check. Be prepared to discuss this, possibly including him defending himself!

Re: not taking concerns seriously -- Well, its a good thing we're discussing this again! Make sure you have an actionable, measurable metric he can do to show you progress here. (IE ❌"I need you to care more" ❌ but ✅"When you're unable to respond, I need you to say that you're busy so I know you thought of my needs" ✅)

Re: bigger patterns -- You will have to tell him you're concerned about those too. If it could become untenable for you, this will probably be a recurring discussion. Consider scheduling check-ins where you say one thing you think is going well and one thing you're worried about, for example.

Re: unkept promises -- here, you are super justified in being mad. Try not to be anyway. Try to be curious and interested in addressing the root problem. Ask him what got in his way, what middle ground he's confident he can manage. It is you and him vs the problem, even here, not you vs him.

Re: inadequate room to discuss -- Set expectations before the talk, and remind him of them if he forgets. (IE "I know this isn't nice to hear, but I need you to let me say my piece and talk through solutions, even if it takes awhile." and "I said I needed to talk through the solution. This sounds nice, but I'm concerned about X. How can we make sure that doesn't happen?") Consider reserving specific time to discuss it, consider reserving recurring time to discuss any problem, if you need it.

Re: didn't set expectations appropriately -- ask. Ask what this would ideally look like to him. If he's having trouble getting started, point out some differences you've already noticed, and ask if he thinks those are the new norm.

Re: didn't respond to something critical -- Establish a way he can see what is critical and what isn't. This might be texting something that can wait, but calling for something important, for example.

Re: anything else -- address that too. Give him a chance to explain himself. etc.

Okay, you've done everything up to this point alone. You're prepped. Now How Do You Have The Conversation?

For this type of stuff, I recommend the WIBS format. That is, "When [something happens], I feel [feelings] Because [explanation] So could you please [change]". But of course, it can't be that simple either. Critically you CANNOT say "you" before the "so could you please". The example I'm about to give is going to use the texting issue specifically, but if you've done the soul searching and found there's a bigger problem you want to address (which ngl, sounds like there might be something bigger based on what you sent), adjust accordingly! This is good general advice for any tough conversation. Anyway, here's what that might look like on the texting thing:

"When I am left on read, I feel anxious and betrayed, because I've had a lot of friendships completely fall apart, and that's always how it started. So could you please make a point to text me something when you read my message, even if its just 'lol' or you saying you want to discuss it later."

But wait a minute! That doesn't include any of the bullshit I just made you do. What the hell am I trying to pull? Okay okay, so we have to modify this a bit. Our new format is going to be something more like this: "When [something happens], I feel [feelings and impact], because [explanation]. I have tried [things you've tried], and I am still struggling because [reason why that hasn't helped, including what you could do better]. So I was hoping to look at some more solutions, like, would you be willing to try [change]." Which might in practice look something like

"When I am left on read, I feel so anxious and betrayed I start spiraling thinking the relationship is doomed, because I've had a lot of friendships completely fall apart, and that's always how it started. I have tried dropping some hints and self soothing, and I'm still struggling because this is a really bad anxiety that I didn't have to deal with before recently and even with the hints I'm not getting the response rate I would like. So I wanted to talk about it and see if you'd be willing to try making a point to text me something when you read my message, even if its just 'lol' or you saying you want to discuss it later."

And then! The discussion continues. Maybe he says "oh my god, yeah, I didn't realize it was bothering you that much, absolutely I can do that" and maybe he says "I'm with you all the time how is this still a problem?" or maybe its "actually, [other partner] gets really anxious when I text, which is why I don't respond unless its important. I figured I could talk to you about dinner plans any time" and whatever the case is, you keep talking until you've set on clear goalposts and have reassurance they feel okay to all parties. So in order, your responses might be something like "are you sure you can manage that? I was really worried by my hints not being picked up on that that was the reason", "I know its a problem. That's why I'm talking to you about it. If that's not a good solution to you, let's come up with something else, because the way things are is really hard on me," and "okay. I don't want to make [other partner] anxious either, but this isn't working for me, can we find something else to try?"

Allow him to explain, be prepared to explain more yourself, and be willing to try a variety of solutions. Acknowledge

Is this my longest post yet? Maybe! Wild. Let's top it off with something easier: The Hack Solutions🧑‍💻. Sometimes, anxiety isn't logical, and goofy workarounds can be super helpful! Here are some off the top of my head, but feel free to get creative, too! Not all of these may be feasible, not all of them may help. But a lot less work than some other solutions so worth mentioning!

You said being "left on read" is what bothers you. Can you just... turn off read receipts? Or switch to a messaging app that doesn't have them? Can he just not read your texts until he has the time to respond?

A lot of phones have a driving mode, that will send an automated reply to texts. Can he turn that on when he's with his other partner so you get a reply like "hey I'm busy rn, but I'll text back later!" and would that help?

If you just want to feel more involved, maybe it would help if he just like, took a picture of his pizza to send to you. Reminds you you're thought of, doesn't require conversation.

Something that I've done with friends is write like, a dozen short affirmations/reassurances, and have them keep them in a special spot. When they need to feel loved, they can take one out to read. This has worked PHENOMENALLY for them, and still protects your partner's time away while allowing you to get love direct from your partner WHENEVER you want.

Can he just kick it with you both concurrently?

Can you have a friendship with your meta where you text THEM like "tell [bf] to text me back real quick" and then your bf doesn't feel bad about texting in front of the other partner because they're telling him to do it?

Classically condition yourself. Like, every time he leaves you on read, eat a chocolate. And then sometimes instead of it being "boyfriend won't text me :(((" it'll be "oooo! candy time!"

ai yai yai! That's all I have, though! Come back if you need help working through some specifics. I'm very happy to help however I can. Its not your fault you're struggling with this. Most polyam relationships have to deal with this to some extent, but with a little effort, you can make it through. Best of luck to you, friend. 💙💖🖤

#poly relationship advice #ask box is always open #long post #polyamory #jealousy

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