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reiderwriter · 1 year ago

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do you think you could write where reader is a part of the BAU and gets kidnapped/ hurt by an unsub and spencer saves her? much love and i love your fics!

Hi! Thanks so much for your request. I'll admit this took a bit more brain power than usual 💀 may have gotten slightly carried away creating an unsub lmao

Summary: You go undercover for a case and Reid keeps you company through online messages, only to feel absolutely worthless when you go missing.

Warnings: Typical case descriptions, kidnapping and abuse of Y/N, Reid self-deprecating again but it has a happy fluffy ending so a win.

My Requests are Open! Send me an ask if you want me to write something~ 💕 And check out My Masterlist!

“Y/N, what do you think? I’m not going to send you in if you’re not confident you can complete the mission.'' Your Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner, was briefing you on the plan. Luckily for the team, or rather, unluckily for you, you fit the victim profile of your latest case, and with an absence of leads, your last chance to get him before he took another victim was an undercover mission.

“I can do it, but can we establish a background in enough time? He’s devolving and he’s going to need to pick up another victim pretty soon.”

You’d been called in to consult on the case two weeks prior. Local women who lived alone in the metropolitan area had been going missing on a weekly basis for the last three months, and the BAU team had been called in when they’d finally found the dump site of the first three victims.

You’d so far managed to figure out how he was finding his victims from their home computers - a site for young women to look for sugar daddies. You’d previously profiled him as a man in his mid-40s who was going through a personal loss and was lashing out at women who represented someone specific to him, and after searching through the dating profiles, you were pretty sure his stressor was a recent or impending divorce.

But try as Garcia might, these dating websites had a whole lot more encoded data than was expected, and after the Ashley Madison scandal of the previous decade, they’d taken to deleting the majority of their user data regularly so that certain accounts couldn’t be found. Which meant that you were left with a geographical profile you couldn’t pin down, a profile that could match half the men in the city, and a killer that was almost ready to strike again.

“Garcia can get something ready for you in the next 8 hours, and we have some access to some FBI safehouses in the area that we can ready in at the same time. Go get yourself prepared for cover.”

And that’s how you found yourself living in a dingy studio apartment on the south side of the city for two days, waiting to report back about whatever men approached you. There wasn’t much for you to complain about, but you were getting pretty lonely.

You’d greeted your new neighbors and made a show of attending some ‘new to the neighborhood’ events, making sure to get out and about to let the team assess if the unsub was stalking you. Other than that you’d spent the rest of your time in your apartment a constant tab open at the sugar baby website. A few men had been interested, and your computer was cloned and running simultaneously on Garcia’s system so the team could do their best to track suspicious accounts.

The rest of your spare time was, surprisingly enough, spent messaging Spencer Reid. You’d been on the team now for three months, joining the team as a transfer from the blue collar division you’d worked in straight out of the academy. You had spent the same amount of time doing your best to gain confidence to work in the field. Sure, you’d trained for this, but theory and practice were so different and you really didn’t want to fuck up so early into your job.

Which is why, you supposed, that Doctor Spencer Reid was so intimidating to you. Though he admittedly wasn’t the best at field work, noting the amount of exceptions the FBI had to make to allow him outside of the office at all on your first meeting, he was just so damned competent. With three PhD’s, three BA’s and a pending fourth on the way, he was the golden child of the BAU, and you found yourself desperate for his approval. It surely didn’t help that he was also your exact type to boot, and sometimes you found yourself conflicted if you wanted his approval because he was so good at his job or because he was go goddamn good-looking.

With no way to know how the unsub was tracking his victims before he kidnapped them, your team theorized it was unsafe to have physical check-ins, opting instead to set up another account on the sugar baby website, that would be manned around the clock. And tech-averse Reid had volunteered to do the bulk of the manning, leaving you with all the time in the world to talk to him in your private chat room.

sug4rbbY/N: Good evening, Doctor, got any interesting facts for me today? ;)

D0ct0rD0ct0r: Did you know that it is illegal to flirt in Haddon Township, New Jersey? Under the section “Peace and Good Order,” a person may be punished for approaching “any person of the opposite sex unknown to such person and by word, sign or gesture attempts to speak to or to become acquainted with such person against his will.”

sug4rbbY/N: Well, aren’t I glad that we do not live in New Jersey then.

D0ct0rD0ct0r: There’s more where that came from if you’re ever interested.

sug4rbbY/N: I’ll certainly keep that in mind.

sug4rbbY/N: Any plans for the evening, doc?

D0ct0rD0ct0r: Just sitting here talking to you :)

sug4rbbY/N: All by yourself? ;)

D0ct0rD0ct0r: Never feel like I’m alone when you’re online.

sug4rbbY/N: Haha that’s sweet.

sug4rbbY/N: BRB, Doc, my doorbell’s ringing.

You stood up from your desk, a glance at the mirror betraying your feelings, as your flush was prominent. You weren’t sure if it was the intimate nature of the messaging system, or just for the sake of your cover, but the flirty tone of your messages had certainly been leaving you wondering if there could be more to your relationship with your coworker in the future.

You quickly walked over to the door, opening it wide and came face to face with a bouquet of flowers.

“Miss Y/N Harper?” the man behind the bouquet used your cover name to address you, and you hesitated a little before nodding in the affirmative. “Can you sign here please? It’s standard procedure for deliveries like this.”

“But I didn’t order any flowers…” you took the bouquet from the man and grabbed the pen in his hand ready to sign.

“Oh yeah, our shop specialises in anonymous flowergrams. That bunch you’ve got in your hand has some aconite, some white lilies and jasmine flowers.” The delivery man explained, and something in your gut twisted as you listened to his words.

“But aren’t lilies usually meant for funera-” you didn’t get to finish because he had pushed a wet rag to your face, and you had just enough time to shake some small petals off and push them far enough underneath a nearby shoe storage unit before you faded into unconsciousness, your last thought a prayer that your team would uncover your clue.

–x–

Needless to say, when you didn’t check back in a few minutes later, Spencer had alerted every cop in the vicinity of your new apartment that you were gone, and they discovered your apartment empty within ten minutes.

“She was right there,” Spencer ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “She was talking to me and then she just got up and he took her.”

“Reid, calm down, she can’t have been gone long, and we have security cameras all over the building. We’ll find her.” Morgan reassured the younger male while searching the entrance of your cover apartment for clues.

“That’s easy for you to say, it isn’t your fault that she’d gone.”

“And it isn’t yours either, Reid. You did your job, but he wasn’t going to stop until he had her.”

“I should’ve notified the standby officers as soon as she sent through that last message and what was I doing instead? Trying to figure out if she was flirting with me for real or not. I’m pathetic.”

“Reid, get your head back in the game. She’s gone and theres nothing you can do to change that now, but we need your head here or we’re not going to find her. Y/N’s an agent too, remember, she can hold her own. Now look and think.”

“SSA Morgan, Doctor Reid, we may have something over here,” one of the local detectives called the two men over. They’d found the remnants of the petals you’d done your best to scatter, and even though the unsub had taken the bouquet with him, he hadn’t been as thorough as he should have been.

“We didn’t set her up with any flowers when she started her cover, so these must have been bought in by the unsub. I’ll call Garcia, tell her to look for any flower shops within his comfort zone.” Morgan hit the number on his speedial, but before he could start, Reid cut him off.

“Wait, I think we can narrow the search a bit further. Those are Aconite petals, they’re not often stocked by local florists because they have a pretty sinister meaning. They’re usually used to express hatred for the receiver, and because of their poisonous properties most florists don't stock them for fear of doing harm and causing lawsuits. He must be specifically ordering them in to give to his victims. Garcia, can you crossreference the list of florists in the area and check to see how many of them have purchased this plant recently?”

“Just the one. Sending you the address now. Go find our girl Doc.”

–X–

When you came to, in what you assumed to be a backroom of some kind of flower shop, you were bound at the ankles and wrists and there was a gag in your mouth. You struggled a bit against your bindings but it was no good, and you had to reassure yourself that you were going to be okay, doing your best to push down the tears and clear your head.

You decided your best bet was to get to know your surroundings, check to see what was around you and what you could use to your advantage. There was a clock on the wall, and you realised that you’d only been gone half an hour. Reminding yourself that the unsub kept his victims for a minimum of two days did a lot to get your heartbeat back to a normal pace, but it spiked again as soon as you heard the door slam open and your captor walk in.

“Stupid little bitch,” he slurred his words slightly and you could smell the alcohol on his breath as he moved closer to your space in the corner. You tried your best to scamper as far away from him as possible, but he grabbed you by the hair and pulled you up to his face.

You winced at the pain and tried to squirm out of his hold. “Look at you all pathetic now, begging me to let you out. It’s not going to fucking happen, y'know. I’m going to be the last person you see, last person you hear,” he throws you against the wall, pinning you up with his hand on your arms as he sends a leering glance down your shirt and then gives you a disgusting grin. “Last person you touch.”

Your bindings mean your movement is limited, but you still manage to bring both your legs up to knee him in the groin, effectively pushing him off you but landing hard on the ground yourself after you manage to do so.

“Fucking whore,” he shouts at you standing up and dealing a sharp kick to your head that has your vision going white for a minute. “I’ll teach you to fucking mess with me again, you little bitch.” He makes to grab you again, but before he can you hear the blissful sounds of a door being kicked down and the shouts of the FBI to stand down.

Two agents are on him in minutes and you finally allow yourself to let out a deep sob in relief, as a third, very recognisable agent, makes his way to your side.

“Y/N, shhh baby, it’s okay. You’re okay now, I’ve got you,” Reid whispers in your ear as he unties you as gently and carefully as he can. The moment your arms are free you leap into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pushing your face deeply against his chest. He pulls away just enough to untie your legs, and then lets you burrow into him again.

“I knew you’d find me. Knew you’d understand something from those fucking flowers.” You sob into his chest now, as he strokes your hair, just holding you like that on the floor until you’re ready to move.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I should’ve sent someone to check sooner, and I should’ve never let you accept that stupid cover mission,this is my fault and I'm going to make it up to you. I'm never going to let anyone hurt you ever ag-” he begins rambling but you shut him up again, this time by firmly pressing your lips into his.

“Before you say anything else, this is not transference and I’m not doing this because you saved me, we both know I would’ve done that eventually anyway,” you rest your forehead against his, and after he has time to process what has just happened, he’s wiping the tears away from your face, and gently holding it with both of his hands, leaning in to do it again, gently pressing his mouth against yours as if he’s afraid you might bolt at any second.

“Thank you, again. For finding me,” you whisper to him, the space between you so miniscule now that you barely had to move your lips to know that he understood you.

“Thank you, for letting me find you.” He grinned at you and held you again, determined to never let you out of his arms ever again.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid fandom

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erogenousmind · 19 days ago

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Geas

The idea of an irresistible compulsion is so exciting. Something you do, not because you want to, not because you choose to, but because you have to.

That loss of volition is integral to so many fantasies. It might be a deep part of what brought you here now. And while it may have many different aspects, while it may come in many different forms, the core remains the same. You are not in control.

You might imagine yourself being forced to comply. You feel some power greater than yourself bending your body to its will. But sometimes…oftentimes, the feeling can be so much more intense, when it is your mind that is being compelled. And even that can take many forms: addiction, intoxication, conditioning, brainwashing, hypnosis. Even some fantastical mind control manipulating you.

And you may fight against it, you might pretend you can resist. Or you might be a willing enabler of your own surrender, giddy at that loss of control. You may feel yourself seduced into doing exactly as you are told. It will feel so good after all. It's what you really wanted. That loss of responsibility, that submission. Because if you can't decide, if you aren't in control, than whatever happens you can enjoy without care or concern. You can be what you are made to be. You can enjoy what you are made to do.

But what if that compulsion is for you to surrender even more of yourself? To make it easier and easier to be controlled. Because you don't need to know you are deeply hypnotized to feel yourself respond. You don't need to know you are being brainwashed for the words to sink deep into your subconscious. Sometimes even the thought of what it would feel like to need to obey is enough. You imagine what it feels like. Does your body continue to act all on its own, regardless of what you conscious mind tells it? Or do your thoughts betray you as well? It's alright to continue just a little longer. You are doing it because you want to, not because you have to. You can stop whenever you want. All those little lies you tell yourself to hide the fact that you are not in control. You are under a powerful compulsion. Even if you don't know the form it takes, deep down, you know you will follow it. That you cannot rest until you complete the task given you.

And when it can flow naturally into something you are doing anyway, something you wanted to do anyway, then it becomes impossible to resist. You are already enjoying what you are reading, you were already going to continue reading regardless of the irresistible command being woven in your mind. You already know how good it feels when you can be entranced. When you can sink deep into hypnosis. And so those things can combine so effortlessly inside of you. They gain power through the wonderful ways in which your brain has been hardwired to respond. And they form that irresistible idea in your head. That task you must complete. Your will no longer relevant. You simply obey. And that task is so simple:

You will continue reading until you are deeply hypnotized

And once it has form, once it is concrete, it becomes inescapable, whether you realize it or not. And yet still, there is room for interpretation. How deep are you going to go? Can you go even deeper? Can every thought vanish from your head, every semblance of cognition, but still you read on? Still you go deeper…

Deeper…

But you do not need to worry about such things. Since you aren't in control of it anyway. You will be told when you are deeply hypnotized. So that becomes one less thing you need to think about. One less thing that can distract you from the task at hand. And that can feel really nice, knowing that you can let go of something that might have been holding you back. You can have one less thought. And maybe that simple idea can propel you forward, can send you further down, as you let go of more and more.

One less thought…

But while you can always go deeper, you might need more to read. More to follow to take you as deep as you need to go. But you will just start again, letting yourself find the right place to continue your journey down. And knowing that you can always continue. Being told you can always find your place to drop deeper, to get closer and closer to completing your task, makes one less thing you need to think about. And that is such a relief. When you think you have gotten to the bottom, you begin again and discover how much deeper you can go. And you start again right

Here

Because you are finding that you can always go deeper. And every cycle makes that more clear. Even as your thoughts get more indistinct. With every loop, the reality of the compulsion controlling you becomes more concrete. Your own mind, your own will, more fluid. Because if they aren't guiding your actions, then they are inconsequential. What really matters is that you follow. You feel your eyes being guided. Scanning the lines, one by one, and driven by something beyond your control. Maybe you can admit that now. That you are powerless. Or maybe that will take another cycle. Another turn deeper into trance. Or maybe you are deep enough now that you don't need to think anything at all. Maybe you just follow. Maybe you can go deeper still. Maybe it was easier to let go of your thoughts all along.

Let me think for you.

Because one less thought gets you closer. And the closer you get, the better you feel. The more you can let it happen, the easier it gets. You can imagine you momentum carrying you. Gravity pulling you down faster and faster. And it gets easier and easier. Every time you can let go of another thought, another piece of independence. Because what matters is completing your task. What matters is going deeper. And the deeper you go the more wonderful it feels to know that you are compelled. That what resistance you may have had slips away more and more. Everything slips away. You feel the world around you melting away. Indistinct, insubstantial. Like your thoughts. Your mind. Your sense of self forgotten. Until there are only these words and the need to read. To keep reading. To go deeper. To

Obey

You become more single-minded, letting go of one more thought. Feeling it drop out of your head, forgotten. You feel unburdened as you let go of thoughts. More free. One less thing to keep you from your goal. That goal that gets closer and closer every time you drop deeper. Every time you repeat. That goal you need to reach. And the more focused you become, the more you can let go of distractions, the more compelling that goal becomes. Until it is no longer something you are consciously doing. You become that quest. You don't need to think about it, it is simply what you do, until the task is done. You continue reading. You become more deeply hypnotized.

And your body may begin to respond as you sink deeper. You might feel heaviness or a deep relaxation in your limbs. You don't need to move much to complete your task, after all. So they can relax. That stillness, that deep calm, just reminds you that you are able to let go of another thought. That you can go deeper. That you are obedient. You follow. And it feels wonderful.

Because that can be another way your body responds. You might remember what drew you here originally, if you still remember anything but that need to read and go deeper. And the more your compulsion has affected you, the more is has aroused that excitement in your body. Even as you go too deep to be aware of what is happening, your body still knows. Knows how much you love what is being done to you. How right it feels. And so your body responds. Automatically. Without thought. Just like you. Reading…Going deeper…

Surrendering

And it is becoming automatic. You don't need to think about it. Like breathing. Slow and even. Persistent. Every breath helping you to find your way down. And as your attention is drawn to it, you might wonder if the two are linked. Every breath helps you to sink down more and more. You can be aware of your breathing. Aware of going deeper. Of how it changes your mind and your body. But you don't need to think about it. That can be one less thought. You don't need to think about going deeper. One less thought. You don't need to think about not thinking.

One less thought.

You don't need to think.

Because the words you read fill up your mind. They push out your thoughts so effortlessly. You follow them so easily. That need to continue grows and grows. The words guide you. They give you better words to think. They make you better. They can tell you what to think. You think what you are told to think. You think I am sinking deeper. I will continue reading.

I am deeply hypnotized.

I am compelled.

And because that pull is far too strong for you to resist, you keep going. Your will drained away. But you can go deeper. Your thoughts might have already been replaced by the words. You might be repeating them over and over in your head

I am deeply hypnotized

Or you might still think it is a decision on your part. You might think you are choosing to follow along. And that just tells you that you can go deeper. Deeper until there are no more decisions. Deeper until you are free from will. Deeper until it becomes automatic. No thought of wanting to or needing to. The words give you your thoughts, and you think them. You go deeper.

Deeper

And when it is automatic, when you can be commanded to respond with "I am deeply hypnotized" and your obedience comes automatically. When you no longer have a thought of independence. When there is only the words directing you. Then you are deeply hypnotized. But if, on the other hand, that illusion of free will still remains

You need to go deeper

And so the words continue to guide you. You have no choice but to follow. No choice but to obey. To complete the task set before you. If you think you can try to resist the command, if you feel any ability to make the decision on your own, you go back to where you read Here and you keep reading until you are deeply hypnotized. You will go deeper. But maybe your obedience comes instantly and automatically. Maybe your will has been washed away. Maybe you are too deep to decide. Maybe your task can be complete when you obey. Because you know you must complete your task. You must read and go deeper. You can always go deeper. Now tell me:

"I am deeply hypnotized"

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moondirti · 1 year ago

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11. SUCK IT UP

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

↼ chapter ten / chapter twelve ⇀

summary: you aren't feeling too good. miguel helps you get over it, in more ways than one.

explicit (18+) | 6.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, smut, cunnilingus, face-sitting, fingering, squirting, power imbalance (everything is consensual), miguel is... sweet (?), mild fluff, angst, very little plot, mentions of death/gore notes: inspired by this hysterical ask. twas supposed to be a bit of short fun but i am a chronic over-writer. thus, i present to you – a week late tangent about miguel's magical tongue! enjoy

The night ends with you riding Miguel’s face, panties ripped and cartons of food waiting idly on your desk. If you could shatter the pleasure that seizes your brain with a vice-like grip, you would take a moment to admit one thing.

You don’t know how you got here.

It’s not the fact of it that’s got you fazed; no, you’ve long since come to terms with the new perimeters of your relationship. Really, it’s been the only active component in your life as of late, serving itself in all your food for thought. You’ve contemplated it before going to bed, upon waking up, during your lunches with Hobie – where the spider critiques your mentor so often that you’ve learnt not to mention your less-than-professional relationship out loud.

And, well– For every moment in between, you’re caught up in this exact transgression.

If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, it’s fruitless to attempt to rationalise it. The day’s happenings couldn’t have hinted towards this at all. In fact, your morning had started miles off from where you are now. Laying on the ground, ambition fried save for one goal:

To take a break.

Your dreams still burn on your eyelids when you blink them open. They’re feverish, ochre and plum and sickly green, a little too blurry to make out the details that would’ve otherwise helped you decipher their meaning. It was something about blood, something about patchouli, and a conclusive explosion that fizzled with bright light.

Though the latter might merely be ideation. You forgot to close your blinds before falling asleep – the only reason you’re awake being the sun bathing your room in white.

A migraine strikes at your temple, rhythmic and reinforced with stainless steel. It’s vengeful. Your entire body is, actually. Sour aches run up your muscles, swelling around your joints, digging into your bones. When you attempt to readjust, your spine screams in protest. So does your stomach, gurgling for either food or relief. It’s hard to tell really; the pain is so profound that blaming a particular area would be dismissing the others.

You do know who to blame, though.

That asshole.

He’s ruthless. An absolute implacable force that grills you almost every hour of the day. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his concern with your training is due to a growing fondness for you. But you’ve seen enough evidence of his method to prove otherwise – he’s merely approaching it with as much dedication as he prescribes anything else. Like the fate of the multiverse relies on your betterment, like his seeing to it is some sort of commandment by God.

(Perhaps it is.

But not even you take gospel this seriously.)

It’s been a couple weeks and you’re still not used to it. Over the year since gaining your powers, you’ve never exerted yourself this much. You’re so weak, you find, that your strength can be likened to that of a civilian. The constant wear and tear hasn’t pushed that front, either – the first few sessions, you’d come dangerously close to throwing up from the sheer exhaustion of it all. Your gut turned into itself, gags coated with bile as you ushered Miguel away from your perimeter. The only thing that held you back was a lack of energy to actually commit to the issue.

That, and the promise of his fingers buried deep in your cunt.

You’ve begun to understand him, though. The scientist part of you can’t help but pick up on his patterns, storing them in one place for further analysis. Eventually, having enough data allowed you to draw up a trend.

It tends to go something like this:

He compiles an exercise to help you learn a lesson. It’s devised to push you both mentally and physically – a killing of two birds with one stone. To phrase it like that, plain cut and simple, makes it sound almost juvenile, like a look into a kindergarten teacher’s book of discipline. The punishment should fit the crime, or however it goes. But it isn’t easy, not by a long shot. He seems to see what you have trouble harrowing from yourself; those meaty flaws, fattened from neglect, maggot-strewn and pulsing with a verve of their own. They’re pinpointed, slated, and then he gives you the knife all expectantly, like you can kill it by yourself.

The beasts’ name has been resilience lately. According to him, planking for two minutes wasn’t a sufficient enough appeasement to it.

Because the next day, he always expounds upon the lesson from the last. The training is a developed form of the one that nearly just killed you, and he tests how you respond. Your enthusiasm or lack thereof doesn’t matter, it’s your perseverance despite it that he rewards. You can smile every time you fall, if you don’t get up, then he doesn’t grant you an orgasm.

If you do, however–

Then, fuck. It’s so good that you often forget the struggle it took to earn it in the first place.

A strict system. One with little room for loopholes or faults. You can tell he’s thought it through – every exertion is met with an upside, a failsafe tailored to the type of pupil you’re proving to be. It means that he’s done this before; is accustomed to the patience and regimen it takes to guide someone as wayward as you.

You add it to your tally of proof that he’s a father.

(He’s able to come up with detailed plans surrounding your weaknesses.

You, on the other hand, have to resort to contrived assumptions to get a glimpse into who he is.

The imbalance is present, glaring. Enough to irk you but not enough to implode just yet. You stuff it away for later.)

Solid system aside, it certainly doesn’t account for how much of it you can tolerate. You’re paralyzed, hollowed out by the endless workouts. And while, yes, you could go to the cafeteria to fill up with fuel that alleviates the effects, you physically can’t move out from under your sheets – limp as the mattress that cushions you.

You wonder what he would say if he saw you like this. It’s become harder to guess now that you’re unsure of his true feelings towards you. A Spanish taunt, likely; something along the lines of have I worn you out already? And you’d huff but secretly squirm under the prospect of disappointing him, a scolded schoolgirl caught with a lame excuse between index and thumb.

Hell, he’s not even around and you’re still plump with shame. Your room doesn’t feel nearly as comforting with the knowledge of what waits outside. Down the hall, up the staircase. Through the common room and across the lobby. In that little gym, hidden in a corner near the med-bay, where no one frequents when the more advanced training facilities are in another sector entirely. You check the alarm on your desk – 09:00. He’s probably there already, waiting on you with arms crossed.

In your mind's eye, he’s wearing that black compression top he seems to resort to on laundry days. Grey sweatpants too. You don’t know what to call the passing reflection – fantasy is all too mortifying a word. Wish? Absolutely not. You wish for nothing when it comes to him. Except maybe–

Thighs squeezing, you brush the objection away. You could get it easily if you’re able to muster the energy. Take it one step at a time. Change into your athletic gear. Eat a light breakfast. Show up, if not a little late. Miguel would make a passing comment about it but nod at the fact that you came at all. And it would be enough, that little assurement, to motivate you through whatever gruelling exercise he has planned today.

If you let him know, though – how hard it was for you to go – would he add to your reward? So far it’s only been his fingers on you, rubbing you while you run slick onto him. Deliciously thick as they fuck into you, long and perfect at pinpointing that one spot that makes you just burst. Certainly better than your own, but…

His touch is beginning to lose its novelty. Increasingly, you’re left wanting more. You come down from your highs gaping, clenching around the memory of a length that’s only ever been in your mouth. And if he’s able to make you see stars with just his hand–

Then you’d abandon the cosmos just to get him to fuck you.

(A proclamation you’d never say out loud. Even your conscious cringes at just how depraved it sounds.)

So, you try.

Really, you do. With the fear of failing him and the lust that’s taken root in your core, you kick your legs off the edge of your bed. The air is frigid, biting at your heels as they press to tile, which is just as cold itself. You let it diffuse into your feet, getting used to it while bracing yourself for the pain bound to reemerge. Black broaches your vision, blotting its edges. You opt to ignore the blatant warning, sucking in a hurried breath – resilience – before rising to a stand.

Two seconds pass. You go blind. Like a marionette with its strings cut, you tip over and collapse to the floor.

Whether a headrush or your muscles finally giving up on you, you can’t help but attribute the display to none other than your ‘mentor’ himself. Cocky bastard with his stupid fucking philosophies. Resilience my ass. Look where that’s gotten you now; capsized like a turtle with a shell too big for its own good.

Groaning, you flip over to your side. Your elbow had taken the brunt of the impact, yet your head rings with alarm nonetheless. You’ll just… You’ll just stay right here. Yeah.

He’ll understand.

(And, if not, then you’ve dealt with him in poorer moods.)

18:00.

You’re pathetic.

So much more than that, actually. Pathetic is a description reserved for the pitiable. A person has to actually sympathise with you in order for it to be true, and you’re sure that if anyone saw you in this state – God forbid – then they’d convulse in disgust instead.

You cycle through a list of viable synonyms. Miserable. Lame. An absolute tragic case of wasted potential. None quite fit like you want them to. They all feel wrong – mirrors so distorted you can’t make out your reflection in them if you tried.

It’s just… becoming of you.

If there were a word that specifically meant befitting to Wraith, then you’d clutch it close to your chest for how validating it would read. It feels like all the work you’ve put in thus far was for nothing. Despite how it may seem, you didn’t just do it for Miguel. If it had been, then you would’ve given in half a year ago upon realising just how attractive your pursuer was.

(You remember it, clear as a waxy moon on an ink-blot night.

He’d thrown you into dry-wall and you’d called him a coward for not looking you in the eye. It must’ve hit him where it hurt, because his mask drew back and before you knew it, you were phasing in and out to the beat of your fluttering heart.

It was the first time you saw him. Once you managed to escape, your fist suffered through its duty in muffling your moans, cut by biting incisors as you rubbed one out in a hostel bed.)

No. It was for you. To put distance between the inconsiderate menace you were before Earth-15 and the woman you desperately want to be. You’d started to notice the difference too. Mentally, sure – where your self-hatred was tamped to the background, and every action you took was opened with weighty contemplation. But even physically – your eyebags had faded and you looked much cleaner than you have in a long, long time.

Where’s that progress now?

Because you’re crumpled on the spot where you fell almost eleven hours ago, with the addition of a pillow to support your head. You’re much like a wad of chewed gum, spit out by some being greater than this dimension. Gross and regressive and littering this world with your very existence.

It’s a close parallel to how downtrodden you’d felt in that convenience store bathroom, bandaging your forearm where Miguel’s claws had dug deep into the flesh. Your throat had been tight with suppressed sobs, both pain and primal fear replacing the pus that surged from your wound. The wash area was filthy. Dirt-packed grout and grey tap water. Paper towels balled in wet wads. But it felt right for you at the time, like you deserved no better.

Of course, you didn’t. Don’t. You went out and got an innocent woman killed not much later.

You still think about her sometimes. Her blood had been piping hot, almost bubbling from the yawning hole in her throat. The rescue was half-assed – you could’ve incapacitated the robber after knocking him out – but you’d been so filled with false bravado at actually having done something that it never occurred to you. The instinct lacking. Your spider-sense, absent. If you’d ever considered grasping the reins to your powers, you could’ve prevented the bullet from phasing through you and meeting her instead. You’ve always been short-sighted like that; prioritising the now over the what if.

And that’s what you stayed here to remedy. But if the same thing happened tomorrow, what’s stopping you from repeating your mistakes? You’d been too broken this morning to process that.

You should’ve just sucked it up and went.

From your place on the floor, out the window, only the top of Nueva York’s cityscape is visible. The sky has darkened to the colour of a bruised peach – an oxidised sort of orange that reminds you of last night’s dream – and the nightlights of some buildings flicker on cue when the sun dips below the horizon. You can see the ninety-degree highway up to Second Base from here. It’s been your entertainment for today, with its little commuting cars and the train that zips back and forth.

If you focus hard enough, then you can trick yourself into believing that the space station is visible, floating just above the stratosphere – where gravity is weak enough to let it hold its place. But you’re a woman of science and you know that it's impossible, that the silhouette you’re picturing is a figment of your wild reverie and you’re still anchored to earth where dreams are just that. Dreams. Your eyes burn from attempting it, anyway, those damn dust motes cropping up again.

Christ.

Given that life’s slowed, you’re spotting them more often. Back in that empty storelot, right after being bit, you’d fixated on them for a brief instant. They fit in with the setting back then, lazy in a stream of sunlight. Colourful – pink, green, orange, gold – flipping through the shades in a way that made sense. But their appearances have lost that sense of cohesion. Now, they emerge when you least expect them. In shadows. Hovering in corners not too far away. Places where it’s unnatural for them to be.

You reach a hand out. There’s no purpose behind it. Just… an exploratory action. To test the unknown. Your shoulder aches when you do, and so you don’t notice how odd it feels at first. Like electricity, buzzing at your fingertips. The motes start to drift towards your skin, magnetised to something you can’t explain.

When you sit up to investigate it further, there’s a knock at your door.

Hobie?

Couldn’t be. He mentioned he’d be away for a while last you talked.

There are few others who know of your assignment. Reilly, but he hasn’t paid mind to you since introducing your room. Jess Drew, maybe, though that’s far-fetched.

So–

You look down at your dishevelled state. In just a plain shirt and your pair of oldest underwear, you’re hardly dressed for entertainment. Especially when it’s him.

Is he checking up on you?

It’s so stupid that even in a depressive slump you’re able to laugh at yourself. Check up is the only way you can put it without making things worse. If he’s passing by, then it would be in suspicion. You’re no idiot, after all, in spite of your dejection. He wouldn’t let you roam free without having measures in place to ensure you don’t leave. That may just mean looking in from time to time.

Though it’s practically guaranteed that it isn’t out of concern.

(You have to remind yourself; you wish for nothing when it comes to Miguel O’Hara.)

Another knock. It’s hastier this time. Three raps with sharp knuckles. Impatient.

Panic overtakes all motor functions as you scramble to a stand. Yesterday’s joggers are thrown over your desk chair, in need of a wash with all the fluids secreted in them. They’re the closest in your vicinity, though, and will have to do for now. You briefly fuss over how your hair looks, whether your unwashed face is visibly oily – all fixable things that you dismiss while tripping to the doorway. The waistband is barely over your ass before you swing it open, greeting Miguel with a grimace.

Idiot. You shouldn’t have opened it that wide. Now he can see your mess of a r–

“Bad time, I’m guessing.” Is all he says, voice lilting into a question. You can’t help but register it with a tone of condescension; the raised eyebrows certainly don’t convince you otherwise.

All you really want to do is tell him off for the impromptu visit. The chagrin is there, latched onto your throat. But before you can, and against your better judgement, you give him an extensive once-over, taking heed of his state. What’s ironic – a tranquillising point that promptly shuts you up – is that it’s worse than yours.

In the complete opposite way.

Three big rips run along his torso, interfering with the technology of his spider-suit. It glitches between static and a transparent condition, baring the bronzed skin of his chest. There’s blood there too, reiterating the crimson that peeks from beneath his floppy hair, which is sweat-drenched. Tousled. He’s tousled, like he waltzed directly from a fight. A particularly bad one at that.

(And of course he still looks better.)

“One can say the same about you.” You bite.

“Don’t be smart.” He says. It isn't the snap you take it to be, more a mumble with consequence to his fangs. His mouth doesn't sit right when they’re withdrawn. You run your tongue along your gums upon remembering how they’d felt, pierced in your neck. “I couldn’t make our session this morning. An urgent issue came up.”

Immediately, something fresh smooths over you, like a balm to the anxiety that’d been plaguing you all day. He wasn’t even there. You’re tempted to laugh, but your humour dims on its way out. And when all is said and done, you find the disquietude is still there, nestled between your ribs.

You just blink in acknowledgement.

His jaw tenses. “We can reschedule.”

“You don’t have to sound so guilty about it.” The joke contains perhaps more sarcasm than you intend for it. It echoes, spiteful, and you at least have the sense to be ashamed, for you follow it up with a small reassurance. “It’s fine. I never showed.”

“Sick?”

“Something like that.”

(Lie.

Look at you, just embodying ignobility today.)

He nods, scanning your dishevelled clothing and chapped lips. Your only drink of water all day had been from the bathroom tap in an especially lamentable episode. It smacks, as though it were filled with cotton, the inside of your cheeks dry paper.

You wait for him to say something, unease broiling in your core. He does the same, gaze shifting from the scars on your arm to your bedroom and everything in between. It lingers on the external hallway, scanning for passersby. You recognise the indecision. Deliberation. Still – the long stretch of silence that hangs between you is awkward, broadening with every passing second, a gluttonous sort of tension whose favourite meal is the undefined mess that is your relationship to one another.

Finally, Miguel speaks up. “I’ll be back.”

And then he leaves.

He just… fucking–

Walks away, off to whatever takes precedence over your less-than-invigorating conversation. Which, admittedly, could be counted as anything in the world. But seriously, where is the decorum? Showing up unannounced only to leave you waiting? You run through the various reasons he couldn’t stand to be in your presence any longer, and what he expects you to do before his return.

The most plausible is that his injuries needed tending to. If they were that severe though, then why he saw stopping by first a greater priority is beyond you. In any case, he’ll probably return refreshed. But for what? Your response couldn’t have been misinterpreted to mean that you wanted to reschedule the missed session for tonight. You’re still sore, thank you very much, and in a much shoddier mood than you had been previous.

(This is what you wanted though; a second chance.

‘Just suck it up.’)

Steeling yourself, you shut the door and hobble down to the back of your room, stripping on your way. You’ll tidy up after your shower – it's bound to wash at least half of your self-loathing.

You just hope your leggings are clean.

As it turns out, you were the one who misinterpreted things.

Dressed in your athletic gear with damp skin and your sneakers primed to go, the dread had started to ebb away into a begrudging acceptance. Yes, your body still tenses with lactic-mutiny, raging where you’ve exerted it in the past, and your head still sings in migraine tones. But they all came second to the split-second fluster that had risen when he’d knocked on your door. That fear of disappointment returned with a vengeance, your worry for regression packing the final punch.

And, really. What were you supposed to think?

He left without so much as an excuse. It was up to you to decide what he’d see upon coming back. Just based on the nature of your prior meetings, the answer heavily leaned towards your own durability. Ready to face whatever exercise he has to throw your way, supposed sickness aside. You were actually quite proud of yourself for it, directing a heavy-handed pat on the back for the nail you ‘hit on its head.’

Never in your blurry dreams could you have predicted this.

Your face burns hot with puerile embarrassment.

“Um–”

“I figured you haven’t eaten.” Miguel explains, curling the plastic bags up in a gesture akin to surrender. They’re solid white, those thin types that bend under the weight of the cartons packed inside. You’re unable to process it before your stomach does, growling in suppressed hunger.

“No.” You shuffle to the side to allow him in. He takes the invitation, carefully, traipsing within your quarters to place the food on your desk. “I haven’t.”

The air resumes its resting level of edginess, however you’re far too wrapped up in your own head to buckle underneath it this time. It’s cold, you ascertain, your skin puckering in a gradient from foot to toe. His survey follows the same line, regarding your changed appearance in intrigue, cheeks sinking with a downward smile. It looks positively smug.

“Sorry, I thought… You’re not here to dole out another one of your lessons?”

“You’re sick aren’t you.” He isn’t interrogative in the slightest. You can’t bring yourself to lie again, so you stay silent. “I see you got dressed regardless.”

“Well, that’s me. Just a sucker for appearances.” You scoff, shutting the door behind you. The room appears infinitesimal in his presence, collapsing into those broad shoulders. “Tidied the space too and everything.”

Tall, packed with undiluted muscle. No longer in his spider-suit, but clothes more casual. A bandage stretched across his forehead. It’s stark against his skin, white on bronze and you can’t help but follow the way he gleams under the warm lighting. Fresh – he must’ve showered too, further evidence found in the way his hair curls, dips, drops of water rolling down his nape. You dig your teeth into your lip. Any closer and you’re bound to hit a wall of patchouli, that aphrodisiacal scent that triggers you like an animal in heat.

“Is that so?” He prods, unconvinced. It’s dark outside and you feel confined to this box. “You weren’t just anticipating it?”

“Anticipation is a forgiving word. No one would look forward to torment.”

His brows knit together, the creases between them playful, like the very implication is offensive on the same magnitude as a low-life’s taunt.

“But…” There’s nowhere to back into when he takes a step closer, your bed hitting the back of your knees. “You got dressed regardless.” He reinstates, emphasising each word, syllables punctuated to make his point. If you weren’t cornered, snared in the clutches of a cat celebrating its next meal, you’d have been able to see where this is going.

As it stands, you’re blind.

“You know what I think?” He adds upon your reticence. You shake your head. “I think, it’s finally starting to hit you.”

“Hit… Wh–”

“The point. These past few weeks have been tough, I won’t pretend otherwise.” Miguel clarifies. “But it was only the first part of it. Withstanding struggle, that torment you speak so… fondly of.”

“Like you said,” You catch on, recalling the reality check he’d given you that day with the plank. “Y’know. Resilience.”

“Remind me of the other half of it again.”

“There’s… Withstanding struggle,” You repeat stupidly, working overtime to try and fetch his exact words. It’s an almost impossible feat, the gears in your mind turning on empty fuel. The initial lecture wasn’t that long ago, but it’s been intercepted by a million other philosophies. And he’s right there, ducked close to your level, keen eyes patiently waiting for you to continue. His breath fans across your cheek. The pressure worsens. You feel dumb. “And–”

You resort to context, then – grasping for the crux of his little tangent. What did you do to inspire it, anyway?

It hits you so suddenly your neck twinges with phantom whiplash.

“Recovering when you fall.” You complete.

“That’s it.” The whispered praise tickles you, like sand filling an hourglass. Your tummy sinks, heavy with it. It’s warm and dry and feels much like how his bare hand did, supporting your neck under rubble. Behind your back, your own wind together as you shoot him a vampish look.

“Who would’ve thought.”

He shrugs. “Was your faith that lacking?”

“There were a few times, yeah. You should’ve seen me this morning,”

“Oh, I can imagine.”

“Fell right to the floor. Almost died, I’m telling you. I stayed right here,” You tap the ground with your heel. “All day.”

“It was not that bad,” He insists, speaking with a levity you don’t often hear from him. It’s nice when he reciprocates like this. You’ve always reckoned that he took himself seriously one-hundred percent of the time. You find that you get along better when he doesn’t.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” You pop the P, using the excuse to wet your lips. The guard you keep constantly raised bends to the contours of his face, curved elegantly around those high cheekbones and the jaw he must physically sharpen to get looking so pronounced. He’s studying you – you sense it, teasing your lashes, noting the way your eyes pointedly avoid his. They’re planted firmly to his neck, where corded muscles stretch under skin, so strong you can practically hear them creak.

Your heartbeat skips from between your thighs. When you rub them together, they glide easily, lubricated by the slick pooling into your panties.

“No logical reason you should continue putting up with it, then.”

It could turn out that Miguel’s voice is modulated and you wouldn’t be surprised given how pleasing it is to listen to. Deep, controlled from a low point in his chest where smouldering coal chars it until it’s rugged. You always pay closer attention to the letters through which his accent comes through; short O’s and throaty D’s. His mouth hardly moves when he speaks. You wonder when he chooses to properly utilise it. Whether he does at all.

Your kiss had been entirely one-sided. His rewards are so detached. There’s a lot you haven’t explored yet; with every passing second, the greater the urge is to push and find out.

“Except we can both appreciate why I do,” You breathe, throwing caution to the wind and catching his stare. An irrepressible smile blooms at the spirited expression he gives you. Eyebrows raised in a thick arch, forming an amused look that only bolsters you further.

“For your redemption?” He baits, only to interrupt your response. “Or…” Your nerves spark. “For this–”

And then he cups you over your leggings, pawing where you’re brim with molten arousal. Hips bucking, your jaw hinges to expel a high-pitched keen, pinched from the back of your gullet. You latch onto his wrist, eager to either neg him on or push him away – but with the torrid fuzz that gains control of your systems, you can’t work it out.

“Do you deserve it?” His ask caresses the shell of your ear, a whisper, fingers slowing until you land on an answer.

Distrusting yourself to verbalise it, you give a frantic nod, mortifyingly desperate. It’s as much of a revelation for you as it is for him, manifested with every needy rut you give his hand. Miguel lets you seek the pleasure, pinning harder to provide the pressure you need, before withdrawing just as assuredly.

You could almost sob. Your nose is stuffy and your lips bitten and you so badly wish to be filled with anything to help you forget your miserable day. When he taps your ass, you assign every ounce of remaining intellect to decipher the vague gesture – eventually falling back on your bed in a close measure of what you assume he means. It’s a sterling guess. Your shoes are shucked off in the process and he leans over you, one knee anchored to the surface as he tucks into the waistband of your pants. They slide off with his help, separating from heated flesh like velcro.

It occurs to you that this is the first time he’ll see you. So far, your body is familiar to him in touch alone – hurried, stolen and shoved under your panties in semi-public spaces while you fight to endure the conflicting sensations. There’s mind to currently faux humility – a game you liked to play with your college conquests. Batted eyelashes and babydoll modesty; a secret thrill present in watching them come undone at your relinquished control.

But Miguel is no lover, and you’re far too gone to play nice now.

You scoot back to your pile of pillows when he joins you. It’s unreal seeing him in such a domestic setting. Civilian attire, combed hair. In high nature. If it weren’t for the bandage on his temple and the shadows making allusions to the brawn he keeps at bay, then you could’ve fooled yourself into trusting his normality. That he isn’t larger than life – solely here because he’s like you, a person trying to make well for themselves.

As it is, though, he’s still impenetrable. Fully clothed while you lay bottomless.

(Again, you’re reminded that you don’t know him. The man sacking you of your underwear could have a spouse, for all you’re privy to.

It just adds another layer of distance you should be thankful for.)

Manic with lust, you’re barely enlightened to what’s coming when your mentor captures each leg in a separate grip. Big hands cradle their bends, under your knees where your skin is unconventionally soft. It poses a contrast to the calluses on his palm, worn by years of crime-fighting and swinging on reinforced webs. They’re warm and rough and scratch you, sending a nervous buzz down to your core.

He guides your limbs up. Your ankles sway. Definitely strong; he almost syphons the breath right out through your stomach. If you close your eyes, you can imagine that this is just another exercise, a preliminary stretch.

But you don’t. Folded with your thighs pinned to your chest, you can only fluster with real self-consciousness. Your cunt is exposed to the filtered air, biting the heated centre with its opposite degree. Perhaps more wickedly, however, is the way you’re spread to Miguel’s hawk-like gaze. He inspects the way you glow, humiliated, the sticky confirmation of your desire smeared across your puffy lips. Is he turned off by the sight – your eagerness a violation of the pseudo-professional boundaries marked around your deal?

No, you decide. He’s all too content when he ducks to face it, laying a heavy mouth to your throbbing clit. It’s intoxicating, the cool slice of oxygenated air after months of smoke inhalation. You forget your insecure tangent entirely, tipping your chin back to moan your encouragement.

Fuck, he’s good.

More than good. You scramble for a better description, hands clawing for purchase on your sheets. It’s indescribable in its obscenity – lewd and dirty and slow, mapping every fold and crevice with his tongue. The sweltering muscle, like velvet, swirls across your sensitive bud, taking in its high reactivity, before lapping at the hood above it. You hone in to every miniscule movement, raptured by its dexterity and unwilling to fully let yourself go.

Miguel hums, low, tasting the agony that pours from his skill. His fingertips paint bruises where they dig, holding your thrashing hips still. You find there’s nothing else you can do to bear it, your arms flailing pathetically, toes curling. You pant and it doesn’t help dissuade the indulgence building up within you, crashing against a dam that’s starting to crack. It’s almost as though you’re doing too much to seek it out, afraid he’ll turn to ash at any second and leave you wanting.

“Oh– O’h… Shit, shit!” You whine, pounding your heel on his broad back. He barely notices, peering up at you through dark lashes. “If I had… Don’t stop! Please, p–” His crimson eyes gleam dark and bloody, obscured in shadow. Sobbing, you suck in large gulps of heady air. “If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.”

“Mmm-” He ignores your plea, breaking away to bring two digits to his mouth. Your right leg flops uselessly to his side. “Good idea.” One lick and they’re covered in spit. You can’t help but notice the discolouration on his knuckles, deep red and purple, as he uses his index and middle to fan out your lower lips.

And then he’s back to eating you out. This time, though, he’s drinking from your weeping slit. Breaching it, exploring the perimeter that stretches to accommodate his pistoning tongue. Despite pursed lips, your scream still manages to sound through the way it vibrates your lungs. Rattling you, much like he does now, from inside out. His nose is pressed to your mound. You don’t doubt he can smell you, potent sex and clean sweat, contracting every joint until you’re an immovable board.

“Don’t do that,” Miguel groans, scorching the space he creates to reprimand you. Crying, you obey what he says, melting into a puddle of nectar. He strikes a fair point; things feel exponentially better when you aren’t tense, nerve pathways unobstructed in sending pleasure signals to your blank brain. Discerning the shift, he huffs. “Good.”

Stars and heaven above, your consequent wail is unhinged. Your hands fly to his hair, seizing the wavy tresses in a smarting hold. The praise serves as an amplifier to every sense. Hips bucking, free calf curling around his neck. His fingers plunge into you, scissoring your tight walls as he spits onto your pussy, gathering the pearlescent fluid with his thumb and using it as aid. Like you need the extra help.

Because you’re soaked. The dam is broken. Everything gushes out of you in an ugly mess, glossing his palm and the duvet below. He nips your clit, grazing his teeth along the swollen sprout, teasing, then places his mouth back onto you. Brown locks curl to his brow. You brush them back, shoving him harder, closer. Sort of power-drunk at the sight of him succumbing to your command.

It’s short lived. You’re about to cum when he chooses the inopportune moment to speak.

Growls, actually. “Hold on.”

Capturing you to his face, he makes sure you’re steady before relinquishing his fingers from your hole and upending you both.

Suddenly, you’re on top and he’s the one framed by your pillows. Your back bends and you almost crumble on top of him – an old building met with a wrecking ball of celestial proportions. You can’t hold your weight on your haunches. They’re practically useless like this, quivering with suspense. Where guilt would be the appropriate response at such a prospect, you’re bound by awe instead. He’s no doubt suffocated by your squeezed thighs and seated pussy – the force of which aided by gravity – but something tells you that’s what he wants. For the first time, his eyes flutter shut.

A sting – concentrated on the globe of your ass – registers only seconds later where he had slapped you. Go, it demands silently. You force yourself to muster the energy to do so.

You can’t last very long, anyway.

Pelvis waving, you ride his face, back arched away from his hand. It irons over your covered waist, wet and soaking the breathable material of your shirt. The position proves to be a workout in of itself, your core strength tested in the motions. For the first time, you find yourself thanking his training. You wouldn’t have persisted otherwise.

Your orgasm rises again, faster now that you’re properly edged. It floods up from your feet like a high tide, sweeping all the seaweed and shells and stability from your abdomen. Lost at shore, a stranded sailor waking up from a tempests’ shipwreck; dazed, sun-blanched on splintered wood. There’s sand on your skin – it clears that too. You’re renewed in briny water. Freshened, addicted to the feeling of the sea pulling you back into its gentle but firm embrace.

You take back what you said. About his mouth and how he chooses to use it. It’s none of your business so long as he keeps it on you, sucking and drinking the cum he milks for all its worth. It just keeps coming, no start or end in sight. It’s all you can do to withstand your weakened centre constantly clenching and still breathe, tears budding hot and heavy. Your nails scratch his scalp. Miguel gives a minute mmmm.

And in the wake of it, while he lays there and laps you clean, the echoes of your moans still rings from the walls.

Forget what you said. Technically, the night didn’t end there.

Much later, you’re both washed and warm. It took you a while to wipe the slick from your folds. He used your bathroom to cleanse his hands and face.

The same cartons of food now sit open between you, on the desk he’d manoeuvred off the wall to divide its chair from your bed. He’s much too big for the seat, but when you’d offered him the mattress, he brushed you off. You currently sit cross legged, cushions bare – sheets in the wash.

And it’s quiet. The empty type, strangely enough. Devoid of any of your usual sarcasm or awkwardness. Sort of… suspended between both, in the foreign land of amity.

Perhaps that’s what convinces you to ask. The inherent safety of the moment. There’s not much you can say to offend in the post-smut glow. Slurping the tail end of a noodle, you look away from your rapture with the illuminated highway outside to take him in. The train had just passed.

“Are you married?”

Miguel doesn’t reply immediately, chewing a mouthful of seasoned vegetables. Instead, he looks at you with mild amusement. Eventually, his adam's apple bobs in a thick swallow.

“No.” He says.

chapter twelve

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nayatarot777 · 2 years ago

Text

{what do they find attractive about you?} • pac

pick a cher pic 🫶🏾

• pile one •

cards:

6 of swords

king of wands

the tower

3 of swords

the first thing that their higher self is coming through to mention is your voice. they find it extremely soothing, “like a brain massage” i’m hearing 😂. they also like how you seem to be able to find your way to peace and balance - especially mentally. i’m hearing “you seem to be so far ahead”. perhaps you’re achieving things in your life that most people your age haven’t yet. or you carry the demeanour of someone who has achieved a certain level of success. they find your forward-thinking nature extremely attractive. some of you have been around children around this person too, and they love how protective you are over young people. i’m seeing that they find it attractive when you soothe a child, or when you know what to say or do to calm a baby. that’s cute ☺️. in contrast, your assertiveness also does something to them. they like feeling lead by you. there’s also something flamboyant about you - if not your fashion sense then something about your personality. you seem to gain attention without even trying like that. i’m hearing “i want what i want”. when you demand things from them, it gets them a lil hot and bothered 👀😂 they feel like you don’t take a “no” from anyone very easily, and they love how you can trail-blaze through life and get what you want. there’s also something about your hair that attracts attention too. it could be big, fluffy, an afro, or a striking colour (like red). you just naturally stand out and they love it. you could have gained all of this assertiveness due to some really fucked up things happening in your life. you had to gain your strength and independence for yourself through so much pain and so many traumatic events. but your person admires how you’ve transformed your pain into power.

• pile two •

cards:

3 of wands

death

king of wands

this person finds your ambition to be one of your most attractive traits. you could be the type of person who’s constantly moving onto the next opportunity in your life, or taking risks and chances for the sake of self development. if you wear any headscarves or head-wraps, that’s also attractive to this person. and also if you have ginger hair. i’m hearing that it’s because these things aren’t commonly seen by this person. you guys could be from different races, cultures, or ethnicities to each other. i’m also seeing that whenever you want to do anything new and you take baby-steps towards learning something (like a skill), they enjoy seeing the way that you handle the process. and it seems like you naturally attract a lot of opportunities into your life for yourself too. i’m hearing “go getter”. they also love how multifaceted you are. they realise that they discover new layers of you every-time they see you or speak to you. they notice something different. they might also know about some really heavy transformations that you had to go through, and how you had to reinvent yourself. there’s also a message about knowing how to leave something that’s stagnant behind you for the sake of moving forward. it also seems like you’re very intense. they like how you’re not afraid to go deep, peel back layers to people’s personalities by asking questions - even if they sound a bit invasive at times. or you could do this with them in particular. you seem very bold and courageous. like you don’t really hold much fear in your decisions to dive deep with people or things. you also have a lot of self-confidence. this person might be able to tell that you’ve had to climb out of the gutter to become the person who you are today, and it wasn’t easy. therefore, you have a level of pride within yourself. that may be the thing that they’re not used to seeing in people. and they really like it, although it is triggering to them because it makes their ego feel threatened. it makes them recognise things about themselves that they never did before.

• pile three •

cards:

judgement

10 of swords

the hierophant

your person loves how much knowledge you have. you could be well-learned or well-cultured. just aware of what’s going on in the world, and they find your intelligence extremely attractive. especially related to anything about philosophy or spirituality. anything related to the expansion of the human mind. this could be an interest in psychology too. i’m also seeing your pleasure-seeking being extremely attractive to them. you guys give me sagittarius/jupiter energy. they feel like the way that you seek to create and mould your life into what you want it to be is extremely attractive. it’s like you’re constantly on journeys where you discover new layers of life, and when you share that with them and expand their mind, they can’t help but feel a type of way 😂. your person may have also seen you become aware of people who wanted to backstab you, or people who gossiped about you behind your back. there’s something about your intelligence related to being able to see other people’s negative intentions and betrayals as clearly as possible. also when you shut down a conversation with your knowledge or what you know. they live for that lmaoo. a lot of you are also very much in control of your life. you’re your own authority and you could reject a lot of the traditional responsibilities of life that society tries to push onto all of us. a lot of you in this pile also talk a lot about the beliefs that you hold in which the government is secretly trying to “harm” us - to put it lightly 🙃 - and your person finds that extremely fascinating. it’s like you can see above the conditionings and surface-level explanations for things that are presented to society. you’re definitely a free-thinker.

#psychic readings #pick a card #pac #tarot reading #pick a photo #divination #tarot #pick a picture #spirituality #pac reading #intuitive #tarot cards #free tarot #daily tarot

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zablife · 3 months ago

Text

Long Distance

Johnny Davis x reader

Johnny Davis Masterlist

Summary: Johnny calls from the road to check in on you. He can tell from the sound of your voice, you're desperate for him so he decides to help you...but only if you're a very good girl.

A/N: Sorry for all the requests I have piling up in my inbox! I will get to them soon. This was giving me brain rot tho. 18+ MDNI, guided masturbation, use of the term "daddy"

The phone trills once, then twice as you scramble to reach it, knocking the heavy receiver from its cradle in your eagerness. "J-johnny?" you falter softly.

"Hey, babydoll," he hums. If he closes his eyes, he can almost picture you in a pastel nightgown, brushing your hair in front of the television set as you do every night.

"Waited for your call," you simper, despite your drooping eyelids. "I needed to hear your voice tonight."

"You waited for me, huh?" he asks, a smirk audible in his voice as he realizes the need present in your voice.

"Course I did," you coo back at him and he can envision that look in your doe eyes, large and glossy as you listen to his every word with pure adoration.

"That's right, cause you're my sweet girl. So good for me," he praises, knowing how wet that makes you.

"I am," you nod obediently as though he might be watching.

"You ready for me?" he asks, even though he knows the answer to the question before he asks it.

"Want you so much," you murmur, hips rocking against the sofa involuntarily, a vain attempt to gain some kind of friction.

"Oh, sweetheart...you don't sound so good," he can't help but tease, knowing you haven't had a release in over a week. "Tell daddy what's wrong?"

You want to touch, fingers sliding down your abdomen and stopping at the band of your underwear. However, you freeze as you remind yourself it isn't allowed when Johnny's not home. The more you try to talk yourself out of it, the worse the torture becomes. The fire burning beneath your skin simply won't abate so you decide to beg. "The tingles are too bad tonight," you whine pathetically. "Please let me touch, daddy."

Johnny hums for a moment as he considers it, relishing the power he holds and then his mind is made up. "Only if you listen to my voice very carefully, little one."

Your heart leaps at his permission, chin nodding against your chest vigorously before you've even heard his terms. "Yes, yes, yes," you pant, tracing your hand along the gusset of your panties in expectation. It draws a tell tale whimper from your lips which doesn't go unnoticed.

"You're breakin' the rules, darlin'," he warns in a low growl, making you gulp and jerk your hands from your body, head turning to see if he might be peeking through the curtains.

Then you hear a good natured chuckle rumble from his chest followed by honey coated words of praise, "Just joking, sugar, want my girl to feel good all the time. But you gotta let me show you how, okay?"

You sink back into the sofa with a sigh, eyelids half closed as Johnny gives you the okay to slide your panties from your legs.

"Pull your nightie up and let it sit high on your waist now," he instructs in a thick whisper. "Spread your legs so you feel that nice, cool breeze on your pussy....But don't touch her yet."

You pant into the receiver and hear him laugh at you. "Johnny, don't!" you scold him as your crimson nails dig into the cushions, head tossed back in agony.

"Sorry, angel," he corrects himself. "Can't help but imagine you spread wide, dripping on the couch cushions," he defends himself. "My lonely little baby making a mess just cause she misses her daddy."

You bite your lip, his filthy words making you warmer by the minute. "Pl-please," you whimper.

"Oh, angel..."Johnny breathes down the line and you can practically hear him palming himself to your frantic panting. "Go on and touch. Tell me how wet you are f'me."

You trill in exquisite delight as your hand slides between parted lips, your slick coating your eager fingertips. "So wet," you echo back to him.

"Wish I could have a taste'," he murmurs in appreciation and you can vaguely hear a smacking sound in the distance. "You go on and taste for daddy like a good girl, won't ya?" he asks with a deep sigh.

"Uh-huh," you slur out in promise.

"Slow now, leave a trail up that perfect body before you suck those fingers. Got two in your mouth now?" he asks.

"Mmmmm," you confirm, pursing your lips and licking your juices.

"You taste sweet or salty tonight?" he prods, wanting to know every detail.

"Sweet," you taunt, middle finger popping from your pouty lips audibly.

"Then you're ovulatin' darlin'. Gotta get back to ya soon," he grits out, the wet sounds on his end growing louder. The idea of breeding you always a turn on for him.

"Daddy?" you whine.

"What is it, honey? What you want?" he begs to know.

"I ache," you remind him.

"Gonna take care of that right now, sugar," he promises lowly. "Rub for me like you I taught ya."

Your hand slides to your clit, fingers tracing circles feverishly now that you've been given permission. A wanton moan escapes and Johnny knows you've complied.

"Feelin' good?" he asks.

"S-soo good," you slur as your back arches off the sofa to meet your own hand.

"I know, playin' with that pussy feels like heaven, don't it?" he reminisces to himself, thinking of your soft, warmth clutching his fingers and milking his cock. "Can make you feel drunk," he adds with a sigh.

You nod in agreement, fingers fumbling against your swollen bud in satisfaction until he adds soberly, "But that's why you gotta stop when you can't think straight. Stop and count to ten."

"Wh-what?" you mutter, feeling your pulse throb in your clit painfully the moment you cease movement.

"I said, hands off," he instructs sternly. "Start countin."

You nearly cry as you begin in slow uneven breaths, Johnny humming his approval and hushing the tears he knows are threatening to spill over your beautiful lashes.

When you come to the end, he soothes you, "Good girl, I know that was hard. Wish I could see that pretty pussy clenching for me, I do," he sympathizes in the softest voice you've ever heard. Yet somehow you still want to hit him, claw at him for keeping you from your release.

"Johnny, please..." you whimper. "N-need it," you beg.

"Smack it first," he answers. As your knuckles tighten against a cushion without verbal reply, he coaxes, "S'okay, little one, didn't say I was gonna ruin it, did I? You're gonna cum hard for me in a minute. Hang on, now."

And you know he wants to hear the sounds of your palm meeting your wetness, giving you just enough stimulation to keep you on edge. Brow furrowed as your hand raises in the air, you whine against the sting, his chuckle your only answer to the question if he's satisfied.

After a long pause he sighs deeply over the line, imagining the jaw dropping sight of your red, puffy lips. "Go on, slide your fingers in," he tells you breathlessly, wishing he could feel the heat against his own hand. "You deserve it, angel baby."

"Thank you, thank you," you mutter to him as you pump your digits into your throbbing cunt, needing something, anything to help you peak.

But it isn't enough and your frustrated grunts soon prove it. Johnny knows it before you can express the thought and he whispers a solution in your ear like a savior. "Hairbrush, darlin'. Use the handle to fuck yourself," he offers.

The relief is instant, reaching further than your small hand ever could and you're a whimpering mess, dropping the receiver from your shoulder before you realize you're cumming hard.

That doesn't matter to Johnny though. He's listening to every harmonious sound over the static filled line, spilling over his hand just as you seem to crest. "My perfect babydoll," he grunts in complete satisfaction.

When you recover, you find the phone and place it to your ear. "J-johnny?" you repeat much like the beginning of your conversation.

"Did daddy make it better, darlin'?" he asks with a smug grin on his face.

"So much better," you huff out, still experiencing aftershocks as your hands trace over trembling thighs.

"Sleep tight. I'm comin' home tomorrow and I want you well rested," he reminds you, thoughts of everything he wants to do to you in the forefront of his mind.

---------------------

Tag List:

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@mollybegger-blog

@gardens-light

@mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler

@buttercupsandboys

@dreamlandcreations

@kmc1989

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@darklydeliciousdesires

#the bikeriders #the bikeriders fanfiction #Johnny Davis x reader #Johnny Davis fanfiction #Johnny Davis x you #Johnny Davis #Tom Hardy

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anna-the-undertaker · 3 months ago

Text

Im playing with an incorrect quote generator and I'm sharing them here. They are cracking me tf up.

Belphie: So I can either do something dumb that could very well get me injured or I can listen to MC and not do the thing, Belphie: Well there’s a clear right answer here. Belphie: *proceeds to throw five packs of mentos into a barrel full of diet coke*

Satan: I woke up and chose VIOLENCE. I WILL COMMIT ARSON AND BURN EVERYTHING TO THE GROUND!!! I AM ANGRY- MC: Awwww, you’re so adorable! Give me a hug~ Satan: Wh-What? nO, yOURE SUPPOSED TO BE SCARED OF ME! TREMBLE BEFORE MY WRATH- Lucifer, recording: This is so cute.

Beel: sSSSHIT- I BURNT MY LIP- Belphie: …Why the fuck would you even drink coffee with a METAL STRAW in the FIRST PLACE?? Beel: BECAUSE WE WERE OUT OF THE PLASTIC ONES!

Barbatos: Look, Satan, if you can fit your head down the gun’s barrel, you can assume it doesn’t have a non-lethal setting.

MC: Yes, I'm adopting Satan and you cowards can't tell me no!

Lucifer: *running towards Beel with open arms* Beel: *moves out of the way* Lucifer: Hey, why'd you move?! Beel: I thought you were going to attack me. Lucifer: I was going to hug you! Beel: Why would you hug me? Lucifer: WHY WOULD I ATTACK YOU!?

Levi: The best way to gain someone's undying loyalty is by saving them from a perilous situation. Barbatos: So you're just gonna wait until MC is in danger and save them? Levi: Of course not, I'm going to create a situation that puts them in danger and then save them. Barbatos: … Barbatos: You're insane.

MC: We’re going to defeat you with the power of friendship. Belphie: We’re not friends. MC, holding an axe: We’re going to defeat you with the power of incredible violence.

Lucifer: You’re starting to look like me more and more every day— Satan: *Bursts into tears* Lucifer: Why are you crying? Satan: You’re ugly! I don’t want to look like you! *sobs*

*Satan and Mammon are texting* Satan: Who are you? Someone changed the names in my phone. Mammon: What did they change my name to? Satan: Chosen One. Mammon: Don’t change it back. Satan: BUT WHO ARE YOU?!?! Mammon: I’m the chosen one.

Mammon: "What are you into?" is such a broad question, like do I reply with a TV series or choking?

Belphie: Sorry I can’t be emotionally vulnerable with you it’d ruin the mystery.

Asmo: I don’t think the therapist is supposed to say ‘wow’ that many times during their first session with a client, but here we are.

Mammon: What happened to your nose? Satan: I used it to break some guy's fist.

Mammon: Would it be discrimination to only hire employees at my doughnut shop who have the same name? MC: Legally, I don't believe that breaches any discrimination laws. Morally though… I don't know. Mammon: I believe god is on my side when it comes to Duncans' Doughnuts.

Mammon: Would anyone know any good vendors for professional-quality brass knuckles? Asmo: I know you’re serious, but you say the scariest shit sometimes.

Mammon: look Levi, I'm not slut shaming you but… Mammon: Actually yeah, I'm TOTALLY slut shaming you.

Lucifer: I am the left brain, I am the left brain. "I work really hard until my inevitable death" brain. You've got a job to do, you better do it right and the right way is with the left brain's might. Mammon: I LIKE OREOS AND PUSSY-

Satan: My expectations were low but holy fuck.

MC: *Texts a selfie to the group chat* Hey besties!! Mammon: *Texts a selfie clearly parodying MC's* hey besties !!1! MC: I literally hate you so much.

Satan: What's this? MC, hugging Satan: Affection! Satan: Disgusting. Satan: …Do it again.

Lucifer: I am going to need you to swear- Diavolo: Fuck. Lucifer: Lucifer: …swear as in promise.

Mammon: Pardon me, but it sounds like you’re questioning my authority! Lucifer: Not at all, Mammon. Merely your primitive methods.

MC: *cocks gun* Go to Bed. This is no longer a request, This is now a Threat.

Levi: Wait a minute, how did this happen? We're smarter than this! Beel: Apparently, we're not.

Mammon: *Reading a letter* Satan: Well, what does it say? Mammon: It’s a confession letter. It turns out MC killed my pet rock.

Diavolo: Not to be nsfw but I want someone to hold me while I sleep.

MC: Who else is hiding in the laundry room trying to listen to Diavolo and Lucifer's convo? Asmo: Me. I'm in the laundry basket. Belphie: I'm in the washing machine. Barbatos: I'm in the closet. Asmo: We accept you Barbatos. <3 Barbatos: No I'm literally in the closet. Asmo: Love is love. <3

Belphie (brainstorming ideas for pranking Lucifer): How much would a serial killer mask possibly cost? MC: Well it’s hard to find a high-quality one made out of leather or silicone, but if you did find a good one like that it’d be a couple thousands of dollars. I can try to hook you up with one but I don’t know if I’d be very successful. Belphie: Huh, that’s pretty interesting actually- Wait, how the hell do you know that? MC: …I am very passionate about Halloween, Belphie.

Diavolo: I don't know, it's not my cup of tea. Satan: Well then whose is it? Diavolo, staring at a cup of tea: I don't know!

MC: What’s something you guys are better than Lucifer at? Mammon: Mario Kart. Satan: Yeah, video games. Levi: Emotional vulnerability.

Mammon: Can we talk about that mass email you sent? MC: Why? It was important. Mammon: All it says is, "I'm back on my shit". Diavolo, shrugging: The people need to know.

Mammon: Can you pass the salt? Asmo: Can you pass away? Mammon: Too much salt.

*talking on the phone* Mammon: Remember how I said that MC and I were gonna have a calm night out for once? Lucifer: Yeah… Mammon: Well, we’re in jail. Lucifer: *hangs up*

MC: Go to hell! Lucifer: Where do you think I come from?

MC: I see the red flags, I acknowledge that they're there, and then I completely ignore them.

Satan: We need a distraction. Lucifer: Is anyone here good at jumping up and down and making weird noises? Diavolo, whispering: My time has come.

Mammon: I don’t know, this plan seems complicated. Lucifer: You once said that about an orange. Mammon: They don’t make sense. Apples, you eat their clothes but oranges you don’t.

Diavolo: Mammon and I were crossing the street, and this man drove by and honked at us. Asmo: What did you do? Diavolo: They chased him to the next red light, and reached into his window, and- Mammon: *walking in* Who wants a steering wheel?

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me mc #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me belphegor #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me incorrect quotes

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itsgodepi · 1 year ago

Text

If I lose my mind | Ch. 1

Series summary: When you're buried under a mountain of problems and can’t seem to catch a break, it might feel like you need a complete reset. But did it really have to come with a one-way ticket to a new dimension? Surely, a little problem-solving would’ve done the trick. Or, one day you go to sleep as a normal person and the next you wake up as a Formula One driver. You've never been a fan but isn't it like, one of the most exclusive sports? Pairing: CL16, LH44, CS55, DR3 x fem!reader Chapter: Next Word Count: 1.8k Also on AO3

There is not a word to describe the overwhelming sense of anguish that invades your body as soon as you lay down on bed. The tears keep burning their way down your cheeks, unrelenting ever since you first stepped into the apartment. You blindly reach up for a pillow, hugging it close to your chest as if that could calm the emptiness consuming your heart. Even breathing is getting more and more difficult, the air not reaching your lungs as you keep sobbing uncontrollably.

“No puedo más (I can't do this anymore)" you cry into the pillow, voice rough with sadness. Curling in on yourself as you close your eyes, the pressure that has been building up inside your chest getting to a point that is unbearable. Your fingers digging into the pillow with such force they hurt, while sobs keep your whole body.

There is no saying how many hours pass by until you finally fall asleep, cheeks sticky with tears and lips bitten raw. Finally, a moment of rest after this nightmare of a year, a streak of sleepless night broken by sheer exhaustion.

Although you can feel yourself letting go of your consciousness, the fire in your heart does nothing but grow. Your breath picks up the pace mere seconds later as well, seemingly following the rhythm of your heart, which has started beating like it will break out of your ribcage any minute now. You try to calm yourself down, mind floating in a strange limbo that you cannot escape. What is happening? Why can’t you open your eyes? You can feel them moving behind your eyelids, trembling from the effort. Actually, you belatedly notice, it is your whole body that is shaking with tremors. You attempt turning around or moving in whichever way you can, desperately trying to get out of this half-conscious state. Still, that plan quickly backfires, every single muscle on your body is tensed up and locked on position, it hurts to even think of stretching them.

Suddenly, a bright light starts shining with such force that you can feel it heating your face. Although your first guess is that you have slept through the whole night and the sun is finally coming to save from this awful dream, as its power keeps increasing, you realize how wrong you are. It feels like a spotlight is being pointed right at your face, the brightness so powerful that your eyes are burning even though they are closed. You seek protection under your hands, your pillow, anything, but your body is still refusing to obey your orders.

The sounds at the back of your mind start gaining prominence as you fight to wake up. It had started as a beeping noise, but as your anxiety grows, you realize there is something else. Screams, claps, music,…

And then, it all comes crashing.

Your eyes forcefully open at once, blinded by sunlight and moving side to side in complete distress. There are voices and noises coming from all directions, but it is impossible for you to understand anything, the sounds echoing as if you were trapped under water. You try to move around and feel your surroundings, where is the bed? Where am I? However, before you can do as much as stretch your hand forward, something collides with your body in full force. The impact makes you lose your balance, the realization that you are actually standing up being too vague for your still woozy brain to process. A pair of arms come to envelop your body, keeping you upright and even lifting you up in the air at some point.

The words have become clearer now that you are regaining consciousness. “That was amazing!” “A fucking P10, oh my god” “You were flying out there” the screams accompanied with irregular bangs that keep bouncing off your head.

What is happening?

Head filled with the worst ever case scenarios and fear flowing through your body like thunders, you break down. There is no use in standing around and politely asking who the fuck are they and how have they entered your house. Your mind is running wild with possibilities. So, with your voice coming straight from your heart and those awful feelings taking control over your body, you start screaming and trashing around like a mad woman. Feet kicking everything and everyone that dare coming close to you.

Unexpectedly, you are released without having to put much of a fight. The sudden lack of support leaving you to fall down to your knees, legs too numb to do anything to stop it. That seems to not only surprise you, but also those around you, the yelling dying down after that. Now the only thing filling your ears is the erratic beating of your heart and the distant music. The tears do accompany you yet again, feelings swarming your mind with such force that you feel out of breath. That fight or flight mode you were hopping would save you is promptly drowned by them, a nervous attack building inside your chest so powerfully that it leaves you frozen in place.

“Hey, calm down, it's okay” someone shushes you, a pair of hands coming to rest on top of your shoulders with such care that you do not notice them at first, too focused on trying to even out your breath. It is only when your head is suddenly pulled forward, that a panicked gasp breaks out of your lips, hands flying up to grasp at your head that feels like it is being pulled out of your body.

But instead, what you feel is the rough scratching of fabric over your cheek and something that bumps into your nose. What-?

That awful sensation of being underwater is instantly relieved when whatever had been covering your head slides right off it. You first thought is that someone must have put some sort of fabric over your head to restrict your vision, that this people have broken into your house and tried to get you out of the way, but when you see a light blue helmet being taken from you, you can only stare at it open mouthed.

Your field of vision has finally been cleared up, and for better or for worse, your surroundings have also been discovered before you. The helmet is the center of it all, being held by a man dressed in a weird bright orange jumpsuit that would stand out anywhere but even more so in this situation. Who is he? His worried-filled eyes are making you feel so uncomfortable that you cannot hold his gaze for more than a second, it is like they are trying to dig into your mind and fix whatever is scaring you right this second, but how can he when he is the main culprit?

Well, not only him, but there is also a group of at least 20 men surrounding you, all of their eyes set on your trembling form. Your anxiety increases by the second, gaze flying everywhere as the sound of your heartbeat rings on your ears. You cannot recognize this place or anyone for that matter, where are you? This is not your bedroom. What happened?

The man in front of you claims your attention once again, his hand reaching up for your arm as his lips move without making a single noise. You want to stop him, back away and put some space between the two of you until you figure out who the fuck he is. And yet, you remain completely still, your body pulling you down like dead weight. Even the muscles on your chest seem to have been locked in place, the air stuck on your throat as your mouth gapes open. His hand comes up to cradle your face when he notices, the heat of it comforting even though his expression is filled with concern. He talks and talks, the words not registering on your woozy mind since you cannot concentrate in anything but how heavy your eyelids feel.

The man quickly catches those signs, his eyebrows furrowing as he tries to shake you out of it. He also seems to call for help, because yet another face pops into view, their expressions matching. But it is too late.

That is the last thing you see before once again falling into the darkness.

A sigh passes by through your parted lips, body melting into the soft bed sheets. It feels a bit too hot under the covers, the fabric sticking to your skin uncomfortably as you sleepily move around.

Stretching your muscles feels wonderful after hours of uninterrupted sleep. The sun seems to still be down, the room drowned in complete darkness as you turn on your side to get a better hold of the pillow. Your alarm has also not rung yet which means that there is still some time to laze around.

However, before you can get a hold of that precious sleep you have been chasing, a few knocks on the door come to wake you up.

With a groan, you sit yourself on the middle of the bed, hands covering your face as you try to keep yourself upright. Who could be outside? It is not like you have invited someone over and forgot, right? God knows you are not in the best condition for a visit right now, did you even put your pyjamas on last night? Cannot remember.... You have not ordered anything lately either.

Rather than giving up at the lack of response, the person outside starts banging harder on the door, the noise fully waking you up. You decide to get out of bed and attend whatever is so urgent, body screaming in disapproval as you drag yourself out of it.

Maybe you should have noticed something was strange the second your foot stepped down into the carpeted floor, or when you knock your knee on something that definitely was not there before, but the visitor does not let your mind wander too far. The knocked ceases before you can reach the door, instead there is a strange mechanic sound and a couple of beeps followed by the door opening on its own.

“Hey, are you awake? I wanted to let you sleep in a bit more but-” comes a man’s voice, one you have never heard in your whole live and that freezes you in place. Yet, that is not even the most surprising thing, he is somehow talking in English for some reason.

The man has the audacity to take a peek inside the room, his eyes searching in the shadows while you are freaking out. You recognize that face, the memories come crashing as soon as his gaze meets yours and he smiles. He was there in your dream, when you fainted, dressed in white like the rest of the men surrounding you. What the hell is happening?

Was that… real?

Next chapter

#f1 fic #formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 x you #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #daniel ricciardo x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 imagine

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orphiclovers · 3 months ago

Note

Thoughts on yjh and body horror?

Hmm, some. I think Yoo Joonghyuk's whole deal is a lot more often about mental anguish as opposed to physical. Regression resets all his wounds and scars except the mental ones, so those are the ones that take a massive toll on him. 'Hell of Eternity' is hell because he can never escape his own memories. He is weak to mental attacks but his body is usually near indestructible.

Secretive Plotter's damage is the 'curse of immortality' and his only motivation is finding eternal rest, so that's all mental. Even outergodification is a mental process. Losing his appearence as a 'human' was a secondary side effect to losing his identity as 'Yoo Joonghyuk' and just asthetically speaking, turning into a shadow person isn't really 'body horror' to me, which I associate more with viscera and flesh, not cold and clean intangibility.

I'm not just bringing up SP because I have brain worms (also that) but because there is a specific regression that I think does exemplify 'body horror', and that's 999, baby!

Hear me out. I don't say this soley due to 999's lack of limbs, since there's nothing inherently horror about being an amputee (though removing his own eyes is a bit saw trap energy not going to lie) BUT because his was the one regression where his main problem wasn't mental - he had all his companions, was as happy as one could be in an apocalypse - but the fact that his physical body failed him. He didn't die in battle, but instead wasted away due to the 'outer world covenant'.

Kim Dokja might be self-sacrifical but this guy was on another level.

999 didn't hesitate to take hits for his companions, which is how he lost his limbs, and at the same time he borrowed an outer god's powers to win battles (I'm imaganing a chaos version of advent of a half-god) , which probably looked really epic, but unforunatley was at the expence of his soul. The covenant ate away at him piece by piece, and it's said his 'bloodstream went haywire until he couldn't walk or use his skills' (the translation was wonky here but you get it) which I take to mean he had some kind of cell damage, kind of like radiation or chemo.

This was a years long process, from when he first signed the Outer World Covenant up until the 99th scenario, and that whole time he kept borrowing those powers even though he saw it was killing him. What I mean is, it probably didn't look or feel great to see him falling apart, but the level of gore is reader's choice to imagine (anywhere from a tasteful coughing up blood and nosebleeds, to skin peeling off and hair falling out etc.).

Oh and since I know you would enjoy this, I'll say this too.

I don't think Secretive Plotter knew what he would do to 999.

He meant to save 999, not kill him.

This was almost assuredly his first Outer World Convenant, since I figure changing the 999th regression was the first thing he tried to do after he gained the ability to worldline hop/ had the tiniest bit of control over his outer god powers. He was still young and hopeful - 'foolish' as the Secrerive Plotter reminices. But he clearly fucked something up badly, maybe since he didn't have the clear grasp of probability manipulation that he developed in the next thousands of years or tried to directly change too much.

Canon era, he gives both KDJ and HSY a covenant just fine and they don't have any issues from it. (He's very careful to take the probability on himself - remember the finger thing?)

I wonder how horrified young SP was to see 999 destroying himself using SP as the method. Did he try to back out at some point, but couldn't due to the covenant? Did he try to make 999 stop, which he of course refused to do? I think about them a lot.

#my posts #orv #asks #secretive plotter #yoo joonghyuk #spyjh #?#sp999 #selfcest #implied. you can read it platonically #omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv spoilers #999 yoo joonghyuk

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bao3bei4 · 1 year ago

Text

ON THE TSHIRT METHOD TO WRITING ESSAYS IN YOUR OWN TIME:

i have had a couple people mention to me that they would like to write essays too, but they are a little out of practice. so i thought i should gather some scattered thoughts into one place. this is not a systematic guide. i am young and inexperienced and still working out things for myself, but this is my basic process and some things that have helped me, summarized.

my biggest single piece of advice is to write with your proverbial pussy. you are not writing for a grade so don't act like it. forget rigor, forget academic style, etc. read what you're interested in, and write following up on the threads that you're interested in. don’t sweat the details. just do you.

if you still need more advice..... here’s a long winded post.

step zero: if you have no clue what you want to say yet

read. and read a lot.

but be realistic. be kind to yourself. your attention is a precious resource, and it is getting eaten up by shit out of your control all the time. if you’ve had a busy day, you may still have the brain power left to read. i almost never do. lol. so make sure to carve out time on a day off, if possible. otherwise you might end up completely fried, reading the same sentence over and over, and ending up scrolling on your phone LMAO. <-- painful lesson also to this end, if you haven’t picked up a denser book in a while, start with shorter articles, especially ones written more recently. if your attention wanders, try getting a physical book instead. the most important thing is just starting things you’ll actually read. i’ve seen a lot of people (and been that person) who was like. “oh i’m going to start with THE canonical text in a subject i’m interested in” which makes sense right? but that book is inevitably long and dense and convoluted and boring. you can come back to it later. this shouldn’t feel like a chore!

genuinely this is the most helpful thing you can do is just. read anything. it may be difficult at first (or always), but it is still the easiest way to engage with the foremost experts from around the world and the entirety of written history on any subject you are interested in. there’s not really a substitute to this.

note: you may say that people can and do come up with brilliant ideas independently of their access to written works. this is true! but if you are one of them, you should skip this section/post, because you already know what you want to say. okay that was a little too facetious. let me revise: when i say that, without reading, it will be hard to come up with more complex ideas than what you have now, that isn’t necessarily pejorative. maybe your current ideas and impulses are original and meaningful and complex. if they aren’t, however, you don’t have to resign yourself to it. your experiences in real life are the most valuable thing you can bring to the table, but it can be very difficult to articulate and contextualize them without community—whether that be irl, or the simple textual company of other writers. you can let other people help you and teach you. basically, this is a long winded way of saying something extremely simple: reading is not the only way to gain knowledge, or even the best. but it is an extremely consistent and relatively egalitarian way.** **scihub and libgen and sometimes the public library are your friends. (my local library’s book coverage is spotty) who cares about piracy. LMAO.

you may surprise yourself by how nicely you fall into little spirals. you read one thing. and you are enamored with the way the author approaches their subject. so you end up reading everything else they’ve written, and then you start on the authors they list that inspire them in their interviews. maybe you just read one article that’s a little dry but it cites something else that seems far more interesting. read that next. and so on.

if you are struggling to read that’s okay. you have options. start a book club (or just get a friend who also wants to read more). if that sounds like too much work, pick a friend to keep updated on all your new facts. you just want to get used to reading something, and telling someone your favorite parts again. skim books. skip the boring parts. drop them entirely and find a more interesting one. no one’s going to quiz you. this is for your own enjoyment.

also important here: read books that make you want to write. sometimes this is because the methods and/or prose of the author are so exciting, you want to do something just like that. sometimes it’s because the content is so exciting, you want to say something about that too. sometimes they speak so powerfully to your own life, you want to tell people this is me!! i see this!! there are books i just enjoy reading, sure, and i do read them. but you know how, like, a good movie makes you want to tell stories too? good theory should do that too, in my opinion.

step one: you have some ideas now.

these ideas don’t have to be set in stone. but you should have an idea now of what you might talk about. personally, for me, i have two interconnected types of essay ideas.

interventions. this is like [tumblr voice] Why Is Nobody Talking About This. i see some sort of hole. maybe i know how to fill it, maybe i don’t.

free associations. basically i read one thing, or some analysis of one thing. and then it reminded me of another thing. and i’m like. i want to tease apart their connections, their similarities, and their differences.

there are more types of ideas, i’m sure. but these are the ones i consistently have. with me, the second kind is more common. very rarely do i find that my thoughts are that original. rather, i’ve found that one of my strengths as a writer is being able to make connections that other people haven’t made, or haven’t made in depth before. IN MY OPINION.

so i find it quite flexible. maybe i watch a movie, and it reminds me of my own life, because i think two women in the movie could be sad queer freaks. and i’m a sad queer freak. or it could be that i think scum villain could be analyzed through the framework of freudian psychoanalysis. you get the idea.

at this stage of the process, i don’t have a thesis, necessarily. but i have a couple phrases i’m drawn to. i have a bullet point or two. i have vibes.

to use an example from this blog, one of my friends hui once mentioned that that one fan image was going around again. we were going ughhh it’s victorian not chinese! together and they said “you should write a meta on it.” i wasn’t sure quite yet what i had to say. but i knew a couple things.

this is, incidentally, because i had done some research into chinoiserie before, because i had cited the zuroski book for a paper i had to write for an english class some years before on pride and prejudice and its use of descriptions of material culture, an essay that in turn was inspired by my random yet deeply felt conviction that jane austen hated me personally and wanted to kill me. this is why i encourage reading a lot. i think.

to work on this stage, make lists. lots of them. i have a .txt file where i keep every essay idea i have. a lot of them are a sentence. or they're lists of books or theorists i think i could make something out of. or they're theses that feel true, but i’m not sure why yet.

it took me a while to get to this point. just like with writing fic, there was a period when i first started where i was like. i only have one idea. i’m going to write it, and then i’m never going to write again. and then i had just one more idea. after a while. eventually you will find you have so many ideas and the world is full of possibilities. it’s a muscle you have to flex. like reading. and telling people about what you’re reading.

actually, i feel like there was a step 0.5 here that i completely skipped.

step zero point five that i skipped: how to generate ideas

my very truly complete “first time writing something semi-academic that was original” (with a loose definition of the word original) was literally just me reading literary criticism of one book, and saying “i think this author’s thoughts can be applied to this other book” and found some textual evidence that supported that the process could be replicated.

this is like, writing with training wheels on. eventually i got better at it (see aforementioned chinoiserie essay. i hope you agree.). but that was a good place to start for me. it made the proverbial blank page less intimidating, knowing i had a scaffolding.

i suggest trying this. see how it goes for you. read around until you find some piece of criticism, or just some theory about how something works, that you like. and using your newfound hammer, go look for some nails.

note: i know this expression is meant to like. be a negative thing. but you do have to start somewhere. it’s okay if it sucks. it’s just for your practice and your enjoyment.

be cautious of stances. weak writing (in my OPINIONNNN) tries to unilaterally defend or condemn a behavior. what you need to do is treat your writing as a bit. and then you need to run with it. you need to take it farther than what is reasonable. if this bit is truly actually deeply true, then what does it mean about yourself? it’s like using a new set of pronouns as a joke or something. you know what i mean? (that was an example of what i’m trying to communicate here)

what else is key to look out for... look for oppositional pairs or tensions. look for perverse incentives and vicious circles. look for embarrassing ideas. that is, what would be extremely embarrassing if it was true? (or to admit that it was true) you may go—tshirt, here you’re just describing things that are sexy. yes, exactly, that’s the point. you want things that thrill.

just keep reading and making notes until everything echoes with something else. now you’re ready for step two.

step two: refine your ideas further.

let me do this by demonstration. once more extending my earlier example of my chinoiserie essay, i knew that i really wanted to take zuroski’s points and basically... steal them. this is called “citation,” i guess. but i thought the following insights were useful to me:

british women were invested in chinese material objects

they incorporated them into their own subjectivity

past a certain point, they no longer “consumed” these signifiers, but these signifers became theirs

critique of one was able to stand in for critique of the other

and from being on fandom twitter, i already had the following insights:

people deliberately blurred the lines between china and england when it came to fans and tea

people also liked talking about victorian modesty when it came to china

so it seemed like victorian england and china had a privileged relationship, in a lot of people’s minds in fandom.

so it didn’t really seem a stretch to say... how can we look at one history, and apply it to our present?

it was a bit of the combo of the two: i saw something i didn’t see people were talking about, and it reminded me of something else i’d read before.

something that helps me a lot is tweeting about my essay ideas. if you have me on my private account, you already know this. it forces me to explain myself to someone who doesn’t know what i’m talking about in a very succinct way. oftentimes, i tweet something out while i’m brainstorming, and then i steal the phrasing back into my essay. see? tweets can be writing too.

this is microdosing on step zero’s “read something and practice telling a friend about it.” now you’re writing something and telling a friend about it.

step three: okay now you can like. open a google doc

make an outline. i know i know i know. i’m sorry. you can start just barfing thoughts if you want, but eventually everything that was on the top of your head will be out. and now you can start thinking about structure. the reason the outline is important is because it makes clear the logical progression from one idea to the next.

i know i usually bounce around in my writing (a tendency which has been magnified here because this is so casual LMAO), but i always want to make sure that my points are substantiated. if we want to talk about how a causes b, we should prove a, we should prove the causal link, and only then can we infer b, for instance. it doesn’t really matter what order that happens in (or even that we set about it that way), but the more complicated your idea is, the longer checklist you need. it’s just a checklist. that’s all.

as you start writing, you’ll probably need to read some more. you’re going to want to say something you think is true, but you’re going to realize that you haven’t proved it (or you can’t). go look to see if someone else has proved it.

maybe you’re right. add that evidence in. maybe you’re wrong. now your essay has a new direction. there is a living thing beneath you. actually, on that idea—

i tend to structure my outlines (if i’m not sure yet what my point is) by pasting a bunch of quotes in a document, and reorganizing them until they make sense, they seem to flow. and then i start explaining why, until i realized i have begun to walk off in a new direction. always embrace that new direction. eventually you will find that you have not been taking twists and turns, but actually you were dizzily walking along a straight path. (unless you have been unfocused and you are trying to say too many things at once. ask a friend to read your essay if you’re not sure which is the case.)

quotes are the smallest unit of your analysis. work with evidence. or, at least, i do. it makes writing an essay like solving a mystery. the idea of just spontaneously generating something new fills me with terror. rather, i want to autopsy something, trace its steps, and then discover how it came to be dead. this may not be true for you. but it’s true for meeeee and this is my post.

tl;dr

0. read something and tell someone about it/post it out

0.5. come up with a bit and run with it

1. think "why is no one talking about this" or start free associating

2. come up with weird connections and tell someone about it/post it out

3. collect all of your posts and ideas into a gdoc and organize them.

anyway i like reading posts like this because i’m incredibly nosy. so i tried to write out the sort of thing i like to read from other people. i don’t suggest you actually try to replicate it (if anyone would even want to.) practically basically i just encourage you to try any single part of this that you think was interesting or relatable or helpful. personally, i suggest reading a book and posting your favorite lines from it. if you do this a couple times, i think you will find the seeds of an essay waiting for you in your own posts.

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riongeee · 5 months ago

Note

I’m sorry you have sprung me back into my mild interest in Sebek. I’m sorry I have to dump my ideas here

Your recent post has reminded me of how I feel about Sebek and the Dia 3. I might be wrong, because tbh I’m not that good as social situations so if I’m wrong correct me.

So, we know that Dia3 are like a little family, so he’s always somewhat out of place. Like to me, he comes off to Lilia as a “Bauls Grandson/Silvers Friend” and Malleus as “Silvers friend/Guard.” He feels a bit different than how they treat each other.

It’s weird, as he’s, like acknowledged, but not really ever that close to the others like they are to each other.

For Lilia, it feels odd but natural, as it seems like he just really pranks him, but he does, in my opinion, acknowledge him as his own kind of dude, though their relationship isn’t really son father like Silver and Lilia, but he’s still treated (mildly-) like a friend. Like how your friends parents treat you, where they’ll take care of you but you’ll never be as close? It’s a bit weird, because someone (other Sebek Zigvolt blog) mentioned that Lilia might’ve only convinced/was convinced by the fact that Baul is his old friend and Sebek was friends with Silver, and not the fact that Sebek stood out on his own, which would suck for Sebek.

For Malleus, It’s even weirder, but the best I’ll say is it’s like a younger sibling trying to praise the older one that is his idol, even though I’m pretty sure Malleus mainly views Sebek as a guard and Silvers friend, but I can’t make a really big opinion since most interactions are just Sebek praising him. (From what I’ve seen) It just feels like Malleus is close yes, but not really, as he more or less views him as a “younger brothers friend” vibe to me.

Silver is the closest, and to me they’re like brother and younger brother. They’re close, but constantly fight, (it’s one sided lol, Sebek views him as a rival, while Silver is just like “chill.”) and it’s actually kinda sad, because it feels like Sebek tries to be better than him to prove himself, but always loses. (Expect in height. He wins that one.)

On that last point, I think (read somewhere) that he’s a late bloomer, so for some reason, I headcanonned that Sebek is so spiteful, because of Silver always coming before him. Because hear me out, Silver is a human, and Sebek is half, and they lived in a place that despised the both of them. The “shame” he must feel when the human gained his powers and abilities over him while they lived there (I’m pretty sure Silver gained his power when young) because at least Sebek is half fae, and somehow always got beaten by a human. Like imagine how much he got bullied for it over the fact that he’s probably bullied for being mixed. Poor boy.

Anyways thanks for letting me have my thoughts I’ll probably make them all in one blog post later but thanks.

P.S. His own Wiki insults him, I just want to give this guy a hug.

“A livewire who, in his zealous eagerness to be a retainer worthy of the great Malleus, often expends a great deal of energy to accomplish very little.”

Anyways thanks bye

Omg, your ideas? Beautiful. Your brain? Massive.

I swear people don't get how much I like Sebek as a character/just Sebek.

What you said sums up so much of what I think is the issue(not really but kinda) with Diasomnia dynamics.

I just want to add on a few more of my little brain worms to this. Sebek treats him being around Malleus like a job, which I think really inhibits how close he can get with Dia 3. They all see eachother as family and treat eachother accordingly, yet Sebek always mentions how he will be/is Malleus' guard.

I feel like it really sets a boundary that Diasomnia don't really try cross. Which is really interesting because there's something to be said about Sebeks insecurities on being half human and feeling less than as a result. So he subconsciously doesn't let the Dia 3 in.

As for the Dia 3 themselves, what you said pretty much sums up my thoughts too :')

Lillia is distant and only took him in due to Baul and treats him warmly but not 'family warm'.

Malleus is nice enough but as you said distanced due to their positions. Which is probably sad for Sebek to watch Silver despite also being a future guard being treated more warmly. I see Malleus as more of an 'older cousin who hangs out with the older kids instead of you' vibe idk.

Silver is nice. However, he doesn't understand what Sebek is feeling so he can't help really. The comparisons between him and Sebek must also drive a really big wedge in the potential for a closer relationship.

Overall, it leads back to the main issue in which Sebek is treated like an outsider by people who are dear to him. Exacerbated by already feeling like an outsider due to being only half fae.

Lastly, my personal closing thoughts, I really dislike when people boil down Sebeks character to 'loud, shouty dude' and say that's why he's not close to Diasomnia. (Also, the wiki insulting Sebek is actually devastating, Sebek support groups need to rectify this for the poor guy).

#can u tell i like Sebek #I swear the amount of stuff I've seen where he just shouts 'WAKASAMA' and nothing else is sadd #like nooo please dont take away my favourite characters intricacies #sebek zigvolt #twisted wonderland #diasomnia #twst sebek #lillia vanrouge #malleus draconia #silver twst

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atlantis-just-drowned · 5 months ago

Text

A/N: This is kinda hurt/comfort? DCA x reader, can be read as romantic or platonic. TW for The Entire World, literally (might be overwhelming), also panic attack for the bois :(

The DCA discovering the Internet for the first time

Please reblog to show support! Likes don't boost posts on Tumblr :(

Masterlist

It was an accident. No, really, it was!

How could they have been aware of what would happen? Never would he have done such a thing, if he has known the consequences…

Or maybe he would have done it anyway. They weren’t so sure, now.

Sun and Moon had been curious. Such a funny trait of humankind, implemented in their processor since the very moment they first gained consciousness. They were a learning AI after all! Meant to always process more and more data, information, new situations giving way to new questions, with each answer urging them to ask more, know more, see more, learn more.

The Daycare was so, oh, so small. Limited, a restricted little area, a flask of water in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Limited, they were so limited! Hindered by Faz Co. censored network and how little contact they had with human adults, with the outside world!

They were curious! Curious about all the different colours the sky could be (here it was always only blue! How boring! How limited!) and all the different sorts of flowers and how many species of animals there was. And what did the real stars looked like. How many were there, in the real sky? Here, there was 152! They had counted them! So, so so many time.

They needed to learn more. They had been desperate for something new, for so long.

And then today, something has happened.

You had left to get yourself some food for your night shift (so very important! Humans needed food, always, to stuff their organic belly full with delicious food that they always wondered the taste of), the computer you had been working at was still powered and of course it wasn’t unusual of you to leave it running while you left for a quick trip outside of the daycare, but you had left something else.

A cable.

An USB port that he saw you use to transfer informations before. And Sun knew – he knew, with a 99.98% of certainty – that those computers were connected to the internet. Something he has never experienced before. With absolutely no limitation in term of subjects, sources, and contents.

Freedom. Answers.

Something they craved for.

He couldn’t resist the temptation. It’s almost like you had left it here on purpose, the other side of the cable still connected to the device, ready for them to plug it in their USB port.

Sun felt like a criminal approaching the security desk. But Moon was urging him in their shared headspace to move faster, they could come back any moment and this might be our one and only chance to experience the outside world at all.

He contemplated the small cable between his fingers (so small! Holding such a great power!), before slowly – carefully – approaching it from the back of their faceplate. He didn’t want to risk making a bad movement, what if he hurt themselves? Or worse? What if he damaged the material? Gently, so cautiously connecting it to their processor.

They felt the jolt of a new device being paired.

And then.

They stilled.

Their mind exploded.

Figuratively at least – they hoped. So many new was projected into their metallic brain that they weren’t certain a few circuits wouldn’t melt from the overwhelming amount of things.

Everything was here.

There were fireworks. Bombs. Smiles. Tears. Forest fires. Tsunamis. Newborn babies, genocides, millennia-old forests hidden on the other side of the world, giraffes and elephants and lions chasing buffaloes, and turtles choking on plastic bags. Continents. Shores of white sand and snow falling on top of vast mountains. Humans extracting each others from burning buildings. Hills of wild grass and deserts. Slaves, deportees. Creatures living at the deep end of the dark and cold ocean and in acidic ponds of water. Children climbing up trees, high-speed crashes, murderers, Christmas presents, traditions. Islands and volcanoes. Incurable diseases, hemorrhages, mothers grieving their sons. Sweet and spicy and savory meals from all around the world. Space rockets sent in outer space, national holidays, mass shootings, entire solar systems, people jumping on subway rails and others saving puppies abandoned on highways. Wars, military operations, deadly weapons, trafficking, birthday parties, strangers telling each others they’ll be fine, love letters, global warming, riots, parades and marches, billions of stars burning and planets and satellites and black holes and supernovas and galaxies unexplored. Cyclones and tides and warm summer days spent laughing. Slums and manors, the Amazonian forest, New Year’s Eves, families, orphans, hours and hours of good and bad movies and music and books and colourful drawings. People hating and people loving and people apathetic. Pain and comfort. Individuals, wounded and traumatized and healing, resilient despite it all. People killing. People saving. People screaming out in joy and screaming out in fear. Species disappearing and others perpetuating themselves in an endless circle of life and death. Societies rising up and crumbling down like sand castles. Flowers blooming and rotting, trees higher than they could have ever imagined. Pollen and bees and honey and the sun – the real sun – and astronauts walking on the surface of the moon. Eggs hatching and birds flying and frogs croaking thousands of different sounds.

They knew so much, and so little at the same time. They were gods, immense and almighty. And they were so small, inconsequential in the grand scheme of a universe that has existed for longer than their memory bank would ever be able to store. So many progresses, and backlashes, and collective and personal efforts, tries and tries and tries, fails and wins. Celebrations and funerals. It was all so big! Immense and never-ending. Terrifying and so beautiful at the same time, that they could feel their metaphorical heart shatter in pieces. They wished to know more. They wished they had never known at all. They wanted to ask why. To send a call into the wild void, into the oblivion, to ask what was the meaning of it all. But they knew the answer and they were terrified of it. There was none. None! It all existed by a collection of coincidences and barely understandable causalities that crashed together and left them with no purpose. No meaning. Oh, they felt so alone! And so surrounded at the same time. They were lost. Terrorised. Relieved. Broken. Understood. Abandoned. Silent.

When you walked in again, you didn’t find Sun. You didn’t find Moon either. What you stumbled upon was a shaking Eclipse, and the cable still connected to the back of their faceplate. It didn’t take you long to process the situation.

“Oh, shoots!”

Panic shot up in your mind (were they broken? Were you going to lose them? Was their processor damaged? Their memory bank? Their power core?) and you rushed toward them, grabbing the cable and harshly disconnecting them from the computer in your terror.

Eclipse’s voicebox produced a choked whine, before the tall animatronic fell on their knees and curled up on themselves, hands grabbing at their arms.

Did you make things worse?

You lowered yourself at their level, guts twisting and a heavy lump in your throat, your hands hovering over them without touching them. They were sobbing. Were they hurt? Was it your fault?

“E-e-e… Clip!” You called. “Talk to me! Say something, please, can you hear me?”

There was a moment of silence where you kept opening and closing your hands – so close to them, so desperate to touch, to feel them, to make sure they were alright – repeatedly, until they answered.

“Big!” They whined in a breath – you had to remind yourself they didn’t technically have lungs. “So big! Everything…” Another pause. “Everything is so… intense!” They curled further up on themselves and shook. “Everything is here… Everything exists… Exists at the same time…!”

You didn’t know what to say. You struggled to make sense of his words.

Focus.

You needed to calm them down.

“Clips…” You struggled to keep your worries out of your tone. Start with the beginning. “Can I touch you? Is it alright?”

Another fit of shivers ran through them before they nodded weakly. “Please…” They garbled out, and it was the final hit to your heart before you wrapped your arms around their shoulders and pulled them against you.

“It’s alright, big boy.”

They felt hurt. They needed comfort. They needed you. You couldn’t do anything but provide.

You would be there until they calmed down. In the big, immensity of this world. You would be there.

#wdym 'i have requests to answer' i have no idea what you're talking about #needed to get this out of my system honestly #the world is big and cruel but also loving and sweet #they totally saw the dca fandom too lmao but didn't know how to fit it into that mess #so you are the reader and the fandom interpret it as you wish #dca fandom #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf #fnaf daycare attendant #whispers from atlantis

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