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moonrisecoeur · 11 months ago

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compliance (how to brainwash your boyfriend) — leon kennedy

author’s note: this was written with re4r!leon in mind bc that’s my boyfriend! angel said so!! i have… so many hypno ideas, some considerably more palatable and some that are Much Worse, so pls let me know if you want more! also this is based off of an audio i listened to once by everdistant-utopia on reddit! the headset concept is kind of (extremely) goofy but i was into it idk. again, i'm aware that mind control isn't real and this is a silly ass concept. i had fun doing it anyway. no leons were hurt in the making of this fic. sorry for not posting it sooner even tho it was done i was extremely embarrassed lol. pls ignore any typos. love you!! thank u!!

wc: 5k

content: sub!leon x fem!reader, afab reader, oral reader receiving, orgasm control, mention of feet for like two seconds

warning: this is dark content. please do not read if the following topics are sensitive to you: noncon, hypnosis, mind control. i dont endorse or encourage this type of behavior irl, its just a fantasy!

—

as you walk down the street, you walk by a flier that’s sitting on the sidewalk. you don’t stop to read it, but one word caught your eye. mind control. it was probably something stupid, something completely made up by some lunatic who thinks mind control is real. mind control is maybe, technically real, in the ‘just relax and close your eyes, breathe deeply and let yourself be at peace’ kind of way. definitely not the ‘put on this headset and let me rewire your brain to make you my pet’ kind of way.

but… would it really hurt to look at the flier? you turn around to see it’s still there, and, against all your better judgment, you decide to walk up to it and pick it up.

it’s dirty, wet because of the rain from last night. even still, you can read the description of the advertised product clearly, along with some more info like a website and contact info for the designers. you take a brief moment to wonder who in the hell comes up with that stuff.

introducing you to the ultra brainwasher headset 3000! perfect for all of your mind control needs! simply place the device over the subjected head and choose what you’d like to do with them. need an obedient housewife? in search of a new pet? want them to be madly in love and obsessed with you? all of that and more is possible with the ultra brainwasher headset 3000! visit our website and order the headset today!

you blink. this is insane. who would do this? who would make this? why would anyone want to make someone do any of this against their will? you feel sick to your stomach as you crumple up the flier and toss it in the nearest trash can.

because that’s… that’s not consensual. that’s wrong in every possible way. unless they gave consent to be, what, turned into an ‘obedient housewife’? that’s really what it said? there’s just no way that’s right. how is that legal to sell? what even was that flier doing?

this feels like the kind of thing that would be sold on the black market, not openly advertised to people on the street. what if some lunatic saw it and just started brainwashing people? no one could stop them, it’s not exactly a crime in and of itself, and any crimes committed would be a little difficult to report if the ‘subject’ was too mindless to notice or to say anything.

whatever. you threw the flier away, you did your job as a good samaritan by tossing it so someone much much worse than you wouldn’t get a chance to look at it, and thus, you can forget all about the headset. pretend you never saw the flier or knew it existed and carry on with your life.

except, you can’t really. it permeates your thoughts, seeps inside of your subconscious until you begin to hypothesize that the headset wasn’t the real hypnosis, it was seeing that flier. you know you must be delusional. it’s not real, you’re not really mind controlled from just reading the flier, but… would it really hurt it buy it? you had the money for it and it’s not too expensive at all.

you hate yourself for it but you look on the website, just as hypnotic as the flier was, and you see multiple variations of the headset. some more suited towards different outcomes for ‘subjects’ and some just different stylistically.

you find the one you were looking at earlier. the ultra brainwasher 3000. it’s a stupid name, you’re aware. it just doesn’t really matter because who’s gonna know that you own this? you’ll keep it, maybe try it out on yourself to see what it’s like. you won’t do anything crazy, maybe like, hypnotize yourself to not be able to sit down until all your household chores are done, just for the day. the ultra brainwasher 3000 claims to have this functionality, and you’re… more or less, curious.

you order it and spend two weeks in absolute hell, making sure your boyfriend is never home alone when the package could arrive. you’re not worried he’d open it and see the device. he doesn’t look through your stuff, but the packing sticker ‘brainmelting industrial company’ would…. catch his eye for sure. try explaining that to your boyfriend, especially because even if you’re a good liar, you’re not to leon.

but, you get it, and it’s perfect because leon isn’t home right now, and you get to play with your new toy for a little bit. the box is smaller than you expected, only including the headset, a charging cord, and a set of instructions.

as you’re reading, the thought only just now hits you. it’s surprising that it’s taken you this long to have this idea, given how it would be someone else’s first instinct.

“should i…” you murmur to yourself, looking around nervously to see if anyone is in earshot, “… should i use this on leon..?”

i don’t know, should you use a mind control headset on your poor boyfriend that was just sent on a mission to save the fucking president’s daughter? maybe not.

you don’t know how it took you this long to come up with the concept. i mean, the flier did mention making someone your obedient housewife, but… they never said that someone had to be a girl…

it’s gross or actually more disgusting, honestly, how excited you get at the prospect of doing this to leon, but you decide that yeah, fuck it, you might as well brainwash your boyfriend. truthfully, what are the consequences? besides… ruining your relationship, betraying his trust, destroying him as a person… eh, it’s only temporary, right? there’s ways to make it only temporary.. and there’s no way he’d remember..

you fiddle with it, curious of all the different things you could do to him. the headset didn’t have presets, you could make up literally anything you wanted him to believe. you could make him the obedient housewife, but you could also make him a servant, maybe even dress him up all pretty as a maid. you could make sure of his loyalty and commitment, make him be so in love with you that even the thought of being with another woman makes him physically ill.

he gets home later that night, worn down and tired and exhausted in every possible way. and you know you’re going to have to put on your best acting skills. you’re not sure if you’re ready to do this, but you’re gonna have to be, so you press a sweet kiss to his lips, one he lingers on for just a moment too long. his lips chase after yours as his eyes open back up slowly, looking at you through his pretty lashes, an eyebrow raised, “what?”

you can’t help but adore him, his bluntness and gruff attitude, yet how soft he touches your waist as he pulls you closer. leon is nothing if not gentle and sweet, and you love that about him, “nothing, i just… i just wanted to look at you,” you say, and it reminds you just how easy leon is. just a couple of words and his eyes get a little glassy, his heart leaping out of his chest just a bit.

it sometimes helps that your boyfriend has been through every form of hell since that day in raccoon city, so sometimes just sweet words and little gestures get a bigger reaction than you’d expect. he’s traumatized and broken down, so the love you give him matters so much more.

in short, he’s easy. he gives in quickly and doesn’t like to fight, not with you. gives you everything you want, doesn’t protest, doesn’t ask for much besides your attention and love.

“you always stare at me,” he says awkwardly. god he’s so not charming that it makes him effortlessly likable.

that’s what’s so sucky about the idea of hypnosis. do you lose the person he used to be? sure, a mindless househusband would be great, helplessly obedient and passive and hardworking, but does this override his actual personality? that’s a bit too scary.

you make an effort to soak in these parts of his personality, enjoying every inch of his pretty little mind. you decide that no matter what you do to him, you can’t ruin him completely. you’d miss his heart, rough and guarded but nonetheless yours.

“i wanna try something,” you murmur to him, your heart pounding a little more than it should, “do you trust me?”

“of course i do,” he says. your heart almost aches, he trusts you so implicitly.

“close your eyes,” you say, and he complies easily.

you step away to grab the headset, and he’s so sweet and good that he doesn’t even peek. you take a deep breath, and commit to it.

you place it on his head, and he grumbles, but doesn’t object. poor thing. doesn’t even realize what’s happening to him.

—

the setting on the headset that you chose wasn’t anything flashy but it was labeled ‘semi-permanent’ and it stated that the subject would not remember anything from the moment of hypnosis to the moment they wake up next. so, all and all, even if you felt horrible, the damage wouldn’t be permanent, and leon wouldn’t even remember what happened.

truthfully, it felt like nothing could go wrong. it wouldn’t alter him too much, just… make him helplessly obedient for a couple hours. you could turn up the intensity if you wanted to, if it wasn’t quite enough to satisfy your curiosity.

you decide that it’s now or never, especially since being lost in your head while your boyfriend is cluelessly wearing what looks like a vr headset is kind of… odd.

you start the application, waiting for it to begin on his end.

“what are you up to?” he asks innocently, probably still not seeing anything while it loads. the question sounds like an accusation, but it’s really not. leon genuinely just wants to know what’s going on. it’s hard not to, but you don’t answer.

you notice the exact moment that it starts because grunts out of nowhere and his whole body tenses, and he clutches onto the fabric of the couch cushions, using that sense as a way to ground himself during an overload of audio and visual stimulation.

you reach to grab his hand, and his grasps yours tightly, desperately, as if physically pleading with you to make it stop.

you whisper to him, “shhh, nice and easy,” you’re not even sure if he can hear you, but you still feel the need to speak. you’re not sure if it’s your voice or your touch but he relaxes just slightly, his breath raggedy and tense. he’s trying like hell to keep himself together, but it’s so overwhelming that it’s hard for him to think, “hey… it’s okay. you’re okay, just… let it happen.”

a pathetic little whimper escapes his throat as his body goes slack, jaw hanging open and arms hanging limply by his sides, “wha… why?” his voice sounds small, weak, and if you weren’t so cruel, you’d immediately take it all back and apologize and just face the consequences.

but you’re too far deep to back out now, even if leon’s pitiful demeanor is almost swaying you to stop, you know you can’t. not now.

“i… i thought you…” he whines, body tensing and spasming as he tries to put some form of coherent thought together, “wha… why..?” he whimpers again, pathetically broken down in just a matter of minutes.

you sit there with him, holding his hand, waiting for the process to be done, and once it is, you take the headset off.

he seems agitated, but doesn’t seem to know what at. his muscles are tense, but he doesn’t make any sudden movements.

“hey,” you mutter gently, and he almost flinches at the sound, looking at you with those wide deer eyes again, scared. you reach out to touch his face, fingers caressing his cheek.

the cogs in his brain turn as he processes what’s happening, and the agitation seems to evaporate and become replaced by a sense of calm and relaxation. he looks into your eyes, and it seems like he’s deciding something.

“leon?”

“yes? how… can i serve you?” he asks, jaw dropping at his own words. he’s so stunned at what he’s saying and how he’s acting yet he can’t help it.

“…address me as… ma’am,” you say, and he shivers, eyes closing tensely as he tries to figure out what the hell is going on, “and go get me something. how about… a cup of coffee? yeah, let’s start there.”

it makes sense that he’s fading in and out, the programming would probably need more time to settle in before it was done and his personality obviously wouldn’t just disappear, but it was still a little bit heartbreaking to watch him fight the voice in his head that is desperate to obey you.

as he disappears into the kitchen, you sit where he was sitting on the couch to take a moment to think it all over.

leon has never been the most… dominant man. he has his moments of aggression and tension that turn into a roughness that his soul seems to often carry, but it’s never controlling. he’s not demanding, he asks nothing of you besides gracing him with your presence.

but due to his past, submission also doesn’t come easy to him. he likes to think he would lean more sub, just because he’s so malleable to your will, so easy to convince. anything you want is yours, and if you want his dignity laid out in the palm of your hand, then it’s yours to keep for eternity. he just struggles to fully give up control, especially since you know he’s not really had much of that in his life.

you kept his personality intact for the most part, but… he just seems so different. he responds pretty much the same, talks the same, acts the same. something just doesn’t seem right.

“here’s the coffee you asked for,” he mutters when he returns, his voice gruff but soft at the same time. he’s… definitely conflicted. the implanted urge to obey you mindlessly and the natural urge to protect his self-respect are fighting in his head. you watch curiously to see which will win.

leon has been through hell, and you can always see it when you look into his eyes. he’s been controlled by the government, a puppet on their strings, since he survived that night in raccoon city. he must be used to a lack of control in his life. but now he’s your puppet, and you have no interest in using him as a killing machine. you have… different plans for him.

“thanks,” you whisper, and he nods, quiet but obedient. just how you wanted him. he stands there beside you, not really knowing what to do with himself as you take a sip, “rub my feet now.”

“..what?”

“you heard me,” you say. and he did.

something in his stomach sinks at the command, a feeling of urgency to do as you say fills his entire being, but it just feels so wrong to him. you’re never this brazen, this demanding.

“come on, leon,” you say, almost condescendingly, pointing to the floor right in front of the couch, “on… your… knees.”

he breathes shakily, but kneels down in front of you, avoiding eye contact as he gives you your damn foot massage. there’s turmoil in his head, easily seen by that deer-like look in his eyes as he stares wide-eyed at the ground. despite his roughness, he’s always had these soft, fragile eyes, reminding you of who he really is. it would be truly heartbreaking to watch him go through this if it also wasn’t incredibly attractive to put him on his knees and order him around.

leon has always been relatively compliant, but now it’s on a whole other level. anything you ask for, despite some inner conflict, he’ll do. you wonder just how far you could push him, but… you don’t decide to test that just yet.

for a few minutes, or however long it takes for you to finish your coffee, you sit there with him. his touch is good but not very skilled. he gets the tension and soreness out though, and you’re sure you could train that into him over time.

“take off your shirt,” you say, and his throws off his t-shirt easily. it lands in the corner unimportantly, and your smirk radiates confidence and something else much more sinister, “stand up, bend over in front of me.”

he closes his eyes tightly, clearly fighting that inner battle but the part of him desperate to get away and to not obey you is losing. he slowly rises to his feet and does as you ask. he places his hands on the coffee table, legs spread slightly like he already knows what’s about to happen. funny, because he doesn’t seem to know much of anything right now.

you stand up, hands touching all over him but particularly grasping at his ass, pulling down his sweatpants and boxers and enjoying the way his muscles flex, tightening and hardening when you grab him, “you never let me spank you,” you muse, almost annoyed, “i get it. you get nervous with power play and letting me dom you or whatever, but i always wanted to hit it just once. just to satisfy the curiosity of what it would be like.”

your hand pulls back and slams against his butt with a loud smacking noise. he gasps, breathing out shakily after the hit, “i… i’m sorry, ma’am.”

“but now that we’re here… and i’ve already got a taste, i don’t think i ever want to stop. so, from now on, no more of that. if i want to slap your ass, i’m going to,” you murmur, “and you will not try to stop me or convince me not to.”

“i.. i…” he whimpers, and for a second you pause, nervously that the real leon, somehow deep down, heard that, “… yes, ma’am.”

“good,” you mutter, slapping it again, feeling the hit in your hand as you pull away, and if you can feel it so clearly then you’re sure he can, “now, be polite and say ‘thank you’. thank me for teaching you how to correctly behave.”

“tha… thank you, ma’am,” he whispers, eyes shutting slowly as his deep inner need to resist is weakening.

“i own you now,” you groan, grasping at his hips posessively, mouth pressing open kisses to his bare shoulder, “no, i… have always owned you. owned your body, you just didn’t realize it.”

he nods, incredibly turned on. his body aches to be claimed, to be made yours.

sure, leon has always been yours, but his body has been purely his. he’s… cautious with it. he’s been more or less just too busy for romantic partners, but somehow you snuck your way into his life and he happily lets you stay. he just… is slowly learning to trust you with himself.

he can do easy, comfortable, casual sex. what he can’t do is hand himself over to you like this, helplessly obedient, submissive in every possible way. as much as leon doesn’t have the energy to fight, tired and worn down, fighting is all he know.

your nails drag against the skin of his torso and back, leaving pretty red lines wherever they go, “no more fighting. no more stressing about it. all you have to do is be mine, unequivocally.”

“i… i am..” he mumbles, and you tilt your head, eyeing him curiously. he notices, shying away, “i… i am yours. unequivocally. you can… you can have me.”

manhandling has always been a little difficult, considering leon is all muscle and he’s a sturdy guy, but you spin him at the hips to face you, and he’s effortlessly moved, “can i… have your body just as much as i have your heart?”

“yes, i… yes, ma’am, it’s yours. do whatever you want with it, ma’am,” he says, a slight daze in his eyes, clearly he’s not all the way there. he's trying. he’s still so soft, so tender and malleable, so leon.

you lean in to press a kiss to his lips, and he melts into your touch, hands grasping him roughly, in a way that might hurt anyone else, but leon is strong. sure, your touch is bruising him, but… he doesn’t have enough

of his mind left to be bothered.

lips trail down his neck and shoulder, but move back up to his ear, sucking on his skin in a vampiric manner. you whisper to him, “you’re gonna only focus on my pleasure.”

“i… i am? i… i am…” he stutters, god it’s so damn cute.

“of course you are. you’d rather eat me out than have an orgasm yourself, wouldn’t you? if i was a crueler person, i would find a way to mind control your orgasms away completely. that way you could… focus on my pleasure, but i’m not that mean.”

he shudders, your lips pressing to the sensitive spot underneath his ear, teeth dragging down his skin, teasing him, taunting him.

“you wanna eat now?” you ask, lips pressed to his collarbone now, and he moans out an affirmative. you suck a hickey against the skin right atop of the bone, admiring the redness, the way you get to watch it turn a disgusting shade of purple. one that should make you nervous to have done to him, only turns you on.

instead of ordering him into his knees this time, you just push him, easily putting his head between your legs. his hands come up to hold your thighs, steadying himself as you half-stand half-sit on the counter. he pulls your pants down enough , but can’t even be bothered to take off your panties, just pushing them to the side.

“can.. i, ma’am?”

you chuckle, not really expecting him to be so polite, “go for it, sweet thing.”

he leans in, pressing a teasing kiss to your clit, just once, before his tongue meets your folds and he licks and sucks like tomorrow won’t come but he’ll make sure you will. he groans into your pussy like he’s the one being pleasured, and that honestly seems like a fair comparison. sure, he was physically pleasing you, but even just the act of giving oral is making his head spin with a satisfaction he has never felt before. he could get high off of this.

leon has always been good at giving head. much better than just good. he’s incredible. it’s the one thing where he can fully just zone out. if you’re too lost in your own pleasure, then you can’t focus on him and how he’s feeling, and there’s something oddly safe about the feeling of being, for all intents and purposes, alone with his thoughts. eating your pussy just comes so natural that it’s second nature.

but now? he can’t get lost in his thoughts if he doesn’t have any. doesn’t mean he’s enjoying it any less. he’s enjoying anything you ask him to do. you could tell him to go fold your laundry and then clean your bathroom and do your dishes and he’s do everything diligently and he’d be satisfied the whole time. god, maybe you do really want a househusband. besides, leon could use the emotional break from his job. he’s content enough serving you.

he makes you cum sooner than you expected, but it’s literally just because he’s that good with his tongue, and when he moved one his hands from your thigh to press two fingers into your cunt, fingering you in thick circular motions as he sucked on your clit, you were gone.

he continues, wet fingers gushing in a fast rhythm as you orgasm, grinding against his mouth, using him completely for your own pleasure. it was always a secret fantasy of his, and now it’s reality, even if his mind isn’t all the way there and the only thoughts running through his head are is she pleased with me? did i do a good job? do i deserve her praise? i should do better next time. i should serve her better. i only want to serve her.

and now that he’s completely helpless, servitude being the only concept he can comprehend, and you come down from a high so intense it took you a second to remember that leon was waiting patiently for your next command, next order.

“put… put me on the couch…” you gasp out in heavy breaths.

he’s strong, and he helps to guide you to the couch, body still part paralyzed from such an intense pleasure. you lay there, still breathing a little heavy.

“go get dressed and cleaned up…” you mutter to him, “and then come back out here and cuddle up next to me.”

he does as you ask, finding his clothes and getting dressed again, and then when he approaches the couch again, you reach out your arms for him. the smile he gives you is almost too real. too… really leon. you still feel that twinge of nervousness in your gut, but then he lays against you, head tucked into the crook of your neck, and you know he doesn’t know. for all that he’s good at, leon’s not a great actor.

you reach your hand up to run your fingers through his hair repeatedly, soft and soothing motions to lull him into a state of compliance.

“you’re mine,” you whisper, hoping he’ll confirm it back.

of course he does, softly, no longer feeling conflicted, “yours, ma’am.”

“you’ll be obedient and submissive from now on,” your voice is soft but carries a dominance he doesn’t quite think he could ever escape nor would he ever want to.

“i’ll be.. obedient and submissive.”

“you’ll only focus on my pleasure,” you say, knowing he’ll repeat it back obediently just like the ones previous, but you feel his rock hard cock against your leg and as much as you want to shove his cock inside of you in an instant, you can’t help but want to control him like that. keep his orgasms just out of reach until he goes mad from the teasing and edging you plan to do to him. keep him nice and horny and desperate, just how you like him. if he wasn’t submissive enough for you before, he is now.

“only yours, only ever yours, please…” his voice is soft and meek and god if you wanted to you could find a mind control that was permanent and just… leave him like this forever. let him take care of your home and future kids and do your household chores and tasks. keep him completely obedient, god it would be…

“you can’t resist,” you whisper, leaning into his hair,

resting your head against his in a soft intimate moment, “i can’t resist, ma’am.”

you nod gently, and after a moment, you sigh, running your fingers through his hair, “i’m.. i love you, leon. sorry about all of this..”

“… why are you apologizing, ma’am?” he asks, tilting his head slightly even in your grasp to show confusion. he really is just like a little puppy sometimes.

“you know.. about the mind control.”

he shrugs, the most unbothered happy smile on his face, “oh, that’s.. that’s okay, i’m fine with it. i.. already belonged to you.”

“but that was in a more… romantic way. an ‘i belong with you’ kind of way. not the kind i did to you,” you say, just a tinge of guilt holding you back, but you push it aside, “it’s nothing, don’t worry about it. i just.. just know i love you. even when i’m ordering you around.”

“i’ll remember that, ma’am,” he smiles up at you just a little softer, just a little more like his true self, just a little more leon. that heavy feeling of guilt in your gut will never quite go away, will it?

you fall asleep on the couch together, knowing or maybe just hoping you’ll wake up to leon not remembering anything. hopefully he doesn’t piece together that he has no memory of you giving him that hickey and those bruises on his hips were definitely not his job's doing.

—

you wake up to a fond smell of breakfast and a bright morning, sitting up off the couch as you look at your phone. leon’s not laying there next to you, which is odd but not completely uncommon. sometimes he goes out in the morning to work out or disappears in the middle of the night when he’s needed somewhere, but most of the time, and today included, he’s just in the kitchen.

you find him there, standing in front of the coffee pot, and you walk up to him to wrap your arms around his midsection, softly burying your face into his back to shyly hide from his gaze.

“awh, morning lovebug,” his sweet raspy morning voice says to you, a hand on your arms, holding you tight so there’s not even a chance you could let go, “missed ya yesterday. did you sleep alright?”

“...mhm,” you hum, pressing a sweet kiss to his shoulder blade.

it’s a sweet moment, full of love and warmth and tenderness and you could have almost forgotten what you did to leon last night had the smell of coffee not been hanging in the air. but hey, at least he doesn’t remember what really happened, though he’s kind of confused just how he forgot how he got all of these bruises and scratches.

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farfromstrange · 2 months ago

Text

Do No Harm

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Thirty Minutes

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: After the Russians came to take you, Claire discovers the chaos in her apartment, and she has a call to make. There is only one person she can think of who can fix this--Matt.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, violence, mentions of alcohol and blood, S1 plot, self-loathing, religious imagery, mentions of alcoholism

Word Count: 4k

A/n: This is the kind of chapter that took me so long to write because it's necessary for the rest of the story but I really just want to write the following scenes. But alas, I got it done. I only had the dialogue to begin with, and I tried to do the characters justice.

Read Chapter 16: Thirty Minutes here on AO3!

A lot can happen in thirty minutes.

In thirty minutes, over 8000 babies are born.

In thirty minutes, over 3000 people die.

A lot can happen in thirty minutes and most of the time, it does.

In thirty minutes, lives are lived, lives are lost, and lives are given, and the world keeps turning, but it doesn’t necessarily have to take thirty minutes for a life to drastically change. All it takes is a second for the world to stop turning, and a life to be destroyed.

Claire left the apartment for thirty minutes. She took a walk around the block, her mind reeling with the weight of your argument. It would be a lie if she claimed that it didn’t hurt, that she didn’t consider not walking out because people have continuously hurt you all your life, and that is not your fault.

You don’t know what’s good for you. You don’t know what it’s like to be loved unconditionally. You are not to blame for the people who abused you. Claire knows how fragile you are. Trauma like the one you endured is not something that goes away easily, but there is only so much abuse she can take. There is only so much she can do to try and help you.

Sometimes, to help the person you care most about, you have to walk out on them; you have to leave them to their own devices, give them space and time, and hope they realize that they need help. But she can’t help but think that the reason you are so miserable now is her fault.

Claire told Matt to stay away from you. She told him that he is far too dangerous for you. You barely knew him, so she figured it wouldn’t hurt too much. A little bit of pain is better than death, she thought. In the end, though, she only made you face your trauma all over again because, against all odds, he actually did what she told him to. She didn’t think it was that serious until you stood on her doorstep last night, and she feels guilty—she feels so guilty she could throw up on the street.

Matt is a good guy, but he is a mess. You need someone put together enough to deal with your mess. He isn’t the right person for you and yet, the times you talked about him you sounded the happiest you had in years. He made you happy. She is the reason that happiness is gone now, and you turned to the bottle—again.

Thirty minutes.

It feels like an eternity has passed when Claire drags her feet up the stairs. She promised the beaten-up man in the mask she dug out of the dumpers that she wouldn’t leave the apartment. She wouldn’t leave until he solved the problem with the Russians. Until she was safe.

It was only supposed to be a few days of hiding out, but she lost more in a few days than she gained in two years. She is utterly exhausted. Lying is exhausting. All she ever wanted was to keep you safe, and you still got hurt. If she is destined to fail, what is she even trying for?

Thirty minutes, that’s how long she was gone. As she enters the building, the air feels different. A shiver runs down her spine, curling in her stomach like a black cloud of doom.

Claire takes a tentative step forward. The floorboards creak. It is almost as loud as the faint sobbing streaking out into the hall through the gap in her door.

There are claw marks on the floor. They’re faint, but they’re there—gashes left by a set of sharp nails that weren’t there before. And there’s blood, a trail of blood leading from the door into the apartment, and her heart drops into her stomach.

She pushes the door open. “Liv?” she asks. No answer. “I swear, if this is your way of getting back at me… this is not–” the ‘funny’ dies on her tongue when her eyes fall on the destruction left behind, the open window and—

Santino is cowering against the wall, beaten up and bleeding, staring back at her like a deer caught in headlights. The bottle of bourbon she bought at the liquor store downstairs falls out of her hand and shatters, mingling with the traces of blood. Your blood.

“Lo siento,” the boy cries. I’m sorry.

He tells her he couldn’t stop them. He tells her that he told them where she’s staying, and they took her—you. They took you. Two strange men took you when it should have been her, and it is then she starts to feel her heart bleeding into her chest.

Santino’s just a child, she thinks. He’s a child who got dragged into a mess much bigger than him, and it’s her fault.

It’s all her fault.

Last night, Matt learned what it sounds like when your heart breaks.

He listened as it sped up over the dishes clattering in the restaurant. First, it was nerves that had your body shaking against your will. But nerves turned into worry turned into fear, your heart relentlessly hammering against your ribcage. It was hurting you. Every beat brought you closer to the inevitable truth your mind refused to acknowledge.

Until your heart began to pump the blood a little slower.

Until the clock turned minutes into hours, and you’d downed your fourth glass of wine.

You kept a faith you claimed you never really had until time ran out, and you realized that he wasn’t coming. Fear turned into utter disappointment, and your heart cracked. It cracked, and then it broke, shattering like a wine glass on a white cloth.

When he first met you, you were crying over losing a patient—a child. You seemed particularly vulnerable to him, almost broken, in a way, but he also knew that it takes a special kind of strength and resilience to do what you dedicated your life to.

You confided in him. You had your heart broken by the people who were supposed to protect you most in this world. You could relate to what he went through, and yet when Claire said that he would only ever hurt you, that you deserve better—so much better—Matt didn’t hesitate to prove her right. In vowing to stay away from you, he did the very thing he was trying to avoid. But at what cost?

God and the Devil are laughing at him. He can kneel on the cold wooden benches that line Clinton Church and pray for His forgiveness; he can confess his sins to Father Lantom as if he’s writing a book about them, and try to repent, but every time he puts on that mask, he is giving away pieces of himself. He sacrifices his happiness for the greater good of the city he loves and for justice, and he lies to the people he loves. He lies, and he ultimately ends up pushing them away.

Matt sabotages himself over and over again. He pushed you away. He broke off something that was not quite a thing yet, but it could have been; it could have been so beautiful. He ruined it, again.

He hasn’t slept since.

When it’s not you, it’s him: Wilson Fisk. The name runs in circles around his mind. It is a whirlwind tornado he cannot seem to stop. He knew something was off when this nameless stranger came to Nelson & Murdock to hire them to defend an obvious murderer. A juror being paid off, the hung jury—it all seemed like an intricate game orchestrated by a third party to assess them.

He tried to keep his work separate from the man he becomes at night. Maybe it was Karen that put them on the radar, or maybe it’s simply because every bad thing in Hell’s Kitchen seems to be connected somehow, and he has put himself in the middle of it. He saved Karen and protected her from a worse fate, but unless he finds a way to stop the boulder from running down the hill toward them, his friends will always be in danger. He attracts it like a fucking magnet.

Healy impaled himself because he pushed for a name. He caught him, and his curiosity killed the cat. Wilson Fisk. He has never heard of him before. No one has. But if he is the reason for everything that has gone wrong, he needs to find him and he needs to stop him.

Matt doubts he would have a chance with you if he came running back. When he can make sure that you are safe, maybe he can crawl on his knees back to you and beg for your forgiveness, but rationally he knows he doesn’t stand a chance.

He hurt you. He broke your heart. He tore through the already friable tissue, and he ruined something that could have been so good for him—for both of you.

No amount of praying can fix that.

His mind is elsewhere as he and Foggy step out of the precinct into the cool night air.

“My mom wanted me to be a butcher, you know that?” Foggy says.

Matt sighs, tapping his cane along the sidewalk. “Oh, not the butcher story.”

“I said, ‘No, Mom, I want to be a lawyer.’” A pause. “I don’t remember what I said next.”

“No, you never do,” he says.

Foggy doesn’t take note of his snark comment. “But I’m fairly certain it wasn’t about bailing out a piss-drunk electrician who nearly burned his house down.” He looks across the street, tugging his friend’s arm in the process. “Let’s cross.”

Matt knows very well where the street is and where the cars are coming from, but he follows his lead without using much of his senses; he trusts him.

“Ed’s wife left him, Foggy. It was an accident.” His nails dig into his jacket. “Admittedly involving cigarettes and gasoline, but still.”

He had to do some good tonight. He had to make sure at least one broken heart wouldn’t crash and burn. And it’s work. Getting a friend out of a misdemeanor might not be what Foggy signed up for, but it is work they would otherwise not have. After what happened at Healy’s trial, it’s been piles of paperwork and unpaid bills, and Matt really couldn’t stand another second of running his fingers over pages of Braille.

They cross the street under Foggy’s observant eye. “I could be carving my own corn beef. Making my own pickles. Having a little shop of my own…” he trails off.

“You got your own office,” Matt murmurs.

“We have office space,” Foggy corrects. “An actual office would involve plantery and equipment. Fax machines or whatever successful people use.”

He chuckles. “I don’t think they use fax machines anymore.”

“How would I know? Which is endemic to the problem.”

They stop. Matt can feel his eyes boring into his skull, smell his sandalwood cologne and the deli sandwich he had for lunch, the one with the onions and extra pickles.

“Matt,” Foggy asks, “what if we’re doing this all wrong?” There is a certain uncertainty in his voice. “What if Landman and Zack was the way to go?”

Fear. Worry. Concern. It all plays together.

“You hated interning there,” says Matt.

Foggy shrugs, approaching the street to hail a cab. “I hate being broke.”

If his life weren’t so complicated, he would try harder to give his friend what motivated him to agree to his ballsy idea to start this firm in the first place. Matt knows Foggy has sacrificed a lot for him, sacrifices he surely did not deserve for keeping him in the dark, but when it comes to Foggy, the fear of losing him, of him running away, paralyzes him.

“You think Landman and Zack would’ve helped out Ed?” he asks.

“No. But they had free bagels every morning, and they had furniture that didn’t smell like a pack of cigarettes. And elevators… God, I miss the elevators.”

“We’re doing good here, Foggy.”

He turns around. “Are we?”

“Yeah,” Matt nods, “we’re making a difference.”

A cab pulls up to the curb just as his phone starts to ring in his breast pocket. Not the one he always uses. The ringing is new, not yet very familiar, but he recognizes it almost instantly.

“You have a new phone?” Foggy asks. “We can afford that?”

Matt pulls out the burner phone he bought just a few days ago. There is only one person it could be, only one person who has this number. He flips it open. “Hey, one sec,” he answers, moving away from the speaker to address his friend once more. “Foggy, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He holds open the door to the cab, eyes roaming over Matt’s figure. “It’s a girl, isn’t it? You got a new phone just for your girls.” He slides into the backseat. “My life sucks.”

Again, he chuckles. “Get home safe.”

The motor roars and Matt listens as the yellow car drives away with Foggy inside. Once he’s sure that he is out of reach, he lifts the phone back to his ear.

“Yeah, Claire, what’s up?” he says.

She breathes shakily through the line. He can hear her heart racing at a million miles an hour, beating out of her chest like a fright train. Tears lace her voice when she finally finds it in herself to speak. “You have to come over,” she says. “Right now.”

The urgency surprises him. Not so long ago it was him uttering the same words. The wind brushes through his hair. “What happened? You okay?”

“It’s not me,” Claire whispers. “It’s–” She almost says something else. Another word. Another fact. Another name. Her lungs contract and her breathing gets just a little harder.

His veins feel as though they are about to burst. He can taste his heart on his tongue. Who, he wants to ask. Why are you calling me? But he doesn’t need to ask her to know the answer. He doesn’t need her to tell him because even from across the city, her reaction speaks louder than words.

“It’s Liv,” she chokes out, and Matt nearly drops his phone in the gutter. “Someone took her. The Russians...”

You never got involved with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. You weren’t there when he threw the fake Detective off Claire’s roof. You have no idea who he is, you only know that Matt Murdock is an asshole. He wanted to keep it that way. He stayed away to keep you safe.

They were looking for her. They were looking for Claire, and somehow, they found you.

They took you.

“Please,” she’s so close to tears that the word barely makes it out in one piece.

The phone snaps shut, wandering back into his pocket. ‘Someone took her,’ it keeps repeating on a loop. Matt folds his cane, and he takes off running. He runs faster than he ever has, not caring if someone sees him. Not caring if someone wonders why a blind man is running in the middle of the night as if he can see. Not caring if someone questions his identity.

He runs and runs and runs until his lungs are burning and his legs are hurting, and he runs even faster toward the apartment above the liquor store. Toward Claire.

He runs toward you, for if he lost you he would never be able to forgive himself.

The door to the apartment is already open when he arrives. The distinctive copper of blood hits his nose. It has seeped into the floorboards, seeped into skin. Your scent hangs heavy in the room. He can smell you on the couch cushions and the discarded needle on the living room table. It’s your blood, and hints of someone else’s. You’re everywhere yet nowhere at all, and for the first time since he met you, he can’t feel you. He can’t hear your heartbeat. He can’t make out your presence because neither are you at the hospital nor are you safely tucked away at home where you should be.

Liquor and rubbing alcohol cling to the oxygen. A broken bottle of bourbon lies shattered on the floor. You weren’t just taken; you spent the night here. Why? What on earth were you doing?

“Oh, thank God!” Claire exclaims.

“What happened?” Matt asks. His ears are ringing. “Where is she?”

She moves away from Santino who sits motionless, crying, on her sofa. He recognizes his heartbeat faintly from the night on the rooftop with Detective Foster. What a pathetic alias, he thought. But the boy they kidnapped is the reason he is even in this mess. He thought Claire would be safe. He thought he was doing the right thing.

They hurt an innocent child. They were going to hurt Claire. They hurt you; they took you, and he isn’t sure which scenario is worse. He doesn’t want to imagine.

“They found Santino, beat him, and he told them where I was,” she says, lip quivering. “Liv spent the night here. We fought, I went for a walk, and… he told them she wasn’t me, but they didn’t care. They just took her.”

He reaches for the nearest chair. “Fuck!” The wood splinters against the wall.

Claire flinches. “Matt.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be here. You weren’t–” He inhales deeply. “You weren’t supposed to go anywhere. What the hell were you thinking, Claire?”

“What was I thinking?” she bites back. “She was falling apart! That wasn’t my fault!”

Her words cut his skin with the force of a thousand blades. He’s bleeding out in an endless pool, and she goes and twists the knife one more time.

He ruffles his hair, tugging at the strands for some kind of lifeline. The ground beneath his feet has long melted away. He’s staring in the face of certain demise, but it won’t be him who dies. No, death would be too merciful. He is destined to watch everyone around him fall apart and die before the pain inevitably kills him, too.

Everything he touches turns to ashes. It rots from the inside out, and then it dies. A withering field of flowers unable to grow new seeds. A graveyard.

“I told you to stay away from her,” Claire snaps.

“I did,” Matt says. “The second you told me, I broke things off. I stood her up. I told her she deserved better. I did everything so she could make me the bad guy. She had nothing–” He gasps for air. “She had nothing to do with this.”

“You painted a fucking target on her back!”

He matches her volume, even goes above it as the echo threatens to break glass. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“No, you broke her. She almost drank herself into a coma last night because you couldn’t let her down easy. That’s why she was here. You broke her!”

“I–” It takes a long moment to register.

You almost drank yourself into a coma. You got so drunk you had to sleep on her couch, so drunk she had to hook you up to intravenous fluids, so drunk the two of you fought to the point your friendship imploded, and it was all because of him. Because he thought turning his back would make it easier for you to hate him.

He turned his back on you. Like a coward.

“I was on that rooftop with you when you put that guy into a coma, not her,” she says, spitting bitterly at his feet with tears clouding her hazel eyes. “I was the one they were looking for.”

Matt begins to pace. The weight of the guilt pressing down on him is making it hard to speak. “Are you sure it was the Russians?” he asks.

She deadpans. “Oh, I don’t know. Did you piss off anyone else?”

“No, I–”

“She wouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for you!” A tear rolls down her cheek and gets caught in her necklace. “That girl has been through hell and back, and she can take one hell of a punch, but she’s barely got any fight left in her. Now, part of that’s my fault, but she doesn’t deserve to get dragged into your bullshit!”

“I know!” he cries. “Don’t act like she doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“You don’t get to say that!” Claire cuts him off. “You don’t know her! She’s dedicated her life to saving people,” she says. “She beat the odds more than once, and she should be here right now instead of me. So, I need you to get out there and beat the shit out of whoever you need to get her back. Put them in a coma. Carve their hearts out. I don’t care! I need you to fight for her because if she dies… if she dies, I will never forgive you.”

Her heartbeat remains steady throughout. Her words aren’t some overly emotional reaction to the fear of losing a friend, her best friend, but they are the blatant truth. In her heart and her soul, she knows she would never forgive him if you died, and she doesn’t care what he needs to do to get you back. If she could, she would burn the world down herself.

It’s not romantic love that drives her. She just knows you. She knows you, and she has grown to love you in a way that is hard for outsiders to comprehend—for those who don’t know you. She’s protective of you. She cares about you. She’s your person, and she is yours, even when you hate each other.

She will never stop fighting for you to the best of her abilities, but this is beyond her capabilities. Claire has no choice but to place what little faith she has left, no matter how mangled or broken, in Matt’s calloused hands. She might be furious at him, she might even want to claw his eyes out and sacrifice them to Satan, but she does know he cares. He cares more than most people. And if there is one thing the two have in common it is that they care about you. That has to be enough.

“Okay,” Matt whispers.

“Say it,” she commands.

“I’ll find her,” he says, louder this time. “I promise, I’ll find her.”

He needs to find you. He needs to tell you the truth. He needs to hold you in his arms, safe and sound, just to make sure you’re alive. He needs you to be alive. He prays you’re alive.

He is sure he’s losing his mind to the smoldering flames of fury. He can’t think, can’t hear anything over the rushing of his blood, and he can’t fucking breathe, but he has to—for you. He has to get it together for you.

So, he does. He takes a deep breath. He pulls the black suit out of the chest under the stairs in his apartment, and he stands on the rooftop until the city has gone quiet, and all that remains is you.

He is going to find you, and when he does, those who took you will have hell to pay.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @thatonegamefish @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41 @kiwwia-wiwwia @writtenbyred @echo-ethe @kezibear @peterbarnes @littleagxs @silas-aeiou @scoliobean

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock #matt murdock angst #daredevil #daredevil x reader #do no harm #charlie cox

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copperbadge · 8 months ago

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I went to the library this afternoon, intending to get a study room and do some work on the novel, but I got distracted and ended up spending the two hours working on a short story instead.

Georgie has said that Michaelis hired her after she rescued his friend's child from a kidnapping, and it was suggested to me recently that the friend could be Oliver McAllister, Michaelis's old school mate from Pirates of the Riviera. I was skeptical because the timing didn't quite work out, but I couldn't stop thinking about the idea, so I decided to try making it work.

And let me tell you, these messy bitches.

In 2015, Michaelis is deep in his Kingbot 3000 phase so he doesn't have to Have Feelings, and Gregory has coerced him into taking a vacation by threatening a coup. Meanwhile, Olly is fresh from his second divorce, from a woman who just tried to kidnap their child. Georgie is the most together person in the room and she's an unemployed twentysomething who just beat three men unconscious to prevent said kidnapping.

And the most amusing part to me is that because of how I set it up, Michaelis is just trying to be friendly but inadvertently keeps coming across like he's trying to seduce Georgie. Which also makes Georgie joking about trying to marry him for his money in Royals/Ramblers even funnier.

"Ma'am, the police would like to take a statement," Lael said to Georgie.

"I can have Lael find you a lawyer if you want," Michaelis added. She gave him a sardonic look.

"All right, let's get it over with," she sighed. "There goes my visit to the Musee D'Orsay."

"We'll give you the room. Olly, why don't you go in with your boy, so the police can speak with you if needed. Lael and I will be at the cafe next door when you've finished."

Georgie nodded, but he stopped as he passed her and put a hand on her arm.

"Come see us when you're done," he said quietly, ducking his head so the police at the doorway couldn't see their faces. "And cancel your job interview in London."

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Stay in Paris. You can see the museum this weekend. The palace will cover your lodging and food."

"I...don't want to offend," she said slowly, "but I'm not -- "

"I'm not flirting with you," he said, realizing belatedly how it might seem to her, and taking his hand from her arm. She looked faintly relieved. "I'm going to spend the time you're giving a statement assembling a job offer for you with my security office. Any young woman who can spot a kidnapping before it happens and soundly beat three grown men should not be leaving Askazer-Shivadlakia to do a job she hates in London. Now, regardless of that, and I say this as a concerned friend, not as king or employer: be honest and helpful with the police, but...economical."

"Just the facts?" she asked.

"Exactly." He gave her an approving nod and followed Lael out. They were silent in the hallway and lobby, until they stepped out into the street and Lael exhaled.

"That was impressive," he said. "Young lady has a great right hook."

"She's certainly very alert," Michaelis agreed.

"It's been a long time since I've seen someone throw a punch like that."

"Say it and you're fired," Michaelis said good-naturedly. He'd known Lael since the head of security had been a young palace aide during Michaelis's first days as king -- if still years older than the king himself -- and he knew what was coming.

"Not since our last trip to Galia," Lael said, voice full of relish. "That time a young hothead punched Duke Tomas in the face."

"Utterly fired. I've found your replacement. I'm putting you out to pasture with no pension."

"You think she'd make a good successor to me?" Lael asked. He was joking but, simultaneously, he was not -- they were both getting older, and Lael was as aware as Michaelis that when a new king was elected in a few years, whoever it was, they would need someone younger, someone who could more easily keep up with them.

"You tell me," Michaelis said. "You're the expert."

"Oh, I've been fired, clearly my opinion isn't wanted," Lael said, as they settled into a table at the cafe, Lael with his back to the wall, eyes always scanning behind Michaelis. There had never, at least as far as Michaelis knew, been an attempt on his life, but he'd become used to never getting direct eye contact in public from the man whose job it was, after all, to watch his back.

"Fine, I withdraw your firing. I suspect purely on her ability to sass me, she is your equal if not your better," he added, as the waitress approached. He ordered coffee and pastries briskly, then turned back to Lael.

"Well, it's difficult to tell on two minutes' acquaintance," Lael replied, "but actions do speak louder than words."

"Agreed. Perhaps a contingent offer? She has a law degree; she could likely earn more than we could offer her for a job like yours, but I think she's looking for the right job, not the right pay. Say three months of probation with guaranteed six months of pay to ensure she takes it, and a firm permanent offer at the end if you approve? Conditions non-negotiable but a bit of wiggle room in the salary, I think."

Lael considered it, then nodded. "I suppose it's paranoia to imagine she might have arranged all this to get into the Palace employ."

"As what, a spy? I love a thriller novel, Lael, but they are fiction," Michaelis replied, amused.

#shivadhverse

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episims · 8 months ago

Note

hi Epi!! I haven’t played ts2 for years after my game imploded and stopped working due to corruption. (My own fault. I would just download everything I liked and throw it in a folder.) I’d like to try it out again and I know you’ve done a lot of work on your own game to improve stability and keep file sizes down. Can you share any tips?

Hi! Welcome back to TS2!

My best tip really is the one I keep repeating so often that I'm sure people already hate me for it: pay attention to texture sizes. I'd first and foremost target everything that's usually used multiple times, like neighborhood deco, plants, clutter, counters, chairs, paintings, rugs, etc. When these things use 1024x1024 textures it increases texture load very quickly, and this old game can only handle so much of that.

Also, following PF's clever advice, I recently resized every 1024x1024 hair texture to 1024x512.

(A single large texture that's only used once shouldn't matter as much. For example, a skybox with a 2048x2048 texture is about the same as 4 trees with 1024x1024 textures or 16 trees with 512x512 textures. So if you're like me and have ~3000 trees in the neighborhood, the skybox isn't the problem.)

A very good tip too is to lower the hood view distance. As I explained here, it used to be common to force the view distance to be much larger than the default large option even is. It's a better idea to try how low you can tolerate it. Atm my own settings are way lower than when I made that post.

I wouldn't recommend using high poly stuff either as it takes more memory than low poly things. TS2 is a 32-bit game so until someone makes a new engine for it, we're stuck with the 4GB memory limit. No matter how good your computer is, the game itself can't use more than that.

There are plenty of other tricks and such that people have shared, but that's how I've gotten my fairly heavy game to run decently :)

You can check the comment section of this post if you're curious about further details of how I optimize files.

#ask me anything #anon

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pandemoniumonwheels · 1 year ago

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I have a crazy theory about episode 7 of The Wheel of Time, but I need it to cope. Feel free to cope with me. Feel free to discard that too.

It was all Siuan's quick thinking and her masterplan. And Verin didn't lie.

To start we need to separate all Moiraine - Siuan meetings. There were three.

The first one, the cold one.

Moiraine demands answers and gets none. Siuan is visibly angry, but also worried. She outright calls Moiraine's stilling a violation. She is aware how hard it is, how dangerous, how difficult to survive. And she loves Moiraine, we know she does, she worries about her. She also has to check if Moiraine can continue their mission. At the same time she can't speak too freely, they're in Cairhien, the chances of someone listening to them are higher than chances of people not eavesropping on them. She needs to be careful. What Siuan says is: "The Tower's laws have stood for 3,000 years, it's time we obeyed them." She is quite vague about the laws she refers to. And she doesn't lie, they stood for 3000 years and every time is the time to obey them. According to the law. Moreover, it's a clear parallel to season 1, episode 6 Moiraine's words: "When have we ever followed the rules?" Since when Siuan who took a marriage vow in front of the whole chamber of Aes Sedai gives a damn about Tower's laws? Why would Siuan suddenly care? Well, she doesn't, it's just a phrase only Moiraine would understand, a code in case someone is listening. This scene is also the only one we see them being close, showing affection (Siuan's hand on Moiraine's cheek? I almost hear "pufferfish" in the way Moiraine relaxes). It's another sign to Moiraine, the non-verbal communication of Siuan's real intent. Then it fades to black. We don't really know what happened between them later. Siuan also talks about rowing together. Keep that in mind, because all that she does next contradicts that statement at the first glance.

The second scene - Rand

Siuan talks with Rand, a very weird conversation. Just a few seconds earlier we saw Lan reassuring Rand that Siuan is not a typical Aes Sedai. And what is Siuan doing? Talking about caging him. But also, she doesn't say she is planning to do it to him. Only that Tower laws require it. The idea is to have Rand as a warrior, not general. But Siuan never says it is hers idea. She shows him how powerless he is. Stresses how he needs to learn. How caging him would help with that? And then Moiraine comes in. Why? To be told (in front of Rand) how incompetent she is? Only to lock them later together, because why not suddenly imprison a banished Aes Sedai with the Dragon Reborn. It doesn't make sense. Unless it's a show created to convince Rand to trust Moiraine. Rand is afraid of the Tower, rightly so. He keeps pushing Moiraine away afraid she is trying to manipulate him, make him follow the path created for him by the White Tower, put a leash on him. Moiraine can't guide him if he sees her as an agent of the power he fears. That's why Siuan becomes exactly that - the White Tower Rand doesn't trust, an Aes Sedai carrying more about forcing him to obey rather than reaching his full potential, an image he hates. On the other side is Moiraine, taking his side, arguing with imprisonment. In comparison, she is extremely trustworthy. And it works. Rand finally confides in her, shares his plans, his brilliant idea of bringing Lanfear to the city(/s). That's when Moiraine's and Siuan's plan fails, one of the Forsaken is not something they wanted, but we'll get to it.

Bonus - Verin 007

We all assume that Verin lied because that's what Moiraine suggested. But did she really? Moiraine decided to trust her to some extent. Why wouldn't Siuan? The phrasing of the "order" was very careful, but maybe not because it was a lie, but as an attempt to allow Siuan to deny such order without suspicion. And to keep the pretence in front of Rand. It worked again.

The third meeting - the pain

It all went perfectly. The Dragon trusts Moiraine and takes her with him (finally) instead of running from her. Siuan is ready to proclaim him. She doesn't need him to do so. Him fulfilling the prophecy in Falme will only make her words more believable. Verin helped them escape, no one can trace this ploy back to Siuan. There is, however, one factor they couldn't expect. Lanfear. Maybe her appearing changed Siuan's mind about letting Rand go? More likely she just Aes Selies about some boy and runs after Moiraine. And magically she finds her without any issue in front of the Waygate. How? Only Verin knew where the Waygate was, and where Moiraine would take Rand. You know where I'm going with it, right? So we get to the closing of the Waygate. Because suddenly it wasn't only about convincing Rand. They had to deal with one more, unexpected guest, and they didn't have time to discuss any tactics. Siuan had to make sure Lanfear didn't see Moiraine as a threat. She would never allow Rand to keep close someone who is working for the White Tower. The risk would be too great. Someone cast away, alone, someone who just lost their love, whose grief might be just enough to turn them to the Dark is, however, a very different thing. Siuan had to create a scene which could convince the very mistress of the dream world that Siuan and Moiraine do not work together anymore, and that Moiraine is no threat to Lanfear's plans. There was no time for planning, no time for explaining, for games. Lanfear was getting closer with every second and they wasted some of the precious time on "you lied to me" part. Side note, I do think Siuan actually believed she was lied to, and her shock was real. So was Moiraine's reassurance. But that's when Siuan came up with a way they could fool Lanfear. All she needed was Moiraine looking utterly broken and betrayed. And there was one way she could achieve that easily. By violating Moiraine more than even Ishamael did, by taking control over her in the most violent of ways, by making herself a villain. So she did. She used the only thing Moiraine never suspected could be used against her by Siuan - their love, their devotion, their secret, sweet, forbidden dream. Siuan broke both of their hearts. And when Lanfear came all she saw was shattered pieces of their love. For her that was what made her turn to the Dark, what's more convincing than a lost loved for Lanfear? Before she could think for too long, see through it, or before Moiraine could do anything, ask questions Siuan would not be able to answer, Siuan attacked. Possibly expecting that's the last thing she would do in her life. And it worked again. Lanfear let Moiraine live. Lanfear took Moiraine with her and Rand.

Siuan made herself a villain in front of Rand. And a betrayer in the eyes of Lanfear. She took that burden from Moiraine, so Moiraine could focus on helping Rand. She used every resource she had, she gave up everything she had. Because Moiraine isn't the only one that knows the right thing to do, no matter how hard that is. And her last plea was for forgiveness and nad of hope that Moiraine understands and continues their mission. As Moiraine herself said, guiding, protecting Rand is more important than Lan. It's more important than her. It's more important than any love. It was Siuan's time to give up everything to the cause. Just like Moiraine did at the Eye of the World.

__________

And it was longer than I expected. I think I will be adding more analysis to the certain scenes, words and looks. Because as I said, I do cope hard.

#wheel of time #wot on prime #moiraine damodred #moiraine x siuan #siuan sanche #the wheel of time #wot show #moiraine sedai #wot #wot s2 spoilers #meta #I'm not sure even I believe that to be true #but I want to #and I'm manifesting that #before season 3 I will manage to convince myself #s02e07

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lightofunova · 3 months ago

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*Destino saunters up to Reshi, wearing a pair of shades.*

Destino: Damn, it's so bright out here. Not as bright and as beautiful as myself but nothing could get to those levels. How are you not blinded by this light? Weren't you stuck in a tower sleeping? I don't know for how long but I wish that could be me right now. Honestly, I could do with a slumber like you had. How long was it for? 10 hours or something? That's all I'm gonna do when I'm monarch. Sleep. And it'll be thoroughly deserved too. I mean, who would want to wake up and experience this? Reshino, perhaps you should have kept sleeping. If I was in your situation, I would have kept my slumber going. And the amount of walking you have to do. Eww. Just get someone to carry you around. I know I would.

Reshi stares at the absol for a few moments. “I mean…It is quite bright, I can’t look out over the water for too long without my eyes watering.” She was thankful for the mist clouding a good portion of the sun.

Then they said something that caused her to stop walking, staring at them yet again.

“I was asleep because I almost died Destino.” She deadpanned at them. “Though if you could sleep for 3000 years with no food or water then perhaps you could truly be a legend.” She considered.

“Ah, but you wouldn’t have any contact either. I doubt you could deal without your adoring fans.” Reshi added once more, walking past them without another word. Tornadus followed along, glancing down at the absol for a moment. The small ghost type on his shoulder took a look at the royal as well, before a smirk spread across his waxy face.

“Lio lit loo.” The remark caused the albino ahead to laugh aloud.

“Well said Litwick! Perhaps they wouldn’t even be able to finish without worrying about a split claw!” It seemed as if the two were having a jest at Destino’s expense. All in good fun, of course, she knew better than to cross a line.

“You should be mindful though Litwick, they are a close…” Reshi stopped, halting her gait as she remembered something. She would have spoken out of turn if she continued that sentence. A twinge of pain crossed her heart as she remembered why, but as quickly as it had came it was gone once more.“Ah well, I suppose they’re just a nuisance who wants attention. Carry on Litwick!”

#reshi #pokemon #reshiram #reshi reshiram #rp #Arc 3: ???#smth smth telltale games (reshi will remember rhis) vibes #litwick is a hilarious little shit #i dont even know what i made him say but ill figure smth out LOL #litwick litwick #litwick #tornadus #tornadus mention #tor tornadus

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elvenbeard · 1 year ago

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What if we kissed under the bigass neon Christmas tree at Corpo Plaza surrounded by virtual snowfall?

🥺👉👈😘🎄🐟❄️ (<- the emoji combo Kerry sent Vince to start off their date, probably)

Fantastic neon tree prop by @lokiina (you don't have to scale it up to 3000% like I did, but you can, and that's awesome!) 💚

Snowflake props, comfy sweater (Kerry), scarves, and pullover (Vince) by @pinkyjulien💛

Some headcanons and behind the scenes pics below the cut xD

I wasn't sure if I'd manage to do wintery pics still in time cause the last weeks I was ill and also busy as hell, so yeah XD But then, as I was playing around with the Christmas tree, knowing that it's scalable, I had the spontaneous urge to see just how big you could make it... and we'd been talking about how utterly decked out NC has got to be in colorful lights and shit around Christmas (because, yay, consumerism!). And since there are virtual cherry blossoms everywhere, there's gotta be virtual snowfall too!

This is what it looked like from afar :D

Now, headcanon time!

I think, as someone who grew up in the 90s and poor-ish, like me, Christmas must've been a special and magical time for Kerry, even if it's probably lost its charm as he grew older. I still think though, since I interpret him as someone very nostalgic who tends to linger in the past, he'd definitely be into decorating the house and having at least a small fake tree or something set up. He probably did that with Louise and his kids as well (cause yay, giving presents to make up for the guilty feelings of being a probably otherwise not very present parent - ba-dum-tss), and in the following years it brought back too many bad feelings and memories for him to really look forward to it. But with Vince he'd wanna make new memories, he'd probably be in the holiday spirit again for the first time in a long time... but little does he know that Vince is a little Grinch ("What the fuck is a Grinch?" - ".... movie night, right now!")

Vince's family *never* celebrated Christmas in a big way. His mother thought the decorations tacky and didn't want them in her house. Culture-wise, with his dad's Japanese background, Christmas is more a romantic couple's holiday than the traditional family or even religious thing we have in the west. So he doesn't have strong feelings about Christmas apart from "hm, yeah, the lights are pretty I guess". But I'd also like to think that Kerry does manage to get him in the holiday spirit at least a little bit too xD Cause in the end, it's about spending time with your loved ones and giving a shit about the rest imo XD

#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #cyberpunk photomode #cyberpunk vp #cyberpunk 2077 vp #cp2077 vp #cyberpunk kerry #cyberpunk v #kerry eurodyne #kerry eurodyne x v #vincent ezaki #otp: to bad decisions #virtual photography #my vp #*writing whole essays about them again aösdfhasdfasfhdsa*#also finally decided on what they're watching in the movie night photoset from last week XDD

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sageandred · 3 months ago

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OLD MUSINGS *issa joke but i feel it

~ A sadistic character outline...and a shameless rafebarry post ~

I don't know if anyone in the obx fandom knows what everyone in the obx fandom knows, but Rafe is absolutely 💫❤️psycho✨️ ● The Pates can try to sell me their he's a changed man narrative with the nice lil poor girl and this is no hate to Sofia, but Rafe isn't the type of character to turn a new leaf because she saw the good in him (i'm lowkey convinced there is no good and i prefer it) and he definitely isn't gonna find love and light with Kiara, who deserves better. The thing is Rafe is interesting...Rafe is a good character. He's a mess and he's convinced his choices make sense as he's a PROACTIVE TYPE OF PERSON...and his dad just died. Ward failed him and he should probably be in therapy for years now, but he won't as history has indicated (and he shouldn't).

This lil 'b is damaged as f-

...and there should be no hope for him.

The only "love" story that makes sense for him (and it still won't fix him) is this mfer—

Rafe is a character that needs chaos. He needs Barry. I don't care that it's toxic; I don't care that Barry double-crossed him and they've got a lot to work out between them now. This is the gold ship of Outer Banks.

They have c h e m i s t r y —in a way that you question the history in the time we didn't see on screen-that teeters between platonic hatred towards each other or 'they might kiss in a minute'.

They have the real stuff of enemies to lovers that could lead to them wanting to kill each other.

Rafe is a spoiled rich brat; Barry probably grew up poor and has his business hustle for survival (so, they both love money) < see! common interests!

Barry has the nicknames down that sound like they would only make appearances on AO3: "Country Club." I have a special appreciation for "J Crew lookin ass."

like I said, Rafe is a mess! He goes to Barry pretty much any time he needs someone to rely on. He breaks down at his place in the middle of the night and sleeps on the couch (that's an actual scene)!

Barry is just messy enough for Rafe with a neutral at best, skewed at least moral compass. Rafe makes him look like an angel in comparison, but he's been shady nonetheless.

They both fit the potential character-build of 'doing shit for fun'- Barry would 100% do some heinous acts for the sole purposes of bringing himself amusement. He already went along with numerous of Rafe's plans, and Rafe doesn't care..he would do things, and has gone much further than Barry in their situations.

They would be so funny to watch in a fight. They would team up. Rafe isn't that good in fights with Pogues outside of blindsiding them, and that one time Barry lost to the Pogues was because they blindsided him (after he blindsided them).

And the actors ship them! What more could you want?

In season 4, Rafe should be gone off the deep-end following Ward's death. He should be distressed and messed up from losing who he looked up to, while also having that complicated relationship he has no idea has severe flaws. We should get Rafe breaks down on Barry's doorstep 2.0, Rafe loses control in a seemingly well-thought out scheme of instability attempt #3000, and Barry follows him on this quest like they always do.

#ramblings from the void #i haven't watched s4 #so idk what happens & hope this doesn't offend sof/rafe shippers if there are any #rafe x barry #rafe cameron #rafebarry #outer banks #rarry #barry obx #obx

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possiblyawesometmblr · 1 year ago

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alright *cracks knuckles* i'm putting up the corkboard

so: what the hell is going on with the magnus protocol (an opinion essay by me):

i think that this is exactly what was presented to us at the end of the tma finale. the ritual worked. it sent the fears to a brand new dimension, and that's what we're now seeing. an entirely different universe that it just a touch to the left of the one we've already seen, and how they're dealing with the fears. and the biggest difference is that they, unknowingly or not, have followed exactly what they talked about in tma -- the fears are far more complicated than simply splitting them into 14 seperate entities.

that's why the cataloging system is such a nightmare in a huge binder. they haven't tried to seperate the fears, because they see them as they are -- far too intertwined with each other to be able to effectively separate them. that was the whole point of the apocalypse ritual in tma, anyway -- you cannot seperate them. they don't work like that.

what we're seeing here is a direct continuation of what annabelle cane promised: the fears are in a new dimension. and it's time to see just how badly the gang from tma have doomed them.

(i also can't explain how the whole chester and norris thing happened but i think it's something along the lines of "something something oh god physical forms don't carry across dimensions very well". i'm convinced that's jon and martin. 3000%. just need someone to explain how tf they got IN there. i will also bet money right now that augustus is jonah.)

#the magnus protocol #tmp #the magnus protocol spoilers #tmp spoilers #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma #the magnus archives

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regthomas1728 · 5 days ago

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Weekly Writing Exercise - 1

I won't date these, I'll just put them in an order that you can follow/start anytime.

To better explain these:

1.) Find a Writing Prompt: reblog your answer to the prompt. The answer should be between 3000-5000 words. Try to keep it between these, not less or more than. The goal: kind of like a Drabble, we're testing our ability to utilize good words.

2.) Find a work to edit: on Tumblr, find someone and ask if you can edit someone's work (FREE). One, make a connection. Two, you must ask permission--not everyone is sharing their work for feedback. Your goal: preserve the author's voice while editing for grammar and cohesiveness. This will help you identify problems in your own work later.

3.) Don't use filler words. You'll know these best but some good examples I've seen from others are "suddenly" which takes away the "how" you get from one action/scene to the next. Another example can be "that" or "then" which does the same thing. Avoid redundant words--don't over clarify (I do this, which is why I'm mentioning it) in more than one sentence the same thing. Your goal: make use of every word--determine how it contributes to your piece overall and if it doesn't, delete it.

4.) Add A Character: If you have enough characters in whatever WIP you're working on, then just create a character for another story or practice creating characters. Find a template (I have some reblogged) or create from scratch. Have fun with this character. Your goal: deep dive into your character. Not just appearances, how did they become who they are. Get attached.

5.) Create A Subplot: Everyone loves a good subplot--these can contribute to the plot or help develop who your character is. Or something else, I guess. This subplot can happen over one chapter or the whole story--maybe let it turn into an inside joke between two or three characters. Your goal: working with the plot and subplot.

6.) Edit Your Prompt Work: remember the first one? Responding to a writing prompt? Copy that into a document and hard core edit. If you need help doing this, reach out to me. Your goal: recognizing your writing difficulties and correct them. Rewrite and reblog your work. (Make sure you have some days between the first and second draft.)

7.) Use Writing Tip(s) You've Reblogged: check your writing tips in reblogs, or check mine, and apply one of the tips to your WIP. Either just a portion or the whole thing. Of course, find one that you think you need to work on. Your goal: improving using the advice of fellow authors.

Regine Thomas Tumblr Arse | With (His) Spunk [email protected]

#writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #creative writing #writers #writerscommunity #writer #on writing #writing community #writing advice #writing exercises #writing exercise #writers and poets #ao3 writer

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melanieph321 · 1 year ago

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Ruben Dias x Black Reader - The Bodyguard Part 1/8

Yeah, this is going to be good 🤭🤭 So good!

Summary - Reader is a popstars in trouble and Ruben is her new bodyguard, here to protect and help her find out who wants to hurt her. But what happens when the relationship between Reader and Ruben simply gets too personal?

Enjoy!

"A bodyguard? For what?"

"Y/N, a person has threatened your life."

"So? People do that online every day. Haters gonna hate."

You fell back against the cuchens of your fifthy thousand euro couch. Sure, it was expensive, but it came straight from the set of Pulp Fiction, a collectors item, worth every penny. Pulp Fiction was your absolute favorite movie of all time.

"I get that you don't want someone following you around all day, especially now with the tour of your knew album, but please consider your own safety first." You're sister had been managing you ever since the beginning of your singing career, of course her natural instict was to worry about you.

"Fine you sighed. So when is this guy coming?"

"Well, we had him fly in from his latest job in the UAE."

"The what know?"

"The UAE, like Dubai? Aapparently even the riches shieks in the middle east wants this guy as their bodyguard. He's an ex navy seal from what I've heard."

"Girl." You chuckled. "I received one threatening phone call from a man who calls himself the Dickonataor 3000. What makes you think I need a navy seal to protect me from that? You should have gotten one of the pumped up dudes from the fitness center I go to to set this guy straight. How much is this bodyguard guy even costing us?"

"Well, he said your only up for trial and that discussions won't happen until the end of that trial period."

"A trial?" You sat up. "You mean to tell me that this guy is only coming around for a trial. To what? See if my life is really worth guarding?"

"Somthing like that, yes. I don't know all the details. Taylor was the one who set everything up."

"Taylor? What does he know about hiring bodyguards?"

"Well he has a decade of experience when it comes to driving spoiled popstars like yourself."

"I'm not spoiled, you're spoiled."

You're sister smiled. "We're both spoiled."

"Mom would be very proud, too bad she rarely flies out to see us?"

"She will be here for your album release party, she promised."

"Yeah, yeah, promises promises, they mean nothing to me."

Your sister stood with her hands behind her back, watching you. You hated the way she dressed nowadays, in pantsuits, like a damn politician.

"Are you ready to go back to rehearsals?" She asked. You had only gone back to your apartment for a quick break. You had been dancing all day.

"I haven't eaten anything yet." You said.

"We'll pick somthing up on the go, come." She offered you her hand. Just like she when you were kids, wanting to hold your hand on your way to school.

Rehearsals went well, however your feet were killing you by the time you got home. Taylor dropped you off at the apartment whilst your sister still had some business to take care of. You were glad to be alone for a change, having been surrounded by people telling you what to do all day.

"Maria?"

You peaked your head through to the kitchen to see if your personal chef was there. You'd ask her to cook a nice meal, perhaps one of her country's delicacies. You loved Brazilian food.

"Maria?"

She was nowhere to be found. You went to look for her in her office.

"Mari—"

"She's not here."

You froze as a big shadow swept behind you, followed by the dark voice of a man.

"Who are you?" You turned around and gasped. The man stood tall, dressed in a blacksuit and tie. His hair was slicked back, like a business man trying to appear more professional than he was.

"I'm here to kill you." He stated, just like that, with his hands tied before him.

"Um...okay. Taylor!!" You shouted.

"We're twelve stories up sweetheart, he won't hear you."

You frowned, applled by the man and his commanding, yet not threatening demeanor.

"What do you want, I don't keep any money here."

"Yeah, I realized that. However I hacked into your computer in your office."

"Y...you what?"

"It's not very smart of you not to encrypt any of your emails. I've received everything I need about your recent payments, credit card details, enough to forge your identity to make you go bankrupt in a few days time."

Your chest heaved up with your heavy breathing. Who was this guy, an intruder? Why was he so calm? Was he one of those serial killers to have sex with your corps before cutting it to pieces and eat it. Not on your watch, you thought and quickly ran back downstairs.

"Mariaaaaa!" You shouted.

"Like I said, I sent her home."

The man was right at your heals, following you wherever you went.

"What...why?" You said, slightly out of breath and your feet were still sore, so you didn't feel like running.

"Your apartment should be cleared out of staff by 6.pm it's easier to keep track of who goes in and out of the apartment if all your staff have a time stamp on them."

"How did you even get into the building?" You asked. "Did the doorman let you in?"

The man looked at you with tinted eyes, they were intimidating, yet kind. "The doorman has a shift change that occurs with a thirty minute window before the next guy shows up. I simply bid my time, observing your building all day, waiting for the right moment to simply walk into the building and take the elevator up to your floor."

"W.. what do you want?" You were trembling with fear now, ready to scream if the man dared try anything. However he seemed to keep his distance between you, yet it seemed like he was still invading your space.

"Like I said, I'm here to kill you. Or more so simulate how a killer would make the attempt to approach you in your home. From what I've gathered today you're an easy victim Y/N."

"How did you....wait are you...you're him aren't you? The bodyguard?"

The man stood with his hands behind his straight back, neither confirming or denying your statement.

You shook your head, a hint of a smile on your lips. "What a starnge way to introduce yourself and aren't you too young to be a bodyguard. I was expecting some G.I Joe looking mother fuc...."

"I think I'll do guarding a 60 kg girl who doesn't lock her front door when she leaves her home."

"But I know everyone who lives in this building and we have a doorman."

"You'll lock your doors from now on." He said, end of.

You were slightly taken back, mostly by the way he was dominating you, but also by the way you let him dominant you.

"It's my apartment, I can do whatever I want." You said, a bit unconvincing.

"Not on my watch."

You snorted. "Right."

"Did I say something funny?"

"Yeah, a lot of things actually."

"I'm sorry to have frightened you with my unannounced entry Miss..."

"Y/N, is fine. " You said, crossing your arms over your chest.

"It's just standard protocol for me to ensure that whoever I'm working for is secure beyond my protection so that when it's necessary for me to give my life to them, I'll know it was for the right reason and not some sloppy mistake like an unlocked door or the fact that you let unwanted personal linger past suitable hours."

You're eyes were narrowed as you stared at the man, trying to make sense of it all. You stared at him until the point of realizing that he was actually kind of cute.

"Oh shit, there you are."

The strange introduction came to an end with your sister stumbling through the door.

"Taylor told me that he picked you up from the airport hours ago. I see you've already met my sister." She stepped forward shaking the man's hand.

"Yes we have just made ourselves acquainted, setting some ground rules for this arrangement."

Your sister looked at you, slightly impressed. You on the other hand was not having it at all.

"Y/N, why the long face?" Your sister said. "Meet Ruben Dias, you're new bodyguard."

#fanfiction #football imagine #man city #manchester city #ruben dias #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias imagine #footballer imagine #footballer x reader #football angst #ruben dias x black reader #black reader

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nowoyas · 2 years ago

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Boiling Point 1: Rabbit Season - Miguel O'Hara/Reader (NSFW)

Next - M.list - Ao3

A/N: hi I'm very normal about miguel o'hara. come be normal with me.

Summary: You are determined to put an end to the onslaught of your toy collection. In your quest, you set out to re-train yourself into some discipline.

Warnings: smut, vibrator use, masturbation. reader is afab and a sub.

Word count: ~3000 words

You are really starting to hate Miguel O'Hara.

Oh, sure, you’d follow him to the ends of every earth, Earth-47 notwithstanding—fuck Earth-47 and its migraine-inducing everything—and you will never thank him enough for everything he’s done, for you and all the other dimensions saved by him, directly or otherwise. He’s brilliant, he’s a genius, he’s easy on the eyes, his leadership is instrumental to holding together All of Everything, all that which you can comprehend and conceive, all that which you cannot. He does not always have all the information, but you trust him to do as much good as he can with the information he has. He is fundamentally good to a fault, and while he can be abrasive at times—perhaps more often than not—we can’t all be winners all the time.

No, your issue with him has nothing to do with any of that.

Your head is more than a little fuzzy right now, given your current circumstances, so I’ll be nice and put this in a way you can understand:

Miguel O'Hara keeps breaking your fucking sex toys.

Like I said, he’s easy on the eyes. Maybe too easy. Maybe, more than once, you’ve fought at his side and had an entirely separate fight in your head just to keep your mind on the matter at hand. Maybe, one time too many, you’ve seen his fangs flash during a flare of the temper or a slip of his guard and not quite forgotten the sight. Maybe you’ll need to be lobotomized if you want to forget that time you’d gone on a mission with him and he’d leapt directly at you, claws out, fangs bared, eyes vermilion, to tackle you out of the way of some particularly dangerous debris and stayed on top of you for a full eternity after that to make sure you were okay.

If that final image was the one seared behind your eyes as you sighed and pressed your vibe into yourself this fine afternoon, that’s between you and no one. And, in fact, it wasn’t, because you are never admitting to getting off to the general thought of your—boss?—your boss, not today or ever, under oath or the threat of death.

That being said, it had started as a bit of a coping mechanism.

He was stupid hot, and he walked towards you like you were quarry he had hunted, and the first time he’d done it, your brain had gone completely offline for a full five seconds. Getting off that night had been unrelated, you tell yourself—you didn’t think while pumping two fingers into your cunt, let alone about him, let alone when you’d added the third because you were certainly not imagining something thicker plunging into your heat. Fingers hadn’t been enough, not for a job like that, and by the time you overheard him finish a playful spat with Lyla with the words “good girl”, you’d given in and broke open the vibrator collection, a relic of a much more impulsive time, before you were fucking yourself on toys definitely not to the thought of your boss.

The first casualty had been your green rabbit vibe. It was a mainstay, and your oldest toy—a thruster, thick, good insertable length, great battery life, not so loud you struggled to get off for fear of your next-door neighbor hearing its buzz. Miguel had bitten someone during a mission that day, just held them and sunk his teeth in and set them down as they slumped, paralyzed, and wiped his mouth of the blood afterward like it wasn’t the hottest thing known to man.

Monsterfucking porn had been your saving grace. You’d turned to werewolves and tried not to overthink the image in your head when you pictured their teeth scraping your flesh, and then your old reliable rabbit vibe had made an odd noise between your writhing that tore you out of the image entirely. Seconds later, it stopped thrusting whether you wanted it to or not. When you hit the button, it made a pathetic noise like a spent lover, wriggled a moment, and went right back to motionless.

You’d groaned in frustration, pulled it out, told yourself it had just died, except it was still making that buzzing noise and the clitoral stimulator was still working fine. You pulled the third orgasm of the night out of the clit stimulator and your wrist work alone—it had been a bit better, because the ruined orgasm 2.5 had ultimately turned out to be an edge, and a name that no one would ever be able to prove was Miguel’s ghosted your lips by then. A good cleaning, a good charge, and some cooldown time, and you determined that the thruster of your poor little green rabbit would never work again.

Miguel O'Hara’s second casualty among your collection was nearly as tragic. You’d come to see him at the wrong time that day—walked in, said his name, and he’d turned to you with red eyes and actually growled at you, and holy shit, you couldn’t calm down for the next hour or the rest of the night.

Your green rabbit had been relegated to a glorified dildo and clit vibe, and as you thrashed on your bed, desperately chasing just an echo of the things that ran through your head when he growled at you, pressing the vibe into yourself as far as it would go and nearly there nearly there nearly there, it buzzed oddly and its power suddenly fell away.

You’d choked back a sob at that one. Again, you assumed it’d been a case of poor battery life, though you hadn’t charged it all that long ago. When you reluctantly pulled out the dripping vibe and saw its indicator lights flashing and flickering in the dark room, you did sob, and then, because you were still thinking about the growl in his voice and the flash of his fangs, you dragged yourself out of bed, dumped your old friend in the trash, and found your backup vibrator to finish the job.

The next casualty of your collection had been your pink vibe—she was an upgrade in every way to the green one. More speed options, rotating beads in the shaft, an attempt to imitate “tongues” on the clit, however the hell that was supposed to work, and more money to have discreetly shipped to your apartment.

This time, Miguel hadn’t even done anything in particular to catch you in his toy-breaking throes. He’d just been existing. Vibing, if you will. And your horny ass—by that point you were starting to suspect yourself some kind of nymphomaniac, and that was before casualty number three—saw him just sitting there and eating food like a normal-ass person, had some really fucking horny thoughts (first about just cooking for him, nice, domestic, sweet) (second about him pulling up the apron you’d wear for him in the first scenario and splitting you in half over the kitchen counter), and that was it for your evening post-shenanigans.

So, naturally, when you got home, you took off the bracelet, stashed it in another room, leaned over your kitchen counter, and revved up that rotating-beads-in-the-shaft thruster, pistoning it into your cunt with obscene squelches like your life depended on it. You’d kept it up, free hand clasped over your mouth, until you were forced to finish on the couch lest your legs give out, and the poor thing overheated from the strain of trying to keep up with the image you had in your head of Miguel and the thruster never moved again. Great investment, that one.

It was at this point in time that you had two options:

First, seek therapy to help you through the excruciating condition of being sex-crazed for one Miguel O'Hara.

Or, secondly, you could funnel those feelings through a surrogate and fuck someone else’s brains out so you didn’t have to think about him.

You, in all your overwhelming genius, decided that the city’s superhero could not retain the services of a therapist in any way that mattered, let alone any of the Spider-Therapists abound at HQ, and instead found your way into a myriad of fuck-buddy relationships with perfect strangers.

You found your pool of eligible fuck-buddies wanting, to say the least. You never used to be all that picky—I mean, sure, you were never exactly all that attracted to anyone before the whole Spider thing, and then you were a little too busy to worry about it, but you still probably would have slept with someone if they were decently pretty enough and nice to you—but then you tried to find someone and filtered out half of them on looks alone.

Hair too light. Too waifish. I could snap this one in half.

Some were just generally not great candidates as you swiped through: weird thoughts about domming, one whose bio mentioned how he would expect you to throw out your toys once you were “dedicated” to him (those were expensive and you’d been forced to throw out one too many already), misaligned kinks, one guy who literally said “I don’t believe in safewords” and didn’t see how that was the biggest red flag in the universe.

It took too long, once you’d settled on a few choice matches, to figure out what they all had in common beyond making profiles on a hookup app and claiming to be dominants:

They all reminded you of Miguel.

This, admittedly, did not become clear until later, when you slept with the first one for the second time and it wasn’t all that bad and while he had you blindfolded on the bed, you forgot yourself and moaned a name.

Not ‘sir’, like had been discussed in your initial meeting.

At first, you’d frozen because you’d forgotten to use his title, and that meant you were due for punishment. Then, it was because you realized the real mistake:

That hadn’t been his name you’d moaned.

You broke it off shortly after that. When the second guy went the way of the first, you gave yourself one last shot with this whole diversion idea, and that went pretty well. You lasted three whole months with this one—he was sweet, he was funny, and when it came time for you to be tied down and have your brains fucked out, he respected your hard stops and made your head fuzzy by the time he was done with you.

He bit you in the heat of the moment, and you moaned the wrong name again, and this time, you gave up on having any sort of sex life, even though he tried to be understanding of the misstep.

His teeth weren’t sharp enough to live up to who you wanted him to be, anyway.

How many casualties had Miguel O'Hara racked up in your bedroom, now? Three partners, two thrusting mechanisms, one vibrator, and now, as you sit on your knees on your bed and ride the half-defunct pink rabbit, the still-functioning vibrator buzzing in the night, you give in and admit to yourself that what you need more than anything is for him to break you in half. To chase you down, clamp his teeth on your throat, and have his way with you.

Riding this stupid toy isn’t enough. You slump face-first onto the bed, ass in the air, and try to imagine how his hand would feel on the back of your neck as you reach a hand back to pump the toy into your weeping pussy.

This, too, is not enough—you resort to full-power vibrator, nearly spasming as you try to reach the heights you need to feel satisfied tonight. And you even nearly get there, before Miguel O'Hara’s stupid everything claims its seventh casualty and the vibrator sputters out with a noise that you’ve come to associate with a profound sort of grief.

You throw the broken vibrator aside, reach for the shitty purple bullet vibe that had come as a free gift with one of your collection. In your haste and with the strength that comes with being a Spider, the fucking thing snaps in your hands. Another casualty of his. At least you didn’t pay a hundred dollars for that one.

It’s little consolation. Tears slip down your cheeks as you reach back to do the job manually, but no amount of fingering yourself or frantically rubbing at your clit is going to be enough, and fuck it, you know that by now, but that was your last toy and now there’s nothing left and his stupid pretty face is still in your head and you have to do something!

It’s no good.

Nothing you’ve tried has ever quite been good enough, and you know that.

Short of buying yourself a fucking machine, too expensive and noisy and hefty to even really consider, you’ve got nothing.

After fifteen frustrated minutes of crying and trying to bring yourself up to that climax you so desperately need, you throw yourself down fully onto the bed and actively cry into your pillow.

He’s stupid.

He’s burned through every sex toy in your collection, every vibrator and thruster, every partner you’ve tried to lay with since meeting him.

You are really, really starting to hate Miguel O'Hara.

Okay, so that’s one unhealthy coping mechanism lost to your complete inability to be chill. Luckily, you’re not just a sex-crazed simp for him, you’re also an adrenaline junkie, and if your substitute for all the lost sexual outlets happens to be taking some bigger risks than you normally would when caught up in some fight or another, that’s between you and the wall you went through.

Keep telling yourself it’s sustainable, and maybe you won’t have to worry about the weird look from one of the many various Peters running around or the stern look on the face of Miguel when you report back in. Which Peter? Fuck if you know. You were faceblind before joining the society comprised of 95% the same guy in different flavors. They don’t take it personally. At least you almost always get the name right.

And really, it is! It is completely sustainable! Bruises are a thing you wear with pride, and you’re beyond the worry for broken bones and serious injury by now. If anything, the dull ache in your back could be a useful grounding point to keep yourself from thinking about things you shouldn’t, a skill you probably should have been practicing well before you broke the first vibe.

Nothing you try works, of course, not when he’s standing in front of you looking an awful lot like he has something to say.

“I should head back, too,” you say when your backup Peter has moved to leave. A perfect segue to heading back to your home dimension and—

“[name]. Stay back a moment.”

He doesn’t word things like requests. You’ve learned, over time, that he is requesting, in a way, but his voice is forever just a bit too deep and rumbly for your body to interpret it as anything but an order, and god you’re useless. So much for not thinking about the things you’re trying not to think about.

You have to remember that you can’t stay here and chat, so you remember that you can’t stay here and chat, and so you turn to leave anyway. “I can’t really stay and chat—“

“That was stupid,” he interrupts.

Ah. He was watching you fight today.

He raises a single eyebrow as he studies you. (You hate his stupid face you hate his stupid face you hate—)

“You could have moved out of the way.”

You snort, brush it off. “He was just some villain of the week type. I thought it’d be cool if I could get him before he hit me.”

“You let him hit you because you thought it would be cool?”

“No, I waited too long to move the way I wanted to, because I thought it would be cool. It’s not like I really got hurt, anyway.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh, muttering something in Spanish you don’t quite catch.

“What was that?”

“I can’t decide whether you’re stupid or just need discipline.”

That is decidedly not what he said. You caught enough shreds of his muttering to know that much. And anyway, it doesn’t matter, because it takes all your willpower not to reply with discipline me yourself then, coward and you’re so focused on that thought that it clicks.

Oh.

What you need is not to get over your monumental attraction to him.

It’s discipline.

Before you fucked the life out of every vibrator you owned, you had discipline.

Before you met him, you had discipline.

It was something you’d given over to sexual partners to handle—to tell you when to masturbate, when to cum, when to pull your toys away regardless of how needy you were.

And, in the absence of any such partners between your newly exacting standards and inability to sleep with anyone without thinking of someone else, it’s once again going to have to come from you.

You meet his eyes, a new fire within you. “I’ll do better.”

He holds your haze a long moment, his expression one of those enigmas you could spend centuries trying to crack and still turn out to be wrong in the end.

He breaks it off first, turns away from you.

“Then do it. I’ll be waiting.”

You slip out of the room and clear out of the dimension.

You’ll get your discipline back if it kills you.

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