#Tunnel Spraying Machine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

warpdrive-witch · 28 days ago

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Remind Me

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader Warnings: NSFW, Daddy Kink, Breeding Kink, Oral, Grinding, Plot: Agatha picks you up from jail after being arrested at a protest. Smut. Pure fucking smut. MEN AND MINORS DNI! Buy Mommy a ☕️

The door to the holding cell groaned open with a mechanical click, a burst of stale air and flickering fluorescent light bleeding across the cement floor. It spilled into the room like something sour and uninvited. You squinted as the frame widened—like the night itself had blinked awake, and you were the first thing it saw.

“Harkness!”

The name cracked through the stale air like a warning shot—sharp, nasal, and clipped with bureaucratic disinterest. The desk sergeant didn’t look up from his clipboard. He didn’t have to.

A summons. A signal. The sound of consequences catching up to chaos… and letting it walk free.

It took you a full breath to register he was calling for you. Your last name, detached and impersonal, echoing across steel and stone like it didn’t belong to flesh. Before you could even respond, it came again—louder, more impatient this time: “Harkness!”

Your name, barked out like an accusation. Like a command. Like you were both the problem and the proof. You rose slowly from the concrete bench you'd been slumped on for hours, spine creaking, shoulders groaning under the weight of stillness and dried sweat. Your legs protested, stiff from sitting cross-legged too long. Every muscle in your body buzzed with fatigue, but you moved like you weren’t giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.

Nothing was broken. Nothing that wouldn’t fade. But the ache was real. The skin around your wrists stung, raw and red where the zip-ties had dug in deep. Raised welts circled your skin like branding, half-faded but unforgettable. Your shirt stuck to your back—damp with sweat, dried gas, maybe blood. You couldn’t tell anymore. Couldn’t care.

You smelled like protest: Pepper spray. Adrenaline. Smoke. Truth. And you walked like you’d earned every second of it.

Boots hit concrete with a weight you didn’t bother to hide. Every step was deliberate. Measured. Yours.

The Sharpie number on your forearm was half-smeared from sweat and friction, but still visible. Still inked into your skin like a spell. Still there. Just like you would continue to be until people woke up to the insanity around them taking place.

The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel built from fatigue and bad lighting. You passed fingerprint stations and cold metal desks. You passed other faces—blank, bureaucratic, bored. The hum of vending machines and overused fluorescents filled the air like static.

And then— him.

The cop.

The officer who’d slammed your face into the sidewalk during the scuffle, who’d muttered something about “you people” when the zip-tie bit into your bone. He sat behind a glass partition in a side office, half-shadowed, chewing the end of a pen like it owed him something.

His eyes didn’t lift. But his presence soured the entire hallway. As you passed, he muttered without looking: “Stay out of trouble and listen next time.”

You didn’t break stride. Didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. You just raised one hand behind you—deliberate, smooth, no hesitation—and extended your middle finger like a quiet act of war. A blessing, even. A fucking benediction. That gesture was a full sentence. A punctuation mark. A signature. One last message to the officer who thought the right to protest needed to be approved by him personally.

The door to the lobby buzzed. A low, grating sound—followed by the clank of an electronic lock disengaging.

You pushed it open with your shoulder. And there she was. Agatha.

Standing just inside the threshold, like she’d been pacing seconds before and froze the moment the door released. A single line of harsh overhead light caught the crown of her head and the curve of her cheekbone, casting the rest of her in shadow.

Her coat was black, unzipped, thrown on in a rush. Her hair was pulled up into a loose knot, haphazard and unstyled—too high, too tight, like she hadn’t meant to come out. Like she hadn’t expected it to be you she was bailing out until it already was. Jeans. Boots. No makeup. Still beautiful. Still furious.

She didn’t move. Not right away. Just stood there, arms folded tightly across her chest, one boot angled slightly out—her weight tilted like she didn’t trust the ground beneath her anymore. Her eyes found you instantly. They dropped to your wrists first, where angry red bands still marked your skin. Then up to your face—your swollen cheekbone, your tear-gas eyes, the smirk you couldn’t quite wipe off your face. And then her gaze hardened. Not in rage. Not in judgment.

In something worse. Fear, choked and weaponized. A gut-punch of helplessness buried under the brittle armor of restraint. Her head tilted just a fraction. Her brow arched just enough. That look. The Agatha Harkness look. Sharp enough to slice through steel. Soft enough to hold your name inside it. Somehow, impossibly, it held both: You absolute idiot and thank God you’re standing. Judgment and devotion in one unbroken, devastating line of sight.

Your lips parted. You had something cocky on the tip of your tongue—something like “Miss me?” or “Wasn’t even the worst night I’ve had.” You almost said it. But before a single syllable passed your lips, her voice cut across the space—low, quiet, final: “Not now.”

It landed like gravity. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just a truth wrapped in warning. An invocation of privacy. Of safety. Of boundaries drawn by love, not law. You stopped. The smirk faded just slightly, tucked back into the corners of your breath.

A pause bloomed between you. Thick enough to carry everything unspoken: the worry in her shoulders, the heat in your ribs, the way you had both seen this moment coming and still hated the fact that it had arrived.

She turned before you could answer, pushing the door open to the parking lot without looking back. The concrete was slick with dew. The air still held a trace of smoke. The smell of asphalt and distant rain filled your nose, wiping away the bleach and stale sweat of the jail behind you. And as you passed her to slide into the car, your thigh brushed hers—accidental, but real. She flinched. Just barely. Just enough.

You climbed into the car without a word. The seat creaked under your weight, the scent of her perfume rising up from the upholstery like muscle memory. She closed the door behind you with the softest click. You closed your eyes for half a second—just long enough to feel the ache settle.

She got in beside you, turned the key, and backed out with a sharp turn of the wrist. Headlights flooded the cracked concrete in front of you, catching the faint haze of rising mist. The tires rolled slow over the speed bump in the lot, then faster once the road widened, away from the building, away from the cuffs, away from everything that reeked of detention and authority and stale coffee breath.

The city was quiet at this hour, not asleep but sedated. Fog drifted low across the asphalt, blurring the orange glow of the streetlamps into watery halos. The roads were slick from earlier rain, and everything smelled like pavement and static.

Agatha said nothing.

The dashboard cast her face in a dim blue wash. Soft shadows sat beneath her eyes, deepening the sharp line of her cheekbone. She looked composed, but not calm. Her jaw was too tight. Her hands too still on the wheel.

You shifted in your seat, restless. Your knee bounced on a melody of its own. Your fingers picked at the half-smeared Sharpie ink on your arm. The numbers were fading fast, blurring into a mess of gray lines and sweat, but you kept rubbing them anyway. Like the act itself might keep you tethered to her voice on the other end of the phone. The bruises on your arms pulled tight when you leaned to adjust your seatbelt. You winced—quietly. Didn’t want her to see.

She saw. She always saw. Her eyes flicked to you at the next red light. Not long. Just enough. Her gaze lingered on the movement of your hand, your arm, the slight shake in your knee. She didn’t speak. But she didn’t have to.

The silence in the car wasn’t cold. It was thick. Dense with everything she wanted to say but wouldn’t. Not yet. The light turned green. She drove on. Another few blocks passed before her hand moved—slow, deliberate, cutting through the heavy stillness between you. It slid across the center console and found yours.

Warm. Steady. Real. You didn’t squeeze back. Not at first. Afraid to misread it. Afraid this was about control, not comfort. Her thumb brushed across your knuckles. Once. Twice. A soft, rhythmic motion. Not forgiveness. Not approval. Reassurance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your throat tightened. You cleared it, voice catching in the silence. She didn’t look at you, not fully, but her voice came low and edged: “My number is on your skin.”You nodded.

“I said you it might happen. I didn’t even think. Just…Wrote your number before I left the house. I knew it might get bad.” You glanced down at your arm. The numbers were nearly gone. Her fingers paused. Then gripped tighter. Not painfully. Just... present. “And when I didn’t hear from you for hours?” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t crack. But you heard it anyway beneath the words. That coil of emotion she wouldn’t let unspool. Not yet. Frustration. Fear. The helpless, gnawing dread ofnot knowing. And something else, too. A flicker. A break in the current. Relief.

You stared out the windshield, the empty stretch of road ahead gleaming with scattered puddles. “I knew you’d find me,”you said quietly.“You always do.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t pull her hand away.

She just kept driving.

The city gave way to quieter streets. The fog thickened, wrapping around the windshield like cotton gauze, softening the edges of the world. The headlights carved a narrow path through it, bright and breathless.

Her hand stayed in yours. You could feel the tremor in her palm—barely there, like something she was holding back on instinct. Rage, maybe. Or the memory of hearing your voice from the other end of a jailhouse phone line, too calm, too quiet, using the word “processed” like it didn’t mean caged.

She took the next turn too quickly. The tires skidded just slightly, and her knuckles went pale around the wheel. Still, her hand in yours never wavered. A streetlight passed overhead. For a moment, her face caught the glare. You saw the tightness in her jaw. The way her lips were pressed thin. The way her eyes flicked to you and then away again like she couldn’t look too long or she’d unravel something she didn’t want you to see.

When she spoke again, it was almost a whisper: “They could’ve hurt you worse.” Her voice was barely above a breath. Flat, restrained. Not numb—but trying to be. You turned your head, slowly, watching the way her fingers tightened against the leather of the wheel. Her other hand was still tangled in yours, thumb still frozen against your skin like she didn’t trust herself to keep moving.

The car was so quiet you could hear the low hum of the tires on wet asphalt. You inhaled through your nose—slow, steady. “They have,” you said finally, eyes fixed ahead. “Not me. But others. Way worse. For generations” Your voice didn’t shake. Not even close. “This?” you added, glancing down at your arms, the bruises just now darkening to a sick shade of violet. “This I can handle.”

She didn’t respond. But her jaw clenched again. You let the silence fill the space between you. Let it be uncomfortable. Let her feel it all.

Because it wasn’t about her. And she knew that. And still—it wrecked her. The drive turned familiar. The houses started to look like memories instead of background noise. You passed the little bookstore she liked, dark now, the yellow awning damp with rain. The corner market. The faded mural three blocks from home.

She made the last turn tight, then slowed into the driveway. The engine ticked softly as she shifted into park. The headlights cut off. Just the amber glow from the porch light now, and the long shadow of the night trailing behind you. She didn’t move to open her door. Neither did you. Her hand still cradled yours, still unmoving. But something in the air shifted—like a held breath exhaled, slow and unwilling. You turned to her fully this time, the side of your body screaming from the movement, but you did it anyway. You turned to her, slow and aching. “I’m okay.”

The words felt small in the air between you, too neat for the wreckage they were meant to contain. Agatha didn’t respond at first. Her hand flexed on the steering wheel—once, then twice—leather creaking beneath her grip. Her jaw was tight. Set. Not clenched in anger, but in preservation. Like her whole body was holding something back.

When she spoke, it was quiet.nNo drama. No theatrics. Just precision. Just truth.

“Your friend called.” A pause. Measured. “Said they took you.” Another. “Said no one knew where.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the road ahead, but her voice came sharp—like frost under fire: “Your friend. Not the police. Not the station.” You heard the emphasis, the edge under it—the insult of being forced to rely on someone who shouldn’t have been the one to tell her. “Then their phone died.” That silence bloomed again—thicker now. Nearly unbearable. “No location,” she said, quieter still. “Just… ‘on the ground. Bleeding.’”

You felt the breath leave her—not all at once, but in pieces, like it cost her something to remember it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. “Three hours of silence.” Her voice hit like a knife honed on restraint. “I had your blood in my head and some asshole at the desk asking me to spell your name like it was a trivia question.”

She let out a breathless laugh—sharp and mirthless. It sounded like something that had been waiting days to escape. “They made me wait.” Her voice lowered, dropped into something dangerous. Controlled. Clipped. Each word like a match struck and held just shy of flame. “While I imagined your body in the back of a van. Head hitting the floor. Face-down. Cuffed. Bleeding.”

The weight of it landed on your chest before you could process it. She shook her head, just once—barely a movement, but loaded almost like she didn’t trust herself to do more. “I looked at every blank face behind every window and asked for you.” Then, finally, she turned. And when her eyes found yours, they didn’t just hold fury. They held proof.

“And no one said a word. No one gave a shit that you were missing.” A pause. “That you were mine.” The word landed soft, but final. Like it had already been carved into the bones of the night. She exhaled. Not shaky. Not broken. Just steady—like someone who had made it out of the worst moment of her life and hadn’t forgiven the world for it. “The system didn’t just take you.” Her voice lowered to a level that chilled your skin. “It erased you. For hours.”

A pause so long it bordered on sacred. “Like your name didn’t matter.” She blinked once. “Like I wasn’t standing right there. Demanding it. So don’t tell me you’re okay.” There was no venom in it. Only grief sharpened into something lethal. “Let me be angry first.”

She stared straight ahead.

And you sat there, head bowed slightly, fingers curled loosely in your lap. Sharpie smeared. Wrist raw. Still breathing.

A minute passed. Maybe more. You counted the beats of your pulse like footsteps in your chest. Then, without a word, Agatha opened her door and stepped out. Not loud. Not abrupt. Just done waiting. You watched her walk around the front of the car, her silhouette catching the faint wash of the porch light as she moved—composed rage wrapped in denim and shadow. She rounded the passenger side, pulled the handle, and opened your door. She didn’t speak. Just looked at you. Her face was unreadable—not because she was hiding it, but because the storm behind it was still deciding whether to retreat or rise again.

Still, she was here. Still, she’d come for you. Still, she was holding the door open with one hand and her breath with the other.

You stood. It took effort. Your legs protested the movement. Her hand brushed your back once, barely there. Not a push. Not support. Just… proof. The gravel of the driveway crunched beneath your feet. The porch light caught the corner of your jacket, your frizzed hair, the shine still clinging to your cheeks from dried gas and sweat.

Agatha didn’t walk ahead. She matched your pace. Shoulder to shoulder. No words. Only the quiet weight of everything she hadn’t said—and everything she already had. She unlocked the front door and opened it.

The house greeted you like it had been holding its breath. Soft light spilled in from the kitchen—left on, maybe out of hope. The air was warm, still faintly scented with whatever candle she must’ve blown out before she left. Rosemary. Smoke. Wax. Home.

You stepped inside first. Your boots met hardwood with a soft thud. The ache in your thighs flared with every movement, and your ribs pulled tight where the bruises were beginning to set in. Sweat still clung to your back, to the backs of your knees. The scent of tear gas and adrenaline followed you like a second skin.

Behind you, Agatha closed the door. The lock clicked into place—clean, final. You didn’t look at her. You didn’t need to. You moved on instinct now. Down the hall. Around the corner. Through the bedroom to the bathroom.

The path was muscle memory now—dim light, familiar shadows, every step echoing louder than it should have. You peeled off your jacket as you walked, fingers fumbling a little at the zipper. Then your shirt, tugged over your head with a wince. Every movement dragged at tired muscles, each one aching in a different register. The fabric stuck to your back, damp with sweat and tear gas and hours of tension. You let it fall in the doorway without looking back.

The mirror caught your reflection under the soft, gold light from the fixture overhead—low, almost merciful. Still, it didn’t hide the truth.

Your skin was flushed, red from heat and movement. Dried tear tracks curved down your cheeks in uneven lines. Your hair stuck out in every direction, curls frizzed and tangled from sweat and smoke and the weight of the night. But what caught your eye first—what made your stomach pull—were the bruises.

Dark. Ugly. Blooming across your arm in shades of violet and rust. The edges had already begun to swell, pooling in thick shadows under the skin. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

You reached forward, turned the water on hot. Steam rushed up almost immediately, fast and thick, wrapping itself around the glass and climbing toward the ceiling. Within seconds, the mirror blurred, softening the edges of your reflection until you couldn’t see yourself at all.

It helped. One by one, your clothes hit the tile—pants, underwear, socks. You didn’t fold them. Didn’t bother. You just wanted them off. Wanted everything that clung to you—the night, the fear, the humiliation—gone.

You stepped into the shower. And the water hit you like gravity. Hot. Relentless. Real. The first few seconds stung, the heat dragging across raw skin, catching every scratch and welt. But then… you exhaled. Not dramatically. Just a slow, shaky breath from somewhere deep in your ribs, like you hadn’t let yourself take one since the moment you were cuffed.

Gas. Dirt. Someone else’s blood. It all swirled down the drain in thick streaks, carried away with the last traces of control you didn’t even know you were still clinging to. You pressed your hands against the tile wall, head bowed, water pounding against the back of your neck. The pressure pushed into your spine, your shoulders, your bruised ribs, until it felt like you might finally collapse.

You didn’t cry. But your shoulders shook anyway. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just from release. Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Softly, so quietly it could’ve been imagined, you heard the door open behind you. You didn’t flinch You knew it was her. You reached for the knobs and turned the water off slowly, each movement deliberate, aching. Your hands trembled as you pushed the glass door open, steam rolling outward in thick waves. The room had filled with it entirely, fogging the mirror and blurring the outside world to a haze of silver and light.

Agatha stood by the sink, arms crossed, still in the black coat she hadn’t bothered to take off. Her hair had begun to fall from its pin, a strand curling against her cheek. She didn’t speak. Her eyes caught yours in the mirror first—dark, unreadable. Then they dropped.

To your ribs. To your thighs. To the darkening bruise on your shoulder. The raw, red pressure marks around your wrists. The angry welt stretching violet across your hip.

Her entire body tensed, but she didn’t move. And just for a second, you saw it again—the exact expression she’d worn in the jail lobby.

Not horror. Not pity. Rage, tempered only by awe.

Not awe at what had been done to you— But awe at the fact that you had walked away from it.

She didn’t move toward you. Not immediately. Her eyes continued to scan your body, slow and deliberate, like she needed to memorize it. Every mark. Every place they had dared to lay hands on. Every part of you that hurt.

She stepped forward only when the silence between you shifted from fragile to sacred. Her movements were quiet. Almost reverent. She reached for a towel on the nearby rack. Unfolded it with careful hands. Wrapped it around you in one slow, precise motion—starting at your shoulders, tucking it close at your back.

And then, she knelt. Not fully. Just enough to place herself lower than you. Just enough to bring her eye level with the bruise near your hip, the abrasion across your thigh. One of her hands reached out—hovering just above your skin. Waiting.

She didn’t need to ask. But she did, with her body.

You nodded.

Her fingers ghosted over the bruises. Light as air. Not pressing. Just present. Her voice, when it came, was almost nothing. Just breath shaped into words. "This… they’ll answer for this.” Your throat tightened. You swallowed. Still wrapped in the towel, still damp and shaking.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer now. Not to reassure her. Not even to reassure yourself. Just to mark that you were still here. But she shook her head, rising to her full height with measured grace. “No.” She took a breath, steady and quiet. “You’re hurt. And you’re mine.”

The words rang out low and absolute—like a spell cast not to control you, but to protect you. She looked at you fully now, eyes locked on yours. Every inch of her tall with fury, with grief, with love she hadn't been able to voice while you were missing. “So no—they don’t get to walk away from that.”

And in her gaze, you saw it:

Claim. Sanctity. A rage that bent toward justice, not vengeance.

You stayed like that for a few seconds longer—still damp, wrapped in the towel, her hands no longer touching you but her presence close enough to feel. Then you moved. Not far. Just a few steps out of the fogged bathroom and into the bedroom. You walked slowly, body aching, towel clutched tight around your ribs. Agatha followed without a word, the rhythm of her footsteps deliberate and light behind you.

The bedroom was dim, quiet, safe. Moonlight brushed the edge of the comforter. One lamp glowed on the nightstand. You sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling long and slow. She moved around you—methodical, steady—and pulled a soft shirt from the dresser. One of hers. Black cotton, worn thin from years of wear. The kind that smelled like her skin, like amber and salt. You took it without speaking, tugging it gently over your head. The motion hurt your arms, made your back sore, but once it was on, it felt like being held. Not fabric. Her.

She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a glass of water. She knelt in front of you again, the glass offered in silence. Her hand brushed yours as you took it. You drank slowly. Half the glass, then set it aside. She didn’t move. “You smell like smoke and injustice,” she murmured then—almost to herself, almost like it surprised her.

You let out a breath of a laugh. Not quite humor. Just something loosening inside your chest. You shifted, resting your hands between your knees. “We were handing out water,” you said, voice rough but steady. “It was calm. Peaceful. People were chanting, walking. Holding signs.”

Agatha didn’t interrupt. “Then they brought the riot gear,” you continued, your gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere past the floor. “And the gas hit. I didn’t flinch.” You looked up then. Let her see the fire still sitting behind your eyes. “I didn’t fucking move.”

Her face twisted at that—something sharp and unreadable crossing over her features. Not surprise. Not pride. Something harder. “Of course you didn’t,” she said softly. Her voice was flat, but her body wasn’t. Her shoulders had drawn inward slightly, her hands curling in her lap like she was holding back more than words.

You looked down at your thighs. The bruises. The raw skin near your wrist. “But they saw that as defiance,” you said. “Guess I was easy to grab.” Her exhale was quiet but fierce. Her hand slid along your thigh, slow and grounding, then came to rest on your knee. Warm. Anchored.

“I know why you went,” she said. “I’m not mad.” You turned your head. Met her eyes again. There was something else in her face now—something softer beneath the heat. Something that hadn’t had space to show itself until now. “But next time,” she added, voice lower, almost reverent, “you don’t go without me. Not again.”

There was a beat of silence. Your breath caught somewhere between protest and understanding. “You’d get arrested too.”

“Good.” She didn’t blink when she said it. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t flinch. And she meant it. You stood slowly, rising from the edge of the bed. Her shirt—the one she’d handed you minutes ago—hung loose on your frame, skimming the tops of your thighs, still damp from the towel you let fall in a hush to the floor. The fabric smelled like her. Cedar, smoke, and something deeper—clove, maybe. Home.

She stood a few feet away, still as stone. Her eyes tracked you as you moved—every step, every breath. But she didn’t move toward you. Not yet. You stepped in close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Close enough to taste the tension that lingered in the space between your bodies like static before a strike. And then—gently, reverently—you reached for her hands.

Her fingers were warm in yours, a little unsteady. You didn’t rush. You brought them up, guiding them to your waist with a care that felt like ceremony. Her palms settled against your skin. They hesitated for half a second. Then spread—slow, open, searching. “Touch me,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “See? I’m still here.” Agatha’s lashes fluttered once. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She obeyed.

Her hands began to move—not with urgency, but with a sacred slowness. She traced the edge of your hips with the same focus she might have used to trace runes. Her thumbs swept inward, brushing the slight dip just above your pelvis, then up—across your ribs, your sternum, your stomach. Every inch she touched was treated like proof of life. Of endurance. Of return.

She didn’t speak. But her hands said everything. They moved up your sides, cataloging every bruise, every scrape. Her fingers paused at each one—lingering, memorizing. Not because she needed to know where you hurt, but because she needed to know where they had dared to leave a mark.

And then, her mouth followed. She leaned in and pressed her lips to your collarbone, slow and open. You tasted her breath against your skin, warm and uneven. She kissed the hollow of your throat, then lower. Her mouth ghosted over your sternum, then down the side of your ribs, just shy of the bruise beneath. When her lips found the edge of it, she paused. Exhaled. Pressed a kiss there, too. It wasn’t comfort. It was claim. You felt it in the way her lips lingered, in the press of her cheek to your ribs. And then she whispered—barely audible, thick with need. “I need to feel you safe.”

The words hit harder than any bruise. You nodded. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t need to. Your hands moved to her shoulders—strong, steady. You turned her gently, guiding her backward toward the bed. Her knees hit the mattress first, and she sank down without protest, her hands never leaving your waist. And then—gently—you laid her down, pressing her down like a benediction. The mattress dipped beneath your bodies, the sheets whispering around you. She yielded beneath your touch like water bending to pressure—unresisting, unafraid.

She looked up at you like she was trying not to fall apart. Like she was trying to memorize the angle of your face above her. Her breath caught when your fingertips brushed the inside of her wrist, then her forearm. You kissed your way down to her throat, over the pulse beating there like a secret.

Her hands slid up to your sides, not pulling—just holding. Her touch was slow. Devout. Nothing selfish in it. Just devotion, made flesh. You kissed her like a confession, mouth soft but sure. You opened against her lips, let her taste your exhaustion, your survival, your hunger to be seen again outside of pain. She kissed you back like absolution. Like she needed this to believe it was over.

You whispered her name. Not as a question. Not even as a prayer. Just to say it. Just to feel it in your mouth. Agatha exhaled like she had been holding her breath since the second your name came through the phone hours ago—dry, hoarse, and terrified. Your mouths found each other again, slower this time. Her lips parted under yours, soft and seeking, as though she were relearning how to be kissed after hours of holding her breath. Her hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt—the one now clinging to your damp skin—fingertips brushing your waist like they were rediscovering a coastline she used to know by heart.

Your hands moved up her shirt, lifting it just enough to press your palm to her stomach. You felt her muscles jump beneath your touch—tiny, electric tremors. She let you pull it over her head in silence. Underneath, she was bare. No bra. No armor. Just skin—warm, freckled, trembling faintly where your breath touched her.

You didn’t lunge. You looked at her. The pink rise of her nipples. The soft swell of her stomach. The tension still curled in her lower abdomen like a held note. She didn’t cover herself, but her eyes flicked up to meet yours—waiting to see what you’d do next.

You bent, kissed her sternum. Lowered your mouth to one breast and wrapped your lips around it slowly, drawing her into your mouth with purpose. Her breath caught instantly. One of her hands flew to the back of your head, not to guide but to feel—to tether herself to the reality of your mouth on her.

You sucked, slow and sure, tongue dragging against the peak of her until she arched beneath you. A low sound spilled from her throat—half-gasp, half-growl. You moved to the other breast and gave it the same devotion, your free hand sliding down the flat plane of her stomach, fingers following the subtle lines of muscle and tension.

She was already shaking. Not from fear. From release—emotional, physical, holy. You kissed your way lower, slow as sunrise, your breath warm against her belly as your mouth descended. Her thighs parted instinctively, one drawn up at the knee, the other falling open to welcome you in. Your fingers found the button of her jeans and lingered there—not for permission, but to mark the moment. She watched you with parted lips and a flush blooming along her chest, her pupils wide and swallowing the light.

You undid her pants with deliberate precision, the metal catch releasing with a soft click, the zipper rasping down like silk drawn through clenched teeth. She lifted her hips without being asked—composed, compliant, offering. You eased the denim down her legs, the gentle curve of her thigh, the ridge of her kneecap, the vulnerable softness of her calf. She was laid bare before you. Her underwear was damp. Not just from arousal, but from everything that had built between you since the moment you stepped out of that jail. Her body had been waiting for this—not just release, but restoration. Her breath hitched as you hooked your fingers under the waistband and dragged the last barrier down, watching the way her body responded: muscles twitching, thighs parting further, the gleam of her already-slick folds catching the low light.

When you reached the edge of her, you paused—your lips hovering just above the place where her scent thickened, where heat pooled, where need lived. She looked at you then, eyes glassy and dark, lips parted around a breath she hadn’t let go. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. You licked her slowly. From base to tip. Flattening your tongue and dragging it up her center like you were writing something into her skin—something she could only read with her body.

Her hips jolted beneath you. Not a flinch. A response. Her thighs locked tighter around your shoulders, anchoring you in place, as if her body already knew this was where it had been trying to return all night. You moaned softly into her—the taste of her warm and familiar and wild. Salt and heat. Lightning and earth. You licked again, slower, firmer, letting your tongue press into her like a vow she could feel in the marrow of her bones. She gasped, a sound caught low in her throat, one hand flying to the headboard as if something in her needed grounding—needed anything to keep her from coming apart too fast. The other found you.

Her fingers slipped into your hair, threading through the damp strands with the kind of pressure that made your spine tighten. She wasn’t pulling, not exactly. Just holding—curling her fingers into the roots like she needed the physical proof that you were real, grounded, there. Her palm pressed flat to the back of your head, her thumb stroking behind your ear. She guided you not with force but with reverence, her whole body trembling beneath your mouth.

You kissed her clit gently, lips sealing around the swollen flesh, tongue flicking once, twice, slow and deliberate. Her grip in your hair tightened just slightly, and a low, broken sound slipped out of her—half need, half disbelief.

You pushed two fingers inside her—slow, steady, unyielding. Her whole body jolted as if struck from the inside. A gasp tore out of her, raw and ragged, sharp enough to leave her throat aching. It wasn't just breath—it was need, it was the wild instinct of someone who had been holding themselves together for too long.

She clenched down around you immediately, tight and wet and pulsing, the heat of her body drawing your fingers in like a promise. You didn’t give her time to settle. You filled her with purpose, curled your fingers inside her with the quiet rhythm of worship, of knowing. The press of you was deep, certain, reverent. You kissed her clit again, slow and soft, then harder—your tongue circling with aching, relentless care. Agatha’s legs trembled violently around your shoulders. You felt it in the way her calves tensed, the way her thighs bracketed your body like instinct and defense and surrender all at once. She tried to breathe through it—but her body was speaking louder than her control ever could. You didn’t want stillness. You wanted the way her hips bucked upward, wild and graceless, seeking more. You wanted the way her voice cracked open, not in language but in pure, desperate sound. You wanted the way her breath staggered as her fingers twisted deeper into your hair, holding you to her like her life depended on it.

Agatha—always composed, always calculated. The sharpest voice in any room. But here, under your mouth, around your fingers—she fractured. Her back arched off the mattress, the curve of her spine a perfect, trembling bow. Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent plea. One hand fisted the sheets beside her, white-knuckled, pulling until the fitted corner snapped loose. Her other hand never left your head. It gripped the back of your skull like she didn’t dare let go, like if she did she’d be dragged under completely.

You pressed harder. Worked her deeper. Tongue circling her clit in unrelenting spirals, fingers curling inside her with divine purpose. You could feel her starting to break—her muscles locking, her core tightening, the low whimper curling in her chest like lightning about to strike.

You watched her fall apart from the inside out. And just as the first cry spilled from her lips, her hand flew upward—reflexive, frantic—covering her mouth like she could somehow swallow the sound. You lifted your head just enough to speak, your voice dark with reverence and heat. “Agatha.” A pause. Her eyes met yours, wide and wet. “Don’t you dare hide those moans from me.” The hand fell away slowly, shame stripped bare beneath your gaze. Her lips parted, but it wasn’t an apology you were after. It was release. And when she did moan—raw, shattered, helpless—you groaned in return. Low. Hungry. Possessive. The sound of her pleasure ricocheted through your spine, setting your body alight. You moaned into her, the vibration of it surging through her clit like a spark to kindling.

Her whole body jolted. “Fuck—” she gasped, the word dragged from her throat like a secret finally exposed. That’s what you wanted. Not silence. Not restraint. You wanted her loud. You wanted her to give herself over to it completely. You moaned again—because of her,for her—and she cried out, hips bucking against your mouth like her body couldn’t take it anymore. The way you said her name, the way your voice trembled around her, the way your fingers curled just right inside her—it tore something open.

Her voice followed, thick and broken between panting gasps. “Please—don’t—don’t stop—” The words spilled out of her like a dam had cracked wide. Her voice was hoarse with desperation, her body straining for you, toward you. Every muscle in her thighs trembled, her hands fisting the sheets on either side of her hips. Her knuckles had gone white.

Your fingers stroked deep inside her, slow and relentless. Your mouth latched onto her clit again, tongue pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Your name fell from her lips like worship. Her voice caught on it. Broke. “I need to—God, I need to cum—on your mouth, I want to come on your mouth—”

You paused just long enough for her to feel the absence of your tongue. Then you lifted your head—barely—just enough to speak against the slick heat of her. “Is that what you want, Aggie?” you whispered, voice dark and rich with authority. Your breath dragged over her, teasing the edge of her clit. She whined—high and wrecked.

You slid your fingers deeper. Her head tossed against the pillow, her voice hoarse with need. “wanna cum for you—please.” You moaned at the sound of her begging, the raw edge of it cutting straight through your chest. She arched off the mattress, a full-body quake that overtook her entirely. Her thighs trembled, locked around your head like she could fuse you to her. Her fingers dug into your hair—not to guide, not to control, but to hold—to anchor her in the only truth she knew anymore: you.

You pulled your fingers out slowly, deliberately, watching the way her body clenched around the absence. Slick coated your knuckles, glistening with the proof of her need, her surrender. But you weren’t done. You leaned in lower, kissed the inside of her thigh once—then again, a whisper-soft press of lips against skin flushed with heat. You pushed your tongue inside her. Her moan broke apart mid-air, jagged and helpless. She convulsed. The moment your tongue slid into her—deep, slow, possessive—her back bowed hard off the mattress. Her legs trembled violently on either side of your face as you fucked her with your mouth—smooth and strong and steady—tongue stroking deep, then pulling back, then driving forward again with the full weight of your devotion.

“Fuck—” she sobbed, and the sound was wrecked, nearly inhuman. Her voice cracked in half around it. “Mmmf—right there—””

You curled your arms under her thighs and pressed deeper, locking her in place. You moaned into her and the vibration made her choke on her next cry. She broke. Hard. Messy. Loud. Soaking your mouth, twitching under your tongue, gasping your name like it was the only anchor left in the world. Her thighs shook. Her body trembled. And still, you stayed with her. Inside her. Worshipping her with every stroke of your mouth, until she had nothing left to give but your name, whispered again and again like prayer.

You kissed her one last time, slow and deep, letting your tongue linger inside her. You felt the final tremors roll through her body like aftershocks, her thighs twitching, her chest still heaving, one hand still tangled in your hair like she couldn’t quite bear to let you go.

Your palms pressed into the mattress on either side of her hips as you climbed—not over her, but along her—tracing the altar of her body like scripture. Your mouth dragged over the soft plane of her stomach, the fluttering curve of her ribs, the flushed slope of her breast. She shuddered beneath your touch, every muscle drawn tight in the echo of what you'd already given her—legs parted, chest rising in shaky, uneven gasps.

Her eyes found yours through the haze, wide and reverent and burning. Not begging. Offering. You leaned down, just enough to let your breath ghost over her lips. “I’m not done with you,” you whispered. A vow against her mouth. Your voice was low, wrecked, raw—full of need, full of knowing. “Not even close.” Your mouth collided with hers in heat and hunger, tongue sliding deep. She tasted like salt and surrender—like skin and aftermath, like the echo of your name caught in her throat. She gasped into you, helpless, and you swallowed it whole. Her hands flew to your back, clawing hard down the damp curve of your spine like she needed to leave marks. Maybe she did.

Your chests brushed—nipples tight and aching—and the contact made you both groan into the kiss. A low, shared sound. Desperate. Devout. You sat back slowly. Moving your body to let her see you. Let her watch. Your fingers found her right leg—slick, trembling. You lifted it gently, reverently, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee. And then, in one smooth motion, you draped it over your shoulder. Her body flexed beneath you, breath hitching.

You leaned against her left thigh, sliding into place like you’d been sculpted to fit her. Not above her. Not controlling. Aligned. Open. Anchored. The angle was perfect—your leg slotted beside hers, your center catching hers with devastating precision. That first touch—clit to clit, slick and swollen—made your whole body jolt. Your mouth parted around a gasp, head falling back as heat shot down your spine like lightning.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You leaned back slightly—just enough to keep her leg curled over your shoulder, just enough to rock your hips into her with deliberate rhythm. Your clit caught against the underside of hers—that ridge—so sensitive, so swollen it felt like it was made to meet yours. Agatha’s breath tore from her throat in a raw cry, her head dropping back, spine bowing off the bed. Her hips twitched, chasing your rhythm. Her fingers dug into your waist—not to stop you, never that—but to anchor herself. To feel.

You circled again. Firmer. Sharper. Each pass of your clit dragged through hers with a heat that bordered on unbearable. The contact was obscene—wet silk, soft friction, slippery pressure that made your breath shudder out in broken pieces. Her leg trembled over your shoulder. Her breath faltered. You kissed her calf. Then your voice dropped—low, guttural, trembling. “Just like that.”

You moved—hips grinding in a soaked, sacred rhythm. Every circle hit that same angle, that same nerve-rich ridge where you met her perfectly. Agatha whimpered. You moaned. The sound of your slick bodies meeting filled the air—wet, rhythmic, shameless. And still, you moved. Again. And again. And again. You leaned into the drag—controlled, wrecked, reverent. The pressure bloomed at the base of your spine, sharp and divine. The angle. The heat. It was all too much and not nearly enough. Your clit caught beneath hers again—right in that aching spot—and her entire body arched like she'd been struck by lightning.

“Ahhh—fuck—” Her voice cracked, hands flying to the sheets, the mattress, you. “You feel—oh God—” You rolled your hips again, your breath catching on the impact. The drag was soaked. The ridge was sharp. The friction was perfect. You cried out—raw, guttural—as pleasure surged through you like fire. You kissed the inside of her knee again, teeth scraping lightly against the muscle as your back arched and your hips snapped.

Your grip tightened—one hand braced on her hip, the other still holding her leg where it crowned your shoulder like something holy. She held on. You found your rhythm—deep, slow circles that made her whimper with every pass. Her clit pulsed beneath yours, slick and swollen, catching you in that divine slide. Her head thrashed. Her hips bucked. “Look at me.” Your voice was rough now, cracked with need. Sacred. Sharp. “I want to watch you while I fuck you like this.”

Her eyes flew open—wrecked, glassy, pleading. But they met yours. Locked. Wide. Glowing. And what you saw there was beautiful. Ruined devotion. Wide-open need. It nearly broke you. You ground down harder. Slower. Let your clit drag through hers in one long, brutal slide that made her cry out, voice splintering in your name. Her mouth opened. But no words came. Just sound. Just you. Your body was fire—burning from the inside out, every nerve wired to hers. Every grind of your clit sent new waves of heat crashing through your spine. You moaned—louder this time, no shame, no restraint—as your climax clawed its way up from your core. “F-fuck—Aggie—fuck—”

Your hips moved faster. Deeper. Tighter circles that slammed your clit against hers again and again until the pleasure went white-hot, ragged, unstoppable. The drag of your bodies was slick and relentless. Soaked. Sacred. Her breath caught. It hit her like a tidal wave—her thighs locking, hands clawing at the sheets, mouth torn wide in a moan that cracked into pieces. She came hard, convulsing under you, her whole body seizing with the force of it. You were right behind her. Your orgasm slammed into you like thunder, blinding and wild. You cried out her name—wrecked, gasping—as your clit spasmed with every beat of your heart. Your body shook. Your vision blurred. The pleasure tore through you like something holy.

You kept circling, trembling, your body grinding through the aftershocks as if you could give her more, all of you. You moved her thigh off your shoulder, kissing it once more. Laying it down gently. You collapsed into her, chest to chest, trembling, your breath hot against her throat. Agatha was gasping, your name slipping from her lips in pieces—quiet, hoarse, like a prayer spoken through tears. Her hands slid slowly up your back, not searching, just holding, like she needed to feel you pressed close to believe you were still real. She was shaking, still whimpering softly into your neck, her legs quivering around your waist, her entire body limp with the weight of what had just passed between you. Your slick mingled with hers in a soaked, sacred mess between your thighs—evidence of need, of trust, of everything you’d just given and taken.

The room around you vibrated with aftermath—wet skin, broken rhythm, the trembling hush of something holy having torn through both of you. The air smelled like sex, like salt and heat and skin, but beneath that, it smelled like home—like her. You kissed her. Not hungrily. Not to claim. But because you needed to. Because the only thing left to do in the wake of what you’d shared was to seal it with reverence. Your lips pressed to hers with the kind of aching slowness that meant everything. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand or devour, but promised. A kiss that said, I see you. I always will. You lingered there, mouths open and soft, letting the weight of the moment settle into the center of your chest like gravity.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words catching on what little breath you had left. It wasn’t a dramatic declaration. It didn’t need to be. It came out like marrow—raw and unshakable, undeniable in its truth. Her breath caught, just once. And then her hands began to move.

They slid up your sides in long, steady strokes. Down your spine. Into your hair. Her fingers cradled the back of your head, firm and sure, like she was taking hold of something she already owned. She kissed you again, deeper this time, her mouth opening beneath yours, guiding rather than asking. “I know,” Agatha murmured against your lips, her voice still frayed around the edges—wrecked, but shifting.

And then she moved. It was subtle at first. Barely perceptible. Just the tilt of her mouth against yours, but you felt it. The shift. The transfer. Something beneath your skin recognized it before you did. Her lips parted beneath yours—and then sealed again—this time deeper, firmer. Her kiss was no longer a reply. It was a command. Her tongue met yours, coaxing at first, then catching. And then she sucked—slow, hungry, deliberate—pulling your tongue into her mouth like she was taking something sacred. A taste. A vow. Your breath. The sound you made cracked open from your chest, half-moan, half-sob. You shivered beneath her, your hands slipping, trying to hold on—but she had you.

Agatha kissed you like she wanted to swallow your pulse. And as your hips trembled up into her, she began to rise. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other slid down, anchoring at your hip. She rolled her body against yours—not aggressive, not forceful—but with the quiet power of someone reclaiming ground that had always belonged to her.

She shifted her weight, one leg sliding between yours, her thigh nudging yours apart again, her breath still catching but her movements gaining precision. You felt her fingers flex against your ribs as she took a breath and exhaled through her nose—steadying herself.

And then she rolled you. It happened in a fluid wave. One moment you were on top—straddling, trembling, kissed open. The next, her hands were guiding your hips and your spine, your body turning beneath hers with the ease of water answering gravity. You landed back against the mattress with a soft gasp, your hair fanned across the pillow, your legs open and wet and waiting.

She followed you down. Didn’t hesitate. Her body stretched over yours in one long, heated press—shoulders shadowing yours, her thighs bracketing your hips. She hovered just above you for a breathless second, her gaze drinking you in—cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, lips swollen from the way she'd kissed you.

You stared up at her like you'd never seen anything more beautiful in your life. Agatha was trembling—but it was a different kind of tremor now. Not overwhelmed. Not undone. It was control, newly returned to her hands. It was power, held gently, like fire carried in open palms. She looked at you like she’d waited her whole life for this moment. Her hair fell forward around her face as she leaned in again, mouth just barely brushing yours.

When your lips parted beneath hers, she didn’t hesitate—she sucked your tongue into her mouth with a low, shuddering moan that made your hips jerk up beneath her, involuntary, aching for her again. She kissed you like she wanted to live inside your mouth. Like she wanted you silent and shaking beneath her. Each pass of her lips tasted like gratitude. Like a name whispered in a temple. There was nothing rushed about it—just warmth and breath and the shared stillness that follows sacred things. And then, slowly, she pulled back.

Her hand slid down your thigh again, steady and grounding, and then she rose—leaning back on her knees, settling between your hips like she belonged there. You blinked, dazed and open, every inch of your body slick and oversensitive. She looked down at you, and something in her expression shifted. Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes roamed over your flushed chest, your parted legs, the shine of your arousal spread across your skin—and something ancient unfurled behind her gaze.

Without speaking, she brought her hand to her abdomen. Her fingers splayed across her skin just below her navel, and the air changed. You felt it first—a pulse, soft and rhythmic, like two heartbeats meeting in the dark. A violet glow flickered to life beneath her palm, faint at first, then brighter. Tendrils of energy coiled outward from her center, crawling across her torso in patterns that looked almost alive. The magic trailed over her hips, down her thighs, up her sternum, like molten silk, casting her skin in otherworldly shimmer. The heat of it rolled off her in waves, thick and heavy. She gritted her teeth, her jaw flexing with the effort of containing it. Every muscle in her body rippled with purpose, tightening as the spell took shape.

Her back arched, and then she gasped. The sound came from deep inside her—a raw, broken groan that fell out of her before she could stop it. Her head bowed. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain as her shoulders shuddered. You could feel the magic converging, sharpening, concentrating in her pelvis.

And then it appeared. Not an illusion. Not a trick. Something real. Summoned from the place where desire and divinity meet. A cock—thick and heavy and irrefutably hers—rose from her body, glowing faintly in the soft violet light of her magic. Veins ridged beneath the skin, hot and flushed, pulsing with the rhythm of her spell. It curved upward as though it had always been there, summoned not just from flesh but from need, from history, from some buried truth made manifest.

She moaned again, quieter this time. Shaken. Her hand wrapped around the base of it, tentative, like she was still learning the shape of herself. She stroked once. Then again. Slow and reverent. Her breath caught on the third pass, her shoulders twitching as her body adjusted to the new weight, the new heat. Her magic shimmered across her chest and arms, trailing after every movement like her skin couldn’t stop singing.

Her arms trembled. Her hips flexed with each slow stroke. She was still getting used to the weight of it, the power of it, the promise of it. "Fuck," she whispered. Her voice broke over the word like it didn’t know how to survive it. Her thumb dragged over the head, gathering her own shimmer-slick, her breath catching as her cock twitched in her grip.

When her eyes lifted to meet yours again, they burned straight through you. You didn’t realize you were moaning until she tilted her head, lips parted, and said your name so softly it sounded like an invocation. There was nothing performative in her expression. Just hunger. Reverence. Love, edged with something wild and claiming. “You’re trembling,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, roughened by sensation. “Look at you... spread open for me.”

The words hit you like a wave. You whimpered, hips canting upward in pure, instinctive offering. The air between you crackled. Her hand kept moving between her legs, stroking herself slowly to full hardness. She groaned under her breath, teeth gritted, her jaw clenched like she was holding something back. Then her fingers stilled, and she leaned forward.

She exhaled hard, and her cock twitched in her hand like it heard you. Her magic pulsed with it. Her whole body seemed to sharpen, realign, steady itself around your need. Then she moved. Slow at first—like a wave shifting its weight before the crash. Her hands slid to your knees, guiding your trembling thighs into place with a touch so gentle it hurt. And then she rose higher onto her knees, the heat of her body pulsing between you. Her cock, flushed and gleaming curved up from her hips like something holy. A weapon forged from magic and want. She held it loosely at the base, breath hitching as she watched the way you fluttered open beneath her.

And then—deliberately, devastatingly—she leaned forward. Her thighs slipped between yours like water seeking depth, parting you with reverence. Her body lowered above yours, the air shifting with the weight of her presence, the gravity of what she was about to do. And then you felt her.

The crown of her length, flushed and slick with need, brushed your inner thigh like a secret you weren’t ready to hold. You gasped. The sensation was maddening—too soft, too searing, too much, not enough. A whisper and a thunderclap all at once.

Her skin clung to yours—slick with sweat and humming with magic, the heat between you thick enough to taste. Her hips hovered just above yours, mercilessly patient, but the weight of her cock hung low, suspended in tension, dragging across your thigh like a vow she hadn’t yet spoken.

The tip of it glistened, leaking warmth in slow, deliberate beads. Each time she shifted, it left behind a searing trail—a streak of wanting—a mark not yet visible, but already burned into you.

Her left hand braced beside your head, palm flat, arm trembling under the strain of control. With the other, she reached between your bodies—fingers steady, reverent—and wrapped around the base of herself like she was holding a relic, not flesh. She adjusted the angle, her knuckles grazing your skin as she guided her shaft down to meet you.

And then—you felt it.

The velvet heat of her cock slid through your folds. Once. Twice. Again. Deliberate. Worshipful. Her tip nudged your clit on the third pass and your whole body jumped, a cry torn from your throat as fire shot up your spine. She groaned above you—a low, wrecked sound, as if it cracked something open in her.

But still, she didn’t push in.

She moved through you slowly, the underside of her length dragging across every swollen inch—thick, heated, reverent. Her palm followed the motion, firm around the base, guiding each stroke with ruthless, aching precision. Each pass made your breath stutter. Each drag sent another jolt through your core—not deep, not even close—just enough to leave you soaked and trembling.

The tip of her, slick and flushed, circled your clit with maddening patience before sliding down again, catching against you, spreading you without entering. She kept her grip steady. Adjusted the pressure. Aligned herself perfectly with every trembling inch. Her knuckles brushed your skin as she moved—controlling the rhythm, controlling herself.

The head nudged again, pressing into your clit in a slow, deliberate arc before dragging back down to rest—just barely—at your entrance. The anticipation coiled, sharp and unrelenting. You could feel it gathering in your belly, your throat, your skin—a need edged in reverence.

Her jaw was clenched. Her thighs shook. Her breath came hard and shallow through her nose, and still she didn’t give in. You could feel it—her restraint. A tremor disguised as control.

“God, look at you,” she rasped. “So wet for me. So fucking ready.” Her voice cracked, and she stopped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as she grounded herself in the sensation. When she looked at you again, her pupils were blown wide, her face caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets. Your mouth opened but only broken sounds came out. Her cock teased your entrance again, pressing in just enough for your body to part around her crown, just enough to make you sob with need.

“Look at me,” she rasped.

Your eyes flew to hers. Her gaze was fire and storm—wide, blown, burning with something old and sovereign. The magic behind her eyes glowed faintly violet at the edges, laced with reverence, with need, with the terrible beauty of being known. Her fingers released their grip from the base of her cock and braced instead beside your head, caging you in. You felt the shift. The change in gravity. The surrender of resistance.

With the slowest, most devastating precision, she began to push forward. You felt her enter you inch by inch—her, not a spell or a toy or a placeholder, but Agatha. Her cock stretched you open with reverent force, thick and alive, pulsing with magic and heat. Your body gave way around her, clutching tight and slick, your cunt fluttering in desperation as she filled you deeper than you thought you could take.

The pressure was overwhelming, but not pain. It was fullness. Expansion. A claiming. You could feel your walls adjust to her shape, your muscles trembling with the effort of holding her, welcoming her, keeping her. The sensation tore a cry from your throat—raw and helpless—and your head tipped back on instinct.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, as though the feeling of your body accepting her was the reward she’d waited her whole life for. Then her mouth was on yours—hot, breathless, consuming—as her hips pressed forward in one smooth, controlled motion. She slid all the way in. Not fast. Not rough. Just full. The stretch burned its way through your core, your body breaking open around her, split wide by the sacred pressure of being taken. Her moan spilled into your mouth, ragged and low, vibrating against your tongue. Her body shook above yours, her muscles clenching with the effort it took not to lose control.

She collapsed against you, breasts pressed tight to your skin, both of you slick with sweat and spellwork and need. She throbbed inside you, thick and impossibly deep, every pulse matched by the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. Her thighs braced around your hips, trembling as she held you down with her weight, surrounding you in heat and strength, in the unbearable intimacy of now.

A soft, broken moan spilled from your lips, your mouth grazing her collarbone. “Ahh—Agatha…”

Her breath caught, a low, strangled sound rising in her throat. “Nnh—fuck…” Her hips jerked just slightly. Barely. Just a slow, languid pull of her hips—an inch, maybe two—before she slid back in, deep, deliberate. The stretch renewed, softer now, the ache melting into something wetter, something hungrier, and you moaned again—louder this time, throat open, breathless.

“Ah—god—yes…”

Your voice broke against her skin, trembling against the slope of her neck. She felt it—heard it—and her mouth curved into a smile so gentle, so wrecked, it made your heart seize. “There you go,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence.

She thrust again—slow, fluid, the drag of her cock thick and heavy as she pulled back and sank in deeper, letting her hips roll in a way that made your entire body bow beneath her. Your moan spilled out raw and unrestrained, your hands scrambling from the sheets up her back, trying to hold her closer, tighter, as if you could pull her inside your bones.

She groaned in response—low, breathy, helpless. “Mmmnh—fuck, you feel incredible…”

Her cock slid against every nerve, every tender edge inside you, and her next thrust came with more weight—still slow, still aching, but impossibly deep. You whimpered into the heat of her neck, your lips catching on damp skin as her rhythm built—steady, patient, devastating.

“I’m gonna take my time,” she whispered, breath hot in your ear, voice laced with the strain of control. “I want you to feel all of me… every inch. Every goddamn stroke.”

You moaned again. The syllables dragging out of you like worship. And she gave it to you. One deep, sinuous thrust at a time. Not fast. Not hard. Just full.

She moved like the tide, hips pressing forward in slow, shattering waves, your core gripping her with each stroke, wetter by the second, slick running down your thighs with every deliberate grind. The sound of your bodies meeting—wet, obscene, sacred—filled the room in soft stutters: smack… mmgh… fhh…

“God,” she rasped, biting gently at your earlobe, her hips circling as she stayed buried. “So fucking wet for me already…”

You could barely speak. Could barely breathe. A soft gasp broke from your lips—“Mmh—”—as your head turned into her shoulder, the tremor in your exhale betraying just how deep she’d reached. She pulled back again, then pushed forward once more—deep, slow, consuming—and made your whole body jolt.

“Aahh—Agatha—!”

She leaned in closer—her mouth brushing your jaw, then lower, lips parting against your neck—and sucked just beneath your pulse, slow and deliberate. The drag of her tongue made your breath hitch again— “Ahh—fuhhh—”

“I’ve got you,” she whispered against your skin, voice frayed. “I’m gonna take such good care of you…”

You nodded beneath her mouth, unable to speak—only moaning, low and helpless, as she kept moving. “Nnh… mmh… fuhhh—”

Each thrust was a vow, sinking into you with deliberate pressure, making your body light up, cell by trembling cell. Her cock dragged along every swollen nerve—thick, ridged, pulsing with heat—slow enough that you felt every vein, every twitch of her arousal mirrored through your walls. You were soaked. Slick dripped from the place where you took her deepest, where your body clung to her with desperate, greedy rhythm.

Your moan turned sharp—“Ahh—fuck—Agatha—oh my god—”—your back arching under her weight as you trembled beneth her.

She groaned, low and guttural, a rough sound torn from somewhere deep as you clamped down around her. Her mouth never left your skin—lips dragging upward now to kiss the corner of your mouth, her breath shaking as she murmured into it.

“mhhaahh—shit, baby,” she breathed, hips grinding slow but deeper, “you’re so tight—so wet for me…”

Your answer came in breath, not language— “Mmmh—nnh—tch—” You could barely hold still beneath her. Every inch of you was shaking, your skin buzzing, your mouth dragging open for another moan as she filled you again. The sound of her—the sound of you—was everywhere now. Moans tangled in the thick air, sharp gasps, wet cries. The slick, obscene drag of her inside you. The soft thump of her balls meeting you with each deep roll of her hips, sending shocks through your core that made you cry out, made your thighs tremble wide around her.

And she felt it. All of it. The way your body pulsed around her with every slow retreat, every devastating return. Her rhythm never quickened, not yet—just deep, deliberate strokes that left you clawing at her back, at the sheets, at yourself. She pressed deep again—one long, shattering stroke and bottomed out sending you arching beneath her, your head thrown back in a sobbing moan. “A-ah—Agatha—! I’m gonna—fuck—”

She caught your hips, pinning them down, and stilled inside you buried to the root. Her voice dropped, breath brushing your cheek, dark and loving and absolute.

“No.”

You froze, panting against her shoulder. Her lips ghosted your ear. “You don’t get to cum,” she whispered, voice tight and reverent, “not until Daddy says so.”

You whimpered—clenching hard around her in response, aching, throbbing, already teetering on the edge. The denial cut through the haze like lightning, sharp and grounding, your whole body trembling from the effort of holding back. “Daddy—please—” you gasped, your voice cracking around it.

“No,” she growled again, gently, into your neck. “You’ll wait. Be a good girl and let Daddy take her time.”

She pulled out halfway—your walls clenching, fluttering in protest—then thrust back in with such aching slowness you nearly sobbed. Your hands flew to her back, to her ass, to anything you could hold to keep from unraveling. Her shaft was too thick, too hot, too deep, every vein scraping against the inside of you in a rhythm that bordered on torture.

“You feel that?” she breathed. “Every inch of me—every fucking part of me inside you?”

Your mouths found each other in the mess of it—open, gasping, wet. Lips clashed, tongues tangled. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t composed.

She groaned into your mouth as she thrust again, harder this time—still controlled, still intentional, but the power behind it made your back arch and your thighs tremble. Her cock pushed deep and her balls slapped wetly against your ass with a smack that made your toes curl and your walls clench down tight.

She felt it.

“Fuuuck—” Her voice cracked, hips stuttering before she caught herself.

Your legs wrapped tighter around her hips, locking her in, refusing to let her go. You felt her cock throb inside you, thick and soaked, every thrust now hitting deeper, sharper—wet, messy, sacred. Her hips slammed into yours with rising urgency, the sound of your slick bodies meeting echoing between the broken gasps and frantic kisses.

Your head dropped back against the pillow, a sound catching in your throat— “Hnn—ah—mmnh—” It slipped out helplessly, your body arching to meet her.

“Ahhh—f-fuck, Daddy—!” you sobbed, your voice cracking open as her thrusts drove deeper, each one dragging more sound from your chest than you knew you had. “You feel so good—so fucking good—”

She groaned—loud, guttural—as your words washed over her. Her mouth dropped to your throat, lips grazing your pulse, breath thick against your skin. “Yeah? You like how my cock feels inside you, baby?”

You moaned again—shakier this time— “Nnhh—tch—fuhhh—” Your hips twitched under her weight, your legs squeezing tighter as your body began to tremble. “God, yes—yes, I love it, I—fuck—I love when you fuck me like this, Daddy—”

Her pace stuttered, her next thrust rougher, deeper—perfect. “Mmmnnh—shit,” she growled, hips grinding into you. “You were made for this—look at the way you open up for me… this pussy’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Yours,” you choked.

She moaned against your skin, the sound rough and filthy and wrecked. “I love fucking you,” she gasped. “I love how deep I get—how tight you are—how you clench around me like you never want me to leave—”

Her next thrust had you screaming—sharp and desperate. She slammed into you again—deep and wet, the slap of her balls hitting you sending stars through your vision—and you cried out, your voice breaking, body shaking beneath her.

“Listen to you,” she panted, mouth dragging across your jaw, lips brushing your ear. “So loud for Daddy. You need it, don’t you? You need my cock. Say it.”

“I need it,” you gasped. “I need your cock—”

She growled again, fucking into you harder now, her pace still controlled but relentless, every thrust sinking to the hilt. “That’s it. That’s my girl. So fucking wet for me—dripping, soaking my cock like you’ve been waiting your whole life to take me—”

Her words drove you wild—your hips rocked up to meet her, thighs trembling, moans pouring out of you like prayer. “Nnnh—ah—ahhh—”

“I can feel it,” she groaned, biting your neck. “The way your pussy’s clenching—grabbing me—like it knows it’s mine…”

You whimpered, nearly crying from how full you felt, how good she felt, how you couldn’t get close enough. Your bodies moved like one—your sounds rising together.

Her voice hit your ear again, raw and breaking. “No one else gets this. No one else makes me this hard. This gone. It’s only you. You do this to me.”

Your head fell back, a guttural moan breaking free. Your voice cracked, legs shaking around her as she rocked her hips again, just as slow, just as merciless.

Her hands found your wrists and pinned them above your head, her body bearing down with all that heat and weight. She kissed you hard—messy, open-mouthed—tongue sliding over yours as another deep thrust made your body arch, your cunt gripping her so tight she groaned straight into your mouth.

“Not yet. My brave girl.” she whispered.

You whimpered, sobbing softly, your body shaking beneath her from the ache of holding back. Every part of you was strung tight, your cunt soaked and pulsing around the heat of her cock, your breaths ragged, mouth open in helpless moans.

And then she pulled back just enough to see you, releasing your wrist.

She braced above you, trembling slightly, and her eyes scanned every inch of your face like she was trying to memorize the way you fall apart just for her. Your hair was a wild halo against the pillow, lips kiss-bruised and parted, breath coming hard and fast. The flush on your cheeks mirrored the heat in hers. Your chest rose and fell in sharp waves beneath her, the soft swell of your breasts brushing against hers with every trembling inhale.

She stared—stilled in that space where worship met want—and her pupils were blown wide, blue and endless. Her mouth hung open, the bottom lip twitching like she was about to say something, then forgot how to form words. She looked down, groaning softly at the sight of her cock still buried deep in your cunt, slick and twitching inside you. Then her gaze snapped back up—eyes glazed with heat, yes, but also something raw. Something more than hunger.

Devotion.

Her breath hitched. You felt it—tight and shaky where her chest brushed yours. Then her voice, low and cracked and full of awe: “God, baby…” Her eyes traced your every ruined, radiant inch. “Just lay there like that. Let me look at you.” Her hips rocked forward again, slow and dragging, her cock pulling nearly out before she slid back in, pressing so deep it punched a moan from your throat.

Your mouth dropped open, head falling back. Your fingers fisted the sheets. Your back arched. “Ahhh—nghhh—”

She groaned at the sound, her whole body stuttering like your voice had gone straight through her. Her hands trembled against the bed, but then she moved—shifted her weight to one arm, keeping her chest hovering just above yours. Her other hand slipped down, fingertips brushing your stomach, then lower, slow and reverent, until she found the base of her cock where it disappeared inside you.

You felt her knuckles brush your swollen lips as she wrapped her fingers around herself again—steadying, guiding. Then she pulled back. Her cock dragged through your slick heat, every vein scraping against the oversensitive clutch of your walls until just the head remained inside you. She paused there, hovering, teasing. Her breath fell hot against your cheek as she looked down between your bodies, watching the way you stretched, watching your cunt flutter open and empty without her.

And then she slid herself along you—up through your folds, thick and slick and unbearably slow—rubbing the head of her cock up your center and catching on your clit with a pressure that made you cry out.

“Mmmppphhhh—” The sound cracked from your throat before you could swallow it.

She moaned at the sound—low, wrecked—and did it again. Dragged herself down your slick folds, nudging at your entrance, pressing just enough to feel the resistance, then slipping back up. Her cock gleamed with you, soaked, pulsing in her hand. “Fuck…” she breathed, her voice unraveling. “God, baby, look how wet you are for me…”

Another pass—slow, obscene. She rubbed herself against your clit again, made you jerk under her, made your thighs twitch and your cunt clench around nothing. You gasped—“Ahhh—nnh—mmh—”—half-sob, half-shiver, your voice catching on the edge of need.

Then, finally, she lined herself up and pushed back in. Her hand stayed there, guiding herself through the tight squeeze of your cunt until her hips pressed flush to yours again, and she moaned—long, guttural, helpless. “Fuuuck…” You sobbed beneath her, legs wrapped tight around her waist. “D-Daddy—” The word fell apart on your tongue.

She did it again. Pulled back with aching control. Rubbed herself through your folds once more—slow, loving, filthy—then pushed back inside, slower this time, like she needed to feel every twitch of your body welcoming her.

And you gave it to her. Every time she slid in, you opened for her. Every time she dragged herself out, you ached for more—hips twitching, coating her cock in wet devotion. Her voice broke at your ear, thick with need. “I could do this forever… tease you, fuck you slow, watch your face every time Daddy slides back in…”

“Shit,” she breathed, eyes locked on your face as she pulled out again. Her fingers wrapped tight around the base, guiding herself back through your folds. You whimpered when the head rubbed over your clit, your voice breaking with it— “Nnh—ah—don’t—please—” She grinned—crooked, hungry, knowing. She lined herself up and sank in once more, all the way to the hilt, slow enough that your whole body arched and your breath caught. “Ohhh—fuhhh—Agatha—”

She groaned. Long. Shattered. “God, baby… you love this, don’t you?” she whispered. “It kills you, but you love it…” Her thrusts slowed again, her hand still on herself, controlling the angle, the pressure, the tease. You nodded, tears in your lashes from the burn of holding it all in. Her lips ghosted across your cheek, her breath hitching. “This drives you just as crazy as it drives me. Say it.”

You moaned against her jaw—“Mmnh—yeah—”—your voice breaking on the inhale. “I love it… I love when you do this to me…”

She pulled out again, ran herself over your folds—your clit, your entrance, back again—her cock soaked and twitching against your skin. “You love the way I fuck you slow. The way I wait.”

“D-daddy—please—” The word tore from you—broken, breathless, soaked.

Her hand still gripped her base, steadying, guiding, shaking. Then she pressed forward and slid back in, slow and devastating, until she was buried to the hilt.

Your whole body seized with it—back arching, a sob of a moan catching in your throat. “Ahhh—nnn—fuck—”

Her eyes dropped to where your bodies met, to where your cunt stretched around the thick base of her cock, soaked and trembling. “You’re so full—fuck—you look so good full of me.”

The words hit like heat. Your chest heaved. Your walls fluttered around her. She held there a beat longer, breathing hard, eyes locked on your face like she was reading every quake of your body, every trembling moan. Then her hand left the base of her cock—slow, deliberate.

And she moved.

One thrust. Then another. Deep. Heavy. Unforgiving. Her length dragged through you with unbearable thickness, every swollen vein and pronounced ridge scraping slow along your walls like a brand. It was too much—it was perfect. A stretch that lit you from the inside out, left your thighs trembling and your cunt fluttering wildly around her. Your slick coated her, dripped down between your legs, wet and hot and endless, every stroke pulling more from you.

Your fingers twisted the sheets. Your breath stuttered through parted lips. Each time she bottomed out, your voice cracked with it.

Above you, Agatha groaned—low, long, aching—her chest beginning to tremble with every thrust. “Shit—ahh—fuck—” “Mmmgh—god—baby—” She didn’t hold back now. Didn’t slow. Her hips rocked into you with rhythm and reverence, every stroke buried to the hilt.

Then she folded over you.

Bracing on her elbows, her chest flush to yours, slick with heat and breathless sweat, her mouth caught your cry as her hips thrust hard. The weight of her ground deep inside you like she belonged nowhere else—like home was something she found in you.

You felt her everywhere. The pressure. The weight. The relentless drag of her rubbing inside you. She slammed into yours, her hips pressing down, claiming. Her skin was hot and tight and trembling against yours, and your legs fell open without thought, trying to take her deeper.

Her balls slapped against your ass—wet, rhythmic, relentless. Each impact hit with a soaked precision that made your breath stutter and your cunt clench around her cock. That sound—obscene and sacred all at once—echoed between you like worship. Like ruin. Like everything she ever wanted was happening right here, in the way your bodies met over and over again.

Agatha groaned behind your ear—“Uhhhn—fuck—”—deep and thick, pulled straight from her chest. Her hips ground into you harder, her weight pressing you down into the mattress like she wanted to leave a mark on your soul.

“God—your pussy’s so fucking tight, baby,” she growled, her voice shredded with reverence and need. “So tight for Daddy…”

Your mouth fell open, your head thrown back. You couldn’t stop the moan that spilled out—high, broken, needy. “Hhhah—uhh—uhnnh—”

You could feel everything—every drag, every pulse, every twitch of her cock inside you. The way she dragged along your walls, the ridges of her veins catching and pulling against every swollen edge. The head—wide, swollen, pressure-heavy—pressed deeper and brushed the place that made your voice snap in half.

Your nails scraped down her back, desperate and trembling, your voice cracking as it left you. “Ah—ghhh—f-fuck—too much—”

She moaned into your skin, low and guttural, the sound scraped from deep in her chest. Her hips stuttered for half a breath, tension rippling through her frame. “Ffhh—shit—baby—”

Then she snapped forward again, grinding so deep the base of her cock pressed flush to your slick folds, her hips rocking in like she needed to carve herself into you. “I know, baby. I know it’s too much,” she panted, her lips dragging across your cheek, your temple, your throat—frantic with reverence. “But you’re doing so good—so fucking good—. You love how full you are, don’t you?”

You whimpered. Your voice failed. Your whole body locked up in answer. All you could do was nod—trembling, wide-eyed, jaw slack—until another thrust knocked a cry out of you. “Hh—ahh—mmgh—fuck—” The burn was sacred. The stretch was heaven. You nodded, head rolling back, jaw slack—until her next thrust forced a sound out of you that didn’t sound human.

“Ahnn—huhh—hahhh—D-Daddy—”

She didn’t slow. She didn’t let you breathe. “That’s it,” she growled, lost now. “Let me in, baby. Let me have all of you—”

Her cock slammed in again. Then again. Every thrust was heavier now—deeper, like she wasn’t just fucking you, she was planting herself inside you. The drag of her cock pulled a string of slick sounds from your body—lewd and soaked and sacred.

Your legs trembled around her waist. Your arms locked around her shoulders like you could anchor yourself through the storm. “T-too big,” you gasped, voice thin and shaking. “So fucking big—mmmnnh—hurts, Daddy—feels s-so good—”

Agatha moaned again—“Fuck, fuck—”—low and biting, like she was barely holding it together. Her forehead pressed to yours, her breath pouring over your lips, every exhale unsteady. Her voice dropped to a growl. “Shhh… look at you—so good for me, baby, so fucking good—””

She rolled her hips again—slow, so deep—and your whole body jumped. Your cunt spasmed around her. Another gush of slick spilled between you, coating her cock, your thighs, the sheets. “Unhh—nhghhh—c-can’t—can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she breathed, panting now, voice twisted with awe and hunger. “You want this. You want me to fuck you until you can’t think—til you're crying, saying it’s too much—while your pussy just keeps sucking me in—begging me to stay—”

You moaned—long, cracked, desperate—as you clenched down without meaning to, your cunt fluttering like your body had made peace with breaking.

Agatha groaned—“Hhrrgh—shit, baby—you feel that?” Her voice cracked. Her hips jerked again, her cock twitching inside you. “You’re dripping—fucking shaking— and your body’s still begging—still asking Daddy for more—”

Her rhythm faltered—hips stuttering, breath catching—but she forced herself back in. Controlled. Grinding. Her thrusts weren’t wild anymore. They were starving.

Each one came with a moan scraped straight from her lungs: “Ngh—fhhk—hnnh—so deep—” “Mmmnn—tight—tight—fuck—”

The slap of her hips against yours filled the room. Louder. Faster. Filthier. Her balls hit you with every stroke—wet, heavy, punishing. Each smack made your thighs twitch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. Your cries came in waves—shattered, breathless, sobbing sounds. No words. No shape. Just the wreckage of want echoing off the walls.

“So hard…” you gasped, barely audible. “So deep—c-can’t—mmmnngh—so full—”

Agatha kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—open-mouthed and panting. She moaned against your skin, her voice raw. Her hips never stopped. She rutted into you like she was losing herself inside your body. “I know, baby. I know. You’re being so good—taking every inch”

The bed creaked beneath you in a steady rhythm—sharp, hollow thuds that matched the weight of her hips slamming into yours. Each thrust jolted the frame, the soft squeal of wood and motion becoming a relentless cadence. Her cock dragged through your core with lewd, aching precision—thick and soaked, every ridge and vein scraping along your walls like it had been made to fit you and only you. The wet sound of her slipping in and out filled the room, louder now, impossible to ignore—raw, slick, sacred. The weight of her balls slapped against you, adding to the slick echo of your bodies meeting. Slap. Slap. Slap.

You choked on a moan, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open. “Mmf—mmf—nnnh—”

The bed rocked harder, the headboard tapping the wall in time with every movement. Her skin stuck to yours. Her sweat beaded at the hollow of your throat. Your slick coated her thighs, ran down onto the sheets, made every stroke louder. The air was thick with it—sex and heat and magic and the kind of desperation only she ever pulled from you. The mattress heaved beneath you, the bed groaning under the force of her body. Slap. Her balls struck you with the next thrust—wet, firm, heavy. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your breath hitched. “Hnnn—hh—gghnn—” A sob burst from your throat, crumpling your voice in the middle of a gasp. “Uh—uh—uh—ahhh—f-fuck—” you whimpered, each gasp caught on the back of your tongue like you couldn’t quite keep up with her. “Daddy—” Above you, her breath broke into a moan—low, guttural, feral. “Nnnnnnnnnh—fuck—”

Her teeth grazed your neck as her hips slammed forward again, chasing the sound she just pulled from you. “You sound so good when I’m inside you,” she panted, voice hoarse, ruined. “You love when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

You nodded before you could speak, tears clinging to your lashes, jaw slack as your body rocked beneath her. The rhythm of her cock was constant and unholy, the obscene drag of her thickness pulling out just enough to make you cry for her, then slamming back in with a slick slap that echoed off the walls. “Khh—khhn—fuckfuck—” Your voice cracked, dragged raw with the rhythm.

The sound was so intimate it made you cry out, your body convulsing in helpless pleasure. You felt it—the swing and slap against your ass with every deep thrust, every grind that forced her cock as far as you could take. They were hot and tight, bouncing against your skin, again and again, swinging low enough to land perfectly, rhythmically, over and over, until your spine arched to meet each blow. The pressure, the weight—it made your thighs tremble. Your walls clenched around her, clutching with instinctive hunger. “Nnnh—nghh—fuck—Agatha—ahh—”

Agatha let out another moan—drawn from the depths of her chest, broken at the top. “—god, baby—” She bent low, her mouth pressed to the corner of your jaw, sucking in each of your sounds like breath.

Your voice cracked on her name, and something in her broke open. She groaned low, primal, her mouth pressed to your jaw as her hips rolled again. Slap. Your breath hitched. A choked moan escaped—half-formed, soaked in need. Slap. Again. Again. The sound of your slick, her cock, your moans—the rhythm was deafening now.

“Mmmph f-fuck—” you gasped, voice high and wrecked. “—it’s s-so loud—” you sobbed, voice cracking as the bed knocked against the wall, as the slap of her balls hit you again, again, again. “So loud, Daddy—””

Agatha froze for just a beat—like the words gripped her spine and dragged a moan straight from her chest. It rolled out of her low and shaking, not a word, not a command—just a raw, punched-out “Nnh—ah!”, scraped from somewhere primal. Her hips stuttered, cock buried deep, her body trembling from the force of it.

She loved it. The wet slap of her against you, the bed knocking the wall, your cries catching on every thrust—it did something to her. Her moan deepened into your neck, long and ruined, the sound vibrating straight through you. She didn’t speak right away—just groaned again, voice curling out of her like smoke, like surrender and power in the same breath.

The slick wet sound of your cunt wrapped around her cock echoed loud in the room now. Louder than it should’ve been. Louder than it had to be.

Agatha moaned into your skin, deep and drawn out, her hips stuttered for half a beat—not from weakness, but from the way you said it. From the way you meant it. Her grin was sharp, breathless, possessive—pressed against your jaw as she rocked deeper. “You hear that, baby?”

She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Ahn—ahn—ahn—ahhh—fuck!”

“That’s your pussy,” she murmured, voice soaked in reverence. “That’s what you sound like when I’m inside you. When I’m fucking you right.” She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Hnn—fuck—” Her voice dropped, low and ruined, right against your ear. “Listen to it.”

Another thrust. She eased in until her thick tip went slack, swelling in your depths, pressuring just enough before she rocked forward. Slap. “That’s us. That’s my cock, my balls, —Daddy fucking you raw and open—fuck…..” she growled, voice thick with awe, her lips brushing your ear. She snapped her hips harder, and the slap was louder this time, more deliberate.

You whimpered, your whole body tensing beneath her. It was so obscene. So perfect. That heavy, rhythmic smack against your skin—it drove you wild. You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. You nodded, whimpering, pussy fluttering as her cock dragged slow through you again, thick and pulsing. You sobbed beneath her, helpless and soaked. Her moan hit your ear, rough and ragged, her body trembling above yours. “I love it,” she said, breathless. “No one else gets to hear this. Just you. Just me.”

Every sound matched the sensation: her grinding deep, hitting your cervix with every pass, her balls smacking your skin, the slick, obscene squelch of your core soaked around her. The headboard rattled. The sheets shifted. The whole room sang with it.

“It’s so much,” you gasped, your voice shredded, every breath catching. “So loud—”

“I know it is,” she gasped, rutting forward, her hips finding that devastating rhythm again. “You’re taking it. Like you always do.”

Your cries weren’t words anymore. They were open-mouthed gasps, whines, shattered, aching moans you couldn’t hold in if you tried. “Ahnn—khh—hhhn—!”

Agatha kissed you hard, catching one of those sounds against her tongue, swallowing it like a gift. She twitched inside you as you clenched again.

“That’s it,” she moaned. “Sounds so pretty—every fucking sound you make for daddy.”

You tried to speak—but your mouth only opened around air, around need. A whimper escaped instead, thick and trembling, catching on your tongue like it wasn’t sure if it belonged to pain or pleasure. You felt splintered under her—overwhelmed and pinned and dripping with want. You couldn’t shape a single word. Just noise. Just that sound, raw and bitten down, forced from your throat as she drove deeper.

“Open your mouth,” she whispered.

Your lips parted before your mind could catch up. Agatha moaned—a deep, wrecked sound scraped from somewhere primal—before leaning in and spitting into it. It hit your tongue hot and heavy, tasting like salt and sin and the sacred claim she never stopped making. You swallowed instantly. Reflex. Worship. Her breath caught as she watched you do it, her body twitching above yours like she could feel it in her spine.

“That’s my girl,” she breathed, voice shaking. “So fucking good—so sweet like this.”

And then her hips snapped forward.

Slap.

It echoed off the walls like punctuation—sharp, soaking, final.

“Say it,” she growled, voice barely tethered. “Say who’s fucking you like this.”

You tried. Tried to speak through the wreckage of your breath, through the tears on your tongue and the moans stuck to your ribs. Your head tipped back into the pillow, mouth open, body trembling beneath her. Your throat gave first.

You sobbed. “You, Daddy. Always—fuck—always—”

Her moan followed instantly—“Nnhhh—fuck, that’s it—”—shuddering out of her like she couldn’t keep it in. Her chest pressed flush to yours, sweat-slick and searing, grinding impossibly deeper as she whispered into your skin.

“That’s right. All mine.” One hand slid under your thigh and lifted it higher, spreading you wide, forcing you open. The angle was brutal. Perfect. She surged again, driving into the softest, deepest part of your body. “Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. Mine to keep.”

Her next thrust was devastating—hard, slow, exacting. You screamed—wordless, holy. A wrecked, high sob tangled with a moan. Your core gushed around her again, drenching her, the sheets, everything. The sound was wet, shameless, sacred.

“Khh—ahhh—mmnfhh—Daddy—fuck—”

Agatha shuddered. Her voice splintered on a groan. “God—baby, you sound so fucking good—so wet—so tight—so fucking mine—”

The bed slammed into the wall now, over and over, in time with her thrusts. Her moans broke free between clenched teeth, and each one only drove her harder. Deeper.

Your cries poured from you like heat, each one higher than the last— “Ahh—mmhh—nnnh—please—please—please—” You didn’t know what you were begging for. More? Mercy? Her? All of it?

Her hand caught the back of your neck. Her thumb pressed under your jaw—not choking, not cruel—just enough to hold you in place. To feel the moans crawling out of your throat.

You clenched again—reflexive, involuntary—tightening around her your body was trying to keep her there, locked inside, sealed with heat and need. Agatha moaned, deep and guttural, the sound catching at the base of her throat before it cracked on the way out. Her hips stuttered—barely—but enough for you to feel her restraint fracture.

“Fffffuck—” It rasped through her teeth, rough and trembling, her breath dragging across your jaw like she couldn’t speak without breaking.

She pulled back—slow, every ridge and vein dragging through your slick, swollen walls—until your breath caught, and you whined for her, small and shaking: “Nnnh—D-Daddy—please—” —and then slammed back in, hips smacking wet against your ass, her balls landing with a heavy slap.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as your body seized beneath her. The sounds pouring from you weren’t words anymore—just cracked, desperate gasps from somewhere deep inside: “Ghhn—nnnk—fffh—ahhh—”

Agatha groaned—louder now, breathless, strained. She kissed you mid-sound, catching one of your cries against her mouth like it belonged to her. Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite—like her rhythm had been carved to match yours. She dragged perfectly along your soaked walls, each grind punching a new sound out of you. Your body knew her. Reacted to her. Opened for her.

Her voice broke into your mouth like a spell. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck—you’re right there—” You gasped—nodding frantically, helpless. Too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled beneath her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff—nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your center, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Let me feel it,” she whispered, voice trembling with reverence. “Let Daddy feel you break.”

Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as you clamped around her shaft like you never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha groaned so deep it sounded like her soul cracked open. Her hips stuttered mid-thrust, unable to stay steady through the feel of you pulsing around her like that. “That’s it,” she gasped, voice shaking. “Just like that—cum for me—goddamn—you’re perfect—”

You sobbed beneath her, back arched, drenched in heat and sound and the rhythm of your own ruin—every part of you drawn tight and trembling as she fucked you through it, holding you to the edge of yourself like it was a prayer.

Her thrusts slowed, then stilled—hips hovering just above yours, trembling with the effort not to fall. Her cock pulsed inside you, deep and thick, twitching like it was lost without movement. The flush across her cheeks deepened, crawling down her throat like it had been dragged from the furnace of her chest. The fire in her eyes didn’t fade—but it flickered. Drawn inward. Banked behind clenched teeth and a jaw so tight you could see the restraint in every shaking muscle.

Her breath hitched—hard and sudden. Not a moan. Not even a gasp. A warning. One she couldn’t bear to give voice to.

And then she shook. Not from weakness. Not from fear. From restraint.

A full-body ripple of heat and hesitation rolled through her like a tide breaking against stone. Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes fluttered closed. And then she smiled—barely. Just enough to reveal the crack in her armor. That soft, secret kind of smile she only ever wore when she was on the edge of breaking. The kind that belonged to you alone.

“I don’t—I don’t have a condom,” she said, and the words came out wrecked. Frayed at the edges. Her voice trembled like it hurt to say, like it was a confession she didn’t want to give. “Fuck, I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt you—”

But you knew that tone. You knew what came after it.

This was the part of the story you’d rewritten a thousand times—on breath, on trust, on soaked sheets and holy promises. The line between devotion and craving blurred so beautifully here, it left you both trembling. This was the game. The ritual. The ache you loved to live in.

She was your first. She was your only. And she was already shaking from how badly she wanted to stay buried inside you.

You didn’t answer.

You moaned—deep and cracked, a sound that came from the pit of your stomach—and let your legs fall open beneath her, wider than before. A silent dare. A sacred offering.

Agatha’s breath hitched again—this time so violently it punched through her chest. Her hands flew to your thighs, clinging like she needed the contact or she'd fall through you. “You—fuck—” she gasped, her voice breaking. Her head dropped to your shoulder, trembling, her breath ragged against your neck. “You’re not making this easy on Daddy…”

She lifted her head—barely. Her eyes dragged down your body, slow and reverent, until they landed between your legs—at the place where her cock was still sheathed inside you, flushed and soaked and trembling. And something broke in her. You saw it.

“You look so fucking perfect like this,” she whispered. Reverent. Wrecked. “So full of me…”

You moaned again—low, guttural, full of possession. Your arms came up around her, locking behind her back like you could hold her in place with will alone. Your chests pressed tight together, sweat slick between you, the heat of her body pulsing like a second heartbeat inside you. The tremble in her thighs grew more frantic. Her breath stuttered into your hair.

“So good—so good—so—fucking—good—” she panted, forehead pressed to yours. Every inch of her was shaking. Every muscle burning with restraint. “I don’t wanna hurt you…”

But her body had already betrayed her.

Her hips shifted—just a twitch—but you felt it. The slow, aching grind of her cock rocked through you—deep, searching. Not a thrust. Not a decision. Instinct. Need. Too old and too deep to be masked. She gasped—sharp and startled—like the motion had shocked her. She shook her head. “No—fuck—” she whispered, almost to herself, like she was trying to anchor her soul to her skin.

She tried to pull back. Not in fear. Not in shame. In discipline. In love. Her hips lifted slowly, deliberately, every muscle in her fighting the pull of your body. Her cock dragged against your walls—thick, soaked, trembling—and the stretch of losing her made your whole body whimper. You felt your cunt clutch at her, fluttering, desperate, slick and aching. Your body didn’t want to let her go. Her thighs tensed. Her shoulders shook. Her breath fractured into your neck. She was slipping.

You felt it. Her cock twitched at your entrance. Her chest quaked with effort. Her mouth opened—maybe to apologize, maybe to say goodbye.

But you didn’t let her. You moved. Your hips surged upward, deliberate. Hungry. You caught her just as the head of her cock began to pull free. Your thighs clamped around her waist, anchoring her with something deeper than muscle.

You knew. You knew she needed this. You knew what she was asking without saying. You caught her. And she gasped—a sound so raw it cracked through the air like lightning. Her hands flew to the mattress, bracing herself. Trembling. Her whole body thrown into chaos by the feel of you tightening around her again.

“Baby—” she choked. But it was already too late. You were clinging to her, soaked and shaking, every inch of your body begging to be filled. Your arms wrapped around her back. Your legs held her in place.

And then—your voice. It rose like a vow between you, trembled in the stillness, and split the world open. “Stay,” you whispered, your lips brushing hers, your eyes locked to the soul of her. “Don’t pull out. Cum in me.”

Her breath hitched like a sob. Her hands braced hard against the mattress like she was trying not to collapse. Her whole body trembled above you, suspended between the ruin she wanted and the reverence she still thought she had to maintain. “Fuck—baby, I can’t—” she moaned, voice breaking apart in your ear. Her hips pressed forward again, helplessly. Her cock twitched deep inside you. “Daddy won’t be able to stop.”

Your voice cracked. “I said don’t.” Her hips twitched—once, then again—small, helpless movements that betrayed her restraint. She hovered over you, every muscle shaking, her cock still buried to the hilt inside your soaked, aching cunt. You could feel her pulse there—thick and frantic—each beat a warning, a plea, a promise she was no longer capable of keeping. She was holding herself back with trembling, white-knuckled effort. But the illusion of control was slipping.

“I wanna come so deep inside you,” she whispered, voice splintered at the edges, her lips brushing your cheek like a kiss she couldn’t quite commit to. “I want it to spill out when I’m done. I want you to feel it all night.”

Your answer wasn’t a word. It was a moan—low, wet, reverent—dragged from your throat like prayer. Your body arched to meet hers, your center clenching around her with instinctive, aching hunger. It felt like your entire body was answering for you.

You couldn’t speak at first. Couldn’t breathe. And then, breathless: “Y-yeah…”

Her breath hitched like the word wounded her—like it split something in her open.

“You want that, don’t you?” she rasped, grinding into you—barely. Just once. Just enough for her cock to drag thick and slow through your desperate heat. “You love it when I talk about it. When I tell you how bad daddy wants to cum inside her girl’s perfect pussy.”

Your whimper cracked through the air like a sob, high and broken and helpless. It echoed between your bodies, filled the room with something raw and sacred. Agatha shuddered. Her hands clenched against the mattress like she was trying to anchor herself.

“Fuck—when I say how bad I want to breed you—”

That shattered something inside you.

She was all instinct now. All ruin. And then—mid-thrust—you cried out: “Daaaaaadddyyyyy”

Your clamped around her with brutal force—slick, pulsing, desperate—and your moan tore loose like your body couldn’t contain it another second. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t quiet. It came out high and aching, the kind of sound only she ever got from you. The kind that made her shake. Her own cry followed—lower, guttural, deep in her chest like it had been buried there and finally broke free. She rocked forward again, unable to stop herself, her body betraying her with every twitch.

“You want me to fill you so full it leaks down your thighs,” she choked, voice climbing, rhythm faltering. “Claim you from the inside out—mark you.”

Her balls slapped wetly against your ass with the next thrust—sharp, filthy, final. The sound echoed off the walls: smack, squelch, moan. The bed creaked. The headboard tapped. Your soaked body made everything louder.

“I want to stay inside you, baby,” she panted, forehead dropping to yours. “Come so deep you’ll feel it tomorrow. I need it—”

That was when the rhythm changed.

No more reverence. No more restraint. No more holding back.

Her hips slammed into you with rising desperation—wet, heavy, obscene. Slap, slap, slap. Her cock drove deep, the sound of her plunging into your soaked heat nothing short of sacrilegious. Every thrust rang through the room like a chant. Her moans broke free without filter now—low and guttural, cracked and pleading.

Her breath stuttered each time she bottomed out, your name tumbling from her lips like a litany—like she needed to say it or lose herself entirely. Her voice cracked.

“God—you feel so fucking good—so fucking tight—”

You couldn’t even think. You were sobbing with every thrust, breath catching, cunt fluttering helplessly around her cock. You were soaked. Slick poured down your thighs, your body begging for everything she had.

And she felt it.

She felt how you welcomed her—dragged her deeper, clung tighter, fluttering open with every thrust like your body had been waiting just for this. Just for her.

Her hands tightened around your hips, knuckles white, anchoring her to this moment like it was the only thing keeping her breathing. Her mouth found your throat—hot, desperate—moaning into your skin like she needed the taste of you to survive. Her hips rolled harder, faster, her cock grinding deep with every wet, shuddering thrust, the bed groaning beneath you both.

“Mmnnnnghh—D-Daddyyy—” The moan cracked from your throat like it had been torn loose from your chest, thick with heat, soaked in reverence. Your head fell back, your lips parted in a ruined O, and your cunt clenched down around her—tight, fluttering, dripping—as her cock dragged deep through your heat.

“F-fuck—s’too big—” you sobbed, voice catching as her hips rolled forward again, thick and unrelenting. “You’re so big—fuck—you're splitting me open—”

That shattered what little restraint she had left.

Her hips slammed forward with a groan, and her cock drove into you—deep. Thicker than you could bear. Harder than you could take. And still you took it.

Slap.

Her balls struck your ass, wet and firm.

Your soaked core sang with the sound of her sliding through you, obscene and perfect.

Smack. Slap. Wet. Slap.

The room echoed with it—your joined bodies loud and desperate, a symphony of slick, moans, and the stuttering bedframe beneath you. The headboard tapped the wall, sharp and rhythmic, as she fucked you into it without mercy.

You were sobbing now, openly, your moans cracked and high and helpless. “Mmmmppph—ahhh—ngghhh—so full—c-can’t—”

And still you clung to her. Still you begged. “make me take it—”

Agatha gasped, like your words pierced her straight through. Her hips rolled forward harder, pounding into you with a rhythm that bordered on reverent destruction. Her cock dragged against every nerve ending inside you—every ridge and vein catching on your walls, scraping you open, carving her into your body with every thrust.

“You’re takin’ it,” she growled, voice ragged with awe. “So fucking deep, baby—God—look at you—squeezin’ me like that—like your body wants me to stay inside forever—”

You moaned so loud it made her groan, your body shaking under hers. “Mmmmnnghh—ahhh—fuck—s-so deep, so fucking big—can feel it all—every inch—”

She was unraveling above you, moaning into your skin, her voice breathless and raw, hips slamming deep inside you. Your slick spilled over her, onto your thighs, onto the bed.

“Y-you love it,” you gasped, your voice shattered but sure. “You love how my pussy pulls you in—how it takes you—how it wants you—”

“Fuck—fuck—I love it, baby,” she cried, hips stuttering. “I love how you open for me—how you beg for it—how your body won’t let me go—”

And she was right. You couldn’t let go. Your walls fluttered, clenching down, milking her cock with every thrust, chasing every ridge like it was holy.

“Fuuuck—” you sobbed, voice breaking into a high, helpless cry. “Harder—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

The bed creaked beneath you, wild and unsteady, as her hips slammed into yours again—wet, sharp, sacred. The sound filled the room, slick and obscene, the rhythm of your bodies raw and unrelenting.

Her length dragged through you with brutal grace—thick and veined and so hot you could barely breathe through it. You felt the tilt of it, the way the thick underside vein caught on your soaked walls with every pull, every push—rubbing you open, making your thighs shake, making your core weep for her.

“Mmmnnnh—ahhh—fuck—right there, right fucking there—” you gasped, your moans slurring into sobs, your hands flying to her back, your nails clawing down in frantic arcs. “You feel so big—s-so big—your cock’s too big—fuck, fuck, please—”

“Good girl” Agatha groaned, voice wrecked, teeth gritted as she slammed into you again, cock throbbing inside you. “ so fucking good—”

“Don’t stop—please don’t stop—d-don’t stop,” you begged again, crying through your moans, your voice nothing but cracked sound and open-mouthed gasps.

“Shhh, I won’t,” she panted, her forehead dropping to yours, sweat dripping between your bodies. “I’ve got you—so fucking tight around me—gonna make me—fuck—”

You whimpered, sobbed, rocked up into her again and again, chasing every inch of her with your body. You could feel it—every vein, every ridge, every desperate throb as her cock dragged through your fluttering walls. That thick vein on the underside—that was what made your back arch, made you scream, made you sob out again, “Daddy—right there—ahhhhhh—”

Her rhythm snapped, her hips tilting just enough to catch that same spot over and over. You choked, your whole body clenching around her as the pressure spiraled again, unbearable and holy.

Agatha growled above you—low, breathless, wrecked. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her shoulders gleamed with sweat, and her jaw locked tight as she slammed forward again, cock dragging through your heat like a live wire.

“I know those sounds,” she panted, her voice a ragged whisper right against your mouth. “That little gasp—right there—that’s the one you make when you’re close, baby. That’s the one that drives me fucking insane—”

“‘M close,” you cried, tears brimming again, your thighs quaking.

She moaned—loud, raw, her voice breaking open in your ear as her hips snapped forward again, rough and deliberate. “Fuck—you feel so good—so fucking wet—I can feel you clenching—you’re right there, I know you are—just a little more—give it to me, baby, let me feel it—”

The sounds were obscene now—your soaked bodies meeting in a frantic, slapping rhythm, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall, your moans a rising symphony of want and unraveling. Her cock dragged deep with every stroke, her balls slapping wetly against your skin.

“Ahnnn—nnnghh—mmmphh—please—please—” You sobbed, clutching at her arms, at her back, your nails digging in as the pressure crested inside you like a tidal wave breaking.

Agatha kissed your mouth and didn’t stop moving. Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite. Her rhythm owned you, like her body knew exactly how to wring sound from yours with every thrust, every grind, every perfect drag of her cock along your soaked walls. Her voice broke into your mouth like a confession. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck, you’re right there—”

You gasped, nodding frantically, too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled around her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff—nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your core, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her cock. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Cum for me.”

That was all it took. Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as your cunt clamped around her cock like it never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha didn’t stop. Even as your body convulsed beneath her, even as your walls clamped tight around her cock and your thighs trembled like you were breaking apart, she kept moving—rocking through you with reverent, unrelenting strokes. Her breath caught on every thrust, her voice splintered with awe and desperation.

“That’s it—fuck, that’s it,” she panted, her rhythm fraying, her body grinding into yours like she was trying to leave a part of herself inside you. “You’re taking me so good, baby—look at you—fucking soaked for me…”

Your moans were ragged, helpless. Every inch of you was pulsing, oversensitive, radiant with aftershock. But you didn’t pull away. You pulled her in. Your arms moved across her slick skin, trembling, desperate. Your thighs quivered but refused to loosen. You held her like you were afraid the world might end if she left your body before you were ready—before she was ready.

And Agatha felt it.

Felt the way you clung to her cock, still fluttering, still wet, still begging even as it throbbed with the remnants of release. The way your body flexed in involuntary aftershocks—tight, wet pulls that milked her deeper, pulled her harder, made her gasp like it physically hurt to stay buried inside you and still not cum.

She whimpered at the feel of you—guttural, raw, her whole body stuttering like she’d forgotten how to hold herself together. “Oh my god—” she breathed, voice catching on a ragged moan as your walls fluttered again, sucking her back in with that perfect, maddening grip. “You’re still—fuck, you’re still clenching around me…”

Her hips drew back just enough for you both to feel it—that slick, obscene stretch, that almost-pull that made your spine arch and your mouth drop open in a soft, broken cry. Then she sank in again—slow, dragging, deliberate. Her shaft pushed through the mess she’d made of you, thick and trembling, gliding past every hypersensitive nerve like worship.

The sound of it was devastating—wet, sticky, sacred. A lewd kiss of bodies slick and shaking, heat folding into heat. Your hips twitched as she bottomed out again, and you sobbed—a soft, breathless whimper that turned her bones to ash.

“Ahhh—nnghh—m-mmmhhf—” The sounds tore out of you unbidden, your voice cracking as she rocked inside you with aching precision, her breath catching at your neck.

Her hand slid up your side, knuckles grazing slick skin, then curled around your ribs like a promise. A grounding point. A quiet prayer not to fall apart then dragged slowly down your body, over the swell of your hip, the dip of your waist, until it slid between your thighs and gripped the inside of your knee.

And then she opened you.

Not with haste, not with force—but with reverence. Her fingers spread wide, guiding your leg open, wider, until your body trembled with the exposure. She tilted your hips with one slow pull, adjusting the angle like she was tuning a sacred instrument. And when she moved again—when her cock sank into you, deep and deliberate—you both gasped at once.

“F-fuck—” she choked out, her voice wrecked, her restraint fraying at the edges. The new angle let her slide in deeper—thicker, hotter, pressing right up against that swollen, aching place inside you that made your legs jerk and your mouth fall open in a helpless moan.

“Dadddyyy”

Your voice cracked, and she shuddered.

Her grip tightened, her body bowed over yours like she was praying with her whole form. Her hips rocked forward again, slow but devastating, and your thighs twitched wider under her hands—open, aching, desperate.

She dragged back. So slow it felt like cruelty. Deliberate. Precise. She slipped out inch by inch, gliding slick and thick from your cunt until just the head remained—pulsing, wet, swollen. It caught on the sensitive swell of your entrance, and your pussy fluttered instinctively around it, already aching, already begging .

Your moan tore loose—not pretty, not practiced, but primal. “Nhh-ahhh—fhhuhhckk—don’t—don’t—”

Your hips chased her before you could think, lifting from the bed in a frantic tilt, body arching toward her like gravity had shifted.

Agatha hissed—a feral, guttural sound that rattled in her chest. Her cock twitched hard between your legs, flushed and glistening, so slick with you it looked glazed. Her whole body shook like restraint was becoming impossible.

The air around you thickened—hot, drenched, heavy—as if even the room couldn’t bear the tension.

“Brave fucking girl,” she rasped, voice thinned with strain. “Taking me so deep—so fucking deep— and now you’re just… letting me pull out like this?” She leaned in closer, her breath against your mouth. “Fuck. Knowing I won’t last. Knowing it makes me fucking insane—”

She wasn’t wrong. Her grip faltered, breath staggered, like she was seconds from falling apart. Her hand fisted the curve of your hip, grounding herself. But it was your body that wrecked her. soaking her cock, shining her in the mess of your need, and clenching around nothing like you were trying to break yourself with how much you needed her back inside.

“Fhhuckk—” she groaned, barely able to breathe. “Look at you. All spread out for me… greedy little pussy begging to be filled—”

Her hips rolled forward—slow, steady, claiming. The thick head of her length slid through your slick folds, dragging across every soaked, swollen inch until it caught right at your entrance. She paused just long enough for your body to twitch—needing, fluttering—and then she pushed.

Hard. Deep. All at once.

Your body seized, a strangled cry catching in your throat as her cock slammed in to the hilt—thick, soaked, unrelenting. The breath left your lungs in a stuttering rush, and your walls clamped down on her so tight, so instinctively, it felt like a reflex as old as need.

“Hhhhnn—nnhhhGod—”

The stretch hit you like heat, like revelation. Blistering. Breath-stealing. Fucking perfect. Your legs wrapped around her waist before you even realized—desperate, trembling, refusing to let her go. She groaned at the feel of it, low and wrecked, her hips twitching inside you from the tightness. “That’s it,” she panted, her voice cracked and reverent. “Show me how bad you need it.”

Her next thrust came slow—a long, merciless drag pulling partway out, slick with your need, before sinking deep again, grinding up into your cunt like she was branding her shape into your walls.

You sobbed—sharp and soaked—your nails biting into her back. “Ahh—ahhhnn—f-fuckkk—Daddy—”

She moaned at the sound of her name on your tongue, her whole body shuddering. “Say it again,” she breathed against your mouth. “Fuck, say my name like that again while I ruin this sweet little pussy—”

Your response came as a broken whimper—high, desperate, wet—and she answered it with another thrust. Another brutal, gorgeous stroke that dragged through your core like lightning. The sound of her shaft sinking in—slow, soaked, reverent—filled the room like worship.

Her breath trembled as she rocked into you again, each grind deeper than the last, her rhythm steady but intense—each movement designed to undo you slowly, intimately, until all you could do was moan for her.

You whimpered, long and low, your hips arching, body trembling under the weight of her cock. “Mnnnh—nnhh—please—”

Her hips pulled back—just slightly, her cock dragging against your walls with a pressure that felt like it had teeth. And then she pushed forward again, slow and relentless, like the world had narrowed to the wet sound of her moving inside you.

You gasped—a soft, wrecked little sound that left your mouth open and trembling. Her cock ground into you with purpose, every ridge catching just enough to make your legs twitch beneath her, your back arch without permission.

“Fuck,” you choked, the word falling apart against her throat. Your lips brushed her skin, tasted sweat and salt and something like surrender. “It’s s-so—” but you couldn’t finish. Your breath caught. Your throat closed.

Because she was still moving.

Not fast—never fast. Just intense, deliberate, soaking you in friction so slow it felt like it burned. Each thrust was a promise and a threat, her cock dragging out, then sinking back in like she had all the time in the world to destroy you.

“Daddyyy—” Her name tore loose, wet and high and wrecked.

She moaned at the sound of it—deep, from her chest, like the syllables had lit her nerve endings on fire. Her mouth found your jaw, her lips brushing just below your ear as her hips rolled forward again—slow, wide, obscene. You felt her cock pulse inside you, thick and flushed and so deep you couldn’t tell where your body ended and hers began.

You whimpered again—softer this time, soaked and clinging—because it wasn’t even the pressure that undid you. It was the control. The fact that she hadn’t let herself go yet. That she was holding back—on purpose—just to see how much you could take.

She moved again.

A small thrust. Just the tip. A drag that barely stroked you, but still sent heat rippling up your spine. Then another. A deep, steady push that made your breath catch, her cock sinking into you slow and wet and endless. Your walls clenched, slick and fluttering around her, soaking her in the need she'd spent the whole night building. Another thrust followed—then another—a rhythm, slow but complete, deep enough that your back arched off the mattress, your mouth falling open.

"ffhhhh—fuck—Daddy—" you gasped, your hands clenching at the sheets.

And then she found it. That spot. You felt it when her cock dragged over it—a thick, swollen place deep inside that made your whole body jolt. You spasmed, fluttering around her as if to plead. Your thighs twitched. Your voice cracked on a moan that spilled out half-broken and high.

She felt it too. Her hips froze—just for a breath.

Then she moved again. A full thrust—slow, deep, deliberate. Her cock dragged right over that swollen, aching spot, and you seized beneath her like you'd been shocked. She watched it happen—watched your breath hitch, your mouth fall open, your thighs jerk around her waist.

Another thrust. Then another. Each one deep, steady, unhurried—just to feel you react. To feel how you spasmed around her, fluttering wildly, your moans breaking apart with every stroke. Your body arched helplessly, your hands scrambling for her arms, her shoulders, for anything to hold onto.

"That’s it," she murmured, voice thick with hunger. "—so fucking good when I fuck you just like this—" And then she paused. Her hips rolled forward, cock still buried deep.

She adjusted—tilted her angle just a little—just enough to align the swollen head of her cock against that spot with surgical precision. Her eyes never left your face. A small, deliberate thrust. Just enough to let the swollen head of her cock nudge that same spot—deep, aching, devastating. The one that made your whole body seize like it had been struck by lightning.

Your spine arched. Your throat tore open. “Ahhh—hnnnnngh—fuuhhhk—” The sound cracked out of you like a sob, soaked and raw, half-swallowed against the damp heat of her shoulder. It didn’t even sound like your voice anymore—just broken need scraped into sound.

She did it again. Then again. Tiny thrusts. Measured. Cruel. Divine. Each one punched into that throbbing bundle of nerves buried inside you like she was branding her name into it. The angle was obscene—too precise, too perfect—and it made you clench in helpless, fluttering waves around her cock, soaked and swollen and desperate to keep her there.

You twitched. Your hips jerked. Your moan came high and strangled, shattered through your teeth like it was being dragged from your lungs by force.

Your body rocked in place, helpless under the weight of her control, the friction of her dragging slow, shallow, maddening strokes that felt like they were splitting you open by degrees. She wasn’t fucking you in thrusts—she was fucking you in fractions, in slow surgical pressure that didn’t allow for escape. Just sensation. Just fullness. Just the aching slide of her cock dragging across that place again—

—and again—

—and again.

You whimpered—wrecked, breathless—as the pressure curled tighter in your belly, your thighs trembling with every grind. Your chest heaved. Your mouth stayed open but nothing came out. Just panting. Gasping. Trembling heat. The edges of your vision blurred with tears. Your hands clawed at the sheets, desperate for something to ground you. Your hips moved. Just a little. An unconscious roll. A silent plea. You didn’t even realize you were doing it—seeking relief, seeking mercy, seeking more.

But Agatha was already there. She growled—deep and guttural, her voice catching fire in the space between you—and grabbed your hips with one hand. The grip was brutal. Final. “Stay open for me.” Her breath shook. Her voice was wrecked with the sound of restraint ripping at the seams. “Take it. Just like this.” You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her cock moved inside you in slow, measured drags—barely there, but devastating—like she had all the time in the world to watch you fall apart.

Your hips trembled in her grip, thighs twitching as you tried to stay still, tried not to writhe under her—because she wouldn’t let you. Her hands held your hips firm, thumbs digging in just enough to ground you, to remind you who you belonged to. You sobbed through clenched teeth, your fingers scrambling for purchase—her back, her arms, the sheets—anything to hold you down as she ruined you.

Her rhythm stayed slow. That deliberate grind of thick pressure against your most sensitive place made your toes curl, your back arch, your core clench like it couldn’t bear the emptiness between each stroke. The weight of it. The ruin. It was too much. And not enough.

“Daddyyyy—” you moaned, her name tumbling out wrecked and helpless.

She groaned at the sound of it. Deep. Unrestrained. Her hips never stopped. “That’s it,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence. “Say my name like that, baby. Let me hear who’s fucking you like this—who’s got you dripping and shaking—”

You gasped, eyes fluttering, the tears finally breaking loose. The intensity was overwhelming—but holy. Her cock ground into that spot again, and your whole body jerked. You couldn’t stop it—your hips rolled beneath her, your body moving without permission, chasing something, anything, everything. Her moan tore free—loud, wrecked, helpless. “Fuuuuck—”

She sped up. Not in distance. Not in depth. Just speed. Just those tiny, punishing thrusts. Again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock hit that same spot over and over until it felt like your soul was unraveling. You screamed for her without words, your moans peaking, catching, melting into hers.

“Mmpphh—ahhnn—A-Agatha—fuck—please—”

“That’s it, baby,” she gasped. “That’s my good girl.” She didn’t let up. Those shallow thrusts grew quicker, sharper—just a little more pull, just a little more force. Just enough to build power. Her hips rocked with ruthless control, her cock dragging back that fraction further before driving in again, each time landing squarely on that spot that had you twitching, sobbing, writhing beneath her like a live wire.

You were keening now—moaning raw and wordless, your breath stuttering out in high, desperate pitches. Each sound was a plea without shape, every vowel broken around the weight of her inside you. Your walls fluttered. Clenched. Gasped for her.

Agatha’s eyes were locked to you, wide and dark and awestruck—like she couldn’t believe the way you looked, wrecked and shaking, stretched around her, soaking her with every thrust. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched your body pulse, your cunt gripping her cock like it knew who it belonged to.

You pulled back. Not much. Just a shift. Your hips arched, spine bowing, breath caught in your throat as your body tried—futilely—to seize control. To find air. To keep from drowning in her. But the second your movement met hers, the second your cunt flexed and fluttered around her cock with that slick, aching need. She felt it. Her grip, already tight on your hips, turned punishing. Her fingers dug in—possessive, anchoring you like she owned the gravity that held you down. “Don’t run,” she snarled, low and savage, her breath ghosting over your cheek. “You’ll take it—just like this—”

Then she fucked you. Hard. Ruthless, hungry thrusts that left nothing between you—no space, no pause, no forgiveness. Just slick, brutal friction. Just her cock pounding deep and thick and fast, burying itself inside you like she was trying to mark the end of you. The mattress jolted beneath each stroke. Your moans cracked apart, helpless and high, as she chased the sound of you breaking.

Her own moans hitched in rhythm with yours—guttural, choked, holy. She gasped your name like a prayer and a curse, her mouth falling open, her breath stuttering as her heat pistoned into you. Sweat slipped down her spine. Her chest rocked against yours.

And she didn’t stop. She drove into you—loud, soaked, merciless. Her cock slick with everything you’d already given her, now thrusting so deep your legs shook with every impact.

Your voice broke entirely, no longer words, just sound. Sharp, aching cries tangled with breathless whimpers as she fucked you through it—through the overwhelm, through the heat building low in your belly, through the raw, shattering edge of too much and not enough.

She groaned into your throat, ragged and desperate, her jaw clenching as she slammed forward again, and again, and again. “Fuck—fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight—you’re soaking me, baby, you’re—”

A moan ripped out of you before she could finish.

You sobbed against her shoulder, shaking under the weight of her body and the brutal rhythm of her cock. You spasmed around her, fluttering hard with every stroke, and still she kept going, chasing the slick, squeezing heat until your whole body seized up beneath her.

Her hips stuttered. Slowed. Still deep. Still buried to the hilt. Her thrusts shifted again—shorter. Sharper. Targeted. Right against that devastating spot, Right at the edge. She stayed deep, her hips rolling in those slow, ruinous thrusts—angled just enough to keep dragging over that spot again and again. Precise. Relentless. Her grip on your hips didn’t loosen, not even a little. She kept you pinned, trembling and slick, her rhythm steady enough to drive you mad.

You whimpered—soft at first, then louder, less coherent. A stream of helpless sound slipped from your lips with every motion. Moans, gasps, fragments of her name tangled with raw pleas you couldn’t form into sentences.

She kissed you. Not a whisper of a kiss—no, this was a claiming. Her mouth crushed against yours, open and messy, slick with sweat and moans. Her tongue moved with purpose, with need, with heat that stole the very breath from your lungs. She kissed you like she was trying to crawl inside you through your mouth, like the only way to survive was to be in you—flesh to flesh, soul to soul.

Her hips never faltered. That same brutal slowness. That same precision. Her cock moved with surgical intent, grinding into that spot again and again—so deep, so devastating. You clenched with every drag, every wet pass of her catching exactly where you needed it. The rhythm stayed maddeningly slow, each thrust pushing the pleasure further past the threshold of what should’ve been survivable. You moaned into her mouth, and she moaned back—low, wrecked, the sound of a woman losing herself. Her breath stuttered. Her hips rocked again, her cock thick and wet inside you, your slick coating every inch of her with obscene warmth.

She tilted her hips—just a breath, just enough—and everything changed. Her cock slid deeper, impossibly deep, the head angling upward until it caught perfectly, scraping over that swollen, desperate knot of nerves with surgical precision. You seized under her. Your whole body jolted, a cry half-caught in your throat as your eyes went wide.

And Agatha—Agatha felt it.

Her hips stayed locked to yours, her cock buried to the hilt, pulsing thick inside you—and then her breath shattered. She gasped into your mouth—sharp and sudden—like the new angle had struck something deep inside her. Like it had split her open. You felt it too. The way her cock drove even deeper now, angled just right, the thick underside catching along the swollen nerve-vein that pulsed like it belonged to her. It did. Everything did. Your body arched without asking—hips lifting, thighs trembling, nails digging into her shoulders with a force that barely scratched the ache blooming inside you.

“—fuuhhckkk—” she gasped, voice breaking on the inhale, as if she hadn’t expected you to feel that good. Like the new angle had touched something in her, too—something raw and holy and ruinous. Her head dropped, her chest pressed to yours, and her mouth found your lips again, crushing into you like it was the only thing tethering her to this earth.

She kissed you hard. Desperate. Tongue deep. Mouth open. Breath lost between you. And all the while, her hips never stopped moving.

That same precise rhythm. That same controlled torture. Slow, shallow thrusts that dragged the over your sweet spot with agonizing accuracy, over and over and over again, each one punching the air from your lungs like she was sculpting you into something she could never let go. Agatha moaned into your mouth—wrecked, high, trembling—and you felt it everywhere. It wasn’t just sound. It was a vibration, a tremor that started in her chest and spilled into you, flooding the heat where your bodies met. Her shaft dragged deep inside you with slow, devastating precision, and your whimper cracked open between her lips like an offering. Then she pulled away, lips brushing across your cheek, breath stuttering like she couldn’t believe what she was feeling. You barely had time to brace.

Her mouth dropped to your neck. And that was it. She broke. Her moan punched out of her chest like it had been trapped there raw and ragged, hot and hoarse, muffled against your skin like she was trying to bite it back and couldn’t. It didn’t sound human. It sounded wrecked. And still—her hips kept moving.

Slow. Focused. Punishing. Tiny thrusts that shouldn’t have had power but did—because they hit that spot. Your spot. The one only she could reach. And she hit it again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock dragged across that nerve like it was drawn there by instinct, and your back arched in response, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

Her moans were relentless now. Shaky, high-pitched, desperate. Her hips shifted just enough to pull back, to gain power, and she slammed into you once. Then twice. Then again. Each thrust was thick and brutal and blinding. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You could only feel. “F-fuck—fuck, baby—oh my God—” Agatha gasped, her voice cracking like she couldn’t bear how good you felt. Her grip on your hips tightened like iron, holding you steady while her cock hit that spot with every merciless stroke.

“You feel—Christ, you feel so fucking good—so tight—so wet—fuck.” Her words broke into moans, open and unfiltered. She sounded wrecked, like your cunt was pulling her apart from the inside out.

All you could do was sob under her, your moans coming in a frantic, wet string of syllables that barely made it out of your mouth. You tried to move—just a little, just to breathe—just to ease the pressure—but her hands slammed you right back down. Her hands gripped tighter, holding you down as her hips dragged another thrust through you, deeper this time, devastating.

“Stay,” she growled, voice ragged and raw.

Then she fucked you harder. One deep thrust. Then another. Then another—each one angled with perfect cruelty, hitting that electric place inside you that made your thighs twitch, your nails claw for her back, your mouth fall open in a gasping, soundless scream.

And then—she slowed again. Back to those small, ruinous thrusts. That lazy, agonizing rhythm that had your whole body convulsing. She moaned into your neck—long, loud, nearly broken. Her mouth was open against your skin, panting raggedly, her voice trembling like she was right on the edge of losing control. Each thrust felt sharper, deeper somehow, as if the new angle had split her wide open, too.

You didn’t know when the tears had started—only that your body was shaking, soaked and clenching, your voice long past words. Your mouth hung open, too breathless to moan, too full to beg, your head tipped back against the mattress like it was the only thing still holding you together. Everything below your ribs was pure sensation: wet friction, aching fullness, the relentless grind of Agatha’s cock dragging through your cunt like she owned it—because she did. She hadn’t even let herself move fast yet. That was the worst part. She was still slow. Still deliberate. Still holding back just enough to ruin you by inches.

Her body hovered over yours—forearms braced, muscles tight, sweat dripping from her collarbone onto your chest. Her eyes stayed on your face like she could read every flinch, every twitch, every sobbed breath that fell from your lips. She shifted her weight slightly, and her cock pressed deeper—thick, hot, soaked in everything your body kept giving her. And then she stilled.

The sudden lack of movement made your hips jerk without permission. Your cunt clenched again, fluttering helplessly around her. The need to be filled, to be fucked, was unbearable. And still—she waited.

“Say it,” she gasped, and her voice cracked on the words—wrecked, raw, barely tethered to control. Her grip on your waist tightened, possessive and bruising, like she could hold you in place with just her fingers and her will. “Say you want it—say you want Daddy to fucking breed you—”

You tried to speak, but your throat failed you, too full of breathless sobs and trembling tension. And that silence was all she needed.

A growl tore from her chest—a sound so low and feral it vibrated straight through your ribs—and her hips snapped forward. The slap of her heat plunging back into your core was brutal and wet and final, your whole body jolted from the force of it.

“Don’t make me pull it out of you,” she snarled, and her words hit your skin like a lash. Her cock ground in deep—long, slow, ruthless—dragging against every oversensitive inch inside you, catching on your swollen edges like she wanted to carve the shape of herself into your body from the inside out.

“You want me to cum in your perfect pussy?” she hissed, and her breath hit your mouth like fire, like fury. Her hips stayed locked, buried to the hilt, and the twitch of her cock inside you made your walls flutter again. You moaned—a broken, sobbed sound, high and shivering, your voice catching on the unbearable friction of her filling you. “Nnnh—A-ahhh—!”

She groaned at the sound, her lips curling into a cruel, reverent grin. “You want it so bad—you're shaking for it—so fucking say it.”

Another thrust—hard, sharp, deep—and it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your hands scrabbled for her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself against the storm building behind your ribs. “Open your mouth, pretty girl. Beg for it.”

You sobbed. You were past pride now—your body slick, your cunt aching, your thighs trembling from the tension she kept you locked inside. Her next thrust came slow and punishing, grinding every ridge of her cock against your slick walls, dragging her heat through the soaked, swollen mess between your legs. “I said beg. Fucking earn it,” she rasped, her voice splitting on the edges, straining against how close she was to breaking.

“F-fuhhh—Daaddyy—” The words broke on your breath, a guttural gasp that scraped its way from deep in your chest. Your hips jerked beneath her, legs trembling, cunt already clenching down around her cock like you were trying to drag the orgasm from her by force. You didn’t even realize you were grinding up into her until her hands locked tighter on your waist, holding you steady, making you take it.

Your body was soaked—dripping—slick sliding down your thighs, your cunt fluttering and flushed, too hot, too open, too needy. Every thrust made you arch—your back lifting from the bed, your moans torn out in broken, breathless gasps, each one louder than the last. The sound of her inside you was obscene—wet and thick and holy—the slap of skin, the suck of soaked friction, the quiet gasp that came every time your body clenched and pulled at her cock like it needed more.

Agatha’s breath hitched—sharp and shaking—a broken inhale like the pleasure had caught her mid-thrust and split her wide. Her hips bucked forward hard, slamming deep enough to flatten your spine to the mattress. Her groan cracked—rough, frantic, raw.

“Oh—fuck—baby, I’m close—so close,” she gasped, the words punched out of her. Her rhythm faltered, hips rocking now in rougher, needier strokes—her control hanging by a thread. And then her hand slid from your waist down—down—until it found your thigh.

She shoved it open—rough, sure, demanding—until your legs were spread so wide you could feel the stretch in your hips and the throb of your cunt fluttering open around her. Her palm pressed firm, keeping you there, your body trembling and exposed, laid bare for her to take.

“Open for me,” she groaned, voice cracking, thick with possession. “Let me in—take it—fuck, take all of it. You’re mine. You’re gonna take all of me—every inch—until I can’t pull out.”

Your moan cracked high and raw as your body gave way, the new angle hitting so deep your vision blurred. Her cock slid in to the hilt, thick and pulsing, stretching you wide with every slow, ruinous grind. The sound of it—of her fucking you open—was soaked, filthy, full of slick and breath and gasping. Your cunt sucked her in like you were starving for her. The room echoed with it.

She let out a moan—wrecked and guttural—as she rocked into you again, rougher now, desperate. “I’m gonna fill you up,” she groaned, biting the words into your throat. “Put a baby in you—fuck—stuff you so full they’ll know. Everyone will know. You’re mine—you’re fucking mine—” You sobbed, body spasming under her, your mouth falling open in disbelief. “Yes—Aggie—oh god, yes—please—fill me—”

A fresh rush of wetness coated her cock as she rutted into you. Your body was shaking, thighs trembling, nerves sparking at every contact point. She kissed you then—wet and open-mouthed—her tongue dragging across your cheek, your lips, your jaw.

“You take me so well—fuck—you’re perfect—” Her thrusts were messier now, deeper, sloppy with need. Her breath fell against your ear in shuddering waves. And you couldn’t stop it—the pleading, the hunger, the ache rising up your throat in sobbed, desperate moans. “Please—need to know I’m yours—make me yours—” you whimpered, voice cracking wide open. “Want it—wanna belong to you—please, baby, remind me—remind me who I belong to—”

Agatha’s head snapped down like she’d been summoned. Her mouth sealed over your pulse—hot, wet, desperate—and her groan into your skin was a sound ripped from the pit of her body. Her hips surged forward on instinct, cock driving in so deep your breath punched out of you, your moans dissolving into strangled, broken gasps. “Mine,” she growled into your neck, her teeth grazing just shy of another bite. “Say it. Say it again—”

“Yours—yours—oh my God, Agatha, I’m—”

Her thrusts hit ruinous—hard and shallow and perfectly angled. You were soaked, your cunt a mess of slick and stretch, fluttering around her like your body didn’t know how to stop wanting. Her cock slid through it like she was made for this, made for you, thick and unforgiving, dragging through every nerve-ending she’d ever lit on fire.

Agatha’s hand dragged up your thigh again—pushing, spreading—until your legs were open so wide it hurt, until she could grind deeper, slower, filthier. The sound of it—wet and loud and holy—filled the room. Her body slapped into yours again and again, skin sticking, breath caught, sweat slicking both of you down to your bones.

Her moans were wrecked now—short and guttural and constant, bursting from her throat with every slam of her hips. Her hand braced beside your head trembled, the other still clutching your thigh, pressing you wide, open, made to take every inch of her.

You cried out, unable to hold anything back. “You feel so good—so fucking hard—I can feel you in my stomach—don’t stop—don’t stop—” She gasped. Then again—louder, messier, mouth dragging along your jaw like she was chasing the taste of you. Her magic surged in pulses, crackling in the air, slipping between your fingers, coiling low in your spine like it knew.

“I’m not stopping,” she growled, each word slurred through moans and ragged breath. “You’re gonna take it—all of it—I’m gonna fill you up, baby, fuck you full till there’s nothing left but me. I want you full, round with me—I want them to see who you belong to.” You sobbed. Loud. Soaked. Arching into her like your body was pleading to be taken.

Your orgasm broke. Silent at first. A flash of heat and lightning ripping through your spine—your hips jerking, toes curling, breath seizing like you’d been struck from the inside out.Then came the sound—wet, obscene, sacred. A guttural cry torn from your throat as your cunt clenched tight around her cock and your body poured slick over her. Your magic surged with it—bright, violet, starbursting—casting light against the ceiling, illuminating the soaked sheets, curling through Agatha’s body like a brand. You felt her breath catch against your throat, her pulse jump beneath her skin where it pressed to yours.

Agatha’s lips kissed across your face—your cheek, your jaw, your temple—as if grounding herself in the reality of your body. Her tongue followed in a slow, trembling drag, licking the sweat from your skin like it was the holiest thing she'd ever tasted. The air shimmered—tinted violet and silver—threads of your magic clinging to her lips, to the curve of her neck, to the space between you like spider silk laced with starlight.

She didn’t speak—couldn’t. She only moaned—low, broken, reverent—as her tongue moved down to your neck, licking gently over the skin, her breath hot and shaking. Her hips slowed, not stopping but savoring, every grind of her cock dragging her deeper into your soaked cunt. The sound of it filled the air—squelching, filthy, beautiful. Yours.

Your breath hitched, caught between the rhythm of her thrusts and the heat crawling up your spine. The words slipped out raw, instinctive—low enough that only she could hear. “Baby,” you whispered, voice cracking on want, not weakness. “Remind me.”

Agatha froze—just a little. Just long enough for your hand to curl around her shoulder, your chest arching into her. And that’s when she saw it. The faint bruise beneath your collarbone—just left of center. A shadow from only hours ago—the press of a baton or a boot or a body that never should have touched you. It wasn’t fresh enough to bleed. But it was fresh enough to burn.

She inhaled sharply—like it hit her in the lungs. Her gaze locked there. Her jaw tightened. And then she kissed it. Softly. Once. Then again. Her lips shaking. Your body clenched around her again, fluttering with the weight of what you meant. Not just pleasure. Not just release. “Fill me,” you breathed, your hands curling around her shoulders, anchoring her. “So they know who I belong to.”

That did it. Agatha’s jaw slackened, just slightly— But her moan tore straight from her chest like it had been waiting to be born. Her hips jerked once, deep—reflexive. Her tongue dragged across your neck again before her mouth opened in a gasp that cracked into your skin like thunder

She collapsed into you—pressed belly to belly, chest to chest—skin flushed, breath tangled, soaked in want—like she needed more than friction. She needed contact. She needed you. Her body sank against yours in full surrender, and for a moment, she stopped holding back—stopped pretending she could be anywhere else. Like if she didn’t touch you, she’d come undone entirely.

One hand was already braced beside your head—steady, grounding, trembling under the weight of restraint. The other, still gripping your waist, loosened. Her fingers slid upward—shaking, reverent—as they skimmed the curve of your ribs, your side, your breast… until they reached your face. She cupped your cheek with a touch that felt more like worship than control, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like she needed to feel how ruined you were. Like she had to know it in her bones.

You turned into the touch with a gasp, lips parting around her thumb—and sucked. Slow. Needy. Mindless.The taste of her skin, the tremble in her breath, the way her hips faltered just slightly—it all fed the hunger curling hot and helpless in your gut. She moaned—low, wrecked—and pulled her thumb from your mouth with a slick drag. The loss made you whimper, chasing her without thinking, your mouth still open, your chest arching into her.

Your hand reached for hers—blind, aching, instinctive—and she caught it at once. Her fingers threaded between yours, firm and grounding, then she pushed your joined hand up above your head, bracing them there with steady pressure. Holding you down without force. Her hips surged, fast and wild, fucking into you with the sharp, soaked sound of flesh meeting flesh, louder now, endless, devotional. The weight of her body—all of her—was on you. Not crushing. Claiming. Her nipples dragged across yours with every thrust, hard and aching, the friction a lightning-hot drag of sensation that made her whimper against your mouth.

Her thrusts turned frantic—wild and deep, lost in the rhythm of her need. The bed rocked with every soaked collision of her hips against yours, the wet slap of your bodies filling the air with each devastating stroke. She wasn’t holding back anymore. She couldn’t. Her breath hitched with every thrust, torn from her in half-formed gasps and ragged, broken moans.

“Ahhh—nnhhh—hahh—baby” She sounded ruined. Ruined for you. Each one sounded like it shocked her, like she couldn’t hold them back anymore. She bucked wildly, her thighs trembling, your slick coating her skin with every desperate grind, and she was sliding through it—like lightning made flesh, called home to the storm you had become.

Her fingers unthreaded from yours and cupped your jaw like something sacred. Her thumb brushed your lip—slow, reverent—and then she pulled you into her, kissing you like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Mouths collided. Moans spilled. The taste of her breath, the tremble of her need—it filled you like a spell already cast. You could taste her desperation, feel it in the way she clung to you, like if she didn’t kiss you now, she’d fall apart completely. The kiss broke as she gasped against your mouth, voice shaking.

“My love,” she whispered, wrecked and reverent, her eyes glassy, wide, worshipful. “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

Her whole body arched into you—wild, trembling, possessed—and she shattered.. She slammed deep and then she shattered. The first pulse hit like lightning—hot, thick, claiming—flooding you with an overwhelming heat, and you felt every drop. Felt it rush into you like a spell, like a star being born inside you. The shock of it seized you—your spine bowed, your mouth fell open in a voiceless cry before it cracked loose on a sob of disbelief:

“Ohh—ahhh—Agatha—”

She moaned—loud, guttural, a wrecked whimper that cracked straight from her chest as her whole body locked down against yours. Her hips jolted, trembling as she spilled into you with another pulse, each one thick and sacred, flooding you so fast and so full your body could only convulse around her, slick and radiant and open.

She was panting against your cheek now, whimpering with every twitch—“H-hhhnn—God—ohh—yes—”—her voice a spiral of disbelief and surrender. Her cock jerked helplessly inside you, sliding deeper as her body rocked with the rhythm of release. It was messy. It was unstoppable.

And it was holy. You could feel it in your bones, like magic. Like she had poured a piece of her soul into you and sealed it with heat. Like a sacred claim that threaded itself through your womb, your blood, your ribs. Like she was pouring a part of herself into you, and the universe was holding its breath. The world narrowed to the rush of her coming undone in you, for you, because of you.

Her forehead dropped to yours, sweat-slick and burning. Her breath tangled with yours. The moans didn’t stop—smaller now, sweeter, every sound peeled straight from her chest like she couldn’t hold anything back.

Even as the last pulse shuddered through her, Agatha didn’t stop moving. Small, soaked thrusts. Slow and instinctive. Like her body needed to feel it deeper. Like she had to work every drop further into you—into the place that belonged to her—and couldn’t stop until she had.

The motion wasn’t about climax anymore. It was about claiming. About connection. About sealing herself inside you in every way that mattered. You whimpered at the sensation—body still twitching, overstimulated and glowing, every nerve stretched thin with aftershock—but you didn’t pull away. You let her move. You let her stay.

And oh—God, the way she moaned.

Quiet now. Wrecked. Her voice broken open at the edges as her lips brushed your skin between panting breaths. Little sounds spilled from her as if her heart couldn’t hold them anymore. You felt her everywhere. Her sweat-slick chest flush against yours, her hardened nipples dragging gently over your skin with every tender thrust. Her breath hitched every time your clenched down, milked her deeper. Agatha buried her face against your neck, inhaling you like you were air. Her body finally began to still—her hips slowing, her weight sinking into you as though gravity had finally caught her in full. Her voice, barely a whisper. Wrecked. Honest.

“I love you.” She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t pull back. She just held you—in her, around her, with her—and let the words breathe where they belonged: in the space between your joined hands, your joined bodies, your joined futures.

----------

Time had folded in on itself. The air still smelled like sweat and skin and magic, like something sacred had split open and wrapped around the two of you.

Agatha hadn’t moved far. Just enough to rest her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own, her hand still twined in yours above your head. You felt her pulse in her wrist. Still fast. Still real.

Your voice broke the silence—ragged and dry, but smiling. “…I should get arrested more often.”

Agatha’s laugh cracked out low, wrecked, and full of wonder. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered, but she didn’t let go. You squeezed her hand. “And yours.”

Her lips brushed your cheek. “Always.”

And that was how it ended—your body still open around hers, her magic still glowing somewhere low and deep inside you, and the weight of her love holding you exactly where you’d always belonged. Even when the world was burning around you, Agatha was there to light the next match.

-----------

Now go ahead and tell Mommy what you think. I may need to ask for forgiveness for this shit.

#agatha harkness x fem reader #agatha harkness smut #agatha x reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness #lgbtq #lgbtqia #older woman younger girl #lesbian smut #wlw smut

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 5 months ago

Text

Random Cleaning management

You will need to occasionally run a cleaning cycle for your washing machine. Most shops have some kind of powder for it.

Otherwise your clothes will start smelling musty and the machine itself can get cloggedup and gross.

Also, you will need to use drain cleaner on your kitchen and bathroom sinks, shower drain, laundry sink.

Apparently you also need to do it for dishwashers, if youre lucky to have a robot for that odious little task.

And check the lint catcher in your dryer to avoid fires.

Mirrors, you can use your glass cleaner and s scrunkled newspaper

Wipe the top of fans of dust. And the top of the fridge. And the furniture.

Make peace with the reality that there will always be dust and you one day will also be dust.

Wipe the taps. They can get gunky.

Spray on cleaners for the bathroom are great but you're going to have to actually clean it eventually.

Get a mop if you have tiles or laminate flooring. It makes a difference.

Wipe the cupboards. Esp if you have pets.

Not sure if this works for all walling but like, diluted sugar soap cleans most stuff. Thats the stuff that worked when i was a kid.

You can get leather wipes or a spray and some chux for armchairs and shit.

If you have little demons who take out your table cloths, most cheap stores have these little table weights in a four pack. It can stop them annihilating your table.

Dont auto assume furniture polish needs to go on any wood you got. But it also doesnt hurt to try the test patch thing in a small spot.

Wash your fucking curtains at some point in the year. They collect dust and cat hair. If you cant vacuum it or whatever, shake em outside and wash it.

If your vacuum isnt that strong, nothing wrong with a lint roller or a little brush to get stubborn fluff from carpet or rugs.

Move the furniture once every so often for a clean. So much. Dust and fluff can get under there.

Keep your cleaning shit all together in a closable location. Lockable as needed if you have kids. So they dont chug a potion of uh oh.

Hang shirts on coathangers if you have limited line space. If its long sleeved or thick, you may need to still hang them.

Oh and you save space/pegs if you get one of the specialised holders. Undies, socks, headbands etc. It'll fit and dry quick.

Most shops and camping stores have easily collapsible washing lines and things. Great for if you need extra space, or if its pissing rain and it has to dry inside, or you need to just spread something out weird.

You will never win against a fitted sheet.the gods abandoned us aeons ago.

If you wash thick things like blankets or bath mats, getting some heavier duty metal pegs van be a game changer. Esp if the wind tunnel by your place can blast shit off the line with the most mininmal provocation.

Chair leg protectors... the stick on ones will slide off and they hate you personally.

If you have messy animal eaters in the house,there are like silicone mats and even towel ones although to make your own, you can even cut out of old towels and put a hem or whatevs. Under the bowls? Saves the floor and easily washed.

Flip the mattress. Get a mattress protector too. There will be a day someone spills a drink or jas an accident, or a pet throws up. Just do it. Also wash the mattress protector. Please.

If you have a small bedroom and a big vacuum? For a deep clean, push the mattress off the bed and pick up the slats. Takes extra effort but it gets that deep clean.

Glen20 is a friend but like, you do need to wipe surfaces. Eventually. Wipe the bottom of the bin. Hot water. Bin juice gets sticky and no stink pretty spray fixes it.

Smelly shoes needs to sit in the sun, you can also put newspaper in there to sop up extra.

If clothes or blankets smell off after storage, wash em.

Fabric softner. Not necessary. Can fuck up things like towels and period panties and some delicate items.

Clothes and things have labels on them for a reason. If you love the item, read them.

Cant fit a full ass ironing board? You can get a mini one. I gound mine at an op shop. But you can also get a mat from stores like bunnings and big w.

Litter boxes. Give the thing a wipe over regulalrly. Especially if you dont use the tray bag things. I use a puppy pad under a litter tray liner thing. Only because i have frantic diggers who will try to hide it in china. Wash the litter box and any floor protector mats.

Speaking of the dunny, you can get little cubes to put in the cistern to clean on flush, if you dsilike cage cleaners. But, you still have to scrub the thunderbox in some way, and use the little toilet cleaner and spray up under the rim. It gets evil up there.

Have some containers for your hobbies and crafts, helps to cycle them in and out easier.

Do not. Use cleaners with the abandon of a drunk wizard hurling everything in a cauldron. Be in a ventilated room, door open if you can. Use one product at a time and pay attention to whats in it so you dont gas yourself by accident.

Shopping list magnet on the fridge can help are u gonna forget it on occasion? Sure. Take a photo of it on shopping day.

Wipe out your fridge. Defrost the freezer. Check the brand type and see if theres any instructions for it.

Wash your Toys. Please. Dont give yourself an infection internally or externally. But if you do, remember that your dr is there to help not judge you. Dont delay out of embarrsssment.

Change your loofa. Change your toothbrush. Change your washing up slonge regulalry.

Steel wool is your friend for anti rust mess. Lovely knife sets sometimes get moisture and need a scrub. Also needs to be sharpened. You can get a device for it or see a professional (have never fogotten the post about the knife truck that circled a neighbourhood like an ice cream truck).

Occasionally pull out all your co tainers and lids. Check who is a single, double check for missing pair, and either repurpose or toss.

Any wooden items in your kitchen really look at them at least a few times a year. Moldy? Toss it. Been submerged in water and never quite dried? Sorry, has to go.

Especially a cutting board with sus looking colours in the grooves. Gotta go. And plastic ones that are all hacked up? Repurpose it or toss it.

Wipe the splashback tiles around the sinks. Theres more than you think on there.

Wipe the windows. Promise theyre dirtier than you think.

Clean. Your. Fucking microwave. And. Oven.

For like recyclable items like water bottles and cans, a garden bag in a 60L bin tucked in a corner is a helpful solution. Resdy to go right to containers for change when full.

You do not need 3ven 1/10th of the must haves on tiktok or snap or insta. You just need shit that works for you.

Listen, my house gets messy regularly for like, the fact theres only so much time in a day. But occasionaly remembering one of these things and doing it can help unfuck your head and environment.

Theres probs more, you accumulate adulting and cleaning stuff. Add more as you think of it.

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starlightvld · 1 year ago

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Bait & Switch, pt. 3

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, implied soapghost // CW: angst, hurt no comfort (yet), suicidal ideation, violent thoughts of self harm, MWIII spoilers

---

Everything is wrong — the dead bodies surrounding him, the strange hiss in his ear, the hateful expression on Ghost's face as he describes all the things Soap doesn't remember.

All the ways he's hurt the people he loves the most.

No wonder Ghost is treating him like he's the enemy. It's because he is.

He sits back on his heels and stares at the blue sky he thought he'd never see again. The smell of death and human waste wafts through the broken-out glass of his helmet and sends him back to his hole in the ground where he would sit in a gut-churning mixture of mold, blood, and his own shit for the days and sometimes weeks between the ice cold spray-downs just before Makarov paid him a visit.

He's dizzy. Exhausted. Horrified.

And the inescapable hiss from his helmet makes him want to stab out his ear drums. The violence of the visceral thought sends a shiver down his spine.

Years.

Ghost said he's been trying to kill the 141 for years — months upon months of being nothing more than a mindless machine, a puppet for Makarov to pull the strings and make him dance. The implications of the broken out glass and the hissing are clear. Can he even trust himself not to turn again if he takes too big of a whiff of whatever is pumping out of his helmet?

He holds his breath. The longer he doesn't breathe, the more the world goes hazy. Vicious pain slices through his temples, and his lungs convulse, sucking in huge gulps of air. His vision blackens at the edges, the compulsion for violence rising higher—

Wind buffets his face, and the blackness clears away.

He supposes that answers that question.

He tries again to remove the helmet, but it seems to be sealed to his tactical vest — a vest that doesn't have any straps to loosen that he can see. Panic bubbles in his chest, and he struggles harder, desperate to remove the thing that tethers him to Makarov. The thing that made him kill for him.

"Stop," Ghost orders, the harsh tone grating like shards of glass over Soap's skin.

He stops, though the panic still simmers in his chest and tries to leak through his mouth as a whine. He can't bring himself to look at Ghost. Can't stomach that hateful look in his eyes.

Soap thought he'd never break. Thought he'd die before ever betraying his dearest friends and family.

Apparently, he was wrong.

What is left for him now if those he loves can't trust him? If he can't trust himself?

The memory of Ghost's scarred hands trailing over his bare chest jerks him from his spiraling thoughts, and he bites back a groan of frustration at his own coping methods, especially when the subject of his thoughts is sitting right in front of him, hating him.

During the time he remembers with Makarov, Soap used the phantom sensation of Ghost's hands on his skin as a distraction from the pain and torture Makarov put him through, telling himself he could one day feel those hands again if he just held on for another day. Back then, he believed without a doubt that Ghost would love him no matter what Makarov did to him.

Now Ghost won't even let him get close enough to touch.

He wishes he'd stopped fighting when Makarov first showed him that video, when the first wave of realization and despair rolled over him that no one was coming. Maybe he could've willed himself to die and saved the 141 at lot of pain and possible death—

Dread hits him like a sledgehammer straight to his chest.

"Price and Gaz... they're alive, right?" Soap croaks through a parched throat. "I didn't... I didn't hurt them, did I?"

"Hurt, yes. Kill, no... though not for lack of tryin'," Ghost growls.

It's the barest kind of relief, like a hot breeze on an even hotter day.

As if he can bend nature to reflect his thoughts, the wind blows the fetid smell of some kind of industrial waste their direction. Soap grimaces at trading one foul smell for another. The chopper blades cutting through air grow louder, like an axe on a swinging pendulum, coming closer to cutting off his access to Ghost with every swing.

He's not stupid. Once he gets on that helo, he'll be indefinitely detained and probably never see Ghost again. He'll be lucky if Price and Gaz come to see him at all. The thought burns his throat like bile.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the sky. "I don't remember. Please... please don't hate me."

Emotion builds in his chest like a bomb waiting to blow. All he wants is to be held. To feel a bit of the kindness and human connection he's been missing for so long. But he doesn't know who he is anymore. He feels like Soap, though clearly he hasn't been Soap for a very long time.

"If Makarov could make a man look and act like you once, he could do it again," Ghost rasps. "How do you expect me to... to..."

Ghost trails off, and Soap dares to glance up. He finds Ghost's eyes have mellowed into hesitant distrust, which is an improvement from blind hatred, but after imagining a warm welcome for so long, it's still a slap in the face.

He doesn't blame Ghost, though. He hates himself, too.

And he's right. It kills Soap to admit it, but he's right. It's possible that whatever Makarov did to the man he sent back from Siberia with the 141 has been done to him, too. It's possible that everything he's ever known or thought about himself is a fabrication built on Makarov's lies.

The rhythmic thrum of the helo gets louder. Bubbling panic turns into a cold stone in his gut.

Even if he is the original Soap, he let himself get caught — wasn't good enough or strong enough to either avoid capture or escape later on. He's a failure in every sense of the word.

"Ye should probably just kill me now," Soap says, though he barely recognizes the strangely detached monotone falling from his lips. "I don't remember anything, and I'm only a danger to ye."

"I'm not... I'm not gonna kill you." Ghost's gaze sharpens. "Not unless you make me."

"Nae," he says in the same monotone. "Wouldnae do tha' to ye. At least... this version of me wouldn't."

He doesn't have a gun. If the amount of bodies surrounding them is any indication, he likely ran out of ammo and threw the gun aside in his pursuit of Ghost. The knife he dropped earlier, though...

The blade glints in his peripheral vision, a siren song of potential relief.

Ghost is hurt. He probably wouldn't be able to stop Soap before he could reach for it and stab himself in the eye...

Ghost might still try to stop him, though, and could hurt himself in the process. Soap can't risk that.

Or maybe he just can't stomach the idea of dying knowing Ghost did nothing to prevent it.

The helo glides over the closest warehouse, sending dust and debris flying. Ghost waves to catch the pilot's attention, and it descends, hovering as close to them as it can get and less than a foot from the ground. Soap reaches over to help Ghost up—

Ghost smacks him away again. Soap can barely hear him over the sound of the helo, but it's clear as a bell in his mind all the same. That growl. That hateful tone of voice.

His chest cracks open. The knife gleams in the sunlight.

"Let's go!" Ghost yells over the noise as he reaches the aircraft and grasping medic hands pull him inside.

And even now, after everything, Soap is helpless against following Ghost's orders. He pulls himself into the helo, leaving his last hope for a swift death glinting on the pavement. A medic slams the door shut with a finality that makes him shudder.

The medical staff are already stripping Ghost's gear to get at the wound. Soap moves toward the back of the helo to get out of the way, the sense of detachment growing stronger and the stone in his gut heavier as the helo rises into the air.

He's traded one prison for another, one torture chamber for another. He's seen too much during his time in the military to hope that the government won't treat him just like Makarov did — strap him to a chair until they're satisfied they've bled him dry.

And he's seen too much hate in Ghost's eyes to hope that his one-time lover will save him.

Not that he deserves to be saved...

The medical officer in charge comes at Ghost with a syringe likely full of a local anesthetic, but Ghost catches his arm and points at Soap. "I can wait. Sedate him first," he orders.

Shock clear in his expression, the officer looks between the two of them and opens his mouth, no doubt to protest. Soap beats him to it.

"Do it. Please."

The idea of sedation is a welcome one. His despair is too potent to take much more of the distrust bleeding from Ghost's mask-shadowed eyes.

The medical officer shakes his head but does as he's ordered, setting side the syringe for Ghost to prepare a different one while his subordinates clean and stitch up Ghost's injury. A raised bag of blood hangs on the ceiling, already draining into Ghost's body to replace what he's lost. It must have been a lot for him to need a transfusion so immediately. Soap bites his lip, a thread of worry weaving through the numbness.

Was he the one that shot Ghost in the first place? It kills him that he doesn't even know.

The officer pulls off as much of Soap's outer gear as he can — the tac vest is a mystery to him, too, apparently — and eventually cuts off the arm of Soap's shirt to get at his bare skin.

The prick of a needle and the cold slide of drugs into his system sends him spiraling.

He remembers the sensation. A crack opens in his mind, and memories slip through — a thousand jabs to the neck followed by the paralyzing cold intruding in his blood stream.

And as much as he dreads that distrustful look in Ghost's eyes, for the length of time it takes the sedative to take effect, he keeps his gaze fixed on Ghost... if only to remind himself of where he is and who he's with.

Ghost is here.

Not Makarov, but Ghost.

Perhaps it's the drugs. Perhaps it's his own mind playing tricks on him. But as he slips under, he swears he sees a flash of longing replace the distrust in Ghost's eyes.

He clings to it as oblivion sweeps him away.

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 >>

#john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #soapghost #ghostsoap #Call of Duty #ghoap #COD MW reboot #bait & switch #I promise this is the LAST part that's all angst #The comfort begins in part 4!!#OG Starlight

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angst-after-dark · 12 days ago

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CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, EXHAUSTION, OVERWORKING, COLLAPSE/FAINTING. UNHEALTHY COPING, RECOVERING WHUMPEE

Peyton belongs to @wildfae-afterdark and is used with permission.

Taglist: @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @badgerwhump, @flowersarefreetherapy, @gottawhump, @oddsconvert, @cepheusgalaxy

The kitchen buzzed with frenetic movement. It was chaos on the face of it, but under everything, it was a finely calibrated machine. Everyone had their place and they knew what was required of them. Timing was everything.

Do the work, do it well, and do it in time.

Sweat stuck to Peyton like it had been glued there. It stuck to his skin, his hair, his apron, everything. His sweat mingled with the rest of the kitchen staff, the chefs, waiters, and busboys like him. The smell of it mixed with the scent of ripe fruit and sugar, almonds, and grease. Meaty, bloody steak sizzled on the grill with hot oil, peppers and onions. Broiling stew intermingled with the aroma of cheese pastries fresh from the oven. It filled the kitchen with delicious steam and heat.

Peyton’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that the muffin he’d snagged from the breakfast tray wasn't nearly enough to tide him over. He leaned over the sink to rest his aching back. His fingers trembled as another round of glass plates were dumped on the side of the sink, waiting for him to get them clean.

"Need more cups, kid!" Willow shouted at him. She pushed her way through the swinging door and Peyton nodded. He hurriedly filled another metal tray with glasses and lifted it into the dishwasher. The spray of hot water and heat did nothing to cool him off or banish sweat clinging to him. It was almost unbearable but Peyton could only adjust the bandana he had tied on his sweating forehead.

Being in the kitchen was nothing but effort. The days were long and exhausting. The kitchen was hot. The lunch rush was the worst. The little diner wasn't in the city proper but it still had a good, loyal customer base and new customers were discovering it everyday. Despite its location, it was always crowded. Especially around lunch. Everyone was tense and impatient and Peyton could barely keep up with the dishes. His feet ached, his back ached, and the bright lights made his head hurt but the chef paid him in cash and no one asked questions. Even if this was his third closing shift in a row, and second triple in a week.

The next two seconds happened in slow motion.

He grit his teeth and tried to ignore the dizziness and increasing feeling of nausea like he had earlier but he still found himself stumbling over his feet.

He stacked up the next round of dishes and returned to Willow's station when his hands trembled. The entire tray tilted horribly, glasses sliding to one side and catching on the rim of the tray, only to be sent toppling by the plates that followed.

A small gasp left his lips.

He’d never dropped a whole platter like that before. Willow ran around from the metal counter, shedding soaked gloves to grab Peyton's shoulders. He hadn’t realized he’d been tipping over, either.

Peyton blinked and his mind raced. Had he? All his thoughts were too fast, slipping through his fingers like water in a sieve. Willow pressed a hand to his face, warm, something to sink into, and seemed to get her answer.

“Peyton!” a voice shouted but it sounded far away and distorted.

He felt himself falling, the ground came rushing in suddenly, his vision tunnelling to dark and then nothing.. When the world righted itself again, he was freezing.

Confused, Peyton reached out, trying to find whoever called him but the next thing he knew he was laying on his back on the floor. Dazed, he tried to sit up only to be stopped by the feeling of hands gently pressing down on his shoulders. He opened his mouth to ask what was happening but nothing came out.

Licking his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, a blanket of fatigue washed over him. Almost like someone had sucked out all his energy. It felt like water being poured from the top of his head down to his toes leaving Peyton feeling heavy and light at the same time.

“Stop moving,” Willow commanded, pressing down more firmly on his shoulders.

Hearing that, Peyton felt some of the fog clearing and finally realized where he was and who was touching him. Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, he brought a hand up to try and push Willow’s hands off but she knelt next to him, cradling his head on her lap.

“Hey, Kid?” she tried softly, and he turned his head towards her voice, one eye cracking open.

“Hmmm, wh-what happened?” His voice was so weak, Willow had to lean forward to hear him.

“Seems you’ve gotten sick; you have a wicked fever.”

“That… That can’t be. I—” He tried sitting up again but collapsed back against her lap. “—I have to do this. We both do hard things.”

"No, Kid, you're going home and you're going to rest."

"But Dami. My bonded-" he snapped his mouth closed, paling further. He shouldn't have said that. What was a better word? He had to think of something equal to that. He scrambled to find something in his soupy brain. There was nothing equal.

"Your bonded will be fine," Willow said softly, "I'll drop by with some medicine and food."

He stared up at her, eyes and nose stinging with unshed tears. They made his head hurt. Dami wouldn't trust her. Dami would grunt and say "no thanks" and keep going. Dami wouldn't have failed.

Peyton wasn't Dami. He was tired.

He nodded, letting Willow help him up. "Okay. Okay. Um, yes. Please. Please help me."

#whump #bbu #pet whump #sick whump #exhaustion #collapse #overworking #whump writing #peyton montgomery #motel arc

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alex31624 · 7 months ago

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Duck Comic Reading Club Week 20: The Old Castle's Secret

I finally got around reading The Old Castle's Secret. It was the last comic from the Club I was missing. Let's see how it went.

The story begins with good old Scrooge asking Donald and HDL to come to his house. He needs help to find a treasure.

With that hair, Scrooge looks like Doc Brown from Back to the Future.

The treasure is on Castle McDuck, located on Dismal Downs. Hey, just like in the 2017 hit Ducktales!

There's a problem tho, ghosts. An evil spectre protects the treasure. Sadly, there were no Ghostbusters to call, and Scrooge called the second best option. Is time for Donald to prove his courage.

Is worth mention that this is the second Scrooge comic, he's not the brave tomb robber… I mean, treasure hunter we know, yet.

Anyway, is time for the McDucks to go to reveal the secret(s) of Castle McDuck!

In Scotland, they were welcome by Scrooge's trusty worker, Scottie.

So, he's a scottish whose named Scottie. Ja.

The McDucks went to work right away, using Scrooge's X-Ray machine to search for the hidden treasure. They worked for hours until…

It's so funny how Scrooge walks on Donald.

They found the treasure on the walls, millions on gold and jewels. Donald is forced to take the treasure outside, but he's attacked by the ghost.

Unfortunately, the castle is full of dust, and that makes a lot of problems for Donald because of his asthma, you know it. So, he went to the yard to get some fresh air, not because he's scared, no, no, no.

Thankfully, Huey has the solution to all their problems.

Sadly, the ghost escaped. Only Scottie was left behind. Suddenly, an armor approached them, and Louie did the logical.

That's a fine armor, Donald took an axe directly to his head like it was nothing.

Scottie had enough of this madness and left the Castle. The best decision so far. On the other hand, HDL continued with their ghost hunt, only to be trapped in a battlement. Not long after, Scrooge ended in the same place.

Now, is up to Donald to rescue them. He's on his way, but first, he found out Scottie's now playing on the ghost's team.

And of course, he's trapped too.

Well, I get that it's a hard situation and they need to escape, but, I'm not sure if I would have told my ten-years-old nephew to swing into a pond.

With HDL on the ground, the babies went to find a way into the castle. They found a secret tunnel in the cemetery. Because, of course there's a secret tunnel.

Meanwhile, the adults are preoccupied about the kids. Scrooge regrets not having given them a gun.

Imagine if Scrooge had have that gun on DT17. The second Magica appeared, he could have shoot her and avoid the Shadow War.

Anyway, the ghost is attacking the babies, and Scrooge didn't hesitate.

Remember kids, next time a ghost wants to mess with you, shoot it. Kill it a second time.

The ghost tried to escape, but the McDucks caught it. And now, the plot twist, the ghost was Scottie, who actually was Diamond Dick, the guy with the best name ever.

It was all Diamond Dick's scheme to steal the treasure using an invisible spray he stole. Also, the real Scottie is dead.

Ok, forget about the invisible spray and how Dick still made a skeleton shadow. Forget about the fact that his third wife was a McDuck, technically making him a member of the clan.

How was Scottie a trusty worker if Scrooge didn't even knew how he looked. Diamond Dick said, hey guys it's-a-me, Scottie and Scrooge was like, hell yeah, that's Scottie.

Donald tried to take all the credit for solving the case, and the babies sprayed him with the invisible formula.

This was a great, fun story that I enjoyed a lot. One of the best Club readings of this year, IMO.

And with this review done, I have done all the Club comics. It has been a lot of fun, let's see what next year brings.

#dcrc #donald duck #duckverse #dcrc week 20 #dcrc carl barks #dcrc donald duck #duck comics #disney ducks #carl barks #scrooge mcduck #huey duck #dewey duck #louie duck #comic review #diamond dick

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liviavanrouge · 2 months ago

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Little Brother pt 7

Landon: *Tosses the empty spray paint down, giggling at the destruction they caused to the tunnel*

Annabeth: Which way now, Landon?

Landon: *Points to the far left tunnel, walking away down it*

Percy: *Perks up, noticing a light at the end of the tunnel* Huh..?

Landon: *Hurries away, running towards it*

Landon: *Comes out into a large cave, staring at the machine*

Annabeth: This is what Silver was talking about...the big big machine he remembered..

Landon: *Walks away over to the metal collar on the ground, picking it up*

Percy: And we found the collar...

Percy: But what is this...looks like something a child of Hephaestus would make and want to keep hidden..?

Annabeth: Leo, we should message him and see what he thinks..

Percy: Yeah, let's do that..there's some water over here..

Landon: *Wanders around, looking curiously at everything* Hm..?

~~~

Leo: That's a machine to explode upon pressing a button..

Annabeth: What?!

Leo: That big red and orange button in the middle, press that and the whole thing is going up in flames...

Leo: I suggest you guys get away from it or you'll never see the light of day again..or that little button on the table could cause a mini explosion to destroy it but you'd have to get up real close..

???: ANNABETH!!

Zane: *Glides down, his eyes narrowed*

Annabeth: Zane-! *Flinches as the ground shook, her eyes wide*

Percy: *Whips around, spotting a cloaked figure with their hand on the button* NO!!

Landon: *Bites the figures arm, yelping when they slapped him down*

Landon: *Pinches his nose, groaning quietly*

Percy: *Uncaps riptide, hurrying over to the boy* Landon!

???: *Turns and rushes away, Zane hot on their tail*

Annabeth: DON'T LET HIM ESCAPE, ZANE!!

Leo: TAKE COVER!! *Leans close to the message* IN THE WATER OR SOMETHING, SO YOU GUYS DON'T BURN TO DEATH!!

Percy: The water, quick!

Annabeth: Won't it collapse the cave, we'd be trapped under water for who knows how long!

Annabeth: Even with a water bubble around us, who knows how long we'd last..

Percy: *Looks at the button on the table* ...I'll...destroy the machine

Annabeth: What...

Percy: "A Young Love Must be Lost", that's the only part that hasn't happened...

Percy: I'll destroy the machine

#pjo hoo toa #annabeth pjo #percy pjo #pjo fandom #pjo hoo #pjo oc #pjo ocs #pjo series #pjoverse #pjo #riordanverse #annabeth percy jackson #percy jackson #percy jackson fandom #percy jackson oc #percy jackson series #percy series

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w33nies · 2 years ago

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Qué Maravilla CH.8 - 'The Point of No Return'

Previous Chapter

Miguel O'hara x SpiderReader rating: E for Everyone bby warnings: none? lots of angst tbh summary: the adventures of Spiderman and the Prowler art is not mine !!! @yunkaan on twitter!!!

------------ Ch.8 - The Point of No Return ---------------

As Miles followed closely behind his doppelganger through the city, he couldn't help but be fascinated with his suit. The engineering feats it displayed seemed to surpass even that of his own Uncle Aaron’ suit. He was blown away by his sneakers, which seemed to possess some kind of jet propulsion mechanism which allowed him to leap unprecedented heights, the robotic neon-lit helmet he was able to control seemingly like it was just another muscle in his own body. And of course, those steel claws which were incredibly versatile in combat and travel. He thought back to their fight moments ago. How he blindsided him with that spray paint bomb. Were there any other features of his suit he hadn't seen yet?

“I like your shoes,” Miles blurts out, “Are they pneumatic?”

The Prowler pauses for a moment on the corner edge of a skyscraper, posed in a low squat next to a gargoyle. If he had been in a better mood, Miles would have joked about the resemblance in demeanor between the two. ‘Now probably isn’t the time to poke fun at him.’ He told himself, ‘Doubt this is the type of guy that can take a joke.’

“Yeah.. And?” His voice is nothing like his own. The glowing mask obscuring his face was designed to distort it. It was lower, almost machine-like, in a way that was entirely unnerving.

“That’s sick. They look pretty dope too. Better than the one Uncle Aaron used to wear,haha. ” Prowler doesn’t respond, instead blankly staring through him with that intimidating mask.

“Or..I guess my Uncle Aaron…I've neer seen…I mean…I'm sure your Unc’s shoes are dope too..”

Silence.

Miles clears his throat in an awkward attempt to ease the tension. “Oh and those paint bombs you threw earlier. Are they activated based on a standard timer fuse or do you use an explode-on-impact type of trigger because-”

“-Do you ever shut up?”

‘Ouch.’

“Um okay then…” Miles raises his palms defensively, slowing his pace so that Prowler was ahead of him. “....I’m sorry I guess?” Miles couldn’t help the disgusted expression creeping in on his face. ‘Bet he’s a real hit at parties.’

“Also-”

“-What,” Prowler responds curtly.

“...Your shoe is untied.” Miles said with a grin, attempting to feign innocence for intentionally pestering him.

“I’m aware.” Somehow the robotic tone seemed to emphasize his annoyance. Then he leaped off the building, almost like he was trying to get as far away from Miles as he could.

Miles shrugged, “Just thought you should know,” he jested before following after him.

It was not long after when they reached the subway underneath Fitz Tower. Miles found the layout of this subway to be similar to his own Brooklyn. All the tracks, tunnel, the stairs, the overhead lights, even the benches. The difference was in the small details like the colors of the terminal signs or the horde of unfamiliar graffiti tags littering the walls. The advertisements (also covered in graffiti) were almost exclusively names that he recognized. Some of them being for villains he had defeated in his own dimension. Vulture Telecom? Rhino had a casino? Kraven was running for city mayor? The thought of these kinds of individuals holding substantial power made his blood run cold. It was like his own personal hell.

After what felt like ages (though probably only minutes) they reached a locked metal gate that wore a giant sign on the front that read, “RESTRICTED AREA AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”. Immediately Prowler breaks toward it. With the added momentum of his sneakers, he leaps in the air, grabs the top of the gate and pulls himself up and over the fence in one fell swoop. Upon landing with a thud, he turns around with a grimace of impatience that makes the unspoken message clear, ‘You coming or not?’

Miles casually walks up to the gate. Sticking his palms and feet onto the wired fence, he climbs its side with ease. Upon reaching the top, he jumps off landing right next to the Prowler. The other boy let out a peeved ‘tsk’ before he continued forward.

When they reach the end of the dark corridor Prowler pulls down on a lever. The lights stagger on and reveal to them is a dome shaped, high ceiling room with several arches leading to who-knows-where. In the center of this room a certain mural stopped Miles in his tracks. “No expectations” it read in yellow and blue spray paint with a black, shadowy figure in its center surrounded by a background of pink and orange geometric shapes and bubbles. He and his Uncle Aaron had made this same mural, in this same spot, in his Brooklyn. He remembers that day so clearly. It was here where he got bitten. Ever since then his life has never been the same. It was the day his destiny changed for good. For better or for worse that was the point of no return.

Miles took a few cautious steps toward the painting. His stomach dropped. Yes, it was the same exact piece. Well…except for the silhouetted figure in the center. Instead of a blank, shadowy figure this one had a giant white dot in the center of his head and a myriad of smaller white specks on his body. It was similar to - no- it was exactly how he looked when he last saw him back in Mumbattan. The man who had threatened to take away everything he had ever cared about. The man destined to kill his father.

For a moment he could feel his heart beating in his ears. His hands began to tremble. Every breath he took was like a blow to his lungs. ‘See you back home, spider man.’ His last words to him echoed over and over again in his head. He was all he could hear. He was all he could see. For a moment, which felt like hours, Miles remained glued to the mural with a kind of tunnel vision born only out of panic.

“Hey, cabrón…” The Prowler was about to chastise him but paused upon seeing Miles' fearful face.

“Aye, muchacho.” Nothing.

“Chacho!”

Miles is startled from his trance.

“¿Estás bien?”

“Yeah…Yeah… I’m good.” He spoke distractedly.

“...Then let’s go,” The Prowler whirls around and begins walking away before-

“-Did you make this?”

“What?” Prowler turns to see Miles pointing at the piece, “Yeah, with my Uncle Aaron ¿Porque?”

“…Me and Uncle Aaron painted a mural just like this.”

Prowler sighed, he could practically feel the patience slipping from his body.

“Cool, now can we-”

Out of nowhere a large blast rips through the air, startling both boys. The ground begins trembling under their feet. A blinding glare emits from one of the tunnels on their right.

“Is that-”

“-COME ON!” Prowler books it toward the tunnel motioning for him to follow. Just looking down the passageway, Miles had to squint his eyes. The more he ventured in, the more his eyes watered from the intense onslaught. Shielding his face with his hands, he frantically tried to scan his surroundings. Eventually, he’s able to make out a tiny figure in the distance.

“HELP!” The individual screams were muffled as was their banging on the force field surrounding them. “SOMEBODY! HELP ME! PLEASE!” The figure begins the glitch violently while various pieces of debris and wreckage around behind them.

Miles webs forward without a second. He finds difficulty due to the pushback from the ongoing, well, whatever the hell was going on.

“DUDE, WAIT!” The Prowler shouts but Miles ignores him, leaving him exasperatingly rushing after him.

Miles fights the current, inching closer and closer until he’s finally able to place his hands on the shield (and it’s taking all of his strength to even keep them on there). Now he’s face to face with the trapped man, “PLEASE!” he begged, “PLEASE! GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

Miles musters all the electricity he possibly can into breaking the force field, the impact sending in flying backwards. Then…darkness. After a few seconds, a few of the lights flicker back on, just managing to dimly light the room. Miles slowly brings his aching body to his feet. As he looks around he realizes he was blasted through the observation window of the collider wall, smashing several desks, monitors, computers, and other various tech. ‘Whoops. Hope that wasn’t important.’ He then makes his way to the unknown man, laying at the bottom of the spherical room which houses the collider. ‘I really hope he isn’t dead.’

Miles kneeled down and lightly shook the man by his shoulders, “Sir, are you alright?”

Nothing.

“Sir?...”. He checked the man’s pulse, it was faint.

Miles rubs his hands together, generating a slight amount of electricity in his palms. He saw people do this in movies all the time, though he had never had to do it himself before. ‘Please don’t have me kill this man,’ he prayed silently. Warily, he puts his palms to the man's chest, shocking him.

“Oh my god!” he ye;[ with a start, his outburst startling Miles. As he began painfully scrambling to his feet, Miles followed suit. The man opened his mouth to speak before holding a finger in the air then subsequently bending down to support himself with his hands on his knees, loudly wheezing.

“Are you alright?” Miles asked, hands held out ready to support him in case he were to collapse.

“Thanks to you I am,” The man grabs Miles's shoulder, stabilizing himself. “I thought I was going to die in there,” he continued to gasp through deep breaths. “Thank you. Truly. Thank you.” Once he finally regained his breath he scanned the masked vigilante up and down, bewildered. “To whom do I owe the pleasure of saving my life?”

Miles studied the man before him, the spitting image of a scientist. He’s pretty tall, taller than him, with a lanky build. His dark hair was a wavy and unkept mess atop his head, except for the sides which were completely shaved. He wore an oversized lab coat that reached all the way down to his knees with tan khakis and a baby blue button up underneath. As well as a soft, welcoming smile that crinkled his eyes, showing sincerity. He wore large square glasses which rested on the bump of his aquiline nose. Behind them sat heavy-lidded brown eyes with deep set bags. His hand was extended for him to shake, Miles took it.

“I’m spider-”

“- Jonathon. Ohnn.'' The Prowler’s booming voice cut through the air, making himself known before he was visible to the two men. The menacing sound of debris crunching under his feet follows as his large shadow creeps on the wall.

“Oh, no.” Ohnn shields himself behind Miles.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to blow up my city?”

“No! No, no, no, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong.” Ohnn frantically waved his hands in the air, “I-I was just, uh, running some tests!”

“Running tests my ass. If our last talk didn’t get it through your thick skull,” The prowler flashed his clawed gloves, taking menacing strides towards Miles and the man, “I guess I’ll have to knock some sense into you.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Easy now.” Miles attempts to mediate, but Prowler practically ignores him.

“I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.” Jonathan speaks, still cowering behind the boy.

“Which is?”

“Um…Well, heh, it’s a looooong story… ,” Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

“We got time,” Prowler crosses his arms impatiently, “Say your piece.”

“Um, I-” Jonathan tries to get up, slipping on the floors of the cylindrical room.

“Here.” Miles shoots a web towards the broken observation window embedded in the wall.

“What the-”

Before Jonathon can finish Miles grabs him and slings both of them through the window, and into the wrecked lab behind it.

“Wha-What the… I mean, thank you young man.”Ohnn musters, completely frazzled.

“Don’t mention it.”

Before Ohnn could ask any of his burning questions, Prowler lands next to them with a thud, “Spill,” he says, “Before I make you.”

“Well, uh, I can put on a kettle!” Jonathan makes his way to a ruined desk to a ruined desk pulling out a portable electric stove along with a now heavily dented kettle. “Do you like tea?I have Chai!”

An amused smile tugged on the The Prowlers lips “Do you have anything… stronger?”

“Like…Oolong?” Ohnn asked sheepishly, holding up another box of tea.

“Like whiskey.”

“Um, well, I work here so…no.” Jonathan spoke through nervous laughter, “I like to keep my brain sharp! ”

“WHAT? YOU DRINK?” Miles interjected. He put his hand to his chest, borderline offended, “Aren’t we 16!”

“Ugh, let's just get this over with”, In a swift movement Prowler snatches Ohnn and slings him over his shoulder and begins to walk away.

“AH- WOAH MY GOD!”

“What are you doing!?” Miles runs after him.

“I'm just gonna ask him some questions,” Miles-42 plops Jonathon into a nearby wobbly office chair and begins to duct tape him.

“You don’t have to tie him up to do that! He was cooperating! He was just about to tell us what happened!”

“What do you mean we?” the boy scoffed, “Our deal is done man. There's the collider right there. Just zip-zap-zop it back on, or whatever, and leave. Go home.”

“Oh no, no, no, no. I wouldn’t do that.” Jonathan leaned forward as far as he could given his whole bottom half now taped

“Why not?” the boys asked in unison.

“Ha, well, you see….uh…,” Jonathan sighed, “Okay…Full disclosure…I wasn’t just running tests earlier.”

“Go figure,” Prowler said sarcastically.

“I was going to destroy it.”

“Huh?”

“The collider?” Miles asked in disbelief.

“ Yes..” the man said ashamedly, “Well, I was trying to corrupt the files but then I got distracted when this random signal appeared on my radar … from another dimension. Earth-50101 I remember it said. Location was a place I had never heard of… ManMumb? MamBatt?”

“Mumbattan?” Miles asked worriedly.

“Yes! It was something like that. Anyways, when I investigated the signal the strangest thing happened. This…,” Jonathan paused with a deep breath, “...I don’t know what it was- computer virus or a major malfunction or ghost of sorts took hold of everything. All the computers turned on by themselves, screeching and glitching horribly. Showing nothing but white screens. I tried to reboot the system, but none of the computers would, corporate… So I went to investigate the collider itself. Out of nowhere it too began to power on by itself.” The scientist shuddered, “For hours, I was stuck in here while that thing turned glitched on and off. Matter from that 50101 dimension even began merging with our own…” Jonathan motioned with his head for the boys to turn around. Scattered around were miscellaneous items fused together , violently glitching in and out.

“Yeah…” Prowler concurred grimly, “Some of that stuff was randomly happening around the city. That’s why the boss called.”

“While I was trapped…I even began hallucinating. These black dots clouded my vision. I even saw a figure covered…It was like he was talking to me…”.

“What did he say?” Mile’s asked, his voice was laced with anxiety.

“Most of it was a garbled mess, um…” Jonathan shuts his eyes in concentration, “...Something along the lines of… ‘Won’t they be sorry?’... Well, he was very upset, that's for sure.”

“Yeah,” Miles mumbled to himself, “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Look, I’m not a spiritual man, but that has to be an omen of sorts. We can’t turn that thing back on.” Jonathan pleaded, “Even if it hasn’t somehow been fried in the blast, who knows what we’d be risking. If our dimensions keep merging and trading matter…”

A foreboding silence takes hold. Miles feels his body run cold. “Black dots…” he recalled, “You said you saw black dots everywhere?”

“Yes.”

‘Shoot.’ Miles cursed under his breath. Spot did this. He’s the reason why there was that black hole swallowing Mumbattan. He thought about Pavitir, the shame of failing to stop Spot back then hitting him full force. It was all his fault, and now he had inadvertently ruined his own chances of getting home.

‘Wait a minute.’ Miles thought, ‘If Spot is responsible for the chaos in Mumbattan, then… it wasn’t because I disrupted the canon.’ Miles found himself with a renewed sense of hope, ‘Canon’s really can be broken. As long as I can figure out a way home, I can save my father.’

He straightened his posture and gave a deep exhale. “My name is Miles… Miles Morales. I crashed here by accident-” suddenly the boy glitches violently. This one left him gasping for air, holding his stomach on the floor.

"-From another dimension,” he finished with a strained voice. Prowler, stunned for a moment, helps him up, awkwardly pats him on the back.

“Thanks,” Miles huffs

“Yeah. Whatever.” Prowler mumbles dismissively

“...Those dots you saw. I know who’s responsible,” Miles continued holding his side despite himself, “His name is Spot. He’s dangerous. The spots you saw can open a portal to anywhere, dimensions included, and this guy is covered in them. If I don't leave, a lot of people including my father will be in danger.”

“Another dimension…,” Jonthon is fascinated, attempting to take in all this newfound information all at once, “I want to help you young man, I really do but…” Jonathan shoots a nervous glance at the collider just ahead of him, “It’s too risky. I’m sorry…”

“...Let me look,” Miles pleaded “I’m sure I can figure out something.”

“Ummm-”

“-I got an A in Physics and Auto-Robotics. Oh, and I can do this,” Miles generated some electricity from his fingertips, putting on an impressive display of blue lighting,“I’m sure that can help somehow.”

“...I don't know.”

Prowler steps forward and cracks his neck from side to side, “I’ll take it from here.”

“I know you want the collider, but please understand what's at stake-,”

Jonathon tries to protest, but to no avail. The Prowler smashes down on a big red button. A loud grating sound pierces the air as a walkway stemming from the observation deck to the collider inches forward at an agonizingly slow speed. Once finished, The Prowler simply just picks him up and wheels him down the path giving him a front row view to the machine.

“-I wasn’t asking.” Miles-42 simply strolls up to the contraption and starts tinkering away.

As Miles steps foot onto the metal walkway, he’s finally able to take in the surroundings of the lab. It was a lot more rudimentary than his own in brooklyn. It was an odd mix of retro and futuristic elements. The desk he had been flown into possessed a lot of older equipment, those blocky computer monitors and chunky keyboards. And yet there were also damaged, futuristic holograms flickering on and off as well as some more recent looking laptops and tablets. He looked out onto the collider itself. It was a lot bigger than the one in his own dimension, more intimidating. It took up most of the space in the room, its massive and intricate metal casings covered in various wires and panels residing on the flat walls of the cylindrical room. If he had to guess, this collider was probably more powerful than the one at home. He thought back to Jonathon and what would’ve happened if he hadn’t saved him in time. He shuddered at the thought, ‘No wonder they had to make an emergency shield for this thing.’

“Cabrón!” Prowler shouts, “Are you helping or what?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Miles quickly webs over to the opposite side of the machine and begins probing at the machine.

“Amazing…,” Jonathan watches Miles with bated breath, “Your suit young man, is that what’s responsible for your powers?”

“Nah, I was bitten by a radioactive spider, which gave me powers,” Miles walks along the side of the machine, parallel to the ground, to further prove his point. “But the spider that bit me was a spider from this dimension, so when the machine that was to send me home scanned my DNA-”

“-It brought you here instead.”

“Exactly.” Miles squats down and lowers himself into the tunnel leading inside the collider.

“Unprecedented. Hence the webs and…electricity?

“I can also turn invisible!” Miles yells, his voice echoing from inside the tunnel.

“Oh…my…If you don’t mind, I have a ton of questions. Are you half-spider? Do you have heightened senses? Do you excrete webs from your posterior as well?”

“No. Yes. And no, but I did have a dream about that one time and it was very… unsettling,” Miles recounted with a shudder

“Tell. Me. Everything.” Jonathan says eyes wide through his glasses

“Please don’t!” Miles-42 speaks up, finally poking his head out from the inside of the machine.

Jonathon turns his attention to The Prowler. He attempts to swivel his body in a chair, rolling forward using the tip of his shoes, “And you,” he gasped slightly. “Your weaponry is amazing. Pneumonic shoes, steel claws and a full automated retractable helmet-”

“-Not steel,” Prowler corrects, “Titanium-alloy, actually.”

“And you made it yourself?”

“Some of it. The blueprints already existed. I just… made it my own,” The Prowler shrugged halfheartedly, his interest being with the machine in front of him. He pulls out various tech parts in large clawed handfuls, “The generator Is completely fried and the motherboards are burnt to a crisp. They’ll need to be replaced completely.” He continues looking inside, “The vacuum seal and conducting coils are also out of alignment, but it shouldn't be impossible to fix.”

“Same over here!” Miles concurred, “The blast was probably what did ‘em in!”

Jonathon tries, in vain, to get a good look inside the machine from his chair. “I’d have to see it myself but if what you say is true then…yeah. It should be an easy fix.”

Prowler leaps back on the platform landing next to Jonathon. “¡Chico Araña!

Miles pops his head out the contraption “Yeah?”

“You focus on the seals, and I’ll fix the generator. Capiche?”

“Why are you helping me?”

“I’m not. There’s a lot of money riding on this job. I’m Not quitting now.”

“Right…” Miles says clearly unconvinced

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I think I know a bit about you. We have the same face, same age, same birthmarks probably-”

“-How do you two know each other exactly,” Jonathon cocked his head to the side “What are you…twins?...Clones?,”

“Not exactly. I’m him from another dimension,'' Miles clarified.

Jonathan looks back and forth, fear slowly turning to fascination. “Wha-WHa-What!? Well…This is…Miraculous! Unprecedented. Could I- May I please study you?”

“Um,I don’t know....”

“...No.” Prowler immediately declines.

“No?”

The boy gestures to the collider, “We got work to do, bobo.”

“I can assure you there is valuable information, in studying the two of you-” \

“-It’s a waste of our time.” The Prowler shoved a thumb towards the inside of the machine, “We don’t need to study. We just need to fix this el hijo de puta so he can leave and I can get my money.”

“OH PLEASE! PRETTY PRETTY PLEASE!” Ohnn thrashes around excitedly, his chair to wobbly bounce up and down, “It would only take just a few seconds. This-is-a-once-a-lifetime-opportunity-I-would-be-absolutely-HONORED-if-you-allowed-me-even-an-IOTA-of-your-valuable-time-I-”

“-Alright. ALRIGHT!” The Prowler relents, “Before you go and give yourself a hernia.” He jumps to the deck and grabs one end of the tape and begins spinning Jonathon around at a furious speed, all the way until the tape is unraveled.

“Thank…you,’ Jonathan dizzily wobbles off the chair before falling at Prowler's feet, “Your shoe is untied…by the way.”

“I know,” he spoke curtly, “it's a choice.”

Once sober, Jonathon runs over the metal walkway, climbing through the broken glass window to get to the lab.

“Careful puto!” The Prowler tsked after him loudly.

Jonathan continues forward nonetheless, rushing to his lab with reckless abandon. “Thank god this still works, just gotta…” the scientist smacks the large monitor with his fist, “There we go.” He then hastily goes to one of the few working computers, “Alright. Now I just need DNA from the both of you.”

The two boys look at one another with pause.

“OH. I could turn around if you-”

Before he could say another word, the Prowler’s mask began to recede into his suit. Miles watches in bewilderment as the stone-faced boy nonchalantly pulls a strand of hair out and hands it to the man.

“Thank y-”

Prowler places a stiff hand on his shoulder, “-You tell anyone what I look like and I will kill you.”

Jonathon gulps and nods in response “You have my word.” Swayed, Miles peels off his mask and plucks a hair as well.

Jonathan takes both hair strands and lays them on a machine that resembles an office scanner. “Do you guys mind if I just…,” Jonathon grabs a large handheld scanner tool (Miles giggled at how it just looked like a supermarket tool) and scans both the boy's faces and then their entire persons. “Thank yooou.” He says in a sing-songy voice, giddy with glee as he ran to his computers to input more data.

After some back and forth between typing into the chunky keyboard and eyeing the projection screens, he finally speaks. “Incredible,” the scientist mumbled under his breath, standing in marvel at the data on his huge monitors. The everchanging calculations and numbers reflecting at light speed against his glasses.

Ohnn clears his throat “Physiological speaking, you guys are essentially 100% carbon copies of one another. Except for specimen-1610 who possesses interdimensional DNA.”

“No shit,” Miles-42 chided.

Just then a notification pops on the screen. “Wait a minute.” Jonathan examines further, typing diligently, “I guess not. It says here that specimens from Earth-42, that’s you,” Jonathan points a sassy finger at the Prowler, “has…5 cavities.”

Miles giggles, “Really Miles?”

Miles-42 pouts and elbows him in the side, “Shut up, Miles.”

“Miles and Miles?” Jonathan shakes his head like a dog, slightly disoriented his glasses, “This is going to get confusing,” He readjusted his lenses. “How do you guys differentiate between each other?”

“Um, we don’t,” Miles said with chuckle

“We literally just met soo…”

“I see,” Jonathan thinks hard with his pointer finger on his chin, "How about…One of you is Miles… and the other one can be Wiles.”

“UM-”

“-Absolutely not.”

“We’ll workshop it,” Jonathan says with a wave of his hand. Jonathan sees Prowler’s confused face through the holographic screen, making eye contact.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“What is it, young man?”

“Why didn’t you just sell the collider? You would’ve been set for life. Easy.”

The scientist exhaled softly, “There are some things more important than money…” Jonathan stares off into space before coming to, “...Now may I ask you a question Miles?”

Both boys point at one another in confusion.

“Um…Miles of Earth 42.”

The boy snorts, “Shoot.”

“Did they…” Jonathon absentmindedly fiddles with his glasses, “...Were you sent here to kill me?”

Prowler’s eyes widen with surprise, but then he quickly composes himself. “...I’m sure you know the answer to that. You really pissed ‘em off,” he chuckled grimly, “Calling ‘em fascists and what-not.”

“I see.” Jonathon gave a dejected laugh, “...Can I ask you another question?”

The Prowler nods.

“Why do you do it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You have engineering skills that can rival some of my colleagues. You possess a technical prowess that would have any major tech company begging to recruit you, yet you use those skills to do some… questionable things.” Jonathan sighs, “You are, truly, a brilliant human being, Miles. So why?... Why do you do it? ”

Prowler’s usual scowl softens, just for a moment, before shortly resuming his tough exterior, “Because it puts food on the table.” Prowler shifts his attention to his untied laces, “It’s not lost on me ya know, the kinds of people I work for…The less I know the easier it is to do the job.” Miles-42 meets Jonathon’s gaze through the translucent, blue toned holograms “Never had anything against you Ohnn, but you know how it is. It’s every man for himself.”

“You don’t know?” The scientist stumbled backwards in aghast, “You don’t know what they want to do with this?”

“No? That’s why I said-”

“-Miles…” Jonathan scans the boy’s face in disbelief.

“...What?”

“You really have no idea?”

“What is it?” Spiderman Morales speaks up, “What are they gonna-

“-It doesn’t matter,” Prowler interjects. “That’s none of my business.”

“Tell us,” Miles insists. However, Prowler has already begun walking away, “Well I'm not listening.”

“Bro are you serious right now-”

“-Deadass.”

“ don’t you think it would be-

“-NEEDLESS TO SAY I KEEP HER IN CHECK, SHE WAS A BAD-BAD NEVERTHELESS” Miles-42 begin to sing noisily, hands covering his ears like a child.

“I think you’d really want to know this Miles,” Jonathan tries to reason. Undeterred, Prowler continues his tone deaf belting, mumbling over some of the lyrics before skipping to singing the few he actually knew, “OOOOOOO SOMETHINGS SHE JUST CAN'T REFUSE. SHE WANNA RIDE ME LIKE A CRUISE-”

“-Miles please-”

“-AND THEN YOU’RE LEFT IN THE DUST, UNLESS I STUCK BY YAAAH-”

“-What are you so scared of?” \

“...Excuse me?” The Prowler finally unplugs his ears, shooting daggers into Miles’ direction.

‘Damn, hit a nerve,’ the boy thought to himself. “I just think that maybe you’re a bit afraid to-”

“I’m not scared of anything, pendejo,” Prowler steps up to Miles instinctively straightening his back, sneering into his face. Miles puffs his chest and stands his ground.

“Too scared to listen apparently.”

“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, cabrón,” "You wanna play hero in your own Brooklyn? Good for you. You go do that, but don’t come here on your fucking high horse talking some shit about boy scout-good samaritan crap.” The Prowler puts a claw to Miles' chest, “You’re in my city, boy. We play by a different set of rules here.”

Miles tried to hide the grimace on his face. He hated being called kid or boy on any given day, but this especially grinded his gear. This boy was the exact same age as him and he was still being looked down on. He still saw him as naive. Miles really couldn’t catch a break, not even from himself.

“Then why don't you want to know? Will it kill you? Or is it because you don’t want to see how badly your actions are affecting the city you pretend to care so much about-”

“-Watch your mouth.” Prowler sneers, face dangerously close to Miles. The boy was preparing for a fight.

“You have a choice. I know you want to be good-”

Prowler cuts him off with a violent shove, “-YOU. DON'T. KNOW. ME.”

“You know what...Fine.” Miles relents. He straightens his posture forcing Prowler to step backwards. “You know what? You’re right about one thing, I don’t know you. Maybe you don’t have a choice. Maybe this,” Miles says with a gesture to the Prowler’s suit, “is all you have. I’m not trying to tell you how to feel when you got the short end of the stick. But what I do know is that people need you Miles. Mom, Uncle Aaron, hell even Jonathon.” Miles points to the scientist, who gives a sheepish wave to his doppelganger. “

“So maybe you’re not a good guy, but I can tell you're not heartless. At least not as much as you like to pretend to be. So please man, for them… Just, hear him out. Please”

Prowler takes a moment to mull over his words. After a prolonged silence he annoyedly clicks his tongue. “Fine… Since Softy here wants to hear a story so bad...” Prowler crosses his arms and turns to face Jonathon, “...What’s the deal with this collider?”

“Alright…Well…” Jonathan takes a large gulp, hands placed on his desk to steady himself. “I’m sure you’re familiar with rapture.”

“...Yes.” Prowler responded grimly

“Um, no I don’t.”

“It’s a highly addictive drug,” Jonathon pulls up various monitors with diagrams and pictures, “Most commonly injected, but it can be ingested in any form. Smoked, snorted, you name it.”

“Symptoms include anything from hallucinations, feelings of euphoria, anxiety, paranoia.” Miles-42 adds, “Withdrawal symptoms are even worse…Half the patients my mom treats are on it.” - Prowler

“Your boss or shall I say bosses are behind it.”

“What do you mean?”

“They've been distributing it all around Brooklyn. They’ve been bribing the police and the mayor to turn a blind eye.”

“Yeah I’m aware.” Prowler scoffed, “But there’s an antidote If more people could afford-”

“-They make that too. That’s their whole scheme. By making the poison and the cure…’-

“...They’re making lambs for slaughter”

“Exactly. Unless, of course, they can pay their way out.”

“I see.” Prowler clicks his teeth, stoic face.“What’s this got to do with the collider?”

“Everything. If the Sinister Six get this collider they’re going to distribute the drug into every multiverse they can get their hands on. And they won’t just stop there. Internet, casinos, technology, politics even. They want to monopolize every industry they can get their hands on and they won’t stop until they have complete and total control. Once they take Brooklyn… No one is safe.

“Mierda…” Prowler mumbled under his breath

“Scorpio Pharmaceutical has even made a new, more addictive batch. Who knows how long before that strain hits the streets-”

Prowler interrupts with a loud sharp inhale. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he paces around for a few moments, eyes scanning the ground like a vulture looking for scraps.

“FUCK!” Miles-42 shouts, brutally kicking a piece of glitching material

“Dude-”

”-FUCK! FUCK! FUCKING! FUCK!¡MALDITA SEA!”

Prowler has angry tears, hiding his face in his clawed hands “I don’t want to deal with this shit again”.

Jonathon and Miles concerned glances, “Again?” Jonathan says.

Prowler doesn’t budge. Instead, he just looks at the two with red teary eyes and a despondent frown

“Whatever you say here will stay between us.” Miles assures “Promise.”

Prowler takes a deep breath, speaking with his eyes glued to the ground “My dad used to investigate the rapture cartel. He was incredibly passionate about it, said it was the main reason he joined the force."He gave a somber chuckle, “I wanted to be just like him. I would sneak out in my own homemade Prowler suit and steal medicine, dropping it off at my mom’s hospital. Everyone was telling him to lay off it . Even my Uncle Aaron. One time these big scary guys came to the house with these suitcases full of money trying to bribe him. You wanna know what he said, he told them to fuck right off,” Miles-42 recalled with a bitter laugh. “Man, nothing could get that man down…One day during a haul I messed up. Big time. The police were called and he got caught in the crossfire and…”

“I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard… I-I know what it feels like to lose someone you love, Just know it’s not your fault.”

“...I know” .

“It doesn't have to be this way man. I’m sure we can figure out another way to do things. And I'll do whatever I can to help. I promise.”

“It’s too late for me...I’ve given up too much to stop now..”

“Just…” Miles pats him on the shoulder reassuringly “Sigue adelante hermano.”

Miles-42 chuckled, “You know, you talk like a gringo.”

Miles shrugs embarrassedly “Well, I did get a B in Spanish.”

“Aye Dios Mio,” Prowler cringes, “If my mom found out she would tear me a new one.”

“Nearly killed mine,” Miles chuckled, “Long story short, I’m grounded…For a month”

“Aye.” Prowler shook his head, “Sounds like ma. ”

“At least she’s stopped using the chancla.”

Prowler shuddered at the thought, “On the culito?’

“Yep.” Miles instinctively rubbed his backside at the thought. It had been years since he was spanked by his parents out of discipline. Luckily, they grew out of the practice. They got more results out of him just by talking to one another as opposed to hitting him. Though, that’s probably not how they felt right now. His heart ached at the reminder of his last conversation with his parents. How he left without saying a word. They were probably worried sick about him. He definitely deserved the chancla from them, that was if he ever saw them again…

“She would alway say ‘I’m doing this because I love you.” Miles recalled out loud with a shake of his head,

“Or when they would be like, ‘This hurts me more than it hurts you.”

“YES!” Miles exclaimed, “What was with that? As they're literally whooping my ass, like, UGH!”

“Damn,” Prowler chuckled, “Never thought I would have anyone to talk to about this.”

“Good to know that some things stay the same across the multiverse.”

Prowler looked stunned, his demeanor softened “Yeah… Yeah. Of course.”

“Okay, so I’m not usually supposed to tell people this buuut, Scorpo sends a lot of their products to Alchemex for…,” Jonathan bit his lip, “...Testing. If you catch my drift. I’d bet money that there’s a batch sitting in the medical laboratory on the bottom floor.” Jonathon gave an innocent, yet knowing shrug. “Soooo, do with that what you will…”

“I’ll get it,” both boys spoke up in unison.

“No way man.” Prowler refuses.

“I can turn invisible, it’ll be a lot safer.” Miles refutes, “Plus you’re probably the smarter one out of us two. I'm sure Jonathon can use your help here. ”

Prowler shook his head “Yeah but this is my problem, not yours.” He pointed towards the collider behind them, “Don’t you want to make sure this goes off without a hitch? That it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.

“I trust you.” Miles spoke amicably with a shrug and a smile, “I promised to do whatever I can to help you out. And I meant it.” he playfully patted his arm. “See you in a bit, man.”

As Miles turns to pull on his mask, it hits him.The spider senses. Not the usual kind. This one was more rare. It felt like…family. Community. It was similar to when he first met Peter Parker, the spider predecessor of his own Brooklyn. What would usually be a comforting feeling instead sent his heart into overdrive.

‘They found me.’

“I need you guys to listen to me very carefully.” Miles' carefree attitude has been swapped for a more frantic disposition.

“What is it?”

“Que?”

“There’s these people, this interdimensional spider cult, and they’re trying to keep me some saving my dad-”

“-What? Why?”

“Because of this weird algorithm they follow. They believe if I save him, it'll be the end of the world. If they find me they’ll lock me up.”

Prowler and Jonathon looked stunned and at loss for words. They share a look of disbelief amongst themselves before returning their gaze back at Miles.

“Interdimensonal cult?” Jonathan asked.

“They’re gonna lock you up?” Prowler inquired amused.

“Just tell them that you haven’t seen me. Whoever comes here looking for me, they can't be trusted.”

“...Okey dokey...”

“...Whatever you say man...”

“Thank you guys.” Miles pulls them all into a quick hug which Jonathon willingly returns. Prowler, whoever is completely caught off guard, his arms remain stiffly at his sides.

“You guys are the best!” Miles shouts before shooting a web and

“Yeah, whatever,” Prowler mumbles to himself before he resumes working. Feeling watched, he turns to Jonathan who, low and behold, is looking at him, beaming with delight.

What?”

“It’s just- When you first came here you came with the intention to do god-knows-what to me. Now look at you, spoiling the Sinister Six’s plans and helping that young man find his way home. Forgive me for saying this, but you’re a lot nicer than you let on.”

“I’m just returning the favor,” he spoke dismissively, intentionally avoiding the gaze of the man next to him.

“Which means you’re a decent man.”

“You say that when I was sent here to kill you.”

“And you didn’t! Even when I saw your face. You may put on a tough act but deep down you’re like a cute little cinnamon roll!”

Miles wrinkled his nose, “Call me that again and I just might.”

Jonathan let out a boisterous laugh, “You’re funny.”

“Yeah…You too I guess… Maybe there's another you on Earth-1610.”

“Perhaps, given the two of you boys exist.” Jonathan begins filling a kettle with water, “I wonder what I’m like. OOH! What if I have super powers too? And I’m like a superhero-super scientist.” He readjusts his glasses, running a hand through his hair, “I bet I’m really handsome.”

“Really?”

Jonathon chuckles, “Not to brag, but I’ve been told I’m pretty handsome by scientist standards.”

Miles snorts, “I’m sure you are, Ohn.” Jonathan beams and resumes his work. ‘What an interesting turn of events’, the scientist thought to himself. Not too long ago, he was sure he was going to be murdered, noe; he felt endeared to the young man and his identical counterpart. Plus the new found discovery of new dimensions and… multiversal cults? The man shook his head at the thought, it was all definitely a first for him. ‘Nonetheless, it's a new dawn.’ He assured himself,‘Good things are coming, I can feel it.’

sorry for the long wait. new chapter soon. happy new year :)

#miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #astv #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #prowler miles #miles morales prowler #miles morales

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y2klostandfound · 2 years ago

Text

Professional special "attack" team - Jet Set Radio on Game Players magazine Vol.132 (Video game magazine)(Hong Kong)(29/07/2000)

Translation in English:

DC Manufacturer: SEGA Price: 5800 Capacity: GD-ROM X 1 Memory: 4 BLOCKS Release date: on sale 1P/ETC/MODEM, VMS, vibration PACK, VGA BOX correspondence

JET SET RADIO

Raiders of the first phase of explosive machine

In the last issue, I introduced the strategy method of the first level of the game, and this issue will continue the rest of the strategy for you (I didn’t lie to you!), and now I won’t say more, let’s start the strategy immediately!

New companions join (1)

There are ten characters that can be used in the game. In addition to the three characters in the player’s hand, there are seven characters that will appear in the game. The method of using them is very simple, as long as you keep passing the level, because every one or two levels of the game, there will be challengers to challenge the player. In the speed race, players must defeat them with strength to become companions; after completing the first level, there will be a challenger EVENT, this challenger is called コンボ (COMBO), he, like Gum and Corn, requires the player to successfully perform three specified actions to become a companion. The three actions that COMBO gives the players are very simple, and it should not be difficult to complete.

First encounter with the Red Heart Party (Love trap)(Stage 2)

After successfully recruiting new companions, you can proceed to the second level, in fact, the second level players can choose on their own, because at this time there are already two logos appearing on the map, the editor's strategy is to first choose the red heart logo of the level, this area with the red heart logo is one of the game groups "Red Heart Party (Love Shockers)" and the other is the Mechanical Corps(Noise Tanks); this Red Heart Party's version of the map is divided into the park, the road and the broken flyover in three parts and the protagonist's starting point is the place where he just competed with COMBO; The editor's strategy is that it is best to complete the six graffiti targets in the park first, and then go to the rear to break the three targets of the bridge, pay attention to the broken bridge that is separated on both sides, one side is easy to reach behind the park, and the other side should use the crane arm or sliding wall on the side of the bridge to fly over the opposite side, when the three targets on the bridge are completed, the remaining four targets on the road can be left, Because when dealing with the two targets beside the road first, there will be traffic police to stop it, The editor thinks that it is not a good idea to use this method of deducting a little physical strength to complete the targets, but if the targets on the park and the broken bridge is processed first, there will inevitably be a group of riot police to cast tear gas on the player, but as long as the park and the rear are processed before dealing with the target on the road, because there is riot police and the target on both sides of the road will not have any obstruction, but a small number of riot police will appear in the two targets under the tunnel to obstruct, as long as the last two graffiti targets in the tunnel will be completed.

Strange Group (The monster of Kogane)(Stage 3)

When you choose the number of levels, you will find that there is an additional skull logo on the map. This is actually the third group in the game, the "Strange group(Poison Jam)", in fact, the strategy at this time is the Mechanical Corps(Noise Tanks), because the editor presses the button more and chooses this action map, so now take this as the second strategy target, the player will start on a wooden bridge, first walk forward to remove the spray paint along the way, and then turn into the house in front and walk all the way forward (help people tear down houses…) Go to the other side, and then walk up the stairs to the concentration of graffiti targets, in fact, this level is easy to pass, Just pay attention that when three to four targets are completed, the Captain Onishima will come out with a group of police dogs, but this is not important, the most important thing is that when the graffiti reaches about six targets, the military helicopter appears, it will launch tracking missiles to attack the player, although the tracking power of the missile is not very strong, but it is best to shoot it down, everyone just need to jump on the railing where you came up the stairs and jump up to spray paint on the helicopter, everyone just need to jump on the bar where you came up the stairs and jump up to spray paint on the helicopter, when the helicopter is sprayed paint, it will no longer attack the player, so that you can continue to complete the remaining objectives, and then you can pass the level.

New companions join (2)

After passing two levels, a challenger will appear on the stage. This person's name is GARAM, The condition for him to join as a companion is still to repeat it once according to his three finger movements, The first one or two movements will not be too difficult, but the third will be a little difficult , in the third move, the player must see the position of the third and fourth jumps, as long as the position is clearly seen, it should not be a problem to attract him.

Fighting the Strange Group (No.540)(Stage 4)

This time, the editor chooses another base of the Strange group, This time, the map is based on a site. The terrain of this site is like a construction site moving down layer by layer, The player will be at the top at the beginning, but there is no spray paint nearby to take, the only place where spray paint is taken is in the workshop at the lowest part of the hillside, all the way down to the workshop to get spray paint should be the same layer of graffiti targets first, after processing, a group of parachute gunners will appear, after replenishing the spray paint, go up to the first floor to process the four targets, at this time there should be a small number of machine gunners attacking the player, but don’t worry about it, as long as you don't stop, you won't be hit at all, when you finish the second layer of four targets, the gunner will disappear and then three helicopters will appear, continue to go to the top of the first appearance to deal with the three targets and then move to the last target, now there should be a lot of time, it is best to solve the three helicopters, because the terrain here is hillside, so as long as you jump up, you can level with the helicopter. It is not a problem to solve them, and finally the level will be over after painting the target on the top of the workshop.

Dueling the Strange Group (Kogane Circus)(Stage 5)

Before you know it, it is the third time to fight with the strange group, and it is also the last time. this time, the player is fighting the boss of the group, but the method is still spray paint as the combat method, the gameplay of this level is that the player has to spray the backs of three strange bosses with spray paint, but not once but spray into a pattern, about six to seven times, the map will be in a sewer that separates the two sides; Many players who play for the first time will just follow one of the bosses until they solve him and then chase the second one, which is a very time-consuming method, in fact, as long as everyone pays attention to it, you will see that the three bosses have a certain walking route, and the three people's walking route will stand still in several places, as long as they clearly know each person's walking route, they can stand near their stopping position in advance and attack (spray paint) to solve the three people. The most important thing to pay attention to is the character's stamina, because there is only one item to replenish stamina in the entire map, so don't often collide with the head or fall into the water and consume stamina.

New companions join (3)

After clearing the level, another challenger will appear when you choose the location of the raid, this time the challenge is a woman named BIS, who also needs to do it again according to the three actions she made, the first and second moves are easy for players who already have some skills, especially the first one who doesn't have to follow her left and right at all, Jump on the right two sides and then spray paint, but the third one is more troublesome. You have to see clearly the position of BIS when it landed at the end, and you must land according to this position, otherwise the action will be judged to be a failure.

First encounter with the Mechanical Corps (Benten Boogie)(Stage 6)

The map of this level is composed of various buildings and a small number of streets, although this level seems to be very complicated, in fact, it is very, very simple, The player will start on the top of a large building. Now the first thing to do is to deal with all the targets on the ground , because there will be police on the ground to obstruct the work, so first solve the targets on the ground, when all four targets on the ground are solved, you can find a way back to the roof, first swallow the four corners of the target and then go to a corner to doodle the last target to complete the level.

New companions join (4)

Another challenger appears, this timem the challenger is also a woman, her name is KIYUGO(CUBE), she still only requires the player to follow her action once again to recruit her, this time in addition to the first specified move is easier, the second one is also starting to have some difficulty, the second is to let the player go through two very thin sliding passages from the top of a large building to the top of another building, because the weather of the map at night so the picture will be darker, the player must see clearly before jumping to another passage; the third action to pay attention to is the problem of sliding up the ramp to the top and then sliding to that foothold, and the player must be very consistent to pass.

Fighting the Mechanical Corps (Graffiti high)(Stage 7)

The map of this operation is the place where the previous competition with KIYUGO(CUBE), at the beginning the player will be on a train (it will not move, please rest assured), jump off the right side to take all the spray paint, and then move forward to the dome square, when you reach the dome square, you see that there are a total of ten graffiti targets here, and the first thing to deal with is the two objectives that can only be completed through the dome, because if these two more troublesome targets are not dealt with first, then it will be difficult to complete when the tank comes out, when the upper two objectives are completed, you can deal with the eight very simple targets below, and a group of machine gunners will appear in the third space-time, don't bother with them and complete the eight objectives as soon as possible, then you can leave the area through a truck and go towards the store area; after reaching the store area, complete two more targets and the opponent's tank car will appear, but you don't need to bother, just complete the remaining objectives and you can pass the version.

The end of the Mechanical Corps (Noise Reduction)(Stage 8)

This is the last battle with the Mechanical corps (Noise Tanks). this time, the mission is also to spray paint the backs of the three bosses of the Corps, This time, the map is there are multiple pedestrian bridges above, and there are cars on the road below, this time, the bosses are much easier to deal with than the bosses of the previous Strange Group (Poison Jam), they will only jump around on the various attack bridges, the player only has to wait a little quietly in front of the bridge ladder for a day, and when there is a boss next to him and start chasing, he slides down the stairs with the player slides down the stairs with him, and at this point, he will be opened wide to let them be killed, and it's not difficult to defeat them in this way.

New companions join (5)

After defeating the mechanical corps (Noise Tanks), there will be a new challenger to challenge the player, this time the editor does not know whether he is male or female, only know his name is YOYO, this time the competition is no longer redone according to the specified action, but a speed race with YOYO, and the player only needs to go faster than YOYO to the doodle point to paint the target to win; At first, both of them are on the train tracks, go straight to the dome square, and then use the truck to go through the passage to the shop area , and then go to another shop area from the sky bridge above the train, pass through the tunnel and then pass a large building and slide along the wooden board to the top of a large building to get the spray paint and complete the goal to win.

The final battle with the Red Heart Party (Love attack)(Stage 9)

Now that only the Red Hearts Party(Love Shockers) have not been solved by the three major gangs, this is the time for them to solve everything, this time it is a head-to-head battle with the Red Hearts, and the backs of the three are also spray-sprayed to pass the level; this time, this is the third head-to-head battle, and I thought they would be more interested than the first two gangs, who didn't know that they turned out to be the weakest! , because they will get together most of the time, only to see the player come and start to leave, and then it is not difficult to catch up with them if they start to leave, but sometimes they run on the hillside at an amazing speed, such a sloping hillside can be so fast and strong, but the player doesn't need to run with them, The player just needs to keep jumping to follow them easily, and after a round of chasing, the three bosses are finally eliminated.

Bomb maniac (Explosion)(Stage 10)

The game is coming to an end, and this is the first meeting with the final boss, this time it is not too difficult, but the territory is huge! Because this time, the territory of the three strongholds of the Red Heart Party (Love Shockers) was merged, so when the player completes the graffiti targets in one area, he has to go to the other area, and the tip is to deal with the graffiti target on the ground before dealing with the target above, because as long as the player completes a certain number of targets, a group of bomb maniacs will appear to block the player, they will not be afraid to sacrifice to rush up and die with the player, the player should be careful of their lifeless combat method, and the editor gives you a hint, that is, each graffiti target is equipped with a bomb, as long as the player gets close will hear a BB sound, at this time everyone should go away as soon as possible, wait for the bomb to explode before going to the graffiti, it is a sure thing, as long as the graffiti targets in the three zones are all completed and you can pass the level.

New companions join (6)

After two battles, another challenger will appear, this time the challenger is a woman, named SIYUGA (SUGAR), and the last woman in his companions, his competition method is also speed race, this time the road should be familiar to everyone, it should not be difficult to complete, the only thing to note is that the operation position will be messed up when passing through the tunnel from the bus stop area at the beginning, so it is best to jump through this blind spot when passing, as long as you spray paint the graffiti target one step faster than SIYUGA(SUGAR) to make her a companion.

Battle of the Flying Forces(Fight or Flight)(Stage 11)

This time the battle map is composed of three bases of the Monster Army (Golden Rhinos), which is also very large, and all the passages are very narrow and complicated, and there are often sudden broken roads, so this level is very testing the player's vigilance; This level starts in a place full of houses, the player is standing on a roof, there are five graffiti points in this roof, four on the roof and one on the ground, first deal with four targets on the roof, and finally deal with one target on the ground, but be careful that the target on the ground is guarded by someone with a gun, so be careful, After solving the target on the ground, you will rush to the back of the house, After rushing, you will go to the second area, this is the first time that there is a helicopter level, all the graffiti targets in this level are on the roof below, and there is only one at the white oil depot, when the six or so targets are completed, a group of gunmen wearing flying equipment will appear, they will continue to shoot at the player, the player has to avoid their bullets while completing the graffiti, when even the objective at the oil depot is completed, you can go to the last area of the construction site through the underground waterway, After entering the sewer, you will go to the place where you fight with the leader of the Monster group(Golden Rhinos), there are also graffiti targets to deal with here, I don't have much trouble here, but the previous flying gunners will follow the same, and they will continue to hinder the player's progress, after processing all the targets in the sewer and then you can jump to the other side through another sewer entrance to leave the construction site, there are not too many tragets on the construction site, there are only four, as long as the last four targets are completed, then this level will be over.

New companions join (7)

The last challenger, named SODO(SLATE), this time the test method is also a speed race, as long as the track is the longest of all the characters, the fastest walk and then the goal can be painted, the editor gives you some tips, you can let the computer start first, and when entering the sewer just use the oblique positions on both sides to throw him away.

The last level of the map for joint supply(Benten Burning)(Stage 12)

This is the last time to combine the three zone maps for the game, and this time I won't introduce it much, because this time is the same as the previous strategy in the same area, except that there will be some enemies with high attack power at the last flyover, but their alertness is very low, as long as they slowly approach the graffiti point they guard, they can complete the goal without anyone noticing.

Flying over the corner (Behind the mask)(Stage 13)

The mission of this level is to fight the three bosses, just by spraying their backs with paint to pass the level, and like the waterway battle, they seem to be walking around, but in fact there are several places where they will stop for a while, and the player only needs to stop at some points to solve them.

The last battle (Final Groove)(Stage 14)

Finally came to the decisive battle site of the final battle, this place can not see the map, but it does not matter if you can't see it, because the whole terrain is clear at a glance, the combat method of this battle is to surround with the four graffiti points around the final boss, as long as the four graffiti points are dealt with, the protective device in the middle will be destroyed, and then the player can use the rails that the protective device flies out to slide up, as long as the successfull slide up and then the last hit (spray paint), the game is officially over, after which the explosion screen is completed. But the last twilight will certainly not be so easy to break, players should pay attention to the following points: the rotation speed of the four discs will be faster every time the middle disc is destroyed, when the player goes to the graffiti point, a big hippopotamus will jump out from a distance to spit fire at the player, but since its attack power is not high, you can ignore it,and finally leave immediately after completing a graffiti point, because the foothold will start to disappear after the graffiti point is completed.

To this end, I have finally completed the simple strategy introduction of the game, but the editor has not yet shown you the location of all 90 JET SET logos in the game. If there is a chance, I will definitely send you the final data set in the next issue.

#jet grind radio #jet set radio #sega #jsr

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seobloggerforwork · 11 months ago

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#wet type concrete shotcrete machine #TBM segment sealing gaskets #shotcrete machine #tunnel concrete spraying machine

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boltlightning · 10 months ago

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23 for the writing meme pls

23. that was inspired by a work from another medium (music, visual art, dance, etc.)

this is INCREDIBLY on brand, but for there stands an ancient grove (hadestown, 500 words) i was leaning on the visuals from overgrown post-apocalyptic settings, specifically this unused concept art of old chicago in destiny, and a little of the opening area of stray:

(and also the Actual Overgrowth on the train tracks that i saw on the way back from seeing the show in dc)

The lights of the Underworld have changed. Guiding her path along the familiar tunnels are links of dim, warm lights which illuminate the veins of silver that run rich through the walls. The dense air greets her like a friend, kissing her cheeks and rustling her hair. It brings her the perfume of the loam of the earth, the spray of the Underworld’s rivers. Underfoot, the rigid pavement is cracked with sprouting weeds, and roots and vines crawling below unsteady her steps. Persephone surprises herself by thinking this dark, imperfect place already feels like home again. She emerges upon what was once the factory floor. The tile has been torn up and the earth tilled. Asphodels grow in one field, long sweeping grass of gold in another. Background to this sight, disabled machines are stacked against the wall — cracked, crumbling, still shuddering with the echoes of Orpheus’ song — and moss carpets it all. The wall is quickly vanishing behind jagged green mountains of steel and stone. The Acheron River, where it flows down the hill from the train station, tumbles over a mill, creaking and groaning as it turns. It emerges beneath as the Styx, redirected, flowing slowly as it circles and circles the land of the dead.

writing excerpt asks!

#i know it's the internet's darling but i did have qualms with stray. however its intro was incredibly evocative #anything for MY divorced parents who control the seasons #thank you friend!!!!!!!!! <333 #ask game #excerpt asks

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speaker-of-the-void-cats · 1 year ago

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Gardener|ɿɘwonniW

Once upon a time,* a gardener and a winnower lived** together in a garden.*** * It was once before a time, because time had not yet begun. ** We did not live. We existed as principles of ontological dynamics that emerged from mathematical structures, as bodiless and inevitable as the primes. *** It was the field of possibility that prefigured existence. They existed, because they had to exist. They had no antecedent and no constituents, and there is no instrument of causality by which they could be portioned into components and assigned to some schematic of their origin. If you followed the umbilical of history in search of some ultimate atavistic embryo that became them, you would end your journey marooned here in this garden. In the morning, the gardener pushed seeds down into the wet loam of the garden to see what they would become. In the evening, the winnower reaped the day's crop and separated what would flourish from what had failed. The day was longer than all of time, and the night was swifter than a glint of light on a falling sugar crystal. Insects buzzed between the flowers, and worms slithered between the roots, feeding on what was and what might be, the first gradient in existence, the first dynamo of life. Rain fell from no sky. Voices spoke without mouth or meaning. A tree of silver wings bloomed yielded fruit shed feathers bloomed again. In the day between the morning and the evening, the gardener and the winnower played a game of possibilities.

Mysteries

Things I saw inside A wild river and a broken dam (or maybe it's just the sea crashing through a narrow gap I can't be sure). Waves slam through the gap and where they hit the stone they throw up pillars of spray that pierce the mist and crash down in thunder. There's a giant in the cataract, trying to wade against the current, and I can tell it wants to reach the lever and pull the lever which will seal off the flow or maybe give it the sword, but the torrent throws it back so it just keeps its head down and tries to push on. I can't see the face but it breathes out white smoke. I feel for it hard. A world painted around the interior like a stranger Earth everted and glued inside itself but I don't believe this one it's too much like a metaphor. A switchboard or a train station, empty, dead (waiting). The tunnels branch off into infinity. I stare down one for a long time and see a pale worm move in hungry coils around itself. I think this one is the most likely although I might have brought the worm. An egg but I'm not sure if the broth inside is warm still, or if it's gone to rot, or if the warmth comes from the struggles of the tiny winged zygote or the bleed from the wound or the thoughts of something thinking very hard. A star I think. We count on stars as steady friends because they always rise and always shine but a star's a delicate truce: an explosion caught by its own mass so that it can't erupt and can't collapse. Thus I imagine the state of the machine might be. But one force or another has gone awry and now it rests here, snuffed and broken, waiting for the two rival forms of ruin to be set in balance again.

Half-truths

"What is not brought to consciousness, comes to us as fate."

Dreaming

You are the first to dream. In the dream, you are shaping coarse sand with your hands. You lift a handful, and it feels like the shifting of mountains. You drag your fingertip through the dirt to make a twisting line and hear the roar of moving water. You breathe and feel the rush of clean, bright wind in your hair. Suddenly, you are far, far, far up in the air, higher than you've ever been. You have gone to the very top of Freehold's tallest skyscrapers, but this is much higher, and you see the world below with much greater fidelity. It is a beautiful green world, much greener than any place you've ever seen before. It looks like home. --- I am the first to dream. The dreams can happen at any time. A veil drops in front of my eyes and I see strange, moving images. I am someone else, or I am myself, reimagined. I can't say. In the dreams, I shape planets with my own hands. At first, I believe I am mad. The clinicians at BrayWell call it "interplanetary relocation maladjustment psychosis": a psychobabble catch-all for mental disturbances that they can't explain. Other people, searching for certainty, call it "prophecy." But all I can offer is a loose, tangled connection that I painstakingly unravel when I dream. || I am drawn to a bright and attentive star. I speak to it through movement, through feeling. It understands implicitly. || Now, I stand before a crowd. Their murmuring is the bone-deep rumble of shifting tectonic plates. A screen behind me plays looping, blurry footage of the Traveler terraforming Venus. The images radiate with pale light. We've watched this footage many times. || I glide through space as if through water, tugged in nine directions by nine impulses. || In front of the crowd, I sway a little, a copse of trees bending in a dream-wind. I can't help it. I'm dreaming more often than not. || There is whispering from the deep-dark, alluring and terrifying—a reminder of things left behind, bittersweet and abhorrent. || A crackle of static on the screen behind me brings me back to earth, resettling my feet firmly on the ground. These people have come here for my insights. I lean forward and speak to the crowd. Four tenets, aching with truth: The Traveler is a force of benevolence. The Traveler is a sentient being with free will, dreams, hopes, and fears. The Traveler will save us. The Traveler will leave us.

The Witness's first victims were once like you. Struggling for survival. Bolstered by hope. Until their hopes became reality. They called it, the Gardener. Their deity of life.

ACCESS: RESTRICTED

DECRYPTION KEY: 2CA9SXUO2C$IKO-006

REP#: 011-PSYCHOMETER-TEST

AGENT(S): TRU-135

SUBJ: PSYCHOMETER FIELD TESTS

1. The new version works. Love all the knobs and antenna; very analog. I took readings off a hatch control out here on Europa and Cowlick was able to retrieve badly distorted voices in some kind of distress. I don't know if it's doing exactly what you Warlocks want, but it's doing something all right. Cowlick says it's probably tapping into her scrutiny, if you permit that term in your ivory halls.

2. Now, I'm not much for gadgets, so I won't ask you how you rigged this thing. But I am one for gossip. Weren't we closing in on some kind of workable theory of exactly how our Ghosts resurrect us? One which was, if I am not mistaken, based on research by the Future War Cult? Did any of that work survive Lakshmi?

3. You know they did try to recruit me once. The Cult. Over a game of poker. Fifty-two cards in a deck don't seem like many, this hard-ass Titan told me. But there are 80 658 175 170 943 878 571 660 636 856 403 766 975 289 505 440 883 277 824 000 000 000 000 different possible shuffles of 52 cards. You could walk back and forth across the observable universe faster than you could count all those possible shuffles. A lot faster. That's life, she said, and she had daisies impaled on the spikes of her skull. Life is endless permutation. So many possibilities. But the rules are what matter. Who cares how the deck shuffles if you don't know the rules of the game? We play this game over and over. Life and death. Light and Dark. But the only way you learn the rules, the only way you're ever gonna get one of those Truces you're named for, is if you come inside. Come into the Cult. Come on in and see. But I didn't.

4. Another thing she told me is that you can play poker with just three cards and two players. Jack, Queen, King. Ante one, max bet one more. High card wins unless one player folds. And in this game, there are many strategies available to the first player, but very few to the second, who acts to exploit the choice made by the first. Many possibilities against few. Sounds like you'd rather be the first player, huh? But if both players play perfectly, that second player wins in the end. Mathematical inevitability. Ain't that something? But I said, your game's just a toy. It's just a contrivance. That's not life. Life isn't one player always exploiting and beating the other.

5. Anyway, back to testing. Might go back to Cocytus and aim this thing at the gate. See how wild it goes. If you never hear from us again, you know Truce and Cowlick finally found something too spooky.

MESSAGE ENDS

_If the Light forgets while the Darkness remembers, then why does a Ghost's power of determination let it access latent memories imprinted in the dead? That's paradoxical. That should be a property of Darkness. How can such fundamentally opposed forces do the same thing?

Am I as shallow as those Guardians arguing over power levels? Trying to force a simple binary upon a complex spectrum… ? The Drifter talks about "spectrums of Light"—powers his Ghost can access because of its modifications. Forcing the metaphor, I thought. Light is not light. It doesn't have frequencies or spectra. But if we are all constrained by our internalized ontology, by our tacit understanding of how the world works… maybe the circumstances of extreme survival compelled the Drifter to explore a new ontology. Maybe his Ghost achieved a new way to think about the Light.

"No noble, well-grown tree has ever disowned its dark roots, for it grows not only upward but downward as well."

The Flower Game

These are the rules of a game. Let it be played upon an infinite two-dimensional grid of flowers. Rule One. A living flower with less than two living neighbors is cut off. It dies. Rule Two. A living flower with two or three living neighbors is connected. It lives. Rule Three. A living flower with more than three living neighbors is starved and overcrowded. It dies. Rule Four. A dead flower with exactly three living neighbors is reborn. It springs back to life. The only play permitted in the game is the arrangement of the initial flowers. This game fascinates kings. This game occupies the very emperors of thought. Though it has only four rules, and the board is a flat featureless grid, in it you will find changeless blocks, stoic as iron, and beacons and whirling pulsars, as well as gliders that soar out to infinity, and patterns that lay eggs and spawn other patterns, and living cells that replicate themselves wholly. In it, you may construct a universal computer with the power to simulate, very slowly, any other computer imaginable and thus simulate whole realities, including nested copies of the flower game itself. And the game is undecidable. No one can predict exactly how the game will play out except by playing it. And yet this game is nothing compared to the game played by the gardener and the winnower. It resembles that game as a seed does a flower—no, as a seed resembles the star that fed the flower and all the life that made it. In their game, the gardener and the winnower discovered shapes of possibility. They foresaw bodies and civilizations, minds and cognitions, qualia and suffering. They learned the rules that governed which patterns would flourish in the game, and which would dwindle. They learned those rules, because they were those rules. And in time the gardener became vexed

A specter of the Black Garden, rich with the sweetness of flowers and the stink of radiolaria. It leaves behind a delicate data-lattice to mark its passing.

Garden state: neutral

garden&&gardeners==root&&branch==leaf&&flower

//intrinsic, inextricable, inescapable

anomaly ++

anomaly One = leaf|invasive;

Garden state: active (gardeners attend)

case Irrecoverable:

if (irretrievable injury (garden&&gardeners)) && (threat persistence) then (escalation. escalation.)

anomaly status: present, tracked, new. No archive referent. simulation: failed.

Damage: 0.3332%. Recoverable. Danger: Recovery projection irresolvable. Repeat. Repeat. Set: irresolvable == irrecoverable == irretrievable

anomaly ++

anomaly Zero = infinite|witness;

archive data retrieved. Zero = infinite|witness == (a seed was planted here.) Recorded referent: "Black|Heart"

Zero : seed :: One : DANGER

[SIMULATION BREAKING. VISIBILITY NARROW. FRACTALS DISINTEGRATING.]

anomaly Zero, absent. anomaly One, DANGER remaining.

Garden state: acting (gardeners in unison)

extirpate (anomaly One)

//There is a majestic thorn. The anomaly is gone. The garden is peaceful.

//It is known|seen|predicted that a primary function of irresolvable|irrecoverable presences is to trample.

Flowers growing / damage repairing / threat unresolved

Function called: escalation. Iteration.

Function: winnow. Function: simplify. Function: flatten.

//The first defense is offense.

"It always ends the same," the gardener complained. "This one stupid pattern!" Aren't they beautiful? I asked, as the flowers opened and closed in patterns beyond the scope of entire universes to encode, all-devouring and perhaps everlasting. Not even we could know whether a pattern in the flowers would cycle forever, or someday halt. "They're as dull as carbon monoxide poisoning," the gardener groused, although carbon monoxide did not yet exist, and neither did anything that could be poisoned. The gardener kneeled to flick a patch of sod with their trowel. It struck an open flower, causing it to shut. Although I was the closer of flowers and that was my sole purpose, I felt no fear or jealousy. We had our assigned dominions and always would. They're majestic, I said. They have no purpose except to subsume all other purposes. There is nothing at the center of them except the will to go on existing, to alter the game to suit their existence. They spare not one sliver of their totality for any other work. They are the end. The pattern corrected the errant flower effortlessly. The great flow went on unchanged. The gardener got up and brushed their knees. "Every game we play, this one pattern consumes all the others. Wipes out every interesting development. A stupid, boring exploit that cuts off entire possibility spaces from ever arising. There's so much that we'll never get to see because of this… pest." They chewed at their cracked lip, which existed only because this is an allegory. "I'm going to do something about it," they said. "We need a new rule."

The purpose of a system is what it does

The Final Shape

CONSENSUS PERSONAL

VANCINCLOCK IKORA REY >> VANCINCTAN CMDR ZAVALA

If a game of go is meant to test two minds against each other, then I must play as my mind sees fit. I see fit to play 6x24 because I am interested in what will happen next.

ZAVALA >> REY

This isn't a Basho haiku. Purposefully making a suboptimal move in order to make a game more "interesting" is a misunderstanding of the nature of a game. There is no reward for beautiful play in the rules of the game.

REY >> ZAVALA

Then why don't you just turn on a go engine and compute the winning play?

ZAVALA >> REY

I want to test my mind against yours. Not some quantum cheat.

REY >> ZAVALA

But I am a paracausal cheat, Zavala.

ZAVALA >> REY

So am I. Will you take the move back?

REY >> ZAVALA

Now, now, Zavala. There are no do-overs in war. I've made the move I want, and both of us will benefit from it. You may be stubborn enough to hold still for eight days, but the traditions of go are older and even more obstreperous. Play the game.

ZAVALA >> REY

Oh, I'll pinken your ears.

The First Knife

I looked up in shock. I said, What? What do you mean? "A special new rule. Something to…" The gardener threw up their hands in exasperation. "I don't know. To reward those who make space for new complexity. A power that helps those who make strength from heterodoxy, and who steer the game away from gridlock. Something to ensure there's always someone building something new. It'll have to be separate from the rest of the rules, running in parallel, so it can't be compromised. And we'll have to be very careful, so it doesn't disrupt the whole game…" All you will do, I said, with rising panic|fury, is delay the dominant pattern that will overrun the others. It is inevitable. One final shape. "No, it'll be different. Everything will be different, everywhere you look." Everything will be the same. Your new rule will only make great false cysts of horror full of things that should not exist that cannot withstand existence that will suffer and scream as their rich blisters fill with effluent and rot around them, and when they pop they will blight the whole garden. Whatever exists because it must exist and because it permits no other way of existence has the absolute claim to existence. That is the only law. "No," the gardener said, "I am the growth and preservation of complexity. I will make myself into a law in the game." And thus we two became parts of the game, and the laws of the game became nomic and open to change by our influence. And I had only one purpose and one principle in the game. And I could do nothing but continue to enact that purpose, because it was all that I was and ever would be. I looked at the gardener. I looked at my hands. I discovered the first knife.

Their scholars discovered that the Gardener shared a connection with another entity among the stars: the Veil. And when they found it, they arrived to claim it.

"How can I be substantial if I fail to cast a shadow? I must have a dark side also if I am to be whole; and inasmuch as I become conscious of my shadow I also remember that I am a human being like any other."

Winnowing

A dream of a friendly conversation with someone impossible to see, cloaked in shadows. It leaves behind an impossible data fragment to mark its passing. Here is what a flower knows. (The fact that a flower may know anything is a conceit that will have to be accepted as metaphor, but to constantly qualify into perfect precision wears thin, does it not? So, here is what a collection of chloroplasts and pigment can know.) The direction of the sun. The presence of the rain. The tangle of the roots. The distress of another plant. The hands of the gardener, whether they prune or transplant or crush. A flower cannot know much else. But the reality of the garden is vast and wild. A flower knows not the fence; a flower knows not the footpath. And yet there is an infinite cosmic garden, which is not any less real simply because the flower cannot possibly comprehend it… Let us try this again. Stop me if you've heard this one: A gardener and a winnower sit down to play a game outside of time and creation. Yes? Yes. Then we're agreed. The metaphor stands. Let us iterate. A gardener and a winnower set out their chairs and play a game of flowers. The flowers know only that they grow or wither, struggle or flourish. Sometimes, they are touched by one hand or the other, and that influence is the closest they will know of the divine. A flower and a flower spread their leaves to the sun above. (Remember that the sun is also a metaphor: a thing said beautifully, winnowed down to poetry, when the truth is too vast to put in words at all.) They jostle for space, each competing to be the pinnacle of their shape. One flourishes. One withers. Is it the fault of the flower or the fault of its position? A gardener and a winnower sit down to play a game called Possibility. This is a game about a garden, which is to say that it is also a game about flowers, just as a game about a living being must also be a game about organs and bacteria. A gardener and a winnower collaborate to create a protein. Whose hand is it in the design, that shortens one life to extend the rest? It is the winnower that discovers the first knife, but it is not done without the gardener. This, too, is a tradition: a knife does not come to exist without something that must be cut. A woody stem, a colored petal, a vital vessel. The first victims of the blade. All of these are true. All of these are false, for metaphor simplifies as the knife does. It pares incalculable concepts into shapes your wrinkly little brains can comprehend. The weight of billions and the simple curve of a planet give you pause, and how then are you to be expected to grasp the forces that created your nth-removed creator? So the stories woven with utmost delicacy in and around the falsehoods are, after it all, true. There was never any option for the knife to not exist in the garden: it was only ever a matter of time and opportunity. And as for the shape of the knife itself— No. That is enough. I will tell you of gardens. They are domesticated things, made in a form. As soon as something is called a garden, it is shaped. The plants require the hand of a gardener, for they have become weak and dependent on tender care. They require the hand of a winnower, to cut away the dross, for they are too incapable to do it themselves. In absence of a hand, either the flowers themselves must rise up to wield the knife, or the garden will resolve to meaningless wilderness. You will say, "But there are plants that can walk! There are seeds that must be scorched by fire to know growth! Existence is more complex than a simple dichotomy between growth and withering, and there is more in heaven and on earth than is dreamt of in this philosophy!" And I will tell you, clearly: There can be no gardens without knives.

Symmetry Flight

"To have Light, we must have Dark. This is the symmetry of the Universe." —Controversial Warlock Ulan-Tan

I propose a simple experiment—look around. You see light. You see darkness. There could not be one without the other. They are two sides of the same coin. If it is true for these Newtonian echoes, why would it not be true of the purest, paracausal forms? Therefore, I conclude: the reason you persecute me is not because of the symmetry. It's because of the truth beyond this truth, the truth which you most dread: if we could destroy darkness, but we had to give up our Light to do so, how many of us would make that trade?

Research Log 15

Osiris: I found no more logs from Dr Esi, but I have used her algorithm to crack the data core of the Vex Conceptual Mind.

Nimbus: That's the doodad we got from the Black Garden, right?

Osiris: Indeed. The data within contained the Vex's blueprints for their artificial Veil: the Black Heart. It all but proved Dr. Esi's theory. Dr Esi theorized that the paracausal energy of the Traveler operated on a quantum wavelength parallel to electrons.

Nimbus: Um... magnets?

Osiris: In simpler terms: the Traveler's power runs parallel to the forces of nature. Gravity, magnetism, sound, light. The Veil does this too. It is synchronized with the Traveler. Wherever the Traveler came from, the Veil may have as well. But what the Vex made, while connected to the Traveler, was inherently flawed. It did not create the link the Witness desired. Instead, it weakened the Traveler, created... "static" in the flow of their cosmic forces. But it did reveal one intriguing possibility... that at one time, they may have been... united. Part of a whole.

Nimbus: Whoa! So, wait... does this mean the Light and Darkness... were the same once? One force?

T=0

They brought the Veil back to the Gardener in an attempt to strengthen their connection. There, they could reshape reality itself. The Gardener would not allow it. And so, it fled their world.

"When the individual remains undivided and does not become conscious of their inner opposite, the world must perforce act out the conflict and be torn into opposing halves."

We wrestled in the garden, in the loam of possibility where nothing existed and everything might. A shadowed agony among the flowers. We trampled the petals beneath our feet. We stomped the fruit to pulp, and we ground the seeds into the dust. In the wet pop of grapes and the smear of berries—in the perturbation of the field that was the garden before the first tick of time and the first point of space—were the detonations that made the universes. Each universe was pregnant with its own inflationary volumes and braided with ever-ramifying timelines. Each volume cooling and separating into domains of postsymmetric physics, all of which were incarnations of that great and all-dictating bipartite law that states only: exist, lest you fail to exist. And still we fought. We brought down the tree of silver wings and left the stump to smoke amid the meadows. We left prints of our splayed feet and our straining backs in the clay. Our trampling feet made waves in the garden, which were the fluctuations around which the infant universes coalesced their first structures. The dilaton field yawned beneath existence. Symmetries snapped like glass. Like creases, flaws in space-time collected filaments of dark matter that inhaled and kindled the first galaxies of suns. And still we grappled. Our rolling bodies pushed things out of the garden—worms and scurrying life from the fertile soil, wet things from the pools and the leaves. They came out into the madness of primordial space; they thrashed and became large. And I won. I won, because the gardener always stops to offer peace. And when they do, I always strike. But by then, it didn't matter. The game was over. The garden had given birth to creation, the rules were in place, and there would never be a second chance. We played in the cosmos now. We played for everything. And the patterns in the flowers, terrified by our contention, were no longer the inevitable victors of a game whose rules had suddenly changed, and they passed into the newborn cosmos to escape us.

"[One] is, on the whole, less good than they imagine or want themselves to be. Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is."

Research Log 16

Osiris: I've reached the extent of what I can glean from the research data.

Nimbus: What've we got?

Osiris: Less than I'd hoped for. But the last of Chioma Esi's research has led me to an intriguing topic: Ghosts.

Nimbus: Ghosts? As far as I know, Neomuna never had any contact with a Ghost before you all showed up. We knew about them, but...

Osiris: Precisely. Chioma Esi was researching the entanglement of Light and Dark without fully understanding either. Our Ghosts are a link to the Light of the Traveler. Then how was the Witness able to — on numerous occasions — communicate through them?

Nimbus: Is this about the, uh, the magnets thing? The parallel energy fields, right?

Osiris: Very good. In areas of Darkness, the Witness is able to create a link, not unlike what it created with the Veil and the Traveler.

Nimbus: Ah, like the Vex are able to hack into the CloudArk with their tech! It's a parallel connection.

Osiris: And I believe that connection may not be one-sided.

Having witnessed the truth in the Darkness, they used its binding power to merge themselves... into the salvation they craved.

The line between Light|ʞɿɒႧ is so very thin

Nacre

Even the most perfect of pearls has grit at its center.

Let's chat, shall we? One more nice sit-down for the books. Did you think you wouldn't hear from me again, after all this? You'd have missed me, I hope—and I would certainly have missed you. Have no fear. I'm not so easy to be rid of. Now, let me show you: my beloved. Oh, no, not my sedimentary necrolite, fossilized in time. You've seen that. I speak of that dear and distant expanse of the universe, miraculous in its fullness and its emptiness all at once. Are you surprised to hear of it? Yes, I never much cared for the change of rules, but here we are, and there's no use in crying over spilled radiolaria. Besides, at the heart of it all, there was a gift. To me. That gift is the chance to speak with you. You, and a billion like you. I am making this offer over and over again, in every tiniest cell and the vastest of civilizations. Let me in. Take what you need. Be at ease. You have no say in the degradation of your telomeres, but in all the interim, the whole world is your sweet silicate shellfish. You exist because you have been more suited to it than all the others. Steal what you require from another rather than spend the hours to build it yourself. Break foolish rules—why would you love regulation? It serves you to cross lines, and if others needed rules to protect them, then they were not after all worthy of that existence. Caricatures of villainy are out of style, I hear. Yes. I am no cackling mastermind: I am serious when I say this. It was not the trick of standing upright that lifted you from the dust: it was the mastery of fire, the cooking of cold corpse-meat. That is not any unique faction's province, neither good nor evil. It is simply truth. This great, beloved cosmos. Always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. A billion electrons taking the path of least resistance. In Darkness or in Light, someone is always making my choice. Be seeing you.

Duality is not a curse, but a gift.

III. Self

I.I Before one can be freed, one must question the truth of their purest identity. I.II And so a question is begged: Who resides at the core of your being? I.III Only honest reflection will see you—lone traveler—through the coming storm. I.IV Look, then, clearly upon the whole of your existence, and face your glory—strength of will, every flaw of your mortal heart and fabled soul. I.V Through the pieces of a life lived divine your truth, but do not lie—to the world, if one must, but never to yourself. I.VI To see yourself as anything but what you truly are will lead you down sorrow's road, unprepared for the consequence of your salvation. I.VII Once an understanding is met, and the self is purified in the knowledge of its truth, the cage is set to be unbound. "Know thyself in honest ways, or falter in light of your truest self." —3rd Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow

Sun|nooM

youtube

Right back to where we are From drifting far apart You gave me heavy heart It's time now to restart Why would you do that to me? You're acting serious unhealthy Why would you push me away? I wanted real you to stay Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? You kicked me down, you turned me all around I tumble and crash a moment, I'm up for round two My number one you were a loaded gun Shouldn't feel my head but When you want to push I pull When I'm empty, then you're full Did you mean to be so cruel? We're going further apart It's time now to restart Why would you do that to me? You're acting serious unhealthy Why would you push me away I wanted real you to stay Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away? Why would you push me away?

youtube

What'd she say about me? Hands in pockets so deep When I walk I see you stare White lockers dripping with despair Pooling around my feet Hold your breath and don't speak Witnesses and zombies And the way they glare as empty as an Answering machine, no one to hear your dreams Na, you don't bother me I'm like electricity They say I'm dancing with my demons This is the dawning of the season Melancholy girls and nonbelievers This is the dawning of the season What you heard about me? I see fire when I sleep I can disappear like drops of water Trembling in the heat No, you won't see me Na, you don't bother me I'm like electricity They say I'm dancing with my demons This is the dawning of the season Melancholy girls and nonbelievers This is the dawning of the season Will we change? Will I be? Adolescent dreams Will we change? Will I be? Adolescent thieves They say I'm dancing with my demons This is the dawning of the season Melancholy girls and nonbelievers This is the dawning of the season They say I'm dancing with my demons This is the dawning of the season Melancholy girls and nonbelievers This is the dawning of the season

youtube

He was a lonely cynic No hero nor a villain inside Until he had a vision She had golden eyes and spoke her mind Now easy livin', it sets you free! You'll rediscover simplicity His cynicism gave way to be Raindrops in every color So if you feel low, sit back, enjoy the show Like a kaleidoscope in technicolor tonight So if you feel low, sit back, enjoy the show Like a kaleidoscope in technicolor tonight In technicolor tonight In technicolor tonight So if you think you're finished Go back to the beginning and find That everybody needs a little help From time to time, just look inside Now easy livin', it sets you free You'll rediscover simplicity 'Cause cynicism gives way to be Raindrops in every color So if you feel low, sit back, enjoy the show Like a kaleidoscope in technicolor tonight So if you feel low, sit back, enjoy the show Like a kaleidoscope in technicolor tonight Matt, go back to sleep I think I've finally got it all figured out Like a butterfly floating in amber We've made this moment eternal So if you feel low, sit back, enjoy the show Like a kaleidoscope in technicolor tonight So if you feel low, sit back, enjoy the show Like a kaleidoscope in technicolor tonight In technicolor tonight In technicolor tonight

#walk the vermicular path #follow the daito rabbit #gardener and winnower #terraformer and psychoformer #the right brain tells us the story of who we are #the veil #the final shape #destiny #destiny the game #d2 #destiny lore #destiny 2

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