#i need the algorithm to leave me alone

[asiananeurysm]

🙃

[nullians]

.

[hexiewrites]

i am literally fucking begging people to do the bare fucking minimum and TAG YOUR POSTS that could be potentially upsetting to people

yes, that includes post about what is happening in the middle east

i don't want to hear your weak fucking excuses - NEWS FLASH, there are people on tumblr who live in parts of the world where this is their daily experience, and maybe they are here (like the fucking rest of us) following FANDOM BLOGS to get a literal FUCKING BREAK from the actual and legitimate fucking HORRORS of the world

so tag. your. SHIT. PLEASE.

[hrrtshape]

read this if you're confused about persistence, if you've been affirming for months and nothing's shown up, if you're wondering whether you're doing something wrong but can't figure out what. not a method post. not a technique post. just what’s actually going on when it's not working yet.

ok. so. hi. this is going to be messy and probably upsetting. not because it's dramatic. don't flatter it. but because it's honest. and honesty gets weird when you're dealing with a field that's still so underexamined. we're all just poking the edge of the simulation with a biro. and maybe i should leave it alone. maybe i'm overcomplicating again. maybe this is one of those moments where i should just shut up and script and go to bed. but. no. i can't. i don't know how to shut up about this. and maybe this isn't even the truth. maybe this is just one lens. but fine. whatever. here it is.

context: someone asked me today. "how do i force myself to shift in a short amount of time?" (@srcerers this is your fault....affectionately) and i was writing the usual. the "correct" answer. if you decide it, it's done. if you say you shift instantly, you do. period. PERIOD. done and done, tried and true. the golden assumption + confidence = success formula.

and then i spiralled. because i've been saying that for months. and yes, i've shifted. yes, i've seen results. but before that???????? i spent ages deciding. persisting. affirming. knowing. and still. nothing. and no, this isn't about pedestals. this isn't about wanting it too much. this isn't a fucking disney villain song about obsession. this isn't "just let go babe." no one here is pacing the astral gates with mascara running. this isn't longing. this is clarity. this is when you know it's yours and reality still has the audacity to play pretend.

you're not begging. you're not desperate. you're just wondering why the algorithm is lagging. and you're allowed to. you're god, and the lights are flickering. you're allowed to knock on the wall and ask why.

and sure. someone might read this and say "you were overthinking." or "you were still checking the 3d." but it's not that. this isn't panic. it's not frantic. it's the calm after the calibration. this is what happens after you stop checking. after you stabilise. after you fully assume. when you don't need results to believe. but they still don't come. and so you ask. not because you're doubting. because you're refining. it's not sabotage. it's devotion. it's wanting to understand the edge of your own dominion.

and the thing is. in the past, i wasn't hoping. i wasn't tiptoeing. i was in. all in. clearly, absolutely. no checking. no waiting. i wasn't treating the assumption like a wish. i was living like it was already law. so i continued in this spiral. because if you're god. if your thoughts create. if you say "i am in my dr" now and you mean it, like actually mean it, shouldn't that be enough?? i say this confidently, because after shifting so much, yes, that is indeed what happens. but. for people who haven't experienced that privilege. like. confidence plus assumption equals done. right??? so then why not. where does the decision go. does it just evaporate. does it fall behind the couch cushions of the multiverse. in what fucking universe do you decide something every day with conviction and it still doesn't root. how does that not calcify into fact.

so let me give you a scenario. maybe it's you. it was definitely me.

you're affirming day and night. not hoping. not wishing. knowing. you've decided you are in your dr. period. you walk like it. talk like it. feel it. you're not checking for results. not looking over your shoulder. not waiting for it to kick in. because it already did. your inner world is loud. it's screaming this is it. i'm there. not even zeus could knock me off the road because as god is my witness, i am in my goddamn dr.

and, nothing. no hogwarts. no mansion. no parisian cigarette moment with my boo in the rain. just your room. your walls. your body. again. again. again.

and it doesn't make sense. because the law is the law. you're god. your thoughts create. shifting is instant. so what the fuck is happening.

and look, i used to think there were only two ways to persist. either you're in power mode, clean, cold certainty. emotionally detached, i've already shifted, i'm just reinforcing it. or you're in panic mode, still affirming, still assuming, but there's this silent grip underneath. if i stop deciding this, it'll fall apart. and yeah, on the surface those feel like two different planets. one feels sovereign. the other feels shaky.

but if you strip the tone out of it, if you stop obsessing over how it sounds and just look at the architecture, both are assumptions. both are decisions. both count. because the law doesn't care if you're cool about it or crying about it. it only cares that you're doing it. that it's declared. that it's held. so if both modes are valid, then why do they sometimes fail????????

and this is where it started to come apart for me. because both 'i've already shifted' and 'i need to keep deciding' are still assumptions. one just feels better. it's smoother. but structurally, they're the same. and if the panic one isn't checking, if it's clean panic, if it's quiet panic, it should still land. it should still work. but sometimes it doesn't. and that's what broke the seal. because if it's not about hope, not about doubt, not about waiting, not about checking, and you're affirming like a master shifter, what the fuck is it? and i'll be using me as a poster child of examples and say that, hey, although shifting is now easy for me - i still struggle with manifestations. so. why???

and that question is the reason i'm even writing this at all.

so now maybe you're thinking (if i hopefully have not fully gutted your brain as i have with mine while writing this):

maybe it's because i'm doing it from panic, not power. maybe i'm secretly doubting. maybe i haven't let go. maybe i'm still in the waiting room. maybe that's because i keep looking at the 3d.

no. stop. cut it out. that's noise.

you can be in panic. you can be in power. it doesn't matter. if you are persisting. assuming. deciding. then it should work. that's the rule. that's the contract. it's not a myth. it's not a loophole. it's not some cult-coded trick line you chant and hope it lands. it's the structure. it's the law.

i kept trying to find a reason. maybe it's density. maybe it's linear cause and effect, like flipping a light switch and expecting the bulb. but loa doesn't work like that. and shifting definitely doesn't. it's not circuitry. it's not push-button response.

if you are the light, then the switch shouldn't matter. you're not triggering something, you are the trigger. you're the source. the mechanism. the whole #&*!$%@ circuit board. so what's jamming the signal. if it's not doubt. not timing. not belief. then what.

and here's the closest thing to an answer i've got (half consolation, half theory, fully an attempt to keep myself from throwing my laptop across the room):

you've already shifted. you just haven't caught up to yourself yet.

i know. i hate how that sounds too. it's vague. it's annoying. it feels like spiritual scaffolding. but it's not. or i at least hope it's not.

when we say shifting is instant, we don't mean the wallpaper peels itself off and your mom turns into dumbledore. we mean the moment you decide, the reality activates. the coordinates reroute. the entire grid adjusts.

it's as if you are rerouting a train track mid-motion. you're still moving. but you're not on the same line anymore.

the problem is, we expect the scenery to change with the switch. and sometimes it does. but sometimes it doesn't. and that's because the 3d isn't a flatscreen. it's not theatre. it's not performance. it's a mirror. and mirrors don't update because you want them to. they update because you've changed so deeply that they literally can't reflect the old you anymore.

so when you say "i am in my dr" and it doesn't look like your dr, that's not proof it failed. it's just a delay. you're already in the new field, but the particles haven't aligned. and yeah, that's maddening. because your body feels the shift. your head knows it. but your eyes won't show it. and then you start to doubt. not openly. but subtly. in the quiet. in the repetition.

so. what can i sum up. persistence is not about time. it's about saturation.

it's not about hours logged or how many affirmations you can fire off in a spiral notebook. it's about how deep it goes. how thick it sticks. and no, that doesn't mean screaming it louder. doesn't mean performing it. it means not needing to say it at all. not because you gave up. not because you're done trying. but because it's default now. baseline. unconscious. it is. not a spell. not a statement. just identity.

shifting isn't something you win. it's not a trophy for spiritual discipline. it's a symptom. a side effect of self-recognition so total, so absolute, that there's no room left for contradiction.

so yeah. both "i've already shifted" and "i need to keep deciding" can work. panic or power doesn't matter if the persistence is clean. if you're not checking. not looping. not measuring the silence. but if you're still waiting, even subtly, even spiritually, it's not saturation. it's performance.

and that doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. it just means you're still becoming. still burning off the part of you that thinks shifting is something to win, not something you already are.

and yes, some people shift instantly. some people shift after six months of saying "i'm already there." and they're not better than you. they're not more "aligned."

they just hit saturation faster. their idea of "this is true" had less gunk to burn off.

you say: but i'm god. i decide. why hasn't it happened yet?

and i say: it has. if it feels like it hasn't, you're still relating to it like something outside you. you're still watching for it.

reality isn’t late. reality isn't anything. it just reflects. it doesn't show up when you're ready, it has to show up when you're being. not when you want. not when you wait. when you are.

if it's not visible yet, it's not because it's in transit. it's because you're still checking. you're still measuring. you’re not failing. you're not early. you're just still treating truth like a method.

and truth isn’t a process. it’s a position. a posture. you don't need to persist for six months. you don't need to reach peak saturation like it’s a score. you just need to stop making realness conditional.

stop affirming like you're earning it. start assuming like it's breath. like it’s done and there’s nothing to explain.

because shifting isn't slow. it's not cumulative. it’s not linear. it’s identity. the second you say: i am - it's done.

not "on its way." not "almost here." and certainly not "it's glitching."

done. and if you're still asking when, then you haven't decided. not really. so stop trying to time it. just be it.

and look. i still believe shifting is easy. because it is. i've done it. i know it's not in charge. but sometimes it's not about method. it's about the silence in between. and that doesn't make the law wrong. it just makes the process actual. i'm not saying shifting or manifesting is hard. i'm saying that staying loyal to the truth when it hasn't shown its face yet takes a different kind of strength.

you don't have to overanalyse it.

but you're allowed to want to understand it.

that doesn't undo the truth.

it just lets you live inside it better.

[joyousmistake]

I was doomscrolling Instagram and just got 3 targeted do you have adhd ads in a row and I got 95% chance on the last one and it’s beginning to feel too personal

[nanamineedstherapy]

TikTok Warfare in the Polycule

F!Pregnant Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

A/N: Listen. Gojo would 100% weaponize TikTok algorithms to win an argument. Nanami would simply document the war crimes. Enjoy this descent into chaos. (No spoilers but someone does get pancake privileges revoked.)

Gojo was scrolling on his phone when the TikTok arrived. "If your baby daddy doesn’t instinctively protect your belly in public, you’re better off alone."

His eyes narrowed.

You walked by, adjusting a bag over your shoulder.

Gojo’s hand twitched.

Then: "Satoru."

He sat up. "Yeah, baby?"

"I need to go to the store."

Gojo’s pupils darkened. "You do?"

"Mm-hmm."

Five minutes later, he was pressed against your back in the middle of the grocery store, practically circling you like a guard dog.

His phone buzzed.

Group Chat: Dad Crimes 💀 (Anon)

Father Time: Did you just follow her to the store?

Daddy: Protecting the baby.

Father Time: Sure.

Daddy: She’s not mad anymore tho

Father Time: That’s what you think.

---

Operation: Keep the Pregnant Alive

Nanami knew something was wrong when Gojo smiled at him.

Not the usual lazy smirk. Not the smug, sunshine-drenched grin he used to get out of murder charges or speeding tickets. No. This one had teeth.

Gojo tossed his phone onto the coffee table, then sprawled across the couch, limbs wide open like a trap. His sunglasses had slipped halfway down his nose. His eyes glinted. “It’s time,” he said, voice too calm.

Nanami didn’t even look up from his newspaper. “For what?”

“Revenge.”

Nanami turned the page. “What did Haibara do now?”

“Ah! Not him. Baby.”

“What did our wife do now?”

“She fell asleep under the dining table.”

Nanami raised a brow in his direction, his grip tightening imperceptibly on the paper. “Again?”

“She took the video of me trying to wake her up from the home security footage, edited and posted it with an AI voiceover saying, ‘When your husband thinks you respect him but you’re actually a raccoon with a PLC.’”

Gojo’s eye twitched. “Ten million views and growing. I’m in a meme compilation.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s tired these days, Satoru.” The unspoken ‘She’s growing two whole humans with powers nothing like before, you idiot’ hung between them.

“She’s winning.” Gojo leaned forward. “We flip the script.”

Nanami stared. “You want to TikTok her back?”

“No.” Gojo grinned like the devil himself. “I want to psychologically dismantle her using excessive care until she implodes.”

Nanami sighed. “You’re stupid.”

Gojo’s grin widened. “So is she.”

Phase One: Comfort Is A Weapon

You were waiting for your coffee, scrolling on your phone, when your husband’s text came in:

Kento: Hope you're comfortable.

You: Why the hell would I not be?

Satoru: Because you’re not leaving that couch today.

You didn’t even have time to glare at your screen before Gojo waltzed in. Shirtless. Damp from a shower. Gray sweatpants. No shame.

He leaned on the doorway like he’d been cast in a thirst trap film.

Behind him, Nanami followed—sleeves rolled, jaw tense, that look he got when he was two seconds from calling Shoko for backup.

“What the hell is going on?” You asked, already suspicious.

“We’re taking care of you,” Gojo said sweetly.

Nanami unfolded a plush blanket with all the grace of a crime scene investigator. “Sit.”

You frowned. “No.”

Gojo tilted his head. “Do you want Shoko to get involved? Because I will FaceTime her right now.”

You narrowed your eyes, teeth gritted. “I will bite both of you.”

Gojo smirked. “Kinky.”

Nanami sighed. “Just sit.”

You plopped onto the couch like a petulant goblin, muttering the entire time. The warmth seeped into your aching back almost immediately. Traitors.

Phase Two: Pharmaceutical Warfare

Nanami brought over a vitamin packet like it was a weaponized dossier. “You’re iron-deficient,” he said flatly.

“I’m not,” you lied. “I had spinach.”

“When?” Nanami asked.

“...in college.”

Gojo appeared from behind with a smug look and a footstool. “Feet up.”

You resisted. He raised a brow. “Do you want to argue with a man in sweatpants?”

Reluctantly, you complied.

Gojo leaned in, dangerously close. “You’re sweating right now, aren’t you?”

You deadpanned. “No.”

He smiled. “You just twitched.”

You shoved his face away. “Shut up.”

Phase Three: TikTok Retaliation

The next day, a TikTok dropped, "If your girl isn’t drinking water, it’s your responsibility to hydrate her—by force if necessary."

You watched the video in horror. Nanami appeared in the kitchen doorway. Holding a glass. “Drink.”

“No.”

“Drink.”

“No.”

Gojo suddenly materialized behind you like a damn wraith. “Perhaps juice?”

“I want to be left alone.”

“Hydration first.” Then, with intense menace, Gojo whispered, “If you don’t drink this water, I will strap you to all the pregnancy pillows. Publicly.”

Nanami added, “We will post it.”

You grabbed the water and chugged it like it was vodka.

Gojo smirked, leaning dangerously close to your face. “Thirsty.”

You flipped him off.

Phase Four: The Food Trap

You woke up at 3AM to Nanami looming like a culinary ghost with a tray. “Breakfast,” he said. Toast. Yogurt. Fruit. Organized like he was seducing you via glycemic index.

“I didn’t ask—”

“You don’t ask. You survive.”

You reached for the toast while glaring.

Then chewed in righteous judgment. “When will you go back to work?”

Phase Five: Breakdown or Performance Art?

They cornered you in the kitchen.

Gojo grinned. “Admit it.”

“No.”

“You like it.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

You sniffed.

Nanami looked up.

Gojo panicked. “Oh no.”

“I hate you both!” You wailed. Tears streamed. Beautiful. Oscar-worthy.

Nanami’s tone softened. “What do you need?”

You hiccupped. “Pancakes. With the 85% dark chocolate-covered strawberries. And whipped cream.”

Silence.

Gojo blinked. “...You’re not even sad, are you.”

“I might be.”

“You’re faking this.”

“I’m hungry.”

Nanami sighed.

You leaned into Nanami. “I want him to make the pancakes, Kento. Make him.”

Gojo grinned. “You want me to cook shirtless?”

You rolled your eyes. “No, I want you to not burn the strawberries this time.”

“If you let me touch your boobs, I won’t.”

You walked away from Nanami’s arm and returned with his old blade and raised it to Gojo’s pecs. “You were saying?”

Final Score

You—4 (for lies, drama, violence, and thirst)

Nanami and Gojo—2 (for effort, execution, and forearms)

New TikTok: 🎵 "My husbands think they’re in control… until I start crying about pancakes."

Cut to Gojo flipping them. Shirtless. Nanami plating them with surgical precision.

Caption: "Wife: unwell. Husbands: worse."

---

A/N: If you laughed, screamed, or now fear Nanami’s vitamin distribution system, tell me in the comments. (Gojo’s ego needs the engagement.)

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

Next Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

Beta - @blackrimmedrose

[underoossss]

Completely Yours – Miguel O’Hara

pairing: Miguel O’Hara x f!reader

warnings: non, it’s a good old fashioned hurt/comfort fic 💕

an: I had a lot of fun writing this, there’s nothing more comforting than a story where your love being in danger makes you realize you’re in love. anyway I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think ✨

masterlist

——-

“Ugh, Miguel, you’re brooding too loudly over there.” You groan, pausing the video playing on your tablet and looking at the tall man pacing on his platform.

It’s easy for anyone who knows you to hear the lack of annoyance in your tone, and rather the concern laced within each syllable. As far as friendships go, the one you have with Miguel is the most meaningful one you’ve had with anyone. There’s a sense of home and protection that falls between both of you whenever you’re together, at least on your side of things. You know there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you, and the same applies to you; he might be taller, stronger, and smarter but you’d protect him with your bare hands if necessary. The fact that you have a ridiculous and hopeless crush on him doesn’t help.

Setting the tablet down, you stand up and shoot a web towards the freakishly ominous platform before hauling yourself upwards. “Did they cancel your telenovela, hot stuff?”

Miguel’s back is turned to you, and he glances at you over his shoulder when you make your way towards him. “It’s more complicated than that.” He sighs and steps aside, gesturing towards the big screen in front of him.

“No internet connection up here.” You say solemnly; from where you stand you can tell the blinking letters on the screen are an error message –a failed code, but you’re not about to tell Miguel that. It would undermine his surprise when you whip out some smart rhetoric in a moment of need. “Tragic.”

“No, smartass, I’m trying to improve our algorithm, but I can’t figure it out how to do it yet.” Miguel’s eyes scan the screen, his hands placed on his hips and his weight settled on his right leg. You shift your eyes from his back to the error message and smile.

“Can I try?” You ask, concealing the mischief that possesses your body at the idea of getting under Miguel’s skin. “Maybe I can fix it.”

The fact that your grump of a friend steps aside to let you take a look at the code speaks on his stress. He’s tired, you can tell, the shadow under his eyes is darker today; he most likely didn’t sleep trying to get this to work. You shouldn’t make fun of it, you know that, and making a joke is not going to help fix this. But you also need you friend to relax before he gets a neck spasm. Miguel is grumpier than usual when his neck hurts.

You step close to the screen and analyze the code, it’s impossible to know what’s wrong at a glance –this isn’t your forte– but you pretend to. Biting your tongue to keep from laughing you tilt your head and hum. “I see what’s wrong.”

“What?” The sliver of hope in Miguel’s voice tempts you to abort mission and leave him alone. But who would you be if you didn’t annoy him?

“There is not a single legible word in this mess, babe.” You shake your head and place your hands on your hips as he always does. “No wonder your computer’s struggling, this is gibberish.”

“I thought you–” Miguel groans and covers his face with his hands staring up at the ceiling. “Por que yo? Por que yo? Por que yo?”

Naturally you start laughing, arms around you stomach when it begins to hurt. “Honestly, it’s on you. Crazy that you didn’t see it coming, baby.” The endearment falls easily off your tongue, all of them do, you gave up hiding how smitten you are a long time ago. It’s not like Miguel is ever going to act on it or make things weird. No matter how much it hurts you on the inside, this is a one-sided thing you’ve gotten used to.

Miguel turns to look at you, clear annoyance in the pinch of his eyebrows before it lessens when you smile at him. He sighs in defeat, shaking his head at you. “Why do I even let you come here?”

“Oh, come on.” You smile stepping closer to the edge of the platform and shooting a web at each opposing wall. “You were so stressed; I’m trying to get you to relax.” Making sure both webs are safely attached, you jump on the makeshift tightrope finding your balance at once.

Miguel’s amused, you can tell by the way his eyes seem to catch on your actions before he goes back to his computer. “This isn’t a game, the algorithm–”

“Is not as serious as you think either, try to relax. You should join my yoga class.” You shrug, jumping up and down on the rope before it snaps. Having seen it coming you shoot a web at the ceiling and catch yourself at the same time Miguel’s red webs pull you back to the platform and towards him.

“Cuidado.”

His eyes lock on yours, vexed at first before the shift into something softer when your arms go around him. You press your cheek on his chest, trying to push your affection onto him, let him know how appreciated he is. You hope the nano-tech allows it. “Sorry.” You mutter, voice muffled.

Miguel’s arms go around you and he holds you to him; you resist melting into his hold. “It’s okay, you were right.”

Those three words are enough to make you step back and look up at him, smirk on your face. “What was that?”

He chuckles under his breath and looks away. “There’s no way I’m repeating that.”

You’re about to say something else when you hear someone call from the lab’s floor “MIGUEL!!”

A chorus of voices follow the initial call, all coming from the lab’s entrance, and you’re quick to jump down and greet the three teenagers that walk in. “Careful guys, he’s moody today.” You warn with a smile.

“Same as always then?” Gwen says before all four of you giggle.

“This’ll cheer you up!” Pavitr says, before messing with his watch and sending something Miguel’s way. “Another mission complete.”

“So you did your job.” Miguel says once the platform’s closer to the ground. “Congratulations, here’s another one.”

Lyla pops up in front of Miles’ face and fixes her pink glasses. “New anomaly on earth 55. It’s a Vulture variant, Gwen takes point.”

“Why is she always the leader?” Miles complains, gesturing towards Gwen.

But the teenager ignores him and nods once, a determined look on her face before Lyla blinks away. “Let’s go.”

“Wait just one more thing.” Pavitr says, stopping Gwen and Miles on their tracks. “I have a question!”

“We’re full of answers.” You shrug before Miguel can shut down the kid. “Ask away.”

“Is there a monarchy on earth 928? It seems too futuristic to have one. Please tell me they got rid of it.”

“Other than the one in here?” You ask, a smile on your face as mischief makes another grand appearance.

Miguel mutters your name in warning, almost as if thinking you’d reveal the details of Miguel’s earth to the young Spider-Man. It makes you throw your hands up in mock surrender. “What? There is a monarchy here! I mean after all…”

Miguel turns to look at you, eyebrow raised and an unamused look on his face. The teenagers wait expectantly as well, until you open your mouth.

“You’re the king of my heart.”

Everyone groans at your bad joke, and you throw your head back laughing. Resorting to humor to let out all the feelings you have for the one you love, pathetic but necessary. Miguel sighs and turns back to his computer, but you’re almost sure he’s holding back a smile.

“Don’t you have work to do?” Miguel calls over his shoulder, arching a menacing eyebrow at the teenagers. It’s enough to make them scramble out of his lab, pushing each other to get to the entrance faster.

“Get ready,” Miguel then tells you. His mask covers his face once more, and you mourn not seeing his handsome face anymore. “Anomaly on earth 7832, you’re coming with me.”

“You got it baby.” You smile brightly, hopping onto the platform again and putting your mask back on.

“Come on.” Miguel huffs, but his tone is lighter than before. The hug helped, you smile in triumph though he can’t see it.

---

“The anomaly is a goblin variant” Miguel explains once the two of you make it out of the portal. “We need to take him away from this dimension.”

As you look at the buildings around you, shiny and modern, Miguel keeps briefing you on the matter at hand. The Goblin is going to Oscorp, thinking he can have his revenge on those who wronged him. However, this Oscorp hasn’t wronged him, it might have before but the goblin from this dimension already took many lives years ago. Miguel needs your camouflage, as you’re the only Spider-Man with this power other than Miles –though you’d rather have his venom powers instead, they’re so much cooler.

“I need you to trail him.” Miguel turns to look at you and places a hand on your shoulder. “Lyla will track him for you, and I won’t be far behind. Just stop him before he gets there and… be careful.” The last two words are said with emphasis, and it makes you smile. He worries so much; it gives away just how much his heart feels.

“Careful’s my middle name, handsome.” You blow him a kiss before you swing yourself off the building.

“Oh really, most of your records might disagree.” Miguel tells you on your watch and you can hear that cocky smile on his face.

“I hope you caught my kiss.” You ignore his jab, smiling under your mask as you swing yourself upwards and let go, doing a flip mid-air and shooting another web. “Lyla, am I close to our guy yet?”

“Closing in.” Her voice comes from your watch. “Three blocks.”

“Better turn invisible.” Miguel’s voice follows, it’s more agitated that before which you know means he’s trailing after you. Though you’re not nervous, a sense of relief washes over you at the knowledge that he’s close. “And no more talking, this is a stealth operation.”

“Sure thing, baby cakes.” You agree, “Catch you in a bit.” You make sure you’re camouflaged one block before you intercept the anomaly, staying silent, and focused on the mission. That is, until you pass a lilac and orange storefront. “Oh that milkshake place closed last year! Can we go back, later. Please.”

Your voice is merely a gasp, but Miguel’s chastises you. “Y/N”

“I’m gonna take it as a yes.” You shrug before going silent once more.

You spot the Goblin when you turn the corner of the last block. He’s green and wears a yellow hood on his head, his glider looks a lot like wings with green lights on the bottom. The anomaly is heading for a window, to break into the building mode likely but your don’t let him.

Shooting a new web and launching yourself upwards, you kick his glider to destabilize him and miss his shot. He’s definitely confused at what happened and even more so when you shoot two webs at his feet and pull. “I’ve engaged the anomaly, where are you?” You ask Miguel, showing yourself to your opponent so he can follow you to the rooftop.

The Goblin is faster than you, especially with his high-tech glider —you’ve never seen one so advanced— and he snatches you from the edge of the building then proceeds to throw you on the rooftop’s floor.

“How rude.” You shake your head at him, camouflaging again and slipping underneath the floating board he’s perched on. You shoot your webs at the blue ventilation system, knowing it will overheat it until it explodes before a series of red ropes latch onto the equipment and pull it away from the Goblin’s feet.

You roll to your right to avoid his body falling on top of you, at the same time an explosion goes off in your vicinity. Miguel stands there, as the glider’s smoke clears behind him, head cocked to the side. “I’m here.” He states when you stop camouflaging.

“You know, you really have to work on your one liners.” You shake your head. “Miss me? Would’ve been a much cooler thing to say.”

Neither of you can do anything else as suddenly six explosives are thrown both your ways. In a second, you shoot your webs are them, pulsing the shooter three times to change the web’s pattern and create a net-like trap you throw to your left. “Excuse me, we were having a moment here?”

The empty parking lot on the neighboring building shudders at the explosion and that’s when the Goblin attacks.

You try to put up a fight, and so does Miguel but the Goblin stronger than you. Though you manage to get some good punches in, his are stronger and knock the air out of you. He’s fast, too fast for one person to catch up with him, and even with you and Miguel running yourselves ragged, it’s hard to keep up. His bombs run out eventually —you kept throwing them to the empty parking lot, which worsened his mood— and you can focus on keeping Goblin still. The issue is, that no matter how many webs you shoot at his limbs, he snaps them easily before going back to exchanging punches with Miguel.

You try to pin his arms one more time, but he sends you backwards with a kick to your stomach.

You scream one of Miguel’s most common expletives, frustrated with yet another failed plan. “Okay. Babe, I have an idea, but you gotta help me out.” You tell Miguel, voice breathless, as he struggles with the anomaly.

“Tell me.” He grunts, trying to keep Goblin from escaping the rooftop, if he reaches the door and gets inside there would be too many people to look after.

“I hold him still and you bite him; I think it’s the only way to cage him.”

When you see Miguel nod, you get to work. You begin by shooting webs to the side of the buildings, much like you did back at Miguel’s lab, before attaching them to the Goblin’s body. His arms and legs are next, which you manage to hold down by circling him until they’re tight enough that he can’t move. Miguel uses his red webs to hold him too, and the front of his mask disappears showing his teeth as he approaches the anomaly. But the Goblin’s stronger than anything you’ve fought before and in mere seconds snaps one web, then another, until suddenly and with an ear piercing scream he’s free and sending a well-placed blow to your chest that leaves you breathless.

You’re out of webs thanks to your plan as he stands before you —to finish the job you’re sure— but it’s hard to focus on anything other than your shortness of breath. Miguel’s voice is muffled when it reaches you as he tackles the Goblin, grabbing at his neck with his claws. You take the opportunity to take off your mask, gasping for air and trying to get your rising panic in check. It barely lasts though, because the anomaly gets away, slipping through Miguel’s clutches, and going back to you. His green claw snatches you from the floor, making you grunt in pain as he jumps to the other building. Next thing you know, the Goblin lets go of you between the two buildings and your stomach drops. You activate your web-shooters in the hopes that even the smallest bit of web can help you but it isn’t your lucky day. Your body is in free-fall and the wind mutes the words coming out of Miguel’s mouth.

All you manage to hear is his scream, a desperate sound, followed by him diving to rescue you without hesitation. You can sense how his mind goes over the million ways he can grab and not injure you. Not even his bright-red webs can help you, he’d snap your back in two or detach a limb. But he will help you, you’re sure of that. You see him get momentum from the building in front of you before he dives in your direction, arms tight to his sides to gain speed. Once you’re within reach, his arms go around you, enveloping you completely before he turns around so his body receives the impact as you crash through a glass window on the opposite building.

“Go get him.” You groan, body limp on top of his.

Your lack of comment on your position is enough to worry Miguel. He was expecting something that would make him roll his eyes and hold back a smile as he always does when he’s with you. If you wanted some alone time, you could’ve asked, big guy. Woah, take me out to dinner first, handsome. He can hear it so clearly in his mind that your silence at present causes a wave of anxiety to rise in his sternum.

“You’re hurt.” Miguel states, voice strained as he lies you down gently on the floor.

“I’ve seen worse.” You shake your head. “Go find him, I’ll catch up.” It’s a blatant lie, and you know Miguel can tell. He can see you’re barely awake, how you’ve turned a shade closer to grey, how clammy your forehead looks and a quick glance at your abdomen confirms his first guess. He thinks at once, internal bleeding.

He talks to Lyla through his watch but you can’t make out a single world after the system’s name because you’re trying really hard to concentrate on breathing. Since when do you have to think about breathing? You’re suddenly bathed in tangerine light as a portal opens behind Miguel, and though he’s still in a hurry to get you back to the Society, he takes his time as he picks you up.

The movement is gentle but you still whine in pain, a string of curses flying past your lips. “How do I say motherfucker in Spanish?” You ask Miguel as your eyes fall closed.

“It’ll be over soon. Just look at me, okay?” His voice is tight yet calm despite the disastrous turn the mission’s taken. “Don’t close your eyes, you have to stay awake.”

You open them weakly —it’s so hard to stay awake all of a sudden— and look at his illuminated profile. His chiseled jaw, beautiful but so tense you’re sure he’ll crack a tooth. You’re in pain, slowly feeling like you’re fading away into nothing, but you can’t bear to see Miguel so stressed.

“Hey,” You whisper, and he looks down, his expression softening. “It’s Guasha right?”

“What?” Miguel looks so confused you’d laugh if it didn’t hurt to breathe.

“The secret to your cheekbones, babe.” You mumble.

Miguel squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, not annoyed but something else you can’t figure out. “As if I’d tell you.” He tells you, rolling his eyes at you in that fond way of his.

He steps through the portal and a moment later you’re back at the society, spidermen walking left and right to their own dimensions and missions. Miguel’s quick to bring you to the med-bay, at least that’s where you assume you are until you pass out.

It turns out, you were put under so the Spider-Medics could operate on you. Everything’s fine, they reassure you when you wake with a start, a couple of needles pricking your skin. Your eyes search for a familiar tall figure, brooding, handsome, the light of your eyes, but you can’t find it. So, you let the doctors run their tests and give you their diagnostics without another word. It takes a whole day for you body to heal and feel better, all while waiting for Miguel to show up.

He doesn’t. Not once.

Once you’re dispatched with an all clear and a lollypop, you immediately open a portal back home. There’s no use going to see Miguel at his lab. If he doesn’t want to see you, that’s fine. You get it, you ruined his mission and he’s gorgeously pacing in front of his many computer screens. But there’s also the gentle way he’d spoken to you, the look he’d given you before you passed out… No, it’s just childish wistful thinking. You’re the last person he'd like to see at the moment. You’re sure of that.

When you get home, you’re quick to turn on the radio and sync it to the police channel. Maybe chasing some bad guys will clear your head, take your mind away from the heartache threatening to consume you –it’s even worse than your previously broken ribs. But you shower and change back into your suit and no such luck; not even a small robbery to stop. With nothing else to do, you go up the fire escape and to the rooftop just in time to see the sun set in the horizon. It bathes your New York in orange; it’s not nearly as modern as Miguel’s but it’s loud and fun regardless.

“One would think that after that fall, you’d avoid heights for a while.” Miguel’s voice comes from somewhere behind you but it doesn’t startle you.

“Occupational hazard.” Is all you say, staring ahead as your heart aches in more ways than one; for your own feelings and his likely regret of bringing you along to Earth 7832. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

You refuse to look at him, guilt eating you up from the inside out. “Miguel, I ruined your mission.”

“You didn’t.” Miguel sighs. “Why would you think that?”

You huff, then look down at your hands and twist your gloved fingers. “I know you’re mad, don’t lie to me.”

You hear him approach you, his footfalls getting closer before he places something next to you. You look to your right and see it, the lilac paper cup with the orange logo and white straw. What? You take it in your hand and examine it in the sun. “Is this?”

“They closed a year ago, right?”

You turn then, and the sight of Miguel standing there increases your yearning tenfold. He’s bathed in orange light from the sunset, it casts sharp shadows on one side of his face as the wind tousles some rogue strands of his hair. It should be illegal really, to be so beautiful you bring people to tears.

The worst thing is that he’s not mad, you can tell by the way his jaw isn’t tense like a day ago. His brows are relaxed, and his eyes scan your face as if drinking you in. It makes your eyes tear up, much to his shock. If he’s not been angry at you, then he didn’t go to see you because he doesn’t care. You thought you were good friends, despite him trying to conceal it; he’s let you hang out with him all the time, never once has kicked you out of his lab, has taken you with him to multiple missions. Yet…

“You left.” You murmur tearily.

Miguel sighs and sits next to you, his back to the sun and his hands falling between his legs. His shoulder hunch, as he shakes his head. “Do you know how close you were to…”

“They said everything was fine.”

“You almost died.” Miguel’s voice isn’t loud but the pain with which he murmurs those three words make you grimace.

“Oh.”

Miguel shakes his head. “I was scared to lose you.” His right hand reaches for yours and you take it, moving the milkshake to your other side to scoot closer to him. “I might be strong, but not when it comes to seeing you in pain.”

“And after that?” You turn to face him, big fat tears fall down your cheeks, and Miguel wipes them away, setting your skin on fire and comforting you at the same time. “You still didn’t come. I thought we–“

“I was thinking.” He tells you softly, a hushed confession.

“Of course you were.” Even though you’re confused by his words, a grin makes its way to your face. He’s ridiculous. “About what? the multiverse perishing ‘cause of the bad guy we let escape?”

Miguel shakes his head before holding your chin between his thumb and index finger “The fact I was so overtaken by fear when you got hurt I could barely think; that I can’t live without you; that I’m completely yours without even knowing when it happened.”

“You’re mine?” You question, eyes widening in surprise, heartbeat raising at the same time as your hopes with his words. “You mean—”

“That I love you?” He chuckles at your expression, his eyes looking at yours fondly; “According to Lyla, everyone knows I do but you. I thought the milkshake would give it away.”

“Miguel, I thought I was the obvious one. I’m always —”

“You were, baby, you were” Miguel’s hand slowly moves to your cheek, eclipsing it in size as your body lights up at the endearment. “I was hesitant but I’m not anymore.”

“So you got me a milkshake.” You smile, widely this time as you move even closer to him. Damn this man and his acts of service love language.

“I would get you whatever you want, you know that.” Miguel’s voice drops to a whisper at your proximity, his hold on your cheek pulling you closer to his face.

“And you looove me.” You tease him, brushing your nose tenderly against his; there’s nothing you’ve wanted more than to shower him with all the affection you have for him. It turns out you have a chance to do it after all.

He rolls his eyes with nothing but adoration, and love. “Never stood a chance.”

“Wish it didn’t take falling to my death to tell me, hot stuff.” You murmur, brushing your lips against his, drunk with your feelings and the idea of loving him freely, no jokes needed. “You’re the one that bites out of both of us.”

Miguel chuckles and you lean close, closing the gap between you and kissing his lips like you’ve dreamed of for a long while. Your hands move to his hair as you pull him closer and a noise gets caught in the back of Miguel’s throat. His own hand on your cheek tilts your face to the side before his tongue brushes your bottom lip to open you up to him. There’s no testing the waters, no hesitation. No, this is something you’ve clearly wanted for a long time and after the events from yesterday’s mission there’s no way you’re delaying this anymore. You sigh into his mouth, intoxicated in the best way from the taste of him, coffee and something sweet that makes you gravitate even closer to him.

You’re left dizzy and happy beyond words when you part, your lips chasing his for a moment before you press your forehead against Miguel’s.

“Hermosa,” Miguel murmurs. You can feel his eyes on you as he ghosts his lips across your chin, your cheek and jaw, as your mouth shifts to a grin. No one but you knows your moody vampire is so loving.

You move to sit on his lap, your side to his front, smiling widely at the content look you find on his face when you look up. Completely unguarded, for you.

“Okay moment of truth.” You announce, reaching over and taking the paper up in your hands. Your hands cover your face as soon as you take a sip, the creamy chocolate taste coating your mouth and releasing endorphins to your system.

“What?” Miguel asks, his protective mode rising to the surface for a moment before you smile. It makes him shake his head.

“Ohmygod, I missed this so much!” You cry out, taking another sip and sighing in content. “Might have to pop by and get another one every now and then.”

“If there’s another mission there maybe,” Miguel concedes, arms going around your waist to pull closer. “Maybe.”

“You did it though.” You remind him, cheek resting on his chest, making your words come out muffled.

“I’m in charge,” He shrugs, self-assured smile clear in his tone.

“You’re no fun.” You sink against his chest, breathing him in and taking in his warmth. Until a memory flashes in your mind, making you light up and look at him again. “WAIT. Was that a joke earlier?”

—-

*por que yo? (why me?)

*hermosa (beautiful)

*cuidado (careful)

[dobbie-doo]

˗ˏˋ ꒰ BURN FOR ME꒱ ˎˊ˗ arlecchino

You are a ballerina. In the age of advanced technologies that develop faster and more realistically every day, you are afraid of becoming just a shadow of these technologies..

✧ warnings — NSFW. hurt/comfort, fem ! ballerina ! reader , gentle sex, romance, Arlecchino my husband. ✧ minors & non nb/wlw do not interact. !! ✧ a/n — I thought about the backstory of the fic for a long time, because I didn't want to write nsfw just like that lol, this is the first time I'm writing to a girl on my account, I mostly only wrote to boys..😅😅 (Arlecchino step on me)

You are standing on a small stage. You are wearing a white ballet skirt. A little fluffy, covered in detailed patterns, a little sparkling in the dark, gloomy little performance hall.

There are people sitting in the chairs, all dressed in the latest fashion, and somewhere above, a couple of important Fontaine officials are sitting, looking down on you like hawks at their next victim. And you dance, dance and dance like a white swan on the lake, your movements as precise as they are elegant.

And you are scared. Sweat runs down your back, making the fabric of your dress unpleasantly sticky and wet. It is stuffy, your head is spinning from the music, and if you look into the distance, it seems as if the whole space is shimmering.

.. And the music ends.. You hear applause.

You breathe heavily, trying to hide it. You stand up straighter, arching your back almost to the point of crunching, and bow. But when you straighten up, you understand that people are not looking at you. And opposite you, there, on the other side of the stage, is a robot. Without heavy clothes, without makeup that hides almost all the flaws of the face. Without ballet shoes shoes..

..Without a face that needs to be constantly controlled. Without eyes that can look into the abyss of feelings, if only you look into them in response..Without a heart.

The robot opposite you is singing a melody for your own performance. People surround this robot, looking at the miracle of mechanics with delight and childish spontaneous curiosity. They applaud, praise the creator of the robot and Fontaine's new policy regarding technological progress.

And you stand right in front of this crowd on a huge stage, in a belle skirt and ballet shoes. You see these people. Who applaud some robot, they listen to a mechanical repetition of how someone sang in the past. A repetition devoid of feelings and sincerity. A repetition set by some algorithm of numbers of a simple code - "one" - "zero" - "one" And so on - to infinity

And you Dance, stand. Dance, stand. And so on - to infinity.

You remember how a few years ago everything was different. Children loved to watch your performance, and people in the big theater did not take their eyes off you and looked at you with delight. You try not to look in the direction where the robot is standing and there are people who with trepidation and admiration surround this insensitive and heartless robot. When all the people left the hall, leaving you alone in this space..

You shudder.

You hear the only sound of applause very close, you turn your head to the side. A woman is looking at you and applauding, it seems, at you, and not at all at the robot. She is looking you straight in the eyes. Her smile is sincere. The woman's eyes are two strokes of scarlet, which are permanently burned into your retina.

She is tall, slightly taller than you. Slender, her waist is very thin. The woman is completely covered by some strange, but elegant clothes

of an alien style. Black-white-red. Three constants in her clothes.

You are silent. Over the past two years, you have forgotten how to perceive recognition. You bowed again, you smiled at her. You curtsied and the woman let out a chuckle.

The woman suddenly comes closer to you. There is something in her movements that you involuntarily take a small step back, still standing on your toes and in that damn ballet skirt, and it seems that you are still shorter than her.

The woman moves so close to you that you feel the air around you change with her breath. You feel the warmth, not of a machine, not of a monster.

Warmth. A little burning, unfamiliar, but inviting.

The warmth of a human body.

"Good performance. And a good mask on the face," the woman whispers in your ear, sending goosebumps through your body.

The woman barely noticeably runs the fingers of her right hand along your shoulder. You feel how sharp her nails are, but you don't feel pain, only unnatural warmth.

The woman's hand suddenly moves away, and you feel something cold in your hands.

The moment of warmth disappears as quickly as it appeared. The woman moves away from you and with the same smirk on her thin, even lips, goes somewhere, passing by the switched off robot where people were looking a couple of minutes ago. And you stand, looking after her as if amazed. Like the statues of the Archons, who are eternally motionless and which nothing can revive - not even the prayer of a desperate mortal.

You suddenly realize that you have barely breathed all this time and have heard nothing but a low, hoarse female whisper.

You blink, look around, but it is too late - the woman has already managed to leave the hall, haha, and you did not even hear the slamming door.

You automatically look at your palm and find several large mora coins.

You swallow as you gradually return to reality and begin to see and hear everything perfectly. You look at several mora coins in your hand. The mask on the face always needs mora so that it continues to be beautiful and perfect.

But the heart burning in the darkness - no.

Your routine is simple. Put on makeup, put on a ballet skirt, bandage your chest so that it does not stick out, and put on ballet shoes. Lace up the corset. Repeat the dance that you have rehearsed countless times before. Inhale - exhale. Count to ten, put a smile on your face - and go out on stage. Lately, you are rarely invited to participate in solo performances in the theater. You look like a robot among artists, although in fact you are an artist and there are only mechanical iron things around you.

You stand up, long accustomed to the blinding spotlights in the first seconds of the performance. A couple of young magicians performed in front of you, you met them before, nice guys, they helped you once… but you don’t really care about it.

And it’s your turn, you start dancing, spinning, doing pirouettes and complex movements. All this is a continuous performance, and all life is a theater, you all need to play your roles on time. But isn’t there passion and tragedy in the theater at the same time?

You close your eyes and remember that very warmth. So human and inhuman at the same time. You remember the hot breath and inspiration that washed over you the moment you saw that streak of scarlet in that strange woman's eyes. If the heart could burn with a living flame, all your clothes would have burned away long ago, charred, and you would be dancing naked on this stage. But haven't you been naked for a long time? Doesn't inspiration burn away a person's outer self and set fire to his inner self?

You know that this woman is in the audience; sitting among the few spectators who still enjoy a living human performance, despite all the technological progress in Fontaine.

You don't wonder about her reaction, you don't think about the smirk on her perfect marble face. You don't imagine her words that would send a pleasant, euphoric shiver down your body.

You stop your dance with a bow as the music fades. You've already torn your heart out of your chest, it's burning - so why prefaces and afterwords? You open your eyes, the spotlights, as usual, blind you a little. But they seem like shadows compared to what's burning inside you. You look ahead. Someone is applauding you, but you're looking at that woman whose eyes are piercing your entire body like needles.

She's clapping too, and on her face is the same smile-smirk.

The spotlights disappear. The red curtain closes. And you exhale, carrying within you, somewhere deep in your body, that very spark. And the fire that started from that spark and turned that same spark into nothing.

---

You gasp for air and grip the edge of the dressing room vanity table with your hands. Someone else's lips on your neck are like tongues of flame and cold, sharp peaks at the same time. Thin, dark fingers with long nails gently brush your hair back. A bouquet of blood flowers that this woman gave you is lying around somewhere in the dressing room after the show. The dim light from the lamps dances bizarrely across the woman's face, making her look like something unnatural, illusory.

You swallow and exhale again, pressing your back against the tabletop. You reach for the human warmth and put your arms around the woman's back, running your hands over her bare, thin, slender waist.

"What is your name?"

You ask hoarsely between deep, shuddering breaths. The woman grins. She runs her hot, long tongue down your neck, leaving a thin trail of saliva. She looks up at you with her eyes, a thin scarlet streak. Then she straightens up a little and whispers in your ear, "Arlecchino"

Her answers are always like that - short and laconic. Always appropriate, even though you've only heard her answers a few times in your life.

Arlecchino spreads your legs with her knee, then smoothly lifts you by the waist and makes you sit on the countertop, pressing your back against the vanity mirror. The woman's hot hands fall on your hips and stroke them through the layers of your dress. You swallow and reach for another wet kiss, smearing the lipstick on Arlecchino's lips, mixing your lipstick with hers. Her tongue touches yours, and you shiver, feeling how wet you are becoming. Her hot, slender hands slide under your dress and touch your naked skin.

You break the kiss and throw your head back in pleasure, you painfully hit the cold mirror behind you with the top of your head, and Arlecchino removes one of her hands on your hips, and pulls this hand to your head, to the back of your head, to protect you from the unpleasant, cold pain.

You moan softly when someone else's lips touch your neck again. A hot tongue slides along your skin down to your collarbones. Arlecchino removes her hand from your hip and begins to feverishly quickly pull down the top of your dress, exposing your chest. When her hot mouth and hot tongue touch one of your nipples, you arch your back, breathing heavily and moaning with pleasure. If Harlequin hadn't protected the back of your head with her hand, you would have definitely broken the mirror.

The woman looks up at you, although she bends over because of her height. Her eyes burn with desire and anticipation when she sucks your nipple into her mouth again with her lips and makes a loud smack. You shudder again. You gently squeeze the other's breast, and your hand rests on her thigh.

The woman suddenly touches your breast in a certain place and hoarsely says: "What I like, I do not give. And if from this my hands become even more charred, then I will only enjoy it."

You suddenly understand where exactly this woman's hand is on your naked chest. Her hand is near the place where your flaming heart beats greedily. A crooked smile creeps onto your lips as you tremble with desire. You whisper with heat in your voice, looking at the blood-red streaks in the eyes of the woman in front of you:

"Well, then burn. Burn for me. Arlecchino.."

She thin lips opposite stretch into a hungry smile. You are kissed again, the tongue penetrating deep into your mouth. You respond to the kiss, clinging with your hands to the shoulders of Arlecchino.

You never really cared about the politics of other regions of Teyvat, too busy with your own problems. So you had no idea that this strange name "Arlecchino" had its own meaning, but you had a feeling that she was somehow connected with the fatui..

You were just thinking about how interesting this name was.

You will definitely understand everything much later: who this woman in front of you is, what she does, why her hands are so black, as if they were really charred. But maybe it's even for the best. Why prefaces and afterwords when the spark has already become a flame?

@anantaru @hitomisuzuya @lavandulawrites @himasgod @neuvigroove @quimichi @rsventhesecondd @anemoswirlsmyheart @nil4everheartz @kujiba @genshingorlsrevengeance @shyentsfoundherink @lavandulawrites @ashyashylee @s4nguiine

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 2

(Part 1)

I wake from a nightmare.

It isn't my nightmare.

Well… it is mine. My brain provided the framework and context. I was in the training console, one of the battle sims, one of the ones where everything goes to shit, one of the ones where they fuck up the parameters just to watch you panic and squirm until you fucking crack.

That was me. I cracked. Four of the hell sims and I cracked hard.

The battle in the nightmare wasn't a sim. It was real. It was Morrigan's.

I'm sitting in my quarters, sweating and trembling, clutching at my chest as I try to sort out what's mine and what's Morrigan's.

Neural bleed.

Fuck.

No… it's… I've run through the playback, in full, three times with Morrigan. It's enough times for the individual events to stick in my brain.

That doesn't explain the screaming.

It doesn't explain the soul rending scream that is still echoing in my skull right now.

Zephyrus was a sabre class, front line heavy. The team has spent... I don't even know how many hours in the playback analyzing the battlespace in the moments before Zephyrus’ pilot died? The rogue incendiary burned straight into the cockpit, the pilot was probably vaporized before they even realized their error.

But Zephyrus screamed. It screamed and screamed and screamed.

Morrigan had muted that part, trying to spare me, but it fucking bled through the link anyway. Now I'm having fucking nightmares of the sound of someone becoming unmade.

Salvage ops recovered the mech, whisking it off to god knows where.

I don't actually know what happens to AI's that lose their pilots. It's my job to keep them alive, not deal with them after the fact.

I've… shit… I've worked on Zephyrus. It wasn't the same as Morrigan. None of them are the same as Morrigan, but… shit…

I shuck off my tangled sheets and sit on the edge of the bed, futilely trying not to let my thoughts get away from me.

There had been a personality matrix meant for me. There had to have been. Mech AIs are completely custom made for their pilots. Mine likely wasn't much past the most basic template by the time I washed out, nothing more than a collection of algorithms and a dataset consisting of my psych profile.

It never got to be.

Was that better or worse than the horrible scream that I can still hear?

I can't be alone right now.

I jump off the bed and pull on some clothes, leaving the room without even knowing where I'm going.

I pass a few of the night crew. They watch curiously as I walk by. An engineer, barefoot in her night clothes, can hardly be the strangest thing they've seen.

I barely notice them.

My thoughts are spiraling now.

I was meant to be a pilot. It's the only thing I ever actually wanted. But I fucked it all up. I tricked everyone, myself included, into thinking that I could make the cut.

Fucking hell. A pilot died and I'm fixating on my own feelings of inadequacy?

What would I have done? What could my presence in the battlefield have changed?

Chances are it would have been me dying… or worse, freezing up and getting someone else killed.

I freeze, my wrist hovering uncertainly over a security access reader. With a sickening, crystalizing clarity, I realize that I have unconsciously made my way to her. Beyond the security door is the vestibule leading to Morrigan's cockpit.

What the fuck am I doing here?

My presence at this hour, though odd, would not be remarked upon. It is not uncommon for engineers to have moments of insight in the middle of the night. It is not uncommon for us to need to access hardware for analysis and simulation at all hours.

But tonight there is no flash of insight. Tonight, I'm not even an engineer. I'm just a scared little girl wrapped up in her own feelings of failure, with a head full of someone else's grief.

Neural bleed.

I can't deny it. I'm spending too much time with Morrigan. I should go back to my quarters, request a psych eval and some time off, try to get my head on straight.

And yet, I hesitate.

I want to step through this threshold. I want to go to her. And… what?

I can't integrate with her, not in any kind of way that matters, not with my engineer's rig.

I will *never* experience the full body sensorium of a pilot linking with her mech. It is horrible knowing I was meant for something, having full awareness of all the expectations of me, both external and internal, only to have that life snatched away because I wasn't good enough. Half my soul is missing. There's this yawning void inside me that can never be filled. Not by Morrigan or anyone.

I wipe a tear off my face. I'm in no state to do any sort of interfacing. I'm in no state for much of anything.

I don't want to be alone. I don't know how to not be alone

I press my wrist to the security panel. It confirms my identity and flashes green.

My access will be logged. This is a horrible impulse to follow for so many reasons.

I don't fucking care.

It takes everything I have to maintain composure, to not burst into tears and run to the open hatch of the cockpit.

The soft red glow illuminating the cockpit brightens slightly, lighting my way.

She knows I'm here.

Does she even want me here? Why would she? I'm not her pilot. I'm not any mech’s pilot.

The glow pulses, beckoning me. The cradle shifts to a configuration that I know is meant for me.

I unzip the sweatshirt that I'm wearing and throw it unceremoniously in the vestibule before falling into her embrace.

It's too familiar, the motions of this routine as her jacks slip into the ports on my rig.

I'm too close.

I'm not close enough.

I nearly sob as data streams into my consciousness. The void fills, just slightly.

All systems green.

It isn't enough. It will never be enough.

It has to be enough.

The data stream ebbs and I receive a ping across the link.

- STATUS?

My breath catches. My eyes flutter open, darting to any one of the many cockpit cameras focused on me.

She wants my status.

“I couldn't sleep,” I tell her. “Bad dreams.”

(Next)

I don't know how, but she seems to understand. The cradle shifts to a more relaxed posture. She holds me in her embrace as I tell her about the nightmare.

[lacedinweb22]

daddy's coworker (Miguel O'Hara x reader)

Requested by @thbidkbutok

nsfw 18+

summary: Your father leaves you alone at home with his coworker, Miguel O'Hara, who you've known for years. As he works in your father's office finishing up business, you are tempted to distract him.

warnings: aggressive sex, daddy kink, choking, clawing, unprotected sex (penetration)

ʚ ｡⋆˚ ୨୧ ˚⋆｡ ɞ

He stood tall, his dark brown eyes looking down at me, standing right beside my father. “Y/N, you remember Mr. O’Hara. He’s been working with me at Alchemax for…Jesus how long, Miguel?” my father asked, looking up at Miguel. He combed his fingers through his wavy hair, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. “I want to say… six years soon,” he replied, looking down at me, his hand out for me to shake. 

His massive hand enveloped my hand, which he shook firmly while maintaining eye contact. “Of course, always nice to see you, Mr. O’Hara,” I replied softly, slowly beginning to blush.

“Please, call me Miguel,” he replied quickly, nodding down to me. 

“Man, just yesterday he was a fresh youngin intern, now he’s made it to the big leagues,” he nudged Miguel, who broke a small smile, “I told him he could use my office for the night since Alchemax’s systems will be down and rebooting for the rest of the night. He has some important algorithms to work on. Your mother and I, however, will be out for the night, unless you care to join?” he asked, looking at me hopefully. “Sorry Dad, I told you I have that stupid pre-lab I really need to work on, but this weekend, I swear I’ll be free,” I assured him, giving him a side hug as he began to back away to leave. “Of course, my love. We’ll be home soon. I trust you’ll be warm and welcoming to Mr. O’Hara, hm?” “Of course, Pa, have fun,” I replied, smiling at both of them as they looked down at me.

I backed away to the kitchen, and began to prepare something to snack on, as my father and Miguel conversed and said their farewells. 

I cut up some fruit, stealing glances and watching them interact. Miguel’s voice was deep and echoing, and his rarely seen smile was contagious. I smiled, subconsciously when he would let out a low chuckle at my dad’s embarrassing jokes.

I’d always seen him at Alchemax dinner parties and gatherings throughout the years. He was always chased after at these events, but was famously known as the stubborn, secretive, and  genius bachelor who could never give anyone the time of day. I remembered watching him converse with the adults, his dry humor going over all of their heads, as I giggled from a distance.  

I remembered when I was fresh in college and he was a fresh intern. I clearly remember the first time we met at my dad’s office. We were so different then. So much has changed. He’s still so handsome, perhaps even more. 

He stole glances at me as they spoke. My cheeks burned, as I quickly looked down at the fruit, slowly nibbling at the mango wedges, avoiding eye contact.

Eventually the front door shut, and Miguel walked to my father’s office. He wore a black form fitting sweatshirt, with dark gray dress pants. He walked so confidently, his glasses hanging on his collar, dangling against his muscular chest. His eyes caught mine staring, as he smirked then nodded to me. He turned forward and entered the office, leaving the door open.

I waited a minute then peeked around the kitchen corner, looking through the glass windows to spy on him. He now wore his glasses, eyebrows scrunched as he slid his fingertips across the hologram screens. 

I looked down at the variety of fruit laid out, then got an idea. 

“Mr. O’Hara— I mean Miguel, would you like a bowl of fruit?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe holding up the bowl. He turned from the hologram, his face lit up by the orange light. 

“Mmm, that does sound good. Please and thank you, Y/N,” he replied, softly. I walked up to the desk, sliding the bowl slowly in front of him. 

“So, what are you up to these days?” I said, popping a grape into my mouth. “Work, lots of work,” he replied, snapping a piece of apple then biting into it.

“And you? Man, the last time I saw you, a few months ago, I helped you—” “You helped me with that insane final project I was working on,” I finished.

“Yes, how’s school treating you?” “Fine, but I don’t really want to talk about that right now, I mean— not to be rude, but… just curious, what’s the dating scene like for you? As an older man I mean,” “older man, huh? I didn’t know I was considered ‘older’ but I guess to you college kids, your late thirties might as well be your death bed,” he scoffed, biting into a half of an apple. I shrugged, waiting for a real response.

“I don’t date. I'm single. I figured you knew this; the entirety of Alchemax won’t shut up about it, but yes, I’m single. I’ve got Gabriella and you know… I’m a busy man,” he answered, his eyes glued to mine.

“Single, wow, how convenient,” I muttered, stealing a grape from his bowl. 

I walked around the desk, coming to his side, looking at the bright screens. I leaned forward on my tiptoes, my hips pushed out in front of him. His eyes remained on me as my eyes explored his scribbles and notes covering the equations and numbers spread across the screen. I looked back at him, he looked up at me from his chair, his eyes darkened. I looked down at the huge bulge in his pants. I scoffed.

“Anyways, sorry to distract you, I have a pre-lab to work on, so I must be going. See you later, Mr. O’Hara. Let me know if you… need anything.” I left the office swiftly and went back to the kitchen to clean up. 

I washed the cutting board, as I suddenly felt his hot breath against my neck. “Someone got the message,” I breathed out, as his hard-on pressed against the back of my thigh through his pants. I turned around, my back against the sink, as his hips pressed up against me. 

He lowered his glasses, looking down at me, then slowly took them off, putting them down on the counter beside us. He towered over me, stroking my cheek, putting his thumb on my chin. He traced my lips gently, smirking as he pressed his member against my inner thighs. 

“Did you think I didn’t notice you staring at me all these years?” he whispered, leaning down to kiss me. “I just didn’t know… you felt the same… tension I felt, Mr. O’Hara,” I breathed out in between his wet kisses. His lips were soft and warm, his sharp teeth, almost like fangs, brushed my lips. “What— your teeth, how—” “Don’t worry about it,” he breathed out against my lips. I pulled away to look up at him, he looked back down at me, then dug his face into my neck, wrapping his teeth around me. “Miguel,” I moaned, as he began to dig his fangs into my skin. “I told you not to worry about it,” he breathed out, as he dug his claws into my thighs. I had a slight idea as to why he was built like a fucking beast, but it wasn’t my main focus. 

He drew his lips back up to my lips, still pinning my waist with his claws, tightly against the counter. He began to slide his fingers down my shorts, slowly pushing them down. He bit my bottom lip then slid his hand down the front of my underwear, playing with my clit. "What a wet, pretty distraction," he groaned into my lips. I moaned out from both pleasure and the excitement from finally getting what I had wanted for years. 

My shorts were now at my ankles, as I stood pressed against him in just my soaked underwear. He swiftly lifted me up, sitting me on the kitchen counter, as he kissed me hard, and pulled my shorts off from my ankles. He threw them to the floor, I grabbed him by his belt, pulling his hips in between my legs, his boner stabbing against my desperately aching heat. I unbuckled his belt and undid his zipper, then tugged his pants down, revealing his boxers and the massive tent his hard-on had built. 

“So hard for me, Mr. O’Hara,” I breathed out, palming his member. His hands rested on the counter on both sides of me, as he hovered over me, sucking on my neck. I continued playing with him, as he moaned my name, his fangs brushing my ear. He then grabbed my ass tightly, digging his claws into my hips, pulling me against his boner. I tugged at his sweatshirt, then helped him take it off as he too pulled my sweater off of me. I was now in just my bra and panties, and he was now shirtless and in boxers. I spread my fingers across his skin. He had scars spread across his figure, and his muscles bulged against his glowy skin. He lowered my bra, and wrapped his hands around my tits, squeezing and playing with them. He lowered his face to my chest and began to suck and bite on my nipples, humming against my skin. I combed my fingers through his waves, tugging at the roots as he moaned into my chest. He squeezed my hips tight, as he traced my chest with hickies.

He stood up straight and slid my underwear to the side, creating access to me, as I pulled his boxers down to reveal his dangerously long and thick member. I wrapped my hand around him, making myself familiar with his length. As I felt him, he dipped two fingers into me slowly, coating himself in my slick, then spreading it along his own length. 

He then guided himself against me, pressing up against my entrance. “Are you ready, princesa?” he asked, smirking, revealing his fangs. “Mhmmm,” I moaned, kissing him and pulling his hips against me. He slowly entered, just his tip stretching me out. I moaned out, wincing in pain. “Fuck, slowly,” I whimpered, gripping his back muscles. He dug his face into my neck, as he pushed up and into me slowly but entirely. He was now completely inside of me, causing my insides to stretch and burn. “Fuck, so tight Y/N,” he groaned into my ear. He gripped my hips with both hands, his claws digging into me as he thrusted in and out of me slowly, pulling me onto his length. He began to speed up, I whimpered and whined as I adjusted to the intense pain and pleasure his thick cock was creating. 

He kissed me, biting my bottom lip as he continued thrusting into me. He pulled the back of my hair tightly, “Such a good girl for me, sitting up there, your wet pretty pussy stretching out for me,” he growled. 

His long cock slammed into my cervix causing me to arch my back to prevent further pain, his dick was now angled hitting my g spot, rubbing against me rapidly, spreading warmth up into my stomach. “You’re going to make me… cum Mr. O’Hara,” I moaned, my lips pressed against his neck.

“What a good girl you’re being for me, mami, you like this?” he breathed out, keeping his rhythm. He wrapped his big hand around my neck, tightly choking me, as he had his other hand on my waist, pulling himself into me. He kissed my shoulder, fucking and choking me simultaneously. His aggressive thrusts caused a wet slapping noise, as his soaked cock continued pushing my slick back into me.

“So this is your idea of warm and welcoming, huh?” he growled, smirking down at my lips. “Do you do this with all of your father’s coworkers, huh? Or am I the lucky one?” he whispered into my ear, his fangs brushing my skin. “You’re the only one, Mr. O’Hara… mmmm fuck, I’m gonna… cum, Miguel,” I whined out, gripping his hand on my neck, and arching my back. “Miguel, fuck,” I whimpered, breathing out as I throbbed around him. He slowed down, releasing my neck, letting me recover from my intense climax.

“I’m not done with you,” he growled, as he lifted me off of the counter then turned me around, and bent me over. He slid my underwear to the side, then pressed his cock against my entrance, slowly entering just his wet tip. He pressed himself in slowly, only warming the tip of his cock repeatedly, creating a wet noise every thrust. He wrapped his hands around my hips tightly, pulling himself into me.

“That man who was just here fifteen minutes ago, that’s your father, I’m your daddy,” he whispered, picking up the pace of just his tip thrusting in and out of me. “I mean, I’m sure as hell old enough to be your daddy,” he scoffed, continuing to tease me with his tip; I groaned into my arms, frustrated.

“You won’t get any more until you call me what I am,” he growled, performing only shallow thrusts. “You’re my– my daddy, Mr. O’Hara… fuck! Please, give it to me,” I whined, pushing my hips further out for more length. “Mmmm that’s better,” he groaned as he entered his entire length into me. We both breathed out heavily as he quickly began to pound into me, rhythmically rearranging my insides. “Mmmm daddy like that, keep going, keep fucking me like that,” I moaned out. “Mmmm ¿como eso mami? You like that, do I make you feel good?” he groaned, his body thrusting into mine, pushing my body into the cold marble counter. I moaned in response, whimpering at every hit. 

His claws dug into my hips, drawing blood that dripped down the side of my thighs. I whimpered in pain, but was too distracted by the pleasure of his length to care. 

“Cmon, Y/N, you can give me one more, I know you can,” he grunted, angling his hips lower, to directly hit up into my g spot. “Miguel, fuck… don’t stop, don’t fucking stop,” I whimpered, feeling my thighs tremble, and my slick drip down my inner thighs. 

“God, what would your father say if he saw you bent over the kitchen island for me, huh? Cumming for me?” he growled through his smirk. “He’d be… furious,” I breathed out. “Fucking furious, huh?” He scoffed. “You’re breaking the rules for me?” he asked, squeezing my thighs tighter. “Mhmmm,” I whimpered, feeling myself about to climax. “Mmmmm fuck, your tight little pussy is going to make me cum,” he breathed out, keeping his rhythm. “Keep going, keep going daddy, please,” I whined out as I began to finish. 

“Ughhhh mami, like that, mmm like that,” he whimpered into my ear, as he bent down, hovering over me, his large biceps surrounding me on each side. He filled me up with his hot white mess, continuing to thrust as we both rode out our highs, pushing his liquid back into me. “Ay Mami, fuck,” he moaned into my ear, his chest pressed against my back. His cum dripped out of me inevitably, as he lowered his hand in between my legs to spread and rub it all around my slit. The noises of our skin and fluids interacting echoed throughout the penthouse. He slowly thrusted then stopped and pulled out, his huge load leaking out of me immediately. I whimpered to myself, my face resting against my arms on the counter. 

His hands explored my back and ass, massaging me as he kissed the back of my shoulder. “Go get cleaned up, Y/N, rápido. Wouldn’t want your father finding out what you did with your new daddy, huh?”

[lvlyghost]

pairings: simon riley x f!reader

summary: reader suffers from a chronic illness and ghost finds out.

wc: 1.1k

tw: chronic pain, chronic illness, slight angst i think, comfort. not edited and not proofread. that's it.

a/n: sorry y'all i'm struggling a lot with writer's block lately so i'm writing these silly little things to help me out of it so don't mind me!

By the moment Ghost enters his shared office he's frowning so hard that he fears it might leave a permanent mark on his forehead. The first day wasn't unusual as it was normal for soldiers, technicians and federal agents to come and go. Gaz is humming under his breath and greets him with a slight nod when he spots him but he barely returns the gesture. His desk is full of reports waiting to be filled some labeled 'Urgent' in big red letters.

Sitting down he manages to get done the first stack of papers but his mind was lost elsewhere barely paying attention to the work he never had trouble getting done in no time. Part of him wonders if Kyle will tease him if he asked about her. But better asking him than Johnny. As he leans back in his chair, fidgeting with the pen in his hands. Gaz barely pays attention, too enraptured by whatever he's watching on his own computer.

"Where's the girl?"

The Sergeant startles at the sudden sound of his deep voice. Hard and demanding.

"Sir?" He half chuckles when brown eyes meet each other.

"Have you seen her? She's supposed to report back to me and she hasn't." It was only half a truth. She did have to report to him every progress made for future missions, give him the intel so he can report to the Captain. The thing was, there were no missions taking place soon. No black ops, nothing. But Kyle didn't know that.

Gaz lifts his brows, trying to figure out who his Lieutenant was talking about, until it hits him.

"Oh." He murmurs. "The tech girl, Lt?" He shrugs. "Haven't seen her in a few days, have you tried calling her or you know... going to the women's barracks?"

Ghost scoffs as if the mere idea was ridiculous.

"No. Guess she'll show up."

She has to.

Standing up he exits the office under Gaz's questioning look. The hallways feel endless the more he walks to the tech wing, he knows if he passes down that specific hallway he'd be able to see through the glass that serves as walls if she's there or not.

Much to his already building annoyance she's not there.

-

Rolling onto your back you squeeze your eyes shut once more. An unyielding pain throbbing in the back of your skull shoots yet another wave of nausea making you feel more miserable than ever.

It's been two days since the whole ordeal started. It began with a subtle pain that couldn't recognize the symptoms at first, merely blinking away the black dors that started to blurred your vision one afternoon when you were trying to fill the reports for Ghost, pages and pages of new intel recovered from long lost contacts online.

Saying it was hard to dig in all those dark places was an understatement. You had tried to push the symptoms of uneasiness to the back of your mind, typing and decoding algorithms for what could be days. Days without sleep or proper and much needed rest.

So, when the first wave hit you had ran to the bathroom, throwing up what little you had eaten that day. Oh how you hated it. Tears prickle in the corner of your eyes and the terror began, everything went down hill from there.

Shutting the computer off you gathered your belongings. The corridors were in complete silence, abandoned hours ago when everyone went to their dorms.

You remembered picking up some of your things from the women's barracks and retreating to your personal dorm where no one would bother you. As a member of the task force you had a place for you alone —just as the rest of the team— and you're grateful because the next days were a nightmare.

The curtains were tightly closed. Not the tiniest bit of light could pass even if the sun burned brighter. The earplugs helped but they didn't do much to alleviate the external noises. Fuck why were the soldiers so loud? You asked to yourself, jaw tight in an effort to soothe the pulsing on your forehead.

After laying in the same position for another hour you decide to get up, dragging your feet in an enormous attempt to get to the bathroom. With the lights turned off you undress as quickly as you can; standing on your feet is hard enough already but you wait nonetheless for the bath to fill with cool water.

With numb extremities you step in and lower yourself, it's almost soothing and calming the way the water swallows your body and then your head. Ever since these headaches —these migraines— started to interfere, you learned that cool water could help to ease the symptoms. Time passes by and when you emerge your teeth chatter, lips turned purple but it was worth it. God was it worth it.

You're exhausted, this has taken a toll on you. Fitting your pajamas feels like an impossible task. Your head throbs with the slightest of movement. And then the door opens just a tad, reveling the dark shadow of the man you'd recognize anywhere.

"Ghost," you murmur acknowledging his presence, half shocked half embarrassed that he's right here in your bedroom. Your bathroom.

"Why is everything dark?" His voice is too loud and it makes you flinch; he's quick to notice even in the sheer darkness. He notices the whimper in your voice when he speaks too loud. He notices the way your body sags, and when he takes a step close you lean on him. Forehead pressing down on his broad chest. "Hey." He calls you, voice lowering this time. "Let me take you to the bed."

And you almost want to say something it. Make a comment about it being inappropriate but you're too sick to even do it so you let him guide you. You let him lay you down and surprises you when he follows.

Bodies curling against the other. You rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes so hard until the pain soothes. "You never told me about it."

"Never had the chance. Thought you hated me, remember?"

Ghost sighs. He had never intended for you to feel like that around him, he just wasn't accustomed to having such a nice person around him. You were so different from everything he knew.

"Forgive me, love." He mutters. "They're gonna start asking questions."

"What do you mean?" You grab him by the shirt when a sudden wave of nausea hits you. He caresses your hair in a calming manner.

"I asked Garrick about you." Before you can fight it a smile spreads on your face.

"Johnny..." you snort, regretting it the moment the laugh rattles in your brain. The Scot is about to have a field day when he finds out. "Ow..."

"Will never hear the end of it." His thumb presses down on your temple massaging the spot. "Better?"

"Yeah." There's a moment of brief silence where all you can hear is the sound of feet outside your dorm. People carrying on with their lives. "Would you stay with me tonight Lt.?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

[adviceformefromme]

LOCK-IN SZN [YOUR 8-WEEK ACCELERATOR] week 6

The deeper you get into your transformation journey, and the closer you are to your blessings - beware that fear is going to come at you LOUD and strong. The voice telling you your dreams are delusional, no one will believe in your business, of course you can’t make money, of course you can’t win, of course you’re going to loose. This is just a test. And this is where your faith needs to be stronger than the voice of fear. This is where you need to remember you are backed by God, by a guidance that is far greater and stronger than the fear in your mind. There is a reason your Godly vision isn’t going to be anything small, it’s because they require a co-creation. They’re not something you can achieve alone. You need guidance, you need faith. 

Your dreams should actually scare you a little, have you thinking is this actually possible…. for me? Really, this is what could be… for me? And the answer is always yes. It’s all possible, every dream. The small and the big. The car you can’t quite figure out how you will afford, the clear skin that you are imagining, the love that would burst your heart, the health healed, the confidence you dream of. Its all there waiting for you, on the other side of fear, on the other side of stepping into the unknown, on the other side of investing in yourself, on the other side of following the guidance and pushing through that voice that keeps you small.  

So in summary. The fear / the blocks…all part of the process. It’s a test to see if you really about the dream life you say you want? Are you really serious about transformation? Are you ready to leave the 99 and become the 1? Because your phone will ring as you finally sit down to start working on your business, the doubtful thoughts will come at you throughout the day, your bank balance is going to make you feel confused. But you have to be stronger than the 3D. You have to be stronger than the attack on your LEVEL UP. 

How to stay strong? 

Your thoughts become the algorithm of your life. So stay close to the voices, the messages of empowerment, reminding you that ‘everything is on the fucking table for me’. Affirm everything is working out for my highest good. I am winning in this life, my just keeps getting better and better. 

Be delusional. Be confident. Take that risk. Pick up that phone. Post that social media video. If it scares you - you absolutely have to do it. This is your breakthrough. This is where you become bigger than the programme. This is where you really get to access the beauty of what God has waiting for you! 

[frownyalfred]

I got an uncredited video on tiktok about Thomas Wayne and the kind of guy he is and I was like “wow… frownyalfred would like this post… wow..” and then in the same video there was another post that made me immediately realize it’s u (about how they won’t leave that poor old man alone)

They need to leave that poor man alone!!!! It's wild how a post on here will get like, 300 notes, and then someone will repost it on tiktok and get thousands of likes. Makes me wonder what their algorithm is for content and how they search out what to promote from tumblr. So many questions.

[therealcocoshady]

I also had an idea kind of similar to the arranged marriage plot maybe someone sets them up on a blind date… he keeps saying no but the person playing Cupid is very persistent and he ends up feeling obligated to go (idk, just a thought)

Oh, I actually had an thought about something similar to this, a while ago - please don’t mind me, I literally wrote this thing in less than 30 minutes and didn’t proofread. I just wrote it so that you’d get the idea.

After years of frustration with women and trust issues, Marshall has made peace with the fact that he’s going to end up alone. Even his friends have stopped trying to set him up on dates. Sure, they’d like to see him thrive in a relationship, and they can see how lonely he is, sometimes, but they also know he’s complicated. So they leave him alone on the topic. So he dedicates to his work and his role as a father.

And ironically enough, his girls are the only people that could get him to go out of his comfort zone. One of them is still in college, studying psychology. She has to do an assignment for one of her classes and she is searching for volunteers for an experiment on dating and relationships. The design is pretty simple : people sign up, fill some forms and answer questions. Then, an algorithm pairs them up for maximum compatibility and they have to go on a date, during which they will have to answer the famous 36 questions designed to make them fall in love. His daughter is a bit behind on work and she has to find one more volunteer. She doesn’t even believe in this whole thing, she just wants to pass the class. So she begs Marshall, who refuses at first. Because A) he doesn’t date and B) even if he did, he wouldn’t take part in an experiment, much less one involving his daughter in his romantic life. But she’s really desperate and she assures him that the whole thing is anonymous and clinical. « Please, Dad, it’ll take twenty minutes of your time. And who knows if they’ll even pair you with anyone for the date. I just need to pass the class and graduate. You’re the one who always insisted on me getting higher education ! ». Of course, he caves in. Because he did sacrifice a lot for his babies to go to college, and he’ll be damned if his daughter fails the class because of him. Plus, the people in charge of the experiment will probably see his answers and figure he’s a lost cause. Even science wouldn’t find a good match for him, right ?

Except that it does. Weeks later, he receives an email, informing him that he’s been selected for the second step of the experiment and that they’ve found him a match with 95% compatibility. At first, he figures he won’t go. With his luck, they paired him with another fifty-something man who’s just as lonely. No way this could be a woman. Not with the stoic and sarcastic answers he typed in the form. The email doesn’t even specify who they paired him with. They just ask if he’d be available for a date in two weeks time. Basically, it’s having coffee with the other person, answering the 36 questions unrecorded and then filling another form to describe the experience and say if yes or no they feel attracted to the other person and would consider actually dating them. He figures that, even though it’s anonymous, his daughter’s team wouldn’t have the data if he bails and he’ll be damned if his precious daughter doesn’t get her degree because of him. Of course he’ll bite the bullet and go on that stupid coffee date. Even if he’s paired with a 53 year-old name George.

But as it turns out, his date is not 53 year-old George. It’s you. You and your charming smile. You who agreed to take part in the whole thing because your little sister, his daughter’s teammate, begged you at the last minute. God, these college students need to learn how to do things in time and not to involve their family in their cringy psych classes experiment. You don’t even want to do this whole thing but when a charming man shows up, you can’t help but smile and introduce yourself, extending a polite handshake to greet him. He doesn’t seem too at ease in that little café, which you find odd because it’s actually quite lovely. Also, you swear you’ve seen him somewhere, but it’s Detroit and he’s a brown-haired, bearded, middle-aged man in jeans and a hoodie. Pretty generic. You’re not exactly surprised to have been paired up with someone older than you. You’ve always been told you’re an old soul, so of course « science » (or whatever software they used to compile data) would figure out that your perfect match is almost twenty years older. Anyway, you’re not really here for a date. You’re here for your sister to finally graduate. And you’re not one to refuse free Chai latte.

So the two of you exchange a few pleasantries, introduce yourselves and get to these 36 questions. You tell each other who you could have dinner with if you could choose anyone in the world, whether or not you have a secret hunch about how you will die… as it turns out, the thing is cleverly designed. The questions are increasingly personal and both of you end up sharing personal details, things you most definitely wouldn’t think of sharing with a stranger you were more or less randomly paired up with. By the time you reach the last question, you are looking into each other’s eyes, giving your undivided attention, leaning in. When you arrived, you were strangers but by the end of the date, you feel like you really know each other. More than some people you’ve known your whole life. And by the time it ends, you’ve had the time to notice how charming the wrinkles around eyes are, and you don’t find it too unsettling that he blinks a bit faster than most people you know. As for him, he hasn’t failed to notice that little birthmark near your eye, and the way your mouth twitches when you’re trying to think of the adequate word to answer one of the questions. You don’t know each other’s favorite color or the name of your first pet, but both know when the other last cried in front of someone else and by themselves and why. 36 questions and a cup of coffee later, and you’re not really strangers. You actually had a pleasant time. Too bad you reached the end of the questionnaire and it’s time to go. Too bad he doesn’t offer to take your number and call you. Too bad you’re too demure to ask for his. You wouldn’t have minded actually going out with him. Maybe even discuss that movie he mentioned in passing and thinks you’d like.

The two of you share a hug goodbye and agree that it was fun. You wish him well for his daughter’s wedding he told you he’s busy planning and he wishes you luck for that job interview you said you were nervous about. When you go home and it’s time to answer that final set of questions, saying how you feel about the experiment, you actually give the whole thing a solid 8/10. And when you’re asked if you’d actually date the person you met for coffee, you tick « yes » faster than you’ve ticked any box. You do the same when it asks you if you’d consent to the other person being given your contact info.

Weeks later, Marshall is ecstatic when his daughter tells him she got a good grade for that psych class and that she’ll be graduating with honors. He’s proud as can be. She thanks him profusely for helping her. « I know it’s a stupid thing. But hey, there are a few people who reported they had a good time. Who knows ? Maybe I helped someone find love. ». She has absolutely no idea that he is one of the people who asked for the other person’s contact info as soon as they were given the possibility. She doesn’t know he’s been on four more dates with you. People have been so used to him being single that it didn’t even cross his daughter’s mind. Not even when he mentioned he missed the last Lions’ game, which never happens. But she definitely gets a hunch when he attends her graduation ceremony and sees him smile to that beautiful lady who’s attending her graduation ceremony and came to greet him. « Oh, that’s my sister speaking with your dad ! », her friend says. « I convinced her to do the experiment and she told me she met someone charming. Can you believe it ?! ».

[ericshoney]

Breaking Point ~ Tony Stark

Summary: Tony seems to spend more time inventing rather than being a dad.

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending.

Reader's Age: 15

The metallic scent of palladium and burnt circuits was practically my perfume these days. It clung to my clothes, permeated my hair, and was the constant backdrop to my life at Avengers Tower. Dad, or Tony Stark, Iron Man – whichever persona he happened to be sporting at any given moment – was MIA again, lost in the labyrinth of his workshop.

He used to be different. Used to make time for movie nights, even if he spent half the movie tinkering with his arc reactor. He used to help me with my calculus homework, even if his solutions were… unconventional. He used to see me.

Now? I was practically a ghost. He was always down there, hunched over a new suit, muttering to himself about algorithms and repulsor technology. I’d try to talk to him, ask him about his day, about the new Stark Industries initiative, but he’d just offer a distracted “That’s great, honey,” without ever looking up.

It’s not like I needed him to hold my hand or anything. I was fifteen, practically an adult in the accelerated world of the Avengers. But a girl still needs her dad, right? Even if that dad is a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.

The simmering frustration finally boiled over one Tuesday afternoon. I'd spent the morning acing my physics test (thanks, Dad, for the inherited brainpower), and I wanted to share the good news. I found him in his usual spot, surrounded by blueprints and half-assembled robotic arms.

"Hey, Dad," I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

He grunted, eyes glued to a holographic display. "Yeah, Y/n? What's up?"

"I got an A on my physics test."

Another grunt. "Good for you."

"That's it? 'Good for you'?" I crossed my arms, tapping my foot. "I thought you'd be happy."

He sighed, finally turning around. The fatigue etched on his face made me feel guilty for a fraction of a second. "Look, sweetie, I'm a little busy right now. I'm trying to crack this new energy source. It could revolutionise everything."

"So, your metal suits are more important than your own daughter?" The words were out before I could stop them, laced with a bitterness that surprised even me.

His eyes narrowed. "Don't be dramatic, Y/n. You know that's not true."

"Then show me! Act like you care! You're always down here, building more and more suits. Are you trying to replace us all with robots too?" My voice cracked, and I hated how close I was to crying.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He stood up, his voice rising to match mine.

"It means you're never around! It means I feel like I'm talking to a wall! It means…" I choked on the words, tears blurring my vision. "It means I miss you."

The silence that followed was deafening. He stared at me, his expression unreadable. I turned to leave, humiliation burning in my cheeks.

"Y/n, wait."

I didn't stop. I ran. I ran to my room, slammed the door, and collapsed on my bed, letting the sobs wrack my body. I felt utterly alone, lost in the cold, metal fortress my father had built.

Hours later, a soft knock echoed through my room. I ignored it, burying my face in my pillow. The door creaked open.

"Y/n?"

I didn't answer. I just squeezed my eyes shut tighter.

He sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The familiar scent of his cologne, mixed with the metallic tang of his workshop, filled my senses.

"I heard what you said." His voice was soft, almost hesitant. "About missing me."

I stayed silent, refusing to look at him.

"You're right," he continued. "I haven't been around. I've been… consumed. This energy source… it's been an obsession."

He paused, and I could feel his gaze on my back. "I messed up, Y/n. And I'm sorry."

The apology, so rare and genuine, cracked through the wall I’d built around my heart. I turned over, tears still streaming down my face.

"Why, Dad?" I whispered. "Why are the suits so important?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Because… because I'm scared, Y/n. Scared of not being able to protect you." He looked at me, his eyes filled with a vulnerability I rarely saw. "These suits, they're my way of coping. Of trying to control the chaos."

"But you can't control everything," I said, my voice trembling. "And you don't have to do it alone."

He smiled, a small, sad smile. "I know. It's just… hard to remember sometimes."

He reached out and gently wiped away a tear with his thumb. "How about we ditch the suits for tonight? Order some pizza, watch a terrible movie, and you can tell me all about this physics test you aced."

I sniffled, a watery smile spreading across my face. "Deal. But you have to promise to actually watch the movie this time."

"Scout's honor." He stood up, pulling me up with him. "And maybe, just maybe, we can sneak a peek at Pepper's new project. She has been working on something big."

As we walked out of my room, the metallic scent of the tower didn't seem so oppressive anymore. It was still there, a reminder of the chaos and danger that lurked in the world, but it was also a reminder of the father who was trying, in his own flawed, genius way, to protect me. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough. For now.

Tags:

@riowritesitall @mandmilovehim @lgbtq-girl @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @parkjihoonsnudes

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[romanarose]

"If I'm Being Honest" Lie #1: "I don't like you."

An Omegaverse/romcom enemies to lovers idiots in love slowburn found family type shit. graphic design is my passion themed header is a little more intional this time but lord knows i can't edit XD

Alpha!Logan Howlett x fem!reader

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Summary: If Logan is being honest, he didn't like you. If you were being honest, you didn't either. But, if you were both being honest, you were exactly what you needed.

Warnings: Currently nothing? Will update as I go, but everyone's canon trauma is liable to be discussed.

A/n: I have built a reputation on here for series that are very serious, that deal with themes of severe depression, sexual assault, abuse, etc. I wanted to try my hand at something new, something lighthearted. the Omegaverse stuff won't have a HUGE part in it, it's just another aspect I wanted to add. As i wrote it, I realized it has a romcom vibe, so that's what I'm leaning into. I want to have fun with this! i write so much heavy stuff, a little change is nice. thank you so much to @xdaddysprincessxx for encouraging me to venture out, ily.

1.7k words

Reblogs are the only way to really spread works here, tumblr does not have an algorithm. Every single like is loved and appreciated, comments mean the whole world and keep me writing, but reblogs are how we share on here and create community.

Support artists, reblog works.

Multiple alternating POVs

***

If Logan was being honest, in the moment he just wanted to fuck you. Years later, to other more romantic types like Remy or Kurt, he would say it was love at first sight. He wouldn't say you were being a bit of a cunt, and the comment on his hair was unnecessary.

If you were being honest, wanted him to leave you alone, and were thankful he did. Later, to Remy and Kurt, you would say that you secretly wished he’d try again, although Logan wasn’t the type to linger where he wasn’t wanted. You say it was love at first sight, although if you were being honest, you thought his leather jacket was too wanna be James Dean, and his hair looked stupid. 

When Logan saw you in that bar, the bit-too crowded one that was the only spot he could go to where they didn’t recognize him from the mutant school 50 miles away, he thought, Well, she’ll do.

Jean had chosen Scott, and Logan wasn’t going to just sit around the mansion moping all day. Even if he still harboured feelings, he wanted her to be happy, and frankly, he wanted Scott to be too. He wasn’t a bad guy, he was just married to the woman Logan loved. And was rather annoying. But again, not bad. 

Logan just needed a nice, wet hole to sink into, and you were more than attractive enough for his tastes. Stunning, even, and just a little bit terrifying. You were a beta; he could smell the lack of alpha or omega pheromones, and you were devoid of either. All the better, omegas were so… clingy.

You, on the other hand, cursed yourself when you accidentally caught his eyes. Great. You think to yourself. Now he probably thinks you’re staring.

You weren’t! Not at that moment, anyway. If you were being honest, after he took the hint and went on his way, you did take a few glances for the ole spank bank. No harm no foul.

“Hey.” The man said as he leaned against the bar counter, and you snort through your nose.

“Really? That's the best you got?” You make a twirling motion with your finger. “Turn around, try again.”

He makes a funny face, but turns around anyway. When he faces you again, he doesn’t lean on the counter but rather takes a seat. “Uh. Hello?”

You facepalm, laughing. “This isn’t gonna work.”

The man takes the laughter in stride. “Yeah, not my best work. Can I at least buy you a drink?”

Another weak move. “You can, but I’m not gonna sleep with you.”

Not deterred, he buys the next round. “Name’s James.” He gave you his hands and waited expectantly, but even though you shook it you dodged the name question hanging in the air. 

“Sorry, buddy, I swore off Jimmy’s about 2 Jimmy’s ago.”

A slight frown, but nothing that seemed to indicate trouble. “Luckily, I’m not a Jimmy, I’m a James.”

“Okay.” You spoke almost patronizingly. “Never met a James that wore kitty ears, but okay.”

James looked like he was stewing on something, opened his mouth to retort an insult, but thought better of it. He attempted to smooth back the curls, but it didn’t work. He mumbled something about a cowlick before looking back at you as you laughed.

“You’re not playfully teasing me, are you?” it wasn’t a question.

“Nah, honey. I’m making fun of you.”

“Welp.” He slaps his hands on the bar counter, sitting up. It wasn’t an aggressive move, he meant it playful himself, but it still made you startle. “I can see where I’m not wanted. Keep the drink, sweetheart.” He winked, and left you alone.

Fuck, his pants were tight.

Logan moved on to talking up some girl that actually seemed interested, but if he were being honest, and he’d never admit this, but he kept looking back to you. As much as he wanted to get his dick wet and this new girl was pretty, he couldn’t get his mind off you. Logan was not rejected often. It wasn’t that his ego was bruised, okay maybe a little, but you were just so interesting. His senses were telling him he needed to notice something about you, but not trouble. He didn’t know what that meant, but the next time he looked over he saw a man making his move on you.

Good luck, bub. He thought to himself, then looked back at the cute girl. She seemed flexible. An omega, which meant he’d probably have to make an escape while she was sleeping, but she’d be eager to please. Oh yeah, this was gonna be a good-

*CRASH!*

Annnnnnd there it was. Can’t have nothing nice. He stepped in front of the blonde, what was her name again?, and looked to scout out the situation just in time to see you clock a man in the jaw hard enough to send him back. Good job there, girlie. Logan didn’t want trouble, and you seemed to be handling it so he didn’t step in just yet… but out of nowhere came the guy's friend with a barstool and clocked it over your head.

“Hey!” Logan shouted, distracting the man enough as he was about to kick you a third time in the face. Just as he dove and took him down, Logan heard the crowd gasp. After knocking the buddy out, Logan looked up to see if the first man wanted a piece of him next, only to see him staring in shock.

You were blue. Your skin, your hair, and the sliver of your eyes he could see, all blue. 

“MUTANT!” The fucking hillbilly shouts, and Logan isn’t an idiot. There’s trouble coming.

Without thinking, he scoops up your limp body and dashes you outside as men gather like an old timey mod.

He places you on the front of his bike, one strong arm holds you up and kicks the stand of the bike. Back to the mansion.

Another goddamn stray. Can’t keep them off me.

The gates opened as his bike rode up the twisted roads over half an hour later. Good thing the bike was registered to Scott, because if he got clocked speeding, it was bordering on reckless driving. 

Despite being in a hurry, Logan made sure to kick the stand up after riding the bike right up to the steps. He didn’t want the engine flooded. Then whose bike would he steal?

Bursting into the entrance, he finds Scott in a blue and yellow button down PJ set, sleep mask on and arms crossed. “You have GOT to stop-” Then Scott see’s you, passed out, bloody faced, and blue bodied, and senses the urgency.

He grabs Logan, shoving him to get to the medbay ASAP. Logan could run much fastert than Scott, even with your weight, but Scott was behind him. “JEEAANNN!”. The yelling was more to get it out in his mind, no doubt communicating with her in there to get to the bed medbay, which was near their bedroom.

By the time Logan got there, Jean was already setting up. She was in a robe, forest green and silky, something Scott probably got for her, the thoughtful fuck. Annoyingly, it was long, covering up those legs. That was also probably intensional on Scott’s part. Jean was in boxers. Probably Scotts, and she liked to sleep in skimpy cami’s. On second thought, the gift was probably more Scott keeping her wrapped up considering how many times Jean gets called to the med bay in the middle of the night.

“Tell me everything you know.”

Logan half panicked. He didn’t actually know anything. “I don’t really know. I talked to her briefly at the bar but that’s it.”

Green eyes flashed up at him, then back down. Jean knew what he was doing. “Did you sleep with her yet?”

He didn’t really know why THAT was relevant. 

“No, she rejected me too.” Well, that was a bit bitter. Logan corrected himself. Not the time. “Uh, fuck, she’s a mutant.”

Jean stopped, then dropped her shoulders as she deadpanned. “I couldn’t tell.” She could get a little snarky when under stress, so Logan let that roll off his back and she hooked you up to some monitors.

“She got into a bar fight, one guy hit her over the head with a stool, that's when she blacked out. Another kicked her face before I got there. One to the nose, one to the forehead.”

Jean nodded, this was the information she needed. 

“Steal toed books by the looks of it, got her pretty good. Anything else?”

“She turned blue a little after passing out, and she’s a beta.”

She placed her hands over the woman's body. “She probably can hide her mutation if she’s conscious about it. Knocking her out took away that defense.”

Just then, Scott entered the room, finally catching up. You’d think with those long legs he’d be faster, but running isn't his strong suit. “How is she?”

“Stable, but I need one of you to put the gauze on her head, she’s still bleeding.” Scott found the materials needed and applied gentle pressure. “Heart rate is good, but she’s unconscious still. Logan how long has it been?”

“45 minutes maybe?”

She swears under her breath. “Well, that’s not great. Let me get into her head.” After a few minutes, she relaxes a little bit. “Okay. Not traumatic brain injury. It’s a moderate concussion. She’ll need some rest but she’ll be okay, it seems.”

“Any sign of a healing factor?” Scott asks, but Jean shakes her head.

“If it is, it’s nothing like yours,” She nods to Logan. “or even Remy. Or like Remy, she needs to be conscious about it.” Jean put down her hands. “There’s not much I can do right now. It’s best to let her wake up naturally, unless this goes longer than a day. I’ll keep monitering-”

Your eyes flashed open, blue and glowing lightly, gasping a little for breath. When you saw Logan and Scott of one side of the bed, the confusion grew to panic. “Shit!” You try to roll off the bed, away from them, but are either too out of it still or too tied up in monitors to make it far. You fall, and Jean catches you. Logan moved to go to you, but Scott held him back. Logan didn’t know why

“Hey, hey it’s alright, you’re safe here.” You calm more after seeing her, letting Jean sit you down.

When you look up at Scott and Logan again, you lock eyes with the older man. To their surprise, you roll your eyes, “Oh great. This fucking guy again.”

If Logan was being honest, he didn’t like you very much.

**********

thank you so so much for giving this a chance!!!I had a lot of fun writig this, which isn't something ive said a lot lately.

I originally was on my drive back from my parents like "i wanna write omegaverse" it was originally gonna be a lot more serious, but as i was planning and thinking it just ended up having a sillier vibe.

It will still have more serious themes here and there, but nothing like what i usually do. Im very nervous. The most lighthearted series ive ever done was the DBF joel series but that was more a series of one shots. And awakening was goofy and silly sometimes but was also pretty heavily about the beauty of coming out later in life, finding yourself, exploring sexuality, and deep trust.

This fic is playing on the rom com vibes. Idiots in love. Enemies to lovers. I hope you guys like it. Prinny says she think it'll be good for me to have something lighter, considering how much dark fics and dark themes i do.

I know I was talking about the series with my OC sadie summers and logan and thats still in the works, but there were some kinks i needed to work out that I havn't yet before i can go foreward. Fen and I are almost done with IYWBW, and when that done ill start on the benny miller x oc series for the final installment of Leather and lace universe!!!

and eventually, EVENTUALLY i will get that final chapter of ROF done. its just HARD (like my dick)

peace and love girlies (gn)

if you want to be added to my general logan content, check out the taglist linked above, but if you want to be added to this series, comment below!

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes @miraclesabound