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tusks-and-claws · 1 year

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I’m Not What You Need (But I Am)

Miguel O’Hara x female reader

Summary: “When you sit there/acting like you know me/acting like you only brought me here to get below me”

You have a concern to bring to Miguel, but when he hears what you really think of him, he doesn’t let you off so easily

Tags/warnings: smut (18+), oneshot, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, kind of missionary idk what to call it, dominant Miguel, brat taming, orgasm denial, dirty talk, choking, sort of strangers to lovers, maybe a little bit of a hatefuck if you squint, reader is a Spider person, def a bit out of character

Wordcount: 3.5k

Find on Ao3 here :3

"Why are you coming to me with such trivial annoyances?" Miguel O'Hara asked you from the platform of his lab, at least ten feet above you. He was tapping on various screens, not giving you eye contact. It felt purposeful, pointed.

"I'm sorry, I thought you wanted to know when fights broke out. Keeping the peace and all that." You felt yourself growing warm, anxiety fluttering in your stomach.

"What I want," he said, his tone growing short. "Is for people to sort out their own bullshit, so I can worry about what's important. Which, if you haven't noticed, is much bigger than you and I and some stupid fight in the lobby."

As soon as he said it, you knew he was right. But he was still being an asshole. You were only trying to help.

You put your hands up in defense. "I just thought you'd wanna know." Then whispered under your breath "douchebag," as you turned to walk away.

But your progress was halted by something tugging at your wrist. You looked down to see what it was, and closed your eyes, quietly cursing yourself. Neon red webbing.

"You wanna run that by me again?" Miguel asked.

You swallowed a lump in your throat. "Nothing, it was nothing. I'll just leave."

You tried to pull free, but he was reeling you in, like a helpless fish on a hook. "Oh, no," he said, sounding somewhat amused. "No, I heard you. 'Douchebag,' eh? Not very creative. But…" he paused when you were closer, close enough that he could look directly down at you. "I want to hear you say it again. Face to face, this time."

You frowned. "How can we be 'face to face' when you're so high above me?"

He wagged a finger at you. "You've got a point there." In a sudden flash of tingling, your Spider sense triggered. But Miguel was too fast, he'd been doing this for far longer than you had. In an instant, you were wrapped in neon red and being hoisted upward onto the platform. He planted you right in front of him, putting his hands on his hips and leaning down so his eyes were level with yours. "Happy?"

You huffed. Why was he like this? A self-satisfied grin played at the edges of his plush lips as he scrutinized you with bloodshot eyes. Finally registering how close he was, and how huge he was, you started turning red. He could throw you around like you weighed nothing, couldn't he? He had just lifted you up here with hardly any effort. You'd never thought about another Spider like this. Sure, you were all strong, but there was something in Miguel's upper body that you couldn't free from your thoughts, something in those massive shoulders, something-

"Well?" He asked, breaking your trance. "I don't have all day."

You met his eyes. They looked so tired. You didn't want to insult him anymore. You wanted to leave and pretend like the thoughts you had about him never existed.

But you knew what he needed to hear.

"Douchebag," you repeated.

He smiled, and it was humorless. "It's nice to know that this is what people think of me. That I did this for all of us, and everyone in our worlds. And the word that comes to mind when people talk to me is…?" He raised an eyebrow prompting you.

"...Douchebag."

"That's right!" He pointed a finger at you. "I don't ask for much. I ask for people to listen and respect the operation. And that means respecting my time, too, eh? No more coming right to me with petty fights that people can solve on their own."

You just stared back up at him, hardly registering his words. Respect time, no more fights, whatever. His hair looked so soft.

"Got it?" He asked, starting to sound frustrated again.

You nodded.

"I need to hear you say it."

"G-got it."

"Good." He patted your shoulder. What an odd gesture. It was very nearly caring. "Let's get you out of here." He flexed his hand, talons coming free. He quickly swiped at the webbing he had wrapped you in, the strands snapping and falling to the floor in shreds.

Your heart was hammering in your chest. His brow furrowed. "Listen, I know I'm scary, but I'm just doing my job."

You shook your head. "I'm- I'm not scared."

"Are you not? Dios mio, I can hear your blood pumping."

His heightened senses were going to be your death sentence. The longer he stood staring at you, the worse your thoughts became. But you couldn't bring yourself to move away from his attention. You crossed your arms, trying to make yourself small so he would stop looking at you.

He raised an eyebrow. "What, do you wanna be friends or something?"

No, you thought, I want us to be something different.

Despite your best efforts, you blurted out, "no, in all honesty, I've never really liked you that much." Why did you say that? What was wrong with you?

He cocked his head, his eyes widening, processing what you just said. He started to nod. "Oh, wow. Great. Thank you so much. What a productive conversation. And you're still here because…?"

"Because you getting the last word in is infuriating to me." You couldn't stop yourself. You knew this was bad, but you couldn't stop.

"How do you think I feel? You came here for the sole purpose of bothering me and now you won't leave me the shock alone." He pointed at you again, forefinger lightly jabbing your collarbone. "You. Can. Leave. This is my lab, you little brat." He spoke the words through gritted teeth, and you could just barely see his elongated canines, gleaming and sharp in the light of the lab's computer screens.

Oh no.

You stood there, just blinking at him. You've never seen someone so annoyed looking so attractive at the same time. It wasn't fucking fair.

He suddenly started, the anger from his face vanishing, confusion taking its place. "Oh yeah?" He asked, his voice taking on a mocking tone. "That's why your heart is pounding?"

Fuck.

"What, uh… what do you-"

"Don't play dumb with me.” He placed a gloved finger under your chin, tilting your head up towards him. “I can smell that you're turned on. Is that why you came here to bother me? So you could gawk at me? And maybe I'd fuck you if you were lucky."

You backed up, nearly slipping off the edge of the raised platform. Miguel reached out and caught your hand, pulling you in close to him. Unconsciously, you splayed your hands on his chest to steady yourself. His body was so warm and inviting, and you were drawn into it like a little planet circling a blazing sun.

What was happening, what were you doing?

"Is that what you thought?" He asked, seeming to echo the questions you asked yourself, his voice growing more quiet as he looked down at you.

You quickly raised your hands away from him, closing them into loose fists and crossing your arms again. "No," you said, truthfully.

"But you're thinking it now." He nodded. "Aren't you?"

After a pause, you nodded too.

"I really need to hear you say it." He probed.

"I'm…. I'm thinking about it now."

"Oh, are you? Thinking about what?"

You swore under your breath, doing a poor job of hiding a scowl. You should've known he wasn't going to make it easy for you.

"Thinking about you fucking me." You grimaced after admitting it, waiting for him to mock you and disown you.

He smiled. "That's funny. I thought I was a douchebag."

"Fuck you, man!" You threw your arms up into the air, turning around and preparing to hop down from the platform.

“No no no, come on, now,” he said, grasping your wrist with a large, warm hand. His grip was surprisingly gentle. “Why don’t you give me a chance to change your mind?”

You looked him in the eyes, and there was a small spark there. You sighed, unable to deny the reaction your body had to him. You wanted him. And he was offering himself to you. What reality was this where that was even possible? Not ten minutes ago, you were hardly closer than strangers. “Okay,” you said, offering him a small grin. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“Oh, I won’t.” In another swift movement, he swept you up into his arms and laid you down on your back on the lab floor. He was above you, arms on either side of your head, boxing you in. You could hardly see anything past those vast shoulders. You swallowed. He raised one hand to your head, petting your hair. “Look at that. You really are so pretty. Couldn’t help thinking it even when you were pissing me off earlier.”

You furrowed your brow. “I thought you wanted to change my mind, asshole, is this-”

He cut you off as his hand lowered, skating down your side and brushing against your breast before traveling even further. You exhaled shakily, trying to prepare yourself for this. Miguel O'Hara was touching you. Miguel O'Hara was going to fuck you.

When he reached the curvature of your hips, he fondly squeezed, humming to himself. "Soft… so soft. You wouldn't want an asshole like me to eat you out, would you?"

Your brain short-circuited at how blatant he was. "No, I- I would, I really fucking would, Miguel."

"Oh, are we on a first name basis, now?" He hooked a clawed finger into the fabric of your suit, ripping a huge gash into it so he could access you. That… that was your good suit. You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to keep yourself from quipping back at him as he scooted downward, wrapping his arms around your thighs and lining himself up with your pussy. You threw your head back in anticipation, screwing your eyes shut. How was this real? How was-

You gasped as his tongue made gentle contact with your sex, slowly and carefully licking a long swipe from your opening to your clit, like he was savoring the first taste of you.

"You taste even better than you smell, amor."

Fuck, he was savoring you. You trembled beneath him, your hands tentatively reaching down to tangle with his hair. And it was even softer than you thought it would be.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Hang onto me."

You listened, your grip on his hair tightening. As if that were his cue, he brought his tongue back to your aching pussy, lapping at the wetness that was all but dripping from you. Your body immediately felt too hot on the metal floor, and you were convinced that you were beginning to melt under the warmth of his tongue. The almost-penetration was sending you spiraling; he was giving you nothing that you needed while somehow simultaneously answering your every secret desire. You needed that mouth on your clit. Your greedy, aroused body needed more, more. You had him all to yourself and he was teasing you. It wasn't fair.

You whimpered as you gripped soft locks of his hair, waiting for him to take the plunge. Waiting…. And waiting. But he just kept lapping contentedly at your entrance, just barely dipping his tongue inside. The feeling was pleasant but infuriating. What was he trying to do? Did he want you to beg for it?

Oh.

…He couldn't be serious.

But that was the only conclusion you could reach. After all, he'd been asking to hear you say things this entire encounter, prompting you to be vocal. All you had to do was swallow your pride.

"M-Miguel…?" You asked, your voice quiet.

He stopped, picking his head up slightly, looking at you from under his thick brows. "Mm? What is it?"

"Please, um… please…." Your voice caught in your throat. Why was this so difficult?

"Oh, you're begging me now? What could you possibly be begging for… Isn't this what you wanted?"

You narrowed your eyes as he held your gaze with that lackadaisical expression.

"Please," you started, feeling humiliated. "Please suck on my clit."

"Good girl. All you had to do was ask." In no time at all, his mouth was back on you. He zeroed in on your clit, taking the sensitive bundle of nerves into the wet warmth of his mouth, sucking on it just as you needed. The feeling was so intense and you couldn't suppress any of the noises that escaped you. And the noises he made didn't help in the slightest. He was humming as he worked your clit, the gentle vibrations of his voice adding to the overstimulation. He stopped for a moment to instead use his tongue, and the pointed attention was delicious.

"How are you feeling, amor?" He asked without fully pulling away from you, his voice slightly lisping from the contact.

"Good," you gasped, feeling like you were getting close to the edge. "So, so good. Please keep going."

"Tell me when you're going to cum."

"Yes, yes I will."

He continued his efforts, mercilessly devouring you, a cacophony of wet sounds rising to meet your ears. You could feel your orgasm building, your body singing. He was playing you like an instrument. That warm, pulsating feeling was building deep inside your core, threatening to burst apart with every second.

Your grip on his hair tightened. "Miguel, I'm- I'm gonna-"

Your back started arching and you closed your eyes as… nothing happened. He pulled his head away from you. You opened your eyes to see him looking at you from between your legs, one of his eyebrows raised.

"Wha- what?"

He smirked. "Oh, this? It's nothing... It's just that douchebags usually don't care about making women cum."

Your jaw dropped open. This again? You gritted your teeth, your clit swollen and thrumming with your pulse. You needed release.

"I'm sorry." You said, your voice desperate.

He raised his eyebrows, amused. "Oh, wow, that was fast." His tone was so matter-of-fact.

"I'm sorry for calling you a douchebag and an asshole, I was wrong about you. Please let me cum." You spat the words out so quickly that you hardly registered what you were saying.

"How could I say no to that?" He returned to you, gripping your thighs more firmly than he had before, shamelessly moaning into you as you started to curl up off the hard metal floor. Your orgasm was so close, it was right within your grasp. Your breath started going ragged as you held onto him for dear life. In a white hot burst of pleasure, you came, swearing loudly as Miguel drank up every bit of you, letting you ride your orgasm out on his skillful tongue. He slowed down right as you did, matching your pace perfectly until you were a heaving mess on the floor in front of him.

"My turn, now," his voice came through the fog, it sounded distant. But you could feel strong arms lifting you up and all but dropping you onto your back on one of the lab's computer consoles, its screen turning off in response. He dismissed a section of his high tech suit, his manhood coming free. You couldn't help but gawk at him. His body was unreal. From the small window he created, you could see hard lines of muscle carved into golden skin. Your head started spinning again.

He began pumping his hard cock as he looked down at you, spreading your legs further open with his free hand. "See how easy it is to get what you want when you aren't being a brat?" The way his muscles flexed through his tight suit while he worked himself was maddening. You wanted- no, you needed him to fuck you. You needed him inside you.

You nodded your head, answering his question.

"So, tell me what you want."

"I want you to fuck me," you answered, still panting from your orgasm. "I want to feel you so badly. Please, Miguel."

"You're a fast learner," he purred, bringing his cock to your folds and lubricating himself on the mess you two had made. He slid over your slick entrance, his head touching your aching clit as he moved up and down. "I'll fuck this pretty cunt for you, since you asked so nicely."

He positioned himself at your entrance and slowly pushed himself inside of you, inch by thick inch. You moaned, the feeling of finally being full was luscious, he was pressing at your walls from all angles. At last, when he was in up to the hilt, he stayed there for a moment while his large hands found your waist.

"My God, look at you. You took all of me, and so shocking well. You," he exhaled, seemingly taking a second to compose himself. "You feel so good."

"Thank you," you whispered, breathless. He was praising you. It was… nice to hear. Stubbornness be damned.

He chuckled to himself. "Please and thank you? You really do learn fast. You've earned this, amor." And with that, he pulled himself out of you, slamming back in with a hard slap. Over and over, he fucked you with the entire length of his cock, hitting spots inside of you that you weren't sure even existed. "Lemme hear you, I wanna hear it all."

You obeyed. "O-oh my God, Miguel, fuck. It's… it's so good. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you."

Thanking him fueled his fire; his grip on your waist tightening, red eyes sparkling wildly. "Good girl, that's it… watching my cock disappear inside of you… it's making me crazy. You like getting fucked by someone you hated before all this? You wanna get filled up by someone you don't even like?"

"Yes, please." Your back arched into him, the pressure from his unwavering thrusts overwhelming you. The feeling was impossibly perfect, your body tingling from your head to your toes. He really did fit inside of you so well.

"You'll get it, baby. Keep being good for me, you'll get it."

As he continued, his hands roamed your body. Groping at your breasts, resting on the soft slope of your stomach. You grabbed one of his traveling hands, a rogue feeling overtaking you as you brought it up to your throat.

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Y-yeah? You want me to choke you?” He sounded excited.

“P-please,” you huffed, grabbing onto his forearm.

“Holy shit, you’re something else.” He began applying gentle pressure to your airway as he kept fucking you. It was the perfect amount of constriction; suppressing your breath intake just enough for your head to feel pleasantly airy. He was good at that, why was he so good at that?

Between the way he was pounding you and the way he was choking you, your muscles started to bear down on him.

"Yes, yes, squeeze that cock. Good girl. You’re gonna get what you want.”

You clenched down on him, your orgasm rocking you to your core as he fucked you through it. It hit you in giant waves, crashing over you and pulling you into the undertow. You felt completely drunk on it. The warmth of it was everywhere in your body, all the way up to your fingertips. Your head swam, your eyes rolling back into your head. Miguel swore to himself, his tempo becoming more irregular. He released your throat, hands flying down to grip the console. You thought you could hear it cracking.

“God, you’re tight. I’m gonna fill you up.”

“Yes,” you rasped, your body shaking.

He growled as he came inside of you, bearing his fangs in clenched teeth once more, and you could feel his cock twitch followed by the heat of his seed as it stuffed you full. He lingered over you, his eyes looking frenzied as his gaze flicked over your face, his chest heaving with every recovering breath.

You released a deep sigh, smiling tenderly at him. “Thank you, Miguel.”

“You, uh,” he started awkwardly, running his hands through his hair. He still hadn’t even pulled out of you yet. “You earned it,” he repeated.

He took a short, unsure step back, as he pulled his length free from you. You could feel his cum leaking from you upon his release. There was so much of it.

He held his hand out to you to help you up, and you grasped it, smiling again as you got to your feet.

“I’ll clean this mess up, but you.…” He scanned your frame. “...I’ve got a pair of pants on one of the lab chairs down there.” He pointed toward a particularly cluttered section of his space. “Bringing them back would be a much better excuse to see me than a fight in the lobby.”

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara #smut #my writing #ive got another one for you you sick bastards #this one was not beta read in the slightest so bear with me pls #hope you enjoy!#i will not stop the metalcore title/summary naming convention anytime soon so my condolences

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stealingyourbones · 2 years

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Older Brother Danny Phantom

During the last year that Alfred worked as a secret intelligence officer for England, he was tasked to infiltrate and dismantle a fake ghost hunting branch of the US government. This fake branch that called themselves the Ghost Investigation Ward who was attempting to set up camp on English soil.

During his infiltration using a false identity and credentials, Alfred came across a boy named Phantom. He was the GIW’s “most prized catch”. Alfred’s heart ached as he saw the boy get hauled back to his cell day after day. With each day the boy sported more and more injuries from the GIW’s cruel “experiments”.l (Alfred knew damn well what they were doing to the boy was just short of torture and nothing more.)

Seeing the boy get hurt day in and day out, Alfred was more determined than ever to tear this place apart brick by brick. Soon enough, Alfred found enough evidence to prevent the GIWs from ever setting up camp on English soil ever again. After that, the British military invaded the place and took care of the workers while Alfred worked on freeing Dann, which the GIW’s files informed him was actually a boy named Daniel Fenton. The GIWs completely obliterated his hometown and reduced it to rubble. He had no home to return to and was expecting to just live in the ghost zone for the rest of his life. Alfred wouldn’t let that stand.

He made the rash decision to raise the boy as if he was his own. He later got hired by The Wayne’s after the butler Jarvis’s passing. Danny stayed in the manor with Alfred in the servant quarters. He wasn’t shown to the public and as far as the world knew, Alfred had no family.

Then the tragedy of The Wayne’s occurred on that fateful night. Martha and Thomas Wayne were murdered right before Bruce’s very eyes.

Danny helped Bruce learn to cope with his trauma and searched the Ghost Zone for his parents. (He came up empty handed. Bruce’s parents didn’t have a strong enough drive to become ghosts. Bruce appreciated the gesture none the less.) He and Alfred taught Bruce how to fight. He still went on his training journey all over the world but he knew a tad more before his travels than without his ghosty older brother.

Danny doesn’t really do anything as Phantom in Gotham. He’s done with fighting. The GIW capture convinced him that the only thing that would stop those bastards from hunting him was to destroy the Anti-Ecto acts and to dismantle the organization piece by piece.

Danny went to university and got a double major in computer programming and forensic science.

During the years that Bruce was away training, Danny was cracking down on the GIW and managed to successfully expose and fully dismantle the fake government organization.

Danny refused to premiere in Gotham as “Phantom”. He’s much rather leave his fighting days behind him and instead when Batman first came to the scene, he was the guy in the chair. Helping Bruce through an earpiece and assisting in putting the pieces of a crime together with the batcomputer.

He does help Bruce with the intimidation factor though. A slight spell to make him blend into the shadows a tad more than a normal person would, a small charm to make his movements seem twitchy and inhuman, a tiny incantation that made Bruce’s eyes glow a bright white, small spells to help make Batman less human and more a symbol of fear.

When the first Robin came around, Danny welcomed Dick with open arms as an uncle figure. Casting charms on Robin to let him glide and make chittering sounds that are impossible to make with human vocal cords.

He helps Jason and when the boy comes back, Danny immediately knows that something is off and collects the boy before he gets whisked away by the League of Assassins. He and Alfred teach Jason how to use a firearm at Jason’s request and non lethal rounds become Jason’s preferred weapon.

Danny positively adores Tim. He reminds Danny of himself when he was a teenager. Now in his mid to late 30’s, he recalls those years with a fondness that was definitely affected by rose tinted lenses. He takes him under his wing and teaches the boy about magic and how to integrate it into technology.

Damian instantly attaches himself to Danny the second they first make eye contact. Danny is obviously the most powerful person on the household and respects Damian in a way that surprises the boy. Danny knows Damian’s type well and he, along with Dick, help Damian adjust to the Bats code of vigilantism.

When Danny meets the League, it’s because Klarion summoned the Ghost King. Apparently The Ghost King was a Lord of Order but commonly evil aligned. They all are fearful with what’s to happen besides Batman. His shoulders relax when he hears what’s about to happen and informs the League to let Klarion finish his Ritual.

The League thinks that Batman has gone mad but Batman insists. They follow his orders and watch as Klarion calls the Lord of Infinite Realms to the mortal plane.

Danny appears in full Ghost King regalia. Danny positively radiates power in an absolutely terrifying manner. He notices Klarion and frowns. Looking around, he perks up when he notices Batman and Nightwing next to the various League members.

The League is extremely confused that this all powerful god of a being excitedly smiled and waved towards them. That confusion was nothing compared to a few moments later where the King of the Undead started talking to Batman about what was being made for dinner today. That and Tim finally managed to get the wrist portal to work. Batman is silent and simply silently nodding at the appropriate times but Nightwing is happily chatting back and forth with Danny as the Leagues jaws are on the fuckin floor.

Klarion doesn’t know what to do honestly. He thought the Ghost King was Pariah Dark, not this lanky inhuman looking figure who was sitting crisscross in the summoning circle and waving his hands animatedly to talk with Nightwing.

Klarion yells to The Ghost King to stop talking and to fight these fools. Danny then stops and the temperature drops a solid 30 degrees. He pauses for a few moments and oh so slowly turns around to Klarion. His eyes now blading with green fire, his limbs extending and gaining extra joints, his teeth growing more and more elongated and sharp. He looms over Klarion and tells him to kindly fuck off and to never talk to him, his brother, or his nephew ever again.

Klarion is fucking terrified as Danny just fully shifts into his true form and looms over the Witch Boy. Klarion hastily agrees and leaves in fear of getting fuckin evaporated by this being that is much more powerful than him.

The League is freaking out because “Nephew?!?!” “Brother?!?!” What?! How on earth was the fuckin ghost king related to Batman?

Flash asks Nightwing and Dick just smiles and goes “he was adopted” and that was that. The League sees Danny more often now. Be sometimes pops into the Watchtower to watch the stars, to help out during watch duty, to check in with the batfamily that is in the watchtower. Sure Shazam and John have an adverse reaction to Danny Initially but they eventually just accept that this all powerful ghost lord is just there to talk to his family.

#danny phantom #dc comics #dp x dc #dpxdc #writing prompts #bones writes #fic #guess who finally wrote another lil fic summary thingie :) me :)

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kondietorei · 2 months

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let the man think!

#my art #death note #light yagami #okay uh bieng vulnerable here i have not read death note #i just remembered my cousin hyping herselg up to fold the laundry by turning on l's theme #and one thing led to another #she also gave me a summary once so.. it all works out #HIS HAIR IS SO DIFFICULT 2 DRAW

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hyperfixation-symposium · 1 year

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QSMP MEGA LORE SUMMARY

Are you behind on the qsmp?

Would you like to catch up but don’t know how to start?

Are you bored enough to read ramblings of a nearly 5 day long project that I often stayed up too late working on?

Well I’ve got great news for you! @thelissbliss was a bit behind so I offered to write a lore recap, unnknowingly signing up for a project that would be much bigger than I ever planned on it getting! and it needs a lot of revision work!

Please enjoy my 17,000 word google document that recaps the QSMP lore from day 63-82 the best I feel like I could! There’s also extra tidbits at the end :>

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1KSWHZIItqNNsJWzhhemXzKdqQDwjTtXkJaF0kXvwaPg/edit?usp=sharing

Please make the hours I poured into this project worth it LMAO

#qsmp #qsmp lore summary #qsmp lore #quackity smp #mcyt #qsmp english #qsmp eggs #It's only in english at the moment because as stated that's the only one I know #But hopefully in the future I can make this better #I am begging for this to be the post that blows up on me this took hours and pain #But another day. Another day I will improve this #I hope this is helpful!!

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phramboise · 3 months

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— collector:: simon“ghost”rileyxfemale!reader

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

tags and warnings: 18+, therapist!reader, patient!riley, mentions of names of psychiatric drugs, disorders, self-destructive behaviours and many other labels that are in the nature of therapy, talk of trauma, persuasion, sexual fantasies, kissing; drugging, kidnapping, nudism, Stockholm syndrome, self-pleasuring (f), vaginal fingering, female receiving oral, semi-public sex, vague ending. More like your obsessive situationship kidnapping you. italics are therapy entries, scribbled notes of the therapist written in her POV; the rest is in third POV. In no way this is praising or normalising any behaviour written -read at your own risk, drugging and kidnapping are not consensual.

wordcount: 3k

;;

When Mr. Riley first crossed your gaze, it wasn't amid your session. Across the road, he stood, and there was no mistaking the man. Here near the thicket, scarcely a few people wear long sleeves on summer fierce, and even fewer have masks on. Until you stop making a mental prognosis even for a person who is not your client and come back from your tea break -or until the end of your shift if you don’t notice- he lingers around, waits at the bus stop, though not seeming to wait for a bus for countless have come and gone, in the hours long.

Another man is what you see, he might be any passerby on the street, and perhaps he is. Mr. Riley embodies one of those afflictions, less unique than he imagines, of those pathologies you've encountered before. When you extend your hand to greet him in your office, he offers no response, nor does he ask of you to address him more sincere. Mr. Riley he remains. He's one who knows himself, aware of his inner discord, though its depths remain veiled. From afar, his black eyes turn warm summer, amber in the sunlit pane, his presence yields little beyond the his file's mundane strain. He avoids talking of his past, and names elude the characters as he tells little pieces of his life. No period of self-destructive history, no suicide attempts. No addiction on gambling, alcohol. No signs of wrist cutting, nor drug injections -seems you misinterpreted his clothing choices. Many hospitalisations, all classified military field papers, one particular on teenage period, one he speaks not about.

Mr. Riley's visits to the office seem to transcend the usual reasons of any other patient, not for seeking counsel or solace; they harbour an enigma you can't quite decode. He adamantly requests your final session on Friday evenings, as if bound by some unseen rhythm of his own. There's no poignant trauma he didn't untangle of himself, no platitude of life's hardships to impart upon him. He has already navigated life's currents, seemingly with ease. There's no sign that he needs a therapist to grasp the stark realities, to know life's not to see through rose-tinted veil.

He is a patient who possesses a profound understanding of himself, sparing you the tire of the week's closing session. There's no need for medical interventions, no requirements for Risperidone, Prozac, or Paxil, nor any hint of sedatives to dull his senses. At times, his answers are so astute that the roles between therapist and client seem to blur. In the dynamic of your therapeutic alliance, there is no predetermined mould, because Mr. Riley doesn't adopt them.

Not a traditional pathology, Mr. Riley is one where not the patient being ready for the therapy, but the therapy being not ready for the patient, one who needs of you to be creative and bold to unravel himself. Of no technique, no book nor rule. So, you suggest roleplay -no voice recorders, not a notepad to write down occasionally. Less practical and even less theoretical. You even offer to do it on the skirt of the small lake behind the office as not to create social desirability. -Not that he bothers of it.

He accepts.

Now, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be, you are no therapist, nor he is a client. He’s not a diagnosis, a test to report, a scale. Not an alienation, not a compulsive or antisocial disorder. Only Mr. Riley.

When you ask him about his first memory he recalls, you realise you must play the maternal figure in this intricate play. When you settle on the bench overlooking the pond, he approaches from behind, enfolding your shoulders before walking to your front, resting his head to your lap. He does not know much about gods; but he thinks that the water is a way of semblance, his soul’s double winks off the reflection, whispers in your voice as you offer solace. “Sometimes” you begin, stroking gently the blond locks that nestle on your lap, “one must mourn to heal.”

He rises on his knees, clinging to your body as you caress his neck, crying to your chest as your cloth is now pulled down with the weight of him resting on you. …Like a baby, his resistance just melts away.

Mr. Riley requests that from now on the therapies take place in the backyard of the building, and since this change of nature contributes to the therapeutic alliance more than the office setting did, and now that he is sure of you enough to remove his mask, and since now when he looks at you he sees you, you acquiesce.

Mr. Riley is touch deprived, he has not yet spoke about his father, but he revealed in our role play therapies that his mother passed when he was only a child - his deprivation leads to a relentless need for contact, that is, after he started to trust me. He shook my hand today, and came with only a mask that covers half his face, which he later took off also. I feel for much further developments with Mr. Riley, which is heartening.

He's by your step as you step around the garden, his presence a silent echo of your every move. His arm wraps around your shoulder as you sit next to one another on the bench. With each sensual step, he surrenders morsels of his shadow, weaving them into your shared space. And when he bids the invitation to walk hand in hand along the water's edge, you accept. Not a drug-treatable depression, rather, it's a serenity born from the tumult of excess violence and the rusty imprints of roads taken, reflected in his eyes. A familiarity in his demeanour, a wash of embrace as if he unravels yourself to you.

Mr. Riley abandons the sessions for a while, it takes a lot of strength to pretend to other clients that you are interested in their problems. When you start to wait in your office on Fridays, even though your last session is available, an empty slot, and when you do this for weeks on end, you realise that this bond is a two-way street, nothing professional. For him, you are a person who will listen, for you-

Someone to listen.

;;

When he does return, the birds are flying south. You find yourself consumed by a gnawing unease of thinking that his routine apathy is back again. Once more, -you prayed so- he seats you into the sanctuary of the bench amidst the garden, yet his eyes no longer linger upon yours with their former intensity. When he pushes you into the water with the strength of one arm, you freeze for a moment, and when he pulls you back in before you soak in the reedy river, he catches you unaware and kisses you harder than you dreamt possible.

One thing you cannot deny, is how his demanding yet sensual kiss is turning you on, leaving not one bit of your responsibility, your authority as the therapist as his hand moves over your legs, circling beneath the curve of your hips. Dipping his hand between your warm thighs, you let his firm touch venture between, supple skin heating cold fingers. His other hand gropes a fistful of your slinking skirt, and you wrap his scent around your loins as he falls to his knees again before the bench. Before you.

Never in all your career you thought you’d be getting into this, to abuse someone who is to solace in the first place, even the thought of it appalled you. Now the thought tightens his fingers on your hips, his tongue rubs idly against your clit in unrushed fashion, he slowly feasts you out.

Mr. Riley will no longer attend our therapy sessions – I said to him that our sessions are not helping him, gave him another therapist’s card, hopefully his condition will move for the better. My efforts were useless I’m afraid.

It’s what you wrote down the day after, but you don’t recall him agreeing.

;;

Three Fridays it takes when he suddenly reappears, he intercepts you locking the door of your office. Adorned with the very mask he tells you he came back to get the other one from you, he’s clad beneath a hoodie, zipper drawn all the way to conceal more than just his torso, hood over his head. You’re not sure what to answer, in a vague indecision, with the haunting realisation that his condition remains as unchanged as ever. Perhaps you should have heeded the warning signs, reconsidered the nature of your occupation, and resisted the temptation to immerse yourself so deeply in his plight— perhaps you shouldn’t have given of yourself to something that won’t heal for the better.

He's your shadow down the corridor, a silent loom trailing behind you as you make your way back to your office. You let out the breath you've been holding as you pick up the pace and create a few steps of distance until you reach your door. Yet, even within the confines of your own space, his presence looms large, casting a pall of uncertainty over your every thought.

In your room, he follows, his silence heavy in the air. As you retrieve his mask from the drawer, he catches your wrist as you turn.

One word leaves your mouth, he’s on you again. Pressing your back against your desk, one hand winding tight around your arm as the other tips your chin up for you to meet his height as he looms over you. The caress of his lips draw tingling heat to your cheek, your lips, your neck. You feel his body against yours deeply as he clines closer, hand on your jaw tight as he tries his way in with his tongue, both hands cupping your head to his, leaving nowhere to lean but him.

His mouth feeds something inside yours, a smooth little dragée that leaves a ragged earthy taste each second you refuse to swallow down, his mouth is on yours to keep it on your tongue, raw liquorice and a sickly sweet taste in your pharynx, your nose tightens in its taste as you try to pry away with a doleful cry — he only pulls away as he feels it down your throat with his thumb, the other wipes the tear on your cheek as he pushes his forehead against yours, cooing it’s okay as you shudder in trepidation.

You leave the room, try to cough it out your mouth.

A hit behind your neck is enough to knock you out.

;;

The sound of spinning tires piercing a howling like a restless banshee against the asphalt wakes you, worn leather feels eerie against your back as you sink into its contours, laid sprawled on the backseat in a short slip gown you don’t own yourself that pools around your hip as the car you’re in hurtles towards the undying disquiet. Cool leather surrounds you, as if offering a hug from the owner on the driver’s seat. The sight outside is a blurred panorama of shifting shadows of a transient night and neon lights racing by in dragging lines before your surly hand moves to feel the ache nestled behind your nape. His gaze grazes your body through the rearview mirror. Deliberately slow is his hand resting over the open window as he drops the stub of his cigarette down, he pulls his mask down before dividing the cold night air mixing with the smoke through the misty window. You don’t know where this road leads, where he’s taking you. Of what he forced into your mouth or when he wore this negligee on you.

Gentle engine lulls you, to some elusive and ephemeral warmth, starts below your stomach, sprouts where you fear it. You were right when you thought, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be. Now he’s to lead, and you’re to follow this fleeting respite of surreal blend. Something in your blood that gets you warm, or it’s the adrenaline of this unknown place. Only Mr. Riley and you. You’re scared, you’re intoxicated. You enjoy it.

You turn your head to his side, wind blows your hair, trails over, snakes through your legs as your hands move to pull the skirt down to cover your hips, holding the satin tight between your thighs. Your own skirt is gone. So are your sheer tights, so is your underwear – he must’ve taken them off before he carried you in his car.

The sultry heat pulsates between your thighs, a yawning chasm that stirs an ache inside. Though, there’s no trace of wetness that already paints your groin, only the searing fire deep within. Your insides burn but you don't feel any strain anywhere except the pain in your neck. You still smell like your own perfume, untouched, without an intrusion of cigarette smoke on his fingertips or the weight of his hands grabbing your skin. Not a single mark marrs your flesh, not even the faintest imprint that dry, rough fingertips as they graze on supple skin. He seems to only changed you in silk, a whisper-soft fabric that clung to you, only piece that’s shielding you from the cool grace of the air. As your fingers brush over the tender swell of your breasts, a shiver dances down your spine. The satin wrapped fabric weaves you into a life that is not meant to hurt, and with each breath, a soft moan threatens its way out your parted lips, a melody of surrender to the lethargy that he trapped you in. You now have a few ideas about the pill he gave you.

Leather smells varnish, aroma intertwining with the haze of his cigarette smoke that hangs in the air. His masculine presence stands as a silent challenge to your frailty. With a delicate touch, you place your hands on your kneecaps, the tip of your tongue running over your teeth as your knuckles leave the skirt of your dress, not holding it over yourself anymore. He must’ve done the same, you imagine his fingers tracing a similar path, grazing against your inner thighs as he lowers your panties, taking them off. Grounded by a thick, scorched, labdanum base, a dark and brooding charred wood and burnt sap, floods through you as the air carries his cologne to you, your nose picks up whatever it is that gets your body wanting more, you caress yourself.

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

You wish you fingers were to be rougher, thicker and that your fingertips would smell of tobacco. Of something grainy and rugged instead of this slipping silk between your legs for you to rub against. Did he made you sit on his leg as he clad you in this dress that leaves none to imagination, had he rubbed you against his trousers as he put you down?

Your breathing gets heavier, he changes the hand that steers the wheel, now the car decelerates to keep it in control, now slow enough, a person on a sidewalk would have a flash of image if they were to be as the car glides by- you know you’d do this even if there were no tinted films on the windows- you search for his gaze over the rear mirror, laden with unspoken want. You clench around nothing, mutter words of no meaning, but he knows. You whine deeper breaths, and they soon turn to lilting whimpers.

You think about him feeding you the pill with his tongue - does he feel as you do right now? You wriggle your hips, let a moan to get yourself going, his eyelids flutter close before yours do slowly. He’s watching you; did he watch you when he stripped you naked? How long was he watching you? Your heart races with the writhing pulse between your legs as you rub your arm along your nipple, your hand moves to your core, brushing against your clit as you move your fingers against your lips, the breeze of the interior now seeping on the slick you play with your fingertips. The car sways a little out the road as you cry out a louder whimper, pebbles rolling under the tires, vibrating the seats, adding you on.

Some part of you wants him to pull the car to the side, come to join you, grab you by the ankle and yank you out the car, do whatever he wants to you against the asphalt. Some part likes this piercing gaze through the reflection, of him biting the insides of his cheek as he groans lowly and shifts himself on his seat. From the little frame of the mirror, his free hand is out your sight, but you hear it. Hear his belt loosening as the metal hits the strap. You hum as you increase the pressure, circling your much thinner finger around your hole before sliding in, clenching around them as you slide the latter finger.

If he were to tell you to call him by his name before, you’d moan it. Now, all that leaves your mouth is loud and lewd sounds as the saliva clicks against your tongue, synching slow with the in-and-out of your motion, trying to reach your g-spot with the tips of your fingers.

This won’t last long, are you sure if this is what you want?

Open your eyes, where are you going? Did you even ask? Pill wears off slow in time, fear stings beneath arousal’s guise, your slick skin sticks to your hair, to the now warm and wet cushion under you. Everyone seems to be asleep but you two, as he takes you into the unknowns of the lovers. Your fingers demand release, rubbing and rubbing hastened than your breath, ill imagery fills goosebumps on its way down to your spine, in texture of his icy fingers. Your teeth sentinels at your lips, hard against skin, against the impulse to speak his name— a bare boundary to still not cross on your book. Maybe you could’ve stopped it if you wanted, but you’re not the one driving. Truest valour lies not in defiance, but in surrender. So you do, let it all out.

It's a hushed stillness of something trembling under, the radio scratches before it turns a sepia-tone song spilling cadence, a gentle sway as you massage and pull your soaked legs to your chest, laying on your side as the road keeps hurling forward to an endless terrain.

#cod simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod ghost #cod mwii #call of duty #cod x reader #summary off Hannibal #now that I have this out it’s time for another looooooooooongv time again

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minas-linkverse · 5 months

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My goal this year was to get Rabbit Roadtrip done, so, that worked out quick! I'm quite proud of how far I actually got this year with the storyline, I wasn't expecting to get to Wild's reflection until 2024!

I'm not sure what to expect or hope for next year, but at least I'm setting myself the goal of getting some proper content of Masks finally. It's about Time BA DUM TSH--

Also thank you to everyone who sent an ask telling me to have a happy new year! I hope you'll all have a good one too! And the person reading this! And your friends!

#Linkverse #Art Summary 2023 #Webcomic #Artists on Tumblr #It wasn't an easy year for me #It's nice having LV to fall back on when I feel lost #Thanks for sticking around everyone!#Let's make this another good year <3

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ninja-knox-ur-sox-off · 2 months

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AU where Zane Ninjago is the previous master of ice. like when he transferred his elemental powers over he also transferred his soul and he low-key reincarnated into this robo-body. cool beans. this means there's the potential of Zane starting to glimpse bits and pieces of past and not knowing why he can see it. the things master Wu talks about--why can he see them as if he were there?--he feels like he has experienced personally. give Zane a whole other crisis on top of after he finds out he's a nindriod not a human. this also means Zane in old clothes and styles from Master Wu's time whenever he has flashbacks which is a neat visual. like heck you could have someone other than Wu have previous villains that show up! you could balance that out a bit! Master of Ice's previous nemesis shows up ready to throw down when they discover he's technically still alive but also not. Zane questioning if this is his life at all. if he's Zane or someone else. If he was Zane before or if he was nothing. If he's Zane now or if he never was to begin with

#knox rambles #Zane Julian #Zane Ninjago #LEGO Ninjago #this'll probably not become anything big <- has said that for every au #just in case tho what are we calling this uhhh #Master of Ice...? no that makes no sense he's already the master of ice uhhhh #ice is another form of water it can never really be destroyed it just becomes something else ohhh that's good if i wrote a fic that would b #like the summary or first line talking about the different forms of water #water holds memory or whatever this would be a heavily Nya and Zane thing i can feel it #Glaciated Memory AU #because i'm needlessly fancy lets go with that yeah #WELP THERE WE GO Glaciated Memory AU good morning y'all #i haven't looked at ninjago stuff for years so the chances that someone has already made this au is high WHEEZIGNSD;FLKM

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monarchisms · 8 months

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geoff coming back to the let's play channel to play video games like, 5 years after leaving AH because he got burnt out on video games:

#sorry/you're welcome if you found out this way #i found out through a tweet from andrew that f**kface was taking over like. the moment i woke up #there's also more information on reddit #geoff ramsey #achievement hunter #f**kface podcast #i'm not making another summary post for this one #because i stopped listening to the podcast a year ago 🎉#rooster teeth

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honestsycrets · 3 months

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This user has been stealing my work, Mio, on wattpad. Does anyone familiar with Wattpad know how I might go about getting it removed? Thank you to the user who called my attention to this. I really do hate it when this is done.

#stolen content #writer things #I filed a takedown on it but not sure if that'll work #miguel o'hara x rader #atsv imagines #atsv fic #miguel o'hara/reader #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman 2099 fanfiction #miguel o'hara fiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel reader insert #man they even took my summary #i just wanted to come back to prepare another piece for posting and got a whole anxiety response off this i want to cry

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simikae · 6 months

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four hundred and ninety yen

#paranormasight #my art #my finished stuff #LONG SUFFERING SIGH FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY AS I GET INTO ANOTHER RANDOM ASS VN #anyway.#such a wonderful game was so so enraptured with it. everything abt it appealed to me specifically #from the mystery genre to the themes of grief and living to the presentation to the ludonarrative harmony #absolutely shot up to one of my favorite vns ever #all tjat to say. PLEASE check out the summary and get it if it sparks an interest at all its so worth it #very unique experience of a vn. love love love it

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cellsshapedlikestars · 3 months

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She's buried on a cold, dreary day in late January. That’s all Jon can seem to think about at the funeral. It’s too cold, the sky is too grey. Bleak and barren; there isn’t even snow. It’s an inane, intrusive thought. It could rain, at least, he thinks. The sky should weep for her. The universe should mourn. It doesn’t make sense. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t understand why anyone would murder Sansa Stark.

read it here on ao3

#jonsa #jonsa fic #it's another supernatural murder mystery y'all #i cannot help myself #genuinely curious how many people will click on this given the summary lmaoo

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exhuastedpigeon · 2 months

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Buck when Eddie can’t hang out because he’s got plans with his girlfriend: Bummer man! We can hang out after our next shift then.

Buck when Eddie can’t hang out because he made friends with a hot, older firefighter with access to a helicopter: OH I SEE. I guess he hates me. Our friendship must have meant nothing to him. He’s going to leave the 118 and leave me and I’m going to be all alone forever. I guess I should try to ruin the friendship subconsciously by being a petty asshole.

#this is how I imagine the next episode going based on the stills and summary.#this is the first time we’ve seen Eddie make a friend outside the 118 isn’t it?#because besko joined the team for a bit #and even with Bosko Buck was a jealous monster #though that was because he thought the whole team was replacing him #but maybe this time around Buck won’t sue the city #though imagine that lawsuit.#peak judge Judy ass case #my best friend made another friend so I’m suing for emotional damage #Evan Buckley #911 #911 spoilers #Eddie Diaz #buddie

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otaku553 · 4 months

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i love your art, it's so cool!! for the req, can i request cloud from ff7 <3

Thank you! Here’s cloud :) his hair was difficult to figure out,,,,

#ffvii #cloud strife #why is his hair like that. Chocobo ass #man. he is the protagonist of all time #fun fact ff7 is another one of those games that I have never played but know extensive amount of lore about #mostly for fic reading purposes haha I osmose a lot by going through playthroughs or summaries or wiki pages #and then the rest I osmose through fanfics

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fallloverfic · 1 month

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The Tomb of Dragons by Katherine Addison to release on 11 March 2025

The end of Sarah Monette/Katherine Addison's The Cemeteries of Amalo trilogy, a spin-off of The Goblin Emperor (together known as The Chronicles of Osreth) has been listed as releasing on 11 March 2025, with cover art by Sachin Teng, design by Esther Kim, and there's now a summary:

"Thara Celehar has lost his ability to speak with the dead. When that title of Witness for the Dead is gone, what defines him?

While his title may be gone, his duties are not. Celehar contends with a municipal cemetery with fifty years of secrets, the damage of a revethavar he’s terrified to remember, and a group of miners who are more than willing to trade Celehar’s life for a chance at what they feel they’re owed.

Celehar does not have to face these impossible tasks alone. Joining him are his mentee Velhiro Tomasaran, still finding her footing with the investigative nature of their job; Iäna Pel-Thenhior, his beloved opera director friend and avid supporter; and the valiant guard captain Hanu Olgarezh.

Amidst the backdrop of a murder and a brewing political uprising, Celehar must seek justice for those who cannot find it themselves under a tense political system. The repercussions of his quest are never as simple they seem, and Celehar’s own life and happiness hang in the balance."

#sarah monette #katherine addison #the goblin emperor #the cemeteries of amalo #the chronicles of osreth #thara celehar #velhiro tomasaran #Iäna Pel-Thenhior #this is awesome #sad it's still about another year out but it's nice to have an actual date #also the summary sounds awesome #fallfnewsposts #now with a book cover #though it's only appearing on the ebook release for some reason #sachin teng #esther kim

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fictionadventurer · 10 months

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The more I learn about Civil War politics, the more I'm convinced that Lincoln's most impressive and useful leadership trait was that he never let his pride get in the way of doing his job.

Other people in Lincoln's position would have come to Washington with something to prove. They'd have resented the insults and tried to disprove them. They'd have tried to seize power and credit, rejected help, spent a lot of time trying to reach a certain level of respect.

Lincoln's response to, "You're just a backwoods lawyer with no executive experience who makes too many dumb jokes," was pretty much always, "Yeah. And?" He had no interest in petty personal power plays. He had a country to run. There was a war on. It didn't matter what people thought of him so long as the job got done.

He was aware of his personal shortcomings and was always willing to accept advice and help from people who had more knowledge and experience in certain areas. He presided over a chaotic Cabinet full of abrasive personalities who thought they were better and smarter than him, but he kept working with them because they could get the job done. For example: Stanton was absolutely horrible to him when they were both working as lawyers. Just incredibly mean on a personal level. But when Lincoln needed someone to replace Cameron, he swallowed his pride and appointed Stanton as Secretary of War, where Stanton proceeded to be mean to everyone in the world, but he whipped that department into shape and kept it running efficiently through a very chaotic war. Pretty much no one except Lincoln would have been able to put up with that. He could put up with people who were personally difficult if they could do the job he needed them to do--which he was only able to do because his own ego didn't get in the way.

Lincoln's example is a prime demonstration of how humility isn't underrating yourself--it's being so secure in your own abilities and identity that you don't need to attack anyone or defend yourself to prove your worth. He knew his shortcomings, but he also knew his strengths. He was willing to give other people credit for successes and take blame upon himself for failures if it kept things running smoothly. He was secure enough in his own power that he could deal generously--but firmly--with people who tried to undermine him. In a city full of huge egos, in a profession that rewards puffed-up pride, that levelheaded humility is an extremely rare trait--which is what made it so impressive and effective.

#history is awesome #presidential talk #so i went to a teeny backwater thrift store today #their tiny history book section just happened to have an old lincoln biography #i opened to the page about the cabinet #which describes the situation like 'seward was calling himself premier and lording it over everyone'#'blair was causing problems everywhere'#'welles was insulting everyone in his diary and especially hated stanton grant and seward'#'and stanton hated absolutely everyone in the whole wide world'#and as i was reading this i was internally kicking my legs with excitement and cackling with glee because this is the good stuff #i don't know why but i love these horrible petty men #they're like a bunch of raccoons fighting over territory in a dumpster fire it's so great #i read the whole chapter right there in the store #and it impressed upon me yet again how impressive lincoln was to put up with all these guys #(the writer was a bit simplistic and made a lot of these guys come off as worse than they were)#(like he made seward sound like a complete incompetent when he was a pretty good secretary of state)#(he had some grandiose ideas but the man deserves a lot of credit for keeping england out of the war)#(but for a one-chapter summary of these guys it wasn't exactly wrong and it was a ton of fun)#i very much did not want another book especially another american history book #but it was only fifty cents and i have a pouch full of spare change #and the writer's style was so much fun that i decided to take the book with me #i don't plan to read the whole thing (i'm sick of lincoln bios) but it's fun to dip into for things like this #and i had to talk to you about it

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