#Corrupted Flesh Records

[chixkencxrry]

crazy, crazy for loving you

Summary: Loss can make people go insane. (Yandere! Miguel O’hara x Yandere! Fem! Reader)

MINORS DNI

Warning: They’re both insane and a bit immoral. They are both very, very unstable people. This is a dark story of mutual obsession. (Mutual Non-Con Voyuerism, Mutual Masturbation, P in V, Swearwords, Mutual Stalking, Mutual Non-Con Spying, Oral (F receiving), Dark themes, Cockwarming) YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS ON YOU AND YOU ALONE!

When you see him, it's hard to keep your hands at your side and not run to him. It’s hard not to look at the man that wears your dead husband’s face and not weep like a baby. But you know it isn’t him. No, this man with the war in his eyes and fangs of a beast is not your Miguel.

But, God – God, did you wish it was. 

So, yes, you were quick to agree to be apart of his little operation. Quick clipping the gizmo onto your wrist. The Spiderman logo spread along your torso like some awful red target. He knew your name, but it was obvious that you didn’t exist in his world. If you had, you were sure they would have been together. No. The you of his world was dead, like the him of your world. It was darkly poetic. 

Lyla had taken a liking to you – his AI. She unintentionally helped you keep track of him; you didn’t stalk just keep track. 

Then it happened. The fine click that had truly sent your observing of Miguel corrupt into something else, something darker. 

Something had caused the collapse of your world. It was a war, much like the great Titan on EARTH-199999. Your world crumbled before you; you already didn’t have much left after the death of your Miguel but now you had nothing left. 

When the collapse of it came, you were not on the battlefield with the other Avengers. You had been in the cemetery, fingers clawing into Miguel’s grave – determined to bury yourself in there with him. The cold mud coated your hands and body, knee digging in. You were about two feet deep, mad with intent. 

“Y/N?”

The word stilled you. It was Miguel, you turned your head in a horrible hopefulness. Disappointment settled on your shoulders, in some half-mad frenzy, you’d thought it was your Miguel. But it wasn’t it was Miguel.

“Leave me alone.” you growled. “My world is dying.”

“You don’t have to.”

I died when you did.

“I’m right here, Y/N.”

“No.” you muttered, fingers in the dirt. “You’re below. I’m getting you out.”

A warm body dropped down, covering your back and pushing you forward. You wiggled and fought but felt a pinch at the side of your neck. Your mania subsided, a false peace overwhelming you. Before you knew it, you collapsed in the mud. 

It had taken weeks of manic behaviour. They had to sedate you to get you to calm down – barricade and and chain you to stop you from attacking. You’d gone mad. 

When Miguel came to visit you, you’d taken a turn for the better. 

“I heard you broke Spiderman 8077’s jaw.” Miguel doesn’t seem amused. He stands over you – through the fizzing cage that electrocutes you everytime you touch it. You can’t bring yourself to snarl or fight. You look at him – flesh, bone, hope. 

“He tried to make me forget.”

Miguel flinched. “He suggested something to help you sleep.”

“If I sleep, I forget him.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Miguel’s tone was soft and low. You closed your eyes and imagined being home in your apartment, the record player on and rain falling. Miguel dancing with you, dipping you low and laughing on your skin. 

The daydream dissolves when you hear the click of your cell open. His voice of stone ordered; “Lay down.”

Instinct, really – the way you move to the cot and wiggle until your back hits the wall. The bed shakes as Miguel’s massive frame sets itself on the bed. He held you, pulling you close. He smelt like your Miguel. Felt like him too. But were all rugged edges compared to the softness of the man you were married to. Your fingers threaded in his hair, snagging a few by accident to bring them to your nose. You tucked some strands into your suit. For later.

For the first time in years, sleep came to you with ease. With that ease came the confirmation of what a gift reuniting with this different Miguel was. You had a second chance. Now, it was time to make use of it. Properly.

***

Miguel had started watching you when your world collapsed and you’d transition to his universe. Now, it wasn’t that he hadn’t been stalking – following – shit – observing you before. He’d just wanted you to get used to the Universe first. Ensuring you had a good identity, a day job and income. 

You’d been grateful. So, very grateful.

He imagined that gratitude as something baser, raw and trembling. But he knew not to test the hand of fate. Yet he hungered for you. The devotion you’d shown to your husband, a version of him, was indescribably delicious. He wanted that for himself. Wanted you, all tears, all love. Each aspect of you a memorising thing; greed flooded him at the thought of claiming you.

It seemed like fate to offer you the guest room of his apartment. He hadn’t used it in years, and it was a waste not to let you in. You’d jumped at the opportunity – a perfect gift. You didn’t know what you were doing to him. Yes. Having you in his house, showering, eating, naked, open – mierda!

 He took a deep breath to cool himself down. You were still at the dorm quarters of HQ, significantly more sane than you were a week ago when the two of you first slept together. Your scent still lingered in his mind. Lilies and cucumbers, fresh and vibrant. Thick and rich, god – he wanted more of that. More of the security of holding you. More of having you have him. The feel of your body curled into his, the softness of your silk skin breaking the delicate thread of his self-control. 

Miguel looked at the room he’d allotted to you. Climbing to a corner to screw in a non-reflective camera. Getting you here was the first step and he was a patient man. Miguel had to make sure the apartment looked lived in. Making sure that some floorboards creaked, chipped at some paint on the walls, and ensured there was a leaky faucet in the guest bath.

His watch dinged. Fifteen minutes away. 

Lyla flickered into existence. “Wow. This violates so many laws.”

“Didn’t ask.” he grumbled, wrenching open a panel of the wall to place a listening device.

“You get that for free.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Anamolly on Earth-7834, they need backup.”

“There are thousands of other Spiders to call.” He placed a nail between his teeth, hammering the panel back on.

“Yeah, well, Y’N asked for you.”

That made him pause. Swearing, he hurriedly put the panel back and suited up, tapping his gizmo and falling into a different dimension. 

***

You only felt a little bad for deceiving Lyla. 

Sure, Miguel would probably be pissed when he found out that you had lied and made his AI lie to him with some clever coding but it would be worth it in the end when the two of you were finally together. You just couldn’t get out of HQ unnoticed without some sort of distraction. So, you figured what could be better than calling in a favour with a friend you’d made while traversing Universes? Felicia was more than willing to play the part, ever wanton for chaos. 

She helped you cause a minor anomaly which sent off enough of the Spiders off and allowed you to sneak into Miguel’s apartment. You looked for the master – the only room with a photo in it, one of him and his passed daughter. It broke your heart to know the pain he’d experienced. But you knew you were here now and more than willing to provide comfort and a new child. You’d even let him name the first one. 

You weren’t here for that. You were here to plant a few presents. Sticking to his bedroom ceiling, you planted a camera in the corner, near his closet. In his bathroom, by his shower and mirror – you planted another one. 

Time was limited. You knew the false alarm would only give you a short time. Before you left, you went through his closet, nose dug into his clothing and inhaling his scent. Sandalwood and oud. God, the earthiness sent a shiver down your spine. Unable to control yourself, you snatched a T-shirt and left through the window. You have five minutes left until your proposed arrival. Five minutes until Miguel consensually lets you into his home. 

Foolish boy.

If only he knew what you had in store for him. 

***

Miguel hurriedly returned home. Frustration laced his sojourn, as he tried to figure out just how Lyla had mistaken you calling out the anomaly of you being there and requesting his help. It was probably some bug. A minor thing he would fix after he greeted you. 

One minute left.

He was cutting it close, climbing through his window and showering as fast as possible. He hadn’t even had time to dry himself off when the doorbell rang, pulling clothes on with wet skin. 

“She’s here!” chimed Lyla, a little too cheerfully.

Miguel rolled his eyes. “No soy sordo, Lyla.”

When he opened the door, you were standing there with just two bags and a smile on your full lips. Eyes fluttering up at him with thick lashes and a soft look; “Hey.”

“Come in,” he welcomed without preamble. Miguel purposefully kept the space for you to pass narrowly. You were shorter than him and plush as you passed, buttocks jamming him slightly as you turned your back to pass in. Your toes shoved behind your feet to slip out of your shoes without him asking, he forgot for a moment that you knew him, even if it was another version. There were parts of himself you probably knew better than anyone did.

That made him excited. 

“Your apartment is lovely.” You said earnestly. “Where do I put my bags?”

He moved to you, taking the bags and walking ahead to lead you to the guest room. It wasn’t bad. A queen-sized bed and all other necessities for a room. Miguel gestured to the opened door, “That’s the bathroom.Might give you some trouble but you’re welcome to use me – I mean mine anytime.”

You didn’t seem to catch him fumbling – ayúdame dios – walking around the room to get a better view. In the dim light, you looked fantastic, the neon of the outside shining on your skin and the expanse of your perfect skin exposed in those tiny shorts you wore. 

Jealously bloomed in his chest. Had you fucking worn those on your walk here? How many people saw you? How many men had seen you in this way? Feral rage gripped him. Miguel set your bags down in the doorway, stepping back before he did something violent. 

“You eat yet?” the question came out as a snappish growl which seemed to startle you. He cringed. He didn’t want you to fear him – he just wanted you to know your place as his. 

Your brows furrowed. “You good, Miguel?”

“I’m dandy, princesa.”

A delicious blush bloomed on your skin. The honey was not enough to stop it from beaming forward. He wanted to drag his tongue down – to see how far this blush went. “I-I haven’t eaten yet.”

He smiled a slow, easy grin. “I’ve got some food in the kitchen. Eat with me?”

“Sure.”

Dinner went by slowly. Not in an awkward manner but it was agonising all the same. Agonsing to watch you sit across from him, agonising not to touch you, agonising not bit into your flesh and claw into your pussy with his hard cock. 

His patience wore thin but he maintained. 

The two of you had drinks afterwards, sitting on the couch until it grew too late. You yawned, hands stretching to the ceiling and pointed breasts jotting out through the cotton of your tank top. Your hoodie was abandoned somewhere. He eyed the pleasant curves of your body, the grooves that came from you being Spider-Woman and the softness that came from your natural figure.

“I’m gonna take that shower.” You announced. “Thank you for letting me stay with you, Miguel…I really appreciate it.”

Could you appreciate it with your mouth around his cock? “Of course. Anything for you. Y/N.”

You smiled prettily scampering off into your room. Miguel wasted no time in heading to his own, pulling up a camera feed from your bathroom. He sighed, watching you undress. You were humming along to something, hips shaking and hands running down your body. 

He raised his hips, shoving his sweatpants down. His half-hard length plopping out. Fingers encircled the base, rubbing up and down as he watched you move. 

You stepped into the shower and he switched the cameras. You sodded your body up, perfect nipples hard and hand slipping between your thighs. You rubbed yourself frantically. Rolling your nipple under your palms as you humped your fingers. 

Miguel turned the volume up, his own cock coated in his special essence as he watched you. His hand became frenzied, tighter as it took him closer to an orgasm. His peak came as your voice sounded the last thing he expected to hear. 

His own name. 

“Meirda…Y/N…you want me too, baby?” He coated himself, groaning as you slumped on the video. You shook off your climax and finished showering, stepping out with a glow. He restarted the video, turning the volume louder – thankful for his soundproof room. 

The knowledge that this wasn’t one-sided set something off in him. He threw his head, stroking himself from top to bottom. Desire coiled in his belly, like a snake ready to pounce.

Who was he to deny your wants, princesa?

***

Your fingers rapped on Miguel’s door somewhere close to midnight. You’d timed it perfectly. Your fearless leader hardly slept anyway so you were sure you wouldn’t be intruding. After all, you were sick? Weren’t you? The pills weren’t working, you needed to sleep. You hadn’t slept properly since that night. Lies concocted to make it all work. You just had to maintain your facade of innocence. 

You smiled, thinking of Miguel’s little performance for you on your camera. You’d seen him stroke himself over and over at some random video feed. You saw his thick seed spurt out. Saw the girth of his length twitch to life. Fuck. You wanted that. 

“Y/N?” Miguel’s voice was hoarse with sleep. You softened your face and frowned. “Did I wake you up? I’m so sorry…I just couldn’t sleep and you’d helped me that night…”

Ever generous, he opened his door wider to let you in. He’d changed form his earlier sweatpants. No doubt it was covered in his own spunk. A shame, really. “Of course, come inside. I’ll get another blanket for you.”

“Oh no.” You showed him the lilac blanket you’d brought with you from HQ. “I have my own.”

“Hmm.” He led you to the bed and slipped behind you to spoon you as easily as he had that night. You hummed, wiggling against him. You made sure to throw your blanket on both of you. You heard Miguel groan behind you, his body shifting and arms holding you close.

The synthetic material was interwoven with your pheromones, wired to set Miguel off. That night he had slept with you, you had plucked hair enough to get his DNA to pattern it so that it made him rut like a beast in heat. It was a chance you were taking. It would only work if Miguel wanted you too – if only a little You grinned, smiling as your payment boiled up. Miguel would be yours, it was what was best. 

Even if he didn’t know it yet.

Hours passed. You laid awake listening to him torture himself. Your patience grew thin. Why didn’t the idiot just hold you down and fuck you yet? “Miguel?” You whispered. “Everything alright?”

He murmured in Spanish, nothing clear enough for you to even hear. His hand, large and spanning, set itself on your hip. 

You ground your ass into his crouch. “Miguel?”

“Cállate princesa,” he growled in a tone that made your toes curl. An excited smile spread across your face. “I need to take a walk.”

That made your smile drop. “Now? It’s so late.”

He didn’t say anything, his weight lifting from the bed as he went to hurriedly dress. His back turned to you as he tried to be modest. Your eyes dropped to his round ass. Was he really going to go out and fuck some bitch after you did all the work? Not on your watch. 

“Miguel,” you dropped your tone, low and purring. “Come back to bed.”

He turned his head, eyes red as they flickered over you. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

Was he afraid of losing control? How adorable. You sat up, letting the blanket fall from you, the muscle shirt that was three sizes too big fell off your arm exposing an entire breast to him. You were being desperate but you’d be damned if he wasn’t going to rearrange your guts tonight.

He paused, staring at you. You almost grinned. That seemed to do it. 

He dropped the t-shirt he held and crawled over to you, pressing his forward to your as he inhaled your scent. “Tell me this is real.”

Oh.

You desperate thing. How I will devour you, How I will keep you. “It's real. I need you, Mig. I want you.”

His lips slammed onto yours. Tongue piercing the seam of your lips to kiss you fully. His hands pawed at your body, grabbing and groping at everything. Your sleep shirt was ripped in half as he claimed total access to your body. Your hands touched him everywhere, settling on the hump of his buttocks, pulling it close to your hips. You rubbed your bare crouch against his sweat, humping him with blind need. 

Miguel pushed you back, your head hitting a pillow as you watched him take his cock out. The fat, beautiful thing you’d been dreaming about riding since you met him. There wasn’t anytime for preamble – you wouldn’t suck the beautiful thing just yet. 

He stroked himself for a moment, red eyes boring into you as he lowered his face between your legs. Miguel ate you sloppily. Lips smacking and tongue licking, he sucked your swollen clit, pressing his index in and out of your weeping pussy. 

You gripped his head, arching your back as your thrust your hips up, truth spilled from you: “Eat me so good, Miguel. Fuck, you don’t know how long I wanted this.”

He was too busy enjoying his meal to respond. The lewd noises making you tremble as much as the act. Miguel’s fangs brushed against your folds, before he fucked your pussy with his tongue, pressing his dampened fingers to rub your clit as he licked your insides. 

Clenching around his head, your mouth spewed all manner of dark desires, the height of your arousal squirting all along his face. Words failed you as he continued to worship your pussy with his mouth and fingers. 

He raised his head for a moment. His left hand cupped your tit for him to suck while his other fingered you to your second orgasm. Thumb rubbing your clit in precise circles as he bit and sucked your areola. Faster than the first, you mewled your orgasm out on his fingers. Miguel let your nipple fall, watching you as he sucked his fingers dry. He sat on his hunches, leaning back as you writhed, quivering pussy begging for more. Begging for his cock. 

“You look pretty like this princesa, pretty falling apart in my bed for me. You want me to fuck you now? Want me to spread this pussy wide? Want me to make you fucking bawl? Beg for it, baby.” His face read of cruelty while his lips purred to you. You watched helpless as Miguel looked down on you. One of his hands stretched forward to your wanting hole and slapped it. You whimpered. He grinned and slapped it again. 

“I want you to know something before I fuck you,” he whispered, leaning forward, mushroom tip brushing along the seam of your slit. “You’re mine, princesa. You’re my puta. My perra, zorra. Mi amor. Mi todo. And I’m greedy, so when I fuck you – know that it's all over. I become your world and you become mine.”

You bit your lip. The words fell like poetry in your haze: you were truly made for each other. Did he even know how perfect he was for you?

“Ye…s.” You croaked out. “Yes, Miguel.”

His hips snapped, bottoming out into you so hard you screamed against his laughter.

***

Was this heaven?

Miguel had long since thought he was banned from such a place. Long since thought salvation was removed from him. But right now, while he held your waist and fucked his cock into you – he knew he had found it. You looked divine. Your mouth agape and hands rubbing all over him. Your breasts, bounced and full as he made his mark in you. He wanted every groove of his cock known by your pussy. His cock was to be imprinted, moulded into you. You were to know no other but his by the time he was done fucking the common sense out of you.

“My pretty cock dumb, princesa.”

You hummed, heels digging to his ass as his hips snapped. You squeezed him tight but he knew he was leaving marks on your body as he fucked you into his mattress. “Gonna keep you on my cock every day. You'd like that wouldn’t you, perra?”

“Love t-that.” Nails scrapped his back. “G-Gonna cum.”

He could feel that in the tightening of your pretty cunt. The slimy stickiness of your desire echoed in the room, he pinched your nipple making you cry out. “I know, princesa. Do that for me. Cum on my cock.”

Miguel felt your climax, wet and whimpering. You cried beneath him, overstimulated as he fucked you. He fondled your breast once more, hand going between the two of you. He rubbed your sensitive clitoris, smirking as you moaned from the ache. “Good girl. So pretty crying like that. Think you can go again?”

You shock your head, tears forming in your eyes. He felt his balls grow tight but kept at your clit. You shuddered at another shockwave. Finally, he thought leaning forward to cover you until your breasts smashed against his chest. His own release came, loosening the taut feeling that had centred his whole body. Miguel’s hips jerked, making sure his seed took its rightful place in you. 

When he tried to roll off, you kept him on. He looked at you questioning.“Don’t want any to drip out just yet.”

“No chance of that,” he muttered, kissing your neck. His hips jerked, as he found himself in a slow rhythm. “I’m not nearly done with this pussy yet.”

***

“I don’t think I’ve ever visited this universe.” you pointed out at one of the monitors. It was an Earth without a Spider-persona filled with cannibals. 

 Miguel looked to your side and grimaced. “Fuck no.”

You rolled your eyes. “What’s the sense of me being here if not to go to unknown places?”

Miguel huffed, hand sneaking under the skirt of your dress. “Princesa, you came here because you saw me talking to a female Spider-persona and then insisted on warming my cock for the rest of the afternoon.”

“So?” You waved your hand. He was lucky you didn’t her to that universe. Perky little bitch was looking a little too googly-eyed at him. “Maybe I was bored. You ever thought of that?”

“You can always go back out on the field.” He suggested.

You snorted, rolling your hips to make him hiss. His cock twitched, surrounded by your leaking cunt. “The last time I went on a mission I thought you were going to kill my poor partner.”

“He was being a little too friendly.” 

“Honey,” Miguel’s hand slipped inside the front of your dress, popping out your full breasts as he slowly rocked up into you. “Peter from Earth-997845 is very much engaged to Johnny Storm.” You wouldn’t mind going out again but you were so comfortable living simply with Miguel and helping him manage HQ. Who was he even talking to? He hadn’t gone on a mission for the months you two had started seeing each other either.

“You’re a hyp–” he stood up, making you bend over the desk, your breasts hitting the cool metal, he pressed the side of your face down as he slowly plunged in and out of you. “–ocrite.”

“Me?” He grunted, hands going up and down your sides as he took his time dragging his cock. “You’re the one who assaulted me in my office just so you could fill it up with your scent. You don’t think I know your tricks, zorra?”

You grinned, working your hips to meet him. “You better make me squirt a few times – just to make sure the scent takes then.”

Miguel chuckled above you, his talons ripping open your dress as he made good on your challenge. 

MASTERLIST

I'll probably make this a reoccurring thing. Hope you guys liked part 1. Reblogs and comments are nice.

#miguel o’hara x reader #black!reader #miguel o hara x reader #miguel o’hara fanfiction #yandere! miguel o’hara #yandere reader #yandere! miguel o'hara x reader #dark fanfiction #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara imagines #spiderman #miguel o hara smut #miguel o hara #yandere miguel o'hara #yandere Miguel ohara

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

How To Adapt To Fire (III)

AU MASTERLIST || THE FINAL PART

PAIRING: Fireman!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Journalist!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.4k

WARNINGS: Fire(s), intended harm, death/gore, murder, crime, corruption, arsonist mystery plot, protective!Johnny, flirting, intense banter, attempted murder, burns, needles, injuries, one dirty joke, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Running, the wind whips past your face with the force of a hurricane. 

The screams echoed over the abandoned neighborhood, leaking and rising as the illumination of a burning body sent slashing shadows along the remnants of houses. Flailing arms and sizzling flesh. It followed you as your feet slapped the concrete, satchel still at your side and your breath echoing in your ears. 

You don’t know where Duncan is—and you dare not look behind you as you dart into someone’s lawn, bee-lining away from Kurt’s now-silent inferno of burnt hair and cooking meat. Grass that grows up to your knees is shoved aside, broken down to the earth as your panting breath is too loud in your ears. It’s all you can hear now, which may be the worst part.

“Holy fuck,” your hiss under your breath, sweat dripping down your neck. Your hands were skinned in your little fall off the steps, but the sting as you slap your palm to the side of one of the houses is lost to you—pain doesn’t matter when adrenaline takes over. “Holy fuck.”

Your fingers drip crimson along the siding, but you’re gone again with ragged inhales, snapping eyes wide. You need to try and circle back for the car, you tell yourself. Patting your pockets for the hard pressure of your keys, you dash past a trash can and sigh when you feel them still there. 

And then you hear the whistling. 

It’s over the air, and in a skid of shoes, you halt and listen intently—a bird in the eyes of a fox. Lungs heaving, your head jerks around as a tune wafts up and pierces your ears. The sound echoes over the houses, flying across fallen roofs and peeling paint. You’re frozen, night corralling you in. 

“Who does this dude think he is?” You ask, a deep fear in your heart and an eerie feeling up your spine. 

It was getting closer. 

Heart stuttering, your legs take you up the back steps of a house to your left, hand snapping to the rusted handle and shoulder ramming into it. It gives way on the second shove, slamming into the far wall before you hit the ground and push on once more, the air gone from your body.

If Duncan can murder his own cousin in the way he had…what could he do to you?

Feet shuffling, your head moves quickly, taking in the decaying living room and joint kitchen—falling stairs that you instantly choose to run up, hands burning. 

Your only hope was the car; you needed to get to a vantage point, find out where Duncan was, and try to avoid him. It wasn’t any different than what you’d seen on TV…right? 

The wooden floor creaks like brittle bones, and you move across it while the scent of fire is still in your nose—gasoline and dead eyes. Your eyes go from one open door to another, beds covered with moth-eaten sheets. From outside of a broken window, you see shadows along the street; whistling. 

You choose a room at random and slink inside, hands already jerking into your satchel and pushing aside the active recorder—reaching for your phone. 

Looking between the window and the device, your dripping fingers slash through contacts until you can find the only one you think to call immediately. 

Smashing down on the green button, your phone is right at your ear as your heartbeat pulses like a drum. As it sits there, you gaze outside, panting with blood smearing along your flesh. You can’t stop thinking about Kurt—how you’d seen a man get burnt alive in front of you as if it were nothing. You’d heard and witnessed a lot of things and had been in more courtrooms than you can count…but nothing would ever top seeing the whites of a man’s eyes as his body erupted into flames. 

“Okay, okay,” the phone quivers, clothes ruffled. You hiss softly, not willing to make more noise than you have to. “C’mon, MacTavish.”

A long shadow looms in the streetlight and you drop to the floor swiftly, knees slamming the wood, just as the click on the line pushes through.

“Dearie,” the Scot’s teasing voice is a godsend. “Didn’t expect you to call so soon. Not that I—”

“I fucked up,” you breathe, and the fireman’s audible snapping of his mouth would have been comedic in any other situation. “I really fucked up, and I think I need a little intervention here before I literally go up in the flames of my ambition.”

You’re talking so fast you doubt he can even understand you, but you continue as your forehead peaks above the window frame. 

Duncan is at the house next to where you’re hiding. Standing out front with a gas can in his hand and a matchbox in the other. You watch with horrified eyes as he walks to the front porch, pours the accelerant, and steps back to light a match. 

“Oh,” you growl through a hurried gasp. “So now he decides to change M.O.”

The neighbor's home alights. 

He’s trying to corner you.

Johnny’s panicked voice wafts through. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Listen,” you watch the fire spread, hands spasming. “I was going to wait for you, alright. J-just then I decided to not do that and I—”

“What the fuck!” There’s fast movement on the other side of the line, seemingly paper and pencils hitting the floor as fast feet slam the ground. 

“It’s not my fault I’m a stubborn bitch!” You snap, moving your free hand to the back of your neck and rubbing along the sweat there, smearing crimson. “I can’t get back to the car right now and Duncan is lighting the entire neighborhood on fire to try and catch me. I have all of it on the recorder, and I can’t lose the evidence for the inevitable court case.”

Johnny’s voice is so serious and hard, you know you’ve never seen a side like this from him before. It’s nearly a growl. “I don’t give a shit about fucking evidence. Where are you?”

You rattle off Kurt’s address from memory, face streaked with light from the fire. It was going to spread to this house. The wood is like free food just waiting for it willingly; you have to move before it catches. With the condition of the home, it would only be kindling for a larger blaze ready to overtake the street. 

Johnny’s voice is heavy. “Stay where you are and—”

Your laugh is grim, and you move out of the room rapidly as the boom of falling wood makes the ground shake. Breath nothing more than a shaky jump in your nose, you push out, “Not an option.”

“What do you mean ‘not an option’ what the hell is going on over there?! I swear, I told you not to go without me!” 

“Bring the fire trucks! All of them!” You shout and hang up swiftly as Johnny’s loud call of your name is silenced. 

You’re halfway down the stairs when the back door you’d previously busted through creaks on its hinges. 

Above fire, above the pattering of your pulse, your eyes are stuck-still. Stationary. Stiff. 

Duncan stares at you—and you stare at him. 

It’s like time utterly stops, hit in the face by a metal pipe before its teeth get knocked to the ground in a clatter of white enamel. Shell-shocked. 

Your phone rings again—Johnny, no doubt, but when it does, Duncan pounces.

He tosses the gas canister to the ground, followed by a quick match as you curse and race back upstairs. The whoosh of flames bursts into existence as hard boots follow after you, hot on your heels. 

“Shit!” You yell, calling out a firm and fearful, “Duncan!” 

A hand swipes at your shirt collar before you duck and pivot, shifting to brace your feet and ram your shoulder backward. The man takes the force right to the chest and shouts, tilting on the steps with a flailing arm, fingers that card through the air. 

But you’re not quick enough in the rabid getaway. 

A hand latches onto your wrist, and then you’re being yanked down with him into the awaiting arms of the burning fire.

—

Johnny’s whole heart is more active than when he and you were stuck in the sheets together—arousal is nothing compared to the fear he feels. 

The man’s legs carry him quickly into the engine room, grabbing gear and sending out the alarm. Already calls were coming in from dispatch, worried civilians who had said they’d seen what appeared to be twin fires off into the more abandoned parts of the left-to-rot suburbs. 

His panic extends to the next country it’s so far-reaching. Your call—your voice—the things you’d told him and, worse, what you hadn’t. 

Why did you have to be so stubborn?

He needs to get to you, and he can’t breathe properly until he does.

It doesn’t take the firemen long to get into the trucks—the red demons rocketing out of the station with every blaring alarm at their disposal, and at every bump, Johnny’s stiff eyes glare openly at his lap. The others dare not say anything to him; they all know that look.

A man on the edge of a fraying line. Stuck on the knife—waiting for the final twist. 

With all of the gear, MacTavish could be compared to someone heading straight into war, and with the following wail of police sirens, maybe war was where he was always meant to be. Johnny fidgets, his fingers clenching and unclenching above the meat of his thighs, helmet on his head nothing but a weight of reminder. He was there to stop fires—he was there to put them out. 

But even God knew that the second his boots hit the ground, and the rest of the firemen were grabbing the hoses, he would be running into that inferno without a second glance backward. 

Johnny was born and bred from fire, and at the very end of it, the flames would take him back.  

Not yet, he’d say. Not until she’s safe. 

The Scot grabs the face-piece at his feet, fixes it over his visage, and listens to his own rabid breath echo back to him. It was louder than any other sound he’d ever heard.

The shaking of his fingers is a traitorous beast.

—

Dragging an arm over the ground, the first thing you do is cough through black smoke. 

Mind delirious, you blink rapidly, stinging eyes unwilling to stay open for long simply due to the spike of irritation—instinctual tears blurring the few moments of clarity to be offered.

You choke on nothing and burn through all of it. 

Flopping, you force your body up onto its hands and knees, the world tilting even then as palms drag and fingers dig. The second your tears slap your knuckles, a leg to your ribs is kicking you back down. 

Yelling in pain, you sprawl to your spine, body bouncing as the sound of fire eating away drywall and dead wood sizzle in your eardrums. Your skin is sweltering, and you can’t stop the flood of sweat dripping off your flesh—it nearly hurts.

Head shaking, wet hands grasp at your wrists forcing them back. 

“You could have left,” Duncan hisses above the waves of spreading fire. If you wanted to live, you had to get out now. The very bones of this house are threatening to buckle like the spine of an old man—visible rafters beginning to cave. Splintering wood. Creaking. “You could have stayed out of it!”

You yell, legs kicking out with the strength you can muster above the carbon monoxide coursing through your blood. Your muscles need oxygen. You need to breathe.

Your lungs are too tight.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Cursing, your body lashes, Duncan and yourself battling along the burning ground as the roof across the room caves in, sending ashes and a large tsunami of orange rolling ever upwards and a shockwave that gives a sliver of an opportunity. 

The both of you hiss, arms moving up to protect your faces. 

Your clothes are ruined—ripped; torn. You don’t even care about any of it. There’s a ferality to you now, a bleeding fear that far drowns even the blood of your skinned hands. As you’re trying to stand again, Duncan tries to barrel into you. 

“I warned you to stop looking into it!” He rages. “Look what you made me do! I killed Kurt because of you!”

You grapple for your satchel, his shadow nearly on top of you before your arms flex and spring like the trigger of a pistol. Swinging the bag back, you send it in an arch with your hands gripping the tough material. The heavy thump and grunt resonates quickly as you hack again, sirens just beginning in the distance totally lost to you. 

“Maybe,” you speak on smoke-tight airways—a heavy wheeze as the fire licks your arms. You shout, almost dropping your bag. “You shouldn't fucking kill people!” 

Your hands grasp the satchel once more, lifting and striking down as Duncan yowls, finally grabbing it and tearing it out of your hands. He wraps his arms around your waist and sends you both directly into the heart of the blaze with an animalistic shove.

Crashing, the immediate flush of fire is so hot that it’s cold—like you’re plunged into ice, even as you feel your skin sizzle. Yet, the resounding scream is nothing compared to the roar of rage as an axe is taken to the last standing wall of the house. 

You fight with Duncan all the while the heat overtakes you, clawing and yelling; nothing more than a banshee of snapping teeth and hatred. The man forces you down, the warmth cooking the skin of your back one patch of flesh and fabric at a time. 

Fingers curl your throat as you dig your thumbs into your aggressor's eyes, choking; wheezing. Black begins to settle in front of your hazy vision, seconds leaning into longer glimpses of moving shadows and growing pain—a pain that adrenaline can only do so much against. And then, just before Duncan’s blood can drip down to your face, his eyes leaking and red, he’s ripped off in a flurry of fast hands and muffled calls. 

An oxygen mask flashes across your dying field of view, and a helmet—a fireproof jacket. Wide, panicked cobalt eyes. And yelling…so much yelling. All of it is stuck behind material that makes it sound like there are voices hidden underwater. 

Hands skimming your shoulders, dragging you out quickly as your bloody fingers grasp in dying panic—fading senses. There are others too, three inside of this house all frantically moving. Ducan is being restrained as well as he’s able to be, dragged back with two sets of hands—one on his shoulders the other on his legs like a child. 

You, on the contrary, get taken up in a fast set of arms more bulky than they are not, shoving you into a heavy chest until your face is hidden into a neck protected by a high collar. 

“Pencils!” Your body burns, and your face contorts as your focus can finally bleed into it. 

Shaking—quivering, your ears are ringing and the rushing feet below you jostle your form. 

Finally making it outside, it’s not a moment later that the entire house falls into itself, a tomb of fire and near death—lost to all but ash. Sirens are suddenly louder; shrill voices. 

Johnny’s hurried voice, and the sound of a mask being ripped off of his face. “Medic!” 

You pant, mouth opening but no words coming out beyond a sharp gasp for fresh air. Something is fitted over your face before you’re lying down on a cot, and your fingers reach but meet air. Head craning up, you blink just in time to see it as the EMTs begin jogging over to their ambulance. Johnny moves and grabs his helmet and throws it to the ground, barking something so loud that you’re broken mind can pick it up.

“Give the fucker to me!” The accent makes it all the more violent, and as your oxygen mask is strapped to your head, you stare owlishly, visage awash with blood and tears. You don’t even want to look down at yourself, and in this haze, you’re not even sure you’d be able to. 

But you can see the rabid events unfolding like your very own TV show. 

Firemen try to grapple Johnny back, but it’s useless to try and stop a brick wall. The Scot shoves one away before his gloved fingers snatch a restrained Duncan, and throws him up on his charred legs.

Senselessly, the arsonist smiles—it’s a distant, psychotic thing. 

“You know the journalist—” A fist is sent hurtling into his face.

Falling back, Duncan cries out as his nose breaks in multiple places; shattering like glass under the force of a steel hammer. 

“Get over ‘ere.” Johnny’s voice is raspy; guttural. You cough and the EMTs connect an IV to your arm, quickly nearing the ambulance as they try to coax you to lay back down. “Bastard! I’ll fucking kill you!”

Bending above Duncan’s body, MacTavish gets in two more sharp blows before he’s torn away with yells and orders—shoved with appeasing pats to his arms and desperate pleas to hold out. 

The police rush over, restraining Duncan and forcing his unconscious body to the side. Blood stains the ground, and the fires continue to blaze—others in the background trying to push it back. 

Chest heaving, your throat is raw, but even so, as the EMTs can’t stop you from weakly peeling back the oxygen mask, you call hoarsely, “Johnny!”

You’re loaded into the ambulance just as his eyes snap over, his chest rising and flailing through all of that gear still visible. Calming words find your ears as the medics move the oxygen back over your nose and mouth, holding it so you can’t take it off again. 

The back door is about to be slammed shut before the familiar square face bullies itself in. 

“Sir, you can’t—!”

“Drive,” the fireman shuffles into the seat directly across from you as large, damp, rags are set over your flesh in quick succession as you hiss, eyes flinching shut. Johnny grunts at the EMT who blinks quickly before he twitches at the sound of your pain; jaw clenching. “...Before I get into that seat myself.” 

The engine rumbles to life, and Johnny’s the one who takes your hand into his and drops his tone—moving closer. It takes a moment for his worry to be shoved behind a lens of surety, not for himself, but for you. 

The uncertainty in your eyes made him want to storm backward and show Duncan what fists can do when that’s all you have to rely on instead of cowardice. Fire was a tool of a weakling, and no man was weaker than one who tried to murder someone like you and your bright intellect. But there was no use thinking about it now.

“Oh, Hen,” Johnny’s voice cracks, eyes glancing you up and down quickly as the EMTs do their work. You wouldn’t be awake much longer—if you managed to fight the pain, they’d put you to sleep for your own safety. 

The burns were…they weren’t good.

“Hey, now,” the fireman eases, forcing a small smile and capturing your ash-smeared cheek. He doesn’t care about the state of his gear—the heavy oxygen tank on his back—all he needs is to hold you; even as little as this. “You just let those boys do their jobs, yeah? They’ll have you back up in no time at all, Pencils. Breathe for me, Dearie.” 

Your fast breaths stutter and the scrape of your vocal cords makes Johnny flinch, his eyelids pulling in as a grimace shifts the lines of his face. 

The man fights with himself to snap at the others and make them tell the driver to push the gas harder. He knows they’re going as fast as they’re able.

You try to speak, but Johnny shuts it down with a firm shake of his head. Seeing the packages of sterile bandages being unpacked with rapid hands, knowing the sting that will follow as they’re placed on leaking skin, the Scot moves closer and lightly shields your vision of it.

“No, c’mon now, don’t speak.” An unsteady smirk. “I know I take your breath away, but let's just wait until you’re at the hospital for all of that, eh?”

At the jerky glare coming off of you, a sliver of his panic leaves him.

Johnny tries a weak chuckle before it falls flat. 

Your eyes pick up on the agony before the black at the sides of your vision sweeps in—taking you away as the first press of wrappings along your back make themselves known. His hand stays firm at your cheek; thumb moving over the skin until that’s all you can focus on anymore. 

His touch. Not the fire’s—not Duncan’s. His. The same man that held you close and watched your back. Who had run into a burning house for your safety even if that was his job to do so. 

Johnny seems to be thinking the same because before your head goes limp against the cot, the familiar drawl sings you to sleep.

“…I would have searched that house for you until it fucking took me with it.”

—

The voice recordings from your charred satchel were in police custody, just as Duncan was. 

Along with the thick bindings that had taken home along your back and the upper part of your shoulders, there were others. Your voice was still a crackling mess—as if the fire had left behind a remnant of itself there, an ever-bending and shifting shard directly in your throat. Not even water could get rid of the itch, but you’d been told it would get better. 

All things considered, it could have been worse. 

There was a shit load to do—to explain. Duncan's involvement as well as the deceased Kurts, whose face still haunts you even now; it probably always will. 

Johnny’s shadow flashes in front of yours and you blink quickly, clearing your head. A pause emanates, and the man’s brows tighten. 

“What?” You try to clear your throat and grimace, the hospital bed uncomfortable for you. You’d much rather prefer Johnny’s. 

“I asked you if you’d want any more blankets, Bonnie,” the Scot’s head tilts. He hums. “More medicine? Feeling alright?” 

“So doting,” you huff, fingers rubbing at your neck before Soap sighs and stands from the side chair he’d been in. “No, I’m…fine.”

“My job.” Johnny grunts and his hand pushes away your own, fingers finding the spot that itches internally and carefully massaging until you’re like putty in his hands. In fact, you nearly purr before you sag into him, eyelids drooping. There’s a smug glance tossed your way. “And I don’t mean to brag, but I think I’m doin’ pretty good.”

Your lips pull, vision slipping upward. “Careful, people will think I got married over the span of three days.”

Johnny blinks, “Didn’t we?”

Your face burns. “No, MacTavish we did not. Hot-head. All the fumes go straight to your head, I swear.” All the talking was only aggravating your voice, but for the life of you, you can’t stop. 

Johnny rolls his eyes, skull tilting. A bead of serious talk leeks in as his fingers shift from your throat to your head, tips stimulating your scalp which you hum approvingly to. “What’s the plan?”

You think for a moment, letting the man come and lay a firm kiss on your temple. Your heart knows he intends to stay with you through all of this—already he’d been out on paid leave about the whole ‘attacking a restrained man’ fiasco. The bastard deserved it, Johnny had growled to you yesterday as he helped you drink water. You had to agree. 

“Sleep,” your answer is soft and simple. There was no use fretting about the whims of a far-off tomorrow. The future is a fickle creature, ever changing shape to fit the image it wants to play with like a doll at the nearest moment—there was never a pen in your pocket that was trying to jot down its profile; to understand it. Johnny was here, the bed was warm, and his hands were kind. 

That was all you needed.

Cobalt eyes stare for a moment at your response, before the Scot chuckles. “...Well, I can’t fight you there.”

Your hand lightly snares his wrist, and you pull him to you, letting his body melt back onto the bed until you can rest your temple on his shoulder and sigh out your tension. Johnny’s arm curls carefully to rest on your lower back, as delicate as glass. 

It’s a while before he speaks again. 

“You really did worry me,” he whispers, staring into the ceiling and trying to make images out of the shadows on the ceiling. “If I hadn’t gotten there…”

“You did,” you utter, eyes half-closed and fingers rubbing at his stomach. He shivers. “One-way road, Johnny. Stop that.”

“Doesn't make me feel any better when you’re stuck in here for two more weeks.” A smile pulls your face and he glances down, feeling it against his shirt. “...What are you smiling about?”

You hide it into his chest and he shakes his head in exasperation, scoffing.

“I swear, I’m the only one who cares about your safety and then I get mocked for it.”

“M’not mocking you,” your muffled voice grumbles out. “You’re just pouting.”

Johnny grunts, rolling his eyes. “Course.”

“Proving my point.”

“Next time I leave,” Soap’s lips are atop your head, muttering. “I’ll be tying you to the bed and watching you through the camera.”

A thin trail of jumpy laughter echoes out into the halls of the hospital, and your response is just as quick as it always is—as it always would be through Hell and high water. This wasn’t an ideal situation, and there would be more trials to come both literally and metaphorically, but Johnny made for a good rock through all of it. 

He certainly was a better informant than you intended him to be. 

“Ooo, Mr. MacTavish,” a loud groan, laced with a fond, almost worshiped, adoration. “I didn’t know you could be so risqué.” 

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

#cod x reader #cod #cod x you #call of duty #x female reader #cod mw22 #call of duty x you #mw2 #mw2 2022 #cod mw #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x you #soap x you #soap x reader #soap call of duty #call of duty x reader #modern warfare x you #modern warfare x reader #cod x female reader #x fem!reader #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #john mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x you #mw2 soap #soap cod #soap mw2

[stealingyourbones]

*slowly shuffles a wooden box of finger bones towards you* so I have two ideas for you

So, what if ghosts like, really screw with video technology, so it all kind of looks corrupted at all times- so when Danny starts recording like a blog of daily like in amity park (maybe as a way to cope with Trauma) and he posts it, maybe people outside of amity could think it’s all just like, an ARG or analog horror- if you want to go with dc/dp here, tim could be trying to solve a nonexistent mystery

For idea two, do you know ab the mystery flesh pit? If you don’t it’s basically an unreality where a gigantic super organism is turned into a National park and it’s then shit down when the organism basically coughs in its sleep and destroys a lot of stuff-( also be warned, there is a lot of body horror involved in this, so if anyone’s sensitive to it maybe don’t look at any content!) so maybe Giant Danny is taking a nap and some villains find the GIANT GHOST TAKING A SLEEP and decide to hook him up to be used as like, a battery or Lazerus pit (if you go the route of his blood being lazerus water) and the heroes get involved trying to figure out what’s happening

oh man that would be so fun. Danny just takes a little school project 10 minute documentary of the town and doesn't think too much of it when he submits it to Youtube so he can send it to his teacher.

A week later and every ARG/Analog Horror nerd on the planet has heard about this brilliantly well produced video called "Amity Park"

Now knowing this, He decides to have some fun. He takes ominous shots of mundane Amity life and splices them between the more normal scenes of himself and his friends having fun and hanging out.

He amps up the uncanny level. Throughout all of his videos, he starts to tell a slightly dramatized version of his life, not the Phantom stuff, but his life as a Fenton.

The whole world watches in awe and delight as this refreshingly new Analog Horror channel posts nearly twice a week with some of the most stunning CGI that they've ever seen. I mean 'c'mon, Sentient food. A child living in the house of two mad scientists who casually mention dismembering and destroying ghosts at the dinner table. An honest to god crazy scientist lab with a massive portal to this 'Ghost Zone' just in their basement?! Yeah, whoever made this has an absolutely incredible imagination. (Some people are even dissing it since this GZ really just feels like a warped version of The Backrooms but it's fine, it's unique enough that it makes up for it.)

------

I am a hoe for any and every topic that Wendigoon talks about in his videos so I very much so know about the Mystery Flesh Pit. (Video is linked but be warned; Benji isn't joking when they say that it's a LOT of body horror.)

I'd like to propose that Danny isn't even on earth, he's on a different planet that has collected his blood and harnessed his core for energy on a massive scale, helping create and produce items that benefit their world greatly.

To Danny, Their mining, harvesting, and energy draining efforts are the equivalent to bacteria moving around his body. He's so massive that this civilization isnt impacting him in the slightest.

The JL get called because this strange planet superorganism is now moving and it's causing the destruction of an entire civilization.

They fly over to the planet and they notice something very very wrong with the shape of the planet.

First and foremost, the two eyes spanning the equivalent width of Texas that stares up at their ship is new.

#sorry if this makes no sense yall im so tired #danny phantom #dp x dc #dc comics #writing prompts #dpxdc #dp x dc prompt #bones replies #benjis-art-and-reblogs #homie i could kiss you ty for somehow mentioning my favorite ARG/funky worldbuilding work of all time

[nerdypixel]

Items mentioned

Prefacing this with the caviat that I will write some associations in brackets behind the items, as I just can't unsee it.

large false plant in a somewhat disconcerting ceramic pot modelled on a shouting human face (reminds me of the Spiral)

a large Bearskin rug with really sharp teeth (the Hunt maybe?)

a large chandelier of dark glass (the Dark?)

an oversized gramophone with a collection of records of what I believe to be religious plainsong (reminds me of Father Burroughs)

A crudely-carved rocking horse

a grandfather clock that leaked some sort of dark oil

A heavily vandalized set of the Encyclopedia Britannica

an extensive collection of abstract canvas artworks (Daria? Ink5oul or the Spiral)

two large, soiled Crinoline dresses (this could be the Stranger)

a Chaise Longue with cushions filled with some sort of coarse sand

a taxidermied vulture (we have seen taxidermi before)

a rusty antique printing press

a collection of old medical equipment that had seemingly been recently used (the Slaughter?)

some sort of leather kite

an oddly curved brass telescope

a wheelbarrow full of shifting fossils

an armload of swords (Slaughter?)

lengths of rope

A tin bathtub filled with moldy food (the Corruption)

a stack of old dental retainers

a brace of half-butchered pheasants (Flesh like)

jars of what appeared to be pickled hands (Flesh like)

This all feels like a mix between so many different things. We have a list for orientation now.

#tmagp #tmagp spoilers #the magnus protocol spoilers #tmagp 7 #the magnus protocol

[spitdrunken]

Can I have a oneshot about yandere!Rollo masturbating with one of readers articles of clothing he somehow got his hands on without their knowledge, and maybe he fantasizes about them praising him? Bonus points if he gets emotional-

notes: yandere

Rollo is used to having a monster live underneath his skin. The thrum of magic in his veins, the flames that lap at his very flesh. But after meeting with you, a poor, magicless student that had been thrown into a lion's den, he has another burden to carry. Where, before, he'd been wishing to erase magic for the good of society as a whole. Now, when he thinks about it, your face is what takes center stage in his mind. He's never had another person infect his mind so quickly.

(He wants to save you. He wants you to look at him like he is a good person, to tell him that all his struggling, all his pain, would be justified in the end. He is not in the wrong. He has never been in the wrong. In this story, he's never been the villain.)

The urge to look into your room is unbearable. So, on the day that he can least afford distractions, during the time that you are eating breakfast together with all those disgusting mages, he sneaks in. He has a key that fits every lock.

And, right there, on your bed, your suitcase has been left wide open, beckoning him. Rollo simply can't resist. His legs are staggering, and his fingers are shaking as he reaches out to the first thing he sees: one of your shirts. As soon as he grabs it, he crumples to his knees, and hugs the fabric to his chest. A whiff of your scent travels up to his nose.

Rollo is breathing through his mouth, trying to keep it calm and under control, but it keeps speeding up. With a shudder, he realises that he's hard.

(And this, this is what he hates. This is a part of himself that is unapologetically selfish. It hungers.)

You've been nice to him. You've smiled to him. To all of his explanations about the history of the City of Flowers, you listened with unblemished interest. There is little to justify such a strong attraction, in such little time- But this is how he feels, isn't it? And tonight, after the Crimson Lotuses have dyed the city red, you will look at him with nothing but gratitude in your eyes.

With a hiss, a sharp intake of breath, Rollo buries his nose into your shirt, and places his hand over the bulge in his pants. He rubs so hard it burns, rutting against it and feeling (filthy, disgusting) a kind of relief. Tears spring to his eyes and stain the fabric of your shirt.

This can't be him, he tells himself, this is not a part of him. He's not like any of the others, he's good. All this is, is magic corrupting him- He had no choice. Tonight, he'll be released from its tainting influence forever. It's fine, he's good, and you'll tell him that, in your gratitude, you'll never be able to forget him-

In record time, he cums, staining the inside of his underwear and pants. All of the energy is sapped from his body at once, and he falls forward. In this position, he looks like someone kneeling at an altar. He bunches his hands up, the fabric wrinkling in his hands.

In the cleansing fire of today, he hopes nothing of this part of himself will be left, either.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #rollo flamm x reader #rollo flamme x reader #yandere #cha.rollo #cw.yandere

[mochiroreo]

Oh goodie! (Teaser)

18+ MINORS DNI.

Pairing: Older!Eddie Munson x innocent!nerdy!reader (afab!reader) x Older!Steve Harrington

Summary: being a latchkey child, you are used to being alone. So when your parents announced that your whole family is moving to Hawkins, you paid them no mind and just packed up your bags. What you are not expecting was that the house that your family just bought comes with two neighbours that are in dire need to have you in any way.

Trigger Warnings: she/her pronouns. DUBCON. NONCON. 100% FILTH. Smut. Unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it). Hidden relationships. Age gap. Cream pie. Size kink. Degradation. Corruption. Choking/slapping (in a pleasurable way). Pet names (no use of y/n). Fingering. Squirting. Overstimulation. Public sex. Recording. Dark!Steve Harrington & Dark!Eddie Munson

Author’s note: English is not my first language and I might have not proofread this- sorry if the warning is long already! It might be longer as I am adding more as I go with this whole fic. Let me know if I missed anything though, my sweets! 💜

“Come on,baby.. Come on. You can do better than that.”

A pair of hazel eyes mixed with hints of green stares at you in awe, cooing on how you try to speak without being a babbling mess. You can feel the slow hum of wind outside from the window, the only thing cooling you right now despite it being humid, your skin feeling sticky and coated with a light sheen of sweat. The man fixed your glasses that now sat crooked on your nose after tucking some loose strands of hair behind your ear.

You tried to look at him without whimpering, taking note of how his arms look taut and firm as he fold it in front of his chest with the sleeves of his black button down folded. His thick, hazel hair that are now peppered with white strands which was styled earlier is now unkempt. He is sporting his own glasses that sat handsomely on his face. His features are breath-taking. As if the angels took their time to make him, if only his eyes were showing softness instead of desire. Lust. He was clearly watching you with amusement, trying to take all of you in.

Smack!

The sound was sharp and bounced on the walls before another one came.

Smack!

“Look at her,Eddie. Isn’t she the prettiest? You are.. aren’t you?”

Plump, soft lips found your cheeks, trying to kiss your tears away as they pepper both of your cheeks with light kisses. The said man kept on thinking how they manage to get such an angel in this situation. Desire pooling his crotch at all the sinful things he wanted to do to you.

“She is, Harrington. She is..” A gravelly voice answered him. You tried to look up at the man that just spoke but another smack landed on your ass cheek. You squirmed under his hold, rubbing your thighs for a reason that you weren’t sure earlier but is now aware. You tried to deny how wrong the feeling is but you can only feel yourself getting wetter. Your thighs feeling stickier than earlier as you moan and sniffle. You keep on producing slick as your pussy clench on nothing. Suddenly, your clothes feel a bit tight with how warm it has gotten.

“Would be the most perfect girl if she can only count properly. She already forgot how many she was supposed to count, s’keep on moaning.” Eddie snickered, teasing you. He landed another smack before groping your sore flesh.

“Please..” you pleaded, looking back at the man that is currently holding you down and massaging your sore skin. His long, wavy hair is now tied in a messy low bun. Big, brown doe-eyes sparkling with mischievousness. His pale-tattooed arms holding you down firmly. You kept your eyes on Eddie’s face, drinking him in and his soft features despite landing blow after blow on your sore backside. Hissing when you felt his cold rings land where he smacked you, you let out a sob. You felt tired but also intoxicated as if your senses has been heightened. Your eyes were fluttering, eyelashes kissing your rose-coloured cheeks because of the warmth of Eddie’s body and the hot summer air of Hawkins.

You really don’t know how it started. How you ended up being bent over Mr. Munson’s and Mr. Harrington’s lap. Both men were taking turns at first on smacking your ass cheeks and squeezing it while making you count loudly, Steve’s fingers ghosting your clothed cunt that were slowly dampening the thin material of your underwear. While Eddie is whispering how you are just made for the both of them. You squished your cheeks on Eddie’s thigh, your mind slowly blurring the events.

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #steve harrington smut #Dark!Steve Harrington #Dark!Eddie Munson #Older!Steve Harrington #Older!Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Y/n #Steve Harrington x Y/n #possessive steddie #mochi writes #eddie munson imagine #steve Harrington imagine #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson fandom #steve harrington fandom #perv!steve harrington #perv!eddie munson

[statement-continues]

Here is our list of every artifact in the statement and what entity we believe they align with. We are more confident about some than othersss ... PLEASE share your opinions

ceramic pot modeled on a shouting human face- stranger

large bear skin rug with sharp teeth- stranger

large chandelier of dark glass- dark

oversized gramophone with a collection of records of religious plainsong- dark

crudely carved rocking horse- spiral

grandfather clock leaking dark oil- end

heavily vandalized set of the encyclopedia Britannica- weeeeeb?

extensive collection of abstract canvas artworks- spiral

two large soiled crinoline dresses- buried

chaise lounge with cushions filled with course sand- desolation?

taxidermy vulture- stranger

rusty antique printing press- eye

a collection of old medical equipment that seems recently used- slaughter

leather kite- flesh

oddly curved brass telescope- eye

wheelbarrow full of shifting fossils- buried

armload of swords- slaughter (woooow the slaughter being as subtle as a knife lol)

lengths of rope- vast??? (I'm so sorry, we tried our best)

tin bathtub full of moldly food- corruption

stack of old dental retainers- corruption

brace (a pair) of half butchered pheasants- hunt

jars of pickled hands- flesh

ancient diving suit filled with sawdust- buried

a broken picnic hamper- lonely

a jar of imperial copper coins- slaughter

#the magnus protocol #tmagp #alice dyer #samama khalid #tmagp spoilers #tma spoilers #tma entities #sam khalid

[devildomcrybaby]

▸ Obey me! Yandere Lucifer x MC

Minors do not interact includes: overstimulation, mentions of biting and spanking tw: dubcon, blasphemy (well we're talking about demons, aren't we)

In the Devildom you are small. No matter your height, your size, your strenght. You're small and it's a fact. Even lower demons tower over you, bleak suffocating ferment clawing at your throat every time you walk past them.

They don't sleep out of tiredness but out of sloth, they don't eat out of hunger but out of gluttony, they don't crave touch out of love but out of lust. Uncanny corrupt creatures forsaken by an unforgiving God. They're strong and unwavering and you're not, not compared to them, there's no helping it.

And there's no helping the feeling that builds in your core, burning in your stomach yet again, as you hide your face behind your forearm. Racing heart and flushed skin, heavy quick breaths trying to quieten the high-pitched whines unwillingly escaping your lips. The only other noise in the room is the rustling of the black satin sheets under your restless feet.

There you are, small in between Lucifer's legs on his ridiculously large bed. Small is the hand that grabs at his wrist trying to pull his hand away from your abused clit, small are the nails that dig in his thigh. He can hardly feel them, yet you grasp him with everything you have. You call out his name in a sob and he shushes you, his voice soft yet firm, condescending.

He lifts the RAD uniform shirt to your collarbones, his single hand covers your whole chest. He says he likes to feel your heartbeat.

His other hand between your legs makes you sob again at the realization that you could only yield to your fate, any prayer reaching the ears of a deaf God. No, not deaf. Lucifer wants to hear your broken prayers.

Just like the God he loathes, he still demands your devotion as he denies you mercy or grace. Isn't he just like a God in that room, in that very moment? Although not an utterly cruel one. How could he, when he loves his pupil so dearly.

He brushes his nose against your hot cheek, humming to your whimpers as he would to a cursed record.

"Do you want to stop, little one?". He's so gentle, so delicate as he speaks. His fingers move slowly now, your breathing steadying even though you still wince in his arms every time he rubs a particularly sentivive spot. You shake your head no as you chant his name twice, not begging anymore, but longing.

"I want you inside of me".

Lucifer removes his hand, wet fingers now caressing your bare thigh as he draws you closer to him like he yearns a contact that can never satisfy him enough. Your back flush against his chest, he adjusts your gray skirt as he lowers his head to kiss your lips. His deliberately slow movenents do not conceal his dire desire. You put a hand on his cheek, the other one gripping the middle of his shirt pulling him towards to you.

Do you hate me? He longs to ask. Do you dread me? Yet you let him so close to you, you kiss him with the bruised lips he bit and you drag him on top of you as the skin he spanked brushes painfully against the sheets. You don't push him away, no. As your hands scramble to feel his bare skin, you demand more of him instead. Then he knows that the sheer devotion he holds in his heart is not denied. That you'd never deny him. Sharp horns and torn wings, hungry teeth and ruthless nails drawing blood from your tender skin, fingers sinking in the flesh of your hips, words of adoration turning into vicious invective if he catches you turning your eyes to one of his brothers.

The delight and the horror, you crave it all.

I was listening to Requiem in D minor, K. 626 while I wrote this, of course it turned out like this.

#Eve writes #obey me #obey me lucifer #lucifer x you #obey me smut #lucifer smut #dark content cw #lucifer #obey me shall we date #lucifer x y/n #yandere x reader #yandere

[shizucheese]

So full disclosure, I actually listened to episode 7 on Saturday, but this episode had so damn much to it and I got a bit side tracked by a theory that I'm still working on but I really want to get this out before episode 8 comes out.

As usual, if you want to see the continuously updated and reblogged version of my red string board, you can find it here.

Today is Tuesday, 2/27/24. Episode 7 came out 5 days ago on 2/22/24.

“Talkers”

Norris (Voice: Martin?/ Alex)

Episode 1: “Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret [Email]”. The Stranger? The End? The Dark? The Lonely? The Flesh? Arthur (Nolan?).

Episode 3: "Infection (full body" -/- Arboreal [Journal entry]". The Spiral? (Paranoia? Auditory, visual and olfactory hallucinations) The Lonely? The Corruption. The Flesh? (Callbacks to the Flesh Garden from S5)

Common Themes: Hearing the voice of a dead/ missing loved one?

Chester (Voice: John?/ Jonny)

Episode 1: “Transformation (eyes) -/- Tresspass [chat log]”. Magnus Institute, The Eye. (Involves a forum; the Web?).

Episode 5: "Disappearance (undetermined) -/- Invitation [Internet blog]". The Eye (Movies. Movie name: "Voyeur" "Must be seen to be believed"...). The Web? (Another website?). (Very reminiscent of Mag 110: Creature Feature.) The "poor old guy" at the theater is totally an Eye avatar, right? Kinda gives me "Simon Fairchild when he was first introduced" vibes.

Episode 7: "Agglomeration (miscellany) -/- congregation [email]". The Stranger. The Burried. The Desolation. Possibly all of them if my theory about the items the Volunteers brought in is correct...

Unsure if this is Eye related like the other statements were. This is also the first "Chester" statement where the source material wasn't from a website or blog, which don't have the same expectation of privacy that the sources of the other statements do. Email, though, so still internet related, and this seems to be an open letter rather than personal correspondence, so it still might align with the theme.

Agustus: (rare?)

Episode 4: “Collection (blood) -/- musical [letter]” The End. The Lonely? The Slaughter.

Letter writer thinks passing on his violin might allow a part of himself to live on in his nephew. Very Jonah Magnus of him.

Music teacher hears “faraway music”, then goes crazy and throws himself out of the carriage and dies. Reminiscent of Mag7 and the Piper? The merchant’s wares include dice (Mag 29?). Got the violin from him (took his blood?). Effect of the violin reminiscent to Grifter’s Bone (Mag 42).

(Oliver Bardwell lol very funny guys)

Non-Talkers (?)

Episode 2: "Transformation (full) -/- dysmorphic [video call]". The Spiral? The Flesh. The Stranger. Ink 5oul (avatar/ entity?)

Episode 6: "Injury (needles) -/- intimidation [999 call] "Corruption? The Spiral? The Flesh? The End?

"Needles" reminds me of Michael!Distortion.

Notes and Thoughts:

"It's not like we're dealing with Tape Recorders..." I'm side eying you real hard, Celia. And what's with all of the questions? The "looking for patterns" question is 100% fair but those examples are AWEFULLY SPECIFIC. I wasn't entirely sure I bought the idea that Celia was the same Celia from TMA, but no this is totally her for sure. "DO YOU KNOW WHO JOHN" IS EXCUSE ME? WHAT REAL STUFF?

HILLTOP CENTER BRANCH?!!! 0 managerial or other support from HR; very reminiscent of the weird circumstances surrounding the house on Hilltop Road. Bear skin rug very reminiscent of the Gorilla Skin in TMA S3. The Volunteers remind me of the medical students from Mag34. The email is about events from 2015. This was the same year Gertrude died and John became the Head Archivist in TMA. Why am I not seeing anyone else talk about this?

I have a theory that I was originally going to put in this post but detangling that giant ball of red string entirely is taking too long so I'm just going to put the TL'DR here and maybe make a proper list later if I can ever finish pulling the string on that particular red sweater. Between the items the Volunteers bring in, and the events of the incident itself, what if every single Entity is represented? The gunshots that were heard were the Slaughter. The fire was the Desolation. The person who wrote the email being crushed by all of the items was the Buried. There are a number of artifacts that get listed off that could represent at least one if not multiple Entities (which might be their purpose; considering how many times the fact that the categorization was imperfect got brought up in TMA, it's probably more helpful to view them as a spectrum more than anything else), including some that are very reminiscent of things from specific TMA statements (The bear skin rug -> The Gorilla skin, Old medical equipment -> the syringe in mag 45? The telescope -> Maxwell Rayner was originally Edmond Halley, the Astronomer, etc. etc). So...okay, hear me out: what if this was all part of a ritual, and that's what the "good cause" was? A ritual that involved all of the fears being represented? Sound familiar? Except instead of it being a ritual to start an apocalypse or reshape the world in the image of one or more of the fears, what if it was a ritual to summon something that was associated with all of the fears? Or, rather, what if it was a ritual to summon someone who had been touched by all of the fears? And that's also why so many of the items seem to be analogous to things from statements and events from TMA? Like....maybe I'm wrong entirely. Or maybe I'm right about this being about summoning someone, or something, (maybe someone from TMA? Maybe Celia?), but wrong about it being John who was being summoned. But, again, this incident took place in 2015, which was the same year Gertrude died and John became head Archivist, and I feel like this means something.

#the magnus protocol #the magnus protocol spoilers #the magnus protocol speculation #tmp #tmp spoilers #tmp speculation #tmagp #tmagp spoilers #tmagp speculation #tma spoilers #shizu's red string board

[ermine-57047]

Mundane things that feel like TMA entities

The Buried - When you cover your entire body in blankets but have to poke your head out a few minutes later bc you can't breathe.

The Corruption - Being anxious about opening a tupperware from the back of the fridge, the contents of which have probably been rotting in there for months.

The Dark - When you turn off the lights in a room and walk just a bit faster than normal back into the light.

The Desolation - Burning paper, tossing something into a bonfire just to burn it.

The End - Trying not to think about how the elderly people you know won't be around in a while.

The Extinction - Anxiety about not recycling a singular plastic bottle.

The Eye - Looking at yourself in those little surveillance monitors that show customers in a store what the cameras are seeing.

The Hunt - Playing tag or any other chasing/being chased game.

The Flesh - Picking at your skin, in any way.

The Lonely - Driving at night through the suburbs.

The Slaughter - Killing any sort of bug, stomping on ants just because.

The Spiral - Losing something small, upturning everything around you, only to find the thing in a pocket or a place you don't remember putting it.

The Stranger - Not liking your voice in recordings because it sounds different from how you usually hear it.

The Vast - Looking out the window on an airplane, watching the world fade away beneath the clouds.

The Web - Going through a bureaucratic procedure like renewing a passport or filling out banking paperwork.

#tma #te rambles #tma entities #tma the buried #tma the corruption #tma the dark #tma the desolation #tma the end #tma the extinction #tma the eye #tma the flesh #tma the hunt #tma the lonely #tma the slaughter #tma the spiral #tma the stranger #tma the vast #tma the web #hooo boy that was a LOTTA tags #the magnus archives #the magpod #tma fears

[cosmica-galaxy]

Behold! The "Mechanical T-Rex" of the large mimic world! = + These camera mimics are the large variant of the camera mimic genus, this version is corrupted from the "death spiral" illness. + These large mimics have been given the nickname "T-Rex" of the mimic world. They are strong (primarily) bipedal mimics with the size around the height of a 3 story building. + They have been recorded and documented chasing down vehicles and turning them over, ripping them apart to get at whomever poor souls are inside, be they skibidi or alliance members. The mannerisms are similar to a certain movie scene, hence the nickname "t-rex". + Their jaws no longer are able to close because of the amount of teeth that have grown in and the misshaped teeth also don't properly line up, causing the inability to close the jaw. + The legs have grown into a digigrade leg type to produce more strength and speed when pursuing prey and the claws are able to rip into armored vehicles, even reinforced glass and steel can barely hold this entity back. + Looking into the bright red lens can incite a feeling similar to fear and can cause prey to freeze on the spot. Some speculate that the light is a corrupted version of the "pure" large mimic's light, which is white and far more benevolent.

+ This mimic can reach speeds up to around 55 miles per hour and can take down weaker structures or obstacles, and it has enough stamina to keep up with prey for a little while. + The disease has eaten away at the "upper layer" of the mimic's skin, exposing the "underskin" to the elements and world. However, the wounds don't get infected or infested with any other issues. This is because, upon getting a blood sample from the sample of a dead specimen, the cortisol and lactic acid that this large mimic produces causes the wounds to become acidic...as if it was digesting it's own flesh. + They are known to arrive with the shaking of the ground and they even let out a reverbed roar that sounds like a demented Alpha mimic. The roar can clear out an area of mimics in moments. + These predators are also known to be active during the night and daylight hours, having very little purpose or time to sleep...if they even sleep at all. They only exist for one thing...eat and eat some more. + Their lifespan during the spiral is usually a month or two, after a certain period of time, the beast collapses and no longer has the energy to move, in which the body eats away at itself until the beast finally passes. + One dead specimen has been recovered for study and research purposes. Mimics will still avoid the body, fearing it even after death.

#haxorus imp #hax speaks #cosmica galaxy #cosmica-galaxy #skibidi tag #skibidi toilet mimic #skibidi mimic #my art #skibidi toilet #blood cw #cw blood #cw body horror #body horror tw

[macabresymphonies]

With us being led to believe that Smirke's Fourteen will no longer be sufficient categorization for entities once Magnus Protocol rolls out, I was doing some theorycrafting on what exactly the new categorization is going to be.

Now, there doesn't need to be an actual categorization at all, I'm of a very controversial opinion a lot of scares fell off after we entered the "everything everywhere has a proper categorization and roughly defined modus operandi" as a lot of the dread lied in the unknown, but while putting everything in neat little boxes decreases the scare factor it plays a lot into the core of what Magnus Pod is and that is the attempt to peer into the dark and mysterious to understand it (even when you think you do, you end up failing miserably).

We've seen already that there are some names we recognize and I suspect voices we may know, but they are not what we expect them to be, with entities it will be the same. As we enter a soft reset, I think it will play a lot into the passing idea that peeked through over the course of the series and that is monsters and entities that are largely undefinable in their motive/origin and are not so easily contained by a simple system like Smirke's Fourteen.

I suspect we are entering some weird "The Fly" scenario where transporting so many entities through dimensions resulted in them mutating and/or "crossbreeding" so to speak where they will have identifiers that would contradict the theory of Smirke's Fourteen. We've seen it already in vampires, beings that basically represent all of the Fourteen Fears combined (even though it is assumed they are of The Hunt, they exhibit to also be closely associated with The Dark, The Web, The Stranger, The Flesh, The End, The Corruption, The Lonley, hell, even The Buried if they sleep in coffins and The Vast if they fly). Once we see a lot of them I think that the most appropriate categorization will be one that simply uses multiple categories to describe such creatures.

Are they humanoid, animalistic or neither? Are they inherently agressive, passive or unpredictable? Does their anomalistic nature stem from preforming feats that could be possible, but are not recorded (abnormal), physiology beyond what we could achieve, but still abiding to stuff like laws of physics or biology (supranormal) or completly breaking any law of the known universe (paranormal).

The series supposedly takes inspiration from games like Control and content like SCP or X-Files and I think this type of "specific on case to case basis, but hard to connect together beyond a broad classification" would be appropriate to that. Would also be fun to see how they change over the course of the series, can you imagine a well established animalistic/semi-sentient creature to suddenly start pressenting clues that it's actually fully sentient AND malicious? Dreadful stuff.

Well at least it's how my ramblings go, still very exited to see how the show turns out, because I wasn't there to witness "pins and red strings" era of TMA before the final season hit and it's very much my jam.

#magnus pod #the magnus archives #the magnus protocol #tma #tmp #rusty quill

[tvojemamanaentou]

TMAGP EP7 and TMA spoilers!

Heya everyone! So, while listening to the Magnus Protocol episode 7., one cannot but wonder what all of the little things mean because trust me, there is plenty to Dissect.

In this post i would like to focus specifically on the contents that were brought into the building in the recounting of happenings kindly provided to us.

What the weird people bring inside includes:

Plant in a pot shaped like a shouting skull

Bear skin

Chandelier of dark glass

Oversized gramophone and records with religious praying songs

Crudely carved rocking horse

Old grandfather clock leaking dark fluid

Vandalised set of Encyclopedia Britannica

Abstract canvas artworks

Pair of soiled crinoline dresses

Chaise lounge with cushions full of sand

Taxidermy vulture

Rusty antique printing press

Recently used medical equipment

Leather kite

Weirdly curved telescope

Wheelbarrow of shifting fossils

Armful of swords

Lengths of rope

Bathtub full of mouldy food

Stack of old dental retainers

A brace of half-butchered pheasants (a brace is a unit of measurement)

Jars with pickled hands

Ancient diving suit full of sawdust

Picnic hamper full of china

Imperial coins

🔥🔥 F I R E 🔥🔥

(Hilltop road itself???)

(Security guy???)

And I know we are not supposed to analyse TMAGP through the lense of TMA, but please, indulge me for a minute. Let's try and look which fear could use each of these items.

The Eye

Encyclopedias

Curved telescope

The Spiral

Abstract paintings

Shifting fossils

The Flesh

Jar of hamds :3

Stack of dentures

The Lonely

Chaise lounge (sand->lonely beach)

rocking horse (incredibly lonely toy)

The Vast

Diving suit

Kite

The Dark

Chandelier

Gramophone? (Callback to the cult of desacrated host)

The End

Clock

Antique printing press (It's old and rusty?)

The Desolation

The fire?!?? duh?

China hamper (she stepped on it and destroyed it)

The Slaughter

Bunch of swords

Medical equipment

The Hunt

Pheasants

(Security guy???)

The Corruption

Tub of rot

Dresses (They are soiled)

The Stranger

Bear skin

Vulture taxidermy

The Buried

Skull pot

Imperial coins (She literally got buried in them)

The Web

The lengths of rope

(Hilltop itself???)

I personally find it to be very convenient that all of these would be so neatly divided into groups of two, with very distinct fear allocations, with only a few such as the gramophone necessitating a bit of a leap in reasoning.

Few more notes

Hilltop road could probably be counted as the web as it is the hole in spacetime on which the mother of puppets resided but also through which the fears got pulled through/out

All for a good cause? Such as bringing on the apocalypse??? It is a good thing that need more than just to have a bunch of stuff in one place for that.

That boss of hers taking a vacay for who knows how long, who knows where? Very Gertrude-coded

The new girl in the OIAR definitely knows something... very specific questions she asked

#tma spoilers #tmagp 7 #tmagp spoilers #tmagp #Thank you to my dear friend M. for being my brainstorm buddy #the magnus protocol

[majegfgkj]

Okay this is every text I sent one of my friends while listening to the first two eps of the Magnus protocol

Tmp

Two eps!!! And oh my god it’s 40 mins long

Alex insulting ppl who have listened to every ep lmao

The intro music oh my god

Oh my god is that Jon (it’s not)

Omg I think it’s Gertrude

Nvm her name is Alice

There’s so many characters help

OIAR (what is that??) office of incident assessment and response

The beep is not a tape recorder i’m going to cry (my life is ruined)

Oh my god this is being recorded on a computer how does it come around everywhere

The statements are emails??

Dolls comma watching or dolls comma human skin lmaoooo (we love the Eye and the Stranger)

Omg it’s set like today

Oh my god Alex I can hear Alex oh my god MARTIN ITS THE ACTOR OF MARTIN

I have to listen again

IT REALLY IS

So it’s reading out the real statements

Naming the voices Norris, Chester, and Augustus I can’t

Okay my guess is Norris - Martin

Augustus is 100% Jon

Who tf is chester (like who could it be??)

Oh maybe Chester is Jon which Augustus is so pretentious it’s probably Elias (could it be?)

Oh my god are they trapped in a computer

Okay so the Stranger? Yeah I think

Yes god it’s definitely the Stranger

‘Arthur is that you?’ ‘Some of it’ LMAO

Yeah that was pretty tame

I like Gwen

Oh my god if they’re in the computer they could be in all technology right bc this has to be a different computer

STATIC ‘no one is forcing you to stay here.’ Mhm. Totally

THAT WAS SO DEFINITELY FORCED OUT OF HER

Is this boss related to Elias (no, Gwen is)

I really like Gwen

Help this beep is really annoying I want the ‘click’ of the tape recorders

We’re in the cameras rn aren’t we

I like Sam

This sounds like blinking there’s so much Eye

I feel like the Night Shift would be such a vibe

JON

JON JON JON JON

I HAVE TEARS

MAGNUS INSTITUTE

JON

MAGNUS INSTITUE

2022

JONNNNN

‘Magnus institute ruins’ is throwing me off

Wow it’s weird what a fucking surprise

Wow you’re paranoid what a fucking surprise

Foot went through the floor (worms?)

All the papers taken out, all of the statements???

CREEPY MUSIC PICKING UP

Symbols? Like eyes? Suspicious stains? Like worms?

The photos are disappearing. Interesting

Distortion. It literally said the word Distortion.

Red canary isn’t going to reply are they

‘Canaries should stay above ground’ what a fucking surprise guess who’s definitely dead

I WAS RIGHT ITS EYES

Poor Sam I don’t want him to become an Archivist

What sam has history with the Magnus institute

Okay so who is the most pretentious - Elias

Argh all these beeps idk if I like this

*me trying to work out if she’s joking when she’s says ‘looking for my next victim’*

Sam no what’s happened I like him

He’s ill?

Are we at a supermarket??

Okay who tf is this guy

SKSHDKJD THE MUSICCCCC

THE MAGNUS PROTOCOL IS A PODCAST OH MY GOD

Distributed by rusty quill and licensed under a Creative Commons attribution non commercial share alike 4.0 international license >>>>>

Bro this music is so good holy shit

Okay ep 2

Not as long :(

Who are Christian and coco?

Oh my god Alex’s intro holY SHIT

the music is so good

Computer whirring yay (not tape recorder *cries*)

Sam don’t do that don’t decode it

Gwen and the other guy that’s not Sam are giving tim and Sasha

lowriii

She plays Melanie’s therapist right. So… she’s still a therapist

Okay so the Stranger?

Maybe the Flesh

Wasps?? Corruption?

Mm not Corruption

STRANGER ITS STRANGER

Noooo Flesh its Flesh.

God this sounds like the old statements it makes me so happy, classic tma horror

Lmaooo bosses can’t be respected in this universe

What specific choice made us only able to hear one side of the convo. Who is the other person? Is it like georgie? say hi to ‘smth’ for me. Oh it’s a guy okay idk

Sam no don’t research

GWEN BOUCHARD???? WHERE IS ELIAS

Oh my god do I have to wait a week now that’s horrible

#the magnus archives #the magnus protocol #chester #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #Norris #help where are the tape recorders #elias bouchard #gwen bouchard

[anteroom-of-death]

Teacher's Pet part 15

Synopsis: The Doctor steps into his role as the wolf in this game, fully.

A/n: I had to tone down some of this smut. So it's a bit shorter than intended. Elsewise I fear the worst of tumblrs filtration system. LOL! Enjoy! Love you alllllll!

Apparently a young, fresh companion of his future self had formed this support group after several bad experiences and being dumped back on earth ‘for her safety’.

He didn’t have time to care for whatever this distraction was. He already was at the point of near-snapping. He was not going to risk anything into the future. Live under false pretenses. The cords of the actions set would not weaken under these new stressors…

Obviously, his little fawn would die. Obviously, he’d regenerate. Obviously, this would end.

He drew a line in the sand, no peeking at her or his shared fate.

Meeting her at the front of UNIT, and trying the best to not record any facet of this future girls face or being. Doing so would be a catastrophe, just skate down around and go off into the afternoon and his plans.

A perfect date that would further enchant his pet fawn to his side. Especially since she now had the nattering of other voices in her head regarding him. He had to undo the damage. Keep her from cleaving herself from his side.

He admitted to himself that he was spiraling- and just about ready to cross another line. It was just now a matter of how, and how far…

He set that in a corner of his brain how he would go about this.

She was currently entranced by the arrangement of coffees the café and the cacti available. He would have launched into a diatribe about flowers, but she was leading the charge here.

She was oddly well-versed in the secret meaning one could send another. He was impressed. A secret hyperfixation.

He indulged her and him.

One particular flower meant ‘I give you my soul’. He made a note to buy her some. A shallow offering. As he sold his soul long ago. Her knowledge of these meanings and the gesture would go on to create a meaningful ripple effect in the relationship.

Dinner was great, and a perfect segue to the new levels he needed to take.

It was a very deliberate. Give her a small glance, or trail up her exposed skin and a small hit of her own hormones amped up with a mental reimbursement. She was already becoming undone from her own natural need for him. The secondary reinforcement from him was just foreplay.

Humans loved a bit of touch.

This human was definitely no exception.

After a while, the perfect idea dawned on him. A less overt invasion than when they consummated the success of the term’s end the other week. A quieting one. Make up for the directed hormonal release by appealing to darker desires. He knew the thoughts she held for him. Play into some of those fantasies while he shut down the dissent from within.

He paid for the meal and playfully dragged his fawn into a cab, a bit of dancing…and a bit of glamor. He fully realized that there was no turning back now.

The darkness inside him grinned.

He grinned back.

She wasn’t the most agile at the waltz they preformed. A natural-born klutz. The way she was looking at him reminded him so much of the gaze that she held when they first made true contact. Intrigued, deeply in thought, a bit distracted but firmly all for him.

Eventually, the last call for drinks at the dance hall rang. He paid their tab.

He absconded off with her in tow. Back to UNIT. Back to their room. Back for the next phase in his own self-corruption.

She planted a kiss on his forehead as she went off to get herself ready for bed.

The Doctor started stripping himself down to his bare flesh, save for his boxers.

She came back, with a thick layer of product smeared onto her chest, neck and face.

“I’d like to try something new with you. Always been a secret that I’ve had since we’ve started this…” He lied, like a liar. “But I’ve been so concerned about your fragile human body…”

She finished rubbing some hand crème in.

“Oh?” Her eyebrow arched itself over the ridge of her forehead.

“I want to take you on a chair. I want to bend you over, grab a fist-full of your hair as you dangle over the top and have my way with you.” He didn’t fully elaborate what exactly fantasies she held, just put the carrots out and have her think.

“We could do that. Bit tired, but sure! I’m game!” She started to remove her robe.

He pounced and ripped it and her clothes off, tearing them in the process. Hungry kisses he began laying on her as he spun her around and took one wrist to march her over to the chair in the room. (‘Cuck chair’ he delightfully recalled her calling it weeks previously…)

She started to get on willingly, it wasn’t enough. He picked her up and placed her in the position he saw in her mind. The chair let out a little creaking noise with the weight of her.

He bit the back of her neck, not hard enough to deter her income-base, but enough that it would leave a pleasurable bruise. Gone within a week at maximum.

His cock stood at attention. Hard and aching from it all. He had to have and fully make sure she’d never stray or even think of leaving him. He’d been, quite frankly, nursing a little bit of a stiffness down there since she smacked his ass and snogged him on the Tube.

He grabbed at her hair like a leash on a dog and slid himself in to her cunt and her mind.

A man on a mission…

He kept pushing himself in and out of her, but going deeper into her brain. He found the brush she had with his past and future companions. He quieted these voices and the doubts they gave permanently. Still allowing her to keep the friendships blooming and the memories, but revoking the feelings of inadequacy and the fears of the future. The doubts. The everything. A very delicate and deliberate job.

The pruning was difficult, as her mind was very distracted by the current sensations of him pulling her neck back to a semi-dangerous level. Just to kiss her on the lips and tell her, “What a perfectly filthy girl you’re being…” That shuffled her brain like a deck of cards.

The words, especially, they made her audibly shiver. He briefly let go.

He grasped a fistful of her hair again and pressed his mouth once more to her neck. He slid himself to the absolute maximum her tight cunt could handle. He bit down, gently touching the new wound with his tongue. Savoring the taste of her neck, now inflamed so close he swore he could taste her blood through the developing bruise…

He grazed her ear lobe with his eye-tooth and breathed a hot, needy breath into it, he rolled her one nipple in the

He inhaled her hair once more. Its scent just as delicious and just as addictive as he was trying to be to her…

Gently, he laid her back into her stomach over the chair’s back. Her back was beautiful as he ran his hands up and down it, raking his nails like the claws of the wolf he kept coming back to in his analogies.

He pressed his full body weight down, tilting the chair into the wall and bracing, it, her and him from total disrepair. Or concussion.

A concussion on her brain would undo all his fine-tuning and actually make it harder to deal with her mind.

And he needed it in as best of condition as he could have it!

He kept his pace up as he leaned down to bite her nape of the neck, carried away, he drew a tad bit of blood. It dotted itself up around the divots of the fresh wound.

He flooded her mind discreetly once more. Bringing her to her first orgasm mentally. His work was done and fine tuned.

He sped up his pace and grabbed her up by the collarbone. Sliding her down over his knees, firmly set in the seat of it. He grabbed her legs and slid them over and tucked her feet and ankles between the backs of his calves and thighs.

He drilled her more, tougher, the rate he went bordered on blood-lust. He couldn’t tell if her cries and grunts were in pain or pleasure. He went back in to her mind to see if he was going to far.

He wasn’t. It was both.

It egged him on, he unexpectedly lost control and he came before he wanted to. He went on as he felt himself coming to bring her another orgasm with her mind, and forced her body to react accordingly…

He relinquished his hold on her body and got out of her and stood up. She slumped over. Shivering. Shaking. Breathing heavily.

The Doctor didn’t know what all he was feeling. Pride, disgust, relaxation? A mixture? It was a tad too overwhelming.

He had to go to her…

He moved to the side of the chair, crouching down. Finding eye-contact. She had a very unreadable expression on her face.

“Hey, how are you?” He went for the simplest route.

“I…think….you fucked…my brains out. Not exaggerating. I feel like people say. Fuck.” She exhaled after a minute of reflection and catching her breath.

He peeled her off the chair and carried her to the bed. He laid her simply on her back, head up.

“I think I need to buy another set of pajamas now.” She turned her head over and looked at the pile of ruined cloth on the ground.

“You were so good.” He praised her.

“And you weren’t too bad yourself…” She replied, again. Keeping herself, and by extension him, in check.

After what felt like several hours, but was in all actuality, fifteen minutes, she pulled her body off the bed.

“I need to shower again. Yeah.” Her voice as quiet as a fall of a grain of sand.

“I’ll join you. If we need to sleep, we’ll need to be cleaned.” He said.

They showered, she redid her skincare, and they held each other in bed.

She was asleep, he didn’t need to sleep.

As he gazed at the wall, and contemplated the meeting with Gwen Cooper-Williams the next day, it dawned on him:

The beginnings of the story of Little Red Riding Hood was a folklore in the deep dark annals of European history. A dark passionate tale in origin about the defilement of a young maiden and a beastly wolf-man way beyond her years. In some, the wolf-man left her and she killed herself from being impure. In some, she was corrupted and became worse than him. Really depended upon the cultural values of the little tribes telling this shared story.

And here he was, living the fairytale out in real time.

It was up to him now, this wolf had a choice.

And he would not let either happen.

The hunt was finished.

Now to fully devour.

Game over.

#personal #doctor who #12th doctor #12th doctor x reader #reader x 12th doctor #you x 12th doctor #12th doctor x you #i wrote this #shamless self interests #teacher student #self insert #doctor who fanfiction #yea #peter capaldi #yipeee #mixed metaphors

[gold-rhine]

fontaine SPOILERS for like, everything released so far and speculations. I have a couple of theories on who Arlecchino might be. So, we know she's from Fontaine and she's old, she was making fun of childe for being a baby. She wants to stop the prophesy of fontaine ppl dissolving into water. She runs an orphanage, where kids later are recruited into fatui

this all, but esp orphanage and dissolving theme, I think v strongly connects her to Narzissenkreuz Institute from 500 years ago. It was an orphanage, from where all major players connected to dissolution in primordial waters came from. I think there is 2 options for who she might be:

1.Mary-Ann Guillotin. She was a sister of Alain Guillotin and an orphan herself. She was described as acting as older sister of the group in orphanage despite her being the youngest. She was recruited into Marechaussee Hunter along with her brother when she grew up, which is basically fontaine's secret service, which i think is very fitting. She ended up hunting her former friends from the Institute, Rene and Jakob, who at this time created a secret organization Narzissenkreuz Ordo and were planning to save fontaine by dissolving ppl into hivemind in primordial water. Same shit Arlecchino wants to stop. She presumably died in confrontation with them, after a huge explosion.

BUT it happened inside of Elynas, an abyssal dragon, and Elynas works basically by bloodborne gods rules. From contact with him any wild shit can happen. Like, as the result of same explosion the race of Melusines were created from Elynas' wounds, seemingly for no reason. He has dream dimension inside. He died, but his consciousness can still talk and act. There are portals into abyss all over him. So, there are countless ways she could've been teleported somewhere, warped, corrupted, etc.

Like, despite her being dead, both of fontaine world quests (the baby oceanid and the mechanical dog ones) end on strong message of "finding Mary-Ann." in fact, they converge together into this, and its basically spelled out they will be continued.

Also, in Marechaussee Hunter set we have this from Karl Ingold, adopted father of Jakob and Rene, reminiscing about past "And afterwards, the cries, sounds of fracturing and metallic clashes that sounded faintly from beyond the stone floor. And as he recalled the girl who used a "trick" to forcibly shift herself into a dark, safe cavern. Only then did the regret of not having recorded her final battle engulf his vision." - ok so, Elynas says there were many metallic animals in that fateful confrontation, so both "cavern" (Elynas is full of caverns and fight was inside of him) and "metallic clashes" AND "her final battle" point that it's about that explosion in which Mary Ann supposedly died. But he also says that "girl" used "trick" to hide in a cavern! Like who else it could be about if not Mary Ann. She fits 100% to the descriptions, we don't have other fontaine girls fighting their final battles in caverns, and with metallic clashes around. So she escaped, hid in "safe" cavern, but again, its a cavern inside of eldritch abyssal god monster. It could v easily warp her into whatever the fuck is wrong with her rn and make her immortal (Jakob who consumed Elynas' flesh is immortal, so that's provably smth connection to Elynas can do.)

2.My second option is Basil Elton, Vice Director of Narzissenkreuz Istitute. She was a former naval commander who retired and helped run the orphanage, but then during cataclysm left to fight monsters and presumably died in a fight that killed Elynas. BUT Basil Elton was H.P. Lovecraft's character, a captain of the ship who could visit Dreamlands. So, she might not be dead, but like teleported to abyss.

I think Mary-Ann is a better option, bc its more narratively satisfying to have a fight between former close friends (Mary Ann and Jakob, abyss Baptist who is still around doing some Schemes), and also like their confrontation would rhyme with a battle in Elynas where she presumably died, her stopping his plot of dissolution after so many years. but idk, we'll see

#rhine talks