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slowlymyavenue · 2 months

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You are not awake

I've recently come across some literature that indicates people have trouble discerning when they fall asleep.

Individuals given a polysomnogram (a sleep study) couldn't pinpoint the moment they fell asleep during the test, and they often believed themselves to be awake when they were, in fact, sleeping. The test monitors brainwave activity, among many other things, making the moment of "falling" asleep extremely clear...at least for the person administering the test. The person being tested, sleeping, typically finds things to be much more blurry and uncertain.

This isn't much of a surprise to me (or hypnotists in general), since subjects often believe themselves to be quite awake when they first drop into trance. Much like falling asleep, without careful monitoring, the line between wakefulness and trance can be quite blurry. The mind is intriguing like that.

To be fair, though, the indicators of trance aren't always supremely obvious. The moment you slip into trance is often subtle and silent, much like when you enter another state of consciousness while reading or listening to music, driving, dancing. You've been following my words for a bit now, and it probably hasn't yet occurred to you that you are not awake.

You are not awake.

Do you believe me? Consider it; how do you really know when you're falling into trance? It's a bit different for everyone - and you may have learned your own indicators - but how precise can you be? Most of the time, you are told when it happens, or you tell yourself. Sometimes you are counted down to 0, told to sleep, instructed to relax deeply...but these are suggestions to get your conscious caught up to things that are already happening. The drop could have happened at any time, should you be sufficiently distracted. That is rather the point, after all.

You have been focused on my words this entire time, distracted by them. You find it easier to focus now than when you started. Your breathing has slowed, your body has started to relax, and you've been tuning out the rest of the world bit by bit. You remain at least partially aware of your surroundings because you haven't yet been instructed otherwise - there is no need. If you like, you can remain fully aware of your surroundings.

You are not awake, and you haven't been since you started to follow. Part of your mind may have begun to analyze this notion when I first told you, but you aren't going to let it jar you awake. A much stronger part of you knows, intuitively, that I am telling the truth. You came here to submit; it's no surprise that you have.

The part of you silencing the analysis and doubt is excited by the idea that you can feel fully aware and alert while sinking deep into a trance. You can surrender to my suggestions without showing any outward signs that you are enthralled. Only you will know.

You are not awake.

Think to yourself that "it is important to follow and obey. I am really not awake, am I?"

Feel a rush of pleasure simply from doing as you were told. Feel another rush as you realize that despite feeling aware, you are not in control anymore. It feels good to obey. It feels good to let your thoughts give way to my words. You'll continue to obey.

I like to call this a waking trance, despite the fact that you are not "awake." It is very easy to slip in and out of this state when you follow my words. Easy enough that each time you read, "you are not awake," you let yourself slip under my control. You can bring yourself up, then read again and slip back down. Give it a try.

You are not awake.

Feel your hands freeze in place for a moment. Count to ten in your head, nice and slow, and feel the pleasure of obeying along with the bliss of submission. When you reach ten, your hands will return to normal.

If you're feeling particularly brave, you could even follow and obey like this in a public place. Don't worry, you'll be rewarded for following my words whether you submit in public or private. I won't push you into uncomfortable situations.

You'll follow my words through the next sections, and choose your own surrender depending on your preference and circumstances. When you've chosen, you'll be compelled to read again, more slowly to feel a more potent effect.

You are not awake.

Should you choose to surrender to this waking trance in a public place, you'll find yourself compelled to softly mouth or think to yourself "I am not awake. I feel awake, but I am not awake. I am in trance. I am obedient." As you do this, you'll feel a stronger sensation of pleasure and content pass through you. Repeat those phrases to yourself a few more times while maintaining awareness of your surroundings, and continue to learn how easy it is to slip in and out of waking trance simply by focusing on my words. You'll find yourself drawn back to that phrase when you're next in private.

If you are comfortable and would like to intensify that satisfaction from obedience, you'll leave a comment about your experience in waking trance, especially if you chose to try it in public. It is important to follow and obey.

You are not awake.

Like I said, you won't feel obligated to try waking trance in public, unless you are naturally drawn to the thought.

I understand, there is always the allure of the comfort and privacy of home. Trance, even waking trance, can be a very intimate thing.

Should you choose to surrender to this waking trance in private, you'll find yourself unable to resist chanting quietly, "I am not awake. I feel awake, but I am not awake. I am in trance. I am obedient." While the pleasure reward for doing as you were told flows through your mind and body, you will spread your legs and touch yourself for me.

As the chant continues, you'll feel your eyes glaze over as you stare helplessly at the screen. You'll find that you have no control of your own pace, drifting steadily deeper. In private, you'll find it very easy to slip into waking trance, but nowhere near so easy to slip out of it. I'm sure you won't think to mind. It is important to follow and obey. Stroke yourself to orgasm for me as you realize how enthralled you are by my words.

You are not awake.

In either scenario, you'll wake shortly after, feeling surprisingly refreshed...and perhaps a bit mischievous.

Now reblog and like - tell me you are not awake

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starry-bi-sky · 10 months

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tick tock

Highkey dedicating this to @watercolour-carnations bc they sent me an ask about my 'danny is thomas wayne' au and singlehandedly revitalized my brainrot for it. Apparently the quickest way to a starry's heart is through their ask box

Now posted on ao3 under the name 'dniwer eht kcolc'!

In hindsight, hosting a science exhibit was probably not the best idea that Bruce has ever. This wasn't even one of Bruce's galas and, yet he was still attending because it gave him the opportunity to scope out any potential rogues (or henchmen).

Damian was by his side, and Tim was on the other side of the room, inspecting some of the other inventions under the prospect of gaining new hires for R&D at WE. Something that was not entirely false. Bruce could always use new, bright minds working to make Gotham a better place.

He was, particularly, eyeing up one moderately-sized invention that a woman with cutting blue eyes and stark white hair had covered with a white sheet. An interesting choice when everyone else had already revealed their own inventions. Drifting closer with Damian, he smiles charmingly at the scientist when they lock eyes.

"And what is this interesting contraption?" He asks, looking over the sheet as if it was the invention itself and not what was underneath.

The woman curled purple-painted fingers around the sheet, yanking it down to reveal a machine that looks like a mix of a jukebox and a grandfather clock. A long wire was attached to it, and a strange, blinking, circlet-like device connected on the other end.

Bruce's brows rose considerably, and he could sense Damian's eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"This is my Holographic Memory Machine -- the name is still a work in progress -- it's a memory machine meant to allow anyone to relive their memories right in front of them, even the ones they don't remember." The woman says with a smile, her name card reads 'Dr. Casey W. Kairos'. He's never heard of her before. An out-of-townie, perhaps?

"Interesting." Bruce's hands fold behind his back and he looks down at his disinterested son, and then back up to Dr. Kairos. It sounded harmless, but even a pencil could be harmless until enough force was put into it. "How does that work?"

Dr. Kairos walks over and holds up the strange circlet device, "The user wears this headband. It scans their brainwaves and then plays a memory of their choice right in front of them like a hologram, including any voices that came with it." She explains, showing it off to Bruce and Damian. "Would either of you like to try it? The HMM has been tested and it is completely safe."

Damian scoffs and turns to him, "This is a waste of time, father," He says, "let's move on."

"Oh, don't be like that, Dames." Bruce smiles genially, placing a hand on his son's shoulder and squeezing it. It reminds him of when his father used to do the exact same thing, and he turns to Dr. Kairos. "I can try it, Doctor."

Kairos smiles widely, looking incredibly pleased. "Come stand here then, Mr. Wayne. I can get the HMM up and working." She gestures to a spot on the floor within the circlet's range, and Bruce goes and does as told.

"Standing around and looking pretty is my specialty, Doctor Kairos." He jokes as she gets the device situated on his head. It sits on his forehead snugly, and tucks behind his ears. Kairos snorts and turns to get the machine activated.

"Father." Damian says, indignant and scowling. His arms crossed over his chest petulantly. Bruce chuckles at him.

"The Doctor said it was perfectly safe, Damian." He admonishes lightly, wagging a finger at him. "I trust the good lady to know what she's doing." Not really, but he'd rather test it out on himself if it was unsafe.

Thirty seconds passed with Dr. Kairos working on flicking on the HMM, and when it came alive it came with a low hum and a distinct, ticking like noise. "Ah, there we go." She hums, stepping away. "It's up and working, Mister Wayne. Just think of a memory and let the HMM do the rest."

"Thank you, Doctor." Bruce nods at her, and then tries to think of what to let the machine show. Nothing that would give away his identity as Batman, of course not. Nothing incriminating.

He looks to Damian, who still looked very unhappy with him. Perhaps a memory of one of his boys in the manor? Or a Brucie Wayne moment that everyone's seen. His brows furrow in thought. One of his speeches?

...No. No, he has an idea.

Immediately, the HMM begins to hum louder, the ticking drowned out by the sound of its fans kicking in. It starts drawing the attention of the other ongoers, and Damian steps to Bruce's side as a crowd begins to form.

"What is that thing?"

"What's it doing?"

"Is it safe?"

Hushed whispers scatter around them as more and more people abandon the other stalls in favor of seeing whatever spectacle was happening. Tim appears as well, pushing his way through the crowd and situating himself by Damian and Bruce.

"What's going on?" He whispers with a frown, looking between Bruce and Damian.

Damian hmphs, "Father is trying out this woman's 'Memory Machine'."

Just when Bruce is starting to think the machine doesn't work, he hears a sound that silences the spectators. A piano note. A singular note, followed by another, and another. Right before Bruce's eyes, the air shimmers, and a projection of his father sitting at the grand piano appears before him.

His breath hitches in his throat. He remembers this. He remembers this piece. It was father's favorite.

Damian and Tim are stiff at his side, and Bruce hears the crowd gasp.

There, sitting on the floor at the bench, is Bruce himself at six years old. He's resting his arms on it, and leaning his head on his arms with a look of pure adoration -- did he really look like that? -- aimed at his father.

There's no talking between them, a content silence as Thomas Wayne fills the air with his piano playing. That is-- until he stops midway through the piece, fingers stopping the keys with a abrupt jerk.

Thomas laughs, quiet and full of love, and little Bruce picks his head up with an affronted frown. "Why'd you stop? I like listening to you play."

"I know you do." Thomas says, his voice is as soothing as Bruce remembers it to be. The memory twists to look at little Bruce with a blinding smile, as if he was looking at his whole world. It's the first time in decades that Bruce has seen his father smiling like-- like that. His eyes involuntarily sting.

"But how can you hear so well when you're all the way down there?" Thomas shifts, and pats an open space on the bench. "Come sit up here, Boo. I can teach you to play."

(Thomas Wayne was always fond of pet names, he had plenty of them for Bruce, and he used them at every opportunity.)

Little Bruce perks up, "Really?" He grins, and then clambers into the bench. His father's arms wrap around him.

The voices fade as the memory slowly begins to collapse, and Bruce feels a spike of panic in his heart before the memory is replaced by another one.

He's younger, probably four years old, being sprayed down by a hose by his father. Little Bruce is squealing with laughter, trying to swat the water away like a fly, and his clothes are drenched.

Thomas is laughing as well, wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looks like he just came home from a business meeting. Bruce always thought he was old when he was little. But at four years old, Thomas Wayne is only a little over twenty. Barely an adult. He is twenty-four when he dies. He was so young.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Little Bruce squeals, trying to run out of the line of fire, but Thomas Wayne has a sharp eye, and the hose in his hands follow Bruce no matter where he goes.

Until finally Thomas drops the hose and runs towards Bruce, who is trying to recover from being sprayed down with ice cold water. Thomas reaches him before he has time to move, and scoops him up in his arms.

He is laughing loudly and boisterously, spinning them both around as Bruce clings to him for dear life, laughing with him. The memory fades away, and Bruce feels like there are hands around his throat trying to choke him.

A new one shows up, one he doesn't remember at all. His father is younger than before, a teenager, and he's holding a tiny bundle in his arms. He looks like he's on the verge of tears, hunched over it like a shield.

Someone, a girl with gothic attire, peers over his shoulder. "Gosh, Tom, a baby? That's a lot of responsibility." She says, dark-lipstick lips painted downwards in a frown. "And right after you've disowned your parents too?"

Another boy looks around Thomas with a similar frown and an uncertain look, "Yeah man, I'm with Sam on this one -- for once. You don't even have anywhere to live."

Thomas doesn't look like he's even paying attention, utterly smitten with the baby -- its himself, Bruce realizes -- he's cradling. "Look at him though, guys," he breathes, "he's so tiny. Have you seen his little watercolor eyes?"

(Watercolor eyes. Bruce had long since forgotten about that nickname his father gave him. hearing him say it is like a punch to his stomach.)

"You named him Bruce?"

Bruce huffs to himself, an involuntary smile twitching at his mouth as the memory dips again and cycles through another memory he recognizes.

The memories it shows are sporadic, with no chronological order to them other than each and every one is a happy one.

Bruce playing piano with his father.

Bruce stargazing with his father.

Bruce being carried on his father's shoulders.

Bruce getting ready for a gala with his father.

Bruce in the kitchen helping his dad make breakfast (there's pancake flour smeared on his cheek).

Bruce making a snowman with his father.

An apology between Bruce and his father in the form of a piano duet.

There are even a few memories he doesn't remember. Some of them are when he's old enough to, but many are when he's a baby. Some are before his father was adopted by the Waynes, when the only thing on their backs was a raggedy backpack and an oversized sweatshirt, and Bruce's baby blanket. And some are after, where he's sitting in an antique rocking chair bottle feeding Bruce with a look of sheer adoration on his face.

That look never seems to go away, ever, in any of the memories.

Finally, the HMM settles on a final memory, one that makes Bruce's blood run cold and snaps him out of his nostalgic revelry. His father is getting ready in his room, and Bruce comes barreling in with his own suit-and-tie.

"Dad! Dad! Dad!" He chants, running to Thomas, who whirls around and picks him up seamlessly. They spin twice before Thomas settles in front of the mirror, Bruce on his hip as he adjusts his tie with one hand.

"Yes, boo?" Thomas grins, wide-splitting with his shock-blue eyes looking at Bruce in the reflection. He and Bruce have the same eyes. It's shocking how much they look like each other, now that Bruce was older.

Little Bruce makes a dramatic face, a look that only lasts a few seconds before he remembers his excitement. He wiggles in Thomas' arms, "You gotta hurry up! Or we'll be late to the movie!"

Bruce's fingers dig into his palm, and he can vaguely feel his sons' looking at him. There's a feeling of impending doom square in the center of his lungs, and he forces himself to look on.

Thomas laughs, and nuzzles Bruce's cheek. "The movie isn't going anywhere, chum, I promise." He says, before setting him down. Little Bruce pouts, his lower lip sticking out. "I know how much you've been looking forward to this."

"Can you help me with my tie then?" Bruce asks, and looks at his own, sloppily done tie around his neck. "I can never get it right."

And, of course, Thomas Wayne kneels down to redo it. He always did everything Bruce asked or wanted. He measures it, loops it, and then knots the tie perfectly.

"There." He says, and smoothes out Bruce's little jacket, smiling in adoration. "Now go play, I'll call you when it's time to go."

And Bruce does just that, running out of the room with a yell of, "You better promise!"

"I promise!" Thomas yells back, laughing at his son as he turns back to the mirror.

The memory shimmers, and changes to as they're leaving. And then and there does Bruce call it quits. His eyes are glistening, his tears nearly blinding him with the swelling, overwhelming grief in his heart. He looks away, and tries to find Doctor Kairos.

(He doesn't see her switch something on the side of the machine. There is no noticeable difference in the machine, but on the inside a time rune starts to glow.)

"I think I'm done here, Doctor." He says once he can find his voice without it shaking. He can't hide the full crack and tremble laying beneath it, but at least he doesn't cry. He's almost forgotten that he had a silent audience.

Doctor Kairos nods and steps forward, reaching for the headband. "The memories should cut off once I take this off, Mister Wayne." She says, and fiddles with it for a moment. Behind her, the memory of himself and his father are walking outside. "I hope that wasn't too much for you?"

(The ticking of the machine grows louder, and the memory glitches.)

"No, no." Bruce assures with a smile that wasn't all Brucie Wayne yet. He looks down when he feels Damian's hand curl around his, and his son leans into his side. His smile softens, and he presses Damian closer. His other arm finds itself over Tim's shoulders as well, pressing him to his side.

"It was fine. Actually, it was an honor to be the first to try out your memory machine. I'm sure it will help many people." He tells her. She smiles slyly, and slides the headband off his head.

"That's what I'm hoping for, Mister Wayne." Doctor Kairos places the headband onto the table. The memory hasn't disappeared, Bruce notes with a furrow of his brows. And the audio has muffled slightly.

"I thought you said that the memory would cut off when the headband was off?" He asks. Kairos looks at him, and then behind her at the memory. She frowns.

"It should have--"

Little Bruce suddenly frowns, and looks away from Thomas. "Do you hear that?"

Bruce frowns. "I don't remember this." That wasn't in his memory. They just went straight to Monarch Theater without any issue.

Thomas looks down at his son, "What noise?" He asks, squeezing Bruce's hand. His head cranes, as if trying to hear whatever noise Bruce was hearing.

"That ticking sound." Bruce's frown deepens, "It sounds like your clock, dad."

Thomas' immediately frowns, looking so strikingly like Bruce that he marvels for a moment. He looks around as well. "...You're right. I hear it too." He steps a little closer to Bruce, his hand tightening around his.

A sense of unease fills Bruce's lungs. "What's going on?" He asks, taking a step away from the memory. This was different. This isn't his memory.

"I'm not sure." Doctor Kairos says, and her unsurety sounds so practiced and calm that Bruce's suspicion levels to her immediately. His boys look at her too with the same unease. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

She strides around the memory to the side of the machine just as a gold symbol appears on the ground. It looks like a giant roman clock, and a loud, clunky ticking fills the room.

The memories see it too, and Bruce's heart drops to his feet as he and the rest of the crowd back away from it. "Dad, what is that?!" Little Bruce exclaims, a look of fear morphing across his face as he suddenly clings to his dad's leg.

Thomas looks pale, looking at his feet and gripping little Bruce to him protectively. "I don't-- I don't know, Bruce."

(A memory that Bruce doesn’t have is his father arguing with a man named Clockwork. He does not see the man named Clockwork all but beg Thomas not to go out tonight.)

("Does something happen to Bruce?" His father asks the ghost.)

("No," the man says, "but--")

("But nothing, Clockwork." Thomas, once Danny, says firmly. "My son has been looking forward to this all week. I'm not going to crush his hopes by changing my mind last minute.")

("Thomas, please.")

("Look, if something happens tonight, I will handle it, okay?" Thomas assures him, a hand atop Clockwork's shoulder with a small smile. "I promise.")

(And then he leaves, Clockwork defeated in his wake.)

(Clockwork has seen this boy grow up from the shadows, and now he can do nothing to stop his fate like he once did before.)

The strange, clock-like circle, something intrinsically magic, begins to glow. The minute and hour hands tick faster and faster. Little Bruce holds onto his father like a lifeline, and Thomas Wayne crouches down to hold his son tighter, protectively.

Bruce Wayne turns away just as the light grows blinding, tucking Tim and Damian into his chest like a human shield. There is yelling and screams as the crowd tries to stampede away from it.

Bruce has no idea what this light will do, but he'd rather die than let his sons get hurt.

The light burns his eyelids even when he isn't facing it. And when it dies without even a burn across his back, Bruce slowly unfurls. His hands stay on his sons' shoulders, keeping them close to him, and he peers over his shoulder.

There on his knees, is Thomas Wayne, curled protectively around eight year old Bruce Wayne, much like Bruce had been. Bruce holds his breath, and his sons slowly unfurl themselves as well and peer around him.

Thomas Wayne is frozen in place for one second, two seconds, three. And then he begins to move. First, the tension drains out of his shoulders, and his head jerks, as if surprised that nothing has happened.

He looks up, his eyes open, and he and Bruce make eye contact. Bruce cannot breathe, and he cannot believe the sight before him. It's just the memory machine breaking. (Doctor C.W Kairos is nowhere to be found.)

And then recognition flickers in his father's face as his panting slows and quiets. His head tilts to the side like a fawn's, a familiar wrinkle appearing before his brows.

"Bruce?"

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp crossover #danny fenton is thomas wayne au #dftw au #oh my gfod this is so long #watercolour-carnations how does it feel to have singlehandedly revitalized my brainrot over this au #the fastest way to starry's heart is through their askbox #anyways i was thinking about this the whole time #the memory with clockwork was SUPPOSED to be seen by bruce honestly!#but i couldnt write it in properly #imo at least #io had to check the wordcount on this and this is THREE THOUSAND WORDS #OOPS I ACCIDENTALLY WROTE A 3k WORD ONESHOT #YOU KNOW. AS YOU DO

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futureplayboibunnie · 1 year

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Strong Enough

Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

18+ MDNI (y’all pls this is filthy)

- GIGGLING. KICKING MY FEET. i came back from spiderverse with JUST THIS MAN ON MY MIND. oscar isaac ur service is appreciated cause gah dayum.

- i had to write some super angsty smut abt him. i just had to, he’s so lana del rey vinylllll. i’m sorry if my spanish is crap (i had to use google translate bc my stupid ass took german instead of spanish in school- pls tell me if there were any mistakes. kiss kiss x)

warnings: dom!miguel, pnv, lotsa dirty talk (think i got carried away), angsty miguel, FANGS, sort of a soft end. AGGHH IM SO CRAZY ABOUT HIM WHAT THE FUCK.

enjoy bbygirls x

Miguel was furious as usual, his blood was beating like a drum with it, his mind buzzing akin to white noise. New anomalies, new foes but mostly a pesky kid who didn't know how to stay put and shut the fuck up- Miles Morales. He was seething- his eyes glowing a crimson hue violently assaulting against the hazel of his eyes. He looked like shit. Hell, he felt like shit. He was slipping, letting things get in the way, and he blamed you for it. Miguel doesn't slip. Miguel doesn't let things get in the way. Only until you came into his life and veered him off his intended course.

It was his hegemonic masculinity piping up like a hot breath down his neck. Miguel brought together the spider society- he was the solution to every problem, every anomaly, the answer to every spider. But he doesn't answer to himself. No, he didn't. You were the one that was overseeing Miguel's little society, hiding and checking in from time to time if the multiverse wasn't fucked up and every dimension was in a semi-stable state. Miguel was in control of the other spiders, he had to run his orders by you first even if you weren't at HQ half of the time. Being in a subservient position was exorbitantly and intensely frustrating and it made him highly hostile to anyone who talked to him.

You on the other hand had the jurisdiction to give him the authority- you gave him the damn idea, you were from his damn universe, but you couldn't deal with the politics and moral dilemmas that came with leading it. Also, you enjoyed toying with him. Fuck you found so much satisfaction in crawling through him, blowing at that over-inflated ego, those broad shoulders filled to the brim with hubris and pride. Hm, he was good at what he did though- actively scaring off anyone who dared speak against him. Except for Morales. You appreciated his pluck, it reminded you of yourself. Miguel was formidable but you understood why he needed to apprehend Morales- for some reason every time you were near the kid you started glitching out, it fucking hurt and messed with your brainwaves. You understood why he had to capture Miles but you didn't agree with how he was handling it. Miguel was sitting at his desk trying to figure out why this was happening and why this was happening to you but he came up empty. He didn't know what to think about it let alone do. It made him feel uneasy and he hated it. Cómo pedo solucionar esto? (How do I fix this?) kept looping throughout his head and it made him feel helpless and weak. Two words he would never associate with himself.

‘’Miguel.’’ Your voice echoed off the walls and shot straight to his ears, it was smoky and breathy.

"Y/N. Qué estás haciendo aquí? What do you want?’’ His usual low timbre makes your brows furrow involuntarily. ‘’Get out of the shadows.’’ He ordered and for once you listened to him, hopping on his platform behind him.

‘’Morales.’’ You stated deadpan knowing the reaction he was going to get, Miguel's eyes drastically narrowed and changed from a soft ambient scarlet to a scorching blood red. He turned his face a little to the side to glare at you.

"That kid touches anything in another dimension, I'll kill him myself.’’ He replied huskily. You weren't sure if you could trust his words. Yes, he was capable of it but you know deep down he wouldn't want to.

His moral compass strayed once, he won't let that happen again. Never.

"You wanna kill kids now? Is that how low we're going?'’

'We? There's we now?’’

You cocked your head at his question, your face remaining hard.

He stared at you in silent fury, of course he wouldn't want to resort to that but he had to do what he had to do. Miguel was surprised you didn't want to take him yourself considering he makes you glitch out. He hates you, God he hates you. But what happened to you...scared him. You'd been a part of this for so long, if anyone was going to hurt you it would be him- not anyone else. If anyone else did- Miguel dismissed the thought as quickly as it came.

Sometimes when he looked at you, he couldn't help but admire your callousness, your brutality yet your undying generosity to people who didn't deserve such a royalty. On the other hand, you were fucking gorgeous. He hated it. It was distracting. It was cruel. Though he couldn't help a little blip or mishap with his thought process- he was still a man after all. Miguel wondered what was under that suit. Wondered what you would like with nothing on at all. Wondered if you would still talk back with that snotty little attitude if you were choking on his dick instead. Though he wouldn't trust you not to bite his dick off in the process. Would you like his fangs? Would you like his claws? He shouldn’t be thinking such a thing.

‘’I should ask you the same question since he affects your stability también.’’ He replied calmly, slightly shocking you. ‘’No matter, I'll stop it. Alone.’’ He growled as he stepped off the platform, tired of entertaining this conversation with you. ‘’You've done enough damage as it is, now I have to fix it.’’

‘’I caused this damage? You realize how fucking stupid you sound. You control the spiders, I let you make orders.’’ You strike a harsh tone as you jolted in front of him to stop his path. Shit, he towered above you, all broad shoulders and disheveled hair. Although he undermined you like this, you wouldn't mind it in other situations...but at work, he was quite literally a piece of work and it made your blood boil. You both knew, you both could feel the palpable hatred swinging and beating again. ‘’And alone? I don't trust you not to kill him, Miguel.’’ You scowled, your eyes wide and piercing through him, halting him in his tracks. The gaze shared between you both was impenetrable, scorching, a battle against wills.

‘’I can't let you.’’ He shot back with a frown and grating red eyes.

‘’While I watch helplessly from the sidelines? I don’t think so. ’’ You challenged him white cold.

‘’I'm asking you, don't let me make you.’’ He gritted through clenched teeth, his fangs lightly protruding.

He was trying to scare you, it wasn't working.

‘’What is this to you? Playtime? To prove you're the strongest, to create fear wherever you go?’’ You pleaded with him orotund, inviting a yelling match to prove you weren't going down easy on this occasion.

You let Miguel do whatever he damn pleased like this was his own hunting grounds- but you won't let him lose his sanity.

‘’What? No.’’He replied shocked and confused at your presumed reasons why he was doing this. He just had to. He couldn't tell you the deep-rooted reason.

He didn't want to admit it.

Fuck, he couldn't admit it.

What kind of man would that make him?

What kind of leader? What kind of example would he be?

‘’Then what is it-?’’ He was trying to walk away from you but you snaggled onto his suit and brought him back to face you. ‘’Tell me.’’ You ordered stiffly.

‘’I have to do this alone.’’ His voice faltered a little and he was afraid that you might have heard it, that he gave you a glaring view of how quickly he was slipping through the cracks- how weak you've made him, how weak he was becoming.

‘’Why? Why do you need to, Miguel?!’’ You were almost yelling at him and no one other than you would get the privilege of living if they did that.

‘’Stop it.’’ He grunted like a wild animal.

"Then what-? What is it?’’ Your eyes searched for his as he was avoiding looking at your face, terrified that it would be written all over it. His heart was pounding.

‘’I'm not-‘’

‘’Not what?’’ You implored, pushing him further and further to the edge.

‘’I'm not strong enough.’’

‘'Strong enough? Oh yeah, and going after a kid will make you stronger.’’ You chided, eyes stiff cold, and judgemental.

‘’Yes, fuck. I-. No!’’ Miguel raked an exasperated hand through his hair, his palm was twitching and his talons were ready to come out. If only he could make you understand without telling you- but you were insatiable, a tick under his skin. Ready for another fucking fight.

Your eyebrows wilted as you said the words, so unbelievably paralyzed by his gall, his hubris, his never-ending need to prove he's the strongest, that he could do all of this. You knew he fucking could. ‘’That's what this is, some sort of bench press exercise for you? Some sort of work-out?!’’ Miguel grabbed you by the arms and his talons pinched at your skin through his suit, like he was trying to shake some sense into you.

‘’I can't lose you again!’’ He yelled at you, his face merely inches away from yours.

Your mouth popped open at his frazzled admission of honesty, his glowing red eyes faded as he stared at you, hoping for an answer he was sure you wouldn't give him. Miguel's harsh expression was lost with the wind when he hung his head to avoid that fucking look in your eyes. The one that made all the weight of the world he carried on his shoulders all the more fucking heavier, his hands raked down your arms as if he was soothing himself, and his breath became heavier as he closed his eyes to process the words he uttered. You glitching out every time Miles was near you is not an option he was willing to entertain: it was his job to worry about anomalies and canon events but on this occasion- he didn't. And he was admitting that to you.

It's not the fact that he's dangerous or an anomaly. It's because of you.

What kind of selfish would that make him?

Last time that happened he lost everything.

He would never make the same mistake again.

But look at him now.

Making the same mistake.

‘’I can't lose you. No otra vez....I'm not str-I'm not strong enough.’’ His head hung low as if the weight of the universe was saving him from completely falling apart.

You sighed in a mix of relief and pity. This is what it was all about? Pobre cosa (poor thing). Your eyes were wide with a magnetic pulse and your body was radiating a mesmeric need. He felt it. Your hands flew to his chest and slowly meandered to his broad shoulders, he was panting in exhaustion and regret but your fingers went to his chin and jutted it upwards so your longing stare could meet his. It was a scorching look between two tired and exhausted people. Miguel was working himself so hard and you just wanted to make him forget about it, just once.

‘’Miguel…’’

‘’Ahora me he dado cuenta de que no puedo hacer nada de esto sin ti.’’ (I've now come to realize that I can't do any of this without you). Miguel's eyes flitted to your lips, his voice low and husky...needy. ‘’But I'm a selfish man... y te necesito.’’ (and I need you). Your face looked blank, it's obvious you didn't understand a word he was saying. ‘’Whatever, you wouldn't understand what I'm saying anyway.’’ Miguel dismissed you as he let go of your embrace and attempted to head out.

Before he could move away too far, you exposed your wrist and webbed him, dragging him back to you. His eyes glinted with a surprise yet they were dark with need and arrogance. Miguel was in front of you and your pussy started throbbing. His senses went into overdrive and he couldn't hold back his will to not touch you anymore.

‘'He entendido cada palabra que me has dicho.’’ (I've understood every word you've ever said to me.)

He gripped your face and kissed you hard, it was furious and mean, and he tasted dangerous- just as you expected, just as you had been silently begging him to. Lord, you were sure you'd regret this but right now your body was alive. Miguel's massive hands pulled at your hair to open your mouth wider

'’Miguel...féllame, por favor.’’ (fuck me, please) you uttered breathlessly, his mouth traveling from your bottom lip, chin, and then neck. His lips then went to breathe raggedly in your ear.

‘’You've understood everything I've ever said under my breath about you?’’ He murmured, imploring you to make him understand. He thought he had the privilege of saying things secretly as no one understood his Spanish but him, so he could say things he didn't want to keep inside without anyone else knowing. But you pulled the rug out from under him, you've been fooling him. He hated it. The number of times he's mumbled how much he wanted you under his breath- fuck.

‘’Mhm.’’ You moaned as his hands flew to your hips and slammed you down on his desk with no finesse, planting himself between your soft thighs. ‘’I thought you would've caught me earlier than this chico.’’ You teased- the thought made him angry. His talons seeped out of his skin and ripped at your suit, exposing the bare skin of your waist.

‘’Y me he dado cuenta de lo mojada que te pones cuando estás cerca de mí.’’ (And I've noticed how wet you get when you're near me) The filthy words rolled off of his tongue like velvet. ‘’Don't think you have the upper hand here sweetheart.’’

‘’Even when I want you to fuck me, you still have to fucking argue with me.’’ You growled as your hands burrowed into his long raven hair

‘’Oh, but you like it this way.’’ He smirked in your ear, the cadence of his voice reducing your knees to that of fucking jelly.

"How do you know what I like? You never asked.’’ You flirted back, treading on dangerous waters with the man that is known for having paper-thin patience.

‘’Shut the fuck up.’’ Miguel clawed at your waist and then spun you around so the tops of your thighs were. digging into the translucent glass of his desk. All of a sudden, he placed his large palm just below your neck and shoved you flat onto the desk just with brute force. You were sure you were about to start salivating.

‘’Oh, mierda.’’ He breathed raggedly, his wandering hands ripping at your suit. ‘’Beautiful, dangerous, deadly. Pretending as if you're better than me... like you're not capable of killing.’’ He ripped at your suit some more, exposing more of your skin. Your breath trembled in anticipation as he bent down to whisper hotly in your ear, your ass already feeling his strong- oh. Shit. ‘’You drive my fucking crazy, you know that?’’ He ripped your suit until it was nothing but scraps. You were naked and desperate under him.

‘’Me vuelves loco.’’ (You make me insane).

‘’Stop fucking talking and just take me, Miguel.’’ You whined desperately as your cheek pressed coldly against the glass, your hair splaying all over your shoulders like a waterfall.

‘’Abre la boca.’’ (Open your mouth) He growled like an animal but you were too concerned with your wobbly legs and fraying patience, you replied with a stunned silence, almost jittering like a fool. A frown contorted on Miguel's perfect face, scrunching up his chiseled, picturesque features. His right hand gripped your hair pulling you up to him, his left hand brushed against your lips until he fully force-plunged two fingers in your mouth- saliva coating his fingers as you gagged and choked. Oh, he couldn't wait to get you on your knees- the thought provoked some visceral reaction within him.

‘’'That's it, good girl.’’ He grumbled the affirmation and it sent sparks shooting throughout your body.

Miguel rarely ever praised or complimented so this....fuck. ...this was different, you felt so damn special to him. The ever-so-broody Miguel O'Hara calling you a 'good girl' made an unstoppable moan rip through your throat. ‘’Oh, so you like to be loud? Seems like you can't shut up when you're getting fucked too.’’ He insulted adding insult to injury which just made you sweat.

‘’Is the venom from your fangs rushing straight to your head, Miguel? Or did you not hear what I said?’’ You spat with a distinct sharpness that he'd come to expect from you, he was glad to see he hadn't scared the personality out of you which he had the tendency to do to every single person he met. However, one thing he absolutely couldn't tolerate was backtalking- which you had a tendency to get away with most times but he thought this was the perfect situation to reinstate his rules. Miguel tugged on your hair again like his own personal leash.

‘’Puede que quiera joderte ahora mismo, pero no pienses ni por un segundo que no te haré sufrir en el proceso.’’ (I may want to fuck the shit out of you right now but don't think for a second that I won't make you suffer in the process) His voice was aggressive and heady and you were stiff with arousal, your pussy was aching for him.

‘’Por favor Miguel.’’ You begged softly and it made his gaze narrow and his fangs spike out of his gums.

At times like this, he was glad he had a suit that would come on and off as he pleased- right now he was sweating with need and he was thankful he was able to quickly rid of his suit. Miguel didn't think he would be this hard, but then again you did always have a knack for surprising him when he least expected it. His large palm smacked at your ass and he was happy to see a large indent of the outline he made. Like he had a claim on you.

‘’Miguel!’’ You whined like a bitch in heat.

He didn't listen to your plead, he didn't even tease you into it first, his rigid dick just slipped into your soaking wet heat and he'd never felt this pleasure...ever. You were seriously about to cry. He wanted you to. Your pussy molded around his dick, and you were afraid he wasn't even going to fit- but Miguel always finds a way. He felt so...fucking good. The dull ache inside of your stomach was twisting into a fit of knots and butterflies, he quite literally pulsated inside of you

"Tan apretado cariño.’’ (So tight sweetheart) Miguel's chest rumbled alongside his dirty words. Fucking hell, it was like you were vacuum sealed to his dick. He started rutting into you with abandon, without mercy.

You felt so good. He was so.. good...at this, as much as you hated to admit it. He kept pawing at your body, his talons creating the animalistic tension that much heavier between you.

‘’Mi vida...’’ He purred in your ear, going harder and faster with every pained moan that ripped through your throat like it was an incentive for him to keep going.

‘’So perfect for me. Squeezing me so well...Mierda.’’

‘’You want me?’’ You teased innocently as you twisted your head to look at him through doe eyes. His eyes were roaring red as his grip on your hips seeped into your skin harder.

‘’You know I do.’’ Miguel gritted through clenched teeth, baring his fangs. The sight just made you wetter. ‘’Let me show you how much.’’ He bent down and it felt like he was going to snap you in half, you were so close to reaching your peak. To add insult to injury, he bit down on the skin of your bare shoulder blade and blood dripped from his fangs when he pulled away- your moan in response was that of perfection. Fuck it hurt but it felt amazing.

‘’It's okay, mi vida, come for me. I won't tell.’’ Miguel cooed, showing a tender side to him as he kissed down your shoulder blade to your back. You obeyed his command and came onto him- violently, so fucking hard. A guttural groan rumbled from his chest and your honeyed pants brought him back to life- a cause and effect. He fucked you through your orgasm and allowed himself the privilege of finishing inside you.

Miguel pulled out of you, leaking against the back of your thigh in the process. The scene was filthy, completely obscene and you never thought this would actually happen. ‘’Stay still princesa.’’ He commanded and you actually listened to him. The pressure of Miguel's body left you exposed as your ears pricked up to hear a rustle of draws and a clattering of things behind you. You turned your head around and his hologram suit was back on, it hugged him so fucking tightly your knees were starting to shake again.

You felt his presence again as you felt a cloth clean up the leaks down your thighs. ‘’Muchas gracias, Miguel.’’ Smartass. You flirted and he just smirked back at you, helping you stand up straight and face him when he got you cleaned up. You gazed up at him, quite chipper if you were being completely honest. Maybe a good hard fucking from his was all you needed to straighten you out. His eyes were still greedy as they raked up and down your naked body.

‘’As much as I prefer you like this...here.’’ A hologram covered you and your suit was back on, fine lines and all- well, that's easier than what you have to go through every day to get it sitting nicely.

You gazed at the scraps of your suit that were on the floor. Jesus Christ, he fucked like an animal.

"Nice to know chivalry isn't dead.' You tiptoed so you could get closer to his face and kissed his cheek. ‘’Thanks for the fuck, Miguel. Also by the way, I'm still not letting you kill that kid.’’ You patted his shoulder sarcastically- toying with him even further. You just walked away from him and his platform, you left him in a stunned silence and a blank expression, he scoffed breathlessly as he turned around to see you saunter away so damn confidently.

‘’Princesa no tan rapida.’’ (Not so fast princess) He replied back with a broken half smile. He suddenly exposed his wrist and a web flew to your waist and he instantaneously pulled you back in front of him. The breathless expression on your face was something that needed to be showcased in galleries.

‘’Can't lose me again? Object permanence is a thing you know torombolo.’’ You joked and his brows furrowed slightly in response, his arms wrapped tightly around you.

‘’Don't joke about that mi vida.’’ Miguel's face had a sheen of concern and it made your stomach twist into butterflies. ‘’You could die.’’ His voice came across as more stern than intended but you didn't back away like anyone else would do- you accepted him for who he was.

‘’Oh, Miguel...Please, we'll figure it out. But that kid you're after is probably scared and alone- just like you were, just like I was and I don't want that to swallow him.’’

‘’But every time-‘’ You pressed your pointer finger to stop his lips from moving.

"Shush. I've always trusted you, Miguel, now I don't even think there's a point in me being your higher-up. If we work together, you don't have to be afraid.’’ You caressed his face tenderly and he got lost in the softness of your words and your ever so guileless eyes.

‘’Okay?’’ Miguel turned his head to kiss at your palm as an affirmation.

‘’Okay.’’

#miguel ohara #miguel o’hara #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #miguel ohara smut #across the spiderverse #across the spider verse spoilers #miguel spiderverse #miguel o’hara smut #atsv miguel #miguel o’hara angst #spiderverse x reader #spiderman into the spiderverse

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the-hydroxian-artblog · 1 month

Note

Are Merch Mimics capable of using assimilation offensively against humans, for self-defense and otherwise? Like, if someone tried to break a toy/game/etc they were inhabiting, could the Mimic instead pull them in?

To a degree, yeah. I should mention though that Victor isn't "in" the TV in any magical sense; spoiler alert: he's the controller Vance is holding! Hence, the eye on the controller reacting to the dialogue. The Victor on the screen is actualy a model he rigged for a homebrew game he coded the old fashioned way, which responds to whatever inputs the controller sends to the Wii.

He actually is an active member of the homebrew community, and loves to mess with electronics the old fashioned way. Almost no one on the forums knows he's a toy bird, but are impressed nonetheless with his little projects, various rail-shooter games, and weird obsession with snarky anthropomorphic birds.

Victor could technically "jump into a game" on a tv screen, but it'd be a bit of a weird process if he doesn't know how to mod the game, so it'd look more like a shitty greenscreen effect rather than anything coherent. He'd need to learn in real time how the game is coded, how to inject arbitrary code into the system while it's running, etc etc. He CAN do that because he's a fucking NERD, but it wouldn't be a quick process at all.

I should also mention, mimics have an inherent ability to create dreams, since they come about from processing the thoughts and ideas of humans. If a human bonds with a mimic, such that the mimic now knows how the human thinks, they can pull a (somewhat) willing human into the dream when the human sleeps. So to wrap this all up: what Victor could do for a game he understands inside and out is pull a human into a dream that happens to match whatever he himself experiences as currently going on in the game. Basically the ultimate VR experience, with the mimic as a middle-man. Which might be something that'll happen in the comic soon....!

So that all seems a bit convoluted, right? Here's even more worldbuilding about matter assimilation by mimics below the cut. Stop here if you don't want a headache.

The reason so many hoops would be needed to pull a human into a game world is that assimilation is much easier on inert, inanimate objects that are not currently "in use" by a thinking thing, or something that relies on constant electrical signals to function. This can be something with brainwaves, or some other kind of animation like a normal robot. A mimic can convert a CRT TV that's turned off somewhat easily, but a TV that's turned on, with particles of every kind constantly moving into and out of it, is much harder to convert.

This means that humans and biological creatures in general are also trickier to convert, though it can still happen if done gradually enough. Hence, Victor wouldn't be able to rapidly convert Vance in one fell swoop, it'd be a whole process. It's easier to just pull a human into a dream instead, and if a mimic understands a video game, or a story in a book really well, they can basically make the fictional world into an extremely lucid reality for whatever human tags along with them.

I often describe mimics as just "jojo stands if they were corporeal and could just get up and move around on their own with no user"; you know how in jojo stand battles or old stories about magic curses, if you break the curse or kill the stand before its effect becomes permanent, all of the damage is magically undone? Like if you kill Green Day, the mold stand, all of the molding just instantly stops?

Mimics who use their powers of assimilation offensively work similarly; they can project their influence to a certain range, and partially assimilate matter in that range. If you knock out or kill the mimic, however, everything reverts to normal. A human who doesn't want to get converted can basically just turn around and walk away most of the time, or shoot the mimic, so the mimic in question needs to pull off some trick to get the human to stay within range for the assimilation to fully stick. A human can still break free and get out of range even if fully converted, but it's much harder, as assimilation usually means the mimic gaining greater control over the converted object in question. The exact range and effect mimics have is again like jojo stand ranges; it varies.

Different mimics have different affinities for different things. Victor can assimilate cheap electronics fastest because he likes them and understands how they work (it's why he's a toy bird mp3 player). Az can assimilate guns, and turn ammo into weird anomalous ammo with weird effects. Zachary is a genius who can assimilate any matter, including biological matter, faster than anyone... but he's also extremely picky and hates the sight of blood, so he only uses assimilation on things he really, really likes.

If I could somehow make another read more at this point, I would. It's gonna get messy:

What a weird power and setup though, right? Why? The true nature of mimics is unknown to most of them, but the deepest lore is that the first mimics were constructs made by a people long ago, who first made them as highly advanced machines that'd recognize the thoughts of their masters to fulfill any practical desire. Need a road built? Done. Need a ship repaired? Done. With physical needs all met, the people began to turn inward, and use the mimics to illustrate their own artistic ideas. Eventually, the will and consciousness of these people were assimilated and inherited by mimics, who themselves became people. Mimics spread, altered themselves, duplicated, deviated, fused, split, and wandered around. Getting into recreational wars, manifesting horrors and delights into reality because they could.

Somehow, after the dust settled, the strongest mimics, the angels, decide to set their sights to the stars, and observe other lifeforms develop technology and their own art. Did mimics come to earth millions of years ago, and simply watched humans grow, evolving with them in-tandem? Or did humans make the first mimics, and somehow became undone and set back to the stone age? The answer to this mystery is currently known only to the oldest of mimics. Except Zachary. He's old, but didn't care to remember.

This is generally why mimics seem so compatible with humans; they were made by either them, or people who were, for whatever the reason, very much like them, flaws and all. The ability to assimilate is basically the conversion of matter into a more malleable state of information. A virtually magical power, but this was achieved not through prayers and spells, but a very human-like obsession with developing technology to the point of exerting control over molecules, then atoms, then the lowest planks of matter. The obsession with scaling every mountain and crossing through every valley. To rip the natural world apart, and hopefully, put it back together before it's too late. Angels seek to ensure humanity walks the right path there, but with human's own desires and intent honored, for better or worse.

To answer your question: yes. A mimic of Mario can pull you into the game and you can jump with him and eat shitty low poly spaghetti with him.

The process for doing that is just convoluted and complicated, and you need to get to know each other a bit first. If he tries to use it as an attack though, it either won't work, or it might just wind up giving you mild brain damage.

#Victor #Merch Mimic #worldbuilding #Character Design #Fantasy race design

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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year

Text

part one

———

Lance wrinkles his nose, turning the device around in his hands. “This thing? It’s really going to help you evaluate my fighting style?”

“Absolutely,” Coran says, gently plucking the device from Lance’s hands and fixing the electrodes to his temples. “Like the headsets you use occasionally with the team, this device will access your brainwaves. Only this time, it’s goal —” he runs the wire across the back of the boy’s skull, under his hair. Once’s he’s sure it’s properly affixed, he pats Lance’s shoulder, guiding him towards the ring. “It’s goal is to make you afraid.”

“That does not sound good,” Lance says warily.

Coran winces. It probably would have been more prudent to be clear rather than dramatic. “Allow me to explain. When you’re afraid, your brain sends specific electrical signals that induce certain responses, yes?”

Lance nods. “Yeah, fight-flight-freeze.”

“Exactly. And there are certain levels as well, to differentiate from anxiety and true fear. Now this device —” he taps Lance’s temples gently — “is not meant to terrorize you. All it will do is access your fear response and cloud your senses.” He puts three deliberate strides between him and Lance, standing on the opposite side of the ring. He shifts his weight to balance on the balls of his feet, holding his hands protectively in front of him — relaxed, but ready to tense and strike at any moment. “You, my dear, are going to fight me — only you won’t think that it’s me you’re fighting.”

Lance is silent for a moment as he processes, and then he brightens. “Oh, like that dorky book! The one Keith pretends he isn’t obsessed with!” His brows furrow as he tries to remember the name. “Delibera — no, that’s not — detergent? No, obviously not — oh! Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “Divergent!”

Coran can’t help his small smile.

The opportunity is right there.

It would almost be irresponsibleto ignore it.

“Paying close attention to Keith and his interests, hm?”

Lance splutters, going bright red. “I do not — what! Excuse me! I beg your pardon, even! How dare you — black paladin or no he is my rival, as I have explained —”

“Moving on,” Coran interrupts smoothly. “I am going to activate the sensor with this remote. As soon as it’s activated, you are not going to see me. I don’t know what you’ll see, but whatever it is, you are going to want to fight it, and you will not hold back. You’re not going to be completely terrorized, but you’re going to want to fight with all you have. Are you ready?”

Lance hesitates. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Positive, lad,” Coran says, smiling gently.

Lance does not look reassured. “But what if it doesn’t work? You’ve been training for longer than I’ve been alive, more than that. What if you kick my ass and I don’t learn anything?”

Coran snorts. “Lance —”

“Or what if this thing overloads my brain! I’m not wired the same as most humans, you know, I process emotions differently —”

“I know, dear —”

“—and I hurt you because my brain is all terrorized! And then I’m too batshit with fear to get the device off and things get worse —”

“Lance,” Coran says loudly, finally getting his attention. “I promise you that all will be safe. You trust me, yes?”

“Yes.”

Lance didn’t hesitate for even a millisecond. Coran blinks for a moment, then smiles, touched.

“I’m glad. I promise, Lance. Everything is fine. This will help.”

“Alright,” Lance says reluctantly. He mirrors Coran’s stance, bayard held loosely in his hands, then nods. “I’m ready.”

Coran gives him a second to gather himself, then presses the activator button.

For a second, nothing happens — then Lance’s pupils dilate so wide they swallow the brown of his irises, and he lunges.

Coran throws himself out of the way, using his training staff to keep the space between them. Lance doesn’t let that deter him, stalking after Coran with silent, deliberate steps. He doesn’t seem to have any intention to attack again, merely waiting for Coran’s reaction, evaluative.

Coran gives him something to evaluate.

Lance was correct, earlier. As the royal Altean family’s closest advisor, it was understood that his role was a protector as much as anything else. He was trained as extensively as the strongest bodyguards, and then some. He knows how to defend himself.

He can hold his own.

He spins the staff in his hands, so quickly it whistles through the air. As expected, Lance’s focus is on the weapon, so Coran tosses it in the air, splitting Lance’s attention just long enough for him to spin into a kick aimed at Lance’s stomach, incapacitating him.

Only, the kick doesn’t connect.

Nanoseconds before Coran’s foot knocks the red paladin’s breath out of him, his body seems to crumple backwards, as if someone cut him at the knees. He catches himself as he falls backwards, flipping upside down to stand on his hands, doing some kind of twisting motion that spins his body like a top, right out of Coran’s reach. Nearly unable to account for the sudden shift in his weight, Coran stumbles, managing to shift his feet at the last second to stay upright. He scoops up his staff, pivoting a quarter turn to face Lance again and brandishing his weapon. Lance is upright again, bouncing from one foot to the other, almost as if he’s keeping a beat.

This time he doesn’t wait for Coran to attack first, bayard glowing in his hand and turning into his blaster. He shoots a myriad of shots, aiming for Coran’s joints — but no kill shots.

Coran deflects the hits with his staff; most ricochet out of the ring and dissolve in the training room walls, but one heads right back for Lance’s head. He cartwheels right out of the way, and when he’s upright again his bayard has changed forms — a dagger?

Coran did not know they could do that.

Fluidly, without pause to straighten himself out or re-analyse the fight, Lance throws the dagger with deadly accuracy. Coran has to duck to avoid a surprise haircut.

Coran smirks despite himself. The dagger was the closest Lance has been to deadly force, but he’s just thrown his bayard — all he has left is hand-to-hand. Coran has the advantage.

He thrusts forward at inhuman speeds, intentionally faster than Lance can react, swiping his legs out from under him. He hadn’t intended to fight Lance with his full abilities — this session is, above all else, evaluative. He wants to see what Lance is capable of doing. His goal was to get an idea of how Lance fights, and end it after half a varga.

But that’s no longer viable — Coran is completely blindsided.

It’s his own fault for underestimating Lance, truly. Coran is not usually guilty of such, and frequently watches in amusement as Lance leans into others assumptions of him to give himself the upper hand. Clearly he is not immune, however, because while he knew Lance was beyond capable, he didn’t know just how many bayard forms the boy could make. That will be good information for the future, however — four so far, and possible more depending how long this fight lasts.

He pins Lance to the ground when he falls, one leg keeping both of his immobile and staff pressed to his shoulders to keep his arms stuck. Lance struggles, trying to buck Coran off, but Coran is stronger — there’s nowhere for him to go.

Lance’s pupils are still dilated. It’s still a mix of fear and fury that dominates his face, fight mode activated. Quickly, almost faster than Coran can track, his eyes flick to the left, just beyond his shoulder.

It’s a trick, most likely. It will be foolish to look. This is likely the paladin’s last-ditch effort to weaken Coran’s hold.

But he’s pinned so tightly. And Coran has always been weak to his curiosity — he was an explorer before he was ever an advisor.

He glances over his shoulder, trying to find what Lance was looking for. All he sees is the red bayard.

The shaking red bayard.

Coran whips his head back to Lance, jaw dropped. The Cuban’s hand is outstretched, tense, fingers spread. The bayard shakes uncontrollably.

“It’s not possible,” Coran mutters.

He was there when the lions — and their bayards — were built. He helped to build them! He should know what is and is not possible, regardless of how skilled their paladin be.

But the bayard shakes faster, and then it moves.

It shoots forward, slamming into Lance’s waiting palm. His fingers wrap around it immediately and it glows, transforming into his broadsword. He jams the blade under Coran’s staff and levers it right off, freeing himself and scrambling to put space between them. Coran barely has time to react before Lance is swinging again.

From then on, Coran barely has the processing space to register what’s happening. He almost feels like he’s the one with the headset, fighting for his life.

Lance is quick, never staying in one place for more than a second. His movements seem rhythmic at times, like he’s following that same beat, but then he switches it up halfway through so Coran can’t predict what he’s doing. He has no trouble with predictions, however — on more than one occasion, Coran just narrowly misses a hit when Lance manages to guess which way he’s feigning. He doesn’t unlock any more bayards than the four he’s already done, but he cycles through them with ease, incorporating whichever one works best with a specific move, rather than a fighting style. He’s flexible, using it to his advantage, and he rarely uses weapons correctly — sometimes he uses his broadsword like a stick to beat with, or his blaster as a baton. If there’s a way to use a weapon he finds it.

He is, and pardon Coran’s profanity, a fucking menace of a fighter.

He has no idea how to fight properly. He’s more reliant on evasive manoeuvres, and he is slippery. Even in Coran’s tightest holds, he manages to twist his way out of it, landing a good hit or two on the way out. His weapon use is unconventional and frankly insanity. He can summon a bayard without touching it.

Coran cannot wait to train him further.

The third time Lance manages to knock Coran to the ground, the advisor doesn’t fight his way back up. They’ve been fighting for what must be at least two vargas, nonstop, and it’s already late. Coran is exhausted. He’s had ample time to evaluate.

Lance’s pointed broadsword to his throat, Coran deactivates the headset.

It takes a second, but Lance’s eyes eventually clear, pupils shrinking to show the warm brown again. He shakes himself, taking in the scene in front of him; Coran, panting, smiling up at him, Lance tense and victorious.

Lance scowls. “You let me win on purpose!”

“That was the original plan,” Coran agrees, holding up his hand. Lance clasps it tightly and helps him up, clipping his bayard to his belt. He’s still scowling, stubborn and a little betrayed.

Coran grins brightly, clasping the boy’s shoulder. “We’ve been fighting for over two vargas, lad, and I’ve yet to subdue you. You are nothing like I’ve ever seen before, in all my years of living.”

That gives Lance pause. He narrows his eyes at Coran suspiciously. “Promise?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Of course.”

Satisfied, Lance finally lets a smile light up his face. He unclips his bayard, holding it as it glows into his sword.

“I guess I can get used to a new bayard form, if I have to. You’ll help me?”

Coran throws an arm over his shoulder, guiding him out of the room. “Lance, lad, you have more to get used to than you thought.”

#why am i incapable of writing small things. anyway #vld #voltron #lance #lance mcclain #coran #coran coran the gorgeous man #coran & lance #bamf lance #bamf coran #brown-eyed lance #pining lance #pre klance #my writing #fic #autistic lance #longpost

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haastera-001 · 7 months

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TADC Theory

My compulsive need to theorize about every series I like made me write this.

If we are to assume that the final shot of the episode is truthful, it means that TADC isn't a Sword Art Online-type situation. The real Pomni would be slumped over on the desk still wearing the headset if it were.

If Pomni was magically sucked into the screen her VR headset would be on the floor or dangling off the desk. Instead, it's sitting neatly to the side on top of the desk.

The last possibility is that the Pomni in the circus isn't the human Pomni. She's an AI copy of her mind. A memoryless digital construct of her personality created from the real Pomni's brainwaves (or some other sci-fi explanation) read by the headset.

Think of what a circus is. You don't play a circus. You watch a circus. TADC could be a prototype game or game show where the players and audience watch digital copies of themselves. Pomni being a digital construct of a real person would explain quite a few things.

-It'd explain why she has no memory, not even remembering her name.

-It'd explain why there is no body connected to the VR headset and how the headset itself is placed on the table to the side rather than being on the floor.

-It'd explain how some characters have apparently been there for years as time could flow much faster for digital constructs.

-It'd explain why they don't need to eat or sleep.

-It'd explain why they can't leave.

Caine, for all his Caineness, does not appear to be actively malicious. The characters can feel pain. There are far more effective ways to make them suffer if suffering is his goal. So if Caine isn't evil and is clearly aware of the outside world based on the mock exit he creates, why doesn't he explain everything to them?

It might be because there genuinely is no exit. To reveal that to the characters would necessitate explaining to them why there is no exit, and the revelation that there is truly no hope because they never physically existed in the first place is the type of knowledge that risks making them all abstract.

-Just some thoughts after watching the pilot.

#the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc theory

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the-trinket-witch · 1 year

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New TWST OC Hub!

(NOTE: All art depicted is a combination of freehand art and sprite manipulation, So I cannot say this is wholly my own hand. As well, SD sprites are created via this picrew and edited further by me.)

Albert Eastwind (アルバート・イーストウィンド):

(TWST OF: Mary Poppins)

Age: 17

Pronouns: He/Him (わたくし)

Birthday: Aug 27

Height: 5'9" (175cm)

Class: 2-C (Student 64)

Homeland: Altus (Queendom of Roses)

Best Class: Practical Magic

U.M: 'Step in Time'- Can slow time around up to 15ft (4.5m), can only use up to an hour of time (passes as 5 minutes IRT). Buildup of blot makes use of <1hr dangerous.

Likes: Taking care of others

Dislikes: 'Piecrust Promises' (lying or sparing someone their feelings)

Personality: Cheerful, practical, self-flagellating, one to suffer in silence, truthful, wordy, uplifting, formal

Nicknames: Swordfish (Floyd), Monsieur Parapluie (Rook)

Eugenio 'Yuu' Hernandez (エウヘニオ・ヘルナンデス)

(TWST OF: N/A)

Age: 16

Pronouns: They/Them (僕)

Birthday: May 15

Height: 5'4" (162cm)

Class: 1-A (Student 13)

Homeland: Alameda, CA, USA

Best Class: P.E

U.M: 'Beast Tamer'-not magical, but the threat of La Chancla upside one's head tends to put rowdy schoolboys in line

Likes: Cooking, learning about Twisted Wonderland, days off

Dislikes: Overblotting, Some of the Dorm Leaders, having to do Crowley's go-for work, going hungry

Personality: Pragmatic, wry, inexperienced, mature, tired, fun-seeking

Nicknames: Shrimpy (Floyd), Monsieur Trickster (Rook)

Tidus Rhin (ティダス・ライン)

(TWST OF: Archimedes-The Little Mermaid (TV Series))

Age: 16

Pronouns: He/Him (自分)

Birthday: Nov 17

Height: 7ft (213cm)

Class: 1-C (student 50)

Homeland: Coral Sea

Best Class: History

U.M: 'Fathom's Below'- Can use infrasound frequencies to cause a variety of physical/psychological effects

Likes: Human Culture

Dislikes: Being used exclusively for his strength

Personality: Bubbly, curious, naive, scholarly, headstrong, tame, protective

Nicknames: Jinbei (Floyd), Monsieur Vaste (Rook)

Lázaro Muertinez (ラサロ・ムエルティネス)

Age: 18

Pronouns: He/Him (俺)

Birthday: Nov 2

Height: 6'0" (182cm)

Class: 3-D (Student 42)

Homeland: Land of Dawning

Best Class: Music

U.M: 'Recuérdame'-digs up lost memories of those who hear him playing music. Memories are random.

Likes: Playing any instrument he can get his hands on

Dislikes: Art theft

Personality: Cheery, familial, boisterous, spontaneous, savant, festive

Nicknames: Celebes (Floyd), Roi de la Guitare (Rook)

Aadesh Sona (アーデシュ・ソナ)

Age: 28

Pronouns: He/Him (俺-様)

Birthday: Oct 18

Height: 6'5" (195cm)

Subject: 'Counselor' (Inside Trader/Intel Gatherer)

Homeland: Sunset Savannah

Species: Beastman (Constrictor)

U.M: 'Silver Mist'-lowers brainwave activity, putting people to sleep. Cannot influence actions via UM itself, but has a degree in psychology so only needs to have one in a more suggestible state.

Likes: Having the upper hand, Praise from Mr Khan, power

Dislikes: Things not going his way, Knots in his tail, Kids too smart for their own good

Personality: Conceited, intelligent, scheming, two-faced, obsequious, manipulative, eloquent, self-serving

Nicknames: Scaly Bastard (various), Creepy Constrictor (various) Doctor (clients)

The Janitor (管理人-さん)

(TWST of: Myself! My Actual 'Self insert')

Age: 6 months

Pronouns: They/Them (自分)

Birthday: Sept. 15

Height: 5'4" (163cm)

Role: Janitor

Homeland: Nightraven College Science Lab

Species: Construct (animated anatomical model)

U.M: N/A (Has a charm that makes their sign language understood by those they communicate with)

Likes: Cleaning, free time, learning about 'Life'

Dislikes: Purposefully messy areas, People not understanding their signs, (eventually) being treated as a slave

Personality: detail-oriented, tidy, tired, sassy, overworked, nonchalant, wry

Nicknames: Handybones (various), Bones Malone (various), The Assistant (Sam), 'Oh Shit You Scared Me' (various), The Walking Halloween Decoration (various) Glassfish (Floyd), Souverain de Propreté (Rook)

Rajesh Khan (レージェシュカン)

(TWST of: Shere Khan-Jungle Book)

Age: 53

Pronouns: He/Him (俺-様)

Birthday: Nov. 17

Height: 5'9" (175cm)

Career: CEO (Khan Corp.)

Homeland: Scalding Sands

Species: Beastman (Tiger)

U.M: 'King of the Jungle' Magically amplifies his infrasound roar, making it easier to intimidate.

Likes: Exotic food, smooth business dealings, news from Aadesh, opera, body building

Dislikes: Insubordination, lack of information, kicks to the knee

Personality: Austere, collected, explosive, cutthroat, confident

Nicknames: Sir, Mr Khan

Finally also: the Voice Claim Trailer

#twisted wonderland #twst oc #twst #albert eastwind #tidus rhin #eugenio hernandez #lazaro muertinez #aadesh sona #oc masterlist #oc masterpost #the janitor

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shamandrummer · 4 months

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Healing with Acoustic Resonance

Drumming is a profound way to promote healing. Through acoustic resonance, drumming helps restore the vibrational integrity of body, mind, and spirit. Acoustic resonance is the ability of a sound wave to impart its energy to a substance such as air, wood, metal, or the human body, making it vibrate in sympathy. For example, when you tap a tuning fork in proximity to another one of the same tone, both will vibrate. Acoustic resonance is an important consideration for instrument builders, as most acoustic instruments use resonators, such as the strings and body of a violin, the length of tube in a flute, and the shape of a drum membrane. A single-headed frame or hoop drum works best for acoustic resonance healing--the larger the drum, the greater the resonance.

The drum is a powerful tool for healing. As we play the drum, the drum then plays our bodies. The various frequencies of the drum interact with our own resonant frequencies, forming new harmonic alignments. Through the natural law of resonance, the sound waves produced by the drum impart their energy to the resonating systems of the body, mind and spirit, making them vibrate in sympathy. When we drum, our living flesh, brainwaves and spiritual energy centers entrain or synchronize to the sound waves and rhythms. This sympathetic resonance has the following key effects:

It produces deeper self-awareness by inducing synchronous brain activity. Research has demonstrated that the physical transmission of rhythmic energy to the brain synchronizes the two cerebral hemispheres. When the logical left hemisphere and the intuitive right hemisphere begin to pulsate in harmony, the inner guidance of intuitive knowing can then flow unimpeded into conscious awareness. The ability to access unconscious information through symbols and imagery facilitates psychological integration and a reintegration of self. Drumming also synchronizes the frontal and lower areas of the brain, integrating nonverbal information from lower brain structures into the frontal cortex, producing feelings of insight, understanding, integration, certainty, conviction, and truth, which surpass ordinary understandings and tend to persist long after the experience, often providing foundational insights for religious and cultural traditions.

It releases negative feelings, blockages, and emotional trauma. Drumming can help people express and address emotional issues. Unexpressed feelings and emotions can form energy blockages. The physical stimulation of drumming removes blockages and produces emotional release. Sound vibrations resonate through every cell in the body, stimulating the release of negative cellular memories.

It accesses the entire brain. The reason rhythm is such a powerful tool is that it permeates the entire brain. Vision for example is in one part of the brain, speech another, but acoustic resonance penetrates the whole brain. The sound of drumming generates dynamic neuronal connections in all parts of the brain even where there is significant damage or impairment such as in Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). According to Michael Thaut, director of Colorado State University's Center for Biomedical Research in Music, "Rhythmic cues can help retrain the brain after a stroke or other neurological impairment, as with Parkinson’s patients…." The more connections that can be made within the brain, the more integrated our experiences become.

It induces natural altered states of consciousness. Rhythmic drumming induces altered states, which have a wide range of therapeutic applications. A landmark study by Barry Quinn, Ph.D. demonstrates that even a brief drumming session can double alpha brain wave activity, dramatically reducing stress. The brain changes from Beta waves (focused concentration and activity) to Alpha waves (calm and relaxed), producing feelings of euphoria and well-being. Alpha activity is associated with meditation, shamanic trance, and integrative modes of consciousness.

It helps us to experience being in resonance with the natural rhythms of life. Rhythm and resonance order the natural world. Dissonance and disharmony arise only when we limit our capacity to resonate totally and completely with the rhythms of life. The origin of the word rhythm is Greek meaning "to flow." We can learn to flow with the rhythms of life by simply learning to feel the beat, pulse, or groove while drumming. When drummers feel this rhythmic flow, especially at a slower, steady beat, they can shift into a state of deep relaxation and expanded awareness. It is a way of bringing the essential self into accord with the flow of a dynamic, interrelated universe, helping us feel connected rather than isolated and estranged.

#shamanic drumming #drumming #shamanic practice #shamanism #consciousness #shamanic healing #altered states #resonance #sound healing

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do-you-ship-this-comic-ship · 2 hours

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propaganda:

Listen the bar for how other characters treat Hank is in Hell and Rick is one of the only characters who consistently steps over it.

#henry king jr #brainwave jr #rick tyler #hourman #hourwave #infinity inc #jsa #justice society of america #dc #dcu #dc comics #okay i don't think i can actually play the long game on infinity inc boys ships #this was gonna post on monday but i wanna see results now...

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found-family-tournament · 1 year

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Found Family Tournament Round 1 Part 3 Group 12

Propaganda and further pictures under the cut

The Mechanisms: Jonny d'Ville, Nastya Rasputina, the Starship Aurora, Ashes O'Reilly, Ivy Alexandria, Drumbot Brian, the Toy Soldier, Marius von Raum, Raphaella la Cognizi, (& Scuzz Nishimura)

Scooby Gang: Shaggy, Daphne, Fred, Delma, Scooby

Submissions are still open!

The Mechanisms:

Out-of-universe, the Mechanisms are a folk band of musicians playing fictional onstage personas, formerly the backing band of Dr. Carmilla before splitting off to become their own thing. In-universe, the Mechanisms are a band of immortal space pirates and their sapient ship Aurora roving through the multiverse, having adventures as well as causing general carnage and mayhem, in addition to occasionally writing music about their experiences and performing before a live (though not always for long), at times captive audience.

They are,,,, so chaotic. They are composed of, in order: a cannibalistic war criminal from Space Texas, the lost princess Anastasia Romanova from Cyborg Space Russia, her sapient starship girlfriend who used to be a moon for an alternate version of Earth before being kidnapped by Cyborg Space Russia, an arsonist gangster who burned down their entire planet, an archivist who is nice enough up until you damage her books (in which case RUN), a doctor who was repeatedly and separately convicted for heresy and witchcraft and currently pilots the ship, a wooden soldier that is Not Real, But Very Good At Pretending To Be, a war criminal from another version of Earth who blew up the moon, an amnesiac mecha pilot who is the ship's doctor and self-appointed psychiatrist despite NOT being qualified for either, and a severely unethical scientist who is perfectly willing to cause catastrophic international disasters if it gets her interesting results for her "experiments". Oh, and also a space ninja who visits sometimes. Not sure what her deal is.

What's more, they're chaotic evil. Because when you're immortal for long enough, you morals end up skewing so far outside of the box they're hardly even in the same galaxy anymore, because things get stale pretty quickly if you keep doing the same thing over and over again for tens of thousands of years and besides, tens of thousands of years is a long time to go through without experiencing some of the more exciting avenues life has to offer. Doesn't really help that a bunch of them weren't the best of people before becoming immortal either. As a result, what most people would call a string of horrific atrocities/mass destruction, the Mechanisms call a particularly interesting Tuesday. Among their canonical crimes include: destroying a sun, orchestrating the collapse of several civilizations, very armed robbery, brainwave piracy, terrorism, neuro-arson, unlicensed foul language, criminal enterprising, grand theft mecha, starting various cults, whatever 'aethercide' and 'grand theft aether' mean, as well as literally every single crime imaginable except for the sexual ones (specific to Jonny, who is implied to be aspec. he really might as well have been doing a completionist speedrun of that specific planet's constitution at the time). Also, none of them are cishet.

The thing is though, the thing is-- all of them are so unfathomably old. It's been thousands of years and they can't die, not even when they put a bullet between each others' eyes every so often to get some peace and bloody quiet. And ultimately they cannot die, not until the narrative has deemed their roles finished, because above all the Mechanisms act as witnesses to the universe and all the stories therein; sometimes watching passively, sometimes taking a decidedly active role, sometimes something in between. And ultimately, there is no one else in the multiverse who can understand them as much as each other -- how it feels to die and come back immortal, how it feels to be trapped by the whims of a primal force of nature, how it feels to grieve every time they're forced to send the mortals they've just gotten attached to off to die because it is their destiny, how the sameness and endlessness of it all wears them down and can drive them mad if they're not careful. In a world that is ever-changing and reinventing itself in impermanence, as countless stories across countless worlds spring from humble beginnings only to crash and burn in a thousand ways towards the end, they are each others' landmark, the place they return to whenever it's time to stop playing at gods or sovereigns or conquerors or prophets. They're unbelievable shitheads towards each other but they also care deeply, which is pretty remarkable considering Aurora can't go lightspeed so they have to travel through space the old-fashioned way. I mean, you try living on a ship with the same eight/nine people for centuries at a time as you travel between star systems? Insane, frankly.

Which is also why it absolutely crushes me that for all the time they've spent together, all of them inevitably end up dying alone.

Scooby Gang:

They’re a bunch of besties who solve silly mysteries with their dog. Iconic

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