The most terrifying thing in life is debatable, and yet what can be called the 'Ultimate Fear', the most primal state of a human being, is the state in which they are faced with their own death. It is hard coded within us to not want to die, to fear death. But to do this, we are pushed our hardest to try and get away from death.
This is where the concept of 'Limbo' comes in. Also known as 'purgatory' in this scenario, it is the state between life and death. So maybe trying to find the ultimate fear is easy - an extended period of time before someone's own death. The time when they crouch behind their couch as an armed murderer picks their way through their house. The moments in waiting as their death gets closer and closer. Pure physiological torture.
In writing, jumpscares aren't all that scary. This means one must play the most into the limbo, the moments before death. There is true terror, and it can only be solved by the end. A gruesome murder. A terrifying monster. The end of the book or chapter.
But what if it didn't end that simply?
The expectation is a build up of adrenaline and fear, preparing for the final fight. The adrenaline bursts and is used. But what if there was no burst? What if you were on edge the whole time, waiting for the death, and yet never knowing when it would come.
This is limbo.
Now the concept alone can be terrifying for some, but in order to harness the terror, we need to look at the limitations of the written word. We can't show the monster. We can't play terrifying music. But we can play with the readers mind.
The thing with books is that it is the author speaking to the reader. And in order to get the reader to feel things, we have to make the emotions seem as human as possible. Good thing is, we are humans. We can play with the readers mind. They are imagining this whole thing in their head, based on what the words say. This means, we can abstract the borders between what is real and not real.
Paranoia is a concept expressed wonderfully in the written word. In a movie, the watcher can see things that they know are there. But in their heads, the brain will not always make the scene perfect. And that is the key. Make sure the readers never know anything. Keep them always on edge.
Now, how would be do this?
A key example would be the scenario of a hunt. A person is lost in what seems to be an endless forest with no escape. At first it's normal. But they soon come to realize that something is following them. No matter how far they run, it will always catch up. It is there.
This is the constant state of limbo. Their death is coming always. They can never truly outrun it. In everyday life, a person pushes this out of their minds. But when we make the danger seem real in a story, the terror becomes real with it.
• summary: the vibrator presses against your clit and it drives gojo wild
•°. *࿐ this story contains explicit themes. minors dni •°. *࿐
"It's fairly silent," soft, white hair bounces when he tilts his head, "no one will know."
He's watching you, peering down beyond his blackout sunglasses to what muscle twitches where, how you fill your chest slowly and expel in a sigh. You're thinking about it, of course, the tempting thrill, a silent pleasure that will shift so loudly in your bones. Gojo can already spot how your thighs attempt to shake the exciting tickle off them.
"It's not a cursed tool, is it?"
Gojo shakes his head chuckling, but damn if it was, he'd have found all there was to find in the archive back in his clan's base. Not that he seemed fond of rummaging through anyone's underwear, something told Satoru that cursed tool sex toys weren't a thing.
"I will have the remote, obviously," he leans further into the seat to spread his legs. God, even the thought of you searching his eyes in a crowd when you're fighting the stimulation on your clit, that plead to give you a merciful moment to breathe, what a pretty sight you'd be.
You bite your nails.
He gestures a lipstick-sized, and disguised, bullet vibrator to you in two feeble fingers. It dangles in a tease, calling to you in a breathy whisper, or maybe that's just Gojo.
You know it'll feel so good. A stir in your pelvis that your boyfriend could push over if he so willed it. You'll shake and cry.
"Fine," you give into the fire in his eyes, an ice that burns. You know something pulls you into him despite the evergrowing list of 'maybe this'll be a bad idea' festering in the forefront of your mind. Because if things go wrong, if you need swooping away from a messy situation, you just had to say the word.
Gojo stands up and your spine stiffens. His steps are paced, deliberate, kissing the tension with soft praises as he steps closer. His breath fans down your face, bright eyes drinking up the both of yours before resting on the plump part of your lips.
A finger trails at the base of your throat and he drags it up your windpipe, relishing in the nervous swallow that shifts the movement. Bony ridges and pliant skin, Satoru pulls his finger up underneath your chin, savoring the jittery wash of electricity that rushes through you.
You feel light. A breath. Your chest runs rampant from his closeness, the sheer intensity of his scent setting back your resolve as you stare at his lips too. Pretty and pink, one of the softest parts of him considering he's all slim built and toned muscle everywhere else. He inches to press them onto yours weakly, as if he hadn't decided how to merge your mouths together this time.
They grow firm when his finger and thumb tilt up your chin. A sure, needy thing. He kisses into you hard and sharp like a parched man, staggering in search for lady lake in vast heat. Open-mouthed and so fucking wet. And he's found his drink, favoring his sweet tooth with your sweet tongue.
Playing with your tongue, his other hand plays with the strap of your pants, catching onto the band of your underwear. You squeak into his mouth when his hand dips to place the vibrator into position against your clit.
Gojo smiles against your lips.
"You'll take it, right?" He breathes.
"I'll take it."
You submit.
-.--.-
"Shh shh," Gojo's palm squeezes around your mouth, catching loud moans before they fall on the ears of the public. Your fingers tighten in his shirt. Fuck, it feels so good.
The restaurant was oblivious to how you rocked your hips in one of their booths, a needy sight for Satoru to drink up and have his own problem in his jeans.
Purposely on the lowest setting, you ached for more, but Satoru was no where near to grant you that mercy. So, you turned to extreme methods.
Lifting your drink, you stuck your tongue out to curl around the straw, wet and sloppy. You sucked with a sensual hum in your throat, looking at him through your lashes. Gojo caught the full extent of your show and it shot straight to his crotch.
Oh, so you wanted to play that game?
Now, he presses you into the bathroom door, edging the intensity until your cheeks flush, your eyes lose focus and your knees buckle, just to knock it down again to leave you hanging. You dread at the sound of the remote clicking when you get so, so close to coming, Gojo abruptly tuning the vibrating near null.
So blissfully painful, your clit feels like it's on fire. The overstimulation stirs into an impending orgasm, but it's just not enough.
"Baby, you look so good like this," Satoru purrs, his breath tickling in your ear. You're desperately clinging onto him, fingers bunching into fabric, flexing and shaking as if you couldn't decide what to do with them. Gojo is drunk on the power, dizzy with how your pretty little face stretches into pretty little expressions. That curl of your brows. Your jaw hanging low.
You hum loudly against his hand, erotic and messy.
He all but watches you, gives you the attention to feel the spotlight of his flashy blue eyes, and it spurs you on more. Your thighs lack the strength but they squeeze together still; you just need a little bit more.
Fuck, it feels like your skin could burn through your clothes, your nipples painfully stiff against your dress and bra. Gojo drags his lips along your neck, hovering close enough to wash your body in pure electric bliss.
Metal clanks as Gojo unbuckles his belt, a hand immediately freeing his straining issues. He pulls a packet from his pocket, rips it with his teeth and rolls the condom to the base of his cock. Fuck, the way your eyes glaze over at his cock like you could already feel him fucking you into the door until you collapsed.
The desire runs rampant. You buck your hips.
Your words muffle behind his hand. The buzz of the vibrator almost drowns you out. He hears you clear enough anyway.
"Please, Satoru," he lifts from your mouth to hear you say it, "Let me cum, please. Fuck me good."
Your hands are shaky, finding uncertain purchase on his shoulder as he lines himself up, the angry tip of his cock coaxing itself with your leaking juices. The vibrator buzzes idly on the floor. Your breath is unsteady.
One push in and you're already so close.
Shit, he fills you up so good and so easily.
He bottoms out and stills. Your moans shift a pitch higher, so close to pulsing around the glorious shape of him in your walls. If he moves the slightest, you're so done for.
And fuck, he does.
Pulling out slightly to ogle at how wet you're around him, he slams back in to the hilt, kissing the spot that makes you shake the most. And you cum immediately, a loud pornographic moan right into his ear, your lower back pushing into him to shake off the insistent edging he gave you.
"Fuck," he mutters, and by God you feel so good fluttering around his cock, so warm and wet. His hips jut forward of their own accord, he can't hold it back any longer.
And he thrusts a sloppy pace to fuck you through your orgasm and rile up the next, the smacking and squelching of your hips spurring him on to fasten the pace. You cling to him, ankles locked around his waist, arms locked around his neck; you know you'd fall if he moved you away from the door.
Fuck, fuck, you feel it squirming again, your breaths stagger once more.
The bathroom door handle shakes, and when it doesn't budge, a loud knock resounds.
Before you have the voice to gasp, your head thuds the door and Gojo clamps your mouth with his palm again. His sunglasses are thrown wherever, and bright cerulean locks with your eyes. His pale eyebrows are curled dangerously.
He fucks harder, faster and for some unbeknownst reason, louder. His hips thrust purposefully, rough and angry, how dare someone impose on his focus to fuck you good?
Satoru rests his forehead on yours, daring you to pull away from the eye contact, not that you wanted to anyway. The sheer will to making you come apart on his cock again only added to your commencing orgasm. That wild look. A starved beast behind the front of wolfish grin.
The door knocks again.
Gojo snarls. His hips smack painfully and you whimper under his palm. Tears fall on the back of his hand. Your toes curl, teetering on the edge of another mind-fucked orgasm. Your eyes roll back. Your hums grow short and high.
"Shit," Gojo hisses when you clamp around him and immediately pulses inside of you as he cums. Cushiony walls milk him deliciously and he messily thrusts into you to ride it out. His breath is heavy, spent. Your chest pushes into him as you breathe shakily.
Satoru drops the palm on your lips. You can't help but laugh.
Guess who finally had the time and spoons to write?? ME. I DID.
I promise I'll update as much as I can, but finding time to sit down and write for fun is hard in grad school, folks. It's also on my To Do List to put this whole thing on AO3. Most importantly, I wand you to know that I love this story too much to abandon it.
Okay, that being said, let's do this.
Beginning || Previous || Next
********************************
Metatron had drawn a number of conclusions while studying the developments in the Book of Life. First of all, he gathered that the book was a ways behind on the transpiring events – given that it had some catching up to do, it seemed. Second, the longer the human remained, the more permanent the new story in the book became. The white tape in the first few pages now being impossible to scratch away, while the alterations were still possible in the pages currently being written. The third, and most important development was the one that had brought him, once again, to Earth. This time, however, he found himself staring at the tall shelves of an institution known as Waterstones.
Although it was much less of a mess than Aziraphale’s bookshop, it was just as crowded. He held back a sigh. Something about this planet seemed to have every being desperate to collect as many blasted things as possible. Movement in his periphery drew his attention, and he saw that a shop employee had appeared to his left, looking confused. Of course the young man was confused, it wasn’t British behaviour to approach customers to ask if they needed help. But when you happen to be The Metatron, things (and people) seemed to anticipate your needs. Indeed, he reflected, The Lord Provides.
“Can I help you find something?” The employee asked. He shifted as he stood, clearly uncomfortable with the interaction.
“Ah, yes,” Metatron replied, “I am, as a matter of fact, looking for a book, and it would seem that I need some assistance in finding it. Might you be able to tell me where I may find a book called...Good Omens?”
“Oh, yeah,” the young man said, “It’s in the Fantasy section, right this way.”
“Fantasy?” Metatron mused, following the employee through the shop to the shelf in question, “How quaint.”
The employee raised an eyebrow as he handed Metatron a copy of the novel. Metatron took it, and flipped through the pages, an amused smile spreading across his face.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” The employee asked uncertainly. He was clearly hoping for the interaction to be over with as soon as possible. Metatron raised an eyebrow, quietly surprised the young man was still there.
“No, thank you,” He said, “I believe I have all that I need.”
He left the shop without paying. No alarms went off, and no one noticed.
*****************************
You may be hyped up on adrenaline right now and a hair’s breadth from screaming just to release some of the pent-up energy running wild through your brain, but Jeremy – the entitled, rich, teenage son-of-God-re-incarnate – is cornered. Anathema and Sardis have cut off his retreat, you and Aziraphale have his front and side options covered, and Crowley stands towering above him.
“Well, well, well,” Crowley drawls with a devilish grin, “It’s been a while, now, hasn’t it?”
You see Jeremy stumble back, watch his eyes flick to the three of you in front of him, then to the side as he realizes there are more people behind him. Thank goodness you spent all that time starting at gifs of Micheal “Acting Choices” Sheen, because you’re able to see the calculating look that flickers behind his gaze. He’s assessing his options. It takes all of a second before he straightens up, folds his arms, and cocks his head to the side.
“How much?” he asks. Clearly, this is not the response that Crowley’s expecting, because you can see the demon’s face scrunch. He exhales loudly.
“Oh well, gotta be at least,” Crowley glances back to Aziraphale with a shrug “At least...what would you say...’bout...two thousand years, give or take...” Aziraphale shrugs back, and Crowley returns his attention to the teen. Anathema smacks her forehead with her hand.
“What??” Jeremy asks. He’s looking at Crowley and Aziraphale like they came from outer space. Well, he wouldn’t technically be wrong. “I meant money, dumbass.”
“Whoa,” You say, “Uncalled for, kid.”
Well, you all did just chase a child through alleyways and commit at least three traffic violations in the process so….okay, maybe the kid deserves one. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“You chased and cornered a child,” Jeremy replies, arms still crossed, “I could call the police and all of you would be arrested on the spot.”
Dammit, he’s smart.
“Look,” Crowley starts, “We just need you to come with us.”
“Yeah...” Jeremy drawls, “I don’t think so.”
“Listen here!” Crowley’s voice is getting louder. He’s not shouting just yet, but he’s on the verge of it. Jeremy sees an opening.
“What? Are you gonna make me?” The teen is almost laughing. He’s not trying too hard to hold back his giggles as Crowley’s face grows red with anger. Aziraphale takes a step forward, placing a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. It keeps him cool – barely.
“We need you to come with us because we need your help saving the world,” Aziraphale says calmly.
Oh no, he thinks he can be reasonable with a rich, entitled, teenager. Now the kid actually starts laughing.
“Wow,” You say, looking at Crowley and Aziraphale, “You two are really bad at this.”
“You are welcome to try if you like,” Aziraphale says through gritted teeth. Oh crap. Well, you walked right into that one. You clear your throat – may as well give it a shot.
“Listen, kid,” You say. Jeremy forces his laughing into submission and looks at you like he’s waiting for the punchline to a joke. “For real, these two here are magical beings okay?”
“Pffffff, right. So am I. It’s called Being Rich.”
“No, but they can do miracles. Like actual miracles!”
“Yeah, me too. It’s called Being Rich.”
Okay, so it turns out you're not any better at this than Crowley and Aziraphale are.
Not that you thought this was going to be easy, but you realize that this is still going to be a LOT harder than you thought. And you really don’t think time is on your side.
Who manages strike a bargain with Jeremy?
Anathema
Sardis
Reader
Crowley
Aziraphale
Voting ended onJan 28, 2025
❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 🖤
I'm gonna set the poll duration to 3 days this time. Give people a chance to see that I've updated (and remember I exist ^_^" )
