A deep, grinding ache radiates through my ribs, crawling along every nerve, twisting with each shallow inhale. Dragging air into my lungs feels like sucking broken glass.
My ribs throb like something inside me is trying to rip free.
I taste copper—blood, mine, warm and stubborn in the back of my throat—and bile rises fast.
The sharp sting of antiseptic and plastic fills my mouth, dragging up some half-buried memory of being a kid pretending to be Godzilla eating army men, though I’m pretty damn sure none of those ever got shoved into my lungs.
I can’t tell if I’m suffocating or breathing.
Either way, it fucking hurts.
Both.
Yeah.
The answer is both.
Jesus Christ.
I feel like I’m deep-throating Johnny Number Five.
Machines hum close by—rhythmic beeping, oxygen hissing, cold tubes pressing against my skin. When I crack my eyes open, white light claws straight into my skull and I flinch, hard.
Great.
Flash-banged while getting mouth-fucked by a robot.
What is my life?
Fuck this shit... peace out. I’m disassociating.
Great, but you are me—so you’re just gonna have to take it.
Can’t even cup the balls.
Hands are all fucking tied up.
Poor showing.
The hospital ceiling swims into focus, too bright, too clean, too calm, and something about it makes my chest ache worse.
I fucking hate hospitals.
My body feels foreign. Broken.
Wires tug at me, monitors stuck to my chest, IV lines taped to my arm, oxygen tubing under my nose. Every tiny movement becomes a tug-of-war with pain.
My mouth is dry. My throat raw.
Even thinking hurts.
Fucked raw.
#roboblowjob
Memories drift through the fog, jagged and violent—shouting, gunfire, the cold bite of a basement floor, Seraphina’s hands on my face trembling as blood mixed with tears.
“I love you, Trey. Please, don’t leave me.”
