casuallyobssessed

[casuallyobssessed]

keanu saying wider in The Neon Demon

thats it. thats the post.

[casuallyobssessed]

[casuallyobssessed]

THE MATRIX (1999) dir. Lana Wachowski & Lilly Wachowski

[casuallyobssessed]

Strangers Like Me-Part Five

Huge content warning! This chapter/part of the story involves 18+ situations definitely NOT meant for children. Get outta here, kids! This story ain't your mama's Twilight series! >:(

Part One-Part Two-Part Three-Part Four

The Story So Far: You, an archaeologist, are on an expedition to find a relic of Death himself for Donaka Mark when you encounter B, a caveman from a time long gone by. Despite your passionate exchange in the middle of the rainforest that afternoon, he warns you that he might become Unute, Death incarnate, if provoked-and as night falls, so too does darkness descend on both him and your predatory boss. Who will come out on top?

Thanks to @desolatewrath for the prompt!

Unute/B x Reader/You, Donaka Mark x You

Content Warnings: 18+, BDSM elements (D/s), violence, gore, needles

B handed your daypack to you after you were set down on the forest floor. You both wandered through the abandoned campsite carefully, looking around and listening hard. B pointed up, telling you of some constellations between the canopy openings, and smiled.

“Such a nice night,” he sighed. He leaned against the easy up’s pole, folding his arms against his chest. You stood before him, now wearing your daypack.

“Aren’t you tired from climbing and carrying me?” you asked, glad to be on solid ground again.

“A little. But B must protect you. Oh! There’s some food left.” B turned around after sniffing the night air. You couldn’t detect anything but the fungal smell that followed the rain, a fresh smell that you enjoyed even when it happened over concrete.

B went over to the pots and pans still on the cooktop stove. He opened the lid to one stainless steel pot that was cold, but still coated in a fine mist of condensation. You peered into it, curious, along with him.

Dumplings? you thought, recognizing the meal.

“Ooh! Bao!” and B immediately shoved several into his cheeks, chewing loudly. “Chubby. Bunny! Hehehehhe!”

“I didn’t realize Donaka Mark would bring a legit Chinese chef here…” you said aloud, watching as B discovered an egg roll stuck beneath another side of the cooktop. He dug it out and split it with you, bit on one end like a cigar, and pretended to smoke, giggling.

“This is good food. Shithead has good taste.” B finished the egg roll, hunted around for more scraps. None were to be had, and the campsite itself was pristine. He ran to the tents, shook them and called toward them to be sure they were empty. No response met your ears except rattling zippers and the flap of polyester and nylon tent material. “Hey. We can steal one. Sleep inside. Maybe love inside. Nobody will know…!”

You still felt the damp spot between your legs from earlier and blushed. “B. Given how we were up there, it’d probably be a bad idea to do anything in the tents. People will be back tomorrow and definitely know we were…um…”

“Not if you swallow. Like the chubby bunny.”

And you turned even redder and rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly.

“I…actually have to go back to the hotel. Somehow.”

“Why?” B wanted to know, his eyes and voice now sad.

“I have to find something for shithead, to finish this job and cut ties with him. All my stuff is there. I’m sure he’s pissed, and looking for me…”

“Oh! What do you have to find for him still?” The way B tilted his head to look at you, the way he behaved like a teenager or twenty-something, made you wonder if he really was this killing machine he insisted he was. You hoped that this Unute person he mentioned was some kind of imaginary friend. That he was describing death as a way of coping with the trauma of living alone in the rainforest.

“A relic. It’s…here.” You took off your daypack, unzipped it, and produced the crumpled paper with the Death Whistle picture on it. You looked down while handing it to B, still ashamed of your rage the other night.

B himself whistled on seeing it, touched his egg tooth. He looked up at you, smiling, curious. You showed him more papers, the ones Donaka Mark tossed at you the other day.

“Shithead’s looking for people that worshipped me,” B softly concluded after studying the images for a few beats.

You were stunned at this admission.

“What?” you asked, incredulous. You put your hands on your hips.

“There have been many over the years.” B sat down on the end of an empty fold-out table, kicking his legs back and forth as he spoke. “Many people worship me, in cults, in churches, in groups. It’s weird. I don’t really like it. But then, when you’re vicious, people want to respect that, fear it, at the same time…people that are cruel are thought of as strong. Survival of the fittest…”

***

Donaka Mark arrived at the hotel long before anyone else in your crew did. He shooed his driver and ever-present attendants away, shut the door to his hotel room, and stalked angrily over to the desk. He switched on the lights, plugged in his laptop, opened his silver suitcase filled with charcoal gray foam, his black mask and black leather gloves. A long needle filled with unknown fluid was on one side of the case.

He lifted the needle up, flicked it. Clear fluid dripped out. He set it back down as his computer hummed to life.

He stripped down, getting out of the Indiana Jones get-up and into his standard gray suit with a black undershirt. He put his black silk tie around his neck quickly, pulling it into a Windsor knot in seconds. He smoothed the fabric of the outfit, preened his hair, grimaced into the hotel mirror to check his teeth. He then went online, and contacted someone via Zoom.

He spoke in rapid Mandarin to said person, his camera off.

He paced during the meeting. He absentmindedly stroked the cheeks and chin of the mask, listening intently to the person on the other side of the screen.

They think they’re clever, avoiding me. They’re scared. Acting like a hunted animal. They are. They know. This makes my end of the bargain a challenge, he thought of you as the person on the line spoke and awaited his response.  

He spoke more Mandarin to the other person, striking a deal.

The response was silence, then a frightened protest. Donaka Mark smirked at the screen. He sat in the flimsy chair at the desk, turned on the webcam at last. He straightened his tie, flashed a confident grin at the person on the other side, thousands of miles away.

“I will get this done. You can count on that.” He spoke in English now.  

Even more protesting in Mandarin met his ears.

“Illegal? Yeah. I know. You asked. A life for a life.”

Donaka Mark noted the vase full of orchids at the hotel suite window as the voice became tremulous, the only real remnant of his culture that he dared to have with him on the trip, a gift from the person on screen. A reminder of loss. The red ribbon around the vase bore one word in gold Chinese text: Tiger.

He was a candidate I never expected. But then, he was an innocent. I knew Tai Chi wouldn’t survive beyond exercise for the elderly, a means of grounding oneself only. Never a fighting style. He was too soft.

Donaka Mark then thought of you, his brown eyes glazing over. You, giggling at some vapid joke he hissed between his teeth the other night at dinner. You, fitting so nicely in the cream bellbottom pants, your chest and nipples perked in that lacy top. You, resisting his gaze, squirming at his touch. He got rock hard just thinking about it. About how you didn’t give a fuck about his status, his power, his cruelty. You saw him, and he wanted more of that.

He knew you were truly an innocent. Unlike Tiger, you had little physical prowess. You were precious, like a pearl in an oyster. He knew he had to possess you. Even if you were dead in his arms.

The archaeology expedition, the Death cult was a cover up. The artifacts he purported to look for were for this client in China, not for you nor your team, nor even himself. They would be sold on the black market for thousands, maybe millions of dollars. And he’d wash his hands of it by removing you and your team from existence by any means necessary. Repay his debt.

You were following his plan precisely. You were still doing as you were told, even though you thought you were rebelling. Donaka Mark tossed back some whiskey, paced the suite as the couple on Zoom overseas spoke, sobbing now.

“I know. Tiger was your son. You loved him. I’m only doing what is right. The University rejected him and Tai Chi was his refuge. He came to me desperate to save his monastery. Unfortunately, he was caught in the crosshairs of my operations. For that, I am sorry. Truly.”

Donaka Mark heard a translator give his speech rapid fire to the couple. A beat of silence followed, tension building.

“You owe us a life, Donaka Mark. Not just money.”

Donaka Mark closed his brown eyes, weary. Those were his last words to their son. They didn’t know that, nor did they need to.

It was why he was obsessed with Death. Every symbol, every story. He was seeking the origins of it, seeking why it occurred, why it chose some and ignored others with reckless abandon, channeled into some to become weapons and others to be grief bearers, remaining blissfully ignorant to the young and young-at-heart.

Donaka Mark didn’t want to die. He wanted to live forever. By any means necessary.

“I will bring you justice, Mr and Mrs Chen.”

“So be it, Donaka Mark.”

The call ended. Silence filled the suite with an intense buzz, the walls closing in, and Donaka Mark let his self-hatred bubble up inside him. He slammed the laptop shut, whirled around, tilted his head up and let loose a primal scream.

***

B paused sharing about the Death cults with you and listened hard for a moment. It was as if he could hear Donaka Mark’s grief-stricken scream from miles away.

Then, softly, staring at you with utmost concern: “The hunter is coming back. And Unute will emerge soon, to protect you. You must hide from him, then run from me.”

B grabbed your hand, and ran with you to one of the tents. The heat of the day was finally starting to relent as the night wore on.

“Any weapons here?” B asked as you entered the largest tent. It could house five people, and you both could stand up in it, though B was hunched over a little more than usual in the tent. You both looked around-there were no daypacks nor duffel bags except for-

The black duffel that you were forced to lug around hours ago, for Donaka Mark.

That’s stupid, you thought. Why the Hell would he leave this here?!

B unzipped it after tearing apart the cable ties that secured it with his teeth. You hated the snap of plastic against his enamel. He dropped the bag seconds later, and it landed with a whump! and a clatter. Metal was inside. Burnished metal, from the glow of it in your flashlight. Buried in bubble wrap to silence the sound as it traveled, so you didn’t know what the duffel contained. Your throat constricted and went bone dry on seeing it open.

“Guns.” B breathed, recognizing the make of each one. “Lots of guns.”

“How the fuck did he get these on the plane past customs?!” you asked aloud, backing up to the other side of the tent. Then you remembered: it was a private jet. Donaka Mark probably paid people under the table to get his stuff to him, anyhow.

B picked one up, inspected it, cocked it. “Loaded. Shithead wanted to kill.”

You started to feel dizzy and sick. You ran outside the tent, put your hands on your knees, bent over, and puked.

B continued to check and cock the guns inside, completely focused on that task. Military grade, he thought. Shithead means business. But why would he use guns like these when he has hired hands to help? Unless he knows I exist. But I doubt that highly. This shithead has militaristic connections to China. Hmmm… B thought to himself as you recovered from the bout of vomiting outside.

“Hey. You okay?” his soft gravel carried to you as you stood there, bent over, gasping, spittle dripping from your lips to the forest floor. You gave him a sardonic thumbs up like Johnny Utah in the rain, and B was satisfied with that response, so he went back inside the tent.

“B…why is this man going to kill me?” you weakly mumbled on returning to his side. B put the guns back into the bag, kept a loaded one out.

“I don’t know,” B sighed, shaking his head slowly. He was standing a little taller than he did before, his shoulders now back. His body seemed more muscular somehow. More tense, taught, like a coil ready to spring. “Maybe shithead has a Death wish.”

“Donaka,” you say his name at last. “His name is Donaka Mark.”

B laughed then, a silly sound that broke the tension and almost made you smile back, if it wasn’t for your gurgling stomach and sense of doom about the entire situation.

“Mark. This man, shithead, his real name is Mark?” B giggled. He paced the tent floor, slapped a hand on his forehead. “Not intimidating at all. Poor soul. Angry, lost soul named Mark.”

“I know.”

“I prefer shithead. At least that has more syllables.” B stopped his pacing. He then looked you up and down, his brown eyes dilated, filled with concern. “Drink water. Now.”

The phrase was a command, not a suggestion. You dug out the water bag straw and drank. You started to feel less dizzy-now you were extremely exhausted.

Silence filled the tent, save for your slurping and sucking sounds on the straw.

B watched you with complete fascination. And he sported a hard on the longer he gazed at your mouth on the water bag straw, grunted in approval.

“You sure you don’t want to love me before Unute is here?” he growled at you.

You stopped drinking the water, pulled away to stare at him incredulously.

“No.” Your flat response made B nod.

“I will miss you,” B approached you then, and you dropped the day pack on the ground.

“B…I’ve changed my mind. I think I should stay with you. Instead of go back to the hotel, tonight. We have the guns, we’re more than safe here…!” you began.

“You must leave, now that I have seen the weapons.”

“What do you mean by that?” you asked, worried at B’s sudden change in voice, in attitude. And then, you saw the flicker of neon blue in his irises as he gently stroked your hair in its messy bun, his hands on the sides of your face. He leaned down slightly to cover your moving lips in a kiss, and you moaned into his mouth.

“You must run, my beloved,” he hissed into your left ear, nipping its lobe and outer edge with his teeth in the process. You whimpered, gripped his broad neck and shoulder blades, felt your nipples harden and toes curl in your Merrills.

“B…I want to stay with you. To fight off this bastard. So I can forget this whole nightmare and start something new…with…you!” you tried to reason with the man.

B shook his head no, grunted, growled, pushed your head back, and you felt the pressure of his hands increase tenfold. You started to feel pain on your temples and jaw. Tinnitus began in your ears with the press of his broad, flat palms on the sides of your face. Your eyes widened in shock, all sense of lust evaporating in seconds.

“Beloved. Get your pack. Get out. Now.”

B pushed you back, away from his grip, his blue eyes flickering like a smothered candle’s wick, shifting into brown for seconds of time he borrowed and clung to like a drowned rat on a driftwood beam of a sunken ship.

“Run.” He unzipped the tent. You nearly jogged out, then turned back to look at him one last time.

“B. I am so glad to have met you. Thank you.”

“B will remember. Unute will not. Run. Now. Do not look back. Go!”

B stood there, bent over in pain, and then, stood tall. He looked menacing, then, far moreso than Donaka Mark ever did striding into a room. His eyes were neon blue shields, and he held a cocked gun in his left hand. His long dark hair flickered in the breeze that picked up out of nowhere, and his abs flexed as he took in a deep cleansing breath.

You turned away from him and started to run past the cook tent and out of the campsite when the black paper plate Jeep pulled up.

Donaka Mark exited the Jeep from the front passenger’s side. He had a black mask on, black gloves tight on his hands, the injection needle in his suit jacket pocket. The man who drove him there fled the scene.

He pointed at you, and said, “You owe me a life.”

“They owe no one anything,” the growl in answer crackled overhead like the lightning in the distance.

“Who the fuck are you, some kinda furry kid at a rave?” Donaka Mark spat, staring at B. He then recognized the egg tooth, and his jaw clenched under his mask. “Oh wait. So. You’re the one called the God of Death. Well then. You’re the one who owes me a life. I have my archaeologist assistant to thank for this.”

You somehow were almost past Donaka Mark when his left arm shot out and gripped your upper arm like iron, nearly wrenching it out of your socket as he pulled you into his grip.

He pointed the needle at your neck, his breath ragged and raspy under the mask.

“Drop the gun, or they die.”

“Feh. Too many kung-fu movies.” And B strode forward, shot the gun at Donaka’s head. It missed, as predicted. Then he overshot. On purpose. A tree bough began to creak from the force of the bullet singing past it. He threw the gun down, flexed and unflexed his bare hands, and pivoted to pace around the other man, sizing him up.

“Where is your weapon?” Donaka snarled, hurling your body around roughly as he spun away from B’s shots, dragging you with him in a pained shuffle. B circled you both like a sabercat closing in on its prey. Waiting. Waiting, watching, sensing, with patience far deeper than Donaka could manage in the seconds it took him to seize you.

“I am the weapon. You learned nothing from your research.” And B bolted toward you both, fury in his facial expression, his body all muscle and sinew and grace and power.

Donaka Mark watched him move from under the black mask and let out a near-orgasmic whimper at watching the caveman spring toward him effortlessly. He had never seen a man move like that, with superhuman speed. Every candidate, even Tiger, had a weakness, a fatal flaw in his motions, some dent in his emotional wellspring to weaken him.

B was a monster, now Unute, now Death incarnate, and you screamed, managed to, in milliseconds, squirm out from under Donaka Mark’s distracted grip on you.

You ran. You ran past the Jeep-you were too wracked with adrenaline and agony to even begin to consider driving anywhere without wrecking the car-and bolted deeper into the understory. You tripped on roots, you got up, you ran, you panted, you sobbed. For once, you didn’t envy Ellie Sattler in her task of fleeing the oncoming ‘raptors in Jurassic Park-now you were in her shoes, running for your life, praying you’d make it in the next moment much less the next hour.

More gunshots rang out.

B’s head twisted to the right from the hit on his temple. His skin resorbed the shock, blood and muscle spattering everywhere, coating Donaka’s pressed suit jacket in splotches of dark red and pink ooze. He let out a guttural snarl from between his teeth, his blue eyes flickering now.

“You tried to kill them. Why?” Unute’s voice nearly echoed as he snapped at Donaka Mark in the clearing, still advancing on him. His voice was in a lower register than it had with B. It sounded as if the sabercat’s larynx was given the gift of human speech.

“Does it matter?” Donaka Mark shot at B again, hitting him in the left pec this time. Unute staggered back from the hit for a beat, giving Mark the ability to shuffle faster toward the five person tent-and the ammo bag.

“You missed the aorta by two centimeters. A pity. I might consider consuming yours, if you let me get close.”

“Not a chance,” Donaka Mark started to undo the tent and then B somersaulted forward, yanked him by his ankles and slammed him into the dirt.

Two seconds. It took him two seconds to go from five feet away to pinning him down.

The large hands crushed against Donaka’s biceps and triceps like they were nothing, rendering him immobile. The mask slipped down. Holding the right half of his body with immense pressure, Unute took his left hand and yanked the mask away, the force of the pull against Donaka’s shaven face like duct tape on his lips being ripped away. The man below Unute screamed, a sound you felt like an icicle slicing through your spinal cord.

“I am Death incarnate.” Unute’s voice crackled like a feral sabercat yowling in a pit with wooden pikes around it.

“You owe me a life,” Donaka Mark choked out as Unute squeezed his angular jaw shut with his left hand. The bones shifted and snapped, and before Donaka Mark could realize what was happening, pain made his vision blur and eyes fill with blood, his nose spurting blood.

“Opposite sides, same coin, and in the end, it cancels out.” Unute gave Donaka Mark a parting whisper, as if he were a tender lover, into his right ear that began to seep spinal cord fluid into the soil below them both.

Unute delicately and mercifully twisted Donaka Mark’s skull to the left, severing his spine and cord, and left him there, the fluids coalescing and staining the ground, the stink of blood and mucus merging. Worms immediately began to move up through the substrate, and Unute stood. He set the mask over his twisted head, strode past his body as if it were nothing.

Unute could scent you, the fear intense. And his boyish grin became a predatory snarl. He flexed and unflexed his bloodied hands, smeared them against the glass of the abandoned Jeep, and began to give chase. He let loose a gurgling howl, a primitive war cry from creatures long since gone, and you had no choice: You had to get out of there.

To be concluded...!

[casuallyobssessed]

Keanu Reeves as Donaka Mark (当纳卡) Man of Tai Chi (太极侠) (2013), dir. Keanu Reeves

[casuallyobssessed]

Requested by anon “Imagine Donaka Mark in a rhreesome with two women”

tw: DONAKA MARK 18+, NSFW

Imagine Donaka Mark lounging on his big black couch.

Two women kneel at his feet, their hot tongues gliding along the thick length of his cock from opposite sides, tracing the veins that stand out along his shaft. Moans vibrate against him, lips brushing, tongues meeting as they savor the salty taste of him, drunk on his size and heat.

One leans higher, kitten licking at his leaking tip, circling her tongue over the slit to lap up every bead of precum before sucking softly. The other stays lower, lavishing his balls with slow, greedy licks, drawing one deep into her mouth.

Their hands are just as hungry. One grips his thigh, nails digging into the firm muscle, the other strokes the thick base of his cock, twisting and squeezing in rhythm with every suck. Another hand presses flat to his chest, feeling the subtle flex beneath the fabric as he breathes.

They wriggle against each other, eager to please, eager to taste.

And yet, despite their worship and the pleasure they give, Donaka’s eyes remain fixed on the glow of the monitors.

There you are, sitting in your cubicle, focused on work but completely unaware of how he’s watching. The way your fingers fly across the keyboard, the tilt of your head, the long stretch of your neck when you roll it to ease tension - each small movement makes his cock throb in ways the women at his feet could never match.

Then his gaze sharpens.

A man steps into your cubicle, leaning casually against your desk. You look up at him from beneath your lashes, smile, and laugh at something he says.

The sight sends a hot jolt of frustration straight through Donaka. His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t push the women away, in fact, he lets them work harder. One closes her mouth around the swollen tip, cheeks hollowing as she sucks until it pops free, only to give way for the other. She replaces her quickly, taking his cock deeper, sliding him into her throat, lips stretching around the thick shaft.

But Donaka’s blood is boiling, temples flexing as he stares at the monitors. You lean toward that man, giving him that look. Every second you waste on him, sends Donaka spiraling deeper, muscles coiling, fury building, teeth grinding until he snaps.

A guttural roar rips through the air.

In a flash, his hand fists into the hair of the woman with his cock halfway down her throat. He yanks her down hard, forcing her nose against his groin. His thick shaft stuffs her throat, the swollen tip pressing deep into the back of it, making her gag. But Donaka’s grip never wavers, knuckles white as he fists her hair harder, holding her firmly in place.

His eyes stay locked on the monitor.

On you.

Then his hips begin to buck relentlessly, driving himself deeper into her mouth again and again. Each thrust makes her lips smack against his base, gagging chokes muffled around the thick length stuffing her throat. Drool pours from her mouth, mixing with tears, slicking his shaft and dripping over his balls as he fucks her face like she’s nothing more than a sextoy.

And through it all he watches you. Watches you giggle. Watches you give another man your attention. His grip on her hair turns brutal, his thrusts punishing, each one fueled by the jealousy burning in his chest. The angrier he becomes, the harder he fucks her throat.

Until finally, with a growl that rattles through the room, he comes, letting himself explode with the fury and desire he’s been holding back. Thick, hot release floods her throat in heavy pulses as he holds her still until he empties his balls. But Donaka doesn’t even look at her.

He never looks away from you.

Still on the screen. Still in your cubicle. Still flirting with another man.

[casuallyobssessed]

[casuallyobssessed]

Headcanon about Donaka Mark x Stripper! Reader, please?

Donaka Mark x Stripper!Reader Headcanons, huh? 🤔 Let's get into it!

Sorry I went absolutely CRAZY with this. I got inspired and just couldn't stop writing stuff down, it turned into a mini-fic of sorts and NOT headcanons. There are A LOT of bullet points, prepare yourself for a kind of long read lol. No beta, not proofread. Dividers by /strangergraphics

Requests are OPEN!

Warnings: kidnapping, stalking, brief mention of violence

Donaka has expensive taste. He goes for the best of the best, the price is never a question. Ever.

It takes him weeks of scoping out strip and dance clubs looking for someone with your exact... qualifications. He's looking for someone shiny and new to this world. Someone with light still in their eyes and hope in their heart.

He starts out looking into the more high end clubs before he realizes that all of these dancers are already impure. Plagued by the corrupt men that walk through the doors every day.

His next target becomes small, dingy clubs nestled into the alleys and corners of neglected red light districts.

On stage in one of these clubs is where one of his scouts finds you. Bright eyed and cheerful compared to the bored, sullen look of the last couple dancers. You're optimistically enthusiastic, even though the club only has a handful of people and only a couple of them are watching you. That includes Donaka's inside man.

His scout secretly transmits glasses camera footage of you so his team can start working on finding out who you are. You're none the wiser as this bespectacled man approaches the stage, cash in hand.

Once your stage time ends, you end up walking out on the floor, making rounds to each person that isn't already occupied with another dancer. Most of them turn you down, but the man from earlier is more than eager to get some extra time with you.

When he gets behind the curtain with you, halfway through the dance, he grabs your hips and pulls you all the way down onto his lap. He propositions you for sex, and in return he tells you he'll pay any amount you asked of him. It's one of Donaka's tests, but of course you don't know that.

Although some of the other dancers do participate in some level of prostitution, that isn't something that you would even consider at this point. Taking off your skimpy outfit on stage is way different than exchanging more money for a quickie in one of the private areas.

You adamantly refuse his request and tell him he has to leave. He tosses a wad of cash on the floor in front of you, and walks out without another word.

Donaka has been watching the entire interaction unfold from the comfort of his couch. He's wearing a dangerous smirk that compliments the growing bulge in his pants as he replays the video of you over and over and over.

He has to have you. There's no way he could leave you in some no name club to waste away when he could be the one slowly chipping away at that resolve of yours.

The next night, Donaka sends a driver to the club to offer you a job. They show up in a blacked out limousine. At first, you're confused, thinking that they must have the wrong person.

The job details are vague but the potential payout was all you needed to hear. You were being offered more than triple a month's worth of what you'd usually make at the club.

With stars in those bright eyes of yours, you agreed and slid into the back seat. You had no idea where you were going and absolutely no clue who you were going to be working for. The amount of red flags here were concerning, but with how tight money was, you didn't have much of a choice.

The tint on the windows made it impossible to see out, but when the driver opened your door you were blown away by the mansion you were parked in front of.

In his office, Donaka explained that he was looking for a private dancer to perform at an event he was hosting on one of his acquaintances' yachts. He tells you the actual pay and you nearly fall out of your seat.

The dollar signs floating around your head were more than enough to convince you to agree and sign whatever contracts he needed from you.

Over the course of the next week, you're asked to stay at Donaka's home. For no real reason other than to supposedly teach you the routine that was expected during the event.

During your stay, Donaka has his eyes on you at all times. The cameras around the house and in your guest room gave him 24/7 access to you.

On the day of the event, you're transported to the yacht via helicopter and are directed into a dressing room of other dancers. Dressed in similar small, bright bodysuits, the other dancers there don't acknowledge you. You seemed to be the only one excited about performing. Everyone else is wearing gloomy frowns, some were even crying.

You didn't understand until you got out onto your stage. Your spot for the night was inside of a cage, dancing under the strobe lights to the music. The first thirty minutes fly by, and then you discover the main event.

It's some kind of underground fighting tournament, you think. The men on stage were brutalizing each other while you are expected to dance like nothing was happening. You suddenly understood why the other dancers were so upset. You turn to step out of the cage and leave, but there's a lock holding the door shut.

With all the lights and music, you can't really hear or see anyone in the crowd, but you do recognize Donaka when he walks out onto the floor. He walks by you and you try to catch his attention to ask him what's going on, but he simply looks at you and keeps moving.

You closed your eyes and curled up at the bottom, hoping to block out as much of the fighting as you could. After the fight is over and the room is cleared out, only then do they unlock your cage. You're ushered back into the dressing room with the door locking behind you.

Donaka finds you alone, sitting in front of one of the many vanity mirrors. You're still wearing the barely-there bodysuit, but your make-up is streaked down your face from crying so much. He comes up behind you and crowds in close, lips to your ear. You can only kind of see his face, partially lit up by the bulbs around the mirror, the rest of his body is lost to the shadows.

He tells you that he's disappointed, that he expected more from someone so promising. Good money went into bringing you here and you embarrassed him in front of incredibly important clients. You want to say something to defend yourself, but his presence is so overbearing that you can't speak.

"Let's go," He says, gently pulling you by the arm. You're afraid of what would happen to you if you protest, especially after seeing how that fight ended in someone going down and never getting back up.

Donaka leads you to the helipad and pushes you into the helicopter. The entire flight back, you're thinking about how you now have to go back to the life you were living, dancing for dollars and getting nowhere. If only you knew.

Back at Donaka's opulent mansion, you head inside to gather your things from the guest room. Before you can even begin packing, there are men surrounding you, grabbing you from every angle and pulling. They carry you to Donaka's office and shove you in, again, locking the door behind you.

"Are you planning on going somewhere?" He looks up at you from the long, curved couch. You tell him sternly you're going back home. He laughs, his tone mocking and cruel, "Did you read any of the paperwork you signed? You're not going anywhere."

From there, I think Donaka would slowly and over time warm you up to dancing for only him. Calling you into his office or bedroom and making you strip for him. He even asks you to do it when his employees and housekeeping staff are present, and every time, you do it. I think it would lead to Donaka convincing you to go further with touching him, and him touching you. You're not stupid, you know what he wants, but it feels like he's playing with you just to see what you'll do.

[casuallyobssessed]

💠💊Bob Arctor collage 💊💠

I am positively THIRSTY for some Bob Arctor fan creations in the Keanu kult! 😩 Here is my contribution <3

The pain, so unexpected and undeserved, had, for some reason, cleared away the cobwebs. I realized I didn't hate the cabinet door, I hated my life... My house, my family, my backyard, my power mower. Nothing would ever change; nothing new could ever be expected.

It had to end,

and it did.

Now, in the dark world where I dwell, ugly things, and surprising things, and sometimes little wondrous things, spill out in me constantly, and I can count on nothing.

- A Scanner Darkly (2008)

@casuallyobssessed @thatgingernerdgirl

[casuallyobssessed]

Donaka Mark meets the T.rex from Jurassic Park: Raptor Rampage Edition! :D

[casuallyobssessed]

˙ ✩°˖🔮⋆｡˚ Sorceress x don John mood board

[casuallyobssessed]

Last Sentence Tag Game

RULES: post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything)

I was tagged by @gea-chan96 thank you!! 🥰

"He leans in closer, catching the faint scent of your hair, and lets his eyes drift shut. Unbidden, his mind wanders toward darker notions, unclean in their simplicity."

Gave y'all two, sorry lol 🤭

NO pressure tags: @discoscoob @pointbreakvhs @misspsychotic

[casuallyobssessed]

Keanu Reeves with his tits out as Donnie Barksdale ★ The Gift (2000)

Please credit if used, do not repost/reupload.

[casuallyobssessed]

horror boys I think about a lot: day 5

David Allen Griffin - The Watcher (2000)

[casuallyobssessed]

Let me tell you about the fic that I wanted badly to write but could never get it written.

DROP DEAD TED

Inspired by Drop Dead Fred, one of my favourite movies from my childhood, it would follow the basic premise of the film.

Ted would be the imaginary friend from your childhood who comes crashing back into your life while everything is falling apart.

Your fiancé, Kevin, had been having an affair and you just lost your job, forcing you to move back into your childhood home with your overbearing mother.

On the first night, Ted would emerge from an old Jack-in-the-box where he had been trapped for over 20 years. Ready to cause trouble and mischief, he ropes you into a game of ‘robbers’ in which you ‘steal’ a bunch of junk from the house, throwing it into a bin liner.

Hearing the noise, your mother called the cops, fearing there’s an actual burglar in the house. As soon as Ted hears the sirens, he vanishes claiming they’ll ’never take him alive,’ leaving you to deal with the cops.

Of course the cop that shows up is Jack Traven, your best friend from childhood who you haven’t seen since he moved away when his father sent him to military school in Alaska. (Credit to @scarlettspectra for her Ted/Jack headcanons)

Jack hasn’t joined the SWAT team yet, he’s just a uniform cop right now.

Anyway so before Jack left you both obviously had feelings for each other but you both kept them to yourselves, but you’re so happy to see each other again.

Jack takes your statement and you give him a very vague description of Ted, not like anyone could see him but you anyway.

Obviously Jack notices your engagement ring and tries his best to hide his disappointment when he asks you who the ‘lucky man’ is. You had forgotten you were even wearing it, you just hadn’t brought yourself to taking it off yet. Your mother speaks up before you get the chance, proudly telling him you’re engaged to Kevin Lomax because obviously your mother loves Kevin. This only make Jack sour even more because of course he knows who Kevin is, he’s the guy who makes sure the criminals he took off the street get off without any charges.

Your mother is determined to save your relationship with Kevin and you believe that’s what you want too, so Ted (when he finally comes back from hiding) decides he will help you too.

On the journey, filled with Ted’s shenanigans, he helps you learn how to advocate for yourself, realise what you want and break off the shackles of your mother and Kevin’s control.

Along the way, you keep encountering Jack (Ted is never around whenever you’re with Jack, you don’t need him when you’re with Jack because he makes you feel safe and like you can be yourself). You realise your feelings for him never really left.

One of your encounters with Jack is when you’re wallowing in self pity, wandering the streets alone (Ted’s there if an imaginary friend counts) and you impulsively decide to throw your engagement ring into oncoming traffic, while you’re struggling to understand if you still want Kevin or not, but you immediately regret it.

You’re not really thinking straight when you run into the oncoming traffic to retrieve your ring and you’re almost hit by a car before they hit the breaks just in time. Jack was driving obviously and he sees you’re obviously distressed and you’re telling him you’ve lost your engagement ring, he tries to calm you down and tells you he’ll help you find it.

The ring is under his car so he crawls on his hands and knees to retrieve it for you and when he gives it back to you, he just happens to be on one knee, like he’s proposing – only it’s with the ring Kevin bought you. It feels so wrong and it feels so right. Just making you feel even more overwhelmed and confused about your feelings.

Some other ideas I had for the story.

In your attempt to save your relationship with Kevin, you crash a gala which you know he’s attended and Ted comes along and causes chaos (only no one can see him so they just think you’re causing chaos)

Ted almost calling Kevin a “fa–” but NO TED YOU CAN’T SAY THAT!

Ted is like a version of Jack from your childhood that your imagination concocted, which is also why Ted disappears whenever you’re with Jack.

You and Kevin trying to have sex when you’re trying to get back with him, but Ted is literally there and he keeps distracting you by asking questions about what you’re doing.

[casuallyobssessed]

diy noncon by jerking myself off when I’m not rlly up for it

[casuallyobssessed]

✐･. ˳ . PROBATION

Part 1 ｡ Part 2 ｡ Part 3 ｡ Part 4 ｡ Part 5 ｡ Part 6 ｡ Part 7 ｡ Part 8 ｡ Part 9 ｡ Part 10

Pairing: loser!pathetic!cyber felon!depressed!sub!Thomas “Neo” Anderson × probation officer!f!reader Tags: NSFW, 18+, slowburn Warnings (for this part): - Word count: 1.6k A/N: Requested by @discoscoob Summary: Neo just got out of jail after serving time for hacking and you're assigned as his probation officer

Thomas had been showing up at your office for three weeks straight, and each time he looked worse than before. His skin had grown nearly transparent, dark circles hollowing out under his eyes, lips cracked. His frame seemed thinner beneath the same washed out hoodie, hair sticking up in clumps. And that stubborn spark he’d carried at the start had dulled into indifference. You could tell he was doing only the bare minimum to keep going, summoning just enough strength to show up and nothing more.

When he opened the door this time, he didn’t bother with a greeting. He simply tugged it wide enough for you to pass. 

You lifted the canvas tote bag in your hand. “Brought a little something to eat.”

He rubbed one eye with the heel of his palm, still somewhere between sleep and wakefulness or maybe from not sleeping at all. “Is that a euphemism?”

“No.” You slipped past him into the kitchen, which barely deserved the name “I’ve seen what you’ve been living on. Noodles aren’t a diet. They’re a slow death.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered from the doorway.

“You’re pale,” you said, not looking at him as you set the bag on the counter with a soft thud. “You look like someone who hasn’t had a home cooked meal in forever and smell like three days of insomnia.”

“I don’t smell like anything.” His tone was flat, not bitter, just worn down.

You didn’t argue. Foil packets crinkled under your fingers as you pulled out several square containers. From one, a faint, rich scent escaped, curling into the stale air.

Thomas squinted at it. “Wait… you made that?”

“Maybe,” you said simply, keeping your eyes on your hands as you pried at the stubborn edge of the lid.

At last it gave way, and you carried it to the microwave - an old black thing perched on the counter under years of grease and neglect. The handle yielded with a click, and you swung the door open. Inside, the glass turntable and walls were rimmed with dried noodles, streaks of ketchup, and stains better left unidentified. But you didn’t flinch, just slid the food in without hesitation, pressed the button… 

And nothing happened. 

You glanced over your shoulder.

Thomas raised both hands in a weary little shrug. 

Breathing out slow, you turned back to the counter. A drawer resisted when you tugged, shrieking halfway before giving way. You shoved aside empty cans and pulled out a frying pan he hadn’t touched in ages.

Then you rummaged through the next drawer and came up with a plate and, after some digging, a fork still good enough to eat with.

Even after just a single visit, you’d already memorized everything: the stack of mismatched mugs, the cache of expired ramen, the precise arrangement of CD towers against the wall and the exact number of books on the shelf. Of course you remembered - details and patterns were part of your job. 

But this wasn’t in the manual.

You weren’t supposed to bring dinner. You weren’t supposed to feel this strange pull when you saw him slumped in that doorway, and there was no line in the protocol that explained what to do when your parolee looked at you like you were the only thing in his life that was real.

Maybe it was the weight in his sad, thoughtful eyes, or maybe it was instinct, telling you that Thomas Anderson was meant for more than being the lonely nerd sliding slowly into depression. 

“I have no oil,” he muttered, almost apologetic.

“I brought my own,” you said under your breath, already reaching into the bag again.

Thomas stayed rooted, watching as you moved with the same precision you used when inspecting his apartment and scribbling notes. Except now, you were doing something… human. 

Warmth spread through the kitchen, carrying smells he hadn’t realized he missed.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shuffling closer, a stray, scruffy dog drawn by the promise of food. He perched on the counter, gaze fixed on every movement of your hands.

“You know,” he said at last, mustering what little strength he had left for one of his sarcastic jokes, “this is the part where the parolee starts imagining things.”

“I’m not here to date you, Anderson.” Your tone was flat, your focus fixed on rolling meatballs through the sauce.

“Didn’t say you were but…”

You were glad to hear a bit of bite return to his voice, but you weren’t about to encourage it. Before he could twist it further, you scooped food onto a plate, set a fork on the edge, and pressed it into his hands. “Eat.”

He blinked at it, then lowered himself into the chair, staring at the plate.

“Eat,” you repeated, trying to sound softer, coaxing rather than commanding.

A corner of his mouth twitched. “I… I just not used to this.”

“What - food?”

“Care,” he muttered, lowering his eyes, like he felt guilty for receiving something he hadn’t earned. Your chest tightened. 

Still, you said nothing. Just slid into the chair across from him and waited. He hesitated, then finally began to eat. Each bite was slow, cautious, as if he didn’t trust it to last, yet you saw the way he savored it all the same.

“It’s… delicious,” Thomas murmured, chewing carefully.

“Thanks.”

You let him get halfway through before you spoke. “You’ve got less than a week left to find something.”

His jaw froze mid-chew. He clutched the fork tighter, swallowed, and kept his gaze locked on the plate. Then he sliced another meatball, dragging it absently through the sauce.

“You hear me?”

He gave a slow nod, eyes still lowered.

Leaning back in your chair, you crossed your arms loosely, studying the way he hunched over his plate. “I could give you another reprieve.”

At that, his gaze flickered up.

“But that doesn’t mean you waste it.”

“I won’t,” he said quietly, and finished the last of his meal.

“Good.” You reached over the plate. “Want more?”

He hesitated like it was a trick question, then nodded once. “Yeah… sure.”

You took the plate, scraped another helping from the pan, steam curling up before sliding the it back across the table. His hands closed around it carefully, thumbs braced on the rim as if it was something fragile.

Resting your elbows on the wood, you asked, “What was the last real thing you had?”

Thomas chewed, slow and deliberate, his gaze tipped off the plate, lingering somewhere in the empty space“A half cold burger… months ago. Drive thru.”

“That’s sad.”

“Fits the theme.”

Your head tilted, curious. “What theme?” 

“My life.” His fork tapped against the plate once before he took another bite.

You could’ve let it hang, let him retreat back into the shell. But you refused. “You got a favorite movie?”

His chewing stopped. He blinked, caught off guard, as if you’d spoken another language. “Uh… yeah. Blade Runner.”

“Never watched.”

A spark of surprise cracked across his wearied face. “You should. But only director’s cut.”

“Okay… I’ll keep that in mind. What about music?”

His gaze dropped to the table, thumb idly rubbing the handle of his fork. “Bit of everything. Depends on the day.”

“Today?”

He seemed to chew the thought more than the food. “Something slow. But not sad. Just… quiet.”

You nodded. “Radiohead?”

He shot you a long look, studying, as if trying to work out what you were really doing here. Then he lowered his eyes again.

“Massive Attack,” he said shortly and went back to eating.

You propped your chin in your palm, watching him work through another mouthful. “You always eat this slow?”

His shoulders lifted, sank. “No hurry.”

“Not worried it’ll get cold?”

“Cold doesn’t bother me.” His fork froze halfway up. “Half the time I forget to heat stuff anyway.” It wasn’t said with self-pity more a simple fact, the kind people stop noticing about themselves. 

You leaned across the table and snagged a small bite from his plate before he could react. His head jerked up, eyes narrowing, though there was no real irritation in them. 

After swallowing, you teased, “You think you’re the only one who can get under someone’s skin?” raising an eyebrow and lightly pressing your thumb to your lips to wipe it clean.

A ghost of a smile curved his mouth. He nudged the plate an inch closer toward you for another bite. When you didn’t take more, he drew it back, wrist curling protectively around the plate. 

“You ever open the window in here?” you asked.

“No.”

“Air’s free, you know.”

Silence.

“What’s the longest you’ve gone without stepping outside?”

The fork lingered in his mouth too long. His eyes stayed on the edge of the table. “Dunno. Few weeks. Month maybe.”

“That’s quite long time.” 

Your chair scraped against the floor as you pushed back, the noise breaking his trance. He looked up for the first time in minutes, following you with his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

The tap groaned to life, warm water spilling over your hands as you reached for the nearest mug.

“Washing your mugs.”

His fork stilled midair. “I think you’ve got better things to do.”

You shifted the mug under the stream. “I wouldn’t be here if I did.”