#it's a splinter in your mind driving you mad

[astromechs]

one other thought, courtesy of the matrix screening last night:

this movie does not waste anything; not a single single scene, not a single frame, not a single line of dialogue. and because of that, because this movie was made with such a careful intentionality, i actually believe some of the shot-to-shot "goofs" are intentional. the main two i'm thinking of, for example, are the company neo works for being "metacortex" in one shot and "metacortechs" in another, and that part where they're leaving the oracle and neo's holding a cookie that's had a bite taken out of it and in the next shot he's holding a whole cookie. notice that those both take place inside the matrix? these "goofs" are further emphasizing the artificial nature of where they are.

[dreaisgrayte]

Half Blood | Muzan Kibutsuji x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, TW! YN does get assaulted, mentions of blood, drinking blood, gore, how many times do I mention claws? Oral fem!receiving, fingering, kissing, breeding kink, virgin sex, creampie, and overstimulation.

Word Count: 4.9k

a/n: guys this started off as a quick break from a Sanemi fic I'm working on (keep in mind I think short fics are no longer than 3k) and here I am... with a way longer fic than I intended and something I actually want to expand on in the future. It was a lot of fun to write this so I hope you enjoy it <3

“You,” His pink irises are illuminated by the moon high in the night sky. The blood within your body cools as you stare back at the man who stored your fate. His inky black hair flows down his shoulder in waves. A deep blue yukata loosely hung on his frame. “I’ve been watching you.” Muzan growls, edging ever closer to where you stood. His pointed canines glinted in the light, his nails sharp and ready to claw at your jugular. The demon king rolls his tongue along the tips of his teeth, studying you carefully. Was he deciding whether or not to feast upon your flesh?

He had never seen such a creature as yourself. Your skin was glowing, soft, and supple. The lavender color yukata covered most of your body, a delicate pattern of white flowers spanning the kosode fabric. Your obi was white with purple vines flowing around it. You wear simple white tabies paired with purple strapped zori. Elegance and grace radiated from you. He could smell the wisteria perfume in your hair. 

It was strange, you were a confrontation to the world he wanted to live in – yet something he could not tear his eyes away from. Here you were, standing in front of him without fear. He rather thought it would be better fun if you were afraid, he did so enjoy the chase. Though, there was – of course – a reason you relented in running away from him. Your eyes were stormy, eclipsed by thousands of emotions. That’s when a different smell, that had not yet hit him, tickled his nose. Blood, and not just any blood. You had the blood of a demon in you. Your stern, furrowed brows, with the revolting smell of wisteria burning his nose. You confused him. “What are you?” He purs out, not sure if what would come out of your mouth would be a lie or truth. He could always figure it out for himself one way or another. 

Your lip ticks, a show of annoyance you’d yet to master. The man in front of you knew, he could smell it, of that you were sure. Yet, he dared ask. What are you? You’d been told many times what you were. An abomination. A curse. A monster. “Are you not the demon king?” You spit back, growing angry. Would the other half of you reject your existence as well? You had hoped at least the demons would have the scarce bit of comradery running through their systems. Muzan’s brows lift, then knit together. Did he need to answer you? After all, he could easily swipe at your neck to kill you for being so insolent. The eager need to hear what you had to say captivated him though. 

When the man does not answer you tut, crossing your arms over your chest. “Here I thought the mighty demon king would be able to tell me apart from the rest.” You shake your head, laughing stiffly into the night. In a flash Muzan has you pinned to the trunk of a tree. Splinters etch toward your face from the very force of his hand. His muscular body cages you in and it takes you a moment to realize how your body aches to be near him. 

“I can smell you,” He mutters, squinting his beautiful eyes like he couldn’t quite distinguish what he was looking at. “You assault my senses, it’s driving me mad. There’s something different about you.” Muzan had first observed you walking in your village one evening, the way people sneered and cowered at your presence intrigued him. He found himself looking for you every night, wondering what your story was. These villagers were shunning you. He wished to know why such a pretty thing as yourself would be outcasted in her own village. “You smell like me, yet you are not. So I ask you again, what are you?” His voice is low, edging on the precipice of anger. 

You do not yield in holding his gaze. “I am you, yet I am not. Born of the sun and moon. A half-blood.” 20 years ago your mother found herself in the entertainment district, serving the pleasures of others. A man came to visit her on multiple occasions. Eventually, the two ran away together. Sharing in love and secrets. Your mother was a demon and your father a local carpenter. How you were able to be conceived was a mystery, even to them. They lived in peace, until one night. The villagers had finally seen through your father’s lies, storming their house. They slaughtered both of them and assuming you were a child taken captive, they whisked you away to a widowed mother. As you grew it was obvious where your origins lay, yet no one in the village dared to lay a hand on you. 

Muzan lets his gaze drop to where your heart pulsed, bouncing the skin of your jugular. “You are human and demon?” Something pulled tight in his chest. Could you walk in the sun? Did you regenerate? Were you the answer to his plight? “You are radiant.” He cannot stop the words from falling past his lips. Your eyes light up with recognition, acceptance, and for a moment your past falls away. He had the ever-growing urge to sweep you away. Your very existence was tantalizing to him in the least. He tilts his head, wrinkling his nose at the obscure way you smelt. 

Your eyes settle on the way he reacts to you, wondering if he’ll take you away someplace. Some place away from these villagers who had slaughtered your parents who just wanted to live in harmony. They did not deserve to die and you did not want to live one more second with their murderers. Muzan wanted to take you, but he couldn’t. Not yet. You were so fragile. If he were to touch you he would fear you would break on the spot. “Are you going to take me away from this place?” You whisper, hopeful tones floating to Muzan. He swallows something deep and thick. 

Muzan backs away from you, eyes tensing. “No.” He replies softly. He could not take you into his den, the other demons were too stupid to realize how precious you were. You would be dead within seconds. The line between your brows hardens again as his words hit you. 

“No? Why not? Am I not good enough for you?” Your voice is rising. You sound like a whining child who hasn’t gotten their way. Muzan winces at the obvious pain seeping into your voice. You were nothing like he’d ever seen before. Something beautiful, a miracle in his eyes. Therefore, he did not answer you. He simply faded back into the shadows. With his disappearance, your hopes and dreams faded as well.

��

The next time you see Muzan is two years later. His hair is shorter than you last saw it, the curls kissing the nape of his neck. This neat look couldn’t contain the loose curls that framed his face. A starched white collar shirt was tucked into an ornate waistcoat. He looked utterly different, yet he was your Muzan. He had the same eyes, the same far-off look, and on top of that, you could practically taste his scent. It was overwhelming, crushing even, but in a way, you enjoyed the rush. 

It was also a fact that you had escaped your village after one of the men tried to see how strong a half-blood was. He told you he was turned on by how revolting you were and he would take you as his wife in duty only. Until then you had never seriously thought about killing a human. The realization was both terrifying and freeing. So you fled to the entertainment district, living off of what you could at the Kyogoku House. There were so many smells here. Food, humans, sex, and demons. 

You worked under a beautiful oiran, and you could tell… she wasn’t human. Part of you wanted to become friends with her, but if she hadn’t reached out for the sake of commonality, you didn’t think there was a chance of any other relationship than servant. 

Muzan’s brows furrowed. He had come to visit Daki and yet your scent prosecuted his brain. Ever since he left you in the forest that day he had been thinking of a way to retrieve you. You were too precious to let out of his sight again. This time he would secure you. He could feel his blood boil at the thought of you living in the Ukiyo. Kyogoku House was well protected, but anywhere without him wasn’t safe for you. Were you being used by men far beneath you? Muzan had never felt such rage toward the thought of men touching a woman. He often indulged in watching, humans were ever so entertaining – but you weren’t human. You were one of his and he swallowed harshly at the fact that you weren’t only his. 

He brushes past some of the lower-ranking courtesans, his eye twitching at their giggles. You watch from afar, the familiarity of his back etching a cold ache into your heart. He would leave again, of that you were sure. You hug the fresh sheets to your chest, making your way to the linen closet down the hall. “Ah, YN, I’ve been looking for you.” The Okaasan Omitsu stands before you. She has a cunning sneer behind the kind smile she wears. 

You bow, storing the sheets away before turning your full attention to her. “Yes Okaasan?” You can smell the evil intent behind this woman, it makes your stomach sink. 

“You wouldn’t mind doing me a favor would you?” She uses the word favor like you’d have a choice. She is the Okaasan after all. It’s like she thinks you’re some stupid girl that will follow whatever she says. Using the word favor is a manipulation tactic and if you were a naive girl, you would be eating out of the palm of her hand. 

You tilt your head to the left, plastering a fake smile of your own onto your lips. You knew anything out of your mouth except ‘yes Okaasan’ would make things harder for yourself. So with all your better judgment pushed aside, you say exactly that. 

Her eyes gleam. “Thank you, my dear. If you will kindly follow me.” She walks back up the hall, toward one of the private Ozashiki rooms. You glance around, nerves settling into your bones. You couldn’t be headed into one of these rooms, you weren’t even a kamuro. You were just an older shinzō. 

She stops in front of the panel, a cruel smile lifting the corners of her mouth. No, please, not this. “You are very blessed my dear, one of our chūsan is interested in you.” She slides the door aside and sitting against a wall smoking a pipe is a middle-aged man. Cushions are scattered around the floor and a twisted smirk plays with his mouth when he sees you. Okaasan bows then slides the door shut behind you. 

The room was stifling, the smoke choking out any of the senses you had. It was dizzying. “Mmm, you’re a lot older than I thought.” The man sneers, setting his pipe down. The fog of opium seemingly wraps around your throat, making it hard to breathe. “But you’ll do.” He laughs, patting the cushion next to him. “Why don’t you come a little closer?” He offers. Your body tenses. You were in danger, of that you were sure. You were not willing to give your virginity up to such a man but if you denied him the right to your own body, there would be outrage. You swallow, tentatively kneeling on the cushion next to him. 

He leans over you, sniffing the area around your shoulder. You stiffen. “You smell so good, better than all those flora bitches.” He growls. “I like your natural…musk.” Oh Gods did this man – who probably has a wife and children – just compliment how you smell when you’ve been working all day? “What do you like about me?” What a loaded question. 

You smile, one that shuts your eyes – if he saw the look in your eyes he’d be sure to know you were lying when you said, “I appreciate your generosity.” You bow your head and the man laughs heartily. 

His tongue darts out to coat his lips. “I can be more generous if you’d like?” He moves himself closer to you. “I was blessed with wealth, good looks, and a tool to make women scream.” Please let the tool be an ice pick so you can lobotomize yourself. “Whad’ya say, darling?” He coos, going in for what appears to be a kiss even though you hadn’t been given the time to answer him. 

You grimace away from his advance, shoving at his chest. The eerie playful tone in the room suddenly seems to vacuum out. The fog is still thick from the burning opium, but you don’t miss the way the man before you lunges for you. He’s panting above you with a charming pointy sneer. “Ah ah ah, not so fast. You haven’t serviced me, whore.” He digs his nails into your shoulder, pinning you to the wooden floor. “Look at you, begging for my cock with your eyes, ooohh you want it that bad you slut?” He hisses, fumbling with the buckle of his Western-style pants. You squirm wildly under his grasp but it’s like he’s infused with superhuman strength. “I’m gonna fuck you and then, as your reward,” His face is next to yours now, eyes glowing an electric yellow, pupils in slits. “I’m going to kill you.” His hand is on your throat, crushing your windpipe. You choke on what little air you were able to breathe earlier. 

A demon, this man was a demon. One of your kind. No… he wasn’t. He was something else. He was driven by the carnal desire to fuck and kill. You were too weak to push him off, your internal forces constantly warring against each other. You had always presented as human, meek, malleable, and obedient. What you would give to have your demon side come forth, bite this fucker’s head off. You want to scream – but on account of his claws sinking into the back of your neck – if you even moved that would surely be the end of your life. 

He tears your yukata to shreds, ripping the soft skin of your stomach open as well. Your mouth opens the pressure of a scream pushing against his hand. Blood mixes with the tattered cloth, the cotton dying red.

Muzan pauses, Daki grumbling about some inferior human drama. His eyes search the room, this time Daki taking notice from her self-indulged rant. Where was that smell coming from? He stands, silencing Daki before she can start whining again. The potent smell of blood was swirling to the top floor, but not just…any blood. “YN,” He hisses, the annoyance, rage, and blood-boiling sensations he felt earlier returning tenfold. Why were you bleeding? This was fresh cut blood, not from the dues women endured every month. He needed to find you, or he feared the worst. “I need to go.” He barely says to the demon next to him. Her face morphs into one of anger, and before she can hurl anything at him, Muzan slips out of her room. Where were you? He follows the pungent scent, clambering down the stairs and rushing down the hall until he’s in front of a private room. He’s sweating, for once fear is humming in his ear. He shoves the door to the side, witnessing a demon hunched over your body. 

Your blood is pooling around you dying the wonderfully blue yukata you wore earlier a sickly brown color. The demon doesn’t have time to look up because Muzan is already crushing its head, slashing its throat to shreds of what it once was. 

The room is covered in blood but the demon is dead. Muzan slides to the floor, cradling you in his lap. “YN, no, no please don’t die.” You were his miracle. You were his hope. If anything could save his damned soul it would be you. His arms are trembling as your stomach bleeds out, the skin marred, and…God the smell of your blood was driving him mad. It was something he shouldn’t be thinking about as you bleed out under him. You needed to regenerate. He wasn’t sure if you could so maybe your demon just needed a little push?

With his free hand, Muzan tears the flesh from his arm, bringing it down to your mouth. His blood trickles onto your lips, sliding into your mouth. After a few silent beats, your eyes shoot open. Muzan has never felt such joy as this very moment. Your arms wrap around his, bringing it into your mouth. Muzan hisses at the way your tongue dances around his wound, lapping up the blood he shed for you. You’re panting, gasping for more. Your eyes glow as you drag your tongue up the muscle of his forearm. His blood flows through you like your own life force, strengthening your nerves, hardening your muscles. He has made you stronger. 

It sends a pinch of desire through Muzan. He hadn’t felt the heat of wanting to sink his cock into the warmth of a cunt in decades. You were mouthing at his arm, wounds healed on both ends, but now that you were moving the once whole yukata falls off your shoulders. Blood trails from your lips down your chest, between your breasts. Muzan was never one to fend off his desire to want. He took whatever he wanted, without a care. He wanted to take you without a care. Fuck you senseless into the floorboards, claw at you, feed on your blood while you fed on his. It was ecstasy just imagining driving his cock into your pretty tight pussy. 

“I should’ve never left you.” He whispers and it sends a rolling wave of want through you. You move to straddle his lap. 

“Then don’t leave me now.” You could both smell it, the heat and arousal in the air. “Take me, my Lord.” He smirks, holding onto your thighs. 

He hums, enjoying the way you’re bare in front of him. You were a sight to behold. “Mmm, such a smart girl.” A portal opens underneath him, the wooden floor sinking into an expanse of rooms, platforms, doors, lights, and endless corridors. The sheer speed whips your hair around your face until – it doesn’t. You’ve stopped in the middle of whatever this place was. “Welcome home,” Muzan’s pink eyes darken to a deep crimson as he sits up straighter, pressing himself into you. You moan in delight as his hands work their way up your hips, sitting you down on the stiff part of his lap. 

You tilt your head, peeking at him. “I’ve never liked pants,” you mumble, playing with the hem of his. He chuckles his smirk growing. 

“And why is that?” He inquires, moving his tongue to lick up the blood that has traveled toward your navel. You choke out a moan as he makes his way between your breasts. You can feel his teeth against your skin and it’s a wretched thought. “Aheh,” He swipes at the crest of your breast. 

“H-hard to get off.” Muzan hums against your skin in agreement, but he’s too preoccupied with the way you tremble with untapped pleasure. 

He wants to tear into your flesh, mark you as his, burn only his name onto your tongue. “Such an eager kitten,” He licks his lips, capturing the back of your neck in his hands. “You want me bare that badly?” All you can manage is a small nod as he gingerly moves you so that you’re laying down. Your hips are still lined up with his as he gazes at you. “I can promise you I have a similar urgency.” He grins, pulling the belt from his breeches with a smooth movement. He tosses it to the side, but doesn’t make any more movements to pull his pants down. Muzan notices your heated gaze pointed toward his hardened groin. 

Did you know nothing about the workings between a man and woman? His eyes trail down your body, stopping at the apex of your thighs. He wraps his arms around the bend of your knee, smirking when your eyes widen in surprise. He tugs you upwards, to where your legs are over his shoulders. Being this close to your glistening pink cunt made his groin stiffen even more, if that was possible. The smell of you was intoxicating. He couldn’t help himself. “What a fucking view.” He growls. 

Muzan buries his head between your thighs, latching his mouth onto your swelling clit. You gasp in pleasure, breaths turning into ragged moans as he plunges his tongue deeper into you. “O-oh my God, f’ck, ngh.” With the way his tongue his twisting and sucking inside of you, breathing seemed impossible. His claws dig into your outer thigh, scratching red trails to your knees. He devours every bit of you he can reach, crazed by the tangy sweetness of your arousal. Your walls were squeezing around his tongue, heat running through your body. 

Your own hands find your stiff nipples, rolling them around in your fingers. You couldn’t get enough, it was the same feeling you received from drinking his blood. Heat rolling around in your veins as his eyes take in your puffy cunt and how your eyes roll to the back of your head. He maneuvers one hand from under your knee to the one place that was being ignored on you – your entrance. It was like the gate to a shrine and he wanted to worship there for eternity. “Look at how fucking wet your cunt is.” His pointed nails shape into shorter rounder ones, he dare not damage this holy place. Then, without warning, he presses two fingers into you. A yelp echoes across the void of the infinity castle. “Ahhh, shit,” You huff, tensing from the sensation of your pussy being stretched. 

Muzan knew you were a virgin, he would be lying if the fact didn’t make him grow more feral to have you sit on his cock and take his seed deep within you. He wanted you. He wanted you. He wanted you. That was all he could think about while lapping up your wetness. 

The slick from your cunt was sucking his fingers in, a growl rumbling around your clit. This makes you scream out as a shockwave shoots through you. Your thighs are shaking and every once and a while – as Muzan still selfishly fingers you through your climax, sucking on your clit – your body will twitch. Heavy and heady moans fall from your lips, breaking into whines as you come down from your high. 

“You did such a good job my sweet,” Muzan lowers you gently back to the floor. Your neck is sore from being at an awkward angle for so long, but you would give anything to see the disheveled man before you with your arousal still on his lips. “That’s it. Prefect. You’re so perfect.” He mutters, licking his lips and watching you still play with your nipples. 

Though you feel like you’ve just ascended, you crave more. You want Muzan to breed you like his own personal slut. “M-more,” You gasp. “I feel so empty my Lord.” You huff, the edges of your voice bleeding to a whine. Muzan’s eyes widen. He hadn’t intended to fuck you just yet. Give you some time to grow accustomed to sexual things so it wasn’t rushed, but your eyes are pleading him to continue. He’s… nervous, which isn’t like the demon king. He’s so eager to please you. Make sure you’re comfortable. He wants to give you hell, heaven, and the earth. 

“You’re practically begging me.” He chuckles, unsure if you really knew what you were asking. There was no way that once Muzan slid into your heady cunt that he would not ravish you. There was no way to tell time in the infinity castle, so there was no way for him to know when to stop until he was satisfied. You squirm to get closer to him, spreading your legs wide for him. His gaze drops from yours to your center, whatever shred of humanity that was left in him suddenly flying away. “Such a filthy slut. You’re already hungry for more? You want me to fill you up? Then beg for it.” His eyes narrow into slits, the magma growing in his belly. 

Your body cools with a shiver of excitement, as you reach down in between your thighs. You purse your lips and then spread your labia apart. The cool air tickles the sticky wetness but you can tell it’s doing something for him. “Please, my King, I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t think. I want you to take my virgin pussy and make it yours.” 

The corner of his mouth ticks up in a smirk. “As you wish my Queen.” He frees his cock and you have to take a moment to gulp at the sheer size of it. The head is leaking precum and bruised a red color from the lack of release. The shaft is a pale pink, a thick vein running down the underside. The muscles of his hips also catch your attention. They were unlike the drawings some of the courtesans had shown you. His were muscular, ready to thrust into you for hours. 

Muzan lines himself up at your entrance, this time with the head of his cock. The idea was thrilling, finally pushing into your pussy and breaking the barrier of your womanhood. He hisses as your slick coats him, making it easy enough to start entering you. Your face contorts with a mixture of pain and pleasure. “Shhh, you can take it.” You want to wiggle away from him, the pain of his member stretching you out is enough to break you. “Ah ah ah, you’re not going anywhere pretty girl. Remember you asked for this.” Muzan leans over you seizing your mouth with his own. You share a leisurely kiss as he swallows your moans. 

He feels the head of his cock hit your hymen and with a wince he thrusts past it. He can feel the rush of silky blood around his cock, but he tries his best to divert your attention with heated kisses. You break free, a long drawn out moan gasping out of you. “Ahhh, oh my, hngh nngh yes!” 

Muzan nuzzles into your neck, the feeling of your walls clenching around him driving him practically insane. “Yeah? Tell me how good I am. Tell me how good I am at fucking you.” He hisses out, desperate for your compliments and approval. 

“Nnnggh, s’good, f’ckin’ me s’good.” You slur, drunk on how he guided a new path into you. You pant and writhe under him, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Not yet my love, I want you to watch.” He starts to move his hips and you wince in burning pleasure. “That’s it. You’re doing so good.” He grunts, snapping his hips back into you. The wet slap of skin hitting skin sends shivers down your back. 

You’re straining against the build up in your stomach, a pit of coils wanting to spring forth. “Mmm, harder.” You huff, reach out to grab the back of his neck. He shakes his head, a playful smirk on his swollen lips. 

“Use your manners.” He teases, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Please fuck me harder.” You mewl just as he starts to thrust into you with a quickened rhythm. Your breath is sucked away by the pure bliss aching from the friction. 

Muzan bites down on his lip, brushing a few curls that had come free from behind his ear. “You like it when I do that?” He quizzes, fucking you harder. You can only manage a nod.

Your voice has grown hoarse from moans breaking into screams and whines. You buck your hips along with his as you arch your back, tumbling over your peak. “F’ck, haa haa hnngh,” You squeeze his cock and release his neck, breathless from your second orgasm. 

“Cum all over my cock, fuck,” Muzan growls, the feeling of your slick cum coating his length. He was gliding into you with such ease. He would apologize to you later for this. He pounds into your sensitive cunt, overstimulating you as you cry out. He rams himself into you and stays deep within your pussy. Panting heavily Muzan finally crashes over his own wave of pleasure. Splurting his cum around the walls of your pussy. He doesn’t want to pull out – for one fact he wanted all of his cum to stay within you – and for another fact, you were all the salvation he needed. He could find redemption with you. He rolls you both onto your side, hiking your leg over his hip to make sure he can stay inside of you. 

This was it, you had driven him to the edge and he would make sure to never let anything else touch you. As he gazes upon your soft features drifting off to a satisfied slumber he feels what once was his heart ache. “We should get married.” He blurts out.

[p0orbaby]

Extinguish the Flames with Some Champagne and Pills

summary: your may or may not be in denial about your feelings for alexia

warnings: mention of smut, alcohol and drugs and nothing major

a/n: a whole lot of words based on this request. set after this but you don’t have to read it if you don’t want to

word count: 3k

-

You’ve been ignoring Alexia’s messages for weeks now, every one of them its own little bomb you’re too terrified to defuse. Every time her name pops up on your screen, your stomach flips, your breath catches, and you somehow experience the full spectrum of human emotion in a split second. But mostly there’s terror and something closer to shame than you’d like to admit.

It’s a game of avoidance that doesn’t come easily to you; after all, you’re usually the one with a glib reply or some devil-may-care response, the kind of person who thrives on chaos. But this time, it’s different. This time, there’s something closer to shame nestled beneath the familiar terror, a sensation like a splinter lodged deep under the skin—small enough to ignore at first but persistent enough to drive you mad.

Your friends—of course, always your friends—keep bringing her up, as if they can somehow sense the crisis you’re trying to keep contained. It’s usually after a few cocktails too many, when your circle is gathered around a dimly lit table in some trendy restaurant or at a rooftop bar where the music is loud enough to drown out the awkward pauses but not loud enough to stifle their teasing. “She’s the best footballer in the world,” they slur with a kind of drunken reverence, like they’re invoking some untouchable deity rather than a woman who once had her strap buried inside you in a strangers bathroom. “You know she won the Ballon d’Or twice, right?” As if you haven’t been low-key stalking her career, watching those achievements pile up like monuments you’ll never come close to matching. “She’s beautiful and talented,” they declare, their words slurring into a familiar refrain, as though her accolades have somehow slipped your mind, as though you might have failed to notice her brilliance or her impossible grace.

But the clincher, the one they love to throw at you, is always: “And she’s Spanish”

There’s a certain relish with which they say it, that singsong tone like they’re divulging some magic spell or a punchline they know gets a laugh every time. It’s as if her nationality carries some kind of exotic allure, like there’s something intrinsically romantic or mysterious about being Spanish that you’re pre-programmed to fall for. Ridiculous, really, but your friends don’t care about nuance. They only remember the endless stories you told about summers in the Balearics—the drunken nights under hot stars, the hazy afternoons spent nursing hangovers and catching fragments of conversations in Spanish that you pretended to understand. “You love Spanish women,” they insist, as if your type is as predictable as your go-to drink order. Conveniently, they overlook the fact that your type mostly translates to ‘emotionally unavailable,’ as if that’s some universal trait of Iberian women.

It’s not that they’re entirely wrong, of course, but they’re oversimplifying. Your attraction to Alexia isn’t some exoticism or romantic fantasy you’ve spun out of nothing. It’s her unapologetic drive, her resilience, that hooked you—though God forbid you’d admit that to anyone. “She’s an athlete,” you shrug whenever the subject comes up, swirling the last melting ice cube in your Old Fashioned like it’s a magic eight ball that might give you a different answer this time. “They’re all players.” The line slips out with just the right amount of indifference, a practiced dismissal, as though you’ve been brutalised by every athlete from Cristiano Ronaldo to Wayne Gretzky. It’s a complete fabrication, of course. You’ve never actually dated a footballer, let alone the best in the world. But who can resist a good story, especially when it’s your own and you get to embellish the details?

It’s easier, you think, to act disinterested than to admit you’ve been replaying that night in the bathroom, the feel of her breath against your neck, every time you catch your reflection in some shiny surface. You thought you were done with all that—had filed her away in the mental drawer labelled ‘Temporary Distractions,’ right alongside the male model who could never quite remember your birthday and the painter who had the audacity to try to psychoanalyse you on the third date. One-night stands are supposed to be transient, fleeting, the kind of thing you can bring up in therapy one day with a detached air. “I think this is worth mentioning,” you’d say, as if it happened to someone else, “but it’s not really important.” Another plot point in the story of your life, never quite making it past the cutting room floor.

But Alexia doesn’t stay filed away. She starts turning up everywhere, not quite a haunting, but a presence you can’t shake no matter how you try. At first, it’s incidental—just a casual Instagram scroll, a stray click on some football gossip account that you don’t even remember following. There she is, grinning in some post-match group shot, looking too happy for someone who’s supposed to be just another fleeting chapter in your book. It’s the kind of unguarded joy that can’t be faked, not even for the camera, and you can’t help but wonder if she’s always this free, or if it’s something that only comes out when she’s on the pitch, away from people like you.

You hardly even realise it, but suddenly you’re following three different Barcelona fan accounts. Then, as if by some magnetic force you’re unwilling to acknowledge, things escalate. She likes one of your posts—a shot from the Venice Film Festival where you’re all decked out in head-to-toe Prada, looking expensively bored, like you couldn’t care less about anything in the world. She comments on one of your stories: just an emoji. A single fire emoji, to be precise. Harmless, you suppose. But the comments start getting specific—little in-jokes that only someone who’d had their mouth on your skin could know. There’s a familiarity in her tone that feels invasive, like she’s reminding you of things you’ve deliberately chosen to forget.

You don’t reply. Cowardice? Yes. Masochism? Possibly. The most crucial thing is that replying would imply there’s something worth talking about, and something always becomes complicated. You’ve already got enough complicated in your life: a demanding agent who keeps sending you scripts for roles that are ‘outside your comfort zone,’ a wardrobe full of designer clothes you’re required to wear for sponsorship deals you didn’t even negotiate, and an on-again, off-again affair with mindful meditation that never seems to stick. You’re in the middle of wrapping up a film that everyone assures you will ‘change the trajectory of your career,’ though they’ve said the same about the last three projects, and you still get recognised more for that face cream advert you did when you were twenty-one than for anything of substance.

The film’s an indie about a morally ambiguous antiheroine, a character so damaged and charmingly dysfunctional you’d think you were being typecast if the role didn’t feel like an emotional excavation. She’s got a drinking problem; you’ve always favoured substances that can be discreetly indulged in penthouse bathrooms, though you’re certainly not going to point that out to the director who keeps going on about ‘authenticity’ and ‘method acting.’ He seems to think you’ve got some untapped well of emotion just waiting to be accessed, as if there’s this depth beneath your flawless skin that’s going to pour out on cue. If only. Most of the time, you’re trying not to let your co-star notice the faint tremor in your hands that’s mostly a byproduct of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

Then one day, while you’re lounging in your trailer, pretending to enjoy a green juice that tastes like the inside of a lawnmower—another post from Alexia. She’s on the pitch, holding some trophy aloft, her face flushed with victory. Her hair is slicked back, still damp with sweat, strands clinging to her skin in a way that seems impossibly intimate despite the vastness of the stadium behind her. That smile… Christ. It’s like she’s been sculpted out of bronze, an ancient statue come to life, as if she’s somehow timeless and ephemeral all at once. There’s something almost mythic about her, an enduring quality that makes your breath hitch in a way that feels both familiar and unnervingly new, like an old friend who’s overstayed their welcome but you’re not quite ready to let go.

It’s moments like these when you notice how precariously you’re balancing on the line between fascination and obsession. You catch yourself humming the anthem of Barcelona’s football club, the tune woven so deeply into your subconscious that it startles you. You aren’t even sure where you picked it up, but it plays on a loop whenever your mind wanders, like a soundtrack you didn’t choose. Then there are the little things—reading the match reports in the sports section like you actually know what half the terms mean, or memorising obscure facts about the team’s history as if they’re somehow relevant to your life. You’ve started following the scores like they’re stock prices, pretending it’s just casual interest, though a part of you wonders why you keep needing to know how well she played, how many minutes she was on the pitch, whether she looked happy in the post-game interviews.

It’s a form of self-deception that’s becoming harder to maintain. You’re drawn to her orbit, pulled in by a force that feels magnetic and entirely outside your control, as though your fascination is bleeding into the rest of your life, filling the gaps you didn’t even know existed.

You decide, in a moment of what can only be described as poor judgment, to attend one of her matches. It feels impulsive and reckless in the way most of your decisions do, a haphazard pairing of curiosity and a kind of dangerous longing. You book a front-row seat like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just ticking another item off some glamorous bucket list rather than treading into unfamiliar territory. Naturally, you show up dressed to the nines—your favourite Gucci sunglasses perched on your nose, an Alexander McQueen coat draped over your shoulders with that deliberate, careless grace that suggests you’re either oblivious to or entirely aware of its price tag. Your hair is styled in that kind of artful chaos that takes hours to perfect but is meant to look like you rolled out of bed effortlessly chic. You’re not here for the football. You’re here for her.

The atmosphere in the stadium is overwhelming, almost suffocating, a heady cocktail of chants, horns, and the sharp, greasy scent of fried food that turns your stomach. It’s a kind of chaos you’re unaccustomed to, this all-consuming fervor where the world narrows down to the pitch, to the twenty-two players moving with a purpose you can’t fully grasp. You understand about three percent of what’s happening on the field—just enough to know when the ball’s in play but not enough to follow the strategies unfolding before you. You’re mostly people-watching: the sea of jerseys, the faces contorted with passion, the rhythmic clapping that you can’t quite catch the beat of.

When Alexia scores, it catches you off guard. The stadium erupts, thousands of people leaping to their feet with a collective roar that vibrates through your bones. You react half a beat late, your applause more polite than enthusiastic, like you’re at a black-tie gala instead of a football match. You stand, clap along with the crowd, and try not to feel like an imposter. As the cheers die down, you catch her eyes from across the distance, just for a flicker of a moment. There’s something in her gaze—an awareness, a spark—that slices through the noise and zeroes in on you. It’s like she sees you, actually sees you, in the middle of this thrumming, chaotic mass of bodies, and for a split second, it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the entire stadium.

After the game, you somehow find yourself swept into the exclusive VIP area, a place filled with the kind of people who can glide between worlds as easily as they switch languages. A flute of champagne appears in your hand almost before you’re aware you’ve been handed one, and you sip it absentmindedly as you let the buzz of conversation wash over you. You’re halfway through your second glass when she appears, slipping through the crowd with a kind of effortless poise, her hair still damp from the shower, the strands curling at the ends. She’s wearing a loose tracksuit, looking every bit the casual athlete, as though she hasn’t just been commanding the attention of thousands.

There’s an insufferable confidence in the way she moves towards you, that familiar swagger that borders on arrogance, as if she’s amused by the fact that you actually showed up, that you dared to step into her world. “I didn’t think you were a football fan,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice, though her eyes betray something else—a darker, more searching intensity that you recognise all too well from that night in the bathroom, the one you keep trying and failing to forget.

“I can appreciate a good performance,” you reply, lifting your glass in a mock toast, your voice slipping into that arch tone you’ve perfected over years of industry parties and press tours. “I’ve seen Cats live on Broadway, you know.” It’s a flippant comment, the kind that’s designed to deflect, to distract, to keep the conversation light and meaningless.

She laughs, a rich sound that feels like an indulgence. It’s not so much at your joke but at the way you’re playing this little game, like she’s letting you have your moment, humouring you. “And did you enjoy the show?” she asks, her voice dropping just enough to suggest that her question has nothing to do with the theatre and everything to do with the performance she just gave on the pitch.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” you say, holding her gaze longer than you probably should. There’s a challenge in the way you look at her, an unspoken dare, and for a moment, you wonder if she’ll take the bait. Her lips curl into a small, devilish smile, a private expression that feels like a confession meant just for you.

The moment stretches, teeters precariously on the edge of something you’re not quite ready to acknowledge. It feels monumental, like a line about to be crossed, but then she steps back, just a fraction, and the spell breaks. She turns away with a dismissive grace, leaving you standing there as if you’ve just been defeated in a game you didn’t know you were playing. “Good,” she says simply, and with that one word, she slips back into the crowd, leaving you with nothing but the faint taste of champagne on your lips and the lingering sense that you’ve been left wanting.

After that, you start to notice the divide. There’s Before Alexia and After Alexia, and it’s not a clean break but a jagged line that cuts through your life, shifting everything off balance. You used to think of yourself as someone in control, or at least someone who could fake it convincingly enough to fool everyone else. There was always an understanding that if you messed up, someone would be there to fix it—your agent, a publicist, some overworked assistant who could call in a favor to make the headlines disappear. But now, your phone has become an instrument of anxiety, vibrating with texts and notifications that you crave and dread in equal measure. It buzzes with messages from her that you read but don’t answer, with updates from your agent about the press tour you keep dodging, with reminders of responsibilities you keep pushing aside.

Even after filming there has finished, you start booking last-minute flights to Barcelona under the guise of ‘business,’ convincing yourself that it’s all perfectly legitimate. Your agent rolls his eyes and hounds you to schedule interviews and appearances, but you find yourself at the airport anyway, boarding another red-eye that will land you in some unfamiliar city just in time to catch her match. You’re finding yourself in strange places at ungodly hours, indulging in the kind of fan behavior you’d have found pathetic if you saw anyone else doing it. Ninety minutes of football passes in a trance, where the world narrows down to her figure gliding across the pitch, the fluid grace of her movements cutting through the static in your head like a hot knife through butter.

Afterwards, you’ll send her a coy, inconsequential text—“Not bad,” or “You could work on your footwork.” And she’ll reply with that maddening charm that dances the line between sincerity and sarcasm, always leaving you guessing. “Come and coach me, then,” she’ll say, as if she’s issuing a challenge, or perhaps an invitation.

There’s this one time, after too many drinks and not enough sleep, when you actually consider it. You catch yourself scrolling through Spanish real estate listings, as if browsing apartments for sale in Barcelona is a casual hobby rather than a subconscious form of planning. You tell yourself it’s just idle curiosity, a way to pass the time, yet you’re finding out the details—locations near the stadium, neighbourhoods with the best views, penthouses with terraces that would catch the Mediterranean breeze. You click on the photos of sun-drenched balconies and tiled kitchens, pretending you’re only fantasising about a different kind of life, one where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder for the next tabloid scandal or PR crisis.

But then you sober up. You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror of a five-star hotel suite in Madrid, taking in the disheveled hair, the dark circles under your eyes, and you remember who you are. You’re not the kind of person who throws away their life for someone else, certainly not for a woman you haven’t even kissed since that one stolen night, a night that’s become less real and more like a story you tell yourself to explain this unshakable obsession. Besides, you’d probably make a terrible coach.

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Seven-Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theos fucktov. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Dirty Talk, Toxic Behaviour, Degradation Kink, Jealousy, Possessive Behaviours, Manipulation, Violence, Aggression, Blood, Slapping, Slight Masochism, Sexual Aggression, WeaponizingEnzoBerkshire(im sorry?), Fingering, DARK THEMES.

***FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

"Rowena, render me resilient." You huffed, mumbling to yourself while pulling your infuriated corpse out of the creaky wooden chair in the empty potions classroom. "I'm going to fucking kill that boy."

Mattheo was thirty minutes late. Thirty. Three. Zero.

At first, you dismissed his tardiness, convincing yourself it was just another instance of his habitual delay--and in those initial ten minutes, you buried yourself in your homework, trying to maintain an air of indifference. But as the clock ticked away, another ten minutes, then another five, your patience wore thin, your nerves splintering with palpable annoyance. From that point on, each passing second seemed to echo with the ghost of his absence, amplifying your frustration.

The room seemed to close in on you as you stared at the clock, wondering why he would brush you off so callously when he damn-well knew he was the only fucking reason you were there, in that classroom, in the bloody first place.

The single-minded focus on confronting Mattheo propelled you forward, urging you to swing open the creaky wooden door with a determined force. As you stepped into the eerie, freezing corridor of the dungeons, your resolve transformed into a palpable energy, driving you forward with every purposeful stride. The anticipation of the impending confrontation overshadowed any trepidation, making you oblivious to the typical nerves that might have accompanied a situation like this.

As you approached the Slytherin common room, the distant thumping of loud music permeated the heavy door, sending vibrations through the floor beneath your feet. Despite the unfamiliar territory and the intimidating reputation of the Slytherin's domain--which was often veiled in a haze of marijuana smoke and the lingering scent of alcohol--your anger acted as a shield, eclipsing any reservations or second thoughts.

Your frustration boiled over as you banged on the door with a force that reverberated through the wood, echoing your impatience. With each pounding knock, a faint haze of smoke seeped out from the cracks around the door, a telltale sign of the revelry inside--it felt like centuries had past before the door swung open, a thick cloud of smoke billowing out from the bustling common room; and before you could react, a Slytherin student you didn't recognize--tall and imposing, grabbed your arm and yanked you inside, pulling you close to him.

He pressed you against the door as he slammed it shut behind you, his eyes narrowing as he scanned your appearance from head to toe, clearly suspicious of your presence inside his domain.

"Who the hell are you, and what do you think you're doing here?" he demanded, his voice sharp and laced with suspicion. The scent of alcohol mingled with the smoke, adding an acrid edge to the atmosphere as he scrutinized you, waiting for an explanation. "You're out of your bloody depth little Ravenclaw...some nerve-"

You stammered, hardly able to catch your words. "I-I'm Mattheo's tutor...he didn't show up to-"

"Mattheo's tutor, huh?" he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery as he cut you off. "Well, good luck trying to drag him out of this madness on a Friday night. Once he's in, he's in deep, and nobody can rescue him, especially not a helpless little Ravenclaw like you."

His grip on your arm tightened, emphasizing his point, the pressure sending a jolt of pain through your body. Your stomach twisted as you watched his lips curl into a cruel smirk, his blue eyes glinting with sadistic amusement.

"You're better off running along before you get sucked into our world. We Slytherins don't play nice, especially when it comes to parties."

With that, he shoved you away from the door, dismissing you with an irritated flick of his hand, leaving you standing there, caught between frustration and helplessness, engulfed in the suffocating haze of smoke and the pounding rhythm of the music as you attempted to gather yourself. Admittedly, the smell was getting to your head, you pulse pounding in your temples and matching the base of the music. You shot your gaze around the room, in search of any sort of sign that Mattheo was around--but you didn't get very far before you felt movement behind you.

Your heart raced as you spun around, finding yourself surrounded by practically all the boys from the infamous Slytherin Quidditch team, their cold gazes assessing you with a mix of curiosity and arrogance. Draco Malfoy, the groups undeniable leader, sneered at you, his blond hair perfectly styled despite the chaotic atmosphere of the room.

"Well, well, look what we have here, boys," Draco drawled, his tone dripping with superiority. "A lost little Ravenclaw wandering into our house. Did you take a wrong turn on your way to the library, sweetheart?"

You swallowed, your eyes shooting around at each of the men as they circled around you, Theodore Nott and Regulus Black shared a knowing glance, exchanging silent communication that made your skin crawl. Blaise Zabini, the schools best known charmer, stepped closer, his smug smile sending chills down your spine.

"Or perhaps you're here to join the party?" he suggested, his eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin prickle with discomfort. Lorenzo Berkshire, the powerhouse of the team, folded his arms over his chest, his expression unreadable as he observed you. The room seemed to close in around you, the haze of smoke thickening as their presence suffocated the air.

With every instinct screaming at you to escape, you tried to muster courage. "I-I'm just looking for Mattheo," you stammered, your voice barely audible over the pulsating music. "I'm his tutor, and he was supposed to meet me for a study session...I came to find him."

Theodore smirked, tilting his head as he scrutinized you with a calculating gaze. "I don't recall Mattheo mentioning anything about a tutor," he said, his voice low and edged with suspicion. "Are you sure you're in the right place, Bella?"

"Or, perhaps you're here for something other than tutoring?" Lorenzo said, his voice like a low growl--your nerves multiplying as he took a deliberate step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. "You should know that little birds who dare to venture into the snake's den rarely ever make it out alive..."

Lorenzo's words stirred something inside your chest, your stomach twisting into a knot so tight you thought for sure your intestines were about to explode. The boys, their eyes gleaming with a sinister intent, moved forward with calculated steps, their chuckles weaving through the air like unsettling whispers. They encircled you, a menacing dance of predators closing in on their prey-the glint in their eyes mirroring the sharpness of fangs as they closed the gap, enveloping you in a suffocating sense of dread.

You couldn't help but to be acutely aware of the irony of the situation, you were the helpless little bird ensnared in the midst of hungry snakes--desperate for rescue that you knew would never come--internally freaking the fuck out until you steeled your shoulders, gathering every single last ounce of your courage to meet Enzo's burning gaze head on--a glint of defiance twinkling behind your eyes.

"Little bird, Berkshire?" you taunted, your voice ringing through the room as you took a bold step toward him, your head held high to meet his eyes. "Last time I checked, the Ravenclaw emblem was an Eagle…unless it’s changed without my knowledge…" you continued, your gaze unwavering, watching his jaw clench with irritation. "Do you know what eagles are capable of, Berkshire? Or is that information too elevated for your limited intelligence?"

Lorenzo's lips curled into a contemptuous smile. "Save your Ravenclaw wit for your textbooks, little bird," he said, his tone dripping with disdain. "In our den, you're just prey, no matter what emblem you wear."

The boys around you chuckled darkly, their laughter echoing through the room like the hiss of snakes, only fuelling your urge to defend yourself further. Lorenzo took another step forward and you straightened your shoulders.

"Your attempts to wield venom through words mirror your feeble Quidditch endeavors…always falling short of the impact you intend," you sneered, your confidence cutting through the tension. "Perhaps it's time to reevaluate your definition of prey, considering the ones who underestimate tend to fall the hardest."

Lorenzo's nostrils flared, his face turning crimson with rage. "You got quite the mouth on you, little fucking brat," he spat, his voice sharp as a dagger, hand reaching up to grip your jaw, pulling you tight against him--the scent of alcohol flooding your nostrils as his free hand gripped your hip, your mouth parting in complete, paralyzing shock. "You want to fucking say that again, huh?"

The boys surrounding the two of you exchanged uneasy glances, their initial amusement morphing into concern as they realized just how far he was willing to take things. A few of them took cautious steps back, their confidence waning in the face of Lorenzo's escalating rage.

Your voice wavered, a mixture of fear and defiance. "Let go of me."

"Not so tough now, are you?" He chuckled darkly, his grip tightening. "You're bloody pathe-"

Lorenzo's malicious words hung in the air, pregnant with menace, but they were abruptly silenced by a deep, furious rumble that reverberated through the room.

"Berkshire," you recognized that voice. You’d never, ever not recognize that fucking voice. "What the fuck are you doing?"

The resonance of his voice was like a rolling thunder, each syllable echoing off the stone walls and sending tangible shivers down your spine. The very atmosphere seemed to quiver in response, and you could almost feel the raw power of his anger vibrating in the air, setting the entire room on edge. Enzo's eyes widened in alarm, his confident facade crumbling like fragile parchment in the face of Mattheo's wrath.

Slowly turning, Enzo locked eyes with the approaching Riddle, whose gaze blazed with an unyielding fire, and without giving him a chance to react, Mattheo surged forward, his movements swift and deadly. His fist, wrapped in a tempest of rage, found its target in Enzo's jaw with a resounding impact.

The force of the blow sent shockwaves through the room, Enzo's head snapping violently to the side, a spray of crimson erupting from the corner of his lip, painting the air with the evidence of Mattheo's strength--and the room stood still for a moment, suspended in a heartbeat of sheer shock as Enzo stumbled backward, his once-defiant demeanor now entirely shattered.

In the wake of Mattheo's ferocity, the room remained suspended in a tense silence, like a captured breath waiting to be released, the echo of the impact still ringing in your ears. Enzo, once the epitome of arrogance and aggression, now stood stunned, his hand clutching his injured jaw as he struggled to regain his balance. The other boys, previously reveling in their sadistic taunts, stood frozen, their eyes wide with disbelief at the sudden turn of events.

Mattheo, his chest heaving with restrained fury, stepped forward, his gaze locked onto Enzo.

"Touch her again," he growled, his voice low and menacing, "and I'll make sure you regret every last moment you spend at this fucking school."

Enzo, now visibly shaken, nodded weakly, a mix of fear and humiliation clouding his eyes. Without another word, Mattheo turned his attention to you, his expression softening slightly, concern flickering in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentler now, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions that had just erupted in the room. "Did he hurt you?"

Your mind buzzed with a whirlwind of emotions, struggling to process the chaotic events that had just unfolded. Numbly, you shook your head, your hand instinctively reaching up to rub your jaw, still tingling from the force of Enzo's grip.

"No," you said, not daring to meet his eyes. "I'm fine."

With a nod, Mattheo turned, his eyes boring into the remaining onlookers, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "Enough gawking. Move along," he ordered, his tone laced with steel. "This isn't a show for your fucking amusement."

The intensity in his words sent the spectators scrambling like startled crows, leaving you and Mattheo in the quiet aftermath, the weight of the recent events hanging heavily in the air as he peered down at you with dark eyes.

"You came looking for me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible above the fading echoes of the room. "Thought you'd appreciate a night off from my bullshit."

Your chest seized as you eyed his face--the cut across his nose from yesterday still faintly bleeding, swatches of blood still decorating his jawline and cheekbones--you couldn't deny that this boy was a bloody mess. A cunning, arrogant, complicated fucking mess--but Gods, was he fucking attractive.

"I don't appreciate being blown off without notice, Riddle..." you huffed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "Not that you could ever relate."

“You’re right, I can’t..I usually get some notice before being blown.” With a slight smirk, he gripped your wrist, meeting your eyes. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

Mattheo's hold on your wrist was firm yet oddly reassuring as he guided you through the chaotic Slytherin common room. The room was a cacophony of laughter, music, and rowdy students, but his presence seemed to part the crowd effortlessly, creating a path for the two of you with ease. The air outside the common room was a welcome relief, free from the suffocating haze of smoke and the overwhelming scent of alcohol. Mattheo didn't release your wrist, his touch lingering, and you found yourself following his lead as he navigated the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts.

Silence settled between you, broken only by the distant echoes of the party behind you. Mattheo's expression was unreadable, his eyes focused ahead, as if he was deep in thought. The tension that had gripped you inside the common room began to dissipate, replaced by a strange sense of calm in his presence. As you walked, you stole glances at his profile--his jawline sharp, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes a stormy mix of emotions.

There was something different about him tonight, something vulnerable beneath his usual composed facade.

As the two of you finally reached the vacant potions room, Mattheo relinquished his hold on your wrist, allowing his fingers to slide away like the fading echo of a melody. He gently pressed open the ancient door of the classroom, and you slowly ventured inside.

Your senses heightened, capturing every subtle nuance of the space. The faint creak of the floorboards beneath your weight, the distant hoot of an owl, and the rustle of leaves against the windowpane merged into a symphony of nocturnal sounds. The anticipation in the air crackled like static electricity, wrapping around you as Mattheo's presence loomed closer, his warmth seeping through the layers of your uniform.

A singular step carried you further into the room, yet your feet rebelled against moving any closer. Your body buzzed with a peculiar blend of apprehension and curiosity, a tingling sensation that crawled beneath your skin. Mattheo's proximity felt palpable, his body brushing against you as he stood just behind, a silent guardian in the obsidian night.

The click of the lock reverberated through the chamber, its sound shattering the silence like a fragile glass.

His words caressed your ear as he spoke, accompanied by the strong scent of whiskey on his breath. "You're a goddamn handful, Raven..."

At the sound of his voice, your lids fluttered involuntarily, warmth creeping down your back, you were beyond thankful that he was behind you and couldn't see your reaction.

Your voice was a breath as it left your lips. "That's funny, coming from you..."

"Touché, princess." He hummed, the vibration massaging your spine. You tensed as his hand brushed your shoulder, pulling your hair back with it. "I'm sorry about Berkshire...he's a real charmer..."

You huffed, shaking your head, dismissing the heat that pooled in your core with each passing moment of his proximity. "Seems like all you Slytherin men are...certainly know how to dish it out, but don't know how to take it, hm?"

His lips curled into a smirk, his tone laced with arrogance. "Oh, we know how to take it, Raven," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I certainly do, anyways..."

Your breath caught in your throat. "I'm not so sure about that, Riddle...my mouth has gotten you going many times now..."

"Fucking right it has..." he growled, lips grazing the sensitive skin on your neck. "But I can handle you...the real question is, can you handle me..."

Your pulse was flying, rocketed somewhere into another galaxy. "Haven't I proved myself yet..."

A low, rumbling chuckle escaped him, reverberating through the room. His warm breath brushed against your skin, sending shivers of anticipation across your flesh. His tongue traced a torturous path up the side of your throat, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His hands hovered over your hips, their presence magnetic, hesitating slightly before tightening their grip as if uncertain of your response.

"Not even fucking close, princess..." he purred, his words dripping with desire. "You have a long ways to go still..."

A soft, involuntary sound escaped your lips, your head falling back against his shoulder, surrendering to the intoxicating sensations that coursed through you. Resistance seemed futile; you were utterly ensnared in his grasp. He wielded an irresistible power over you, and you had no strength left to resist, even if you wanted to--all you had were words; empty, meaningless words.

"I thought you didn't want to do this anymore," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the hushed breaths between you. "I thought you just wanted me to be your tutor."

Mattheo's grip intensified. "I said a lot of things last night that I didn't mean, Raven..." he murmured against your neck. "I was drunk."

"You're drunk right now, too, Mattheo..." you muttered, unable to hide your amusement. "Bloody hell, you have issues."

"I know...I've gotta work some shit out," his teeth nipped your earlobe, you could practically feel the smirk on his lips. "I'm exercising my demons, Raven, I promise..."

His words hung in the air, laced with desperation and a yearning for understanding, as if he sought solace in your presence but didn't know how to ask for it--with a sharp inhale, your hands found his, and when he loosened his grasp on your hips, you spun around to face him, meeting his dark, penetrating eyes.

Your hands fell to your sides, fingers trembling as your gaze darted from his eyes to his lips, and back to his eyes. "What the fuck do you want from me, Mattheo Riddle..." you whispered. "Give me a solid answer...for once in your bloody-"

"I want you," he cut you off, his hand shifting to cup the side of your face. "...I want you on your knees for me..." his thumb brushed your cheek, his head tilting. "...I want you swallowing my cum..." he wet his lips, leaning closer, "...but most of all, I want you moaning my fucking name until it's the only word that pretty little mouth knows how to say."

Your lips parted, a soft exhale of contentment escaping your throat as he brushed his mouth against yours, stealing every breath from your lungs.

"But…you can't stand me, remember..." you whispered, your voice trembling like fragile glass. "You hate me..."

"Yeah," he huffed, his gaze flickering to your lips. "I hate you."

Your heart thundered against your ribs. "You hate me.”

"Yeah, I fucking hate you," he replied, his eyes simmering with intensity. "Do you hate me?"

"Yes," you responded, the words flowing from your lips like molten lava. You needed no time to think about it, not even a second. "I hate you."

"Yeah?" His eyes darkened, his features glossing over with something that made your stomach twist. "Say it again."

"I hate you, Mattheo Riddle..." you murmured, his lips brushing over yours again, sending electric sparks across your skin while his hand slithered around your lower back, pulling you closer. "I hate you so much."

He gripped your uniform between his fist, a low chuckle leaving his throat, his voice dripping with seductive arrogance. "I don't think I believe you, Raven." He purred, his warm breath caressing your lips. "Maybe you should prove it."

He pressed his lips to yours in one swift, powerful kiss, the intensity of it leaving you breathless. His mouth trailed a scorching path along your jawline, his tousled curls tickling your cheek as his warm breath fanned your skin. Speaking became a struggle amidst the sensations that engulfed you.

"How do you propose I do that?" you managed to breathe out, your voice barely audible over the thundering beat of your heart. His lips moved to your ear, pressing against it with a tantalizing heat.

"Hit me," he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

"What?" Your body erupted in an incomprehensible collection of emotions, admittedly taken back by his request. "Why-"

"Hit me," he repeated, voice harsher now. "Just like last night--fucking slap me, Raven...don't be shy, you know I deserve it..."

The intensity behind his words propelled you into action, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. Without a moment's hesitation, you inhaled a sharp breath and drew your hand back, the room electrified with anticipation. With swift precision, your palm met his cheek in a sharp, resounding smack--his tousled chocolate curls dancing upon impact, his head jerking to the side.

In the charged aftermath of your slap, a potent silence hung in the air, laden with fervent anticipation. When he smirked, his eyes ablaze with a searing intensity, it felt like a scorching brand against your skin. Undaunted and admittedly more fucking turned on than you'd ever been before, you wound your hand back again--this time, your slap landed with a fiercer impact, a guttural groan escaping his lips as your palm connected with his cheek for the second time.

Before you could register what was happening, his hand gripped a fistful of your hair, his strength surprising you, and he spun you around. With a forceful push, he shoved you against the wall, the impact sending a shiver down your spine. His lips crashed onto yours with a hunger that matched the storm raging within you, igniting a fire that threatened to consume you both.

"You like that, Raven?" He purred, his fingers working to untuck your blouse before slipping underneath the fabric, the sensation of touch sending shivers down your spine. "You like making me fucking hurt, huh?"

"Gods, yes," you gasped, words choked through your breath as his fingers teased your nipple under the fabric of your bra. "You deserve so much more than that."

"That's right," he groaned, arrogance flooding his tone, lips moving like a sin along your neck, igniting your senses. "I'm a piece of shit, aren't I...using you like this...taking you as my little fucking toy when I said I wouldn't..."

A shuddering breath escaped your lips, your fingers tangling in his hair, unable to deny the raw intensity of your desires for even a single fucking second longer.

"Mattheo," you gasped, your voice barely audible, your body amplifying your words as it pressed closer to his, spine arching as he teased your nipple. "Touch me...please, just fucking touch me..."

"There she fucking is...there's my dirty little slut..." Mattheo groaned, low in his throat, teeth sinking into your neck. "Begging for me without even needing to be told...fuck, you learn so quickly, don't you..."

As his hand trailed down your stomach, you let out a shaky breath, feeling the heat of his touch flood through you. The trail of embers he left in his wake had your mind reeling, making it hard to even form coherent thoughts--your heart pounding so hard you were completely fucking certain he could hear it.

"Matty..." you whimpered, his teeth marking your neck, your grip tightening in his hair.

As his fingers slipped under the hem of your skirt and found their way to the mound of your pussy, you couldn't help but arch your back, pressing your hips closer to his hand. The fabric of your thong did little to impede the sensation, and you felt your body responding involuntarily to his touch. Your bodies were pressed tightly against each other, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in rhythm with you.

"Shh," he murmured, hand slipping from your hair and clamping over your lips. "You'll need to be quiet princess...you don't want to get caught like this, do you?"

His body shuddered against yours as you mewled, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure through your limbs. Mattheo pressed himself harder against you, his hardness pressing against your thigh--the sensation sending a jolt of excitement through you, causing you to roll your hips against him in response. You were so fucking far gone now, there was absolutely no saving you. You wanted more of him, all of him, every single inch he wanted to fucking give you.

"Oh my fuck-" Mattheo's voice was a breathless growl as he slipped his fingers under your thong and slid a finger through your soaked slit, your entire body jolting against his--a loose moan reverberating through your chest. "Oh fuck, Raven...you're so fucking wet..."

Breath hitching, engulfed in a deluge of lust, you wriggled against him, lava already flowing out from your centre and through your veins.

"Look at what I fucking do to you..." he pressed your head against the wall, his own head shifting back to meet your eyes. "Who else gets you this fucking wet, huh? Fuck...this little pussy already belongs to me..."

You choked back a moan, stifled under his rough palm as the pad of his finger drew slow circles around your clit, warmth flooding your body. Your hands clutched the fabric of his shirt now, digging in with enough intensity to slice the fabric with your nails. Mattheo growled, watching every ministration of your face under his hand, rubbing faster in response, sending shocks of pleasure through you, your hips bucking.

"That's it...fuck..." he muttered, loosing himself in your eyes, in the heat of your pussy dripping from his touch. "No turning back now, Raven...you're going to fucking cum for me...you're going to make yourself mine..."

Your lids fluttered, body trembling, oxygen fleeing you without hesitation; short, insistent groans escaping your throat, his fingers assailing your stiff nub. You were balancing on your peak, ready to tip over, never knowing pleasure so fucking intense in your entire life.

"Look at me." He hissed. "Look into my fucking eyes as you cum for me."

Every nerve in your body felt electrified, pulsating with a pleasure so intense it was almost painful--chest rolling and head spinning as you met his eyes; drowning in their chocolate intensity. His touch, his gaze, everything about him overwhelmed your senses, plunging you into a euphoria you had never experienced before. You were gone, hardly hearing his words, hardly even conscious, the sensations flowing through you were unlike anything you've ever known. And then, before you had a chance to accept it, white light flashed in front of your vision, blurring your sight, a blissful heat ripping through you and shattering your sanity as you squealed into his palm--Mattheo’s lips parting and his chest heaving as he watched you, not daring to blink, not even daring to breathe.

You became aware how tight you had been holding him, and you quickly released him, a wave of hot shame washing over you. Your hair was sticking to your face, your cheeks tingling.

"Such a good girl," he said, lifting his fingers from your pussy and bringing them to his lips, shoving them past his teeth, holding your stare as he sucked your juices off of them before slowly pulling them out with a pop. "Just getting a taste of what I have to look forward to later."

You exhaled a long, trembling breath--your conscious slowly returning.

“Gods,” you gawked, speechless, body still tingling with the aftershock of your climax. “What are you doing to me, you plague of a boy…”

He chuckled darkly, his lips curling into a malicious smile. “Told you I’d ruin you Raven…” he said. “I may be many things, but a liar isn’t one.”

———————

Here’s eight->

[emilyscully]

You're here because you know something. What you know, you can't explain. But you feel it. You've felt it your entire life. That there's something wrong with the world. You don't know what it is, but it's there. Like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad.

THE MATRIX PREMIERED ON THIS DAY, 25 YEARS AGO

[backtothefanfiction]

Nothing Hits Quite Like That First Kiss | Joel Miller x Reader Imagine

Summary: Tensions are about to burst and it’s all because of a splinter.

Word Count: 842

Warnings: some tension, some teasing, a little bit of heavy petting, hurt comfort

A/N: Just a quick little Joel blurb. Realised I hadn’t really given P some proper love lately over here so here’s just a little Joel piece. I haven’t written for Joel before but I hope you like. Also, apologies for the cock block, I could have written smut but it’s late and I wanted to leave something to the imagination.

“Ow, ow, ow!” You sneered.

“Would you just hold still. I’ve almost got it.” He chastised you as he squeezed at the splinter, trying to push it back towards the surface.

“Ouch Joel that hurts!”

“Well if you just held still.”

“I know, let me put a splinter in your finger and see if you like it.” You hissed. “Ouch!”

With one quick pull Joel had yanked the tiny piece of wood out of your finger. You began to whine but he quickly popped your finger into his mouth, sucking on it slightly drawing blood to make sure he’d got all of the splinter and dirt out. Your eyes quickly blew wide in shock before a sudden feeling of wetness between your legs had you looking away in an attempt to hide your sudden arousal.

“I saw that.” He muttered as he dropped your hand and you shifted in your seat on top of the old raggedy kitchen counter sheepishly, your hand quickly tucking under your thighs as he began to step away from you. “Uh uh.” He said chastising you again. He quickly rummaged in a small first aid kit for a wipe and a bandaid before doubling back to you, his hand outstretched for yours.

You rolled your eyes as you pulled your hand back out from under your leg, holding it out to him. Your lips pursed as he wiped the alcohol wipe over the finger. Once your finger had dried, you then watched him intensely as he wrapped the bandaid around your finger.

“There you go, all better.” He said before letting your hand fall and going to place the rubbish in a bin in the corner of the kitchen. “Such a good girl.” He teased as he looked back up at you.

You shook your head as you hopped down off the counter, irritated with how his words incited a physical reaction in you. He had become insufferable. Ever since he first realised you had a little crush on him he had been playing up to it like mad and it was driving you crazy, especially seeing as he wasn’t actually gonna do anything about it.

“You know what Joel, fuck you.” You said as you stormed passed him, your shoulder hitting his as you went.

“Oh come on honey, it was a joke. A JOKE!” He repeated himself.

“Well I don’t find it funny!” You said back to him.

“Honey, honey, please.” He said, trying to reason with you. You had been living with each other at the QZ for a couple months now, his was the only place with a spare room when you arrived. He hadn’t been too happy with being told he had to share the place, but ever since Tommy had left he had to admit shit had gone downhill for him, He hadn’t been sleeping, his mind spiraling and then there was you, like a breath of fresh air.

“What? What Joel? What could you possibly have to say? I get it, I do. It’s funny to you. You think it’s cabin fever or a younger girl’s infatuation like a teenager crushing on her teacher and MAYBE-“ you said stressing the syllables of the word, “but I can’t help it! And it certainly doesn’t help when you make jokes about it okay or tease me just because it amuses you. I’m sorry Joel, okay? I’m so-“

His long strides brought him across the room before you could even process it, his hands flying up to either side of your face as he pulled your lips to his, smashing them forcefully together. You quickly sighed against him, the rest of your words and irritation being neutralized by his soft touch.

When he pulled himself back to gage your reaction your face was a look of shock.

“You just kissed me.” Your words came out breathless.

“Yeah.” He said gruffly, quietly agreeing.

You searched his eyes before leaning back in for more, this time your lips more hungry as you closed your eyes, inhaling deeply through your nose as you tried to take all of him in, his scent dizzying. He tilted your jaw open wider, his tongue reaching out to taste you. Your breaths grew shallow as you tried to keep up with his own hunger, his arms snaking around you, lifting your body from the floor. Your arms wrapped around his neck as your legs wrapped themselves tightly around his waist as he carried you to his bedroom.

He laid you back down on the old raggedy covers as he came to sit himself between your legs, his arms quickly fighting to rid himself of his flannel, tossing it across the room as his lips continued their onslaught on your own.

“Joel.” You moaned against his lips, your hands reaching up for either side of his face.

“It’s okay honey.” He said as his hand reached for your own, placing the finger with the band aid to his lips, giving it a little kiss, “I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

[lamemaster]

In Search of an Epilogue

Request: Finrod or any of the Fëanorians would match up very well with a faeries au, especially considering how the first men must have felt when meeting finrod. And one can't forget how beor liked finrod so much that he went with him as his vassal, or how they have to keep their oaths. To make it not too much like cannon though and more like an au keeping cannon in mind, it may fit best with modern s/o, or eldaritch elves, those are always fun.

Pairing: Finrod x Reader

Genre: Faerie/canon divergent au

Summary: He can sense your growing agitation, the building tempest of your mind. So close to snapping it. But he will be patient. He was no brute. 

AN: Thanks for requesting! I love dark Faerie core. Idk how this turned out to be this apocalyptic but I hope you like it anon.

Next up- Ritual gone wrong for Amaras. Fall trope event list

You struggled against the chains that held you to the unlit room with blooming black mold that did not hold back from any chance of entering your mind. 

Yet, all this could not erase the sound of his laughter from your memories. The silence of your cell could not hinder your fingers, which mimicked his as he wove the blooms of his forest into crowns. 

Fey touched they called you or the mad one which the much less eloquent ones preferred. For none of your kind had ever escaped the encounter of the firstborn with a mind that held onto its sanity. 

Legends say- just a fleeting sight of the Faeries can drive a man into oblivion. Some have reported women who were left dancing until their feet bled themselves into the ground while others spoke of fools who laughed their guts out.

It is impossible not to love such a noble sight. To not obey the distant kin who held the beauty greater than any in Arda.

Such fear had driven humans away from the forests of the fair folk. Mountains, forests, wonders of the old world were abandoned for the safety of seas and deserts which the firstborn did not frequent. 

Wandering few who ventured into the lands of the past were cursed. For them to never return in most instances and in some the returning being was not human anymore. What returned was the spoil of the firstborn’s sport. 

Such was the case for you. But your mother held her hope. Perhaps this cell was a mercy. A last ditch effort to hold you from the curse that clung to you. But you could no longer care for it. 

You had to get to him. You could hear him calling your name. Why couldn’t anyone else hear it, the loud echo of his calls reverberated through your bones. Please…Please wait for me, you beg him in the splintering thoughts of your mind.

Your wrists strained against the ungiving manacles until the metal gave under the strange magic of your obsession. A subtle scent of pine filled the room. The scent of his magic.

To your mother, you leave crumpled words in hopes of a reunion in a better future. A farewell good enough to live without the grief of loss.

They had been the unmarred firstborn of Illuvatar once. Untouched by the sins that ran rampant in the veins of Middle Earth. But that was now ancient history, lost even to them. 

The tales of Silmaril, love, valor, and honor washed away by the never ending eternity of their world. Valinor had long melted into the void, the Ainur blended into their elements. The Illuvatar called for all but for his priced first born, who were for eternity bound to the wretched lands of their birth. 

They changed too. The stubborn unflinching elves had bowed to the passage of time and paid their price by losing themselves. 

They had allowed the sins of their past to invade their present. This fall was a response to their absent creator. They did not need him, his Timeless Halls that he offered to all but them, or his salvation. 

A bitter rejection of Illuvatar was all his kind possessed. The only vehement revenge they could extract. To marr what he once gloated in his music.

Toying with the pulsing call that Finrod tugs you with, he knows that you will come to him. You too, are unable to resist him. 

He can sense your growing agitation, the building tempest of your mind. So close to snapping it. But he will be patient. He is no brute. 

Nothing like his cousins, who sought humans for their lust. Both blood and carnal. The Sons of Feanor were a mess no matter what age.

No, Finrod was better. He was a friend. That’s what the men of his past called him. The gentle Nom. Their God. He quite enjoyed the worshiping look in their eyes. No different from the ones ages ago. 

And now that the Valar were no longer, he was perhaps the closest to God that humans could ever get. He held no such expectations from Illuvatar, much less for the unfortunate secondborn. It was a mercy to fleeting lives of the secondborn to witness him. To be given a chance to love him. 

It had been a spontaneous plan. You were too alike his Beor. Too trusting, too loyal, and too much in love with him. Finrod snickered, in a past life, he would have been struck by the integrity of love. Of wanting to honor your feelings and loyalty. 

He could still remember his righteous debates with the human woman his brother once pined for. How taken by Illuvatar he had been. Promising to meet her in life beyond Arda ha...

The ages spent on this rock had taught him something else. The past he had weathered long ago.

He had urged your wandering feet into his flower ring. You, who in stupid naivety stepped into his forest. He led you astray, hunting for fawns that plopped you right into his palm. 

And for the old times sakes he had put on quite a show. Seated in the valley of blossoms, he had let you observe him. Let you marvel at his innocent facade of beauty and awe that held the most potent of his glamor.

The marred remnants of the Lay of Leithian were now your story and his. In his woods, he was the Maia and you, a lost prey.

Soon you will be here with him. He will have snatched you from the Illuvatar’s world for a second time or perhaps more.

His mind wonders what web would he ensnare you in this time? Something alluring enough to bring Aegnor back into the play his brother detested so much. 

Bodies are fickle. Yours was at its limit. If the constant droughts of madness had not already corroded your brain, the captivity of weeks certainly had affected your muscles which strained after long hours of crouching in the tiny cell. 

Running through the woods was nowhere as dramatic as the tales of old times made it to be. You were not chased by a band of orcs (those were long gone anyway), nor did you stumble upon the crazy naked woman from the tale you could not remember, or witness the dance of half Maia. 

You did however, after countless falls and scratches from the grouchy trees, ran into a sight worth more than any of the past stories. The sight of your lover, who in the dark of the forest glowed brighter than any star put in the skies by the ancient gods. 

Transfixed by the sight you stood watching his delicate fingers strum the strings of an instrument you had never seen. It’s tune stripping you of all that you carried with you. 

All your yearning spun into his song.

Your steps fall onto the uneven ground without a care. Unnumbered falls had failed to stop you for so long. I am here, you wanted to reassure him. Whisper to him because your heart could not handle scaring him away. I have come so, do not be so lonesome, I am here, your heart thundered a declaration. 

This scene felt like home. As if lifetimes of your existence blended into this. You knew what would happen next, discarding any resistance your hands would cup his cheek. Caress away the burden of countless eternities. 

In that moment, he- Finrod would break away from his trance. He would look at you with a pained expression. His brows would furrow at your sight. He would fuss over your scarred wrists, your bleeding feet, and the scratches on your body.

This was the dance, you were born with the knowledge of. And this was the revelation of that murky, buried beneath the layers of past fate. 

As a Beor, as Pali, as Yjor, and as infinite other yous. You find him in every lifetime. I am here. The words that bring him back. 

Finrod perhaps was one of the abandoned children of Eru. A cruel fae who wrecked your life in every reincarnation. 

But at the gentlest touch, he became your Ingoldo. The elf of Aman. The great king of Nargothrond. 

So without a will to be away from him any longer, you run to him. Your heart- full of fondness from your crooked yet wretched elf.

In your arms, Finrod blinks in a daze, his mind muddled after the tackling hug you engulfed him in. “I am here, Ingoldo,” you whisper, smiling above him. Thank you for finding me.” You caress his hair with an aching familiarity. 

Within mere seconds the scheming fae crumbles. His eyes- clearing into the recognition of the past. An understanding of himself. In all the chapters of Arda, your story and his continued to write itself in different fonts. 

Like the old tome dusted open to encounter it's crisp pages and subtle scent of its origin.

Under the stream of his tears he kisses you, this angst is afterall, the only remaining part of him. The heartbreak of numerous trials that Middle Earth has failed to devour. 

With your mercy, Findarato is himself for those pleasant hours. Unabandoned by the fire of his creator. It is his curse afterall, to seek the end until forever. You are that end. The pleasant pause that relieves him of his darkness. 

And when the worlds do end, he will beg for your forgiveness, the hundreds of you he has wronged. He will repent and grovel for the pain he has caused you. Because then, he will not be this. 

That won’t be a chapter but an epilogue written with the promise of everlasting peace. An end of the Finrod of Middle Earth.

[binah-beloved]

Intertwining Threads

Binah x Reader Lobotomy Corporation Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: Descriptions of blood and torture

~ * ~

The life of an Arbiter revolves around torture, as is fit of the prime assassins of the Head. Whatever is ordered shall be done, they all had vowed at the start of their service; threats, collection, removals, extermination. It’s all part of the cycle. There’s nothing to be done or changed, so why not relish in the destruction? Garion was no different, her hands stained with blood and the countless lives she had torn apart. Even when she was gutted and splintered, laid out in a chair to have her brain picked and prodded; when she was forced to cling to her dying breath, listening to every crack of bone with iron red dripping from her mouth; when her name was taken away and replaced by something dull and false so he could control her better, she remained the same, as an Arbiter mimics the City. Binah. What a fitting name. Meaning to contemplate, to understand. She could do nothing but think, after all, being locked away beside a well of madness, alone. Yes, she had much time to contemplate, her task of drawing water slowly driving her insane, as there was no one who could do this but her, no one else who could withstand it. This was her punishment, for everything. Hah, punishment. An Arbiter being tormented instead of doing the tormenting. How laughable. The people around her come and go, living and dying and returning with each new cycle. She’s the head of some department or another, except she can’t leave, not ever. The doors were barred and shut for her, for all of them, long ago.

The agents and clerks beneath her always await her instructions. She used to purposefully lie, watching with sharp eyes as they fell screaming to the monsters or the sounds or the images flashing across their eyes. But he disliked that, sending her back to the room with the well and making her draw more and more water as a form of discipline, and soon she found no joy in watching people crumble, only boredom. They all call her Binah. But she’s not Binah, she’s Garion, and will be Garion forevermore. It’s difficult to tell the time down here amongst the machines and shadows. The only signs are any new employees, fools who join the ranks of the facility because they are very stupid or very desperate, or perhaps a bit of both. She’s long since given up the need to remember any of them; all her energy is spent maintaining the last threads still attached to her sanity, the ones that never seem to snap even when she wants them to. Perhaps that’s another layer of this punishment, to be forced to bear it with lucid eyes. The Arbiter feels nothing when an Abnormality breaches containment, sitting and listening to the shouts and cries for a few moments before getting to her feet. A fight would be a welcome break from the well, anyway- even at her weakest she’s still a formidable opponent for even the worst creatures from the depths. But perhaps staring into the waters has made her sloppy, her skill degrading along with her mind, because the Abnormality is only caged after a long gash is opened on her arm, the blood dripping thickly onto the floor. She exhales. There is no pain. She is an Arbiter, after all, unafraid and strong.

Yet it still stings and burns. “Binah!” A voice rings out and her eyes open with a slight jolt. The sound is vaguely familiar, something heard in passing and no more, but somehow it feels different- concerned, frantic, warm. Her head tilts in its direction, gaze landing upon one of the more recent hires assigned to her department, looking worried and a little fearful at the sight of her blood. You fuss over her wounded arm and she can do nothing but let you, staring blankly as she’s pushed in the direction of the medical bay, the other agents scattering and the memory of your voice filling her head. Binah. It was so gentle, the way you said it- But she’s not Binah. She’s Garion. But who is Garion now, after being chained to an endless web of madness and despair? Nothing but an empty husk. The Head of Extraction has begun to linger near you once working hours are over. You’re often the only ones left in the main room at that hour, your pen constantly scratching against whatever file you’re currently working on, and she remains a short distance away, watching carefully. Occasionally you can smell the tea she drinks, your lips twitching into a smile at the lighthearted thought of your Sephirah truly enjoying something before there’s the sound of footsteps and a light clink as she sets her teacup on the table beside you and asks that you do not mind her sitting so close.

You blink, looking up from your papers and into those dull black eyes, and you smile. Her heart thumps once, merely humming and taking a sip of her tea to disguise her surprise. It’s easier around you, being locked in the depths. The few strands of her sanity become stronger, untangling themselves and weaving into an organized display in your presence- how? You must have some secret ability, some tool used to manipulate the senses, for not even bloodshed and slaughter could make her feel so warm. And your voice, when you speak that name she’s been given- ah, she almost feels like she could smile. Almost. Not quite, but almost. The sight of the Extraction Sephirah and a certain employee becomes commonplace; some even call you her favorite, but when you ask she merely tilts her head, a faint glint in her usually cold eyes, and presses a finger to her lips. It was only natural for him to notice, for the change in her behavior to catch his gaze and hold his attention in an iron grip tight enough to make him panic. You’re the cause of this- some random, low-level employee who gave a fragmented Arbiter a spark- and with rage in his voice he threatens her and you in one sentence, scrambling for some semblance of control. Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, the air seemingly dropping a few degrees from her flat, icy stare. She is strong, can handle any torture or agony or suffering- but you are fragile, a bird she wants to cup in her palms and whisper her sorrows to and keep safe, safe for as long as you live and as long as you breathe. Her own blood she is willing to see spilled, but not yours. Never yours.

She is Garion- … No. She is Binah. That’s right, you called her Binah. She is Binah, a broken, useless shell of an Arbiter- and yet you say her name as if she’s a star in the night sky, bright and beautiful, giving her hope and warmth. So she is Binah, and it’s her own name, not for anyone to control. And Binah, the ex-Arbiter, speaks to him in a smooth, cold voice. “You will not hurt them, for I shall go mad if you do. The insanity that creeps into my skull and eats away at my senses is only restrained by an Arbiter’s will. It can and will crumble at any moment, within the blink of an eye, and the world will turn to blood and dust. So you will not hurt them. You cannot, unless your wish is to lose everything.” Binah. To contemplate, to understand. Yes, now, finally, she understands.

[boxfullaturtles]

What is your kingdoms heart au

Please I wanna know info dump everything to me pls

Hee hee hee! Okay!!!! So!

Originally I just wanted to do character designs and Keyblade designs 'cause I love doing that stuff. But then I got Too Into It. As you do.

Raph, Leo, Donnie, Mikey, and April (and Casey Junior when he shows up) are all Keybearers in training. Dunno who's training them, because it's not Splinter. Actually played with the idea of the boys losing Splinter to Darkness but dunno if I wanna do that to them,, >> I'm still working on the profiles for Raph, Donnie, April, and Casey.

Anyway! They're all in training, learning how to work as a team, properly wield their Keyblades, use magic, the power of the Heart and all that jazz. They pop around to different worlds to expand their minds and be heroes and everything. I don't have a solid plot or anything, just vague ideas and snapshots of moments.

Like Casey Jr comes from future where their World fell to the Darkness--specifically the Krang. The Krang command legions of Heartless on top of the body horror shit they already do, so they're double the danger. In Casey's timeline, everyone fell one by one. Donnie went first, then Leo, then Raph, then April. Mikey was the only one left. Time travel in Kingdom Hearts is funky and has some weird rules about only being able to travel along your own timeline or something. But screw that. Mikey's a badass mage. He sacrifices his own heart to tear open a portal and send Casey back in time to stop the Krang invasion and the spread of Darkness.

And then I just got little ideas like, Donnie built the Turtle Tank Gummi Ship (and its Teenie Ships, the Shell Hogs). He has a space entirely to himself in the Gummi Garage that Chip and Dale just kind of gave him. He...tolerates them, at the most. Donnie's also got a lab in KH AU, but absolutely NO ONE is allowed in it. If he locks it, not even a Keyblade can open that baby up. He doesn't let anyone in there and he's extremely protective of whatever it is he works on. The others do eventually find out what he's doing and it's not...great. They'd be angry with him were it not for how they find out.

Leo doesn't actually get his Portal Chopped ability until after they stop the Krang invasion. I dunno how those events played out, probably drastically different from the movie lol, but I'm feeling the kind of "end of KH1, I will lock myself in the Realm of Darkness to spare my friends" kind of thing? Buuuuttt while he does think being able to wield two Keyblades is boss as fuck, he does not like Before the Fall. So he doesn't use Portal Chopped a lot. Maybe he should get over himself a bit.

I also like to think about them going to Disney Town and making an absolute menace of themselves. Mikey gets himself sick eating too much ice cream, Leo keeps trying to sneak into Disney Castle, Donnie probably pisses off the wrong people, Raph's gotten too excited about something and broken a few things OR he chases after Leo and they get into a friendly spat and cause a huge mess. April gave up trying to wrangle them a long time ago, she just watches the descent into madness with tired resignation.

KH Leo is extremely competitive and if something's got a score or record, he's got to beat it. He will absolutely be number one in everything on every world. It drives everyone else nuts.

So yeah it's just bits and bobs and ideas floating around. Mostly KH AU exists for me to play with designs. I love Keyblade design so much like holy shit it's so cool

[cry-xx-baby]

CRYBABYS MAKESHIFT HOSPITAL!

Items and service I got for ya! Do keep in mind I am NOT a medical professional! Haha... just doin' what I can.

------------

Antibiotic Ointment: Used for minor cuts, scrapes, and burns. I've used it for my burns! Scary good if I say so myself! 2 for 1c!

Aspirin: Used for your unlucky headaches, pain, or for ya fevers! 1 per person, totally free.

Band-aids and Bandages: I've got all shapes and sizes waiting for ya! Free.

Box of Band-aids: Small box of your own 5-6 band-aids! 1c.

Calamine Lotion: Used for itchy shit on ya skin, or like irratation on ya skin!! 2 for 5c.

Elastic Wrap: Used to decrease swelling, if you need help applying anything; I'm here for ya!! 5 rolls for 4c!

Emergency Blanket: Used for hypothermia (we're literally in a desert) and to put out fires! VERY useful but VERY hard to find. 1 for 6c.

First Aid Kit: YOU'RE VERY OWN SHINY KIT OF AID!!!! 1 for 3c!

Medical Gloves: Make sure you got clean hands when tending wounds!! 10 for 2c!!

Gauze/Rolled Bandages: Basically the next level band-aid! 3 rolls for 2c!

Scissors: Cutting bandages, cutting clothes, cutting.. things? Killjoys that use their bare hands to open boxes or like slicing through stuff are cage mad! 1 for 1c.

Stitches: Used to old tissues together while they heal, but I can do it for ya! Totally free.

Towel: It has medical uses and it's just helpful! Ain't it rad!! 2 for 4c.

Triangular Bandages/Slings: Got a broken arm or leg that needs to heal? Well I hear ya! I got this shiny thing that will keep it still when it heals! Totally free!

Tweezers: Used for getting out splinters or something you can't get out with your own trusty fingers! That drives me up the wall when I can't do anything! 3 for 1c!

Water: Plain good old and clean water! 1c!

------------

And more stuff on the way!

[monstersohmy]

The Prom at the End of the World

A goddess has been summoned by her cult with the promise of the human sacrifce that will allow her to fulfill her purpose as a world destroyer. She did not expect the sacrifice to be her girlfriend. Who she'd stood up to attend this ritual.

This is another little story I wrote from a prompt during shutdown.

"LOOK UPON ME AND WEEP FOR YOUR WORLD!” Gaia thundered, arms raised to the roiling heavens, head thrown back.

At the height of her power, she was the most beautiful she had ever been, even though she was fixing to take my life and end this world.

She always seemed to me a like a thousand tornados wearing a trench coat, barely containing the lacerating wind she longed to release, trying to take the shape of a mortal being. She never seemed to get it quite right. It was charming. And I wanted to bury myself in her. 

Gaia taking my life would destroy this world but, it was worth it to see her as she actually was. The only words my mind could find were not worthy of her terrifying glory. Base thoughts more primitive than those of the first creatures who would eventually become humans. My eyes burned. My face and shoulders splintered in her heat. 

Gaia isn’t even her real name. It’s just what I call her because she insists her name is not only unpronounceable to mortals, but also that hearing it would drive me mad. I never really believed that and assumed she was embarrassed like her name was Bertha or something. 

“PREPARE, MORTAL! FOR YOUR LIFEFORCE IS THAT OF---"

Gaia looked down and choked off as she saw me laying on the shore in the pale pink meringue prom dress I’d bought at a thrift store, encircled in fire and naked, chanting apostles.

“Hey, cutie,” I winked. 

“Meg . . . I . . .,” she spluttered. “How . . . why are you here?” 

“I volunteered,” I said, lifting myself up until I rested on my elbows. “This bunch wasn’t hard to find. Your cult has been following me around for months.” 

One of the nude acolytes stepped forward, knelt, and had the audacity to interrupt.

“Oh, Dreadful and Powerful! We humbly prostrate before you in service. How shall we proceed with this offering?” 

“Hear that, babe? He called you dreadful,” I smirked up at her. “What are you going to do about that?” 

Gaia didn’t so much explode as she became the idea of an explosion. The apostles glowed red from their hearts for a moment then before becoming fiery dust devils, caught up in her storm winds until they formed a swirling haboob which, in her heat, melted and settled into a glass dome around the two of us. All sound was snuffed out. 

“You stood me up,” I accused. “We had a date. You asked me what dream I wanted you to make come true and I told you. I wanted us to do the Footloose prom.” 

She swirled around me, her wind dismantling my intentionally, yet elegantly, mussed French braid. 

“All you do is rant about how much you hate people!” she spat. Hot sand sprayed my face. “I thought I was doing something nice for you by ending this world.” 

“I was being hyperbolic!” I shouted. “Most humans never actually mean it and I’m not the human who does. You know me better than that!" 

Her storm calmed. The glass dome evaporated, and we were alone on the beach. She’d become smaller, less . . elemental. Closer to human. I felt her pulling me close, but when she drew my head to her body I felt the stabs of the lightning and star stuff that was her being.

“We had a date,” I reiterated, eyes squeezed shut. “Pocket universe. Footloose prom. You promised.”

When I opened my eyes and pulled away, we were in the grain mill. My fashionably messy French braid intact. Gaia at my side.

She was as close to human as I'd ever seen her, wearing a dress she’d plucked from the jumble of my movie memory instead of the requested red jacket tuxedo. She was an incomprehensibly beautiful tsunami struggling to contain herself in the white dress Sandy wore during the dance contest in Grease. I didn’t even mind the crossing of movie references. She was too glorious for that petty kind of thing anyway.

“Am I appropriately dressed?” she asked, picking at the skirt of her dress. 

“Always,” I smiled approvingly. "Now what are we gonna do before you end the world?"

“Now, we gotta cut,” she grinned. “We gotta cut footloose.” 

Gaia took her hand in mine, and we ran to the dance floor.

[saintkeaton]

L u n a t i c H e r o 💀

(overstimulated)

we really are just one big organism 

my kids & me & the cats & the trees

there’s very few rules to follow

it only looks like a million paths 



but it’s one big road man 

& there’s no yesterday & there’s no tomorrow 

in the present moment with Alan Watts 

what a lunatic hero 

read a few Kerouac books & now I think I’m a scholar

thank Christ for another lazy Sunday 

I’m nervous & have the typewriter blues 

can you run out of things to say? 

I’m thinking maybe you can’t 

now there’s splinters in my feet 

& I’m looking through the neighbors window 

borderline copyright infringement 

daydreams of a bear in a 10 gallon hat 

my mind goes to goofy places 

looking through old vacation photos 

that early 90s brown filter 

feeling mortal & aged in my skin 

placing sentence over sentence 

in an attempt to clean house 

in an attempt to stay alive 

the cars drive too fast on this road 

nightmare thoughts of Pet Sematary 

I remember every movie I’ve ever seen 

wrote them all down in a list 

you don’t need a rhyme or reason 

freedom is the key component here 

could go on for days in the same fashion

as my mind turns like a wheel 

a broken splintery wheel mind you 

my sons plastic sword lay in the yard 

& 100 cans of cat food 

& the homemade wreath my mother made 

how do you stop thinking about death? 

how do you pretend life is normal? 

there’s nothing here but the ticking clock 

a few game shows to watch 

the beer & weed always run out 

& you’re secretly mad at me

as I dump my thoughts on Tumblr like a therapist 

a blind injection of no love 

maybe this will get a few likes & keep me hanging on 

I’m thinking of a new poem 

called “JESUS IN THE TRASH CAN”

& she promised to make breakfast this morning 

I smell no bacon cooking 

& there’s nothing wrong with how I feel 

I got too stoned______early in the day 

now it’s the motor mind salsa 

& I probably don’t need this hoodie anymore 

& I feel like jerking off 

all the trash is piled up in the spare room 

& the cats ate some raw chicken 

people keep recommending that I read Dostoyevsky 

man, I’m reading the Goosebumps books 

I’m reading the backs of cereal boxes 

my brain has stopped developing 

my brain is set in concrete 

just one big organism really 

time time time time 

glorious feelings

knowing there’s nothing to do today

I crave boredom 

I crave numbness 

so sick of the ultra meta-thinking 

folding the universe into a cube 

don’t be so depressing dude 

there’ll always be forest fires and mud floods & bullshit to watch on TV 

having entertainment is not the problem 

overstimulation to the fucking max 

so I return to my throne of shame

poisoning my soul through my eyes

my heart beating out my chest

my god! I can’t even make it one day

most of what I feel happens on accident

tired of the human race  

tired of the rat race 

but I really shouldn’t be complaining 

there’s breath in my lungs 

(choked out cigarette lungs)

it doesn’t matter what medium I have to use

I’ll get my point across one way or the other 

my own little psychological torment 

alpha beta delta gamma sigma omega 

what hides outside the spectrum for us? 

what curses have we not uncovered? 

I bet your mommy still gives you milk money 

I bet your mommy still tells you “good night”

I bet your mommy still loves your daddy

fuck all the rules that you think are rules 

& lay out the mind dump 

in an orderly fashion of course 

I bet your mommy follows the rules

for most of my life, I didn’t apply myself. the kid sitting in the back of the classroom, trying not to fall asleep. I couldn’t comprehend math, but I could fill a sketchbook up in a couple of days.

I never drink water

I only drink Mountain Dew 



I’m going to write a bunch of poems & bury them under the house 

I’m gonna turn myself into a lunatic hero for nobody 

eyelids keep closing

losing my consciousness 

in full bloom of 10,000 onlookers

& a bathtub full of nickels & dimes

I’m burnt out

I’m landing the plane

still, just one organism sitting here, waiting on breakfast 

10/29/2023 1:29 pm

————————————



[steampunk-swift-arrow]

Watching the Rise movie, my reactions (I've heard a lot of clips and spoilers so I know what I'm getting into)

Oh, Leo and Mikey have talked about this before. Mikey knew the plan without even him saying anything

Leo you're never gonna beat that record by talking

Leo making a drinking game but it's with pizza is great

Why is Warren Stone the Worm driving?! He's in a booster seat!

Nice job Leo, you actually punched yourself in the face

Leo's face healed up awfully quickly

Poor Mikey and Donnie keep looking at each other in worry and discomfort

PB&J duo watching their leaders fight through windows and then immediately trying to keep them from physically fighting (nice try)

April! You were doing so well! Those flips were great! And you dropped your phone?

Poor Casey Jr, didn't stand a chance

CJ has Donnie's logo on his clothes

Donnie's planning to crack time travel so future him can send past him the winning lottery numbers

"We ate leaves and rats...no offense" "None taken, we are delicious" Excuse me?! What?!

Casey may have just killed a guy with his chainsaw hockey stick...

Why are the Krang so big? And why do they kinda look like flesh-y Minecraft Creepers?

And there goes their powers.

Raph protecting Mikey and Donnie <3

"If you two don't mind, I haven't killed anything in ages" who am I to argue with such a polite request? Go ahead, I'm sure there's some Foot ninja left somewhere

The Krang brother is so small (affectionate)

Cool Leo action shot!

Ooh... ouch

Leo's panicked cries as he's sent away from Raph

Even Donnie wasn't sure the escape pods were going to work, he'd never had to use them before :'(

"How would everyone rate that rescue experience?" "Sorry. Data collection calms me down" Same, honestly. I do list-making whenever I'm stressed or anxious

The perspective change over to Leo with ringing muffled voices was cool

Leo's so angry that Raph got taken

Donnie comforting Mikey again, poor boys

"Commander? I like the sound of that" no one will be able to call her anything else ever again, she's now commander. She might outrank everyone else title-wise

"Last I checked, we weren't the ones trapped in a prison dimension for a thousand years" burn!!!

Ooh eye horror, yikes

"We live to serve" "you will serve me, whether you live or not"

Oooh we're going full body horror

"Hold onto your glutious maximi!"

Even Casey Jr's mad about Donnie putting trackers on everyone

"They told that to kids?! Man the future is harsh"

"We're doing it my way, remember?" Donnie and Mikey don't look confident about that one, Leo

"Ninja in, ninja their faces, ninja out" that's not a verb Leo

"I'm not sharing my hand sanitizer" there's a reason why Rise Donnie in particular got me to look into autism, and that's because he's too relatable (this is in reference to Donnie's disliking of the texture, which looks horrendous)

Why is "Donnie's Stomach" on the whiteboard of key destruction ideas?

Donnie and Mikey protecting each other so much

Oh no, April's school actually was creating herbicides to cause deforestation

I love that Donnie has backup battle shells in the tank, he's prepared for everything

"Remind me never to get on your bad side" as if you need a reminder?

Casey's angy

Casey insulting and traumatizing Leo at the same time

"Skyscraper caper" is the best headline ever and I love it

I don't think this is something the police can handle; even with a basic understanding of what it looks like from the outside they should have sent the military

Donnie's having a breakdown, poor kid

Leo stopping Casey from interrupting Donnie, letting Donnie rant for once (only for him to be stopped by Splinter instead)

And the body horror returns

Oh, the body horror really came bac- is that a train?! A Krang Train?!

Krang Helicopter

The Eye of Souron causing explosions was pretty cool

"Donnie! What do those big, beautiful eyebrows have to say?"

"What do you say, Donnie? You ready to fly a spaceship?" "Literally, the greatest question ever asked."

And the duo of Donnie and Mikey continues!

"Where's the character development?" a question I ask frequently. Splinter gets me

And here's the height of sensory horror. Also, the horrible wet sounds that come from everything Krang are perfect. Disgusting but perfect.

The angle of the Krang pulling Donnie out of the ship makes it look really painful but thankfully, I don't think Donnie was connected enough to feel it

Ah, the Wolverine Claws. People working on the Turtle franchise love those

The body horror's back, not as bad as before

Donnie's starting to pass out

Powers back! And Donnie gets to be really cool with how he uses his

Third battle shell of the movie is summoned

The return of April's crane license

Ick, Krang-lady's impaled -oh gross, she's un-impaling herself in the most disturbing way

Mikey just threw a building. Truly the strongest of the four

Donnie protecting Mikey again <3

"Don't worry Donnie, this is not a hug! It's a rescue!"

"How would you rate that rescue? Unsatisfied, very unsatisfied, wish Donnie had done it"

Donnie's about to pass out again (this boy needs a nap after all this)

Leo about to sacrifice himself and scaring everyone (poor Donnie's comforting Mikey again)

Krang shut up, let Leo encourage Casey!

"What you failed to understand was I missed on purpose." Smug

Poor Leo. He's pretty sure he's going to die and he's okay with it

Krang-lady laughing after everyone thinks Leo's gone and April's about to kill her

If I had a nickle for every time I've seen Donnie hit a Krang in the face with a giant drill, I'd have two nickles...

"Our HEROES 💙💛💜❤" (we only see the first three in the text, I added the red heart"

Aw, they all got Casey Jr his first pizza <3

"So much better than rats" Splinter... why do you look offended? Why are you offended that Casey Jr likes eating actually food more than your rodent brethren?!

Splinter using his tail as a selfie stick

"That's my mom!" poor CJ's having a crisis. He knew he'd see his mom some time, right?

"Our home. What a town."

Movie ends with everyone cheering on Raph as he tries the insane pizza carrying challenge from earlier

....

These kids have a lot of trauma to work through but they're already looking better/happier while eating pizza. Hopefully they get the chance to rest later though

Also they should have let April kill the Krang-lady...

Apologies for spelling errors and lack-luster reactions, I'm not very good at being expressive through written text :p

[evilminji]

This! This is EXACTLY the deranged Joker shenanigans he would pull! None of that Too Edgey 4 U bullshitt we see in modern comics! Just good old "how can I twist the 'Rules' you idiots think reality runs by, to my advantage? For a Laugh!" Classic malicious trickster spirit bullshit, stuffed into a mortal man where it doesn't quite fit.

I bet he even comes to find Danny FUNNY(tm). A right LAUGH! What an absurd man! Powerful beyond measure? But works at the waffle house. LIVES in a mausoleum? You look into his eyes and the Void stares back? Hilarious!

Tell me, Cooksy? Isn't life one big Joke? *goes in to the "here is my Defining Mentality Speech"* and?

World holds it's breath. Everyone tense. No one EVER agrees with him(Joker). And inevitably, he ALWAYS lashes out. Batman is almost literally TWITCHING at the doorway, trying not to lunge forward to save a man that probably doesn't even NEED his help.

Danny calmly puts the plate of special order Smiley Face pancakes in front of the Joker, looks him dead in the eye, and says "You're Right."

Because in a world? Where both of them EXSIST? He IS right! He's just ALSO insane and cruel. Life IS a Joke. It DOES only take one "bad day" to make a monster. Everything is arbitrary and they ARE just players, acting out their suffering on a stage, for the amusement of viewers unseen.

Danny knows.

That's why he's in the Waffle House.

Because when fully human [REDACTED] fell into that Day Glow Green vat of acidic SOMETHING in the Ace Chemicals plant? It changed him. Let him SEE and UNDERSTAND. More then a human should be able too.

He had himself a fun little Eldritch Mind Splintering Event via green goo.

Ectoplasm, one would guess. The seams of every reality. The glue of creation. Multidimensional and directional and temporal and more. Blood of GODS. Flesh of spirits. The very nature of the SOUL itself.

Dunked in it.

Behold the universe and stare unblinking, mortal. It shall stare back. Melt you. Crack your mind and stain your skin white. Drive you MAD MAD MAD. Then? It's over. And your left if the muck of a curse city, bruised and soaking wet, with no words for what you've SEEN.

Funny, isn't it?

Hilarious.

A great big JOKE.

But DANNY? There was no vat. Just whispers in dreams and weenies that tried to kill him. Slow poisoning in a house stain with ichor. Then a fixed point in Time. A Portal to between and beyond. The weight of EVERYTHING slamming open onto and through him, tearing him asunder. Balance and godhood. A dead child and future king. POWER.

Of course he saw.

Again and again. With no words to describe it. That which his friends could not. His suffering, his city, his loved ones. Players on a stage. Did they amuse? Does he amuse NOW? He has ceased to care.

Because it will never stop.

But, unlike Joker. He feels no need to make others SEE the Stage Of Life. The great Joke, as he calls it. Time resets, world ending events, invasions and wars, self-called Gods. Keep it outside his Waffle House. Don't touch his Mausoleum. Shoo. Get.

Danny IS part God, part Spirit, part Beyond. Unlike the Joker. It did not and can not drive him Mad. A little unhinged? Well, he IS only HALF. But he handles it well. He's a Fenton. They were always unhinged.

The problem is...well...

He PROBABLY should have lied. Because now the Joker is NEVER going to leave him alone. He may have gotten added to whatever Unfortunate mental category Batman is in. Dude, didn't even eat his pancakes.

Just froze like reality itself paused and STARED.

And stared.

AND STARED.

Really, really intensely. Like he was waiting for Danny to say "sike" or add some "...but-" follow up counter point that showed he DIDNT agree with him.

Gonna be waiting a LONG time, clown man. You are actually, factually, completely correct. You're just being a bastard about it and handling the revelation poorly. Stop taking it out on others. Not everyone has to get the joke. Let them believe the lie if it makes them happy. If you don't like how things are, just punch God about it.

Why do you think he's HERE? What grand epic can they force on him, inside his Waffle House? What tale of war and despair? He refuses. Garroted them with the strings of Fate they tried to puppet him around on.

But I guess that's the difference.

Danny still sees those around him as Alive. [REDACTED] never left that moment of pain and madness. Never will. Is far more a ghost then Danny ever could be, in far more ways. Hollowed out and butchered. Cruel.

Eat your pancakes and go home, "Joker". You finally got what you want, didn't you? You were told, truthfully, and with complete belief, that you were Right. Does it make anything better?

Of course not.

All it does is make a DEEPLY deranged Clown declare that They Are BESTIES~☆(TM). Probably by blowing up OTHER Waffle Houses to kill of Danny's "competition".

Danny is Very Tired.

Harley, Ivy, if he makes you two a carnivores plate and extra funfetti wild berry suprise waffles mound, AND let's Ivy have mostly free run of the cemeteries gardening? Could you..? *gestures*

Honestly, they'd do it for free. But heck yeah! Uninterrupted date night at the Waffle House and cemetery! Suuuuuuck it, Batsyyyy! *clown on clown violence across the city escalates* *Bat Blood Pressure Rising*

Dc x Dp #35

Gotham has a Waffle House that has been almost untouched for a few months now. Sure there have been a few fights inside, but that's no big deal. The big deal is that their cook has stopped plenty of attacks from robbers and even well known rogues.

Many of the staff and regulars also believed that the same cook was also a cryptid of some kid with how quiet he is, how cold his presence is, and how he seemed to just appear out of nowhere with no sound being made. But who cares? His waffles are the bomb.

Danny is thankful for the steady night job, but would very much appreciate it if the Bats stopped watching him through the windows.

[liesmyteachertoldme]

YOUR CHOICE: THE RED PILL OR THE BLUE PILL?

“At last.  Welcome Neo, as you doubt have guessed, I am Morpheus .”

“Its an honor to meet you.”

“No the honor is mine. Please come, sit. I imagine that right now you are feeling a bit like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole”

“You could say that.”

“I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees, because he is expecting to wake up. Ironically, this not far from the truth…Do you believe in fate Neo?

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like the idea that I’m not in control of my life.”

“I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you why you are here. You are here because you know something. What you know you can’t explain. But you feel it. You felt it your entire life. That there is something wrong with the world. You don’t know what it is but its there, like a splinter in your mind driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“The Matrix.”

“Do you want to know what it is? The Matrix is everywhere, it is all around us, even now in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window or when you turn on your television. You can feel it when you go to work or when you go to church, when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That you are a slave Neo, like everyone else, you were born into bondage, born into a prison that you cannot smell or taste or touch. A prison for your mind. Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see what it is for yourself. This is your last chance. After this there is no turning back. You take the blue pill the story ends. You wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes. Remember, all I’m offering is the truth, nothing more.”

Dialogue from the movie,  The MATRIX

[agape-philo-sophia]

This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.

I'm trying to free your mind, Neo. But I can only show you the door. You're the one that has to walk through it.

Have you ever had a dream, Neo, that you were so sure was real? What if you were unable to wake from that dream, Neo? How would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world?

Sooner or later you're going to realize just as I did that there's a difference between knowing the path and walking the path.

What is real? How do you define 'real'? If you're talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste and see, then 'real' is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain.

You have to let it all go, Neo. Fear, doubt, and disbelief. Free your mind.

I imagine that right now, you're feeling a bit like Alice. Hmm? Tumbling down the rabbit hole?

Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain, but you feel it. You've felt it your entire life, that there's something wrong with the world. You don't know what it is, but it's there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me.

The Matrix is everywhere. It is all around us. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.

https://thegreatwork208716197.wordpress.com/2023/04/09/5948/ 👉 https://t.me/break_the_spell_group